The Kite Runner (28 page)

“You’re not dirty, Sohrab,” I said.

“Those men—”

“You’re not dirty at all.”

“—they did things . . . the bad man and the other two . . . they did things . . . did things to me.”

“You’re not dirty, and you’re not full of sin.” I touched his arm again and he drew away. I reached again, gently, and pulled
him to me. “I won’t hurt you,” I whispered. “I promise.” He resisted a little. Slackened. He let me draw him to me and rested
his head on my chest. His little body convulsed in my arms with each sob.

A kinship exists between people who’ve fed from the same breast. Now, as the boy’s pain soaked through my shirt, I saw that
a kinship had taken root between us too. What had happened in that room with Assef had irrevocably bound us.

I’d been looking for the right time, the right moment, to ask the question that had been buzzing around in my head and keeping
me up at night. I decided the moment was now, right here, right now, with the bright lights of the house of God shining on
us.

“Would you like to come live in America with me and my wife?”

He didn’t answer. He sobbed into my shirt and I let him.

FOR A WEEK, neither one of us mentioned what I had asked him, as if the question hadn’t been posed at all. Then one day, Sohrab
and I took a taxicab to the Daman-e-Koh Viewpoint—or “the hem of the mountain.” Perched midway up the Margalla Hills, it gives
a panoramic view of Islamabad, its rows of clean, tree-lined avenues and white houses. The driver told us we could see the
presidential palace from up there. “If it has rained and the air is clear, you can even see past Rawalpindi,” he said. I saw
his eyes in his rearview mirror, skipping from Sohrab to me, back and forth, back and forth. I saw my own face too. It wasn’t
as swollen as before, but it had taken on a yellow tint from my assortment of fading bruises.

We sat on a bench in one of the picnic areas, in the shade of a gum tree. It was a warm day, the sun perched high in a topaz
blue sky. On benches nearby, families snacked on
samosa
s and
pakora
s. Somewhere, a radio played a Hindi song I thought I remembered from an old movie, maybe
Pakeeza.
Kids, many of them Sohrab’s age, chased soccer balls, giggling, yelling. I thought about the orphanage in Karteh-Seh, thought
about the rat that had scurried between my feet in Zaman’s office. My chest tightened with a surge of unexpected anger at
the way my countrymen were destroying their own land.

“What?” Sohrab asked. I forced a smile and told him it wasn’t important.

We unrolled one of the hotel’s bathroom towels on the picnic table and played panjpar on it. It felt good being there, with
my half brother’s son, playing cards, the warmth of the sun patting the back of my neck. The song ended and another one started,
one I didn’t recognize.

“Look,” Sohrab said. He was pointing to the sky with his cards. I looked up, saw a hawk circling in the broad seamless sky.
“Didn’t know there were hawks in Islamabad,” I said.

“Me neither,” he said, his eyes tracing the bird’s circular flight. “Do they have them where you live?”

“San Francisco? I guess so. I can’t say I’ve seen too many, though.”

“Oh,” he said. I was hoping he’d ask more, but he dealt another hand and asked if we could eat. I opened the paper bag and
gave him his meatball sandwich. My lunch consisted of yet another cup of blended bananas and oranges—I’d rented Mrs. Fayyaz’s
blender for the week. I sucked through the straw and my mouth filled with the sweet, blended fruit. Some of it dripped from
the corner of my lips. Sohrab handed me a napkin and watched me dab at my lips. I smiled and he smiled back.

“Your father and I were brothers,” I said. It just came out. I had wanted to tell him the night we had sat by the mosque,
but I hadn’t. But he had a right to know; I didn’t want to hide anything anymore. “Half brothers, really. We had the same
father.”

Sohrab stopped chewing. Put the sandwich down. “Father never said he had a brother.”

“That’s because he didn’t know.”

“Why didn’t he know?”

“No one told him,” I said. “No one told me either. I just found out recently.”

Sohrab blinked. Like he was looking at me,
really
looking at me, for the very first time. “But why did people hide it from Father and you?”

“You know, I asked myself that same question the other day. And there’s an answer, but not a good one. Let’s just say they
didn’t tell us because your father and I . . . we weren’t supposed to be brothers.”

“Because he was a Hazara?”

I willed my eyes to stay on him. “Yes.”

