the kite runner-第36部分

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　the　bulbs　I　handed　to　him。　He　was　telling　me　how　most　people　thought　it　was　better　to　plant　tulips　in　the　fall　and　how　that　wasn　t　true；　when　I　came　right　out　and　said　it。　　Baba；　have　you　ever　thought　about　get　ting　new　servants？　
He　dropped　the　tulip　bulb　and　buried　the　trowel　in　the　dirt。　Took　off　his　gardening　gloves。　I　d　startled　him。　　Chi？　What　did　you　say？　
　I　was　just　wondering；　that　s　all。　
　Why　would　I　ever　want　to　do　that？　　Baba　said　curtly。
　You　wouldn　t；　I　guess。　It　was　just　a　question；　　I　said；　my　voice　fading　to　a　murmur。　I　was　already　sorry　I　d　said　it。
　Is　this　about　you　and　Hassan？　I　know　there　s　something　going　on　between　you　two；　but　whatever　it　is；　you　have　to　deal　with　it；　not　me。　I　m　staying　out　of　it。　
　I　m　sorry；　Baba。　
He　put　on　his　gloves　again。　　I　grew　up　with　Ali；　　he　said　through　clenched　teeth。　　My　father　took　him　in；　he　loved　Ali　like　his　own　son。　Forty　years　Ali　s　been　with　my　family。　Forty　goddamn　years。　And　you　think　I　m　just　going　to　throw　him　out？　　He　turned　to　me　now；　his　face　as　red　as　a　tulip。　　I　ve　never　laid　a　hand　on　you；　Amir；　but　you　ever　say　that　again。。。　　He　looked　away；　shaking　his　head。　　You　bring　me　shame。　And　Hassan。。。　Hassan　s　not　going　anywhere；　do　you　understand？　
I　looked　down　and　picked　up　a　fistful　of　cool　soil。　Let　it　pour　between　my　fingers。
　I　said；　Do　you　understand？　　Baba　roared。
I　flinched。　　Yes；　Baba。　
　Hassan　s　not　going　anywhere；　　Baba　snapped。　He　dug　a　new　hole　with　the　trowel；　striking　the　dirt　harder　than　he　had　to。　　He　s　staying　right　here　with　us；　where　he　belongs。　This　is　his　home　and　we　re　his　family。　Don　t　you　ever　ask　me　that　question　again！　
　I　won　t；　Baba。　I　m　sorry。　
We　planted　the　rest　of　the　tulips　in　silence。
I　was　relieved　when　school　started　that　next　week。　Students　with　new　notebooks　and　sharpened　pencils　in　hand　ambled　about　the　courtyard；　kicking　up　dust；　chatting　in　groups；　waiting　for　the　class　captains　　whistles。　Baba　drove　down　the　dirt　lane　that　led　to　the　entrance。　The　school　was　an　old　two…story　building　with　broken　windows　and　dim；　cobblestone　hallways；　patches　of　its　original　dull　yellow　paint　still　showing　between　sloughing　chunks　of　plaster。　Most　of　the　boys　walked　to　school；　and　Baba　s　black　Mustang　drew　more　than　one　envious　look。　I　should　have　been　beaming　with　pride　when　he　dropped　me　off……the　old　me　would　have……but　all　I　could　muster　was　a　mild　form　of　embarrassment。　That　and　emptiness。　Baba　drove　away　without　saying　good…bye。
I　bypassed　the　customary　paring　of　kite…fighting　scars　and　stood　in　line。　The　bell　rang　and　we　marched　to　our　assigned　class；　filed　in　in　pairs。　I　sat　in　the　back　row。　As　the　Farsi　teacher　handed　out　our　textbooks；　I　prayed　for　a　heavy　load　of　homework。
School　gave　me　an　excuse　to　stay　in　my　room　for　long　hours。　And；　for　a　while；　it　took　my　mind　off　what　had　happened　that　winter；　what　I　had　let　happen。　For　a　few　weeks；　I　preoccupied　myself　with　gravity　and　momentum；　atoms　and　cells；　the　Anglo…Afghan　wars；　instead　of　thinking　about　Hassan　and　what　had　happened　to　him。　But；　always；　my　mind　returned　to　the　alley。　To　Hassan　s　brown　corduroy　pants　lying　on　the　bricks。　To　the　droplets　of　blood　staining　the　snow　dark　red；　almost　black。
One　sluggish；　hazy　afternoon　early　that　summer；　I　asked　Hassan　to　go　up　the　hill　with　me。　Told　him　I　wanted　to　read　him　a　new　story　I　d　written。　He　was　hanging　clothes　to　dry　in　the　yard　and　I　saw　his　eagerness　in　the　harried　way　he　finished　the　job。
We　climbed　the　hill；　making　small　talk。　He　asked　about　school；　what　I　was　learning；　and　I　talked　about　my　teachers；　especially　the　mean　math　teacher　who　punished　talkative　students　by　sticking　a　metal　rod　between　their　fingers　and　then　squeezing　them　together。　Hassan　winced　at　that；　said　he　hoped　I　d　never　have　to　experience　it。　I　said　I　d　been　lucky　so　far；　knowing　that　luck　had　nothing　to　do　with　it。　I　had　done　my　share　of　talking　in　class　too。　But　my　father　was　rich　and　everyone　knew　him；　so　I　was　spared　the　metal　rod　treatment。
We　sat　against　the　low　cemetery　wall　under　the　shade　thrown　by　the　pomegranate　tree。　In　another　month　or　two；　crops　of　scorched