Sitting in the middle of my room the next morning, I ripped open box after box of presents. I don’t know why I even bothered, since I just gave them a joyless glance and pitched them to the corner of the room. The pile was growing there: a Polaroid camera, a transistor radio, an elaborate electric train set--and several sealed envelopes containing cash. I knew I’d never spend the money or listen to the radio, and the electric train would never trundle down its tracks in my room. I didn’t want any of it--it was all blood money; Baba would have never thrown me a party like that if I hadn’t won the tournament.
Baba gave me two presents. One was sure to become the envy of every kid in the neighborhood: a brand new Schwinn Stingray, the king of all bicycles. Only a handful of kids in all of Kabul owned a new Stingray and now I was one of them. It had high-rise handlebars with black rubber grips and its famous banana seat. The spokes were gold colored and the steel-frame body red, like a candy apple. Or blood. Any other kid would have hopped on the bike immediately and taken it for a full block skid. I might have done the same a few months ago.
“You like it?” Baba said, leaning in the doorway to my room. I gave him a sheepish grin and a quick “Thank you.” I wished I could have mustered more.
“We could go for a ride,” Baba said. An invitation, but only a halfhearted one.
“Maybe later. I’m a little tired,” I said.
“Sure,” Baba said.
“Baba?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for the fireworks,” I said. A thank-you, but only a halfhearted one.
“Get some rest,” Baba said, walking toward his room.