the kite runner-第42章

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ains。　And　I　d　have　to　will　my　eyes　not　to　peel　away；　not　to　wander　to　where　Soraya　sat　reading　a　paperback。　The　general　and　I　would　say　our　good…byes　and　I　d　try　not　to　slouch　as　I　walked　away。
Sometimes　she　sat　alone；　the　general　off　to　some　other　row　to　socialize；　and　I　would　walk　by；　pretending　not　to　know　her；　but　dying　to。　Sometimes　she　was　there　with　a　portly　middle…aged　woman　with　pale　skin　and　dyed　red　hair。　I　promised　myself　that　I　would　talk　to　her　before　the　summer　was　over；　but　schools　reopened；　the　leaves　reddened；　yellowed；　and　fell；　the　rains　of　winter　swept　in
and　wakened　Baba　s　joints；　baby　leaves　sprouted　once　more；　and　I　still　hadn　t　had　the　heart；　the　dil；　to　even　look　her　in　the　eye。
The　spring　quarter　ended　in　late　May　1985。　I　aced　all　of　my　general　education　classes；　which　was　a　minor　miracle　given　how　I　d　sit　in　lectures　and　think　of　the　soft　hook　of　Soraya　s　nose。
Then；　one　sweltering　Sunday　that　summer；　Baba　and　I　were　at　the　flea　market；　sitting　at　our　booth；　fanning　our　faces　with　news　papers。　Despite　the　sun　bearing　down　like　a　branding　iron；　the　market　was　crowded　that　day　and　sales　had　been　strong……it　was　only　12：30　but　we　d　already　made　160。　I　got　up；　stretched；　and　asked　Baba　if　he　wanted　a　Coke。　He　said　he　d　love　one。
　Be　careful；　Amir；　　he　said　as　I　began　to　walk。　　Of　what；　Baba？　
　I　am　not　an　ahmaq；　so　don　t　play　stupid　with　me。　
　I　don　t　know　what　you　re　talking　about。　
　Remember　this；　　Baba　said；　pointing　at　me；　　The　man　is　a　Pashtun　to　the　root。　He　has　nang　and　namoos。　　Nang。　Namoos。　Honor　and　pride。　The　tenets　of　Pashtun　men。　Especially　when　it　came　to　the　chastity　of　a　wife。　Or　a　daughter。
　I　m　only　going　to　get　us　drinks。　
　Just　don　t　embarrass　me；　that　s　all　I　ask。　
　I　won　t。　God；　Baba。　
Baba　lit　a　cigarette　and　started　fanning　himself　again。
I　walked　toward　the　concession　booth　initially；　then　turned　left　at　the　T…shirt　stand……where；　for　5；　you　could　have　the　face　of　Jesus；　Elvis；　Jim　Morrison；　or　all　three；　pressed　on　a　white　nylon　T…shirt。　Mariachi　music　played　overhead；　and　I　smelled　pickles　and　grilled　meat。
I　spotted　the　Taheris　　gray　van　two　rows　from　ours；　next　to　a　kiosk　selling　mango…on…a…stick。　She　was　alone；　reading。　White　ankle…length　summer　dress　today。　Open…toed　sandals。　Hair　pulled　back　and　crowned　with　a　tulip…shaped　bun。　I　meant　to　simply　walk　by　again　and　I　thought　I　had；　except　suddenly　I　was　standing　at　the　edge　of　the　Taheris　　white　tablecloth；　staring　at　Soraya　across　curling　irons　and　old　neckties。　She　looked　up。
　Salaam；　　I　said。　　I　m　sorry　to　be　mozahem；　I　didn　t　mean　to　disturb　you。　
　Salaam。　
　Is　General　Sahib　here　today？　　I　said。　My　ears　were　burning。　I　couldn　t　bring　myself　to　look　her　in　the　eye。
　He　went　that　way；　　she　said。　Pointed　to　her　right。　The　bracelet　slipped　down　to　her　elbow；　silver　against　olive。
