KITE RUNNER 4 страница

I dropped next to him, lay on a thin patch of snow, wheezing. “You’re wasting our time. It was going the other way, didn’t you see? ”

Hassan popped a mulberry in his mouth. “It’s coming, ” he said. I could hardly breathe and he didn’t even sound tired.

“How do you know? ” I said.

“I know. ”

“How can you know? ”

He turned to me. A few sweat beads rolled from his bald scalp. “Would I ever lie to you, Amir agha? ”

Suddenly I decided to toy with him a little. “I don’t know. Would you? ”

“I’d sooner eat dirt, ” he said with a look of indignation.

“Really? You’d do that? ”

He threw me a puzzled look. “Do what? ”

“Eat dirt if I told you to, ” I said. I knew I was being cruel, like when I’d taunt him if he didn’t know some big word. But there was something fascinating--albeit in a sick way--about teasing Hassan. Kind of

like when we used to play insect torture. Except now, he was the ant and I was holding the magnifying glass.

His eyes searched my face for a long time. We sat there, two boys under a sour cherry tree, suddenly looking, really looking, at each other. That’s when it happened again: Hassan’s face changed.

Maybe not ‘changed’, not really, but suddenly I had the feeling I was looking at two faces, the one I knew, the one that was my first memory, and another, a second face, this one lurking just beneath the

surface. I’d seen it happen before--it always shook me up a little. It just appeared, this other face, for a fraction of a moment, long enough to leave me with the unsettling feeling that maybe I’d seen it

someplace before. Then Hassan blinked and it was just him again. Just Hassan.

“If you asked, I would, ” he finally said, looking right at me. I dropped my eyes. To this day, I find it hard to gaze directly at people like Hassan, people who mean every word they say.

“But I wonder, ” he added. “Would you ever ask me to do such a thing, Amir agha? ” And, just like that, he had thrown at me his own little test. If I was going to toy with him and challenge his loyalty, then

he’d toy with me, test my integrity.

I wished I hadn’t started this conversation. I forced a smile. “Don’t be stupid, Hassan. You know I wouldn’t. ”

Hassan returned the smile. Except his didn’t look forced. “I know, ” he said. And that’s the thing about people who mean everything they say. They think everyone else does too.

“Here it comes, ” Hassan said, pointing to the sky. He rose to his feet and walked a few paces to his left. I looked up, saw the kite plummeting toward us. I heard footfalls, shouts, an approaching melee

of kite runners. But they were wasting their time. Because Hassan stood with his arms wide open, smiling, waiting for the kite. And may God--if He exists, that is--strike me blind if the kite didn’t just drop

into his outstretched arms.

IN THE WINTER OF 1975, I saw Hassan run a kite for the last time.

Usually, each neighborhood held its own competition. But that year, the tournament was going to be held in my neighborhood, Wazir Akbar Khan, and several other districts--Karteh-Char, Karteh-

Parwan, Mekro-Rayan, and Koteh-Sangi--had been invited. You could hardly go anywhere without hearing talk of the upcoming tournament. Word had it this was going to be the biggest tournament in

twenty-five years.

One night that winter, with the big contest only four days away, Baba and I sat in his study in overstuffed leather chairs by the glow of the fireplace. We were sipping tea, talking. Ali had served dinner

earlier--potatoes and curried cauliflower over rice--and had retired for the night with Hassan. Baba was fattening his pipe and I was asking him to tell the story about the winter a pack of wolves had

descended from the mountains in Herat and forced everyone to stay indoors for a week, when he lit a match and said, casually, “I think maybe you’ll win the tournament this year. What do you think? ”

I didn’t know what to think. Or what to say. Was that what it would take? Had he just slipped me a key? I was a good kite fighter. Actually, a very good one. A few times, I’d even come close to winning

the winter tournament--once, I’d made it to the final three. But coming close wasn’t the same as winning, was it? Baba hadn’t ‘come close’. He had won because winners won and everyone else just went

home. Baba was used to winning, winning at everything he set his mind to. Didn’t he have a right to expect the same from his son? And just imagine. If I did win...

