the kite runner-第30部分

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　What　would　you　do？　　I　repeated。
The　color　fell　from　his　face。　Next　to　him；　the　stapled　pages　of　the　story　I　d　promised　to　read　him　fluttered　in　the　breeze。　I　hurled　the　pomegranate　at　him。　It　struck　him　in　the　chest；　exploded　in　a　spray　of　red　pulp。　Hassan　s　cry　was　pregnant　with　surprise　and　pain。
　Hit　me　back！　　I　snapped。　Hassan　looked　from　the　stain　on　his　chest　to　me。
　Get　up！　Hit　me！　　I　said。　Hassan　did　get　up；　but　he　just　stood　there；　looking　dazed　like　a　man　dragged　into　the　ocean　by　a　riptide　when；　just　a　moment　ago；　he　was　enjoying　a　nice　stroll　on　the　beach。
I　hit　him　with　another　pomegranate；　in　the　shoulder　this　time。　The　juice　splattered　his　face。　　Hit　me　back！　　I　spat。　　Hit　me　back；　goddamn　you！　　I　wished　he　would。　I　wished　he　d　give　me　the　punishment　I　craved；　so　maybe　I　d　finally　sleep　at　night。　Maybe　then　things　could　return　to　how　they　used　to　be　between　us。　But　Hassan　did　nothing　as　I　pelted　him　again　and　again。　　You　re　a　coward！　　I　said。　　Nothing　but　a　goddamn　coward！　
I　don　t　know　how　many　times　I　hit　him。　All　I　know　is　that；　when　I　finally　stopped；　exhausted　and　panting；　Hassan　was　smeared　in　red　like　he　d　been　shot　by　a　firing　squad。　I　fell　to　my　knees；　tired；　spent；　frustrated。
Then　Hassan　did　pick　up　a　pomegranate。　He　walked　toward　me。　He　opened　it　and　crushed　it　against　his　own　forehead。　　There；　　he　croaked；　red　dripping　down　his　face　like　blood。　　Are　you　satisfied？　Do　you　feel　better？　　He　turned　around　and　started　down　the　hill。
I　let　the　tears　break　free；　rocked　back　and　forth　on　my　knees。
　What　am　I　going　to　do　with　you；　Hassan？　What　am　I　going　to　do　with　you？　　But　by　the　time　the　tears　dried　up　and　I　trudged　down　the　hill；　I　knew　the　answer　to　that　question。
I　TURNED　THIRTEEN　that　summer　of　1976；　Afghanistan　s　next　to　last　summer　of　peace　and　anonymity。　Things　between　Baba　and　me　were　already　cooling　off　again。　I　think　what　started　it　was　the　stupid　ment　I　d　made　the　day　we　were　planting　tulips；　about　getting　new　servants。　I　regretted　saying　it……I　really　did……but　I　think　even　if　I　hadn　t；　our　happy　little　interlude　would　have　e　to　an　end。　Maybe　not　quite　so　soon；　but　it　would　have。　By　the　end　of　the　summer；　the　scraping　of　spoon　and　fork　against　the　plate　had　replaced　dinner　table　chatter　and　Baba　had　resumed　retreating　to　his　study　after　supper。　And　closing　the　door。　I　d　gone　back　to　thumbing　through　H~afez　and　Khayy醡；　gnawing　my　nails　down　to　the　cuticles；　writing　stories。　I　kept　the　stories　in　a　stack　under　my　bed；　keeping　them　just　in　case；　though　I　doubted　Baba　would　ever　again　ask　me　to　read　them　to　him。
Baba　s　motto　about　throwing　parties　was　this：　Invite　the　whole　world　or　it　s　not　a　party。　I　remember　scanning　over　the　invitation　list　a　week　before　my　birthday　party　and　not　recognizing　at　least　three…quarters　of　the　four　hundred……plus　Kakas　and　Khalas　who　were　going　to　bring　me　gifts　and　congratulate　me　for　having　lived　to　thirteen。　Then　I　realized　they　weren　t　really　ing　for　me。　It　was　my　birthday；　but　I　knew　who　the　real　star　of　the　show　was。
For　days；　the　house　was　teeming　with　Baba　s　hired　help。　There　was　Salahuddin　the　butcher；　who　showed　up　with　a　calf　and　two　sheep　in　tow；　refusing　payment　for　any　of　the　three。　He　slaughtered　the　animals　himself　in　the　yard　by　a　poplar　tree。　　Blood　is　good　for　the　tree；　　I　remember　him　saying　as　the　grass　around　the　poplar　soaked　red。　Men　I　didn　t　know　climbed　the　oak　trees　with　coils　of　small　electric　bulbs　and　meters　of　extension　cords。　Others　set　up　dozens　of　tables　in　the　yard；　spread　a　tablecloth　on　each。　The　night　before　the　big　party　Baba　s　friend　Del…Muhammad；　who　owned　a　kabob　house　in　Shar…e…Nau；　came　to　the　house　with　his　bags　of　spices。　Like　the　butcher；　Del…Muhammad……or　Dello；　as　Baba　called　him……refused　payment　for　his　services。　He　said　Baba　had　done　enough　for
his　family　already。　It　was　Rahim　Khan　who　whispered　to　me；　as　Dello　marinated　the　meat；　that　Baba　had　lent　Dello　the　money　to　open　his　restaurant。　Baba　had　refused　repayment　until　Dello　had　shown　up　one　day　in　our　driveway　in　a　Benz　and　insisted　he　wouldn　t　leave　until　Baba　took　his　money。
I　guess　in　most　ways；　or　at　least　in　the　ways　in　which　parties　are　judged；　my　birthday　bash　was　a　huge　success。　I　d　never　seen　the　house　so　packed。　Guests　with　drinks　in　hand　were　chatting　in　the　hallways；　smoking　on　the　stairs；　leaning　against　doorways。　They　sat　where　they　found　space；　on　kitchen　counters；　in　the　foyer；　even　under　the　stairwell。　In　the　backyard；　they　mingled　under　the　glow　of　blue；　red；　and　green　lights　winking　in　the　trees；　their　faces　illuminated　by　the　light　of　kerosene　torches　propped　everywhere。　Baba　had　had　a　stage　built　on　the　balcony　that　overlooked　the　garden　and　planted　speakers　throughout　the　yard。　Ahmad　Zahir　was　playing　an　accordion　and　singing　on　the　stage　over　masses　of　dancing　bodies。
I　had　to　greet　each　of　the　guests　personally……Baba　made　sure　of　that；　no　one　was　going　to　gossip　the　next　day　about　how　he　d　raised　a　son　with　no　manners。　I　kissed　hundreds　of　cheeks；　hugged　total　strangers；　thanked　them　for　their　gifts。　My　face　ached　from　the　strain　of　my　plastered　smile。
I　was　standing　with