Page 209 - The Kite Runner

198 Khaled Hosseini

“You are married? To whom?”
“Her name is Soraya Taheri.” I thought of her back home, wor -
rying about me. I was glad she wasn’t alone.
“Taheri...whose daughter is she?”
I told him. His eyes brightened. “Oh, yes, I remember now.
Isn’t General Taheri married to Sharif jan’s sister? What was her
name . . .”
“Jamila jan.”
“Balay!” he said, smiling. “I knew Sharif jan in Kabul, long
time ago, before he moved to America.”
“He’s been working for the INS for years, handles a lot of
Afghan cases.”
“Haiiii,” he sighed. “Do you and Soraya jan have children?”
“Nay.”
“Oh.” He slurped his tea and didn’t ask more; Rahim Khan
had always been one of the most instinctive people I’d ever met.
I told him a lot about Baba, his job, the flea market, and how,
at the end, he’d died happy. I told him about my schooling, my
books—four published novels to my credit now. He smiled at this,
said he had never had any doubt. I told him I had written short
stories in the leather-bound notebook he’d given me, but he didn’t
remember the notebook.
The conversation inevitably turned to the Taliban.
“Is it as bad as I hear?” I said.
“Nay, it’s worse. Much worse,” he said. “They don’t let you be
human.” He pointed to a scar above his right eye cutting a
crooked path through his bushy eyebrow. “I was at a soccer game
in Ghazi Stadium in 1998. Kabul against Mazar-i-Sharif, I think,
and by the way the players weren’t allowed to wear shorts. Inde-
cent exposure, I guess.” He gave a tired laugh. “Anyway, Kabul