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The streets 1)glistened with fresh snow and the sky was a blameless blue. Snow 2)blanketed every rooftop and weighed on the branches of the 3)stunted 4)mulberry trees that lined our street. Overnight, snow had 5)nudged its way into every crack and gutter. I 6)squinted against the blinding white when Hassan and I stepped through the 7)wrought-iron gates. I had never seen so many people on our street. Kids were flinging snowballs, 8)squabbling, chasing one another, and giggling. Kite fighters were 9)huddling with their 10)spool holders, making last minute preparations. From adjacent streets, I could hear laughter and chatter. Already, rooftops were jammed with spectators 11)reclining in 12)lawn chairs, hot tea steaming from 13)thermoses, and the music of 14)Ahmad Zahir 15)blaring from cassette players. I turned my gaze to our rooftop, found Baba and Rahim Khan sitting on a bench, both dressed in wool sweaters, sipping tea.
“We should get started,” Hassan said. He wore black rubber snow boots and a bright green 16)chapan over a thick sweater and faded 17)corduroy pants.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
Hassan’s face brightened. “Good,” he said. He lifted our kite, red with yellow borders. He licked his finger and held it up, tested the wind, then ran in its direction. The spool rolled in my hands until Hassan stopped, about fifty feet away. He held the kite high over his head, like an Olympic athlete showing his gold medal. I jerked the string twice, our usual signal, and Hassan tossed the kite.
Within a minute, my kite was 18)rocketing to the sky. It made a sound like a paper bird flapping its wings. Hassan clapped his hands, whistled, and ran back to me. I handed him the spool, holding on to the string, and he spun it quickly to roll the loose string back on. At least two dozen kites already hung in the sky, like paper sharks roaming for prey. Within an hour, the number doubled, and red, blue, and yellow kites glided and spun in the sky. A cold breeze 19)wafted through my hair. The wind was perfect for kite flying, blowing just 20)hard enough to give some lift, make the 21)sweeps easier. Next to me, Hassan held the spool, his hands already bloodied by the string.
Soon, the cutting started and the first of the defeated kites whirled out of control. They fell from the sky like 22)shooting stars with brilliant, 23)rippling tails, 24)showering the neighborhoods below with prizes for the kite runners. I could hear the runners now, 25)hollering as they ran the streets. I kept stealing glances at Baba sitting with Rahim Khan on the roof, and wondered what he was thinking. Was he cheering for me? That was the thing about kite flying: Your mind drifted with the kite. They were coming down all over the place now, the kites, and I was still flying. My eyes kept wandering over to Baba, 26)bundled up in his wool coat. Was he surprised that I had lasted as long as I had? I 27)snapped my gaze back to the sky. A red kite was closing in on me—I’d caught it just in time. I tangled a bit with it, ended up 28)besting him when he became impatient and tried to cut me from below.
Up and down the streets, kite runners were returning triumphantly, their captured kites held high. They showed them off to their parents, their friends. But they all knew the best was yet to come. The biggest prize of all was still flying. I 29)sliced a bright yellow kite with a 30)coiled white tail. It cost me another 31)gash on the index finger and blood 32)trickled down into my palm. I had Hassan hold the string and sucked the blood dry, 33)blotted my finger against my jeans.
Within another hour, the number of surviving kites 34)dwindled from maybe fifty to a dozen. I was one of them. I had made it to the last dozen. I knew this part of the tournament would take a while, because the guys who had lasted this long were good—they wouldn’t easily fall into simple traps like the old liftand-dive, Hassan’s favorite trick. By three o’clock that afternoon, 35)tufts of clouds had drifted in and the sun had slipped behind them. Shadows started to lengthen. The spectators on the roofs bundled up in scarves and thick coats. We were down to a half dozen and I was still flying. My legs ached and my neck was stiff. But with each defeated kite, hope grew in my heart, like snow collecting on a wall, one flake at a time.
