《the kite runner》

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the kite runner- 第44部分


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r if she d like to learn to read and write。 She gave me this big smile; crinkling her eyes; and said she d like that very much。 So we d sit at the kitchen table after I was done with my own schoolwork and I d teach her Alef…beh。 I remember looking up sometimes in the middle of homework and seeing Ziba in the kitchen; stirring meat in the pressure cooker; then sitting down with a pencil to do the alphabet homework I d assigned to her the night before。
 Anyway; within a year; Ziba could read children s books。 We sat in the yard and she read me the tales of Dara and Sara……slowly but correctly。 She started calling me Moalem Soraya; Teacher Soraya。  She laughed again。  I know it sounds childish; but the first time Ziba wrote her own letter; I knew there was nothing else I d ever want to be but a teacher。 I was so proud of her and I felt I d done something really worthwhile; you know? 
 Yes;  I lied。 I thought of how I had used my literacy to ridicule Hassan。 How I had teased him about big words he didn t know。
 My father wants me to go to law school; my mother s always throwing hints about medical school; but I m going to be a teacher。 Doesn t pay much here; but it s what I want。 
 My mother was a teacher too;  I said。
 I know;  she said。  My mother told me。  Then her face red dened with a blush at what she had blurted; at the implication of her answer; that  Amir Conversations  took place between them when I wasn t there。 It took an enormous effort to stop myself from smiling。
 I brought you something。  I fished the roll of stapled pages from my back pocket。  As promised。  I handed her one of my short stories。
 Oh; you remembered;  she said; actually beaming。  Thank you!  I barely had time to register that she d addressed me with  tu  for the first time and not the formal  shoma;  because suddenly her smile vanished。 The color dropped from her face; and her eyes fixed on something behind me。 I turned around。 Came face…to…face with General Taheri。
 Amir jan。 Our aspiring storyteller。 What a pleasure;  he said。 He was smiling thinly。
 Salaam; General Sahib;  I said through heavy lips。
He moved past me; toward the booth。  What a beautiful day it is; nay?  he said; thumb hooked in the breast pocket of his vest; the other hand extended toward Soraya。 She gave him the pages。
 They say it will rain this week。 Hard to believe; isn t it?  He dropped the rolled pages in the garbage can。 Turned to me and gently put a hand on my shoulder。 We took a few steps together。
 You know; bachem; I have grown rather fond of you。 You are a decent boy; I really believe that; but……  he sighed and waved a hand  ……even decent boys need reminding sometimes。 So it s my duty to remind you that you are among peers in this flea market。  He stopped。 His expressionless eyes bore into mine。  You see; everyone here is a storyteller。  He smiled; revealing perfectly even teeth。  Do pass my respects to your father; Amir jan。 
He dropped his hand。 Smiled again。
 WHAT S WRONG?  Baba said。 He was taking an elderly woman s money for a rocking horse。
 Nothing;  I said。 I sat down on an old TV set。 Then I told him anyway。
 Akh; Amir;  he sighed。
As it turned out; I didn t get to brood too much over what had happened。
Because later that week; Baba caught a cold。
IT STARTED WITH A HACKING COUGH and the sniffles。 He got over the sniffles; but the cough persisted。 He d hack into his handkerchief; stow it in his pocket。 I kept after him to get it checked; but he d wave me away。 He hated doctors and hospitals。 To my knowledge; the only time Baba had ever gone to a doctor was the time he d caught malaria in India。
Then; two weeks later; I caught him coughing a wad of blood…stained phlegm into the toilet。
 How long have you been doing that?  I said。
 What s for dinner?  he said。
 I m taking you to the doctor。 
Even though Baba was a manager at the gas station; the owner hadn t offered him health insurance; and Baba; in his recklessness; hadn t insisted。 So I took him to the county hospital in San Jose。 The sallow; puffy…eyed doctor who saw us introduced himself as a second…year resident。  He looks younger than you and sicker than me;  Baba grumbled。 The resident sent us down for a chest X…ray。 When the nurse called us back in; the resident was filling out a form。
 Take this to the front desk;  he said; scribbling quickly。
 What is it?  I asked。
 A referral。  Scribble scribble。
 For what? 
 Pulmonary clinic。 
 What s that? 
He gave me a quick glance。 Pushed up his glasses。 Began scribbling again。  He s got a spot on his right lung。 I want them to check it out。 
 A spot?  I said; the room suddenly too small。
 Cancer?  Baba added casually。
 Possible。 It s suspicious; anyway;  the doctor muttered。
 Can t you tell us more?  I asked。
 Not really。 Need a CAT scan first; then see the lung doctor。  He handed me the referral form。  You said your father smokes; right? 
 Yes。 
He nodded。 Looked from me to Baba and back again。  They ll call you within two weeks。 
I wanted to ask him how I was supposed to live with that word;  suspicious;  for two whole weeks。 How was I supposed eat; work; study? How could he send me home with that word?
I took the form and turned it in。 That night; I waited until Baba fell asleep; and then folded a blanket。 I used it as a prayer rug。 Bowing my head to the ground; I recited half…forgotten verses from the Koran……verses the mullah had made us mit to memory in Kabul……and asked for kindness from a God I wasn t sure existed。 I envied the mullah now; envied his faith and certainty。
Two weeks passed and no one called。 And when I called them; they told me they d lost the referral
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