The Kite Runner (6 page)

Baba smoked his pipe and talked. I pretended to listen. But I couldn’t listen, not really, because Baba’s casual little comment
had planted a seed in my head: the resolution that I would win that winter’s tournament. I was going to win. There was no
other viable option. I was going to win, and I was going to run that last kite. Then I’d bring it home and show it to Baba.
Show him once and for all that his son was worthy. Then maybe my life as a ghost in this house would finally be over. I let
myself dream: I imagined conversation and laughter over dinner instead of silence broken only by the clinking of silverware
and the occasional grunt. I envisioned us taking a Friday drive in Baba’s car to Paghman, stopping on the way at Ghargha Lake
for some fried trout and potatoes. We’d go to the zoo to see Marjan the lion, and maybe Baba wouldn’t yawn and steal looks
at his wristwatch all the time. Maybe Baba would even read one of my stories. I’d write him a hundred if I thought he’d read
one. Maybe he’d call me
Amir jan
like Rahim Khan did. And maybe, just maybe, I would finally be pardoned for killing my mother.

Baba was telling me about the time he’d cut fourteen kites on the same day. I smiled, nodded, laughed at all the right places,
but I hardly heard a word he said. I had a mission now. And I wasn’t going to fail Baba. Not this time.

IT SNOWED HEAVILY the night before the tournament. Hassan and I sat under the
kursi
and played panjpar as wind-rattled tree branches tapped on the window. Earlier that day, I’d asked Ali to set up the
kursi
for us—which was basically an electric heater under a low table covered with a thick, quilted blanket. Around the table, he
arranged mattresses and cushions, so as many as twenty people could sit and slip their legs under. Hassan and I used to spend
entire snowy days snug under the
kursi,
playing chess, cards—mostly panjpar.

I killed Hassan’s ten of diamonds, played him two jacks and a six. Next door, in Baba’s study, Baba and Rahim Khan were discussing
business with a couple of other men—one of them I recognized as Assef ’s father. Through the wall, I could hear the scratchy
sound of Radio Kabul News.

Hassan killed the six and picked up the jacks. On the radio, Daoud Khan was announcing something about foreign investments.

“He says someday we’ll have television in Kabul,” I said.

“Who?”

“Daoud Khan, you ass, the president.”

Hassan giggled. “I heard they already have it in Iran,” he said.

I sighed. “Those Iranians . . .” For a lot of Hazaras, Iran represented a sanctuary of sorts—I guess because, like Hazaras,
most Iranians were Shi’a Muslims. But I remembered something my teacher had said that summer about Iranians, that they were
grinning smooth talkers who patted you on the back with one hand and picked your pocket with the other. I told Baba about
that and he said my teacher was one of those jealous Afghans, jealous because Iran was a rising power in Asia and most people
around the world couldn’t even find Afghanistan on a world map. “It hurts to say that,” he said, shrugging. “But better to
get hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie.”

“I’ll buy you one someday,” I said.

Hassan’s face brightened. “A television? In truth?”

“Sure. And not the black-and-white kind either. We’ll probably be grown-ups by then, but I’ll get us two. One for you and
one for me.”

“I’ll put it on my table, where I keep my drawings,” Hassan said.

His saying that made me kind of sad. Sad for who Hassan was, where he lived. For how he’d accepted the fact that he’d grow
old in that mud shack in the yard, the way his father had. I drew the last card, played him a pair of queens and a ten.

Hassan picked up the queens. “You know, I think you’re going to make Agha sahib very proud tomorrow.”

“You think so?”

“
Inshallah,”
he said.

“
Inshallah,”
I echoed, though the “God willing” qualifier didn’t sound as sincere coming from my lips. That was the thing with Hassan.
He was so goddamn pure, you always felt like a phony around him.

I killed his king and played him my final card, the ace of spades. He had to pick it up. I’d won, but as I shuffled for a
new game, I had the distinct suspicion that Hassan had
let
me win.

“Amir agha?”

“What?”

“You know . . . I
like
where I live.” He was always doing that, reading my mind. “It’s my home.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Get ready to lose again.”

