The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini Read Free Book Online

ruffled hair and puffy eyes. Hassan was crying. Ali pulled him close, clutched
     him with tenderness. Later, I would tell myself I hadn’t felt envious of Hassan. Not at all.
    We stayed huddled that way until the early hours of the morning. The shootings and explosions had lasted less than an hour,
     but they had frightened us badly, because none of us had ever heard gunshots in the streets. They were foreign sounds to us
     then. The generation of Afghan children whose ears would know nothing but the sounds of bombs and gunfire was not yet born.
     Huddled together in the dining room and waiting for the sun to rise, none of us had any notion that a way of life had ended. Our way of life. If not quite yet, then at least it was the beginning of the end. The end, the official end, would come first in April 1978 with the communist coup d’état, and then in December 1979, when Russian tanks would roll
     into the very same streets where Hassan and I played, bringing the death of the Afghanistan I knew and marking the start of
     a still ongoing era of bloodletting.
    Just before sunrise, Baba’s car peeled into the driveway. His door slammed shut and his running footsteps pounded the stairs.
     Then he appeared in the doorway and I saw something on his face. Something I didn’t recognize right away because I’d never
     seen it before: fear. “Amir! Hassan!” he exclaimed as he ran to us, opening his arms wide. “They blocked all the roads and
     the telephone didn’t work. I was so worried!”
    We let him wrap us in his arms and, for a brief insane moment, I was glad about whatever had happened that night.
    THEY WEREN’T SHOOTING ducks after all. As it turned out, they hadn’t shot much of anything that night of July 17, 1973. Kabul
     awoke the next morning to find that the monarchy was a thing of the past. The king, Zahir Shah, was away in Italy. In his
     absence, his cousin Daoud Khan had ended the king’s forty-year reign with a bloodless coup.
    I remember Hassan and I crouching that next morning outside my father’s study, as Baba and Rahim Khan sipped black tea and
     listened to breaking news of the coup on Radio Kabul.
    “Amir agha?” Hassan whispered.
    “What?”
    “What’s a ‘republic’?”
    I shrugged. “I don’t know.” On Baba’s radio, they were saying that word, “republic,” over and over again.
    “Amir agha?”
    “What?”
    “Does ‘republic’ mean Father and I will have to move away?”
    “I don’t think so,” I whispered back.
    Hassan considered this. “Amir agha?”
    “What?”
    “I don’t want them to send me and Father away.”
    I smiled. “ Bas, you donkey. No one’s sending you away.”
    “Amir agha?”
    “What?”
    “Do you want to go climb our tree?”
    My smile broadened. That was another thing about Hassan. He always knew when to say the right thing—the news on the radio
     was getting pretty boring. Hassan went to his shack to get ready and I ran upstairs to grab a book. Then I went to the kitchen,
     stuffed my pockets with handfuls of pine nuts, and ran outside to find Hassan waiting for me. We burst through the front gates
     and headed for the hill.
    We crossed the residential street and were trekking through a barren patch of rough land that led to the hill when, suddenly,
     a rock struck Hassan in the back. We whirled around and my heart dropped. Assef and two of his friends, Wali and Kamal, were
     approaching us.
    Assef was the son of one of my father’s friends, Mahmood, an airline pilot. His family lived a few streets south of our home,
     in a posh, high-walled compound with palm trees. If you were a kid living in the Wazir Akbar Khan section of Kabul, you knew
     about Assef and his famous stainless-steel brass knuckles, hopefully not through personal experience. Born to a German mother
     and Afghan father, the blond, blue-eyed Assef towered over the other kids. His well-earned reputation for savagery preceded
     him on the streets. Flanked by his obeying