the kite runner-第53章

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ake　some　thing　up；　but　he　bit　into　a　peach　and　waved　his　hand；　　Don　t　bother；　Amir。　Just　remember　what　I　said。　
THAT　NIGHT　IN　BED；　I　thought　of　the　way　dappled　sunlight　had　danced　in　Soraya　s　eyes；　and　of　the　delicate　hollows　above　her　collarbone。　I　replayed　our　conversation　over　and　over　in　my　head。　Had　she　said　I　heard　you　write　or　I　heard　you　re　a　writer？　Which　was　it？　I　tossed　in　my　sheets　and　stared　at　the　ceiling；　dismayed　at　the　thought　of　six　laborious；　interminable　nights　of　yelda　until　I　saw　her　again。
IT　WENT　ON　LIKE　THAT　for　a　few　weeks。　I　d　wait　until　the　general　went　for　a　stroll；　then　I　d　walk　past　the　Taheris　　stand。　If　Khanum　Taheri　was　there；　she　d　offer　me　tea　and　a　kolcha　and　we　d　chat　about　Kabul　in　the　old　days；　the　people　we　knew；　her　arthritis。　Undoubtedly；　she　had　noticed　that　my　appearances　always　coincided　with　her　husband　s　absences；　but　she　never　let　on。　　Oh　you　just　missed　your　Kaka；　　she　d　say。　I　actually　liked　it　when　Khanum　Taheri　was　there；　and　not　just　because　of　her　amiable　ways；　Soraya　was　more　relaxed；　more　talkative　with　her　mother　around。　As　if　her　presence　legitimized　whatever　was　happening　between　us……though　certainly　not　to　the　same　degree　that　the　general　s　would　have。　Khanum　Taheri　s　chaperoning　made　our　meetings；　if　not　gossip…proof；　then　less　gossip…worthy；　even　if　her　borderline　fawning　on　me　clearly　embarrassed　Soraya。
One　day；　Soraya　and　I　were　alone　at　their　booth；　talking。　She　was　telling　me　about　school；　how　she　too　was　working　on　her　general　education　classes；　at　Ohlone　Junior　College　in　Fremont。
　What　will　you　major　in？　
　I　want　to　be　a　teacher；　　she　said。
　Really？　Why？　
　I　ve　always　wanted　to。　When　we　lived　in　Virginia；　I　became　ESL　certified　and　now　I　teach　at　the　public　library　one　night　a　week。　My　mother　was　a　teacher　too；　she　taught　Farsi　and　history　at　Zarghoona　High　School　for　girls　in　Kabul。　
A　potbellied　man　in　a　deerstalker　hat　offered　three　dollars　for　a　five…dollar　set　of　candlesticks　and　Soraya　let　him　have　it。　She　dropped　the　money　in　a　little　candy　box　by　her　feet。　She　looked　at　me　shyly。　　I　want　to　tell　you　a　story；　　she　said；　　but　I　m　a　little　embarrassed　about　it。　
　Tell　me。　
　It　s　kind　of　silly。　
　Please　tell　me。　
She　laughed。　　Well；　when　I　was　in　fourth　grade　in　Kabul；　my　father　hired　a　woman　named　Ziba　to　help　around　the　house。　She　had　a　sister　in　Iran；　in　Mashad；　and；　since　Ziba　was　illiterate；　she　d　ask　me　to　write　her　sister　letters　once　in　a　while。　And　when　the　sister　replied；　I　d　read　her　letter　to　Ziba。　One　day；　I　asked　her　if　she　d　like　to　learn　to　read　and　write。　She　gave　me　this　big　smile；　crinkling　her　eyes；　and　said　she　d　like　that　very　much。　So　we　d　sit　at　the　kitchen　table　after　I　was　done　with　my　own　schoolwork　and　I　d　teach　her　Alef…beh。　I　remember　looking　up　sometimes　in　the　middle　of　homework　and　seeing　Ziba　in　the　kitchen；　stirring　meat　in　the　pressure　cooker；　then　sitting　down　with　a　pencil　to　do　the　alphabet　homework　I　d　assigned　to　her　the　night　before。
　Anyway；　within　a　year；　Ziba　could　read　children　s　books。　We　sat　in　the　yard　and　she　read　me　the　tales　of　Dara　and　Sara……slowly　but　correctly。　She　started　calling　me　Moalem　Soraya；　Teacher　Soraya。　　She　laughed　again。　　I　know　it　sounds　childish；　but　the　first　time　Ziba　wrote　her　own　letter；　I　knew　there　was　nothing　else　I　d　ever　want　to　be　but　a　teacher。　I　was　so　proud　of　her　and　I　felt　I　d　done　something　really　worthwhile；　you　know？　
　Yes；　　I　lied。　I　thought　of　how　I　had　used　my　literacy　to　ridicule　Hassan。　How　I　had　teased　him　about　big　words　he　didn　t　know。
　My　father　wants　me　to　go　to　law　school；　my　mother　s　always　throwing　hints　about　medical　school；　but　I　m　going　to　be　a　teacher。　Doesn　t　pay　much　here；　but　it　s　what　I　want。　
　My　mother　was　a　teacher　too；　　I　said。
　I　know；　　she　said。　　My　mother　told　me。　　Then　her　face　red　dened　with　a　blush　at　what　she　had　blurted；　at　the　implication　of　her　answer；　that　　Amir　Conversations　　took　place　between　them　when　I　wasn　t　there。　It　took　an　enormous　effort　to　stop　myself　from　smiling。
　I　brought　you　something。　　I　fished　the　roll　of　stapled　pages　from　my　back　pocket。　　As　promised。　　I　handed　her　one　of　my　short　stories。
　Oh；　you　remembered；　　she　said；　actually　beaming。　　Thank　you！　　I　barely　had　time　to　register　that　she　d　addressed　me　with　　tu　　for　the　first　time　and　not　the　formal　　shoma；　　because　suddenly　her　smile　vanished。　The　color　dropped　from　her　face；　and　her　eyes　fixed　on　something　behind　me。　I　turned　around。　Came　face…to…face　with　General　Taheri。
　Amir　jan。　Our　aspiring　storyteller。　What　a　pleasure；　　he　said。　He　was　smiling　thinly。
　Salaam；　General　Sahib；