Page 306 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 295

wore her hair like that the first time we spoke. When was that?
Last week?
Aisha! Yes.
There is something wrong with my mouth. And that thing jab-
bing at my chest.
I fade out.

We are in the Sulaiman Mountains of Baluchistan
and Baba is wrestling the black bear. He is the Baba of my child-
hood, Toophan agha, the towering specimen of Pashtun might, not
the withered man under the blankets, the man with the sunken
cheeks and hollow eyes. They roll over a patch of green grass, man
and beast, Baba’s curly brown hair flying. The bear roars, or
maybe it’s Baba. Spittle and blood fly; claw and hand swipe. They
fall to the ground with a loud thud and Baba is sitting on the
bear’s chest, his fingers digging in its snout. He looks up at me
and I see. He’s me. I am wrestling the bear.
I wake up. The lanky, dark man is back at my bedside. His
name is Farid, I remember now. And with him is the child from
the car. His face reminds me of the sound of bells. I am thirsty.
I fade out.
I keep fading in and out.

The name of the man with the Clark Gable mustache
turned out to be Dr. Faruqi. He wasn’t a soap opera star at all, but
a head-and-neck surgeon, though I kept thinking of him as some-
one named Armand in some steamy soap set on a tropical island.
Where am I? I wanted to ask. But my mouth wouldn’t open. I