Lore1 has it my father once wrestled2 a black bear in Baluchistan with his bare hands. If the story had been about anyone else, it would have been dismissed as _laaf_, that Afghan tendency to exaggerate--sadly, almost a national affliction; if someone bragged3 that his son was a doctor, chances were the kid had once passed a biology test in high school. But no one ever doubted the veracity4 of any story about Baba. And if they did, well, Baba did have those three parallel scars coursing a jagged path down his back. I have imagined Baba's wrestling match countless5 times, even dreamed about it. And in those dreams, I can never tell Baba from the bear.
It was Rahim Khan who first referred to him as what eventually became Baba's famous nickname, _Toophan agha_, or "Mr. Hurricane.?It was an apt enough nickname. My father was a force of nature, a towering Pashtun specimen6 with a thick beard, a wayward crop of curly brown hair as unruly as the man himself, hands that looked capable of uprooting7 a willow8 tree, and a black glare that would "drop the devil to his knees begging for mercy,?as Rahim Khan used to say. At parties, when all six-foot-five of him thundered into the room, attention shifted to him like sunflowers turning to the sun.
Baba was impossible to ignore, even in his sleep. I used to bury cotton wisps in my ears, pull the blanket over my head, and still the sounds of Baba's snoring--so much like a growling9 truck engine--penetrated the walls. And my room was across the hall from Baba's bedroom. How my mother ever managed to sleep in the same room as him is a mystery to me. It's on the long list of things I would have asked my mother if I had ever met her.
In the late 1960s, when I was five or six, Baba decided10 to build an orphanage11. I heard the story through Rahim Khan. He told me Baba had drawn12 the blueprints13 himself despite the fact that he'd had no architectural experience at all. Skeptics had urged him to stop his foolishness and hire an architect. Of course, Baba refused, and everyone shook their heads in dismay at his obstinate14 ways. Then Baba succeeded and everyone shook their heads in awe15 at his triumphant16 ways. Baba paid for the construction of the two-story orphanage, just off the main strip of Jadeh Maywand south of the Kabul River, with his own money. Rahim Khan told me Baba had personally funded the entire project, paying for the engineers, electricians, plumbers17, and laborers18, not to mention the city officials whose "mustaches needed oiling.?
It took three years to build the orphanage. I was eight by then. I remember the day before the orphanage opened, Baba took me to Ghargha Lake, a few miles north of Kabul. He asked me to fetch Hassan too, but I lied and told him Hassan had the runs. I wanted Baba all to myself. And besides, one time at Ghargha Lake, Hassan and I were skimming stones and Hassan made his stone skip eight times. The most I managed was five. Baba was there, watching, and he patted Hassan on the back. Even put his arm around his shoulder.
We sat at a picnic table on the banks of the lake, just Baba and me, eating boiled eggs with _kofta_ sandwiches--meatballs and pickles19 wrapped in _naan_. The water was a deep blue and sunlight glittered on its looking glass-clear surface. On Fridays, the lake was bustling20 with families out for a day in the sun. But it was midweek and there was only Baba and me, us and a couple of longhaired, bearded tourists--"hippies,?I'd heard them called. They were sitting on the dock, feet dangling21 in the water, Fishing poles in hand. I asked Baba why they grew their hair long, but Baba grunted22, didn't answer. He was preparing his speech for the next day, flipping23 through a havoc24 of handwritten pages, making notes here and there with a pencil. I bit into my egg and asked Baba if it was true what a boy in school had told me, that if you ate a piece of eggshell, you'd have to pee it out. Baba grunted again.
I took a bite of my sandwich. One of the yellow-haired tourists laughed and slapped the other one on the back. In the distance, across the lake, a truck lumbered25 around a corner on the hill. Sunlight twinkled in its side-view mirror.
"I think I have _saratan_,?I said. Cancer. Baba lifted his head from the pages flapping in the breeze. Told me I could get the soda26 myself, all I had to do was look in the trunk of the car.
Outside the orphanage, the next day, they ran out of chairs. A lot of people had to stand to watch the opening ceremony. It was a windy day, and I sat behind Baba on the little podium just outside the main entrance of the new building. Baba was wearing a green suit and a caracul hat. Midway through the speech, the wind knocked his hat off and everyone laughed. He motioned to me to hold his hat for him and I was glad to, because then everyone would see that he was my father, my Baba. He turned back to the microphone and said he hoped the building was sturdier than his hat, and everyone laughed again. When Baba ended his speech, people stood up and cheered. They clapped for a long time. Afterward28, people shook his hand. Some of them tousled my hair and shook my hand too. I was so proud of Baba, of us.
