the kite runner-第113部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


stared　at　it。　No　one　seemed　to　notice。　No　one　called　him　back　in。　With　time；　the　queries　about　our　adopted……and　decidedly　eccentric……little　boy　had　mercifully　ceased；　and；　considering　how　tactless　Afghan　queries　can　be　sometimes；　that　was　a　considerable　relief。　People　stopped　asking　why　he　never　spoke。　Why　he　didn　t　play　with　the　other　kids。　And　best　of　all；　they　stopped　suffocating　us　with　their　exaggerated　empathy；　their　slow　head　shaking；　their　tsk　tsks；　their　　Oh　gung　bichara。　　Oh；　poor　little　mute　one。　The　novelty　had　worn　off。　Like　dull　wallpaper；　Sohrab　had　blended　into　the　background。
I　shook　hands　with　Kabir；　a　small；　silver…haired　man。　He　introduced　me　to　a　dozen　men；　one　of　them　a　retired　teacher；　another　an　engineer；　a　former　architect；　a　surgeon　who　was　now　running　a　hot　dog　stand　in　Hayward。　They　all　said　they　d　known　Baba　in　Kabul；　and　they　spoke　about　him　respectfully。　In　one　way　or　another；　he　had　touched　all　their　lives。　The　men　said　I　was　lucky　to　have　had　such　a　great　man　for　a　father。
We　chatted　about　the　difficult　and　maybe　thankless　job　Karzai　had　in　front　of　him；　about　the　uping　Loya　jirga；　and　the　king　s　imminent　return　to　his　homeland　after　twenty…eights　years　of　exile。　I　remembered　the　night　in　1973；　the　night　Zahir　Shah　s　cousin　overthrew　him；　I　remembered　gunfire　and　the　sky　lighting　up　silver……Ali　had　taken　me　and　Hassan　in　his　arms；　told　us　not　to　be　afraid；　that　they　were　just　shooting　ducks。
Then　someone　told　a　Mullah　Nasruddin　joke　and　we　were　all　laughing。　　You　know；　your　father　was　a　funny　man　too；　　Kabir　said。
　He　was；　wasn　t　he？　　I　said；　smiling；　remembering　how；　soon　after　we　arrived　in　the　U。S。；　Baba　started　grumbling　about　American　flies。　He　d　sit　at　the　kitchen
table　with　his　flyswatter；　watch　the　flies　darting　from　wall　to　wall；　buzzing　here；　buzzing　there；　harried　and　rushed。　　In　this　country；　even　flies　are　pressed　for　time；　　he　d　groan。　How　I　had　laughed。　I　smiled　at　the　memory　now。
By　three　o　clock；　the　rain　had　stopped　and　the　sky　was　a　curdled　gray　burdened　with　lumps　of　clouds。　A　cool　breeze　blew　through　the　park。　More　families　turned　up。　Afghans　greeted　each　other；　hugged；　kissed；　exchanged　food。　Someone　lighted　coal　in　a　barbecue　and　soon　the　smell　of　garlic　and　morgh　kabob　flooded　my　senses。　There　was　music；　some　new　singer　I　didn　t　know；　and　the　giggling　of　children。　I　saw　Sohrab；　still　in　his　yellow　raincoat；　leaning　against　a　garbage　pail；　staring　across　the　park　at　the　empty　batting　cage。
A　little　while　later；　as　I　was　chatting　with　the　former　surgeon；　who　told　me　he　and　Baba　had　been　classmates　in　eighth　grade；　Soraya　pulled　on　my　sleeve。　　Amir；　look！　
She　was　pointing　to　the　sky。　A　half…dozen　kites　were　flying　high；　speckles　of　bright　yellow；　red；　and　green　against　the　gray　sky。
　Check　it　out；　　Soraya　said；　and　this　time　she　was　pointing　to　a　guy　selling　kites　from　a　stand　nearby。
　Hold　this；　　I　said。　I　gave　my　cup　of　tea　to　Soraya。　I　excused　myself　and　walked　over　to　the　kite　stand；　my　shoes　squishing　on　the　wet　grass。　I　pointed　to　a　yellow　seh…parcha。　　Sawl…e…nau　mubabrak；　　the　kite　seller　said；　taking　the　twenty　and　handing　me　the　kite　and　a　wooden　spool　of　glass　tar。　I　thanked　him　and　wished　him　a　Happy　New　Year　too。　I　tested　the　string　the　way　Hassan　and　I　used　to；　by　holding　it　between　my　thumb　and　forefinger　and　pulling　it。　It　reddened　with　blood　and　the　kite　seller　smiled。　I　smiled　back。
I　took　the　kite　to　where　Sohrab　was　standing；　still　leaning　against　the　garbage　pail；　arms　crossed　on　his　chest。　He　was　looking　up　at　the　sky。
　Do　you　like　the　seh…parcha？　　I　said；　holding　up　the　kite　by　the　ends　of　the　cross　bars。　His　eyes　shifted　from　the　sky　to　me；　to　the　kite；　then　back。　A　few　rivulets　of　rain　trickled　from　his　hair；　down　his　face。
　I　read　once　that；　in　Malaysia；　they　use　kites　to　catch　fish；　　I　said。　　I　ll　bet　you　didn　t　know　that。　They　tie　a　fishing　line　to　it　and　fly　it　beyond　the　shallow　waters；　so　it　doesn　t　cast　a　shadow　and　scare　the　fish。　And　in　ancient　China；　generals　used　to　fly　kites　over　battlefields　to　send　messages　to　their　men。　It　s　true。　I　m　not　slipping　you　a　trick。　　I　showed　him　my　bloody　thumb。　　Nothing　wrong　with　the　tar　either。　
Out　of　the　corner　of　my　eye；　I　saw　Soraya　watching　us　from　the　tent。　Hands　tensely　dug　in　her　armpits。　Unlike　me；　she　d　gradually　abandoned　her　attempts　at　engaging　him。　The　unanswered　questions；　the　blank　stares；　the　silence；　it　was　all　too　painful。　She　had　shifted　to　　Holding　Pattern；　　waiting　for　a　green　light　from　Sohrab。　Waiting。
I　wet　my　index　finger　and　held　it　up。　　I　remember　the　way　your　father　checked　the　wind　was　to　kick　up　dust　with　his　sandal；　see　which　way　the　wind　blew　it。　He　knew　a　lot　of　little　tricks　like　that；　　I　said。　Lowered　my　finger。　　West；　I　think。　
Sohrab　wiped　a　raindrop　from　his　earlobe　and　shifted　on　his　feet。　Said　nothing。　I　thought　of　Soraya　asking　me　a　few　months　ago　what　his　voice　sounded　like。　I　d　told　her　I　didn　t　remember　anymore。
　Did　I　ever　tell　you　your　father　was　the　best　kite　runner　in　Wazir　Akbar　Khan？　Maybe　all　of　Kabul？　　I　said；　knotting　the　loose　end　of　the　spool　tar　to　the　string　loop　tied　to　the　c