the kite runner-第53章

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me　down。　It　was　the　year　of　Tiananmen　Square。　In　the　midst　of　it　all；　Afghanistan　was　forgotten。　And　General　Taheri；　whose　hopes　had　stirred　awake　after　the　Soviets　pulled　out；　went　back　to　winding　his　pocket　watch。
That　was　also　the　year　that　Soraya　and　I　began　trying　to　have　a　child。
THE　IDEA　OF　FATHERHOOD　unleashed　a　swirl　of　emotions　in　me。　I　found　it　frightening；　invigorating；　daunting；　and　exhilarating　all　at　the　same　time。　What　sort　of　father　would　I　make；　I　wondered。　I　wanted　to　be　just　like　Baba　and　I　wanted　to　be　nothing　like　him。
But　a　year　passed　and　nothing　happened。　With　each　cycle　of　blood；　Soraya　grew　more　frustrated；　more　impatient；　more　irritable。　By　then；　Khala　Jamila　s　initially　subtle　hints　had　bee　overt；　as　in　　Kho　dega！　　So！　　When　am　I　going　to　sing　alahoo　for　my　little　nawasa？　　The　general；　ever　the　Pashtun；　never　made　any　queries……doing　so　meant　alluding　to　a　sexual　act　between　his　daughter　and　a　man；　even　if　the　man　in　question　had　been　married　to　her　for　over　four　years。　But　his　eyes　perked　up　when　Khala　Jamila　teased　us　about　a　baby。
　Sometimes；　it　takes　a　while；　　I　told　Soraya　one　night。
　A　year　isn　t　a　while；　Amir！　　she　said；　in　a　terse　voice　so　unlike　her。　　Something　s　wrong；　I　know　it。　
　Then　let　s　see　a　doctor。　
DR。　ROSEN；　a　round…bellied　man　with　a　plump　face　and　small；　even　teeth；　spoke　with　a　faint　Eastern　European　accent；　some　thing　remotely　Slavic。　He　had　a　passion　for　trains……his　office　was　littered　with　books　about　the　history　of　railroads；　model　lootives；　paintings　of　trains　trundling　on　tracks　through　green　hills　and　over　bridges。　A　sign　above　his　desk　read；　LIFE　IS　A　TRAIN。　GET　ON　BOARD。
He　laid　out　the　plan　for　us。　I　d　get　checked　first。　　Men　are　easy；　　he　said；　fingers　tapping　on　his　mahogany　desk。　　A　man　s　plumbing　is　like　his　mind：　simple；　very　few　surprises。　You　ladies；　on　the　other　hand。。。　well；　God　put　a　lot　of　thought　into　making　you。　　I　wondered　if　he　fed　that　bit　about　the　plumbing　to　all　of　his　couples。
　Lucky　us；　　Soraya　said。
Dr。　Rosen　laughed。　It　fell　a　few　notches　short　of　genuine。　He　gave　me　a　lab　slip　and　a　plastic　jar；　handed　Soraya　a　request　for　some　routine　blood　tests。　We　shook　hands。　　Wele　aboard；　　he　said；　as　he　showed　us　out。
I　PASSED　WITH　FLYING　COLORS。
The　next　few　months　were　a　blur　of　tests　on　Soraya：　Basal　body　temperatures；　blood　tests　for　every　conceivable　hormone；　urine　tests；　something　called　a　　Cervical　Mucus　Test；　　ultrasounds；　more　blood　tests；　and　more　urine　tests。　Soraya　underwent　a　procedure　called　a　hysteroscopy……Dr。　Rosen　inserted　a
telescope　into　Soraya　s　uterus　and　took　a　look　around。　He　found　nothing。　　The　plumbing　s　clear；　　he　announced；　snapping　off　his　latex　gloves。　I　wished　he　d　stop　calling　it　that……we　weren　t　bathrooms。　When　the　tests　were　over；　he　explained　that　he　couldn　t　explain　why　we　couldn　t　have　kids。　And；　apparently；　that　wasn　t　so　unusual。　It　was　called　　Unexplained　Infertility。　
