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the kite runner-第18部分
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d seen it happen before……it always shook me up a little。 It just appeared; this other face; for a fraction of a moment; long enough to leave me with the unsettling feeling that maybe I d seen it someplace before。 Then Hassan blinked and it was just him again。 Just Hassan。
If you asked; I would; he finally said; looking right at me。 I dropped my eyes。 To this day; I find it hard to gaze directly at people like Hassan; people who mean every word they say。
But I wonder; he added。 Would you ever ask me to do such a thing; Amir agha? And; just like that; he had thrown at me his own little test。 If I was going to toy with him and challenge his loyalty; then he d toy with me; test my integrity。
I wished I hadn t started this conversation。 I forced a smile。 Don t be stupid; Hassan。 You know I wouldn t。
Hassan returned the smile。 Except his didn t look forced。 I know; he said。 And that s the thing about people who mean everything they say。 They think everyone else does too。
Here it es; Hassan said; pointing to the sky。 He rose to his feet and walked a few paces to his left。 I looked up; saw the kite plummeting toward us。 I heard footfalls; shouts; an approaching melee of kite runners。 But they were wasting their time。 Because Hassan stood with his arms wide open; smiling;
waiting for the kite。 And may God……if He exists; that is……strike me blind if the kite didn t just drop into his outstretched arms。
IN THE WINTER OF 1975; I saw Hassan run a kite for the last time。
Usually; each neighborhood held its own petition。 But that year; the tournament was going to be held in my neighborhood; Wazir Akbar Khan; and several other districts……Karteh…Char; Karteh…Parwan; Mekro…Rayan; and Koteh…Sangi……had been invited。 You could hardly go anywhere without hearing talk of the uping tournament。 Word had it this was going to be the biggest tournament in twenty…five years。
One night that winter; with the big contest only four days away; Baba and I sat in his study in overstuffed leather chairs by the glow of the fireplace。 We were sipping tea; talking。 Ali had served dinner earlier……potatoes and curried cauliflower over rice……and had retired for the night with Hassan。 Baba was fattening his pipe and I was asking him to tell the story about the winter a pack of wolves had descended from the mountains in Herat and forced everyone to stay indoors for a week; when he lit a match and said; casually; I think maybe you ll win the tournament this year。 What do you think?
I didn t know what to think。 Or what to say。 Was that what it would take? Had he just slipped me a key? I was a good kite fighter。 Actually; a very good one。 A few times; I d even e close to winning the winter tournament……once; I d made it to the final three。 But ing close wasn t the same as winning; was it? Baba hadn t _e close_。 He had won because winners won and everyone else just went home。 Baba was used to winning; winning at everything he set his mind to。 Didn t he have a right to expect the same from his son? And just imagine。 If I did win。。。
Baba smoked his pipe and talked。 I pretended to listen。 But I couldn t listen; not really; because Baba s casual little ment had planted a seed in my head: the resolution that I would win that winter s tournament。 I was going to win。 There was no other viable option。 I was going to win; and I was going to run that last kite。 Then I d bring it home and show it to Baba。 Show him once and for all that his son was worthy。 Then maybe my life as a ghost in this house would finally be over。 I let myself dream: I imagined conversation and laughter over dinner instead of silence broken only by the clinking of silverware and the occasional grunt。 I envisioned us taking a Friday drive in Baba s car to Paghman; stopping on the way at Ghargha Lake for some fried trout and potatoes。 We d go to the zoo to see Marjan the lion; and maybe Baba wouldn t yawn and steal looks at his wristwatch all the time。 Maybe Baba would even read one of my stories。 I d write him a hundred if I thought he d read one。 Maybe he d call me Amir jan like Rahim Khan did。 And maybe; just maybe; I would finally be pardoned for killing my mother。
Baba was telling me about the time he d cut fourteen kites on the same day。 I smiled; nodded; laughed at all the right places; but
I hardly heard a word he said。 I had a mission now。 And I wasn t going to fail Baba。 Not this time。
IT SNOWED HEAVILY the night before the tournament。 Hassan and I sat under the kursi and played panjpar as wind…rattled tree branches tapped on the window。 Earlier that day; I d asked Ali to set up the kursi for us……which was basically an electric heater under a low table covered with a thick; quilted blanket。
Around the table; he arranged mattresses and cushions; so as many as twenty people could sit and slip their legs under。 Hassan and I used to spend entire snowy days snug under the kursi; playing chess; cards……mostly panjpar。
I killed Hassan s ten of diamonds; played him two jacks and a six。 Next door; in Baba s study; Baba and Rahim Khan were discussing business with a couple of other men…one of them I recognized as Assef s father。 Thro
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