Page 282 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 271

Next to me, Farid was shaking his head. “And they call them-
selves Muslims,” he whispered.
Then a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out of the pickup
truck. The sight of him drew cheers from a few spectators. This
time, no one was struck with a whip for cheering too loudly. The tall
man’s sparkling white garment glimmered in the afternoon sun.
The hem of his loose shirt fluttered in the breeze, his arms spread
like those of Jesus on the cross. He greeted the crowd by turning
slowly in a full circle. When he faced our section, I saw he was
wearing dark round sunglasses like the ones John Lennon wore.
“That must be our man,” Farid said.
The tall Talib with the black sunglasses walked to the pile of
stones they had unloaded from the third truck. He picked up a
rock and showed it to the crowd. The noise fell, replaced by a
buzzing sound that rippled through the stadium. I looked around
me and saw that everyone was tsk’ing. The Talib, looking absurdly
like a baseball pitcher on the mound, hurled the stone at the
blindfolded man in the hole. It struck the side of his head. The
woman screamed again. The crowd made a startled “OH!” sound.
I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hands. The specta-
tors’ “OH!” rhymed with each flinging of the stone, and that went
on for a while. When they stopped, I asked Farid if it was over. He
said no. I guessed the people’s throats had tired. I don’t know how
much longer I sat with my face in my hands. I know that I
reopened my eyes when I heard people around me asking, “Mord?
Mord? Is he dead?”
The man in the hole was now a mangled mess of blood and
shredded rags. His head slumped forward, chin on chest. The
Talib in the John Lennon sunglasses was looking down at another
man squatting next to the hole, tossing a rock up and down in his