the kite runner-第4部分

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said　a　lot　of　things　I　didn　t　know；　things　my　teachers　hadn　t　mentioned。　Things　Baba　hadn　t　mentioned　either。　It　also　said　some　things　I　did　know；　like　that　people　called　Hazaras　_mice…eating；　flat…nosed；　load…carrying　donkeys_。　I　had　heard　some　of　the　kids　in　the　neighborhood　yell　those　names　to　Hassan。
The　following　week；　after　class；　I　showed　the　book　to　my　teacher　and　pointed　to　the　chapter　on　the　Hazaras。　He　skimmed　through　a　couple　of　pages；　snickered；　handed　the　book　back。　　That　s　the　one　thing　Shi　a　people　do　well；　　he　said；　picking　up　his　papers；　　passing　themselves　as　martyrs。　　He　wrinkled　his　nose　when　he　said　the　word　Shi　a；　like　it　was　some　kind　of　disease。
But　despite　sharing　ethnic　heritage　and　family　blood；　Sanaubar　joined　the　neighborhood　kids　in　taunting　Ali。　I　have　heard　that　she　made　no　secret　of　her　disdain　for　his　appearance。
　This　is　a　husband？　　she　would　sneer。　　I　have　seen　old　donkeys　better　suited　to　be　a　husband。　
In　the　end；　most　people　suspected　the　marriage　had　been　an　arrangement　of　sorts　between　Ali　and　his　uncle；　Sanaubar　s　father。　They　said　Ali　had　married　his　cousin　to　help　restore　some　honor　to　his　uncle　s　blemished　name；　even　though　Ali；　who　had　been　orphaned　at　the　age　of　five；　had　no　worldly　possessions　or　inheritance　to　speak　of。
Ali　never　retaliated　against　any　of　his　tormentors；　I　suppose　partly　because　he　could　never　catch　them　with　that　twisted　leg　dragging　behind　him。　But　mostly　because　Ali　was　immune　to　the　insults　of　his　assailants；　he　had　found　his　joy；　his　antidote；　the　moment　Sanaubar　had　given　birth　to　Hassan。　It　had　been　a　simple　enough　affair。　No　obstetricians；　no　anesthesiologists；　no　fancy　monitoring　devices。　Just　Sanaubar　lying　on　a　stained；　naked　mattress　with　Ali　and　a　midwife　helping　her。　She　hadn　t　needed　much　help　at　all；　because；　even　in　birth；　Hassan　was　true　to　his　nature：
He　was　incapable　of　hurting　anyone。　A　few　grunts；　a　couple　of　pushes；　and　out　came　Hassan。　Out　he　came　smiling。
As　confided　to　a　neighbor　s　servant　by　the　garrulous　midwife；　who　had　then　in　turn　told　anyone　who　would　listen；　Sanaubar　had　taken　one　glance　at　the　baby　in　Ali　s　arms；　seen　the　cleft　lip；　and　barked　a　bitter　laughter。
　There；　　she　had　said。　　Now　you　have　your　own　idiot　child　to　do　all　your　smiling　for　you！　　She　had　refused　to　even　hold　Hassan；　and　just　five　days　later；　she　was　gone。
Baba　hired　the　same　nursing　woman　who　had　fed　me　to　nurse　Hassan。　Ali　told　us　she　was　a　blue…eyed　Hazara　woman　from　Bamiyan；　the　city　of　the　giant　Buddha　statues。　　What　a　sweet　singing　voice　she　had；　　he　used　to　say　to　us。
What　did　she　sing；　Hassan　and　I　always　asked；　though　we　already　knew……Ali　had　told　us　countless　times。　We　just　wanted　to　hear　Ali　sing。
He　d　clear　his　throat　and　begin：
_On　a　high　mountain　I　stood；
And　cried　the　name　of　Ali；　Lion　of　God。
O　Ali；　Lion　of　God；　King　of　Men；
Bring　joy　to　our　sorrowful　hearts。_
Then　he　would　remind　us　that　there　was　a　brotherhood　between　people　who　had　fed　from　the　same　breast；　a　kinship　that　not　even　time　could　break。
Hassan　and　I　fed　from　the　same　breasts。　We　took　our　first　steps　on　the　same　lawn　in　the　same　yard。　And；　under　the　same　roof；　we　spoke　our　first　words。
Mine　was　_Baba_。
His　was　_Amir_。　My　name。
Looking　back　on　it　now；　I　think　the　foundation　for　what　happened　in　the　winter　of　1975……and　all　that　followed……was　already　laid　in　those　first　words。
THREE
Lore　has　it　my　father　once　wrestled　a　black　bear　in　Baluchistan　with　his　bare　hands。　If　the　story　had　been　about　anyone　else；　it　would　have　been　dismissed　as　_laaf_；　that　Afghan　tendency　to　exaggerate……sadly；　almost　a　national　affliction；　if　someone　bragged　that　his　son　was　a　doctor；　chances　were　the　kid　had　once　passed　a　biology　test　in　high　school。　But　no　one　ever　doubted　the　veracity　of　any　story　about　Baba。　And　if　they　did；　well；　Baba　did　have　those　three　parallel　scars　coursing　a　jagged　path　down　his　back。　I　have　imagined　Baba　s　wrestling　match　countless　times；　even　dreamed　about　it。　And　in　those　dreams；　I　can　never　tell　Baba　from　the　bear。
It　was　Rahim　Khan　who　first　referred　to　him　as　what　eventually　became　Baba　s　famous　nickname；　_Toophan　agha_；　or　　Mr。　Hurricane。　　It　was　an　apt　enough　nickname。　My　father　was　a　force　of　nature；　a　towering　Pashtun　specimen　with　a　thick　beard；　a　wayward　crop　of　curly　brown　hair　as　unruly　as　the　man　himself；　hands　that　looked　capable　of　uprooting　a　willow　tree；　and　a　black　glare　that　would　　drop　the　devil　to　his　knees　begging　for　mercy；　　as　Rahim　Khan　used　to　say。　At　parties；　when　all　six…foot…five　of　him　thundered　into　the　room；　attention　shifted　to　him　like　sunflowers　turning　to　the　sun。
Baba　was　impossible　to　ignore；　even　in　his　sleep。　I　used　to　bury　cotton　wisps　in　my　ears；　pull　the　blanket　over　my　head；　and　still　the　sounds　of　Baba　s　snoring……so　much　like　a　growling　truck　engine……penetrated　the　walls。　And　my　room　was　across　the　hall　from　Baba　s　bedroom。　How　my　mother　ever　managed　to　sleep　in　the　same　room　as　him　is　a　mystery　to　me。　It　s　on　the　long　list　of　things　I　would　have　asked　my　mother　if　I　had　ever　met　her。
In　the　late　1960s；　when　I　was　five　or　six；　Baba　decided　to　build　an