Page 71 - The Kite Runner

60 Khaled Hosseini

wave to the people. They look small like ants, but we can hear
them clapping. They see now. There is no monster, just water.
They change the name of the lake after that, and call it the ‘Lake
of Amir and Hassan, Sultans of Kabul,’ and we get to charge
people money for swimming in it.”
“So what does it mean?” I said.
He coated my naan with marmalade, placed it on a plate. “I
don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Well, it’s a dumb dream. Nothing happens in it.”
“Father says dreams always mean something.”
I sipped some tea. “Why don’t you ask him, then? He’s so
smart,” I said, more curtly than I had intended. I hadn’t slept all
night. My neck and back were like coiled springs, and my eyes
stung. Still, I had been mean to Hassan. I almost apologized, then
didn’t. Hassan understood I was just nervous. Hassan always
understood about me.
Upstairs, I could hear the water running in Baba’s bathroom.

The streets glistened with fresh snow and the sky was a
blameless blue. Snow blanketed every rooftop and weighed on the
branches of the stunted mulberry trees that lined our street. Over-
night, snow had nudged its way into every crack and gutter. I
squinted against the blinding white when Hassan and I stepped
through the wrought-iron gates. Ali shut the gates behind us. I
heard him mutter a prayer under his breath—he always said a
prayer when his son left the house.
I had never seen so many people on our street. Kids were fling-
ing snowballs, squabbling, chasing one another, giggling. Kite
fighters were huddling with their spool holders, making last-
minute preparations. From adjacent streets, I could hear laughter