the kite runner-第55章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


d　with　long　blue　tails。　They　floated　high　above　the　trees　on　the　west　end　of　the　park；　over　the　windmills。
I　thought　about　a　ment　Rahim　Khan　had　made　just　before　we　hung　up。　Made　it　in　passing；　almost　as　an　afterthought。　I　closed　my　eyes　and　saw　him　at　the　other　end　of　the　scratchy　longdistance　line；　saw　him　with　his　lips　slightly　parted；　head　tilted　to　one　side。　And　again；　something　in　his　bottomless　black　eyes　hinted　at　an　unspoken　secret　between　us。　Except　now　I　knew　he　knew。　My　suspicions　had　been　right　all　those　years。　He　knew　about　Assef；　the　kite；　the　money；　the　watch　with　the　lightning　bolt　hands。　He　had　always　known。
e。　There　is　a　way　to　be　good　again；　Rahim　Khan　had　said　on　the　phone　just　before　hanging　up。　Said　it　in　passing；　almost　as　an　afterthought。
A　way　to　be　good　again。
WHEN　I　CAME　HOME；　Soraya　was　on　the　phone　with　her　mother。　　Won　t　be　long；　Madarjan。　A　week；　maybe　two。。。　Yes；　you　and　Padar　can　stay　with　me。　
Two　years　earlier；　the　general　had　broken　his　right　hip。　He　d　had　one　of　his　migraines　again；　and　emerging　from　his　room；　bleary…eyed　and　dazed；　he　had　tripped　on　a　loose　carpet　edge。　His　scream　had　brought　Khala　Jamila　running　from　the　kitchen。　　It　sounded　like　a　jaroo；　a　broomstick；　snapping　in　half；　　she　was　always　fond　of　saying；　though　the　doctor　had　said　it　was　unlikely　she　d　heard　anything　of　the　sort。　The　general　s　shattered　hip……and　all　of　the　ensuing　plications；　the　pneumonia；　blood　poisoning；　the　protracted　stay　at　the　nursing　home……ended　Khala　Jamila　s　long…running　soliloquies　about　her　own　health。　And　started　new　ones　about　the　general　s。　She　d　tell　anyone　who　would　listen　that　the　doctors　had　told　them　his　kidneys　were　failing。　　But　then　they　had　never　seen　Afghan　kidneys；　had　they？　　she　d　say　proudly。　What　I　remember　most　about　the　general　s　hospital　stay　is　how　Khala　Jamila　would　wait　until　he　fell　asleep；　and　then　sing　to　him；　songs　I　remembered　from　Kabul；　playing　on　Baba　s　scratchy　old　transistor　radio。
The　general　s　frailty……and　time……had　softened　things　between　him　and　Soraya　too。　They　took　walks　together；　went　to　lunch　on　Saturdays；　and；　sometimes；　the　general　sat　in　on　some　of　her　classes。　He　d　sit　in　the　back　of　the　room；　dressed　in　his　shiny　old　gray　suit；　wooden　cane　across　his　lap；　smiling。　Sometimes　he　even　took　notes。
THAT　NIGHT；　Soraya　and　I　lay　in　bed；　her　back　pressed　to　my　chest；　my　face　buried　in　her　hair。　I　remembered　when　we　used　to　lay　forehead　to　forehead；　sharing　afterglow　kisses　and　whispering　until　our　eyes　drifted　closed；　whispering　about　tiny；　curled　toes；　first　smiles；　first　words；　first　steps。　We　still　did　sometimes；　but　the　whispers　were　about　school；　my　new　book；　a　giggle
over　someone　s　ridiculous　dress　at　a　party。　Our　lovemaking　was　still　good；　at　times　better　than　good；　but　some　nights　all　I　d　feel　was　a　relief　to　be　done　with　it；　to　be　free　to　drift　away　and　forget；　at　least　for　a　while；　about　the　futility　of　what　we　d　just　done。　She　never　said　so；　but　I　knew　sometimes　Soraya　felt　it　too。　On　those　nights；　we　d　each　roll　to　our　side　of　the　bed　and　let　our　own　savior　take　us　away。　Soraya　s　was　sleep。　Mine；　as　always；　was　a　book。
I　lay　in　the　dark　the　night　Rahim　Khan　called　and　traced　with　my　eyes　the　parallel　silver　lines　on　the　wall　made　by　moonlight　pouring　through　the　blinds。　At　some　point；　maybe　just　before　dawn；　I　drifted　to　sleep。　And　dreamed　of　Hassan　running　in　the　snow；　the　hem　of　his　green　chapan　dragging　behind　him；　snow　crunching　under　his　black　rubber　boots。　He　was　yelling　over　his　shoulder：　For　you；　a　thousand　times　over！
A　WEEK　LATER；　I　sat　on　a　window　seat　aboard　a　Pakistani　International　Airlines　flight；　watching　a　pair　of　uniformed　airline　workers　remove　the　wheel　chocks。　The　plane　taxied　out　of　the　terminal　and；　soon；　we　were　airborne；　cutting　through　the　clouds。　I　rested　my　head　against　the　window。　Waited；　in　vain；　for　sleep。
FIFTEEN
Three　hours　after　my　flight　landed　in　Peshawar；　I　was　sitting　on　shredded　upholstery　in　the　backseat　of　a　smoke…filled　taxicab。　My　driver；　a　chain…smoking；　sweaty　little　man　who　introduced　himself　as　Gholam；　drove　nonchalantly　and　recklessly；　averting　collisions　by　the　thinnest　of　margins；　all　without　so　much　as　a　pause　in　the　incessant　stream　of　words　spewing　from　his　mouth：
？？terrible　what　is　happening　in　your　country；　yar。　Afghani　people　and　Pakistani　people　they　are　like　brothers；　I　tell　you。　Muslims　have　to　help　Muslims　so。。。　
I　tuned　him　out；　switched　to　a　polite　nodding　mode。　I　remembered　Peshawar　pretty　well　from　the　few　months　Baba　and　I　had　spent　there　in　1981。　We　were　heading　west　now　on　Jamrud　road；　past　the　Cantonment　and　its　lavish；　high…walled　homes。　The　bustle　of　the　city　blurring　past　me　reminded　me　of　a　busier；　more　crowded　version　of　the　Kabul　I　knew；　particularly　of　the　KochehMorgha；　or　Chicken　Bazaar；　where　Hassan　and　I　used　to　buy　chutney…dipped　potatoes　and　cherry　water。　The　streets　were　clogged　with　bicycle　riders；　milling　pedestrians；　and　rickshaws　popping　blue　smoke；　all　weaving　through　a　maze　of　narrow　lanes　and　alleys。　Bearded　vendors　draped　in　thin　blankets　sold　animalskin　lampshades；　carpets；　embroidered　shawls；　and　copper　goods　from　rows　of　small；　tightly　jammed　stalls。　The　city　was　bursting　with　sounds；　the　shouts　of　vendors　rang　in　my　ears　mingled　with　the　blare　of　Hindi　music；　the　sputtering　of　rickshaws；　and　the　jingling　bells　of　horse…drawn　carts。　Rich　scents；　both　pleasant　and　not　so　pleasant；　drifted　to　me　through　the　passenger　window；　the　spicy　aroma　of　pakora　and　the　nihari　Baba　had　loved　so　much　blended　with　the　sting　of　diesel　fumes；　the　stench　of　rot；　garbage；　and　feces。
A　little　past　the　redbrick