After another thirty minutes, only four kites remained. And I was still flying. It seemed I could hardly make a wrong move, as if every gust of wind blew 36)in my favor. I’d never felt so in command, so lucky. It felt 37)intoxicating. I didn’t dare look up to the roof. I didn’t dare take my eyes off the sky. I had to concentrate, play it smart. Another fifteen minutes, it was just me and the other guy. The blue kite. The tension in the air was as 38)taut as the glass string I was tugging with my bloody hands. People were stomping their feet, clapping, whistling, 39)chanting, “Cut him! Cut him!” I wondered if Baba’s voice was one of them. But all I heard—all I 40)willed myself to hear— was the 41)thudding of blood in my head. All I saw was the blue kite. All I smelled was victory. I didn’t know what the other guy was playing for, maybe just bragging rights. But this was my one chance to become someone who was looked at, not seen, listened to, not heard.
It turned out to be sooner than later. A gust of wind lifted my kite and I took advantage. I 42)fed the string, pulled up. Looped my kite on top of the blue one. I held position. The blue kite knew it was in trouble. It was trying desperately to 43)maneuver out of the 44)jam, but I didn’t let go. I held position. The crowd sensed the end was 45)at hand. The chorus of “Cut him! Cut him!” grew louder, like Romans chanting for the 46)gladiators to kill, kill!
“You’re almost there, Amir 47)agha! Almost there!”Hassan was panting. Then the moment came. I closed my eyes and loosened my grip on the string. It sliced my fingers again as the wind dragged it. And then...I didn’t need to hear the crowd’s roar to know I didn’t need to see either. Hassan was screaming and his arm was wrapped around my neck.“48)Bravo! Bravo, Amir agha!”
I opened my eyes, saw the blue kite spinning wildly like a tire come loose from a speeding car. I blinked, tried to say something. But nothing came out. Suddenly I was hovering, looking down on myself from above. Black leather coat, red scarf, faded jeans. A thin boy, a little 49)sallow, and a 50)tad short for his twelve years. He had narrow shoulders and a hint of dark circles around his pale 51)hazel eyes. The breeze 52)rustled his light brown hair. He looked up to me and we smiled at each other. Then I was screaming, and everything was color and sound, and everything was alive and good. I was throwing my free arm around Hassan and we were hopping up and down, both of us laughing, both of us weeping. “You won, Amir agha! You won!”
