the kite runner-第73章

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icked　up　his　broken　glasses　and　turned　them　in　his　hands。　　I　want　you　to　go　now。　The　children　are　frightened。　
He　escorted　us　out。
As　the　truck　pulled　away；　I　saw　Zaman　in　the　side…view　mirror；　standing　in　the　doorway。　A　group　of　children　surrounded　him；　clutching　the　hem　of　his　loose　shirt。　I　saw　he　had　put　on　his　broken　glasses。
TWENTY…ONE
We　crossed　the　river　and　drove　north　through　the　crowded　Pashtunistan　Square。　Baba　used　to　take　me　to　Khyber　Restaurant　there　for　kabob。　The　building　was　still　standing；　but　its　doors　were　padlocked；　the　windows　shattered；　and　the　letters　K　and　R　missing　from　its　name。
I　saw　a　dead　body　near　the　restaurant。　There　had　been　a　hanging。　A　young　man　dangled　from　the　end　of　a　rope　tied　to　a　beam；　his　face　puffy　and　blue；　the　clothes　he　d　worn　on　the　last　day　of　his　life　shredded；　bloody。　Hardly　anyone　seemed　to　notice　him。
We　rode　silently　through　the　square　and　headed　toward　the　WazirAkbar　Khan　district。　Everywhere　I　looked；　a　haze　of　dust　covered　the　city　and　its　sun…dried　brick　buildings。　A　few　blocks　north　of　Pashtunistan　Square；　Farid　pointed　to　two　men　talking　animatedly　at　a　busy　street　corner。　One　of　them　was　hobbling　on　one　leg；　his　other　leg　amputated　below　the　knee。　He　cradled　an　artificial　leg　in　his　arms。　　You　know　what　they　re　doing？　Haggling　over　the　leg。　
　He　s　selling　his　leg？　
Farid　nodded。　　You　can　get　good　money　for　it　on　the　black　market。　Feed　your　kids　for　a　couple　of　weeks。　
To　MY　SURPRISE；　most　of　the　houses　in　the　WazirAkbar　Khan　district　still　had　roofs　and　standing　walls。　In　fact；　they　were　in　pretty　good　shape。　Trees　still
peeked　over　the　walls；　and　the　streets　weren　t　nearly　as　rubble…strewn　as　the　ones　in　Karteh…Seh。　Faded　streets　signs；　some　twisted　and　bullet…pocked；　still　pointed　the　way。
　This　isn　t　so　bad；　　I　remarked。
　No　surprise。　Most　of　the　important　people　live　here　now。　
　Taliban？　
　Them　too；　　Farid　said。
　Who　else？　
He　drove　us　into　a　wide　street　with　fairly　clean　sidewalks　and　walled　homes　on　either　side。　　The　people　behind　the　Taliban。　The　real　brains　of　this　government；　if　you　can　call　it　that：　Arabs；　Chechens；　Pakistanis；　　Farid　said。　He　pointed　northwest。　　Street　15；　that　way；　is　called　Sarak…e…Mehmana。　　Street　of　the　Guests。　　That　s　what　they　call　them　here；　guests。　I　think　someday　these　guests　are　going　to　pee　all　over　the　carpet。　
　I　think　that　s　it！　　I　said。　　Over　there！　　I　pointed　to　the　landmark　that　used　to　serve　as　a　guide　for　me　when　I　was　a　kid。　If　you　ever　get　lost；　Baba　used　to　say；　remember　that　our　street　is　the　one　with　the　pink　house　at　the　end　of　it。　The　pink　house　with　the　steeply　pitched　roof　had　been　the　neighborhood　s　only　house　of　that　color　in　the　old　days。　It　still　was。
Farid　turned　onto　the　street。　I　saw　Baba　s　house　right　away。
WE　FIND　THE　LITTLE　TURTLE　behind　tangles　of　sweetbrier　in　the　yard。　We　don　t　know　how　it　got　there　and　we　re　too　excited　to　care。　We　paint　its　shell　a　bright　red；　Hassan　s　idea；　and　a　good　one：
This　way；　we　ll　never　lose　it　in　the　bushes。　We　pretend　we　re　a　pair　of　daredevil　explorers　who　ve　discovered　a　giant　prehistoric　monster　in　some　distant　jungle　and　we　ve　brought　it　back　for　the　world　to　see。　We　set　it　down　in　the　wooden　wagon　Ali　built　Hassan　last　winter　for　his　birthday；　pretend　it　s　a　giant　steel　cage。　Behold　the　firebreathing　monstrosity！　We　march　on　the　grass　and　pull　the　wagon　behind　us；　around　apple　and　cherry　trees；　which　bee　skyscrap　ers　soaring　into　clouds；　heads　poking　out　of　thousands　of　windows　to　watch　the　spectacle　passing　below。　We　walk　over　the　little　semi　lunar　bridge　Baba　has　built　near　a　cluster　of　fig　trees；　it　bees　a　great　suspension　bridge　joining　cities；　and　the　little　pond　below；　a　foamy　sea。　Fireworks　explode　above　the　bridge　s　massive　pylons　and　armed　soldiers　salute　us　on　both　sides　as　gigantic　steel　cables　shoot　to　the　sky。　The　little　turtle　bouncing　around　in　the　cab；　we　drag　the　wagon　around　the　circular　red　brick　driveway　outside　the　wroughtiron　gates　and　return　the　salutes　of　the　world　s　leaders　as　they　stand　and　applaud。　We　are　Hassan　and　Amir；　famed　adventurers　and　the　world　s　greatest　explorers；　about　to　receive　a　medal　of　honor　for　our　courageous　feat。。。
GINGERLY；　I　WALKED　up　the　driveway　where　tufts　of　weed　now　grew　between　the　sun…faded　bricks。　I　stood　outside　the　gates　of　my　father　s　house；　feeling　like　a　stranger。　I　set　my　hands　on　the　rusty　bars；　remembering　how　I　d　run　through　these　same　gates　thousands　of　times　as　a　child；　for　things　that　mattered　not　at　all　now　and　yet　had　seemed　so　important　then。　I　peered　in。
The　driveway　extension　that　led　from　the　gates　to　the　yard；　where　Hassan　and　I　took　turns　falling　the　summer　we　learned　to　ride　a　bike；　didn　t　look　as　wide　or　as　long　as　I　remembered　it。　The　asphalt　had　split　in　a　lightning…streak　pattern；　and　more　tangles　of　weed　sprouted　through　the　fissures。　Most　of　the　poplar　trees　had　been　chopped　down……the　trees　Hassan　and　I　used　to　climb　to　shine　our　mirrors　into　the　neighbors　　homes。　The　ones　still　standing　were　nearly　leafless。　The　Wall　of　Ailing　Corn　was　still　there；　though　I　saw　no　corn；　ailing　or　otherwise；　along　that　wall　now。　The　paint　had　begun　to　peel　and　sections　of　it　had　sloughed　off　altogether。　The　lawn　had　turned　the　same　brown　as　the　haze　of　dust　hovering　over　the　city；　dotted　by　bald　patches　of　dirt　where　nothing　grew　at　all。
A　jeep　was　parked　in　the　driveway　and　that　looked　all　wrong：
Baba　s　black　Mustang　belonged　there。　For　years；　the　Mustang　s　eight　cylinders　roared　to　life　every　morning；　rousing　me　from　sleep。　I　saw　that　oil　had　spilled　under　the　jeep　and　stained　the　driveway　like　a　big　Rorschach　inkblot。　Be