the kite runner-第92章

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　are　friendly。　Relax。　　I　could　have　used　my　own　advice。　I　kept　shifting　in　my　seat；　untying　and　retying　my　shoelaces。　The　secretary　placed　a　tall　glass　of　lemonade　with　ice　on　the　coffee　table。　　There　you　go。　
Sohrab　smiled　shyly。　　Thank　you　very　much；　　he　said　in　English。　It　came　out　as　　Tank　you　wery　match。　　It　was　the　only　English　he　knew；　he　d　told　me；　that　and　　Have　a　nice　day。　
She　laughed。　　You　re　most　wele。　　She　walked　back　to　her　desk；　high　heels　clicking　on　the　floor。
　Have　a　nice　day；　　Sohrab　said。
RAYMOND　ANDREWS　was　a　short　fellow　with　small　hands；　nails　perfectly　trimmed；　wedding　band　on　the　ring　finger。　He　gave　me　a　curt　little　shake；　it　felt　like　squeezing　a　sparrow。　Those　are　the　hands　that　hold　our　fates；　I　thought　as　Sohrab　and　I　seated　our　selves　across　from　his　desk。　A　_Les　Mis閞ables_　poster　was　nailed　to　the　wall　behind　Andrews　next　to　a　topographical　map　of　the　U。S。　A　pot　of　tomato　plants　basked　in　the　sun　on　the　windowsill。
　Smoke？　　he　asked；　his　voice　a　deep　baritone　that　was　at　odds　with　his　slight　stature。
　No　thanks；　　I　said；　not　caring　at　all　for　the　way　Andrews　s　eyes　barely　gave　Sohrab　a　glance；　or　the　way　he　didn　t　look　at　me　when　he　spoke。　He　pulled　open　a　desk　drawer　and　lit　a　cigarette　from　a　half…empty　pack。　He　also　produced　a　bottle　of　lotion　from　the　same　drawer。　He　looked　at　his　tomato　plants　as　he　rubbed　lotion　into　his　hands；　cigarette　dangling　from　the　corner　of　his　mouth。　Then　he　closed　the　drawer；　put　his　elbows　on　the　desktop；　and　exhaled。　　So；　　he　said；　crinkling　his　gray　eyes　against　the　smoke；　　tell　me　your　story。　
I　felt　like　Jean　Valjean　sitting　across　from　Javert。　I　reminded　myself　that　I　was　on　American　soil　now；　that　this　guy　was　on　my　side；　that　he　got　paid　for　helping　people　like　me。　　I　want　to　adopt　this　boy；　take　him　back　to　the　States　with　me；　　I　said。
　Tell　me　your　story；　　he　repeated；　crushing　a　flake　of　ash　on　the　neatly　arranged　desk　with　his　index　finger；　flicking　it　into　the　trash　can。
I　gave　him　the　version　I　had　worked　out　in　my　head　since　I　d　hung　up　with　Soraya。　I　had　gone　into　Afghanistan　to　bring　back　my　half　brother　s　son。　I　had　found　the　boy　in　squalid　conditions；　wasting　away　in　an　orphanage。　I　had　paid　the　orphanage　director　a　sum　of　money　and　withdrawn　the　boy。　Then　I　had　brought　him　to　Pakistan。
　You　are　the　boy　s　half　uncle？　
　Yes。　
He　checked　his　watch。　Leaned　and　turned　the　tomato　plants　on　the　sill。　　Know　anyone　who　can　attest　to　that？　
　Yes；　but　I　don　t　know　where　he　is　now。　
He　turned　to　me　and　nodded。　I　tried　to　read　his　face　and　couldn　t。　I　wondered　if　he　d　ever　tried　those　little　hands　of　his　at　poker。
　I　assume　getting　your　jaws　wired　isn　t　the　latest　fashion　statement；　　he　said。　We　were　in　trouble；　Sohrab　and　I；　and　I　knew　it　then。　I　told　him　I　d　gotten　mugged　in　Peshawar。
