the kite runner-第71部分

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he　winter　of　1975；　dating　back　to　when　that　singing　Hazara　woman　was　still　nursing　me；　had　been　a　cycle　of　lies；　betrayals；　and　secrets。
There　is　a　way　to　be　good　again；　he　d　said。
A　way　to　end　the　cycle。
With　a　little　boy。　An　orphan。　Hassan　s　son。　Somewhere　in　Kabul。
ON　THE　RICKSHAW　RIDE　back　to　Rahim　Khan　s　apartment；　I　remembered　Baba　saying　that　my　problem　was　that　someone　had　always　done　my　fighting　for　me。　I　was　thirty…eight　flow。　My　hair　was　receding　and　streaked　with　gray；　and　lately　I　d
traced　little　crow　s…feet　etched　around　the　corners　of　my　eyes。　I　was　older　now；　but　maybe　not　yet　too　old　to　start　doing　my　own　fighting。　Baba　had　lied　about　a　lot　of　things　as　it　turned　out　but　he　hadn　t　lied　about　that。
I　looked　at　the　round　face　in　the　Polaroid　again；　the　way　the　sun　fell　on　it。　My　brother　s　face。　Hassan　had　loved　me　once；　loved　me　in　a　way　that　no　one　ever　had　or　ever　would　again。　He　was　gone　now；　but　a　little　part　of　him　lived　on。　It　was　in　Kabul。
Waiting。
I　FOUND　RAHIM　KHAN　praying　_namaz_　in　a　corner　of　the　room。　He　was　just　a　dark　silhouette　bowing　eastward　against　a　bloodred　sky。　I　waited　for　him　to　finish。
Then　I　told　him　I　was　going　to　Kabul。　Told　him　to　call　the　Caldwells　in　the　morning。
　I　ll　pray　for　you；　Amir　jan；　　he　said。
NINETEEN
Again；　the　car　sickness。　By　the　time　we　drove　past　the　bulletriddled　sign　that　read　THE　KHYBER　PASS　WELES　YOU；　my　mouth　had　begun　to　water。　Something　inside　my　stomach　churned　and　twisted。　Farid；　my　driver；　threw　me　a　cold　glance。　There　was　no　empathy　in　his　eyes。
　Can　we　roll　down　the　window？　　I　asked。
He　lit　a　cigarette　and　tucked　it　between　the　remaining　two　fingers　of　his　left　hand；　the　one　resting　on　the　steering　wheel。　Keeping　his　black　eyes　on　the　road；　he　stooped　forward；　picked　up　the　screwdriver　lying　between　his　feet；　and　handed　it　to　me。　I　stuck　it　in　the　small　hole　in　the　door　where　the　handle　belonged　and　turned　it　to　roll　down　my　window。
Farid　gave　me　another　dismissive　look；　this　one　with　a　hint　of　barely　suppressed　animosity；　and　went　back　to　smoking　his　cigarette。　He　hadn　t　said　more　than　a　dozen　words　since　we　d　departed　from　Jamrud　Fort。
　Tashakor；　　I　muttered。　I　leaned　my　head　out　of　the　window　and　let　the　cold　midafternoon　air　rush　past　my　face。　The　drive　through　the　tribal　lands　of　the　Khyber　Pass；　winding　between　cliffs　of　shale　and　limestone；　was　just　as　I　remembered　it……Baba　and　I　had　driven　through　the　broken　terrain　back　in　1974。　The　arid；　imposing　mountains　sat　along　deep　gorges　and　soared　to　jagged　peaks。　Old　fortresses；　adobe…walled　and　crumbling；　topped　the　crags。　I　tried　to　keep　my　eyes　glued　to　the　snowcapped　Hindu　Kush　on　the　north　side；　but　each　time　my　stomach　settled　even　a　bit；　the　truck　skidded　around　yet　another　turn；　rousing　a　fresh　wave　of　nausea。
　Try　a　lemon。　
　What？　
　Lemon。　Good　for　the　sickness；　　Farid　said。　　I　always　bring　one　for　this　drive。　
　Nay；　thank　you；　　I　said。　The　mere　thought　of　adding　acidity　to　my　stomach　stirred　more　nausea。　Farid　snickered。　　It　s　not　fancy　like　American　medicine；　I　know；　just　an　old　remedy　my　mother　taught　me。　
I　regretted　blowing　my　chance　to　warm　up　to　him。　　In　that　case；　maybe　you　should　give　me　some。　
He　grabbed　a　paper　bag　from　the　backseat　and　plucked　a　half　lemon　out　of　it。　I　bit　down　on　it；　waited　a　few　minutes。　　You　were　right。　I　feel　better；　　I　lied。　As　an　Afghan；　I　knew　it　was　better　to　be　miserable　than　rude。　I　forced　a　weak　smile。
　Old　watani　trick；　no　need　for　fancy　medicine；　　he　said。　His　tone　bordered　on　the　surly。　He　flicked　the　ash　off　his　cigarette　and　gave　himself　a　self…satisfied　look　in　the　rearview　mirror。　He　was　a　Tajik；　a　lanky；　dark　man　with　a　weather…beaten　face；　narrow　shoulders；　and　a　long　neck　punctuated　by　a　protruding　Adam　s　apple　that　only　peeked　from　behind　his　beard　when　he　turned　his　head。　He　was　dressed　much　as　I　was；　though　I　suppose　it　was　really　the　other　way　around：　a　rough…woven　wool　blanket　wrapped　over　a　gray　pirhan…tumban　and　a　vest。　On　his　head；　he　wore　a　brown　pakol；　tilted　slightly　to　one　side；　like　the　Tajik　hero　Ahmad　Shah　Massoud……referred　to　by　Tajiks　as　　the　Lion　of　Panjsher。　
It　was　Rahim　Khan　who　had　introduced　me　to　Farid　in　Peshawar。　He　told　me　Farid　was　twenty…nine；　though　he　had　the　wary；　lined　face　of　a　man　twenty　years　older。　He　was　born　in　Mazar…i…Sharif　and　lived　there　until　his　father　moved　the　family　to　Jalalabad　when　Farid　was　ten。　At　fourteen；　he　and　his　father　had　joined　the　jihad　against　the　Shorawi。　They　had　fought　in　the　Panjsher　Valley　for　two　years　until　helicopter　gunfire　had　torn　the　older　man　to　pieces。　Farid　had　two　wives　and　five　children。　　He　used　to　have　seven；　　Rahim　Khan　said　with　a　rueful　look；　but　he　d　lost　his　two　youngest　girls　a　few　years　earlier　in　a　land　mine　blast　just　outside　Jalalabad；　the　same　explosion　that　had　severed　toes　from　his　feet　and　three　fingers　from　his　left　hand。　After　that；　he　had　moved　his　wives　and　children　to　Peshawar。
　Checkpoint；　　Farid　grumbled。　I　slumped　a　little　in　my　seat；　arms　folded　across　my　chest；　forgetting　for　a　moment　about　the　nausea。　But　I　needn　t　have　worried。　Two　Pakistani　militia　approached　ou