the kite runner-第75章

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　one　thing　that　hadn　t　changed　in　Kabul　after　all：
The　kabob　was　as　succulent　and　delicious　as　I　remembered。
That　night；　I　took　the　bed　and　Farid　lay　on　the　floor；　wrapped　himself　with　an　extra　blanket　for　which　the　hotel　owner　charged　me　an　additional　fee。　No　light　came　into　the　room　except　for　the　moonbeams　streaming　through　the　broken　window。　Farid　said　the　owner　had　told　him　that　Kabul　had　been　without　electricity　for　two　days　now　and　his　generator　needed　fixing。　We　talked　for　a　while。　He　told　me　about　growing　up　in　Mazar…i…Sharif；　in　Jalalabad。　He　told　me　about　a　time　shortly　after　he　and　his　father　joined　the　jihad　and　fought　the　Shorawi　in　the　Panjsher　Valley。　They　were　stranded　without　food　and　ate　locust　to　survive。　He　told　me　of　the　day　helicopter　gunfire　killed　his　father；　of　the　day　the　land　mine　took　his　two　daughters。　He　asked　me　about　America。　I　told　him　that　in　America　you　could　step　into　a　grocery　store　and　buy　any　of　fifteen　or　twenty　different　types　of　cereal。　The　lamb　was　always　fresh　and　the　milk　cold；　the　fruit　plentiful　and　the　water　clear。　Every　home　had　a　TV；　and　every　TV　a　remote；　and　you　could　get　a　satellite　dish　if　you　wanted。　Receive　over　five　hundred　channels。
　Five　hundred？　　Farid　exclaimed。
　Five　hundred。　
We　fell　silent　for　a　while。　Just　when　I　thought　he　had　fallen　asleep；　Farid　chuckled。　　Agha；　did　you　hear　what　Mullah　Nasrud　din　did　when　his　daughter　came　home　and　plained　that　her　husband　had　beaten　her？　　I　could　feel　him　smiling　in　the　dark　and　a　smile　of　my　own　formed　on　my　face。　There　wasn　t　an　Afghan　in　the　world　who　didn　t　know　at　least　a　few　jokes　about　the　bumbling　mullah。
　What？　
　He　beat　her　too；　then　sent　her　back　to　tell　the　husband　that　Mullah　was　no　fool：　If　the　bastard　was　going　to　beat　his　daughter；　then　Mullah　would　beat　his　wife　in　return。　
I　laughed。　Partly　at　the　joke；　partly　at　how　Afghan　humor　never　changed。　Wars　were　waged；　the　Internet　was　invented；　and　a　robot　had　rolled　on　the　surface　of　Mars；　and　in　Afghanistan　we　were　still　telling　Mullah　Nasruddin　jokes。　　Did　you　hear　about　the　time　Mullah　had　placed　a　heavy　bag　on　his　shoulders　and　was　riding　his　donkey？　　I　said。
　No。　
　Someone　on　the　street　said　why　don　t　you　put　the　bag　on　the　donkey？　And　he　said；　　That　would　be　cruel；　I　m　heavy　enough　already　for　the　poor　thing。　
We　exchanged　Mullah　Nasruddin　jokes　until　we　ran　out　of　them　and　we　fell　silent　again。
　Amir　agha？　　Farid　said；　startling　me　from　near　sleep。
　Yes？　
　Why　are　you　here？　I　mean；　why　are　you　really　here？　
　I　told　you。　
　For　the　boy？　
　For　the　boy。　
Farid　shifted　on　the　ground。　　It　s　hard　to　believe。　
　Sometimes　I　myself　can　hardly　believe　I　m　here。　
　No。。。　What　I　mean　to　ask　is　why　that　boy？　You　e　all　the　way　from　America　for。。。　a　Shi　a？　
That　killed　all　the　laughter　in　me。　And　the　sleep。　　I　am　tired；　　I　said。　　Let　s　just　get　some　sleep。　
Farid　s　snoring　soon　echoed　through　the　empty　room。　I　stayed　awake；　hands　crossed　on　my　chest；　staring　into　the　starlit　night　through　the　broken　window；　and　thinking　that　maybe　what　people　said　about　Afghanistan　was　true。　Maybe　it　was　a　hopeless　place。
A　BUSTLING　CROWD　was　filling　Ghazi　Stadium　when　we　walked　through　the　entrance　tunnels。　Thousands　of　people　milled　about　the　tightly　packed　concrete　terraces。　Children　played　in　the　aisles　and　chased　each　other　up　and　down　the　steps。　The　scent　of　garbanzo　beans　in　spicy　sauce　hung　in　the　air；　mixed　with　the　smell　of　dung　and　sweat。　Farid　and　I　walked　past　street　peddlers　selling　cigarettes；　pine　nuts；　and　biscuits。
A　scrawny　boy　in　a　tweed　jacket　grabbed　my　elbow　and　spoke　into　my　ear。　Asked　me　if　I　wanted　to　buy　some　　sexy　pictures。　
　Very　sexy；　Agha；　　he　said；　his　alert　eyes　darting　side　to　side……　reminding　me　of　a　girl　who；　a　few　years　earlier；　had　tried　to　sell　me　crack　in　the　Tenderloin　district　in　San　Francisco。　The　kid　peeled　one　side　of　his　jacket　open　and　gave　me　a　fleeting　glance　of　his　sexy　pictures：　postcards　of　Hindi　movies　showing
doe…eyed　sultry　actresses；　fully　dressed；　in　the　arms　of　their　leading　men。　　So　sexy；　　he　repeated。
　Nay；　thanks；　　I　said；　pushing　past　him。
　He　gets　caught；　they　ll　give　him　a　flogging　that　will　waken　his　father　in　the　grave；　　Farid　muttered。
There　was　no　assigned　seating；　of　course。　No　one　to　show　us　politely　to　our　section；　aisle；　row；　and　seat。　There　never　had　been；　even　in　the　old　days　of　the　monarchy。　We　found　a　decent　spot　to　sit；　just　left　of　midfield；　though　it　took　some　shoving　and　elbowing　on　Farid　s　part。
I　remembered　how　green　the　playing　field　grass　had　been　in　the　　70s　when　Baba　used　to　bring　me　to　soccer　games　here。　Now　the　pitch　was　a　mess。　There　were　holes　and　craters　everywhere；　most　notably　a　pair　of　deep　holes　in　the　ground　behind　the　southend　goalposts。　And　there　was　no　grass　at　all；　just　dirt。　When　the　two　teams　finally　took　the　field……all　wearing　long　pants　despite　the　heat……and　play　began；　it　became　difficult　to　follow　the　ball　in　the　clouds　of　dust　kicked　up　by　the　players。　Young；　whip…toting　Talibs　roamed　the　aisles；　striking　anyone　who　cheered　too　loudly。
They　brought　them　out　shortly　after　the　halftime　whistle　blew。　A　pair　of　dusty　red　pickup　trucks；　like　the　ones　I　d　seen　around　town　since　I　d　arrived；　rode　into　the　stadium　through　the　gates。　The　crowd　rose　to　its　feet。　A　woman　dressed　in　a　green　burqa　sat　in　the　cab　of　one　truck；　a　blindfolded　man　in　the　other。　The　trucks　drove　around　the　track；　slowly；　as　if　to　let　the　crowd　get　a　long　look。　It　had　the　desired　effect：　People　craned　their　necks；　pointed；　stood　on　tiptoes。　Next　to　me；　Farid　s　Adam　s　apple　bobbed　up　and　down　as　he　mumbled　a　prayer　under　his　breath。
The