the kite runner-第49章

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nd　I　looked　down；　solemnly　respectful；　casting　only　sideway　glances　at　each　other。　The　mullah　questioned　the　witnesses　and　read　from　the　Koran。　We　said　our　oaths。　Signed　the　certificates。　One　of　Soraya　s　uncles　from　Virginia；　Sharif　jan；　Khanum　Taheri　s　brother；　stood　up　and　cleared　his　throat。　Soraya　had　told　me　that　he　had　lived　in　the　U。S。　for　more　than　twenty　years。　He　worked　for　the　INS　and　had　an　American　wife。　He　was　also　a　poet。　A　small　man　with　a　birdlike　face　and　fluffy　hair；　he　read　a　lengthy　poem　dedicated　to　Soraya；　jotted　down　on　hotel　stationery　paper。　　Wah　wah；　Sharifjan！　　everyone　exclaimed　when　he　finished。
I　remember　walking　toward　the　stage；　now　in　my　tuxedo；　Soraya　a　veiled　pan　in　white；　our　hands　locked。　Baba　hobbled　next　to　me；　the　general　and　his　wife　beside　their　daughter。　A　procession　of　uncles；　aunts；　and　cousins　followed　as　we　made　our　way　through　the　hail；　parting　a　sea　of　applauding　guests；　blinking　at　flashing　cameras。　One　of　Soraya　s　cousins；　Sharif　jan　s　son；　held　a　Koran　over　our　heads　as　we　inched　along。　The　wedding　song；　ahesta　boro；　blared　from　the　speakers；　the　same　song　the　Russian　soldier　at　the　Mahipar　checkpoint　had　sung　the　night　Baba　and　I　left　Kabul：
Make　morning　into　a　key　and　throw　it　into　the　well；
Go　slowly；　my　lovely　moon；　go　slowly。　Let　the　morning　sun　forget　to　rise　in　the　east；　Go　slowly；　my　lovely　moon；　go　slowly。
I　remember　sitting　on　the　sofa；　set　on　the　stage　like　a　throne；　Soraya　s　hand　in　mine；　as　three　hundred　or　so　faces　looked　on。　We　did　Ayena　Masshaf；　where　they　gave　us　a　mirror　and　threw　a　veil　over　our　heads；　so　we　d　be　alone　to　gaze　at　each　other　s　reflection。　Looking　at　Soraya　s　smiling　face　in　that　mirror；　in　the　momentary　privacy　of　the　veil；　I　whispered　to　her　for　the　first　time　that　I　loved　her。　A　blush；　red　like　henna；　bloomed　on　her　cheeks。
I　picture　colorful　platters　of　chopan　kabob；　sholeh…goshti；　and　wild…orange　rice。　I　see　Baba　between　us　on　the　sofa；　smiling。　I　remember　sweat…drenched　men　dancing　the　traditional　attan　in　a　circle；　bouncing；　spinning　faster　and　faster　with　the　feverish　tempo　of　the　tabla；　until　all　but　a　few　dropped　out　of　the　ring　with　exhaustion。　I　remember　wishing　Rahim　Khan　were　there。
And　I　remember　wondering　if　Hassan　too　had　married。　And　if　so；　whose　face　he　had　seen　in　the　mirror　under　the　veil？　Whose　henna…painted　hands　had　he　held？
AROUND　2　A。M。；　the　party　moved　from　the　banquet　hall　to　Baba　s　apartment。　Tea　flowed　once　more　and　music　played　until　the　neighbors　called　the　cops。　Later　that　night；　the　sun　less　than　an　hour　from　rising　and　the　guests　finally　gone；　Soraya　and　I　lay　together　for　the　first　time。　All　my　life；　I　d　been　around　men。　That　night；　I　discovered　the　tenderness　of　a　woman。
IT　WAS　SORAYA　who　suggested　that　she　move　in　with　Baba　and　me。
