The Kite Runner - Chapter 24 (Part 3)

Twenty-Four (Part 3)

 

　　Raymond Andrews was a short fellow with small hands, nails perfectly trimmed, wedding band on the ring finger. He gave me a curt little shaker; it felt like squeezing a sparrow. Those are the hands that hold our fates, I thought as Sohrab and I seated ourselves across from his desk. A Les Miserables poster was nailed to the wall behind Andrews next to a topographical map of the U.S.A pot of tomato plants basked in the sun on the windowsill.

 

　　“Smoke?” he asked, his voice a deep baritone that was at odds with his slight stature.

 

　　"No thanks," I said, not caring at all for the way Andrew's eyes barely gave Sohrab a glance, or the way he didn't look at me when he spoke. He pulled open a desk drawer and lit a cigarette from a half-empty pack. He also produced a bottle of lotion from the same drawer. He looked at his tomato plants as he rubbed lotion into his hands, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Then he closed the drawer, put his elbows on the desktop, and exhaled. "So," he said, crinkling his gray eyes against the smoke, "tell me your story."

 

　　I felt like Jean Veljean across from Javert. I reminded myself that I was on American soil now, that this guy was on my side, that he got paid for helping people like me. "I want to adopt this boy, take him back to the States with me," I said.

 

　　"Tell me your story," he repeated, crushing a flake of ash on the neatly arranged desk with his index finger, flicking it into the trash can.

 

　　I gave him the version I had worked out in my head since I'd hung up with Soraya, I had gone into Afghanistan to bring back my half brother's son. I had found the boy in squalid conditions, wasting away in an orphanage. I had paid the orphanage director a sum of money and withdrawn the boy. Then I had brought him to Pakistan.

 

　　"You can the boy's half uncle?"

 

　　"Yes."

 

　　He checked his watch. Leaned and turned the tomato plants on the sill. "Know anyone who can attest to that?"

 

　　"Yes, but I don't know where he is now."

 

　　He turned to me and nodded. I tried to read his face and couldn't. I wondered if he'd ever tried those little hands of his at poker.

 

　　"I assume getting your jaws wired isn't the latest fashion statement," he said. We were in trouble, Sohrab and I, and I knew it then. I told him I'd gotten mugged in Peshawar.

 

　　"Of course," he said. Cleared his throat. "Are you Muslim?"

 

　　"Yes."

 

　　"Practicing?"

 

　　"Yes." In truth, I didn't remember the last time I had laid my forehead to the ground in prayer. Then I did remember: the day Dr. Amani gave Baba his prognosis. I had kneeled on the prayer rug, remembering only fragments of verse I had learned in school.

 

　　"Helps your case some, but not much," he said, scratching a spot on the flawless part in his sandy hair.

 

　　"What do you mean?" I asked. I reached for Sohrab's hand, interwined my fingers with his. Sohrab looked uncertainly from me to Andrews.

 

　　"There's a long answer and I'm sure I'll end up giving it to you. You want the short one first?"

 

　　"I guess," I said.

 

　　Andrew crushed his cigarette, his lips pursed. "Give it up."

 

　　"I'm sorry?"

 

　　"Your petition to adopt this young fellow. Give it up. That's my advice to you."

 

　　"Duly noted," I said. "Now, perhpas you'll tell me why."

 

　　"That means you want the long answer," he said, his voice impassive, not reacting at all to my curt tone. He pressed his hands palm to palm, as if he were kneeling before the Virgin Mary. "Let's assume the story you gave me is true, though I'd bet my pension a good deal of it is either fabricated or omitted. Not that I care, mind you. You're here, he's here, that's all that matters. Even so, your petition faces significant obstacle, not the least of which is that this child is not an orphan."

 

　　"Of course he is."

 

　　"Not legally he isn't."

 

　　"His parents were executed in the street. The neighbors saw it," I said, glad we were speaking in English.

 

　　"You have death certificates?"

