the kite runner-第58部分

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me。
Later　that　night；　after　Soraya　fell　asleep……wine　always　made　her　sleepy……I　stood　on　the　balcony　and　breathed　in　the　cool　summer　air。　I　thought　of　Rahim　Khan　and　the　little　note　of　support　he　had　written　me　after　he　d　read　my　first　story。　And　I　thought　of　Hassan。　Some　day；　_Inshallah_；　you　will　be　a　great　writer；　he　had　said　once；　and　people　all　over　the　world　will　read　your　stories。　There　was　so　much　goodness　in　my　life。　So　much　happiness。　I　wondered　whether　I　deserved　any　of　it。
The　novel　was　released　in　the　summer　of　that　following　year；　1989；　and　the　publisher　sent　me　on　a　five…city　book　tour。　I　became　a　minor　celebrity　in　the　Afghan　munity。　That　was　the　year　that　the　Shorawi　pleted　their　withdrawal
from　Afghanistan。　It　should　have　been　a　time　of　glory　for　Afghans。　Instead；　the　war　raged　on；　this　time　between　Afghans；　the　Mujahedin；　against　the　Soviet　puppet　government　of　Najibullah；　and　Afghan　refugees　kept　flocking　to　Pakistan。　That　was　the　year　that　the　cold　war　ended；　the　year　the　Berlin　Wall　came　down。　It　was　the　year　of　Tiananmen　Square。　In　the　midst　of　it　all；　Afghanistan　was　forgotten。　And　General　Taheri；　whose　hopes　had　stirred　awake　after　the　Soviets　pulled　out；　went　back　to　winding　his　pocket　watch。
That　was　also　the　year　that　Soraya　and　I　began　trying　to　have　a　child。
THE　IDEA　OF　FATHERHOOD　unleashed　a　swirl　of　emotions　in　me。　I　found　it　frightening；　invigorating；　daunting；　and　exhilarating　all　at　the　same　time。　What　sort　of　father　would　I　make；　I　wondered。　I　wanted　to　be　just　like　Baba　and　I　wanted　to　be　nothing　like　him。
But　a　year　passed　and　nothing　happened。　With　each　cycle　of　blood；　Soraya　grew　more　frustrated；　more　impatient；　more　irritable。　By　then；　Khala　Jamila　s　initially　subtle　hints　had　bee　overt；　as　in　　Kho　dega！　　So！　　When　am　I　going　to　sing　alahoo　for　my　little　nawasa？　　The　general；　ever　the　Pashtun；　never　made　any　queries……doing　so　meant　alluding　to　a　sexual　act　between　his　daughter　and　a　man；　even　if　the　man　in　question　had　been　married　to　her　for　over　four　years。　But　his　eyes　perked　up　when　Khala　Jamila　teased　us　about　a　baby。
　Sometimes；　it　takes　a　while；　　I　told　Soraya　one　night。
　A　year　isn　t　a　while；　Amir！　　she　said；　in　a　terse　voice　so　unlike　her。　　Something　s　wrong；　I　know　it。　
　Then　let　s　see　a　doctor。　
DR。　ROSEN；　a　round…bellied　man　with　a　plump　face　and　small；　even　teeth；　spoke　with　a　faint　Eastern　European　accent；　some　thing　remotely　Slavic。　He　had　a　passion　for　trains……his　office　was　littered　with　books　about　the　history　of　railroads；　model　lootives；　paintings　of　trains　trundling　on　tracks　through　green　hills　and　over　bridges。　A　sign　above　his　desk　read；　LIFE　IS　A　TRAIN。　GET　ON　BOARD。
He　laid　out　the　plan　for　us。　I　d　get　checked　first。　　Men　are　easy；　　he　said；　fingers　tapping　on　his　mahogany　desk。　　A　man　s　plumbing　is　like　his　mind：　simple；　very　few　surprises。　You　ladies；　on　the　other　hand。。。　well；　God　put　a　lot　of　thought　into　making　you。　　I　wondered　if　he　fed　that　bit　about　the　plumbing　to　all　of　his　couples。
　Lucky　us；　　Soraya　said。
Dr。　Rosen　laughed。　It　fell　a　few　notches　short　of　genuine。　He　gave　me　a　lab　slip　and　a　plastic　jar；　handed　Soraya　a　request　for　some　routine　blood　tests。　We　shook　hands。　　Wele　aboard；　　he　said；　as　he　showed　us　out。
I　PASSED　WITH　FLYING　COLORS。
The　next　few　months　were　a　blur　of　tests　on　Soraya：　Basal　body　temperatures；　blood　tests　for　every　conceivable　hormone；　urine　tests；　something　called　a　　Cervical　Mucus　Test；　　ultrasounds；　more　blood　tests；　and　more　urine　tests。　Soraya　underwent　a　procedure　called　a　hysteroscopy……Dr。　Rosen　inserted　a
telescope　into　Soraya　s　uterus　and　took　a　look　around。　He　found　nothing。　　The　plumbing　s　clear；　　he　announced；　snapping　off　his　latex　gloves。　I　wished　he　d　stop　calling　it　that……we　weren　t　bathrooms。　When　the　tests　were　over；　he　explained　that　he　couldn　t　explain　why　we　couldn　t　have　kids。　And；　apparently；　that　wasn　t　so　unusual。　It　was　called　　Unexplained　Infertility。　
Then　came　the　treatment　phase。　We　tried　a　drug　called　Clomiphene；　and　hMG；　a　series　of　shots　which　Soraya　gave　to　herself。　When　these　failed；　Dr。　Rosen　advised　in　vitro　fertilization。　We　received　a　polite　letter　from　our　HMO；　wishing　us　the　best　of　luck；　regretting　they　couldn　t　cover　the　cost。
We　used　the　advance　I　had　received　for　my　novel　to　pay　for　it。　IVF　proved　lengthy；　meticulous；　frustrating；　and　ultimately　unsuccessful。　After　months　of　sitting　in　waiting　rooms　reading　magazines　like　Good　Housekeeping　and　Reader　s　Digest；　after　endless　paper　gowns　and　cold；　sterile　exam　rooms　lit　by　fluorescent　lights；　the　repeated　humiliation　of　discussing　every　detail　of　our　sex　life　with　a　total　stranger；　the　injections　and　probes　and　specimen　collections；　we　went　back　to　Dr。　Rosen　and　his　trains。
He　sat　across　from　us；　tapped　his　desk　with　his　fingers；　and　used　the　word　　adoption　　for　the　first　time。　Soraya　cried　all　the　way　home。
Soraya　broke　the　news　to　her　parents　the　weekend　after　our　last　visit　with　Dr。　Rosen。　We　were　sitting　on　picnic　chairs　in　the　Taheris　　backyard；　grilling　trout　and　sipping　yogurt　dogh。　It　was　an　early　evening　in　March　1991。　Khala　Jamila　had　watered　the　ro