the kite runner-第97章

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　gracious　as　His　book　says　He　is。　I　bow　to　the　west　and　kiss　the　ground　and　promise　that　I　will　do　_zakat_；　I　will　do　_namaz_；　I　will　fast　during　Ramadan　and　when　Ramadan　has　passed　I　will　go　on　fasting；　I　will　mit　to　memory　every　last　word　of　His　holy　book；　and　I　will　set　on　a　pilgrimage　to　that　sweltering　city　in　the　desert　and　bow　before　the　Ka　bah　too。　I　will　do　all　of　this　and　I　will　think　of　Him　every　day　from　this　day　on　if　He　only　grants　me　this　one　wish：　My　hands　are　stained　with　Hassan　s　blood；　I　pray　God　doesn　t　let　them　get　stained　with　the　blood　of　his　boy　too。
I　hear　a　whimpering　and　realize　it　is　mine；　my　lips　are　salty　with　the　tears　trickling　down　my　face。　I　feel　the　eyes　of　everyone　in　this　corridor　on　me　and　still　I　bow　to　the　west。　I　pray。　I　pray　that　my　sins　have　not　caught　up　with　me　the　way　I　d　always　feared　they　would。
A　STARLESS；　BLACK　NIGHT　falls　over　Islamabad。　It　s　a　few　hours　later　and　I　am　sitting　now　on　the　floor　of　a　tiny　lounge　off　the　corridor　that　leads　to　the　emergency　ward。　Before　me　is　a　dull　brown　coffee　table　cluttered　with　newspapers　and　dog…eared　magazines……an　April　1996　issue　of　Time；　a　Pakistani　newspaper　showing　the　face　of　a　young　boy　who　was　hit　and　killed　by　a　train　the　week　before；　an　entertainment　magazine　with　smiling　Hollywood　actors　on　its　glossy　cover。　There　is　an　old　woman　wearing　a　jade　green　shalwar…kameez　and　a　crocheted　shawl　nodding　off　in　a　wheelchair　across　from　me。　Every　once　in　a　while；　she　stirs　awake　and　mutters　a　prayer　in　Arabic。　I　wonder　tiredly　whose　prayers　will　be　heard　tonight；　hers　or　mine。　I　picture　Sohrab　s　face；　the　pointed　meaty　chin；　his　small　seashell　ears；　his　slanting　bambooleaf　eyes　so　much　like　his　father　s。　A　sorrow　as　black　as　the　night　outside　invades　me；　and　I　feel　my　throat　clamping。
I　need　air。
I　get　up　and　open　the　windows。　The　air　ing　through　the　screen　is　musty　and　hot……it　smells　of　overripe　dates　and　dung。　I　force　it　into　my　lungs　in　big　heaps；　but　it　doesn　t　clear　the　clamping　feeling　in　my　chest。　I　drop　back　on　the　floor。　I　pick　up　the　Time　magazine　and　flip　through　the　pages。　But　I　can　t　read；　can　t　focus　on　anything。　So　I　toss　it　on　the　table　and　go　back　to　staring　at　the　zigzagging　pattern　of　the　cracks　on　the　cement　floor；　at　the　cobwebs　on　the　ceiling　where　the　walls　meet；　at　the　dead　flies　littering　the　windowsill。　Mostly；　I　stare　at　the　clock　on　the　wall。　It　s　just　past　4　A。M。　and　I　have　been　shut　out　of　the　room　with　the　swinging　double　doors　for　over　five　hours　now。　I　still　haven　t　heard　any　news。
