the kite runner-第90章

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The　driveway　extension　that　led　from　the　gates　to　the　yard；　where　Hassan　and　I　took　turns　falling　the　summer　we　learned　to　ride　a　bike；　didn　t　look　as　wide　or　as　long　as　I　remembered　it。　The　asphalt　had　split　in　a　lightning…streak　pattern；　and　more　tangles　of　weed　sprouted　through　the　fissures。　Most　of　the　poplar　trees　had　been　chopped　down……the　trees　Hassan　and　I　used　to　climb　to　shine　our　mirrors　into　the　neighbors　　homes。　The　ones　still　standing　were　nearly　leafless。　The　Wall　of　Ailing　Corn　was　still　there；　though　I　saw　no　corn；　ailing　or　otherwise；　along　that　wall　now。　The　paint　had　begun　to　peel　and　sections　of　it　had　sloughed　off　altogether。　The　lawn　had　turned　the　same　brown　as　the　haze　of　dust　hovering　over　the　city；　dotted　by　bald　patches　of　dirt　where　nothing　grew　at　all。
A　jeep　was　parked　in　the　driveway　and　that　looked　all　wrong：
Baba　s　black　Mustang　belonged　there。　For　years；　the　Mustang　s　eight　cylinders　roared　to　life　every　morning；　rousing　me　from　sleep。　I　saw　that　oil　had　spilled　under　the　jeep　and　stained　the　driveway　like　a　big　Rorschach　inkblot。　Beyond　the　jeep；　an　empty　wheelbarrow　lay　on　its　side。　I　saw　no　sign　of　the　rosebushes　that　Baba　and　Ali　had　planted　on　the　left　side　of　the　driveway；　only　dirt　that　spilled　onto　the　asphalt。　And　weeds。
Farid　honked　twice　behind　me。　　We　should　go；　Agha。　We　ll　draw　attention；　　he　called。
　Just　give　me　one　more　minute；　　I　said。
The　house　itself　was　far　from　the　sprawling　white　mansion　I　remembered　from　my　childhood。　It　looked　smaller。　The　roof　sagged　and　the　plaster　was　cracked。　The　windows　to　the　living　room；　the　foyer；　and　the　upstairs　guest　bathroom　were　broken；　patched　haphazardly　with　sheets　of　clear　plastic　or　wooden　boards　nailed　across　the　frames。　The　paint；　once　sparkling　white；　had　faded　to　ghostly　gray　and　eroded　in　parts；　revealing　the　layered　bricks　beneath。　The　front　steps　had　crumbled。　Like　so　much　else　in　Kabul；　my　father　s　house　was　the　picture　of　fallen　splendor。
I　found　the　window　to　my　old　bedroom；　second　floor；　third　window　sOuth　of　the　main　steps　to　the　house。　I　stood　on　tiptoes；　saw　nothing　behind　the　window　but　shadows。　Twenty…five　years　earlier；　I　had　stood　behind　that　same　window；　thick　rain　dripping　down　the　panes　and　my　breath　fogging　up　the　glass。　I　had　watched　Hassan　and　Ali　load　their　belongings　into　the　trunk　of　my　father　s　car。
　Amir　agha；　　Farid　called　again。
　I　m　ing；　　I　shot　back。
Insanely；　I　wanted　to　go　in。　Wanted　to　walk　up　the　front　steps　where　Ali　used　to　make　Hassan　and　me　take　off　our　snow　boots。　I　wanted　to　step　into　the　foyer；　smell　the　orange　peel　Ali　always　tossed　into　the　stove　to　burn　with　sawdust。　Sit　at　the　kitchen　table；　have　tea　with　a　slice　of　_naan_；　listen　to　Hassan　sing　old　Hazara　songs。
Another　honk。　I　walked　back　to　the　Land　Cruiser　parked　along　the　sidewalk。　Farid　sat　smoking　behind　the　wheel。
　I　have　to　look　at　one　more　thing；　　I　told　him。
　Can　you　hurry？　
　Give　me　ten　minutes。　
　Go；　then。　　Then；　just　as　I　was　turning　to　go：　　Just　forget　it　all。　Makes　it　easier。　
　To　what？　
　To　go　on；　　Farid　said。　He　flicked　his　cigarette　out　of　the　window。　　How　much　more　do　you　need　to　see？　Let　me　save　you　the　trouble：　Nothing　that　you　remember　has　survived。　Best　to　forget。　
　I　don　t　want　to　forget　anymore；　　I　said。　　Give　me　ten　minutes。　
WE　HARDLY　BROKE　A　SWEAT；　Hassan　and　I；　when　we　hiked
up　the　hill　just　north　of　Baba　s　house。　We　scampered　about　the　hilltop　chasing　each　other　or　sat　on　a　sloped　ridge　where　there　was　a　good　view　of　the　airport　in　the　distance。　We　d　watch　airplanes　take　off　and　land。　Go　running　again。
Now；　by　the　time　I　reached　the　top　of　the　craggy　hill；　each　ragged　breath　felt　like　inhaling　fire。　Sweat　trickled　down　my　face。　I　stood　wheezing　for　a　while；　a　stitch　in　my　side。　Then　I　went　looking　for　the　abandoned　cemetery。　It　didn　t　take　me　long　to　find　it。　It　was　still　there；　and　so　was　the　old　pomegranate　tree。
I　leaned　against　the　gray　stone　gateway　to　the　cemetery　where　Hassan　had　buried　his　mother。　The　old　metal　gates　hanging　off　the　hinges　were　gone；　and　the　headstones　were　barely　visible　through　the　thick　tangles　of　weeds　that　had　claimed　the　plot。　A　pair　of　crows　sat　on　the　low　wall　that　enclosed　the　cemetery。
Hassan　had　said　in　his　letter　that　the　pomegranate　tree　hadn　t　borne　fruit　in　years。　Looking　at　the　wilted；　leafless　tree；　I　doubted　it　ever　would　again。　I　stood　under　it；　remembered　all　the　times　we　d　climbed　it；　straddled　its　branches；　our　legs　swinging；　dappled　sunlight　flickering　through　the　leaves　and　casting　on　our　faces　a　mosaic　of　light　and　shadow。　The　tangy　taste　of　pomegranate　crept　into　my　mouth。
I　hunk