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the kite runner-第29部分

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 the bulbs I handed to him。 He was telling me how most people thought it was better to plant tulips in the fall and how that wasn t true; when I came right out and said it。  Baba; have you ever thought about get ting new servants? 
He dropped the tulip bulb and buried the trowel in the dirt。 Took off his gardening gloves。 I d startled him。  Chi? What did you say? 
 I was just wondering; that s all。 
 Why would I ever want to do that?  Baba said curtly。
 You wouldn t; I guess。 It was just a question;  I said; my voice fading to a murmur。 I was already sorry I d said it。
 Is this about you and Hassan? I know there s something going on between you two; but whatever it is; you have to deal with it; not me。 I m staying out of it。 
 I m sorry; Baba。 
He put on his gloves again。  I grew up with Ali;  he said through clenched teeth。  My father took him in; he loved Ali like his own son。 Forty years Ali s been with my family。 Forty goddamn years。 And you think I m just going to throw him out?  He turned to me now; his face as red as a tulip。  I ve never laid a hand on you; Amir; but you ever say that again。。。  He looked away; shaking his head。  You bring me shame。 And Hassan。。。 Hassan s not going anywhere; do you understand? 
I looked down and picked up a fistful of cool soil。 Let it pour between my fingers。
 I said; Do you understand?  Baba roared。
I flinched。  Yes; Baba。 
 Hassan s not going anywhere;  Baba snapped。 He dug a new hole with the trowel; striking the dirt harder than he had to。  He s staying right here with us; where he belongs。 This is his home and we re his family。 Don t you ever ask me that question again! 
 I won t; Baba。 I m sorry。 
We planted the rest of the tulips in silence。
I was relieved when school started that next week。 Students with new notebooks and sharpened pencils in hand ambled about the courtyard; kicking up dust; chatting in groups; waiting for the class captains  whistles。 Baba drove down the dirt lane that led to the entrance。 The school was an old two…story building with broken windows and dim; cobblestone hallways; patches of its original dull yellow paint still showing between sloughing chunks of plaster。 Most of the boys walked to school; and Baba s black Mustang drew more than one envious look。 I should have been beaming with pride when he dropped me off……the old me would have……but all I could muster was a mild form of embarrassment。 That and emptiness。 Baba drove away without saying good…bye。
I bypassed the customary paring of kite…fighting scars and stood in line。 The bell rang and we marched to our assigned class; filed in in pairs。 I sat in the back row。 As the Farsi teacher handed out our textbooks; I prayed for a heavy load of homework。
School gave me an excuse to stay in my room for long hours。 And; for a while; it took my mind off what had happened that winter; what I had let happen。 For a few weeks; I preoccupied myself with gravity and momentum; atoms and cells; the Anglo…Afghan wars; instead of thinking about Hassan and what had happened to him。 But; always; my mind returned to the alley。 To Hassan s brown corduroy pants lying on the bricks。 To the droplets of blood staining the snow dark red; almost black。
One sluggish; hazy afternoon early that summer; I asked Hassan to go up the hill with me。 Told him I wanted to read him a new story I d written。 He was hanging clothes to dry in the yard and I saw his eagerness in the harried way he finished the job。
We climbed the hill; making small talk。 He asked about school; what I was learning; and I talked about my teachers; especially the mean math teacher who punished talkative students by sticking a metal rod between their fingers and then squeezing them together。 Hassan winced at that; said he hoped I d never have to experience it。 I said I d been lucky so far; knowing that luck had nothing to do with it。 I had done my share of talking in class too。 But my father was rich and everyone knew him; so I was spared the metal rod treatment。
We sat against the low cemetery wall under the shade thrown by the pomegranate tree。 In another month or two; crops of scorched yellow weeds would blanket the hillside; but that year the spring showers had lasted longer than usual; nudging their way into early summer; and the grass was still green; peppered with tangles of wildflowers。 Below us; Wazir Akbar Khan s white walled; flat…topped houses gleamed in the sunshine; the laundry hanging on clotheslines in their yards stirred by the breeze to dance like butterflies。
We had picked a dozen pomegranates from the tree。 I unfolded the story I d brought along; turned to the first page; then put it down。 I stood up and picked up an overripe pomegranate that had fallen to the ground。
 What would you do if I hit you with this?  I said; tossing the fruit up and down。
Hassan s smile wilted。 He looked older than I d remembered。 No; not older; old。 Was that possible? Lines had etched into his tanned face and creases framed his eyes; his mouth。 I might as well have taken a knife and carved those lines myself。
 What would you do?  I repeated。
The color fell from his face。 Next to him; the st
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