the kite runner-第27部分

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。　Everyone　in　the　van　was　talking；　talking　loudly　and　at　the　same　time；　nearly　shrieking；　which　is　how　Afghans　talk。　I　asked　one　of　the　twins……Fazila　or　Karima；　I　could　never　tell　which　was　which……if　she　d　trade　her　window　seat　with　me　so　I　could　get　fresh　air　on　account　of　my　car　sickness。　She　stuck　her　tongue　out　and　said　no。　I　told　her　that　was　fine；　but　I　couldn　t　be　held　accountable　for　vomiting　on　her　new　dress。　A　minute　later；　I　was　leaning　out　the　window。　I　watched　the　cratered　road　rise　and　fall；　whirl　its　tail　around　the　mountainside；　counted　the　multicolored　trucks　packed　with　squatting　men　lumbering　past。　I　tried　closing　my　eyes；　letting　the　wind　slap　at　my　cheeks；　opened　my　mouth　to　swallow　the　clean　air。　I　still　didn　t　feel　better。　A　finger　poked　me　in　the　side。　It　was　Fazila/Karima。
　What？　　I　said。
　I　was　just　telling　everyone　about　the　tournament；　　Baba　said　from　behind　the　wheel。　Kaka　Homayoun　and　his　wives　were　smiling　at　me　from　the　middle　row　of　seats。
　There　must　have　been　a　hundred　kites　in　the　sky　that　day？　　Baba　said。　　Is　that　about　right；　Amir？　
　I　guess　so；　　I　mumbled。
　A　hundred　kites；　Homayoun　jan。　No　_laaf_。　And　the　only　one　still　flying　at　the　end　of　the　day　was　Amir　s。　He　has　the　last　kite　at　home；　a　beautiful　blue　kite。　Hassan　and　Amir　ran　it　together。　
　Congratulations；　　Kaka　Homayoun　said。　His　first　wife；　the　one　with　the　warts；　clapped　her　hands。　　Wah　wah；　Amir　jan；　we　re　all　so　proud　of　you！　　she　said。　The　younger　wife　joined　in。　Then　they　were　all　clapping；　yelping　their　praises；　telling　me　how　proud　I　d　made　them　all。　Only　Rahim　Khan；　sitting　in　the　passenger　seat　next　to　Baba；　was　silent。　He　was　looking　at　me　in　an　odd　way。
　Please　pull　over；　Baba；　　I　said。
　What？　
　Getting　sick；　　I　muttered；　leaning　across　the　seat；　pressing　against　Kaka　Homayoun　s　daughters。
Fazilal/Karima　s　face　twisted。　　Pull　over；　Kaka！　His　face　is　yellow！　I　don　t　want　him　throwing　up　on　my　new　dress！　　she　squealed。
Baba　began　to　pull　over；　but　I　didn　t　make　it。　A　few　minutes　later；　I　was　sitting　on　a　rock　on　the　side　of　the　road　as　they　aired　out　the　van。　Baba　was　smoking　with　Kaka　Homayoun　who　was　telling　Fazila/Karima　to　stop　crying；　he　d　buy　her　another　dress　in　Jalalabad。　I　closed　my　eyes；　turned　my　face　to　the　sun。　Little　shapes　formed　behind　my　eyelids；　like　hands　playing　shadows　on　the　wall。　They　twisted；　merged；　formed　a　single　image：　Hassan　s　brown　corduroy　pants　discarded　on　a　pile　of　old　bricks　in　the　alley。
KAKA　HOMAYOUN　S　WHITE；　two…story　house　in　Jalalabad　had　a　balcony　overlooking　a　large；　walled　garden　with　apple　and　persimmon　trees。　There　were　hedges　that；　in　the　summer；　the　gardener　shaped　like　animals；　and　a　swimming　pool　with　emeraldcolored　tiles。　I　sat　on　the　edge　of　the　pool；　empty　save　for　a　layer　of　slushy　snow　at　the　bottom；　feet　dangling　in。　Kaka　Homayoun　s　kids　were　playing　hide…and…seek　at　the　other　end　of　the　yard。　The　women　were　cooking　and　I　could　smell　onions　frying　already；　could　hear　the　phht…phht　of　a　pressure　cooker；　music；　laughter。　Baba；　Rahim　Khan；　Kaka　Homayoun；　and　Kaka　Nader　were　sitting　on　the　balcony；　smoking。　Kaka　Homayoun　was　telling　them　he　d　brought　the　projector　along　to　show　his　slides　of　France。　Ten　years　since　he　d　returned　from　Paris　and　he　was　still　showing　those　stupid　slides。
It　shouldn　t　have　felt　this　way。　Baba　and　I　were　finally　friends。　We　d　gone　to　the　zoo　a　few　days　before；　seen　Marjan　the　lion；　and　I　had　hurled　a　pebble　at　the　bear　when　no　one　was　watching。　We　d　gone　to　Dadkhoda　s　Kabob　House　afterward；　across　from　Cinema　Park；　had　lamb　kabob　with　freshly　baked　_naan_　from　the　tandoor。　Baba　told　me　stories　of　his　travels　to　India　and　Russia；　the　people　he　had　met；　like　the　armless；　legless　couple　in　Bombay　who　d　been　married　forty…seven　years　and　raised　eleven　children。　That　should　have　been　fun；　spending　a　day　like　that　with　Baba；　hearing　his　stories。　I　finally　had　what　I　d　wanted　all　those　years。　Except　now　that　I　had　it；　I　felt　as　empty　as　this　unkempt　pool　I　was　dangling　my　legs　into。
The　wives　and　daughters　served　dinner……rice；　kofta；　and　chicken　_qurma_……at　sundown。　We　dined　the　traditional　way；　sitting　on　cushions　around　the　room；　tablecloth　spread　on　the　floor；　eating　with　our　hands　in　groups　of　four　or　five　from　mon　platters。　I　wasn　t　hungry　but　sat　down　to　eat　anyway　with　Baba；　Kaka　Faruq；　and　Kaka　Homayoun　s　two　boys。　Baba；　who　d　had　a　few　scotches　before
dinner；　was　still　ranting　about　the　kite　tournament；　how　I　d　outlasted　them　all；　how　I　d　e　home　with　the　last　kite。　His　booming　voice　dominated　the　room。　People　raised　their　heads　from　their　platters；　called　out　their　congratulations。　Kaka　Faruq　patted　my　back　with　his　clean　hand。　I　felt　like　sticking　a　knife　in　my　eye。
Later；　well　past　midnight；　after　a　few　hours　of　poker　between　Baba　and　his　cousins；　the　men　lay　down　to　sleep　on　parallel　mattresses　in　the　same　room　where　we　d　dined。　The　women　went　upstairs。　An　hour　later；　I　still　couldn　t　sleep。　I　kept　tossing　and　turning　as　my　relatives　grunted；　sighed；　and　snored　in　their　sleep。　I　sat　up。　A　wedge　of　moonlight　streamed　in　through　the　window。
　I　watched　Hassan　get　raped；