Winter.
Here is what I do on the first day of snowfall every year: I step out of the house early in the morning, still in my pajamas1, hugging my arms against the chill. I find the driveway, my father's car, the walls, the trees, the rooftops, and the hills buried under a foot of snow. I smile. The sky is seamless and blue, the snow so white my eyes burn. I shovel2 a handful of the fresh snow into my mouth, lis ten to the muffled3 stillness broken only by the cawing of crows. I walk down the front steps, barefoot, and call for Hassan to come out and see.
Winter was every kid's favorite season in Kabul, at least those whose fathers could afford to buy a good iron stove. The reason was simple: They shut down school for the icy season. Winter to me was the end of long division and naming the capital of Bulgaria, and the start of three months of playing cards by the stove with Hassan, free Russian movies on Tuesday mornings at Cinema Park, sweet turnip6 _qurma_ over rice for lunch after a morning of building snowmen.
And kites, of course. Flying kites. And running them.
For a few unfortunate kids, winter did not spell the end of the school year. There were the so-called voluntary winter courses. No kid I knew ever volunteered to go to these classes; parents, of course, did the volunteering for them. Fortunately for me, Baba was not one of them. I remember one kid, Ahmad, who lived across the street from us. His father was some kind of doctor, I think. Ahmad had epilepsy and always wore a wool vest and thick blackrimmed glasses--he was one of Assef's regular victims. Every morning, I watched from my bedroom window as their Hazara servant shoveled7 snow from the driveway, cleared the way for the black Opel. I made a point of watching Ahmad and his father get into the car, Ahmad in his wool vest and winter coat, his schoolbag filled with books and pencils. I waited until they pulled away, turned the corner, then I slipped back into bed in my flannel8 pajamas. I pulled the blanket to my chin and watched the snowcapped hills in the north through the window. Watched them until I drifted back to sleep.
I loved wintertime in Kabul. I loved it for the soft pattering of snow against my window at night, for the way fresh snow crunched9 under my black rubber boots, for the warmth of the cast-iron stove as the wind screeched10 through the yards, the streets. But mostly because, as the trees froze and ice sheathed11 the roads, the chill between Baba and me thawed12 a little. And the reason for that was the kites. Baba and I lived in the same house, but in different spheres of existence. Kites were the one paper thin slice of intersection13 between those spheres.
EVERY WINTER, districts in Kabul held a kite-fighting tournament. And if you were a boy living in Kabul, the day of the tournament was undeniably the highlight of the cold season. I never slept the night before the tournament. I'd roll from side to side, make shadow animals on the wall, even sit on the balcony in the dark, a blanket wrapped around me. I felt like a soldier trying to sleep in the trenches14 the night before a major battle. And that wasn't so far off. In Kabul, fighting kites was a little like going to war.
As with any war, you had to ready yourself for battle. For a while, Hassan and I used to build our own kites. We saved our weekly allowances in the fall, dropped the money in a little porcelain15 horse Raba had brought one time from Herat. When the winds of winter began to blow and snow fell in chunks16, we undid17 the snap under the horse's belly18. We went to the bazaar19 and bought bamboo, glue, string, and paper. We spent hours every day shaving bamboo for the center and cross spars, cutting the thin tissue paper which made for easy dipping and recovery And then, of course, we had to make our own string, or tar5. If the kite was the gun, then _tar_, the glass-coated cutting line, was the bullet in the chamber20. We'd go out in the yard and feed up to five hundred feet of string through a mixture of ground glass and glue. We'd then hang the line between the trees, leave it to dry. The next day, we'd wind the battle-ready line around a wooden spool21. By the time the snow melted and the rains of spring swept in, every boy in Kabul bore telltale horizontal gashes22 on his fingers from a whole winter of fighting kites. I remember how my classmates and I used to huddle23, compare our battle scars on the first day of school. The cuts stung and didn't heal for a couple of weeks, but I didn't mind. They were reminders24 of a beloved season that had once again passed too quickly. Then the class captain would blow his whistle and we'd march in a single file to our classrooms, longing25 for winter already, greeted instead by the specter of yet another long school year.
But it quickly became apparent that Hassan and I were better kite fighters than kite makers27. Some flaw or other in our design always spelled its doom28. So Baba started taking us to Saifo's to buy our kites. Saifo was a nearly blind old man who was a _moochi_ by profession--a shoe repairman. But he was also the city's most famous kite maker26, working out of a tiny hovel on Jadeh Maywand, the crowded street south of the muddy banks of the Kabul River. I remember you had to crouch29 to enter the prison cell-sized store, and then had to lift a trapdoor to creep down a set of wooden steps to the dank basement where Saifo stored his coveted30 kites. Baba would buy us each three identical kites and spools31 of glass string. If I changed my mind and asked for a bigger and fancier kite, Baba would buy it for me--but then he'd buy it for Hassan too. Sometimes I wished he wouldn't do that. Wished he'd let me be the favorite.
The kite-fighting tournament was an old winter tradition in Afghanistan. It started early in the morning on the day of the contest and didn't end until only the winning kite flew in the sky--I remember one year the tournament outlasted32 daylight. People gathered on sidewalks and roofs to cheer for their kids. The streets filled with kite fighters, jerking and tugging33 on their lines, squinting34 up to the sky, trying to gain position to cut the opponent's line. Every kite fighter had an assistant--in my case, Hassan--who held the spool and fed the line.
One time, a bratty35 Hindi kid whose family had recently moved into the neighborhood told us that in his Hometown, kite fighting had strict rules and regulations. "You have to play in a boxed area and you have to stand at a right angle to the wind,?he said proudly. "And you can't use aluminum36 to make your glass string.?Hassan and I looked at each other. Cracked up. The Hindi kid would soon learn what the British learned earlier in the century, and what the Russians would eventually learn by the late 1980s:
that Afghans are an independent people. Afghans cherish custom but abhor37 rules. And so it was with kite fighting. The rules were simple: No rules. Fly your kite. Cut the opponents. Good luck.
