Page 381 - The Kite Runner

370 Khaled Hosseini

hands holding the spool were the chipped-nailed, calloused hands
of a harelipped boy. I heard a crow cawing somewhere and I
looked up. The park shimmered with snow so fresh, so dazzling
white, it burned my eyes. It sprinkled soundlessly from the
branches of white-clad trees. I smelled turnip qurma now. Dried
mulberries. Sour oranges. Sawdust and walnuts. The muffled
quiet, snow-quiet, was deafening. Then far away, across the still-
ness, a voice calling us home, the voice of a man who dragged his
right leg.
The green kite hovered directly above us now. “He’s going for
it. Anytime now,” I said, my eyes flicking from Sohrab to our kite.
The green kite hesitated. Held position. Then shot down.
“Here he comes!” I said.
I did it perfectly. After all these years. The old lift-and-dive
trap. I loosened my grip and tugged on the string, dipping and
dodging the green kite. A series of quick sidearm jerks and our
kite shot up counterclockwise, in a half circle. Suddenly I was on
top. The green kite was scrambling now, panic-stricken. But it was
too late. I’d already slipped him Hassan’s trick. I pulled hard and
our kite plummeted. I could almost feel our string sawing his.
Almost heard the snap.
Then, just like that, the green kite was spinning and wheeling
out of control.
Behind us, people cheered. Whistles and applause broke out.
I was panting. The last time I had felt a rush like this was that day
in the winter of 1975, just after I had cut the last kite, when I
spotted Baba on our rooftop, clapping, beaming.
I looked down at Sohrab. One corner of his mouth had curled
up just so.
A smile.
Lopsided.