the kite runner-第39章

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　Just　go。　　He　had　me　park　at　the　south　end　of　the　street。　He　reached　in　his　coat　pocket　and　handed　me　a　set　of　keys。　　There；　　he　said；　pointing　to　the　car　in　front　of　us。　It　was　an　old　model　Ford；　long　and　wide；　a　dark　color　I　couldn　t　discern　in　the　moon　light。　　It　needs　painting；　and　I　ll　have　one　of　the　guys　at　the　station　put　in　new　shocks；　but　it　runs。　
I　took　the　keys；　stunned。　I　looked　from　him　to　the　car。
　You　ll　need　it　to　go　to　college；　　he　said。
I　took　his　hand　in　mine。　Squeezed　it。　My　eyes　were　tearing　over　and　I　was　glad　for　the　shadows　that　hid　our　faces。　　Thank　you；　Baba。　
We　got　out　and　sat　inside　the　Ford。　It　was　a　Grand　Torino。　Navy　blue；　Baba　said。　I　drove　it　around　the　block；　testing　the　brakes；　the　radio；　the　turn　signals。　I　parked　it　in　the　lot　of　our　apartment　building　and　shut　off　the　engine。　　Tashakor；　Baba　jan；　　I　said。　I　wanted　to　say　more；　tell　him　how　touched　I　was　by　his　act　of　kindness；　how　much　I　appreciated　all　that　he　had　done　for　me；　all　that　he　was　still　doing。　But　I　knew　I　d　embarrass　him。　　Tashakor；　　I　repeated　instead。
He　smiled　and　leaned　back　against　the　headrest；　his　forehead　almost　touching　the　ceiling。　We　didn　t　say　anything。　Just　sat　in　the　dark；　listened　to　the　tink…tink　of　the　engine　cooling；　the　wail　of　a　siren　in　the　distance。　Then　Baba　rolled　his　head　toward　me。　　I　wish　Hassan　had　been　with　us　today；　　he　said。
A　pair　of　steel　hands　closed　around　my　windpipe　at　the　sound　of　Hassan　s　name。　I　rolled　down　the　window。　Waited　for　the　steel　hands　to　loosen　their　grip。
I　WOULD　ENROLL　in　junior　college　classes　in　the　fall；　I　told　Baba　the　day　after　graduation。　He　was　drinking　cold　black　tea　and　chewing　cardamom　seeds；　his　personal　trusted　antidote　for　hang　over　headaches。
　I　think　I　ll　major　in　English；　　I　said。　I　winced　inside；　waiting　for　his　reply。
　English？　
　Creative　writing。　
He　considered　this。　Sipped　his　tea。　　Stories；　you　mean。　You　ll　make　up　stories。　　I　looked　down　at　my　feet。
　They　pay　for　that；　making　up　stories？　
　If　you　re　good；　　I　said。　　And　if　you　get　discovered。　
　How　likely　is　that；　getting　discovered？　
　It　happens；　　I　said。
He　nodded。　　And　what　will　you　do　while　you　wait　to　get　good　and　get　discovered？　How　will　you　earn　money？　If　you　marry；　how　will　you　support　your　khanum？　
I　couldn　t　lift　my　eyes　to　meet　his。　　I　ll。。。　find　a　job。　
　Oh；　　he　said。　　Wah　wah！　So；　if　I　understand；　you　ll　study　several　years　to　earn　a　degree；　then　you　ll　get　a　chatti　job　like　mine；　one　you　could　just　as　easily　land　today；　on　the　small　chance　that　your　degree　might　someday　help　you　get。。。　discovered。　　He　took　a　deep　breath　and　sipped　his　tea。　Grunted　something　about　medical　school；　law　school；　and　　real　work。　
My　cheeks　burned　and　guilt　coursed　through　me；　the　guilt　of　indulging　myself　at　the　expense　of　his　ulcer；　his　black　fingernails　and　aching　wrists。　But　I　would　stand　my　ground；　I　decided。　I　didn　t　want　to　sacrifice　for　Baba　anymore。　The　last　time　I　had　done　that；　I　had　damned　myself。
Baba　sighed　and；　this　time；　tossed　a　whole　handful　of　car　damom　seeds　in　his　mouth。
SOMETIMES；　I　GOT　BEHIND　the　wheel　of　my　Ford；　rolled　down　the　windows；　and　drove　for　hours；　from　the　East　Bay　to　the　South　Bay；　up　the　Peninsula　and　back。　I　drove　through　the　grids　of　cottonwood…lined　streets　in　our　Fremont　neighborhood；　where　people　who　d　never　shaken　hands　with　kings　lived　in　shabby；　flat　one…story　houses　with　barred　windows；　where　old　cars　like　mine　dripped　oil　on　blacktop　driveways。　Pencil　gray　chain…link　fences　closed　off　the　backyards　in　our　neighborhood。　Toys；　bald　tires；　and　beer　bottles　with　peeling　labels　littered　unkempt　front　lawns。　I　drove　past　tree…shaded　parks　that　smelled　like　bark；　past　strip　malls　big　enough　to　hold　five　simultaneous　Buzkashi　tournaments。　I　drove　the　Torino　up　the　hills　of　Los　Altos；　idling　past　estates　with　picture　windows　and　silver　lions　guarding　the　wrought…iron　gates；　homes　with　cherub　fountains　lining　the　manicured　walkways　and　no　Ford　Torinos　in　the　drive　ways。　Homes　that　made　Baba　s　house　in　Wazir　Akbar　Khan　look　like　a　servant　s　hut。
I　d　get　up　early　some　Saturday　mornings　and　drive　south　on　Highway　17；　push　the　Ford　up　the　winding　road　through　the　mountains　to　Santa　Cruz。　I　would　park　by　the　old　lighthouse　and　wait　for　sunrise；　sit　in　my　car　and　watch　the　fog　rolling　in　from　the　sea。　In　Afghanistan；　I　had　only　seen　the　ocean　at　the　cinema。　Sitting　in　the　dark　next　to　Hassan；　I　had　always　wondered　if　it　was　true　what　I　d　read；　that　sea　air　smelled　like　salt。　I　used　to　tell　Hassan　that　someday　we　d　walk　on　a　strip　of　seaweed…strewn　beach；　sink　our　feet　in　the　sand；　and　watch　the　water　recede　from　our　toes。　The　first　time　I　saw　the　Pacific；　I　almost　cried。　It　was　as　vast　and　blue　as　the　oceans　on　the　movie　screens　of　my　childhood。
Sometimes　in　the　early　evening；　I　parked　the　car　and　walked　up　a　freeway　overpass。　My　face　pressed　against　the　fence；　I　d　try　to　count　the　blinking　red　taillights　inching　along；　stretching　as　far　as　my　eyestould　see。　BMWs。　Saabs。
Porsches。　Cars　I　d　never　seen　in　Kabul；　where　most　people　drove　Russian　Volgas；　old　Opels；　or　Iranian　Paikans。
Almost　two　years　had　passed　since　we　had　arrived　in　the　U。S。；　and　I　was　still　marveling　at　the　size　of　this　country；　its　vastness。　Beyond　every　freeway　lay　another　freeway；　beyond　every　city　another　city　hills　beyond　mountains　and　mountains　beyond　hills；　and；　beyond　those；　more　cities　and　more　people。
Long　before　the　Roussi　army　marched　into　Afghanistan；　long　before　villages　were　burned　and　schools　destroyed；　long　before　mines　were　planted　like　seeds　of　death　and　children　buried　in　rock…piled　graves；　Kabul　had　bee　a　city　of　gho