　Will　you　tell　him　I　stopped　by　to　pay　my　respects？　　I　said。
　I　will。　
　Thank　you；　　I　said。　　Oh；　and　my　name　is　Amir。　In　case　you　need　to　know。　So　you　can　tell　him。　That　I　stopped　by。　To。。。　pay　my　respects。　
　Yes。　
I　shifted　on　my　feet；　cleared　my　throat。　　I　ll　go　now。　Sorry　to　have　disturbed　you。　
　Nay；　you　didn　t；　　she　said。
　Oh。　Good。　　I　tipped　my　head　and　gave　her　a　half　smile。　　I　ll　go　now。　　Hadn　t　I　already　said　that？　　Khoda　h~afez。　
　Khoda　h~afez。　
I　began　to　walk。　Stopped　and　turned。　I　said　it　before　I　had　a　chance　to　lose　my　nerve：　　Can　I　ask　what　you　re　reading？　
She　blinked。
I　held　my　breath。　Suddenly；　I　felt　the　collective　eyes　of　the　flea　market　Afghans　shift　to　us。　I　imagined　a　hush　falling。　Lips　stop　ping　in　midsentence。　Heads　turning。　Eyes　narrowing　with　keen　interest。
What　was　this？
Up　to　that　point；　our　encounter　could　have　been　interpreted　as　a　respectful　inquiry；　one　man　asking　for　the　whereabouts　of　another　man。　But　I　d　asked　her　a　question　and　if　she　answered；　we　d　be。。。　well；　we　d　be　chatting。　Me　a　mojarad；　a　single　young　man；　and　she　an　unwed　young　woman。　One　with　a　history；　no　less。　This　was　teetering　dangerously　on　the　verge　of　gossip　material；　and　the　best　kind　of　it。　Poison　tongues　would　flap。　And　she　would　bear　the　brunt　of　that　poison；　not　me……I　was　fully　aware　of　the　Afghan　double　standard　that　favored　my　gender。　Not　Did　you　see　him　chatting　with　her？　but　Wooooy！　Did　you　see　how　she　wouldn　t　let　him　go？　What　a　lochak！
By　Afghan　standards；　my　question　had　been　bold。　With　it；　I　had　bared　myself；　and　left　little　doubt　as　to　my　interest　in　her。　But　I　was　a　man；　and　all　I　had　risked　was　a　bruised　ego。　Bruises　healed。　Reputations　did　not。　Would　she　take　my　dare？
She　turned　the　book　so　the　cover　faced　me。　Wuthering　Heights。　　Have　you　read　it？　　she　said。
I　nodded。　I　could　feel　the　pulsating　beat　of　my　heart　behind　my　eyes。　　It　s　a　sad　story。　
　Sad　stories　make　good　books；　　she　said。
　They　do。　
　I　heard　you　write。　
How　did　she　know？　I　wondered　if　her　father　had　told　her；　maybe　she　had　asked　him。　I　immediately　dismissed　both　scenarios　as　absurd。　Fathers　and　sons　could　talk　freely　about　women。　But　no　Afghan　girl……no　decent　and　mohtaram　Afghan　girl；　at　least……queried　her　father　about　a　young　man。　And　no　father；　especially　a
Pashtun　with　nang　and　namoos；　would　discuss　a　mojarad　with　his　daughter；　not　unless　the　fellow　in　question　was　a　khastegar；　a　suitor；　who　had　done　the　honorable　thing　and　sent　his　father　to　knock　on　the　door。
Incredibly；　I　heard　myself　say；　　Would　you　like　to　read　one　of　my　stories？　
　I　would　like　that；　　she　said。　I　sensed　an　unease　in　her　now；　saw　it　in　the　way　her　eyes　began　to　flick　side　to　side。　Maybe　checking　for　the　general。　I　wondered　what　he　would　say　if　he　found　me　speaking　for　such　an　inappropriate　length　of