the kite runner-第37章

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e　all　the　trees　and　open　fields？　For　two　years；　I　tried　to　get　Baba　to　enroll　in　ESL　classes　to　improve　his　broken　English。　But　he　scoffed　at　the　idea。　　Maybe　I　ll　spell　　cat　　and　the　teacher　will　give　me　a　glittery　little　star　so　I　can　run　home　and　show　it　off　to　you；　　he　d　grumble。
One　Sunday　in　the　spring　of　1983；　I　walked　into　a　small　bookstore　that　sold　used　paperbacks；　next　to　the　Indian　movie　theater　just　west　of　where　Amtrak　crossed　Fremont　Boulevard。　I　told　Baba　I　d　be　out　in　five　minutes　and　he　shrugged。　He　had　been　working　at　a　gas　station　in　Fremont　and　had　the　day　off。　I　watched　him　jaywalk　across　Fremont　Boulevard　and　enter　Fast　&　Easy；　a　little　grocery　store　run　by　an　elderly　Vietnamese　couple；　Mr。　and　Mrs。　Nguyen。　They　were　gray…haired；　friendly　people；　she　had　Parkinson　s；　he　d　had　his　hip　replaced。　　He　s　like　Six
Million　Dollar　Man　now；　　she　always　said　to　me；　laughing　toothlessly。　　Remember　Six　Million　Dollar　Man；　Amir？　　Then　Mr。　Nguyen　would　scowl　like　Lee　Majors；　pretend　he　was　running　in　slow　motion。
I　was　flipping　through　a　worn　copy　of　a　Mike　Hammer　mystery　when　I　heard　screaming　and　glass　breaking。　I　dropped　the　book　and　hurried　across　the　street。　I　found　the　Nguyens　behind　the　counter；　all　the　way　against　the　wall；　faces　ashen；　Mr。　Nguyen　s　arms　wrapped　around　his　wife。　On　the　floor：　oranges；　an　overturned　magazine　rack；　a　broken　jar　of　beef　jerky；　and　shards　of　glass　at　Baba　s　feet。
It　turned　out　that　Baba　had　had　no　cash　on　him　for　the　oranges。　He　d　written　Mr。　Nguyen　a　check　and　Mr。　Nguyen　had　asked　for　an　ID。　　He　wants　to　see　my　license；　　Baba　bellowed　in　Farsi。　　Almost　two　years　we　ve　bought　his　damn　fruits　and　put　money　in　his　pocket　and　the　son　of　a　dog　wants　to　see　my　license！　
　Baba；　it　s　not　personal；　　I　said；　smiling　at　the　Nguyens。　　They　re　supposed　to　ask　for　an　ID。　
　I　don　t　want　you　here；　　Mr。　Nguyen　said；　stepping　in　front　of　his　wife。　He　was　pointing　at　Baba　with　his　cane。　He　turned　to　me。
　You　re　nice　young　man　but　your　father；　he　s　crazy。　Not　wele　anymore。　
　Does　he　think　I　m　a　thief？　　Baba　said；　his　voice　rising。　People　had　gathered　outside。　They　were　staring。　　What　kind　of　a　country　is　this？　No　one　trusts　anybody！　
　I　call　police；　　Mrs。　Nguyen　said；　poking　out　her　face。　　You　get　out　or　I　call　police。　
　Please；　Mrs。　Nguyen；　don　t　call　the　police。　I　ll　take　him　home。　Just　don　t　call　the　police；　okay？　Please？　
　Yes；　you　take　him　home。　Good　idea；　　Mr。　Nguyen　said。　His　eyes；　behind　his　wire…rimmed　bifocals；　never　left　Baba。　I　led　Baba　through　the　doors。　He　kicked　a　magazine　on　his　way　out。　After　I　d　made　him　promise　he　wouldn　t　go　back　in；　I　returned　to　the　store　and　apologized　to　the　Nguyens。　Told　them　my　father　was　going　through　a　difficult　time。　I　gave　Mrs。　Nguyen　our　telephone　number　and　address；　and　told　her　to　get　an　estimate　for　the　damages。　　Please　call　me　as　soon　as　you　know。　I　ll　pay　for　everything；　Mrs。　Nguyen。　I　m　so　sorry。　　Mrs。　Nguyen　took　the　sheet　of　paper　from　me　and　nodded。　I　saw　her　hands　were　shaking　more　than　usual；　and　that　made　me　angry　at　Baba；　his　causing　an　old　woman　to　shake　like　that。
