The next morning, as he brewed1 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 sipped3 some tea. "Why don't you ask him, then? He's so smart,?I said, more curtly4 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 GLISTENED5 with fresh snow and the sky was a blameless blue. Snow blanketed every rooftop and weighed on the branches of the stunted7 mulberry trees that lined our street. Overnight, snow had nudged its way into every crack and gutter8. I squinted9 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, giggling10. Kite fighters were huddling11 with their spool12 holders13, making lastminute preparations. From adjacent streets, I could hear laughter and chatter14. 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 outraged15 the purists by adding electric guitars, drums, and horns to the traditional tabla and harmonium; on stage or at parties, he shirked the austere16 and nearly morose17 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, sipping18 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 blistering19 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 scampering20 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 decided21 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, exhaled22, 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 spun23 it quickly to roll the loose string back on.
At least two dozen kites already hung in the sky, like paper sharks roaming for prey24. Within an hour, the number doubled, and red, blue, and yellow kites glided25 and spun in the sky. A cold breeze wafted26 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 bloodied27 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, rippling28 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 tangled29 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 triumphantly30, 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 gash31 on the?index finger and blood trickled32 down into my palm. I had Hassan hold the string and sucked the blood dry, blotted33 my finger against my jeans.
Within another hour, the number of surviving kites dwindled34 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 lengthen35. 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 flake36 at a time.
My eyes kept returning to a blue kite that had been wreaking37 havoc38 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 trademark39 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 hordes40 of kite runners racing41 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 gust42 of wind blew in my favor. I'd never felt so in command, so lucky It felt intoxicating43. 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 taut44 as the glass string I was tugging46 with my bloody47 hands. People were stomping48 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. Salvation49. 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 bragging50 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 tug45 of my string, I'd cut loose my pain, my longing51. 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 desperately52 to maneuver53 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 hovering54, 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 rustled55 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 hopping56 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 standing57 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 hem2 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 trotted58 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 trophy59 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 warrior60 would walk to the young one, embrace him, acknowledge his worthiness61. Vindication62. 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 grid63. 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 utensils64 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 dribbling65 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 cartridge66.
"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 flicked67 a thumb over his shoulder, pointing southwest. "I saw him running toward the bazaar68 awhile ago.?
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 Mosque70, the mullah bellowed71 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 haggling72 for the day. I trotted in the mud between rows of closely packed cubicles74 where you could buy a freshly slaughtered75 pheasant in one stand and a calculator from the adjacent one. I picked my way through the dwindling76 crowd, the lame6 beggars dressed in layers of tattered77 rags, the vendors78 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 mule79 with crates80 of pine seeds and raisins81. 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 impatience82 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 eyebrow83. "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, pointed84 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, grunting85 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 scrambling86 down the lane.
For the next few minutes, I scoured87 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 poked88 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 secluded89, muddy road. It ran perpendicular90 to the end of the main thoroughfare bisecting the bazaar. I turned onto the rutted track and followed the voices. My boot squished in mud with every step and my breath puffed91 out in white clouds before me. The narrow path ran parallel on one side to a snow-filled ravine through which a stream may have tumbled in the spring. To my other side stood rows of snow-burdened cypress92 trees peppered among flat-topped clay houses--no more than mud shacks93 in most cases--separated by narrow alleys95.
I heard the voices again, louder this time, coming from one of the alleys. I crept close to the mouth of the alley94. Held my breath. Peeked96 around the corner.
Hassan was standing at the blind end of the alley in a defiant97 stance: fists curled, legs slightly apart. Behind him, sitting on piles of scrap98 and rubble99, was the blue kite. My key to Baba's heart.
Blocking Hassan's way out of the alley were three boys, the same three from that day on the hill, the day after Daoud Khan's coup100, when Hassan had saved us with his slingshot. Wali was standing on one side, Kamal on the other, and in the middle, Assef. I felt my body clench101 up, and something cold rippled102 up my spine103. Assef seemed relaxed, confident. He was twirling his brass104 knuckles105. The other two guys shifted nervously106 on their feet, looking from Assef to Hassan, like they'd cornered some kind of wild animal that only Assef could tame.
"Where is your slingshot, Hazara??Assef said, turning the brass knuckles in his hand. "What was it you said? ‘They'll have to call you One-Eyed Assef.?That's right. One-Eyed Assef. That was clever. Really clever. Then again, it's easy to be clever when you're holding a loaded weapon.?
I realized I still hadn't breathed out. I exhaled, slowly, quietly. I felt paralyzed. I watched them close in on the boy I'd grown up with, the boy whose harelipped face had been my first memory.
"But today is your lucky day, Hazara,?Assef said. He had his back to me, but I would have bet he was grinning. "I'm in a mood to forgive. What do you say to that, boys??
