Speedreed

THE

KITE

RUNNER

by

KHALED

HOSSEINI

Published

2003

-December

2001_

I

became

what

I

am

today

at

the

age

of

twelve,

on

a

frigid

overcast

day

in

the

winter

of

1975.

1

remember

the

precise

moment,

crouching

behind

a

crumbling

mud

wall,

peeking

into

the

alley

near

the

frozen

creek.

That

was

a

long

time

ago,

but

it's

wrong

what

they

say

about

the

past,

I've

learned,

about

how

you

can

bury

it.

Because

the

past

claws

its

way

out.

Looking

back

now,

I

realize

I

have

been

peeking

into

that

deserted

alley

for

the

last

twenty-six

years.

One

day

last

summer,

my

friend

Rahim

Khan

called

from

Pakistan.

He

asked

me

to

come

see

him.

Standing

in

the

kitchen

with

the

receiver

to

my

ear,

I

knew

it

wasn't

just

Rahim

Khan

on

the

line.

It

was

my

past

of

unatoned**

sins.

After

I

hung

up,

I

went

for

a

walk

along

Spreckels

Lake

on

the

northern

edge

of

Golden

Gate

Park.

The

early-afternoon

sun

sparkled

on

the

water

where

dozens

of

miniature

boats

sailed,

propelled

by

a

crisp

breeze.

Then

I

glanced

up

and

saw

a

pair

of

kites,

red

with

long

blue

tails,

soaring

in

the

sky.

They

danced

high

above

the

trees

on

the

west

end

of

the

park,

over

the

windmills,

floating

side

by

side

like

a

pair

of

eyes

looking

down

on

San

Francisco,

the

city

I

now

call

home.

And

suddenly

Hassan's

voice

whispered

in

my

head:

_For

you,

a

thousand

times

over._

Hassan

the

harelipped

kite

runner.

I

sat

on

a

park

bench

near

a

willow

tree.

I

thought

about

something

Rahim

Khan

said

just

before

he

hung

up,

almost

as

an

after

thought.

-There

is

a

way

to

be

good

again.-

1

looked

up

at

those

twin

kites.

I

thought

about

Hassan.

Thought

about

Baba.

Ali.

Kabul.

I

thought

of

the

life

I

had

lived

until

the

winter

of

1975

came

and

changed

everything.

And

made

me

what

I

am

today.

TWO

When

we

were

children,

Hassan

and

I

used

to

climb

the

poplar

trees

in

the

driveway

of

my

father's

house

and

annoy

our

neighbors

by

reflecting

sunlight

into

their

homes

with

a

shard

of

mirror.

We

would

sit

across

from

each

other

on

a

pair

of

high

branches,

our

naked

feet

dangling,

our

trouser

pockets

filled

with

dried

mulberries

and

walnuts.

We

took

turns

with

the

mirror

as

we

ate

mulberries,

pelted

each

other

with

them,

giggling,

laughing;

I

can

still

see

Hassan

up

on

that

tree,

sunlight

flickering

through

the

leaves

on

his

almost

perfectly

round

face,

a

face

like

a

Chinese

doll

chiseled

from

hardwood:

his

flat,

broad

nose

and

slanting,

narrow

eyes

like

bamboo

leaves,

eyes

that

looked,

depending

on

the

light,

gold,

green,

even

sapphire

I

can

still

see

his

tiny

low-set

ears

and

that

pointed

stub

of

a

chin,

a

meaty

appendage

that

looked

like

it

was

added

as

a

mere

afterthought.

And

the

cleft

lip,

just

left

of

midline,

where

the

Chinese

doll

maker's

instrument

may

have

slipped;

or

perhaps

he

had

simply

grown

tired

and

careless.

Sometimes,

up

in

those

trees,

I

talked

Hassan

into

firing

walnuts

with

his

slingshot

at

the

neighbor's

one-eyed

German

shepherd.

Hassan

never

wanted

to,

but

if

I

asked,

_really_

asked,

he

wouldn't

deny

me.

Hassan

never

denied

me

anything.

And

he

was

deadly

with

his

slingshot.

Hassan's

father,

Ali,

used

to

catch

us

and

get

mad,

or

as

mad

as

someone

as

gentle

as

Ali

could

ever

get.

He

would

wag

his

finger

and

wave

us

down

from

the

tree.

He

would

take

the

mirror

and

tell

us

what

his

mother

had

told

him,

that

the

devil

shone

mirrors

too,

shone

them

to

distract

Muslims

during

prayer.

"And

he

laughs

while

he

does

it,"

he

always

added,

scowling

at

his

son.

"Yes,

Father,"

Hassan

would

mumble,

looking

down

at

his

feet.

But

he

never

told

on

me.

Never

told

that

the

mirror,

like

shooting

walnuts

at

the

neighbor's

dog,

was

always

my

idea.

The

poplar

trees

lined

the

redbrick

driveway,

which

led

to

a

pair

of

wrought-iron

gates.

They

in

turn

opened

into

an

extension

of

the

driveway

into

my

father's

estate.

The

house

sat

on

the

left

side

of

the

brick

path,

the

backyard

at

the

end

of

it.

Everyone

agreed

that

my

father,

my

Baba,

had

built

the

most

beautiful

house

in

the

Wazir

Akbar

Khan

district,

a

new

and

affluent

neighborhood

in

the

northern

part

of

Kabul.

Some

thought

it

was

the

prettiest

house

in

all

of

Kabul.

A

broad

entryway

flanked

by

rosebushes

led

to

the

sprawling

house

of

marble

floors

and

wide

windows.

Intricate

mosaic

tiles,

handpicked

by

Baba

in

Isfahan,

covered

the

floors

of

the

four

bathrooms.

