the kite runner-第41部分

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　Does　he　think　I　m　a　thief？　　Baba　said；　his　voice　rising。　People　had　gathered　outside。　They　were　staring。　　What　kind　of　a　country　is　this？　No　one　trusts　anybody！　
　I　call　police；　　Mrs。　Nguyen　said；　poking　out　her　face。　　You　get　out　or　I　call　police。　
　Please；　Mrs。　Nguyen；　don　t　call　the　police。　I　ll　take　him　home。　Just　don　t　call　the　police；　okay？　Please？　
　Yes；　you　take　him　home。　Good　idea；　　Mr。　Nguyen　said。　His　eyes；　behind　his　wire…rimmed　bifocals；　never　left　Baba。　I　led　Baba　through　the　doors。　He　kicked　a　magazine　on　his　way　out。　After　I　d　made　him　promise　he　wouldn　t　go　back　in；　I　returned　to　the　store　and　apologized　to　the　Nguyens。　Told　them　my　father　was　going　through　a　difficult　time。　I　gave　Mrs。　Nguyen　our　telephone　number　and　address；　and　told　her　to　get　an　estimate　for　the　damages。　　Please　call　me　as　soon　as　you　know。　I　ll　pay　for　everything；　Mrs。　Nguyen。　I　m　so　sorry。　　Mrs。　Nguyen　took　the　sheet　of　paper　from　me　and　nodded。　I　saw　her　hands　were　shaking　more　than　usual；　and　that　made　me　angry　at　Baba；　his　causing　an　old　woman　to　shake　like　that。
　My　father　is　still　adjusting　to　life　in　America；　　I　said；　by　way　of　explanation。
I　wanted　to　tell　them　that；　in　Kabul；　we　snapped　a　tree　branch　and　used　it　as　a　credit　card。　Hassan　and　I　would　take　the　wooden　stick　to　the　bread　maker。　He　d　carve　notches　on　our　stick　with　his　knife；　one　notch　for　each　loaf　of　_naan_　he　d　pull　for　us　from　the　tandoor　s　roaring　flames。　At　the　end　of　the　month；　my　father　paid　him　for　the　number　of　notches　on　the　stick。　That　was　it。　No　questions。　No　ID。
But　I　didn　t　tell　them。　I　thanked　Mr。　Nguyen　for　not　calling　the　cops。　Took　Baba　home。　He　sulked　and　smoked　on　the　balcony　while　I　made　rice　with　chicken　neck
stew。　A　year　and　a　half　since　we　d　stepped　off　the　Boeing　from　Peshawar；　and　Baba　was　still　adjusting。
We　ate　in　silence　that　night。　After　two　bites；　Baba　pushed　away　his　plate。
I　glanced　at　him　across　the　table；　his　nails　chipped　and　black　with　engine　oil；　his　knuckles　scraped；　the　smells　of　the　gas　station……dust；　sweat；　and　gasoline……on　his　clothes。　Baba　was　like　the　widower　who　remarries　but　can　t　let　go　of　his　dead　wife。　He　missed　the　sugarcane　fields　of　Jalalabad　and　the　gardens　of　Paghman。　He　missed　people　milling　in　and　out　of　his　house；　missed　walking　down　the　bustling　aisles　of　Shor　Bazaar　and　greeting　people　who　knew　him　and　his　father；　knew　his　grandfather；　people　who　shared　ancestors　with　him；　whose　pasts　intertwined　with　his。
For　me；　America　was　a　place　to　bury　my　memories。
For　Baba；　a　place　to　mourn　his。
　Maybe　we　should　go　back　to　Peshawar；　　I　said；　watching　the　ice　float　in　my　glass　of　water。　We　d　spent　six　months　in　Peshawar　waiting　for　the　INS　to　issue　our　visas。　Our　grimy　one…bedroom　apartment　smelled　like　dirty　socks　and　cat　droppings；　but　we　were　surrounded　by　people　we　knew……at　least　people　Baba　knew。　He　d　invite　the　entire　corridor　of　neighbors　for　dinner；　most　of　them　Afghans　waiting　for　visas。　Inevitably；　someone　would　bring　a　set　of　tabla　and　someone　else　a　harmonium。　Tea　would　brew；　and　who　ever　had　a　passing　singing　voice　would　sing　until　the　sun　rose；　the　mosquitoes　stopped　buzzing；　and　clapping　hands　grew　sore。
　You　were　happier　there；　Baba。　It　was　more　like　home；　　I　said。
　Peshawar　was　good　for　me。　Not　good　for　you。　
　You　work　so　hard　here。　
　It　s　not　so　bad　now；　　he　said；　meaning　since　he　had　bee　the　day　manager　at　the　gas　station。　But　I　d　seen　the　way　he　winced　and　rubbed　his　wrists　on　damp　days。　The　way　sweat　erupted　on　his　forehead　as　he　reached　for　his　bottle　of　antacids　after　meals。　　Besides；　I　didn　t　bring　us　here　for　me；　did　I？　
I　reached　across　the　table　and　put　my　hand　on　his。　My　student　hand；　clean　and　soft；　on　his　laborer　s　hand；　grubby　and　calloused。　I　thought　of　all　the　trucks；　train　sets；　and　bikes　he　d　bought　me　in　Kabul。　Now　America。　One　last　gift　for　Amir。
Just　one　month　after　we　arrived　in　the　U。S。；　Baba　found　a　job　off　Washington　Boulevard　as　an　assistant　at　a　gas　station　owned　by　an　Afghan　acquaintance……he　d　started　looking　for　work　the　same　week　we　arrived。　Six　days　a　week；　Baba　pulled　twelve…hour　shifts　pumping　gas；　running　the　register；　changing　oil；　and　washing　windshields。　I　d　bring　him　lunch　sometimes　and　find　him　looking　for　a　pack　of　cigarettes　on　the　shelves；　a　customer　waiting　on　the　other　side　of　the　oil…stained　counter；　Baba　s　face　drawn　and　pale　under　the　bright　fluorescent　lights。　The　electronic　bell　over　the　door　would　ding…dong　when　I　walked　in；　and　Baba　would　look　over　his　shoulder；　wave；　and　smile；　his　eyes　watering　from　fatigue。
The　same　day　he　was　hired；　Baba　and　I　went　to　our　eligibility　officer　in　San　Jose；　Mrs。　Dobbins。　She　was　an　overweight　black　woman　with　twinkling　eyes　and　a　dimpled　smile。　She　d　told　me　once　that　she　sang　in　church；　and　I　believed　her……
she　had　a　voice　that　made　me　think　of　warm　milk　and　honey。　Baba　dropped　the　stack　of　food　stamps　on　her　desk。　　Thank　you　but　I　don　t　want；　　Baba　said。　　I　work　always。　In　Afghanistan　I　work；　in　America　I　work。　Thank　you　very　much；　Mrs。　Dobbins；　but　I　don　t　like　it　free　money。　
Mrs。　Dobbins　blinked。　Picked　up　the　food　stamps；　looked　from　me　t