Page 378 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 367

I took the kite to where Sohrab was standing, still leaning
against the garbage pail, arms crossed on his chest. He was look-
ing up at the sky.
“Do you like the seh-parcha?” I said, holding up the kite by the
ends of the cross bars. His eyes shifted from the sky to me, to the
kite, then back. A few rivulets of rain trickled from his hair, down
his face.
“I read once that, in Malaysia, they use kites to catch fish,” I
said. “I’ll bet you didn’t know that. They tie a fishing line to it and
fly it beyond the shallow waters, so it doesn’t cast a shadow and
scare the fish. And in ancient China, generals used to fly kites over
battlefields to send messages to their men. It’s true. I’m not slip-
ping you a trick.” I showed him my bloody thumb. “Nothing
wrong with the tar either.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Soraya watching us from
the tent. Hands tensely dug in her armpits. Unlike me, she’d grad-
ually abandoned her attempts at engaging him. The unanswered
questions, the blank stares, the silence, it was all too painful. She
had shifted to “Holding Pattern,” waiting for a green light from
Sohrab. Waiting.
I wet my index finger and held it up. “I remember the way your
father checked the wind was to kick up dust with his sandal, see
which way the wind blew it. He knew a lot of little tricks like
that,” I said. Lowered my finger. “West, I think.”
Sohrab wiped a raindrop from his earlobe and shifted on his
feet. Said nothing. I thought of Soraya asking me a few months
ago what his voice sounded like. I’d told her I didn’t remember
anymore.
“Did I ever tell you your father was the best kite runner in
Wazir Akbar Khan? Maybe all of Kabul?” I said, knotting the loose
end of the spool tar to the string loop tied to the center spar. “How