Page 244 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 233

“That means nothing to me,” he said. He shook his head.
“Why are you coming back here anyway? Sell off your Baba’s
land? Pocket the money and run back to your mother in America?”
“My mother died giving birth to me,” I said.
He sighed and lit another cigarette. Said nothing.
“Pull over.”
“What?”
“Pull over, goddamn it!” I said. “I’m going to be sick.” I tum-
bled out of the truck as it was coming to a rest on the gravel
alongside the road.

By late afternoon, the terrain had changed from one of
sun-beaten peaks and barren cliffs to a greener, more rural land-
scape. The main pass had descended from Landi Kotal through
Shinwari territory to Landi Khana. We’d entered Afghanistan at
Torkham. Pine trees flanked the road, fewer than I remembered
and many of them bare, but it was good to see trees again after
the arduous drive through the Khyber Pass. We were getting
closer to Jalalabad, where Farid had a brother who would take us
in for the night.
The sun hadn’t quite set when we drove into Jalalabad, capital
of the state of Nangarhar, a city once renowned for its fruit and
warm climate. Farid drove past the buildings and stone houses of
the city’s central district. There weren’t as many palm trees there
as I remembered, and some of the homes had been reduced to
roofless walls and piles of twisted clay.
Farid turned onto a narrow unpaved road and parked the Land
Cruiser along a dried-up gutter. I slid out of the truck, stretched,
and took a deep breath. In the old days, the winds swept through