Page 128 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 117

second Russian officer with the others. It was from the muzzle of his
upturned gun that smoke swirled. The soldier who had meant to
shoot Baba had already holstered his weapon. He was shuffling his
feet. I had never felt more like crying and laughing at the same time.
The second Russian officer, gray-haired and heavyset, spoke to
us in broken Farsi. He apologized for his comrade’s behavior.
“Russia sends them here to fight,” he said. “But they are just boys,
and when they come here, they find the pleasure of drug.” He
gave the younger officer the rueful look of a father exasperated
with his misbehaving son. “This one is attached to drug now. I try
to stop him . . .” He waved us off.
Moments later, we were pulling away. I heard a laugh and
then the first soldier’s voice, slurry and off-key, singing the old
wedding song.

We rode in silence for about fifteen minutes before the
young woman’s husband suddenly stood and did something I’d
seen many others do before him: He kissed Baba’s hand.

Toor’s bad luck. Hadn’t I overheard that in a snippet of
conversation back at Mahipar?
We rolled into Jalalabad about an hour before sunrise. Karim
ushered us quickly from the truck into a one-story house at the
intersection of two dirt roads lined with flat one-story homes, aca-
cia trees, and closed shops. I pulled the collar of my coat against
the chill as we hurried into the house, dragging our belongings.
For some reason, I remember smelling radishes.
Once he had us inside the dimly lit, bare living room, Karim
locked the front door, pulled the tattered sheets that passed for