Page 334 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 323

“No,” I said. “I think he was ashamed of himself.”
He picked up his sandwich and nibbled at it silently.

We left late that afternoon, tired from the heat, but
tired in a pleasant way. All the way back, I felt Sohrab watching
me. I had the driver pull over at a store that sold calling cards. I
gave him the money and a tip for running in and buying me one.
That night, we were lying on our beds, watching a talk show
on TV. Two clerics with pepper gray long beards and white tur-
bans were taking calls from the faithful all over the world. One
caller from Finland, a guy named Ayub, asked if his teenaged son
could go to hell for wearing his baggy pants so low the seam of his
underwear showed.
“I saw a picture of San Francisco once,” Sohrab said.
“Really?”
“There was a red bridge and a building with a pointy top.”
“You should see the streets,” I said.
“What about them?” He was looking at me now. On the TV
screen, the two mullahs were consulting each other.
“They’re so steep, when you drive up all you see is the hood of
your car and the sky,” I said.
“It sounds scary,” he said. He rolled to his side, facing me, his
back to the TV.
“It is the first few times,” I said. “But you get used to it.”
“Does it snow there?”
“No, but we get a lot of fog. You know that red bridge you saw?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes the fog is so thick in the morning, all you see is
the tip of the two towers poking through.”
There was wonder in his smile. “Oh.”