Khaled Hosseini - The Kite Runner

If Peshawar was the city that reminded me of what Kabul used to be, then Islamabad was the city Kabul could have become someday. The streets were wider than Peshawar’s, cleaner, and lined with rows of hibiscus and flame trees. The bazaars were more organized and not nearly as clogged with rickshaws and pedestrians. The architecture was more elegant too, more modern, and I saw parks where roses and jasmine bloomed in the shadows of trees.

Farid found a small hotel on a side street running along the foot of the Margalla Hills. We passed the famous Shah Faisal Mosque on the way there, reputedly the biggest mosque in the world, with its giant concrete girders and soaring minarets. Sohrab perked up at the sight of the mosque, leaned out of the window and looked at it until Farid turned a corner.

THE HOTEL ROOM was a vast improvement over the one in Kabul where Farid and I had stayed. The sheets were clean, the carpet vacuumed, and the bathroom spotless. There was shampoo, soap, razors for shaving, a bathtub, and towels that smelled like lemon. And no bloodstains on the walls. One other thing: a television set sat on the dresser across from the two single beds.

“Look!” I said to Sohrab. I turned it on manually – no remote – and turned the dial. I found a children’s show with two fluffy sheep puppets singing in Urdu. Sohrab sat on one of the beds and drew his knees to his chest. Images from the TV reflected in his green eyes as he watched, stone-faced, rocking back and forth. I remembered the time I’d promised Hassan I’d buy his family a color TV when we both grew up.

“I’ll get going, Amir agha,” Farid said.

“Stay the night,” I said. “It’s a long drive. Leave tomorrow.”

“Tashakor,” he said. “But I want to get back tonight. I miss my children.” On his way out of the room, he paused in the doorway. “Good-bye, Sohrab jan,” he said. He waited for a reply, but Sohrab paid him no attention. Just rocked back and forth, his face lit by the silver glow of the images flickering across the screen.

Outside, I gave him an envelope. When he tore it, his mouth opened.

“I didn’t know how to thank you,” I said. “You’ve done so much for me.”

“How much is in here?” Farid said, slightly dazed.

“A little over two thousand dollars.”

“Two thou-” he began. His lower lip was quivering a little. Later, when he pulled away from the curb, he honked twice and waved. I waved back. I never saw him again.

I returned to the hotel room and found Sohrab lying on the bed, curled up in a big C . His eyes were closed but I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping. He had shut off the television. I sat on my bed and grimaced with pain, wiped the cool sweat off my brow. I wondered how much longer it would hurt to get up, sit down, roll over in bed. I wondered when I’d be able to eat solid food. I wondered what I’d do with the wounded little boy lying on the bed, though a part of me already knew.

There was a carafe of water on the dresser. I poured a glass and took two of Armand’s pain pills. The water was warm and bitter. I pulled the curtains, eased myself back on the bed, and lay down. I thought my chest would rip open. When the pain dropped a notch and I could breathe again, I pulled the blanket to my chest and waited for Armand’s pills to work.

WHEN I WOKE UP, the room was darker. The slice of sky peeking between the curtains was the purple of twilight turning into night. The sheets were soaked and my head pounded. I’d been dreaming again, but I couldn’t remember what it had been about.

My heart gave a sick lurch when I looked to Sohrab’s bed and found it empty. I called his name. The sound of my voice startled me. It was disorienting, sitting in a dark hotel room, thousands of miles from home, my body broken, calling the name of a boy I’d only met a few days ago. I called his name again and heard nothing. I struggled out of bed, checked the bathroom, looked in the narrow hallway outside the room. He was gone.

I locked the door and hobbled to the manager’s office in the lobby, one hand clutching the rail along the walkway for support. There was a fake, dusty palm tree in the corner of the lobby and flying pink flamingos on the wallpaper. I found the hotel manager reading a newspaper behind the Formica-topped check-in counter. I described Sohrab to him, asked if he’d seen him. He put down his paper and took off his reading glasses. He had greasy hair and a square-shaped little mustache speckled with gray. He smelled vaguely of some tropical fruit I couldn’t quite recognize.

“Boys, they like to run around,” he said, sighing. “I have three of them. All day they are running around, troubling their mother.” He fanned his face with the newspaper, staring at my jaws.

“I don’t think he’s out running around,” I said. “And we’re not from here. I’m afraid he might get lost.”

He bobbed his head from side to side. “Then you should have kept an eye on the boy, mister.”

“I know,” I said. “But I fell asleep and when I woke up, he was gone.”

“Boys must be tended to, you know.”

“Yes,” I said, my pulse quickening. How could he be so oblivious to my apprehension? He shifted the newspaper to his other hand, resumed the fanning. “They want bicycles now.”

“Who?”

“My boys,” he said. “They’re saying, ‘Daddy, Daddy, please buy us bicycles and we’ll not trouble you. Please, Daddy!’ ” He gave a short laugh through his nose. “Bicycles. Their mother will kill me, I swear to you.”

I imagined Sohrab lying in a ditch. Or in the trunk of some car, bound and gagged. I didn’t want his blood on my hands. Not his too. “Please…” I said. I squinted. Read his name tag on the lapel of his short-sleeve blue cotton shirt. “Mr. Fayyaz, have you seen him?”

“The boy?”

I bit down. “Yes, the boy! The boy who came with me. Have you seen him or not, for God’s sake?”

The fanning stopped. His eyes narrowed. “No getting smart with me, my friend. I am not the one who lost him.”

That he had a point did not stop the blood from rushing to my face. “You’re right. I’m wrong. My fault. Now, have you seen him?”

“Sorry,” he said curtly. He put his glasses back on. Snapped his newspaper open. “I have seen no such boy.”

I stood at the counter for a minute, trying not to scream. As I was exiting the lobby, he said, “Any idea where he might have wandered to?”

“No,” I said. I felt tired. Tired and scared.

“Does he have any interests?” he said. I saw he had folded the paper. “My boys, for example, they will do anything for American action films, especially with that Arnold Whatsanegger-”

“The mosque!” I said. “The big mosque.” I remembered the way the mosque had jolted Sohrab from his stupor when we’d driven by it, how he’d leaned out of the window looking at it.

“Shah Faisal?”

“Yes. Can you take me there?”

“Did you know it’s the biggest mosque in the world?” he asked.

“No, but-”

“The courtyard alone can fit forty thousand people.”

“Can you take me there?”

“It’s only a kilometer from here,” he said. But he was already pushing away from the counter.

“I’ll pay you for the ride,” I said.

He sighed and shook his head. “Wait here.” He disappeared into the back room, returned wearing another pair of eyeglasses, a set of keys in hand, and with a short, chubby woman in an orange sari trailing him. She took his seat behind the counter. “I don’t take your money,” he said, blowing by me. “I will drive you because I am a father like you.”

I THOUGHT WE’D END UP DRIVING around the city until night fell. I saw myself calling the police, describing Sohrab to them under Fayyaz’s reproachful glare. I heard the officer, his voice tired and uninterested, asking his obligatory questions. And beneath the official questions, an unofficial one: Who the hell cared about another dead Afghan kid?