the kite runner-第20章

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　We　won！　We　won！　　was　all　I　could　say。　This　wasn　t　happening。　In　a　moment；　I　d　blink　and　rouse　from　this　beautiful　dream；　get　out　of　bed；　march　down　to　the　kitchen　to　eat　breakfast　with　no　one　to　talk　to　but　Hassan。　Get　dressed。　Wait　for　Baba。　Give　up。　Back　to　my　old　life。　Then　I　saw　Baba　on　our　roof。　He　was　standing　on　the　edge；　pumping　both　of　his　fists。　Hollering　and　clapping。　And　that　right　there　was　the　single　greatest　moment　of　my　twelve　years　of　life；　seeing　Baba　on　that　roof；　proud　of　me　at　last。
But　he　was　doing　something　now；　motioning　with　his　hands　in　an　urgent　way。　Then　I　understood。　　Hassan；　we……　
　I　know；　　he　said；　breaking　our　embrace。　　_Inshallah_；　we　ll　celebrate　later。　Right　now；　I　m　going　to　run　that　blue　kite　for　you；　　he　said。　He　dropped　the　spool　and　took　off　running；　the　hem　of　his　green　chapan　dragging　in　the　snow　behind　him。
　Hassan！　　I　called。　　e　back　with　it！　
He　was　already　turning　the　street　corner；　his　rubber　boots　kicking　up　snow。　He　stopped；　turned。　He　cupped　his　hands　around　his　mouth。　　For　you　a　thousand　times　over！　　he　said。　Then　he　smiled　his　Hassan　smile　and　disappeared　around　the　corner。　The　next　time　I　saw　him　smile　unabashedly　like　that　was　twenty…six　years　later；　in　a　faded　Polaroid　photograph。
I　began　to　pull　my　kite　back　as　people　rushed　to　congratulate　me。　I　shook　hands　with　them；　said　my　thanks。　The　younger　kids　looked　at　me　with　an　awestruck　twinkle　in　their　eyes；　I　was　a　hero。　Hands　patted　my　back　and　tousled　my　hair。　I　pulled　on　the　string　and　returned　every　smile；　but　my　mind　was　on　the　blue　kite。
Finally；　I　had　my　kite　in　hand。　I　wrapped　the　loose　string　that　had　collected　at　my　feet　around　the　spool；　shook　a　few　more　hands；　and　trotted　home。　When　I　reached　the　wrought…iron　gates；　Ali　was　waiting　on　the　other　side。　He　stuck　his　hand　through　the　bars。　　Congratulations；　　he　said。
I　gave　him　my　kite　and　spool；　shook　his　hand。　　Tashakor；　Ali　jan。　
　I　was　praying　for　you　the　whole　time。　
　Then　keep　praying。　We　re　not　done　yet。　
I　hurried　back　to　the　street。　I　didn　t　ask　Ali　about　Baba。　I　didn　t　want　to　see　him　yet。　In　my　head；　I　had　it　all　planned：　I　d　make　a　grand　entrance；　a　hero；　prized　trophy　in　my　bloodied　hands。　Heads　would　turn　and　eyes　would　lock。　Rostam　and　Sohrab　sizing　each　other　up。　A　dramatic　moment　of　silence。　Then　the　old　warrior　would　walk　to　the　young　one；　embrace　him；　acknowledge　his　worthiness。　Vindication。　Salvation。　Redemption。　And　then？　Well。。。　happily　ever　after；　of　course。　What　else？
The　streets　of　Wazir　Akbar　Khan　were　numbered　and　set　at　right　angles　to　each　other　like　a　grid。　It　was　a　new　neighborhood　then；　still　developing；　with　empty　lots　of　land　and　half…constructed　homes　on　every　street　between　pounds　surrounded　by　eight…foot　walls。　I　ran　up　and　down　every　street；　looking　for　Hassan。　Everywhere；　people　were　busy　folding　chairs；　packing　food　and　utensils　after　a　long　day　of　partying。　Some；　still　sitting　on　their　rooftops；　shouted　their　congratulations　to　me。
Four　streets　south　of　ours；　I　saw　Omar；　the　son　of　an　engineer　who　was　a　friend　of　Baba　s。　He　was　dribbling　a　soccer　ball　with　his　brother　on　the　front　lawn　of　their　house。　Omar　was　a　pretty　good　guy。　We　d　been　classmates　in　fourth　grade；　and　one　time　he　d　given　me　a　fountain　pen；　the　kind　you　had　to　load　with　a　cartridge。
　I　heard　you　won；　Amir；　　he　said。　　Congratulations。　
　Thanks。　Have　you　seen　Hassan？　
　Your　Hazara？　
I　nodded。
Omar　headed　the　ball　to　his　brother。　　I　hear　he　s　a　great　kite　runner。　　His　brother　headed　the　ball　back　to　him。　Omar　caught　it；　tossed　it　up　and　down。　　Although　I　ve　always　wondered　how　he　manages。　I　mean；　with　those　tight　little　eyes；　how　does　he　see　anything？　
His　brother　laughed；　a　short　burst；　and　asked　for　the　ball。　Omar　ignored　him。
　Have　you　seen　him？　
Omar　flicked　a　thumb　over　his　shoulder；　pointing　southwest。　　I　saw　him　running　toward　the　bazaar　awhile　ago。　
　Thanks。　　I　scuttled　away。
By　the　time　I　reached　the　marketplace；　the　sun　had　almost　sunk　behind　the　hills　and　dusk　had　painted　the　sky　pink　and　purple。　A　few　blocks　away；　from　the　Haji　Yaghoub　Mosque；　the　mullah　bellowed　azan；　calling　for　the　faithful　to　unroll　their　rugs　and　bow　their　heads　west　in　prayer。　Hassan　never　missed　any　of　the　five　daily　prayers。　Even　when　we　were　out　playing；　he　d　excuse　himself；　draw　water　from　the　well　in　the　yard；　wash　up；　and　disappear　into　the　hut。　He　d　e　out　a　few　minutes　later；　smiling；　find　me　sitting　against　the　wall　or　perched　on　a　tree。　He　was　going　to　miss　prayer　tonight；　though；　because　of　me。
The　bazaar　was　emptying　quickly；　the　merchants　finishing　up　their　haggling　for　the　day。　I　trotted　in　the　mud　between　rows　of　closely　packed　cubicles　where　you
could　buy　a　freshly　slaughtered　pheasant　in　one　stand　and　a　calculator　from　the　adjacent　one。　I　picked　my　way　through　the　dwindling　crowd；　the　lame　beggars　dressed　in　layers　of　tattered　rags；　the　vendors　with　rugs　on　their　shoulders；　the　cloth　merchants　and　butchers　closing　shop　for　the　day。　I　found　no　sign　of　Hassan。
I　stopped　by　a　dried　fruit　stand；　described　Hassan　to　an　old　merchant　loading　his　mule　with　crates　of　pine　seeds　and　raisins。　He　wore　a　powder　blue　turban。
He　paused　to　look　at　me　for　a　long　time　before　answering。　　I　might　have　seen　him。　
　Which　way　did　he　go？　
He　eyed　me　up　and　down。　　What　is　a　boy　like　you　doing　here　at　this　time　of　the　day　looking　for　a　Hazara？　　His　glance　lingered　admiringly　on　my　leather　coat　and　my　jeans……cowboy　pants；　we　used　to　call　them。　In　Afghanistan；　owning　anything　American；　especially　if　it　wasn　t　secondhand；　was　a　sign　of　wealth。
　I　need　to　find　him；　Agha。　
　What　is　he　to　you？　　he　said。　I　didn　t