the kite runner-第18部分

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　d　seen　it　happen　before……it　always　shook　me　up　a　little。　It　just　appeared；　this　other　face；　for　a　fraction　of　a　moment；　long　enough　to　leave　me　with　the　unsettling　feeling　that　maybe　I　d　seen　it　someplace　before。　Then　Hassan　blinked　and　it　was　just　him　again。　Just　Hassan。
　If　you　asked；　I　would；　　he　finally　said；　looking　right　at　me。　I　dropped　my　eyes。　To　this　day；　I　find　it　hard　to　gaze　directly　at　people　like　Hassan；　people　who　mean　every　word　they　say。
　But　I　wonder；　　he　added。　　Would　you　ever　ask　me　to　do　such　a　thing；　Amir　agha？　　And；　just　like　that；　he　had　thrown　at　me　his　own　little　test。　If　I　was　going　to　toy　with　him　and　challenge　his　loyalty；　then　he　d　toy　with　me；　test　my　integrity。
I　wished　I　hadn　t　started　this　conversation。　I　forced　a　smile。　　Don　t　be　stupid；　Hassan。　You　know　I　wouldn　t。　
Hassan　returned　the　smile。　Except　his　didn　t　look　forced。　　I　know；　　he　said。　And　that　s　the　thing　about　people　who　mean　everything　they　say。　They　think　everyone　else　does　too。
　Here　it　es；　　Hassan　said；　pointing　to　the　sky。　He　rose　to　his　feet　and　walked　a　few　paces　to　his　left。　I　looked　up；　saw　the　kite　plummeting　toward　us。　I　heard　footfalls；　shouts；　an　approaching　melee　of　kite　runners。　But　they　were　wasting　their　time。　Because　Hassan　stood　with　his　arms　wide　open；　smiling；
waiting　for　the　kite。　And　may　God……if　He　exists；　that　is……strike　me　blind　if　the　kite　didn　t　just　drop　into　his　outstretched　arms。
IN　THE　WINTER　OF　1975；　I　saw　Hassan　run　a　kite　for　the　last　time。
Usually；　each　neighborhood　held　its　own　petition。　But　that　year；　the　tournament　was　going　to　be　held　in　my　neighborhood；　Wazir　Akbar　Khan；　and　several　other　districts……Karteh…Char；　Karteh…Parwan；　Mekro…Rayan；　and　Koteh…Sangi……had　been　invited。　You　could　hardly　go　anywhere　without　hearing　talk　of　the　uping　tournament。　Word　had　it　this　was　going　to　be　the　biggest　tournament　in　twenty…five　years。
One　night　that　winter；　with　the　big　contest　only　four　days　away；　Baba　and　I　sat　in　his　study　in　overstuffed　leather　chairs　by　the　glow　of　the　fireplace。　We　were　sipping　tea；　talking。　Ali　had　served　dinner　earlier……potatoes　and　curried　cauliflower　over　rice……and　had　retired　for　the　night　with　Hassan。　Baba　was　fattening　his　pipe　and　I　was　asking　him　to　tell　the　story　about　the　winter　a　pack　of　wolves　had　descended　from　the　mountains　in　Herat　and　forced　everyone　to　stay　indoors　for　a　week；　when　he　lit　a　match　and　said；　casually；　　I　think　maybe　you　ll　win　the　tournament　this　year。　What　do　you　think？　
I　didn　t　know　what　to　think。　Or　what　to　say。　Was　that　what　it　would　take？　Had　he　just　slipped　me　a　key？　I　was　a　good　kite　fighter。　Actually；　a　very　good　one。　A　few　times；　I　d　even　e　close　to　winning　the　winter　tournament……once；　I　d　made　it　to　the　final　three。　But　ing　close　wasn　t　the　same　as　winning；　was　it？　Baba　hadn　t　_e　close_。　He　had　won　because　winners　won　and　everyone　else　just　went　home。　Baba　was　used　to　winning；　winning　at　everything　he　set　his　mind　to。　Didn　t　he　have　a　right　to　expect　the　same　from　his　son？　And　just　imagine。　If　I　did　win。。。
Baba　smoked　his　pipe　and　talked。　I　pretended　to　listen。　But　I　couldn　t　listen；　not　really；　because　Baba　s　casual　little　ment　had　planted　a　seed　in　my　head：　the　resolution　that　I　would　win　that　winter　s　tournament。　I　was　going　to　win。　There　was　no　other　viable　option。　I　was　going　to　win；　and　I　was　going　to　run　that　last　kite。　Then　I　d　bring　it　home　and　show　it　to　Baba。　Show　him　once　and　for　all　that　his　son　was　worthy。　Then　maybe　my　life　as　a　ghost　in　this　house　would　finally　be　over。　I　let　myself　dream：　I　imagined　conversation　and　laughter　over　dinner　instead　of　silence　broken　only　by　the　clinking　of　silverware　and　the　occasional　grunt。　I　envisioned　us　taking　a　Friday　drive　in　Baba　s　car　to　Paghman；　stopping　on　the　way　at　Ghargha　Lake　for　some　fried　trout　and　potatoes。　We　d　go　to　the　zoo　to　see　Marjan　the　lion；　and　maybe　Baba　wouldn　t　yawn　and　steal　looks　at　his　wristwatch　all　the　time。　Maybe　Baba　would　even　read　one　of　my　stories。　I　d　write　him　a　hundred　if　I　thought　he　d　read　one。　Maybe　he　d　call　me　Amir　jan　like　Rahim　Khan　did。　And　maybe；　just　maybe；　I　would　finally　be　pardoned　for　killing　my　mother。
Baba　was　telling　me　about　the　time　he　d　cut　fourteen　kites　on　the　same　day。　I　smiled；　nodded；　laughed　at　all　the　right　places；　but
I　hardly　heard　a　word　he　said。　I　had　a　mission　now。　And　I　wasn　t　going　to　fail　Baba。　Not　this　time。
IT　SNOWED　HEAVILY　the　night　before　the　tournament。　Hassan　and　I　sat　under　the　kursi　and　played　panjpar　as　wind…rattled　tree　branches　tapped　on　the　window。　Earlier　that　day；　I　d　asked　Ali　to　set　up　the　kursi　for　us……which　was　basically　an　electric　heater　under　a　low　table　covered　with　a　thick；　quilted　blanket。
Around　the　table；　he　arranged　mattresses　and　cushions；　so　as　many　as　twenty　people　could　sit　and　slip　their　legs　under。　Hassan　and　I　used　to　spend　entire　snowy　days　snug　under　the　kursi；　playing　chess；　cards……mostly　panjpar。
I　killed　Hassan　s　ten　of　diamonds；　played　him　two　jacks　and　a　six。　Next　door；　in　Baba　s　study；　Baba　and　Rahim　Khan　were　discussing　business　with　a　couple　of　other　men…one　of　them　I　recognized　as　Assef　s　father。　Thro