the kite runner-第100章

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！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　a　croak；　　I　am　so　khasta。　　So　very　tired。　I　sat　by　his　bed　until　he　fell　asleep。　Something　was　lost　between　Sohrab　and　me。　Until　my　meeting　with　the　lawyer；　Omar　Faisal；　a　light　of　hope　had　begun　to　enter　Sohrab　s　eyes　like　a　timid　guest。　Now　the　light　was　gone；　the　guest　had　fled；　and　I　wondered　when　it　would　dare　return。　I　wondered　how　long　before　Sohrab　smiled　again。　How　long　before　he　trusted　me。　If　ever。
So　I　left　the　room　and　went　looking　for　another　hotel；　unaware　that　almost　a　year　would　pass　before　I　would　hear　Sohrab　speak　another　word。
IN　THE　END；　Sohrab　never　accepted　my　offer。　Nor　did　he　decline　it。　But　he　knew　that　when　the　bandages　were　removed　and　the　hospital　garments　returned；　he　was　just　another　homeless　Hazara　orphan。　What　choice　did　he　have？　Where　could　he　go？　So　what　I　took　as　a　yes　from　him　was　in　actuality　more　of　a　quiet　surrender；　not　so　much　an　acceptance　as　an　act　of　relinquishment　by　one　too　weary　to　decide；　and　far　too　tired　to　believe。　What　he　yearned　for　was　his　old　life。　What　he　got　was　me　and　America。　Not　that　it　was　such　a　bad　fate；　everything　considered；　but　I　couldn　t　tell　him　that。　Perspective　was　a　luxury　when　your　head　was　constantly　buzzing　with　a　swarm　of　demons。
And　so　it　was　that；　about　a　week　later；　we　crossed　a　strip　of　warm；　black　tarmac　and　I　brought　Hassan　s　son　from　Afghanistan　to　America；　lifting　him　from　the　certainty　of　turmoil　and　dropping　him　in　a　turmoil　of　uncertainty。
ONE　DAY；　maybe　around　1983　or　1984；　I　was　at　a　video　store　in　Fremont。　I　was　standing　in　the　Westerns　section　when　a　guy　next　to　me；　sipping　Coke　from　a　7…Eleven　cup；　pointed　to　_The　Magnificent　Seven_　and　asked　me　if　I　had　seen　it。　　Yes；　thirteen　times；　　I　said。　　Charles　Bronson　dies　in　it；　so　do　James　Coburn　and　Robert　Vaughn。　　He　gave　me　a　pinch…faced　look；　as　if　I　had　just　spat　in　his　soda。　　Thanks　a　lot；　man；　　he　said；　shaking　his　head　and　muttering　something　as　he　walked　away。　That　was　when　I　learned　that；　in　America；　you　don　t　reveal　the　ending　of　the　movie；　and　if　you　do；　you　will　be　scorned　and　made　to　apologize　profusely　for　having　mitted　the　sin　of　Spoiling　the　End。
In　Afghanistan；　the　ending　was　all　that　mattered。　When　Hassan　and　I　came　home　after　watching　a　Hindi　film　at　Cinema　Zainab；　what　Ali；　Rahim　Khan；　Baba；　or　the　myriad　of　Baba　s　friends……second　and　third　cousins　milling　in　and　out　of　the　house……wanted　to　know　was　this：　Did　the　Girl　in　the　film　find　happiness？　Did　the　bacheh　film；　the　Guy　in　the　film；　bee　katnyab　and　fulfill　his　dreams；　or　was　he　nah…kam；　doomed　to　wallow　in　failure？
Was　there　happiness　at　the　end；　they　wanted　to　know。
If　someone　were　to　ask　me　today　whether　the　story　of　Hassan；　Sohrab；　and　me　ends　with　happiness；　I　wouldn　t　know　what　to　say。
Does　anybody　s？
