the kite runner-第8部分

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ill　them　with　your　favorite　colors。　
　I　m　telling　you；　　Baba　said；　　I　wasn　t　like　that　at　all；　and　neither　were　any　of　the　kids　I　grew　up　with。　
　You　know；　sometimes　you　are　the　most　self…centered　man　I　know；　　Rahim　Khan　said。　He　was　the　only　person　I　knew　who　could　get　away　with　saying　something　like　that　to　Baba。
　It　has　nothing　to　do　with　that。　
　Nay？　
　Nay。　
　Then　what？　
I　heard　the　leather　of　Baba　s　seat　creaking　as　he　shifted　on　it。　I　closed　my　eyes；　pressed　my　ear　even　harder　against　the　door；　wanting　to　hear；　not　wanting　to　hear。　　Sometimes　I　look　out　this　window　and　I　see　him　playing　on　the　street　with　the　neighborhood　boys。　I　see　how　they　push　him　around；　take　his　toys　from　him；　give　him　a　shove　here；　a　whack　there。　And；　you　know；　he　never　fights　back。　Never。　He　just。。。　drops　his　head　and。。。　
　So　he　s　not　violent；　　Rahim　Khan　said。
　That　s　not　what　I　mean；　Rahim；　and　you　know　it；　　Baba　shot　back。　　There　is　something　missing　in　that　boy。　
　Yes；　a　mean　streak。　
　Self…defense　has　nothing　to　do　with　meanness。　You　know　what　always　happens　when　the　neighborhood　boys　tease　him？　Hassan　steps　in　and　fends　them　off。　I　ve　seen　it　with　my　own　eyes。　And　when　they　e　home；　I　say　to　him；　　How　did　Hassan　get　that　scrape　on　his　face？　　And　he　says；　　He　fell　down。　　I　m　telling　you；　Rahim；　there　is　something　missing　in　that　boy。　
　You　just　need　to　let　him　find　his　way；　　Rahim　Khan　said。
　And　where　is　he　headed？　　Baba　said。　　A　boy　who　won　t　stand　up　for　himself　bees　a　man　who　can　t　stand　up　to　anything。　
　As　usual　you　re　oversimplifying。　
　I　don　t　think　so。　
　You　re　angry　because　you　re　afraid　he　ll　never　take　over　the　business　for　you。　
　Now　who　s　oversimplifying？　　Baba　said。　　Look；　I　know　there　s　a　fondness　between　you　and　him　and　I　m　happy　about　that。　Envious；　but　happy。　I　mean　that。　He　needs　someone　who。。。understands　him；　because　God　knows　I　don　t。　But　something　about　Amir　troubles　me　in　a　way　that　I　can　t　express。　It　s　like。。。　　I　could　see　him　searching；　reaching　for　the　right　words。　He　lowered　his　voice；　but　I　heard　him　anyway。　　If　I　hadn　t　seen　the　doctor　pull　him　out　of　my　wife　with　my　own　eyes；　I　d　never　believe　he　s　my　son。　
THE　NEXT　MORNING；　as　he　was　preparing　my　breakfast；　Hassan　asked　if　something　was　bothering　me。　I　snapped　at　him；　told　him　to　mind　his　own　business。
Rahim　Khan　had　been　wrong　about　the　mean　streak　thing。
FOUR
In　1933；　the　year　Baba　was　born　and　the　year　Zahir　Shah　began　his　forty…year　reign　of　Afghanistan；　two　brothers；　young　men　from　a　wealthy　and　reputable　family　in　Kabul；　got　behind　the　wheel　of　their　father　s　Ford　roadster。　High　on　hashish　and　_mast_　on　French　wine；　they　struck　and　killed　a　Hazara　husband　and　wife　on　the　road　to　Paghman。　The　police　brought　the　somewhat　contrite　young　men　and　the　dead　couple　s　five…year…old　orphan　boy　before　my　grandfather；　who　was　a　highly　regarded　judge　and　a　man　of　impeccable　reputation。　After　hearing　the　brothers　　account　and　their　father　s　plea　for　mercy；　my　grandfather　ordered　the　two　young　men　to　go　to　Kandahar　at　once　and　enlist　in　the　army　for　one　year……this　despite　the　fact　that　their　family　had　somehow　managed　to　obtain　them　exemptions　from　the　draft。　Their　father　argued；　but　not　too　vehemently；　and　in　the　end；　everyone　agreed　that　the　punishment　had　been　perhaps　harsh　but　fair。　As　for　the　orphan；　my　grandfather　adopted　him　into　his　own　household；　and　told　the　other　servants　to　tutor　him；　but　to　be　kind　to　him。　That　boy　was　Ali。
Ali　and　Baba　grew　up　together　as　childhood　playmates……at　least　until　polio　crippled　Ali　s　leg……just　like　Hassan　and　I　grew　up　a　generation　later。　Baba　was　always　telling　us　about　the　mischief　he　and　Ali　used　to　cause；　and　Ali　would　shake　his　head　and　say；　　But；　Agha　sahib；　tell　them　who　was　the　architect　of　the　mischief　and　who　the　poor　laborer？　　Baba　would　laugh　and　throw　his　arm　around　Ali。
But　in　none　of　his　stories　did　Baba　ever　refer　to　Ali　as　his　friend。
The　curious　thing　was；　I　never　thought　of　Hassan　and　me　as　friends　either。　Not　in　the　usual　sense；　anyhow。　Never　mind　that　we　taught　each　other　to　ride　a　bicycle　with　no　hands；　or　to　build　a　fully　functional　homemade　camera　out　of　a　cardboard　box。　Never　mind　that　we　spent　entire　winters　flying　kites；　running　kites。　Never　mind　that　to　me；　the　face　of　Afghanistan　is　that　of　a　boy　with　a　thin…boned　frame；　a　shaved　head；　and　low…set　ears；　a　boy　with　a　Chinese　doll　face　perpetually　lit　by　a　harelipped　smile。
Never　mind　any　of　those　things。　Because　history　isn　t　easy　to　overe。　Neither　is　religion。　In　the　end；　I　was　a　Pashtun　and　he　was　a　Hazara；　I　was　Sunni　and　he　was　Shi　a；　and　nothing　was　ever　going　to　change　that。　Nothing。
But　we　were　kids　who　had　learned　to　crawl　together；　and　no　history；　ethnicity；　society；　or　religion　was　going　to　change　that　either。　I　spent　most　of　the　first　twelve　years　of　my　life　playing　with　Hassan。　Sometimes；　my　entire　childhood　seems　like　one　long　lazy　summer　day　with　Hassan；　chasing　each　other　between　tangles　of　trees　in　my　father　s　yard；　playing　hide…and…seek；　cops　and　robbers；　cowboys　and　Indians；　insect　torture……with　our　crowning　achievement　undeniably　the　time　we　plucked　the