"That's generous,?Kamal blurted107, "Especially after the rude manners he showed us last time.?He was trying to sound like Assef, except there was a tremor108 in his voice. Then I understood:
He wasn't afraid of Hassan, not really. He was afraid because he had no idea what Assef had in mind.
Assef waved a dismissive hand. "Bakhshida. Forgiven. It's done.?His voice dropped a little. "Of course, nothing is free in this world, and my pardon comes with a small price.?
"That's fair,?Kamal said.
"Nothing is free,?Wali added.
"You're a lucky Hazara,?Assef said, taking a step toward Hassan. "Because today, it's only going to cost you that blue kite. A fair deal, boys, isn't it??
"More than fair,?Kamal said.
Even from where I was standing, I could see the fear creeping into Hassan's eyes, but he shook his head. "Amir agha won the tournament and I ran this kite for him. I ran it fairly. This is his kite.?
"A loyal Hazara. Loyal as a dog,?Assef said. Kamal's laugh was a shrill109, nervous sound.
"But before you sacrifice yourself for him, think about this:
Would he do the same for you? Have you ever wondered why he never includes you in games when he has guests? Why he only plays with you when no one else is around? I'll tell you why, Hazara. Because to him, you're nothing but an ugly pet. Something he can play with when he's bored, something he can kick when he's angry. Don't ever fool yourself and think you're something more.?
"Amir agha and I are friends,?Hassan said. He looked flushed.
"Friends??Assef said, laughing. "You pathetic fool! Someday you'll wake up from your little fantasy and learn just how good of a friend he is. Now, bas! Enough of this. Give us that kite.?
Hassan stooped and picked up a rock.
Assef flinched110. He began to take a step back, stopped. "Last chance, Hazara.?
Hassan's answer was to cock the arm that held the rock.
"Whatever you wish.?Assef unbuttoned his winter coat, took it off, folded it slowly and deliberately111. He placed it against the wall.
I opened my mouth, almost said something. Almost. The rest of my life might have turned out differently if I had. But I didn't. I just watched. Paralyzed.
Assef motioned with his hand, and the other two boys separated, forming a half circle, trapping Hassan in the alley.
"I've changed my mind,?Assef said. "I'm letting you keep the kite, Hazara. I'll let you keep it so it will always remind you of what I'm about to do.?
Then he charged. Hassan hurled112 the rock. It struck Assef in the forehead. Assef yelped113 as he flung himself at Hassan, knocking him to the ground. Wall and Kamal followed.
I bit on my fist. Shut my eyes.
A MEMORY:
Did you know Hassan and you fed from the same breast? Did you know that, Amir agha? Sakina, her name was. She was a fair, blue-eyed Hazara woman from Bamiyan and she sang you old wedding songs. They say there is a brotherhood114 between people who've fed from the same breast. Did you know that?
A memory:
"A rupia each, children. Just one rupia each and I will part the curtain of truth.?The old man sits against a mud wall. His sightless eyes are like molten silver embedded115 in deep, twin craters116.
Hunched117 over his cane118, the fortune-teller runs a gnarled hand across the surface of his deflated119 cheeks. Cups it before us. "Not much to ask for the truth, is it, a rupia each??Hassan drops a coin in the leathery palm. I drop mine too. "In the name of Allah most beneficent, most merciful,?the old fortune-teller whispers. He takes Hassan's hand first, strokes the palm with one hornlike fingernail, round and round, round and round. The finger then floats to Hassan's face and makes a dry, scratchy sound as it slowly traces the curve of his cheeks, the outline of his ears. The calloused120 pads of his fingers brush against Hassan's eyes. The hand stops there. Lingers. A shadow passes across the old man's face. Hassan and I exchange a glance. The old man takes Hassan's hand and puts the rupia back in Hassan's palm. He turns to me. "How about you, young friend??he says. On the other side of the wall, a rooster crows. The old man reaches for my hand and I withdraw it.
A dream:
I am lost in a snowstorm. The wind shrieks121, blows stinging sheets of snow into my eyes. I stagger through layers of shifting white. I call for help but the wind drowns my cries. I fall and lie panting on the snow, lost in the white, the wind wailing122 in my ears. I watch the snow erase123 my fresh footprints. I'm a ghost now, I think, a ghost with no footprints. I cry out again, hope fading like my footprints. But this time, a muffled124 reply. I shield my eyes and manage to sit up. Out of the swaying curtains of snow, I catch a glimpse of movement, a flurry of color. A familiar shape materializes. A hand reaches out for me. I see deep, parallel gashes125 across the palm, blood dripping, staining the snow. I take the hand and suddenly the snow is gone. We're standing in afield of apple green grass with soft wisps of clouds drifting above. I look up and see the clear sky is filled with kites, green, yellow, red, orange. They shimmer126 in the afternoon light.