Baba smoked his pipe and talked. I pretended to listen. But I couldn’t listen, not really, because Baba’s casual little comment had planted a seed in my head: the resolution that I would win that winter’s

tournament. I was going to win. There was no other viable option. I was going to win, and I was going to run that last kite. Then I’d bring it home and show it to Baba. Show him once and for all that his son

was worthy. Then maybe my life as a ghost in this house would finally be over. I let myself dream: I imagined conversation and laughter over dinner instead of silence broken only by the clinking of

silverware and the occasional grunt. I envisioned us taking a Friday drive in Baba’s car to Paghman, stopping on the way at Ghargha Lake for some fried trout and potatoes. We’d go to the zoo to see

Marjan the lion, and maybe Baba wouldn’t yawn and steal looks at his wristwatch all the time. Maybe Baba would even read one of my stories. I’d write him a hundred if I thought he’d read one. Maybe he’d call me Amir jan like Rahim Khan did. And maybe, just maybe, I would finally be pardoned for killing my mother.

Baba was telling me about the time he’d cut fourteen kites on the same day. I smiled, nodded, laughed at all the right places, but

I hardly heard a word he said. I had a mission now. And I wasn’t going to fail Baba. Not this time.

IT SNOWED HEAVILY the night before the tournament. Hassan and I sat under the kursi and played panjpar as wind-rattled tree branches tapped on the window. Earlier that day, I’d asked Ali to set up

the kursi for us--which was basically an electric heater under a low table covered with a thick, quilted blanket. Around the table, he arranged mattresses and cushions, so as many as twenty people could

sit and slip their legs under. Hassan and I used to spend entire snowy days snug under the kursi, playing chess, cards--mostly panjpar.

I killed Hassan’s ten of diamonds, played him two jacks and a six. Next door, in Baba’s study, Baba and Rahim Khan were discussing business with a couple of other men-one of them I recognized as

Assef’s father. Through the wall, I could hear the scratchy sound of Radio Kabul News.

Hassan killed the six and picked up the jacks. On the radio, Daoud Khan was announcing something about foreign investments.

“He says someday we’ll have television in Kabul, ” I said.

“Who? ”

“Daoud Khan, you ass, the president. ”

Hassan giggled. “I heard they already have it in Iran, ” he said. I sighed. “Those Iranians... ” For a lot of Hazaras, Iran represented a sanctuary of sorts--I guess because, like Hazaras, most Iranians were

Shi’a Muslims. But I remembered something my teacher had said that summer about Iranians, that they were grinning smooth talkers who patted you on the back with one hand and picked your pocket

with the other. I told Baba about that and he said my teacher was one of those jealous Afghans, jealous because Iran was a rising power in Asia and most people around the world couldn’t even find

Afghanistan on a world map. “It hurts to say that, ” he said, shrugging. “But better to get hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie. ”

“I’ll buy you one someday, ” I said.

Hassan’s face brightened. “A television? In truth? ”

“Sure. And not the black-and-white kind either. We’ll probably be grown-ups by then, but I’ll get us two. One for you and one for me. ”

“I’ll put it on my table, where I keep my drawings, ” Hassan said.

His saying that made me kind of sad. Sad for who Hassan was, where he lived. For how he’d accepted the fact that he’d grow old in that mud shack in the yard, the way his father had. I drew the last

card, played him a pair of queens and a ten.

Hassan picked up the queens. “You know, I think you’re going to make Agha sahib very proud tomorrow. ”

“You think so? ”

“‘Inshallah’, ” he said.

“‘Inshallah’, ”I echoed, though the “God willing” qualifier didn’t sound as sincere coming from my lips. That was the thing with Hassan. He was so goddamn pure, you always felt like a phony around him.

I killed his king and played him my final card, the ace of spades. He had to pick it up. I’d won, but as I shuffled for a new game, I had the distinct suspicion that Hassan had let me win.

“Amir agha? ”

“What? ”

“You know... I ‘like’ where I live. ” He was always doing that, reading my mind. “It’s my home. ”

“Whatever, ” I said. “Get ready to lose again. ”

SEVEN

The next morning, as he brewed black tea for breakfast, Hassan told me he’d had a dream. “We were at Ghargha Lake, you, me, Father, Agha sahib, Rahim Khan, and thousands of other people, ” he

said. “It was warm and sunny, and the lake was clear like a mirror. But no one was swimming because they said a monster had come to the lake. It was swimming at the bottom, waiting. ”

He poured me a cup and added sugar, blew on it a few times. Put it before me. “So everyone is scared to get in the water, and suddenly you kick off your shoes, Amir agha, and take off your shirt.