“Did your father,” he began, eyeing his food, “did your father love you and my father equally?”

I thought of a long ago day at Ghargha Lake, when Baba had allowed himself to pat Hassan on the back when Hassan’s stone had
out-skipped mine. I pictured Baba in the hospital room, beaming as they removed the bandages from Hassan’s lips. “I think
he loved us equally but differently.”

“Was he ashamed of my father?”

“No,” I said. “I think he was ashamed of himself.”

He picked up his sandwich and nibbled at it silently.

WE LEFT LATE THAT AFTERNOON, tired from the heat, but tired in a pleasant way. All the way back, I felt Sohrab watching me.
I had the driver pull over at a store that sold calling cards. I gave him the money and a tip for running in and buying me
one.

That night, we were lying on our beds, watching a talk show on TV. Two clerics with pepper gray long beards and white turbans
were taking calls from the faithful all over the world. One caller from Finland, a guy named Ayub, asked if his teenaged son
could go to hell for wearing his baggy pants so low the seam of his underwear showed.

“I saw a picture of San Francisco once,” Sohrab said.

“Really?”

“There was a red bridge and a building with a pointy top.”

“You should see the streets,” I said.

“What about them?” He was looking at me now. On the TV screen, the two mullahs were consulting each other.

“They’re so steep, when you drive up all you see is the hood of your car and the sky,” I said.

“It sounds scary,” he said. He rolled to his side, facing me, his back to the TV.

“It is the first few times,” I said. “But you get used to it.”

“Does it snow there?”

“No, but we get a lot of fog. You know that red bridge you saw?”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes the fog is so thick in the morning, all you see is the tip of the two towers poking through.”

There was wonder in his smile. “Oh.”

“Sohrab?”

“Yes.”

“Have you given any thought to what I asked you before?”

His smiled faded. He rolled to his back. Laced his hands under his head. The mullahs decided that Ayub’s son would go to hell
after all for wearing his pants the way he did. They claimed it was in the
Haddith.
“I’ve thought about it,” Sohrab said.

“And?”

“It scares me.”

“I know it’s a little scary,” I said, grabbing onto that loose thread of hope. “But you’ll learn English so fast and you’ll
get used to—”

“That’s not what I mean. That scares me too, but . . .”

“But what?”

He rolled toward me again. Drew his knees up. “What if you get tired of me? What if your wife doesn’t like me?”

I struggled out of bed and crossed the space between us. I sat beside him. “I won’t ever get tired of you, Sohrab,” I said.
“Not ever. That’s a promise. You’re my nephew, remember? And Soraya jan, she’s a very kind woman. Trust me, she’s going to
love you. I promise that too.” I chanced something. Reached down and took his hand. He tightened up a little but let me hold
it.

“I don’t want to go to another orphanage,” he said.

“I won’t ever let that happen. I promise you that.” I cupped his hand in both of mine. “Come home with me.”

His tears were soaking the pillow. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then his hand squeezed mine back. And he nodded.
He nodded.

THE CONNECTION WENT THROUGH on the fourth try. The phone rang three times before she picked it up. “Hello?” It was 7:30 in
the evening in Islamabad, roughly about the same time in the morning in California. That meant Soraya had been up for an hour,
getting ready for school.

“It’s me,” I said. I was sitting on my bed, watching Sohrab sleep.

“Amir!” she almost screamed. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m in Pakistan.”

“Why didn’t you call earlier? I’ve been sick with
tashweesh!
My mother’s praying and doing
nazr
every day.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’m fine now.” I had told her I’d be away a week, two at the most. I’d been gone for nearly a month.
I smiled. “And tell Khala Jamila to stop killing sheep.”

“What do you mean ‘fine now’? And what’s wrong with your voice?”

“Don’t worry about that for now. I’m fine. Really. Soraya, I have a story to tell you, a story I should have told you a long
time ago, but first I need to tell you one thing.”

“What is it?” she said, her voice lower now, more cautious.

“I’m not coming home alone. I’m bringing a little boy with me.” I paused. “I want us to adopt him.”

“
What?”

I checked my watch. “I have fifty-seven minutes left on this stupid calling card and I have so much to tell you. Sit somewhere.”
I heard the legs of a chair dragged hurriedly across the wooden floor.