But despite Baba's successes, people were always doubting him. They told Baba that running a business wasn't in his blood and he should study law like his father. So Baba proved them all wrong by not only running his own business but becoming one of the richest merchants in Kabul. Baba and Rahim Khan built a wildly successful carpet-exporting Business, two pharmacies29, and a restaurant.
When people scoffed30 that Baba would never marry well--after all, he was not of royal blood--he wedded31 my mother, Sofia Akrami, a highly educated woman universally regarded as one of Kabul's most respected, beautiful, and virtuous32 ladies. And not only did she teach classic Farsi literature at the university she was a descendant of the royal family, a fact that my father playfully rubbed in the skeptics?faces by referring to her as "my princess.?
With me as the glaring exception, my father molded the world around him to his liking33. The problem, of course, was that Baba saw the world in black and white. And he got to decide what was black and what was white. You can't love a person who lives that way without fearing him too. Maybe even hating him a little.
When I was in fifth grade, we had a mullah who taught us about Islam. His name was Mullah Fatiullah Khan, a short, stubby man with a face full of acne scars and a gruff voice. He lectured us about the virtues34 of _zakat_ and the duty of _hadj_; he taught us the intricacies of performing the five daily _namaz_ prayers, and made us memorize verses from the Koran--and though he never translated the words for us, he did stress, sometimes with the help of a stripped willow branch, that we had to pronounce the Arabic words correctly so God would hear us better. He told us one day that Islam considered drinking a terrible sin; those who drank would answer for their sin on the day of _Qiyamat_, Judgment35 Day. In those days, drinking was fairly common in Kabul. No one gave you a public lashing36 for it, but those Afghans who did drink did so in private, out of respect. People bought their scotch37 as "Medicine?in brown paper bags from selected "pharmacies.?They would leave with the bag tucked out of sight, sometimes drawing furtive38, disapproving39 glances from those who knew about the store's reputation for such transactions.
We were upstairs in Baba's study, the smoking room, when I told him what Mullah Fatiullah Khan had taught us in class. Baba was pouring himself a whiskey from the bar he had built in the corner of the room. He listened, nodded, took a sip40 from his drink. Then he lowered himself into the leather sofa, put down his drink, and propped41 me up on his lap. I felt as if I were sitting on a pair of tree trunks. He took a deep breath and exhaled42 through his nose, the air hissing43 through his mustache for what seemed an eternity44 I couldn't decide whether I wanted to hug him or leap from his lap in mortal fear.
"I see you've confused what you're learning in school with actual education,?he said in his thick voice.
"But if what he said is true then does it make you a sinner, Baba??
"Hmm.?Baba crushed an ice cube between his teeth. "Do you want to know what your father thinks about sin??
"Yes.?
"Then I'll tell you,?Baba said, "but first understand this and understand it now, Amir: You'll never learn anything of value from those bearded idiots.?
"You mean Mullah Fatiullah Khan??
Baba gestured with his glass. The ice clinked. "I mean all of them. Piss on the beards of all those self-righteous monkeys.?
I began to giggle45. The image of Baba pissing on the beard of any monkey, self-righteous or otherwise, was too much.
"They do nothing but thumb their prayer beads46 and recite a book written in a tongue they don't even understand.?He took a sip. "God help us all if Afghanistan ever falls into their hands.?
"But Mullah Fatiullah Khan seems nice,?I managed between bursts of tittering.
"So did Genghis Khan,?Baba said. "But enough about that. You asked about sin and I want to tell you. Are you listening??
"Yes,?I said, pressing my lips together. But a chortle escaped through my nose and made a snorting sound. That got me giggling47 again.
Baba's stony48 eyes bore into mine and, just like that, I wasn't laughing anymore. "I mean to speak to you man to man. Do you think you can handle that for once??
"Yes, Baba jan,?I muttered, marveling, not for the first time, at how badly Baba could sting me with so few words. We'd had a fleeting49 good moment--it wasn't often Baba talked to me, let alone on his lap--and I'd been a fool to waste it.
"Good,?Baba said, but his eyes wondered. "Now, no matter what the mullah teaches, there is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. Do you understand that??
"No, Baba jan,?I said, desperately50 wishing I did. I didn't want to disappoint him again.
