the kite runner-第85章

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y　him　to　make　his　monkey　dance　for　Sohrab。　You　should　see　how　he　laughs！　The　two　of　us　often　walk　up　to　the　cemetery　on　the　hill。　Do　you　remember　how　we　used　to　sit　under　the　pomegranate　tree　there　and　read　from　the　_Shahnamah_？　The　droughts　have　dried　the　hill　and　the　tree　hasn　t　borne　fruit　in　years；　but　Sohrab　and　I　still　sit　under　its　shade　and　I　read　to　him　from　the　_Shahnamah_。　It　is　not　necessary　to　tell　you　that　his　favorite　part　is　the　one　with　his　namesake；　Rostam　and　Sohrab。　Soon　he　will　be　able　to　read　from　the　book　himself。　I　am　a　very　proud　and　very　lucky　father。
Amir　agha；
Rahim　Khan　sahib　is　quite　ill。　He　coughs　all　day　and　I　see　blood　on　his　sleeve　when　he　wipes　his　mouth。　He　has　lost　much　weight　and　I　wish　he　would　eat　a　little　of　the　shorwa　and　rice　that　Farzana　Jan　cooks　for　him。　But　he　only　takes　a　bite　or　two　and　even　that　I　think　is　out　of　courtesy　to　Farzana　jan。　I　am　so　worried　about　this　dear　man　I　pray　for　him　every　day。　He　is　leaving　for　Pakistan　in　a　few　days　to　consult　some　doctors　there　and；　_Inshallah_；　he　will　return　with　good　news。　But　in　my　heart　I　fear　for　him。　Farzana　jan　and　I　have　told　little　Sohrab　that　Rahim　Khan　sahib　is　going　to　be　well。　What　can　we　do？　He　is　only　ten　and　he　adores　Rahim　Khan　sahib。　They　have　grown　so　close　to　each　other。　Rahim　Khan　sahib　used　to　take　him　to　the　bazaar　for　balloons　and　biscuits　but　he　is　too　weak　for　that　now。
I　have　been　dreaming　a　lot　lately；　Amir　agha。　Some　of　them　are　nightmares；　like　hanged　corpses　rotting　in　soccer　fields　with　bloodred　grass。　I　wake　up　from　those　short　of　breath　and　sweaty。　Mostly；　though；　I　dream　of　good　things；　and　praise　Allah　for　that。　I　dream　that　Rahim　Khan　sahib　will　be　well。　I　dream　that
my　son　will　grow　up　to　be　a　good　person；　a　free　person；　and　an　important　person。　I　dream　that　lawla　flowers　will　bloom　in　the　streets　of　Kabul　again　and　rubab　music　will　play　in　the　samovar　houses　and　kites　will　fly　in　the　skies。　And　I　dream　that　someday　you　will　return　to　Kabul　to　revisit　the　land　of　our　childhood。　If　you　do；　you　will　find　an　old　faithful　friend　waiting　for　you。
May　Allah　be　with　you　always。
…Hassan
I　read　the　letter　twice。　I　folded　the　note　and　looked　at　the　photograph　for　another　minute。　I　pocketed　both。　　How　is　he？　　I　asked。
　That　letter　was　written　six　months　ago；　a　few　days　before　I　left　for　Peshawar；　　Rahim　Khan　said。　　I　took　the　Polaroid　the　day　before　I　left。　A　month　after　I　arrived　in　Peshawar；　I　received　a　telephone　call　from　one　of　my　neighbors　in　Kabul。　He　told　me　this　story：　Soon　after　I　took　my　leave；　a　rumor　spread　that　a　Hazara　family　was　living　alone　in　the　big　house　in　Wazir　Akbar　Khan；　or　so　the　Taliban　claim。　A　pair　of　Talib　officials　came　to　investigate　and　interrogated　Hassan。　They　accused　him　of　lying　when　Hassan　told　them　he　was　living　with　me　even　though　many　of　the　neighbors；　including　the　one　who　called　me；　supported　Hassan　s　story。　The　Talibs　said　he　was　a　liar　and　a　thief　like　all　Hazaras　and　ordered　him　to　get　his　family　out　of　the　house　by　sundown。　Hassan　protested。　But　my　neighbor　said　the　Talibs　were　looking　at　the　big　house　like……how　did　he　say　it？……yes；　like　　wolves　looking　at　a　flock　of　sheep。　　They　told　Hassan　they　would　be　moving　in　to　supposedly　keep　it　safe　until　I　return。　Hassan　protested　again。　So　they　took　him　to　the　street……　
　No；　　I　breathed。
　……and　order　him　to　kneel……　
　No。　God；　no。　
　……and　shot　him　in　the　back　of　the　head。　
　……Farzana　came　screaming　and　attacked　them……　
　No。　
　……shot　her　too。　Self…defense；　they　claimed　later……　
But　all　I　could　manage　was　to　whisper　　No。　No。　No　　over　and　over　again。
I　KEPT　THINKING　OF　THAT　DAY　in　1974；　in　the　hospital　room；　Just　after　Hassan　s　harelip　surgery。　Baba；　Rahim　Khan；　Ali；　and　I　had　huddled　around　Hassan　s　bed；　watched　him　examine　his　new　lip　in　a　handheld　mirror。　Now　everyone　in　that　room　was　either　dead　or　dying。　Except　for　me。
Then　I　saw　something　else：　a　man　dressed　in　a　herringbone　vest　pressing　the　muzzle　of　his　Kalashnikov　to　the　back　of　Hassan　s　head。　The　blast　echoes　through　the　street　of　my　father　s　house。　Hassan　slumps　to　the　asphalt；　his　life　o