Page 157 - The Kite Runner

146 Khaled Hosseini

“Will you tell him I stopped by to pay my respects?” I said.
“I will.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Oh, and my name is Amir. In case you
need to know. So you can tell him. That I stopped by. To... pay my
respects.”
“Yes.”
I shifted on my feet, cleared my throat. “I’ll go now. Sorry to
have disturbed you.”
“Nay, you didn’t,” she said.
“Oh. Good.” I tipped my head and gave her a half smile. “I’ll
go now.” Hadn’t I already said that? “Khoda hafez.”
“Khoda hafez.”
I began to walk. Stopped and turned. I said it before I had a
chance to lose my nerve: “Can I ask what you’re reading?”
She blinked.
I held my breath. Suddenly, I felt the collective eyes of the flea
market Afghans shift to us. I imagined a hush falling. Lips stop-
ping in midsentence. Heads turning. Eyes narrowing with keen
interest.
What was this?
Up to that point, our encounter could have been interpreted
as a respectful inquiry, one man asking for the whereabouts of
another man. But I’d asked her a question and if she answered,
we’d be . . . well, we’d be chatting. Me a mojarad, a single young
man, and she an unwed young woman. One with a history, no less.
This was teetering dangerously on the verge of gossip material,
and the best kind of it. Poison tongues would flap. And she would
bear the brunt of that poison, not me—I was fully aware of the
Afghan double standard that favored my gender. Not Did you see
him chatting with her? but Wooooy! Did you see how she wouldn’t
let him go? What a lochak!