Page 332 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 321

as before, but it had taken on a yellow tint from my assortment of
fading bruises.
We sat on a bench in one of the picnic areas, in the shade of a
gum tree. It was a warm day, the sun perched high in a topaz blue
sky. On benches nearby, families snacked on samosas and pakoras.
Somewhere, a radio played a Hindi song I thought I remembered
from an old movie, maybe Pakeeza. Kids, many of them Sohrab’s
age, chased soccer balls, giggling, yelling. I thought about the
orphanage in Karteh-Seh, thought about the rat that had scurried
between my feet in Zaman’s office. My chest tightened with a
surge of unexpected anger at the way my countrymen were
destroying their own land.
“What?” Sohrab asked. I forced a smile and told him it wasn’t
important.
We unrolled one of the hotel’s bathroom towels on the picnic
table and played panjpar on it. It felt good being there, with my
half brother’s son, playing cards, the warmth of the sun patting
the back of my neck. The song ended and another one started,
one I didn’t recognize.
“Look,” Sohrab said. He was pointing to the sky with his
cards. I looked up, saw a hawk circling in the broad seamless sky.
“Didn’t know there were hawks in Islamabad,” I said.
“Me neither,” he said, his eyes tracing the bird’s circular flight.
“Do they have them where you live?”
“San Francisco? I guess so. I can’t say I’ve seen too many,
though.”
“Oh,” he said. I was hoping he’d ask more, but he dealt
another hand and asked if we could eat. I opened the paper bag
and gave him his meatball sandwich. My lunch consisted of yet
another cup of blended bananas and oranges—I’d rented Mrs.