SEVEN

The next morning, as he brewed black tea for breakfast, Hassan told me he’d had a dream. “We were at Ghargha Lake, you, me,
Father, Agha sahib, Rahim Khan, and thousands of other people,” he said. “It was warm and sunny, and the lake was clear like
a mirror. But no one was swimming because they said a monster had come to the lake. It was swimming at the bottom, waiting.”

He poured me a cup and added sugar, blew on it a few times. Put it before me. “So everyone is scared to get in the water,
and suddenly you kick off your shoes, Amir agha, and take off your shirt. ‘There’s no monster,’ you say. ‘I’ll show you all.’
And before anyone can stop you, you dive into the water, start swimming away. I follow you in and we’re both swimming.”

“But you can’t swim.”

Hassan laughed. “It’s a dream, Amir agha, you can do anything. Anyway, everyone is screaming, ‘Get out! Get out!’ but we just
swim in the cold water. We make it way out to the middle of the lake and we stop swimming. We turn toward the shore and wave
to the people. They look small like ants, but we can hear them clapping. They see now. There is no monster, just water. They
change the name of the lake after that, and call it the ‘Lake of Amir and Hassan, Sultans of Kabul,’ and we get to charge
people money for swimming in it.”

“So what does it mean?” I said.

He coated my
naan
with marmalade, placed it on a plate. “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Well, it’s a dumb dream. Nothing happens in it.”

“Father says dreams always mean something.”

I sipped some tea. “Why don’t you ask him, then? He’s so smart,” I said, more curtly than I had intended. I hadn’t slept all
night. My neck and back were like coiled springs, and my eyes stung. Still, I had been mean to Hassan. I almost apologized,
then didn’t. Hassan understood I was just nervous. Hassan always understood about me.

Upstairs, I could hear the water running in Baba’s bathroom.

THE STREETS GLISTENED with fresh snow and the sky was a blameless blue. Snow blanketed every rooftop and weighed on the branches
of the stunted mulberry trees that lined our street. Overnight, snow had nudged its way into every crack and gutter. I squinted
against the blinding white when Hassan and I stepped through the wrought-iron gates. Ali shut the gates behind us. I heard
him mutter a prayer under his breath—he always said a prayer when his son left the house.

I had never seen so many people on our street. Kids were flinging snowballs, squabbling, chasing one another, giggling. Kite
fighters were huddling with their spool holders, making last-minute preparations. From adjacent streets, I could hear laughter
and chatter. Already, rooftops were jammed with spectators reclining in lawn chairs, hot tea steaming from thermoses, and
the music of Ahmad Zahir blaring from cassette players. The immensely popular Ahmad Zahir had revolutionized Afghan music
and outraged the purists by adding electric guitars, drums, and horns to the traditional tabla and harmonium; on stage or
at par ties, he shirked the austere and nearly morose stance of older singers and actually smiled when he sang—sometimes even
at women. I turned my gaze to our rooftop, found Baba and Rahim Khan sitting on a bench, both dressed in wool sweaters, sipping
tea. Baba waved. I couldn’t tell if he was waving at me or Hassan.

“We should get started,” Hassan said. He wore black rubber snow boots and a bright green
chapan
over a thick sweater and faded corduroy pants. Sunlight washed over his face, and, in it, I saw how well the pink scar above
his lip had healed.

Suddenly I wanted to withdraw. Pack it all in, go back home. What was I thinking? Why was I putting myself through this, when
I already knew the outcome? Baba was on the roof, watching me. I felt his glare on me like the heat of a blistering sun. This
would be failure on a grand scale, even for me.

“I’m not sure I want to fly a kite today,” I said.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Hassan said.

I shifted on my feet. Tried to peel my gaze away from our rooftop. “I don’t know. Maybe we should go home.”

Then he stepped toward me and, in a low voice, said something that scared me a little. “Remember, Amir agha. There’s no monster,
just a beautiful day.” How could I be such an open book to him when, half the time, I had no idea what was milling around
in his head? I was the one who went to school, the one who could read, write. I was the smart one. Hassan couldn’t read a
first-grade textbook but he’d read me plenty. That was a little unsettling, but also sort of comfortable to have someone who
always knew what you needed.

“No monster,” I said, feeling a little better, to my own surprise.

He smiled. “No monster.”

“Are you sure?”

He closed his eyes. Nodded.