“We won! We won!” was all I could say. This wasn’t happening. Then I saw Baba on our roof. He was standing on the edge, 53)pumping both of his fists. Hollering and clapping. And that right there was the single greatest moment of my twelve years of life, seeing Baba on that roof, proud of me at last. But he was doing something now, motioning with his hands in an urgent way. Then I understood. “Hassan, we—”
“I know,” he said, breaking our embrace. “We’ll celebrate later. Right now, I’m going to run that blue kite for you.” He dropped the spool and took off running, the 54)hem of his green chapan dragging in the snow behind him.
“Hassan!” I called. “Come back with it!”
He was already turning the street corner, his rubber boots kicking up snow. He stopped, and turned. He 55)cupped his hands around his mouth. “For you a thousand times over!” he said. Then he smiled his Hassan smile and disappeared around the corner.
追风筝的人（节选一）
街上新霁的积雪银光闪闪，天空蓝得无可挑剔。雪花覆盖了每一个屋顶，矮小的桑树在我们这条街一字排开，树枝上也堆满了积雪。一夜之间，白雪填满了所有的缝隙和水沟。哈桑和我走出锻铁大门时，雪地反射出白晃晃的光芒，照得我睁不开眼。我从来没有见到街上有这么多人。孩子们在打雪仗、拌嘴、相互追逐，咯咯地笑着。风筝斗士和帮他们拿线轴的人聚在一起，做最后准备。周围的街道传来欢声笑语，各处屋顶已经挤满了看客，他们斜躺在折叠椅上，暖瓶里的茶热气腾腾，磁带播放机传出艾哈迈德·查希尔的喧闹歌声。我朝自家的屋顶看去，发现爸爸和拉辛汗（编者注：阿米尔爸爸的好友）坐在一张长凳上，两人都穿着羊毛衫，喝着茶。
“我们得开始了，”哈桑说。他穿着一双黑色的橡胶雪地靴，厚厚的羊毛衫和褪色的灯芯绒裤，外面罩着亮绿色长袍。
“我们放吧，”我说。
哈桑神色一振：“好啊!”他举起我们的风筝——一只镶着黄边的红色风筝。他舔舔手指，把它举起，测试风向，然后顺风跑去。我手里的线轴转动着，直到哈桑在大约五十英尺开外停下来。他将风筝高举过顶，仿佛一个奥运选手高举获得的金牌。按照我们往常的信号，我拽线两下，哈桑随即放开了风筝。
不到一分钟，我的风筝扶摇直上，发出宛如鸟儿扑打翅膀的声音。哈桑拍着手，吹哨称好，然后朝我这边跑回来。我把线轴交给他，手依然掌控着风筝线，他敏捷地将那稍有松弛的风筝线卷紧。空中已经挂着至少二十来只风筝，如同纸制的鲨鱼，巡游寻觅猎物。不到一个小时，这个数字翻了一番，红色的、蓝色的、黄色的风筝在苍穹上来回飞舞，熠熠生辉。寒冷的微风吹过我的头发。这风正合适，风速不大，恰好能让风筝飘飞起来，也便于操控。哈桑在我身旁，帮忙拿着线轴，手掌已被线割得鲜血淋漓。
顷刻间，斗风筝开始了，第一批被挫败的风筝断了线，回旋着跌落下来。它们像流星那样划过天空，拖着闪亮的尾巴，散落在临近的街区，给追风筝的人带来奖赏。我能听得见那些追风筝的人高声叫嚷着奔过大街小巷。我不时偷偷望向爸爸，看着他和拉辛汗坐在一起，寻思他眼下在想些什么。他在为我加油吗？放风筝就是这样：思绪随着风筝高低起伏。风筝纷纷坠下，而我的思绪仍在翱翔。我的双眼不时瞟向被羊毛外套包裹得严严实实的爸爸。我的风筝能坚持这么久，他是不是很吃惊？我将视线转回空中。有一只红色风筝正在飞近——幸好来得及发现它。我跟它纠缠对峙了一会，它失去耐心，试图从下面割断我的筝线，但最终我赢了。
街头巷尾满是凯旋而归的追风筝者，他们高举追到的战利品，拿着它们在亲朋好友面前炫耀。但他们全都知道最好的还没出现，象征着最高殊荣的风筝还在飞翔。我割断了一只带有白色圈状尾巴的黄风筝，代价是食指又多了一道伤口，血液汩汩流入我的掌心。我让哈桑拿着线，然后自己把血吮干，在牛仔裤上擦了擦手指。
又过了一个小时，天空中幸存的风筝，已经从约五十只减至十来只。我的是其中之一，我成功进入了前十二名。我知道比赛到了这个阶段，会进行好一段时间，因为那些家伙既然能持续这么久，技术实在不可小觑——他们可不会掉进简单的陷阱里，比如哈桑最喜欢用的那套老招数——猛升急降。到下午三点，阴云密布，太阳躲在云层后面，影子开始拉长。屋顶那些看客戴上围巾，穿上厚厚的外套。天上只剩下六只风筝了，我的仍是其中之一。我双腿发痛，脖子僵硬。但看到风筝一只只掉落，心里的希望一点点增大，就像堆积在墙上的雪花那样，一次一片地堆高。
又过了半个小时，只剩下四只风筝了。我的风筝仍在飞翔，我的动作无懈可击，仿佛每一阵风都照我的意思吹来。我从来没有这般胜券在握，这么幸运。太让人兴奋了！我不敢抬眼望向那屋顶，眼光不敢从天空移开，我得聚精会神，机智取胜。又过了十五分钟，只剩下我和另外一个家伙了。那只蓝风筝。局势紧张得如同我流血的手拉着的那条玻璃线。人们纷纷顿足、鼓掌、吹口哨、欢呼。“干掉它!干掉它!”我在想，爸爸会不会也在欢呼呢?但我所能听到的——我迫使自己听到的—— 是脑袋里血液奔流的声音。我眼中只有那只蓝风筝。我所闻到的，只是胜利的味道。我不知道那个家伙斗风筝是为了什么，也许只是为了在人前吹嘘吧。但于我而言，这是惟一的机会，让我可以成为一个他人会特意瞩目聆听，而不是随便撞见或听到而已的人。
结果比我预想的要快。一阵风拉升了我的风筝，我占据了有利位置。我放开线，让它飞高。我的风筝转了一个圈，飞到那只蓝色家伙的上面，我稳住位置。蓝风筝知道自己麻烦来了，绝望地使出各种花招，试图摆脱险境，但我不会放过它，我稳住位置。人们知道胜负即将揭晓。“干掉它！干掉它！”的齐声欢呼越来越响，仿佛罗马人对着角斗士高喊“杀啊！杀啊！”。
“你快赢了，阿米尔少爷！快赢了!”哈桑兴奋得直喘气。那一刻来临了。我合上双眼，松开拉着线的手。寒风将风筝拉高，线又在我手指上割开一道伤口。接着……不用听人群欢呼我也知道，我也不用看。哈桑抱着我的脖子，不断尖叫。“太棒了！太棒了，阿米尔少爷！”
