the kite runner-第10章

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gned　interest。　　Well；　that　s　very　good；　isn　t　it？　　he　said。　Then　nothing　more。　He　just　looked　at　me　through　the　cloud　of　smoke。
I　probably　stood　there　for　under　a　minute；　but；　to　this　day；　it　was　one　of　the　longest　minutes　of　my　life。　Seconds　plodded　by；　each　separated　from　the　next　by　an　eternity。　Air　grew　heavy　damp；　almost　solid。　I　was　breathing　bricks。　Baba　went　on　staring　me　down；　and　didn　t　offer　to　read。
As　always；　it　was　Rahim　Khan　who　rescued　me。　He　held　out　his　hand　and　favored　me　with　a　smile　that　had　nothing　feigned　about　it。　　May　I　have　it；　Amir　jan？　I　would　very　much　like　to　read　it。　　Baba　hardly　ever　used　the　term　of　endearment　_jan_　when　he　addressed　me。
Baba　shrugged　and　stood　up。　He　looked　relieved；　as　if　he　too　had　been　rescued　by　Rahim　Khan。　　Yes；　give　it　to　Kaka　Rahim。　I　m　going　upstairs　to　get　ready。　　And　with　that；　he　left　the　room。　Most　days　I　worshiped　Baba　with　an　intensity　approaching　the　religious。　But　right　then；　I　wished　I　could　open　my　veins　and　drain　his　cursed　blood　from　my　body。
An　hour　later；　as　the　evening　sky　dimmed；　the　two　of　them　drove　off　in　my　father　s　car　to　attend　a　party。　On　his　way　out；　Rahim　Khan　hunkered　before　me　and　handed　me　my　story　and　another　folded　piece　of　paper。　He　flashed　a　smile　and　winked。　　For　you。　Read　it　later。　　Then　he　paused　and　added　a　single　word　that　did　more　to　encourage　me　to　pursue　writing　than　any　pliment　any　editor　has　ever　paid　me。　That　word　was　_Bravo_。
When　they　left；　I　sat　on　my　bed　and　wished　Rahim　Khan　had　been　my　father。　Then　I　thought　of　Baba　and　his　great　big　chest　and　how　good　it　felt　when　he　held　me　against　it；　how　he　smelled　of　Brut　in　the　morning；　and　how　his　beard　tickled　my　face。　I　was　overe　with　such　sudden　guilt　that　I　bolted　to　the　bathroom　and　vomited　in　the　sink。
Later　that　night；　curled　up　in　bed；　I　read　Rahim　Khan　s　note　over　and　over。　It　read　like　this：
Amir　jan；
I　enjoyed　your　story　very　much。　_Mashallah_；　God　has　granted　you　a　special　talent。　It　is　now　your　duty　to　hone　that　talent；　because　a　person　who　wastes　his　God…given　talents　is　a　donkey。　You　have　written　your　story　with　sound　grammar　and　interesting　style。　But　the　most　impressive　thing　about　your　story　is　that　it
has　irony。　You　may　not　even　know　what　that　word　means。　But　you　will　someday。　It　is　something　that　some　writers　reach　for　their　entire　careers　and　never　attain。　You　have　achieved　it　with　your　first　story。
My　door　is　and　always　will　be　open　to　you；　Amir　jan。　I　shall　hear　any　story　you　have　to　tell。　Bravo。
Your　friend；
Rahim
Buoyed　by　Rahim　Khan　s　note；　I　grabbed　the　story　and　hurried　downstairs　to　the　foyer　where　Ali　and　Hassan　were　sleeping　on　a　mattress。　That　was　the　only　time　they　slept　in　the　house；　when　Baba　was　away　and　Ali　had　to　watch　over　me。　I　shook　Hassan　awake　and　asked　him　if　he　wanted　to　hear　a　story。
He　rubbed　his　sleep…clogged　eyes　and　stretched。　　Now？　What　time　is　it？　
　Never　mind　the　time。　This　story　s　special。　I　wrote　it　myself；　　I　whispered；　hoping　not　to　wake　Ali。　Hassan　s　face　brightened。
　Then　I　_have_　to　hear　it；　　he　said；　already　pulling　the　blanket　off　him。
I　read　it　to　him　in　the　living　room　by　the　marble　fireplace。　No　playful　straying　from　the　words　this　time；　this　was　about　me！　Hassan　was　the　perfect　audience　in　many　ways；　totally　immersed　in　the　tale；　his　face　shifting　with　the　changing　tones　in　the　story。　When　I　read　the　last　sentence；　he　made　a　muted　clapping　sound　with　his　hands。
　_Mashallah_；　Amir　agha。　Bravo！　　He　was　beaming。
　You　liked　it？　　I　said；　getting　my　second　taste……and　how　sweet　it　was……of　a　positive　review。
　Some　day；　_Inshallah_；　you　will　be　a　great　writer；　　Hassan　said。　　And　people　all　over　the　world　will　read　your　stories。　
　You　exaggerate；　Hassan；　　I　said；　loving　him　for　it。
　No。　You　will　be　great　and　famous；　　he　insisted。　Then　he　paused；　as　if　on　the　verge　of　adding　something。　He　weighed　his　words　and　cleared　his　throat。　　But　will　you　permit　me　to　ask　a　question　about　the　story？　　he　said　shyly。
　Of　course。　
　Well。。。　　he　started；　broke　off。
　Tell　me；　Hassan；　　I　said。　I　smiled；　though　suddenly　the　insecure　writer　in　me　wasn　t　so　sure　he　wanted　to　hear　it。
　Well；　　he　said；　　if　I　may　ask；　why　did　the　man　kill　his　wife？　In　fact；　why　did　he　ever　have　to　feel　sad　to　shed　tears？　Couldn　t　he　have　just　smelled　an　onion？　
I　was　stunned。　That　particular　point；　so　obvious　it　was　utterly　stupid；　hadn　t　even　occurred　to　me。　I　moved　my　lips　soundlessly。　It　appeared　that　on　the　same　night　I　had　learned　about　one　of　writing　s　objectives；　irony；　I　would　also　be　introduced　to　one　of　its　pitfalls：　the　Plot　Hole。　Taught　by　Hassan；　of　all　people。　Hassan　who　couldn　t　read　and　had　never　written　a　single　word　in　his
entire　life。　A　voice；　cold　and　dark；　suddenly　whispered　in　my　ear；　_What　does　he　know；　that　illiterate　Hazara？　He　ll　never　be　anything　but　a　cook。　How　dare　he　criticize　you？_
　Well；　　I　began。　But　I　never　got　to　finish　that　sentence。
Because　suddenly　Afghanistan　changed　forever。
FIVE
Something　roared　like　thunder。　The　earth　shook　a　little　and　we　heard　the　_rat…a…tat…tat_　of　gunfire。　　Father！　　Hassan　cried。　We　sprung　to　our　feet　and　raced　out　of　the　living　room。　We　found　Ali　hobbling　frantically　across　the　foyer。
　Father！　What　s　that　sound？　　Hassan　yelped；　his　hands　outstretched　toward　Ali。　Ali　wrapped　his　arms　around　us。　A　white　light　flashed；　lit　the　sky　in　silver。　It　flashed　again　and　was　followed　by　a　rapid　staccato　of　gunfire。
　They　re　hunting　ducks；　　Ali　said　in　a　hoarse　voice。　　They　hunt　ducks　at　night；　you　know。　Don　t　be　afraid。　
A　siren　went　off　in　the　distance。　Somewhere　glass　shattered　and　someone　shouted。　I　heard　people　on　the　street；　j