The Kite Runner Read Online Free Page B

husband, rob his children of a father.
     When you tell a lie, you steal someone’s right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. Do you see?”
    I did. When Baba was six, a thief walked into my grandfather’s house in the middle of the night. My grandfather, a respected
     judge, confronted him, but the thief stabbed him in the throat, killing him instantly—and robbing Baba of a father. The townspeople
     caught the killer just before noon the next day; he turned out to be a wanderer from the Kunduz region. They hanged him from
     the branch of an oak tree with still two hours to go before afternoon prayer. It was Rahim Khan, not Baba, who had told me
     that story. I was always learning things about Baba from other people.
    “There is no act more wretched than stealing, Amir,” Baba said. “A man who takes what’s not his to take, be it a life or a
     loaf of naan . . . I spit on such a man. And if I ever cross paths with him, God help him. Do you understand?”
    I found the idea of Baba clobbering a thief both exhilarating and terribly frightening. “Yes, Baba.”
    “If there’s a God out there, then I would hope he has more important things to attend to than my drinking scotch or eating
     pork. Now, hop down. All this talk about sin has made me thirsty again.”
    I watched him fill his glass at the bar and wondered how much time would pass before we talked again the way we just had.
     Because the truth of it was, I always felt like Baba hated me a little. And why not? After all, I had killed his beloved wife, his beautiful princess, hadn’t I? The least I could have done was to have had the decency to have
     turned out a little more like him. But I hadn’t turned out like him. Not at all.
    IN SCHOOL, we used to play a game called Sherjangi, or “Battle of the Poems.” The Farsi teacher moderated it and it went something like this: You recited a verse from a poem
     and your opponent had sixty seconds to reply with a verse that began with the same letter that ended yours. Everyone in my
     class wanted me on their team, because by the time I was eleven, I could recite dozens of verses from Khayyám, Hãfez, or Rumi’s
     famous Masnawi. One time, I took on the whole class and won. I told Baba about it later that night, but he just nodded, muttered, “Good.”
    That was how I escaped my father’s aloofness, in my dead mother’s books. That and Hassan, of course. I read everything, Rumi,
     Hãfez, Saadi, Victor Hugo, Jules Verne, Mark Twain, Ian Fleming. When I had finished my mother’s books—not the boring history
     ones, I was never much into those, but the novels, the epics—I started spending my allowance on books. I bought one a week
     from the bookstore near Cinema Park, and stored them in cardboard boxes when I ran out of shelf room.
    Of course, marrying a poet was one thing, but fathering a son who preferred burying his face in poetry books to hunting .
     . . well, that wasn’t how Baba had envisioned it, I suppose. Real men didn’t read poetry—and God forbid they should ever write
     it! Real men—real boys—played soccer just as Baba had when he had been young. Now that was something to be passionate about. In 1970, Baba took a break from the construction of the orphanage and flew to Tehran
     for a month to watch the World Cup games on television, since at the time Afghanistan didn’t have TVs yet. He signed me up
     for soccer teams to stir the same passion in me. But I was pathetic, a blundering liability to my own team, always in the
     way of an opportune pass or unwittingly blocking an open lane. I shambled about the field on scraggy legs, squalled for passes
     that never came my way. And the harder I tried, waving my arms over my head frantically and screeching, “I’m open! I’m open!”
     the more I went ignored. But Baba wouldn’t give up. When it became abundantly clear that I hadn’t inherited a shred of his
     athletic talents, he settled for trying to turn me