the kite runner-第17部分

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ad　an　assistant……in　my　case；　Hassan……who　held　the　spool　and　fed　the　line。
One　time；　a　bratty　Hindi　kid　whose　family　had　recently　moved　into　the　neighborhood　told　us　that　in　his　hometown；　kite　fighting　had　strict　rules　and　regulations。　　You　have　to　play　in　a　boxed　area　and　you　have　to　stand　at　a　right　angle　to　the　wind；　　he　said　proudly。　　And　you　can　t　use　aluminum　to　make　your　glass　string。　　Hassan　and　I　looked　at　each　other。　Cracked　up。　The　Hindi　kid　would　soon　learn　what　the　British　learned　earlier　in　the　century；　and　what　the　Russians　would　eventually　learn　by　the　late　1980s：
that　Afghans　are　an　independent　people。　Afghans　cherish　custom　but　abhor　rules。　And　so　it　was　with　kite　fighting。　The　rules　were　simple：　No　rules。　Fly　your　kite。　Cut　the　opponents。　Good　luck。
Except　that　wasn　t　all。　The　real　fun　began　when　a　kite　was　cut。　That　was　where　the　kite　runners　came　in；　those　kids　who　chased　the　windblown　kite　drifting　through　the　neighborhoods　until　it　came　spiraling　down　in　a　field；　dropping　in　someone　s　yard；　on　a　tree；　or　a　rooftop。　The　chase　got　pretty　fierce；　hordes　of　kite　runners　swarmed　the　streets；　shoved　past　each　other　like　those　people　from　Spain　I　d　read　about　once；　the　ones　who　ran　from　the　bulls。　One　year　a　neighborhood　kid　climbed　a　pine　tree　for　a　kite。　A　branch　snapped　under　his　weight　and　he　fell　thirty　feet。　Broke　his　back　and　never　walked　again。　But　he　fell　with　the　kite　still　in　his　hands。　And　when　a　kite　runner　had　his　hands　on　a　kite；　no　one　could　take　it　from　him。　That　wasn　t　a　rule。　That　was　custom。
For　kite　runners；　the　most　coveted　prize　was　the　last　fallen　kite　of　a　winter　tournament。　It　was　a　trophy　of　honor；　something　to　be　displayed　on　a　mantle　for　guests　to　admire。　When　the　sky　cleared　of　kites　and　only　the　final　two　remained；　every　kite　runner　readied　himself　for　the　chance　to　land　this　prize。　He　positioned　himself　at　a　spot　that　he　thought　would　give　him　a　head　start。　Tense　muscles　readied　themselves　to　uncoil。　Necks　craned。　Eyes　crinkled。　Fights　broke　out。　And　when　the　last　kite　was　cut；　all　hell　broke　loose。
Over　the　years；　I　had　seen　a　lot　of　guys　run　kites。　But　Hassan　was　by　far　the　greatest　kite　runner　I　d　ever　seen。　It　was　downright　eerie　the　way　he　always　got　to　the　spot　the　kite　would　land　before　the　kite　did；　as　if　he　had　some　sort　of　inner　pass。
I　remember　one　overcast　winter　day；　Hassan　and　I　were　running　a　kite。　I　was　chasing　him　through　neighborhoods；　hopping
gutters；　weaving　through　narrow　streets。　I　was　a　year　older　than　him；　but　Hassan　ran　faster　than　I　did；　and　I　was　falling　behind。
　Hassan！　Wait！　　I　yelled；　my　breathing　hot　and　ragged。
He　whirled　around；　motioned　with　his　hand。　　This　way！　　he　called　before　dashing　around　another　corner。　I　looked　up；　saw　that　the　direction　we　were　running　was　opposite　to　the　one　the　kite　was　drifting。
　We　re　losing　it！　We　re　going　the　wrong　way！　　I　cried　out。
　Trust　me！　　I　heard　him　call　up　ahead。　I　reached　the　corner　and　saw　Hassan　bolting　along；　his　head　down；　not　even　looking　at　the　sky；　sweat　soaking　through　the　back　of　his　shirt。　I　tripped　over　a　rock　and　fell……I　wasn　t　just　slower　than　Hassan　but　clumsier　too；　I　d　always　envied　his　natural　athieticism。　When　I　staggered　to　my　feet；　I　caught　a　glimpse　of　Hassan　disappearing　around　another　street　corner。　I　hobbled　after　him；　spikes　of　pain　battering　my　scraped　knees。
I　saw　we　had　ended　up　on　a　rutted　dirt　road　near　Isteqial　Middle　School。　There　was　a　field　on　one　side　where　lettuce　grew　in　the　summer；　and　a　row　of　sour　cherry　trees　on　the　other。　I　found　Hassan　sitting　cross…legged　at　the　foot　of　one　of　the　trees；　eating　from　a　fistful　of　dried　mulberries。
　What　are　we　doing　here？　　I　panted；　my　stomach　roiling　with　nausea。
He　smiled。　　Sit　with　me；　Amir　agha。　
I　dropped　next　to　him；　lay　on　a　thin　patch　of　snow；　wheezing。　　You　re　wasting　our　time。　It　was　going　the　other　way；　didn　t　you　see？　
Hassan　popped　a　mulberry　in　his　mouth。　　It　s　ing；　　he　said。　I　could　hardly　breathe　and　he　didn　t　even　sound　tired。
　How　do　you　know？　　I　said。
　I　know。　
　How　can　you　know？　
He　turned　to　me。　A　few　sweat　beads　rolled　from　his　bald　scalp。　　Would　I　ever　lie　to　you；　Amir　agha？　
Suddenly　I　decided　to　toy　with　him　a　little。　　I　don　t　know。　Would　you？　
　I　d　sooner　eat　dirt；　　he　said　with　a　look　of　indignation。
　Really？　You　d　do　that？　
He　threw　me　a　puzzled　look。　　Do　what？　
　Eat　dirt　if　I　told　you　to；　　I　said。　I　knew　I　was　being　cruel；　like　when　I　d　taunt　him　if　he　didn　t　know　some　big　word。　But　there　was　something　fascinating……albeit　in　a　sick　way……about　teasing　Hassan。　Kind　of　like　when　we　used　to　play　insect　torture。　Except　now；　he　was　the　ant　and　I　was　holding　the　magnifying　glass。
His　eyes　searched　my　face　for　a　long　time。　We　sat　there；　two　boys　under　a　sour　cherry　tree；　suddenly　looking；　really　looking；　at　each　other。　That　s　when　it　happened　again：　Hassan　s　face　changed。　Maybe　not　_changed_；　not　really；　but　suddenly　I　had　the　feeling　I　was　looking　at　two　faces；　the　one　I　knew；　the　one　that　was　my　first　memory；　and　another；　a　second　face；　this　one　lurking　just　beneath　the　surface。　I　d　seen　it　happen　before……it　always　shook　me　up　a