THE KITE RUNNERbyKHALED HOSSEINIRiverhead Books - New YorkScanned and proofed by eReaderManPosted to alt.binaries.e-book12/3/2005 - Plain Text Version 3.5 (maybe better)The author makes liberal use of _italics_ and I have missed noting many of them,but the rest of this text file should demonstrate good proofing.Copyright 2003 by Khaled HosseiniRiverhead trade paperbackISBN: 1-59488-000-1This book is dedicated toHaris and Farah, boththe _noor_ of my eyes,and to the childrenof Afghanistan.ACKNOWLEDGMENTSI am indebted to the following colleagues for their advice, assistance, orsupport: Dr. Alfred Lerner, Don Vakis, Robin Heck, Dr. Todd Dray, Dr. RobertTull, and Dr. Sandy Chun. Thanks also to Lynette Parker of East San JoseCommunity Law Center for her advice about adoption procedures, and to Mr. DaoudWahab for sharing his experiences in Afghanistan with me. I am grateful to mydear friend Tamim Ansary for his guidance and support and to the gang at the SanFrancisco Writers Workshop for their feed back and encouragement. I want tothank my father, my oldest friend and the inspiration for all that is noble inBaba; my mother who prayed for me and did nazr at every stage of this bookswriting; my aunt for buying me books when I was young. Thanks go out to Ali,Sandy, Daoud, Walid, Raya, Shalla, Zahra, Rob, and Kader for reading my stories.I want to thank Dr. and Mrs. Kayoumy-my other parents-for their warmth andunwavering support.I must thank my agent and friend, Elaine Koster, for her wisdom, patience, andgracious ways, as well as Cindy Spiegel, my keen-eyed and judicious editor whohelped me unlock so many doors in this tale. And I would like to thank SusanPetersen Kennedy for taking a chance on this book and the hardworking staff atRiverhead for laboring over it.Last, I dont know how to thank my lovely wife, Roya-to whose opinion I amaddicted-for her kindness and grace, and for reading, re-reading, and helpingme edit every single draft of this novel. For your patience and understanding, Iwill always love you, Roya jan.ONE_December 2001_I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in thewinter of 1975. I remember the precise moment, crouching behind a crumbling mudwall, peeking into the alley near the frozen creek. That was a long time ago,but its wrong what they say about the past, Ive learned, about how you canbury it. Because the past claws its way out. Looking back now, I realize I havebeen peeking into that deserted alley for the last twenty-six years.One day last summer, my friend Rahim Khan called from Pakistan. He asked me tocome see him. Standing in the kitchen with the receiver to my ear, I knew itwasnt just Rahim Khan on the line. It was my past of unatoned sins. After Ihung up, I went for a walk along Spreckels Lake on the northern edge of GoldenGate Park. The early-afternoon sun sparkled on the water where dozens ofminiature boats sailed, propelled by a crisp breeze. Then I glanced up and saw apair of kites, red with long blue tails, soaring in the sky. They danced highabove the trees on the west end of the park, over the windmills, floating sideby side like a pair of eyes looking down on San Francisco, the city I now callhome. And suddenly Hassans voice whispered in my head: _For you, a thousandtimes over_. Hassan the harelipped kite runner.I sat on a park bench near a willow tree. I thought about something Rahim Khansaid just before he hung up, almost as an after thought. _There is a way to begood again_. I looked up at those twin kites. I thought about Hassan. Thoughtabout Baba. Ali. Kabul. I thought of the life I had lived until the winter of1975 came and changed everything. And made me what I am today.TWOWhen we were children, Hassan and I used to climb the poplar trees in thedriveway of my fathers house and annoy our neighbors by reflecting sunlightinto their homes with a shard of mirror. We would sit across from each other ona pair of high branches, our naked feet dangling, our trouser pockets filledwith dried mulberries and walnuts. We took turns with the mirror as we atemulberries, pelted each other with them, giggling, laughing; I can still seeHassan up on that tree, sunlight flickering through the leaves on his almostperfectly round face, a face like a Chinese doll chiseled from hardwood: hisflat, broad nose and slanting, narrow eyes like bamboo leaves, eyes that looked,depending on the light, gold, green, even sapphire I can still see his tiny low-set ears and that pointed stub of a chin, a meaty appendage that looked like itwas added as a mere afterthought. And the cleft lip, just left of midline, wherethe Chinese doll makers instrument may have slipped; or perhaps he had simplygrown tired and careless.Sometimes, up in those trees, I talked Hassan into firing walnuts with hisslingshot at the neighbors one-eyed German shepherd. Hassan never wanted to,but if I asked, _really_ asked, he wouldnt deny me. Hassan never denied meanything. And he was de