the kite runner-第61章

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ought　children　s　books　for　Sohrab　from　the　bookstore　by　Cinema　Park……they　have　destroyed　that　too　now……and　Sohrab　read　them　as　quickly　as　I　could　get　them　to　him。　He　reminded　me　of　you；　how　you　loved　to　read　when　you　were　little；　Amir　jan。　Sometimes；　I　read　to　him　at　night；　played　riddles　with　him；　taught　him　card　tricks。　I　miss　him　terribly。
In　the　wintertime；　Hassan　took　his　son　kite　running。　There　were　not　nearly　as　many　kite　tournaments　as　in　the　old　days……no　one　felt　safe　outside　for　too　long……but　there　were　still　a　few　scattered　tournaments。　Hassan　would　prop　Sohrab　on　his　shoulders　and　they　would　go　trotting　through　the　streets；　running　kites；　climbing　trees　where　kites　had　dropped。　You　remember；　Amir　Jan；　what　a　good　kite　runner　Hassan　was？　He　was　still　just　as　good。　At　the　end　of　winter；　Hassan　and　Sohrab　would　hang　the　kites　they　had　run　all　winter　on　the　walls　of　the　main　hallway。　They　would　put　them　up　like　paintings。
I　told　you　how　we　all　celebrated　in　1996　when　the　Taliban　rolled　in　and　put　an　end　to　the　daily　fighting。　I　remember　ing　home　that　night　and　finding　Hassan　in　the　kitchen；　listening　to　the　radio。　He　had　a　sober　look　in　his　eyes。　I　asked
him　what　was　wrong；　and　he　just　shook　his　head。　　God　help　the　Hazaras　now；　Rahim　Khan　sahib；　　he　said。
　The　war　is　over；　Hassan；　　I　said。　　There　s　going　to　be　peace；　_Inshallah_；　and　happiness　and　calm。　No　more　rockets；　no　more　killing；　no　more　funerals！　　But　he　just　turned　off　the　radio　and　asked　if　he　could　get　me　anything　before　he　went　to　bed。
A　few　weeks　later；　the　Taliban　banned　kite　fighting。　And　two　years　later；　in　1998；　they　massacred　the　Hazaras　in　Mazar…i…Sharif。
SEVENTEEN
Rahim　Khan　slowly　uncrossed　his　legs　and　leaned　against　the　bare　wall　in　the　wary；　deliberate　way　of　a　man　whose　every　movement　triggers　spikes　of　pain。　Outside；　a　donkey　was　braying　and　some　one　was　shouting　something　in　Urdu。　The　sun　was　beginning　to　set；　glittering　red　through　the　cracks　between　the　ramshackle　buildings。
It　hit　me　again；　the　enormity　of　what　I　had　done　that　winter　and　that　following　summer。　The　names　rang　in　my　head：　Hassan；　Sohrab；　Ali；　Farzana；　and　Sanaubar。　Hearing　Rahim　Khan　speak　Ali　s　name　was　like　finding　an　old　dusty　music　box　that　hadn　t　been　opened　in　years；　the　melody　began　to　play　immediately：　Who　did　you　eat　today；　Babalu？　Who　did　you　eat；　you　slant…eyed　Babalu？　I　tried　to　conjure　Ali　s　frozen　face；　to　really　see　his　tranquil　eyes；　but　time　can　be　a　greedy　thing……sometimes　it　steals　all　the　details　for　itself。
　Is　Hassan　still　in　that　house　now？　　I　asked。
Rahim　Khan　raised　the　teacup　to　his　parched　lips　and　took　a　sip。　He　then　fished　an　envelope　from　the　breast　pocket　of　his　vest　and　handed　it　to　me。　　For　you。　
I　tore　the　sealed　envelope。　Inside；　I　found　a　Polaroid　photograph　and　a　folded　letter。　I　stared　at　the　photograph　for　a　full　minute。
A　tall　man　dressed　in　a　white　turban　and　a　green…striped　chapan　stood　with　a　little　boy　in　front　of　a　set　of　wrought…iron　gates。　Sunlight　slanted　in　from　the　left；　casting　a　shadow　on　half　of　his　rotund　face。　He　was　squinting　and　smiling　at　the　camera；　showing　a　pair　of　missing　front　teeth。　Even　in　this　blurry　Polaroid；　the　man　in　the　chapan　exuded　a　sense　of　self…assuredness；　of　ease。　It　was　in　the　way　he　stood；　his　feet　slightly　apart；　his　arms　fortably　crossed　on　his　chest；　his　head　titled　a　little　toward　the　sun。　Mostly；　it　was　in　the　way　he　smiled。　Looking　at　the　photo；　one　might　have　concluded　that　this　was　a　man　who　thought　the　world　had　been　good　to　him。　Rahim　Khan　was　right：　I　would　have　recognized　him　if　I　had　bumped　into　him　on　the　street。　The　little　boy　stood　bare　foot；　one　arm　wrapped　around　the　man　s　thigh；　his　shaved　head　resting　against　his　father　s　hip。　He　too　was　grinning　and　squinting。
I　unfolded　the　letter。　It　was　written　in　Farsi。　No　dots　were　omitted；　no　crosses　forgotten；　no　words　blurred　together……the　handwriting　was　almost　childlike　in　its　neatness。　I　began　to　read：
In　the　name　of　Allah　the　most　beneficent；　the　most　merciful；　Amir　agha；　with　my　deepest　respects；
Farzana　jan；　Sohrab；　and　I　pray　that　this　latest　letter　finds　you　in　good　health　and　in　the　light　of　Allah　s　good　graces。　Please　offer　my　warmest　thanks　to　Rahim
Khan　sahib　for　carrying　it　to　you。　I　am　hopeful　that　one　day　I　will　hold　one　of　your　letters　in　my　hands　and　read　of　your　life　in　America。　Perhaps　a　photograph　of　you　will　even　grace　our　eyes。　I　have　told　much　about　you　to　Farzana　jan　and　Sohrab；　about　us　growing　up　together　and　playing　games　and　running　in　the　streets。　They　laugh　at　the　stories　of　all　the　mischief　you　and　I　used　to　cause！
Amir　agha；
Alas　the　Afghanistan　of　our　youth　is　long　dead。　Kindness　is　gone　from　the　land　and　you　cannot　escape　the　killings。　Always　the　killings。　In　Kabul；　fear　is　everywhere；　in　the　streets；　in　the　stadium；　in　the　markets；　it　is　a　part　of　our　lives　here；　Amir　agha。　The　savages　who　rule　our　watan　don　t　care　about　human　decency。　The　other　day；　I　acpanied　Farzana　Jan　to　the　bazaar　to　buy　some　potatoes　and　_naan_。　She　asked　the　vendor　how　much　the　potatoes　cost；　but　he　did　not　hear　her；　I　think　he　had　a　deaf　ear。　So　she　asked　louder　and　suddenly　a　young　Talib　ran　over　and　hit　her　on　the　thighs　with　his　wooden　stick。　He　struck　her　so　hard　she　fell　down。　He　was　screaming　at　her　and　cursing　and　saying　the　Ministry　of　Vice　and　Virtue　does　not　allow　women　to　speak　loudly。　She　had　a　large　purple　bruise　on　her　leg　for　days　but　what　could　I　do　except　stand　and　watch　my　wife　get　beaten？　If　I　fought；　that　dog　would　have　surely　put　a　bullet　in　me；　and　gladly！　Then　what　would　happen　to　my　Sohrab？　The　streets　are　full　enough　already　of　hun