Page 225 - The Kite Runner

SEVENTEEN

Rahim Khan slowly uncrossed his legs and leaned against the bare
wall in the wary, deliberate way of a man whose every movement
triggers spikes of pain. Outside, a donkey was braying and some-
one was shouting something in Urdu. The sun was beginning to
set, glittering red through the cracks between the ramshackle
buildings.
It hit me again, the enormity of what I had done that winter
and that following summer. The names rang in my head: Hassan,
Sohrab, Ali, Farzana, and Sanaubar. Hearing Rahim Khan speak
Ali’s name was like finding an old dusty music box that hadn’t
been opened in years; the melody began to play immediately: Who
did you eat today, Babalu? Who did you eat, you slant-eyed Babalu?
I tried to conjure Ali’s frozen face, to really see his tranquil eyes,
but time can be a greedy thing—sometimes it steals all the details
for itself.
“Is Hassan still in that house now?” I asked.
Rahim Khan raised the teacup to his parched lips and took a