Do you like the seh…parcha？ I said； holding up the kite by the ends of the cross bars。 His eyes shifted from the sky to me； to the kite； then back。 A few rivulets of rain trickled from his hair； down his face。
I read once that； in Malaysia； they use kites to catch fish； I said。 I ll bet you didn t know that。 They tie a fishing line to it and fly it beyond the shallow waters； so it doesn t cast a shadow and scare the fish。 And in ancient China； generals used to fly kites over battlefields to send messages to their men。 It s true。 I m not slipping you a trick。 I showed him my bloody thumb。 Nothing wrong with the tar either。
Out of the corner of my eye； I saw Soraya watching us from the tent。 Hands tensely dug in her armpits。 Unlike me； she d gradually abandoned her attempts at engaging him。 The unanswered questions； the blank stares； the silence； it was all too painful。 She had shifted to Holding Pattern； waiting for a green light from Sohrab。 Waiting。
I wet my index finger and held it up。 I remember the way your father checked the wind was to kick up dust with his sandal； see which way the wind blew it。 He knew a lot of little tricks like that； I said。 Lowered my finger。 West； I think。
Sohrab wiped a raindrop from his earlobe and shifted on his feet。 Said nothing。 I thought of Soraya asking me a few months ago what his voice sounded like。 I d told her I didn t remember anymore。
Did I ever tell you your father was the best kite runner in Wazir Akbar Khan？ Maybe all of Kabul？ I said； knotting the loose end of the spool tar to the string loop tied to the center spar。 How jealous he made the neighborhood kids。 He d run kites and never look up at the sky； and people used to say he was chasing the kite s shadow。 But they didn t know him like I did。 Your father wasn t chasing any shadows。 He just。。。 knew
Another half…dozen kites had taken flight。 People had started to gather in clumps； teacups in hand； eyes glued to the sky。
Do you want to help me fly this？ I said。
Sohrab s gaze bounced from the kite to me。 Back to the sky。
Okay。 I shrugged。 Looks like I ll have to fly it tanhaii。 Solo。
I balanced the spool in my left hand and fed about three feet of tar。 The yellow kite dangled at the end of it； just above the wet grass。 Last chance； I said。 But Sohrab was looking at a pair of kites tangling high above the trees。
All right。 Here I go。 I took off running； my sneakers splashing rainwater from puddles； the hand clutching the kite end of the string held high above my head。 It had been so long； so many years since I d done this； and I wondered if I d make a spectacle of myself。 I let the spool roll in my left hand as I ran； felt the string cut my right hand again as it fed through。 The kite was lifting behind my shoulder now； lifting； wheeling； and I ran harder。 The spool spun faster and the glass string tore another gash in my right palm。 I stopped and turned。 Looked up。 Smiled。 High above； my kite was tilting side to side like a pendulum； making that old paper…bird…flapping…its…wings sound I always associated with winter mornings in Kabul。 I hadn t flown a kite in a quarter of a century； but suddenly I was twelve again and all the old instincts came rushing back。
I felt a presence next to me and looked down。 It was Sohrab。 Hands dug deep in the pockets of his raincoat。 He had followed me。
Do you want to try？ I asked。 He said nothing。 But when I held the string out for him； his hand lifted from his pocket。 Hesitated。 Took the string。 My heart quickened as I spun the spool to gather the loose string。 We stood quietly side by side。 Necks