the kite runner-第15部分

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e　Clint　Eastwood　wore　in　_The　Good；　the　Bad；　and　the　Ugly_……which　had　unseated　_The　Magnificent　Seven_　as　our　favorite　Western。　That　whole　winter；　Hassan　and　I　took　turns　wearing　the　hat；　and　belted　out　the　film　s　famous　music　as　we　climbed　mounds　of　snow　and　shot　each　other　dead。
We　took　off　our　gloves　and　removed　our　snow…laden　boots　at　the　front　door。　When　we　stepped　into　the　foyer；　we　found　Baba　sitting　by　the　wood…burning　cast…iron　stove　with　a　short；　balding　Indian　man　dressed　in　a　brown　suit　and　red　tie。
　Hassan；　　Baba　said；　smiling　coyly；　　meet　your　birthday　present。　
Hassan　and　I　traded　blank　looks。　There　was　no　gift…wrapped　box　in　sight。　No　bag。　No　toy。　Just　Ali　standing　behind　us；　and　Baba　with　this　slight　Indian　fellow　who　looked　a　little　like　a　mathematics　teacher。
The　Indian　man　in　the　brown　suit　smiled　and　offered　Hassan　his　hand。　　I　am　Dr。　Kumar；　　he　said。　　It　s　a　pleasure　to　meet　you。　　He　spoke　Farsi　with　a　thick；　rolling　Hindi　accent。
　_Salaam　alaykum_；　　Hassan　said　uncertainly。　He　gave　a　polite　tip　of　the　head；　but　his　eyes　sought　his　father　behind　him。　Ali　moved　closer　and　set　his　hand　on　Hassan　s　shoulder。
Baba　met　Hassan　s　wary……and　puzzled……eyes。　　I　have　summoned　Dr。　Kumar　from　New　Delhi。　Dr。　Kumar　is　a　plastic　surgeon。　
　Do　you　know　what　that　is？　　the　Indian　man……Dr。　Kumar……　said。
Hassan　shook　his　head。　He　looked　to　me　for　help　but　I　shrugged。　All　I　knew　was　that　you　went　to　a　surgeon　to　fix　you　when　you　had　appendicitis。　I　knew　this　because　one　of　my　classmates　had　died　of　it　the　year　before　and　the　teacher　had　told　us　they　had　waited　too　long　to　take　him　to　a　surgeon。　We　both　looked　to　Ali；　but　of　course　with　him　you　could　never　tell。　His　face　was　impassive　as　ever；　though　something　sober　had　melted　into　his　eyes。
　Well；　　Dr。　Kumar　said；　　my　job　is　to　fix　things　on　people　s　bodies。　Sometimes　their　faces。　
　Oh；　　Hassan　said。　He　looked　from　Dr。　Kumar　to　Baba　to　Ali。　His　hand　touched　his　upper　lip。　　Oh；　　he　said　again。
　It　s　an　unusual　present；　I　know；　　Baba　said。　　And　probably　not　what　you　had　in　mind；　but　this　present　will　last　you　forever。　
　Oh；　　Hassan　said。　He　licked　his　lips。　Cleared　his　throat。　　Agha　sahib；　will　it。。。　will　it……　
　Nothing　doing；　　Dr。　Kumar　intervened；　smiling　kindly。　　It　will　not　hurt　you　one　bit。　In　fact；　I　will　give　you　a　medicine　and　you　will　not　remember　a　thing。　
　Oh；　　Hassan　said。　He　smiled　back　with　relief。　A　little　relief　anyway。　　I　wasn　t　scared；　Agha　sahib；　I　just。。。　　Hassan　might　have　been　fooled；　but　I　wasn　t。　I　knew　that　when　doctors　said　it　wouldn　t　hurt；　that　s　when　you　knew　you　were　in　trouble。　With　dread；　I　remembered　my　circumcision　the　year　prior。　The　doctor　had　given　me　the　same　line；　reassured　me　it　wouldn　t　hurt　one　bit。　But　when　the　numbing　medicine　wore　off　later　that　night；　it　felt　like　someone　had　pressed　a　red　hot　coal　to　my　loins。　Why　Baba　waited　until　I　was　ten　to　have　me　circumcised　was　beyond　me　and　one　of　the　things　I　will　never　forgive　him　for。
I　wished　I　too　had　some　kind　of　scar　that　would　beget　Baba　s　sympathy。　It　wasn　t　fair。　Hassan　hadn　t　done　anything　to　earn　Baba　s　affections；　he　d　just　been　born　with　that　stupid　harelip。
The　surgery　went　well。　We　were　all　a　little　shocked　when　they　first　removed　the　bandages；　but　kept　our　smiles　on　just　as　Dr。　Kumar　had　instructed　us。　It　wasn　t　easy；　because　Hassan　s　upper　lip　was　a　grotesque　mesh　of　swollen；　raw　tissue。　I　expected　Hassan　to　cry　with　horror　when　the　nurse　handed　him　the　mirror。　Ali　held　his　hand　as　Hassan　took　a　long；　thoughtful　look　into　it。　He　muttered　something　I　didn　t　understand。　I　put　my　ear　to　his　mouth。　He　whispered　it　again。
　_Tashakor_。　　Thank　you。
Then　his　lips　twisted；　and；　that　time；　I　knew　just　what　he　was　doing。　He　was　smiling。　Just　as　he　had；　emerging　from　his　mother　s　womb。
The　swelling　subsided；　and　the　wound　healed　with　time。　Soon；　it　was　just　a　pink　jagged　line　running　up　from　his　lip。　By　the　following　winter；　it　was　only　a　faint　scar。　Which　was　ironic。　Because　that　was　the　winter　that　Hassan　stopped　smiling。
SIX
Winter。
Here　is　what　I　do　on　the　first　day　of　snowfall　every　year：　I　step　out　of　the　house　early　in　the　morning；　still　in　my　pajamas；　hugging　my　arms　against　the　chill。　I　find　the　driveway；　my　father　s　car；　the　walls；　the　trees；　the　rooftops；　and　the　hills　buried　under　a　foot　of　snow。　I　smile。　The　sky　is　seamless　and　blue；　the　snow　so　white　my　eyes　burn。　I　shovel　a　handful　of　the　fresh　snow　into　my　mouth；　lis　ten　to　the　muffled　stillness　broken　only　by　the　cawing　of　crows。　I　walk　down　the　front　steps；　barefoot；　and　call　for　Hassan　to　e　out　and　see。
Winter　was　every　kid　s　favorite　season　in　Kabul；　at　least　those　whose　fathers　could　afford　to　buy　a　good　iron　stove。　The　reason　was　simple：　They　shut　down　school　for　the　icy　season。　Winter　to　me　was　the　end　of　long　division　and　naming　the　capital　of　Bulgaria；　and　the　start　of　three　months　of　playing　cards　by　the　stove　with　Hassan；　free　Russian　movies　on　Tuesday　mornings　at　Cinema　Park；　sweet　turnip　_qurma_　over　rice　for　lunch　after　a　morning　of　building　snowmen。
And　kites；　of　course。　Flying　kites。　And　running　them。
For　a　few　unfortunate　kids