the kite runner-第35章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


tching　sound。
Baba　sighed　behind　me　and　dropped　the　bags。
Karim　told　us　it　should　be　a　matter　of　a　couple　of　short　days　before　the　truck　was　fixed。　Then　we　d　be　on　our　way　to　Peshawar。　On　to　freedom。　On　to　safety。
The　basement　was　our　home　for　the　next　week　and；　by　the　third　night；　I　discovered　the　source　of　the　scratching　sounds。　Rats。
ONCE　MY　EYES　ADJUSTED　to　the　dark；　I　counted　about　thirty　refugees　in　that　basement。　We　sat　shoulder　to　shoulder　along　the　walls；　ate　crackers；　bread　with　dates；　apples。　That　first　night；　all　the　men　prayed　together。　One　of　the　refugees　asked　Baba　why　he　wasn　t　joining　them。　　God　is　going　to　save　us　all。　Why　don　t　you　pray　to　him？　
Baba　snorted　a　pinch　of　his　snuff。　Stretched　his　legs。　　What　ll　save　us　is　eight　cylinders　and　a　good　carburetor。　　That　silenced　the　rest　of　them　for　good　about　the　matter　of　God。
It　was　later　that　first　night　when　I　discovered　that　two　of　the　people　hiding　with　us　were　Kamal　and　his　father。　That　was　shocking　enough；　seeing　Kamal　sitting　in　the　basement　just　a　few　feet　away　from　me。　But　when　he　and　his　father　came　over　to　our　side　of　the　room　and　I　saw　Kamal　s　face；　really　saw　it。。。
He　had　withered……there　was　simply　no　other　word　for　it。　His　eyes　gave　me　a　hollow　look　and　no　recognition　at　all　registered　in　them。　His　shoulders　hunched　and　his　cheeks　sagged　like　they　were　too　tired　to　cling　to　the　bone　beneath。　His　father；　who　d　owned　a　movie　theater　in　Kabul；　was　telling　Baba　how；　three　months　before；　a　stray　bullet　had　struck　his　wife　in　the　temple　and　killed　her。　Then　he　told　Baba　about　Kamal。　I　caught　only　snippets　of　it：　Should　have　never　let　him　go　alone。。。　always　so　handsome；　you　know。。。　four　of　them。。。　tried　to　fight。。。　God。。。　took　him。。。　bleeding　down　there。。。　his　pants。。。　doesn　t　talk　any　more。。。　just　stares。。。
THERE　WOULD　BE　NO　TRUCK；　Karim　told　us　after　we　d　spent　a　week　in　the　rat…infested　basement。　The　truck　was　beyond　repair。
　There　is　another　option；　　Karim　said；　his　voice　rising　amid　the　groans。　His　cousin　owned　a　fuel　truck　and　had　smuggled　people　with　it　a　couple　of　times。　He　was　here　in　Jalalabad　and　could　probably　fit　us　all。
Everyone　except　an　elderly　couple　decided　to　go。
We　left　that　night；　Baba　and　I；　Kamal　and　his　father；　the　others。　Karim　and　his　cousin；　a　square…faced　balding　man　named　Aziz；　helped　us　get　into　the　fuel　tank。　One　by　one；　we　mounted　the　idling　truck　s　rear　deck；　climbed　the　rear　access　ladder；　and　slid　down　into　the　tank。　I　remember　Baba　climbed　halfway　up　the
ladder；　hopped　back　down　and　fished　the　snuffbox　from　his　pocket。　He　emptied　the　box　and　picked　up　a　handful　of　dirt　from　the　middle　of　the　unpaved　road。　He　kissed　the　dirt。　Poured　it　into　the　box。　Stowed　the　box　in　his　breast　pocket；　next　to　his　heart。
PANIC。
You　open　your　mouth。　Open　it　so　wide　your　jaws　creak。　You　order　your　lungs　to　draw　air；　NOW；　you　need　air；　need　it　NOW　But　your　airways　ignore　you。　They　collapse；　tighten；　squeeze；　and　suddenly　you　re　breathing　through　a　drinking　straw。　Your　mouth　closes　and　your　lips　purse　and　all　you　can　manage　is　a　strangled　croak。　Your　hands　wriggle　and　shake。　Somewhere　a　dam　has　cracked　open　and　a　flood　of　cold　sweat　spills；　drenches　your　body。　You　want　to　scream。　You　would　if　you　could。　But　you　have　to　breathe　to　scream。
Panic。
The　basement　had　been　dark。　The　fuel　tank　was　pitch…black。　I　looked　right；　left；　up；　down；　waved　my　hands　before　my　eyes；　didn　t　see　so　much　as　a　hint　of　movement。　I　blinked；　blinked　again。　Nothing　at　all。　The　air　wasn　t　right；　it　was　too　thick；　almost　solid。　Air　wasn　t　supposed　to　be　solid。　I　wanted　to　reach　out　with　my　hands；　crush　the　air　into　little　pieces；　stuff　them　down　my　windpipe。　And　the　stench　of　gasoline。　My　eyes　stung　from　the　fumes；　like　someone　had　peeled　my　lids　back　and　rubbed　a　lemon　on　them。　My　nose　caught　fire　with　each　breath。　You　could　die　in　a　place　like　this；　I　thought。　A　scream　was　ing。　ing；　ing。。。
And　then　a　small　miracle。　Baba　tugged　at　my　sleeve　and　some　thing　glowed　green　in　the　dark。　Light！　Baba　s　wristwatch。　I　kept　my　eyes　glued　to　those　fluorescent　green　hands。　I　was　so　afraid　I　d　lose　them；　I　didn　t　dare　blink。
Slowly　I　became　aware　of　my　surroundings。　I　heard　groans　and　muttered　prayers。　I　heard　a　baby　cry；　its　mother　s　muted　soothing。　Someone　retched。　Someone　else　cursed　the　Shorawi。　The　truck　bounced　side　to　side；　up　and　down。　Heads　banged　against　metal。
　Think　of　something　good；　　Baba　said　in　my　ear。　　Something　happy。　
Something　good。　Something　happy。　I　let　my　mind　wander。　I　let　it　e：
Friday　afternoon　in　Paghman。　An　open　field　of　grass　speckled　with　mulberry　trees　in　blossom。　Hassan　and　I　stand　ankle…deep　in　untamed　grass；　I　am　tugging　on　the　line；　the　spool　spinning　in　Hassan　s　calloused　hands；　our　eyes　turned　up　to　the　kite　in　the　sky。　Not　a　word　passes　between　us；　not　because　we　have　nothing　to　say；　but　because　we　don　t　have　to　say　anything……that　s　how　it　is　between　people　who　are　each　other　s　first　memories；　people　who　have　fed　from　the　same　breast。　A　breeze　stirs　the　grass　and　Hassan　lets　the　spool　roll。　The　kite　spins；　dips；　steadies。　Our　twin　shadows　dance　on　the　rippling　grass。　From　somewhere　over　the　low　brick　wall　at　the　other　end　of　the　field；　we　hear　chatter　and　laughter　and　the　chirping　of　a　water　fountain。　And　music；　some　thing　old　and　familiar；　I　think　it　s　Ya　Mowlah　on　rubab　strings。　Someone　calls　our　names　over　the　wall；　says　it　s　time　for　tea　and　cake。
I　didn　t　remember　what　month　that　was；　or　what　year　even。　I　only　knew　the　memory　lived　in　me；　a　perfectly　encapsulated　morsel　of　a　good　past；　a　brushstroke　of　color　on　the　gray；　barren　canvas　that　our　lives　had　bee。
THE　REST