I looked to the kids scampering down the street, flinging snowballs. “It is a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Let’s fly,” he said.

It occurred to me then that maybe Hassan had made up his dream. Was that possible? I decided it wasn’t. Hassan wasn’t that
smart.
I
wasn’t that smart. But made up or not, the silly dream had lifted some of my anxiety. Maybe I
should
take off my shirt, take a swim in the lake.

Why not?

“Let’s do it,” I said.

Hassan’s face brightened. “Good,” he said. He lifted our kite, red with yellow borders, and, just beneath where the central
and cross spars met, marked with Saifo’s unmistakable signature. He licked his finger and held it up, tested the wind, then
ran in its direction—on those rare occasions we flew kites in the summer, he’d kick up dust to see which way the wind blew
it. The spool rolled in my hands until Hassan stopped, about fifty feet away. He held the kite high over his head, like an
Olympic athlete showing his gold medal. I jerked the string twice, our usual signal, and Hassan tossed the kite.

Caught between Baba and the mullahs at school, I still hadn’t made up my mind about God. But when a Koran
ayat
I had learned in my
diniyat
class rose to my lips, I muttered it. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and pulled on the string. Within a minute, my kite was
rocketing to the sky. It made a sound like a paper bird flapping its wings. Hassan clapped his hands, whistled, and ran back
to me. I handed him the spool, holding on to the string, and he spun it quickly to roll the loose string back on.

At least two dozen kites already hung in the sky, like paper sharks roaming for prey. Within an hour, the number doubled,
and red, blue, and yellow kites glided and spun in the sky. A cold breeze wafted through my hair. The wind was perfect for
kite flying, blowing just hard enough to give some lift, make the sweeps easier. Next to me, Hassan held the spool, his hands
already bloodied by the string.

Soon, the cutting started and the first of the defeated kites whirled out of control. They fell from the sky like shooting
stars with brilliant, rippling tails, showering the neighborhoods below with prizes for the kite runners. I could hear the
runners now, hollering as they ran the streets. Someone shouted reports of a fight breaking out two streets down.

I kept stealing glances at Baba sitting with Rahim Khan on the roof, wondered what he was thinking. Was he cheering for me?
Or did a part of him enjoy watching me fail? That was the thing about kite flying: Your mind drifted with the kite.

They were coming down all over the place now, the kites, and I was still flying. I was still flying. My eyes kept wandering
over to Baba, bundled up in his wool sweater. Was he surprised I had lasted as long as I had?
You
don’t
keep your eyes to the sky, you
won’t
last much longer.
I snapped my gaze back to the sky. A red kite was closing in on me—I’d caught it just in time. I tangled a bit with it, ended
up besting him when he became impatient and tried to cut me from below.

Up and down the streets, kite runners were returning triumphantly, their captured kites held high. They showed them off to
their parents, their friends. But they all knew the best was yet to come. The biggest prize of all was still flying. I sliced
a bright yellow kite with a coiled white tail. It cost me another gash on the index finger and blood trickled down into my
palm. I had Hassan hold the string and sucked the blood dry, blotted my finger against my jeans.

Within another hour, the number of surviving kites dwindled from maybe fifty to a dozen. I was one of them. I’d made it to
the last dozen. I knew this part of the tournament would take a while, because the guys who had lasted this long were good—they
wouldn’t easily fall into simple traps like the old lift-and-dive, Hassan’s favorite trick.

By three o’clock that afternoon, tufts of clouds had drifted in and the sun had slipped behind them. Shadows started to lengthen.
The spectators on the roofs bundled up in scarves and thick coats. We were down to a half dozen and I was still flying. My
legs ached and my neck was stiff. But with each defeated kite, hope grew in my heart, like snow collecting on a wall, one
flake at a time.

My eyes kept returning to a blue kite that had been wreaking havoc for the last hour.

“How many has he cut?” I asked.

“I counted eleven,” Hassan said.

“Do you know whose it might be?”

Hassan clucked his tongue and tipped his chin. That was a trademark Hassan gesture, meant he had no idea. The blue kite sliced
a big purple one and swept twice in big loops. Ten minutes later, he’d cut another two, sending hordes of kite runners racing
after them.

