the kite runner-第45章

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Two　weeks　passed　and　no　one　called。　And　when　I　called　them；　they　told　me　they　d　lost　the　referral。　Was　I　sure　I　had　turned　it　in？　They　said　they　would　call　in　another　three　weeks。　I　raised　hell　and　bargained　the　three　weeks　down　to　one　for　the　CAT　scan；　two　to　see　the　doctor。
The　visit　with　the　pulmonologist；　Dr。　Schneider；　was　going　well　until　Baba　asked　him　where　he　was　from。　Dr。　Schneider　said　Russia。　Baba　lost　it。
　Excuse　us；　Doctor；　　I　said；　pulling　Baba　aside。　Dr。　Schneider　smiled　and　stood　back；　stethoscope　still　in　hand。
　Baba；　I　read　Dr。　Schneider　s　biography　in　the　waiting　room。　He　was　born　in　Michigan。　Michigan！　He　s　American；　a　lot　more　American　than　you　and　I　will　ever　be。　
　I　don　t　care　where　he　was　born；　he　s　Roussi；　　Baba　said；　grimacing　like　it　was　a　dirty　word。　　His　parents　were　Roussi；　his　grandparents　were　Roussi。　I　swear　on　your　mother　s　face　I　ll　break　his　arm　if　he　tries　to　touch　me。　
　Dr。　Schneider　s　parents　fled　from　Shorawi；　don　t　you　see？　They　escaped！　
But　Baba　would　hear　none　of　it。　Sometimes　I　think　the　only　thing　he　loved　as　much　as　his　late　wife　was　Afghanistan；　his　late　country。　I　almost　screamed　with　frustration。　Instead；　I　sighed　and　turned　to　Dr。　Schneider。　　I　m　sorry；　Doctor。　This　isn　t　going　to　work　out。　
The　next　pulmonologist；　Dr。　Amani；　was　Iranian　and　Baba　approved。　Dr。　Amani；　a　soft…spoken　man　with　a　crooked　mustache　and　a　mane　of　gray　hair；　told　us　he　had　reviewed　the　CAT　scan　results　and　that　he　would　have　to　perform　a　procedure　called　a　bronchoscopy　to　get　a　piece　of　the　lung　mass　for　pathology。　He　scheduled　it　for　the　following　week。　I　thanked　him　as　I　helped　Baba　out　of　the　office；　thinking　that　now　I　had　to　live　a　whole　week　with　this　new　word；　　mass；　　an　even　more　ominous　word　than　　suspicious。　　I　wished　Soraya　were　there　with　me。
It　turned　out　that；　like　Satan；　cancer　had　many　names。　Baba　s　was　called　　Oat　Cell　Carcinoma。　　Advanced。　Inoperable。　Baba　asked　Dr。　Amani　for　a　prognosis。　Dr。　Amani　bit　his　lip；　used　the　word　　grave。　　　There　is　chemotherapy；　of　course；　　he　said。　　But　it　would　only　be　palliative。　
　What　does　that　mean？　　Baba　asked。
Dr。　Amani　sighed。　　It　means　it　wouldn　t　change　the　oute；　just　prolong　it。　
　That　s　a　clear　answer；　Dr。　Amani。　Thank　you　for　that；　　Baba　said。　　But　no　chemo…medication　for　me。　　He　had　the　same　resolved　look　on　his　face　as　the　day　he　d　dropped　the　stack　of　food　stamps　on　Mrs。　Dobbins　s　desk。
　But　Baba……　
　Don　t　you　challenge　me　in　public；　Amir。　Ever。　Who　do　you　think　you　are？　
THE　RAIN　General　Taheri　had　spoken　about　at　the　flea　market　was　a　few　weeks　late；　but　when　we　stepped　out　of　Dr。　Amani　s　office；　passing　cars　sprayed　grimy　water　onto　the　sidewalks。　Baba　lit　a　cigarette。　He　smoked　all　the　way　to　the　car　and　all　the　way　home。