　I　thought　you　might　want　us　to　have　our　own　place；　　I　said。
　With　Kaka　jan　as　sick　as　he　is？　　she　replied。　Her　eyes　told　me　that　was　no　way　to　start　a　marriage。　I　kissed　her。　　Thank　you。　
Soraya　dedicated　herself　to　taking　care　of　my　father。　She　made　his　toast　and　tea　in　the　morning；　and　helped　him　in　and　out　of　bed。　She　gave　him　his　pain　pills；　washed　his　clothes；　read　him　the　international　section　of　the　newspaper　every　afternoon；　She　cooked　his　favorite　dish；　potato　shorwa；　though　he　could　scarcely　eat　more　than　a　few　spoonfuls；　and　took　him　out　every　day　for　a　brief　walk　around　the　block。　And　when　he　became　bedridden；　she　turned　him　on　his　side　every　hour　so　he　wouldn　t　get　a　bedsore。
One　day；　I　came　home　from　the　pharmacy　with　Baba　s　morphine　pills。　Just　as　I　shut　the　door；　I　caught　a　glimpse　of　Soraya　quickly　sliding　something　under　Baba　s　blanket。　　Hey；　I　saw　that！　What　were　you　two　doing？　　I　said。
　Nothing；　　Soraya　said；　smiling。
　Liar。　　I　lifted　Baba　s　blanket。　　What　s　this？　　I　said；　though　as　soon　as　I　picked　up　the　leather…bound　book；　I　knew。　I　traced　my　fingers　along　the　gold…stitched　borders。　I　remembered　the　fire　works　the　night　Rahim　Khan　had　given　it　to　me；　the　night　of　my　thirteenth　birthday；　flares　sizzling　and　exploding　into　bouquets　of　red；　green；　and　yellow。
　I　can　t　believe　you　can　write　like　this；　　Soraya　said。
Baba　dragged　his　head　off　the　pillow。　　I　put　her　up　to　it。　I　hope　you　don　t　mind。　
I　gave　the　notebook　back　to　Soraya　and　left　the　room。　Baba　hated　it　when　I　cried。
A　MONTH　AFTER　THE　WEDDING；　the　Taheris；　Sharif；　his　wife　Suzy；　and　several　of　Soraya　s　aunts　came　over　to　our　apartment　for　dinner。　Soraya　made　sabzi　challow……white　rice　with　spinach　and　lamb。　After　dinner；　we　all　had　green　tea　and　played　cards　in　groups　of　four。　Soraya　and　I　played　with　Sharif　and　Suzy　on　the　coffee　table；　next　to　the　couch　where　Baba　lay　under　a　wool　blanket。　He　watched　me　joking　with　Sharif；　watched　Soraya　and　me　lacing　our　fingers　together；　watched　me　push　back　a　loose　curl　of　her　hair。　I　could　see　his　internal　smile；　as　wide　as　the　skies　of　Kabul　on　nights　when　the　poplars　shivered　and　the　sound　of　crickets　swelled　in　the　gardens。
Just　before　midnight；　Baba　asked　us　to　help　him　into　bed。　Soraya　and　I　placed　his　arms　on　our　shoulders　and　wrapped　ours　around　his　back。　When　we　lowered　him；　he　had　Soraya　turn　off　the　bedside　lamp。　He　asked　us　to　lean　in；　gave　us　each　a　kiss。
　I　ll　e　back　with　your　morphine　and　a　glass　of　water；　Kaka　jan；　　Soraya　said。
　Not　tonight；　　he　said。　　There　is　no　pain　tonight。　
　Okay；　　she　said。　She　pulled　up　his　blanket。　We　closed　the　door。　Baba　never　woke　up。
THEY　FILLED　THE　PARKING　SPOTS　at　the　mosque　in　Hayward。　On　the　balding　grass　field　behind　the　building；　cars　and　SUVs　parked　in　crowded　makeshift　rows。　People　had　to　drive　three　or　four　blocks　north　of　the　mosqu