Khaled Hosseini - The Kite Runner

I didn’t know what to think. Or what to say. Was that what it would take? Had he just slipped me a key? I was a good kite fighter. Actually, a very good one. A few times, I’d even come close to winning the winter tournament – once, I’d made it to the final three. But coming close wasn’t the same as winning, was it? Baba hadn’t come close . He had won because winners won and everyone else just went home. Baba was used to winning, winning at everything he set his mind to. Didn’t he have a right to expect the same from his son? And just imagine. If I did win…

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.”

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 parties, 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.