Page 323 - The Kite Runner

312 Khaled Hosseini

carpet vacuumed, and the bathroom spotless. There was sham-
poo, soap, razors for shaving, a bathtub, and towels that smelled
like lemon. And no bloodstains on the walls. One other thing: a
television set sat on the dresser across from the two single beds.
“Look!” I said to Sohrab. I turned it on manually—no
remote—and turned the dial. I found a children’s show with two
fluffy sheep puppets singing in Urdu. Sohrab sat on one of the
beds and drew his knees to his chest. Images from the TV
reflected in his green eyes as he watched, stone-faced, rocking
back and forth. I remembered the time I’d promised Hassan I’d
buy his family a color TV when we both grew up.
“I’ll get going, Amir agha,” Farid said.
“Stay the night,” I said. “It’s a long drive. Leave tomorrow.”
“Tashakor,” he said. “But I want to get back tonight. I miss my
children.” On his way out of the room, he paused in the doorway.
“Good-bye, Sohrab jan,” he said. He waited for a reply, but Sohrab
paid him no attention. Just rocked back and forth, his face lit by
the silver glow of the images flickering across the screen.
Outside, I gave him an envelope. When he tore it, his mouth
opened.
“I didn’t know how to thank you,” I said. “You’ve done so much
for me.”
“How much is in here?” Farid said, slightly dazed.
“A little over two thousand dollars.”
“Two thou—” he began. His lower lip was quivering a little.
Later, when he pulled away from the curb, he honked twice and
waved. I waved back. I never saw him again.
I returned to the hotel room and found Sohrab lying on the
bed, curled up in a big C. His eyes were closed but I couldn’t tell
if he was sleeping. He had shut off the television. I sat on my bed
and grimaced with pain, wiped the cool sweat off my brow. I won-