《the kite runner》

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the kite runner- 第90部分


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ad taken root between us too。 What had happened in that room with Assef had irrevocably bound us。
I d been looking for the right time; the right moment; to ask the question that had been buzzing around in my head and keep ing me up at night。 I decided the moment was now; right here; right now; with the bright lights of the house of God shining on us。
 Would you like to e live in America with me and my wife? 
He didn t answer。 He sobbed into my shirt and I let him。
FOR A WEEK; neither one of us mentioned what I had asked him; as if the question hadn t been posed at all。 Then one day; Sohrab and I took a taxicab to the Daman…e…Koh Viewpoint……or  the hem of the mountain。  Perched midway up the Margalla Hills; it gives a panoramic view of Islamabad; its rows of clean; tree…lined avenues and white houses。 The driver told us we could see the presidential palace from up there。  If it has rained and the air is clear; you can even see past Rawalpindi;  he said。 I saw his eyes in his rearview mirror; skipping from Sohrab to me; back and forth; back and forth。 I saw my own face too。 It wasn t as swollen as before; but it had taken on a yellow tint from my assortment of fading bruises。
We sat on a bench in one of the picnic areas; in the shade of a gum tree。 It was a warm day; the sun perched high in a topaz blue sky。 On benches nearby; families snacked on samosas and pakoras。 Somewhere; a radio played a Hindi song I thought I remembered from an old movie; maybe Pakeeza。 Kids; many of them Sohrab s age; chased soccer balls; giggling; yelling。 I thought about the orphanage in Karteh…Seh; thought about the rat that had scurried between my feet in Zaman s office。 My chest tightened with a surge of unexpected anger at the way my countrymen were destroying their own land。
 What?  Sohrab asked。 I forced a smile and told him it wasn t important。
We unrolled one of the hotel s bathroom towels on the picnic table and played panjpar on it。 It felt good being there; with my half brother s son; playing
cards; the warmth of the sun patting the back of my neck。 The song ended and another one started; one I didn t recognize。
 Look;  Sohrab said。 He was pointing to the sky with his cards。 I looked up; saw a hawk circling in the broad seamless sky。  Didn t know there were hawks in Islamabad;  I said。
 Me neither;  he said; his eyes tracing the bird s circular flight。  Do they have them where you live? 
 San Francisco? I guess so。 I can t say I ve seen too many; though。 
 Oh;  he said。 I was hoping he d ask more; but he dealt another hand and asked if we could eat。 I opened the paper bag and gave him his meatball sandwich。 My lunch consisted of yet another cup of blended bananas and oranges……I d rented Mrs。 Fayyaz s blender for the week。 I sucked through the straw and my mouth filled with the sweet; blended fruit。 Some of it dripped from the corner of my lips。 Sohrab handed me a napkin and watched me dab at my lips。 I smiled and he smiled back。
 Your father and I were brothers;  I said。 It just came out。 I had wanted to tell him the night we had sat by the mosque; but I hadn t。 But he had a right to know; I didn t want to hide anything anymore。  Half brothers; really。 We had the same father。 
Sohrab stopped chewing。 Put the sandwich down。  Father never said he had a brother。 
 That s because he didn t know。 
 Why didn t he know? 
 No one told him;  I said。  No one told me either。 I just found out recently。 
Sohrab blinked。 Like he was looking at me; really looking at me; for the very first time。  But why did people hide it from Father and you? 
 You know; I asked myself that same question the other day。 And there s an answer; but not a good one。 Let s just say they didn t tell us because your father and I。。。 we weren t supposed to be brothers。 
 Because he was a Hazara? 
I willed my eyes to stay on him。  Yes。 
 Did your father;  he began; eyeing his food;  did your father love you and my father equally? 
I thought of a long ago day at Ghargha Lake; when Baba had allowed himself to pat Hassan on the back when Hassan s stone had outskipped mine。 I pictured Baba in the hospital room; beaming as they removed the bandages from Hassan s lips。  I think he loved us equally but differently。 
 Was he ashamed of my father? 
 No;  I said。  I think he was ashamed of himself。 
He picked up his sandwich and nibbled at it silently。
WE LEFT LATE THAT AFTERNOON; tired from the heat; but tired in a pleasant way。 All the way back; I felt Sohrab watching me。 I had the driver pull over at a store that sold calling cards。 I gave him the money and a tip for running in and buying me one。
That night; we were lying on our beds; watching a talk show on TV。 Two clerics with pepper gray long beards and white turbans were taking calls from the faithful all over the world。 One caller from Finland; a guy named Ayub; asked if his teenaged son could go to hell for wearing his baggy pants so low the seam of his underwear showed。
 I saw a picture of San Francisco once;  Sohrab said。
 Really? 
 There was a red bridge and a building with a pointy top。 
 You should see the streets;  I said。
 What about them?  He was looking at me now。 On the TV screen; the two mullahs were consulting each other。
 They re so steep; when you drive up all you see is the hood of your car and the sky;  I said。
 It sounds scary;  he said。 He rolled to his side; facing me; his back to the TV。
 It is the first few times;  I said。  But you get used to it。 
 Does it snow there? 
 No; but we get a lot of fog。 You know that red bridge you saw? 
 Yes。 
 Sometimes the fog is so thick in the morning; all you see is the tip of the two to
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