 

　　"Death certificates? This is Afghannistan we're talking about. Most people there don't have brith certificates."

 

　　His glassy eyes didn't so much of blind. "I don't make the laws, sir. Your outrage notwithstanding, you still need to prove the parents are deceased. The boy has to be declared to a legal orphan."

 

　　"But ——"

 

　　“You wanted the long answer and I'm giving it to you. Your next problem is that you need the cooperation of the child's country of origin. Now, that's difficult under the best of circumstances, and, to quote you, this is Afghanistan we're taking about. We don't have an American embassy in Kabul. That makes things extremely complicated. Just about impossible."

 

　　"What are you saying, that I should throw him back on the streets?" I said.

 

　　"He was sexually abused," I said, thinking of the bells around Sohrab's ankles, the mascara on his eyes.

 

　　"I'm sorry to hear that," Andrew's mouth said. The way he was looking at me, though, we might as well have been talking about the weather. "But that is not going to make the INS issue this young fellow a visa."

 

　　"What are you saying?"

 

　　"I'm saying that if you want to help, send money to a reputable relief organization. Volunteer at a refugee camp. But at this point in time, we strongly discourage U.S. citizens from attempting to adopt Afghan children."

 

　　I got up. "Come on, Sohrab," I said in Farsi. Sohrab slid next to me, rested his head on my lip. I remembered the Polaroid of him and Hassan standing that same way. "Can I ask you something. Mr. Andrews?"

 

　　"Yes."

 

　　"Do you have children?"

 

　　For the first time, he blinked.

 

　　"Well, do you? It's a simple question."

 

　　He was silent.

 

　　"I thought so," I said, taking Sohrab's hand. "They ought to put someone in your chair who knows what it's like to want a child." I turned to go, Sohrab trailing me.

 

　　"Can I ask you a question?" Andrew called.

 

　　"Go ahead."

 

　　He shook his head. "It's dangerous business, making promises to kids." He sighed and opened his desk drawer again. "You mean to pursue this?" he said, rummaging through papers.

 

　　"I mean to pursue this."

 

　　He produced a business card. "Then I advise you to get a good immigration lawyer. Omar Faisal works here in Islamabad. You can tell him I sent you."

 

　　I took the card from him. "Thanks," I muttered.

 

　　"Good luck," he said. As we exited the room, I glanced over my shoulder. Andrews was standing in a rectangle of sunlight, absently staring out the window, his hands turning the potted tomato plants toward the sun, petting them lovingly.

 

　　"Take care," the secretary said as we passed her desk.

 

　　"Your boss could use some manners," I said. I expected her to roll her eyes, maybe nod in that "I know, everybody says that," kind of way. Instead, she lowered her voice. "Poor Ray. He hasn't been the same since his daughter died."

 

　　I raised an eyebrow.

 

　　"Suicide," she whispered.

 

　　On the taxi ride back to the hotel, Sohrab rested his head on the window, kept staring at the passing buildings, the rows of gum trees. His breath fogged the glass, cleared, fogged it again. I waited for him to ask me about the meeting but he didn't.

 

　　On the other side of the closed bathroom door the water was running. Since the day we'd checked into the hotel, Sohrab took a long bath every night before bed. In Kabul, hot running water had been like fathers, a rare commodity. Now Sohrab spent almost an hour a night in the bath, soaking in the soapy water, scrubbing. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I called Soraya. I glanced at the thin line of light under the bathroom door. Do you feel clean yet, Sohrab?

 

　　I passed on to Soraya what Raymond Andrews had told me. "So what do you think?" I said.

 

　　"We have to think he's wrong." She told me she had called a few adoption agencies that arranged international adoptions. She hadn't yet found one that would consider doing an Afghan adoption, but she was still looking. 

 

　　"How are your parents taking the news?"

 

　　"Madar is happy for us. You know how she feels aobut you, Amir, you can do no wrong in her eyes. Padar ... well, as always, he's a little harder to read. He's not saying much."

