the kite runner-第40部分

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with　Karim　s　gun　in　his　hand。
　Don　t　shoot　me！　　Karim　cried。
But　before　any　of　us　could　say　or　do　a　thing；　Kamal　s　father　shoved　the　barrel　in　his　own　mouth。　I　ll　never　forget　the　echo　of　that　blast。　Or　the　flash　of　light　and　the　spray　of　red。
I　doubled　over　again　and　dry…heaved　on　the　side　of　the　road。
ELEVEN
Fremont；　California。　1980s
Baba　loved　the　idea　of　America。
It　was　living　in　America　that　gave　him　an　ulcer。
I　remember　the　two　of　us　walking　through　Lake　Elizabeth　Park　in　Fremont；　a　few　streets　down　from　our　apartment；　and　watching　boys　at　batting　practice；　little　girls　giggling　on　the　swings　in　the　playground。　Baba　would　enlighten　me　with　his　politics　during　those　walks　with　long…winded　dissertations。　　There　are　only　three　real　men　in　this　world；　Amir；　　he　d　say。　He　d　count　them　off　on　his　fingers：　America　the　brash　savior；　Britain；　and　Israel。　　The　rest　of　them……　　he　used　to　wave　his　hand　and　make　a　phht　sound　　……they　re　like　gossiping　old　women。　
The　bit　about　Israel　used　to　draw　the　ire　of　Afghans　in　Fremont　who　accused　him　of　being　pro…Jewish　and；　de　facto；　anti　Islam。　Baba　would　meet　them　for　tea　and　rowt　cake　at　the　park；　drive　them　crazy　with　his　politics。　　What　they　don　t　understand；　　he　d　tell　me　later；　　is　that　religion　has　nothing　to　do　with　it。　　In　Baba　s　view；　Israel　was　an　island　of　　real　men　　in　a　sea　of　Arabs　too　busy　getting　fat　off　their　oil　to　care　for　their　own。　　Israel　does　this；　Israel　does　that；　　Baba　would　say　in　a　mock…Arabic　accent。　　Then　do　something　about　it！　Take　action。　You　re　Arabs；　help　the　Palestinians；　then！　
He　loathed　Jimmy　Carter；　whom　he　called　a　　big…toothed　cretin。　　In　1980；　when　we　were　still　in　Kabul；　the　U。S。　announced　it　would　be　boycotting　the　Olympic　Games　in　Moscow。　　Wah　wah！　　Baba　exclaimed　with　disgust。　　Brezhnev　is　massacring　Afghans　and　all　that　peanut　eater　can　say　is　I　won　t　e　swim　in　your　pool。　　Baba　believed　Carter　had　unwittingly　done　more　for　munism　than　Leonid　Brezhnev。　　He　s　not　fit　to　run　this　country。　It　s　like　putting　a　boy　who　can　t　ride　a　bike　behind　the　wheel　of　a　brand　new　Cadillac。　　What　America　and　the　world　needed　was　a　hard　man。　A　man　to　be　reckoned　with；　someone　who　took　action　instead　of　wringing　his　hands。　That　someone　came　in　the　form　of　Ronald　Reagan。　And　when　Reagan　went　on　TV　and　called　the　Shorawi　　the　Evil　Empire；　　Baba　went　out　and　bought　a　picture　of　the　grinning　president　giving　a　thumbs　up。　He　framed　the　picture　and　hung　it　in　our　hallway；　nailing　it　right　next　to　the　old　black…and…white　of　himself　in　his　thin　necktie　shaking　hands　with　King　Zahir　Shah。　Most　of　our　neighbors　in　Fremont　were　bus　drivers；　policemen；　gas　station　attendants；　and　unwed　mothers　collecting　welfare；　exactly　the　sort　of　blue…collar　people　who　would　soon　suffocate　under　the　pillow　Reganomics　pressed　to　their　faces。　Baba　was　the　lone　Republican　in　our　building。
But　the　Bay　Area　s　smog　stung　his　eyes；　the　traffic　noise　gave　him　headaches；　and　the　pollen　made　him　cough。　The　fruit　was　never　sweet　enough；　the　water　never　clean　enough；　and　where　were　all　the　trees　and　open　fields？　For　two　years；　I　tried　to　get　Baba　to　enroll　in　ESL　classes　to　improve　his　broken　English。　But　he　scoffed　at　the　idea。　　Maybe　I　ll　spell　　cat　　and　the　teacher　will　give　me　a　glittery　little　star　so　I　can　run　home　and　show　it　off　to　you；　　he　d　grumble。
One　Sunday　in　the　spring　of　1983；　I　walked　into　a　small　bookstore　that　sold　used　paperbacks；　next　to　the　Indian　movie　theater　just　west　of　where　Amtrak　crossed　Fremont　Boulevard。　I　told　Baba　I　d　be　out　in　five　minutes　and　he　shrugged。　He　had　been　working　at　a　gas　station　in　Fremont　and　had　the　day　off。　I　watched　him　jaywalk　across　Fremont　Boulevard　and　enter　Fast　&　Easy；　a　little　grocery　store　run　by　an　elderly　Vietnamese　couple；　Mr。　and　Mrs。　Nguyen。　They　were　gray…haired；　friendly　people；　she　had　Parkinson　s；　he　d　had　his　hip　replaced。　　He　s　like　Six
Million　Dollar　Man　now；　　she　always　said　to　me；　laughing　toothlessly。　　Remember　Six　Million　Dollar　Man；　Amir？　　Then　Mr。　Nguyen　would　scowl　like　Lee　Majors；　pretend　he　was　running　in　slow　motion。
I　was　flipping　through　a　worn　copy　of　a　Mike　Hammer　mystery　when　I　heard　screaming　and　glass　breaking。　I　dropped　the　book　and　hurried　across　the　street。　I　found　the　Nguyens　behind　the　counter；　all　the　way　against　the　wall；　faces　ashen；　Mr。　Nguyen　s　arms　wrapped　around　his　wife。　On　the　floor：　oranges；　an　overturned　magazine　rack；　a　broken　jar　of　beef　jerky；　and　shards　of　glass　at　Baba　s　feet。
It　turned　out　that　Baba　had　had　no　cash　on　him　for　the　oranges。　He　d　written　Mr。　Nguyen　a　check　and　Mr。　Nguyen　had　asked　for　an　ID。　　He　wants　to　see　my　license；　　Baba　bellowed　in　Farsi。　　Almost　two　years　we　ve　bought　his　damn　fruits　and　put　money　in　his　pocket　and　the　son　of　a　dog　wants　to　see　my　license！　
　Baba；　it　s　not　personal；　　I　said；　smiling　at　the　Nguyens。　　They　re　supposed　to　ask　for　an　ID。　
　I　don　t　want　you　here；　　Mr。　Nguyen　said；　stepping　in　front　of　his　wife。　He　was　pointing　at　Baba　with　his　cane。　He　turned　to　me。
　You　re　nice　young　man　but　your　father；　he　s　crazy。　Not　wele　anymore。　
　Does　he　think　I　m　a　thief？　　Baba　said；　his　voice　ris