the kite runner-第51章

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wned；　in　fact；　a　considerable　collection　of　classical　ghazal　tapes　by　Afghan　and　Hindi　singers……he　believed　the　performing　of　it　best　left　to　those　with　lesser　reputations。　That　she　never　sing　in　public　had　been　one　of　the　general　s　conditions　when　they　had　married。　Soraya　told　me　that　her　mother　had　wanted　to　sing　at　our　wedding；　only　one　song；　but　the　general　gave　her　one　of　his　looks　and　the　matter　was　buried。　Khala　Jamila　played　the　lotto　once　a　week　and　watched　Johnny　Carson　every　night。　She　spent　her　days　in　the　garden；　tending　to　her　roses；　geraniums；　potato　vines；　and　orchids。
When　I　married　Soraya；　the　flowers　and　Johnny　Carson　took　a　backseat。　I　was　the　new　delight　in　Khala　Jamila　s　life。　Unlike　the　general　s　guarded　and　diplomatic　manners……he　didn　t　correct　me　when　I　continued　to　call　him　　General　Sahib　……Khala　Jamila　made　no　secret　of　how　much　she　adored　me。　For　one　thing；　I　listened　to　her　impressive　list　of　maladies；　something　the　general　had　long　turned　a　deaf　ear　to。　Soraya　told　me　that；　ever　since　her　mother　s　stroke；　every　flutter　in　her　chest　was　a　heart　attack；　every　aching　joint　the　onset　of　rheumatoid　arthritis；　and　every　twitch　of　the　eye　another　stroke。　I　remember　the　first　time　Khala　Jamila　mentioned　a　lump　in　her　neck　to　me。　　I　ll　skip　school　tomorrow　and　take　you　to　the　doctor；　　I　said；　to　which　the　general　smiled　and　said；　　Then　you　might　as　well　turn　in　your　books　for　good；　bachem。　Your　khala　s　medical　charts　are　like　the　works　of　Rumi：　They　e　in　volumes。　
But　it　wasn　t　just　that　she　d　found　an　audience　for　her　monologues　of　illness。　I　firmly　believed　that　if　I　had　picked　up　a　rifle　and　gone　on　a　murdering　rampage；　I　would　have　still　had　the　benefit　of　her　unblinking　love。　Because　I　had　rid　her　heart　of　its　gravest　malady。　I　had　relieved　her　of　the　greatest　fear　of　every　Afghan　mother：　that　no　honorable　khastegar　would　ask　for　her　daughter　s　hand。　That　her　daughter　would　age　alone；　husbandless；　childless。　Every　woman　needed　a　husband。　Even　if　he　did　silence　the　song　in　her。
And；　from　Soraya；　I　learned　the　details　of　what　had　happened　in　Virginia。
We　were　at　a　wedding。　Soraya　s　uncle；　Sharif；　the　one　who　worked　for　the　INS；　was　marrying　his　son　to　an　Afghan　girl　from　Newark。　The　wedding　was　at　the　same　hall　where；　six　months　prior；　Soraya　and　I　had　had　our　awroussi。　We　were　standing　in　a　crowd　of　guests；　watching　the　bride　accept　rings　from　the　groom　s　family；　when　we　overheard　two　middle…aged　women　talking；　their　backs　to　us。
　What　a　lovely　bride；　　one　of　them　said；　　Just　look　at　her。　So　maghbool；　like　the　moon。　
　Yes；　　the　other　said。　　And　pure　too。　Virtuous。　No　boyfriends。　
　I　know。　I　tell　you　that　boy　did　well　not　to　marry　his　cousin。　
Soraya　broke　down　on　the　way　home。　I　pulled　the　Ford　off　to　the　curb；　parked　under　a　streetlight　on　Fremont　Boulevard。
　It　s　all　right；　　I　said；　pushing　back　her　hair。　　Who　cares？　
　It　s　so　fucking　unfair；　　she　barked。
　Just　forget　it。　
　Their　sons　go　out　to　nightclubs　looking　for　meat　and　get　their　girlfriends　pregnant；　they　have　kids　out　of　wedlock　and　no　one　says　a　goddamn　thing。　Oh；　they　re　just　men　having　fun！　I　make　one　mistake　and　suddenly　everyone　is　talking　nang　and　namoos；　and　I　have　to　have　my　face　rubbed　in　it　for　the　rest　of　my　life。　
I　wiped　a　tear　from　her　jawline；　just　above　her　birthmark；　with　the　pad　of　my　thumb。
　I　didn　t　tell　you；　　Soraya　said；　dabbing　at　her　eyes；　　but　my　father　showed　up　with　a　gun　that　night。　He　told。。。　him。。。　that　he　had　two　bullets　in　the　chamber；　one　for　him　and　one　for　himself　if　I　didn　t　e　home。　I　was　screaming；　calling　my　father　all　kinds　of　names；　saying　he　couldn　t　keep　me　locked　up　forever；　that　I　wished　he　were　dead。　　Fresh　tears　squeezed　out　between　her　lids。　　I　actually　said　that　to　him；　that　I　wished　he　were　dead。
　When　he　brought　me　home；　my　mother　threw　her　arms　around　me　and　she　was　crying　too。　She　was　saying　things　but　I　couldn　t　understand　any　of　it　because　she　was　slurring　her　words　so　badly。　So　my　father　took　me　up　to　my　bedroom　and　sat　me　in　front　of　the　dresser　mirror。　He　handed　me　a　pair　of　scissors　and　calmly　told　me　to　cut　off　all　my　hair。　He　watched　while　I　did　it。
　I　didn　t　step　out　of　the　house　for　weeks。　And　when　I　did；　I　heard　whispers　or　imagined　them　everywhere　I　went。　That　was　four　years　ago　and　three　thousand　miles　away　and　I　m　still　hearing　them。　
　Fuck　　em；　　I　said。
She　made　a　sound　that　was　half　sob；　half　laugh。　　When　I　told　you　about　this　on　the　phone　the　night　of　khastegari；　I　was　sure　you　d　change　your　mind。　
　No　chance　of　that；　Soraya。　
She　smiled　and　took　my　hand。　　I　m　so　lucky　to　have　found　you。　You　re　so　different　from　every　Afghan　guy　I　ve　met。　
　Let　s　never　talk　about　this　again；　okay？　
　Okay。　
I　kissed　her　cheek　and　pulled　away　from　the　curb。　As　I　drove；　I　wondered　why　I　was　different。　Maybe　it　was　because　I　had　been　raised　by　men；　I　hadn　t　grown　up　around　women　and　had　never　been　exposed　firsthand　to　the　double　standard　with　which　Afghan　society　sometimes　treated　them。　Maybe　it　was　because　Baba　had　been　such　an　unusual　Afghan　father；　a　liberal　who　had　lived　by　his　own　rules；　a　maverick　who　had　disregarded　or　embraced　societal　customs　as　he　had　seen　fit。
But　I　think　a　big　part　of　the　reason　I　didn　t　care　about　Soraya　s　past　was　that　I　had　one　of　my　own。　I　knew　all　about　regret。
SHORTLY　AFTER　BABA　S　DEATH；　Soraya　and　I　moved　into　a　one…bedroom　apartment　in　Fremont；　just　a　few　blocks　away　from　the　general　and　Khala　Jamila　s　house。　Soraya　s　parents　bought　us　a　brown　leather　couch　and　a　set　of　Mikasa　dishes　as
housewarming　presents。　The　general　gave　me　an　additional　present；　a　brand　new　IBM　typewriter。　In