Page 379 - The Kite Runner

368 Khaled Hosseini

jealous he made the neighborhood kids. He’d run kites and never
look up at the sky, and people used to say he was chasing the kite’s
shadow. But they didn’t know him like I did. Your father wasn’t
chasing any shadows. He just ...knew.”
Another half-dozen kites had taken flight. People had started
to gather in clumps, teacups in hand, eyes glued to the sky.
“Do you want to help me fly this?” I said.
Sohrab’s gaze bounced from the kite to me. Back to the sky.
“Okay.” I shrugged. “Looks like I’ll have to fly it tanhaii.” Solo.
I balanced the spool in my left hand and fed about three feet
of tar. The yellow kite dangled at the end of it, just above the wet
grass. “Last chance,” I said. But Sohrab was looking at a pair of
kites tangling high above the trees.
“All right. Here I go.” I took off running, my sneakers splash-
ing rainwater from puddles, the hand clutching the kite end of the
string held high above my head. It had been so long, so many
years since I’d done this, and I wondered if I’d make a spectacle of
myself. I let the spool roll in my left hand as I ran, felt the string
cut my right hand again as it fed through. The kite was lifting
behind my shoulder now, lifting, wheeling, and I ran harder. The
spool spun faster and the glass string tore another gash in my
right palm. I stopped and turned. Looked up. Smiled. High above,
my kite was tilting side to side like a pendulum, making that old
paper-bird-flapping-its-wings sound I always associated with win-
ter mornings in Kabul. I hadn’t flown a kite in a quarter of a cen-
tury, but suddenly I was twelve again and all the old instincts
came rushing back.
I felt a presence next to me and looked down. It was
Sohrab. Hands dug deep in the pockets of his raincoat. He had
followed me.
“Do you want to try?” I asked. He said nothing. But when I held