Page 287 - The Kite Runner

276 Khaled Hosseini

Periodically, his free hand floated up and his thick fingers bat-
ted at something in the air. They made slow stroking motions, up
and down, side to side, as if he were caressing an invisible pet.
One of his sleeves retracted and I saw marks on his forearm—I’d
seen those same tracks on homeless people living in grimy alleys
in San Francisco.
His skin was much paler than the other two men’s, almost sal-
low, and a crop of tiny sweat beads gleamed on his forehead just
below the edge of his black turban. His beard, chest-length like
the others, was lighter in color too.
“Salaam alaykum,” he said.
“Salaam.”
“You can do away with that now, you know,” he said.
“Pardon?”
He turned his palm to one of the armed men and motioned.
Rrrriiiip. Suddenly my cheeks were stinging and the guard was
tossing my beard up and down in his hand, giggling. The Talib
grinned. “One of the better ones I’ve seen in a while. But it really
is so much better this way, I think. Don’t you?” He twirled his fin-
gers, snapped them, fist opening and closing. “So, Inshallah, you
enjoyed the show today?”
“Was that what it was?” I said, rubbing my cheeks, hoping my
voice didn’t betray the explosion of terror I felt inside.
“Public justice is the greatest kind of show, my brother. Drama.
Suspense. And, best of all, education en masse.” He snapped his
fingers. The younger of the two guards lit him a cigarette. The
Talib laughed. Mumbled to himself. His hands were shaking and
he almost dropped the cigarette. “But you want a real show, you
should have been with me in Mazar. August 1998, that was.”
“I’m sorry?”