the kite runner-第101章

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　turning　it　in　his　hands。
I　looked　at　the　photo。　Your　father　was　a　man　torn　between　two　halves；　Rahim　Khan　had　said　in　his　letter。　I　had　been　the　entitled　half；　the　society…approved；　legitimate　half；　the　unwitting　embodiment　of　Baba　s　guilt。　I　looked　at　Hassan；　showing　those　two　missing　front　teeth；　sunlight　slanting　on　his　face。　Baba　s　other　half。　The　unentitled；　unprivileged　half。　The　half　who　had　inherited　what　had　been　pure　and　noble　in　Baba。　The　half　that；　maybe；　in　the　most　secret　recesses　of　his　heart；　Baba　had　thought　of　as　his　true　son。
I　slipped　the　picture　back　where　I　had　found　it。　Then　I　realized　something：　That　last　thought　had　brought　no　sting　with　it。　Closing　Sohrab　s　door；　I　wondered　if　that　was　how　forgiveness　budded；　not　with　the　fanfare　of　epiphany；　but　with　pain　gathering　its　things；　packing　up；　and　slipping　away　unannounced　in　the　middle　of　the　night。
THE　GENERAL　AND　KHALA　JAMILA　came　over　for　dinner　the　following　night。　Khala　Jamila；　her　hair　cut　short　and　a　darker　shade　of　red　than　usual；　handed　Soraya　the　plate　of　almondtopped　maghout　she　had　brought　for　dessert。　She　saw　Sohrab　and　beamed。　　_Mashallah_！　Soraya　jan　told　us　how　khoshteep　you　were；　but　you　are　even　more　handsome　in　person；　Sohrab　jan。　　She　handed　him　a　blue　turtleneck　sweater。　　I　knitted　this　for　you；　　she　said。　　For　next　winter。　_Inshallah_；　it　will　fit　you。　
Sohrab　took　the　sweater　from　her。
　Hello；　young　man；　　was　all　the　general　said；　leaning　with　both　hands　on　his　cane；　looking　at　Sohrab　the　way　one　might　study　a　bizarre　decorative　item　at　someone　s　house。
I　answered；　and　answered　again；　Khala　Jamila　s　questions　about　my　injuries……I　d　asked　Soraya　to　tell　them　I　had　been　mugged……reassuring　her　that　I　had　no　permanent　damage；　that　the　wires　would　e　out　in　a　few　weeks　so　I　d　be　able　to　eat　her　cooking　again；　that；　yes；　I　would　try　rubbing　rhubarb　juice　and　sugar　on　my　scars　to　make　them　fade　faster。
The　general　and　I　sat　in　the　living　room　and　sipped　wine　while　Soraya　and　her　mother　set　the　table。　I　told　him　about　Kabul　and　the　Taliban。　He　listened　and　nodded；　his　cane　on　his　lap；　and　tsk　ed　when　I　told　him　of　the　man　I　had　spotted　selling　his　artificial　leg。　I　made　no　mention　of　the　executions　at　Ghazi　Stadium　and　Assef。　He　asked　about　Rahim　Khan；　whom　he　said　he　had　met　in　Kabul　a　few　times；　and　shook　his　head　solemnly　when　I　told　him　of　Rahim　Khan　s　illness。　But　as　we　spoke；　I　caught　his　eyes　drifting　again　and　again　to　Sohrab　sleeping　on
the　couch。　As　if　we　were　skirting　around　the　edge　of　what　he　really　wanted　to　know。
The　skirting　finally　came　to　an　end　over　dinner　when　the　general　put　down　his　fork　and　said；　　So；　Amir　jan；　you　re　going　to　tell　us　why　you　have　brought　back　this　boy　with　you？　
　Iqbal　jan！　What　sort　of　question　is　that？　　Khala　Jamila　said。
〃While　you　re　busy　knitting　sweaters；　my　dear；　I　have　to　deal　with　the　munity　s　perception　of　our　family。　People　will　ask。　They　will　want　to　know　why　there　is　a　Hazara　boy　living　with　our　daughter。　What　do　I　tell　them？　
Soraya　dropped　her　spoon。　Turned　on　her　father。　　You　can　tell　them……　
　It　s　okay；　Soraya；　　I　said；　taking　her　hand。　　It　s　okay。　General　Sahib　is　quite　right。　People　will　ask。　
　Amir……　　she　began。
　It　s　all　right。　　I　turned　to　the　general。　　You　see；　General　Sahib；　my　father　slept　with　his　servant　s　wife。　She　bore　him　a　son　named　Hassan。　Hassan　is　dead　now。　That　boy　sleeping　on　the　couch　is　Hassan　s　son。　He　s　my　nephew。　That　s　what　you　tell　people　when　they　ask。　
They　were　all　staring　at　me。
　And　one　more　thing；　General　Sahib；　　I　said。　　You　will　never　again　refer　to　him　as　　Hazara　boy　　in　my　presence。　He　has　a　name　and　it　s　Sohrab。　
No　one　said　anything　for　the　remainder　of　the　meal。
IT　WOULD　BE　ERRONEOUS　to　say　Sohrab　was　quiet。　Quiet　is　peace。　Tranquillity。　Quiet　is　turning　down　the　VOLUME　knob　on　life。
Silence　is　pushing　the　OFF　button。　Shutting　it　down。　All　of　it。
Sohrab　s　silence　wasn　t　the　self…imposed　silence　of　those　with　convictions；　of　protesters　who　seek　to　speak　their　cause　by　not　speaking　at　all。　It　was　the　silence　of　one　who　has　taken　cover　in　a　dark　place；　curled　up　all　the　edges　and　tucked　them　under。
He　didn　t　so　much　live　with　us　as　occupy　space。　And　precious　little　of　it。　Sometimes；　at　the　market；　or　in　the　park；　I　d　notice　how　other　people　hardly　seemed　to　even　see　him；　like　he　wasn　t　there　at　all。　I　d　look　up　from　a　book　and　realize　Sohrab　had　entered　the　room；　had　sat　across　from　me；　and　I　hadn　t　noticed。　He　walked　like　he　was　afraid　to　leave　behind　footprints。　He　moved　as　if　not　to　stir　the　air　around　him。　Mostly；　he　slept。
Sohrab　s　silence　was　hard　on　Soraya　too。　Over　that　long…distance　line　to　Pakistan；　Soraya　had　told　me　about　the　things　she　was　planning　for　Sohrab。　Swimming　classes。　Soccer。　Bowling　league。　Now　she　d　walk　past　Sohrab　s　room　and　catch　a　glimpse　of　books　sitting　unopened　in　the　wicker　basket；　the　growth　chart　unmarked；　the　jigsaw　puzzle　unassembled；　each　item　a　reminder　of　a　life　that　could　have　been。　A　reminder　of　a　dream　that　was　wilting　even　as　it　was　budding。　But　she　hadn　t　been　alone。　I　d　had　my　own　dreams　for　Sohrab。
While　Sohrab　was　silent；　the　world　was　not。　One　Tuesday　morning　last　September；　the　Twin　Towers　came　crumbling　down　and；　overnight；　the　world　changed。　The　American　flag　suddenly　appeared　everywhere；　on　the　antennae　of　yellow　cabs　weaving　around　traffic；　on　the　lapels　of　pedestrians　walking　the　sidewalks　in　a　steady　stream；　even　on　the　grimy　caps　of　San　Francisco　s　pan　handlers　sitting　beneath　the　awnings　of　small　art　galleries　and　open…fronted　shops。　One　day　I　passed　Edith；　the　homeless　woman　who　plays　the　accordion　every　day　on　the