the kite runner-第9部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


ing　achievement　undeniably　the　time　we　plucked　the　stinger　off　a　bee　and　tied　a　string　around　the　poor　thing　to　yank　it　back　every　time　it　took　flight。
We　chased　the　_Kochi_；　the　nomads　who　passed　through　Kabul　on　their　way　to　the　mountains　of　the　north。　We　would　hear　their　caravans　approaching　our　neighborhood；　the　mewling　of　their　sheep；　the　_baa_ing　of　their　goats；　the　jingle　of　bells　around　their　camels　　necks。　We　d　run　outside　to　watch　the　caravan　plod　through　our　street；　men　with　dusty；　weather…beaten　faces　and　women　dressed　in　long；　colorful　shawls；　beads；　and　silver　bracelets　around　their　wrists　and　ankles。　We　hurled　pebbles　at　their　goats。　We　squirted　water　on　their　mules。　I　d　make　Hassan　sit　on　the　Wall　of　Ailing　Corn　and　fire　pebbles　with　his　slingshot　at　the　camels　　rears。
We　saw　our　first　Western　together；　_Rio　Bravo_　with　John　Wayne；　at　the　Cinema　Park；　across　the　street　from　my　favorite　bookstore。　I　remember　begging　Baba　to　take　us　to　Iran　so　we　could　meet　John　Wayne。　Baba　burst　out　in　gales　of　his　deepthroated　laughter……a　sound　not　unlike　a　truck　engine　revving　up……and；　when　he　could　talk　again；　explained　to　us　the　concept　of　voice　dubbing。　Hassan　and　I　were　stunned。　Dazed。　John　Wayne　didn　t　really　speak　Farsi　and　he　wasn　t　Iranian！　He　was　American；　just　like　the　friendly；　longhaired　men　and　women　we　always　saw　hanging　around　in　Kabul；　dressed　in　their　tattered；　brightly　colored　shirts。　We　saw　_Rio　Bravo_　three　times；　but　we　saw　our　favorite　Western；　_The　Magnificent　Seven_；　thirteen　times。　With　each　viewing；　we　cried　at　the　end　when　the　Mexican　kids　buried　Charles　Bronson……who；　as　it　turned　out；　wasn　t　Iranian　either。
We　took　strolls　in　the　musty…smelling　bazaars　of　the　Shar…e…Nau　section　of　Kabul；　or　the　new　city；　west　of　the　Wazir　Akbar　Khan　district。　We　talked　about　whatever　film　we　had　just　seen　and　walked　amid　the　bustling　crowds　of　_bazarris_。　We　snaked　our　way　among　the　merchants　and　the　beggars；　wandered　through　narrow　alleys　cramped　with　rows　of　tiny；　tightly　packed　stalls。　Baba　gave　us　each　a　weekly　allowance　of　ten　Afghanis　and　we　spent　it　on　warm　Coca…Cola　and　rosewater　ice　cream　topped　with　crushed　pistachios。
During　the　school　year；　we　had　a　daily　routine。　By　the　time　I　dragged　myself　out　of　bed　and　lumbered　to　the　bathroom；　Hassan　had　already　washed　up；　prayed　the　morning　_namaz_　with　Ali；　and　prepared　my　breakfast：　hot　black　tea　with　three　sugar　cubes　and　a　slice　of　toasted　_naan_　topped　with　my　favorite　sour　cherry　marmalade；　all　neatly　placed　on　the　dining　table。　While　I　ate　and　plained　about　homework；　Hassan　made　my　bed；　polished　my　shoes；　ironed　my　outfit　for　the　day；　packed　my　books　and　pencils。　I　d　hear　him　singing　to　himself　in　the　foyer　as　he　ironed；　singing　old　Hazara　songs　in　his　nasal　voice。　Then；　Baba　and　I　drove　off　in　his　black　Ford　Mustang……a　car　that　drew　envious　looks　everywhere　because　it　was　the　same　car　Steve　McQueen　had　driven　in　_Bullitt_；　a　film　that　played　in　one　theater　for　six　months。　Hassan　stayed　home　and　helped　Ali　with　the　day　s　chores：　hand…washing　dirty　clothes　and　hanging　them　to　dry　in　the　yard；　sweeping　the　floors；　buying　fresh　_naan_　from　the　bazaar；　marinating　meat　for　dinner；　watering　the　lawn。
After　school；　Hassan　and　I　met　up；　grabbed　a　book；　and　trotted　up　a　bowl…shaped　hill　just　north　of　my　father　s　property　in　Wazir　Akbar　Khan。　There　was　an　old
abandoned　cemetery　atop　the　hill　with　rows　of　unmarked　headstones　and　tangles　of　brushwood　clogging　the　aisles。　Seasons　of　rain　and　snow　had　turned　the　iron　gate　rusty　and　left　the　cemetery　s　low　white　stone　walls　in　decay。　There　was　a　pomegranate　tree　near　the　entrance　to　the　cemetery。　One　summer　day；　I　used　one　of　Ali　s　kitchen　knives　to　carve　our　names　on　it：　　Amir　and　Hassan；　the　sultans　of　Kabul。　　Those　words　made　it　formal：　the　tree　was　ours。　After　school；　Hassan　and　I　climbed　its　branches　and　snatched　its　bloodred　pomegranates。　After　we　d　eaten　the　fruit　and　wiped　our　hands　on　the　grass；　I　would　read　to　Hassan。
Sitting　cross…legged；　sunlight　and　shadows　of　pomegranate　leaves　dancing　on　his　face；　Hassan　absently　plucked　blades　of　grass　from　the　ground　as　I　read　him　stories　he　couldn　t　read　for　himself。　That　Hassan　would　grow　up　illiterate　like　Ali　and　most　Hazaras　had　been　decided　the　minute　he　had　been　born；　perhaps　even　the　moment　he　had　been　conceived　in　Sanaubar　s　unweling　womb……after　all；　what　use　did　a　servant　have　for　the　written　word？　But　despite　his　illiteracy；　or　maybe　because　of　it；　Hassan　was　drawn　to　the　mystery　of　words；　seduced　by　a　secret　world　forbidden　to　him。　I　read　him　poems　and　stories；　sometimes　riddles……though　I　stopped　reading　those　when　I　saw　he　was　far　better　at　solving　them　than　I　was。　So　I　read　him　unchallenging　things；　like　the　misadventures　of　the　bumbling　Mullah　Nasruddin　and　his　donkey。　We　sat　for　hours　under　that　tree；　sat　there　until　the　sun　faded　in　the　west；　and　still　Hassan　insisted　we　had　enough　daylight　for　one　more　story；　one　more　chapter。
My　favorite　part　of　reading　to　Hassan　was　when　we　came　across　a　big　word　that　he　didn　t　know。　I　d　tease　him；　expose　his　ignorance。　One　time；　I　was　reading　him　a　Mullah　N