Page 184 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 173

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A month after the wedding, the Taheris, Sharif, his
wife Suzy, and several of Soraya’s aunts came over to our apart-
ment for dinner. Soraya made sabzi challow—white rice with
spinach and lamb. After dinner, we all had green tea and played
cards in groups of four. Soraya and I played with Sharif and Suzy
on the coffee table, next to the couch where Baba lay under a
wool blanket. He watched me joking with Sharif, watched Soraya
and me lacing our fingers together, watched me push back a loose
curl of her hair. I could see his internal smile, as wide as the skies
of Kabul on nights when the poplars shivered and the sound of
crickets swelled in the gardens.
Just before midnight, Baba asked us to help him into bed.
Soraya and I placed his arms on our shoulders and wrapped ours
around his back. When we lowered him, he had Soraya turn off
the bedside lamp. He asked us to lean in, gave us each a kiss.
“I’ll come back with your morphine and a glass of water, Kaka
jan,” Soraya said.
“Not tonight,” he said. “There is no pain tonight.”
“Okay,” she said. She pulled up his blanket. We closed the door.
Baba never woke up.

They filled the parking spots at the mosque in Hay-
ward. On the balding grass field behind the building, cars and
SUVs parked in crowded makeshift rows. People had to drive
three or four blocks north of the mosque to find a spot.
The men’s section of the mosque was a large square room,
covered with Afghan rugs and thin mattresses placed in parallel