Page 278 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 267

time Mullah had placed a heavy bag on his shoulders and was rid-
ing his donkey?” I said.
“No.”
“Someone on the street said why don’t you put the bag on the
donkey? And he said, ‘That would be cruel, I’m heavy enough
already for the poor thing.’ ”
We exchanged Mullah Nasruddin jokes until we ran out of
them and we fell silent again.
“Amir agha?” Farid said, startling me from near sleep.
“Yes?”
“Why are you here? I mean, why are you really here?”
“I told you.”
“For the boy?”
“For the boy.”
Farid shifted on the ground. “It’s hard to believe.”
“Sometimes I myself can hardly believe I’m here.”
“No . . . What I mean to ask is why that boy? You come all the
way from America for ...a Shi’a?”
That killed all the laughter in me. And the sleep. “I am tired,”
I said. “Let’s just get some sleep.”
Farid’s snoring soon echoed through the empty room. I stayed
awake, hands crossed on my chest, staring into the starlit night
through the broken window, and thinking that maybe what people
said about Afghanistan was true. Maybe it was a hopeless place.

A bustling crowd was filling Ghazi Stadium when we
walked through the entrance tunnels. Thousands of people milled
about the tightly packed concrete terraces. Children played in the
aisles and chased each other up and down the steps. The scent of