the kite runner-第18章

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ge　people　money　for　swimming　in　it。　
　So　what　does　it　mean？　　I　said。
He　coated　my　_naan_　with　marmalade；　placed　it　on　a　plate。　　I　don　t　know。　I　was　hoping　you　could　tell　me。　
　Well；　it　s　a　dumb　dream。　Nothing　happens　in　it。　
　Father　says　dreams　always　mean　something。　
I　sipped　some　tea。　　Why　don　t　you　ask　him；　then？　He　s　so　smart；　　I　said；　more　curtly　than　I　had　intended。　I　hadn　t　slept　all　night。　My　neck　and　back　were　like　coiled　springs；　and　my　eyes　stung。　Still；　I　had　been　mean　to　Hassan。　I　almost　apologized；　then　didn　t。　Hassan　understood　I　was　just　nervous。　Hassan　always　understood　about　me。
Upstairs；　I　could　hear　the　water　running　in　Baba　s　bathroom。
THE　STREETS　GLISTENED　with　fresh　snow　and　the　sky　was　a　blameless　blue。　Snow　blanketed　every　rooftop　and　weighed　on　the　branches　of　the　stunted　mulberry　trees　that　lined　our　street。　Overnight；　snow　had　nudged　its　way　into　every　crack　and　gutter。　I　squinted　against　the　blinding　white　when　Hassan　and　I　stepped　through　the　wrought…iron　gates。　Ali　shut　the　gates　behind　us。　I　heard　him　mutter　a　prayer　under　his　breath……he　always　said　a　prayer　when　his　son　left　the　house。
I　had　never　seen　so　many　people　on　our　street。　Kids　were　flinging　snowballs；　squabbling；　chasing　one　another；　giggling。　Kite　fighters　were　huddling　with　their　spool　holders；　making　lastminute　preparations。　From　adjacent　streets；　I　could　hear　laughter　and　chatter。　Already；　rooftops　were　jammed　with　spectators　reclining　in　lawn　chairs；　hot　tea　steaming　from　thermoses；　and　the　music　of　Ahmad　Zahir　blaring　from　cassette　players。　The　immensely　popular　Ahmad　Zahir　had　revolutionized　Afghan　music　and　outraged　the　purists　by　adding　electric　guitars；　drums；　and　horns　to　the　traditional　tabla　and　harmonium；　on　stage　or　at　parties；　he　shirked　the　austere　and　nearly　morose　stance　of　older　singers　and　actually　smiled　when　he　sang……sometimes　even　at　women。　I　turned　my　gaze　to　our　rooftop；　found　Baba　and　Rahim　Khan　sitting　on　a　bench；　both　dressed　in　wool　sweaters；　sipping　tea。　Baba　waved。　I　couldn　t　tell　if　he　was　waving　at　me　or　Hassan。
　We　should　get　started；　　Hassan　said。　He　wore　black　rubber　snow　boots　and　a　bright　green　chapan　over　a　thick　sweater　and　faded　corduroy　pants。　Sunlight　washed　over　his　face；　and；　in　it；　I　saw　how　well　the　pink　scar　above　his　lip　had　healed。
Suddenly　I　wanted　to　withdraw。　Pack　it　all　in；　go　back　home。　What　was　I　thinking？　Why　was　I　putting　myself　through　this；　when　I　already　knew　the　oute？　Baba　was　on　the　roof；　watching　me。　I　felt　his　glare　on　me　like　the　heat　of　a　blistering　sun。　This　would　be　failure　on　a　grand　scale；　even　for　me。
　I　m　not　sure　I　want　to　fly　a　kite　today；　　I　said。
　It　s　a　beautiful　day；　　Hassan　said。
I　shifted　on　my　feet。　Tried　to　peel　my　gaze　away　from　our　rooftop。　　I　don　t　know。　Maybe　we　should　go　home。　
Then　he　stepped　toward　me　and；　in　a　low　voice；　said　something　that　scared　me　a　little。　　Remember；　Amir　agha。　There　s　no　monster；　just　a　beautiful　day。　　How　could　I　be　such　an　open　book　to　him　when；　half　the　time；　I　had　no　idea　what　was　milling　around　in　his　head？　I　was　the　one　who　went　to　school；　the　one　who　could　read；　write。　I　was　the　smart　one。　Hassan　couldn　t　read　a　firstgrade　textbook　but　he　d　read　me　plenty。　That　was　a　little　unsettling；　but　also　sort　of　fortable　to　have　someone　who　always　knew　what　you　needed。
　No　monster；　　I　said；　feeling　a　little　better；　to　my　own　surprise。
He　smiled。　　No　monster。　
　Are　you　sure？　
He　closed　his　eyes。　Nodded。
I　looked　to　the　kids　scampering　down　the　street；　flinging　snowballs。　　It　is　a　beautiful　day；　isn　t　it？　
　Let　s　fly；　　he　said。
It　occurred　to　me　then　that　maybe　Hassan　had　made　up　his　dream。　Was　that　possible？　I　decided　it　wasn　t。　Hassan　wasn　t　that　smart。　I　wasn　t　that　smart。　But　made　up　or　not；　the　silly　dream　had　lifted　some　of　my　anxiety。　Maybe　I　should　take　off　my　shirt；　take　a　swim　in　the　lake。　Why　not？
　Let　s　do　it；　　I　said。
Hassan　s　face　brightened。　　Good；　　he　said。　He　lifted　our　kite；　red　with　yellow　borders；　and；　just　beneath　where　the　central　and　cross　spars　met；　marked　with　Saifo　s　unmistakable　signature。　He　licked　his　finger　and　held　it　up；　tested　the　wind；　then　ran　in　its　direction…on　those　rare　occasions　we　flew　kites　in　the　summer；　he　d　kick　up　dust　to　see　which　way　the　wind　blew　it。　The　spool　rolled　in　my　hands　until　Hassan　stopped；　about　fifty　feet　away。　He　held　the　kite　high　over　his　head；　like　an　Olympic　athlete　showing　his　gold　medal。　I　jerked　the　string　twice；　our　usual　signal；　and　Hassan　tossed　the　kite。
Caught　between　Baba　and　the　mullahs　at　school；　I　still　hadn　t　made　up　my　mind　about　God。　But　when　a　Koran　ayat　I　had　learned　in　my　diniyat　class　rose　to　my　lips；　I　muttered　it。　I　took　a　deep　breath；　exhaled；　and　pulled　on　the　string。　Within　a　minute；　my　kite　was　rocketing　to　the　sky。　It　made　a　sound　like　a　paper　bird　flapping　its　wings。　Hassan　clapped　his　hands；　whistled；　and　ran　back　to　me。　I　handed　him　the　spool；　holding　on　to　the　string；　and　he　spun　it　quickly　to　roll　the　loose　string　back　on。
At　least　two　dozen　kites　already　hung　in　the　sky；　like　paper　sharks　roaming　for　prey。　Within　an　hour；　the　number　doubled；　and　red；　blue；　and　yellow　kites　glided　and　spun　in　the　sky。　A　cold　breeze　wafted　through　my　hair。　The　wind　was　perfect　for　kite　flying；　blowing　just　hard　enough　to　give　some　lift；　make　the　sweeps　easier。　Next　to　me；　Hassan　held　the　spool；　his　hands　already　bloodied　by　the　string。
Soon；　the　cutting　started　and　the　first　of　the　defeated　kites　whirled　out　of　control。　They　fell　from　the　sky　like　shooting　stars　with　brilliant；　rippling　tails；　showering　the　neighborhoods　below　with　prizes　for　the　kite　runners。　I　could　hear