the kite runner-第74章

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ined　the　driveway　like　a　big　Rorschach　inkblot。　Beyond　the　jeep；　an　empty　wheelbarrow　lay　on　its　side。　I　saw　no　sign　of　the　rosebushes　that　Baba　and　Ali　had　planted　on　the　left　side　of　the　driveway；　only　dirt　that　spilled　onto　the　asphalt。　And　weeds。
Farid　honked　twice　behind　me。　　We　should　go；　Agha。　We　ll　draw　attention；　　he　called。
　Just　give　me　one　more　minute；　　I　said。
The　house　itself　was　far　from　the　sprawling　white　mansion　I　remembered　from　my　childhood。　It　looked　smaller。　The　roof　sagged　and　the　plaster　was　cracked。　The　windows　to　the　living　room；　the　foyer；　and　the　upstairs　guest　bathroom　were　broken；　patched　haphazardly　with　sheets　of　clear　plastic　or　wooden　boards　nailed　across　the　frames。　The　paint；　once　sparkling　white；　had　faded　to　ghostly　gray　and　eroded　in　parts；　revealing　the　layered　bricks　beneath。　The　front　steps　had　crumbled。　Like　so　much　else　in　Kabul；　my　father　s　house　was　the　picture　of　fallen　splendor。
I　found　the　window　to　my　old　bedroom；　second　floor；　third　window　sOuth　of　the　main　steps　to　the　house。　I　stood　on　tiptoes；　saw　nothing　behind　the　window　but　shadows。　Twenty…five　years　earlier；　I　had　stood　behind　that　same　window；　thick　rain　dripping　down　the　panes　and　my　breath　fogging　up　the　glass。　I　had　watched　Hassan　and　Ali　load　their　belongings　into　the　trunk　of　my　father　s　car。
　Amir　agha；　　Farid　called　again。
　I　m　ing；　　I　shot　back。
Insanely；　I　wanted　to　go　in。　Wanted　to　walk　up　the　front　steps　where　Ali　used　to　make　Hassan　and　me　take　off　our　snow　boots。　I　wanted　to　step　into　the　foyer；　smell　the　orange　peel　Ali　always　tossed　into　the　stove　to　burn　with　sawdust。　Sit　at　the　kitchen　table；　have　tea　with　a　slice　of　_naan_；　listen　to　Hassan　sing　old　Hazara　songs。
Another　honk。　I　walked　back　to　the　Land　Cruiser　parked　along　the　sidewalk。　Farid　sat　smoking　behind　the　wheel。
　I　have　to　look　at　one　more　thing；　　I　told　him。
　Can　you　hurry？　
　Give　me　ten　minutes。　
　Go；　then。　　Then；　just　as　I　was　turning　to　go：　　Just　forget　it　all。　Makes　it　easier。　
　To　what？　
　To　go　on；　　Farid　said。　He　flicked　his　cigarette　out　of　the　window。　　How　much　more　do　you　need　to　see？　Let　me　save　you　the　trouble：　Nothing　that　you　remember　has　survived。　Best　to　forget。　
　I　don　t　want　to　forget　anymore；　　I　said。　　Give　me　ten　minutes。　
WE　HARDLY　BROKE　A　SWEAT；　Hassan　and　I；　when　we　hiked
up　the　hill　just　north　of　Baba　s　house。　We　scampered　about　the　hilltop　chasing　each　other　or　sat　on　a　sloped　ridge　where　there　was　a　good　view　of　the　airport　in　the　distance。　We　d　watch　airplanes　take　off　and　land。　Go　running　again。
Now；　by　the　time　I　reached　the　top　of　the　craggy　hill；　each　ragged　breath　felt　like　inhaling　fire。　Sweat　trickled　down　my　face。　I　stood　wheezing　for　a　while；　a　stitch　in　my　side。　Then　I　went　looking　for　the　abandoned　cemetery。　It　didn　t　take　me　long　to　find　it。　It　was　still　there；　and　so　was　the　old　pomegranate　tree。
I　leaned　against　the　gray　stone　gateway　to　the　cemetery　where　Hassan　had　buried　his　mother。　The　old　metal　gates　hanging　off　the　hinges　were　gone；　and　the　headstones　were　barely　visible　through　the　thick　tangles　of　weeds　that　had　claimed　the　plot。　A　pair　of　crows　sat　on　the　low　wall　that　enclosed　the　cemetery。
Hassan　had　said　in　his　letter　that　the　pomegranate　tree　hadn　t　borne　fruit　in　years。　Looking　at　the　wilted；　leafless　tree；　I　doubted　it　ever　would　again。　I　stood　under　it；　remembered　all　the　times　we　d　climbed　it；　straddled　its　branches；　our　legs　swinging；　dappled　sunlight　flickering　through　the　leaves　and　casting　on　our　faces　a　mosaic　of　light　and　shadow。　The　tangy　taste　of　pomegranate　crept　into　my　mouth。
I　hunkered　down　on　my　knees　and　brushed　my　hands　against　the　trunk。　I　found　what　I　was　looking　for。　The　carving　had　dulled；　almost　faded　altogether；　but　it　was　still　there：　　Amir　and　Hassan。　The　Sultans　of　Kabul。　　I　traced　the　curve　of　each　letter　with　my　fingers。　Picked　small　bits　of　bark　from　the　tiny　crevasses。
I　sat　cross…legged　at　the　foot　of　the　tree　and　looked　south　on　the　city　of　my　childhood。　In　those　days；　treetops　poked　behind　the　walls　of　every　house。　The　sky　stretched　wide　and　blue；　and　laundry　drying　on　clotheslines　glimmered　in　the　sun。　If　you　listened　hard；　you　might　even　have　heard　the　call　of　the　fruit　seller　passing　through　Wazir　Akbar　Khan　with　his　donkey：　Cherries！　Apricots！　Grapes！　In　the　early　evening；　you　would　have　heard　azan；　the　mueszzin　s　call　to　prayer　from　the　mosque　in　Shar…e…Nau。
I　heard　a　honk　and　saw　Farid　waving　at　me。　It　was　time　to　go。
WE　DROVE　SOUTH　AGAIN；　back　toward　Pashtunistan　Square。　We　passed　several　more　red　pickup　trucks　with　armed；　bearded　young　men　crammed　into　the　cabs。　Farid　cursed　under　his　breath　every　time　we　passed　one。
I　paid　for　a　room　at　a　small　hotel　near　Pashtunistan　Square。　Three　little　girls　dressed　in　identical　black　dresses　and　white　scarves　clung　to　the　slight；　bespectacled　man　behind　the　counter。　He　charged　me　75；　an　unthinkable　price　given　the　run…down　appearance　of　the　place；　but　I　didn　t　mind。　Exploitation　to　finance　a　beach　house　in　Hawaii　was　one　thing。　Doing　it　to　feed　your　kids　was　another。
There　was　no　hot　running　water　and　the　cracked　toilet　didn　t　flush。　Just　a　single　steel…frame　bed　with　a　worn　mattress；　a　ragged　blanket；　and　a　wooden　chair　in　the　corner。　The　window　overlooking　the　square　had　broken；　hadn　t　been　replaced。　As　I　lowered　my　suitcase；　I　noticed　a　dried　bloodstain　on　the　wall　behind　the　bed。
I　gave　Farid　some　money　and　he　went　out　to　get　food。　He　returned　with　four　sizzling　skewers　of　kabob；　fresh　_naan_；　and　a　bowl　of　white　rice。　We　sat　on　the　bed　and　all　but　devoured　the　food。　There　was　one　thing　that　hadn　t　changed　in　Kabul　after　all：