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the kite runner-第46部分
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think of the shadow her hair cast on the ground when it slid off her back and hung down like a velvet curtain。 Soraya。 Swap Meet Princess。 The morning sun to my yelda。
I invented excuses to stroll down the aisle……which Baba acknowledged with a playful smirk……and pass the Taheris stand。 I would wave at the general; perpetually dressed in his shiny overpressed gray suit; and he would wave back。 Sometimes he d get up from his director s chair and we d make small talk about my writing; the war; the day s bargains。 And I d have to will my eyes not to peel away; not to wander to where Soraya sat reading a paperback。 The general and I would say our good…byes and I d try not to slouch as I walked away。
Sometimes she sat alone; the general off to some other row to socialize; and I would walk by; pretending not to know her; but dying to。 Sometimes she was there with a portly middle…aged woman with pale skin and dyed red hair。 I promised myself that I would talk to her before the summer was over; but schools reopened; the leaves reddened; yellowed; and fell; the rains of winter swept in
and wakened Baba s joints; baby leaves sprouted once more; and I still hadn t had the heart; the dil; to even look her in the eye。
The spring quarter ended in late May 1985。 I aced all of my general education classes; which was a minor miracle given how I d sit in lectures and think of the soft hook of Soraya s nose。
Then; one sweltering Sunday that summer; Baba and I were at the flea market; sitting at our booth; fanning our faces with news papers。 Despite the sun bearing down like a branding iron; the market was crowded that day and sales had been strong……it was only 12:30 but we d already made 160。 I got up; stretched; and asked Baba if he wanted a Coke。 He said he d love one。
Be careful; Amir; he said as I began to walk。 Of what; Baba?
I am not an ahmaq; so don t play stupid with me。
I don t know what you re talking about。
Remember this; Baba said; pointing at me; The man is a Pashtun to the root。 He has nang and namoos。 Nang。 Namoos。 Honor and pride。 The tenets of Pashtun men。 Especially when it came to the chastity of a wife。 Or a daughter。
I m only going to get us drinks。
Just don t embarrass me; that s all I ask。
I won t。 God; Baba。
Baba lit a cigarette and started fanning himself again。
I walked toward the concession booth initially; then turned left at the T…shirt stand……where; for 5; you could have the face of Jesus; Elvis; Jim Morrison; or all three; pressed on a white nylon T…shirt。 Mariachi music played overhead; and I smelled pickles and grilled meat。
I spotted the Taheris gray van two rows from ours; next to a kiosk selling mango…on…a…stick。 She was alone; reading。 White ankle…length summer dress today。 Open…toed sandals。 Hair pulled back and crowned with a tulip…shaped bun。 I meant to simply walk by again and I thought I had; except suddenly I was standing at the edge of the Taheris white tablecloth; staring at Soraya across curling irons and old neckties。 She looked up。
Salaam; I said。 I m sorry to be mozahem; I didn t mean to disturb you。
Salaam。
Is General Sahib here today? I said。 My ears were burning。 I couldn t bring myself to look her in the eye。
He went that way; she said。 Pointed to her right。 The bracelet slipped down to her elbow; silver against olive。
Will you tell him I stopped by to pay my respects? I said。
I will。
Thank you; I said。 Oh; and my name is Amir。 In case you need to know。 So you can tell him。 That I stopped by。 To。。。 pay my respects。
Yes。
I shifted on my feet; cleared my throat。 I ll go now。 Sorry to have disturbed you。
Nay; you didn t; she said。
Oh。 Good。 I tipped my head and gave her a half smile。 I ll go now。 Hadn t I already said that? Khoda h~afez。
Khoda h~afez。
I began to walk。 Stopped and turned。 I said it before I had a chance to lose my nerve: Can I ask what you re reading?
She blinked。
I held my breath。 Suddenly; I felt the collective eyes of the flea market Afghans shift to us。 I imagined a hush falling。 Lips stop ping in midsentence。 Heads turning。 Eyes narrowing with keen interest。
What was this?
Up to that point; our encounter could have been interpreted as a respectful inquiry; one man asking for the whereabouts of another man。 But I d asked her a question and if she answered; we d be。。。 well; we d be chatting。 Me a mojarad; a single young man; and she an unwed young woman。 One with a history; no less。 This was teetering dangerously on the verge of gossip material; and the best kind of it。 Poison tongues would flap。 And she would bear the brunt of that poison; not me……I was fully aware of the Afghan double standard that favored my gender。 Not Did you see him chatting with her? but Wooooy! Did you see how she wouldn t let him go? What a lochak!
By Afghan standards; my question had been bold。 With it; I had bared myself; and left little doubt as to my interest in her。 But I was a man; and all I had risked was a bruised ego。 Bruises healed。 Reputations did not。 Would she take my dare?
She turned the book so the cover faced me。 Wuthering Heights。 Have you rea
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