the kite runner-第40章

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city　of　ghosts　for　me。　A　city　of　harelipped　ghosts。
America　was　different。　America　was　a　river；　roaring　along；　unmindful　of　the　past。　I　could　wade　into　this　river；　let　my　sins　drown　to　the　bottom；　let　the　waters　carry　me　someplace　far。　Someplace　with　no　ghosts；　no　memories；　and　no　sins。
If　for　nothing　else；　for　that；　I　embraced　America。
THE　FOLLOWING　SUMMER；　the　summer　of　1984……the　summer　I　turned　twenty…one……Baba　sold　his　Buick　and　bought　a　dilapidated　　71　Volkswagen　bus　for　550　from　an　old　Afghan　acquaintance　who　d　been　a　high…school　science　teacher　in　Kabul。　The　neighbors　　heads　turned　the　afternoon　the　bus　sputtered　up　the　street　and　farted　its　way　across　our　lot。　Baba　killed　the　engine　and　let　the　bus　roll　silently　into　our　designated　spot。　We　sank　in　our　seats；　laughed　until　tears　rolled　down　our　cheeks；　and；　more　important；　until　we　were　sure　the　neighbors　weren　t　watching　anymore。　The　bus　was　a　sad　carcass　of　rusted　metal；　shattered　windows　replaced　with　black　garbage　bags；　balding　tires；　and　upholstery　shredded　down　to　the　springs。　But　the　old　teacher　had　reassured　Baba　that　the　engine　and　transmission　were　sound　and；　on　that　account；　the　man　hadn　t　lied。
On　Saturdays；　Baba　woke　me　up　at　dawn。　As　he　dressed；　I　scanned　the　classifieds　in　the　local　papers　and　circled　the　garage　sale　ads。　We　mapped　our　route……Fremont；　Union　City；　Newark；　and　Hayward　first；　then　San　Jose；　Milpitas；　Sunnyvale；　and　Campbell　if　time　permitted。　Baba　drove　the　bus；　sipping　hot　tea　from　the　thermos；　and　I　navigated。　We　stopped　at　garage　sales　and　bought　knickknacks　that　people　no　longer　wanted。　We　haggled　over　old　sewing　machines；　one…eyed　Barbie　dolls；　wooden　tennis　rackets；　guitars　with　missing　strings；　and　old　Electrolux　vacuum　cleaners。　By　midafternoon；　we　d　filled　the　back　of　the　VW　bus　with　used　goods。　Then　early　Sunday　mornings；　we　drove　to　the　San　Jose　flea　market　off　Berryessa；　rented　a　spot；　and　sold　the　junk　for　a　small　profit：　a　Chicago　record　that　we　d　bought　for　a　quarter　the　day　before　might　go　for　1；　or　4　for　a　set　of　five；　a　ramshackle　Singer　sewing　machine　purchased　for　10　might；　after　some　bargaining；　bring　in　25。
By　that　summer；　Afghan　families　were　working　an　entire　section　of　the　San　Jose　flea　market。　Afghan　music　played　in　the　aisles　of　the　Used　Goods　section。　There　was　an　unspoken　code　of　behavior　among　Afghans　at　the　flea　market：　You　greeted　the　guy　across　the　aisle；　you　invited　him　for　a　bite　of　potato　bolani　or　a　little　qabuli；　and　you　chatted。　You　offered　tassali；　condolences；　for　the　death　of　a　parent；　congratulated　the　birth　of　children；　and　shook　your　head　mournfully　when　the　conversation　turned　to　Afghanistan　and　the　Roussis……which　it　inevitably　did。　But　you　avoided　the　topic　of　Saturday。　Because　it　might　turn　out　that　the　fellow　across　the　isle　was　the　guy　you　d　nearly　blindsided　at　the　freeway　exit　yesterday　in　order　to　beat　him　to　a　promising　garage　sale。
The　only　thing　that　flowed　more　than　tea　in　those　aisles　was　Afghan　gossip。　The　flea　market　was　where　you　sipped　green　tea　with　almond　kolchas；　and　learned　whose　daughter　had　broken　off　an　engagement　and　run　off　with　her　American　boyfriend；　who　used　to　be　Parchami……a　munist……in　Kabul；　and　who　had　bought　a　house　with　under…the…table　money　while　still　on　welfare。　Tea；　Politics；　and　Scandal；　the　ingredients　of　an　Afghan　Sunday　at　the　flea　market。
I　ran　the　stand　sometimes　as　Baba　sauntered　down　the　aisle；　hands　respectfully　pressed　to　his　chest；　greeting　people　he　knew　from　Kabul：　mechanics　and　tailors　selling　hand…me…down　wool　coats　and　scraped　bicycle　helmets；　alongside　former　ambassadors；　out…of…work　surgeons；　and　university　professors。
One　early　Sunday　morning　in　July　1984；　while　Baba　set　up；　I　bought　two　cups　of　coffee　from　the　concession　stand　and　returned　to　find　Baba　talking　to　an　older；　distinguished…looking　man。　I　put　the　cups　on　the　rear　bumper　of　the　bus；　next　to　the　REAGAN/BUSH　FOR　　84　sticker。
　Amir；　　Baba　said；　motioning　me　over；　　this　is　General　Sahib；　Mr。　Iqbal　Taheri。　He　was　a　decorated　general　in　Kabul。　He　worked　for　the　Ministry　of　Defense。　
Taheri。　Why　did　the　name　sound　familiar？　The　general　laughed　like　a　man　used　to　attending　formal　parties　where　he　d　laughed　on　cue　at　the　minor　jokes　of　important　people。　He　had　wispy　silver…gray　hair　bed　back　from　his　smooth；　tanned　forehead；　and　tufts　of　white　in　his　bushy　eye　brows。　He　smelled　like　cologne　and　wore　an　iron…gray　three…piece　suit；　shiny　from　too　many　pressings；　the　gold　chain　of　a　pocket　watch　dangled　from　his　vest。
　Such　a　lofty　introduction；　　he　said；　his　voice　deep　and　cultured。　　_Salaam；　bachem_。　　Hello；　my　child。
　_Salaam_；　General　Sahib；　　I　said；　shaking　his　hand。　His　thin　hands　belied　a　firm　grip；　as　if　steel　hid　beneath　the　moisturized　skin。
　Amir　is　going　to　be　a　great　writer；　　Baba　said。　I　did　a　double　take　at　this。　　He　has　finished　his　first　year　of　college　and　earned　A　s　in　all　of　his　courses。　
　Junior　college；　　I　corrected　him。
　_Mashallah_；　　General　Taheri　said。　　Will　you　be　writing　about　our　country；　history　perhaps？　Economics？　
　I　write　fiction；　　I　said；　thinking　of　the　dozen　or　so　short　stories　I　had　written　in　the　leather…bound　notebook　Rahim　Khan　had　given　me；　wondering　why　I　was　suddenly　embarrassed　by　them　in　this　man　s　presence。
　Ah；　a　storyteller；　　the　general　said。　　Well；　people　need　stories　to　divert　them　at　difficult　times　like　this。　　He　put　his　hand　on　Baba　s　shoulder　and　turned　to　me。　　Speaking　of　stories；　your　father　and　I　hunted　pheasant　together　one　summer　day　in　Jalalabad；　　he　said。　　It　was　a　marvelous　time。　If　I　recall　correctly；　your　father　s　eye　proved　as　keen　in　the　hunt　as　it　ha