Page 118 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 107

sahib,” Ali said. His mouth twitched and, for a moment, I thought
I saw a grimace. That was when I understood the depth of the
pain I had caused, the blackness of the grief I had brought onto
everyone, that not even Ali’s paralyzed face could mask his sorrow.
I forced myself to look at Hassan, but his head was downcast, his
shoulders slumped, his finger twirling a loose string on the hem of
his shirt.
Baba was pleading now. “At least tell me why. I need to know!”
Ali didn’t tell Baba, just as he didn’t protest when Hassan con-
fessed to the stealing. I’ll never really know why, but I could imag-
ine the two of them in that dim little hut, weeping, Hassan
pleading him not to give me away. But I couldn’t imagine the
restraint it must have taken Ali to keep that promise.
“Will you drive us to the bus station?”
“I forbid you to do this!” Baba bellowed. “Do you hear me? I
forbid you!”
“Respectfully, you can’t forbid me anything, Agha sahib,” Ali
said. “We don’t work for you anymore.”
“Where will you go?” Baba asked. His voice was breaking.
“Hazarajat.”
“To your cousin?”
“Yes. Will you take us to the bus station, Agha sahib?”
Then I saw Baba do something I had never seen him do before:
He cried. It scared me a little, seeing a grown man sob. Fathers
weren’t supposed to cry. “Please,” Baba was saying, but Ali had
already turned to the door, Hassan trailing him. I’ll never forget
the way Baba said that, the pain in his plea, the fear.

In Kabul, it rarely rained in the summer. Blue skies stood tall
and far, the sun like a branding iron searing the back of your neck.