我的美母教师 | 乡村精品合集 | 乡村活寡 | 乡村欲爱 | 乡村春潮 | 乡村花医 | 欲望乡村（未删） | 乡村艳福 | 乡村春事 | 人妻四部曲

快捷操作: 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! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


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　two　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　forget　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…twisting；　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。
But　it　rained　the　afternoon　Baba　took　Ali　and　Hassan　to　the　bus　station。　Thunderheads　rolled　in；　painted　the　sky　iron　gray。　Within　minutes；　sheets　of　rain　were　sweeping　in；　the　steady　hiss　of　falling　water　swelling　in　my　ears。
Baba　had　offered　to　drive　them　to　Bamiyan　himself；　but　Ali　refused。　Through　the　blurry；　rain…soaked　window　of　my　bedroom；　I　watched　Ali　haul　the　lone　suitcase　carrying　all　of　their　belongings　to　Baba　s　car　idling　outside　the　gates。　Hassan　lugged　his　mattress；　rolled　tightly　and　tied　with　a　rope；　on　his　back。　He　d　left　all　of　his　toys　behind　in　the　empty　shack……I　discovered　them　the　next　day；　piled　in　a　corner　just　like　the　birthday　presents　in　my　room。
Slithering　beads　of　rain　sluiced　down　my　window。　I　saw　Baba　slam　the　trunk　shut。　Already　drenched；　he　walked　to　the　driver　s　side。　Leaned　in　and　said　something　to　Ali　in　the　backseat；　perhaps　one　last…ditch　effort　to　change　his　mind。　They　talked　that　way　awhile；　Baba　getting　soaked；　stooping；　one　arm　on　the　roof　of　the　car。　But　when　he　straightened；　I　saw　in　his　slumping　shoulders　that　the　life　I　had　known　since　I　d　been　born　was　over。　Baba　slid　in。　The　headlights　came　on　and　cut　twin　funnels　of　light　in　the　rain。　If　this　were　one　of　the　Hindi　movies　Hassan　and　I　used　to　watch；　this　was　the　part　where　I　d　run　outside；　my　bare　feet　splashing　rainwater。　I　d　chase　the　car；　screaming　for　it　to　stop。　I　d　pull　Hassan　out　of　the　backseat　and　tell　him　I　was　sorry；　so　sorry；　my　tears　mixing　with　rainwater。　We　d　hug　in　the　downpour。　But　this　was　no　Hindi　movie。　I　was　sorry；　but　I　didn　t　cry　and　I　didn　t　chase　the　car。　I　watched　Baba　s　car　pull　away　from　the　curb；　taking　with　it　the　person　whose　first　spoken　word　had　been　my　name。　I　caught　one　final　blurry　glimpse　of　Hassan　slumped　in　the　back　seat　before　Baba　turned　left　at　the　street　corner　where　we　d　played　marbles　so　many　times。
I　stepped　back　and　all　I　saw　was　rain　through　windowpanes　that　looked　like　melting　silver。
TEN
_March　1981_
A　young　woman　sat　across　from　us。　She　was　dressed　in　an　olive　green　dress　with　a　black　shawl　wrapped　tightly　around　her　face　against　the　night　chill。　She　burst　into　prayer　every　time　the　truck　jerked　or　stumbled　into　a　pothole；　her　　Bismillah！　　peaking　with　each　of　the　truck　s　shudders　and　jolts。　Her　husband；　a　burly　man　in　baggy　pants　and　sky　blue