the kite runner-第39部分

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manage　is　a　strangled　croak。　Your　hands　wriggle　and　shake。　Somewhere　a　dam　has　cracked　open　and　a　flood　of　cold　sweat　spills；　drenches　your　body。　You　want　to　scream。　You　would　if　you　could。　But　you　have　to　breathe　to　scream。
Panic。
The　basement　had　been　dark。　The　fuel　tank　was　pitch…black。　I　looked　right；　left；　up；　down；　waved　my　hands　before　my　eyes；　didn　t　see　so　much　as　a　hint　of　movement。　I　blinked；　blinked　again。　Nothing　at　all。　The　air　wasn　t　right；　it　was　too　thick；　almost　solid。　Air　wasn　t　supposed　to　be　solid。　I　wanted　to　reach　out　with　my　hands；　crush　the　air　into　little　pieces；　stuff　them　down　my　windpipe。　And　the　stench　of　gasoline。　My　eyes　stung　from　the　fumes；　like　someone　had　peeled　my　lids　back　and　rubbed　a　lemon　on　them。　My　nose　caught　fire　with　each　breath。　You　could　die　in　a　place　like　this；　I　thought。　A　scream　was　ing。　ing；　ing。。。
And　then　a　small　miracle。　Baba　tugged　at　my　sleeve　and　some　thing　glowed　green　in　the　dark。　Light！　Baba　s　wristwatch。　I　kept　my　eyes　glued　to　those　fluorescent　green　hands。　I　was　so　afraid　I　d　lose　them；　I　didn　t　dare　blink。
Slowly　I　became　aware　of　my　surroundings。　I　heard　groans　and　muttered　prayers。　I　heard　a　baby　cry；　its　mother　s　muted　soothing。　Someone　retched。　Someone　else　cursed　the　Shorawi。　The　truck　bounced　side　to　side；　up　and　down。　Heads　banged　against　metal。
　Think　of　something　good；　　Baba　said　in　my　ear。　　Something　happy。　
Something　good。　Something　happy。　I　let　my　mind　wander。　I　let　it　e：
Friday　afternoon　in　Paghman。　An　open　field　of　grass　speckled　with　mulberry　trees　in　blossom。　Hassan　and　I　stand　ankle…deep　in　untamed　grass；　I　am　tugging　on　the　line；　the　spool　spinning　in　Hassan　s　calloused　hands；　our　eyes　turned　up　to　the　kite　in　the　sky。　Not　a　word　passes　between　us；　not　because　we　have　nothing　to　say；　but　because　we　don　t　have　to　say　anything……that　s　how　it　is　between　people　who　are　each　other　s　first　memories；　people　who　have　fed　from　the　same　breast。　A　breeze　stirs　the　grass　and　Hassan　lets　the　spool　roll。　The　kite　spins；　dips；　steadies。　Our　twin　shadows　dance　on　the　rippling　grass。　From　somewhere　over　the　low　brick　wall　at　the　other　end　of　the　field；　we　hear　chatter　and　laughter　and　the　chirping　of　a　water　fountain。　And　music；　some　thing　old　and　familiar；　I　think　it　s　Ya　Mowlah　on　rubab　strings。　Someone　calls　our　names　over　the　wall；　says　it　s　time　for　tea　and　cake。
I　didn　t　remember　what　month　that　was；　or　what　year　even。　I　only　knew　the　memory　lived　in　me；　a　perfectly　encapsulated　morsel　of　a　good　past；　a　brushstroke　of　color　on　the　gray；　barren　canvas　that　our　lives　had　bee。
THE　REST　OF　THAT　RIDE　is　scattered　bits　and　pieces　of　memory　that　e　and　go；　most　of　it　sounds　and　smells：　MiGs　roaring　past　overhead；　staccatos　of　gunfire；　a　donkey　braying　nearby；　the　jingling　of　bells　and　mewling　of　sheep；　gravel　crushed　under　the　truck　s　tires；　a　baby　wailing　in　the　dark；　the　stench　of　gasoline；　vomit；　and　shit。
What　I　remember　next　is　the　blinding　light　of　early　morning　as　I　climbed　out　of　the　fuel　tank。　I　remember　turning　my　face　up　to　the　sky；　squinting；　breathing　like　the　world　was　running　out　of　air。
I　lay　on　the　side　of　the　dirt　road　next　to　a　rocky　trench；　looked　up　to　the　gray　morning　sky；　thankful　for　air；　thankful　for　light；　thankful　to　be　alive。
　We　re　in　Pakistan；　Amir；　　Baba　said。　He　was　standing　over　me。　　Karim　says　he　will　call　for　a　bus　to　take　us　to　Peshawar。　
I　rolled　onto　my　chest；　still　lying　on　the　cool　dirt；　and　saw　our　suitcases　on　either　side　of　Baba　s　feet。　Through　the　upside　down　V　between　his　legs；　I　saw　the　truck　idling　on　the　side　of　the　road；　the　other　refugees　climbing　down　the　rear　ladder。　Beyond　that；　the　dirt　road　unrolled　through　fields　that　were　like　leaden　sheets　under　the　gray　sky　and　disappeared　behind　a　line　of　bowl…shaped　hills。　Along　the　way；　it　passed　a　small　village　strung　out　atop　a　sun　baked　slope。
My　eyes　returned　to　our　suitcases。　They　made　me　sad　for　Baba。　After　everything　he　d　built；　planned；　fought　for；　fretted　over；　dreamed　of；　this　was　the　summation　of　his　life：　one　disappointing　son　and　two　suitcases。
Someone　was　screaming。　No；　not　screaming。　Wailing。　I　saw　the　passengers　huddled　in　a　circle；　heard　their　urgent　voices。　Someone　said　the　word　　fumes。　　Someone　else　said　it　too。　The　wail　turned　into　a　throat…ripping　screech。
Baba　and　I　hurried　to　the　pack　of　onlookers　and　pushed　our　way　through　them。　Kamal　s　father　was　sitting　cross…legged　in　the　center　of　the　circle；　rocking　back　and　forth；　kissing　his　son　s　ashen　face。
　He　won　t　breathe！　My　boy　won　t　breathe！　　he　was　crying。　Kamal　s　lifeless　body　lay　on　his　father　s　lap。　His　right　hand；　uncurled　and　limp；　bounced　to　the　rhythm　of　his　father　s　sobs。　　My　boy！　He　won　t　breathe！　Allah；　help　him　breathe！　
Baba　knelt　beside　him　and　curled　an　arm　around　his　shoulder。　But　Kamal　s　father　shoved　him　away　and　lunged　for　Karim　who　was　standing　nearby　with　his　cousin。　What　happened　next　was　too　fast　and　too　short　to　be　called　a　scuffle。　Karim　uttered　a　surprised　cry　and　backpedaled。　I　saw　an　arm　swing；　a　leg　kick。　A　moment　later；　Kamal　s　father　was　standing　with　Karim　s　gun　in　his　hand。
　Don　t　shoot　me！　　K