 

　　"And you? Are you happy?"

 

　　I heard her shifting the receiver to her other hand. "I think we'll be good for your newphew, but maybe that little boy will be good for us too."

 

　　"I was thinking the same thing."

 

　　"I know it sounds crazy, but I find myself wondering what his favorite qurma will be, or his favorite subject in school. I picture myself helping him with homework ... " She laughed. In the bathroom, the water had stopped running. I could hear Sohrab in there, shifting in the tub, spilling water over the sides. 

 

　　"You are going to be great," I said. 

 

　　"Oh, I almost forgot! I called Kaka Sharif."

 

　　I remembered him reciting a poem at our nika from a scrap of hotel stationary paper. His son had held the Koran over our heads as Soraya and I had walked toward the stage, smiling at the flashing cameras. "What did he say?"

 

　　"Well, he's going to stir the pot for us. He'll call some of his INS buddies," she said.

 

　　"That's really great news," I said. "I can't wait for you to see Sohrab."

 

　　"I can't wait to see you." she said.

 

　　I hung up smiling.

 

　　Sohrab emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later. He had barely said a dozen words since the meeting with Raymond Andrews and my attempts at conversation had only met with a nod or a monosyllabic reply. He climbed into bed, pulled the blanket to his chin. Within minutes, he was snoring.

 

　　I wiped a circle on the fogged-up mirror and shaved with one of the hotel's old-fashioned razors, the type that opened and you slid the blade in. Then I took my own bath, lay there until the steaming hot water turned cold and my skin shriveled up. I lay there drifting, wondering, imagining...

 

　　Omar FAISAL was chubby, dark, had dimpled cheek, black button eyes, and an affable, gap-toothed smile. His thinning gray hair was tied back in a ponytail. He wore a brown corduroy suit with leather elbow patches and carried a worn, overstuffed briefcase. The handle was missing, so he clutched the briefcase to his chest. He was the sort of fellow who starred a lot of sentences with a laugh and an unnecessary apology, like "I'm sorry, I'll be there at five. Laugh. When I had called him, he hand insisted on coming out to meet us. "I'm sorry, the cabbies in this town are sharks," he said in perfect English, without a trace of an accent. "They smell a foreigner, they triple their fares."

 

　　He pushed through the door, all smiles and apologies, wheezing a little and sweating. He wiped his brow with a notepad and apologized for the sheets of paper that spilled on the bed. Sitting across-legged on his bed, Sohrab kept one eye on the muted television, the other on the harried lawyer. I had told him in the morning that Farsal would be coming and he had noted, almost asked something, and had just gone on watching a show with talking animals.

 

　　"Here we are," Faisal said, flipping open a yellow legal notepad. "I hope my children take after their mother when it comes to organization. I'm sorry, probably not the sort of thing you want to hear from your prospective lawyer, heh?" He laughed.

 

　　"Well, Raymond Andrews thinks highly for you."

 

　　"Mr. Andrews. Yes, yes. Decent fellow. Actually, he rang me and told me about you."

 

　　"He did?"

 

　　"On yes."

 

　　"So you're familiar with my situation."

 

　　Farsal dabbed at the sweat beads above his lips. "I'm familiar with the version of the situation you gave Mr. Andrews," he said. His cheeks dimpled with a coy smile. He turned to Sohrab. "This must be the young man who's causing all the trouble," he said in Farsi.

 

　　"This is Sohrab," I said. "Sohrab, this is Mr. Faisal, the lawyer I told you about."

 

　　Sohrab slid down the side of his bed and shook hands with Omir Faisal. "Salaam alaykum," he said in a low voice.

 

　　"Alaykum salaam, Sohrab," Faisal said. "Did you know you are named after a great warrior?"

 

　　Sohrab nodded. Climbed back onto his bed and lay on his side to watch TV.

