the kite runner-第12部分

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d　someone　shouted。　I　heard　people　on　the　street；　jolted　from　sleep　and　probably　still　in　their　pajamas；　with　ruffled　hair　and　puffy　eyes。　Hassan　was　crying。　Ali　pulled　him　close；　clutched　him　with　tenderness。　Later；　I　would　tell　myself　I　hadn　t　felt　envious　of　Hassan。　Not　at　all。
We　stayed　huddled　that　way　until　the　early　hours　of　the　morning。　The　shootings　and　explosions　had　lasted　less　than　an　hour；　but　they　had　frightened　us　badly；　because　none　of　us　had　ever　heard　gunshots　in　the　streets。　They　were　foreign　sounds　to　us　then。　The　generation　of　Afghan　children　whose　ears　would　know　nothing　but　the　sounds　of　bombs　and　gunfire　was　not　yet　born。　Huddled　together　in　the　dining　room　and　waiting　for　the　sun　to　rise；　none　of　us　had　any　notion　that　a　way　of　life　had　ended。　Our　way　of　life。　If　not　quite　yet；　then　at　least　it　was　the　beginning　of　the　end。　The　end；　the　_official_　end；　would　e　first　in　April　1978　with　the　munist　coup　d　閠at；　and　then　in　December　1979；　when　Russian　tanks　would　roll　into　the　very　same　streets　where　Hassan　and　I　played；　bringing　the　death　of　the　Afghanistan　I　knew　and　marking　the　start　of　a　still　ongoing　era　of　bloodletting。
Just　before　sunrise；　Baba　s　car　peeled　into　the　driveway。　His　door　slammed　shut　and　his　running　footsteps　pounded　the　stairs。　Then　he　appeared　in　the　doorway　and　I　saw　something　on　his　face。　Something　I　didn　t　recognize　right　away　because　I　d　never　seen　it　before：　fear。　　Amir！　Hassan！　　he　exclaimed　as　he　ran　to　us；　opening　his　arms　wide。　　They　blocked　all　the　roads　and　the　tele　phone　didn　t　work。　I　was　so　worried！　
We　let　him　wrap　us　in　his　arms　and；　for　a　brief　insane　moment；　I　was　glad　about　whatever　had　happened　that　night。
THEY　WEREN　T　SHOOTING　ducks　after　all。　As　it　turned　out；　they　hadn　t　shot　much　of　anything　that　night　of　July　17；　1973。　Kabul　awoke　the　next　morning　to　find　that　the　monarchy　was　a　thing　of　the　past。　The　king；　Zahir　Shah；　was　away　in　Italy。　In　his　absence；　his　cousin　Daoud　Khan　had　ended　the　king　s　forty…year　reign　with　a　bloodless　coup。
I　remember　Hassan　and　I　crouching　that　next　morning　outside　my　father　s　study；　as　Baba　and　Rahim　Khan　sipped　black　tea　and　listened　to　breaking　news　of　the　coup　on　Radio　Kabul。
　Amir　agha？　　Hassan　whispered。
　What？　
　What　s　a　　republic　？　
I　shrugged。　　I　don　t　know。　　On　Baba　s　radio；　they　were　saying　that　word；　　republic；　　over　and　over　again。
　Amir　agha？　
　What？　
　Does　　republic　　mean　Father　and　I　will　have　to　move　away？　
　I　don　t　think　so；　　I　whispered　back。
Hassan　considered　this。　　Amir　agha？　
　What？　
　I　don　t　want　them　to　send　me　and　Father　away。　
I　smiled。　　_Bas_；　you　donkey。　No　one　s　sending　you　away。　
　Amir　agha？　
　What？　
　Do　you　want　to　go　climb　our　tree？　
My　smile　broadened。　That　was　another　thing　about　Hassan。　He　always　knew　when　to　say　the　right　thing……the　news　on　the　radio　was　getting　pretty　boring。　Hassan　went　to　his　shack　to　get　ready　and　I　ran　upstairs　to　grab　a　book。　Then　I　went　to　the　kitchen；　stuffed　my　pockets　with　handfuls　of　pine　nuts；　and　ran　outside　to　find　Hassan　waiting　for　me。　We　burst　through　the　front　gates　and　headed　for　the　hill。
We　crossed　the　residential　street　and　were　trekking　through　a　barren　patch　of　rough　land　that　led　to　the　hill　when；　suddenly；　a　rock　struck　Hassan　in　the　back。　We　whirled　around　and　my　heart　dropped。　Assef　and　two　of　his　friends；　Wali　and　Kamal；　were　approaching　us。
Assef　was　the　son　of　one　of　my　father　s　friends；　Mahmood；　an　airline　pilot。　His　family　lived　a　few　streets　south　of　our　home；　in　a　posh；　high…walled　pound　with　palm　trees。　If　you　were　a　kid　living　in　the　Wazir　Akbar　Khan　section　of　Kabul；　you　knew　about　Assef　and　his　famous　stainless…steel　brass　knuckles；　hopefully　not　through　personal　experience。　Born　to　a　German　mother　and　Afghan　father；　the　blond；　blue…eyed　Assef　towered　over　the　other　kids。　His　well…earned　reputation　for　savagery　preceded　him　on　the　streets。　Flanked　by　his　obeying　friends；　he　walked　the　neighborhood　like　a　Khan　strolling　through　his　land　with　his　eager…to…please　entourage。　His　word　was　law；　and　if　you　needed　a　little　legal　education；　then　those　brass　knuckles　were　just　the　right　teaching　tool。　I
saw　him　use　those　knuckles　once　on　a　kid　from　the　Karteh…Char　district。　I　will　never　forget　how　Assef　s　blue　eyes　glinted　with　a　light　not　entirely　sane　and　how　he　grinned；　how　he　_grinned_；　as　he　pummeled　that　poor　kid　unconscious。　Some　of　the　boys　in　Wazir　Akbar　Khan　had　nicknamed　him　Assef　_Goshkhor_；　or　Assef　　the　Ear　Eater。　　Of　course；　none　of　them　dared　utter　it　to　his　face　unless　they　wished　to　suffer　the　same　fate　as　the　poor　kid　who　had　unwittingly　inspired　that　nickname　when　he　had　fought　Assef　over　a　kite　and　ended　up　fishing　his　right　ear　from　a　muddy　gutter。　Years　later；　I　learned　an　English　word　for　the　creature　that　Assef　was；　a　word　for　which　a　good　Farsi　equivalent　does　not　exist：
　sociopath。　
Of　all　the　neighborhood　boys　who　tortured　Ali；　Assef　was　by　far　the　most　relentless。　He　was；　in　fact；　the　originator　of　the　Babalu　jeer；　_Hey；　Babalu；　who　did　you　eat　today？　Huh？　e　on；　Babalu；　give　us　a　smile！_　And　on　days　when　he　felt　particularly　inspired；　he　spiced