追风筝的人阿塞夫结局 残忍而美丽的情谊:The Kite Runner 追风筝的人(69)

残忍而美丽的情谊:The Kite Runner 追风筝的人(69)  

“But I five him
Ali
didn’t you hear?” said Baba.
“Life here is impossible for us now
Agha sahib. We’re leaving.” Ali drew Hassan to him
curled his arm around his son’s shoulder. It was a protective gesture and I knew whom Ali was protecting him from. Ali glanced my way and in his cold
unfiving look
I saw that Hassan had told him. He had told him everything
about what Assef and his friends had done to him
about the kite
about me. Strangely
I was glad that someone knew me for who I really was; I was tired of pretending.
“I don’t care about the money or the watch
” Baba said
his arms open
palms up. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this... what do you mean ‘impossible’?”
“I’m sorry
Agha sahib
but our bags are already packed. We have made our decision.”
Baba stood up
a sheen of grief across his face. “Ali
haven’t I provided well for you? Haven’t I been good to you and Hassan? You’re the brother I never had
Ali
you know that. Please don’t do this.”
“Don’t make this even more difficult than it already is
Agha sahib
” Ali said. His mouth itched and
for a moment
I thought I saw a grimace. That was when I understood the depth of the pain I had caused
the blackness of the grief I had brought onto everyone
that not even Ali’s paralyzed face could mask his sorrow. I forced myself to look at Hassan
but his head was downcast
his shoulders slumped
his finger irling a loose string on the hem of his shirt.
Baba was pleading now. “At least tell me why. I need to know!”
Ali didn’t tell Baba
just as he didn’t protest when Hassan confessed to the stealing. I’ll never really know why
but I could imagine the o of them in that dim little hut
weeping
Hassan pleading him not to give me away. But I couldn’t imagine the restraint it must have taken Ali to keep that promise.
“Will you drive us to the bus station?”
“I forbid you to do this!” Baba bellowed. “Do you hear me? I forbid you!”
“Respectfully
you can’t forbid me anything
Agha sahib
” Ali said. “We don’t work for you anymore.”
“Where will you go?” Baba asked. His voice was breaking.
“Hazarajat.”
“To your cousin?”
“Yes. Will you take us to the bus station
Agha sahib?”
Then I saw Baba do something I had never seen him do before: He cried. It scared me a little
seeing a grown man sob. Fathers weren’t supposed to cry. “Please
” Baba was saying
but Ali had already turned to the door
Hassan trailing him. I’ll never fet the way Baba said that
the pain in his plea
the fear.
IN KABUL
it rarely rained in the Summer. Blue skies stood tall and far
the sun like a branding iron searing the back of your neck. Creeks where Hassan and I skipped stones all spring turned dry
and rickshaws stirred dust when they sputtered by. People went to mosques for their ten raka’ts of noontime prayer and then retreated to whatever shade they could find to nap in
waiting for the cool of early evening. Summer meant long school days sweating in tightly packed
poorly ventilated classrooms learning to recite ayats from the Koran
struggling with those tongue-isting
exotic Arabic words. It meant catching flies in your palm while the mullah droned on and a hot breeze brought with it the smell of shit from the outhouse across the schoolyard
churning dust around the lone rickety basketball hoop.