‘There’s no monster, ’ you say. ‘I’ll show you all. ’ And before anyone can stop you, you dive into the water, start swimming away. I follow you in and we’re both swimming. ”

“But you can’t swim. ”

Hassan laughed. “It’s a dream, Amir agha, you can do anything. Anyway, everyone is screaming, ‘Get out! Get out! ’ but we just swim in the cold water. We make it way out to the middle of the lake and

we stop swimming. We turn toward the shore and wave to the people. They look small like ants, but we can hear them clapping. They see now. There is no monster, just water. They change the name of

the lake after that, and call it the ‘Lake of Amir and Hassan, Sultans of Kabul, ’ and we get to charge people money for swimming in it. ”

“So what does it mean? ” I said.

He coated my ‘naan’ with marmalade, placed it on a plate. “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me. ”

“Well, it’s a dumb dream. Nothing happens in it. ”

“Father says dreams always mean something. ”

I sipped some tea. “Why don’t you ask him, then? He’s so smart, ” I said, more curtly than I had intended. I hadn’t slept all night. My neck and back were like coiled springs, and my eyes stung. Still, I had

been mean to Hassan. I almost apologized, then didn’t. Hassan understood I was just nervous. Hassan always understood about me.

Upstairs, I could hear the water running in Baba’s bathroom.

THE STREETS GLISTENED with fresh snow and the sky was a blameless blue. Snow blanketed every rooftop and weighed on the branches of the stunted mulberry trees that lined our street.

Overnight, snow had nudged its way into every crack and gutter. I squinted against the blinding white when Hassan and I stepped through the wrought-iron gates. Ali shut the gates behind us. I heard him

mutter a prayer under his breath--he always said a prayer when his son left the house.

I had never seen so many people on our street. Kids were flinging snowballs, squabbling, chasing one another, giggling. Kite fighters were huddling with their spool holders, making lastminute

preparations. From adjacent streets, I could hear laughter and chatter. Already, rooftops were jammed with spectators reclining in lawn chairs, hot tea steaming from thermoses, and the music of Ahmad

Zahir blaring from cassette players. The immensely popular Ahmad Zahir had revolutionized Afghan music and outraged the purists by adding electric guitars, drums, and horns to the traditional tabla and

harmonium; on stage or at parties, he shirked the austere and nearly morose stance of older singers and actually smiled when he sang--sometimes even at women. I turned my gaze to our rooftop, found

Baba and Rahim Khan sitting on a bench, both dressed in wool sweaters, sipping tea. Baba waved. I couldn’t tell if he was waving at me or Hassan.

“We should get started, ” Hassan said. He wore black rubber snow boots and a bright green chapan over a thick sweater and faded corduroy pants. Sunlight washed over his face, and, in it, I saw how

well the pink scar above his lip had healed.

Suddenly I wanted to withdraw. Pack it all in, go back home. What was I thinking? Why was I putting myself through this, when I already knew the outcome? Baba was on the roof, watching me. I felt his

glare on me like the heat of a blistering sun. This would be failure on a grand scale, even for me.

“I’m not sure I want to fly a kite today, ” I said.

“It’s a beautiful day, ” Hassan said.

I shifted on my feet. Tried to peel my gaze away from our rooftop. “I don’t know. Maybe we should go home. ”

Then he stepped toward me and, in a low voice, said something that scared me a little. “Remember, Amir agha. There’s no monster, just a beautiful day. ” How could I be such an open book to him when,

half the time, I had no idea what was milling around in his head? I was the one who went to school, the one who could read, write. I was the smart one. Hassan couldn’t read a firstgrade textbook but he’d

read me plenty. That was a little unsettling, but also sort of comfortable to have someone who always knew what you needed.

“No monster, ” I said, feeling a little better, to my own surprise.

He smiled. “No monster. ”

“Are you sure? ”

He closed his eyes. Nodded.

I looked to the kids scampering down the street, flinging snowballs. “It is a beautiful day, isn’t it? ”

“Let’s fly, ” he said.

It occurred to me then that maybe Hassan had made up his dream. Was that possible? I decided it wasn’t. Hassan wasn’t that smart. I wasn’t that smart. But made up or not, the silly dream had lifted

some of my anxiety. Maybe I should take off my shirt, take a swim in the lake. Why not?

“Let’s do it, ” I said.