Gold-stitched

tapestries,

which

Baba

had

bought

in

Calcutta,

lined

the

walls;

a

crystal

chandelier

hung

from

the

vaulted

ceiling.

Upstairs

was

my

bedroom,

Baba's

room,

and

his

study,

also

known

as

"the

smoking

room,"

which

perpetually

smelled

of

tobacco

and

cinnamon.

Baba

and

his

friends

reclined

on

black

leather

chairs

there

after

Ali

had

served

dinner.

They

stuffed

their

pipes--except

Baba

always

called

it

"fattening

the

pipe"--and

discussed

their

favorite

three

topics:

politics,

business,

soccer.

Sometimes

I

asked

Baba

if

I

could

sit

with

them,

but

Baba

would

stand

in

the

doorway.

"Go

on,

now,"

he'd

say.

"This

is

grown-ups'

time.

Why

don't

you

go

read

one

of

those

books

of

yours?"

He'd

close

the

door,

leave

me

to

wonder

why

it

was

always

grown-ups'

time

with

him.

I'd

sit

by

the

door,

knees

drawn

to

my

chest.

Sometimes

I

sat

there

for

an

hour,

sometimes

two,

listening

to

their

laughter,

their

chatter.

The

living

room

downstairs

had

a

curved

wall

with

custom

built

cabinets.

Inside

sat

framed

family

pictures:

an

old,

grainy

photo

of

my

grandfather

and

King

Nadir

Shah

taken

in

1931,

two

years

before

the

king's

assassination;

they

are

standing

over

a

dead

deer,

dressed

in

knee-high

boots,

rifles

slung

over

their

shoulders.

There

was

a

picture

of

my

parents'

wedding

night,

Baba

dashing

in

his

black

suit

and

my

mother

a

smiling

young

princess

in

white.

Here

was

Baba

and

his

best

friend

and

business

partner,

Rahim

Khan,

standing

outside

our

house,

neither

one

smiling-I

am

a

baby

in

that

photograph

and

Baba

is

holding

me,

looking

tired

and

grim.

I'm

in

his

arms,

but

it's

Rahim

Khan's

pinky

my

fingers

are

curled

around.

The

curved

wall

led

into

the

dining

room,

at

the

center

of

which

was

a

mahogany

table

that

could

easily

sit

thirty

guests-and,

given

my

father's

taste

for

extravagant

parties,

it

did

just

that

almost

every

week.

On

the

other

end

of

the

dining

room

was

a

tall

marble

fireplace,

always

lit

by

the

orange

glow

of

a

fire

in

the

wintertime.

A

large

sliding

glass

door

opened

into

a

semicircular

terrace

that

overlooked

two

acres

of

backyard

and

rows

of

cherry

trees.

Baba

and

Ali

had

planted

a

small

vegetable

garden

along

the

eastern

wall:

tomatoes,

mint,

peppers,

and

a

row

of

corn

that

never

really

took.

Hassan

and

I

used

to

call

it

"the

Wall

of

Ailing

Corn."

On

the

south

end

of

the

garden,

in

the

shadows

of

a

loquat

tree,

was

the

servants'

home,

a

modest

little

mud

hut

where

Hassan

lived

with

his

father.

It

was

there,

in

that

little

shack,

that

Hassan

was

born

in

the

winter

of

1964,

just

one

year

after

my

mother

died

giving

birth

to

me.

In

the

eighteen

years

that

I

lived

in

that

house,

I

stepped

into

Hassan

and

Ali's

quarters

only

a

handful

of

times.

When

the

sun

dropped

low

behind

the

hills

and

we

were

done

playing

for

the

day,

Hassan

and

I

parted

ways.

I

went

past

the

rosebushes

to

Baba's

mansion,

Hassan

to

the

mud

shack

where

he

had

been

born,

where

he'd

lived

his

entire

life.

I

remember

it

was

spare,

clean,

dimly

lit

by

a

pair

of

kerosene

lamps.

There

were

two

mattresses

on

opposite

sides

of

the

room,

a

worn

Herati

rug

with

frayed

edges

in

between,

a

three-legged

stool,

and

a

wooden

table

in

the

corner

where

Hassan

did

his

drawings.

The

walls

stood

bare,

save

for

a

single

tapestry

with

sewn-in

beads

forming

the

words

_Allah-u-

akbar_.

Baba

had

bought

it

for

Ali

on

one

of

his

trips

to

Mashad.

It

was

in

that

small

shack

that

Hassan's

mother,

Sanaubar,

gave

birth

to

him

one

cold

winter

day

in

1964.

While

my

mother

hemorrhaged

to

death

during

childbirth,

Hassan

lost

his

less

than

a

week

after

he

was

born.

Lost

her

to

a

fate

most

Afghans

considered

far

worse

than

death:

She

ran

off

with

a

clan

of

traveling

singers

and

dancers.

Hassan

never

talked

about

his

mother,

as

if

she'd

never

existed.

I

always

wondered

if

he

dreamed

about

her,

about

what

she

looked

like,

where

she

was.

I

wondered

if

he

longed

to

meet

her.

Did

he

ache

for

her,

the

way

I

ached

for

the

mother

I

had

never

met?

One

day,

we

were

walking

from

my

father's

house

to

Cinema

Zainab

for

a

new

Iranian

movie,

taking

the

shortcut

through

the

military

barracks

near

Istiqlal

Middle

School-Baba

had

forbidden

us

to

take

that

shortcut,

but

he

was

in

Pakistan

with

Rahim

Khan

at

the

time.

We

hopped

the

fence

that

surrounded

the

barracks,

skipped

over

a

little

creek,

and

broke

into

the

open

dirt

field

where

old,

abandoned

tanks

collected

dust.

