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!
tree。 In another month or two; crops of scorched yellow weeds would blanket the hillside; but that year the spring showers had lasted longer than usual; nudging their way into early summer; and the grass was still green; peppered with tangles of wildflowers。 Below us; Wazir Akbar Khan s white walled; flat…topped houses gleamed in the sunshine; the laundry hanging on clotheslines in their yards stirred by the breeze to dance like butterflies。
We had picked a dozen pomegranates from the tree。 I unfolded the story I d brought along; turned to the first page; then put it down。 I stood up and picked up an overripe pomegranate that had fallen to the ground。
What would you do if I hit you with this? I said; tossing the fruit up and down。
Hassan s smile wilted。 He looked older than I d remembered。 No; not older; old。 Was that possible? Lines had etched into his tanned face and creases framed his eyes; his mouth。 I might as well have taken a knife and carved those lines myself。
What would you do? I repeated。
The color fell from his face。 Next to him; the stapled pages of the story I d promised to read him fluttered in the breeze。 I hurled the pomegranate at him。 It struck him in the chest; exploded in a spray of red pulp。 Hassan s cry was pregnant with surprise and pain。
Hit me back! I snapped。 Hassan looked from the stain on his chest to me。
Get up! Hit me! I said。 Hassan did get up; but he just stood there; looking dazed like a man dragged into the ocean by a riptide when; just a moment ago; he was enjoying a nice stroll on the beach。
I hit him with another pomegranate; in the shoulder this time。 The juice splattered his face。 Hit me back! I spat。 Hit me back; goddamn you! I wished he would。 I wished he d give me the punishment I craved; so maybe I d finally sleep at night。 Maybe then things could return to how they used to be between us。 But Hassan did nothing as I pelted him again and again。 You re a coward! I said。 Nothing but a goddamn coward!
I don t know how many times I hit him。 All I know is that; when I finally stopped; exhausted and panting; Hassan was smeared in red like he d been shot by a firing squad。 I fell to my knees; tired; spent; frustrated。
Then Hassan did pick up a pomegranate。 He walked toward me。 He opened it and crushed it against his own forehead。 There; he croaked; red dripping down his face like blood。 Are you satisfied? Do you feel better? He turned around and started down the hill。
I let the tears break free; rocked back and forth on my knees。
What am I going to do with you; Hassan? What am I going to do with you? But by the time the tears dried up and I trudged down the hill; I knew the answer to that question。
I TURNED THIRTEEN that summer of 1976; Afghanistan s next to last summer of peace and anonymity。 Things between Baba and me were already cooling off again。 I think what started it was the stupid ment I d made the day we were planting tulips; about getting new servants。 I regretted saying it……I really did……but I think even if I hadn t; our happy little interlude would have e to an end。 Maybe not quite