the kite runner-第22章

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if　I　had。　But　I　didn　t。　I　just　watched。　Paralyzed。
Assef　motioned　with　his　hand；　and　the　other　two　boys　separated；　forming　a　half　circle；　trapping　Hassan　in　the　alley。
　I　ve　changed　my　mind；　　Assef　said。　　I　m　letting　you　keep　the　kite；　Hazara。　I　ll　let　you　keep　it　so　it　will　always　remind　you　of　what　I　m　about　to　do。　
Then　he　charged。　Hassan　hurled　the　rock。　It　struck　Assef　in　the　forehead。　Assef　yelped　as　he　flung　himself　at　Hassan；　knocking　him　to　the　ground。　Wall　and　Kamal　followed。
I　bit　on　my　fist。　Shut　my　eyes。
A　MEMORY：
Did　you　know　Hassan　and　you　fed　from　the　same　breast？　Did　you　know　that；　Amir　agha？　Sakina；　her　name　was。　She　was　a　fair；　blue…eyed　Hazara　woman　from　Bamiyan　and　she　sang　you　old　wedding　songs。　They　say　there　is　a　brotherhood　between　people　who　ve　fed　from　the　same　breast。　Did　you　know　that？
A　memory：
　A　rupia　each；　children。　Just　one　rupia　each　and　I　will　part　the　curtain　of　truth。　　The　old　man　sits　against　a　mud　wall。　His　sightless　eyes　are　like　molten　silver　embedded　in　deep；　twin　craters。
Hunched　over　his　cane；　the　fortune…teller　runs　a　gnarled　hand　across　the　surface　of　his　deflated　cheeks。　Cups　it　before　us。　　Not　much　to　ask　for　the　truth；　is　it；　a　rupia　each？　　Hassan　drops　a　coin　in　the　leathery　palm。　I　drop　mine　too。　　In　the　name　of　Allah　most　beneficent；　most　merciful；　　the　old　fortune…teller　whispers。　He　takes　Hassan　s　hand　first；　strokes　the　palm　with　one　hornlike　fingernail；　round　and　round；　round　and　round。　The　finger　then　floats　to　Hassan　s　face　and　makes　a　dry；　scratchy　sound　as　it　slowly　traces　the　curve　of　his　cheeks；　the　outline　of　his　ears。　The　calloused　pads　of　his　fingers　brush　against　Hassan　s　eyes。　The　hand　stops　there。　Lingers。　A　shadow　passes　across　the　old　man　s　face。　Hassan　and　I　exchange　a　glance。　The　old　man　takes　Hassan　s　hand　and　puts　the　rupia　back　in　Hassan　s　palm。　He　turns　to　me。　　How　about　you；　young　friend？　　he　says。　On　the　other　side　of　the　wall；　a　rooster　crows。　The　old　man　reaches　for　my　hand　and　I　withdraw　it。
A　dream：
I　am　lost　in　a　snowstorm。　The　wind　shrieks；　blows　stinging　sheets　of　snow　into　my　eyes。　I　stagger　through　layers　of　shifting　white。　I　call　for　help　but　the　wind　drowns　my　cries。　I　fall　and　lie　panting　on　the　snow；　lost　in　the　white；　the　wind　wailing　in　my　ears。　I　watch　the　snow　erase　my　fresh　footprints。　I　m　a　ghost　now；　I　think；　a　ghost　with　no　footprints。　I　cry　out　again；　hope　fading　like　my　footprints。　But　this　time；　a　muffled　reply。　I　shield　my　eyes　and　manage　to　sit　up。　Out　of　the　swaying　curtains　of　snow；　I　catch　a　glimpse　of　movement；　a　flurry　of　color。　A　familiar　shape　materializes。　A　hand　reaches　out　for　me。　I　see　deep；　parallel　gashes　across　the　palm；　blood　dripping；　staining　the　snow。　I　take　the　hand　and　suddenly　the　snow　is　gone。　We　re　standing　in　afield　of　apple　green　grass　with　soft　wisps　of　clouds　drifting　above。　I　look　up　and　see　the　clear　sky　is　filled　with　kites；　green；　yellow；　red；　orange。　They　shimmer　in　the　afternoon　light。