Hassan’s face brightened. “Good, ” he said. He lifted our kite, red with yellow borders, and, just beneath where the central and cross spars met, marked with Saifo’s unmistakable signature. He licked

his finger and held it up, tested the wind, then ran in its direction-on those rare occasions we flew kites in the summer, he’d kick up dust to see which way the wind blew it. The spool rolled in my hands until

Hassan stopped, about fifty feet away. He held the kite high over his head, like an Olympic athlete showing his gold medal. I jerked the string twice, our usual signal, and Hassan tossed the kite.

Caught between Baba and the mullahs at school, I still hadn’t made up my mind about God. But when a Koran ayat I had learned in my diniyat class rose to my lips, I muttered it. I took a deep breath,

exhaled, and pulled on the string. Within a minute, my kite was rocketing to the sky. It made a sound like a paper bird flapping its wings. Hassan clapped his hands, whistled, and ran back to me. I handed

him the spool, holding on to the string, and he spun it quickly to roll the loose string back on.

At least two dozen kites already hung in the sky, like paper sharks roaming for prey. Within an hour, the number doubled, and red, blue, and yellow kites glided and spun in the sky. A cold breeze wafted

through my hair. The wind was perfect for kite flying, blowing just hard enough to give some lift, make the sweeps easier. Next to me, Hassan held the spool, his hands already bloodied by the string.

Soon, the cutting started and the first of the defeated kites whirled out of control. They fell from the sky like shooting stars with brilliant, rippling tails, showering the neighborhoods below with prizes for

the kite runners. I could hear the runners now, hollering as they ran the streets. Someone shouted reports of a fight breaking out two streets down.

I kept stealing glances at Baba sitting with Rahim Khan on the roof, wondered what he was thinking. Was he cheering for me? Or did a part of him enjoy watching me fail? That was the thing about kite

flying: Your mind drifted with the kite.

They were coming down all over the place now, the kites, and I was still flying. I was still flying. My eyes kept wandering over to Baba, bundled up in his wool sweater. Was he surprised I had lasted as

long as I had? You don’t keep your eyes to the sky, you won’t last much longer. I snapped my gaze back to the sky. A red kite was closing in on me--I’d caught it just in time. I tangled a bit with it, ended up

besting him when he became impatient and tried to cut me from below.

Up and down the streets, kite runners were returning triumphantly, their captured kites held high. They showed them off to their parents, their friends. But they all knew the best was yet to come. The

biggest prize of all was still flying. I sliced a bright yellow kite with a coiled white tail. It cost me another gash on the’ index finger and blood trickled down into my palm. I had Hassan hold the string and

sucked the blood dry, blotted my finger against my jeans.

Within another hour, the number of surviving kites dwindled from maybe fifty to a dozen. I was one of them. I’d made it to the last dozen. I knew this part of the tournament would take a while, because the

guys who had lasted this long were good--they wouldn’t easily fall into simple traps like the old lift-and-dive, Hassan’s favorite trick.

By three o’clock that afternoon, tufts of clouds had drifted in and the sun had slipped behind them. Shadows started to lengthen. The spectators on the roofs bundled up in scarves and thick coats. We

were down to a half dozen and I was still flying. My legs ached and my neck was stiff. But with each defeated kite, ’ hope grew in my heart, like snow collecting on a wall, one flake at a time.

My eyes kept returning to a blue kite that had been wreaking havoc for the last hour.

“How many has he cut? ” I asked.

“I counted eleven, ” Hassan said.

“Do you know whose it might be? ”

Hassan clucked his tongue and tipped his chin. That was a trademark Hassan gesture, meant he had no idea. The blue kite sliced a big purple one and swept twice in big loops. Ten minutes later, he’d

cut another two, sending hordes of kite runners racing after them.

After another thirty minutes, only four kites remained. And I was still flying. It seemed I could hardly make a wrong move, as if every gust of wind blew in my favor. I’d never felt so in command, so lucky It

felt intoxicating. I didn’t dare look up to the roof. Didn’t dare take my eyes off the sky. I had to concentrate, play it smart. Another fifteen minutes and what had seemed like a laughable dream that morning

had suddenly become reality: It was just me and the other guy. The blue kite.

The tension in the air was as taut as the glass string I was tugging with my bloody hands. People were stomping their feet, clapping, whistling, chanting, “Boboresh! Boboresh! ” Cut him! Cut him! I

wondered if Baba’s voice was one of them. Music blasted. The smell of steamed mantu and fried pakora drifted from rooftops and open doors.