After　all；　life　is　not　a　Hindi　movie。　Zendagi　migzara；　Afghans　like　to　say：　Life　goes　on；　unmindful　of　beginning；　end；　kamyab；　nah…kam；　crisis　or　catharsis；　moving　forward　like　a　slow；　dusty　caravan　of　kochis。
I　wouldn　t　know　how　to　answer　that　question。　Despite　the　matter　of　last　Sunday　s　tiny　miracle。
WE　ARRIVED　HOME　about　seven　months　ago；　on　a　warm　day　in　August　2001。　Soraya　picked　us　up　at　the　airport。　I　had　never　been　away　from　Soraya　for　so　long；　and　when　she　locked　her　arms　around　my　neck；　when　I　smelled　apples　in　her　hair；　I　realized　how　much　I　had　missed　her。　　You　re　still　the　morning　sun　to　my　yelda；　　I　whispered。
　What？　
　Never　mind。　　I　kissed　her　ear。
After；　she　knelt　to　eye　level　with　Sohrab。　She　took　his　hand　and　smiled　at　him。　　Sataam；　Sohrab　jan；　I　m　your　Khala　Soraya。　We　ve　all　been　waiting　for　you。　
Looking　at　her　smiling　at　Sohrab；　her　eyes　tearing　over　a　little；　I　had　a　glimpse　of　the　mother　she　might　have　been；　had　her　own　womb　not　betrayed　her。
Sohrab　shifted　on　his　feet　and　looked　away。
SORAYA　HAD　TURNED　THE　STUDY　upstairs　into　a　bedroom　for　Sohrab。　She　led　him　in　and　he　sat　on　the　edge　of　the　bed。　The　sheets　showed　brightly　colored　kites　flying　in　indigo　blue　skies。　She　had　made　inscriptions　on　the　wall　by　the　closet；　feet　and　inches　to　measure　a　child　s　growing　height。　At　the　foot　of　the　bed；　I　saw　a　wicker　basket　stuffed　with　books；　a　lootive；　a　water　color　set。
Sohrab　was　wearing　the　plain　white　T…shirt　and　new　denims　I　had　bought　him　in　Islamabad　just　before　we　d　left……the　shirt　hung　loosely　over　his　bony；　slumping　shoulders。　The　color　still　hadn　t　seeped　back　into　his　face；　save　for　the　halo　of　dark　circles　around　his　eyes。　He　was　looking　at　us　now　in　the　impassive　way　he　looked　at　the　plates　of　boiled　rice　the　hospital　orderly　placed　before　him。
Soraya　asked　if　he　liked　his　room　and　I　noticed　that　she　was　trying　to　avoid　looking　at　his　wrists　and　that　her　eyes　kept　swaying　back　to　those　jagged　pink　lines。　Sohrab　lowered　his　head。　Hid　his　hands　under　his　thighs　and　said　nothing。
Then　he　simply　lay　his　head　on　the　pillow。　Less　than　five　minutes　later；　Soraya　and　I　watching　from　the　doorway；　he　was　snoring。
We　went　to　bed；　and　Soraya　fell　asleep　with　her　head　on　my　chest。　In　the　darkness　of　our　room；　I　lay　awake；　an　insomniac　once　more。　Awake。　And　alone　with　demons　of　my　own。　Sometime　in　the　middle　of　the　night；　I　slid　out　of　bed　and　went　to　Sohrab　s　room。　I　stood　over　him；　looking　down；　and　saw　some　thing　protruding　from　under　his　pillow。　I　picked　it　up。　Saw　it　was　Rahim　Khan　s　Polaroid；　the　one　I　had　given　to　Sohrab　the　night　we　had　sat　by　the　Shah　Faisal　Mosque。　The　one　of　Hassan　and　Sohrab　standing　side　by　side；　squinting　in　the　light　of　the　sun；　and　smiling　like　the　world　was　a　good　and　just　place。　I　wondered　how　long　Sohrab　had　lain　in　bed　staring　at　the　photo；　turning　it　in　his　hands。
I　looked　at　the　photo。