追风筝的人是真实的吗 残忍而美丽的情谊:The Kite Runner 追风筝的人(79)

残忍而美丽的情谊:The Kite Runner 追风筝的人(79)  

“Does he think I’m a thief?” Baba said
his voice rising. People had gathered outside. They were staring. “What kind of a country is this? No one trusts anybody!”
“I call police
” Mrs. NguYen said
poking out her face. “You get out or I call police.”
“Please
Mrs. Nguyen
don’t call the police. I’ll take him home. Just don’t call the police
okay? Please?”
“Yes
you take him home. Good idea
” Mr. Nguyen said. His eyes
behind his wire-rimmed bifocals
never left Baba. I led Baba through the doors. He kicked a magazine on his way out. After I’d made him promise he wouldn’t go back in
I returned to the store and apologized to the Nguyens. Told them my father was going through a difficult time. I gave Mrs. Nguyen our telephone number and address
and told her to get an estimate for the damages. “Please call me as soon as you know. I’ll pay for everything
Mrs. Nguyen. I’m so sorry.” Mrs. Nguyen took the sheet of paper from me and nodded. I saw her hands were shaking more than usual
and that made me angry at Baba
his causing an old woman to shake like that.
“My father is still adjusting to life in America
” I said
by way of explanation.
I wanted to tell them that
in Kabul
we snapped a tree branch and used it as a credit card. Hassan and I would take the wooden stick to the bread maker. He’d carve notches on our stick with his knife
one notch for each loaf of _naan_ he’d pull for us from the tandoor’s roaring flames. At the end of the month
my father paid him for the number of notches on the stick. That was it. No questions. No ID.
But I didn’t tell them. I thanked Mr. Nguyen for not calling the cops. Took Baba home. He sulked and smoked on the balcony while I made rice with chicken neck stew. A year and a half since we’d stepped off the Boeing from Peshawar
and Baba was still adjusting.
We ate in silence that night. After o bites
Baba pushed away his plate.
I glanced at him across the table
his nails chipped and black with engine oil
his knuckles scraped
the smells of the gas station--dust
sweat
and gasoline--on his clothes. Baba was like the widower who remarries but can’t let go of his dead wife. He missed the sugarcane fields of Jalalabad and the gardens of Paghman. He missed people milling in and out of his house
missed walking down the bustling aisles of Shor Bazaar and greeting people who knew him and his father
knew his grandfather
people who shared ancestors with him
whose pasts interined with his.
For me
America was a place to bury my memories.
For Baba
a place to mourn his.
“Maybe we should go back to Peshawar
” I said
watching the ice float in my glass of water. We’d spent six months in Peshawar waiting for the INS to issue our visas. Our grimy one-bedroom apartment smelled like dirty socks and cat droppings
but we were surrounded by people we knew--at least people Baba knew. He’d invite the entire corridor of neighbors for dinner
most of them Afghans waiting for visas. Inevitably
someone would bring a set of tabla and someone else a harmonium. Tea would brew
and who ever had a passing singing voice would sing until the sun rose
the mosquitoes stopped buzzing
and clapping hands grew sore.
“You were happier there
Baba. It was more like home
” I said.
“Peshawar was good for me. Not good for you.”
“You work so hard here.”