But all I heard--all I willed myself to hear--was the thudding of blood in my head. All I saw was the blue kite. All I smelled was victory. Salvation. Redemption. If Baba was wrong and there was a God like

they said in school, then He’d let me win. I didn’t know what the other guy was playing for, maybe just bragging rights. But this was my one chance to become someone who was looked at, not seen,

listened to, not heard. If there was a God, He’d guide the winds, let them blow for me so that, with a tug of my string, I’d cut loose my pain, my longing. I’d endured too much, come too far. And suddenly, just

like that, hope became knowledge. I was going to win. It was just a matter of when.

It turned out to be sooner than later. A gust of wind lifted my kite and I took advantage. Fed the string, pulled up. Looped my kite on top of the blue one. I held position. The blue kite knew it was in trouble.

It was trying desperately to maneuver out of the jam, but I didn’t let go. I held position. The crowd sensed the end was at hand. The chorus of “Cut him! Cut him! ” grew louder, like Romans chanting for the

gladiators to kill, kill!

“You’re almost there, Amir agha! Almost there! ” Hassan was panting.

Then the moment came. I closed my eyes and loosened my grip on the string. It sliced my fingers again as the wind dragged it. And then... I didn’t need to hear the crowd’s roar to know I didn’t need to

see either. Hassan was screaming and his arm was wrapped around my neck.

“Bravo! Bravo, Amir agha! ”

I opened my eyes, saw the blue kite spinning wildly like a tire come loose from a speeding car. I blinked, tried to say something. Nothing came out. Suddenly I was hovering, looking down on myself from

above. Black leather coat, red scarf, faded jeans. A thin boy, a little sallow, and a tad short for his twelve years. He had narrow shoulders and a hint of dark circles around his pale hazel eyes. The breeze

rustled his light brown hair. He looked up to me and we smiled at each other.

Then I was screaming, and everything was color and sound, everything was alive and good. I was throwing my free arm around Hassan and we were hopping up and down, both of us laughing, both of

us weeping. “You won, Amir agha! You won! ”

“We won! We won! ” was all I could say. This wasn’t happening. In a moment, I’d blink and rouse from this beautiful dream, get out of bed, march down to the kitchen to eat breakfast with no one to talk to

but Hassan. Get dressed. Wait for Baba. Give up. Back to my old life. Then I saw Baba on our roof. He was standing on the edge, pumping both of his fists. Hollering and clapping. And that right there was

the single greatest moment of my twelve years of life, seeing Baba on that roof, proud of me at last.

But he was doing something now, motioning with his hands in an urgent way. Then I understood. “Hassan, we--”

“I know, ” he said, breaking our embrace. “‘Inshallah’, we’ll celebrate later. Right now, I’m going to run that blue kite for you, ” he said. He dropped the spool and took off running, the hem of his green

chapan dragging in the snow behind him.

“Hassan! ” I called. “Come back with it! ”

He was already turning the street corner, his rubber boots kicking up snow. He stopped, turned. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “For you a thousand times over! ” he said. Then he smiled his

Hassan smile and disappeared around the corner. The next time I saw him smile unabashedly like that was twenty-six years later, in a faded Polaroid photograph.

I began to pull my kite back as people rushed to congratulate me. I shook hands with them, said my thanks. The younger kids looked at me with an awestruck twinkle in their eyes; I was a hero. Hands

patted my back and tousled my hair. I pulled on the string and returned every smile, but my mind was on the blue kite.

Finally, I had my kite in hand. I wrapped the loose string that had collected at my feet around the spool, shook a few more hands, and trotted home. When I reached the wrought-iron gates, Ali was

waiting on the other side. He stuck his hand through the bars. “Congratulations, ” he said.

I gave him my kite and spool, shook his hand. “Tashakor, Ali jan. ”

“I was praying for you the whole time. ”

“Then keep praying. We’re not done yet. ”

I hurried back to the street. I didn’t ask Ali about Baba. I didn’t want to see him yet. In my head, I had it all planned: I’d make a grand entrance, a hero, prized trophy in my bloodied hands. Heads would

turn and eyes would lock. Rostam and Sohrab sizing each other up. A dramatic moment of silence. Then the old warrior would walk to the young one, embrace him, acknowledge his worthiness.

