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(77)

残忍而美丽的情谊:The Kite Runner 追风筝的人(77)  

Friday afternoon in Paghman. An open field of grass speckled with mulberry trees in blossom. Hassan and I stand ankle-deep in untamed grass
I am tugging on the line
the spool spinning in Hassan’s calloused hands
our eyes turned up to the kite in the sky. Not a word passes beeen us
not because we have nothing to say
but because we don’t have to say anything--that’s how it is beeen people who are each other’s first memories
people who have fed from the same breast. A breeze stirs the grass and Hassan lets the spool roll. The kite spins
dips
steadies. Our in shadows dance on the rippling grass. From somewhere over the low brick wall at the other end of the field
we hear chatter and laughter and the chirping of a water fountain. And music
some thing old and familiar
I think it’s Ya Mowlah on rubab strings. Someone calls our names over the wall
says it’s time for tea and cake.
I didn’t remember what month that was
or what year even. I only knew the memory lived in me
a perfectly encapsulated morsel of a good past
a brushstroke of color on the gray
barren canvas that our lives had bee.
THE REST OF THAT RIDE is scattered bits and pieces of memory that e and go
most of it sounds and smells: MiGs roaring past overhead; staccatos of gunfire; a donkey braying nearby; the jingling of bells and mewling of sheep; gravel crushed under the truck’s tires; a baby wailing in the dark; the stench of gasoline
vomit
and shit.
What I remember next is the blinding light of early morning as I climbed out of the fuel tank. I remember turning my face up to the sky
squinting
breathing like the world was running out of air. I lay on the side of the dirt road next to a rocky trench
looked up to the gray morning sky
thankful for air
thankful for light
thankful to be alive.
“We’re in Pakistan
Amir
” Baba said. He was standing over me. “Karim says he will call for a bus to take us to Peshawar.”
I rolled onto my chest
still lying on the cool dirt
and saw our suitcases on either side of Baba’s feet. Through the upside down V beeen his legs
I saw the truck idling on the side of the road
the other refugees climbing down the rear ladder. Beyond that
the dirt road unrolled through fields that were like leaden sheets under the gray sky and disappeared behind a line of bowl-shaped hills. Along the way
it passed a small village strung out atop a sun baked slope.
My eyes returned to our suitcases. They made me sad for Baba. After everything he’d built
planned
fought for
fretted over
dreamed of
this was the summation of his life: one disappointing son and o suitcases.
Someone was screaming. No
not screaming. Wailing. I saw the passengers huddled in a circle
heard their urgent voices. Someone said the word “fumes.” Someone else said it too. The wail turned into a throat-ripping screech.
Baba and I hurried to the pack of onlookers and pushed our way through them. Kamal’s father was sitting cross-legged in the center of the circle
rocking back and forth
kissing his son’s ashen face.
“He won’t breathe! My boy won’t breathe!” he was crying. Kamal’s lifeless body lay on his father’s lap. His right hand
uncurled and limp
bounced to the rhythm of his father’s sobs. “My boy! He won’t breathe! Allah
help him breathe!”
Baba knelt beside him and curled an arm around his shoulder. But Kamal’s father shoved him away and lunged for Karim who was standing nearby with his cousin. What happened next was too fast and too short to be called a scuffle. Karim uttered a surprised cry and backpedaled. I saw an arm swing
a leg kick. A moment later
Kamal’s father was standing with Karim’s gun in his hand.
“Don’t shoot me!” Karim cried.
But before any of us could say or do a thing
Kamal’s father shoved the barrel in his own mouth. I’ll never fet the echo of that blast. Or the flash of light and the spray of red.
I doubled over again and dry-heaved on the side of the road.