the kite runner-第102章

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ess　woman　who　plays　the　accordion　every　day　on　the　corner　of　Sutter　and　Stockton；　and　spotted　an　American　flag　sticker　on　the　accordion　case　at　her　feet。
Soon　after　the　attacks；　America　bombed　Afghanistan；　the　Northern　Alliance　moved　in；　and　the　Taliban　scurried　like　rats　into　the　caves。　Suddenly；　people　were　standing　in　grocery　store　lines　and　talking　about　the　cities　of　my　childhood；　Kandahar；　Herat；　Mazar…i…Sharif。　When　I　was　very　little；　Baba　took　Hassan　and　me　to　Kunduz。　I　don　t　remember　much　about　the　trip；　except　sitting　in　the　shade　of　an　acacia　tree　with　Baba　and　Hassan；　taking　turns　sipping　fresh　watermelon　juice　from　a　clay　pot　and　seeing　who　could　spit　the　seeds　farther。　Now　Dan　Rather；　Tom　Brokaw；　and　people　sipping　lattes　at　Starbucks　were　talking　about　the　battle　for　Kunduz；　the　Taliban　s　last　stronghold　in　the　north。　That　December；　Pashtuns；　Tajiks；　Uzbeks；　and　Hazaras　gathered　in　Bonn　and；　under　the　watchful　eye　of　the　UN；　began　the　process　that　might　someday　end　over　twenty　years　of　unhappiness　in　their　watan。　Hamid　Karzai　s　caracul　hat　and　green　chapan　became　famous。
Sohrab　sleepwalked　through　it　all。
Soraya　and　I　became　involved　in　Afghan　projects；　as　much　out　of　a　sense　of　civil　duty　as　the　need　for　something……anything……to　fill　the　silence　upstairs；　the　silence　that　sucked　everything　in　like　a　black　hole。　I　had　never　been　the　active　type　before；　but　when　a　man　named　Kabir；　a　former　Afghan　ambassador　to　Sofia；　called　and　asked　if　I　wanted　to　help　him　with　a　hospital　project；　I　said　yes。　The　small　hospital　had　stood　near　the　Afghan…Pakistani　border　and　had　a　small　surgical　unit　that　treated　Afghan　refugees　with　land　mine　injuries。　But　it　had　closed　down　due　to　a　lack　of　funds。　I　became　the　project　manager；　Soraya　my　anager。　I　spent　most　of　my　days　in　the　study；　e…mailing　people　around　the　world；　applying　for　grants；　organizing　fund…raising　events。　And　telling　myself　that　bringing　Sohrab　here　had　been　the　right　thing　to　do。
The　year　ended　with　Soraya　and　me　on　the　couch；　blanket　spread　over　our　legs；　watching　Dick　Clark　on　TV。　People　cheered　and　kissed　when　the　silver　ball　dropped；　and　confetti　whitened　the　screen。　In　our　house；　the　new　year　began　much　the　same　way　the　last　one　had　ended。　In　silence。
THEN；　FOUR　DAYS　AGO；　on　a　cool　rainy　day　in　March　2002；　a　small；　wondrous　thing　happened。
I　took　Soraya；　Khala　Jamila；　and　Sohrab　to　a　gathering　of　Afghans　at　Lake　Elizabeth　Park　in　Fremont。　The　general　had　finally　been　summoned　to　Afghanistan　the　month　before　for　a　ministry　position；　and　had　flown　there　two　weeks　earlier……he　had　left　behind　his　gray　suit　and　pocket　watch。　The　plan　was　for　Khala　Jamila　to　join　him　in　a　few　months　once　he　had　settled。　She　missed　him　terribly……and　worried　about　his　health　there……and　we　had　insisted　she　stay　with　us　for　a　while。
The　previous　Thursday；　the　first　day　of　spring；　had　been　the　Afghan　New　Year　s　Day……the　Sawl…e…Nau……and　Afghans　in　the　Bay　Area　had　planned　celebrations
throughout　the　East　Bay　and　the　peninsula。　Kabir；　Soraya；　and　I　had　an　additional　reason　to　rejoice：　Our　little　hospital　in　Rawalpindi　had　opened　the　week　before；　not　the　surgical　unit；　just　the　pediatric　clinic。　But　it　was　a　good　start；　we　all　agreed。
It　had　been　sunny　for　days；　but　Sunday　morning；　as　I　swung　my　legs　out　of　bed；　I　heard　raindrops　pelting　the　window。　Afghan　luck；　I　thought。　Snickered。　I　prayed　morning　_namaz_　while　Soraya　slept……I　didn　t　have　to　consult　the　prayer　pamphlet　I　had　obtained　from　the　mosque　anymore；　the　verses　came　naturally　now；　effortlessly。
We　arrived　around　noon　and　found　a　handful　of　people　taking　cover　under　a　large　rectangular　plastic　sheet　mounted　on　six　poles　spiked　to　the　ground。　Someone　was　already　frying　bolani；　steam　rose　from　teacups　and　a　pot　of　cauliflower　aush。　A　scratchy　old　Ahmad　Zahir　song　was　blaring　from　a　cassette　player。　I　smiled　a　little　as　the　four　of　us　rushed　across　the　soggy　grass　field；　Soraya　and　I　in　the　lead；　Khala　Jamila　in　the　middle；　Sohrab　behind　us；　the　hood　of　his　yellow　raincoat　bouncing　on　his　back。
　What　s　so　funny？　　Soraya　said；　holding　a　folded　newspaper　over　her　head。
　You　can　take　Afghans　out　of　Paghman；　but　you　can　t　take　Paghman　out　of　Afghans；　　I　said。
We　stooped　under　the　makeshift　tent。　Soraya　and　Khala　Jamila　drifted　toward　an　overweight　woman　frying　spinach　bolani。　Sohrab　stayed　under　the　canopy　for　a　moment；　then　stepped　back　out　into　the　rain；　hands　stuffed　in　the　pockets　of　his　raincoat；　his　hair……now　brown　and　straight　like　Hassan　s……plastered　against　his　scalp。　He　stopped　near　a　coffee…colored　puddle　and　stared　at　it。　No　one　seemed　to　notice。　No　one　called　him　back　in。　With　time；　the　queries　about　our　adopted……and　decidedly　eccentric……little　boy　had　mercifully　ceased；　and；　considering　how　tactless　Afghan　queries　can　be　sometimes；　that　was　a　considerable　relief。　People　stopped　asking　why　he　never　spoke。　Why　he　didn　t　play　with　the　other　kids。　And　best　of　all；　they　stopped　suffocating　us　with　their　exaggerated　empathy；　their　slow　head　shaking；　their　tsk　tsks；　their　　Oh　gung　bichara。　　Oh；　poor　little　mute　one。　The　novelty　had　worn　off。　Like　dull　wallpaper；　Sohrab　had　blended　into　the　background。
I　shook　hands　with　Kabir；　a　small；　silver…haired　man。　He　introduced　me　to　a　dozen　men；　one　of　them　a　retired　teacher；　another　an　engineer；　a　former　architect；　a　surgeon　who　was　now　running　a　hot　dog　stand　in　Hayward。　They　all　said　they　d　known　Baba　in　Kabul；　and　they　spoke　about　him　respectfully。　In　one　way　or　another；　he　had　touched　all　their　lives。　The　men　said　I　was　lucky　to　have　had　such　a　great　man　for　a　father。
We　chatted　about　the　difficult　and　maybe　thankless