Page 178 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 167

Khanum Taheri opened the door. “Salaam alaykum,” she said,
beaming. She’d permed her hair, I saw, and wore an elegant,
ankle-length black dress. When I stepped into the foyer, her eyes
moistened. “You’re barely in the house and I’m crying already,
Amir jan,” she said. I planted a kiss on her hand, just as Baba had
instructed me to do the night before.
She led us through a brightly lit hallway to the living room. On
the wood-paneled walls, I saw pictures of the people who would
become my new family: A young bouffant-haired Khanum Taheri
and the general—Niagara Falls in the background; Khanum
Taheri in a seamless dress, the general in a narrow-lapelled jacket
and thin tie, his hair full and black; Soraya, about to board a
wooden roller coaster, waving and smiling, the sun glinting off the
silver wires in her teeth. A photo of the general, dashing in full
military outfit, shaking hands with King Hussein of Jordan. A por-
trait of Zahir Shah.
The living room was packed with about two dozen guests
seated on chairs placed along the walls. When Baba entered,
everybody stood up. We went around the room, Baba leading
slowly, me behind him, shaking hands and greeting the guests.
The general—still in his gray suit—and Baba embraced, gently
tapping each other on the back. They said their Salaams in
respectful hushed tones.
The general held me at arm’s length and smiled knowingly, as
if saying, “Now, this is the right way—the Afghan way—to do it,
bachem.” We kissed three times on the cheek.
We sat in the crowded room, Baba and I next to each other,
across from the general and his wife. Baba’s breathing had grown
a little ragged, and he kept wiping sweat off his forehead and
scalp with his handkerchief. He saw me looking at him and man-
aged a strained grin. “I’m all right,” he mouthed.