the kite runner-第38章

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　Besides；　I　didn　t　bring　us　here　for　me；　did　I？　
I　reached　across　the　table　and　put　my　hand　on　his。　My　student　hand；　clean　and　soft；　on　his　laborer　s　hand；　grubby　and　calloused。　I　thought　of　all　the　trucks；　train　sets；　and　bikes　he　d　bought　me　in　Kabul。　Now　America。　One　last　gift　for　Amir。
Just　one　month　after　we　arrived　in　the　U。S。；　Baba　found　a　job　off　Washington　Boulevard　as　an　assistant　at　a　gas　station　owned　by　an　Afghan　acquaintance……he　d　started　looking　for　work　the　same　week　we　arrived。　Six　days　a　week；　Baba　pulled　twelve…hour　shifts　pumping　gas；　running　the　register；　changing　oil；　and　washing　windshields。　I　d　bring　him　lunch　sometimes　and　find　him　looking　for　a　pack　of　cigarettes　on　the　shelves；　a　customer　waiting　on　the　other　side　of　the　oil…stained　counter；　Baba　s　face　drawn　and　pale　under　the　bright　fluorescent　lights。　The　electronic　bell　over　the　door　would　ding…dong　when　I　walked　in；　and　Baba　would　look　over　his　shoulder；　wave；　and　smile；　his　eyes　watering　from　fatigue。
The　same　day　he　was　hired；　Baba　and　I　went　to　our　eligibility　officer　in　San　Jose；　Mrs。　Dobbins。　She　was　an　overweight　black　woman　with　twinkling　eyes　and　a　dimpled　smile。　She　d　told　me　once　that　she　sang　in　church；　and　I　believed　her……
she　had　a　voice　that　made　me　think　of　warm　milk　and　honey。　Baba　dropped　the　stack　of　food　stamps　on　her　desk。　　Thank　you　but　I　don　t　want；　　Baba　said。　　I　work　always。　In　Afghanistan　I　work；　in　America　I　work。　Thank　you　very　much；　Mrs。　Dobbins；　but　I　don　t　like　it　free　money。　
Mrs。　Dobbins　blinked。　Picked　up　the　food　stamps；　looked　from　me　to　Baba　like　we　were　pulling　a　prank；　or　　slipping　her　a　trick　　as　Hassan　used　to　say。　　Fifteen　years　I　been　doin　　this　job　and　nobody　s　ever　done　this；　　she　said。　And　that　was　how　Baba　ended　those　humiliating　food　stamp　moments　at　the　cash　register　and　alleviated　one　of　his　greatest　fears：　that　an　Afghan　would　see　him　buying　food　with　charity　money。　Baba　walked　out　of　the　welfare　office　like　a　man　cured　of　a　tumor。
THAT　SUMMER　OF　1983；　I　graduated　from　high　school　at　the　age　of　twenty；　by　far　the　oldest　senior　tossing　his　mortarboard　on　the　football　field　that　day。　I　remember　losing　Baba　in　the　swarm　of　families；　flashing　cameras；　and　blue　gowns。　I　found　him　near　the　twenty…yard　line；　hands　shoved　in　his　pockets；　camera　dangling　on　his　chest。　He　disappeared　and　reappeared　behind　the　people　moving　between　us：　squealing　blue…clad　girls　hugging；　crying；　boys　high…fiving　their　fathers；　each　other。　Baba　s　beard　was　graying；　his　hair　thinning　at　the　temples；　and　hadn　t　he　been　taller　in　Kabul？　He　was　wearing　his　brown　suit……his　only　suit；　the　same　one　he　wore　to　Afghan　weddings　and　funerals……and　the　red　tie　I　had　bought　for　his　fiftieth　birthday　that　year。　Then　he　saw　me　and　waved。　Smiled。　He　motioned　for　me　to　wear　my　mortarboard；　and　took　a　picture　of　me　with　the　school　s　clock　tower　in　the　background。　I　smiled　for　him……in　a　way；　this　was　his　day　more　than　mine。　He　walked　to　me；　curled　his　arm　around　my　neck；　and　gave　my　brow　a　single　kiss。　　I　am　moftakhir；　Amir；　　he　said。　Proud。　His　eyes　gleamed　when　he　said　that　and　I　liked　being　on　the　receiving　end　of　that　look。
He　took　me　to　an　Afghan　kabob　house　in　Hayward　that　night　and　ordered　far　too　much　food。　He　told　the　owner　that　his　son　was　going　to　college　in　the　fall。　I　had　debated　him　briefly　about　that　just　before　graduation；　and　told　him　I　wanted　to　get　a　job。　Help　out；　save　some　money；　maybe　go　to　college　the　following　year。　But　he　had　shot　me　one　of　his　smoldering　Baba　looks；　and　the　words　had　vaporized　on　my　tongue。
After　dinner；　Baba　took　me　to　a　bar　across　the　street　from　the　restaurant。　The　place　was　dim；　and　the　acrid　smell　of　beer　I　d　always　disliked　permeated　the　walls。　Men　in　baseball　caps　and　tank　tops　played　pool；　clouds　of　cigarette　smoke　hovering　over　the　green　tables；　swirling　in　the　fluorescent　light。　We　drew　looks；　Baba　in　his　brown　suit　and　me　in　pleated　slacks　and　sports　jacket。　We　took　a　seat　at　the　bar；　next　to　an　old　man；　his　leathery　face　sickly　in　the　blue　glow　of　the　Michelob　sign　overhead。　Baba　lit　a　cigarette　and　ordered　us　beers。　　Tonight　I　am　too　much　happy；　　he　announced　to　no　one　and　everyone。　　Tonight　I　drinking　with　my　son。　And　one；　please；　for　my　friend；　　he　said；　patting　the　old　man　on　the　back。　The　old　fellow　tipped　his　hat　and　smiled。　He　had　no　upper　teeth。
Baba　finished　his　beer　in　three　gulps　and　ordered　another。　He　had　three　before　I　forced　myself　to　drink　a　quarter　of　mine。　By　then　he　had　bought　the　old　man　a　scotch　and　treated　a　foursome　of　pool　players　to　a　pitcher　of　Budweiser。　Men　shook　his　hand　and　clapped　him　on　the　back。　They　drank　to　him。　Someone　lit　his　cigarette。　Baba　loosened　his　tie　and　gave　the　old　man　a　handful　of　quarters。　He　pointed　to　the　jukebox。　　Tell　him　to　play　his　favorite　songs；　　he　said　to　me。　The　old　man　nodded　and　gave　Baba　a　salute。　Soon；　country　music　was　blaring；　and；　just　like　that；　Baba　had　started　a　party。
At　one　point；　Baba　stood；　raised　his　beer；　spilling　it　on　the　sawdust　floor；　and　yelled；　　Fuck　the　Russia！　　The　bar　s　laughter；　then　its　full…throated　echo　followed。　Baba　bought　another　round　of　pitchers　for　everyone。
When　we　left；　everyone　was　sad　to　see　him　go。　Kabul；　Peshawar；　Hayward。　Same　old　Baba；　I　thought；　smiling。
I　drove　us　home　in　Baba　s　old；　ochre　yellow　Buick　Century。　Baba　dozed　off　on　the　way；　snoring　like　a　jackhammer。　I　smelled　tobacco　on　him　and　alcohol；　sweet　and　pungent。　But　he　sat　up　when　I　stopped　the　car　and　said　in　a　hoarse　voice；　　Keep　driving　to　the　end　of　the　block。　
　Why；　Baba？　
　Just　go。　　He　had　me　park　at　the　south　end　of　the　street。　He　reached　in　his　coat　pocket　a