Page 259 - The Kite Runner

248 Khaled Hosseini

“What?”
“Don’t ever stare at them! Do you understand me? Never!”
“I didn’t mean to,” I said.
“Your friend is quite right, Agha. You might as well poke a
rabid dog with a stick,” someone said. This new voice belonged to
an old beggar sitting barefoot on the steps of a bullet-scarred
building. He wore a threadbare chapan worn to frayed shreds and
a dirt-crusted turban. His left eyelid drooped over an empty
socket. With an arthritic hand, he pointed to the direction the
red truck had gone. “They drive around looking. Looking and
hoping that someone will provoke them. Sooner or later, someone
always obliges. Then the dogs feast and the day’s boredom is bro-
ken at last and everyone says ‘Allah-u-akbar!’ And on those days
when no one offends, well, there is always random violence, isn’t
there?”
“Keep your eyes on your feet when the Talibs are near,” Farid
said.
“Your friend dispenses good advice,” the old beggar chimed in.
He barked a wet cough and spat in a soiled handkerchief. “Forgive
me, but could you spare a few Afghanis?” he breathed.
“Bas. Let’s go,” Farid said, pulling me by the arm.
I handed the old man a hundred thousand Afghanis, or the
equivalent of about three dollars. When he leaned forward to take
the money, his stench—like sour milk and feet that hadn’t been
washed in weeks—flooded my nostrils and made my gorge rise.
He hurriedly slipped the money in his waist, his lone eye darting
side to side. “A world of thanks for your benevolence, Agha sahib.”
“Do you know where the orphanage is in Karteh-Seh?” I said.
“It’s not hard to find, it’s just west of Darulaman Boulevard,”
he said. “The children were moved from here to Karteh-Seh after