Page 243 - The Kite Runner

232 Khaled Hosseini

“I think a part of me always will,” I said, more defensively than
I had intended.
“After twenty years of living in America,” he said, swerving the
truck to avoid a pothole the size of a beach ball.
I nodded. “I grew up in Afghanistan.”
Farid snickered again.
“Why do you do that?”
“Never mind,” he murmured.
“No, I want to know. Why do you do that?”
In his rearview mirror, I saw something flash in his eyes. “You
want to know?” he sneered. “Let me imagine, Agha sahib. You
probably lived in a big two- or three-story house with a nice back-
yard that your gardener filled with flowers and fruit trees. All
gated, of course. Your father drove an American car. You had ser-
vants, probably Hazaras. Your parents hired workers to decorate
the house for the fancy mehmanis they threw, so their friends
would come over to drink and boast about their travels to Europe
or America. And I would bet my first son’s eyes that this is the first
time you’ve ever worn a pakol.” He grinned at me, revealing a
mouthful of prematurely rotting teeth. “Am I close?”
“Why are you saying these things?” I said.
“Because you wanted to know,” he spat. He pointed to an old
man dressed in ragged clothes trudging down a dirt path, a large
burlap pack filled with scrub grass tied to his back. “That’s the
real Afghanistan, Agha sahib. That’s the Afghanistan I know. You?
You’ve always been a tourist here, you just didn’t know it.”
Rahim Khan had warned me not to expect a warm welcome in
Afghanistan from those who had stayed behind and fought the
wars. “I’m sorry about your father,” I said. “I’m sorry about your
daughters, and I’m sorry about your hand.”