Page 43 - The Kite Runner

32 Khaled Hosseini

had been rescued by Rahim Khan. “Yes, give it to Kaka Rahim. I’m
going upstairs to get ready.” And with that, he left the room. Most
days I worshiped Baba with an intensity approaching the reli-
gious. But right then, I wished I could open my veins and drain his
cursed blood from my body.
An hour later, as the evening sky dimmed, the two of them
drove off in my father’s car to attend a party. On his way out,
Rahim Khan hunkered before me and handed me my story and
another folded piece of paper. He flashed a smile and winked.
“For you. Read it later.” Then he paused and added a single word
that did more to encourage me to pursue writing than any compli-
ment any editor has ever paid me. That word was Bravo.
When they left, I sat on my bed and wished Rahim Khan had
been my father. Then I thought of Baba and his great big chest
and how good it felt when he held me against it, how he smelled
of Brut in the morning, and how his beard tickled my face. I was
overcome with such sudden guilt that I bolted to the bathroom
and vomited in the sink.
Later that night, curled up in bed, I read Rahim Khan’s note
over and over. It read like this:

Amir jan,
I enjoyed your story very much. Mashallah, God has
granted you a special talent. It is now your duty to hone
that talent, because a person who wastes his God-given
talents is a donkey. You have written your story with sound
grammar and interesting style. But the most impressive
thing about your story is that it has irony. You may not
even know what that word means. But you will someday. It
is something that some writers reach for their entire