A HAVOC OF SCRAP AND RUBBLE littered the alley. Worn bicycle tires, bottles with peeled labels, ripped up magazines, yellowed newspapers, all scattered127 amid a pile of bricks and slabs128 of cement. A rusted129 cast-iron stove with a gaping130 hole on its side tilted131 against a wall. But there were two things amid the garbage that I couldn't stop looking at: One was the blue kite resting against the wall, close to the cast-iron stove; the other was Hassan's brown corduroy pants thrown on a heap of eroded132 bricks.
"I don't know,?Wali was saying. "My father says it's sinful.?He sounded unsure, excited, scared, all at the same time. Hassan lay with his chest pinned to the ground. Kamal and Wali each gripped an arm, twisted and bent133 at the elbow so that Hassan's hands were pressed to his back. Assef was standing over them, the heel of his snow boots crushing the back of Hassan's neck.
"Your father won't find out,?Assef said. "And there's nothing sinful about teaching a lesson to a disrespectful donkey.?
"I don't know,?Wali muttered.
"Suit yourself,?Assef said. He turned to Kamal. "What about you??
"I... well...?
"It's just a Hazara,?Assef said. But Kamal kept looking away.
"Fine,?Assef snapped. "All I want you weaklings to do is hold him down. Can you manage that??
Wali and Kamal nodded. They looked relieved.
Assef knelt behind Hassan, put his hands on Hassan's hips134 and lifted his bare buttocks. He kept one hand on Hassan's back and undid135 his own belt buckle136 with his free hand. He unzipped his jeans. Dropped his underwear. He positioned himself behind Hassan. Hassan didn't struggle. Didn't even whimper. He moved his head slightly and I caught a glimpse of his face. Saw the resignation in it. It was a look I had seen before. It was the look of the lamb.
TOMORROW IS THE TENTH DAY of Dhul-Hijjah, the last month of the Muslim calendar, and the first of three days of Eid AlAdha, or Eid-e-Qorban, as Afghans call it--a day to celebrate how the prophet Ibrahim almost sacrificed his own son for God. Baba has handpicked the sheep again this year, a powder white one with crooked137 black ears.
We all stand in the backyard, Hassan, Ali, Baba, and I. The mullah recites the prayer, rubs his beard. Baba mutters, Get on with it, under his breath. He sounds annoyed with the endless praying, the ritual of making the meat halal. Baba mocks the story behind this Eid, like he mocks everything religious. But he respects the tradition of Eid-e-Qorban. The custom is to divide the meat in thirds, one for the family, one for friends, and one for the poor. Every year, Baba gives it all to the poor. The rich are fat enough already, he says.
The mullah finishes the prayer. Ameen. He picks up the kitchen knife with the long blade. The custom is to not let the sheep see the knife. All feeds the animal a cube of sugar--another custom, to make death sweeter. The sheep kicks, but not much. The mullah grabs it under its jaw138 and places the blade on its neck. Just a second before he slices the throat in one expert motion, I see the sheep's eyes. It is a look that will haunt my dreams for weeks. I don't know why I watch this yearly ritual in our backyard; my nightmares persist long after the bloodstains on the grass have faded. But I always watch. I watch because of that look of acceptance in the animal's eyes. Absurdly, I imagine the animal understands. I imagine the animal sees that its imminent139 demise140 is for a higher purpose. This is the look...
I STOPPED WATCHING, turned away from the alley. Something warm was running down my wrist. I blinked, saw I was still biting down on my fist, hard enough to draw blood from the knuckles. I realized something else. I was weeping. From just around the corner, I could hear Assef's quick, rhythmic141 grunts142.
I had one last chance to make a decision. One final opportunity to decide who I was going to be. I could step into that alley, stand up for Hassan--the way he'd stood up for me all those times in the past--and accept whatever would happen to me. Or I could run.
In the end, I ran.
I ran because I was a coward. I was afraid of Assef and what he would do to me. I was afraid of getting hurt. That's what I told myself as I turned my back to the alley, to Hassan. That's what I made myself believe. I actually aspired143 to cowardice144, because the alternative, the real reason I was running, was that Assef was right: Nothing was free in this world. Maybe Hassan was the price I had to pay, the lamb I had to slay145, to win Baba. Was it a fair price? The answer floated to my conscious mind before I could thwart146 it: He was just a Hazara, wasn't he?
I ran back the way I'd come. Ran back to the all but deserted147 bazaar. I lurched to a cubicle73 and leaned against the padlocked swinging doors. I stood there panting, sweating, wishing things had turned out some other way.
About fifteen minutes later, I heard voices and running footfalls. I crouched148 behind the cubicle and watched Assef and the other two sprinting149 by, laughing as they hurried down the deserted
lane. I forced myself to wait ten more minutes. Then I walked back to the rutted track that ran along the snow-filled ravine. I squinted in the dimming light and spotted150 Hassan walking slowly toward me. I met him by a leafless birch tree on the edge of the ravine.
