The Kite Runner (39 page)

He waved as he pulled away. Standing outside the hotel room and waving back, I wished Soraya could be there with me.

SOHRAB HAD TURNED OFF THE TV when l went back into the room. I sat on the edge of my bed, asked him to sit next to me. “Mr. Faisal thinks there is a way I can take you to America with me,” I said.

“He does?” Sohrab said, smiling faintly for the first time in days. “When can we go?”

“Well, that’s the thing. It might take a little while. But he said it can be done and he’s going to help us.” I put my hand on the back of his neck. From outside, the call to prayer blared through the streets.

“How long?” Sohrab asked.

“I don’t know. A while.”

Sohrab shrugged and smiled, wider this time. “I don’t mind. I can wait. It’s like the sour apples.”

“Sour apples?”

“One time, when I was really little, I climbed a tree and ate these green, sour apples. My stomach swelled and became hard like a drum, it hurt a lot. Mother said that if I’d just waited for the apples to ripen, I wouldn’t have become sick. So now, whenever I really want something, I try to remember what she said about the apples.”

“Sour apples,” I said. “_Mashallah_, you’re just about the smartest little guy I’ve ever met, Sohrab jan.” His ears reddened with a blush.

“Will you take me to that red bridge? The one with the fog?” he said.

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“Absolutely,” I said. “Absolutely.”

“And we’ll drive up those streets, the ones where all you see is the hood of the car and the sky?”

“Every single one of them,” I said. My eyes stung with tears and I blinked them away.

“Is English hard to learn?”

“I say, within a year, you’ll speak it as well as Farsi.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” I placed a finger under his chin, turned his face up to mine. “There is one other thing, Sohrab.”

“What?”

“Well, Mr. Faisal thinks that it would really help if we could... if we could ask you to stay in a home for kids for a while.”

“Home for kids?” he said, his smile fading. “You mean an orphanage?”

“It would only be for a little while.”

“No,” he said. “No, please.”

“Sohrab, it would be for just a little while. I promise.”

“You promised you’d never put me in one of those places, Amir agha,” he said. His voice was breaking, tears pooling in his eyes. I felt like a prick.

“This is different. It would be here, in Islamabad, not in Kabul. And I’d visit you all the time until we can get you out and take you to America.”

“Please! Please, no!” he croaked. “I’m scared of that place. They’ll hurt me! I don’t want to go.”

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“No one is going to hurt you. Not ever again.”

“Yes they will! They always say they won’t but they lie. They lie! Please, God!”

I wiped the tear streaking down his cheek with my thumb. “Sour apples, remember? It’s just like the sour apples,” I said softly.

“No it’s not. Not that place. God, oh God. Please, no!” He was trembling, snot and tears mixing on his face.

“Shhh.” I pulled him close, wrapped my arms around his shaking little body. “Shhh. It’ll be all right. We’ll go home together. You’ll see, it’ll be all right.”

His voice was muffled against my chest, but I heard the panic in it. “Please promise you won’t! Oh God, Amir agha! Please promise you won’t!”

How could I promise? I held him against me, held him tightly, and rocked badk and forth. He wept into my shirt until his tears dried, until his shaking stopped and his frantic pleas dwindled to indecipherable mumbles. I waited, rocked him until his breathing slowed and his body slackened. I remembered something I had read somewhere a long time ago: That’s how children deal with terror. They fall asleep.

I carried him to his bed, set him down. Then I lay in my own bed, looking out the window at the purple sky over Islamabad.

THE SKY WAS A DEEP BLACK when the phone jolted me from sleep. I rubbed my eyes and turned on the bedside lamp. It was a little past 10:30 P.M.; I’d been sleeping for almost three hours. I picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Call from America.” Mr. Fayyaz’s bored voice.

“Thank you,” I said. The bathroom light was on; Sohrab was taking his nightly bath. A couple of clicks and then Soraya:

“Salaam!” She sounded excited.

“How did the meeting go with the lawyer?”

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I told her what Omar Faisal had suggested. “Well, you can forget about it,” she said.

“We won’t have to do that.”

I sat up. “Rawsti? Why, what’s up?”

“I heard back from Kaka Sharif. He said the key was getting Sohrab into the country.

