the kite runner-第86部分

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ds　were　shaking　and　he　almost　dropped　the　cigarette。　　But　you　want　a　real　show；　you　should　have　been　with　me　in　Mazar。　August　1998；　that　was。　
　I　m　sorry？　
　We　left　them　out　for　the　dogs；　you　know。　
I　saw　what　he　was　getting　at。
He　stood　up；　paced　around　the　sofa　once；　twice。　Sat　down　again。　He　spoke　rapidly。　　Door　to　door　we　went；　calling　for　the　men　and　the　boys。　We　d　shoot　them　right　there　in　front　of　their　families。　Let　them　see。　Let　them　remember　who　they　were；　where　they　belonged。　　He　was　almost　panting　now。　　Sometimes；　we　broke　down　their　doors　and　went　inside　their　homes。　And。。。　I　d。。。　I　d　sweep　the　barrel　of　my　machine　gun　around　the　room　and　fire　and　fire　until　the　smoke　blinded　me。　　He　leaned　toward　me；　like　a　man　about　to　share　a　great　secret。　　You　don　t　know　the　meaning　of　the　word　　liberating　　until　you　ve　done　that；　stood　in　a　roomful　of　targets；　let　the　bullets　fly；　free　of　guilt　and　remorse；　knowing　you　are　virtuous；　good；　and　decent。　Knowing　you　re　doing　God　s　work。　It　s　breathtaking。　　He　kissed　the　prayer　beads；　tilted　his　head。　　You　remember　that；　Javid？　
　Yes；　Agha　sahib；　　the　younger　of　the　guards　replied。　　How　could　I　forget？　
I　had　read　about　the　Hazara　massacre　in　Mazar…i…Sharif　in　the　papers。　It　had　happened　just　after　the　Taliban　took　over　Mazar；　one　of　the　last　cities　to　fall。　I　remembered　Soraya　handing　me　the　article　over　breakfast；　her　face　bloodless。
　Door…to…door。　We　only　rested　for　food　and　prayer；　　the　Talib　said。　He　said　it　fondly；　like　a　man　telling　of　a　great　party　he　d　attended。　　We　left　the　bodies　in　the　streets；　and　if　their　families　tried　to　sneak　out　to　drag　them　back　into　their　homes；　we　d　shoot　them　too。　We　left　them　in　the　streets　for　days。　We　left
them　for　the　dogs。　Dog　meat　for　dogs。　　He　crushed　his　cigarette。　Rubbed　his　eyes　with　tremulous　hands。　　You　e　from　America？　
　Yes。　
　How　is　that　whore　these　days？　
I　had　a　sudden　urge　to　urinate。　I　prayed　it　would　pass。　　I　m　looking　for　a　boy。　
　Isn　t　everyone？　　he　said。　The　men　with　the　Kalashnikovs　laughed。　Their　teeth　were　stained　green　with　naswar。
　I　understand　he　is　here；　with　you；　　I　said。　　His　name　is　Sohrab。　
　I　ll　ask　you　something：　What　are　you　doing　with　that　whore？　Why　aren　t　you　here；　with　your　Muslim　brothers；　serving　your　country？　
　I　ve　been　away　a　long　time；　　was　all　I　could　think　of　saying。　My　head　felt　so　hot。　I　pressed　my　knees　together；　held　my　bladder。
The　Talib　turned　to　the　two　men　standing　by　the　door。　　That　s　an　answer？　　he　asked　them。
　Nay；　Agha　sahib；　　they　said　in　unison；　smiling。
He　turned　his　eyes　to　me。　Shrugged。　　Not　an　answer；　they　say。　　He　took　a　drag　of　his　cigarette。　　There　are　those　in　my　circle　who　believe　that　abandoning　watan　when　it　needs　you　the　most　is　the　same　as　treason。　I　could　have　you　arrested　for　treason；　have　you　shot　for　it　even。　Does　that　frighten　you？　
　I　m　only　here　for　the　boy。　
　Does　that　frighten　you？　
　Yes。　
　It　should；　　he　said。　He　leaned　back　in　the　sofa。　Crushed　the　cigarette。
I　thought　about　Soraya。　It　calmed　me。　I　thought　of　her　sickleshaped　birthmark；　the　elegant　curve　of　her　neck；　her　luminous　eyes。　I　thought　of　our　wedding　night；　gazing　at　each　other　s　reflection　in　the　mirror　under　the　green　veil；　and　how　her　cheeks　blushed　when　I　whispered　that　I　loved　her。　I　remembered　the　two　of　us　dancing　to　an　old　Afghan　song；　round　and　round；　everyone　watching　and　clapping；　the　world　a　blur　of　flowers；　dresses；　tuxedos；　and　smiling　faces。
The　Talib　was　saying　something。
　Pardon？　
　I　said　would　you　like　to　see　him？　Would　you　like　to　see　my　boy？　　His　upper　lip　curled　up　in　a　sneer　when　he　said　those　last　two　words。
　Yes。　
The　guard　left　the　room。　I　heard　the　creak　of　a　door　swinging　open。　Heard　the　guard　say　something　in　Pashtu；　in　a　hard　voice。　Then；　footfalls；　and　the　jingle　of　bells　with　each　step。　It　reminded　me　of　the　Monkey　Man　Hassan　and　I　used　to
chase　down　in　Shar　e…Nau。　We　used　to　pay　him　a　rupia　of　our　allowance　for　a　dance。　The　bell　around　his　monkey　s　neck　had　made　that　same　jingling　sound。
Then　the　door　opened　and　the　guard　walked　in。　He　carried　a　stereo……a　boom　box……on　his　shoulder。　Behind　him；　a　boy　dressed　in　a　loose；　sapphire　blue　pirhan…tumban　followed。
The　resemblance　was　breathtaking。　Disorienting。　Rahim　Khan　s　Polaroid　hadn　t　done　justice　to　it。
The　boy　had　his　father　s　round　moon　face；　his　pointy　stub　of　a　chin；　his　twisted；　seashell　ears；　and　the　same　slight　frame。　It　was　the　Chinese　doll　face　of　my　childhood；　the　face　peering　above　fanned…out　playing　cards　all　those　winter　days；　the　face　behind　the　mosquito　net　when　we　slept　on　the　roof　of　my　father　s　house　in　the　summer。　His　head　was　shaved；　his　eyes　darkened　with　mascara；　and　his　cheeks　glowed　with　an　unnatural　red。　When　he　stopped　in　the　middle　of　the　room；　the　bells　strapped　around　his　anklets　stopped　jingling。　His　eyes　fell　on　me。　Lingered。　Then　he　looked　away。　Looked　down　at　his　naked　feet。
One　of　the　guards　pressed　a　button　and　Pashtu　music　filled　the　room。　Tabla；　harmonium；　the　whine　of　a　dil…roba。　I　guessed　music　wasn　t　sinful　as　long　as　it　played　to　Taliban　ears。　The　three　men　began　to　clap。
　Wah　wah！　_Mashallah