Khaled Hosseini - The Kite Runner

I PACED THE LIVING ROOM of our apartment waiting for Baba’s call. Fifteen paces long. Ten and a half paces wide. What if the general said no? What if he hated me? I kept going to the kitchen, checking the oven clock.

The phone rang just before noon. It was Baba.

“Well?”

“The general accepted.”

I let out a burst of air. Sat down. My hands were shaking. “He did?”

“Yes, but Soraya jan is upstairs in her room. She wants to talk to you first.”

“Okay.”

Baba said something to someone and there was a double click as he hung up.

“Amir?” Soraya’s voice.

“Salaam.”

“My father said yes.”

“I know,” I said. I switched hands. I was smiling. “I’m so happy I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m happy too, Amir. I… can’t believe this is happening.”

I laughed. “I know.”

“Listen,” she said, “I want to tell you something. Something you have to know before…”

“I don’t care what it is.”

“You need to know. I don’t want us to start with secrets. And I’d rather you hear it from me.”

“If it will make you feel better, tell me. But it won’t change anything.”

There was a long pause at the other end. “When we lived in Virginia, I ran away with an Afghan man. I was eighteen at the time… rebellious… stupid, and… he was into drugs… We lived together for almost a month. All the Afghans in Virginia were talking about it.

“Padar eventually found us. He showed up at the door and… made me come home. I was hysterical. Yelling. Screaming. Saying I hated him…

“Anyway, I came home and-” She was crying. “Excuse me.” I heard her put the phone down. Blow her nose. “Sorry,” she came back on, sounding hoarse. “When I came home, I saw my mother had had a stroke, the right side of her face was paralyzed and… I felt so guilty. She didn’t deserve that.

“Padar moved us to California shortly after.” A silence followed.

“How are you and your father now?” I said.

“We’ve always had our differences, we still do, but I’m grateful he came for me that day. I really believe he saved me.” She paused. “So, does what I told you bother you?”

“A little,” I said. I owed her the truth on this one. I couldn’t lie to her and say that my pride, my iftikhar , wasn’t stung at all that she had been with a man, whereas I had never taken a woman to bed. It did bother me a bit, but I had pondered this quite a lot in the weeks before I asked Baba to go khastegari . And in the end the question that always came back to me was this: How could I, of all people, chastise someone for their past?

“Does it bother you enough to change your mind?”

“No, Soraya. Not even close,” I said. “Nothing you said changes anything. I want us to marry.”

She broke into fresh tears.

I envied her. Her secret was out. Spoken. Dealt with. I opened my mouth and almost told her how I’d betrayed Hassan, lied, driven him out, and destroyed a forty-year relationship between Baba and Ali. But I didn’t. I suspected there were many ways in which Soraya Taheri was a better person than me. Courage was just one of them.

When we arrived at the Taheris’ home the next evening – for lafz , the ceremony of “giving word” – I had to park the Ford across the street. Their driveway was already jammed with cars. I wore a navy blue suit I had bought the previous day, after I had brought Baba home from khastegari . I checked my tie in the rearview mirror.

“You look khoshteep ,” Baba said. Handsome.

“Thank you, Baba. Are you all right? Do you feel up to this?”

“Up to this? It’s the happiest day of my life, Amir,” he said, smiling tiredly.

I COULD HEAR CHATTER from the other side of the door, laughter, and Afghan music playing softly – it sounded like a classical ghazal by Ustad Sarahang. I rang the bell. A face peeked through the curtains of the foyer window and disappeared. “They’re here!” I heard a woman’s voice say. The chatter stopped. Someone turned off the music.

Khanum Taheri opened the door. “ Salaam alaykum ,” she said, beaming. She’d permed her hair, I saw, and wore an elegant, ankle-length black dress. When I stepped into the foyer, her eyes moistened. “You’re barely in the house and I’m crying already, Amir jan,” she said. I planted a kiss on her hand, just as Baba had instructed me to do the night before.

She led us through a brightly lit hallway to the living room. On the wood-paneled walls, I saw pictures of the people who would become my new family: A young bouffant-haired Khanum Taheri and the general – Niagara Falls in the background; Khanum Taheri in a seamless dress, the general in a narrow-lapelled jacket and thin tie, his hair full and black; Soraya, about to board a wooden roller coaster, waving and smiling, the sun glinting off the silver wires in her teeth. A photo of the general, dashing in full military outfit, shaking hands with King Hussein of Jordan. A portrait of Zahir Shah.

The living room was packed with about two dozen guests seated on chairs placed along the walls. When Baba entered, everybody stood up. We went around the room, Baba leading slowly, me behind him, shaking hands and greeting the guests. The general – still in his gray suit – and Baba embraced, gently tapping each other on the back. They said their Salaam s in respectful hushed tones.

The general held me at arm’s length and smiled knowingly, as if saying, “Now, this is the right way – the Afghan way – to do it, bachem .” We kissed three times on the cheek.

We sat in the crowded room, Baba and I next to each other, across from the general and his wife. Baba’s breathing had grown a little ragged, and he kept wiping sweat off his forehead and scalp with his handkerchief. He saw me looking at him and managed a strained grin. “I’m all right,” he mouthed.

In keeping with tradition, Soraya was not present.

A few moments of small talk and idle chatter followed until the general cleared his throat. The room became quiet and everyone looked down at their hands in respect. The general nodded toward Baba.

Baba cleared his own throat. When he began, he couldn’t speak in complete sentences without stopping to breathe. “General Sahib, Khanum Jamila jan… it’s with great humility that my son and I… have come to your home today. You are… honorable people… from distinguished and reputable families and… proud lineage. I come with nothing but the utmost ihtiram … and the highest regards for you, your family names, and the memory… of your ancestors.” He stopped. Caught his breath. Wiped his brow. “Amir jan is my only son… my only child, and he has been a good son to me. I hope he proves… worthy of your kindness. I ask that you honor Amir jan and me… and accept my son into your family.”

The general nodded politely.

“We are honored to welcome the son of a man such as yourself into our family,” he said. “Your reputation precedes you. I was your humble admirer in Kabul and remain so today. We are honored that your family and ours will be joined.

“Amir jan, as for you, I welcome you to my home as a son, as the husband of my daughter who is the noor of my eye. Your pain will be our pain, your joy our joy. I hope that you will come to see your Khala Jamila and me as a second set of parents, and I pray for your and our lovely Soraya jan’s happiness. You both have our blessings.”

Everyone applauded, and with that signal, heads turned toward the hallway. The moment I’d waited for.

Soraya appeared at the end. Dressed in a stunning wine-colored traditional Afghan dress with long sleeves and gold trimmings. Baba’s hand took mine and tightened. Khanum Taheri burst into fresh tears. Slowly, Soraya came to us, tailed by a procession of young female relatives.