the kite runner-第36部分

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　with　kofta　piled　in　the　kitchen　sink；　laundry　in　the　wicker　basket　in
the　foyer；　beds　unmade；　Baba　s　business　suits　hanging　in　the　closet。　Tapestries　still　hung　on　the　walls　of　the　living　room　and　my　mother　s　books　still　crowded　the　shelves　in　Baba　s　study。　The　signs　of　our　elopement　were　subtle：　My　parents　　wedding　picture　was　gone；　as　was　the　grainy　photograph　of　my　grandfather　and　King　Nader　Shah　standing　over　the　dead　deer。　A　few　items　of　clothing　were　missing　from　the　closets。　The　leather…bound　notebook　Rahim　Khan　had　given　me　five　years　earlier　was　gone。
In　the　morning；　Jalaluddin……our　seventh　servant　in　five　years……would　probably　think　we　d　gone　out　for　a　stroll　or　a　drive。　We　hadn　t　told　him。　You　couldn　t　trust　anyone　in　Kabul　any　more……for　a　fee　or　under　threat；　people　told　on　each　other；　neighbor　on　neighbor；　child　on　parent；　brother　on　brother；　servant　on　master；　friend　on　friend。　I　thought　of　the　singer　Ahmad　Zahir；　who　had　played　the　accordion　at　my　thirteenth　birthday。　He　had　gone　for　a　drive　with　some　friends；　and　someone　had　later　found　his　body　on　the　side　of　the　road；　a　bullet　in　the　back　of　his　head。　The　rafiqs；　the　rades；　were　everywhere　and　they　d　split　Kabul　into　two　groups：　those　who　eavesdropped　and　those　who　didn　t。　The　tricky　part　was　that　no　one　knew　who　belonged　to　which。　A　casual　remark　to　the　tailor　while　getting　fitted　for　a　suit　might　land　you　in　the　dungeons　of　Poleh…charkhi。　plain　about　the　curfew　to　the　butcher　and　next　thing　you　knew；　you　were　behind　bars　staring　at　the　muzzle　end　of　a　Kalashnikov。　Even　at　the　dinner　table；　in　the　privacy　of　their　home；　people　had　to　speak　in　a　calculated　manner……the　rafiqs　were　in　the　classrooms　too；　they　d　taught　children　to　spy　on　their　parents；　what　to　listen　for；　whom　to　tell。
What　was　I　doing　on　this　road　in　the　middle　of　the　night？　I　should　have　been　in　bed；　under　my　blanket；　a　book　with　dog…eared　pages　at　my　side。　This　had　to　be　a　dream。　Had　to　be。　Tomorrow　morning；　I　d　wake　up；　peek　out　the　window：　No　grim…faced　Russian　soldiers　patrolling　the　sidewalks；　no　tanks　rolling　up　and　down　the　streets　of　my　city；　their　turrets　swiveling　like　accusing　fingers；　no　rubble；　no　curfews；　no　Russian　Army　Personnel　Carriers　weaving　through　the　bazaars。　Then；　behind　me；　I　heard　Baba　and　Karim　discussing　the　arrangement　in　Jalalabad　over　a　smoke。　Karim　was　reassuring　Baba　that　his　brother　had　a　big　truck　of　　excellent　and　first…class　quality；　　and　that　the　trek　to　Peshawar　would　be　very　routine。　　He　could　take　you　there　with　his　eyes　closed；　　Karim　said。　I　overheard　him　telling　Baba　how　he　and　his　brother　knew　the　Russian　and　Afghan　soldiers　who　worked　the　checkpoints；　how　they　had　set　up　a　　mutually　profitable　　arrangement。　This　was　no　dream。　As　if　on　cue；　a　MiG　suddenly　screamed　past　overhead。　Karim　tossed　his　cigarette　and　produced　a　hand　gun　from　his　waist。　Pointing　it　to　the　sky　and　making　shooting　gestures；　he　spat　and　cursed　at　the　MiG。
I　wondered　where　Hassan　was。　Then　the　inevitable。　I　vomited　on　a　tangle　of　weeds；　my　retching　and　groaning　drowned　in　the　deafening　roar　of　the　MiG。　WE　PULLED　UP　to　the　checkpoint　at　Mahipar　twenty　minutes　later。　Our　driver　let　the　truck　idle　and　hopped　down　to　greet　the　approaching　voices。　Feet　crushed　gravel。　Words　were　exchanged；　brief　and　hushed。　A　flick　of　a　lighter。　　Spasseba。　
Another　flick　of　the　lighter。　Someone　laughed；　a　shrill　cackling　sound　that　made　me　jump。　Baba　s　hand　clamped　down　on　my　thigh。　The　laughing　man　broke　into　song；　a　slurring；　off…key　rendition　of　an　old　Afghan　wedding　song；　delivered　with　a　thick　Russian　accent：
Ahesta　boro；　Mah…e…man；　ahesta　boro。
Go　slowly；　my　lovely　moon；　go　slowly。
Boot　heels　clicked　on　asphalt。　Someone　flung　open　the　tarpaulin　hanging　over　the　back　of　the　truck；　and　three　faces　peered　in。　One　was　Karim；　the　other　two　were　soldiers；　one　Afghan；　the　other　a　grinning　Russian；　face　like　a　bulldog　s；　cigarette　dangling　from　the　side　of　his　mouth。　Behind　them；　a　bone…colored　moon　hung　in　the　sky。　Karim　and　the　Afghan　soldier　had　a　brief　exchange　in　Pashtu。　I　caught　a　little　of　it……something　about　Toor　and　his　bad　luck。　The　Russian　soldier　thrust　his　face　into　the　rear　of　the　truck。　He　was　humming　the　wedding　song　and　drumming　his　finger　on　the　edge　of　the　tailgate。　Even　in　the　dim　light　of　the　moon；　I　saw　the　glazed　look　in　his　eyes　as　they　skipped　from　passenger　to　passenger。　Despite　the　cold；　sweat　streamed　from　his　brow。　His　eyes　settled　on　the　young　woman　wearing　the　black　shawl。　He　spoke　in　Russian　to　Karim　without　taking　his　eyes　off　her。　Karim　gave　a　curt　reply　in　Russian；　which　the　soldier　returned　with　an　even　curter　retort。　The　Afghan　soldier　said　some　thing　too；　in　a　low；　reasoning　voice。　But　the　Russian　soldier　shouted　something　that　made　the　other　two　flinch。　I　could　feel　Baba　tightening　up　next　to　me。　Karim　cleared　his　throat；　dropped　his　head。　Said　the　soldier　wanted　a　half　hour　with　the　lady　in　the　back　of　the　truck。
The　young　woman　pulled　the　shawl　down　over　her　face。　Burst　into　tears。　The　toddler　sitting　in　her　husband　s　lap　started　crying　too。　The　husband　s　face　had　bee　as　pale　as　the　moon　hovering　ab