the kite runner-第7章

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l　is；　Afghanistan　s　national　passion。　A　_chapandaz_；　a　highly　skilled　horseman　usually　patronized　by　rich　aficionados；　has　to　snatch　a　goat　or　cattle　carcass　from　the　midst　of　a　melee；　carry　that　carcass　with　him　around　the　stadium　at　full　gallop；　and　drop　it　in　a　scoring　circle　while　a　team　of　other　_chapandaz_　chases　him　and　does　everything　in　its　power……kick；　claw；　whip；　punch……to　snatch　the　carcass　from　him。　That　day；　the　crowd　roared　with　excitement　as　the　horsemen　on　the　field　bellowed　their　battle　cries　and　jostled　for　the　carcass　in　a　cloud　of　dust。　The　earth　trembled　with　the　clatter　of　hooves。　We　watched　from　the　upper　bleachers　as　riders　pounded　past　us　at　full　gallop；　yipping　and　yelling；　foam　flying　from　their　horses　　mouths。
At　one　point　Baba　pointed　to　someone。　　Amir；　do　you　see　that　man　sitting　up　there　with　those　other　men　around　him？　
I　did。
　That　s　Henry　Kissinger。　
　Oh；　　I　said。　I　didn　t　know　who　Henry　Kissinger　was；　and　I　might　have　asked。　But　at　the　moment；　I　watched　with　horror　as　one　of　the　_chapandaz_　fell　off　his　saddle　and　was　trampled　under　a　score　of　hooves。　His　body　was　tossed　and　hurled　in　the　stampede　like　a　rag　doll；　finally　rolling　to　a　stop　when　the　melee　moved　on。　He　twitched　once　and　lay　motionless；　his　legs　bent　at　unnatural　angles；　a　pool　of　his　blood　soaking　through　the　sand。
I　began　to　cry。
I　cried　all　the　way　back　home。　I　remember　how　Baba　s　hands　clenched　around　the　steering　wheel。　Clenched　and　unclenched。　Mostly；　I　will　never　forget　Baba　s
valiant　efforts　to　conceal　the　disgusted　look　on　his　face　as　he　drove　in　silence。
Later　that　night；　I　was　passing　by　my　father　s　study　when　I　overheard　him　speaking　to　Rahim　Khan。　I　pressed　my　ear　to　the　closed　door。
　……grateful　that　he　s　healthy；　　Rahim　Khan　was　saying。
　I　know；　I　know。　But　he　s　always　buried　in　those　books　or　shuffling　around　the　house　like　he　s　lost　in　some　dream。　
　And？　
　I　wasn　t　like　that。　　Baba　sounded　frustrated；　almost　angry。
Rahim　Khan　laughed。　　Children　aren　t　coloring　books。　You　don　t　get　to　fill　them　with　your　favorite　colors。　
　I　m　telling　you；　　Baba　said；　　I　wasn　t　like　that　at　all；　and　neither　were　any　of　the　kids　I　grew　up　with。　
　You　know；　sometimes　you　are　the　most　self…centered　man　I　know；　　Rahim　Khan　said。　He　was　the　only　person　I　knew　who　could　get　away　with　saying　something　like　that　to　Baba。
　It　has　nothing　to　do　with　that。　
　Nay？　
　Nay。　
　Then　what？　
I　heard　the　leather　of　Baba　s　seat　creaking　as　he　shifted　on　it。　I　closed　my　eyes；　pressed　my　ear　even　harder　against　the　door；　wanting　to　hear；　not　wanting　to　hear。　　Sometimes　I　look　out　this　window　and　I　see　him　playing　on　the　street　with　the　neighborhood　boys。　I　see　how　they　push　him　around；　take　his　toys　from　him；　give　him　a　shove　here；　a　whack　there。　And；　you　know；　he　never　fights　back。　Never。　He　just。。。　drops　his　head　and。。。　
　So　he　s　not　violent；　　Rahim　Khan　said。
　That　s　not　what　I　mean；　Rahim；　and　you　know　it；　　Baba　shot　back。　　There　is　something　missing　in　that　boy。　
　Yes；　a　mean　streak。　
　Self…defense　has　nothing　to　do　with　meanness。　You　know　what　always　happens　when　the　neighborhood　boys　tease　him？　Hassan　steps　in　and　fends　them　off。　I　ve　seen　it　with　my　own　eyes。　And　when　they　e　home；　I　say　to　him；　　How　did　Hassan　get　that　scrape　on　his　face？　　And　he　says；　　He　fell　down。　　I　m　telling　you；　Rahim；　there　is　something　missing　in　that　boy。　
　You　just　need　to　let　him　find　his　way；　　Rahim　Khan　said。
　And　where　is　he　headed？　　Baba　said。　　A　boy　who　won　t　stand　up　for　himself　bees　a　man　who　can　t　stand　up　to　anything。　
　As　usual　you　re　oversimplifying。　
　I　don　t　think　so。　
　You　re　angry　because　you　re　afraid　he　ll　never　take　over　the　business　for　you。　
　Now　who　s　oversimplifying？　　Baba　said。　　Look；　I　know　there　s　a　fondness　between　you　and　him　and　I　m　happy　about　that。　Envious；　but　happy。　I　mean　that。　He　needs　someone　who。。。understands　him；　because　God　knows　I　don　t。　But　something　about　Amir　troubles　me　in　a　way　that　I　can　t　express。　It　s　like。。。　　I　could　see　him　searching；　reaching　for　the　right　words。　He　lowered　his　voice；　but　I　heard　him　anyway。　　If　I　hadn　t　seen　the　doctor　pull　him　out　of　my　wife　with　my　own　eyes；　I　d　never　believe　he　s　my　son。　
THE　NEXT　MORNING；　as　he　was　preparing　my　breakfast；　Hassan　asked　if　something　was　bothering　me。　I　snapped　at　him；　told　him　to　mind　his　own　business。
Rahim　Khan　had　been　wrong　about　the　mean　streak　thing。
FOUR
In　1933；　the　year　Baba　was　born　and　the　year　Zahir　Shah　began　his　forty…year　reign　of　Afghanistan；　two　brothers；　young　men　from　a　wealthy　and　reputable　family　in　Kabul；　got　behind　the　wheel　of　their　father　s　Ford　roadster。　High　on　hashish　and　_mast_　on　French　wine；　they　struck　and　killed　a　Hazara　husband　and　wife　on　the　road　to　Paghman。　The　police　brought　the　somewhat　contrite　young　men　and　the　dead　couple　s　five…year…old　orphan　boy　before　my　grandfather；　who　was　a　highly　regarded　judge　and　a　man　of　impeccable　reputation。　After　hearing　the　brothers　　account　and　their　father　s　plea　for　mercy；　my　grandfather　ordered　the　two　young　men　to　go　to　Kandahar　at　once　and　enlist　in　the　army　for　one　year……this　despite　the　fact　that　their　family　had　somehow　managed　to　obtain　them　exemptions　from　the　draft。　Their　father　argued；　but　not　too　vehemently；　and　in　the　end；　everyone　agreed　that　the　punishment　had　been　perhaps　harsh　but　fair。　As　for　the　orphan；　my　grandfather　adopted　him　into　his　own　household；　and　told　the　other　servants　to　tutor　him；　but　to　be　kind　to　him。　That　boy　was　Ali。
Ali　and　Baba　grew　up　together　as　childhood　playmates……at　least　until　polio　crippled　Ali　s　leg……just　like　Hassan　and　I　grew　up　a　generation　later。　Baba　was