the kite runner-第7章

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e　they　don　t　even　understand。　　He　took　a　sip。　　God　help　us　all　if　Afghanistan　ever　falls　into　their　hands。　
　But　Mullah　Fatiullah　Khan　seems　nice；　　I　managed　between　bursts　of　tittering。
　So　did　Genghis　Khan；　　Baba　said。　　But　enough　about　that。　You　asked　about　sin　and　I　want　to　tell　you。　Are　you　listening？　
　Yes；　　I　said；　pressing　my　lips　together。　But　a　chortle　escaped　through　my　nose　and　made　a　snorting　sound。　That　got　me　giggling　again。
Baba　s　stony　eyes　bore　into　mine　and；　just　like　that；　I　wasn　t　laughing　anymore。　　I　mean　to　speak　to　you　man　to　man。　Do　you　think　you　can　handle　that　for　once？　
　Yes；　Baba　jan；　　I　muttered；　marveling；　not　for　the　first　time；　at　how　badly　Baba　could　sting　me　with　so　few　words。　We　d　had　a　fleeting　good　moment……it　wasn　t　often　Baba　talked　to　me；　let　alone　on　his　lap……and　I　d　been　a　fool　to　waste　it。
　Good；　　Baba　said；　but　his　eyes　wondered。　　Now；　no　matter　what　the　mullah　teaches；　there　is　only　one　sin；　only　one。　And　that　is　theft。　Every　other　sin　is　a　variation　of　theft。　Do　you　understand　that？　
　No；　Baba　jan；　　I　said；　desperately　wishing　I　did。　I　didn　t　want　to　disappoint　him　again。
Baba　heaved　a　sigh　of　impatience。　That　stung　too；　because　he　was　not　an　impatient　man。　I　remembered　all　the　times　he　didn　t　e　home　until　after　dark；　all　the　times　I　ate　dinner　alone。　I　d　ask　Ali　where　Baba　was；　when　he　was　ing　home；　though　I　knew　full　well　he　was　at　the　construction　site；　overlooking　this；　supervising　that。　Didn　t　that　take　patience？　I　already　hated　all　the　kids　he　was　building　the　orphanage　for；　sometimes　I　wished　they　d　all　died　along　with　their　parents。
　When　you　kill　a　man；　you　steal　a　life；　　Baba　said。　　You　steal　his　wife　s　right　to　a　husband；　rob　his　children　of　a　father。　When　you　tell　a　lie；　you　steal　someone　s　right　to　the　truth。　When　you　cheat；　you　steal　the　right　to　fairness。　Do　you　see？　
I　did。　When　Baba　was　six；　a　thief　walked　into　my　grandfather　s　house　in　the　middle　of　the　night。　My　grandfather；　a　respected　judge；　confronted　him；　but　the　thief　stabbed　him　in　the　throat；　killing　him　instantly……and　robbing　Baba　of　a　father。　The　townspeople　caught　the　killer　just　before　noon　the　next　day；　he　turned　out　to　be　a　wanderer　from　the　Kunduz　region。　They　hanged　him　from　the　branch　of　an　oak　tree　with　still　two　hours　to　go　before　afternoon　prayer。　It　was　Rahim　Khan；　not　Baba；　who　had　told　me　that　story。　I　was　always　learning　things　about　Baba　from　other　people。
　There　is　no　act　more　wretched　than　stealing；　Amir；　　Baba　said。　　A　man　who　takes　what　s　not　his　to　take；　be　it　a　life　or　a　loaf　of　_naan_。。。　I　spit　on　such　a　man。　And　if　I　ever　cross　paths　with　him；　God　help　him。　Do　you　understand？　
I　found　the　idea　of　Baba　clobbering　a　thief　both　exhilarating　and　terribly　frightening。　　Yes；　Baba。　
　If　there　s　a　God　out　there；　then　I　would　hope　he　has　more　important　things　to　attend　to　than　my　drinking　scotch　or　eating　pork。　Now；　hop　down。　All　this　talk　about　sin　has　made　me　thirsty　again。　
I　watched　him　fill　his　glass　at　the　bar　and　wondered　how　much　time　would　pass　before　we　talked　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