Page 186 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 175

Earlier, at the gravesite in the small Muslim section of the
cemetery, I had watched them lower Baba into the hole. The mul-
lah and another man got into an argument over which was the
correct ayat of the Koran to recite at the gravesite. It might have
turned ugly had General Taheri not intervened. The mullah chose
an ayat and recited it, casting the other fellow nasty glances. I
watched them toss the first shovelful of dirt into the grave. Then I
left. Walked to the other side of the cemetery. Sat in the shade of
a red maple.
Now the last of the mourners had paid their respects and the
mosque was empty, save for the mullah unplugging the microphone
and wrapping his Koran in green cloth. The general and I stepped
out into a late-afternoon sun. We walked down the steps, past men
smoking in clusters. I heard snippets of their conversations, a soc-
cer game in Union City next weekend, a new Afghan restaurant in
Santa Clara. Life moving on already, leaving Baba behind.
“How are you, bachem?” General Taheri said.
I gritted my teeth. Bit back the tears that had threatened all
day. “I’m going to find Soraya,” I said.
“Okay.”
I walked to the women’s side of the mosque. Soraya was
standing on the steps with her mother and a couple of ladies I rec-
ognized vaguely from the wedding. I motioned to Soraya. She said
something to her mother and came to me.
“Can we walk?” I said.
“Sure.” She took my hand.
We walked in silence down a winding gravel path lined by a
row of low hedges. We sat on a bench and watched an elderly cou-
ple kneeling beside a grave a few rows away and placing a bouquet
of daisies by the headstone. “Soraya?”