As　he　was　slipping　the　key　into　the　lobby　door；　I　said；　　I　wish　you　d　give　the　chemo　a　chance；　Baba。　
Baba　pocketed　the　keys；　pulled　me　out　of　the　rain　and　under　the　building　s　striped　awning。　He　kneaded　me　on　the　chest　with　the　hand　holding　the　cigarette。　　Bas！　I　ve　made　my　decision。　
　What　about　me；　Baba？　What　am　I　supposed　to　do？　　I　said；　my　eyes　welling　up。
A　look　of　disgust　swept　across　his　rain…soaked　face。　It　was　the　same　look　he　d　give　me　when；　as　a　kid；　I　d　fall；　scrape　my　knees；　and　cry。　It　was　the　crying　that　brought　it　on　then；　the　crying　that　brought　it　on　now。　　You　re　twenty…two　years　old；　Amir！　A　grown　man！　You。。。　　he　opened　his　mouth；　closed　it；　opened　it　again；　reconsidered。　Above　us；　rain　drummed　on　the　canvas　awning。　　What　s　going　to　happen　to　you；　you　say？　All　those　years；　that　s　what　I　was　trying　to　teach　you；　how　to　never　have　to　ask　that　question。　
He　opened　the　door。　Turned　back　to　me。　　And　one　more　thing。　No　one　finds　out　about　this；　you　hear　me？　No　one。　I　don　t　want　anybody　s　sympathy。　　Then　he　disappeared　into　the　dim　lobby。　He　chain…smoked　the　rest　of　that　day　in　front　of　the　TV。　I　didn　t　know　what　or　whom　he　was　defying。　Me？　Dr。　Amani？　Or　maybe　the　God　he　had　never　believed　in。
FOR　A　WHILE；　even　cancer　couldn　t　keep　Baba　from　the　flea　market。　We　made　our　garage　sale　treks　on　Saturdays；　Baba　the　driver　and　me　the　navigator；　and　set　up
our　display　on　Sundays。　Brass　lamps。　Baseball　gloves。　Ski　jackets　with　broken　zippers。　Baba　greeted　acquaintances　from　the　old　country　and　I　haggled　with　buyers　over　a　dollar　or　two。　Like　any　of　it　mattered。　Like　the　day　I　would　bee　an　orphan　wasn　t　inching　closer　with　each　closing　of　shop。
Sometimes；　General　Taheri　and　his　wife　strolled　by。　The　general；　ever　the　diplomat；　greeted　me　with　a　smile　and　his　two…handed　shake。　But　there　was　a　new　reticence　to　Khanum　Taheri　s　demeanor。　A　reticence　broken　only　by　her　secret；　droopy　smiles　and　the　furtive；　apologetic　looks　she　cast　my　way　when　the　general　s　attention　was　engaged　elsewhere。
I　remember　that　period　as　a　time　of　many　　firsts　：　The　first　time　I　heard　Baba　moan　in　the　bathroom。　The　first　time　I　found　blood　on　his　pillow。　In　over　three　years　running　the　gas　station；　Baba　had　never　called　in　sick。　Another　first。
By　Halloween　of　that　year；　Baba　was　getting　so　tired　by　mid…Saturday　afternoon　that　he　d　wait　behind　the　wheel　while　I　got　out　and　bargained　for　junk。　By　Thanksgiving；　he　wore　out　before　noon。　When　sleighs　appeared　on　front　lawns　and　fake　snow　on　Douglas　firs；　Baba　stayed　home　and　I　drove　the　VW　bus　alone　up　and　down　the　peninsula。
Sometimes　at　the　flea　market；　Afghan　acquaintances　made　remarks　about　Baba　s　weight　loss。　At　first；　they　were　plimentary。　They　even　asked　the　secret　to　his　diet。　But　the　queries　and　pliments　stopped　when　the　weight　loss　didn　t。　When　the　pounds　kept　shedding。　And　shedding。　When　his　cheeks　hollowed。