Once he’s in, there are ways of keeping him here. So he made a few calls to his INS

friends. He called me back tonight and said he was almost certain he could get Sohrab a humanitarian visa.”

“No kidding?” I said. “Oh thank God! Good ol’ Sharifjan!”

“I know. Anyway, we’ll serve as the sponsors. It should all happen pretty quickly. He said the visa would be good for a year, plenty of time to apply for an adoption petition.”

“It’s really going to happen, Soraya, huh?”

“It looks like it,” she said. She sounded happy. I told her I loved her and she said she loved me back. I hung up.

“Sohrab!” I called, rising from my bed. “I have great news.” I knocked on the bathroom door. “Sohrab! Soraya jan just called from California. We won’t have to put you in the orphanage, Sohrab. We’re going to America, you and I. Did you hear me? We’re going to America!”

I pushed the door open. Stepped into the bathroom.

Suddenly I was on my knees, screaming. Screaming through my clenched teeth.

Screaming until I thought my throat would rip and my chest explode.

Later, they said I was still screaming when the ambulance arrived.

TWENTY-FIVE

They won’t let me in.

I see them wheel him through a set of double doors and I follow. I burst through the doors, the smell of iodine and peroxide hits me, but all I have time to see is two men

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wearing surgical caps and a woman in green huddling over a gurney. A white sheet spills over the side of the gurney and brushes against grimy checkered tiles. A pair of small, bloody feet poke out from under the sheet and I see that the big toenail on the left foot is chipped. Then a tall, thickset man in blue presses his palm against my chest and he’s pushing me back out through the doors, his wedding band cold on my skin. I shove forward and I curse him, but he says you cannot be here, he says it in English, his voice polite but firm. “You must wait,” he says, leading me back to the waiting area, and now the double doors swing shut behind him with a sigh and all I see is the top of the men’s surgical caps through the doors’ narrow rectangular windows.

He leaves me in a wide, windowless corridor crammed with people sitting on metallic folding chairs set along the walls, others on the thin frayed carpet. I want to scream again, and I remember the last time I felt this way, riding with Baba in the tank of the fuel truck, buried in the dark with the other refugees. I want to tear myself from this place, from this reality rise up like a cloud and float away, melt into this humid summer night and dissolve somewhere far, over the hills. But I am here, my legs blocks of concrete, my lungs empty of air, my throat burning. There will be no floating away.

There will be no other reality tonight. I close my eyes and my nostrils fill with the smells of the corridor, sweat and ammonia, rubbing alcohol and curry. On the ceiling, moths fling themselves at the dull gray light tubes running the length of the corridor and I hear the papery flapping of their wings. I hear chatter, muted sobbing, sniffling, someone moaning, someone else sighing, elevator doors opening with a bing, the operator paging someone in Urdu.

I open my eyes again and I know what I have to do. I look around, my heart a jackhammer in my chest, blood thudding in my ears. There is a dark little supply room to my left. In it, I find what I need. It will do. I grab a white bedsheet from the pile of folded linens and carry it back to the corridor. I see a nurse talking to a policeman near the restroom. I take the nurse’s elbow and pull, I want to know which way is west. She doesn’t understand and the lines on her face deepen when she frowns. My throat aches and my eyes sting with sweat, each breath is like inhaling fire, and I think I am weeping.

I ask again. I beg. The policeman is the one who points.

I throw my makeshift _jai-namaz_, my prayer rug, on the floor and I get on my knees, lower my forehead to the ground, my tears soaking through the sheet. I bow to the west.

Then I remember I haven’t prayed for over fifteen years. I have long forgotten the words. But it doesn’t matter, I will utter those few words I still remember: ??La iflaha ii Allah, Muhammad u rasul ullah. There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is His messenger. I see now that Baba was wrong, there is a God, there always had been. I see Him here, in the eyes of the people in this corridor of desperation. This is the real house of God, this is where those who have lost God will find Him, not the white masjid with its bright diamond lights and towering minarets. There is a God, there has to be, and now I will pray, I will pray that He forgive that I have neglected Him all of these years, forgive that I have betrayed, lied, and sinned with impunity only to turn to Him now in my hour of need, I pray that He is as merciful, benevolent, and gracious as His book says He is. I bow to the west and kiss the ground and promise that I will do _zakat_, I will do _namaz_, I will fast during Ramadan and when Ramadan has passed I will go on fasting, I will commit to memory every last word of His holy book, and I will

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set on a pilgrimage to that sweltering city in the desert and bow before the Ka’bah too. I will do all of this and I will think of Him every day from this day on if He only grants me this one wish: My hands are stained with Hassan’s blood; I pray God doesn’t let them get stained with the blood of his boy too.