A

group

of

soldiers

huddled

in

the

shade

of

one

of

those

tanks,

smoking

cigarettes

and

playing

cards.

One

of

them

saw

us,

elbowed

the

guy

next

to

him,

and

called

Hassan.

"Hey,

you!"

he

said.

"I

know

you."

We

had

never

seen

him

before.

He

was

a

squatly

man

with

a

shaved

head

and

black

stubble

on

his

face.

The

way

he

grinned

at

us,

leered,

scared

me.

"Just

keep

walking,"

1

muttered

to

Hassan.

"You!

The

Hazara!

Look

at

me

when

I'm

talking

to

you!"

the

soldier

barked.

He

handed

his

cigarette

to

the

guy

next

to

him,

made

a

circle

with

the

thumb

and

index

finger

of

one

hand.

Poked

the

middle

finger

of

his

other

hand

through

the

circle.

Poked

it

in

and

out.

In

and

out.

"I

knew

your

mother,

did

you

know

that?

I

knew

her

real

good.

I

took

her

from

behind

by

that

creek

over

there."

The

soldiers

laughed.

One

of

them

made

a

squealing

sound.

I

told

Hassan

to

keep

walking,

keep

walking.

"What

a

tight

little

sugary

cunt

she

had!"

the

soldier

was

saying,

shaking

hands

with

the

others,

grinning.

Later,

in

the

dark,

after

the

movie

had

started,

I

heard

Hassan

next

to

me,

croaking.

Tears

were

sliding

down

his

cheeks.

I

reached

across

my

seat,

slung

my

arm

around

him,

pulled

him

close.

He

rested

his

head

on

my

shoulder.

"He

took

you

for

someone

else,"

I

whispered.

"He

took

you

for

someone

else."

I'm

told

no

one

was

really

surprised

when

Sanaubar

eloped.

People

_had_

raised

their

eyebrows

when

Ah,

a

man

who

had

memorized

the

Koran,

married

Sanaubar,

a

woman

nineteen

years

younger,

a

beautiful

but

notoriously

unscrupulous

woman

who

lived

up

to

her

dishonorable

reputation.

Like

Ali,

she

was

a

Shi'a

Muslim

and

an

ethnic

Hazara.

She

was

also

his

first

cousin

and

therefore

a

natural

choice

for

a

spouse.

But

beyond

those

similarities,

Ali

and

Sanaubar

had

little

in

common,

least

of

all

their

respective

appearances.

While

Sanaubar's

brilliant

green

eyes

and

impish

face

had,

rumor

has

it,

tempted

countless

men

into

sin,

Ah

had

a

congenital

paralysis

of

his

lower

facial

muscles,

a

condition

that

rendered

him

unable

to

smile

and

left

him

perpetually

grim-

faced.

It

was

an

odd

thing

to

see

the

stone-faced

Ah

happy,

or

sad,

because

only

his

slanted

brown

eyes

glinted

with

a

smile

or

welled

with

sorrow.

People

say

that

eyes

are

windows

to

the

soul.

Never

was

that

more

true

than

with

Ah,

who

could

only

reveal

himself

through

his

eyes.

I

have

heard

that

Sanaubar's

suggestive

stride

and

oscillating

hips

sent

men

to

reveries

of

infidelity.

But

polio

had

left

Ali

with

a

twisted,

atrophied

right

leg

that

was

sallow

skin

over

bone

with

little

in

between

except

a

paper-thin

layer

of

muscle.

I

remember

one

day,

when

I

was

eight,

Ali

was

taking

me

to

the

bazaar

to

buy

some

_naan_.

I

was

walking

behind

him,

humming,

trying

to

imitate

his

walk.

I

watched

him

swing

his

scraggy

leg

in

a

sweeping

arc,

watched

his

whole

body

tilt

impossibly

to

the

right

every

time

he

planted

that

foot.

It

seemed

a

minor

miracle

he

didn't

tip

over

with

each

step.

When

I

tried

it,

I

almost

fell

into

the

gutter.

That

got

me

giggling.

Ali

turned

around,

caught

me

aping

him.

He

didn't

say

anything.

Not

then,

not

ever.

He

just

kept

walking.

Ali's

face

and

his

walk

frightened

some

of

the

younger

children

in

the

neighborhood.

But

the

real

trouble

was

with

the

older

kids.

They

chased

him

on

the

street,

and

mocked

him

when

he

hobbled

by.

Some

had

taken

to

calling

him

_Babalu_,

or

Boogeyman.

"Hey,

Babalu,

who

did

you

eat

today?"

they

barked

to

a

chorus

of

laughter.

"Who

did

you

eat,

you

flat-nosed

Babalu?"

They

called

him

"flat-nosed"

because

of

Ali

and

Hassan's

characteristic

Hazara

Mongoloid

features.

For

years,

that

was

all

I

knew

about

the

Hazaras,

that

they

were

Mogul

descendants,

and

that

they

looked

a

little

like

Chinese

people.

School

text

books

barely

mentioned

them

and

referred

to

their

ancestry

only

in

passing.

Then

one

day,

I

was

in

Baba's

study,

looking

through

his

stuff,

when

1

found

one

of

my

mother's

old

history

books.

It

was

written

by

an

Iranian

named

Khorami.

I

blew

the

dust

off

it,

sneaked

it

into

bed

with

me

that

night,

and

was

stunned

to

find

an

entire

chapter

on

Hazara

history.

An

entire

chapter

dedicated

to

Hassan's

people!

In

it,

I

read

that

my

people,

the

Pashtuns,

had

persecuted

and

oppressed

the

Hazaras.

