Page 182 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 171

Let the morning sun forget to rise in the east,
Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly.

I remember sitting on the sofa, set on the stage like a throne,
Soraya’s hand in mine, as three hundred or so faces looked on. We
did Ayena Masshaf, where they gave us a mirror and threw a veil
over our heads, so we’d be alone to gaze at each other’s reflection.
Looking at Soraya’s smiling face in that mirror, in the momentary
privacy of the veil, I whispered to her for the first time that I loved
her. A blush, red like henna, bloomed on her cheeks.
I picture colorful platters of chopan kabob, sholeh-goshti,
and wild-orange rice. I see Baba between us on the sofa, smil-
ing. I remember sweat-drenched men dancing the traditional
attan in a circle, bouncing, spinning faster and faster with the
feverish tempo of the tabla, until all but a few dropped out of
the ring with exhaustion. I remember wishing Rahim Khan were
there.
And I remember wondering if Hassan too had married. And if
so, whose face he had seen in the mirror under the veil? Whose
henna-painted hands had he held?

Around 2 a.m., the party moved from the banquet hall to
Baba’s apartment. Tea flowed once more and music played until
the neighbors called the cops. Later that night, the sun less than
an hour from rising and the guests finally gone, Soraya and I lay
together for the first time. All my life, I’d been around men. That
night, I discovered the tenderness of a woman.

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