I hear a whimpering and realize it is mine, my lips are salty with the tears trickling down my face. I feel the eyes of everyone in this corridor on me and still I bow to the west. I pray. I pray that my sins have not caught up with me the way I’d always feared they would.

A STARLESS, BLACK NIGHT falls over Islamabad. It’s a few hours later and I am sitting now on the floor of a tiny lounge off the corridor that leads to the emergency ward. Before me is a dull brown coffee table cluttered with newspapers and dog-eared magazines--an April 1996 issue of Time; a Pakistani newspaper showing the face of a young boy who was hit and killed by a train the week before; an entertainment magazine with smiling Hollywood actors on its glossy cover. There is an old woman wearing a jade green shalwar-kameez and a crocheted shawl nodding off in a wheelchair across from me. Every once in a while, she stirs awake and mutters a prayer in Arabic. I wonder tiredly whose prayers will be heard tonight, hers or mine. I picture Sohrab’s face, the pointed meaty chin, his small seashell ears, his slanting bambooleaf eyes so much like his father’s. A sorrow as black as the night outside invades me, and I feel my throat clamping.

I need air.

I get up and open the windows. The air coming through the screen is musty and hot--it smells of overripe dates and dung. I force it into my lungs in big heaps, but it doesn’t clear the clamping feeling in my chest. I drop back on the floor. I pick up the Time magazine and flip through the pages. But I can’t read, can’t focus on anything. So I toss it on the table and go back to staring at the zigzagging pattern of the cracks on the cement floor, at the cobwebs on the ceiling where the walls meet, at the dead flies littering the windowsill. Mostly, I stare at the clock on the wall. It’s just past 4 A.M. and I have been shut out of the room with the swinging double doors for over five hours now.

I still haven’t heard any news.

The floor beneath me begins to feel like part of my body, and my breathing is growing heavier, slower. I want to sleep, shut my eyes and lie my head down on this cold, dusty floor. Drift off. When I wake up, maybe I will discover that everything I saw in the hotel bathroom was part of a dream: the water drops dripping from the faucet and landing with a plink into the bloody bathwater; the left arm dangling over the side of the tub, the blood-soaked razor sitting on the toilet tank--the same razor I had shaved with the day before--and his eyes, still half open but light less. That more than anything. I want to forget the eyes.

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Soon, sleep comes and I let it take me. I dream of things I can’t remember later.

SOMEONE IS TAPPING ME on the shoulder. I open my eyes. There is a man kneeling beside me. He is wearing a cap like the men behind the swinging double doors and a paper surgical mask over his mouth--my heart sinks when I see a drop of blood on the mask. He has taped a picture of a doe-eyed little girl to his beeper. He unsnaps his mask and I’m glad I don’t have to look at Sohrab’s blood anymore. His skin is dark like the imported Swiss chocolate Hassan and I used to buy from the bazaar in Shar-e-Nau; he has thinning hair and hazel eyes topped with curved eyelashes. In a British accent, he tells me his name is Dr. Nawaz, and suddenly I want to be away from this man, because I don’t think I can bear to hear what he has come to tell me. He says the boy had cut himself deeply and had lost a great deal of blood and my mouth begins to mutter that prayer again:

La illaha il Allah, Muhammad u rasul ullah.

They had to transfuse several units of red cells-- How will I tell Soraya?

Twice, they had to revive him--I will do _namaz_, I will do _zakat_.

They would have lost him if his heart hadn’t been young and strong--I will fast.

He is alive.

Dr. Nawaz smiles. It takes me a moment to register what he has just said. Then he says more but I don’t hear him. Because I have taken his hands and I have brought them up to my face. I weep my relief into this stranger’s small, meaty hands and he says nothing now. He waits.