It

said

the

Hazaras

had

tried

to

rise

against

the

Pashtuns

in

the

nineteenth

century,

but

the

Pashtuns

had

"quelled

them

with

unspeakable

violence."

The

book

said

that

my

people

had

killed

the

Hazaras,

driven

them

from

their

lands,

burned

their

homes,

and

sold

their

women.

The

book

said

part

of

the

reason

Pashtuns

had

oppressed

the

Hazaras

was

that

Pashtuns

were

Sunni

Muslims,

while

Hazaras

were

Shi'a.

The

book

said

a

lot

of

things

I

didn't

know,

things

my

teachers

hadn't

mentioned.

Things

Baba

hadn't

mentioned

either.

It

also

said

some

things

I

did

know,

like

that

people

called

Hazaras

_mice-eating,

flat-nosed,

load-carrying

donkeys_.

I

had

heard

some

of

the

kids

in

the

neighborhood

yell

those

names

to

Hassan.

The

following

week,

after

class,

I

showed

the

book

to

my

teacher

and

pointed

to

the

chapter

on

the

Hazaras.

He

skimmed

through

a

couple

of

pages,

snickered,

handed

the

book

back.

"That's

the

one

thing

Shi'a

people

do

well,"

he

said,

picking

up

his

papers,

"passing

themselves

as

martyrs."

He

wrinkled

his

nose

when

he

said

the

word

Shi'a,

like

it

was

some

kind

of

disease.

But

despite

sharing

ethnic

heritage

and

family

blood,

Sanaubar

joined

the

neighborhood

kids

in

taunting

Ali.

I

have

heard

that

she

made

no

secret

of

her

disdain

for

his

appearance.

"This

is

a

husband?"

she

would

sneer.

"I

have

seen

old

donkeys

better

suited

to

be

a

husband."

In

the

end,

most

people

suspected

the

marriage

had

been

an

arrangement

of

sorts

between

Ali

and

his

uncle,

Sanaubar's

father.

They

said

Ali

had

married

his

cousin

to

help

restore

some

honor

to

his

uncle's

blemished

name,

even

though

Ali,

who

had

been

orphaned

at

the

age

of

five,

had

no

worldly

possessions

or

inheritance

to

speak

of.

Ali

never

retaliated

against

any

of

his

tormentors,

I

suppose

partly

because

he

could

never

catch

them

with

that

twisted

leg

dragging

behind

him.

But

mostly

because

Ali

was

immune

to

the

insults

of

his

assailants;

he

had

found

his

joy,

his

antidote,

the

moment

Sanaubar

had

given

birth

to

Hassan.

It

had

been

a

simple

enough

affair.

No

obstetricians,

no

anesthesiologists,

no

fancy

monitoring

devices.

Just

Sanaubar

lying

on

a

stained,

naked

mattress

with

Ali

and

a

midwife

helping

her.

She

hadn't

needed

much

help

at

all,

because,

even

in

birth,

Hassan

was

true

to

his

nature:

He

was

incapable

of

hurting

anyone.

A

few

grunts,

a

couple

of

pushes,

and

out

came

Hassan.

Out

he

came

smiling.

As

confided

to

a

neighbor's

servant

by

the

garrulous

midwife,

who

had

then

in

turn

told

anyone

who

would

listen,

Sanaubar

had

taken

one

glance

at

the

baby

in

Ali's

arms,

seen

the

cleft

lip,

and

barked

a

bitter

laughter.

"There,"

she

had

said.

"Now

you

have

your

own

idiot

child

to

do

all

your

smiling

for

you!"

She

had

refused

to

even

hold

Hassan,

and

just

five

days

later,

she

was

gone.

Baba

hired

the

same

nursing

woman

who

had

fed

me

to

nurse

Hassan.

Ali

told

us

she

was

a

blue-eyed

Hazara

woman

from

Bamiyan,

the

city

of

the

giant

Buddha

statues.

"What

a

sweet

singing

voice

she

had,"

he

used

to

say

to

us.

What

did

she

sing,

Hassan

and

I

always

asked,

though

we

already

knew-

Ali

had

told

us

countless

times.

We

just

wanted

to

hear

Ali

sing.

He'd

clear

his

throat

and

begin:

_On

a

high

mountain

I

stood,

And

cried

the

name

of

Ali,

Lion

of

God

0

Ali,

Lion

of

God,

King

of

Men,

Bring

joy

to

our

sorrowful

hearts._

Then

he

would

remind

us

that

there

was

a

brotherhood

between

people

who

had

fed

from

the

same

breast,

a

kinship

that

not

even

time

could

break.

Hassan

and

I

fed

from

the

same

breasts.

We

took

our

first

steps

on

the

same

lawn

in

the

same

yard.

And,

under

the

same

roof,

we

spoke

our

first

words.

Mine

was

_Baba_.

His

was

_Amir_.

My

name.

Looking

back

on

it

now,

I

think

the

foundation

for

what

happened

in

the

winter

of

1975--and

all

that

followed--was

already

laid

in

those

first

words.

THREE

Lore

has

it

my

father

once

wrestled

a

black

bear

in

Baluchistan

with

his

bare

hands.

If

the

story

had

been

about

anyone

else,

it

would

have

been

dismissed

as

_laaf_,

that

Afghan

tendency

to

exaggerate--sadly,

almost

a

national

affliction;

if

someone

bragged

that

his

son

was

a

doctor,

chances

were

the

kid

had

once

passed

a

biology

test

in

high

school.

But

no

one

ever

doubted

the

veracity

of

any

story

about

Baba.

And

if

they

did,

well,

Baba

did

have

those

three

parallel

scars

coursing

a

jagged

path

down

his

back.