我睁开眼睛，望见蓝风筝猛然扎下，好像轮胎从高速行驶的轿车上脱落。我眨眨眼，想说些什么，却没有说出来。突然间我仿佛腾空而起，从空中望着自己。黑色的皮衣，红 色的围巾，褪色的牛仔裤。一个瘦弱的男孩，肤色微黄，身材对于十二岁的孩子来说显得有些矮小。他肩膀窄小，淡褐色的眼睛，有点黑眼圈，微风吹起他淡棕色的头发。他抬头望着我，我们相视而笑。然后我高声尖叫，一切都是那么色彩斑斓、那么悦耳动听，一切都那么鲜活、那么美好。我伸出空手抱着哈桑，我们蹦跳着，我们两个都笑着、哭着。“你赢了，阿米尔少爷！你赢了!”
“我们赢了！我们赢了！”我只说出这句话。这是真的吗？然后我看到爸爸站在我们的屋顶上。他站在屋顶边缘，双拳挥舞，高声欢呼，拍掌称快。就在那儿，我体验到有生十二年来最棒的一刻，看见爸爸站在屋顶上，终于以我为荣。但他似乎在做别的事情，双手焦急地打手势。于是我明白了。“哈桑，我们——”
“我知道，”他边从我们的拥抱中挣脱边说，“我们等会再庆祝吧。现在，我要去帮你追那只蓝风筝。”他放下线轴，撒腿就跑，他穿的那件绿色长袍的后褶边在雪地上拖着。
“哈桑！”我大喊，“把它带回来！”
他已经飞奔到街角，他的橡胶靴子踢起阵阵雪花。他停下来，转身，双手拢到嘴边，说道：“为你，千千万万遍！”然后他露出一脸哈桑式的微笑，消失在街角。
“We should get started,” Hassan said. He wore black rubber snow boots and a bright green 16)chapan over a thick sweater and faded 17)corduroy pants.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
Hassan’s face brightened. “Good,” he said. He lifted our kite, red with yellow borders. He licked his finger and held it up, tested the wind, then ran in its direction. The spool rolled in my hands until Hassan stopped, about fifty feet away. He held the kite high over his head, like an Olympic athlete showing his gold medal. I jerked the string twice, our usual signal, and Hassan tossed the kite.
Within a minute, my kite was 18)rocketing to the sky. It made a sound like a paper bird flapping its wings. Hassan clapped his hands, whistled, and ran back to me. I handed him the spool, holding on to the string, and he spun it quickly to roll the loose string back on. At least two dozen kites already hung in the sky, like paper sharks roaming for prey. Within an hour, the number doubled, and red, blue, and yellow kites glided and spun in the sky. A cold breeze 19)wafted through my hair. The wind was perfect for kite flying, blowing just 20)hard enough to give some lift, make the 21)sweeps easier. Next to me, Hassan held the spool, his hands already bloodied by the string.
Soon, the cutting started and the first of the defeated kites whirled out of control. They fell from the sky like 22)shooting stars with brilliant, 23)rippling tails, 24)showering the neighborhoods below with prizes for the kite runners. I could hear the runners now, 25)hollering as they ran the streets. I kept stealing glances at Baba sitting with Rahim Khan on the roof, and wondered what he was thinking. Was he cheering for me? That was the thing about kite flying: Your mind drifted with the kite. They were coming down all over the place now, the kites, and I was still flying. My eyes kept wandering over to Baba, 26)bundled up in his wool coat. Was he surprised that I had lasted as long as I had? I 27)snapped my gaze back to the sky. A red kite was closing in on me—I’d caught it just in time. I tangled a bit with it, ended up 28)besting him when he became impatient and tried to cut me from below.