A　HAVOC　OF　SCRAP　AND　RUBBLE　littered　the　alley。　Worn　bicycle　tires；　bottles　with　peeled　labels；　ripped　up　magazines；　yellowed　newspapers；　all　scattered　amid　a　pile　of　bricks　and　slabs　of　cement。　A　rusted　cast…iron　stove　with　a　gaping　hole　on　its　side　tilted　against　a　wall。　But　there　were　two　things　amid　the　garbage　that　I　couldn　t　stop　looking　at：　One　was　the　blue　kite　resting　against　the　wall；　close　to　the　cast…iron　stove；　the　other　was　Hassan　s　brown　corduroy　pants　thrown　on　a　heap　of　eroded　bricks。
　I　don　t　know；　　Wali　was　saying。　　My　father　says　it　s　sinful。　　He　sounded　unsure；　excited；　scared；　all　at　the　same　time。　Hassan　lay　with　his　chest　pinned　to　the　ground。　Kamal　and　Wali　each　gripped　an　arm；　twisted　and　bent　at　the　elbow　so　that　Hassan　s　hands　were　pressed　to　his　back。　Assef　was　standing　over　them；　the　heel　of　his　snow　boots　crushing　the　back　of　Hassan　s　neck。
　Your　father　won　t　find　out；　　Assef　said。　　And　there　s　nothing　sinful　about　teaching　a　lesson　to　a　disrespectful　donkey。　
　I　don　t　know；　　Wali　muttered。
　Suit　yourself；　　Assef　said。　He　turned　to　Kamal。　　What　about　you？　
　I。。。　well。。。　
　It　s　just　a　Hazara；　　Assef　said。　But　Kamal　kept　looking　away。
　Fine；　　Assef　snapped。　　All　I　want　you　weaklings　to　do　is　hold　him　down。　Can　you　manage　that？　
Wali　and　Kamal　nodded。　They　looked　relieved。
Assef　knelt　behind　Hassan；　put　his　hands　on　Hassan　s　hips　and　lifted　his　bare　buttocks。　He　kept　one　hand　on　Hassan　s　back　and　undid　his　own　belt　buckle　with　his　free　hand。　He　unzipped　his　jeans。　Dropped　his　underwear。　He　positioned　himself　behind　Hassan。　Hassan　didn　t　struggle。　Didn　t　even　whimper。　He　moved　his　head　slightly　and　I　caught　a　glimpse　of　his　face。　Saw　the　resignation　in　it。　It　was　a　look　I　had　seen　before。　It　was　the　look　of　the　lamb。
TOMORROW　IS　THE　TENTH　DAY　of　Dhul…Hijjah；　the　last　month　of　the　Muslim　calendar；　and　the　first　of　three　days　of　Eid　AlAdha；　or　Eid…e…Qorban；　as　Afghans　call　it……a　day　to　celebrate　how　the　prophet　Ibrahim　almost　sacrificed　his　own　son　for　God。　Baba　has　handpicked　the　sheep　again　this　year；　a　powder　white　one　with　crooked　black　ears。
We　all　stand　in　the　backyard；　Hassan；　Ali；　Baba；　and　I。　The　mullah　recites　the　prayer；　rubs　his　beard。　Baba　mutters；　Get　on　with　it；　under　his　breath。　He　sounds　annoyed　with　the　endless　praying；　the　ritual　of　making　the　meat　halal。　Baba　mocks　the　story　behind　this　Eid；　like　he　mocks　everything　religious。　But　he　respects　the　tradition　of　Eid…e…Qorban。　The　custom　is　to　divide　the　meat　in　thirds；　one　for　the　family；　one　for　friends；　and　one　for　the　poor。　Every　year；　Baba　gives　it　all　to　the　poor。　The　rich　are　fat　enough　already；　he　says。
The　mullah　finishes　the　prayer。　Am