the kite runner-第84部分

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e　words　of　my　brothers。　Those　are　the　words　of　GOD！　　He　pointed　with　his　free　hand　to　the　sky。　My　head　was　pounding　and　the　sun　felt　much　too　hot。
　Every　sinner　must　be　punished　in　a　manner　befitting　his　sin！　　the　cleric　repeated　into　the　mike；　lowering　his　voice；　enunciating　each　word　slowly；　dramatically。　　And　what　manner　of　punishment；　brothers　and　sisters；　befits　the　adulterer？　How　shall　we　punish　those　who　dishonor　the　sanctity　of　marriage？　How　shall　we　deal　with　those　who　spit　in　the　face　of　God？　How　shall　we　answer　those　who　throw　stones　at　the　windows　of　God　s　house？　WE　SHALL　THROW　THE　STONES　BACK！　　He　shut　off　the　microphone。　A　low…pitched　murmur　spread　through　the　crowd。
Next　to　me；　Farid　was　shaking　his　head。　　And　they　call　themselves　Muslims；　　he　whispered。
Then　a　tall；　broad…shouldered　man　stepped　out　of　the　pickup　truck。　The　sight　of　him　drew　cheers　from　a　few　spectators。　This　time；　no　one　was　struck　with　a　whip　for　cheering　too　loudly。　The　tall　man　s　sparkling　white　garment　glimmered　in　the　afternoon　sun。　The　hem　of　his　loose　shirt　fluttered　in　the　breeze；　his　arms　spread　like　those　of　Jesus　on　the　cross。　He　greeted　the　crowd　by　turning　slowly　in　a　full　circle。　When　he　faced　our　section；　I　saw　he　was　wearing　dark　round　sunglasses　like　the　ones　John　Lennon　wore。
　That　must　be　our　man；　　Farid　said。
The　tall　Talib　with　the　black　sunglasses　walked　to　the　pile　of　stones　they　had　unloaded　from　the　third　truck。　He　picked　up　a　rock　and　showed　it　to　the　crowd。　The　noise　fell；　replaced　by　a　buzzing　sound　that　rippled　through　the　stadium。　I　looked　around　me　and　saw　that　everyone　was　tsk　ing。　The　Talib；　looking　absurdly　like　a　baseball　pitcher　on　the　mound；　hurled　the　stone　at　the　blindfolded　man　in　the　hole。　It　struck　the　side　of　his　head。　The　woman　screamed　again。　The　crowd　made　a　startled　　OH！　　sound。　I　closed　my　eyes　and　covered　my　face　with　my　hands。　The　spectators　　　OH！　　rhymed　with　each　flinging　of　the　stone；　and　that　went　on　for　a　while。　When　they　stopped；　I　asked　Farid　if　it　was　over。　He　said　no。　I　guessed　the　people　s　throats　had　tired。　I　don　t　know　how　much　longer　I　sat　with　my　face　in　my　hands。　I　know　that　I　reopened　my　eyes　when　I　heard　people　around　me　asking；　　Mord？　Mord？　Is　he　dead？　
The　man　in　the　hole　was　now　a　mangled　mess　of　blood　and　shredded　rags。　His　head　slumped　forward；　chin　on　chest。　The　Talib　in　the　John　Lennon　sunglasses　was　looking　down　at　another　man　squatting　next　to　the　hole；　tossing　a　rock　up　and　down　in　his
hand。　The　squatting　man　had　one　end　of　a　stethoscope　to　his　ears　and　the　other　pressed　on　the　chest　of　the　man　in　the　hole。　He　removed　the　stethoscope　from　his　ears　and　shook　his　head　no　at　the　Talib　in　the　sunglasses。　The　crowd　moaned。
John　Lennon　walked　back　to　the　mound。
When　it　was　all　over；　when　the　bloodied　corpses　had　been　unceremoniously　tossed　into　the　backs　of　red　pickup　trucks……separate　ones……a　few　men　with　shovels　hurriedly　filled　the　holes。　One　of　them　made　a　passing　attempt　at　covering　up　the　large　blood　stains　by　kicking　dirt　over　them。　A　few　minutes　later；　the　teams　took　the　field。　Second　half　was　under　way。
Our　meeting　was　arranged　for　three　o　clock　that　afternoon。　The　swiftness　with　which　the　appointment　was　set　surprised　me。　I　d　expected　delays；　a　round　of　questioning　at　least；　perhaps　a　check　of　our　papers。　But　I　was　reminded　of　how　unofficial　even　official　matters　still　were　in　Afghanistan：　all　Farid　had　to　do　was　tell　one　of　the　whip…carrying　Talibs　that　we　had　personal　business　to　discuss　with　the　man　in　white。　Farid　and　he　exchanged　words。　The　guy　with　the　whip　then　nodded　and　shouted　something　in　Pashtu　to　a　young　man　on　the　field；　who　ran　to　the　south…end　goalposts　where　the　Talib　in　the　sunglasses　was　chatting　with　the　plump　cleric　who　d　given　the　sermon。　The　three　spoke。　I　saw　the　guy　in　the　sunglasses　look　up。　He　nodded。　Said　something　in　the　messenger　s　ear。　The　young　man　relayed　the　message　back　to　us。
It　was　set；　then。　Three　o　clock。
TWENTY…TWO
Farid　eased　the　Land　Cruiser　up　the　driveway　of　a　big　house　in　Wazir　Akbar　Khan。　He　parked　in　the　shadows　of　willow　trees　that　spilled　over　the　walls　of　the　pound　located　on　Street　15；　Sarak…e…Mehmana；　Street　of　the　Guests。　He　killed　the　engine　and　we　sat　for　a　minute；　listening　to　the　tink…tink　of　the　engine　cooling　off；　neither　one　of　us　saying　anything。　Farid　shifted　on　his　seat　and　toyed　with　the　keys　still　hanging　from　the　ignition　switch。　I　could　tell　he　was　readying　himself　to　tell　me　something。
　I　guess　I　ll　wait　in　the　car　for　you；　　he　said　finally；　his　tone　a　little　apologetic。　He　wouldn　t　look　at　me。　　This　is　your　business　now。　I……　
I　patted　his　arm。　　You　ve　done　much　more　than　I　ve　paid　you　for。　I　don　t　expect　you　to　go　with　me。　　But　I　wished　I　didn　t　have　to　go　in　alone。　Despite　what　I　had　learned　about　Baba；　I　wished　he　were　standing　alongside　me　now。　Baba　would　have　busted　through　the　front　doors　and　demanded　to　be　taken　to　the　man　in　charge；　piss　on　the　beard　of　anyone　who　stood　in　his　way。　But　Baba　was　long　dead；　buried　in　the　Afghan　section　of　a　little　cemetery　in　Hayward。　Just　last　month；　Soraya　and　I　had　placed　a　bouquet　of　dais