hat 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 e close to winning the winter tournament……once； I d made it to the final three。 But ing close wasn t the same as winning； was it？ Baba hadn t _e 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 ment had planted a seed in my head： the resolution that I would win that winter s tournament。 I was going to win。 There was no other viable option。 I was going to win； and I was going to run that last kite。 Then I d bring it home and show it to Baba。 Show him once and for all that his son was worthy。 Then maybe my life as a ghost in this house would finally be over。 I let myself dream： I imagined conversation and laughter over dinner instead of silence broken only by the clinking of silverware and the occasional grunt。 I envisioned us taking a Friday drive in Baba s car to Paghman； stopping on the way at Ghargha Lake for some fried trout and potatoes。 We d go to the zoo to see Marjan the lion； and maybe Baba wouldn t yawn and steal looks at his wristwatch all the time。 Maybe Baba would even read one of my stories。 I d write him a hundred if I thought he d read one。 Maybe he d call me Amir jan like Rahim Khan did。 And maybe； just maybe； I would finally be pardoned for killing my mother。
Baba was telling me about the time he d cut fourteen kites on the same day。 I smiled； nodded； laughed at all the right places； but
I hardly heard a word he said。 I had a mission now。 And I wasn t going to fail Baba。 Not this time。
IT SNOWED HEAVILY the night before the tournament。 Hassan and I sat under the kursi and played panjpar as wind…rattled tree branches tapped on the window。 Earlier that day； I d asked Ali to set up the kursi for us……which was basically an electric heater under a low table covered with a thick； quilted blanket。
Around the table； he arranged mattresses and cushions； so as many as twenty people could sit and slip their legs under。 Hassan and I used to spend entire snowy days snug under the kursi； playing chess； cards……mostly panjpar。
I killed Hassan s ten of diamonds； played him two jacks and a six。 Next door； in Baba s study； Baba and Rahim Khan were discussing business with a couple of other men…one of them I recognized as Assef s father。 Through the wall； I could hear the scratchy sound of Radio Kabul News。
Hassan killed the six and picked up the jacks。 On the radio； Daoud Khan was announcing something about foreign investments。
He says someday we ll have television in Kabul； I said。
Who？
Daoud Khan； you ass； the president。
Hassan giggled。 I heard they already have it in Iran； he said。 I sighed。 Those Iranians。。。 For a lot of Hazaras； Iran represented a sanctuary of sorts……I guess because； like Hazaras； most Iranians were Shi a Muslims。 But I remembered something my teacher had said that summer about Iranians； that they were grinning smooth talkers who patted you on the back with one hand and picked your pocket with the other。 I told Baba about that and he said my teacher was one of those jealous Afghans； jealous because Iran was a rising power in Asia and most people around the world couldn t even find Afghanistan on a world map。 It hurts to say that； he said； shrugging。 But better to get hurt by the truth than forted with a li