I

have

imagined

Baba's

wrestling

match

countless

times,

even

dreamed

about

it.

And

in

those

dreams,

I

can

never

tell

Baba

from

the

bear.

It

was

Rahim

Khan

who

first

referred

to

him

as

what

eventually

became

Baba's

famous

nickname,

_Toophan

agha_,

or

"Mr.

Hurricane."

It

was

an

apt

enough

nickname.

My

father

was

a

force

of

nature,

a

towering

Pashtun

specimen

with

a

thick

beard,

a

wayward

crop

of

curly

brown

hair

as

unruly

as

the

man

himself,

hands

that

looked

capable

of

uprooting

a

willow

tree,

and

a

black

glare

that

would

"drop

the

devil

to

his

knees

begging

for

mercy,"

as

Rahim

Khan

used

to

say.

At

parties,

when

all

six-foot-five

of

him

thundered

into

the

room,

attention

shifted

to

him

like

sunflowers

turning

to

the

sun.

Baba

was

impossible

to

ignore,

even

in

his

sleep.

I

used

to

bury

cotton

wisps

in

my

ears,

pull

the

blanket

over

my

head,

and

still

the

sounds

of

Baba's

snoring-so

much

like

a

growling

truck

engine-penetrated

the

walls.

And

my

room

was

across

the

hall

from

Baba's

bedroom.

How

my

mother

ever

managed

to

sleep

in

the

same

room

as

him

is

a

mystery

to

me.

It's

on

the

long

list

of

things

I

would

have

asked

my

mother

if

I

had

ever

met

her.

In

the

late

1960s,

when

I

was

five

or

six,

Baba

decided

to

build

an

orphanage.

I

heard

the

story

through

Rahim

Khan.

He

told

me

Baba

had

drawn

the

blueprints

himself

despite

the

fact

that

he'd

had

no

architectural

experience

at

all.

Skeptics

had

urged

him

to

stop

his

foolishness

and

hire

an

architect.

Of

course,

Baba

refused,

and

everyone

shook

their

heads

in

dismay

at

his

obstinate

ways.

Then

Baba

succeeded

and

everyone

shook

their

heads

in

awe

at

his

triumphant

ways.

Baba

paid

for

the

construction

of

the

two-story

orphanage,

just

off

the

main

strip

of

Jadeh

Maywand

south

of

the

Kabul

River,

with

his

own

money.

Rahim

Khan

told

me

Baba

had

personally

funded

the

entire

project,

paying

for

the

engineers,

electricians,

plumbers,

and

laborers,

not

to

mention

the

city

officials

whose

"mustaches

needed

oiling."

It

took

three

years

to

build

the

orphanage.

I

was

eight

by

then.

I

remember

the

day

before

the

orphanage

opened,

Baba

took

me

to

Ghargha

Lake,

a

few

miles

north

of

Kabul.

He

asked

me

to

fetch

Hassan

too,

but

1

lied

and

told

him

Hassan

had

the

runs.

I

wanted

Baba

all

to

myself.

And

besides,

one

time

at

Ghargha

Lake,

Hassan

and

I

were

skimming

stones

and

Hassan

made

his

stone

skip

eight

times.

The

most

I

managed

was

five.

Baba

was

there,

watching,

and

he

patted

Hassan

on

the

back.

Even

put

his

arm

around

his

shoulder.

We

sat

at

a

picnic

table

on

the

banks

of

the

lake,

just

Baba

and

me,

eating

boiled

eggs

with

_kofta_

sandwiches-meatballs

and

pickles

wrapped

in

_naan_.

The

water

was

a

deep

blue

and

sunlight

glittered

on

its

looking

glass-clear

surface.

On

Fridays,

the

lake

was

bustling

with

families

out

for

a

day

in

the

sun.

But

it

was

midweek

and

there

was

only

Baba

and

me,

us

and

a

couple

of

longhaired,

bearded

tourists-"hippies,"

I'd

heard

them

called.

They

were

sitting

on

the

dock,

feet

dangling

in

the

water,

fishing

poles

in

hand.

I

asked

Baba

why

they

grew

their

hair

long,

but

Baba

grunted,

didn't

answer.

He

was

preparing

his

speech

for

the

next

day,

flipping

through

a

havoc

of

handwritten

pages,

making

notes

here

and

there

with

a

pencil.

I

bit

into

my

egg

and

asked

Baba

if

it

was

true

what

a

boy

in

school

had

told

me,

that

if

you

ate

a

piece

of

eggshell,

you'd

have

to

pee

it

out.

Baba

grunted

again.

I

took

a

bite

of

my

sandwich.

One

of

the

yellow-haired

tourists

laughed

and

slapped

the

other

one

on

the

back.

In

the

distance,

across

the

lake,

a

truck

lumbered

around

a

corner

on

the

hill.

Sunlight

twinkled

in

its

side-view

mirror,

"I

think

1

have

_saratan_,"

I

said.

Cancer.

Baba

lifted

his

head

from

the

pages

flapping

in

the

breeze.

Told

me

I

could

get

the

soda

myself,

all

I

had

to

do

was

look

in

the

trunk

of

the

car.

Outside

the

orphanage,

the

next

day,

they

ran

out

of

chairs.

A

lot

of

people

had

to

stand

to

watch

the

opening

ceremony.

It

was

a

windy

day,

and

I

sat

behind

Baba

on

the

little

podium

just

outside

the

main

entrance

of

the

new

building.

Baba

was

wearing

a

green

suit

and

a

caracul

hat.

Midway

through

the

speech,

the

wind

knocked

his

hat

off

and

everyone

laughed.

