the kite runner-第52章

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housewarming　presents。　The　general　gave　me　an　additional　present；　a　brand　new　IBM　typewriter。　In　the　box；　he　had　slipped　a　note　written　in　Farsi：
Amir　jan；
I　hope　you　discover　many　tales　on　these　keys。
General　Iqbal　Taheri
I　sold　Baba　s　VW　bus　and；　to　this　day；　I　have　not　gone　back　to　the　flea　market。　I　would　drive　to　his　gravesite　every　Friday；　and；　sometimes；　I　d　find　a　fresh　bouquet　of　freesias　by　the　headstone　and　know　Soraya　had　been　there　too。
Soraya　and　I　settled　into　the　routines……and　minor　wonders……　of　married　life。　We　shared　toothbrushes　and　socks；　passed　each　other　the　morning　paper。　She　slept　on　the　right　side　of　the　bed；　I　preferred　the　left。　She　liked　fluffy　pillows；　I　liked　the　hard　ones。　She　ate　her　cereal　dry；　like　a　snack；　and　chased　it　with　milk。
I　got　my　acceptance　at　San　Jose　State　that　summer　and　declared　an　English　major。　I　took　on　a　security　job；　swing　shift　at　a　furniture　warehouse　in　Sunnyvale。　The　job　was　dreadfully　boring；　but　its　saving　grace　was　a　considerable　one：　When　everyone　left　at　6　P。M。　and　shadows　began　to　crawl　between　aisles　of　plastic…covered　sofas　piled　to　the　ceiling；　I　took　out　my　books　and　studied。　It　was　in　the　Pine…Sol…scented　office　of　that　furniture　warehouse　that　I　began　my　first　novel。
Soraya　joined　me　at　San　Jose　State　the　following　year　and　enrolled；　to　her　father　s　chagrin；　in　the　teaching　track。
　I　don　t　know　why　you　re　wasting　your　talents　like　this；　　the　general　said　one　night　over　dinner。　　Did　you　know；　Amir　jan；　that　she　earned　nothing　but　A　s　in　high　school？　　He　turned　to　her。　　An　intelligent　girl　like　you　could　bee　a　lawyer；　a　political　scientist。　And；　_Inshallah_；　when　Afghanistan　is　free；　you　could　help　write　the　new　constitution。　There　would　be　a　need　for　young　talented　Afghans　like　you。　They　might　even　offer　you　a　ministry　position；　given　your　family　name。　
I　could　see　Soraya　holding　back；　her　face　tightening。　　I　m　not　a　girl；　Padar。　I　m　a　married　woman。　Besides；　they　d　need　teachers　too。　
　Anyone　can　teach。　
　Is　there　any　more　rice；　Madar？　　Soraya　said。
After　the　general　excused　himself　to　meet　some　friends　in　Hayward；　Khala　Jamila　tried　to　console　Soraya。　　He　means　well；　　she　said。　　He　just　wants　you　to　be　successful。　
　So　he　can　boast　about　his　attorney　daughter　to　his　friends。　Another　medal　for　the　general；　　Soraya　said。
　Such　nonsense　you　speak！　
　Successful；　　Soraya　hissed。　　At　least　I　m　not　like　him；　sitting　around　while　other　people　fight　the　Shorawi；　waiting　for　when　the　dust　settles　so　he　can　move　in　and　reclaim　his　posh　little　government　position。　Teaching　may　not　pay　much；　but　it　s　what　I　want　to　do！　It　s　what　I　love；　and　it　s　a　whole　lot　better　than　collecting　welfare；　by　the　way。　
Khala　Jamila　bit　her　tongue。　　If　he　ever　hears　you　saying　that；　he　will　never　speak　to　you　again。　
　Don　t　worry；　　Soraya　snapped；　tossing　her　napkin　on　the　plate。　　I　won　t　bruise　his　precious　ego。　
IN　THE　SUMMER　of　1988；　about　six　months　before　the　Soviets　withdrew　from　Afghanistan；　I　finished　my　first　novel；　a　father…son　story　set　in　Kabul；　written　mostly　with　the　typewriter　the　general　had　given　me。　I　sent　query　letters　to　a　dozen　agencies　and　was　stunned　one　August　day　when　I　opened　our　mailbox　and　found　a　request　from　a　New　York　agency　for　the　pleted　manuscript。　I　mailed　it　the　next　day。　Soraya　kissed　the　carefully　wrapped　manuscript　and　Khala　Jamila　insisted　we　pass　it　under　the　Koran。　She　told　me　that　she　was　going　to　do　nazr　for　me；　a　vow　to　have　a　sheep　slaughtered　and　the　meat　given　to　the　poor　if　my　book　was　accepted。
　Please；　no　nazn；　Khala　jan；　　I　said；　kissing　her　face。　　Just　do　_zakat_；　give　the　money　to　someone　in　need；　okay？　No　sheep　killing。　
Six　weeks　later；　a　man　named　Martin　Greenwalt　called　from　New　York　and　offered　to　represent　me。　I　only　told　Soraya　about　it。　　But　just　because　I　have　an　agent　doesn　t　mean　I　ll　get　published。　If　Martin　sells　the　novel；　then　we　ll　celebrate。　
A　month　later；　Martin　called　and　informed　me　I　was　going　to　be　a　published　novelist。　When　I　told　Soraya；　she　screamed。
We　had　a　celebration　dinner　with　Soraya　s　parents　that　night。　Khala　Jamila　made　kofta……meatballs　and　white　rice……and　white　ferni。　The　general；　a　sheen　of　moisture　in　his　eyes；　said　that　he　was　proud　of　me。　After　General　Taheri　and　his　wife　left；　Soraya　and　I　celebrated　with　an　expensive　bottle　of　Merlot　I　had　bought　on　the　way　home……the　general　did　not　approve　of　women　drinking　alcohol；　and　Soraya　didn　t　drink　in　his　presence。
　I　am　so　proud　of　you；　　she　said；　raising　her　glass　to　mine。　　Kaka　would　have　been　proud　too。　
　I　know；　　I　said；　thinking　of　Baba；　wishing　he　could　have　seen　me。
Later　that　night；　after　Soraya　fell　asleep……wine　always　made　her　sleepy……I　stood　on　the　balcony　and　breathed　in　the　cool　summer　air。　I　thought　of　Rahim　Khan　and　the　little　note　of　support　he　had　written　me　after　he　d　read　my　first　story。　And　I　thought　of　Hassan。　Some　day；　_Inshallah_；　you　will　be　a　great　writer；　he　had　said　once；　and　people　all　over　the　world　will　read　your　stories。　There　was　so　much　goodness　in　my　life。　So　much　happiness。　I　wondered　whether　I　deserved　any　of　it。
The　novel　was　released　in　the　summer　of　that　following　year；　1989；　and　the　publisher　sent　me　on　a　five…city　book　tour。　I　became　a　minor　celebrity　in　the　Afghan　munity。　That　was　the　year　that　the　Shorawi　pleted　their　withdrawal
from　Afghanistan。　It　should　have　been　a　time　of　glory　for　Afghans。　Instead；　the　war　raged　on；　this　time　between　Afghans；　the　Mujahedin；　against　the　Soviet　puppet　government　of　Najibullah；　and　Afghan　refugees　kept　flocking　to　Pakistan。　That　was　the　year　that　the　cold　war　ended；　the　year　the　Berlin　Wall　came