the kite runner-第125章

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own　there　two　weeks　earlier……he　had　left　behind　his　gray　suit　and　pocket　watch。　The　plan　was　for　Khala　Jamila　to　join　him　in　a　few　months　once　he　had　settled。　She　missed　him　terribly……and　worried　about　his　health　there……and　we　had　insisted　she　stay　with　us　for　a　while。
The　previous　Thursday；　the　first　day　of　spring；　had　been　the　Afghan　New　Year　s　Day……the　Sawl…e…Nau……and　Afghans　in　the　Bay　Area　had　planned　celebrations
throughout　the　East　Bay　and　the　peninsula。　Kabir；　Soraya；　and　I　had　an　additional　reason　to　rejoice：　Our　little　hospital　in　Rawalpindi　had　opened　the　week　before；　not　the　surgical　unit；　just　the　pediatric　clinic。　But　it　was　a　good　start；　we　all　agreed。
It　had　been　sunny　for　days；　but　Sunday　morning；　as　I　swung　my　legs　out　of　bed；　I　heard　raindrops　pelting　the　window。　Afghan　luck；　I　thought。　Snickered。　I　prayed　morning　_namaz_　while　Soraya　slept……I　didn　t　have　to　consult　the　prayer　pamphlet　I　had　obtained　from　the　mosque　anymore；　the　verses　came　naturally　now；　effortlessly。
We　arrived　around　noon　and　found　a　handful　of　people　taking　cover　under　a　large　rectangular　plastic　sheet　mounted　on　six　poles　spiked　to　the　ground。　Someone　was　already　frying　bolani；　steam　rose　from　teacups　and　a　pot　of　cauliflower　aush。　A　scratchy　old　Ahmad　Zahir　song　was　blaring　from　a　cassette　player。　I　smiled　a　little　as　the　four　of　us　rushed　across　the　soggy　grass　field；　Soraya　and　I　in　the　lead；　Khala　Jamila　in　the　middle；　Sohrab　behind　us；　the　hood　of　his　yellow　raincoat　bouncing　on　his　back。
　What　s　so　funny？　　Soraya　said；　holding　a　folded　newspaper　over　her　head。
　You　can　take　Afghans　out　of　Paghman；　but　you　can　t　take　Paghman　out　of　Afghans；　　I　said。
We　stooped　under　the　makeshift　tent。　Soraya　and　Khala　Jamila　drifted　toward　an　overweight　woman　frying　spinach　bolani。　Sohrab　stayed　under　the　canopy　for　a　moment；　then　stepped　back　out　into　the　rain；　hands　stuffed　in　the　pockets　of　his　raincoat；　his　hair……now　brown　and　straight　like　Hassan　s……plastered　against　his　scalp。　He　stopped　near　a　coffee…colored　puddle　and　stared　at　it。　No　one　seemed　to　notice。　No　one　called　him　back　in。　With　time；　the　queries　about　our　adopted……and　decidedly　eccentric……little　boy　had　mercifully　ceased；　and；　considering　how　tactless　Afghan　queries　can　be　sometimes；　that　was　a　considerable　relief。　People　stopped　asking　why　he　never　spoke。　Why　he　didn　t　play　with　the　other　kids。　And　best　of　all；　they　stopped　suffocating　us　with　their　exaggerated　empathy；　their　slow　head　shaking；　their　tsk　tsks；　their　　Oh　gung　bichara。　　Oh；　poor　little　mute　one。　The　novelty　had　worn　off。　Like　dull　wallpaper；　Sohrab　had　blended　into　the　background。
I　shook　hands　with　Kabir；　a　small；　silver…haired　man。　He　introduced　me　to　a　dozen　men；　one　of　them　a　retired　teacher；　another　an　engineer；　a　former　architect；　a　surgeon　who　was　now　running　a　hot　dog　stand　in　Hayward。　They　all　said　they　d　known　Baba　in　Kabul；　and　they　spoke　about　him　respectfully。　In　one　way　or　another；　he　had　touched　all　their　lives。　The　men　said　I　was　lucky　to　have　had　such　a　great　man　for　a　father。
We　chatted　about　the　difficult　and　maybe　thankless　job　Karzai　had　in　front　of　him；　about　the　uping　Loya　jirga；　and　the　king　s　imminent　return　to　his　homeland　after　twenty…eights　years　of　exile。　I　remembered　the　night　in　1973；　the　night　Zahir　Shah　s　cousin　overthrew　him；　I　remembered　gunfire　and　the　sky　lighting　up　silver……Ali　had　taken　me　and　Hassan　in　his　arms；　told　us　not　to　be　afraid；　that　they　were　just　shooting　ducks。
Then　someone　told　a　Mullah　Nasruddin　joke　and　we　were　all　laughing。　　You　know；　your　father　was　a　funny　man　too；　　Kabir　said。
　He　was；　wasn　t　he？　　I　said；　smiling；　remembering　how；　soon　after　we　arrived　in　the　U。S。；　Baba　started　grumbling　about　American　flies。　He　d　sit　at　the　kitchen
table　with　his　flyswatter；　watch　the　flies　darting　from　wall　to　wall；　buzzing　here；　buzzing　there；　harried　and　rushed。　　In　this　country；　even　flies　are　pressed　for　time；　　he　d　groan。　How　I　had　laughed。　I　smiled　at　the　memory　now。
By　three　o　clock；　the　rain　had　stopped　and　the　sky　was　a　curdled　gray　burdened　with　lumps　of　clouds。　A　cool　breeze　blew　through　the　park。　More　families　turned　up。　Afghans　greeted　each　other；　hugged；　kissed；　exchanged　food。　Someone　lighted　coal　in　a　barbecue　and　soon　the　smell　of　garlic　and　morgh　kabob　flooded　my　senses。　There　was　music；　some　new　singer　I　didn　t　know；　and　the　giggling　of　children。　I　saw　Sohrab；　still　in　his　yellow　raincoat；　leaning　against　a　garbage　pail；　staring　across　the　park　at　the　empty　batting　cage。
A　little　while　later；　as　I　was　chatting　with　the　former　surgeon；　who　told　me　he　and　Baba　had　been　classmates　in　ei