the kite runner-第2部分

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t　mad；　or　as　mad　as　someone　as　gentle　as　Ali　could　ever　get。　He　would　wag　his　finger　and　wave　us　down　from　the　tree。　He　would　take　the　mirror　and　tell　us　what　his　mother　had　told　him；　that　the　devil　shone　mirrors　too；　shone　them　to　distract　Muslims　during　prayer。　　And　he　laughs　while　he　does　it；　　he　always　added；　scowling　at　his　son。
　Yes；　Father；　　Hassan　would　mumble；　looking　down　at　his　feet。　But　he　never　told　on　me。　Never　told　that　the　mirror；　like　shooting　walnuts　at　the　neighbor　s　dog；　was　always　my　idea。
The　poplar　trees　lined　the　redbrick　driveway；　which　led　to　a　pair　of　wrought…iron　gates。　They　in　turn　opened　into　an　extension　of　the　driveway　into　my　father　s　estate。　The　house　sat　on　the　left　side　of　the　brick　path；　the　backyard　at　the　end　of　it。
Everyone　agreed　that　my　father；　my　Baba；　had　built　the　most　beautiful　house　in　the　Wazir　Akbar　Khan　district；　a　new　and　affluent　neighborhood　in　the　northern　part　of　Kabul。　Some　thought　it　was　the　prettiest　house　in　all　of　Kabul。　A　broad　entryway　flanked　by　rosebushes　led　to　the　sprawling　house　of　marble　floors　and　wide　windows。　Intricate　mosaic　tiles；　handpicked　by　Baba　in　Isfahan；　covered　the　floors　of　the　four　bathrooms。　Gold…stitched　tapestries；　which　Baba　had　bought　in　Calcutta；　lined　the　walls；　a　crystal　chandelier　hung　from　the　vaulted　ceiling。
Upstairs　was　my　bedroom；　Baba　s　room；　and　his　study；　also　known　as　　the　smoking　room；　　which　perpetually　smelled　of　tobacco　and　cinnamon。　Baba　and　his　friends　reclined　on　black　leather　chairs　there　after　Ali　had　served　dinner。　They　stuffed　their　pipes……except　Baba　always　called　it　　fattening　the　pipe　……and　discussed　their　favorite　three　topics：　politics；　business；　soccer。　Sometimes　I　asked　Baba　if　I　could　sit　with　them；　but　Baba　would　stand　in　the　doorway。　　Go　on；　now；　　he　d　say。　　This　is　grown…ups　　time。　Why　don　t　you　go　read　one　of　those　books　of　yours？　　He　d　close　the　door；　leave　me　to　wonder　why　it　was　always　grown…ups　　time　with　him。　I　d　sit　by　the　door；　knees　drawn　to　my　chest。　Sometimes　I　sat　there　for　an　hour；　sometimes　two；　listening　to　their　laughter；　their　chatter。
The　living　room　downstairs　had　a　curved　wall　with　custombuilt　cabinets。　Inside　sat　framed　family　pictures：　an　old；　grainy　photo　of　my　grandfather　and　King　Nadir　Shah　taken　in　1931；　two　years　before　the　king　s　assassination；　they　are　standing　over　a　dead　deer；　dressed　in　knee…high　boots；　rifles　slung　over　their　shoulders。　There　was　a　picture　of　my　parents　　wedding　night；　Baba　dashing　in　his　black　suit　and　my　mother　a　smiling　young　princess　in　white。　Here　was　Baba　and　his　best　friend　and　business　partner；　Rahim　Khan；　standing　outside　our　house；　neither　one　smiling……I　am　a　baby　in　that　photograph　and　Baba　is　holding　me；　looking　tired　and　grim。　I　m　in　his　arms；　but　it　s　Rahim　Khan　s　pinky　my　fingers　are　curled　around。
The　curved　wall　led　into　the　dining　room；　at　the　center　of　which　was　a　mahogany　table　that　could　easily　sit　thirty　guests……　and；　given　my　father　s　taste　for　extravagant　parties；　it　did　just　that　almost　every　week。　On　the　other　end　of　the　dining　room　was　a　tall　marble　fireplace；　always　lit　by　the　orange　glow　of　a　fire　in　the　wintertime。
A　large　sliding　glass　door　opened　into　a　semicircular　terrace　that　overlooked　two　acres　of　backyard　and　rows　of　cherry　trees。　Baba　and　Ali　had　planted　a　small　vegetable　garden　along　the　eastern　wall：　tomatoes；　mint；　peppers；　and　a　row　of　corn　that　never　really　took。　Hassan　and　I　used　to　call　it　　the　Wall　of　Ailing　Corn。　
On　the　south　end　of　the　garden；　in　the　shadows　of　a　loquat　tree；　was　the　servants　　home；　a　modest　little　mud　hut　where　Hassan　lived　with　his　father。
It　was　there；　in　that　little　shack；　that　Hassan　was　born　in　the　winter　of　1964；　just　one　year　after　my　mother　died　giving　birth　to　me。
In　the　eighteen　years　that　I　lived　in　that　house；　I　stepped　into　Hassan　and　Ali　s　quarters　only　a　handful　of　times。　When　the　sun　dropped　low　behind　the　hills　and　we　were　done　playing　for　the　day；　Hassan　and　I　parted　ways。　I　went　past　the　rosebushes　to　Baba　s　mansion；　Hassan　to　the　mud　shack　where　he　had　been　born；　where　he　d　lived　his　entire　life。　I　remember　it　was　spare；　clean；　dimly　lit　by　a　pair　of　kerosene　lamps。　There　were　two　mattresses　on　opposite　sides　of　the　room；　a　worn　Herati　rug　with　frayed　edges　in　between；　a　three…legged　stool；　and　a　wooden　table　in　the　corner　where　Hassan　did　his　drawings。　The　walls　stood　bare；　save　for　a　single　tapestry　with　sewn…in　beads　forming　the　words　_Allah…u…akbar_。　Baba　had　bought　it　for　Ali　on　one　of　his　trips　to　Mashad。
It　was　in　that　small　shack　that　Hassan　s　mother；　Sanaubar；　gave　birth　to　him　one　cold　winter　day　in　1964。　While　my　mother　hemorrhaged　to　death　during　childbirth；　Hassan　lost　his　less　than　a　week　after　he　was　born。　Lost　her　to　a　fate　most　Afghans　considered　far　worse　than　death：　She　ran　off　with　a　clan　of　traveling　singers　and　dancers。
Hassan　never　talked　about　his　mother；　as　if　she　d　never　existed。　I　always　wondered　if　he　dreamed　about　her；　about　what　she　looked　like；　where　she　was。　I　wondered　if　he　longed　to　meet　her。　Did　he　ache　for　her；　the　way　I　ached　for　the　mother　I　had　never　met？　One　day；　we