by
KHALED HOSSEINI
Riverhead Books … New York
Scanned and proofed by eReaderMan
Posted to alt。binaries。e…book
12/3/2005 … 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 （c） 2003 by Khaled Hosseini
Riverhead trade paperback
ISBN： 1…59488…000…1
This book is dedicated to
Haris and Farah； both
the _noor_ of my eyes；
and to the children
of Afghanistan。
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am indebted to the following colleagues for their advice； assistance； or support： Dr。 Alfred Lerner； Don Vakis； Robin Heck； Dr。 Todd Dray； Dr。 Robert Tull； and Dr。 Sandy Chun。 Thanks also to Lynette Parker of East San Jose munity Law Center for her advice about adoption procedures； and to Mr。 Daoud Wahab for sharing his experiences in Afghanistan with me。 I am grateful to my dear friend Tamim Ansary for his guidance and support and to the gang at the San Francisco Writers Workshop for their feed back and encouragement。 I want to thank my father； my oldest friend and the inspiration for all that is noble in Baba； my mother who prayed for me and did nazr at every stage of this book s writing； 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 and unwavering support。
I must thank my agent and friend； Elaine Koster； for her wisdom； patience； and gracious ways； as well as Cindy Spiegel； my keen…eyed and judicious editor who helped me unlock so many doors in this tale。 And I would like to thank Susan Petersen Kennedy for taking a chance on this book and the hardworking staff at Riverhead for laboring over it。
Last； I don t know how to thank my lovely wife； Roya……to whose opinion I am addicted……for her kindness and grace； and for reading； re…reading； and helping me edit every single draft of this novel。 For your patience and understanding； I will 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 the winter of 1975。 I remember the precise moment； crouching behind a crumbling mud wall； peeking into the alley near the frozen creek。 That was a long time ago； but it s wrong what they say about the past； I ve learned； about how you can bury it。 Because the past claws its way out。 Looking back now； I realize I have been 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 to e see him。 Standing in the kitchen with the receiver to my ear； I knew it wasn t just Rahim Khan on the line。 It was my past of unatoned sins。 After I hung up； I went for a walk along Spreckels Lake on the northern edge of Golden Gate Park。 The early…afternoon sun sparkled on the water where dozens of miniature boats sailed； propelled by a crisp breeze。 Then I glanced up and saw a pair of kites； red with long blue tails； soaring in the sky。 They danced high above the trees on the west end of the park； over the windmills； floating side by side like a pair of eyes looking down on San Francisco； the city I now call home。 And suddenly Hassan s voice whispered in my head： _For you； a thousand times over_。 Hassan the harelipped kite runner。
I sat on a park bench near a willow tree。 I thought about something Rahim Khan said just before he hung up； almost as an after thought。 _There is a way to be good again_。 I looked up at those twin kites。 I thought about Hassan。 Thought about Baba。 Ali。 Kabul。 I thought of the life I had lived until the winter of 1975 came and changed everything。 And made me what I am today。
TWO
When we were children； Hassan and I used to climb the poplar trees in the driveway of my father s house and annoy our neighbors by reflecting sunlight into their homes with a shard of mirror。 We would sit across from each other on a pair of high branches； our naked feet dangling； our trouser pockets filled with dried mulberries and walnuts。 We took turns with the mirror as we ate mulberries； pelted each other with them； giggling； laughing； I can still see Hassan up on that tree； sunlight flickering through the leaves on his almost perfectly round face； a face like a Chinese doll chiseled from hardwood： his flat； 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 it was added as a mere afterthought。 And the cleft lip； just left of midline； where the Chinese doll maker s instrument may have slipped； or perhaps he had simply grown tired and careless。
Sometimes； up in those trees； I talked Hassan into firing walnuts with his slingshot at the neighbor s one…eyed German shepherd。 Hassan never wanted to； but if I asked； _really_ asked； he wouldn t deny me。 Hassan never denied me anything。 And he was deadly with his slingshot。 Hassan s father； Ali； used to catch us and get mad； or as mad as someone as gentle as Ali could ever get。 He would wag his finger and wave us down from the tree。 He would take the mirror and tell us what his mother had told him； that the devil shone mirrors too； shone them to distract Muslims during prayer。 And he laughs while he does it； he always added； scowling at his son。
Yes； Father； Hassan would mumble； looking down at his feet。 But he never told on me。 Never told that the mirror； like shooting walnuts at the neighbor s dog； was always my idea。
The poplar t