the kite runner-第36章

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；　barren　canvas　that　our　lives　had　bee。
THE　REST　OF　THAT　RIDE　is　scattered　bits　and　pieces　of　memory　that　e　and　go；　most　of　it　sounds　and　smells：　MiGs　roaring　past　overhead；　staccatos　of　gunfire；　a　donkey　braying　nearby；　the　jingling　of　bells　and　mewling　of　sheep；　gravel　crushed　under　the　truck　s　tires；　a　baby　wailing　in　the　dark；　the　stench　of　gasoline；　vomit；　and　shit。
What　I　remember　next　is　the　blinding　light　of　early　morning　as　I　climbed　out　of　the　fuel　tank。　I　remember　turning　my　face　up　to　the　sky；　squinting；　breathing　like　the　world　was　running　out　of　air。
I　lay　on　the　side　of　the　dirt　road　next　to　a　rocky　trench；　looked　up　to　the　gray　morning　sky；　thankful　for　air；　thankful　for　light；　thankful　to　be　alive。
　We　re　in　Pakistan；　Amir；　　Baba　said。　He　was　standing　over　me。　　Karim　says　he　will　call　for　a　bus　to　take　us　to　Peshawar。　
I　rolled　onto　my　chest；　still　lying　on　the　cool　dirt；　and　saw　our　suitcases　on　either　side　of　Baba　s　feet。　Through　the　upside　down　V　between　his　legs；　I　saw　the　truck　idling　on　the　side　of　the　road；　the　other　refugees　climbing　down　the　rear　ladder。　Beyond　that；　the　dirt　road　unrolled　through　fields　that　were　like　leaden　sheets　under　the　gray　sky　and　disappeared　behind　a　line　of　bowl…shaped　hills。　Along　the　way；　it　passed　a　small　village　strung　out　atop　a　sun　baked　slope。
My　eyes　returned　to　our　suitcases。　They　made　me　sad　for　Baba。　After　everything　he　d　built；　planned；　fought　for；　fretted　over；　dreamed　of；　this　was　the　summation　of　his　life：　one　disappointing　son　and　two　suitcases。
Someone　was　screaming。　No；　not　screaming。　Wailing。　I　saw　the　passengers　huddled　in　a　circle；　heard　their　urgent　voices。　Someone　said　the　word　　fumes。　　Someone　else　said　it　too。　The　wail　turned　into　a　throat…ripping　screech。
Baba　and　I　hurried　to　the　pack　of　onlookers　and　pushed　our　way　through　them。　Kamal　s　father　was　sitting　cross…legged　in　the　center　of　the　circle；　rocking　back　and　forth；　kissing　his　son　s　ashen　face。
　He　won　t　breathe！　My　boy　won　t　breathe！　　he　was　crying。　Kamal　s　lifeless　body　lay　on　his　father　s　lap。　His　right　hand；　uncurled　and　limp；　bounced　to　the　rhythm　of　his　father　s　sobs。　　My　boy！　He　won　t　breathe！　Allah；　help　him　breathe！　
Baba　knelt　beside　him　and　curled　an　arm　around　his　shoulder。　But　Kamal　s　father　shoved　him　away　and　lunged　for　Karim　who　was　standing　nearby　with　his　cousin。　What　happened　next　was　too　fast　and　too　short　to　be　called　a　scuffle。　Karim　uttered　a　surprised　cry　and　backpedaled。　I　saw　an　arm　swing；　a　leg　kick。　A　moment　later；　Kamal　s　father　was　standing　with　Karim　s　gun　in　his　hand。
　Don　t　shoot　me！　　Karim　cried。
But　before　any　of　us　could　say　or　do　a　thing；　Kamal　s　father　shoved　the　barrel　in　his　own　mouth。　I　ll　never　forget　the　echo　of　that　blast。　Or　the　flash　of　light　and　the　spray　of　red。
I　doubled　over　again　and　dry…heaved　on　the　side　of　the　road。
ELEVEN
Fremont；　California。　1980s
Baba　loved　the　idea　of　America。
It　was　living　in　America　that　gave　him　an　ulcer。
I　remember　the　two　of　us　walking　through　Lake　Elizabeth　Park　in　Fremont；　a　few　streets　down　from　our　apartment；　and　watching　boys　at　batting　practice；　little　girls　giggling　on　the　swings　in　the　playground。　Baba　would　enlighten　me　with　his　politics　during　those　walks　with　long…winded　dissertations。　　There　are　only　three　real　men　in　this　world；　Amir；　　he　d　say。　He　d　count　them　off　on　his　fingers：　America　the　brash　savior；　Britain；　and　Israel。　　The　rest　of　them……　　he　used　to　wave　his　hand　and　make　a　phht　sound　　……they　re　like　gossiping　old　women。　
The　bit　about　Israel　used　to　draw　the　ire　of　Afghans　in　Fremont　who　accused　him　of　being　pro…Jewish　and；　de　facto；　anti　Islam。　Baba　would　meet　them　for　tea　and　rowt　cake　at　the　park；　drive　them　crazy　with　his　politics。　　What　they　don　t　understand；　　he　d　tell　me　later；　　is　that　religion　has　nothing　to　do　with　it。　　In　Baba　s　view；　Israel　was　an　island　of　　real　men　　in　a　sea　of　Arabs　too　busy　getting　fat　off　their　oil　to　care　for　their　own。　　Israel　does　this；　Israel　does　that；　　Baba　would　say　in　a　mock…Arabic　accent。　　Then　do　something　about　it！　Take　action。　You　re　Arabs；　help　the　Palestinians；　then！　
He　loathed　Jimmy　Carter；　whom　he　called　a　　big…toothed　cretin。　　In　1980；　when　we　were　still　in　Kabul；　the　U。S。　announced　it　would　be　boycotting　the　Olympic　Games　in　Moscow。　　Wah　wah！　　Baba　exclaimed　with　disgust。　　Brezhnev　is　massacring　Afghans　and　all　that　peanut　eater　can　say　is　I　won　t　e　swim　in　your　pool。　　Baba　believed　Carter　had　unwittingly　done　more　for　munism　than　Leonid　Brezhnev。　　He　s　not　fit　to　run　this　country。　It　s　like　putting　a　boy　who　can　t　ride　a　bike　behind　the　wheel　of　a　brand　new　Cadillac。　　What　America　and　the　world　needed　was　a　hard　man。　A　man　to　be　reckoned　with；　someone　who　took　action　instead　of　wringing　his　hands。　That　someone　came　in　the　form　of　Ronald　Reagan。　And　when　Reagan　went　on　TV　and　called　the　Shorawi　　the　Evil　Empire；　　Baba　went　out　and　bought　a　picture　of　the　grinning　president　giving　a　thumbs　up。　He　framed　the　picture　and　hung　it　in　our　hallway；　nailing　it　right　next　to　the　old　black…and…white　of　himself　in　his　thin　necktie　shaking　hands　with　King　Zahir　Shah。　Most　of　our　neighbors　in　Fremont　were　bus　drivers；　policemen；　gas　station　attendants；　and　unwed　mothers　collecting　welfare；　exactly　the　sort　of　blue…collar　people　who　would　soon　suffocate　under　the　pillow　Reganomics　pressed　to　their　faces。　Baba　was　the　lone　Republican　in　our　building。
But　the　Bay　Area　s　smog　stung　his　eyes；　the　traffic　noise　gave　him　headaches；　and　the　pollen　made　him　cough。　The　fruit　was　never　sweet　enough；　the　water　never　clean　enough；　and　where　were　all　the　trees　and　open　fields？　For　two　years；　I