the kite runner-第38部分

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is　sandaled　feet　dangling　two　feet　above　the　floor。　Wrapped　around　his　neck　were　Baba　s　hands。
　I　ll　tell　you　why；　　Baba　snapped。　　Because　he　got　paid　for　his　leg　of　the　trip。　That　s　all　he　cared　about。　　Karim　was　making　guttural　choking　sounds。　Spittle　dripped　from　the　corner　of　his　mouth。
　Put　him　down；　Agha；　you　re　killing　him；　　one　of　the　passengers　said。
　It　s　what　I　intend　to　do；　　Baba　said。　What　none　of　the　others　in　the　room　knew　was　that　Baba　wasn　t　joking。　Karim　was　turning　red　and　kicking　his　legs。　Baba　kept　choking　him　until　the　young　mother；　the　one　the　Russian　officer　had　fancied；　begged　him　to　stop。
Karim　collapsed　on　the　floor　and　rolled　around　fighting　for　air　when　Baba　finally　let　go。　The　room　fell　silent。　Less　than　two　hours　ago；　Baba　had　volunteered　to　take　a　bullet　for　the　honor　of　a　woman　he　didn　t　even　know。　Now　he　d　almost　choked　a　man　to　death；　would　have　done　it　cheerfully　if　not　for　the　pleas　of　that　same　woman。
Something　thumped　next　door。　No；　not　next　door；　below。
　What　s　that？　　someone　asked。
　The　others；　　Karim　panted　between　labored　breaths。　　In　the　basement。　
　How　long　have　they　been　waiting？　　Baba　said；　standing　over　Karim。
　Two　weeks。　
　I　thought　you　said　the　truck　broke　down　last　week。　
Karim　rubbed　his　throat。　　It　might　have　been　the　week　before；　　he　croaked。
　How　long？　
　What？　
　How　long　for　the　parts？　　Baba　roared。　Karim　flinched　but　said　nothing。　I　was　glad　for　the　darkness。　I　didn　t　want　to　see　the　murderous　look　on　Baba　s　face。
THE　STENCH　OF　SOMETHING　DANK；　like　mildew；　bludgeoned　my　nostrils　the　moment　Karim　opened　the　door　that　led　down　the　creaky　steps　to　the　basement。　We　descended　in　single　file。　The　steps　groaned　under　Baba　s　weight。　Standing　in　the　cold　basement；　I　felt　watched　by　eyes　blinking　in　the　dark。　I　saw　shapes　huddled　around　the　room；　their　silhouettes　thrown　on　the　walls　by　the　dim　light　of　a　pair　of　kerosene　lamps。　A　low　murmur　buzzed　through　the　basement；　beneath　it　the　sound　of　water　drops　trickling　somewhere；　and；　something　else；　a　scratching　sound。
Baba　sighed　behind　me　and　dropped　the　bags。
Karim　told　us　it　should　be　a　matter　of　a　couple　of　short　days　before　the　truck　was　fixed。　Then　we　d　be　on　our　way　to　Peshawar。　On　to　freedom。　On　to　safety。
The　basement　was　our　home　for　the　next　week　and；　by　the　third　night；　I　discovered　the　source　of　the　scratching　sounds。　Rats。
ONCE　MY　EYES　ADJUSTED　to　the　dark；　I　counted　about　thirty　refugees　in　that　basement。　We　sat　shoulder　to　shoulder　along　the　walls；　ate　crackers；　bread　with　dates；　apples。　That　first　night；　all　the　men　prayed　together。　One　of　the　refugees　asked　Baba　why　he　wasn　t　joining　them。　　God　is　going　to　save　us　all。　Why　don　t　you　pray　to　him？　
Baba　snorted　a　pinch　of　his　snuff。　Stretched　his　legs。　　What　ll　save　us　is　eight　cylinders　and　a　good　carburetor。　　That　silenced　the　rest　of　them　for　good　about　the　matter　of　God。
It　was　later　that　first　night　when　I　discovered　that　two　of　the　people　hiding　with　us　were　Kamal　and　his　father。　That　was　shocking　enough；　seeing　Kamal　sitting　in　the　basement　just　a　few　feet　away　from　me。　But　when　he　and　his　father　came　over　to　our　side　of　the　room　and　I　saw　Kamal　s　face；　really　saw　it。。。
He　had　withered……there　was　simply　no　other　word　for　it。　His　eyes　gave　me　a　hollow　look　and　no　recognition　at　all　registered　in　them。　His　shoulders　hunched　and　his　cheeks　sagged　like　they　were　too　tired　to　cling　to　the　bone　beneath。　His　father；　who　d　owned　a　movie　theater　in　Kabul；　was　telling　Baba　how；　three　months　before；　a　stray　bullet　had　struck　his　wife　in　the　temple　and　killed　her。　Then　he　told　Baba　about　Kamal。　I　caught　only　snippets　of　it：　Should　have　never　let　him　go　alone。。。　always　so　handsome；　you　know。。。　four　of　them。。。　tried　to　fight。。。　God。。。　took　him。。。　bleeding　down　there。。。　his　pants。。。　doesn　t　talk　any　more。。。　just　stares。。。
THERE　WOULD　BE　NO　TRUCK；　Karim　told　us　after　we　d　spent　a　week　in　the　rat…infested　basement。　The　truck　was　beyond　repair。
　There　is　another　option；　　Karim　said；　his　voice　rising　amid　the　groans。　His　cousin　owned　a　fuel　truck　and　had　smuggled　people　with　it　a　couple　of　times。　He　was　here　in　Jalalabad　and　could　probably　fit　us　all。
Everyone　except　an　elderly　couple　decided　to　go。
We　left　that　night；　Baba　and　I；　Kamal　and　his　father；　the　others。　Karim　and　his　cousin；　a　square…faced　balding　man　named　Aziz；　helped　us　get　into　the　fuel　tank。　One　by　one；　we　mounted　the　idling　truck　s　rear　deck；　climbed　the　rear　access　ladder；　and　slid　down　into　the　tank。　I　remember　Baba　climbed　halfway　up　the
ladder；　hopped　back　down　and　fished　the　snuffbox　from　his　pocket。　He　emptied　the　box　and　picked　up　a　handful　of　dirt　from　the　middle　of　the　unpaved　road。　He　kissed　the　dirt。　Poured　it　into　the　box。　Stowed　the　box　in　his　breast　pocket；　next　to　his　heart。
PANIC。
You　open　your　mouth。　Open　it　so　wide　your　jaws　creak。　You　order　your　lungs　to　draw　air；　NOW；　you　need　air；　need　it　NOW　But　your　airways　ignore　you。　They　collapse；　tighten；　squeeze；　and　suddenly　you　re　breathing　through　a　drinking　straw。　Your　mouth　closes　and　your　lips　purse　and　all　you　can　manage　is　a　strangled　croak。　Your　hands　wriggle　an