“Go ahead,” she said.

Then I did what I hadn’t done in fifteen years of marriage: I told my wife everything. Everything. I had pictured this moment
so many times, dreaded it, but, as I spoke, I felt something lifting off my chest. I imagined Soraya had experienced something
very similar the night of our
khastegari,
when she’d told me about her past.

By the time I was done with my story, she was weeping.

“What do you think?” I said.

“I don’t know what to think, Amir. You’ve told me so much all at once.”

“I realize that.”

I heard her blowing her nose. “But I know this much: You have to bring him home. I want you to.”

“Are you sure?” I said, closing my eyes and smiling.

“Am I sure?” she said. “Amir, he’s your
qaom,
your family, so he’s my
qaom
too. Of course I’m sure. You can’t leave him to the streets.” There was a short pause. “What’s he like?”

I looked over at Sohrab sleeping on the bed. “He’s sweet, in a solemn kind of way.”

“Who can blame him?” she said. “I want to see him, Amir. I really do.”

“Soraya?”

“Yeah.”

“
Dostet
darum.”
I love you.

“I love you back,” she said. I could hear the smile in her words. “And be careful.”

“I will. And one more thing. Don’t tell your parents who he is. If they need to know, it should come from me.”

“Okay.”

We hung up.

THE LAWN OUTSIDE the American embassy in Islamabad was neatly mowed, dotted with circular clusters of flowers, bordered by
razor-straight hedges. The building itself was like a lot of buildings in Islamabad: flat and white. We passed through several
roadblocks to get there and three different security officials conducted a body search on me after the wires in my jaws set
off the metal detectors. When we finally stepped in from the heat, the air-conditioning hit my face like a splash of ice water.
The secretary in the lobby, a fifty-something, lean-faced blond woman, smiled when I gave her my name. She wore a beige blouse
and black slacks—the first woman I’d seen in weeks dressed in something other than a
burqa
or a
shalwar-kameez.
She looked me up on the appointment list, tapping the eraser end of her pencil on the desk. She found my name and asked me
to take a seat.

“Would you like some lemonade?” she asked.

“None for me, thanks,” I said.

“How about your son?”

“Excuse me?”

“The handsome young gentleman,” she said, smiling at Sohrab.

“Oh. That’d be nice, thank you.”

Sohrab and I sat on the black leather sofa across the reception desk, next to a tall American flag. Sohrab picked up a magazine
from the glass-top coffee table. He flipped the pages, not really looking at the pictures.

“What?” Sohrab said.

“Sorry?”

“You’re smiling.”

“I was thinking about you,” I said.

He gave a nervous smile. Picked up another magazine and flipped through it in under thirty seconds.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said, touching his arm. “These people are friendly. Relax.” I could have used my own advice. I kept shifting
in my seat, untying and retying my shoelaces. The secretary placed a tall glass of lemonade with ice on the coffee table.
“There you go.”

Sohrab smiled shyly. “Thank you very much,” he said in English. It came out as “Tank you wery match.” It was the only English
he knew, he’d told me, that and “Have a nice day.”

She laughed. “You’re most welcome.” She walked back to her desk, high heels clicking on the floor.

“Have a nice day,” Sohrab said.

RAYMOND ANDREWS was a short fellow with small hands, nails perfectly trimmed, wedding band on the ring finger. He gave me
a curt little shake; it felt like squeezing a sparrow.
Those are the hands that hold our
fates,
I thought as Sohrab and I seated ourselves across from his desk. A
Les
Misérables
poster was nailed to the wall behind Andrews next to a topographical map of the U.S. A pot of tomato plants basked in the
sun on the windowsill.

“Smoke?” he asked, his voice a deep baritone that was at odds with his slight stature.

“No thanks,” I said, not caring at all for the way Andrews’s eyes barely gave Sohrab a glance, or the way he didn’t look at
me when he spoke. He pulled open a desk drawer and lit a cigarette from a half-empty pack. He also produced a bottle of lotion
from the same drawer. He looked at his tomato plants as he rubbed lotion into his hands, cigarette dangling from the corner
of his mouth. Then he closed the drawer, put his elbows on the desktop, and exhaled. “So,” he said, crinkling his gray eyes
against the smoke, “tell me your story.”