　My　father　is　still　adjusting　to　life　in　America；　　I　said；　by　way　of　explanation。
I　wanted　to　tell　them　that；　in　Kabul；　we　snapped　a　tree　branch　and　used　it　as　a　credit　card。　Hassan　and　I　would　take　the　wooden　stick　to　the　bread　maker。　He　d　carve　notches　on　our　stick　with　his　knife；　one　notch　for　each　loaf　of　_naan_　he　d　pull　for　us　from　the　tandoor　s　roaring　flames。　At　the　end　of　the　month；　my　father　paid　him　for　the　number　of　notches　on　the　stick。　That　was　it。　No　questions。　No　ID。
But　I　didn　t　tell　them。　I　thanked　Mr。　Nguyen　for　not　calling　the　cops。　Took　Baba　home。　He　sulked　and　smoked　on　the　balcony　while　I　made　rice　with　chicken　neck
stew。　A　year　and　a　half　since　we　d　stepped　off　the　Boeing　from　Peshawar；　and　Baba　was　still　adjusting。
We　ate　in　silence　that　night。　After　two　bites；　Baba　pushed　away　his　plate。
I　glanced　at　him　across　the　table；　his　nails　chipped　and　black　with　engine　oil；　his　knuckles　scraped；　the　smells　of　the　gas　station……dust；　sweat；　and　gasoline……on　his　clothes。　Baba　was　like　the　widower　who　remarries　but　can　t　let　go　of　his　dead　wife。　He　missed　the　sugarcane　fields　of　Jalalabad　and　the　gardens　of　Paghman。　He　missed　people　milling　in　and　out　of　his　house；　missed　walking　down　the　bustling　aisles　of　Shor　Bazaar　and　greeting　people　who　knew　him　and　his　father；　knew　his　grandfather；　people　who　shared　ancestors　with　him；　whose　pasts　intertwined　with　his。
For　me；　America　was　a　place　to　bury　my　memories。
For　Baba；　a　place　to　mourn　his。
　Maybe　we　should　go　back　to　Peshawar；　　I　said；　watching　the　ice　float　in　my　glass　of　water。　We　d　spent　six　months　in　Peshawar　waiting　for　the　INS　to　issue　our　visas。　Our　grimy　one…bedroom　apartment　smelled　like　dirty　socks　and　cat　droppings；　but　we　were　surrounded　by　people　we　knew……at　least　people　Baba　knew。　He　d　invite　the　entire　corridor　of　neighbors　for　dinner；　most　of　them　Afghans　waiting　for　visas。　Inevitably；　someone　would　bring　a　set　of　tabla　and　someone　else　a　harmonium。　Tea　would　brew；　and　who　ever　had　a　passing　singing　voice　would　sing　until　the　sun　rose；　the　mosquitoes　stopped　buzzing；　and　clapping　hands　grew　sore。
　You　were　happier　there；　Baba。　It　was　more　like　home；　　I　said。
　Peshawar　was　good　for　me。　Not　good　for　you。　
　You　work　so　hard　here。　
　It　s　not　so　bad　now；　　he　said；　meaning　since　he　had　bee　the　day　manager　at　the　gas　station。　But　I　d　seen　the　way　he　winced　and　rubbed　his　wrists　on　damp　days。　The　way　sweat　erupted　on　his　forehead　as　he　reached　for　his　bottle　of　antacids　after　meals。　　Besides；　I　didn　t　bring　us　here　for　me；　did　I？