Page 258 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 247

to Jadeh Maywand and turned right, heading west. “What’s that
smell?” I said. Something was making my eyes water.
“Diesel,” Farid replied. “The city’s generators are always going
down, so electricity is unreliable, and people use diesel fuel.”
“Diesel. Remember what this street smelled like in the old
days?”
Farid smiled. “Kabob.”
“Lamb kabob,” I said.
“Lamb,” Farid said, tasting the word in his mouth. “The only
people in Kabul who get to eat lamb now are the Taliban.” He
pulled on my sleeve. “Speaking of which . . .”
A vehicle was approaching us. “Beard Patrol,” Farid murmured.
That was the first time I saw the Taliban. I’d seen them on TV,
on the Internet, on the cover of magazines, and in newspapers.
But here I was now, less than fifty feet from them, telling myself
that the sudden taste in my mouth wasn’t unadulterated, naked
fear. Telling myself my flesh hadn’t suddenly shrunk against my
bones and my heart wasn’t battering. Here they came. In all their
glory.
The red Toyota pickup truck idled past us. A handful of stern-
faced young men sat on their haunches in the cab, Kalashnikovs
slung on their shoulders. They all wore beards and black turbans.
One of them, a dark-skinned man in his early twenties with thick,
knitted eyebrows twirled a whip in his hand and rhythmically
swatted the side of the truck with it. His roaming eyes fell on me.
Held my gaze. I’d never felt so naked in my entire life. Then the
Talib spat tobacco-stained spittle and looked away. I found I could
breathe again. The truck rolled down Jadeh Maywand, leaving in
its trail a cloud of dust.
“What is the matter with you?” Farid hissed.