　Of　course；　　he　said。　Cleared　his　throat。　　Are　you　Muslim？　
　Yes。　
　Practicing？　
　Yes。　　In　truth；　I　didn　t　remember　the　last　time　I　had　laid　my　forehead　to　the　ground　in　prayer。　Then　I　did　remember：　the　day　Dr。　Amani　gave　Baba　his　prognosis。　I　had　kneeled　on　the　prayer　rug；　remembering　only　fragments　of　verses　I　had　learned　in　school。
　Helps　your　case　some；　but　not　much；　　he　said；　scratching　a　spot　on　the　flawless　part　in　his　sandy　hair。
　What　do　you　mean？　　I　asked。　I　reached　for　Sohrab　s　hand；　intertwined　my　fingers　with　his。　Sohrab　looked　uncertainly　from　me　to　Andrews。
　There　s　a　long　answer　and　I　m　sure　I　ll　end　up　giving　it　to　you。　You　want　the　short　one　first？　
　I　guess；　　I　said。
Andrews　crushed　his　cigarette；　his　lips　pursed。　　Give　it　up。　
　I　m　sorry？　
　Your　petition　to　adopt　this　young　fellow。　Give　it　up。　That　s　my　advice　to　you。　
　Duly　noted；　　I　said。　　Now；　perhaps　you　ll　tell　me　why。　
　That　means　you　want　the　long　answer；　　he　said；　his　voice　impassive；　not　reacting　at　all　to　my　curt　tone。　He　pressed　his　hands　palm　to　palm；　as　if　he　were　kneeling　before　the　Virgin　Mary。　　Let　s　assume　the　story　you　gave　me　is　true；　though　I　d　bet　my　pension　a　good　deal　of　it　is　either　fabricated　or　omitted。　Not　that　I　care；　mind　you。　You　re　here；　he　s　here；　that　s　all　that　matters。　Even　so；　your　petition　faces　significant　obstacles；　not　the　least　of　which　is　that　this　child　is　not　an　orphan。　
　Of　course　he　is。　
　Not　legally　he　isn　t。　
　His　parents　were　executed　in　the　street。　The　neighbors　saw　it；　　I　said；　glad　we　were　speaking　in　English。
　You　have　death　certificates？　
　Death　certificates？　This　is　Afghanistan　we　re　talking　about。　Most　people　there　don　t　have　birth　certificates。　
His　glassy　eyes　didn　t　so　much　as　blink。　　I　don　t　make　the　laws；　sir。　Your　outrage　notwithstanding；　you　still　need　to　prove　the　parents　are　deceased。　The　boy　has　to　be　declared　a　legal　orphan。　
　But……　
　You　wanted　the　long　answer　and　I　m　giving　it　to　you。　Your　next　problem　is　that　you　need　the　cooperation　of　the　child　s　country　of　origin。　Now；　that　s　difficult　under　the　best　of　circumstances；　and；　to　quote　you；　this　is　Afghanistan　we　re　talking　about。　We　don　t　have　an　American　embassy　in　Kabul。　That　makes　things　extremely　plicated。　Just　about　impossible。　
　What　are　you　saying；　that　I　should　throw　him　back　on　the　streets？　　I　said。
　I　didn　t　say　that。　
　He　was　sexually　abused；　　I　said；　thinking　of　the　bells　around　Sohrab　s　ankles；　the　mascara　on　his　eyes。
　I　m　sorry　to　hear　that；　　Andrews　s　mouth　said。　The　way　he　was　looking　at　me；　though；　we　might　as　well　have　been　talking　about　the　weather。　　But　that　is　not　going　to　make　the　INS　issue　this　young　fellow　a　visa。　
　What　are　you　saying？　
　I　m　saying　that　if　you　want　to　help；　send　money　to　a　reputable　relief　organization。　Volunteer　at　a　refugee　camp。　But　at　this　point