Page 283 - The Kite Runner

272 Khaled Hosseini

hand. The squatting man had one end of a stethoscope to his ears
and the other pressed on the chest of the man in the hole. He
removed the stethoscope from his ears and shook his head no at
the Talib in the sunglasses. The crowd moaned.
John Lennon walked back to the mound.
When it was all over, when the bloodied corpses had been
unceremoniously tossed into the backs of red pickup trucks—sep-
arate ones—a few men with shovels hurriedly filled the holes. One
of them made a passing attempt at covering up the large blood-
stains by kicking dirt over them. A few minutes later, the teams
took the field. Second half was under way.
Our meeting was arranged for three o’clock that afternoon.
The swiftness with which the appointment was set surprised me.
I’d expected delays, a round of questioning at least, perhaps a
check of our papers. But I was reminded of how unofficial even
official matters still were in Afghanistan: all Farid had to do was
tell one of the whip-carrying Talibs that we had personal business
to discuss with the man in white. Farid and he exchanged words.
The guy with the whip then nodded and shouted something in
Pashtu to a young man on the field, who ran to the south-end
goalposts where the Talib in the sunglasses was chatting with the
plump cleric who’d given the sermon. The three spoke. I saw the guy
in the sunglasses look up. He nodded. Said something in the mes-
senger’s ear. The young man relayed the message back to us.
It was set, then. Three o’clock.