Page 150 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 139

The general laughed like a man used to attending formal par-
ties where he’d laughed on cue at the minor jokes of important
people. He had wispy silver-gray hair combed back from his
smooth, tanned forehead, and tufts of white in his bushy eye-
brows. He smelled like cologne and wore an iron-gray three-piece
suit, shiny from too many pressings; the gold chain of a pocket
watch dangled from his vest.
“Such a lofty introduction,” he said, his voice deep and cul-
tured. “Salaam, bachem.” Hello, my child.
“Salaam, General Sahib,” I said, shaking his hand. His thin
hands belied a firm grip, as if steel hid beneath the moisturized
skin.
“Amir is going to be a great writer,” Baba said. I did a double
take at this. “He has finished his first year of college and earned
A’s in all of his courses.”
“Junior college,” I corrected him.
“Mashallah,” General Taheri said. “Will you be writing about
our country, history perhaps? Economics?”
“I write fiction,” I said, thinking of the dozen or so short sto-
ries I had written in the leather-bound notebook Rahim Khan had
given me, wondering why I was suddenly embarrassed by them in
this man’s presence.
“Ah, a storyteller,” the general said. “Well, people need stories
to divert them at difficult times like this.” He put his hand on
Baba’s shoulder and turned to me. “Speaking of stories, your
father and I hunted pheasant together one summer day in Jalal-
abad,” he said. “It was a marvelous time. If I recall correctly, your
father’s eye proved as keen in the hunt as it had in business.”
Baba kicked a wooden tennis racket on our tarpaulin spread
with the toe of his boot. “Some business.”
General Taheri managed a simultaneously sad and polite