the kite runner-第70章

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　TV　on　the　Internet；　on　the　cover　of　magazines；　and　in　newspapers。　But　here　I　was　now；　less　than　fifty　feet　from　them；　telling　myself　that　the　sudden　taste　in　my　mouth　wasn　t　unadulterated；　naked　fear。　Telling　myself　my　flesh　hadn　t　suddenly　shrunk
against　my　bones　and　my　heart　wasn　t　battering。　Here　they　came。　In　all　their　glory。
The　red　Toyota　pickup　truck　idled　past　us。　A　handful　of　sternfaced　young　men　sat　on　their　haunches　in　the　cab；　Kalashnikovs　slung　on　their　shoulders。　They　all　wore　beards　and　black　turbans。　One　of　them；　a　dark…skinned　man　in　his　early　twenties　with　thick；　knitted　eyebrows　twirled　a　whip　in　his　hand　and　rhythmically　swatted　the　side　of　the　truck　with　it。　His　roaming　eyes　fell　on　me。　Held　my　gaze。　I　d　never　felt　so　naked　in　my　entire　life。　Then　the　Talib　spat　tobacco…stained　spittle　and　looked　away。　I　found　I　could　breathe　again。　The　truck　rolled　down　Jadeh　Maywand；　leaving　in　its　trail　a　cloud　of　dust。
　What　is　the　matter　with　you？　　Farid　hissed。
　What？　
　Don　t　ever　stare　at　them！　Do　you　understand　me？　Never！　
　I　didn　t　mean　to；　　I　said。
　Your　friend　is　quite　right；　Agha。　You　might　as　well　poke　a　rabid　dog　with　a　stick；　　someone　said。　This　new　voice　belonged　to　an　old　beggar　sitting　barefoot　on　the　steps　of　a　bullet…scarred　building。　He　wore　a　threadbare　chapan　worn　to　frayed　shreds　and　a　dirt…crusted　turban。　His　left　eyelid　drooped　over　an　empty　socket。　With　an　arthritic　hand；　he　pointed　to　the　direction　the　red　truck　had　gone。　　They　drive　around　looking。　Looking　and　hoping　that　someone　will　provoke　them。　Sooner　or　later；　someone　always　obliges。　Then　the　dogs　feast　and　the　day　s　boredom　is　broken　at　last　and　everyone　says　　Allah…u…akbar！　　And　on　those　days　when　no　one　offends；　well；　there　is　always　random　violence；　isn　t　there？　
　Keep　your　eyes　on　your　feet　when　the　Talibs　are　near；　　Farid　said。
　Your　friend　dispenses　good　advice；　　the　old　beggar　chimed　in。　He　barked　a　wet　cough　and　spat　in　a　soiled　handkerchief。　　Forgive　me；　but　could　you　spare　a　few　Afghanis？　　he　breathed。
　Bas。　Let　s　go；　　Farid　said；　pulling　me　by　the　arm。
I　handed　the　old　man　a　hundred　thousand　Afghanis；　or　the　equivalent　of　about　three　dollars。　When　he　leaned　forward　to　take　the　money；　his　stench……like　sour　milk　and　feet　that　hadn　t　been　washed　in　weeks……flooded　my　nostrils　and　made　my　gorge　rise。　He　hurriedly　slipped　the　money　in　his　waist；　his　lone　eye　darting　side　to　side。　　A　world　of　thanks　for　your　benevolence；　Agha　sahib。　
　Do　you　know　where　the　orphanage　is　in　Karteh…Seh？　　I　said。
　It　s　not　hard　to　find；　it　s　just　west　of　Darulaman　Boulevard；　　he　said。　　The　children　were　moved　from　here　to　Karteh…Seh　after　the　rockets　hit　the　old　orphanage。　Which　is　like　saving　someone　from　the　lion　s　cage　and　throwing　them　in　the　tiger　s。　
