《the kite runner》

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the kite runner- 第39部分


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 Just go。  He had me park at the south end of the street。 He reached in his coat pocket and handed me a set of keys。  There;  he said; pointing to the car in front of us。 It was an old model Ford; long and wide; a dark color I couldn t discern in the moon light。  It needs painting; and I ll have one of the guys at the station put in new shocks; but it runs。 
I took the keys; stunned。 I looked from him to the car。
 You ll need it to go to college;  he said。
I took his hand in mine。 Squeezed it。 My eyes were tearing over and I was glad for the shadows that hid our faces。  Thank you; Baba。 
We got out and sat inside the Ford。 It was a Grand Torino。 Navy blue; Baba said。 I drove it around the block; testing the brakes; the radio; the turn signals。 I parked it in the lot of our apartment building and shut off the engine。  Tashakor; Baba jan;  I said。 I wanted to say more; tell him how touched I was by his act of kindness; how much I appreciated all that he had done for me; all that he was still doing。 But I knew I d embarrass him。  Tashakor;  I repeated instead。
He smiled and leaned back against the headrest; his forehead almost touching the ceiling。 We didn t say anything。 Just sat in the dark; listened to the tink…tink of the engine cooling; the wail of a siren in the distance。 Then Baba rolled his head toward me。  I wish Hassan had been with us today;  he said。
A pair of steel hands closed around my windpipe at the sound of Hassan s name。 I rolled down the window。 Waited for the steel hands to loosen their grip。
I WOULD ENROLL in junior college classes in the fall; I told Baba the day after graduation。 He was drinking cold black tea and chewing cardamom seeds; his personal trusted antidote for hang over headaches。
 I think I ll major in English;  I said。 I winced inside; waiting for his reply。
 English? 
 Creative writing。 
He considered this。 Sipped his tea。  Stories; you mean。 You ll make up stories。  I looked down at my feet。
 They pay for that; making up stories? 
 If you re good;  I said。  And if you get discovered。 
 How likely is that; getting discovered? 
 It happens;  I said。
He nodded。  And what will you do while you wait to get good and get discovered? How will you earn money? If you marry; how will you support your khanum? 
I couldn t lift my eyes to meet his。  I ll。。。 find a job。 
 Oh;  he said。  Wah wah! So; if I understand; you ll study several years to earn a degree; then you ll get a chatti job like mine; one you could just as easily land today; on the small chance that your degree might someday help you get。。。 discovered。  He took a deep breath and sipped his tea。 Grunted something about medical school; law school; and  real work。 
My cheeks burned and guilt coursed through me; the guilt of indulging myself at the expense of his ulcer; his black fingernails and aching wrists。 But I would stand my ground; I decided。 I didn t want to sacrifice for Baba anymore。 The last time I had done that; I had damned myself。
Baba sighed and; this time; tossed a whole handful of car damom seeds in his mouth。
SOMETIMES; I GOT BEHIND the wheel of my Ford; rolled down the windows; and drove for hours; from the East Bay to the South Bay; up the Peninsula and back。 I drove through the grids of cottonwood…lined streets in our Fremont neighborhood; where people who d never shaken hands with kings lived in shabby; flat one…story houses with barred windows; where old cars like mine dripped oil on blacktop driveways。 Pencil gray chain…link fences closed off the backyards in our neighborhood。 Toys; bald tires; and beer bottles with peeling labels littered unkempt front lawns。 I drove past tree…shaded parks that smelled like bark; past strip malls big enough to hold five simultaneous Buzkashi tournaments。 I drove the Torino up the hills of Los Altos; idling past estates with picture windows and silver lions guarding the wrought…iron gates; homes with cherub fountains lining the manicured walkways and no Ford Torinos in the drive ways。 Homes that made Baba s house in Wazir Akbar Khan look like a servant s hut。
I d get up early some Saturday mornings and drive south on Highway 17; push the Ford up the winding road through the mountains to Santa Cruz。 I would park by the old lighthouse and wait for sunrise; sit in my car and watch the fog rolling in from the sea。 In Afghanistan; I had only seen the ocean at the cinema。 Sitting in the dark next to Hassan; I had always wondered if it was true what I d read; that sea air smelled like salt。 I used to tell Hassan that someday we d walk on a strip of seaweed…strewn beach; sink our feet in the sand; and watch the water recede from our toes。 The first time I saw the Pacific; I almost cried。 It was as vast and blue as the oceans on the movie screens of my childhood。
Sometimes in the early evening; I parked the car and walked up a freeway overpass。 My face pressed against the fence; I d try to count the blinking red taillights inching along; stretching as far as my eyestould see。 BMWs。 Saabs。
Porsches。 Cars I d never seen in Kabul; where most people drove Russian Volgas; old Opels; or Iranian Paikans。
Almost two years had passed since we had arrived in the U。S。; and I was still marveling at the size of this country; its vastness。 Beyond every freeway lay another freeway; beyond every city another city hills beyond mountains and mountains beyond hills; and; beyond those; more cities and more people。
Long before the Roussi army marched into Afghanistan; long before villages were burned and schools destroyed; long before mines were planted like seeds of death and children buried in rock…piled graves; Kabul had bee a city of gho
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