Page 48 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 37

I remember Hassan and I crouching that next morning outside
my father’s study, as Baba and Rahim Khan sipped black tea and
listened to breaking news of the coup on Radio Kabul.
“Amir agha?” Hassan whispered.
“What?”
“What’s a ‘republic’?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.” On Baba’s radio, they were saying
that word, “republic,” over and over again.
“Amir agha?”
“What?”
“Does ‘republic’ mean Father and I will have to move away?”
“I don’t think so,” I whispered back.
Hassan considered this. “Amir agha?”
“What?”
“I don’t want them to send me and Father away.”
I smiled. “Bas, you donkey. No one’s sending you away.”
“Amir agha?”
“What?”
“Do you want to go climb our tree?”
My smile broadened. That was another thing about Hassan.
He always knew when to say the right thing—the news on the
radio was getting pretty boring. Hassan went to his shack to get
ready and I ran upstairs to grab a book. Then I went to the
kitchen, stuffed my pockets with handfuls of pine nuts, and ran
outside to find Hassan waiting for me. We burst through the front
gates and headed for the hill.
We crossed the residential street and were trekking through a
barren patch of rough land that led to the hill when, suddenly, a
rock struck Hassan in the back. We whirled around and my heart
dropped. Assef and two of his friends, Wali and Kamal, were
approaching us.