Page 125 - The Kite Runner

114 Khaled Hosseini

We pulled up to the checkpoint at Mahipar twenty minutes
later. Our driver let the truck idle and hopped down to greet the
approaching voices. Feet crushed gravel. Words were exchanged,
brief and hushed. A flick of a lighter. “Spasseba.”
Another flick of the lighter. Someone laughed, a shrill cack-
ling sound that made me jump. Baba’s hand clamped down on my
thigh. The laughing man broke into song, a slurring, off-key ren-
dition of an old Afghan wedding song, delivered with a thick Rus-
sian accent:

Ahesta boro, Mah-e-man, ahesta boro.
Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly.

Boot heels clicked on asphalt. Someone flung open the tar-
paulin hanging over the back of the truck, and three faces peered
in. One was Karim, the other two were soldiers, one Afghan, the
other a grinning Russian, face like a bulldog’s, cigarette dangling
from the side of his mouth. Behind them, a bone-colored moon
hung in the sky. Karim and the Afghan soldier had a brief
exchange in Pashtu. I caught a little of it—something about Toor
and his bad luck. The Russian soldier thrust his face into the rear
of the truck. He was humming the wedding song and drumming
his finger on the edge of the tailgate. Even in the dim light of the
moon, I saw the glazed look in his eyes as they skipped from pas-
senger to passenger. Despite the cold, sweat streamed from his
brow. His eyes settled on the young woman wearing the black
shawl. He spoke in Russian to Karim without taking his eyes off
her. Karim gave a curt reply in Russian, which the soldier
returned with an even curter retort. The Afghan soldier said some-
thing too, in a low, reasoning voice. But the Russian soldier
shouted something that made the other two flinch. I could feel