 

　　"I didn't know you spoke Farsi so well," I said in English. "Did you grow up in Kabul?"

 

　　"No, I was born in Karachi. But I did live in Kabul for a number of years. Shar-e-Nau, near the Haji Yaghoub Mosque," Faisal said. "I grew up in Berkeley, actually. My father opened a music store there in the late sixties. Free love, headbands, tie-dyed shirts, you name it." He leaned forward. "I was at Woodstock."

 

　　"Groovy," I said, and Faisal laughed so hard he starred sweating all over again. "Anyway," I continued, "what I told Mr. Andrews was pretty much it, save for a thing or two. Or maybe three. I'll give you the uncensored version."

 

　　He licked a finger and fliped to a blank page, uncapped his pen. "I'd appreciate that, Amir. And why don't we just keep it in English from here on out?"

 

　　"Fine."

 

　　I told him everything that did happened. Told him about my meeting with Rahim Khan, the trek to Kabul, the orphanage, the stoning at Ghazi Stadium.

 

　　"God," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I have such fond memories of Kabul. Hard to believe it's the same place you're telling me about."

 

　　“Have you been there lately?”

 

　　"God no."

 

　　"It's not Berkeley, I'll tell you that," I said. 

 

　　"Go on."

 

　　I told him the rest, the meeting with Assef, the fight, Sohrab and his slingshot, our escape back to Pakistan. When I was done, he scribbled a few notes, breathed in deeply, and gave me a sober look. "Well, Amir, you've got a a tough battle ahead of you."

 

　　"One I can win?"

 

　　He capped his pen. "At the risk of sounding like Reymond Andrews, it's not likely. Not impossible, but hardly likely." Gone was the affable smile, the playful look in his eyes.

 

　　"But it's kids like Sohrab who need a home the most," I said. "There rules and regulations don't make any sense to me."

 

　　"You're preaching to the choir, Amir," he said. "But the fact is, take current immigration laws, adoption agency policies, and the political situation in Afghanistan, and the deck is stacked against you."

 

　　"I don't get it," I said. I wanted to hit something. "I mean, I get it but I don't get it."

 

　　Omar nodded, his brow furrowed. "Well, it's like this. In the aftermath of a disaster, whether it be natural or man made —— and the Taliban are a disaster, Amir, believe me —— it‘s always difficult to ascertain that a child is an orphan. Kids get displaced in refugee camps, or parents  just abandon them because they can't take care of them. Happens all the time. So the INS won't grant a visa unless it's clear the child meets the definition of an eligible orphan. I'm sorry, I know it sounds ridiculous, but you need death certificates."

 

　　"You've been to Afghanistan," I said. "You know how improbable that is."

 

　　"I know," he said. "But let's suppose it's clear that the child had no surviving parent. Even then, the INS think it's good adoption practice to place the child with someone in his own country so his heritage can be preserved."

 

　　"What heritage?" I said. "The Taliban have destroyed what heritage Afghans had. You saw what they did to the giant Buddhas in Bamiyan."

 

　　"I'm sorry, I'm telling you how the INS works, Amir," Omar said, touching my arm. He glanced at Sohrab and smiled. Turned back to me. "Now, a child had to be legally adopted according to the laws and regulations of his own country. But when you have a country in turmoil, say a country like Afghanistan, government offices are busy with emergencies, and processing adoptions won't be a top priority."

 

　　I sighed and rubbed my eyes. A pounding headache was settling in just behind them.

 

　　"But let's suppose that somehow Afghanistan gets its act together," Omar said, crossing his arms on his protruding belly. "It still may not permit this adoption. In fact, even the more moderate Muslim nations are hesitant with adoptions because in many of those countries, Islamic law, Shari'a, doesn't recognize adoption."

 

　　"You're telling me to give it up?" I asked, pressing my palm to my forehead.

