the kite runner-第15章

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in　the　trenches　the　night　before　a　major　battle。　And　that　wasn　t　so　far　off。　In　Kabul；　fighting　kites　was　a　little　like　going　to　war。
As　with　any　war；　you　had　to　ready　yourself　for　battle。　For　a　while；　Hassan　and　I　used　to　build　our　own　kites。　We　saved　our　weekly　allowances　in　the　fall；　dropped　the　money　in　a　little　porcelain　horse　Raba　had　brought　one　time　from　Herat。　When　the　winds　of　winter　began　to　blow　and　snow　fell　in　chunks；　we　undid　the　snap　under　the　horse　s　belly。　We　went　to　the　bazaar　and　bought　bamboo；　glue；　string；　and　paper。　We　spent　hours　every　day　shaving　bamboo　for　the　center　and　cross　spars；　cutting　the　thin　tissue　paper　which　made　for　easy　dipping　and　recovery　And　then；　of　course；　we　had　to　make　our　own　string；　or　tar。　If　the　kite　was　the　gun；　then　_tar_；　the　glass…coated　cutting　line；　was　the　bullet　in　the　chamber。　We　d　go　out　in　the　yard　and　feed　up　to　five　hundred　feet　of　string　through　a　mixture　of　ground　glass　and　glue。　We　d　then　hang　the　line　between　the　trees；　leave　it　to　dry。　The　next　day；　we　d　wind　the　battle…ready　line　around　a　wooden　spool。　By　the　time　the　snow　melted　and　the　rains　of　spring　swept　in；　every　boy　in　Kabul　bore　telltale　horizontal　gashes　on　his　fingers　from　a　whole　winter　of　fighting　kites。　I　remember　how　my　classmates　and　I　used　to　huddle；　pare　our　battle　scars　on　the　first　day　of　school。　The　cuts　stung　and　didn　t　heal　for　a　couple　of　weeks；　but　I　didn　t　mind。　They　were　reminders　of　a　beloved　season　that　had　once　again　passed　too　quickly。　Then　the　class　captain　would　blow　his　whistle　and　we　d　march　in　a　single　file　to　our　classrooms；　longing　for　winter　already；　greeted　instead　by　the　specter　of　yet　another　long　school　year。
But　it　quickly　became　apparent　that　Hassan　and　I　were　better　kite　fighters　than　kite　makers。　Some　flaw　or　other　in　our　design　always　spelled　its　doom。　So　Baba　started　taking　us　to　Saifo　s　to　buy　our　kites。　Saifo　was　a　nearly　blind　old　man　who　was　a　_moochi_　by　profession……a　shoe　repairman。　But　he　was　also　the　city　s　most　famous　kite　maker；　working　out　of　a　tiny　hovel　on　Jadeh　Maywand；　the　crowded　street　south　of　the　muddy　banks　of　the　Kabul　River。　I　remember　you　had　to　crouch　to　enter　the　prison　cell…sized　store；　and　then　had　to　lift　a　trapdoor　to　creep　down　a　set　of　wooden　steps　to　the　dank　basement　where　Saifo　stored　his　coveted　kites。　Baba　would　buy　us　each　three　identical　kites　and　spools　of　glass　string。　If　I　changed　my　mind　and　asked　for　a　bigger　and　fancier　kite；　Baba　would　buy　it　for　me……but　then　he　d　buy　it　for　Hassan　too。　Sometimes　I　wished　he　wouldn　t　do　that。　Wished　he　d　let　me　be　the　favorite。
The　kite…fighting　tournament　was　an　old　winter　tradition　in　Afghanistan。　It　started　early　in　the　morning　on　the　day　of　the　contest　and　didn　t　end　until　only　the　winning　kite　flew　in　the　sky……I　remember　one　year　the　tournament　outlasted　daylight。　People　gathered　on　sidewalks　and　roofs　to　cheer　for　their　kids。　The　streets　filled　with　kite　fighters；　jerking　and　tugging　on　their　lines；　squinting　up　to　the　sky；　trying　to　gain　position　to　cut　the　opponent　s　line。　Every　kite　fighter　had　an　assistant……in　my　case；　Hassan……who　held　the　spool　and　fed　the　line。
One　time；　a　bratty　Hindi　kid　whose　family　had　recently　moved　into　the　neighborhood　told　us　that　in　his　hometown；　kite　fighting　had　strict　rules　and　regulations。　　You　have　to　play　in　a　boxed　area　and　you　have　to　stand　at　a　right　angle　to　the　wind；　　he　said　proudly。　　And　you　can　t　use　aluminum　to　make　your　glass　string。　　Hassan　and　I　looked　at　each　other。　Cracked　up。　The　Hindi　kid　would　soon　learn　what　the　British　learned　earlier　in　the　century；　and　what　the　Russians　would　eventually　learn　by　the　late　1980s：
that　Afghans　are　an　independent　people。　Afghans　cherish　custom　but　abhor　rules。　And　so　it　was　with　kite　fighting。　The　rules　were　simple：　No　rules。　Fly　your　kite。　Cut　the　opponents。　Good　luck。
Except　that　wasn　t　all。　The　real　fun　began　when　a　kite　was　cut。　That　was　where　the　kite　runners　came　in；　those　kids　who　chased　the　windblown　kite　drifting　through　the　neighborhoods　until　it　came　spiraling　down　in　a　field；　dropping　in　someone　s　yard；　on　a　tree；　or　a　rooftop。　The　chase　got　pretty　fierce；　hordes　of　kite　runners　swarmed　the　streets；　shoved　past　each　other　like　those　people　from　Spain　I　d　read　about　once；　the　ones　who　ran　from　the　bulls。　One　year　a　neighborhood　kid　climbed　a　pine　tree　for　a　kite。　A　branch　snapped　under　his　weight　and　he　fell　thirty　feet。　Broke　his　back　and　never　walked　again。　But　he　fell　with　the　kite　still　in　his　hands。　And　when　a　kite　runner　had　his　hands　on　a　kite；　no　one　could　take　it　from　him。　That　wasn　t　a　rule。　That　was　custom。
For　kite　runners；　the　most　coveted　prize　was　the　last　fallen　kite　of　a　winter　tournament。　It　was　a　trophy　of　honor；　something　to　be　displayed　on　a　mantle　for　guests　to　admire。　When　the　sky　cleared　of　kites　and　only　the　final　two　remained；　every　kite　runner　readied　himself　for　the　chance　to　land　this　prize。　He　positioned　himself　at　a　spot　that　he　thought　would　give　him　a　head　start。　Tense　muscles　readied　themselves　to　uncoil。　Necks　craned。　Eyes　crinkled。　Fights　broke　out。　And　when　the　last　kite　was　cut；　all　hell　broke　loose。
Over　the　years；　I　had　seen　a　lot　of　guys　run　kites。　But　Hassan　was　by　far　the　greatest　kite　runner　I　d　ever　seen。　It　was　downright　eerie　the　way　he　always　got　to　the　spot　the　kite　would　land　before　the　kite　did；　as　if　he　had　some　sort　of　inner　pass。
I　remember　one　overcast　winter　day；　Hassan　and　I　were　running　a　kite。　I　was　chasing　him　through　neighborhoods；　hopping
gutters；　weaving　through　narrow　streets。　I　was　a　year　older　than　him；　but　Hassan　ran　faster　than　I　did；　and　I　was　falling