the kite runner-第76部分

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he　bed　and　let　our　own　savior　take　us　away。　Soraya　s　was　sleep。　Mine；　as　always；　was　a　book。
I　lay　in　the　dark　the　night　Rahim　Khan　called　and　traced　with　my　eyes　the　parallel　silver　lines　on　the　wall　made　by　moonlight　pouring　through　the　blinds。　At　some　point；　maybe　just　before　dawn；　I　drifted　to　sleep。　And　dreamed　of　Hassan　running　in　the　snow；　the　hem　of　his　green　chapan　dragging　behind　him；　snow　crunching　under　his　black　rubber　boots。　He　was　yelling　over　his　shoulder：　For　you；　a　thousand　times　over！
A　WEEK　LATER；　I　sat　on　a　window　seat　aboard　a　Pakistani　International　Airlines　flight；　watching　a　pair　of　uniformed　airline　workers　remove　the　wheel　chocks。　The　plane　taxied　out　of　the　terminal　and；　soon；　we　were　airborne；　cutting　through　the　clouds。　I　rested　my　head　against　the　window。　Waited；　in　vain；　for　sleep。
FIFTEEN
Three　hours　after　my　flight　landed　in　Peshawar；　I　was　sitting　on　shredded　upholstery　in　the　backseat　of　a　smoke…filled　taxicab。　My　driver；　a　chain…smoking；　sweaty　little　man　who　introduced　himself　as　Gholam；　drove　nonchalantly　and　recklessly；　averting　collisions　by　the　thinnest　of　margins；　all　without　so　much　as　a　pause　in　the　incessant　stream　of　words　spewing　from　his　mouth：
？？terrible　what　is　happening　in　your　country；　yar。　Afghani　people　and　Pakistani　people　they　are　like　brothers；　I　tell　you。　Muslims　have　to　help　Muslims　so。。。　
I　tuned　him　out；　switched　to　a　polite　nodding　mode。　I　remembered　Peshawar　pretty　well　from　the　few　months　Baba　and　I　had　spent　there　in　1981。　We　were　heading　west　now　on　Jamrud　road；　past　the　Cantonment　and　its　lavish；　high…walled　homes。　The　bustle　of　the　city　blurring　past　me　reminded　me　of　a　busier；　more　crowded　version　of　the　Kabul　I　knew；　particularly　of　the　KochehMorgha；　or　Chicken　Bazaar；　where　Hassan　and　I　used　to　buy　chutney…dipped　potatoes　and　cherry　water。　The　streets　were　clogged　with　bicycle　riders；　milling　pedestrians；　and　rickshaws　popping　blue　smoke；　all　weaving　through　a　maze　of　narrow　lanes　and　alleys。　Bearded　vendors　draped　in　thin　blankets　sold　animalskin　lampshades；　carpets；　embroidered　shawls；　and　copper　goods　from　rows　of　small；　tightly　jammed　stalls。　The　city　was　bursting　with　sounds；　the　shouts　of　vendors　rang　in　my　ears　mingled　with　the　blare　of　Hindi　music；　the　sputtering　of　rickshaws；　and　the　jingling　bells　of　horse…drawn　carts。　Rich　scents；　both　pleasant　and　not　so　pleasant；　drifted　to　me　through　the　passenger　window；　the　spicy　aroma　of　pakora　and　the　nihari　Baba　had　loved　so　much　blended　with　the　sting　of　diesel　fumes；　the　stench　of　rot；　garbage；　and　feces。
A　little　past　the　redbrick　buildings　of　Peshawar　University；　we　entered　an　area　my　garrulous　driver　referred　to　as　　Afghan　Town。　　I　saw　sweetshops　and　carpet　vendors；　kabob　stalls；　kids　with　dirtcaked　hands　selling　cigarettes；　tiny　restaurants……maps　of　Afghanistan　painted　on　their　windows……all　interlaced　with　backstreet　aid　agencies。　　Many　of　your　brothers　in　this　area；　yar。　They　are　opening　businesses；　but　most　of　them　are　very　poor。　　He　tsk　ed　his　tongue　and　sighed。　　Anyway；　we　re　getting　close　now。　
I　thought　about　the　last　time　I　had　seen　Rahim　Khan；　in　1981。　He　had　e　to　say　good…bye　the　night　Baba　and　I　had　fled　Kabul。　I　remember　Baba　and　him　embracing　in　the　foyer；　crying　softly。　When　Baba　and　I　arrived　in　the　U。S。；　he　and　Rahim　Khan　kept　in　touch。　They　would　speak　four　or　five　times　a　year　and；　sometimes；　Baba　would　pass　me　the　receiver。　The　last　time　I　had　spoken　to　Rahim　Khan　had　been　shortly　after　Baba　s　death。　The　news　had　reached　Kabul　and　he　had　called。　We　d　only　spoken　for　a　few　minutes　and　lost　the　connection。
The　driver　pulled　up　to　a　narrow　building　at　a　busy　corner　where　two　winding　streets　intersected。　I　paid　the　driver；　took　my　lone　suitcase；　and　walked　up　to　the　intricately　carved　door。　The　building　had　wooden　balconies　with　open　shutters……from　many　of　them；　laundry　was　hanging　to　dry　in　the　sun。　I　walked　up　the　creaky　stairs　to　the　second　floor；　down　a　dim　hallway　to　the　last　door　on　the　right。　Checked　the　address　on　the　piece　of　stationery　paper　in　my　palm。　Knocked。
Then；　a　thing　made　of　skin　and　bones　pretendin