the kite runner-第27章

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；　my　mind　returned　to　the　alley。　To　Hassan　s　brown　corduroy　pants　lying　on　the　bricks。　To　the　droplets　of　blood　staining　the　snow　dark　red；　almost　black。
One　sluggish；　hazy　afternoon　early　that　summer；　I　asked　Hassan　to　go　up　the　hill　with　me。　Told　him　I　wanted　to　read　him　a　new　story　I　d　written。　He　was　hanging　clothes　to　dry　in　the　yard　and　I　saw　his　eagerness　in　the　harried　way　he　finished　the　job。
We　climbed　the　hill；　making　small　talk。　He　asked　about　school；　what　I　was　learning；　and　I　talked　about　my　teachers；　especially　the　mean　math　teacher　who　punished　talkative　students　by　sticking　a　metal　rod　between　their　fingers　and　then　squeezing　them　together。　Hassan　winced　at　that；　said　he　hoped　I　d　never　have　to　experience　it。　I　said　I　d　been　lucky　so　far；　knowing　that　luck　had　nothing　to　do　with　it。　I　had　done　my　share　of　talking　in　class　too。　But　my　father　was　rich　and　everyone　knew　him；　so　I　was　spared　the　metal　rod　treatment。
We　sat　against　the　low　cemetery　wall　under　the　shade　thrown　by　the　pomegranate　tree。　In　another　month　or　two；　crops　of　scorched　yellow　weeds　would　blanket　the　hillside；　but　that　year　the　spring　showers　had　lasted　longer　than　usual；　nudging　their　way　into　early　summer；　and　the　grass　was　still　green；　peppered　with　tangles　of　wildflowers。　Below　us；　Wazir　Akbar　Khan　s　white　walled；　flat…topped　houses　gleamed　in　the　sunshine；　the　laundry　hanging　on　clotheslines　in　their　yards　stirred　by　the　breeze　to　dance　like　butterflies。
We　had　picked　a　dozen　pomegranates　from　the　tree。　I　unfolded　the　story　I　d　brought　along；　turned　to　the　first　page；　then　put　it　down。　I　stood　up　and　picked　up　an　overripe　pomegranate　that　had　fallen　to　the　ground。
　What　would　you　do　if　I　hit　you　with　this？　　I　said；　tossing　the　fruit　up　and　down。
Hassan　s　smile　wilted。　He　looked　older　than　I　d　remembered。　No；　not　older；　old。　Was　that　possible？　Lines　had　etched　into　his　tanned　face　and　creases　framed　his　eyes；　his　mouth。　I　might　as　well　have　taken　a　knife　and　carved　those　lines　myself。
　What　would　you　do？　　I　repeated。
The　color　fell　from　his　face。　Next　to　him；　the　stapled　pages　of　the　story　I　d　promised　to　read　him　fluttered　in　the　breeze。　I　hurled　the　pomegranate　at　him。　It　struck　him　in　the　chest；　exploded　in　a　spray　of　red　pulp。　Hassan　s　cry　was　pregnant　with　surprise　and　pain。
　Hit　me　back！　　I　snapped。　Hassan　looked　from　the　stain　on　his　chest　to　me。
　Get　up！　Hit　me！　　I　said。　Hassan　did　get　up；　but　he　just　stood　there；　looking　dazed　like　a　man　dragged　into　the　ocean　by　a　riptide　when；　just　a　moment　ago；　he　was　enjoying　a　nice　stroll　on　the　beach。
I　hit　him　with　another　pomegranate；　in　the　shoulder　this　time。　The　juice　splattered　his　face。　　Hit　me　back！　　I　spat。　　Hit　me　back；　goddamn　you！　　I　wished　he　would。　I　wished　he　d　give　me　the　punishment　I　craved；　so　maybe　I　d　finally　sleep　at　night。　Maybe　then　things　could　return　to　how　they　used　to　be　between　us。　But　Hassan　did　nothing　as　I　pelted　him　again　and　again。　　You　re　a　coward！　　I　said。　　Nothing　but　a　goddamn　coward！　
I　don　t　know　how　many　times　I　hit　him。　All　I　know　is　that；　when　I　finally　stopped；　exhausted　and　panting；　Hassan　was　smeared　in　red　like　he　d　been　shot　by　a　firing　squad。　I　fell　to　my　knees；　tired；　spent；　frustrated。
Then　Hassan　did　pick　up　a　pomegranate。　He　walked　toward　me。　He　opened　it　and　crushed　it　against　his　own　forehead。　　There；　　he　croaked；　red　dripping　down　his　face　like　blood。　　Are　you　satisfied？　Do　you　feel　better？　　He　turned　around　and　started　down　the　hill。
I　let　the　tears　break　free；　rocked　back　and　forth　on　my　knees。
　What　am　I　going　to　do　with　you；　Hassan？　What　am　I　going　to　do　with　you？　　But　by　the　time　the　tears　dried　up　and　I　trudged　down　the　hill；　I　knew　the　answer　to　that　question。
I　TURNED　THIRTEEN　that　summer　of　1976；　Afghanistan　s　next　to　last　summer　of　peace　and　anonymity。　Things　between　Baba　and　me　were　already　cooling　off　again。　I　think　what　started　it　was　the　stupid　ment　I　d　made　the　day　we　were　planting　tulips；　about　getting　new　servants。　I　regretted　saying　it……I　really　did……but　I　think　even　if　I　hadn　t；　our　happy　little　interlude　would　have　e　to　an　end。　Maybe　not　quite　so　soon；　but　it　would　have。　By　the　end　of　the　summer；　the　scraping　of　spoon　and　fork　against　the　plate　had　replaced　dinner　table　chatter　and　Baba　had　resumed　retreating　to　his　study　after　supper。　And　closing　the　door。　I　d　gone　back　to　thumbing　through　H~afez　and　Khayy醡；　gnawing　my　nails　down　to　the　cuticles；　writing　stories。　I　kept　the　stories　in　a　stack　under　my　bed；　keeping　them　just　in　case；　though　I　doubted　Baba　would　ever　again　ask　me　to　read　them　to　him。
Baba　s　motto　about　throwing　parties　was　this：　Invite　the　whole　world　or　it　s　not　a　party。　I　remember　scanning　over　the　invitation　list　a　week　before　my　birthday　party　and　not　recognizing　at　least　three…quarters　of　the　four　hundred……plus　Kakas　and　Khalas　who　were　going　to　bring　me　gifts　and　congratulate　me　for　having　lived　to　thirteen。　Then　I　realized　they　weren　t　really　ing　for　me。　It　was　my　birthday；　but　I　knew　who　the　real　star　of　the　show　was。
For　days；　the　house　was　teeming　with　Baba　s　hired　help。　There　was　Salahuddin　the　butcher；　who　showed　up　with　a　calf　and　two　sheep　in　tow；　refusing　payment　for　any　of　the　three。　He　slaughtered　the　animals　himself　in　the　yard　by　a　poplar　tree。　　Blood　is　good　for　the　tree；　　I　remember　him　saying　as　the　grass　around　the　poplar　soaked　red。　Men　I　didn　t　know　climbed　the　oak　trees　with　coils　of　small　electric　bulbs　and　meters　of　extension　cords。　Others　set　up　dozens　of　tables　in　the　yard；　spread　a　tablecloth　on　each。　The　night　before　the　big　party　Baba　s　friend　Del…Muhammad；　who　owned　a　kabob　house　in　Shar…e…Nau；　cam