Up and down the streets, kite runners were returning triumphantly, their captured kites held high. They showed them off to their parents, their friends. But they all knew the best was yet to come. The biggest prize of all was still flying. I 29)sliced a bright yellow kite with a 30)coiled white tail. It cost me another 31)gash on the index finger and blood 32)trickled down into my palm. I had Hassan hold the string and sucked the blood dry, 33)blotted my finger against my jeans.
Within another hour, the number of surviving kites 34)dwindled from maybe fifty to a dozen. I was one of them. I had made it to the last dozen. I knew this part of the tournament would take a while, because the guys who had lasted this long were good—they wouldn’t easily fall into simple traps like the old liftand-dive, Hassan’s favorite trick. By three o’clock that afternoon, 35)tufts of clouds had drifted in and the sun had slipped behind them. Shadows started to lengthen. The spectators on the roofs bundled up in scarves and thick coats. We were down to a half dozen and I was still flying. My legs ached and my neck was stiff. But with each defeated kite, hope grew in my heart, like snow collecting on a wall, one flake at a time.
After another thirty minutes, only four kites remained. And I was still flying. It seemed I could hardly make a wrong move, as if every gust of wind blew 36)in my favor. I’d never felt so in command, so lucky. It felt 37)intoxicating. I didn’t dare look up to the roof. I didn’t dare take my eyes off the sky. I had to concentrate, play it smart. Another fifteen minutes, it was just me and the other guy. The blue kite. The tension in the air was as 38)taut as the glass string I was tugging with my bloody hands. People were stomping their feet, clapping, whistling, 39)chanting, “Cut him! Cut him!” I wondered if Baba’s voice was one of them. But all I heard—all I 40)willed myself to hear— was the 41)thudding of blood in my head. All I saw was the blue kite. All I smelled was victory. I didn’t know what the other guy was playing for, maybe just bragging rights. But this was my one chance to become someone who was looked at, not seen, listened to, not heard.
It turned out to be sooner than later. A gust of wind lifted my kite and I took advantage. I 42)fed the string, pulled up. Looped my kite on top of the blue one. I held position. The blue kite knew it was in trouble. It was trying desperately to 43)maneuver out of the 44)jam, but I didn’t let go. I held position. The crowd sensed the end was 45)at hand. The chorus of “Cut him! Cut him!” grew louder, like Romans chanting for the 46)gladiators to kill, kill!
“You’re almost there, Amir 47)agha! Almost there!”Hassan was panting. Then the moment came. I closed my eyes and loosened my grip on the string. It sliced my fingers again as the wind dragged it. And then...I didn’t need to hear the crowd’s roar to know I didn’t need to see either. Hassan was screaming and his arm was wrapped around my neck.“48)Bravo! Bravo, Amir agha!”
I opened my eyes, saw the blue kite spinning wildly like a tire come loose from a speeding car. I blinked, tried to say something. But nothing came out. Suddenly I was hovering, looking down on myself from above. Black leather coat, red scarf, faded jeans. A thin boy, a little 49)sallow, and a 50)tad short for his twelve years. He had narrow shoulders and a hint of dark circles around his pale 51)hazel eyes. The breeze 52)rustled his light brown hair. He looked up to me and we smiled at each other. Then I was screaming, and everything was color and sound, and everything was alive and good. I was throwing my free arm around Hassan and we were hopping up and down, both of us laughing, both of us weeping. “You won, Amir agha! You won!”
“We won! We won!” was all I could say. This wasn’t happening. Then I saw Baba on our roof. He was standing on the edge, 53)pumping both of his fists. Hollering and clapping. And that right there was the single greatest moment of my twelve years of life, seeing Baba on that roof, proud of me at last. But he was doing something now, motioning with his hands in an urgent way. Then I understood. “Hassan, we—”
“I know,” he said, breaking our embrace. “We’ll celebrate later. Right now, I’m going to run that blue kite for you.” He dropped the spool and took off running, the 54)hem of his green chapan dragging in the snow behind him.
