The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini [122]
“Does he have any interests?” he said. I saw he had folded the paper. “My boys, for example, they will do anything for American action films, especially with that Arnold Whatsanegger—”
“The mosque!” I said. “The big mosque.” I remembered the way the mosque had jolted Sohrab from his stupor when we’d driven by it, how he’d leaned out of the window looking at it.
“Shah Faisal?”
“Yes. Can you take me there?”
“Did you know it’s the biggest mosque in the world?” he asked.
“No, but—”
“The courtyard alone can fit forty thousand people.”
“Can you take me there?”
“It’s only a kilometer from here,” he said. But he was already pushing away from the counter.
“I’ll pay you for the ride,” I said.
He sighed and shook his head. “Wait here.” He disappeared into the back room, returned wearing another pair of eyeglasses, a set of keys in hand, and with a short, chubby woman in an orange sari trailing him. She took his seat behind the counter. “I don’t take your money,” he said, blowing by me. “I will drive you because I am a father like you.”
I THOUGHT WE’D END UP DRIVING around the city until night fell. I saw myself calling the police, describing Sohrab to them under Fayyaz’s reproachful glare. I heard the officer, his voice tired and uninterested, asking his obligatory questions. And beneath the official questions, an unofficial one: Who the hell cared about another dead Afghan kid?
But we found him about a hundred yards from the mosque, sitting in the half-full parking lot, on an island of grass. Fayyaz pulled up to the island and let me out. “I have to get back,” he said.
“That’s fine. We’ll walk back,” I said. “Thank you, Mr. Fayyaz. Really.”
He leaned across the front seat when I got out. “Can I say something to you?”
“Sure.”
In the dark of twilight, his face was just a pair of eyeglasses reflecting the fading light. “The thing about you Afghanis is that . . . well, you people are a little reckless.”
I was tired and in pain. My jaws throbbed. And those damn wounds on my chest and stomach felt like barbed wire under my skin. But I started to laugh anyway.
“What . . . what did I . . .” Fayyaz was saying, but I was cackling by then, full-throated bursts of laughter spilling through my wired mouth.
“Crazy people,” he said. His tires screeched when he peeled away, his taillights blinking red in the dimming light.
“YOU GAVE ME A GOOD SCARE,” I said. I sat beside him, wincing with pain as I bent.
He was looking at the mosque. Shah Faisal Mosque was shaped like a giant tent. Cars came and went; worshipers dressed in white streamed in and out. We sat in silence, me leaning against the tree, Sohrab next to me, knees to his chest. We listened to the call to prayer, watched the building’s hundreds of lights come on as daylight faded. The mosque sparkled like a diamond in the dark. It lit up the sky, Sohrab’s face.
“Have you ever been to Mazar-i-Sharif?” Sohrab said, his chin resting on his kneecaps.
“A long time ago. I don’t remember it much.”
“Father took me there when I was little. Mother and Sasa came along too. Father bought me a monkey from the bazaar. Not a real one but the kind you have to blow up. It was brown and had a bow tie.”
“I might have had one of those when I was a kid.”
“Father took me to the Blue Mosque,” Sohrab said. “I remember there were so many pigeons outside the masjid, and they weren’t afraid of people. They came right up to us. Sasa gave me little pieces of naan and I fed the birds. Soon, there were pigeons cooing all around me. That was fun.”
“You must miss your parents very much,” I said. I wondered if he’d seen the Taliban drag his parents out into the street. I hoped he hadn’t.
“Do you miss your parents?” he aked, resting his cheek on his knees, looking up at me.
“Do I miss my parents? Well, I never met my mother. My father died a few years ago, and, yes, I do miss him. Sometimes a lot.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
I thought of Baba’s thick neck, his black eyes, his unruly brown hair. Sitting on his lap had been like sitting on a pair of tree