the kite runner-第7部分

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ked　again　the　way　we　just　had。　Because　the　truth　of　it　was；　I　always　felt　like　Baba　hated　me　a　little。　And　why　not？　After　all；　I　_had_　killed　his　beloved　wife；　his　beautiful　princess；　hadn　t　I？　The　least　I　could　have　done　was　to　have　had　the　decency　to　have　turned　out　a　little　more　like　him。　But　I　hadn　t　turned　out　like　him。　Not　at　all。
IN　SCHOOL；　we　used　to　play　a　game　called　_Sherjangi_；　or　　Battle　of　the　Poems。　　The　Farsi　teacher　moderated　it　and　it　went　something　like　this：　You　recited　a　verse　from　a　poem　and　your　opponent　had　sixty　seconds　to　reply　with　a　verse　that　began　with　the　same　letter　that　ended　yours。　Everyone　in　my　class　wanted　me　on　their　team；　because　by　the　time　I　was　eleven；　I　could　recite　dozens　of　verses　from　Khayyam；　H~afez；　or　Rumi　s　famous　_Masnawi_。　One　time；　I　took　on　the　whole　class　and　won。　I　told　Baba　about　it　later　that　night；　but　he　just　nodded；　muttered；　　Good。　
That　was　how　I　escaped　my　father　s　aloofness；　in　my　dead　mother　s　books。　That　and　Hassan；　of　course。　I　read　everything；　Rumi；　H~afez；　Saadi；　Victor　Hugo；　Jules　Verne；　Mark　Twain；　Ian　Fleming。　When　I　had　finished　my　mother　s　books……not　the
boring　history　ones；　I　was　never　much　into　those；　but　the　novels；　the　epics……I　started　spending　my　allowance　on　books。　I　bought　one　a　week　from　the　bookstore　near　Cinema　Park；　and　stored　them　in　cardboard　boxes　when　I　ran　out　of　shelf　room。
Of　course；　marrying　a　poet　was　one　thing；　but　fathering　a　son　who　preferred　burying　his　face　in　poetry　books　to　hunting。。。　well；　that　wasn　t　how　Baba　had　envisioned　it；　I　suppose。　Real　men　didn　t　read　poetry……and　God　forbid　they　should　ever　write　it！　Real　men……real　boys……played　soccer　just　as　Baba　had　when　he　had　been　young。　Now　_that_　was　something　to　be　passionate　about。　In　1970；　Baba　took　a　break　from　the　construction　of　the　orphanage　and　flew　to　Tehran　for　a　month　to　watch　the　World　Cup　games　on　television；　since　at　the　time　Afghanistan　didn　t　have　TVs　yet。　He　signed　me　up　for　soccer　teams　to　stir　the　same　passion　in　me。　But　I　was　pathetic；　a　blundering　liability　to　my　own　team；　always　in　the　way　of　an　opportune　pass　or　unwittingly　blocking　an　open　lane。　I　shambled　about　the　field　on　scraggy　legs；　squalled　for　passes　that　never　came　my　way。　And　the　harder　I　tried；　waving　my　arms　over　my　head　frantically　and　screeching；　　I　m　open！　I　m　open！　　the　more　I　went　ignored。　But　Baba　wouldn　t　give　up。　When　it　became　abundantly　clear　that　I　hadn　t　inherited　a　shred　of　his　athletic　talents；　he　settled　for　trying　to　turn　me　into　a　passionate　spectator。　Certainly　I　could　manage　that；　couldn　t　I？　I　faked　interest　for　as　long　as　possible。　I　cheered　with　him　when　Kabul　s　team　scored　against　Kandahar　and　yelped　insults　at　the　referee　when　he　called　a　penalty　against　our　team。　But　Baba　sensed　my　lack　of　genuine　interest　and　resigned　himself　to　the　bleak　fact　that　his　son　was　never　going　to　either　play　or　watch　soccer。
I　remember　one　time　Baba　took　me　to　the　yearly　_Buzkashi_　tournament　that　took　place　on　the　first　day　of　spring；　New　Year　s　Day。　Buzkashi　was；　and　still　is；　Afghanistan　s　national　passion。　A　_chapandaz_；　a　highly　skilled　horseman　usually　patronized　by　rich　aficionados；　has　to　snatch　a　goat　or　cattle　carcass　from　the　midst　of　a　melee；　carry　that　carcass　with　him　around　the　stadium　at　full　gallop；　and　drop　it　in　a　scoring　circle　while　a　team　of　other　_chapandaz_　chases　him　and　does　everything　in　its　power……kick；　claw；　whip；　punch……to　snatch　the　carcass　from　him。　That　day；　the　crowd　roared　with　excitement　as　the　horsemen　on　the　field　bellowed　their　battle　cries　and　jostled　for　the　carcass　in　a　cloud　of　dust。　The　earth　trembled　with　the　clatter　of　hooves。　We　watched　from　the　upper　bleachers　as　riders　pounded　past　us　at　full　gallop；　yipping　and　yelling；　foam　flying　from　their　horses　　mouths。
At　one　point　Baba　pointed　to　someone。　　Amir；　do　you　see　that　man　sitting　up　there　with　those　other　men　around　him？　
I　did。
　That　s　Henry　Kissinger。　
　Oh；　　I　said。　I　didn　t　know　who　Henry　Kissinger　was；　and　I　might　have　asked。　But　at　the　moment；　I　watched　with　horror　as　one　of　the　_chapandaz_　fell　off　his　saddle　and　was　trampled　under　a　score　of　hooves。　His　body　was　tossed　and　hurled　in　the　stampede　like　a　rag　doll；　finally　rolling　to　a　stop　when　the　melee　moved　on。　He　twitched　once　and　lay　motionless；　his　legs　bent　at　unnatural　angles；　a　pool　of　his　blood　soaking　through　the　sand。
I　began　to　cry。
I　cried　all　the　way　back　home。　I　remember　how　Baba　s　hands　clenched　around　the　steering　wheel。　Clenched　and　unclenched。　Mostly；　I　will　never　forget　Baba　s
valiant　efforts　to　conceal　the　disgusted　look　on　his　face　as　he　drove　in　silence。
Later　that　night；　I　was　passing　by　my　father　s　study　when　I　overheard　him　speaking　to　Rahim　Khan。　I　pressed　my　ear　to　the　closed　door。
　……grateful　that　he　s　healthy；　　Rahim　Khan　was　saying。
　I　know；　I　know。　But　he　s　always　buried　in　those　books　or　shuffling　around　the　house　like　he　s　lost　in　some　dream。　
　And？　
　I　wasn　t　like　that。　　Baba　sounded　frustrated；　almost　angry。
Rahim　Khan　laughed。　　Children　aren　t　coloring　books。　You　don　t　get　to　fill　them　with　your　favorite　colors。　
　I　m　telling