Page 194 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 183

zakat, give the money to someone in need, okay? No sheep kill-
ing.”
Six weeks later, a man named Martin Greenwalt called from
New York and offered to represent me. I only told Soraya about it.
“But just because I have an agent doesn’t mean I’ll get published.
If Martin sells the novel, then we’ll celebrate.”
A month later, Martin called and informed me I was going to
be a published novelist. When I told Soraya, she screamed.
We had a celebration dinner with Soraya’s parents that night.
Khala Jamila made kofta—meatballs and white rice—and white
ferni. The general, a sheen of moisture in his eyes, said that he
was proud of me. After General Taheri and his wife left, Soraya
and I celebrated with an expensive bottle of Merlot I had bought
on the way home—the general did not approve of women drinking
alcohol, and Soraya didn’t drink in his presence.
“I am so proud of you,” she said, raising her glass to mine.
“Kaka would have been proud too.”
“I know,” I said, thinking of Baba, wishing he could have
seen me.
Later that night, after Soraya fell asleep—wine always made
her sleepy—I stood on the balcony and breathed in the cool sum-
mer air. I thought of Rahim Khan and the little note of support he
had written me after he’d read my first story. And I thought of
Hassan. Some day, Inshallah, you will be a great writer, he had said
once, and people all over the world will read your stories. There
was so much goodness in my life. So much happiness. I wondered
whether I deserved any of it.
The novel was released in the summer of that following year,
1989, and the publisher sent me on a five-city book tour. I became
a minor celebrity in the Afghan community. That was the year that
the Shorawi completed their withdrawal from Afghanistan. It