the kite runner-第77章

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er；　the　teams　took　the　field。　Second　half　was　under　way。
Our　meeting　was　arranged　for　three　o　clock　that　afternoon。　The　swiftness　with　which　the　appointment　was　set　surprised　me。　I　d　expected　delays；　a　round　of　questioning　at　least；　perhaps　a　check　of　our　papers。　But　I　was　reminded　of　how　unofficial　even　official　matters　still　were　in　Afghanistan：　all　Farid　had　to　do　was　tell　one　of　the　whip…carrying　Talibs　that　we　had　personal　business　to　discuss　with　the　man　in　white。　Farid　and　he　exchanged　words。　The　guy　with　the　whip　then　nodded　and　shouted　something　in　Pashtu　to　a　young　man　on　the　field；　who　ran　to　the　south…end　goalposts　where　the　Talib　in　the　sunglasses　was　chatting　with　the　plump　cleric　who　d　given　the　sermon。　The　three　spoke。　I　saw　the　guy　in　the　sunglasses　look　up。　He　nodded。　Said　something　in　the　messenger　s　ear。　The　young　man　relayed　the　message　back　to　us。
It　was　set；　then。　Three　o　clock。
TWENTY…TWO
Farid　eased　the　Land　Cruiser　up　the　driveway　of　a　big　house　in　Wazir　Akbar　Khan。　He　parked　in　the　shadows　of　willow　trees　that　spilled　over　the　walls　of　the　pound　located　on　Street　15；　Sarak…e…Mehmana；　Street　of　the　Guests。　He　killed　the　engine　and　we　sat　for　a　minute；　listening　to　the　tink…tink　of　the　engine　cooling　off；　neither　one　of　us　saying　anything。　Farid　shifted　on　his　seat　and　toyed　with　the　keys　still　hanging　from　the　ignition　switch。　I　could　tell　he　was　readying　himself　to　tell　me　something。
　I　guess　I　ll　wait　in　the　car　for　you；　　he　said　finally；　his　tone　a　little　apologetic。　He　wouldn　t　look　at　me。　　This　is　your　business　now。　I……　
I　patted　his　arm。　　You　ve　done　much　more　than　I　ve　paid　you　for。　I　don　t　expect　you　to　go　with　me。　　But　I　wished　I　didn　t　have　to　go　in　alone。　Despite　what　I　had　learned　about　Baba；　I　wished　he　were　standing　alongside　me　now。　Baba　would　have　busted　through　the　front　doors　and　demanded　to　be　taken　to　the　man　in　charge；　piss　on　the　beard　of　anyone　who　stood　in　his　way。　But　Baba　was　long　dead；　buried　in　the　Afghan　section　of　a　little　cemetery　in　Hayward。　Just　last　month；　Soraya　and　I　had　placed　a　bouquet　of　daisies　and　freesias　beside　his　headstone。　I　was　on　my　own。
I　stepped　out　of　the　car　and　walked　to　the　tall；　wooden　front　gates　of　the　house。　I　rang　the　bell　but　no　buzz　came……still　no　electricity……and　I　had　to　pound　on　the　doors。　A　moment　later；　I　heard　terse　voices　from　the　other　side　and　a　pair　of　men　toting　Kalash　nikovs　answered　the　door。
I　glanced　at　Farid　sitting　in　the　car　and　mouthed；　I　ll　be　back；　not　so　sure　at　all　that　I　would　be。
The　armed　men　frisked　me　head　to　toe；　patted　my　legs；　felt　my　crotch。　One　of　them　said　something　in　Pashtu　and　they　both　chuckled。　We　stepped　through　the　front　gates。　The　two　guards　escorted　me　across　a　well…manicured　lawn；　past　a　row　of　geraniums　and　stubby　bushes　lined　along　the　wall。　An　old　hand…pump　water　well　stood　at　the　far　end　of　the　yard。　I　remembered　how　Kaka　Homayoun　s　house　in　Jalalabad　had　had　a　water　well　like　that……the　twins；　Fazila　and　Karima；　and　I　used　to　drop　pebbles　in　it；　listen　for　the　plink。
We　climbed　a　few　steps　and　entered　a　large；　sparsely　decorated　house。　We　crossed　the　foyer……a　large　Afghan　flag　draped　one　of　the　walls……and　the　men　took　me　upstairs　to　a　room　with　twin　mint　green　sofas　and　a　big…screen　TV　in　the　far　corner。　A　prayer　rug　showing　a　slightly　oblong　Mecca　was　nailed　to　one　of　the　walls。　The　older　of　the　two　men　motioned　toward　the　sofa　with　the　barrel　of　his　weapon。　I　sat　down。　They　left　the　room。
I　crossed　my　legs。　Uncrossed　them。　Sat　with　my　sweaty　hands　on　my　knees。　Did　that　make　me　look　nervous？　I　clasped　them　together；　decided　that　was　worse　and　just　crossed　my　arms　on　my　chest。　Blood　thudded　in　my　temples。　I　felt　utterly　alone。　Thoughts　were　flying　around　in　my　head；　but　I　didn　t　want　to　think　at　all；　because　a　sober　part　of　me　knew　that　what　I　had　managed　to　get　myself　into　was　insanity。　I　was　thousands　of　miles　from　my　wife；　sitting　in　a　room　that　felt　like　a　holding　cell；　waiting　for　a　man　I　had　seen　murder　two　people　that　same　day。　It　was　insanity。　Worse　yet；　it　was　irresponsible。　There　was　a　very　realistic　chance　that　I　was　going　to　render　Soraya　a　biwa；　a　widow；　at　the　age　of　thirty…six。　This　isn　t　you；　Amir；　part　of　me　said。　You　re　gutless。　It　s　how　you　were　made。　And　that　s　not　such　a　bad　thing　because　your　saving　grace　is　that　you　ve　never　lied　to　yourself　about　it。　Not　about　that。　Nothing　wrong　with　cowardice　as　long　as　it　es　with　prudence。　But　when　a　coward　stops　remembering　who　he　is。。。　God　help　him。
There　was　a　coffee　table　by　the　sofa。　The　base　was　X…shaped；　walnut…sized　brass　balls　studding　the　ring　where　the　metallic　legs　crossed。　I　d　seen　a　table　like　that　before。　Where？　And　then　it　came　to　me：　at　the　crowded　tea　shop　in　Peshawar；　that　night　I　d　gone　for　a　walk。　On　the　table　sat　a　bowl　of　red　grapes。　I　plucked　one　and　tossed　it　in　my　mouth。　I　had　to　preoccupy　myself　with　something；　anything；　to　silence　the　voice　in　my　head。　The　grape　was　sweet。　I　popped　another　one　in；　unaware　that　it　would　be　the　last　bit　of　solid　food　I　would　eat　for　a　long　time。
The　door　opened　and　the　two　armed　men　returned；　between　them　the　tall　Talib　in　white；　still　wearing　his　dark　John　Lennon　glasses；　looking　like　some　broad…shouldered；　NewAge　mystic　guru。
He　took　a　seat　across　from　me　and　lowered　his　hands　on　the　armrests。　For　a　long　time；　he　said　nothing。　Just　sat　there；　watching　me；　one　hand　drumming　the　upholstery；　the　other　twirling　turquoise　blue　prayer　beads。　He　wore　a　black　vest　over　the　white　shirt　now；　and　a　gold　watch。　I　saw　a　splotch　of　dried　blood　on　his　left　sleeve。　I　found　it　morbidly　fascinating　that　he　hadn　t　changed　cloth