the kite runner-第32章

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　trunk　shut。　Already　drenched；　he　walked　to　the　driver　s　side。　Leaned　in　and　said　something　to　Ali　in　the　backseat；　perhaps　one　last…ditch　effort　to　change　his　mind。　They　talked　that　way　awhile；　Baba　getting　soaked；　stooping；　one　arm　on　the　roof　of　the　car。　But　when　he　straightened；　I　saw　in　his　slumping　shoulders　that　the　life　I　had　known　since　I　d　been　born　was　over。　Baba　slid　in。　The　headlights　came　on　and　cut　twin　funnels　of　light　in　the　rain。　If　this　were　one　of　the　Hindi　movies　Hassan　and　I　used　to　watch；　this　was　the　part　where　I　d　run　outside；　my　bare　feet　splashing　rainwater。　I　d　chase　the　car；　screaming　for　it　to　stop。　I　d　pull　Hassan　out　of　the　backseat　and　tell　him　I　was　sorry；　so　sorry；　my　tears　mixing　with　rainwater。　We　d　hug　in　the　downpour。　But　this　was　no　Hindi　movie。　I　was　sorry；　but　I　didn　t　cry　and　I　didn　t　chase　the　car。　I　watched　Baba　s　car　pull　away　from　the　curb；　taking　with　it　the　person　whose　first　spoken　word　had　been　my　name。　I　caught　one　final　blurry　glimpse　of　Hassan　slumped　in　the　back　seat　before　Baba　turned　left　at　the　street　corner　where　we　d　played　marbles　so　many　times。
I　stepped　back　and　all　I　saw　was　rain　through　windowpanes　that　looked　like　melting　silver。
TEN
_March　1981_
A　young　woman　sat　across　from　us。　She　was　dressed　in　an　olive　green　dress　with　a　black　shawl　wrapped　tightly　around　her　face　against　the　night　chill。　She　burst　into　prayer　every　time　the　truck　jerked　or　stumbled　into　a　pothole；　her　　Bismillah！　　peaking　with　each　of　the　truck　s　shudders　and　jolts。　Her　husband；　a　burly　man　in　baggy　pants　and　sky　blue　turban；　cradled　an　infant　in　one　arm　and　thumbed　prayer　beads　with　his　free　hand。　His　lips　moved　in　silent　prayer。　There　were　others；　in　all　about　a　dozen；　including　Baba　and　me；　sitting　with　our　suitcases　between　our　legs；　cramped　with　these　strangers　in　the　tarpaulin…covered　cab　of　an　old　Russian　truck。
My　innards　had　been　roiling　since　we　d　left　Kabul　just　after　two　in　the　morning。　Baba　never　said　so；　but　I　knew　he　saw　my　car　sickness　as　yet　another　of　my　array　of　weakness……I　saw　it　on　his　embarrassed　face　the　couple　of　times　my　stomach　had　clenched　so　badly　I　had　moaned。　When　the　burly　guy　with　the　beads……the　praying　woman　s　husband……asked　if　I　was　going　to　get　sick；　I　said　I　might。　Baba　looked　away。　The　man　lifted　his　corner　of　the　tarpaulin　cover　and　rapped　on　the　driver　s　window；　asked　him　to　stop。　But　the　driver；　Karim；　a　scrawny　dark…skinned　man　with　hawk…boned　features　and　a　pencil…thin　mustache；　shook　his　head。
　We　are　too　close　to　Kabul；　　he　shot　back。　　Tell　him　to　have　a　strong　stomach。　
Baba　grumbled　something　under　his　breath。　I　wanted　to　tell　him　I　was　sorry；　but　suddenly　I　was　salivating；　the　back　of　my　throat　tasting　bile。　I　turned　around；　lifted　the　tarpaulin；　and　threw　up　over　the　side　of　the　moving　truck。　Behind　me；　Baba　was　apologizing　to　the　other　passengers。　As　if　car　sickness　was　a　crime。　As　if　you　weren　t　supposed　to　get　sick　when　you　were　eighteen。　I　threw　up　two　more　times　before　Karim　agreed　to　stop；　mostly　so　I　wouldn　t　stink　up　his　vehicle；　the　instrument　of　his　livelihood。　Karim　was　a　people　smuggler……it　was　a　pretty　lucrative　business　then；　driving　people　out　of　Shorawi…occupied　Kabul　to　the　relative　safety　of　Pakistan。　He　was　taking　us　to　Jalalabad；　about　170　kilometers　southeast　of　Kabul；　where　his　brother；　Toor；　who　had　a　bigger　truck　with　a　second　convoy　of　refugees；　was　waiting　to　drive　us　across　the　Khyber　Pass　and　into　Peshawar。
We　were　a　few　kilometers　west　of　Mahipar　Falls　when　Karim　pulled　to　the　side　of　the　road。　Mahipar……which　means　　Flying　Fish　……was　a　high　summit　with　a　precipitous　drop　overlooking　the　hydro　plant　the　Germans　had　built　for　Afghanistan　back　in　1967。　Baba　and　I　had　driven　over　the　summit　countless　times　on　our　way　to　Jalalabad；　the　city　of　cypress　trees　and　sugarcane　fields　where　Afghans　vacationed　in　the　winter。
I　hopped　down　the　back　of　the　truck　and　lurched　to　the　dusty　embankment　on　the　side　of　the　road。　My　mouth　filled　with　saliva；　a　sign　of　the　retching　that　was　yet　to　e。　I　stumbled　to　the　edge　of　the　cliff　overlooking　the　deep　valley　that　was　shrouded　in　dark　ness。　I　stooped；　hands　on　my　kneecaps；　and　waited　for　the　bile。　Somewhere；　a　branch　snapped；　an　owl　hooted。　The　wind；　soft　and　cold；　clicked　through　tree　branches　and　stirred　the　bushes　that　sprinkled　the　slope。　And　from　below；　the　faint　sound　of　water　tumbling　through　the　valley。
Standing　on　the　shoulder　of　the　road；　I　thought　of　the　way　we　d　left　the　house　where　I　d　lived　my　entire　life；　as　if　we　were　going　out　for　a　bite：　dishes　smeared　with　kofta　piled　in　the　kitchen　sink；　laundry　in　the　wicker　basket　in
the　foyer；　beds　unmade；　Baba　s　business　suits　hanging　in　the　closet。　Tapestries　still　hung　on　the　walls　of　the　living　room　and　my　mother　s　books　still　crowded　the　shelves　in　Baba　s　study。　The　signs　of　our　elopement　were　subtle：　My　parents　　wedding　picture　was　gone；　as　was　the　grainy　photograph　of　my　grandfather　and　King　Nader　Shah　standing　over　the　dead　deer。　A　few　items　of　clothing　were　missing　from　the　closets。　The　leather…bound　notebook　Rahim　Khan　had　given　me　five　years　earlier　was　gone。
In　the　morning；　Jalaluddin……our　seventh　servant　in　five　years……would　probably　think　we　d　gone　out　for　a　stroll　or　a　drive。　We　hadn　t　told　him。　You　couldn　t　trust　anyone　in　Kabul　any　more……for　a　fee　or　under　threat；　people　told　on　each　other；　neighbor　on　neighbor；　child　on　parent；　brother　on　brother；　servant　on　master；　friend　on　friend。　I　thought　of　the　singer　Ahmad　Zahir；　who　had　played　the　accordion　at　my　thirteenth　birthday。　He　had　gone　for　a　drive　with　some　friends；　and　someone　had　later　found　hi