按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
own there two weeks earlier……he had left behind his gray suit and pocket watch。 The plan was for Khala Jamila to join him in a few months once he had settled。 She missed him terribly……and worried about his health there……and we had insisted she stay with us for a while。
The previous Thursday； the first day of spring； had been the Afghan New Year s Day……the Sawl…e…Nau……and Afghans in the Bay Area had planned celebrations
throughout the East Bay and the peninsula。 Kabir； Soraya； and I had an additional reason to rejoice： Our little hospital in Rawalpindi had opened the week before； not the surgical unit； just the pediatric clinic。 But it was a good start； we all agreed。
It had been sunny for days； but Sunday morning； as I swung my legs out of bed； I heard raindrops pelting the window。 Afghan luck； I thought。 Snickered。 I prayed morning _namaz_ while Soraya slept……I didn t have to consult the prayer pamphlet I had obtained from the mosque anymore； the verses came naturally now； effortlessly。
We arrived around noon and found a handful of people taking cover under a large rectangular plastic sheet mounted on six poles spiked to the ground。 Someone was already frying bolani； steam rose from teacups and a pot of cauliflower aush。 A scratchy old Ahmad Zahir song was blaring from a cassette player。 I smiled a little as the four of us rushed across the soggy grass field； Soraya and I in the lead； Khala Jamila in the middle； Sohrab behind us； the hood of his yellow raincoat bouncing on his back。
What s so funny？ Soraya said； holding a folded newspaper over her head。
You can take Afghans out of Paghman； but you can t take Paghman out of Afghans； I said。
We stooped under the makeshift tent。 Soraya and Khala Jamila drifted toward an overweight woman frying spinach bolani。 Sohrab stayed under the canopy for a moment； then stepped back out into the rain； hands stuffed in the pockets of his raincoat； his hair……now brown and straight like Hassan s……plastered against his scalp。 He stopped near a coffee…colored puddle and stared at it。 No one seemed to notice。 No one called him back in。 With time； the queries about our adopted……and decidedly eccentric……little boy had mercifully ceased； and； considering how tactless Afghan queries can be sometimes； that was a considerable relief。 People stopped asking why he never spoke。 Why he didn t play with the other kids。 And best of all； they stopped suffocating us with their exaggerated empathy； their slow head shaking； their tsk tsks； their Oh gung bichara。 Oh； poor little mute one。 The novelty had worn off。 Like dull wallpaper； Sohrab had blended into the background。
I shook hands with Kabir； a small； silver…haired man。 He introduced me to a dozen men； one of them a retired teacher； another an engineer； a former architect； a surgeon who was now running a hot dog stand in Hayward。 They all said they d known Baba in Kabul； and they spoke about him respectfully。 In one way or another； he had touched all their lives。 The men said I was lucky to have had such a great man for a father。
We chatted about the difficult and maybe thankless job Karzai had in front of him； about the uping Loya jirga； and the king s imminent return to his homeland after twenty…eights years of exile。 I remembered the night in 1973； the night Zahir Shah s cousin overthrew him； I remembered gunfire and the sky lighting up silver……Ali had taken me and Hassan in his arms； told us not to be afraid； that they were just shooting ducks。
Then someone told a Mullah Nasruddin joke and we were all laughing。 You know； your father was a funny man too； Kabir said。
He was； wasn t he？ I said； smiling； remembering how； soon after we arrived in the U。S。； Baba started grumbling about American flies。 He d sit at the kitchen
table with his flyswatter； watch the flies darting from wall to wall； buzzing here； buzzing there； harried and rushed。 In this country； even flies are pressed for time； he d groan。 How I had laughed。 I smiled at the memory now。
By three o clock； the rain had stopped and the sky was a curdled gray burdened with lumps of clouds。 A cool breeze blew through the park。 More families turned up。 Afghans greeted each other； hugged； kissed； exchanged food。 Someone lighted coal in a barbecue and soon the smell of garlic and morgh kabob flooded my senses。 There was music； some new singer I didn t know； and the giggling of children。 I saw Sohrab； still in his yellow raincoat； leaning against a garbage pail； staring across the park at the empty batting cage。
A little while later； as I was chatting with the former surgeon； who told me he and Baba had been classmates in eighth grade； Soraya pulled on my sleeve。 Amir； look！
She was pointing to the sky。 A half…dozen kites were flying high； speckles of bright yellow； red； and green against the gray sky。
Check it out； Soraya said； and this time she was pointing to a guy selling kites from a stand nearby。
Hold this； I said。 I gave my cup of tea to Soraya。 I excused myself and walked over to the kite stand； my shoes squishing on the wet grass。 I pointed to a yellow seh…parcha。 Sawl…e…nau mubabrak； the kite seller said； taking the twenty and handing me the kite and a wooden spool of glass tar。 I thanked him and wished him a Happy New Year too。 I tested the string the way Hassan and I used to； by holding it between my thumb and forefinger and pulling it。 It reddened with blood and the kite seller smiled。 I smiled back。
I took the kite to where Sohrab was standing； still leaning against the garbage pail； arms crossed on his chest。 He was looking up at the sky。
Do you like the seh…parcha？ I said； holding up the kite by the ends of the cross bars。 His eyes shifted from the sky to me； to the kite； then back。 A few rivulets of rain trickled from his hair； down his face。
I read once that； in Malaysia； they use kites to catch fish； I said。 I ll bet you didn t know that。 They tie a fishing line to it and fly it beyond the shallow waters； so it doesn t cast a shadow and scare the fish。 And in ancient China； generals used to fly kites over battlefields to send messages to their men。 It s true。 I m not slipping you a trick。 I s