“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 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. “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. “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 bent up. Sohrab was handing the string back to me. “Are you sure?” I said, taking it. He took the spool from me.padding-bottom: 75%;"> “你喜歡風箏嗎？”我舉起風箏橫軸的兩端。他的眼睛從天空落到我身上，看看風箏，又望着我。幾點雨珠從他頭髮上滴下來，流下他的臉龐。 我舔舔食指，將它豎起來。“我記得你父親測風向的辦法是用他的拖鞋踢起塵土，看風將它吹到那兒。他懂得很多這樣的小技巧。”我放低手指說，“西風，我想。” 索拉博擦去耳垂上的一點雨珠，雙腳磨地，什麼也沒說。 “我有沒有跟你說過，你爸爸是瓦茲爾?阿克巴?汗區最棒的追風箏的人？也許還是全喀布爾最棒的？”我一邊說，一邊將卷軸的線頭系在風箏中軸的圓環上。“鄰居的小孩都很妒忌他。他追風箏的時候從來不用看着天空，大家經常說他追着風箏的影子。但他們不知道我知道的事情，你爸爸不是在追什麼影子，他只是……知道。” 又有幾隻風箏飛起來，人們開始三五成羣聚在一起，手裏拿着茶杯，望向天空。 “好吧。”我聳聳肩，“看來我得一個人把它放起來了。” 我左手拿穩卷軸，放開大約三英尺的線。黃色的風箏吊在線後搖晃，就在溼草地上面。“最後的機會了哦。”我說。可是索拉博看着兩隻高高飛在樹頂之上的風箏。 “好吧，那我開始了。”我撒腿跑開，運動鞋從水窪中濺起陣陣雨水，手裏抓着線連着風箏的那頭，高舉在頭頂。我已經有很久、很多年沒這麼做過了，我在懷疑自己會不會出洋相。我邊跑邊讓卷軸在我手裏轉開，感到線放開的時候又割傷了我的右手。風箏在我肩膀後面飛起來了，飛翔着，旋轉着，我跑得更快了。卷軸迅速旋轉，風箏線再次在我右掌割開一道傷痕。我站住，轉身，舉頭，微笑。我已經有四分之一個世紀沒有放過風箏了，但剎那之間，我又變成十二歲，過去那些感覺統統涌上心頭。 我感到有人在我旁邊，眼睛朝下看：是索拉博。他雙手深深插在雨衣口袋中，跟在我身後。“你想試試嗎？”我問。他一語不發，但我把線遞給他的時候，他的手從口袋伸出來，猶疑不決，接過線。我轉動卷軸把線鬆開，心跳加速。我們靜靜地並排站着，脖子仰起。 索拉博把線交還我。 “你確定嗎？”我說，接過它。他從我手裏拿回卷軸。
