《the kite runner》

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the kite runner- 第9部分


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ce; Hassan absently plucked blades of grass from the ground as I read him stories he couldn t read for himself。 That Hassan would grow up illiterate like Ali and most Hazaras had been decided the minute he had been born; perhaps even the moment he had been conceived in Sanaubar s unweling womb……after all; what use did a servant have for the written word? But despite his illiteracy; or maybe because of it; Hassan was drawn to the mystery of words; seduced by a secret world forbidden to him。 I read him poems and stories; sometimes riddles……though I stopped reading those when I saw he was far better at solving them than I was。 So I read him unchallenging things; like the misadventures of the bumbling Mullah Nasruddin and his donkey。 We sat for hours under that tree; sat there until the sun faded in the west; and still Hassan insisted we had enough daylight for one more story; one more chapter。
My favorite part of reading to Hassan was when we came across a big word that he didn t know。 I d tease him; expose his ignorance。 One time; I was reading him a Mullah Nasruddin story and he stopped me。  What does that word mean? 
 Which one? 
 Imbecile。 
 You don t know what it means?  I said; grinning。
 Nay; Amir agha。 
 But it s such a mon word! 
 Still; I don t know it。  If he felt the sting of my tease; his smiling face didn t show it。
 Well; everyone in my school knows what it means;  I said。  Let s see。  Imbecile。  It means smart; intelligent。 I ll use it in a sentence for you。  When it es to words; Hassan is an imbecile。  
 Aaah;  he said; nodding。
I would always feel guilty about it later。 So I d try to make up for it by giving him one of my old shirts or a broken toy。 I would tell myself that was amends enough for a harmless prank。
Hassan s favorite book by far was the _Shahnamah_; the tenth…century epic of ancient Persian heroes。 He liked all of the chapters; the shahs of old; Feridoun; Zal; and Rudabeh。 But his favorite story; and mine; was  Rostam and Sohrab;  the tale of the great warrior Rostam and his fleet…footed horse; Rakhsh。 Rostam mortally wounds his valiant nemesis; Sohrab; in battle; only to discover that Sohrab is his long…lost son。 Stricken with grief; Rostam hears his son s dying words:
If thou art indeed my father; then hast thou stained thy sword in the life…blood of thy son。 And thou didst it of thine obstinacy。 For I sought to turn thee unto love; and I implored of thee thy name; for I thought to behold in thee the tokens recounted of my mother。 But I appealed unto thy heart in vain; and now is the time gone for meeting。。。
 Read it again please; Amir agha;  Hassan would say。 Sometimes tears pooled in Hassan s eyes as I read him this passage; and I always wondered whom he wept for; the grief…stricken Rostam who tears his clothes and covers his head with ashes; or the dying Sohrab who only longed for his father s love? Personally; I couldn t see the tragedy in Rostam s fate。 After all; didn t all fathers in their secret hearts harbor a desire to kill their sons?
One day; in July 1973; I played another little trick on Hassan。 I was reading to him; and suddenly I strayed from the written story。 I pretended I was reading from the book; flipping pages regularly; but I had abandoned the text altogether; taken over the story; and made up my own。 Hassan; of course; was oblivious to this。 To him; the words on the page were a scramble of codes; indecipherable; mysterious。 Words were secret doorways and I held all the keys。 After; I started to ask him if he d liked the story; a giggle rising in my throat; when Hassan began to clap。
 What are you doing?  I said。
 That was the best story you ve read me in a long time;  he said; still clapping。
I laughed。  Really? 
 Really。 
 That s fascinating;  I muttered。 I meant it too。 This was。。。 wholly unexpected。  Are you sure; Hassan? 
He was still clapping。  It was great; Amir agha。 Will you read me more of it tomorrow? 
 Fascinating;  I repeated; a little breathless; feeling like a man who discovers a buried treasure in his own backyard。 Walking down the hill; thoughts were exploding in my head like the fireworks at _Chaman_。 _Best story you ve read me in a long time_; he d said。 I had read him a _lot_ of stories。 Hassan was asking me something。
 What?  I said。
 What does that mean;  fascinating ? 
I laughed。 Clutched him in a hug and planted a kiss on his cheek。
 What was that for?  he said; startled; blushing。
I gave him a friendly shove。 Smiled。  You re a prince; Hassan。 You re a prince and I love you。 
That same night; I wrote my first short story。 It took me thirty minutes。 It was a dark little tale about a man who found a magic cup and learned that if he wept
into the cup; his tears turned into pearls。 But even though he had always been poor; he was a happy man and rarely shed a tear。 So he found ways to make himself sad so that his tears could make him rich。 As the pearls piled up; so did his greed grow。 The story ended with the man sitting on a mountain of pearls; knife in hand; weeping helplessly into the cup with his beloved wife s slain body in his arms。
That evening; I climbed the stairs and walked into Baba s smoking room; in my hands the two sheets of paper on which I had scribbled the story。 Baba and Rahim Khan were smoking pipes and sipping brandy when I came in。
 What is it; Amir?  Baba said; reclining on the sofa and lacing his hands behind his head。 Blue smoke swirled around his face。 His glare made my throat feel dry。 I cleared it and told him I d written a story。
Baba nodded and gave a thin smile that conveyed little more than feigned interest。  Well; that s very good; isn t it? 
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