Page 327 - The Kite Runner

316 Khaled Hosseini

them under Fayyaz’s reproachful glare. I heard the officer, his
voice tired and uninterested, asking his obligatory questions. And
beneath the official questions, an unofficial one: Who the hell
cared about another dead Afghan kid?
But we found him about a hundred yards from the mosque,
sitting in the half-full parking lot, on an island of grass. Fayyaz
pulled up to the island and let me out. “I have to get back,” he said.
“That’s fine. We’ll walk back,” I said. “Thank you, Mr. Fayyaz.
Really.”
He leaned across the front seat when I got out. “Can I say
something to you?”
“Sure.”
In the dark of twilight, his face was just a pair of eyeglasses
reflecting the fading light. “The thing about you Afghanis is
that . . . well, you people are a little reckless.”
I was tired and in pain. My jaws throbbed. And those damn
wounds on my chest and stomach felt like barbed wire under my
skin. But I started to laugh anyway.
“What . . . what did I . . .” Fayyaz was saying, but I was cackling
by then, full-throated bursts of laughter spilling through my wired
mouth.
“Crazy people,” he said. His tires screeched when he peeled
away, his taillights blinking red in the dimming light.

“You gave me a good scare,” I said. I sat beside him,
wincing with pain as I bent.
He was looking at the mosque. Shah Faisal Mosque was
shaped like a giant tent. Cars came and went; worshipers dressed
in white streamed in and out. We sat in silence, me leaning
against the tree, Sohrab next to me, knees to his chest. We lis-