Page 317 - The Kite Runner

306 Khaled Hosseini

But he turned from the window and said, “The only game I know
is panjpar.”
“I feel sorry for you already, because I am a grand master at
panjpar. World renowned.”
He took his seat on the stool next to me. I dealt him his five
cards. “When your father and I were your age, we used to play this
game. Especially in the winter, when it snowed and we couldn’t go
outside. We used to play until the sun went down.”
He played me a card and picked one up from the pile. I stole
looks at him as he pondered his cards. He was his father in so
many ways: the way he fanned out his cards with both hands, the
way he squinted while reading them, the way he rarely looked a
person in the eye.
We played in silence. I won the first game, let him win the next
one, and lost the next five fair and square. “You’re as good as your
father, maybe even better,” I said, after my last loss. “I used to beat
him sometimes, but I think he let me win.” I paused before saying,
“Your father and I were nursed by the same woman.”
“I know.”
“What . . . what did he tell you about us?”
“That you were the best friend he ever had,” he said.
I twirled the jack of diamonds in my fingers, flipped it back
and forth. “I wasn’t such a good friend, I’m afraid,” I said. “But I’d
like to be your friend. I think I could be a good friend to you.
Would that be all right? Would you like that?” I put my hand on
his arm, gingerly, but he flinched. He dropped his cards and
pushed away on the stool. He walked back to the window. The sky
was awash with streaks of red and purple as the sun set on
Peshawar. From the street below came a succession of honks and
the braying of a donkey, the whistle of a policeman. Sohrab stood