the kite runner-第16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！


And　kites；　of　course。　Flying　kites。　And　running　them。
For　a　few　unfortunate　kids；　winter　did　not　spell　the　end　of　the　school　year。　There　were　the　so…called　voluntary　winter　courses。　No　kid　I　knew　ever　volunteered　to　go　to　these　classes；　parents；　of　course；　did　the　volunteering　for　them。　Fortunately　for　me；　Baba　was　not　one　of　them。　I　remember　one　kid；　Ahmad；　who　lived　across　the　street　from　us。　His　father　was　some　kind　of　doctor；　I　think。　Ahmad　had　epilepsy　and　always　wore　a　wool　vest　and　thick　blackrimmed　glasses……he　was　one　of　Assef　s　regular　victims。　Every　morning；　I　watched　from　my　bedroom　window　as　their　Hazara　servant　shoveled　snow　from　the　driveway；　cleared　the　way　for　the　black　Opel。　I　made　a　point　of　watching　Ahmad　and　his　father　get　into　the　car；　Ahmad　in　his　wool　vest　and　winter　coat；　his　schoolbag　filled　with　books　and　pencils。　I　waited　until　they　pulled　away；　turned　the　corner；　then　I　slipped　back　into　bed　in　my　flannel　pajamas。　I　pulled　the　blanket　to　my　chin　and　watched　the　snowcapped　hills　in　the　north　through　the　window。　Watched　them　until　I　drifted　back　to　sleep。
I　loved　wintertime　in　Kabul。　I　loved　it　for　the　soft　pattering　of　snow　against　my　window　at　night；　for　the　way　fresh　snow　crunched　under　my　black　rubber　boots；　for　the　warmth　of　the　cast…iron　stove　as　the　wind　screeched　through　the　yards；　the　streets。　But　mostly　because；　as　the　trees　froze　and　ice　sheathed　the　roads；　the　chill　between　Baba　and　me　thawed　a　little。　And　the　reason　for　that　was　the　kites。　Baba　and　I　lived　in　the　same　house；　but　in　different　spheres　of　existence。　Kites　were　the　one　paper　thin　slice　of　intersection　between　those　spheres。
EVERY　WINTER；　districts　in　Kabul　held　a　kite…fighting　tournament。　And　if　you　were　a　boy　living　in　Kabul；　the　day　of　the　tournament　was　undeniably　the　highlight　of　the　cold　season。　I　never　slept　the　night　before　the　tournament。　I　d　roll　from　side　to　side；　make　shadow　animals　on　the　wall；　even　sit　on　the　balcony　in　the　dark；　a　blanket　wrapped　around　me。　I　felt　like　a　soldier　trying　to　sleep
in　the　trenches　the　night　before　a　major　battle。　And　that　wasn　t　so　far　off。　In　Kabul；　fighting　kites　was　a　little　like　going　to　war。
As　with　any　war；　you　had　to　ready　yourself　for　battle。　For　a　while；　Hassan　and　I　used　to　build　our　own　kites。　We　saved　our　weekly　allowances　in　the　fall；　dropped　the　money　in　a　little　porcelain　horse　Raba　had　brought　one　time　from　Herat。　When　the　winds　of　winter　began　to　blow　and　snow　fell　in　chunks；　we　undid　the　snap　under　the　horse　s　belly。　We　went　to　the　bazaar　and　bought　bamboo；　glue；　string；　and　paper。　We　spent　hours　every　day　shaving　bamboo　for　the　center　and　cross　spars；　cutting　the　thin　tissue　paper　which　made　for　easy　dipping　and　recovery　And　then；　of　course；　we　had　to　make　our　own　string；　or　tar。　If　the　kite　was　the　gun；　then　_tar_；　the　glass…coated　cutting　line；　was　the　bullet　in　the　chamber。　We　d　go　out　in　the　yard　and　feed　up　to　five　hundred　feet　of　string　through　a　mixture　of　ground　glass　and　glue。　We　d　then　hang　the　line　between　the　trees；　leave　it　to　dry。　The　next　day；　we　d　wind　the　battle…ready　line　around　a　wooden　spool。　By　the　time　the　snow　melted　and　the　rains　of　spring　swept　in；　every　boy　in　Kabul　bore　telltale　horizontal　gashes　on　his　fingers　from　a　whole　winter　of　fighting　kites。　I　remember　how　my　classmates　and　I　used　to　huddle；　pare　our　battle　scars　on　the　first　day　of　school。　The　cuts　stung　and　didn　t　heal　for　a　couple　of　weeks；　but　I　didn　t　mind。　They　were　reminders　of　a　beloved　season　that　had　once　again　passed　too　quickly。　Then　the　class　captain　would　blow　his　whistle　and　we　d　march　in　a　single　file　to　our　classrooms；　longing　for　winter　already；　greeted　instead　by　the　specter　of　yet　another　long　school　year。
But　it　quickly　became　apparent　that　Hassan　and　I　were　better　kite　fighters　than　kite　makers。　Some　flaw　or　other　in　our　design　always　spelled　its　doom。　So　Baba　started　taking　us　to　Saifo　s　to　buy　our　kites。　Saifo　was　a　nearly　blind　old　man　who　was　a　_moochi_　by　profession……a　shoe　repairman。　But　he　was　also　the　city　s　most　famous　kite　maker；　working　out　of　a　tiny　hovel　on　Jadeh　Maywand；　the　crowded　street　south　of　the　muddy　banks　of　the　Kabul　River。　I　remember　you　had　to　crouch　to　enter　the　prison　cell…sized　store；　and　then　had　to　lift　a　trapdoor　to　creep　down　a　set　of　wooden　steps　to　the　dank　basement　where　Saifo　stored　his　coveted　kites。　Baba　would　buy　us　each　three　identical　kites　and　spools　of　glass　string。　If　I　changed　my　mind　and　asked　for　a　bigger　and　fancier　kite；　Baba　would　buy　it　for　me……but　then　he　d　buy　it　for　Hassan　too。　Sometimes　I　wished　he　wouldn　t　do　that。　Wished　he　d　let　me　be　the　favorite。
The　kite…fighting　tournament　was　an　old　winter　tradition　in　Afghanistan。　It　started　early　in　the　morning　on　the　day　of　the　contest　and　didn　t　end　until　only　the　winning　kite　flew　in　the　sky……I　remember　one　year　the　tournament　outlasted　daylight。　People　gathered　on　sidewalks　and　roofs　to　cheer　for　their　kids。　The　streets　filled　with　kite　fighters；　jerking　and　tugging　on　their　lines；　squinting　up　to　the　sky；　trying　to　gain　position　to　cut　the　opponent　s　line。　Every　kite　fighter　had　an　assistant……in