Page 156 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 145

“Be careful, Amir,” he said as I began to walk.
“Of what, Baba?”
“I am not an ahmaq, so don’t play stupid with me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Remember this,” Baba said, pointing at me, “The man is a
Pashtun to the root. He has nang and namoos.” Nang. Namoos.
Honor and pride. The tenets of Pashtun men. Especially when it
came to the chastity of a wife. Or a daughter.
“I’m only going to get us drinks.”
“Just don’t embarrass me, that’s all I ask.”
“I won’t. God, Baba.”
Baba lit a cigarette and started fanning himself again.
I walked toward the concession booth initially, then turned
left at the T-shirt stand—where, for $5, you could have the face of
Jesus, Elvis, Jim Morrison, or all three, pressed on a white nylon
T-shirt. Mariachi music played overhead, and I smelled pickles
and grilled meat.
I spotted the Taheris’ gray van two rows from ours, next to a
kiosk selling mango-on-a-stick. She was alone, reading. White
ankle-length summer dress today. Open-toed sandals. Hair pulled
back and crowned with a tulip-shaped bun. I meant to simply
walk by again and I thought I had, except suddenly I was standing
at the edge of the Taheris’ white tablecloth, staring at Soraya
across curling irons and old neckties. She looked up.
“Salaam,” I said. “I’m sorry to be mozahem, I didn’t mean to
disturb you.”
“Salaam.”
“Is General Sahib here today?” I said. My ears were burning. I
couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eye.
“He went that way,” she said. Pointed to her right. The
bracelet slipped down to her elbow, silver against olive.