Page 148 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 137

idated ’71 Volkswagen bus for $550 from an old Afghan acquain-
tance who’d been a high-school science teacher in Kabul. The
neighbors’ heads turned the afternoon the bus sputtered up the
street and farted its way across our lot. Baba killed the engine and
let the bus roll silently into our designated spot. We sank in our
seats, laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks, and, more
important, until we were sure the neighbors weren’t watching
anymore. The bus was a sad carcass of rusted metal, shattered
windows replaced with black garbage bags, balding tires, and
upholstery shredded down to the springs. But the old teacher had
reassured Baba that the engine and transmission were sound and,
on that account, the man hadn’t lied.
On Saturdays, Baba woke me up at dawn. As he dressed, I
scanned the classifieds in the local papers and circled the garage
sale ads. We mapped our route—Fremont, Union City, Newark,
and Hayward first, then San Jose, Milpitas, Sunnyvale, and
Campbell if time permitted. Baba drove the bus, sipping hot tea
from the thermos, and I navigated. We stopped at garage sales
and bought knickknacks that people no longer wanted. We hag-
gled over old sewing machines, one-eyed Barbie dolls, wooden
tennis rackets, guitars with missing strings, and old Electrolux
vacuum cleaners. By midafternoon, we’d filled the back of the
VW bus with used goods. Then early Sunday mornings, we drove
to the San Jose flea market off Berryessa, rented a spot, and sold
the junk for a small profit: a Chicago record that we’d bought for
a quarter the day before might go for $1, or $4 for a set of five; a
ramshackle Singer sewing machine purchased for $10 might,
after some bargaining, bring in $25.
By that summer, Afghan families were working an entire sec-
tion of the San Jose flea market. Afghan music played in the aisles
of the Used Goods section. There was an unspoken code of