Baba heaved a sigh of impatience51. That stung too, because he was not an impatient man. I remembered all the times he didn't come home until after dark, all the times I ate dinner alone. I'd ask Ali where Baba was, when he was coming Home, though I knew full well he was at the construction site, overlooking this, supervising that. Didn't that take patience? I already hated all the kids he was building the orphanage for; sometimes I wished they'd all died along with their parents.
"When you kill a man, you steal a life,?Baba said. "You steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. Do you see??
I did. When Baba was six, a thief walked into my grandfather's house in the middle of the night. My grandfather, a respected judge, confronted him, but the thief stabbed him in the throat, killing52 him instantly--and robbing Baba of a father. The townspeople caught the killer53 just before noon the next day; he turned out to be a wanderer from the Kunduz region. They hanged him from the branch of an oak tree with still two hours to go before afternoon prayer. It was Rahim Khan, not Baba, who had told me that story. I was always learning things about Baba from other people.
"There is no act more wretched than stealing, Amir,?Baba said. "A man who takes what's not his to take, be it a life or a loaf of _naan_... I spit on such a man. And if I ever cross paths with him, God help him. Do you understand??
I found the idea of Baba clobbering54 a thief both exhilarating and terribly frightening. "Yes, Baba.?
"If there's a God out there, then I would hope he has more important things to attend to than my drinking scotch or eating pork. Now, hop27 down. All this talk about sin has made me thirsty again.?
I watched him fill his glass at the bar and wondered how much time would pass before we talked again the way we just had. Because the truth of it was, I always felt like Baba hated me a little. And why not? After all, I _had_ killed his beloved wife, his beautiful princess, hadn't I? The least I could have done was to have had the decency55 to have turned out a little more like him. But I hadn't turned out like him. Not at all.
IN SCHOOL, we used to play a game called _Sherjangi_, or "Battle of the Poems.?The Farsi teacher moderated it and it went something like this: You recited a verse from a poem and your opponent had sixty seconds to reply with a verse that began with the same letter that ended yours. Everyone in my class wanted me on their team, because by the time I was eleven, I could recite dozens of verses from Khayyam, H?fez, or Rumi's famous _Masnawi_. One time, I took on the whole class and won. I told Baba about it later that night, but he just nodded, muttered, "Good.?
That was how I escaped my father's aloofness56, in my dead mother's books. That and Hassan, of course. I read everything, Rumi, H?fez, Saadi, Victor Hugo, Jules Verne, Mark Twain, Ian Fleming. When I had finished my mother's books--not the boring history ones, I was never much into those, but the novels, the epics--I started spending my allowance on books. I bought one a week from the bookstore near Cinema Park, and stored them in cardboard boxes when I ran out of shelf room.
Of course, marrying a poet was one thing, but fathering a son who preferred burying his face in poetry books to hunting... well, that wasn't how Baba had envisioned it, I suppose. Real men didn't read poetry--and God forbid they should ever write it! Real men--real boys--played soccer just as Baba had when he had been young. Now _that_ was something to be passionate57 about. In 1970, Baba took a break from the construction of the orphanage and flew to Tehran for a month to watch the World Cup games on television, since at the time Afghanistan didn't have TVs yet. He signed me up for soccer teams to stir the same passion in me. But I was pathetic, a blundering liability to my own team, always in the way of an opportune58 pass or unwittingly blocking an open lane. I shambled about the field on scraggy legs, squalled for passes that never came my way. And the harder I tried, waving my arms over my head frantically59 and screeching60, "I'm open! I'm open!?the more I went ignored. But Baba wouldn't give up. When it became abundantly clear that I hadn't inherited a shred61 of his athletic62 talents, he settled for trying to turn me into a passionate spectator. Certainly I could manage that, couldn't I? I faked interest for as long as possible. I cheered with him when Kabul's team scored against Kandahar and yelped63 insults at the referee64 when he called a penalty against our team. But Baba sensed my lack of genuine interest and resigned himself to the bleak65 fact that his son was never going to either play or watch soccer.
I remember one time Baba took me to the yearly _Buzkashi_ tournament that took place on the first day of spring, New Year's Day. Buzkashi was, and still is, Afghanistan's national passion. A _chapandaz_, a highly skilled horseman usually patronized by rich aficionados66, has to snatch a goat or cattle carcass from the midst of a melee67, carry that carcass with him around the stadium at full gallop68, and drop it in a scoring circle while a team of other _chapandaz_ chases him and does everything in its power--kick, claw, whip, punch--to snatch the carcass from him. That day, the crowd roared with excitement as the horsemen on the field bellowed69 their battle cries and jostled for the carcass in a cloud of dust. The earth trembled with the clatter70 of hooves. We watched from the upper bleachers as riders pounded past us at full gallop, yipping and yelling, foam71 flying from their horses?mouths.
