Page 79 - The Kite Runner

68 Khaled Hosseini

then, still developing, with empty lots of land and half-
constructed homes on every street between compounds sur-
rounded by eight-foot walls. I ran up and down every street,
looking for Hassan. Everywhere, people were busy folding chairs,
packing food and utensils after a long day of partying. Some, still
sitting on their rooftops, shouted their congratulations to me.
Four streets south of ours, I saw Omar, the son of an engineer
who was a friend of Baba’s. He was dribbling a soccer ball with his
brother on the front lawn of their house. Omar was a pretty good
guy. We’d been classmates in fourth grade, and one time he’d
given me a fountain pen, the kind you had to load with a cartridge.
“I heard you won, Amir,” he said. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Have you seen Hassan?”
“Your Hazara?”
I nodded.
Omar headed the ball to his brother. “I hear he’s a great kite
runner.” His brother headed the ball back to him. Omar caught it,
tossed it up and down. “Although I’ve always wondered how he
manages. I mean, with those tight little eyes, how does he see any-
thing?”
His brother laughed, a short burst, and asked for the ball.
Omar ignored him.
“Have you seen him?”
Omar flicked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing southwest. “I
saw him running toward the bazaar awhile ago.”
“Thanks.” I scuttled away.
By the time I reached the marketplace, the sun had almost
sunk behind the hills and dusk had painted the sky pink and pur-
ple. A few blocks away, from the Haji Yaghoub Mosque, the mul-
lah bellowed azan, calling for the faithful to unroll their rugs and