《the kite runner》

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the kite runner- 第18部分


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ge people money for swimming in it。 
 So what does it mean?  I said。
He coated my _naan_ with marmalade; placed it on a plate。  I don t know。 I was hoping you could tell me。 
 Well; it s a dumb dream。 Nothing happens in it。 
 Father says dreams always mean something。 
I sipped some tea。  Why don t you ask him; then? He s so smart;  I said; more curtly than I had intended。 I hadn t slept all night。 My neck and back were like coiled springs; and my eyes stung。 Still; I had been mean to Hassan。 I almost apologized; then didn t。 Hassan understood I was just nervous。 Hassan always understood about me。
Upstairs; I could hear the water running in Baba s bathroom。
THE STREETS GLISTENED with fresh snow and the sky was a blameless blue。 Snow blanketed every rooftop and weighed on the branches of the stunted mulberry trees that lined our street。 Overnight; snow had nudged its way into every crack and gutter。 I squinted against the blinding white when Hassan and I stepped through the wrought…iron gates。 Ali shut the gates behind us。 I heard him mutter a prayer under his breath……he always said a prayer when his son left the house。
I had never seen so many people on our street。 Kids were flinging snowballs; squabbling; chasing one another; giggling。 Kite fighters were huddling with their spool holders; making lastminute preparations。 From adjacent streets; I could hear laughter and chatter。 Already; rooftops were jammed with spectators reclining in lawn chairs; hot tea steaming from thermoses; and the music of Ahmad Zahir blaring from cassette players。 The immensely popular Ahmad Zahir had revolutionized Afghan music and outraged the purists by adding electric guitars; drums; and horns to the traditional tabla and harmonium; on stage or at parties; he shirked the austere and nearly morose stance of older singers and actually smiled when he sang……sometimes even at women。 I turned my gaze to our rooftop; found Baba and Rahim Khan sitting on a bench; both dressed in wool sweaters; sipping tea。 Baba waved。 I couldn t tell if he was waving at me or Hassan。
 We should get started;  Hassan said。 He wore black rubber snow boots and a bright green chapan over a thick sweater and faded corduroy pants。 Sunlight washed over his face; and; in it; I saw how well the pink scar above his lip had healed。
Suddenly I wanted to withdraw。 Pack it all in; go back home。 What was I thinking? Why was I putting myself through this; when I already knew the oute? Baba was on the roof; watching me。 I felt his glare on me like the heat of a blistering sun。 This would be failure on a grand scale; even for me。
 I m not sure I want to fly a kite today;  I said。
 It s a beautiful day;  Hassan said。
I shifted on my feet。 Tried to peel my gaze away from our rooftop。  I don t know。 Maybe we should go home。 
Then he stepped toward me and; in a low voice; said something that scared me a little。  Remember; Amir agha。 There s no monster; just a beautiful day。  How could I be such an open book to him when; half the time; I had no idea what was milling around in his head? I was the one who went to school; the one who could read; write。 I was the smart one。 Hassan couldn t read a firstgrade textbook but he d read me plenty。 That was a little unsettling; but also sort of fortable to have someone who always knew what you needed。
 No monster;  I said; feeling a little better; to my own surprise。
He smiled。  No monster。 
 Are you sure? 
He closed his eyes。 Nodded。
I looked to the kids scampering down the street; flinging snowballs。  It is a beautiful day; isn t it? 
 Let s fly;  he said。
It occurred to me then that maybe Hassan had made up his dream。 Was that possible? I decided it wasn t。 Hassan wasn t that smart。 I wasn t that smart。 But made up or not; the silly dream had lifted some of my anxiety。 Maybe I should take off my shirt; take a swim in the lake。 Why not?
 Let s do it;  I said。
Hassan s face brightened。  Good;  he said。 He lifted our kite; red with yellow borders; and; just beneath where the central and cross spars met; marked with Saifo s unmistakable signature。 He licked his finger and held it up; tested the wind; then ran in its direction…on those rare occasions we flew kites in the summer; he d kick up dust to see which way the wind blew it。 The spool rolled in my hands until Hassan stopped; about fifty feet away。 He held the kite high over his head; like an Olympic athlete showing his gold medal。 I jerked the string twice; our usual signal; and Hassan tossed the kite。
Caught between Baba and the mullahs at school; I still hadn t made up my mind about God。 But when a Koran ayat I had learned in my diniyat class rose to my lips; I muttered it。 I took a deep breath; exhaled; and pulled on the string。 Within a minute; my kite was rocketing to the sky。 It made a sound like a paper bird flapping its wings。 Hassan clapped his hands; whistled; and ran back to me。 I handed him the spool; holding on to the string; and he spun it quickly to roll the loose string back on。
At least two dozen kites already hung in the sky; like paper sharks roaming for prey。 Within an hour; the number doubled; and red; blue; and yellow kites glided and spun in the sky。 A cold breeze wafted through my hair。 The wind was perfect for kite flying; blowing just hard enough to give some lift; make the sweeps easier。 Next to me; Hassan held the spool; his hands already bloodied by the string。
Soon; the cutting started and the first of the defeated kites whirled out of control。 They fell from the sky like shooting stars with brilliant; rippling tails; showering the neighborhoods below with prizes for the kite runners。 I could hear 
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