Page 163 - The Kite Runner

152 Khaled Hosseini

“I know,” she said. “My mother told me.” Then her face red-
dened with a blush at what she had blurted, at the implication of
her answer, that “Amir Conversations” took place between them
when I wasn’t there. It took an enormous effort to stop myself
from smiling.
“I brought you something.” I fished the roll of stapled pages
from my back pocket. “As promised.” I handed her one of my
short stories.
“Oh, you remembered,” she said, actually beaming. “Thank
you!” I barely had time to register that she’d addressed me with
“tu” for the first time and not the formal “shoma,” because sud-
denly her smile vanished. The color dropped from her face, and
her eyes fixed on something behind me. I turned around. Came
face-to-face with General Taheri.
“Amir jan. Our aspiring storyteller. What a pleasure,” he said.
He was smiling thinly.
“Salaam, General Sahib,” I said through heavy lips.
He moved past me, toward the booth. “What a beautiful day it
is, nay?” he said, thumb hooked in the breast pocket of his vest,
the other hand extended toward Soraya. She gave him the pages.
“They say it will rain this week. Hard to believe, isn’t it?” He
dropped the rolled pages in the garbage can. Turned to me and
gently put a hand on my shoulder. We took a few steps together.
“You know, bachem, I have grown rather fond of you. You are a
decent boy, I really believe that, but—” he sighed and waved a
hand “—even decent boys need reminding sometimes. So it’s my
duty to remind you that you are among peers in this flea market.”
He stopped. His expressionless eyes bore into mine. “You see,
everyone here is a storyteller.” He smiled, revealing perfectly even
teeth. “Do pass my respects to your father, Amir jan.”
He dropped his hand. Smiled again.