After another thirty minutes, only four kites remained. And I was still flying. It seemed I could hardly make a wrong move,
as if every gust of wind blew in my favor. I’d never felt so in command, so lucky. It felt intoxicating. I didn’t dare look
up to the roof. Didn’t dare take my eyes off the sky. I had to concentrate, play it smart. Another fifteen minutes and what
had seemed like a laughable dream that morning had suddenly become reality: It was just me and the other guy. The blue kite.

The tension in the air was as taut as the glass string I was tugging with my bloody hands. People were stomping their feet,
clapping, whistling, chanting,
“
Boboresh!
Boboresh!”
Cut him! Cut him!
I wondered if Baba’s voice was one of them. Music blasted. The smell of steamed
mantu
and fried
pakora
drifted from rooftops and open doors.

But all I heard—all I willed myself to hear—was the thudding of blood in my head. All I saw was the blue kite. All I smelled
was victory. Salvation. Redemption. If Baba was wrong and there
was
a God like they said in school, then He’d let me win. I didn’t know what the other guy was playing for, maybe just bragging
rights. But this was my one chance to become someone who was looked at, not seen, listened to, not heard. If there was a God,
He’d guide the winds, let them blow for me so that, with a tug of my string, I’d cut loose my pain, my longing. I’d endured
too much, come too far. And suddenly, just like that, hope became knowledge. I was going to win. It was just a matter of when.

It turned out to be sooner than later. A gust of wind lifted my kite and I took advantage. Fed the string, pulled up. Looped
my kite on top of the blue one. I held position. The blue kite knew it was in trouble. It was trying desperately to maneuver
out of the jam, but I didn’t let go. I held position. The crowd sensed the end was at hand. The chorus of “Cut him! Cut him!”
grew louder, like Romans chanting for the gladiators to kill, kill!

“You’re almost there, Amir agha! Almost there!” Hassan was panting.

Then the moment came. I closed my eyes and loosened my grip on the string. It sliced my fingers again as the wind dragged
it. And then . . . I didn’t need to hear the crowd’s roar to know. I didn’t need to see either. Hassan was screaming and his
arm was wrapped around my neck.

“Bravo! Bravo, Amir agha!”

I opened my eyes, saw the blue kite spinning wildly like a tire come loose from a speeding car. I blinked, tried to say something.
Nothing came out. Suddenly I was hovering, looking down on myself from above. Black leather coat, red scarf, faded jeans.
A thin boy, a little sallow, and a tad short for his twelve years. He had narrow shoulders and a hint of dark circles around
his pale hazel eyes. The breeze rustled his light brown hair. He looked up to me and we smiled at each other.

Then I was screaming, and everything was color and sound, everything was alive and good. I was throwing my free arm around
Hassan and we were hopping up and down, both of us laughing, both of us weeping. “You won, Amir agha! You won!”

“
We
won!
We
won!” was all I could say. This wasn’t happening. In a moment, I’d blink and rouse from this beautiful dream, get out of bed,
march down to the kitchen to eat breakfast with no one to talk to but Hassan. Get dressed. Wait for Baba. Give up. Back to
my old life. Then I saw Baba on our roof. He was standing on the edge, pumping both of his fists. Hollering and clapping.
And that right there was the single greatest moment of my twelve years of life, seeing Baba on that roof, proud of me at last.

But he was doing something now, motioning with his hands in an urgent way. Then I understood. “Hassan, we—”

“I know,” he said, breaking our embrace. “
Inshallah,
we’ll celebrate later. Right now, I’m going to run that blue kite for you,” he said. He dropped the spool and took off running,
the hem of his green
chapan
dragging in the snow behind him.

“Hassan!” I called. “Come back with it!”

He was already turning the street corner, his rubber boots kicking up snow. He stopped, turned. He cupped his hands around
his mouth. “For you a thousand times over!” he said. Then he smiled his Hassan smile and disappeared around the corner. The
next time I saw him smile unabashedly like that was twenty-six years later, in a faded Polaroid photograph.

I began to pull my kite back as people rushed to congratulate me. I shook hands with them, said my thanks. The younger kids
looked at me with an awestruck twinkle in their eyes; I was a hero. Hands patted my back and tousled my hair. I pulled on
the string and returned every smile, but my mind was on the blue kite.