the kite runner-第48部分

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le　ways；　Soraya　was　more　relaxed；　more　talkative　with　her　mother　around。　As　if　her　presence　legitimized　whatever　was　happening　between　us……though　certainly　not　to　the　same　degree　that　the　general　s　would　have。　Khanum　Taheri　s　chaperoning　made　our　meetings；　if　not　gossip…proof；　then　less　gossip…worthy；　even　if　her　borderline　fawning　on　me　clearly　embarrassed　Soraya。
One　day；　Soraya　and　I　were　alone　at　their　booth；　talking。　She　was　telling　me　about　school；　how　she　too　was　working　on　her　general　education　classes；　at　Ohlone　Junior　College　in　Fremont。
　What　will　you　major　in？　
　I　want　to　be　a　teacher；　　she　said。
　Really？　Why？　
　I　ve　always　wanted　to。　When　we　lived　in　Virginia；　I　became　ESL　certified　and　now　I　teach　at　the　public　library　one　night　a　week。　My　mother　was　a　teacher　too；　she　taught　Farsi　and　history　at　Zarghoona　High　School　for　girls　in　Kabul。　
A　potbellied　man　in　a　deerstalker　hat　offered　three　dollars　for　a　five…dollar　set　of　candlesticks　and　Soraya　let　him　have　it。　She　dropped　the　money　in　a　little　candy　box　by　her　feet。　She　looked　at　me　shyly。　　I　want　to　tell　you　a　story；　　she　said；　　but　I　m　a　little　embarrassed　about　it。　
　Tell　me。　
　It　s　kind　of　silly。　
　Please　tell　me。　
She　laughed。　　Well；　when　I　was　in　fourth　grade　in　Kabul；　my　father　hired　a　woman　named　Ziba　to　help　around　the　house。　She　had　a　sister　in　Iran；　in　Mashad；　and；　since　Ziba　was　illiterate；　she　d　ask　me　to　write　her　sister　letters　once　in　a　while。　And　when　the　sister　replied；　I　d　read　her　letter　to　Ziba。　One　day；　I　asked　her　if　she　d　like　to　learn　to　read　and　write。　She　gave　me　this　big　smile；　crinkling　her　eyes；　and　said　she　d　like　that　very　much。　So　we　d　sit　at　the　kitchen　table　after　I　was　done　with　my　own　schoolwork　and　I　d　teach　her　Alef…beh。　I　remember　looking　up　sometimes　in　the　middle　of　homework　and　seeing　Ziba　in　the　kitchen；　stirring　meat　in　the　pressure　cooker；　then　sitting　down　with　a　pencil　to　do　the　alphabet　homework　I　d　assigned　to　her　the　night　before。
　Anyway；　within　a　year；　Ziba　could　read　children　s　books。　We　sat　in　the　yard　and　she　read　me　the　tales　of　Dara　and　Sara……slowly　but　correctly。　She　started　calling　me　Moalem　Soraya；　Teacher　Soraya。　　She　laughed　again。　　I　know　it　sounds　childish；　but　the　first　time　Ziba　wrote　her　own　letter；　I　knew　there　was　nothing　else　I　d　ever　want　to　be　but　a　teacher。　I　was　so　proud　of　her　and　I　felt　I　d　done　something　really　worthwhile；　you　know？　
　Yes；　　I　lied。　I　thought　of　how　I　had　used　my　literacy　to　ridicule　Hassan。　How　I　had　teased　him　about　big　words　he　didn　t　know。
　My　father　wants　me　to　go　to　law　school；　my　mother　s　always　throwing　hints　about　medical　school；　but　I　m　going　to　be　a　teacher。　Doesn　t　pay　much　here；　but　it　s　what　I　want。　
　My　mother　was　a　teacher　too；　　I　said。
　I　know；　　she　said。　　My　mother　told　me。　　Then　her　face　red　dened　with　a　blush　at　what　she　had　blurted；　at　the　implication　of　her　answer；　that　　Amir　Conversations　　took　place　between　them　when　I　wasn　t　there。　It　took　an　enormous　effort　to　stop　myself　from　smiling。
　I　brought　you　something。　　I　fished　the　roll　of　stapled　pages　from　my　back　pocket。　　As　promised。　　I　handed　her　one　of　my　short　stories。
　Oh；　you　remembered；　　she　said；　actually　beaming。　　Thank　you！　　I　barely　had　time　to　register　that　she　d　addressed　me　with　　tu　　for　the　first　time　and　not　the　formal　　shoma；　　because　suddenly　her　smile　vanished。　The　color　dropped　from　her　face；　and　her　eyes　fixed　on　something　behind　me。　I　turned　around。　Came　face…to…face　with　General　Taheri。
　Amir　jan。　Our　aspiring　storyteller。　What　a　pleasure；　　he　said。　He　was　smiling　thinly。
　Salaam；　General　Sahib；　　I　said　through　heavy　lips。
He　moved　past　me；　toward　the　booth。　　What　a　beautiful　day　it　is；　nay？　　he　said；　thumb　hooked　in　the　breast　pocket　of　his　vest；　the　other　hand　extended　toward　Soraya。　She　gave　him　the　pages。
　They　say　it　will　rain　this　week。　Hard　to　believe；　isn　t　it？　　He　dropped　the　rolled　pages　in　the　garbage　can。　Turned　to　me　and　gently　put　a　hand　on　my　shoulder。　We　took　a　few　steps　together。
　You　know；　bachem；　I　have　grown　rather　fond　of　you。　You　are　a　decent　boy；　I　really　believe　that；　but……　　he　sighed　and　waved　a　hand　　……even　decent　boys　need　reminding　sometimes。　So　it　s　my　duty　to　remind　you　that　you　are　among　peers　in　this　flea　market。　　He　stopped。　His　expressionless　eyes　bore　into　mine。　　You　see；　everyone　here　is　a　storyteller。　　He　smiled；　revealing　perfectly　even　teeth。　　Do　pass　my　respects　to　your　father；　Amir　jan。　
He　dropped　his　hand。　Smiled　again。
　WHAT　S　WRONG？　　Baba　said。　He　was　taking　an　elderly　woman　s　money　for　a　rocking　horse。
　Nothing；　　I　said。　I　sat　down　on　an　old　TV　set。　Then　I　told　him　anyway。
　Akh；　Amir；　　he　sighed。
As　it　turned　out；　I　didn　t　get　to　brood　too　much　over　what　had　happened。
Because　later　that　week；　Baba　caught　a　cold。
IT　STARTED　WITH　A　HACKING　COUGH　and　the　sniffles。　He　got　over　the　sniffles；　but　the　cough　persisted。　He　d　hack　into　his　handkerchief；　stow　it　in　his　pocket。　I　kept　after　him　to　get　it　checked；　but　he　d　wave　me　away。　He　hated　doctors　and　hospitals。　To　my　knowledge；　the　only　time　Baba　had　ever　gone　to　a　doctor　was　the　time　he　d　caught　malaria