He

motioned

to

me

to

hold

his

hat

for

him

and

I

was

glad

to,

because

then

everyone

would

see

that

he

was

my

father,

my

Baba.

He

turned

back

to

the

microphone

and

said

he

hoped

the

building

was

sturdier

than

his

hat,

and

everyone

laughed

again.

When

Baba

ended

his

speech,

people

stood

up

and

cheered.

They

clapped

for

a

long

time.

Afterward,

people

shook

his

hand.

Some

of

them

tousled

my

hair

and

shook

my

hand

too.

I

was

so

proud

of

Baba,

of

us.

But

despite

Baba's

successes,

people

were

always

doubting

him.

They

told

Baba

that

running

a

business

wasn't

in

his

blood

and

he

should

study

law

like

his

father.

So

Baba

proved

them

all

wrong

by

not

only

running

his

own

business

but

becoming

one

of

the

richest

merchants

in

Kabul.

Baba

and

Rahim

Khan

built

a

wildly

successful

carpet-exporting

business,

two

pharmacies,

and

a

restaurant.

When

people

scoffed

that

Baba

would

never

marry

well-after

all,

he

was

not

of

royal

blood-he

wedded

my

mother,

Sofia

Akrami,

a

highly

educated

woman

universally

regarded

as

one

of

Kabul's

most

respected,

beautiful,

and

virtuous

ladies.

And

not

only

did

she

teach

classic

Farsi

literature

at

the

university

she

was

a

descendant

of

the

royal

family,

a

fact

that

my

father

playfully

rubbed

in

the

skeptics'

faces

by

referring

to

her

as

"my

princess."

With

me

as

the

glaring

exception,

my

father

molded

the

world

around

him

to

his

liking.

The

problem,

of

course,

was

that

Baba

saw

the

world

in

black

and

white.

And

he

got

to

decide

what

was

black

and

what

was

white.

You

can't

love

a

person

who

lives

that

way

without

fearing

him

too.

Maybe

even

hating

him

a

little.

When

I

was

in

fifth

grade,

we

had

a

mullah

who

taught

us

about

Islam.

His

name

was

Mullah

Fatiullah

Khan,

a

short,

stubby

man

with

a

face

full

of

acne

scars

and

a

gruff

voice.

He

lectured

us

about

the

virtues

of

_zakat_

and

the

duty

of

_hadj_;

he

taught

us

the

intricacies

of

performing

the

five

daily

_namaz_

prayers,

and

made

us

memorize

verses

from

the

Koran-and

though

he

never

translated

the

words

for

us,

he

did

stress,

sometimes

with

the

help

of

a

stripped

willow

branch,

that

we

had

to

pronounce

the

Arabic

words

correctly

so

God

would

hear

us

better.

He

told

us

one

day

that

Islam

considered

drinking

a

terrible

sin;

those

who

drank

would

answer

for

their

sin

on

the

day

of

_Qiyamat_,

Judgment

Day.

In

those

days,

drinking

was

fairly

common

in

Kabul.

No

one

gave

you

a

public

lashing

for

it,

but

those

Afghans

who

did

drink

did

so

in

private,

out

of

respect.

People

bought

their

scotch

as

"medicine"

in

brown

paper

bags

from

selected

"pharmacies."

They

would

leave

with

the

bag

tucked

out

of

sight,

sometimes

drawing

furtive,

disapproving

glances

from

those

who

knew

about

the

store's

reputation

for

such

transactions.

We

were

upstairs

in

Baba's

study,

the

smoking

room,

when

I

told

him

what

Mullah

Fatiullah

Khan

had

taught

us

in

class.

Baba

was

pouring

himself

a

whiskey

from

the

bar

he

had

built

in

the

corner

of

the

room.

He

listened,

nodded,

took

a

sip

from

his

drink.

Then

he

lowered

himself

into

the

leather

sofa,

put

down

his

drink,

and

propped

me

up

on

his

lap.

I

felt

as

if

I

were

sitting

on

a

pair

of

tree

trunks.

He

took

a

deep

breath

and

exhaled

through

his

nose,

the

air

hissing

through

his

mustache

for

what

seemed

an

eternity

I

couldn't

decide

whether

I

wanted

to

hug

him

or

leap

from

his

lap

in

mortal

fear.

"I

see

you've

confused

what

you're

learning

in

school

with

actual

education,"

he

said

in

his

thick

voice.

"But

if

what

he

said

is

true

then

does

it

make

you

a

sinner,

Baba?"

"Hmm."

Baba

crushed

an

ice

cube

between

his

teeth.

"Do

you

want

to

know

what

your

father

thinks

about

sin?"

'Yes.

"Then

I'll

tell

you,"

Baba

said,

"but

first

understand

this

and

understand

it

now,

Amir:

You'll

never

learn

anything

of

value

from

those

bearded

idiots."

"You

mean

Mullah

Fatiullah

Khan?"

Baba

gestured

with

his

glass.

The

ice

clinked.

"I

mean

all

of

them.

Piss

on

the

beards

of

all

those

self-righteous

monkeys."

I

began

to

giggle.

The

image

of

Baba

pissing

on

the

beard

of

any

monkey,

self-righteous

or

otherwise,

was

too

much.

"They

do

nothing

but

thumb

their

prayer

beads

and

recite

a

book

written

in

a

tongue

they

don't

even

understand."

He

took

a

sip.

"God

help

us

all

if

Afghanistan

ever

falls

into

their

hands."

"But

Mullah

Fatiullah

Khan

seems

nice/'

I

managed

between

bursts

of

tittering.

"So

did

Genghis

Khan,"

Baba

said.

"But

enough

about

that.

You

asked

about

sin

and

I

want

to

tell

you.

