Page 78 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 67

“Hassan!” I called. “Come back with it!”
He was already turning the street corner, his rubber boots
kicking up snow. He stopped, turned. He cupped his hands
around his mouth. “For you a thousand times over!” he said. Then
he smiled his Hassan smile and disappeared around the corner.
The next time I saw him smile unabashedly like that was twenty-
six years later, in a faded Polaroid photograph.
I began to pull my kite back as people rushed to congratulate
me. I shook hands with them, said my thanks. The younger kids
looked at me with an awestruck twinkle in their eyes; I was a hero.
Hands patted my back and tousled my hair. I pulled on the string
and returned every smile, but my mind was on the blue kite.
Finally, I had my kite in hand. I wrapped the loose string that
had collected at my feet around the spool, shook a few more
hands, and trotted home. When I reached the wrought-iron gates,
Ali was waiting on the other side. He stuck his hand through the
bars. “Congratulations,” he said.
I gave him my kite and spool, shook his hand. “Tashakor, Ali
jan.”
“I was praying for you the whole time.”
“Then keep praying. We’re not done yet.”
I hurried back to the street. I didn’t ask Ali about Baba. I didn’t
want to see him yet. In my head, I had it all planned: I’d make a
grand entrance, a hero, prized trophy in my bloodied hands.
Heads would turn and eyes would lock. Rostam and Sohrab sizing
each other up. A dramatic moment of silence. Then the old war-
rior would walk to the young one, embrace him, acknowledge his
worthiness. Vindication. Salvation. Redemption. And then?
Well . . . happily ever after, of course. What else?
The streets of Wazir Akbar Khan were numbered and set at
right angles to each other like a grid. It was a new neighborhood