At one point Baba pointed72 to someone. "Amir, do you see that man sitting up there with those other men around him??
I did.
"That's Henry Kissinger.?
"Oh,?I said. I didn't know who Henry Kissinger was, and I might have asked. But at the moment, I watched with horror as one of the _chapandaz_ fell off his saddle and was trampled73 under a score of hooves. His body was tossed and hurled74 in the stampede like a rag doll, finally rolling to a stop when the melee moved on. He twitched75 once and lay motionless, his legs bent76 at unnatural77 angles, a pool of his blood soaking through the sand.
I began to cry.
I cried all the way back Home. I remember how Baba's hands clenched78 around the steering79 wheel. Clenched and unclenched. Mostly, I will never forget Baba's valiant80 efforts to conceal81 the disgusted look on his face as he drove in silence.
Later that night, I was passing by my father's study when I overheard him speaking to Rahim Khan. I pressed my ear to the closed door.
?-grateful that he's healthy,?Rahim Khan was saying.
"I know, I know. But he's always buried in those books or shuffling82 around the house like he's lost in some dream.?
"And??
"I wasn't like that.?Baba sounded frustrated83, almost angry.
Rahim Khan laughed. "Children aren't coloring books. You don't get to fill them with your favorite colors.?
"I'm telling you,?Baba said, "I wasn't like that at all, and neither were any of the kids I grew up with.?
"You know, sometimes you are the most self-centered man I know,?Rahim Khan said. He was the only person I knew who could get away with saying something like that to Baba.
"It has nothing to do with that.?
"Nay.?
"Then what??
I heard the leather of Baba's seat creaking as he shifted on it. I closed my eyes, pressed my ear even harder against the door, wanting to hear, not wanting to hear. "Sometimes I look out this window and I see him playing on the street with the neighborhood boys. I see how they push him around, take his toys from him, give him a shove here, a whack85 there. And, you know, he never fights back. Never. He just... drops his head and...?
"So he's not violent,?Rahim Khan said.
"That's not what I mean, Rahim, and you know it,?Baba shot back. "There is something missing in that boy.?
"Self-defense has nothing to do with meanness. You know what always happens when the neighborhood boys tease him? Hassan steps in and fends87 them off. I've seen it with my own eyes. And when they come Home, I say to him, ‘How did Hassan get that scrape on his face??And he says, ‘He fell down.?I'm telling you, Rahim, there is something missing in that boy.?
"You just need to let him find his way,?Rahim Khan said.
"And where is he headed??Baba said. "A boy who won't stand up for himself becomes a man who can't stand up to anything.?
"As usual you're oversimplifying.?
"I don't think so.?
"You're angry because you're afraid he'll never take over the Business for you.?
"Now who's oversimplifying??Baba said. "Look, I know there's a fondness between you and him and I'm happy about that. Envious88, but happy. I mean that. He needs someone who...understands him, because God knows I don't. But something about Amir troubles me in a way that I can't express. It's like...?I could see him searching, reaching for the right words. He lowered his voice, but I heard him anyway. "If I hadn't seen the doctor pull him out of my wife with my own eyes, I'd never believe he's my son.?
THE NEXT MORNING, as he was preparing my breakfast, Hassan asked if something was bothering me. I snapped at him, told him to mind his own Business.
Rahim Khan had been wrong about the mean streak thing.
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lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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bragged
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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uprooting
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| n.倒根，挖除伐根v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的现在分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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orphanage
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| n.孤儿院 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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blueprints
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| n.蓝图，设计图( blueprint的名词复数 ) | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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plumbers
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| n.管子工，水暖工( plumber的名词复数 )；[美][口]（防止泄密的）堵漏人员 | |
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laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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flipping
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| 讨厌之极的 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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lumbered
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| 砍伐（lumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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pharmacies
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| 药店 | |
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scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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clobbering
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| v.狠揍， （不停）猛打( clobber的现在分词 )；彻底击败 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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yelped
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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referee
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| n.裁判员．仲裁人，代表人，鉴定人 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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aficionados
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| n.酷爱…者，…迷( aficionado的名词复数 )； 爱看斗牛的人 | |
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melee
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| n.混战；混战的人群 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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whack
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| v.敲击，重打，瓜分；n.重击，重打，尝试，一份 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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fends
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| v.独立生活，照料自己( fend的第三人称单数 )；挡开，避开 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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