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the kite runner-第51章

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 with kofta piled in the kitchen sink; laundry in the wicker basket in
the foyer; beds unmade; Baba s business suits hanging in the closet。 Tapestries still hung on the walls of the living room and my mother s books still crowded the shelves in Baba s study。 The signs of our elopement were subtle: My parents  wedding picture was gone; as was the grainy photograph of my grandfather and King Nader Shah standing over the dead deer。 A few items of clothing were missing from the closets。 The leather…bound notebook Rahim Khan had given me five years earlier was gone。
In the morning; Jalaluddin……our seventh servant in five years……would probably think we d gone out for a stroll or a drive。 We hadn t told him。 You couldn t trust anyone in Kabul any more……for a fee or under threat; people told on each other; neighbor on neighbor; child on parent; brother on brother; servant on master; friend on friend。 I thought of the singer Ahmad Zahir; who had played the accordion at my thirteenth birthday。 He had gone for a drive with some friends; and someone had later found his body on the side of the road; a bullet in the back of his head。 The rafiqs; the rades; were everywhere and they d split Kabul into two groups: those who eavesdropped and those who didn t。 The tricky part was that no one knew who belonged to which。 A casual remark to the tailor while getting fitted for a suit might land you in the dungeons of Poleh…charkhi。 plain about the curfew to the butcher and next thing you knew; you were behind bars staring at the muzzle end of a Kalashnikov。 Even at the dinner table; in the privacy of their home; people had to speak in a calculated manner……the rafiqs were in the classrooms too; they d taught children to spy on their parents; what to listen for; whom to tell。
What was I doing on this road in the middle of the night? I should have been in bed; under my blanket; a book with dog…eared pages at my side。 This had to be a dream。 Had to be。 Tomorrow morning; I d wake up; peek out the window: No grim…faced Russian soldiers patrolling the sidewalks; no tanks rolling up and down the streets of my city; their turrets swiveling like accusing fingers; no rubble; no curfews; no Russian Army Personnel Carriers weaving through the bazaars。 Then; behind me; I heard Baba and Karim discussing the arrangement in Jalalabad over a smoke。 Karim was reassuring Baba that his brother had a big truck of  excellent and first…class quality;  and that the trek to Peshawar would be very routine。  He could take you there with his eyes closed;  Karim said。 I overheard him telling Baba how he and his brother knew the Russian and Afghan soldiers who worked the checkpoints; how they had set up a  mutually profitable  arrangement。 This was no dream。 As if on cue; a MiG suddenly screamed past overhead。 Karim tossed his cigarette and produced a hand gun from his waist。 Pointing it to the sky and making shooting gestures; he spat and cursed at the MiG。
I wondered where Hassan was。 Then the inevitable。 I vomited on a tangle of weeds; my retching and groaning drowned in the deafening roar of the MiG。 WE PULLED UP to the checkpoint at Mahipar twenty minutes later。 Our driver let the truck idle and hopped down to greet the approaching voices。 Feet crushed gravel。 Words were exchanged; brief and hushed。 A flick of a lighter。  Spasseba。 
Another flick of the lighter。 Someone laughed; a shrill cackling sound that made me jump。 Baba s hand clamped down on my thigh。 The laughing man broke into song; a slurring; off…key rendition of an old Afghan wedding song; delivered with a thick Russian accent:
Ahesta boro; Mah…e…m
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