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the kite runner-第35部分
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Baba had offered to drive them to Bamiyan himself; but Ali refused。 Through the blurry; rain…soaked window of my bedroom; I watched Ali haul the lone suitcase carrying all of their belongings to Baba s car idling outside the gates。 Hassan lugged his mattress; rolled tightly and tied with a rope; on his back。 He d left all of his toys behind in the empty shack……I discovered them the next day; piled in a corner just like the birthday presents in my room。
Slithering beads of rain sluiced down my window。 I saw Baba slam the trunk shut。 Already drenched; he walked to the driver s side。 Leaned in and said something to Ali in the backseat; perhaps one last…ditch effort to change his mind。 They talked that way awhile; Baba getting soaked; stooping; one arm on the roof of the car。 But when he straightened; I saw in his slumping shoulders that the life I had known since I d been born was over。 Baba slid in。 The headlights came on and cut twin funnels of light in the rain。 If this were one of the Hindi movies Hassan and I used to watch; this was the part where I d run outside; my bare feet splashing rainwater。 I d chase the car; screaming for it to stop。 I d pull Hassan out of the backseat and tell him I was sorry; so sorry; my tears mixing with rainwater。 We d hug in the downpour。 But this was no Hindi movie。 I was sorry; but I didn t cry and I didn t chase the car。 I watched Baba s car pull away from the curb; taking with it the person whose first spoken word had been my name。 I caught one final blurry glimpse of Hassan slumped in the back seat before Baba turned left at the street corner where we d played marbles so many times。
I stepped back and all I saw was rain through windowpanes that looked like melting silver。
TEN
_March 1981_
A young woman sat across from us。 She was dressed in an olive green dress with a black shawl wrapped tightly around her face against the night chill。 She burst into prayer every time the truck jerked or stumbled into a pothole; her Bismillah! peaking with each of the truck s shudders and jolts。 Her husband; a burly man in baggy pants and sky blue turban; cradled an infant in one arm and thumbed prayer beads with his free hand。 His lips moved in silent prayer。 There were others; in all about a dozen; including Baba and me; sitting with our suitcases between our legs; cramped with these strangers in the tarpaulin…covered cab of an old Russian truck。
My innards had been roiling since we d left Kabul just after two in the morning。 Baba never said so; but I knew he saw my car sickness as yet another of my array of weakness……I saw it on his embarrassed face the couple of times my stomach had clenched so badly I had moaned。 When the burly guy with the beads……the praying woman s husband……asked if I was going to get sick; I said I might。 Baba looked away。 The man lifted his corner of the tarpaulin cover and rapped on the driver s window; asked him to stop。 But the driver; Karim; a scrawny dark…skinned man with hawk…boned features and a pencil…thin mustache; shook his head。
We are too close to Kabul; he shot back。 Tell him to have a strong stomach。
Baba grumbled something under his breath。 I wanted to tell him I was sorry; but suddenly I was salivating; the back of my throat tasting bile。 I turned around; lifted the tarpaulin; and threw up over the side of the moving truck。 Behind me; Baba was apologizing to the other passengers。 As if car sickness was a crime。 As if you weren t supposed to get sick when you were eighteen。 I threw up two more times before Karim agreed to stop; mostly so I wouldn t stink up his vehicle; the instrument of his livelihood。 Karim was a people smuggler……it was a pretty lucrative business then; driving people out of Shorawi…occupied Kabul to the relative safety of Pakistan。 He was taking us to Jalalabad; about 170 kilometers southeast of Kabul; where his brother; Toor; who had a bigger truck with a second convoy of refugees; was waiting to drive us across the Khyber Pass and into Peshawar。
We were a few kilometers west of Mahipar Falls when Karim pulled to the side of the road。 Mahipar……which means Flying Fish ……was a high summit with a precipitous drop overlooking the hydro plant the Germans had built for Afghanistan back in 1967。 Baba and I had driven over the summit countless times on our way to Jalalabad; the city of cypress trees and sugarcane fields where Afghans vacationed in the winter。
I hopped down the back of the truck and lurched to the dusty embankment on the side of the road。 My mouth filled with saliva; a sign of the retching that was yet to e。 I stumbled to the edge of the cliff overlooking the deep valley that was shrouded in dark ness。 I stooped; hands on my kneecaps; and waited for the bile。 Somewhere; a branch snapped; an owl hooted。 The wind; soft and cold; clicked through tree branches and stirred the bushes that sprinkled the slope。 And from below; the faint sound of water tumbling through the valley。
Standing on the shoulder of the road; I thought of the way we d left the house where I d lived my entire life; as if we were going out for a bite: dishes smeared with kofta piled in the kitchen sin
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