Page 81 - The Kite Runner

70 Khaled Hosseini

The old man raised a pepper gray eyebrow. “He is? Lucky Haz-
ara, having such a concerned master. His father should get on his
knees, sweep the dust at your feet with his eyelashes.”
“Are you going to tell me or not?”
He rested an arm on the mule’s back, pointed south. “I think I
saw the boy you described running that way. He had a kite in his
hand. A blue one.”
“He did?” I said. For you a thousand times over, he’d promised.
Good old Hassan. Good old reliable Hassan. He’d kept his prom-
ise and run the last kite for me.
“Of course, they’ve probably caught him by now,” the old mer-
chant said, grunting and loading another box on the mule’s back.
“Who?”
“The other boys,” he said. “The ones chasing him. They were
dressed like you.” He glanced to the sky and sighed. “Now, run
along, you’re making me late for namaz.”
But I was already scrambling down the lane.
For the next few minutes, I scoured the bazaar in vain. Maybe
the old merchant’s eyes had betrayed him. Except he’d seen the
blue kite. The thought of getting my hands on that kite ...I poked
my head behind every lane, every shop. No sign of Hassan.
I had begun to worry that darkness would fall before I found
Hassan when I heard voices from up ahead. I’d reached a
secluded, muddy road. It ran perpendicular to the end of the main
thoroughfare bisecting the bazaar. I turned onto the rutted track
and followed the voices. My boot squished in mud with every step
and my breath puffed out in white clouds before me. The narrow
path ran parallel on one side to a snow-filled ravine through which
a stream may have tumbled in the spring. To my other side stood
rows of snow-burdened cypress trees peppered among flat-topped