the kite runner-第106部分

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nd　I　curse　him；　but　he　says　you　cannot　be　here；　he　says　it　in　English；　his　voice　polite　but　firm。　　You　must　wait；　　he　says；　leading　me　back　to　the　waiting　area；　and　now　the　double　doors　swing　shut　behind　him　with　a　sigh　and　all　I　see　is　the　top　of　the　men　s　surgical　caps　through　the　doors　　narrow　rectangular　windows。
He　leaves　me　in　a　wide；　windowless　corridor　crammed　with　people　sitting　on　metallic　folding　chairs　set　along　the　walls；　others　on　the　thin　frayed　carpet。　I　want　to　scream　again；　and　I　remember　the　last　time　I　felt　this　way；　riding　with　Baba　in　the　tank　of　the　fuel　truck；　buried　in　the　dark　with　the　other　refugees。　I　want　to　tear　myself　from　this　place；　from　this　reality　rise　up　like　a　cloud　and　float　away；　melt　into　this　humid　summer　night　and　dissolve　somewhere　far；　over　the　hills。　But　I　am　here；　my　legs　blocks　of　concrete；　my　lungs　empty　of　air；　my　throat　burning。　There　will　be　no　floating　away。　There　will　be　no　other　reality　tonight。　I　close　my　eyes　and　my　nostrils　fill　with　the　smells　of　the　corridor；　sweat　and　ammonia；　rubbing　alcohol　and　curry。　On　the　ceiling；　moths　fling　themselves　at　the　dull　gray　light　tubes　running　the　length　of　the　corridor　and　I　hear　the　papery　flapping　of　their　wings。　I　hear　chatter；　muted　sobbing；　sniffling；　someone　moaning；　someone　else　sighing；　elevator　doors　opening　with　a　bing；　the　operator　paging　someone　in　Urdu。
I　open　my　eyes　again　and　I　know　what　I　have　to　do。　I　look　around；　my　heart　a　jackhammer　in　my　chest；　blood　thudding　in　my　ears。　There　is　a　dark　little　supply　room　to　my　left。　In　it；　I　find　what　I　need。　It　will　do。　I　grab　a　white　bedsheet　from　the　pile　of　folded　linens　and　carry　it　back　to　the　corridor。　I　see　a　nurse　talking　to　a　policeman　near　the　restroom。　I　take　the　nurse　s　elbow　and　pull；　I　want　to　know　which　way　is　west。　She　doesn　t　understand　and　the　lines　on　her　face　deepen　when　she　frowns。　My　throat　aches　and　my　eyes　sting　with　sweat；　each　breath　is　like　inhaling　fire；　and　I　think　I　am　weeping。　I　ask　again。　I　beg。　The　policeman　is　the　one　who　points。
I　throw　my　makeshift　_jai…namaz_；　my　prayer　rug；　on　the　floor　and　I　get　on　my　knees；　lower　my　forehead　to　the　ground；　my　tears　soaking　through　the　sheet。　I　bow　to　the　west。　Then　I　remember　I　haven　t　prayed　for　over　fifteen　years。　I　have　long　forgotten　the　words。　But　it　doesn　t　matter；　I　will　utter　those　few　words　I　still　remember：　？？La　iflaha　ii　Allah；　Muhammad　u　rasul　ullah。　There　is　no　God　but　Allah　and　Muhammad　is　His　messenger。　I　see　now　that　Baba　was　wrong；　there　is　a　God；　there　always　had　been。　I　see　Him　here；　in　the　eyes　of　the　people　in　this　corridor　of　desperation。　This　is　the　real　house　of　God；　this　is　where　those　who　have　lost　God　will　find　Him；　not　the　white　masjid　with　its　bright　diamond　lights　and　towering　minarets。　There　is　a　God；　there　has　to　be；　and　now　I　will　pray；　I　will　pray　that　He　forgive　that　I　have　neglected　Him　all　of　these　years；　forgive　that　I　have　betrayed；　lied；　and　sinned　with　impunity　only　to　turn　to　Him　now　in　my　hour　of　need；　I　pray　that　He　is　as　merciful；　benevolent；　and　gracious　as　His　book　says　He　is。　I　bow　to　the　west　and　kiss　the　ground　and　promise　that　I　will　do　_zakat_；　I　will　do　_namaz_；　I　will　fast　during　Ramadan　and　when　Ramadan　has　passed　I　will　go　on　fasting；　I　will　mit　to　memory　every　last　word　of　His　holy　book；　and　I　will　set　on　a　pilgrimage　to　that　sweltering　city　in　the　desert　and　bow　before　the　Ka　bah　too。　I　will　do　all　of　this　and　I　will　think　of　Him　every　day　from　this　day　on　if　He　only　grants　me　this　one　wish：　My　hands　are　stained　with　Hassan　s　blood；　I　pray　God　doesn　t　let　them　get　stained　with　the　blood　of　his　boy　too。
I　hear　a　whimpering　and　realize　it　is　mine；　my　lips　are　salty　with　the　tears　trickling　down　my　face。　I　feel　the　eyes　of　everyone　in　this　corridor　on　me　and　still　I　bow　to　the　west。　I　pray。　I　pray　that　my　sins　have　not　caught　up　with　me　the　way　I　d　always　feared　they　would。
A　STARLESS；　BLACK　NIGHT　falls　over　Islamabad。　It　s　a　few　hours　later　and　I　am　sitting　now　on　the　floor　of　a　tiny　lounge　off　the　corridor　that　leads　to　the　emergency　ward。　Before　me　is　a　dull　brown　coffee　table　cluttered　with　newspapers　and　dog…eared　magazines……an　April　1996　issue　of　Time；　a　Pakistani　newspaper　showing　the　face　of　a　young　boy　who　was　hit　and　killed　by　a　train　the　week　before；　an　entertainment　magazine　with　smiling　Hollywood　actors　on　its　glossy　cover。　There　is　an　old　woman　wearing　a　jade　green　shalwar…kameez　and　a　crocheted　shawl　nodding　off　in　a　wheelchair　across　from　me。　Every　once　in　a　while；　she　stirs　awake　and　mutters　a　prayer　in　Arabic。　I　wonder　tiredly　whose　prayers　will　be　heard　tonight；　hers　or　mine。　I　picture　Sohrab　s　face；　the　pointed　meaty　chin；　his　small　seashell　ears；　his　slanting　bambooleaf　eyes　so　much　like　his　father　s。　A　sorrow　as　black　as　the　night　outside　invades　me；　and　I　feel　my　throat　clamping。
I　need　air。
I　get　up　and　open　the　windows。　The　air　ing　through　the　screen　is　musty　and　hot……it　smells　of　overripe　dates　and　dung。　I　force　it　into　my　lungs　in　big　heaps；　but　it　doesn　t　clear　the　clamping　feeling　in　my　chest。　I　drop　back　on　the　floor。　I　pick　up　the　Time　magazine　and　flip　throu