the kite runner-第6章

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aughing　anymore。　　I　mean　to　speak　to　you　man　to　man。　Do　you　think　you　can　handle　that　for　once？　
　Yes；　Baba　jan；　　I　muttered；　marveling；　not　for　the　first　time；　at　how　badly　Baba　could　sting　me　with　so　few　words。　We　d　had　a　fleeting　good　moment……it　wasn　t　often　Baba　talked　to　me；　let　alone　on　his　lap……and　I　d　been　a　fool　to　waste　it。
　Good；　　Baba　said；　but　his　eyes　wondered。　　Now；　no　matter　what　the　mullah　teaches；　there　is　only　one　sin；　only　one。　And　that　is　theft。　Every　other　sin　is　a　variation　of　theft。　Do　you　understand　that？　
　No；　Baba　jan；　　I　said；　desperately　wishing　I　did。　I　didn　t　want　to　disappoint　him　again。
Baba　heaved　a　sigh　of　impatience。　That　stung　too；　because　he　was　not　an　impatient　man。　I　remembered　all　the　times　he　didn　t　e　home　until　after　dark；　all　the　times　I　ate　dinner　alone。　I　d　ask　Ali　where　Baba　was；　when　he　was　ing　home；　though　I　knew　full　well　he　was　at　the　construction　site；　overlooking　this；　supervising　that。　Didn　t　that　take　patience？　I　already　hated　all　the　kids　he　was　building　the　orphanage　for；　sometimes　I　wished　they　d　all　died　along　with　their　parents。
　When　you　kill　a　man；　you　steal　a　life；　　Baba　said。　　You　steal　his　wife　s　right　to　a　husband；　rob　his　children　of　a　father。　When　you　tell　a　lie；　you　steal　someone　s　right　to　the　truth。　When　you　cheat；　you　steal　the　right　to　fairness。　Do　you　see？　
I　did。　When　Baba　was　six；　a　thief　walked　into　my　grandfather　s　house　in　the　middle　of　the　night。　My　grandfather；　a　respected　judge；　confronted　him；　but　the　thief　stabbed　him　in　the　throat；　killing　him　instantly……and　robbing　Baba　of　a　father。　The　townspeople　caught　the　killer　just　before　noon　the　next　day；　he　turned　out　to　be　a　wanderer　from　the　Kunduz　region。　They　hanged　him　from　the　branch　of　an　oak　tree　with　still　two　hours　to　go　before　afternoon　prayer。　It　was　Rahim　Khan；　not　Baba；　who　had　told　me　that　story。　I　was　always　learning　things　about　Baba　from　other　people。
　There　is　no　act　more　wretched　than　stealing；　Amir；　　Baba　said。　　A　man　who　takes　what　s　not　his　to　take；　be　it　a　life　or　a　loaf　of　_naan_。。。　I　spit　on　such　a　man。　And　if　I　ever　cross　paths　with　him；　God　help　him。　Do　you　understand？　
I　found　the　idea　of　Baba　clobbering　a　thief　both　exhilarating　and　terribly　frightening。　　Yes；　Baba。　
　If　there　s　a　God　out　there；　then　I　would　hope　he　has　more　important　things　to　attend　to　than　my　drinking　scotch　or　eating　pork。　Now；　hop　down。　All　this　talk　about　sin　has　made　me　thirsty　again。　
I　watched　him　fill　his　glass　at　the　bar　and　wondered　how　much　time　would　pass　before　we　talked　again　the　way　we　just　had。　Because　the　truth　of　it　was；　I　always　felt　like　Baba　hated　me　a　little。　And　why　not？　After　all；　I　_had_　killed　his　beloved　wife；　his　beautiful　princess；　hadn　t　I？　The　least　I　could　have　done　was　to　have　had　the　decency　to　have　turned　out　a　little　more　like　him。　But　I　hadn　t　turned　out　like　him。　Not　at　all。
IN　SCHOOL；　we　used　to　play　a　game　called　_Sherjangi_；　or　　Battle　of　the　Poems。　　The　Farsi　teacher　moderated　it　and　it　went　something　like　this：　You　recited　a　verse　from　a　poem　and　your　opponent　had　sixty　seconds　to　reply　with　a　verse　that　began　with　the　same　letter　that　ended　yours。　Everyone　in　my　class　wanted　me　on　their　team；　because　by　the　time　I　was　eleven；　I　could　recite　dozens　of　verses　from　Khayyam；　H~afez；　or　Rumi　s　famous　_Masnawi_。　One　time；　I　took　on　the　whole　class　and　won。　I　told　Baba　about　it　later　that　night；　but　he　just　nodded；　muttered；　　Good。　
That　was　how　I　escaped　my　father　s　aloofness；　in　my　dead　mother　s　books。　That　and　Hassan；　of　course。　I　read　everything；　Rumi；　H~afez；　Saadi；　Victor　Hugo；　Jules　Verne；　Mark　Twain；　Ian　Fleming。　When　I　had　finished　my　mother　s　books……not　the
boring　history　ones；　I　was　never　much　into　those；　but　the　novels；　the　epics……I　started　spending　my　allowance　on　books。　I　bought　one　a　week　from　the　bookstore　near　Cinema　Park；　and　stored　them　in　cardboard　boxes　when　I　ran　out　of　shelf　room。
Of　course；　marrying　a　poet　was　one　thing；　but　fathering　a　son　who　preferred　burying　his　face　in　poetry　books　to　hunting。。。　well；　that　wasn　t　how　Baba　had　envisioned　it；　I　suppose。　Real　men　didn　t　read　poetry……and　God　forbid　they　should　ever　write　it！　Real　men……real　boys……played　soccer　just　as　Baba　had　when　he　had　been　young。　Now　_that_　was　something　to　be　passionate　about。　In　1970；　Baba　took　a　break　from　the　construction　of　the　orphanage　and　flew　to　Tehran　for　a　month　to　watch　the　World　Cup　games　on　television；　since　at　the　time　Afghanistan　didn　t　have　TVs　yet。　He　signed　me　up　for　soccer　teams　to　stir　the　same　passion　in　me。　But　I　was　pathetic；　a　blundering　liability　to　my　own　team；　always　in　the　way　of　an　opportune　pass　or　unwittingly　blocking　an　open　lane。　I　shambled　about　the　field　on　scraggy　legs；　squalled　for　passes　that　never　came　my　way。　And　the　harder　I　tried；　waving　my　arms　over　my　head　frantically　and　screeching；　　I　m　open！　I　m　open！　　the　more　I　went　ignored。　But　Baba　wouldn　t　give　up。　When　it　became　abundantly　clear　that　I　hadn　t　inherited　a　shred　of　his　athletic　talents；　he　settled　for　trying　to　turn　me　into　a　passionate　spectator。　Certainly　I　could　manage　that；　couldn　t　I？　I　faked　interest　for　as　long　as　possible。　I　cheered　with　him　when　Kabul　s　team　scored　against　Kandahar　and　yelped　insults　at　the　referee　when　he　called　a　penalty　against　our　team。　But　Baba　sensed　my　lack　of　genuine　interest　and　resigned　himself　to　the　bleak　fact　that　his　son　was　never　going　to　either　play　or　watch　soccer。
I　remember　one　time　Baba　took　me　to　the　yearly　_Buzkashi_　tournament　that　took　place　on　the　first　day　of　spring；　New　Year　s　Day。　Buzkashi　was；　and　still　is；　Afghanistan　s　national　passion。　A　_chapandaz