Are

you

listening?"

"Yes,"

I

said,

pressing

my

lips

together.

But

a

chortle

escaped

through

my

nose

and

made

a

snorting

sound.

That

got

me

giggling

again.

Baba's

stony

eyes

bore

into

mine

and,

just

like

that,

I

wasn't

laughing

anymore.

"I

mean

to

speak

to

you

man

to

man.

Do

you

think

you

can

handle

that

for

once?"

"Yes,

Baba

jan,"

I

muttered,

marveling,

not

for

the

first

time,

at

how

badly

Baba

could

sting

me

with

so

few

words.

We'd

had

a

fleeting

good

moment--it

wasn't

often

Baba

talked

to

me,

let

alone

on

his

lap--and

I'd

been

a

fool

to

waste

it.

"Good,"

Baba

said,

but

his

eyes

wondered.

"Now,

no

matter

what

the

mullah

teaches,

there

is

only

one

sin,

only

one.

And

that

is

theft.

Every

other

sin

is

a

variation

of

theft.

Do

you

understand

that?"

"No,

Baba

jan,"

I

said,

desperately

wishing

I

did.

1

didn't

want

to

disappoint

him

again.

Baba

heaved

a

sigh

of

impatience.

That

stung

too,

because

he

was

not

an

impatient

man.

I

remembered

all

the

times

he

didn't

come

home

until

after

dark,

all

the

times

I

ate

dinner

alone.

I'd

ask

Ali

where

Baba

was,

when

he

was

coming

home,

though

I

knew

full

well

he

was

at

the

construction

site,

overlooking

this,

supervising

that.

Didn't

that

take

patience?

I

already

hated

all

the

kids

he

was

building

the

orphanage

for;

sometimes

I

wished

they'd

all

died

along

with

their

parents.

"When

you

kill

a

man,

you

steal

a

life,"

Baba

said.

"You

steal

his

wife's

right

to

a

husband,

rob

his

children

of

a

father.

When

you

tell

a

lie,

you

steal

someone's

right

to

the

truth.

When

you

cheat,

you

steal

the

right

to

fairness.

Do

you

see?"

I

did.

When

Baba

was

six,

a

thief

walked

into

my

grandfather's

house

in

the

middle

of

the

night.

My

grandfather,

a

respected

judge,

confronted

him,

but

the

thief

stabbed

him

in

the

throat,

killing

him

instantly--and

robbing

Baba

of

a

father.

The

townspeople

caught

the

killer

just

before

noon

the

next

day;

he

turned

out

to

be

a

wanderer

from

the

Kunduz

region.

They

hanged

him

from

the

branch

of

an

oak

tree

with

still

two

hours

to

go

before

afternoon

prayer.

It

was

Rahim

Khan,

not

Baba,

who

had

told

me

that

story.

I

was

always

learning

things

about

Baba

from

other

people.

"There

is

no

act

more

wretched

than

stealing,

Amir,"

Baba

said.

"A

man

who

takes

what's

not

his

to

take,

be

it

a

life

or

a

loaf

of

_naan_...

I

spit

on

such

a

man.

And

if

I

ever

cross

paths

with

him,

God

help

him.

Do

you

understand?"

1

found

the

idea

of

Baba

clobbering

a

thief

both

exhilarating

and

terribly

frightening.

"Yes,

Baba."

"If

there's

a

God

out

there,

then

I

would

hope

he

has

more

important

things

to

attend

to

than

my

drinking

scotch

or

eating

pork.

Now,

hop

down.

All

this

talk

about

sin

has

made

me

thirsty

again."

I

watched

him

fill

his

glass

at

the

bar

and

wondered

how

much

time

would

pass

before

we

talked

again

the

way

we

just

had.

Because

the

truth

of

it

was,

I

always

felt

like

Baba

hated

me

a

little.

And

why

not?

After

all,

I

_had_

killed

his

beloved

wife,

his

beautiful

princess,

hadn't

I?

The

least

I

could

have

done

was

to

have

had

the

decency

to

have

turned

out

a

little

more

like

him.

But

I

hadn't

turned

out

like

him.

Not

at

all.

IN

SCHOOL,

we

used

to

play

a

game

called

_Sherjangi_,

or

"Battle

of

the

Poems."

The

Farsi

teacher

moderated

it

and

it

went

something

like

this:

You

recited

a

verse

from

a

poem

and

your

opponent

had

sixty

seconds

to

reply

with

a

verse

that

began

with

the

same

letter

that

ended

yours.

Everyone

in

my

class

wanted

me

on

their

team,

because

by

the

time

I

was

eleven,

I

could

recite

dozens

of

verses

from

Khayyam,

Hafez,

or

Rumi's

famous

_Masnawi_.

One

time,

I

took

on

the

whole

class

and

won.

I

told

Baba

about

it

later

that

night,

but

he

just

nodded,

muttered,

"Good."

That

was

how

I

escaped

my

father's

aloofness,

in

my

dead

mother's

books.

That

and

Hassan,

of

course.

I

read

everything,

Rumi,

Hafez,

Saadi,

Victor

Hugo,

Jules

Verne,

Mark

Twain,

Ian

Fleming.

When

I

had

finished

my

mother's

books--not

the

boring

history

ones,

I

was

never

much

into

those,

but

the

novels,

the

epics--I

started

spending

my

allowance

on

books.

I

bought

one

a

week

from

the

bookstore

near

Cinema

Park,

and

stored

them

in

cardboard

boxes

when

I

ran

out

of

shelf

room.

Of

course,

marrying

a

poet

was

one

thing,

but

fathering

a

son

who

preferred

burying

his

face

in

poetry

books

to

hunting...

well,

that

wasn't

how

Baba

had

envisioned

it,

I

suppose.