　Thank　you；　Agha；　　I　said。　I　turned　to　go。
　That　was　your　first　time；　nay？　
　I　m　sorry？　
　The　first　time　you　saw　a　Talib。　
I　said　nothing。　The　old　beggar　nodded　and　smiled。　Revealed　a　handful　of　remaining　teeth；　all　crooked　and　yellow。　　I　remember　the　first　time　I　saw　them　rolling　into　Kabul。　What　a　joyous　day　that　was！　　he　said。　　An　end　to　the　killing！　Wah　wah！　But　like　the　poet　says：　　How　seamless　seemed　love　and　then　came　trouble！　
A　smile　sprouted　on　my　face。　　I　know　that　ghazal。　That　s　H~afez。　
　Yes　it　is。　Indeed；　　the　old　man　replied。　　I　should　know。　I　used　to　teach　it　at　the　university。　
　You　did？　
The　old　man　coughed。　　From　1958　to　1996。　I　taught　H~afez；　Khayy醡；　Rumi；　Beydel；　Jami；　Saadi。　Once；　I　was　even　a　guest　lecturer　in　Tehran；　1971　that　was。　I　gave　a　lecture　on　the　mystic　Beydel。　I　remember　how　they　all　stood　and　clapped。　Ha！　　He　shook　his　head。　　But　you　saw　those　young　men　in　the　truck。　What　value　do　you　think　they　see　in　Sufism？　
　My　mother　taught　at　the　university；　　I　said。
　And　what　was　her　name？　
　Sofia　Akrami。　
His　eye　managed　to　twinkle　through　the　veil　of　cataracts。　　The　desert　weed　lives　on；　but　the　flower　of　spring　blooms　and　wilts。　　Such　grace；　such　dignity；　such　a　tragedy。　
　You　knew　my　mother？　　I　asked；　kneeling　before　the　old　man。
　Yes　indeed；　　the　old　beggar　said。　　We　used　to　sit　and　talk　after　class。　The　last　time　was　on　a　rainy　day　just　before　final　exams　when　we　shared　a　marvelous　slice　of　almond　cake　together。　Almond　cake　with　hot　tea　and　honey。　She　was　rather　obviously　pregnant　by　then；　and　all　the　more　beautiful　for　it。　I　will　never　forget　what　she　said　to　me　that　day。　
　What？　Please　tell　me。　　Baba　had　always　described　my　mother　to　me　in　broad　strokes；　like；　　She　was　a　great　woman。　　But　what　I　had　always　thirsted　for　were　the　details：　the　way　her　hair　glinted　in　the　sunlight；　her　favorite　ice　cream　flavor；　the　songs　she　liked　to　hum；　did　she　bite　her　nails？　Baba　took　his　memories　of　her　to　the　grave　with　him。　Maybe　speaking　her　name　would　have　reminded　him　of　his　guilt；　of　what　he　had　done　so　soon　after　she　had　died。　Or　maybe　his　loss　had　been　so　great；　his　pain　so　deep；　he　couldn　t　bear　to　talk　about　her。　Maybe　both。
　She　said；　　I　m　so　afraid。　　And　I　said；　　Why？；　　and　she　said；　　Because　I　m　so　profoundly　happy；　Dr。　Rasul。　Happiness　like　this　is　frightening。　　I　asked　her　why　and　she　said；　　They　only　let　you　be　this　happy　if　they　re　preparing　to　take　something　from　you；　　and　I　said；　　Hush　up；　now。　Enough　of　this　silliness。　
Farid　took　my　arm。　　We　should　go；　Amir　agha；　　he　said　softly。　I　snatched　my　arm　away。　　What　else？　What　else　did　she　say？　
The　old　man　s　features　softened。　　I　wish　I　remembered　for　you。　But　I　don　t。　Your　mother　passed　away　a　long　time　ago　and　my　memory　is　as　shattered　as　these　buildings。　I　am　sorry。　
　But　even　a　small　thing；　anything　at　all。　
The　old　man　smiled。　　I