the kite runner-第14章

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e　year　before　and　the　teacher　had　told　us　they　had　waited　too　long　to　take　him　to　a　surgeon。　We　both　looked　to　Ali；　but　of　course　with　him　you　could　never　tell。　His　face　was　impassive　as　ever；　though　something　sober　had　melted　into　his　eyes。
　Well；　　Dr。　Kumar　said；　　my　job　is　to　fix　things　on　people　s　bodies。　Sometimes　their　faces。　
　Oh；　　Hassan　said。　He　looked　from　Dr。　Kumar　to　Baba　to　Ali。　His　hand　touched　his　upper　lip。　　Oh；　　he　said　again。
　It　s　an　unusual　present；　I　know；　　Baba　said。　　And　probably　not　what　you　had　in　mind；　but　this　present　will　last　you　forever。　
　Oh；　　Hassan　said。　He　licked　his　lips。　Cleared　his　throat。　　Agha　sahib；　will　it。。。　will　it……　
　Nothing　doing；　　Dr。　Kumar　intervened；　smiling　kindly。　　It　will　not　hurt　you　one　bit。　In　fact；　I　will　give　you　a　medicine　and　you　will　not　remember　a　thing。　
　Oh；　　Hassan　said。　He　smiled　back　with　relief。　A　little　relief　anyway。　　I　wasn　t　scared；　Agha　sahib；　I　just。。。　　Hassan　might　have　been　fooled；　but　I　wasn　t。　I　knew　that　when　doctors　said　it　wouldn　t　hurt；　that　s　when　you　knew　you　were　in　trouble。　With　dread；　I　remembered　my　circumcision　the　year　prior。　The　doctor　had　given　me　the　same　line；　reassured　me　it　wouldn　t　hurt　one　bit。　But　when　the　numbing　medicine　wore　off　later　that　night；　it　felt　like　someone　had　pressed　a　red　hot　coal　to　my　loins。　Why　Baba　waited　until　I　was　ten　to　have　me　circumcised　was　beyond　me　and　one　of　the　things　I　will　never　forgive　him　for。
I　wished　I　too　had　some　kind　of　scar　that　would　beget　Baba　s　sympathy。　It　wasn　t　fair。　Hassan　hadn　t　done　anything　to　earn　Baba　s　affections；　he　d　just　been　born　with　that　stupid　harelip。
The　surgery　went　well。　We　were　all　a　little　shocked　when　they　first　removed　the　bandages；　but　kept　our　smiles　on　just　as　Dr。　Kumar　had　instructed　us。　It　wasn　t　easy；　because　Hassan　s　upper　lip　was　a　grotesque　mesh　of　swollen；　raw　tissue。　I　expected　Hassan　to　cry　with　horror　when　the　nurse　handed　him　the　mirror。　Ali　held　his　hand　as　Hassan　took　a　long；　thoughtful　look　into　it。　He　muttered　something　I　didn　t　understand。　I　put　my　ear　to　his　mouth。　He　whispered　it　again。
　_Tashakor_。　　Thank　you。
Then　his　lips　twisted；　and；　that　time；　I　knew　just　what　he　was　doing。　He　was　smiling。　Just　as　he　had；　emerging　from　his　mother　s　womb。
The　swelling　subsided；　and　the　wound　healed　with　time。　Soon；　it　was　just　a　pink　jagged　line　running　up　from　his　lip。　By　the　following　winter；　it　was　only　a　faint　scar。　Which　was　ironic。　Because　that　was　the　winter　that　Hassan　stopped　smiling。
SIX
Winter。
Here　is　what　I　do　on　the　first　day　of　snowfall　every　year：　I　step　out　of　the　house　early　in　the　morning；　still　in　my　pajamas；　hugging　my　arms　against　the　chill。　I　find　the　driveway；　my　father　s　car；　the　walls；　the　trees；　the　rooftops；　and　the　hills　buried　under　a　foot　of　snow。　I　smile。　The　sky　is　seamless　and　blue；　the　snow　so　white　my　eyes　burn。　I　shovel　a　handful　of　the　fresh　snow　into　my　mouth；　lis　ten　to　the　muffled　stillness　broken　only　by　the　cawing　of　crows。　I　walk　down　the　front　steps；　barefoot；　and　call　for　Hassan　to　e　out　and　see。
Winter　was　every　kid　s　favorite　season　in　Kabul；　at　least　those　whose　fathers　could　afford　to　buy　a　good　iron　stove。　The　reason　was　simple：　They　shut　down　school　for　the　icy　season。　Winter　to　me　was　the　end　of　long　division　and　naming　the　capital　of　Bulgaria；　and　the　start　of　three　months　of　playing　cards　by　the　stove　with　Hassan；　free　Russian　movies　on　Tuesday　mornings　at　Cinema　Park；　sweet　turnip　_qurma_　over　rice　for　lunch　after　a　morning　of　building　snowmen。
And　kites；　of　course。　Flying　kites。　And　running　them。
For　a　few　unfortunate　kids；　winter　did　not　spell　the　end　of　the　school　year。　There　were　the　so…called　voluntary　winter　courses。　No　kid　I　knew　ever　volunteered　to　go　to　these　classes；　parents；　of　course；　did　the　volunteering　for　them。　Fortunately　for　me；　Baba　was　not　one　of　them。　I　remember　one　kid；　Ahmad；　who　lived　across　the　street　from　us。　His　father　was　some　kind　of　doctor；　I　think。　Ahmad　had　epilepsy　and　always　wore　a　wool　vest　and　thick　blackrimmed　glasses……he　was　one　of　Assef　s　regular　victims。　Every　morning；　I　watched　from　my　bedroom　window　as　their　Hazara　servant　shoveled　snow　from　the　driveway；　cleared　the　way　for　the　black　Opel。　I　made　a　point　of　watching　Ahmad　and　his　father　get　into　the　car；　Ahmad　in　his　wool　vest　and　winter　coat；　his　schoolbag　filled　with　books　and　pencils。　I　waited　until　they　pulled　away；　turned　the　corner；　then　I　slipped　back　into　bed　in　my　flannel　pajamas。　I　pulled　the　blanket　to　my　chin　and　watched　the　snowcapped　hills　in　the　north　through　the　window。　Watched　them　until　I　drifted　back　to　sleep。
I　loved　wintertime　in　Kabul。　I　loved　it　for　the　soft　pattering　of　snow　against　my　window　at　night；　for　the　way　fresh　snow　crunched　under　my　black　rubber　boots；　for　the　warmth　of　the　cast…iron　stove　as　the　wind　screeched　through　the　yards；　the　streets。　But　mostly　because；　as　the　trees　froze　and　ice　sheathed　the　roads；　the　chill　between　Baba　and　me　thawed　a　little。　And　the　reason　for　that　was　the　kites。　Baba　and　I　lived　in　the　same　house；　but　in　different　spheres　of　existence。　Kites　were　the　one　paper　thin　slice　of　intersection　between　those　spheres。
EVERY　WINTER；　districts　in　Kabul　held　a　kite…fighting　tournament。　And　if　you　were　a　boy　living　in　Kabul；　the　day　of　the　tournament　was　undeniably　the　highlight　of　the　cold　season。　I　never　slept　the　night　before　the　tournament。　I　d　roll　from　side　to　side；　make　shadow　animals　on　the　wall；　even　sit　on　the　balcony　in　the　dark；　a　blanket　wrapped　around　me。　I　felt　like　a　soldier　trying　to　sleep
in　the　trenches　the　night　before　a　major　battle。　And　that　wasn　t　so　far　off。　In