Real

men

didn't

read

poetry--and

God

forbid

they

should

ever

write

it!

Real

men--real

boys--played

soccer

just

as

Baba

had

when

he

had

been

young.

Now

_that_

was

something

to

be

passionate

about.

In

1970,

Baba

took

a

break

from

the

construction

of

the

orphanage

and

flew

to

Tehran

for

a

month

to

watch

the

World

Cup

games

on

television,

since

at

the

time

Afghanistan

didn't

have

TVs

yet.

He

signed

me

up

for

soccer

teams

to

stir

the

same

passion

in

me.

But

I

was

pathetic,

a

blundering

liability

to

my

own

team,

always

in

the

way

of

an

opportune

pass

or

unwittingly

blocking

an

open

lane.

I

shambled

about

the

field

on

scraggy

legs,

squalled

for

passes

that

never

came

my

way.

And

the

harder

I

tried,

waving

my

arms

over

my

head

frantically

and

screeching,

"I'm

open!

I'm

open!"

the

more

I

went

ignored.

But

Baba

wouldn't

give

up.

When

it

became

abundantly

clear

that

I

hadn't

inherited

a

shred

of

his

athletic

talents,

he

settled

for

trying

to

turn

me

into

a

passionate

spectator.

Certainly

I

could

manage

that,

couldn't

I?

I

faked

interest

for

as

long

as

possible.

I

cheered

with

him

when

Kabul's

team

scored

against

Kandahar

and

yelped

insults

at

the

referee

when

he

called

a

penalty

against

our

team.

But

Baba

sensed

my

lack

of

genuine

interest

and

resigned

himself

to

the

bleak

fact

that

his

son

was

never

going

to

either

play

or

watch

soccer.

I

remember

one

time

Baba

took

me

to

the

yearly

_Buzkashi_

tournament

that

took

place

on

the

first

day

of

spring,

New

Year's

Day.

Buzkashi

was,

and

still

is,

Afghanistan's

national

passion.

A

_chapandaz_,

a

highly

skilled

horseman

usually

patronized

by

rich

aficionados,

has

to

snatch

a

goat

or

cattle

carcass

from

the

midst

of

a

melee,

carry

that

carcass

with

him

around

the

stadium

at

full

gallop,

and

drop

it

in

a

scoring

circle

while

a

team

of

other

_chapandaz_

chases

him

and

does

everything

in

its

power-kick,

claw,

whip,

punch-to

snatch

the

carcass

from

him.

That

day,

the

crowd

roared

with

excitement

as

the

horsemen

on

the

field

bellowed

their

battle

cries

and

jostled

for

the

carcass

in

a

cloud

of

dust.

The

earth

trembled

with

the

clatter

of

hooves.

We

watched

from

the

upper

bleachers

as

riders

pounded

past

us

at

full

gallop,

yipping

and

yelling,

foam

flying

from

their

horses'

mouths.

At

one

point

Baba

pointed

to

someone.

"Amir,

do

you

see

that

man

sitting

up

there

with

those

other

men

around

him?"

I

did.

"That's

Henry

Kissinger."

"Oh,"

I

said.

I

didn't

know

who

Henry

Kissinger

was,

and

I

might

have

asked.

But

at

the

moment,

I

watched

with

horror

as

one

of

the

_chapandaz_

fell

off

his

saddle

and

was

trampled

under

a

score

of

hooves.

His

body

was

tossed

and

hurled

in

the

stampede

like

a

rag

doll,

finally

rolling

to

a

stop

when

the

melee

moved

on.

He

twitched

once

and

lay

motionless,

his

legs

bent

at

unnatural

angles,

a

pool

of

his

blood

soaking

through

the

sand.

I

began

to

cry.

I

cried

all

the

way

back

home.

I

remember

how

Baba's

hands

clenched

around

the

steering

wheel.

Clenched

and

unclenched.

Mostly,

I

will

never

forget

Baba's

valiant

efforts

to

conceal

the

disgusted

look

on

his

face

as

he

drove

in

silence.

Later

that

night,

I

was

passing

by

my

father's

study

when

I

overheard

him

speaking

to

Rahim

Khan.

I

pressed

my

ear

to

the

closed

door.

"--grateful

that

he's

healthy,"

Rahim

Khan

was

saying.

"I

know,

I

know.

But

he's

always

buried

in

those

books

or

shuffling

around

the

house

like

he's

lost

in

some

dream."

'And?

"I

wasn't

like

that."

Baba

sounded

frustrated,

almost

angry.

Rahim

Khan

laughed.

"Children

aren't

coloring

books.

You

don't

get

to

fill

them

with

your

favorite

colors."

"I'm

telling

you,"

Baba

said,

"I

wasn't

like

that

at

all,

and

neither

were

any

of

the

kids

I

grew

up

with."

"You

know,

sometimes

you

are

the

most

self-centered

man

I

know,"

Rahim

Khan

said.

He

was

the

only

person

I

knew

who

could

get

away

with

saying

something

like

that

to

Baba.

"It

has

nothing

to

do

with

that."

"Nay?"

"Nay."

"Then

what?"

I

heard

the

leather

of

Baba's

seat

creaking

as

he

shifted

on

it.

I

closed

my

eyes,

pressed

my

ear

even

harder

against

the

door,

wanting

to

hear,

not

wanting

to

hear.

"Sometimes

I

look

out

this

window

and

I

see

him

playing

on

the

street

with

the

neighborhood

boys.

I

see

how

they

push

him

around,

take

his

toys

from

him,

give

him

a

shove

here,

a

whack

there.

And,