the kite runner-第75部分

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I　woke　up　with　a　scream　trapped　in　my　throat。
I　STEPPED　OUTSIDE。　Stood　in　the　silver　tarnish　of　a　half…moon　and　glanced　up　to　a　sky　riddled　with　stars。　Crickets　chirped　in　the　shuttered　darkness　and　a　wind　wafted　through　the　trees。　The　ground　was　cool　under　my　bare　feet　and　suddenly；　for　the　first　time　since　we　had　crossed　the　border；　I　felt　like　I　was　back。　After　all　these　years；　I　was　home　again；　standing　on　the　soil　of　my　ancestors。　This　was　the　soil　on　which　my　great…grandfather　had　married　his　third　wife　a　year　before　dying　in　the　cholera　epidemic　that　hit　Kabul　in　1915。　She　d　borne　him　what　his　first　two　wives　had　failed　to；　a　son　at　last。　It　was　on　this　soil　that　my　grandfather　had　gone　on　a　hunting　trip　with　King　Nadir　Shah　and　shot　a　deer。　My　mother　had　died　on　this　soil。　And　on　this　soil；　I　had　fought　for　my　father　s　love。
I　sat　against　one　of　the　house　s　clay　walls。　The　kinship　I　felt　suddenly　for　the　old　land。。。　it　surprised　me。　I　d　been　gone　long　enough　to　forget　and　be　forgotten。　I　had　a　home　in　a　land　that　might　as　well　be　in　another　galaxy　to　the　people　sleeping　on　the　other　side　of　the　wall　I　leaned　against。　I　thought　I　had　forgotten　about　this　land。　But　I　hadn　t。　And；　under　the　bony　glow　of　a　halfmoon；　I　sensed　Afghanistan　humming　under　my　feet。　Maybe　Afghanistan　hadn　t　forgotten　me　either。
I　looked　westward　and　marveled　that；　somewhere　over　those　mountains；　Kabul　still　existed。　It　really　existed；　not　just　as　an　old　memory；　or　as　the　heading　of　an　AP　story　on　page　15　of　the　San　Francisco　Chronicle。　Somewhere　over　those　mountains　in　the　west　slept　the　city　where　my　harelipped　brother　and　I　had　run　kites。　Somewhere　over　there；　the　blindfolded　man　from　my　dream　had　died　a
needless　death。　Once；　over　those　mountains；　I　had　made　a　choice。　And　now；　a　quarter　of　a　century　later；　that　choice　had　landed　me　right　back　on　this　soil。
I　was　about　to　go　back　inside　when　I　heard　voices　ing　from　the　house。　I　recognized　one　as　Wahid　s。
　……nothing　left　for　the　children。　
　We　re　hungry　but　we　re　not　savages！　He　is　a　guest！　What　was　I　supposed　to　do？　　he　said　in　a　strained　voice。
　……to　find　something　tomorrow　　She　sounded　near　tears。　　What　do　I　feed……　
I　tiptoed　away。　I　understood　now　why　the　boys　hadn　t　shown　any　interest　in　the　watch。　They　hadn　t　been　staring　at　the　watch　at　all。　They　d　been　staring　at　my　food。
WE　SAID　OUR　GOOD　…　BYE　S　early　the　next　morning。　Just　before　I　climbed　into　the　Land　Cruiser；　I　thanked　Wahid　for　his　hospitality。　He　pointed　to　the　little　house　behind　him。　　This　is　your　home；　　he　said。　His　three　sons　were　standing　in　the　doorway　watching　us。　The　little　one　was　wearing　the　watch……it　dangled　around　his　twiggy　wrist。
I　glanced　in　the　side…view　mirror　as　we　pulled　away。　Wahid　stood　surrounded　by　his　boys　in　a　cloud　of　dust　whipped　up　by　the　truck。　It　occurred　to　me　that；　in　a　different　world；　those　boys　wouldn　t　have　been　too　hungry　to　chase　after　the　car。
Earlier　that　morning；　when　I　was　certain　no　one　was　looking；　I　did　something　I　had　done　twenty…six　years　earlier：　I　planted　a　fistful　of　crumpled　money　under　a　mattress。
TWENTY
Farid　had　warned　me。　He　had。　But；　as　it　turned　out；　he　had　wasted　his　breath。
We　were　driving　down　the　cratered　road　that　winds　from　Jalalabad　to　Kabul。　The　last　time　I　d　traveled　that　road　was　in　a　tarpaulin…covered　truck　going　the　other　way。　Baba　had　nearly　gotten　himself　shot　by　a　singing；　stoned　Roussi　officer……Baba　had　made　me　so　mad　that　night；　so　scared；　and；　ultimately；　so　proud。　The　trek　between　Kabul　and　Jalalabad；　a　bone…jarring　ride　down　a　teetering　pass　snaking　through　the　rocks；　had　bee　a　relic　now；　a　relic　of　two　wars。　Twenty　years　earlier；　I　had　seen　some　of　the　first　war　with　my　own　eyes。　Grim　reminders　of　it　were　strewn　along　the　road：　burned　carcasses　of　old　Soviet　tanks；　overturned　military　trucks　gone　to　rust；　a　crushed　Russian　jeep　that　had　plunged　over　the　mountainside。　The　second　war；　I　had　watched　on　my　TV　screen。　And　now　I　was　seeing　it　through　Farid　s　eyes。
Swerving　effortlessly　around　potholes　in　the　middle　of　the　broken　road；　Farid　was　a　man　in　his　element。　He　had　bee　much　chattier　since　our　overnight　stay　at　Wahid　s　house。　He　had　me　sit　in　the　passenger　seat　and　looked　at　me　when　he　spoke。　He　even　smiled　once　or　twice。　Maneuvering　the　steering　wheel　with　his　mangled　hand；　he　pointed　to　mud…hut　villages　along　the　way　where　he　d　known　people　years　before。　Most　of　those　people；　he　said；　were　either　dead　or　in　refugee　camps　in　Pakistan。　　And　sometimes　the　dead　are　luckier；　　he　said。
He　pointed　to　the　crumbled；　charred　remains　of　a　tiny　village。　It　was　just　a　tuft　of　blackened；　roofless　walls　now。　I　saw　a　dog　sleeping　along　one　of　the　walls。　　I　had　a　friend　there　once；　　Farid　said。　　He　was　a　very　good　bicycle　repairman。　He　played　the　tabla　well　too。　The　Taliban　killed　him　and　his　family　and　burned　the　village。　
We　drove　past　the　burned　village；　and　the　dog　didn　t　move。
IN　THE　OLD　DAYS；　the　drive　from　Jalalabad　to　Kabul　took　two　hours；　maybe　a　little　more。　It　took　Farid　and　me　over　four　hours　to　reach　Kabul。　And　when　we　did。。。　Farid　warned　me　just　after　we　passed　the　Mahipar　dam。
　Kab