Page 356 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 345

people sitting on metallic folding chairs set along the walls, others
on the thin frayed carpet. I want to scream again, and I remember
the last time I felt this way, riding with Baba in the tank of the
fuel truck, buried in the dark with the other refugees. I want to
tear myself from this place, from this reality, rise up like a cloud
and float away, melt into this humid summer night and dissolve
somewhere far, over the hills. But I am here, my legs blocks of
concrete, my lungs empty of air, my throat burning. There will be
no floating away. There will be no other reality tonight. I close my
eyes and my nostrils fill with the smells of the corridor, sweat and
ammonia, rubbing alcohol and curry. On the ceiling, moths fling
themselves at the dull gray light tubes running the length of the
corridor and I hear the papery flapping of their wings. I hear chat-
ter, muted sobbing, sniffling, someone moaning, someone else
sighing, elevator doors opening with a bing, the operator paging
someone in Urdu.
I open my eyes again and I know what I have to do. I look
around, my heart a jackhammer in my chest, blood thudding in
my ears. There is a dark little supply room to my left. In it, I find
what I need. It will do. I grab a white bedsheet from the pile of
folded linens and carry it back to the corridor. I see a nurse talking
to a policeman near the restroom. I take the nurse’s elbow and
pull, I want to know which way is west. She doesn’t understand
and the lines on her face deepen when she frowns. My throat
aches and my eyes sting with sweat, each breath is like inhaling
fire, and I think I am weeping. I ask again. I beg. The policeman is
the one who points.
I throw my makeshift jai-namaz, my prayer rug, on the floor
and I get on my knees, lower my forehead to the ground, my tears
soaking through the sheet. I bow to the west. Then I remember I
haven’t prayed for over fifteen years. I have long forgotten the