the kite runner-第58章

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y　then；　most　of　my　friends　and　relatives　had　either　been　killed　or　had　escaped　the　country　to　Pakistan　or　Iran。　I　barely　knew　anyone　in　Kabul　anymore；　the　city　where　I　had　lived　my　entire　life。　Everybody　had　fled。　I　would　take　a　walk　in　the　Karteh　Parwan　section……where　the　melon　vendors　used　to　hang　out　in　the　old　days；　you　remember　that　spot？……and　I　wouldn　t　recognize　anyone　there。　No　one　to　greet；　no　one　to　sit　down　with　for　chai；　no　one　to　share　stories　with；　just　Roussi　soldiers　patrolling　the　streets。　So　eventually；　I　stopped　going　out　to　the　city。　I　would　spend　my　days　in　your　father　s　house；　up　in　the　study；　reading　your
mother　s　old　books；　listening　to　the　news；　watching　the　munist　propaganda　on　television。　Then　I　would　pray　natnaz；　cook　something；　eat；　read　some　more；　pray　again；　and　go　to　bed。　I　would　rise　in　the　morning；　pray；　do　it　all　over　again。
And　with　my　arthritis；　it　was　getting　harder　for　me　to　maintain　the　house。　My　knees　and　back　were　always　aching……I　would　get　up　in　the　morning　and　it　would　take　me　at　least　an　hour　to　shake　the　stiffness　from　my　joints；　especially　in　the　wintertime。　I　did　not　want　to　let　your　father　s　house　go　to　rot；　we　had　all　had　many　good　times　in　that　house；　so　many　memories；　Amir　jan。　It　was　not　right……your　father　had　designed　that　house　himself；　it　had　meant　so　much　to　him；　and　besides；　I　had　promised　him　I　would　care　for　it　when　he　and　you　left　for　Pakistan。　Now　it　was　just　me　and　the　house　and。。。　I　did　my　best。　I　tried　to　water　the　trees　every　few　days；　cut　the　lawn；　tend　to　the　flowers；　fix　things　that　needed　fixing；　but；　even　then；　I　was　not　a　young　man　anymore。
But　even　so；　I　might　have　been　able　to　manage。　At　least　for　a　while　longer。　But　when　news　of　your　father　s　death　reached　me。。。　for　the　first　time；　I　felt　a　terrible　loneliness　in　that　house。　An　unbearable　emptiness。
So　one　day；　I　fueled　up　the　Buick　and　drove　up　to　Hazarajat。　I　remembered　that；　after　Ali　dismissed　himself　from　the　house；　your　father　told　me　he　and　Hassan　had　moved　to　a　small　village　just　outside　Bamiyan。　Ali　had　a　cousin　there　as　I　recalled。　I　had　no　idea　if　Hassan　would　still　be　there；　if　anyone　would　even　know　of　him　or　his　whereabouts。　After　all；　it　had　been　ten　years　since　Ali　and　Hassan　had　left　your　father　s　house。　Hassan　would　have　been　a　grown　man　in　1986；　twenty…two；　twenty…three　years　old。　If　he　was　even　alive；　that　is……the　Shorawi；　may　they　rot　in　hell　for　what　they　did　to　our　watan；　killed　so　many　of　our　young　men。　I　don　t　have　to　tell　you　that。
But；　with　the　grace　of　God；　I　found　him　there。　It　took　very　little　searching……all　I　had　to　do　was　ask　a　few　questions　in　Bamiyan　and　people　pointed　me　to　his　village。　I　do　not　even　recall　its　name；　or　whether　it　even　had　one。　But　I　remember　it　was　a　scorching　summer　day　and　I　was　driving　up　a　rutted　dirt　road；　nothing　on　either　side　but　sunbaked　bushes；　gnarled；　spiny　tree　trunks；　and　dried　grass　like　pale　straw。　I　passed　a　dead　donkey　rotting　on　the　side　of　the　road。　And　then　I　turned　a　corner　and；　right　in　the　middle　of　that　barren　land；　I　saw　a　cluster　of　mud　houses；　beyond　them　nothing　but　broad　sky　and　mountains　like　jagged　teeth。
The　people　in　Bamiyan　had　told　me　I　would　find　him　easily……he　lived　in　the　only　house　in　the　village　that　had　a　walled　garden。　The　mud　wall；　short　and　pocked　with　holes；　enclosed　the　tiny　house……which　was　really　not　much　more　than　a　glorified　hut。　Barefoot　children　were　playing　on　the　street；　kicking　a　ragged　tennis　ball　with　a　stick；　and　they　stared　when　I　pulled　up　and　killed　the　engine。　I　knocked　on　the　wooden　door　and　stepped　through　into　a　yard　that　had　very　little　in　it　save　for　a　parched　strawberry　patch　and　a　bare　lemon　tree。　There　was　a　tandoor　in　the　corner　in　the　shadow　of　an　acacia　tree　and　I　saw　a　man　squatting　beside　it。　He　was　placing　dough　on　a　large　wooden　spatula　and　slapping　it　against　the　walls　of　the　_tandoor_。　He　dropped　the　dough　when　he　saw　me。　I　had　to　make　him　stop　kissing　my　hands。
　Let　me　look　at　you；　　I　said。　He　stepped　away。　He　was　so　tall　now……I　stood　on　my　toes　and　still　just　came　up　to　his　chin。　The　Bamiyan　sun　had　toughened　his　skin；　and　turned　it　several　shades　darker　than　I　remembered；　and　he　had　lost　a　few　of　his　front　teeth。　There　were　sparse　strands　of　hair　on　his　chin。　Other　than　that；　he　had　those　same　narrow　green　eyes；　that　scar　on　his　upper　lip；　that　round
face；　that　affable　smile。　You　would　have　recognized　him；　Amir　jan。　I　am　sure　of　it。
We　went　inside。　There　was　a　young　light…skinned　Hazara　woman；　sewing　a　shawl　in　a　corner　of　the　room。　She　was　visibly　expecting。　　This　is　my　wife；　Rahim　Khan；　　Hassan　said　proudly。　　Her　name　is　Farzana　jan。　　She　was　a　shy　woman；　so　courteous　she　spoke　in　a　voice　barely　higher　than　a　whisper　and　she　would　not　raise　her　pretty　hazel　eyes　to　meet　my　gaze。　But　the　way　she　was　looking　at　Hassan；　he　might　as　well　have　been　sitting　on　the　throne　at　the　_Arg_。
　When　is　the　baby　ing？　　I　said　after　we　all　settled　around　the　adobe　room。　There　was　nothing　in　the　room；　just　a　frayed　rug；　a　few　dishes；　a　pair　of　mattresses；　and　a　lantern。
　_Inshallah_；　this　winter；　　Hassan　said。　　I　am　praying　for　a　boy　to　carry　on　my　father　s　name。　
　Speaking　of　Ali；　where　is　he？　
Hassan　dropped　his　gaze。　He　told　me　that　Ali　and　his　cousin……who　had　owned　the　house……had　been　killed　by　a　land　mine　two　years　before；　just　outside　of　Bamiyan。　A　land　mine。　Is　there　a　more　Afghan　way　of　dying；　Amir　jan？　And　for　some　crazy　reason；　I　became　absolutely　certain　that　it　had　been　Ali　s　right　leg……his　twisted　polio　leg……that　had　finally　betrayed　him　and　stepped　on　that　land　mine。　I　was　deeply　saddened　to　hear　Ali　had　died