the kite runner-第58部分

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　Salaam；　　I　said。　　I　m　sorry　to　be　mozahem；　I　didn　t　mean　to　disturb　you。　
　Salaam。　
　Is　General　Sahib　here　today？　　I　said。　My　ears　were　burning。　I　couldn　t　bring　myself　to　look　her　in　the　eye。
　He　went　that　way；　　she　said。　Pointed　to　her　right。　The　bracelet　slipped　down　to　her　elbow；　silver　against　olive。
　Will　you　tell　him　I　stopped　by　to　pay　my　respects？　　I　said。
　I　will。　
　Thank　you；　　I　said。　　Oh；　and　my　name　is　Amir。　In　case　you　need　to　know。　So　you　can　tell　him。　That　I　stopped　by。　To。。。　pay　my　respects。　
　Yes。　
I　shifted　on　my　feet；　cleared　my　throat。　　I　ll　go　now。　Sorry　to　have　disturbed　you。　
　Nay；　you　didn　t；　　she　said。
　Oh。　Good。　　I　tipped　my　head　and　gave　her　a　half　smile。　　I　ll　go　now。　　Hadn　t　I　already　said　that？　　Khoda　h~afez。　
　Khoda　h~afez。　
I　began　to　walk。　Stopped　and　turned。　I　said　it　before　I　had　a　chance　to　lose　my　nerve：　　Can　I　ask　what　you　re　reading？　
She　blinked。
I　held　my　breath。　Suddenly；　I　felt　the　collective　eyes　of　the　flea　market　Afghans　shift　to　us。　I　imagined　a　hush　falling。　Lips　stop　ping　in　midsentence。　Heads　turning。　Eyes　narrowing　with　keen　interest。
What　was　this？
Up　to　that　point；　our　encounter　could　have　been　interpreted　as　a　respectful　inquiry；　one　man　asking　for　the　whereabouts　of　another　man。　But　I　d　asked　her　a　question　and　if　she　answered；　we　d　be。。。　well；　we　d　be　chatting。　Me　a　mojarad；　a　single　young　man；　and　she　an　unwed　young　woman。　One　with　a　history；　no　less。　This　was　teetering　dangerously　on　the　verge　of　gossip　material；　and　the　best　kind　of　it。　Poison　tongues　would　flap。　And　she　would　bear　the　brunt　of　that　poison；　not　me……I　was　fully　aware　of　the　Afghan　double　standard　that　favored　my　gender。　Not　Did　you　see　him　chatting　with　her？　but　Wooooy！　Did　you　see　how　she　wouldn　t　let　him　go？　What　a　lochak！
By　Afghan　standards；　my　question　had　been　bold。　With　it；　I　had　bared　myself；　and　left　little　doubt　as　to　my　interest　in　her。　But　I　was　a　man；　and　all　I　had　risked　was　a　bruised　ego。　Bruises　healed。　Reputations　did　not。　Would　she　take　my　dare？
She　turned　the　book　so　the　cover　faced　me。　Wuthering　Heights。　　Have　you　read　it？　　she　said。
I　nodded。　I　could　feel　the　pulsating　beat　of　my　heart　behind　my　eyes。　　It　s　a　sad　story。　
　Sad　stories　make　good　books；　　she　said。
　They　do。　
　I　heard　you　write。　
How　did　she　know？　I　wondered　if　her　father　had　told　her；　maybe　she　had　asked　him。　I　immediately　dismissed　both　scenarios　as　absurd。　Fathers　and　sons　could　talk　freely　about　women。　But　no　Afghan　girl……no　decent　and　mohtaram　Afghan　girl；　at　least……queried　her　father　about　a　young　man。　And　no　father；　especially　a
Pashtun　with　nang　and　namoos；　would　discuss　a　mojarad　with　his　daughter；　not　unless　the　fellow　in　question　was　a　khastegar；　a　suitor；　who　had　done　the　honorable　thing　and　sent　his　father　to　knock　on　the　door。
Incredibly；　I　heard　myself　say；　　Would　you　like　to　read　one　of　my　stories？　
　I　would　like　that；　　she　said。　I　sensed　an　unease　in　her　now；　saw　it　in　the　way　her　eyes　began　to　flick　side　to　side。　Maybe　checking　for　the　general。　I　wondered　what　he　would　say　if　he　found　me　speaking　for　such　an　inappropriate　length　of　time　with　his　daughter。
　Maybe　I　ll　bring　you　one　someday；　　I　said。　I　was　about　to　say　more　when　the　woman　I　d　seen　on　occasion　with　Soraya　came　walking　up　the　aisle。　She　was　carrying　a　plastic　bag　full　of　fruit。　When　she　saw　us；　her　eyes　bounced　from　Soraya　to　me　and　back。　She　smiled。
　Amir　jan；　good　to　see　you；　　she　said；　unloading　the　bag　on　the　tablecloth。　Her　brow　glistened　with　a　sheen　of　sweat。　Her　red　hair；　coiffed　like　a　helmet；　glittered　in　the　sunlight……I　could　see　bits　of　her　scalp　where　the　hair　had　thinned。　She　had　small　green　eyes　buried　in　a　cabbage…round　face；　capped　teeth；　and　little　fingers　like　sausages。　A　golden　Allah　rested　on　her　chest；　the　chain　burrowed　under　the　skin　tags　and　folds　of　her　neck。　　I　am　Jamila；　Soraya　jan　s　mother。　
　Salaam；　Khala　jan；　　I　said；　embarrassed；　as　I　often　was　around　Afghans；　that　she　knew　me　and　I　had　no　idea　who　she　was。
　How　is　your　father？　　she　said。
　He　s　well；　thank　you。　
　You　know；　your　grandfather；　Ghazi　Sahib；　the　judge？　Now