“Hassan!” I called. “Come back with it!”
He was already turning the street corner, his rubber boots kicking up snow. He stopped, and turned. He 55)cupped his hands around his mouth. “For you a thousand times over!” he said. Then he smiled his Hassan smile and disappeared around the corner.
追风筝的人（节选一）
街上新霁的积雪银光闪闪，天空蓝得无可挑剔。雪花覆盖了每一个屋顶，矮小的桑树在我们这条街一字排开，树枝上也堆满了积雪。一夜之间，白雪填满了所有的缝隙和水沟。哈桑和我走出锻铁大门时，雪地反射出白晃晃的光芒，照得我睁不开眼。我从来没有见到街上有这么多人。孩子们在打雪仗、拌嘴、相互追逐，咯咯地笑着。风筝斗士和帮他们拿线轴的人聚在一起，做最后准备。周围的街道传来欢声笑语，各处屋顶已经挤满了看客，他们斜躺在折叠椅上，暖瓶里的茶热气腾腾，磁带播放机传出艾哈迈德·查希尔的喧闹歌声。我朝自家的屋顶看去，发现爸爸和拉辛汗（编者注：阿米尔爸爸的好友）坐在一张长凳上，两人都穿着羊毛衫，喝着茶。
“我们得开始了，”哈桑说。他穿着一双黑色的橡胶雪地靴，厚厚的羊毛衫和褪色的灯芯绒裤，外面罩着亮绿色长袍。
“我们放吧，”我说。
哈桑神色一振：“好啊!”他举起我们的风筝——一只镶着黄边的红色风筝。他舔舔手指，把它举起，测试风向，然后顺风跑去。我手里的线轴转动着，直到哈桑在大约五十英尺开外停下来。他将风筝高举过顶，仿佛一个奥运选手高举获得的金牌。按照我们往常的信号，我拽线两下，哈桑随即放开了风筝。
不到一分钟，我的风筝扶摇直上，发出宛如鸟儿扑打翅膀的声音。哈桑拍着手，吹哨称好，然后朝我这边跑回来。我把线轴交给他，手依然掌控着风筝线，他敏捷地将那稍有松弛的风筝线卷紧。空中已经挂着至少二十来只风筝，如同纸制的鲨鱼，巡游寻觅猎物。不到一个小时，这个数字翻了一番，红色的、蓝色的、黄色的风筝在苍穹上来回飞舞，熠熠生辉。寒冷的微风吹过我的头发。这风正合适，风速不大，恰好能让风筝飘飞起来，也便于操控。哈桑在我身旁，帮忙拿着线轴，手掌已被线割得鲜血淋漓。
顷刻间，斗风筝开始了，第一批被挫败的风筝断了线，回旋着跌落下来。它们像流星那样划过天空，拖着闪亮的尾巴，散落在临近的街区，给追风筝的人带来奖赏。我能听得见那些追风筝的人高声叫嚷着奔过大街小巷。我不时偷偷望向爸爸，看着他和拉辛汗坐在一起，寻思他眼下在想些什么。他在为我加油吗？放风筝就是这样：思绪随着风筝高低起伏。风筝纷纷坠下，而我的思绪仍在翱翔。我的双眼不时瞟向被羊毛外套包裹得严严实实的爸爸。我的风筝能坚持这么久，他是不是很吃惊？我将视线转回空中。有一只红色风筝正在飞近——幸好来得及发现它。我跟它纠缠对峙了一会，它失去耐心，试图从下面割断我的筝线，但最终我赢了。
街头巷尾满是凯旋而归的追风筝者，他们高举追到的战利品，拿着它们在亲朋好友面前炫耀。但他们全都知道最好的还没出现，象征着最高殊荣的风筝还在飞翔。我割断了一只带有白色圈状尾巴的黄风筝，代价是食指又多了一道伤口，血液汩汩流入我的掌心。我让哈桑拿着线，然后自己把血吮干，在牛仔裤上擦了擦手指。
