Page 202 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 191

gray. But she still had the face of a Grand Ball princess, with her
bird-in-flight eyebrows and nose, elegantly curved like a letter
from ancient Arabic writings.
“You look pale,” Soraya repeated, placing the stack of papers
on the table.
“I have to go to Pakistan.”
She stood up now. “Pakistan?”
“Rahim Khan is very sick.” A fist clenched inside me with
those words.
“Kaka’s old business partner?” She’d never met Rahim Khan,
but I had told her about him. I nodded.
“Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Amir.”
“We used to be close,” I said. “When I was a kid, he was the
first grown-up I ever thought of as a friend.” I pictured him and
Baba drinking tea in Baba’s study, then smoking near the window,
a sweetbrier-scented breeze blowing from the garden and bending
the twin columns of smoke.
“I remember you telling me that,” Soraya said. She paused.
“How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know. He wants to see me.”
“Is it . . .”
“Yes, it’s safe. I’ll be all right, Soraya.” It was the question
she’d wanted to ask all along—fifteen years of marriage had
turned us into mind readers. “I’m going to go for a walk.”
“Should I go with you?”
“Nay, I’d rather be alone.”

I drove to Golden Gate Park and walked along
Spreckels Lake on the northern edge of the park. It was a beauti-
ful Sunday afternoon; the sun sparkled on the water where