The　floor　beneath　me　begins　to　feel　like　part　of　my　body；　and　my　breathing　is　growing　heavier；　slower。　I　want　to　sleep；　shut　my　eyes　and　lie　my　head　down　on　this　cold；　dusty　floor。　Drift　off。　When　I　wake　up；　maybe　I　will　discover　that　everything　I　saw　in　the　hotel　bathroom　was　part　of　a　dream：　the　water　drops　dripping　from　the　faucet　and　landing　with　a　plink　into　the　bloody　bathwater；　the　left　arm　dangling　over　the　side　of　the　tub；　the　blood…soaked　razor　sitting　on　the　toilet　tank……the　same　razor　I　had　shaved　with　the　day　before……and　his　eyes；　still　half　open　but　light　less。　That　more　than　anything。　I　want　to　forget　the　eyes。
Soon；　sleep　es　and　I　let　it　take　me。　I　dream　of　things　I　can　t　remember　later。
SOMEONE　IS　TAPPING　ME　on　the　shoulder。　I　open　my　eyes。　There　is　a　man　kneeling　beside　me。　He　is　wearing　a　cap　like　the　men　behind　the　swinging　double　doors　and　a　paper　surgical　mask　over　his　mouth……my　heart　sinks　when　I　see　a　drop　of　blood　on　the　mask。　He　has　taped　a　picture　of　a　doe…eyed　little　girl　to　his　beeper。　He　unsnaps　his　mask　and　I　m　glad　I　don　t　have　to　look　at　Sohrab　s　blood　anymore。　His　skin　is　dark　like　the　imported　Swiss　chocolate　Hassan　and　I　used　to　buy　from　the　bazaar　in　Shar…e…Nau；　he　has　thinning　hair　and　hazel　eyes　topped　with　curved　eyelashes。　In　a　British　accent；　he　tells　me　his　name　is　Dr。　Nawaz；　and　suddenly　I　want　to　be　away　from　this　man；　because　I　don　t　think　I　can　bear　to　hear　what　he　has　e　to　tell　me。　He　says　the　boy　had　cut　himself　deeply　and　had　lost　a　great　deal　of　blood　and　my　mouth　begins　to　mutter　that　prayer　again：
La　illaha　il　Allah；　Muhammad　u　rasul　ullah。
They　had　to　transfuse　several　units　of　red　cells……　How　will　I　tell　Soraya？
Twice；　they　had　to　revive　him……I　will　do　_namaz_；　I　will　do　_zakat_。
They　would　have　lost　him　if　his　heart　hadn　t　been　young　and　strong……
I　will　fast。
He　is　alive。
Dr。　Nawaz　smiles。　It　takes　me　a　moment　to　register　what　he　has　just　said。　Then　he　says　more　but　I　don　t　hear　him。　Because　I　have　taken　his　hands　and　I　have　brought　them　up　to　my　face。　I　weep　my　relief　into　this　stranger　s　small；　meaty　hands　and　he　says　nothing　now。　He　waits。
THE　INTENSIVE　CARE　UNIT　is　L…shaped　and　dim；　a　jumble　of　bleeping　monitors　and　whirring　machines。　Dr。　Nawaz　leads　me　between　two　rows　of　beds　separated　by　white　plastic　curtains。　Sohrab　s　bed　is　the　last　one　around　the　corner；　the　one　nearest　the　nurses　　station　where　two　nurses　in　green　surgical　scrubs　are　jotting　notes　on　clipboards；　chatting　in　low　voices。　On　the　silent　ride　up　the　elevator　with　Dr。　Nawaz；　I　had　thought　I　d　weep　again　when　I　saw　Sohrab。　But　when　I　sit　on　the　chair　at　the　foot　of　his　bed；　looking　at　his　white　face　through　the　tangle　of　gleaming　plastic　tubes　and　IV　lines；　I　am　dry…eyed。　Watching　his　chest　rise　and　fall　to　the　rhythm　of　the　hissing　ventilator；　a　curious　numbness　washes　over　me；　the　same　numbness　a　man　might　feel　seconds　after　he　has　swerved　his　car　and　barely　avoided　a　head…on　collision。
I　doze　off；　and；　when　I　wake　up；　I　see　the　sun　rising　in　a　buttermilk　sky　through　the　window　next　to　the　nurses　　station。　The　light　slants　into　the　roo