Page 345 - The Kite Runner

334 Khaled Hosseini

hotel stationery paper. His son had held the Koran over our heads
as Soraya and I had walked toward the stage, smiling at the flash-
ing cameras. “What did he say?”
“Well, he’s going to stir the pot for us. He’ll call some of his
INS buddies,” she said.
“That’s really great news,” I said. “I can’t wait for you to see
Sohrab.”
“I can’t wait to see you,” she said.
I hung up smiling.
Sohrab emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later. He
had barely said a dozen words since the meeting with Raymond
Andrews and my attempts at conversation had only met with a
nod or a monosyllabic reply. He climbed into bed, pulled the blan-
ket to his chin. Within minutes, he was snoring.
I wiped a circle on the fogged-up mirror and shaved with one
of the hotel’s old-fashioned razors, the type that opened and you
slid the blade in. Then I took my own bath, lay there until the
steaming hot water turned cold and my skin shriveled up. I lay
there drifting, wondering, imagining . . .

Omar Faisal was chubby, dark, had dimpled cheeks,
black button eyes, and an affable, gap-toothed smile. His thinning
gray hair was tied back in a ponytail. He wore a brown corduroy
suit with leather elbow patches and carried a worn, overstuffed
briefcase. The handle was missing, so he clutched the briefcase to
his chest. He was the sort of fellow who started a lot of sentences
with a laugh and an unnecessary apology, like I’m sorry, I’ll be
there at five. Laugh. When I had called him, he had insisted on
coming out to meet us. “I’m sorry, the cabbies in this town are