 

　　"I grew up in the U.S. , Amir. If America taught me anything, it's that quitting is ring up there with pissing in the Girl Scouts' lemonade jar. But, as your lawyer, I have to give you the facts," he said. "Finally, adoption agencies routinely send staff members to evaluate the child's milieu, and no reasonable agency is going to send an agent to Afghanistan."

 

　　I looked at Sohrab sitting on the bed, watching TV, watching us. He was sitting the way his father used to, chin resting on one knee.

 

　　"I'm his half uncle, does that count for anything?"

 

　　"It does if you can prove it. I'm sorry, do you have any papers or anyone who can support you?"

 

　　"No papers," I said, in a tired voice. "No one knew about it. Sohrab didn't know until I told him, and I myself didn't find out until recently. The only other person who knows is gone, maybe dead."

 

　　"Hmm."

 

　　"What are my options, Omar?"

 

　　"I'll be frank. You don't have a lot of them."

 

　　"Well, Jesus, what can I do?"

 

　　Omar breathed in, tapped his chin with the pen, let his breath out. "You could still file an orphan petition, hope for the best. You could do an independent adoption. That means you'd have to live with Sohrab here in Pakistan, day in and day out, for the next two years. You could seek asylum on his behalf. That's lengthy process and you'd have to prove political persecution. You could request a human itarian visa. That's at the discretion fo the attorney general and it's not easily given." He paused. "There is another option, probably your best shot."

　　

　　"What?" I said, leaning forward.

 

　　"You could relinquish him to an orphanage here, then file an orphan petition. Start your I-600 from and your home study while he's in a safe place."

 

　　"What are those?"

 

　　"I'm sorry, the I-600 is an INS formality. The home study is one by the adoption agency you choose," Omar said. "It's, you know, to make sure you and your wife aren't raving lunatics."

 

　　"I don't want to do that," I said, looking again at Sohrab. "I promised him I wouldn't send him back to an orphanage."

 

　　"Like I said, it may be your best shot."

 

　　We talked a while longer. Then I walked him out to his car, and old VW Bug. The sun was setting on Islamabad by then, a flaming red nimbus in the west. I watched the car tilt under Omar's weight as he somehow managed to slide in behind the wheel. He rolled down the window. "Amir?"

 

　　"Yes."

 

　　"I meant to tell you in there, about what you're trying to do? I think it's pretty great."

 

　　He waved as he pulled away. Standing outside the hotel room and waving back, I wished Soraya could be there with me.

 

　　Sohrab had turned off the TV when I went back into the room. I sat on the edge of my bed, asked him to sit next to me. "Mr. Faisal thinks there is a way I can take you to America with me," I said.

 

　　"He does?" Sohrab said, smiling faintly for the first time in days. "When can we go?"

 

　　"Well, that's the thing. It might take a little while. But he said it can be done and he's going to help us." I put my hand on the back of his neck. From outside, the call to prayer blared through the street.

 

　　"How long?" Sohrab asked.

 

　　"I don't know. A while."

 

　　Sohrab shrugged and smiled, wider this time. "I don't mind. I can wait. It's like the sour apples."

 

　　"One time, when I was really little, I climbed a tree and ate these green, sour apples. My stomach swelled and became hard like a drum, it hurt a lot. Mother said that if I'd just waited for the apples to ripen, I wouldn't have become sick." So now, whenever I really want something, I try to remember what she said about the apples."

 

　　"Sour apples," I said. "Mashallah, you're just about the smartest little guy I've ever met, Sohrab jan." His ears red reddened with a blush. 

 

　　"Will you take me to that red bridge? The one with the fog?" he said.

 

　　"Absolutely," I said. "Absolutely."

 

　　"And we'll drive up those streets, the ones where all you see is the hood of the car and the sky?"

 

　　"Every single one of them," I said. My eyes stung with tears and I blinked them away.

 

　　"Is English hard to learn?"

 

　　"I say, within a year, you'll speak it as well as Farsi."

 

　　"Really?"