He had the blue kite in his hands; that was the first thing I saw. And I can't lie now and say my eyes didn't scan it for any rips. His chapan had mud smudges down the front and his shirt was ripped just below the collar. He stopped. Swayed on his feet like he was going to collapse151. Then he steadied himself. Handed me the kite.
"Where were you? I looked for you,?I said. Speaking those words was like chewing on a rock.
Hassan dragged a sleeve across his face, wiped snot and tears. I waited for him to say something, but we just stood there in silence, in the fading light. I was grateful for the early-evening shadows that fell on Hassan's face and concealed152 mine. I was glad I didn't have to return his gaze. Did he know I knew? And if he knew, then what would I see if I did look in his eyes? Blame? Indignation? Or, God forbid, what I feared most: guileless devotion? That, most of all, I couldn't bear to see.
He began to say something and his voice cracked. He closed his mouth, opened it, and closed it again. Took a step back. Wiped his face. And that was as close as Hassan and I ever came to discussing what had happened in the alley. I thought he might burst into tears, but, to my relief, he didn't, and I pretended I hadn't heard the crack in his voice. Just like I pretended I hadn't seen the dark stain in the seat of his pants. Or those tiny drops that fell from between his legs and stained the snow black.
"Agha sahib will worry,?was all he said. He turned from me and limped away.
IT HAPPENED JUST THE WAY I'd imagined. I opened the door to the smoky study and stepped in. Baba and Rahim Khan were drinking tea and listening to the news crackling on the radio. Their heads turned. Then a smile played on my father's lips. He opened his arms. I put the kite down and walked into his thick hairy arms. I buried my face in the warmth of his chest and wept. Baba held me close to him, rocking me back and forth153. In his arms, I forgot what I'd done. And that was good.
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brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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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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holders
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| 支持物( holder的名词复数 )； 持有者； （支票等）持有人； 支托（或握持）…之物 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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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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blistering
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| adj.酷热的；猛烈的；使起疱的；可恶的v.起水疱；起气泡；使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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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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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bloodied
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| v.血污的( bloody的过去式和过去分词 )；流血的；屠杀的；残忍的 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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flake
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| v.使成薄片；雪片般落下；n.薄片 | |
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wreaking
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的现在分词 ) | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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trademark
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| n.商标；特征；vt.注册的…商标 | |
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40
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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41
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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44
taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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45
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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46
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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47
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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48
stomping
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| v.跺脚，践踏，重踏( stomp的现在分词 ) | |
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49
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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50
bragging
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的现在分词 )；大话 | |
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51
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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52
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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53
maneuver
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| n.策略[pl.]演习；v.(巧妙)控制；用策略 | |
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54
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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55
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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57
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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58
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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59
trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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60
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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61
worthiness
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| 价值，值得 | |
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62
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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63
grid
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| n.高压输电线路网；地图坐标方格；格栅 | |
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64
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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65
dribbling
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| n.（燃料或油从系统内）漏泄v.流口水( dribble的现在分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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66
cartridge
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| n.弹壳，弹药筒；(装磁带等的)盒子 | |
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67
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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68
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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69
scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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70
mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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71
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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72
haggling
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的现在分词 ) | |
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73
cubicle
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| n.大房间中隔出的小室 | |
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74
cubicles
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| n.小卧室，斗室( cubicle的名词复数 ) | |
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75
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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77
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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78
vendors
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| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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79
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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80
crates
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| n. 板条箱, 篓子, 旧汽车 vt. 装进纸条箱 | |
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raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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82
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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83
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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84
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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85
grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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86
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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87
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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88
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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89
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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91
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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92
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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93
shacks
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| n.窝棚，简陋的小屋( shack的名词复数 ) | |
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94
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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95
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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96
peeked
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| v.很快地看( peek的过去式和过去分词 )；偷看；窥视；微露出 | |
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97
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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98
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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99
rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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100
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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101
clench
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| vt.捏紧（拳头等），咬紧（牙齿等），紧紧握住 | |
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102
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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103
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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104
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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105
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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106
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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107
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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112
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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113
yelped
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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115
embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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116
craters
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| n.火山口( crater的名词复数 )；弹坑等 | |
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117
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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118
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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119
deflated
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| adj. 灰心丧气的 | |
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120
calloused
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| adj.粗糙的，粗硬的，起老茧的v.（使）硬结，（使）起茧( callous的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）冷酷无情 | |
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121
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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122
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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123
erase
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| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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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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125
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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126
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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129
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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eroded
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| adj. 被侵蚀的，有蚀痕的 动词erode的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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133
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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134
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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135
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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136
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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137
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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139
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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140
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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141
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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142
grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
sprinting
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| v.短距离疾跑( sprint的现在分词 ) | |
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150
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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151
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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152
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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153
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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