the kite runner-第74章

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omegranate　tree；　and　I　said　a　prayer　for　her　too。　The　loss　was　hard　on　Hassan……it　always　hurts　more　to　have　and　lose　than　to　not　have　in　the　first　place。　But　it　was　even　harder　on　little　Sohrab。　He　kept　walking　around　the　house；　looking　for　Sasa；　but　you　know　how　children　are；　they　forget　so　quickly。
By　then……that　would　have　been　1995……the　Shorawi　were　defeated　and　long　gone　and　Kabul　belonged　to　Massoud；　Rabbani；　and　the　Mujahedin。　The　infighting　between　the　factions　was　fierce　and　no　one　knew　if　they　would　live　to　see　the　end　of　the　day。　Our　ears　became　accustomed　to　the　whistle　of　falling　shells；　to　the　rumble　of　gunfire；　our　eyes　familiar　with　the　sight　of　men　digging　bodies　out　of　piles　of　rubble。　Kabul　in　those　days；　Amir　jan；　was　as　close　as　you　could　get　to　that　proverbial　hell　on　earth。　Allah　was　kind　to　us；　though。　The　Wazir　Akbar　Khan　area　was　not　attacked　as　much；　so　we　did　not　have　it　as　bad　as　some　of　the　other　neighborhoods。
On　those　days　when　the　rocket　fire　eased　up　a　bit　and　the　gunfighting　was　light；　Hassan　would　take　Sohrab　to　the　zoo　to　see　Marjan　the　lion；　or　to　the　cinema。　Hassan　taught　him　how　to　shoot　the　slingshot；　and；　later；　by　the　time　he　was　eight；　Sohrab　had　bee　deadly　with　that　thing：　He　could　stand　on　the　terrace　and　hit　a　pinecone　propped　on　a　pail　halfway　across　the　yard。　Hassan　taught　him　to　read　and　write……his　son　was　not　going　to　grow　up　illiterate　like　he　had。　I　grew　very　attached　to　that　little　boy……I　had　seen　him　take　his　first　step；　heard　him　utter　his　first　word。　I　bought　children　s　books　for　Sohrab　from　the　bookstore　by　Cinema　Park……they　have　destroyed　that　too　now……and　Sohrab　read　them　as　quickly　as　I　could　get　them　to　him。　He　reminded　me　of　you；　how　you　loved　to　read　when　you　were　little；　Amir　jan。　Sometimes；　I　read　to　him　at　night；　played　riddles　with　him；　taught　him　card　tricks。　I　miss　him　terribly。
In　the　wintertime；　Hassan　took　his　son　kite　running。　There　were　not　nearly　as　many　kite　tournaments　as　in　the　old　days……no　one　felt　safe　outside　for　too　long……but　there　were　still　a　few　scattered　tournaments。　Hassan　would　prop　Sohrab　on　his　shoulders　and　they　would　go　trotting　through　the　streets；　running　kites；　climbing　trees　where　kites　had　dropped。　You　remember；　Amir　Jan；　what　a　good　kite　runner　Hassan　was？　He　was　still　just　as　good。　At　the　end　of　winter；　Hassan　and　Sohrab　would　hang　the　kites　they　had　run　all　winter　on　the　walls　of　the　main　hallway。　They　would　put　them　up　like　paintings。
I　told　you　how　we　all　celebrated　in　1996　when　the　Taliban　rolled　in　and　put　an　end　to　the　daily　fighting。　I　remember　ing　home　that　night　and　finding　Hassan　in　the　kitchen；　listening　to　the　radio。　He　had　a　sober　look　in　his　eyes。　I　asked
him　what　was　wrong；　and　he　just　shook　his　head。　　God　help　the　Hazaras　now；　Rahim　Khan　sahib；　　he　said。
　The　war　is　over；　Hassan；　　I　said。　　There　s　going　to　be　peace；　_Inshallah_；　and　happiness　and　calm。　No　more　rockets；　no　more　killing；　no　more　funerals！　　But　he　just　turned　off　the　radio　and　asked　if　he　could　get　me　anything　before　he　went　to　bed。
A　few　weeks　later；　the　Taliban　banned　kite　fighting。　And　two　years　later；　in　1998；　they　massacred　the　Hazaras　in　Mazar…i…Sharif。
SEVENTEEN
Rahim　Khan　slowly　uncrossed　his　legs　and　leaned　against　the　bare　wall　in　the　wary；　deliberate　way　of　a　man　whose　every　movement　triggers　spikes　of　pain。　Outside；　a　donkey　was　braying　and　some　one　was　shouting　something　in　Urdu。　The　sun　was　beginning　to　set；　glittering　red　through　the　cracks　between　the　ramshackle　buildings。
It　hit　me　again；　the　enormity　of　what　I　had　done　that　winter　and　that　following　summer。　The　names　rang　in　my　head：　Hassan；　Sohrab；　Ali；　Farzana；　and　Sanaubar。　Hearing　Rahim　Khan　speak　Ali　s　name　was　like　finding　an　old　dusty　music　box　that　hadn　t　been　opened　in　years；　the　melody　began　to　play　immediately：　Who　did　you　eat　today；　Babalu？　Who　did　you　eat；　you　slant…eyed　Babalu？　I　tried　to　conjure　Ali　s　frozen　face；　to　really　see　his　tranquil　eyes；　but　time　can　be　a　greedy　thing……sometimes　it　steals　all　the　details　for　itself。
　Is　Hassan　still　in　that　house　now？　　I　asked。
Rahim　Khan　raised　the　teacup　to　his　parched　lips　and　took　a　sip。　He　then　fished　an　envelope　from　the　breast　pocket　of　his　vest　and　handed　it　to　me。　　For　you。　
I　tore　the　sealed　envelope。　Inside；　I　found　a　Polaroid　photograph　and　a　folded　letter。　I　stared　at　the　photograph　for　a　full　minute。
A　tall　man　dressed　in　a　white　turban　and　a　green…striped　chapan　stood　with　a　little　boy　in　front　of　a　set　of　wrought…iron　gates。　Sunlight　slanted　in　from　the　left；　casting　a　shadow　on　half　of　his　rotund　face。　He　was　squinting　and　smiling　at　the　ca