the kite runner-第107部分

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　floor。　I　pick　up　the　Time　magazine　and　flip　through　the　pages。　But　I　can　t　read；　can　t　focus　on　anything。　So　I　toss　it　on　the　table　and　go　back　to　staring　at　the　zigzagging　pattern　of　the　cracks　on　the　cement　floor；　at　the　cobwebs　on　the　ceiling　where　the　walls　meet；　at　the　dead　flies　littering　the　windowsill。　Mostly；　I　stare　at　the　clock　on　the　wall。　It　s　just　past　4　A。M。　and　I　have　been　shut　out　of　the　room　with　the　swinging　double　doors　for　over　five　hours　now。　I　still　haven　t　heard　any　news。
The　floor　beneath　me　begins　to　feel　like　part　of　my　body；　and　my　breathing　is　growing　heavier；　slower。　I　want　to　sleep；　shut　my　eyes　and　lie　my　head　down　on　this　cold；　dusty　floor。　Drift　off。　When　I　wake　up；　maybe　I　will　discover　that　everything　I　saw　in　the　hotel　bathroom　was　part　of　a　dream：　the　water　drops　dripping　from　the　faucet　and　landing　with　a　plink　into　the　bloody　bathwater；　the　left　arm　dangling　over　the　side　of　the　tub；　the　blood…soaked　razor　sitting　on　the　toilet　tank……the　same　razor　I　had　shaved　with　the　day　before……and　his　eyes；　still　half　open　but　light　less。　That　more　than　anything。　I　want　to　forget　the　eyes。
Soon；　sleep　es　and　I　let　it　take　me。　I　dream　of　things　I　can　t　remember　later。
SOMEONE　IS　TAPPING　ME　on　the　shoulder。　I　open　my　eyes。　There　is　a　man　kneeling　beside　me。　He　is　wearing　a　cap　like　the　men　behind　the　swinging　double　doors　and　a　paper　surgical　mask　over　his　mouth……my　heart　sinks　when　I　see　a　drop　of　blood　on　the　mask。　He　has　taped　a　picture　of　a　doe…eyed　little　girl　to　his　beeper。　He　unsnaps　his　mask　and　I　m　glad　I　don　t　have　to　look　at　Sohrab　s　blood　anymore。　His　skin　is　dark　like　the　imported　Swiss　chocolate　Hassan　and　I　used　to　buy　from　the　bazaar　in　Shar…e…Nau；　he　has　thinning　hair　and　hazel　eyes　topped　with　curved　eyelashes。　In　a　British　accent；　he　tells　me　his　name　is　Dr。　Nawaz；　and　suddenly　I　want　to　be　away　from　this　man；　because　I　don　t　think　I　can　bear　to　hear　what　he　has　e　to　tell　me。　He　says　the　boy　had　cut　himself　deeply　and　had　lost　a　great　deal　of　blood　and　my　mouth　begins　to　mutter　that　prayer　again：
La　illaha　il　Allah；　Muhammad　u　rasul　ullah。
They　had　to　transfuse　several　units　of　red　cells……　How　will　I　tell　Soraya？
Twice；　they　had　to　revive　him……I　will　do　_namaz_；　I　will　do　_zakat_。
They　would　have　lost　him　if　his　heart　hadn　t　been　young　and　strong……
I　will　fast。
He　is　alive。
Dr。　Nawaz　smiles。　It　takes　me　a　moment　to　register　what　he　has　just　said。　Then　he　says　more　but　I　don　t　hear　him。　Because　I　have　taken　his　hands　and　I　have　brought　them　up　to　my　face。　I　weep　my　relief　into　this　stranger　s　small；　meaty　hands　and　he　says　nothing　now。　He　waits。
THE　INTENSIVE　CARE　UNIT　is　L…shaped　and　dim；　a　jumble　of　bleeping　monitors　and　whirring　machines。　Dr。　Nawaz　leads　me　between　two　rows　of　beds　separated　by　white　plastic　curtains。　Sohrab　s　bed　is　the　last　one　around　the　corner；　the　one　nearest　the　nurses　　station　where　two　nurses　in　green　surgical　scrubs　are　jotting　notes　on　clipboards；　chatting　in　low　voices。　On　the　silent　ride　up　the　elevator　with　Dr。　Nawaz；　I　had　thought　I　d　weep　again　when　I　saw　Sohrab。　But　when　I　sit　on　the　chair　at　the　foot　of　his　bed；　looking　at　his　white　face　through　the　tangle　of　gleaming　plastic　tubes　and　IV　lines；　I　am　dry…eyed。　Watching　his　chest　rise　and　fall　to　the　rhythm　of　the　hissing　ventilator；　a　curious　numbness　washes　over　me；　the　same　numbness　a　man　might　feel　seconds　after　he　has　swerved　his　car　and　barely　avoided　a　head…on　collision。
I　doze　off；　and；　when　I　wake　up；　I　see　the　sun　rising　in　a　buttermilk　sky　through　the　window　next　to　the　nurses　　station。　The　light　slants　into　the　room；　aims　my　shadow　toward　Sohrab。　He　hasn　t　moved。
　You　d　do　well　to　get　some　sleep；　　a　nurse　says　to　me。　I　don　t　recognize　her……there　must　have　been　a　shift　change　while　I　d　napped。　She　takes　me　to　another
lounge；　this　one　just　outside　the　ICU。　It　s　empty。　She　hands　me　a　pillow　and　a　hospital…issue　blanket。　I　thank　her　and　lie　on　the　vinyl　sofa　in　the　corner　of　the　lounge。　I　fall　asleep　almost　immediately。
I　dream　I　am　back　in　the　lounge　downstairs。　Dr。　Nawaz　walks　in　and　I　rise　to　meet　him。　He　takes　off　his　paper　mask；　his　hands　suddenly　whiter　than　I　remembered；　his　nails　manicured；　he　has
neatly　parted　hair；　and　I　see　he　is　not　Dr。　Nawaz　at　all　but　Raymond　Andrews；　the　little　embassy　man　with　the　potted　tomatoes。　Andrews　cocks　his　head。　Narrows　his　eyes。
IN　THE　DAYTIME；　the　hospital　was　a　maze　of　teeming；　angled　hallways；　a　blur　of　blazing…white　overhead　fluorescence。　I　came　to　know　its　layout；　came　to　know　that　the　fourth…floor　button　in　the　east　wing　elevator　didn　t　light　up；　that　the　door　to　the　men　s　room　on　that　same　floor　was　jammed　and　you　had　to　ram　your　shoulder　into　it　to　open　it。　I　came　to　know　that　hospital　life　has　a　rhythm；　the　flurry　of　activity　just　before　the　morning　shift　change；　the　midday　hustle；　the　stillness　and　quiet　of　the　late…night　hours　interrupted　occasionally　by　a　blur　of　doctors　and　nurses　rushing　to　revive　someone。　I　kept　vigil　at　Sohrab　s　bedside　in　the　daytime　and　wandered　through　the　hospital　s　serpentine　corridors　at　night；　listening　to　my　shoe　heels　clicking　on　the　ti