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ace。 We were sipping tea； talking。 Ali had served dinner earlier……potatoes and curried cauliflower over rice……and had retired for the night with Hassan。 Baba was fattening his pipe and I was asking him to tell the story about the winter a pack of wolves had descended from the mountains in Herat and forced everyone to stay indoors for a week； when he lit a match and said； casually； I think maybe you ll win the tournament this year。 What do you think？
I didn t know what to think。 Or what to say。 Was that what it would take？ Had he just slipped me a key？ I was a good kite fighter。 Actually； a very good one。 A few times； I d even e close to winning the winter tournament……once； I d made it to the final three。 But ing close wasn t the same as winning； was it？ Baba hadn t _e close_。 He had won because winners won and everyone else just went home。 Baba was used to winning； winning at everything he set his mind to。 Didn t he have a right to expect the same from his son？ And just imagine。 If I did win。。。
Baba smoked his pipe and talked。 I pretended to listen。 But I couldn t listen； not really； because Baba s casual little ment had planted a seed in my head： the resolution that I would win that winter s tournament。 I was going to win。 There was no other viable option。 I was going to win； and I was going to run that last kite。 Then I d bring it home and show it to Baba。 Show him once and for all that his son was worthy。 Then maybe my life as a ghost in this house would finally be over。 I let myself dream： I imagined conversation and laughter over dinner instead of silence broken only by the clinking of silverware and the occasional grunt。 I envisioned us taking a Friday drive in Baba s car to Paghman； stopping on the way at Ghargha Lake for some fried trout and potatoes。 We d go to the zoo to see Marjan the lion； and maybe Baba wouldn t yawn and steal looks at his wristwatch all the time。 Maybe Baba would even read one of my stories。 I d write him a hundred if I thought he d read one。 Maybe he d call me Amir jan like Rahim Khan did。 And maybe； just maybe； I would finally be pardoned for killing my mother。
Baba was telling me about the time he d cut fourteen kites on the same day。 I smiled； nodded； laughed at all the right places； but
I hardly heard a word he said。 I had a mission now。 And I wasn t going to fail Baba。 Not this time。
IT SNOWED HEAVILY the night before the tournament。 Hassan and I sat under the kursi and played panjpar as wind…rattled tree branches tapped on the window。 Earlier that day； I d asked Ali to set up the kursi for us……which was basically an electric heater under a low table covered with a thick； quilted blanket。
Around the table； he arranged mattresses and cushions； so as many as twenty people could sit and slip their legs under。 Hassan and I used to spend entire snowy days snug under the kursi； playing chess； cards……mostly panjpar。
I killed Hassan s ten of diamonds； played him two jacks and a six。 Next door； in Baba s study； Baba and Rahim Khan were discussing business with a couple of other men…one of them I recognized as Assef s father。 Thro