 

　　"Yes." I placed a finger under his chin, turned his face up to mine. "There is one other thing, Sohrab."

 

　　"What?"

 

　　"Well, Mr. Faisal thinks that it would really help if we could ... if we could ask you to stay in a home for kids for a while."

 

　　"Home for kids?" he said, his smile fading. "You mean an orphanage?"

 

　　"It would only be for a little while."

 

　　"No," he said. "No, please."

 

　　"Sohrab, it would be just for a little while. I promise."

 

　　"You promised you'd never put me in one of those places, Amir agha," he said. His voice was breaking, tears pooling in his eyes. I felt like a prick.

 

　　"This is different. It would be here, in Islamabad, not in Kabul. And I'd visit you all the time until we can get you out and take you to America."

 

　　"Please! Please, no!" he croaked. "I'm scared of that place. They'll hurt me! I don't want to go."

 

　　"No one is going to hurt you. Not ever again."

 

　　"Yes they will! They always say they won't hurt but they lie. They lie! Please, God!"

 

　　I wiped the tear streaking down his cheek with my thumb. "Sour apples, remember it? It's just like the sour apples," I said softly.

 

　　"No it's not. Not that place. God, oh God. Please, no!" He was trembling, snot and tears mixing on his face.

　　

　　"Shhh." I pulled him close, wrapped my arms around his shaking little body. "Shhh. It'll be all right. We'll go home together. You'll see, it'll be all right."

 

　　His voice was muffled against my chest, but I heard the panic in it. "Please promise you won't! Oh God, Amir agha! Please promise you won't!"

 

　　How could I promise? I held him against me, held him tightly, and rocked back and forth. He wept into my shirt until his tears dried, until his shaking stopped and his frantic pleas dwindled to indecipherable mumbles. I waited, rocked him until his breathing slowed and his body slackened. I remembered something I had read somewhere a long time ago: That's how children deal with terror. They fall asleep.

 

　　I carried him to his bed, sit him down. Then I lay in my own bed, looking out the window at the purple sky over Islamabad.  

 

...

 

　　The sky was a deep black when the phone jolted me from sleep. I rubbed my eyes and turned on the bedside lamp. It was a liittle past 10:30 PM; I'd been sleeping for almost three hours. I picked up the phone. "Hello?"

 

　　"Call from America." My. Fayyaz's bored voice.

 

　　"Thank you," I said. The bathroom light was on; Sohrab was taking his nightly bath. A couple fo clickes and then Soraya: "Salaam!" She sounded exicted.

 

　　"Hi."

 

　　"How did you meeting go with the lawyer?"

 

　　I told her what Omar Faisal had suggested. "Well, you can forget about it," she said. "We won't have to do that."

 

　　I sat up. "Rawsti? Why, what's up?"

 

　　"I heard back from Kaka Sharif. He said the key was getting Sohrab into the country. Once he's in, there are ways of keeping him here. So he made a few calls to his INS friends. He called me back tonight and said he was almost certain he could get Sohrab a humanitarian visa."

 

　　"No kidding?" I said. "Oh thank God! Good ol' Sharf jan!"

 

　　"I know. Anyway, we'll serve as the sponsors. It should all happen pretty quickly. He said the visa would be good for a year, plenty of time to apply for an adoption petition."

 

　　"It's really going to happen, Soraya, hum?"

 

　　"It looks like it," she said. She sounded happy. I told her I loved her and she said she loved me back. I hung up.

 

　　"Sohrab!" I called, rising from my bed. "I have great news." I knocked on the bathroom door. "Sohrab! Soraya jan just called from California. We won't have to put you in the orphanage, Sohrab. We're going to America, you and I. Did you hear me? We're going to America!"

 

　　I pushed the door open. Stepped into the bathroom.

 

　　Suddenly I was on my knees, screaming. Screaming through my clenched teeth. Screaming until I thought my throat would rip and my chest explode.

 

　　Later, they said I was still screaming when the ambulance arrived.