Page 347 - The Kite Runner

336 Khaled Hosseini

Sohrab nodded. Climbed back onto his bed and lay on his side
to watch TV.
“I didn’t know you spoke Farsi so well,” I said in English. “Did
you grow up in Kabul?”
“No, I was born in Karachi. But I did live in Kabul for a
number of years. Shar-e-Nau, near the Haji Yaghoub Mosque,”
Faisal said. “I grew up in Berkeley, actually. My father opened a
music store there in the late sixties. Free love, headbands, tie-
dyed shirts, you name it.” He leaned forward. “I was at Wood-
stock.”
“Groovy,” I said, and Faisal laughed so hard he started sweat-
ing all over again. “Anyway,” I continued, “what I told Mr.
Andrews was pretty much it, save for a thing or two. Or maybe
three. I’ll give you the uncensored version.”
He licked a finger and flipped to a blank page, uncapped his
pen. “I’d appreciate that, Amir. And why don’t we just keep it in
English from here on out?”
“Fine.”
I told him everything that had happened. Told him about my
meeting with Rahim Khan, the trek to Kabul, the orphanage, the
stoning at Ghazi Stadium.
“God,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I have such fond memories of
Kabul. Hard to believe it’s the same place you’re telling me about.”
“Have you been there lately?”
“God no.”
“It’s not Berkeley, I’ll tell you that,” I said.
“Go on.”
I told him the rest, the meeting with Assef, the fight, Sohrab
and his slingshot, our escape back to Pakistan. When I was done,
he scribbled a few notes, breathed in deeply, and gave me a sober
look. “Well, Amir, you’ve got a tough battle ahead of you.”