又过了一个小时，天空中幸存的风筝，已经从约五十只减至十来只。我的是其中之一，我成功进入了前十二名。我知道比赛到了这个阶段，会进行好一段时间，因为那些家伙既然能持续这么久，技术实在不可小觑——他们可不会掉进简单的陷阱里，比如哈桑最喜欢用的那套老招数——猛升急降。到下午三点，阴云密布，太阳躲在云层后面，影子开始拉长。屋顶那些看客戴上围巾，穿上厚厚的外套。天上只剩下六只风筝了，我的仍是其中之一。我双腿发痛，脖子僵硬。但看到风筝一只只掉落，心里的希望一点点增大，就像堆积在墙上的雪花那样，一次一片地堆高。
又过了半个小时，只剩下四只风筝了。我的风筝仍在飞翔，我的动作无懈可击，仿佛每一阵风都照我的意思吹来。我从来没有这般胜券在握，这么幸运。太让人兴奋了！我不敢抬眼望向那屋顶，眼光不敢从天空移开，我得聚精会神，机智取胜。又过了十五分钟，只剩下我和另外一个家伙了。那只蓝风筝。局势紧张得如同我流血的手拉着的那条玻璃线。人们纷纷顿足、鼓掌、吹口哨、欢呼。“干掉它!干掉它!”我在想，爸爸会不会也在欢呼呢?但我所能听到的——我迫使自己听到的—— 是脑袋里血液奔流的声音。我眼中只有那只蓝风筝。我所闻到的，只是胜利的味道。我不知道那个家伙斗风筝是为了什么，也许只是为了在人前吹嘘吧。但于我而言，这是惟一的机会，让我可以成为一个他人会特意瞩目聆听，而不是随便撞见或听到而已的人。
结果比我预想的要快。一阵风拉升了我的风筝，我占据了有利位置。我放开线，让它飞高。我的风筝转了一个圈，飞到那只蓝色家伙的上面，我稳住位置。蓝风筝知道自己麻烦来了，绝望地使出各种花招，试图摆脱险境，但我不会放过它，我稳住位置。人们知道胜负即将揭晓。“干掉它！干掉它！”的齐声欢呼越来越响，仿佛罗马人对着角斗士高喊“杀啊！杀啊！”。
“你快赢了，阿米尔少爷！快赢了!”哈桑兴奋得直喘气。那一刻来临了。我合上双眼，松开拉着线的手。寒风将风筝拉高，线又在我手指上割开一道伤口。接着……不用听人群欢呼我也知道，我也不用看。哈桑抱着我的脖子，不断尖叫。“太棒了！太棒了，阿米尔少爷！”
我睁开眼睛，望见蓝风筝猛然扎下，好像轮胎从高速行驶的轿车上脱落。我眨眨眼，想说些什么，却没有说出来。突然间我仿佛腾空而起，从空中望着自己。黑色的皮衣，红 色的围巾，褪色的牛仔裤。一个瘦弱的男孩，肤色微黄，身材对于十二岁的孩子来说显得有些矮小。他肩膀窄小，淡褐色的眼睛，有点黑眼圈，微风吹起他淡棕色的头发。他抬头望着我，我们相视而笑。然后我高声尖叫，一切都是那么色彩斑斓、那么悦耳动听，一切都那么鲜活、那么美好。我伸出空手抱着哈桑，我们蹦跳着，我们两个都笑着、哭着。“你赢了，阿米尔少爷！你赢了!”
“我们赢了！我们赢了！”我只说出这句话。这是真的吗？然后我看到爸爸站在我们的屋顶上。他站在屋顶边缘，双拳挥舞，高声欢呼，拍掌称快。就在那儿，我体验到有生十二年来最棒的一刻，看见爸爸站在屋顶上，终于以我为荣。但他似乎在做别的事情，双手焦急地打手势。于是我明白了。“哈桑，我们——”
“我知道，”他边从我们的拥抱中挣脱边说，“我们等会再庆祝吧。现在，我要去帮你追那只蓝风筝。”他放下线轴，撒腿就跑，他穿的那件绿色长袍的后褶边在雪地上拖着。
“哈桑！”我大喊，“把它带回来！”
他已经飞奔到街角，他的橡胶靴子踢起阵阵雪花。他停下来，转身，双手拢到嘴边，说道：“为你，千千万万遍！”然后他露出一脸哈桑式的微笑，消失在街角。