the kite runner-第50章

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d　to　drive　three　or　four　blocks　north　of　the　mosque　to　find　a　spot。
The　men　s　section　of　the　mosque　was　a　large　square　room；　covered　with　Afghan　rugs　and　thin　mattresses　placed　in　parallel　lines。　Men　filed　into　the　room；　leaving　their　shoes　at　the　entrance；　and　sat　cross…legged　on　the　mattresses。　A　mullah　chanted　surrahs　from　the　Koran　into　a　microphone。　I　sat　by　the　door；　the　customary　position　for　the　family　of　the　deceased。　General　Taheri　was　seated　next　to　me。
Through　the　open　door；　I　could　see　lines　of　cars　pulling　in；　sunlight　winking　in　their　windshields。　They　dropped　off　passengers；　men　dressed　in　dark　suits；　women　clad　in　black　dresses；　their　heads　covered　with　traditional　white　hijabs。
As　words　from　the　Koran　reverberated　through　the　room；　I　thought　of　the　old　story　of　Baba　wrestling　a　black　bear　in　Baluchistan。　Baba　had　wrestled　bears　his　whole　life。　Losing　his　young　wife。　Raising　a　son　by　himself。　Leaving　his　beloved　homeland；　his　watan。　Poverty。　Indignity。　In　the　end；　a　bear　had　e　that　he　couldn　t　best。　But　even　then；　he　had　lost　on　his　own　terms。
After　each　round　of　prayers；　groups　of　mourners　lined　up　and　greeted　me　on　their　way　out。　Dutifully；　I　shook　their　hands。　Many　of　them　I　barely　knew　I　smiled　politely；　thanked　them　for　their　wishes；　listened　to　whatever　they　had　to　say　about　Baba。
？？helped　me　build　the　house　in　Taimani。。。　　bless　him。。。
？？no　one　else　to　turn　to　and　he　lent　me。。。　
　。。。found　me　a　job。。。　barely　knew　me。。。　
　。。。like　a　brother　to　me。。。　
Listening　to　them；　I　realized　how　much　of　who　I　was；　what　I　was；　had　been　defined　by　Baba　and　the　marks　he　had　left　on　people　s　lives。　My　whole　life；　I　had　been　　Baba　s　son。　　Now　he　was　gone。　Baba　couldn　t　show　me　the　way　anymore；　I　d　have　to　find　it　on　my　own。
The　thought　of　it　terrified　me。
Earlier；　at　the　gravesite　in　the　small　Muslim　section　of　the　cemetery；　I　had　watched　them　lower　Baba　into　the　hole。　The　？？mul　Iah　and　another　man　got　into　an　argument　over　which　was　the　correct　ayat　of　the　Koran　to　recite　at　the　gravesite。　It　might　have　turned　ugly　had　General　Taheri　not　intervened。　The　mullah　chose　an　ayat　and　recited　it；　casting　the　other　fellow　nasty　glances。　I　watched　them　toss　the　first　shovelful　of　dirt　into　the　grave。　Then　I　left。　Walked　to　the　other　side　of　the　cemetery。　Sat　in　the　shade　of　a　red　maple。
Now　the　last　of　the　mourners　had　paid　their　respects　and　the　mosque　was　empty；　save　for　the　mullah　unplugging　the　microphone　and　wrapping　his　Koran　in　green　cloth。　The　general　and　I　stepped　out　into　a　late…afternoon　sun。　We　walked　down　the　steps；　past　men　smoking　in　clusters。　I　heard　snippets　of　their　conversations；　a　soccer　game　in　Union　City　next　weekend；　a　new　Afghan　restaurant　in　Santa　Clara。　Life　moving　on　already；　leaving　Baba　behind。
　How　are　you；　bachem？　　General　Taheri　said。
I　gritted　my　teeth。　Bit　back　the　tears　that　had　threatened　all　day。　　I　m　going　to　find　Soraya；　　I　said。
　Okay。　
I　walked　to　the　women　s　side　of　the　mosque。　Soraya　was　standing　on　the　steps　with　her　mother　and　a　couple　of　ladies　I　recognized　vaguely　from　the　wedding。　I　motioned　to　Soraya。　She　said　something　to　her　mother　and　came　to　me。
　Can　we　walk？　　I　said。
　Sure。　　She　took　my　hand。
We　walked　in　silence　down　a　winding　gravel　path　lined　by　a　row　of　low　hedges。　We　sat　on　a　bench　and　watched　an　elderly　couple　kneeling　beside　a　grave　a　few　rows　away　and　placing　a　bouquet　of　daisies　by　the　headstone。　　Soraya？　
　Yes？　
　I　m　going　to　miss　him。　
She　put　her　hand　on　my　lap。　Baba　s　chila　glinted　on　her　ring　finger。　Behind　her；　I　could　see　Baba　s　mourners　driving　away　on　Mission　Boulevard。　Soon　we　d　leave　too；　and　for　the　first　time　ever；　Baba　would　be　all　alone。
Soraya　pulled　me　to　her　and　the　tears　finally　came。
BECAUSE　SORAYA　AND　I　never　had　an　engagement　period；　much　of　what　I　learned　about　the　Taheris　I　learned　after　I　married　into　their　family。　For　example；　I　learned　that；　once　a　month；　the　general　suffered　from　blinding　migraines　that　lasted　almost　a　week。　When　the　headaches　struck；　the　general　went　to　his　room；　undressed；　turned　off　the　light；　locked　the　door；　and　didn　t　e　out　until　the　pain　subsided。　No　one　was　allowed　to　go　in；　no　one　was　allowed　to　knock。　Eventually；　he　would　emerge；　dressed　in　his　gray　suit　once　more；　smelling　of　sleep　and　bedsheets；　his　eyes　puffy　and　bloodshot。　I　learned　from　Soraya　that　he　and　Khanum　Taheri　had　slept　in　separate　rooms　for　as　long　as　she　could　remember。　I　learned　that　he　could　be　petty；　such　as　when　he　d　take　a　bite　of　the　_qurma_　his　wife　placed　before　him；　sigh；　and　push　it　away。　　I　ll　make　you　something　else；　　Khanum　Taheri　would　say；　but　he　d　ignore　her；　sulk；　and　eat　bread　and　onion。　This　made　Soraya　angry　and　her　mother　cry。　Soraya　told　me　he　took　antide　pressants。　I　learned　that　he　had　kept　his　family　on　welfare　and　had　never　held　a　job　in　the　U。S。；　preferring　to　cash　government…issued　checks　than　degrading　himself　with　work　unsuitable　for　a　man　of　his　stature……he　saw　the　flea　market　only　as　a　hobby；　a　way　to　socialize　with　his　fellow　Afghans。　The　general　believed　that；　sooner　or　later；　Afghanistan　would　be　freed；　the　monarchy　restored；　and　his　services　would　once　again　be　called　upon。　So　every　day；　he　donned　his　gray　suit；　wound　his　pocket　watch；　and　waited。
I　learned　that　Khanum　Taheri……whom　I　called　Khala　Jamila　now……had　once　been　famous　in　Kabul　for　her　enchanting　singing　voice。　Though　she　had　never　sung　professionally；　she　had　had　the　talent　to……I　learned　she　could　sing　folk　songs；　ghazals；　even　raga；　which　was　usually　a　man　s　domain。　But　as　much　as　the　general　appreciated　listening　to　music……he　owned；　in　fact；　a　considerable　collection　of　classi