the kite runner-第50部分

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said；　my　eyes　welling　up。
A　look　of　disgust　swept　across　his　rain…soaked　face。　It　was　the　same　look　he　d　give　me　when；　as　a　kid；　I　d　fall；　scrape　my　knees；　and　cry。　It　was　the　crying　that　brought　it　on　then；　the　crying　that　brought　it　on　now。　　You　re　twenty…two　years　old；　Amir！　A　grown　man！　You。。。　　he　opened　his　mouth；　closed　it；　opened　it　again；　reconsidered。　Above　us；　rain　drummed　on　the　canvas　awning。　　What　s　going　to　happen　to　you；　you　say？　All　those　years；　that　s　what　I　was　trying　to　teach　you；　how　to　never　have　to　ask　that　question。　
He　opened　the　door。　Turned　back　to　me。　　And　one　more　thing。　No　one　finds　out　about　this；　you　hear　me？　No　one。　I　don　t　want　anybody　s　sympathy。　　Then　he　disappeared　into　the　dim　lobby。　He　chain…smoked　the　rest　of　that　day　in　front　of　the　TV。　I　didn　t　know　what　or　whom　he　was　defying。　Me？　Dr。　Amani？　Or　maybe　the　God　he　had　never　believed　in。
FOR　A　WHILE；　even　cancer　couldn　t　keep　Baba　from　the　flea　market。　We　made　our　garage　sale　treks　on　Saturdays；　Baba　the　driver　and　me　the　navigator；　and　set　up
our　display　on　Sundays。　Brass　lamps。　Baseball　gloves。　Ski　jackets　with　broken　zippers。　Baba　greeted　acquaintances　from　the　old　country　and　I　haggled　with　buyers　over　a　dollar　or　two。　Like　any　of　it　mattered。　Like　the　day　I　would　bee　an　orphan　wasn　t　inching　closer　with　each　closing　of　shop。
Sometimes；　General　Taheri　and　his　wife　strolled　by。　The　general；　ever　the　diplomat；　greeted　me　with　a　smile　and　his　two…handed　shake。　But　there　was　a　new　reticence　to　Khanum　Taheri　s　demeanor。　A　reticence　broken　only　by　her　secret；　droopy　smiles　and　the　furtive；　apologetic　looks　she　cast　my　way　when　the　general　s　attention　was　engaged　elsewhere。
I　remember　that　period　as　a　time　of　many　　firsts　：　The　first　time　I　heard　Baba　moan　in　the　bathroom。　The　first　time　I　found　blood　on　his　pillow。　In　over　three　years　running　the　gas　station；　Baba　had　never　called　in　sick。　Another　first。
By　Halloween　of　that　year；　Baba　was　getting　so　tired　by　mid…Saturday　afternoon　that　he　d　wait　behind　the　wheel　while　I　got　out　and　bargained　for　junk。　By　Thanksgiving；　he　wore　out　before　noon。　When　sleighs　appeared　on　front　lawns　and　fake　snow　on　Douglas　firs；　Baba　stayed　home　and　I　drove　the　VW　bus　alone　up　and　down　the　peninsula。
Sometimes　at　the　flea　market；　Afghan　acquaintances　made　remarks　about　Baba　s　weight　loss。　At　first；　they　were　plimentary。　They　even　asked　the　secret　to　his　diet。　But　the　queries　and　pliments　stopped　when　the　weight　loss　didn　t。　When　the　pounds　kept　shedding。　And　shedding。　When　his　cheeks　hollowed。　And　his　temples　melted。　And　his　eyes　receded　in　their　sockets。
Then；　one　cool　Sunday　shortly　after　New　Year　s　Day；　Baba　was　selling　a　lampshade　to　a　stocky　Filipino　man　while　I　rummaged　in　the　VW　for　a　blanket　to　cover　his　legs　with。
　Hey；　man；　this　guy　needs　help！　　the　Filipino　man　said　with　alarm。　I　turned　around　and　found　Baba　on　the　ground。　His　arms　and　legs　were　jerking。
　Komak！　　I　cried。　　Somebody　help！　　I　ran　to　Baba。　He　was　frothing　at　the　mouth；　the　foamy　spittle　soaking　his　beard。　His　upturned　eyes　showed　nothing　but　white。
People　were　rushing　to　us。　I　heard　someone　say　seizure。　Some　one　else　yelling；　　Call　911！　　I　heard　running　footsteps。　The　sky　darkened　as　a　crowd　gathered　around　us。
Baba　s　spittle　turned　red。　He　was　biting　his　tongue。　I　kneeled　beside　him　and　grabbed　his　arms　and　said　I　m　here　Baba；　I　m　here；　you　ll　be　all　right；　I　m　right　here。　As　if　I　could　soothe　the　convulsions　out　of　him。　Talk　them　into　leaving　my　Baba　alone。　I　felt　a　wetness　on　my　knees。　Saw　Baba　s　bladder　had　let　go。　Shhh；　Baba　jan；　I　m　here。　Your　son　is　right　here。
THE　DOCTOR；　white…bearded　and　perfectly　bald；　pulled　me　out　of　the　room。　　I　want　to　go　over　your　father　s　CAT　scans　with　you；　　he　said。　He　put　the　films　up　on　a　viewing　box　in　the　hallway　and　pointed　with　the　eraser　end　of　his　pencil　to　the　pictures　of　Baba　s　cancer；　like　a　cop　showing　mug　shots　of　the　killer　to　the　victim　s　family。　Baba　s　brain　on　those　pictures　looked　like　cross　sections　of　a　big　walnut；　riddled　with　tennis　ball…shaped　gray　things。
　As　you　can　see；　the　cancer　s　metastasized；　　he　said。　　He　ll　have　to　take　steroids　to　reduce　the　swelling　in　his　brain　and　antiseizure　medications。　And　I　d　remend　palliative　radiation。　Do　you　know　what　that　means？　
I　said　I　did。　I　d　bee　conversant　in　cancer　talk。
　All　right；　then；　　he　said。　He　checked　his　beeper。　　I　have　to　go；　but　you　can　have　me　paged　if　you　have　any　questions。　
　Thank　you。　
I　spent　the　night　sitting　on　a　chair　next　to　Baba　s　bed。
THE　NEXT　MORNING；　the　waiting　room　down　the　hall　was　jammed　with　Afghans。　The　butcher　from　Newark。　An　engineer　who　d　worked　with　Baba　on　his　orphanage。　They　filed　in　and　paid　Baba　their　respects　in　hushed　tones。　Wished　him　a　swift　recovery。　Baba　was　awake　then；　groggy　and　tired；　but　awake。
Midmorning；　General　Taheri　and　his　wife　came。　Soraya　followed。　We　glanced　at　each　other；　looked　away　at　the　same　time。　　How　are　you；　my　friend？　　General　Taheri　said；　taking　Baba　s　hand。
Baba　motioned　to　the　IV　hanging　from　his　arm。　Smiled　thinly。　The　general　smiled　back。
　You　shouldn　t　have　burdened　yourselves。　All　of　y