Except that wasn't all. The real fun began when a kite was cut. That was where the kite runners came in, those kids who chased the windblown kite drifting through the neighborhoods until it came spiraling down in a field, dropping in someone's yard, on a tree, or a rooftop. The chase got pretty fierce; hordes38 of kite runners swarmed39 the streets, shoved past each other like those people from Spain I'd read about once, the ones who ran from the bulls. One year a neighborhood kid climbed a pine tree for a kite. A branch snapped under his weight and he fell thirty feet. Broke his back and never walked again. But he fell with the kite still in his hands. And when a kite runner had his hands on a kite, no one could take it from him. That wasn't a rule. That was custom.
For kite runners, the most coveted prize was the last fallen kite of a winter tournament. It was a trophy40 of honor, something to be displayed on a mantle41 for guests to admire. When the sky cleared of kites and only the final two remained, every kite runner readied himself for the chance to land this prize. He positioned himself at a spot that he thought would give him a head start. Tense muscles readied themselves to uncoil. Necks craned. Eyes crinkled. Fights broke out. And when the last kite was cut, all hell broke loose.
Over the years, I had seen a lot of guys run kites. But Hassan was by far the greatest kite runner I'd ever seen. It was downright eerie42 the way he always got to the spot the kite would land before the kite did, as if he had some sort of inner compass.
I remember one overcast43 winter day, Hassan and I were running a kite. I was chasing him through neighborhoods, hopping44
gutters45, weaving through narrow streets. I was a year older than him, but Hassan ran faster than I did, and I was falling behind.
"Hassan! Wait!?I yelled, my breathing hot and ragged46.
He whirled around, motioned with his hand. "This way!?he called before dashing around another corner. I looked up, saw that the direction we were running was opposite to the one the kite was drifting.
"We're losing it! We're going the wrong way!?I cried out.
"Trust me!?I heard him call up ahead. I reached the corner and saw Hassan bolting along, his head down, not even looking at the sky, sweat soaking through the back of his shirt. I tripped over a rock and fell--I wasn't just slower than Hassan but clumsier too; I'd always envied his natural athieticism. When I staggered to my feet, I caught a glimpse of Hassan disappearing around another street corner. I hobbled after him, spikes47 of pain battering48 my scraped knees.
I saw we had ended up on a rutted dirt road near Isteqial Middle School. There was a field on one side where lettuce49 grew in the summer, and a row of sour cherry trees on the other. I found Hassan sitting cross-legged at the foot of one of the trees, eating from a fistful of dried mulberries.
"What are we doing here??I panted, my stomach roiling50 with nausea51.
He smiled. "Sit with me, Amir agha.?
I dropped next to him, lay on a thin patch of snow, wheezing52. "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 beads53 rolled from his bald scalp. "Would I ever lie to you, Amir agha??
Suddenly I decided54 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 taunt55 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 lurking57 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 loyalty58, 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 plummeting59 toward us. I heard footfalls, shouts, an approaching melee60 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 sipping61 tea, talking. Ali had served dinner earlier--potatoes and curried62 cauliflower over rice--and had retired63 for the night with Hassan. Baba was fattening64 his pipe and I was asking him to tell the story about the winter a pack of wolves had descended65 from the mountains in Herat and forced everyone to stay indoors for a week, when he lit a match and said, casually66, "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 viable67 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 worthy68. 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 grunt69. I envisioned us taking a Friday drive in Baba's car to Paghman, stopping on the way at Ghargha Lake for some fried trout70 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 killing71 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 mattresses72 and cushions, so as many as twenty people could sit and slip their legs under. Hassan and I used to spend entire snowy days snug73 under the kursi, playing chess, cards--mostly panjpar.
I killed Hassan's ten of diamonds, played him two jacks74 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 ass4, the president.?
Hassan giggled75. "I heard they already have it in Iran,?he said. I sighed. "Those Iranians...?For a lot of Hazaras, Iran represented a sanctuary76 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 shack77 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 ace56 of spades. He had to pick it up. I'd won, but as I shuffled78 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.?
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pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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shoveled
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| vt.铲，铲出（shovel的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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crunched
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的过去式和过去分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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screeched
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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chunks
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| 厚厚的一块( chunk的名词复数 )； （某物）相当大的数量或部分 | |
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Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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spool
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| n.（缠录音带等的）卷盘（轴）；v.把…绕在卷轴上 | |
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gashes
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| n.深长的切口（或伤口）( gash的名词复数 )v.划伤，割破( gash的第三人称单数 ) | |
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huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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spools
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| n.（绕线、铁线、照相软片等的）管( spool的名词复数 )；络纱；纺纱机；绕圈轴工人v.把…绕到线轴上（或从线轴上绕下来）( spool的第三人称单数 )；假脱机（输出或输入） | |
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outlasted
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| v.比…长久，比…活得长( outlast的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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bratty
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| adj.讨厌的，不服从的 | |
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aluminum
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| n.(aluminium)铝 | |
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abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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49
lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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roiling
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| v.搅混（液体）( roil的现在分词 )；使烦恼；使不安；使生气 | |
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51
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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52
wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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53
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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59
plummeting
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| v.垂直落下，骤然跌落( plummet的现在分词 ) | |
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melee
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| n.混战；混战的人群 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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curried
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| adj.加了咖喱（或咖喱粉的），用咖哩粉调理的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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fattening
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| adj.（食物）要使人发胖的v.喂肥( fatten的现在分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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viable
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| adj.可行的，切实可行的，能活下去的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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71
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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74
jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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