the kite runner-第66部分

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rotesque。　I　patted　her　brow　with　a　wet　cloth　and　she　opened　her　eyes。　　Where　is　Hassan？　　she　whispered。
　I　m　right　here；　　Hassan　said。　He　took　her　hand　and　squeezed　it。
Her　good　eye　rolled　to　him。　　I　have　walked　long　and　far　to　see　if　you　are　as　beautiful　in　the　flesh　as　you　are　in　my　dreams。　And　you　are。　Even　more。　　She　pulled　his　hand　to　her　scarred　face。　　Smile　for　me。　Please。　
Hassan　did　and　the　old　woman　wept。　　You　smiled　ing　out　of　me；　did　anyone　ever　tell　you？　And　I　wouldn　t　even　hold　you。　Allah　forgive　me；　I　wouldn　t　even　hold　you。　
None　of　us　had　seen　Sanaubar　since　she　had　eloped　with　a　band　of　singers　and　dancers　in　1964；　just　after　she　had　given　birth　to　Hassan。　You　never　saw　her；　Amir；　but　in　her　youth；　she　was　a　vision。　She　had　a　dimpled　smile　and　a　walk　that　drove　men　crazy。　No　one　who　passed　her　on　the　street；　be　it　a　man　or　a　woman；　could　look　at　her　only　once。　And　now。。。
Hassan　dropped　her　hand　and　bolted　out　of　the　house。　I　went　after　him；　but　he　was　too　fast。　I　saw　him　running　up　the　hill　where　you　two　used　to　play；　his　feet　kicking　up　plumes　of　dust。　I　let　him　go。　I　sat　with　Sanaubar　all　day　as　the　sky　went　from　bright　blue　to　purple。　Hassan　still　had　not　e　back　when　night　fell　and　moonlight　bathed　the　clouds。　Sanaubar　cried　that　ing　back　had　been　a　mistake；　maybe　even　a　worse　one　than　leaving。　But　I　made　her　stay。　Hassan　would　return；　I　knew。
He　came　back　the　next　morning；　looking　tired　and　weary；　like　he　had　not　slept　all　night。　He　took　Sanaubar　s　hand　in　both　of　his　and　told　her　she　could　cry　if　she　wanted　to　but　she　needn　t；　she　was　home　now；　he　said；　home　with　her　family。　He　touched　the　scars　on　her　face；　and　ran　his　hand　through　her　hair。
Hassan　and　Farzana　nursed　her　back　to　health。　They　fed　her　and　washed　her　clothes。　I　gave　her　one　of　the　guest　rooms　upstairs。　Sometimes；　I　would　look　out　the　window　into　the　yard　and　watch　Hassan　and　his　mother　kneeling　together；　picking　tomatoes　or　trimming　a　rosebush；　talking。　They　were　catching　up　on　all　the　lost　years；　I　suppose。　As　far　as　I　know；　he　never　asked　where　she　had　been　or　why　she　had　left　and　she　never　told。　I　guess　some　stories　do　not　need　telling。
It　was　Sanaubar　who　delivered　Hassan　s　son　that　winter　of　1990。　It　had　not　started　snowing　yet；　but　the　winter　winds　were　blowing　through　the　yards；　bending　the　flowerbeds　and　rustling　the　leaves。　I　remember　Sanaubar　came　out　of　the　hut　holding　her　grandson；　had　him　wrapped　in　a　wool　blanket。　She　stood
beaming　under　a　dull　gray　sky　tears　streaming　down　her　cheeks；　the　needle…cold　wind　blowing　her　hair；　and　clutching　that　baby　in　her　arms　like　she　never　wanted　to　let　go。　Not　this　time。　She　handed　him　to　Hassan　and　he　handed　him　to　me　and　I　sang　the　prayer　of　Ayat…ul…kursi　in　that　little　boy　s　ear。
They　named　him　Sohrab；　after　Hassan　s　favorite　hero　from　the　_Shahnamah_；　as　you　know；　Amir　jan。　He　was　a　beautiful　little　boy；　sweet　as　sugar；　and　had　the　same　temperament　as　his　father。　You　should　have　seen　Sanaubar　with　that　baby；　Amir　jan。　He　became　the　center　of　her　existence。　She　sewed　clothes　for　him；　built　him　toys　from　scraps　of　wood；　rags；　and　dried　grass。　When　he　caught　a　fever；　she　stayed　up　all　night；　and　fasted　for　three　days。　She　burned　isfand　for　him　on　a　skillet　to　cast　out　nazar；　the　evil　eye。　By　the　time　Sohrab　was　two；　he　was　calling　her　Sasa。　The　two　of　them　were　inseparable。
She　lived　to　see　him　turn　four；　and　then；　one　morning；　she　just　did　not　wake　up。　She　looked　calm；　at　peace；　like　she　did　not　mind　dying　now。　We　buried　her　in　the　cemetery　on　the　hill；　the　one　by　the　pomegranate　tree；　and　I　said　a　prayer　for　her　too。　The　loss　was　hard　on　Hassan……it　always　hurts　more　to　have　and　lose　than　to　not　have　in　the　first　place。　But　it　was　even　harder　on　little　Sohrab。　He　kept　walking　around　the　house；　looking　for　Sasa；　but　you　know　how　children　are；　they　forget　so　quickly。
By　then……that　would　have　been　1995……the　Shorawi　were　defeated　and　long　gone　and　Kabul　belonged　to　Massoud；　Rabbani；　and　the　Mujahedin。　The　infighting　between　the　factions　was　fierce　and　no　one　knew　if　they　would　live　to　see　the　end　of　the　day。　Our　ears　became　accustomed　to　the　whistle　of　falling　shells；　to　the　rumble　of　gunfire；　our　eyes　familiar　with　the　sight　of　men　digging　bodies　out　of　piles　of　rubble。　Kabul　in　those　days；　Amir　jan；　was　as　close　as　you　could　get　to　that　proverbial　hell　on　earth。　Allah　was　kind　to　us；　though。　The　Wazir　Akbar　Khan　area　was　not　attacked　as　much；　so　we　did　not　have　it　as　bad　as　some　of　the　other　neighborhoods。
On　those　days　when　the　rocket　fire　eased　up　a　bit　and　the　gunfighting　was　light；　Hassan　would　take　Sohrab　to　the　zoo　to　see　Marjan　the　lion；　or　to　the　cinema。　Hassan　taught　him　how　to　shoot　the　slingshot；　and；　later；　by　the　time　he　was　eight；　Sohrab　had　bee　deadly　with　that　thing：　He　could　stand　on　the　terrace　and　hit　a　pinecone　propped　on　a　pail　halfway　across　the　yard。　Hassan　taught　him　to　read　and　write……his　son　was　not　going　to　grow　up　illiterate　like　he　had。　I　grew　very　attached　to　that　little　boy……I　had　seen　him　take　his　first　step；　heard　him　utter　his　first　word。　I　bought　children　s　books　for　Sohrab　from　the　booksto