Then　came　the　treatment　phase。　We　tried　a　drug　called　Clomiphene；　and　hMG；　a　series　of　shots　which　Soraya　gave　to　herself。　When　these　failed；　Dr。　Rosen　advised　in　vitro　fertilization。　We　received　a　polite　letter　from　our　HMO；　wishing　us　the　best　of　luck；　regretting　they　couldn　t　cover　the　cost。
We　used　the　advance　I　had　received　for　my　novel　to　pay　for　it。　IVF　proved　lengthy；　meticulous；　frustrating；　and　ultimately　unsuccessful。　After　months　of　sitting　in　waiting　rooms　reading　magazines　like　Good　Housekeeping　and　Reader　s　Digest；　after　endless　paper　gowns　and　cold；　sterile　exam　rooms　lit　by　fluorescent　lights；　the　repeated　humiliation　of　discussing　every　detail　of　our　sex　life　with　a　total　stranger；　the　injections　and　probes　and　specimen　collections；　we　went　back　to　Dr。　Rosen　and　his　trains。
He　sat　across　from　us；　tapped　his　desk　with　his　fingers；　and　used　the　word　　adoption　　for　the　first　time。　Soraya　cried　all　the　way　home。
Soraya　broke　the　news　to　her　parents　the　weekend　after　our　last　visit　with　Dr。　Rosen。　We　were　sitting　on　picnic　chairs　in　the　Taheris　　backyard；　grilling　trout　and　sipping　yogurt　dogh。　It　was　an　early　evening　in　March　1991。　Khala　Jamila　had　watered　the　roses　and　her　new　honeysuckles；　and　their　fragrance　mixed　with　the　smell　of　cooking　fish。　Twice　already；　she　had　reached　across　her　chair　to　caress　Soraya　s　hair　and　say；　　God　knows　best；　bachem。　Maybe　it　wasn　t　meant　to　be。　
Soraya　kept　looking　down　at　her　hands。　She　was　tired；　I　knew；　tired　of　it　all。　　The　doctor　said　we　could　adopt；　　she　murmured。
General　Taheri　s　head　snapped　up　at　this。　He　closed　the　barbecue　lid。　　He　did？　
　He　said　it　was　an　option；　　Soraya　said。
We　d　talked　at　home　about　adoption。　Soraya　was　ambivalent　at　best。　　I　know　it　s　silly　and　maybe　vain；　　she　said　to　me　on　the　way　to　her　parents　　house；　　but　I　can　t　help　it。　I　ve　always　dreamed　that　I　d　hold　it　in　my　arms　and　know　my　blood　had　fed　it　for　nine　months；　that　I　d　look　in　its　eyes　one　day　and　be　startled　to　see　you　or　me；　that　the　baby　would　grow　up　and　have　your　smile　or　mine。　Without　that。。。　Is　that　wrong？　
　No；　　I　had　said。
　Am　I　being　selfish？　
　No；　Soraya。　
　Because　if　you　really　want　to　do　it。。。　
　No；　　I　said。　　If　we　re　going　to　do　it；　we　shouldn　t　have　any　doubts　at　all　about　it；　and　we　should　both　be　in　agreement。　It　wouldn　t　be　fair　to　the　baby　otherwise。　
She　rested　her　head　on　the　window　and　said　nothing　else　the　rest　of　the　way。
Now　the　general　sat　beside　her。　　Bachem；　this　adoption。。。　thing；　I　m　not　so　sure　it　s　for　us　Afghans。　　Soraya　looked　at　me　tiredly　and　sighed。
　For　one　thing；　they　grow　up　and　want　to　know　who　their　natural　parents　are；　　he　said。　　Nor　can　you　blame　them。　Sometimes；　they　leave　the　home　in