the kite runner-第82部分

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megranate　crept　into　my　mouth。
I　hunkered　down　on　my　knees　and　brushed　my　hands　against　the　trunk。　I　found　what　I　was　looking　for。　The　carving　had　dulled；　almost　faded　altogether；　but　it　was　still　there：　　Amir　and　Hassan。　The　Sultans　of　Kabul。　　I　traced　the　curve　of　each　letter　with　my　fingers。　Picked　small　bits　of　bark　from　the　tiny　crevasses。
I　sat　cross…legged　at　the　foot　of　the　tree　and　looked　south　on　the　city　of　my　childhood。　In　those　days；　treetops　poked　behind　the　walls　of　every　house。　The　sky　stretched　wide　and　blue；　and　laundry　drying　on　clotheslines　glimmered　in　the　sun。　If　you　listened　hard；　you　might　even　have　heard　the　call　of　the　fruit　seller　passing　through　Wazir　Akbar　Khan　with　his　donkey：　Cherries！　Apricots！　Grapes！　In　the　early　evening；　you　would　have　heard　azan；　the　mueszzin　s　call　to　prayer　from　the　mosque　in　Shar…e…Nau。
I　heard　a　honk　and　saw　Farid　waving　at　me。　It　was　time　to　go。
WE　DROVE　SOUTH　AGAIN；　back　toward　Pashtunistan　Square。　We　passed　several　more　red　pickup　trucks　with　armed；　bearded　young　men　crammed　into　the　cabs。　Farid　cursed　under　his　breath　every　time　we　passed　one。
I　paid　for　a　room　at　a　small　hotel　near　Pashtunistan　Square。　Three　little　girls　dressed　in　identical　black　dresses　and　white　scarves　clung　to　the　slight；　bespectacled　man　behind　the　counter。　He　charged　me　75；　an　unthinkable　price　given　the　run…down　appearance　of　the　place；　but　I　didn　t　mind。　Exploitation　to　finance　a　beach　house　in　Hawaii　was　one　thing。　Doing　it　to　feed　your　kids　was　another。
There　was　no　hot　running　water　and　the　cracked　toilet　didn　t　flush。　Just　a　single　steel…frame　bed　with　a　worn　mattress；　a　ragged　blanket；　and　a　wooden　chair　in　the　corner。　The　window　overlooking　the　square　had　broken；　hadn　t　been　replaced。　As　I　lowered　my　suitcase；　I　noticed　a　dried　bloodstain　on　the　wall　behind　the　bed。
I　gave　Farid　some　money　and　he　went　out　to　get　food。　He　returned　with　four　sizzling　skewers　of　kabob；　fresh　_naan_；　and　a　bowl　of　white　rice。　We　sat　on　the　bed　and　all　but　devoured　the　food。　There　was　one　thing　that　hadn　t　changed　in　Kabul　after　all：
The　kabob　was　as　succulent　and　delicious　as　I　remembered。
That　night；　I　took　the　bed　and　Farid　lay　on　the　floor；　wrapped　himself　with　an　extra　blanket　for　which　the　hotel　owner　charged　me　an　additional　fee。　No　light　came　into　the　room　except　for　the　moonbeams　streaming　through　the　broken　window。　Farid　said　the　owner　had　told　him　that　Kabul　had　been　without　electricity　for　two　days　now　and　his　generator　needed　fixing。　We　talked　for　a　while。　He　told　me　about　growing　up　in　Mazar…i…Sharif；　in　Jalalabad。　He　told　me　about　a　time　shortly　after　he　and　his　father　joined　the　jihad　and　fought　the　Shorawi　in　the　Panjsher　Valley。　They　were　stranded　without　food　and　ate　locust　to　survive。　He　told　me　of　the　day　helicopter　gunfire　killed　his　father；　of　the　day　the　land　mine　took　his　two　daughters。　He　asked　me　about　America。　I　told　him　that　in　America　you　could　step　into　a　grocery　store　and　buy　any　of　fifteen　or　twenty　different　types　of　cereal。　The　lamb　was　always　fresh　and　the　milk　cold；　the　fruit　plentiful　and　the　water　clear。　Every　home　had　a　TV；　and　every　TV　a　remote；　and　you　could　get　a　satellite　dish　if　you　wanted。　Receive　over　five　hundred　channels。
　Five　hundred？　　Farid　exclaimed。
　Five　hundred。　
We　fell　silent　for　a　while。　Just　when　I　thought　he　had　fallen　asleep；　Farid　chuckled。　　Agha；　did　you　hear　what　Mullah　Nasrud　din　did　when　his　daughter　came　home　and　plained　that　her　husband　had　beaten　her？　　I　could　feel　him　smiling　in　the　dark　and　a　smile　of　my　own　formed　on　my　face。　There　wasn　t　an　Afghan　in　the　world　who　didn　t　know　at　least　a　few　jokes　about　the　bumbling　mullah。
　What？　
　He　beat　her　too；　then　sent　her　back　to　tell　the　husband　that　Mullah　was　no　fool：　If　the　bastard　was　going　to　beat　his　daughter；　then　Mullah　would　beat　his　wife　in　return。　
I　laughed。　Partly　at　the　joke；　partly　at　how　Afghan　humor　never　changed。　Wars　were　waged；　the　Internet　was　invented；　and　a　robot　had　rolled　on　the　surface　of　Mars；　and　in　Afghanistan　we　were　still　telling　Mullah　Nasruddin　jokes。　　Did　you　hear　about　the　time　Mullah　had　placed　a　heavy　bag　on　his　shoulders　and　was　riding　his　donkey？　　I　said。
　No。　
　Someone　on　the　street　said　why　don　t　you　put　the　bag　on　the　donkey？　And　he　said；　　That　would　be　cruel；　I　m　heavy　enough　already　for　the　poor　thing。　
We　exchanged　Mullah　Nasruddin　jokes　until　we　ran　out　of　them　and　we　fell　silent　again。
　Amir　agha？　　Farid　said；　startling　me　from　near　sleep。
　Yes？　
　Why　are　you　here？　I　mean；　why　are　you　really　here？　
　I　told　you。　
　For　the　boy？　
　For　the　boy。　
Farid　shifted　on　the　ground。　　It　s　hard　to　believe。　
　Sometimes　I　myself　can　hardly　believe　I　m　here。　
　No。。。　What　I　mean　to　ask　is　why　that　boy？　You　e　all　the　way　from　America　for。。。　a　Shi　a？　
That　killed　all　the　laughter　in　me。　And　the　sleep。　　I　am　tired；　　I　said。　　Let　s　just　get　some　sleep。　
Farid　s　snoring　soon　echoed　through　the　empty　room。　I　stayed　awake；　hands　crossed　on　my　chest；　staring　into　the　starlit　night　through　the　broken　window；　and　thinking　that　maybe　what　people　said　about　Afghanistan　was　true。　Maybe　it　was　a