the kite runner-第47部分

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She　turned　the　book　so　the　cover　faced　me。　Wuthering　Heights。　　Have　you　read　it？　　she　said。
I　nodded。　I　could　feel　the　pulsating　beat　of　my　heart　behind　my　eyes。　　It　s　a　sad　story。　
　Sad　stories　make　good　books；　　she　said。
　They　do。　
　I　heard　you　write。　
How　did　she　know？　I　wondered　if　her　father　had　told　her；　maybe　she　had　asked　him。　I　immediately　dismissed　both　scenarios　as　absurd。　Fathers　and　sons　could　talk　freely　about　women。　But　no　Afghan　girl……no　decent　and　mohtaram　Afghan　girl；　at　least……queried　her　father　about　a　young　man。　And　no　father；　especially　a
Pashtun　with　nang　and　namoos；　would　discuss　a　mojarad　with　his　daughter；　not　unless　the　fellow　in　question　was　a　khastegar；　a　suitor；　who　had　done　the　honorable　thing　and　sent　his　father　to　knock　on　the　door。
Incredibly；　I　heard　myself　say；　　Would　you　like　to　read　one　of　my　stories？　
　I　would　like　that；　　she　said。　I　sensed　an　unease　in　her　now；　saw　it　in　the　way　her　eyes　began　to　flick　side　to　side。　Maybe　checking　for　the　general。　I　wondered　what　he　would　say　if　he　found　me　speaking　for　such　an　inappropriate　length　of　time　with　his　daughter。
　Maybe　I　ll　bring　you　one　someday；　　I　said。　I　was　about　to　say　more　when　the　woman　I　d　seen　on　occasion　with　Soraya　came　walking　up　the　aisle。　She　was　carrying　a　plastic　bag　full　of　fruit。　When　she　saw　us；　her　eyes　bounced　from　Soraya　to　me　and　back。　She　smiled。
　Amir　jan；　good　to　see　you；　　she　said；　unloading　the　bag　on　the　tablecloth。　Her　brow　glistened　with　a　sheen　of　sweat。　Her　red　hair；　coiffed　like　a　helmet；　glittered　in　the　sunlight……I　could　see　bits　of　her　scalp　where　the　hair　had　thinned。　She　had　small　green　eyes　buried　in　a　cabbage…round　face；　capped　teeth；　and　little　fingers　like　sausages。　A　golden　Allah　rested　on　her　chest；　the　chain　burrowed　under　the　skin　tags　and　folds　of　her　neck。　　I　am　Jamila；　Soraya　jan　s　mother。　
　Salaam；　Khala　jan；　　I　said；　embarrassed；　as　I　often　was　around　Afghans；　that　she　knew　me　and　I　had　no　idea　who　she　was。
　How　is　your　father？　　she　said。
　He　s　well；　thank　you。　
　You　know；　your　grandfather；　Ghazi　Sahib；　the　judge？　Now；　his　uncle　and　my　grandfather　were　cousins；　　she　said。　　So　you　see；　we　re　related。　　She　smiled　a　cap…toothed　smile；　and　I　noticed　the　right　side　of　her　mouth　drooping　a　little。　Her　eyes　moved　between　Soraya　and　me　again。
I　d　asked　Baba　once　why　General　Taheri　s　daughter　hadn　t　married　yet。　No　suitors；　Baba　said。　No　suitable　suitors；　he　amended。　But　he　wouldn　t　say　more……Baba　knew　how　lethal　idle　talk　could　prove　to　a　young　woman　s　prospects　of　marrying　well。　Afghan　men；　especially　those　from　reputable　families；　were　fickle　creatures。　A　whisper　here；　an　insinuation　there；　and　they　fled　like　startled　birds。　So　weddings　had　e　and　gone　and　no　one　had　sung　ahesta　boro　for　Soraya；　no　one　had　painted　her　palms　with　henna；　no　one　had　held　a　Koran　over　her　headdress；　and　it　had　been　General　Taheri　who　d　danced　with　her　at　every　wedding。
And　now；　this　woman；　this　mother；　with　her　heartbreakingly　eager；　crooked　smile　and　the　barely　veiled　hope　in　her　eyes。　I　cringed　a　little　at　the　position　of　power　I　d　been　granted；　and　all　because　I　had　won　at　the　genetic　lottery　that　had　determined　my　sex。
I　could　never　read　the　thoughts　in　the　general　s　eyes；　but　I　knew　this　much　about　his　wife：　If　I　was　going　to　have　an　adversary　in　this……whatever　this　was……it　would　not　be　her。
　Sit　down；　Amir　jan；　　she　said。　　Soraya；　get　him　a　chair；　hachem。　And　wash　one　of　those　peaches。　They　re　sweet　and　fresh。　
　Nay；　thank　you；　　I　said。　　I　should　get　going。　My　father　s　waiting。　
　Oh？　　Khanum　Taheri　said；　clearly　impressed　that　I　d　done　the　polite　thing　and　declined　the　offer。　　Then　here；　at　least　have　this。　　She　threw　a　handful　of　kiwis　and　a　few　peaches　into　a　paper　bag　and　insisted　I　take　them。　　Carry　my　Salaam　to　your　father。　And　e　back　to　see　us　again。　
　I　will。　Thank　you；　Khala　jan；　　I　said。　Out　of　the　corner　of　my　eye；　I　saw　Soraya　looking　away。
　I　THOUGHT　YOU　WERE　GETTING　COKES；　　Baba　said；　taking　the　bag　of　peaches　from　me。　He　was　looking　at　me　in　a　simultaneously　serious　and　playful　way。　I　began　to　make　some　thing　up；　but　he　bit　into　a　peach　and　waved　his　hand；　　Don　t　bother；　Amir。　Just　remember　what　I　said。　
THAT　NIGHT　IN　BED；　I　thought　of　the　way　dappled　sunlight　had　danced　in　Soraya　s　eyes；　and　of　the　delicate　hollows　above　her　collarbone。　I　replayed　our　conversation　over　and　over　in　my　head。　Had　she　said　I　heard　you　write　or　I　heard　you　re　a　writer？　Which　was　it？　I　tossed　in　my　sheets　and　stared　at　the　ceiling；　dismayed　at　the　thought　of　six　laborious；　interminable　nights　of　yelda　until　I　saw　her　again。
IT　WENT　ON　LIKE　THAT　for　a　few　weeks。　I　d　wait　until　the　general　went　for　a　stroll；　then　I　d　walk　past　the　Taheris　　stand。　If　Khanum　Taheri　was　there；　she　d　offer　me　tea　and　a　kolcha　and　we　d　chat　about　Kabul　in　the　old　days；　the　people　we　knew；　her　arthritis。　Undoubtedly；　she　had　noticed　that　my　appearances　always　coincided　with　her　husband　s　absences；　but　she　never　let　on。　　Oh　you　just　missed　your　Kaka；　　she　d　say。　I　actually　liked　it　when　Khanum　Taheri　was　there；　and　not　just　because　of　her　amiable　ways；　Soraya　was　more