Vindication. Salvation. Redemption. And then? Well... happily ever after, of course. What else?

The streets of Wazir Akbar Khan were numbered and set at right angles to each other like a grid. It was a new neighborhood then, still developing, with empty lots of land and half-constructed homes on

every street between compounds surrounded by eight-foot walls. I ran up and down every street, looking for Hassan. Everywhere, people were busy folding chairs, packing food and utensils after a long

day of partying. Some, still sitting on their rooftops, shouted their congratulations to me.

Four streets south of ours, I saw Omar, the son of an engineer who was a friend of Baba’s. He was dribbling a soccer ball with his brother on the front lawn of their house. Omar was a pretty good guy.

We’d been classmates in fourth grade, and one time he’d given me a fountain pen, the kind you had to load with a cartridge.

“I heard you won, Amir, ” he said. “Congratulations. ”

“Thanks. Have you seen Hassan? ”

“Your Hazara? ”

I nodded.

Omar headed the ball to his brother. “I hear he’s a great kite runner. ” His brother headed the ball back to him. Omar caught it, tossed it up and down. “Although I’ve always wondered how he manages. I

mean, with those tight little eyes, how does he see anything? ”

His brother laughed, a short burst, and asked for the ball. Omar ignored him.

“Have you seen him? ”

Omar flicked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing southwest. “I saw him running toward the bazaar awhile ago. ”

“Thanks. ” I scuttled away.

By the time I reached the marketplace, the sun had almost sunk behind the hills and dusk had painted the sky pink and purple. A few blocks away, from the Haji Yaghoub Mosque, the mullah bellowed

azan, calling for the faithful to unroll their rugs and bow their heads west in prayer. Hassan never missed any of the five daily prayers. Even when we were out playing, he’d excuse himself, draw water from

the well in the yard, wash up, and disappear into the hut. He’d come out a few minutes later, smiling, find me sitting against the wall or perched on a tree. He was going to miss prayer tonight, though,

because of me.

The bazaar was emptying quickly, the merchants finishing up their haggling for the day. I trotted in the mud between rows of closely packed cubicles where you could buy a freshly slaughtered pheasant

in one stand and a calculator from the adjacent one. I picked my way through the dwindling crowd, the lame beggars dressed in layers of tattered rags, the vendors with rugs on their shoulders, the cloth

merchants and butchers closing shop for the day. I found no sign of Hassan.

I stopped by a dried fruit stand, described Hassan to an old merchant loading his mule with crates of pine seeds and raisins. He wore a powder blue turban.

He paused to look at me for a long time before answering. “I might have seen him. ”

“Which way did he go? ”

He eyed me up and down. “What is a boy like you doing here at this time of the day looking for a Hazara? ” His glance lingered admiringly on my leather coat and my jeans--cowboy pants, we used to

call them. In Afghanistan, owning anything American, especially if it wasn’t secondhand, was a sign of wealth.

“I need to find him, Agha. ”

“What is he to you? ” he said. I didn’t see the point of his question, but I reminded myself that impatience wasn’t going to make him tell me any faster.

“He’s our servant’s son, ” I said.

The old man raised a pepper gray eyebrow. “He is? Lucky Hazara, having such a concerned master. His father should get on his knees, sweep the dust at your feet with his eyelashes. ”

“Are you going to tell me or not? ”

He rested an arm on the mule’s back, pointed south. “I think I saw the boy you described running that way. He had a kite in his hand. A blue one. ”

“He did? ” I said. For you a thousand times over, he’d promised. Good old Hassan. Good old reliable Hassan. He’d kept his promise and run the last kite for me.

“Of course, they’ve probably caught him by now, ” the old merchant said, grunting and loading another box on the mule’s back.

“Who? ”

“The other boys, ” he said. “The ones chasing him. They were dressed like you. ” He glanced to the sky and sighed. “Now, run along, you’re making me late for nainaz. ”

But I was already scrambling down the lane.

For the next few minutes, I scoured the bazaar in vain. Maybe the old merchant’s eyes had betrayed him. Except he’d seen the blue kite. The thought of getting my hands on that kite... I poked my head

behind every lane, every shop. No sign of Hassan.

I had begun to worry that darkness would fall before I found Hassan when I heard voices from up ahead. I’d reached a secluded, muddy road. It ran perpendicular to the end of the main thoroughfare

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