the kite runner-第72部分

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　have　worried。　Two　Pakistani　militia　approached　our　dilapidated　Land　Cruiser；　took　a　cursory　glance　inside；　and　waved　us　on。
Farid　was　first　on…　the　list　of　preparations　Rahim　Khan　and　I　made；　a　list　that　included　exchanging　dollars　for　Kaldar　and　Afghani　bills；　my　garment　and　pakol……ironically；　I　d　never　worn　either　when　I　d　actually　lived　in　Afghanistan……the　Polaroid　of　Hassan　and　Sohrab；　and；　finally；　perhaps　the　most　important　item：　an　artificial　beard；　black　and　chest　length；　Shari　a　friendly……or　at　least　the　Taliban　version　of　Shari　a。　Rahim　Khan　knew　of　a　fellow　in　Peshawar　who　specialized　in　weaving　them；　sometimes　for　Western　journalists　who　covered　the　war。
Rahim　Khan　had　wanted　me　to　stay　with　him　a　few　more　days；　to　plan　more　thoroughly。　But　I　knew　I　had　to　leave　as　soon　as　possible。　I　was　afraid　I　d　change　my　mind。　I　was　afraid　I　d　deliberate；　ruminate；　agonize；　rationalize；　and　talk　myself　into　not　going。　I　was　afraid　the　appeal　of　my　life　in　America　would　draw　me　back；　that　I　would　wade　back　into　that　great；　big　river　and　let　myself　forget；　let　the　things　I　had　learned　these　last　few　days　sink　to　the　bottom。　I　was　afraid　that　I　d　let　the　waters　carry　me　away　from　what　I　had　to　do。　From　Hassan。　From　the　past　that　had　e　calling。　And　from　this　one　last　chance　at　redemption。　So　I　left　before　there　was　any　possibility　of　that　happening。　As　for
Soraya；　telling　her　I　was　going　back　to　Afghanistan　wasn　t　an　option。　If　I　had；　she　would　have　booked　herself　on　the　next　flight　to　Pakistan。
We　had　crossed　the　border　and　the　signs　of　poverty　were　every　where。　On　either　side　of　the　road；　I　saw　chains　of　little　villages　sprouting　here　and　there；　like　discarded　toys　among　the　rocks；　broken　mud　houses　and　huts　consisting　of　little　more　than　four　wooden　poles　and　a　tattered　cloth　as　a　roof。　I　saw　children　dressed　in　rags　chasing　a　soccer　ball　outside　the　huts。　A　few　miles　later；　I　spotted　a　cluster　of　men　sitting　on　their　haunches；　like　a　row　of　crows；　on　the　carcass　of　an　old　burned…out　Soviet　tank；　the　wind　fluttering　the　edges　of　the　blankets　thrown　around　them。　Behind　them；　a　woman　in　a　brown　burqa　carried　a　large　clay　pot　on　her　shoulder；　down　a　rutted　path　toward　a　string　of　mud　houses。
　Strange；　　I　said。
　What？　
　I　feel　like　a　tourist　in　my　own　country；　　I　said；　taking　in　a　goatherd　leading　a　half…dozen　emaciated　goats　along　the　side　of　the　road。
Farid　snickered。　Tossed　his　cigarette。　　You　still　think　of　this　place　as　your　country？　
　I　think　a　part　of　me　always　will；　　I　said；　more　defensively　than　I　had　intended。
　After　twenty　years　of　living　in　America；　　he　said；　swerving　the　truck　to　avoid　a　pothole　the　size　of　a　beach　ball。
I　nodded。　　I　grew　up　in　Afghanistan。　　Farid　snickered　again。
　Why　do　you　do　that？　
　Never　mind；　　he　murmured。
　No；　I　want　to　know。　Why　do　you　do　that？　
In　his　rearview　mirror；　I　saw　something　flash　in　his　eyes。　　You　want　to　know？　　he　sneered。　　Let　me　imagine；　Agha　sahib。　You　probably　lived　in　a　big　two…　or　three…story　house　with　a　nice　back　yard　that　your　gardener　filled　with　flowers　and　fruit　trees。　All　gated；　of　course。　Your　father　drove　an　American　car。　You　had　servants；　probably　Hazaras。　Your　parents　hired　workers　to　decorate　the　house　for　the　fancy　mehmanis　they　threw；　so　their　friends　would　e　over　to　drink　and　boast　about　their　travels　to　Europe　or　America。　And　I　would　bet　my　first　son　s　eyes　that　this　is　the　first　time　you　ve　ever　worn　a　pakol。　　He　grinned　at　me；　revealing　a　mouthful　of　prematurely　rotting　teeth。　　Am　I　close？　
　Why　are　you　saying　these　things？　　I　said。
　Because　you　wanted　to　know；　　he　spat。　He　pointed　to　an　old　man　dressed　in　ragged　clothes　trudging　down　a　dirt　path；　a　large　burlap　pack　filled　with　scrub　grass　tied　to　his　back。　　That　s　the　real　Afghanistan；　Agha　sahib。　That　s　the　Afghanistan　I　know。　You？　You　ve　always　been　a　tourist　here；　you　just　didn　t　know　it。　
Rahim　Khan　had　warned　me　not　to　expect　a　warm　wele　in　Afghanistan　from　those　who　had　stayed　behind　and　fought　the　wars。　　I　m　sorry　about　your　father；　　I　said。　　I　m　sorry　about　your　daughters；　and　I　m　sorry　about　your　hand。　
　That　means　nothing　to　me；　　he　said。　He　shook　his　head。　　Why　are　you　ing　back　here　anyway？　Sell　off　your　Baba　s　land？　Pocket　the　money　and　run　back　to　your　mother　in　America？　
　My　mother　died　giving　birth　to　me；　　I　said。
He　sighed　and　lit　another　cigarette。　Said　nothing。
　Pull　over。　
　What？　
　Pull　over；　goddamn　it！　　I　said。　　I　m　going　to　be　sick。　　I　tumbled　out　of　the　truck　as　it　was　ing　to　a　rest　on　the　gravel　alongside　the　road。
BY　LATE　AFTERNOON；　the　terrain　had　changed　from　one　of　sun…beaten　peaks　and　barren　cliffs　to　a　greener；　more　rural　land　scape。　The　main　pass　had　descended　from　Landi　Kotal　through　Shinwari　territory　to　Landi　Khana。　We　d　entered　Afghanistan　at　Torkham。　Pine　trees　flanked　the　road；　fewer　than　I　remembered　and　many　of　them　bare；　but　it　was　good　to　see　trees　again　after　the　arduous　drive　through　the　Khyber　Pass。　We　were　getting　closer　to　Jalalabad；　where　Farid　had　a　brother　who　would　take　us　in　for　the　night。
The　sun　hadn　t　quite　set　when　we　drove　into　Jalalabad；　capital　of　the　state　of　Nangarhar；