the kite runner-第68章

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m。
　You　didn　t　ask；　　I　said。
　You　should　have　told　me。　
　You　didn　t　ask。　
He　rolled　to　face　me。　Curled　his　arm　under　his　head。　　Maybe　I　will　help　you　find　this　boy。　
　Thank　you；　Farid；　　I　said。
　It　was　wrong　of　me　to　assume。　
I　sighed。　　Don　t　worry。　You　were　more　right　than　you　know。　
HIS　HANDS　ARE　TIED　BEHIND　HIM　with　roughly　woven　rope　cutting　through　the　flesh　of　his　wrists。　He　is　blindfolded　with　black　cloth。　He　is　kneeling　on　the　street；　on　the　edge　of　a　gutter　filled　with　still　water；　his　head　drooping　between　his　shoulders。　His　knees　roll　on　the　hard　ground　and　bleed　through　his　pants　as　he　rocks　in　prayer。　It　is　late　afternoon　and　his　long　shadow　sways　back　and　forth　on　the　gravel。　He　is　muttering　something　under　his　breath。　I　step　closer。　A　thousand　times　over；　he　mutters。　For　you　a　thousand　times　over。　Back　and　forth　he　rocks。　He　lifts　his　face。　I　see　a　faint　scar　above　his　upper　lip。
We　are　not　alone。
I　see　the　barrel　first。　Then　the　man　standing　behind　him。　He　is　tall；　dressed　in　a　herringbone　vest　and　a　black　turban。　He　looks　down　at　the　blindfolded　man　before　him　with　eyes　that　show　nothing　but　a　vast；　cavernous　emptiness。　He　takes　a　step　back　and　raises　the　barrel。　Places　it　on　the　back　of　the　kneeling　man　s　head。　For　a　moment；　fading　sunlight　catches　in　the　metal　and　twinkles。
The　rifle　roars　with　a　deafening　crack。
I　follow　the　barrel　on　its　upward　arc。　I　see　the　face　behind　the　plume　of　smoke　swirling　from　the　muzzle。　I　am　the　man　in　the　herringbone　vest。
I　woke　up　with　a　scream　trapped　in　my　throat。
I　STEPPED　OUTSIDE。　Stood　in　the　silver　tarnish　of　a　half…moon　and　glanced　up　to　a　sky　riddled　with　stars。　Crickets　chirped　in　the　shuttered　darkness　and　a　wind　wafted　through　the　trees。　The　ground　was　cool　under　my　bare　feet　and　suddenly；　for　the　first　time　since　we　had　crossed　the　border；　I　felt　like　I　was　back。　After　all　these　years；　I　was　home　again；　standing　on　the　soil　of　my　ancestors。　This　was　the　soil　on　which　my　great…grandfather　had　married　his　third　wife　a　year　before　dying　in　the　cholera　epidemic　that　hit　Kabul　in　1915。　She　d　borne　him　what　his　first　two　wives　had　failed　to；　a　son　at　last。　It　was　on　this　soil　that　my　grandfather　had　gone　on　a　hunting　trip　with　King　Nadir　Shah　and　shot　a　deer。　My　mother　had　died　on　this　soil。　And　on　this　soil；　I　had　fought　for　my　father　s　love。
I　sat　against　one　of　the　house　s　clay　walls。　The　kinship　I　felt　suddenly　for　the　old　land。。。　it　surprised　me。　I　d　been　gone　long　enough　to　forget　and　be　forgotten。　I　had　a　home　in　a　land　that　might　as　well　be　in　another　galaxy　to　the　people　sleeping　on　the　other　side　of　the　wall　I　leaned　against。　I　thought　I　had　forgotten　about　this　land。　But　I　hadn　t。　And；　under　the　bony　glow　of　a　halfmoon；　I　sensed　Afghanistan　humming　under　my　feet。　Maybe　Afghanistan　hadn　t　forgotten　me　either。
I　looked　westward　and　marveled　that；　somewhere　over　those　mountains；　Kabul　still　existed。　It　really　existed；　not　just　as　an　old　memory；　or　as　the　heading　of　an　AP　story　on　page　15　of　the　San　Francisco　Chronicle。　Somewhere　over　those　mountains　in　the　west　slept　the　city　where　my　harelipped　brother　and　I　had　run　kites。　Somewhere　over　there；　the　blindfolded　man　from　my　dream　had　died　a
needless　death。　Once；　over　those　mountains；　I　had　made　a　choice。　And　now；　a　quarter　of　a　century　later；　that　choice　had　landed　me　right　back　on　this　soil。
I　was　about　to　go　back　inside　when　I　heard　voices　ing　from　the　house。　I　recognized　one　as　Wahid　s。
　……nothing　left　for　the　children。　
　We　re　hungry　but　we　re　not　savages！　He　is　a　guest！　What　was　I　supposed　to　do？　　he　said　in　a　strained　voice。
　……to　find　something　tomorrow　　She　sounded　near　tears。　　What　do　I　feed……　
I　tiptoed　away。　I　understood　now　why　the　boys　hadn　t　shown　any　interest　in　the　watch。　They　hadn　t　been　staring　at　the　watch　at　all。　They　d　been　staring　at　my　food。
WE　SAID　OUR　GOOD　…　BYE　S　early　the　next　morning。　Just　before　I　climbed　into　the　Land　Cruiser；　I　thanked　Wahid　for　his　hospitality。　He　pointed　to　the　little　house　behind　him。　　This　is　your　home；　　he　said。　His　three　sons　were　standing　in　the　doorway　watching　us。　The　little　one　was　wearing　the　watch……it　dangled　around　his　twiggy　wrist。
I　glanced　in　the　side…view　mirror　as　we　pulled　away。　Wahid　stood　surrounded　by　his　boys　in　a　cloud　of　dust　whipped　up　by　the　truck。　It　occurred　to　me　that；　in　a　different　world；　those　boys　wouldn　t　have　been　too　hungry　to　chase　after　the　car。
Earlier　that　morning；　when　I　was　certain　no　one　was　looking；　I　did　something　I　had　done　twenty…six　years　earlier：　I　planted　a　fistful　of　crumpled　money　under　a　mattress。
TWENTY
Farid　had　warned　me。　He　had。　But；　as　it　turned　out；　he　had　wasted　his　breath。
We　were　driving　down　the　cratered　road　that　winds　from　Jalalabad　to　Kabul。　The　last　time　I　d　traveled　that　road　was　in　a　tarpaulin…covered　truck　going　the　other　way。　Baba　had　nearly　gotten　himself　shot　by　a　singing；　stoned　Roussi　officer……Baba　had　made　me　so　mad　that　night；　so　scared；　and；　ultimately；　so　proud。　The　trek　between　Kabul　and　Jalalabad；　a　bone…jarring　ride　down　a　teetering　pass　snaking　through　the　rocks；　had　bee　a　relic　now；　a　relic　of　two　wars。　Twenty　years　earlier；　I　had　seen　some　of　the　first　war　with　my　own　eyes。　Grim　reminders　of　it　were　strewn　along　the　road：　burned　carcasses　of　old　Soviet　tanks；　overturned　military　trucks　gone　to　rust；　a　crushed　Russian　jeep　that　had　plunged　over　the　mountainside。　The　second　war；　I　had　watched　on　my　TV　screen。　And　now　I　was　seeing　it　through　Farid　s　eyes。
Swerving　effortlessly　around　potholes　in　the　middle　of　the　broken　road；　Farid　was　a　man　in　his　element。　He　had　bee　much　chattier　since　our　overnight　st