the kite runner-第4章

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ntidote；　the　moment　Sanaubar　had　given　birth　to　Hassan。　It　had　been　a　simple　enough　affair。　No　obstetricians；　no　anesthesiologists；　no　fancy　monitoring　devices。　Just　Sanaubar　lying　on　a　stained；　naked　mattress　with　Ali　and　a　midwife　helping　her。　She　hadn　t　needed　much　help　at　all；　because；　even　in　birth；　Hassan　was　true　to　his　nature：
He　was　incapable　of　hurting　anyone。　A　few　grunts；　a　couple　of　pushes；　and　out　came　Hassan。　Out　he　came　smiling。
As　confided　to　a　neighbor　s　servant　by　the　garrulous　midwife；　who　had　then　in　turn　told　anyone　who　would　listen；　Sanaubar　had　taken　one　glance　at　the　baby　in　Ali　s　arms；　seen　the　cleft　lip；　and　barked　a　bitter　laughter。
　There；　　she　had　said。　　Now　you　have　your　own　idiot　child　to　do　all　your　smiling　for　you！　　She　had　refused　to　even　hold　Hassan；　and　just　five　days　later；　she　was　gone。
Baba　hired　the　same　nursing　woman　who　had　fed　me　to　nurse　Hassan。　Ali　told　us　she　was　a　blue…eyed　Hazara　woman　from　Bamiyan；　the　city　of　the　giant　Buddha　statues。　　What　a　sweet　singing　voice　she　had；　　he　used　to　say　to　us。
What　did　she　sing；　Hassan　and　I　always　asked；　though　we　already　knew……Ali　had　told　us　countless　times。　We　just　wanted　to　hear　Ali　sing。
He　d　clear　his　throat　and　begin：
_On　a　high　mountain　I　stood；
And　cried　the　name　of　Ali；　Lion　of　God。
O　Ali；　Lion　of　God；　King　of　Men；
Bring　joy　to　our　sorrowful　hearts。_
Then　he　would　remind　us　that　there　was　a　brotherhood　between　people　who　had　fed　from　the　same　breast；　a　kinship　that　not　even　time　could　break。
Hassan　and　I　fed　from　the　same　breasts。　We　took　our　first　steps　on　the　same　lawn　in　the　same　yard。　And；　under　the　same　roof；　we　spoke　our　first　words。
Mine　was　_Baba_。
His　was　_Amir_。　My　name。
Looking　back　on　it　now；　I　think　the　foundation　for　what　happened　in　the　winter　of　1975……and　all　that　followed……was　already　laid　in　those　first　words。
THREE
Lore　has　it　my　father　once　wrestled　a　black　bear　in　Baluchistan　with　his　bare　hands。　If　the　story　had　been　about　anyone　else；　it　would　have　been　dismissed　as　_laaf_；　that　Afghan　tendency　to　exaggerate……sadly；　almost　a　national　affliction；　if　someone　bragged　that　his　son　was　a　doctor；　chances　were　the　kid　had　once　passed　a　biology　test　in　high　school。　But　no　one　ever　doubted　the　veracity　of　any　story　about　Baba。　And　if　they　did；　well；　Baba　did　have　those　three　parallel　scars　coursing　a　jagged　path　down　his　back。　I　have　imagined　Baba　s　wrestling　match　countless　times；　even　dreamed　about　it。　And　in　those　dreams；　I　can　never　tell　Baba　from　the　bear。
It　was　Rahim　Khan　who　first　referred　to　him　as　what　eventually　became　Baba　s　famous　nickname；　_Toophan　agha_；　or　　Mr。　Hurricane。　　It　was　an　apt　enough　nickname。　My　father　was　a　force　of　nature；　a　towering　Pashtun　specimen　with　a　thick　beard；　a　wayward　crop　of　curly　brown　hair　as　unruly　as　the　man　himself；　hands　that　looked　capable　of　uprooting　a　willow　tree；　and　a　black　glare　that　would　　drop　the　devil　to　his　knees　begging　for　mercy；　　as　Rahim　Khan　used　to　say。　At　parties；　when　all　six…foot…five　of　him　thundered　into　the　room；　attention　shifted　to　him　like　sunflowers　turning　to　the　sun。
Baba　was　impossible　to　ignore；　even　in　his　sleep。　I　used　to　bury　cotton　wisps　in　my　ears；　pull　the　blanket　over　my　head；　and　still　the　sounds　of　Baba　s　snoring……so　much　like　a　growling　truck　engine……penetrated　the　walls。　And　my　room　was　across　the　hall　from　Baba　s　bedroom。　How　my　mother　ever　managed　to　sleep　in　the　same　room　as　him　is　a　mystery　to　me。　It　s　on　the　long　list　of　things　I　would　have　asked　my　mother　if　I　had　ever　met　her。
In　the　late　1960s；　when　I　was　five　or　six；　Baba　decided　to　build　an　orphanage。　I　heard　the　story　through　Rahim　Khan。　He　told　me　Baba　had　drawn　the　blueprints　himself　despite　the　fact　that　he　d　had　no　architectural　experience　at　all。　Skeptics　had　urged　him　to　stop　his　foolishness　and　hire　an　architect。　Of　course；　Baba　refused；　and　everyone　shook　their　heads　in　dismay　at　his　obstinate　ways。　Then　Baba　succeeded　and　everyone　shook　their　heads　in　awe　at　his　triumphant　ways。　Baba　paid　for　the　construction　of　the　two…story　orphanage；　just　off　the　main　strip　of　Jadeh　Maywand　south　of　the　Kabul　River；　with　his　own　money。　Rahim　Khan　told　me　Baba　had　personally　funded　the　entire　project；　paying　for　the　engineers；　electricians；　plumbers；　and　laborers；　not　to　mention　the　city　officials　whose　　mustaches　needed　oiling。　
It　took　three　years　to　build　the　orphanage。　I　was　eight　by　then。　I　remember　the　day　before　the　orphanage　opened；　Baba　took　me　to　Ghargha　Lake；　a　few　miles　north　of　Kabul。　He　asked　me　to　fetch　Hassan　too；　but　I　lied　and　told　him　Hassan　had　the　runs。　I　wanted　Baba　all　to　myself。　And　besides；　one　time　at　Ghargha　Lake；　Hassan　and　I　were　skimming　stones　and　Hassan　made　his　stone　skip　eight　times。　The　most　I　managed　was　five。　Baba　was　there；　watching；　and　he　patted　Hassan　on　the　back。　Even　put　his　arm　around　his　shoulder。
We　sat　at　a　picnic　table　on　the　banks　of　the　lake；　just　Baba　and　me；　eating　boiled　eggs　with　_kofta_　sandwiches……meatballs　and　pickles　wrapped　in　_naan_。　The　water　was　a　deep　blue　and　sunlight　glittered　on　its　looking　glass…clear　surface。　On　Fridays；　the　lake　was　bustling　with　families　out　for　a　day　in　the　sun。　But　it　was　midweek　and　there　was　only　Baba　and　me；　us　and　a　couple　of　longhaired；　bearded　tourists……　hippies；　　I　d　heard　them　called。　They　were
sitting　on　the　dock；　feet　dangling　in　the　water；　fishing　poles　in　hand。　I　asked　Baba　why　they　grew　their　hair　long；　but　Baba　grunted；　didn　t　answer。　He　was　preparing　his　speech　for　the　next　day；　flipping　through　a　havoc　of　handwritten　pages；　making　notes　here　and　there　with　a　pencil。　I　bit　into　my　egg　and　asked　Baba