the kite runner-第56章
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； garbage； and feces。
A little past the redbrick buildings of Peshawar University； we entered an area my garrulous driver referred to as Afghan Town。 I saw sweetshops and carpet vendors； kabob stalls； kids with dirtcaked hands selling cigarettes； tiny restaurants……maps of Afghanistan painted on their windows……all interlaced with backstreet aid agencies。 Many of your brothers in this area； yar。 They are opening businesses； but most of them are very poor。 He tsk ed his tongue and sighed。 Anyway； we re getting close now。
I thought about the last time I had seen Rahim Khan； in 1981。 He had e to say good…bye the night Baba and I had fled Kabul。 I remember Baba and him embracing in the foyer； crying softly。 When Baba and I arrived in the U。S。； he and Rahim Khan kept in touch。 They would speak four or five times a year and； sometimes； Baba would pass me the receiver。 The last time I had spoken to Rahim Khan had been shortly after Baba s death。 The news had reached Kabul and he had called。 We d only spoken for a few minutes and lost the connection。
The driver pulled up to a narrow building at a busy corner where two winding streets intersected。 I paid the driver； took my lone suitcase； and walked up to the intricately carved door。 The building had wooden balconies with open shutters……from many of them； laundry was hanging to dry in the sun。 I walked up the creaky stairs to the second floor； down a dim hallway to the last door on the right。 Checked the address on the piece of stationery paper in my palm。 Knocked。
Then； a thing made of skin and bones pretending to be Rahim Khan opened the door。
A CREATIVE WRITING TEACHER at San Jose State used to say about clich閟： Avoid them like the plague。 Then he d laugh at his own joke。 The class laughed along with him； but I always thought clich閟 got a bum rap。 Because； often； they re dead…on。 But the aptness of the clich閐 saying is overshadowed by the nature of the saying as a clich椤！or example； the elephant in the room saying。 Nothing could more correctly describe the initial moments of my reunion with Rahim Khan。
We sat on a wispy mattress set along the wall； across the window overlooking the noisy street below。 Sunlight slanted in and cast a triangular wedge of light onto the Afghan rug on the floor。 Two folding chairs rested against one wall and a small copper samovar sat in the opposite corner。 I poured us tea from it。
How did you find me？ I asked。
It s not difficult to find people in America。 I bought a map of the U。S。； and called up information for cities in Northern California； he said。 It s wonderfully strange to see you as a grown man。
I smiled and dropped three sugar cubes in my tea。 He liked his black and bitter； I remembered。 Baba didn t get the chance to tell you but I got married fifteen years ago。 The truth was； by then； the cancer in Baba s brain had made him forgetful； negligent。
You are married？ To whom？
Her name is Soraya Taheri。 I thought of her back home； worrying about me。 I was glad she wasn t alone。
Taheri。。。 whose daughter is she？
I told him。 His eyes brightened。 Oh； yes； I remember now。 Isn t General Taheri married to Sharif jan s sister？ What was her name。。。
Jamila jan。
Balay！ he said； smiling。 I knew Sharif jan in Kabul； long time ago； before he moved to America。
He s been working for the INS for years； handles a lot of Afghan cases。
Haiiii； he sighed。 Do you and Soraya jan have children？
Nay。
Oh。 He slurped his tea and didn t ask more； Rahim Khan had always been one of the most instinctive people I d ever met。
I told him a lot about Baba； his job； the flea market； and how； at the end； he d died happy。 I told him about my schooling； my books……four published novels to my credit now。 He smiled at this； said he had never had any doubt。 I told him I had written short stories in the leather…bound notebook he d given me； but he didn t remember the notebook。
The conversation inevitably turned to the Taliban。
Is it as bad as I hear？ I said。
Nay； it s worse。 Much worse； he said。 They don t let you be human。 He pointed to a scar above his right eye cutting a crooked path through his bushy eyebrow。 I was at a soccer game in Ghazi Stadium in 1998。 Kabul against Mazar…i…Sharif； I think； and by the way the players weren t allowed to wear shorts。 Indecent exposure； I guess。 He gave a tired laugh。 Anyway； Kabul scored a goal and the man next to me cheered loudly。 Suddenly this young bearded fellow who was patrolling the aisles； eighteen years old at most by the look of him； he walked up to me and struck me on the forehead with the butt of his Kalashnikov。 Do that again and I ll cut out your tongue； you old donkey！ he said。 Rahim Khan rubbed the scar with a gnarled finger。 I was old enough to be his grandfather and I was sitting there； blood gushing down my face； apologizing to that son of a dog。
I poured him more tea。 Rahim Khan talked some more。 Much of it I knew already； some not。 He told me that； as arranged between Baba and him； he had lived in Baba s house since 1981……this I knew about。 Baba had sold the house to Rahim Khan shortly before he and I fled Kabul。 The way Baba had seen it those days； Afghanistan s troubles were only a temporary interruption of our way of life……the days of parties at the Wazir Akbar Khan house and picnics in Paghman would surely return。 So he d given the house to Rahim Khan to keep watch over until that day。
Rahim Khan told me how； when the Northern Alliance took over Kabul between 1992 and 1996； different factions claimed different parts of Kabul。 If you went from the Shar…e…Nau section to Kerteh…Parwan to buy a
