Page 240 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 229

and let the cold midafternoon air rush past my face. The drive
through the tribal lands of the Khyber Pass, winding between
cliffs of shale and limestone, was just as I remembered it—Baba
and I had driven through the broken terrain back in 1974. The
arid, imposing mountains sat along deep gorges and soared to
jagged peaks. Old fortresses, adobe-walled and crumbling, topped
the crags. I tried to keep my eyes glued to the snowcapped Hindu
Kush on the north side, but each time my stomach settled even a
bit, the truck skidded around yet another turn, rousing a fresh
wave of nausea.
“Try a lemon.”
“What?”
“Lemon. Good for the sickness,” Farid said. “I always bring
one for this drive.”
“Nay, thank you,” I said. The mere thought of adding acidity to
my stomach stirred more nausea. Farid snickered. “It’s not fancy
like American medicine, I know, just an old remedy my mother
taught me.”
I regretted blowing my chance to warm up to him. “In that
case, maybe you should give me some.”
He grabbed a paper bag from the backseat and plucked a half
lemon out of it. I bit down on it, waited a few minutes. “You were
right. I feel better,” I lied. As an Afghan, I knew it was better to be
miserable than rude. I forced a weak smile.
“Old watani trick, no need for fancy medicine,” he said. His
tone bordered on the surly. He flicked the ash off his cigarette and
gave himself a self-satisfied look in the rearview mirror. He was a
Tajik, a lanky, dark man with a weather-beaten face, narrow shoul-
ders, and a long neck punctuated by a protruding Adam’s apple
that only peeked from behind his beard when he turned his head.
He was dressed much as I was, though I suppose it was really the