the kite runner-第65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！


　went　back　to　smoking　his　cigarette。　He　hadn　t　said　more　than　a　dozen　words　since　we　d　departed　from　Jamrud　Fort。
　Tashakor；　　I　muttered。　I　leaned　my　head　out　of　the　window　and　let　the　cold　midafternoon　air　rush　past　my　face。　The　drive　through　the　tribal　lands　of　the　Khyber　Pass；　winding　between　cliffs　of　shale　and　limestone；　was　just　as　I　remembered　it……Baba　and　I　had　driven　through　the　broken　terrain　back　in　1974。　The　arid；　imposing　mountains　sat　along　deep　gorges　and　soared　to　jagged　peaks。　Old　fortresses；　adobe…walled　and　crumbling；　topped　the　crags。　I　tried　to　keep　my　eyes　glued　to　the　snowcapped　Hindu　Kush　on　the　north　side；　but　each　time　my　stomach　settled　even　a　bit；　the　truck　skidded　around　yet　another　turn；　rousing　a　fresh　wave　of　nausea。
　Try　a　lemon。　
　What？　
　Lemon。　Good　for　the　sickness；　　Farid　said。　　I　always　bring　one　for　this　drive。　
　Nay；　thank　you；　　I　said。　The　mere　thought　of　adding　acidity　to　my　stomach　stirred　more　nausea。　Farid　snickered。　　It　s　not　fancy　like　American　medicine；　I　know；　just　an　old　remedy　my　mother　taught　me。　
I　regretted　blowing　my　chance　to　warm　up　to　him。　　In　that　case；　maybe　you　should　give　me　some。　
He　grabbed　a　paper　bag　from　the　backseat　and　plucked　a　half　lemon　out　of　it。　I　bit　down　on　it；　waited　a　few　minutes。　　You　were　right。　I　feel　better；　　I　lied。　As　an　Afghan；　I　knew　it　was　better　to　be　miserable　than　rude。　I　forced　a　weak　smile。
　Old　watani　trick；　no　need　for　fancy　medicine；　　he　said。　His　tone　bordered　on　the　surly。　He　flicked　the　ash　off　his　cigarette　and　gave　himself　a　self…satisfied　look　in　the　rearview　mirror。　He　was　a　Tajik；　a　lanky；　dark　man　with　a　weather…beaten　face；　narrow　shoulders；　and　a　long　neck　punctuated　by　a　protruding　Adam　s　apple　that　only　peeked　from　behind　his　beard　when　he　turned　his　head。　He　was　dressed　much　as　I　was；　though　I　suppose　it　was　really　the　other　way　around：　a　rough…woven　wool　blanket　wrapped　over　a　gray　pirhan…tumban　and　a　vest。　On　his　head；　he　wore　a　brown　pakol；　tilted　slightly　to　one　side；　like　the　Tajik　hero　Ahmad　Shah　Massoud……referred　to　by　Tajiks　as　　the　Lion　of　Panjsher。　
It　was　Rahim　Khan　who　had　introduced　me　to　Farid　in　Peshawar。　He　told　me　Farid　was　twenty…nine；　though　he　had　the　wary；　lined　face　of　a　man　twenty　years　older。　He　was　born　in　Mazar…i…Sharif　and　lived　there　until　his　father　moved　the　family　to　Jalalabad　when　Farid　was　ten。　At　fourteen；　he　and　his　father　had　joined　the　jihad　against　the　Shorawi。　They　had　fought　in　the　Panjsher　Valley　for　two　years　until　helicopter　gunfire　had　torn　the　older　man　to　pieces。　Farid　had　two　wives　and　five　children。　　He　used　to　have　seven；　　Rahim　Khan　said　with　a　rueful　look；　but　he　d　lost　his　two　youngest　girls　a　few　years　earlier　in　a　land　mine　blast　just　outside　Jalalabad；　the　same　explosion　that　had　severed　toes　from　his　feet　and　three　fingers　from　his　left　hand。　After　that；　he　had　moved　his　wives　and　children　to　Peshawar。
　Checkpoint；　　Farid　grumbled。　I　slumped　a　little　in　my　seat；　arms　folded　across　my　chest；　forgetting　for　a　moment　about　the　nausea。　But　I　needn　t　have　worried。　Two　Pakistani　militia　approached　our　dilapidated　Land　Cruiser；　took　a　cursory　glance　inside；　and　waved　us　on。
Farid　was　first　on…　the　list　of　preparations　Rahim　Khan　and　I　made；　a　list　that　included　exchanging　dollars　for　Kaldar　and　Afghani　bills；　my　garment　and　pakol……ironically；　I　d　never　worn　either　when　I　d　actually　lived　in　Afghanistan……the　Polaroid　of　Hassan　and　Sohrab；　and；　finally；　perhaps　the　most　important　item：　an　artificial　beard；　black　and　chest　length；　Shari　a　friendly……or　at　least　the　Taliban　version　of　Shari　a。　Rahim　Khan　knew　of　a　fellow　in　Peshawar　who　specialized　in　weaving　them；　sometimes　for　Western　journalists　who　covered　the　war。
Rahim　Khan　had　wanted　me　to　stay　with　him　a　few　more　days；　to　plan　more　thoroughly。　But　I　knew　I　had　to　leave　as　soon　as　possible。　I　was　afraid　I　d　change　my　mind。　I　was　afraid　I　d　deliberate；　ruminate；　agonize；　rationalize；　and　talk　myself　into　not　going。　I　was　afraid　the　appeal　of　my　life　in　America　would　draw　me　back；　that　I　would　wade　back　into　that　great；　big　river　and　let　myself　forget；　let　the　things　I　had　learned　these　last　few　days　sink　to　the　bottom。　I　was　afraid　that　I　d　let　the　waters　carry　me　away　from　what　I　had　to　do。　From　Hassan。　From　the　past　that　had　e　calling。　And　from　this　one　last　chance　at　redemption。　So　I　left　before　there　was　any　possibility　of　that　happening。　As　for
Soraya；　telling　her　I　was　going　back　to　Afghanistan　wasn　t　an　option。　If　I　had；　she　would　have　booked　herself　on　the　next　flight　to　Pakistan。
We　had　crossed　the　border　and　the　signs　of　poverty　were　every　where。　On　either　side　of　the　road；　I　saw　chains　of　little　villages　sprouting　here　and　there；　like　discarded　toys　among　the　rocks；　broken　mud　houses　and　huts　consisting　of　little　more　than　four　wooden　poles　and　a　tattered　cloth　as　a　roof。　I　saw　children　dressed　in　rags　chasing　a　soccer　ball　outside　the　huts。　A　few　miles　later；　I　spotted　a　cluster　of　men　sitting　on　their　haunches；　like　a　row　of　crows；　on　the　carcass　of　an　old　burned…out　Soviet　tank；　the　wind　fluttering　the　edges　of　the　blankets　thrown　around　them。　Behind　them；　a　woman　in　a　brown　burqa　carried　a　large　clay　pot　on　her　shoulder；　down　a　rutted　path　toward　a　string　of　mud　houses。
　Strange；　　I　said。
　What？　
　I　feel　like　a　tourist　in　my　own　country；　　I　said；　taking　in　a　goatherd　leading　a　half…dozen　emaciated　goats　along　the　side　of　the　road。
Farid　snickered。　Tossed　his　cigarette。　　You　still　think　of　this　place　as　your　country？　
　I　think　a　part　of　me　always　will；　　I　said；　more　defensively　than　I　had　intended。
　After　twenty　years　of　living　in　Ameri