_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 pothole1, her "Bismillah!?peaking with each of the truck's shudders2 and jolts3. Her husband, a burly man in baggy4 pants and sky blue turban, cradled an infant in one arm and thumbed prayer beads5 with his free hand. His lips moved in silent prayer. There were others, in all about a dozen, including Baba and me, sitting with our suitcases between our legs, cramped6 with these strangers in the tarpaulin7-covered cab of an old Russian truck.
My innards had been roiling8 since we'd left Kabul just after two in the morning. Baba never said so, but I knew he saw my car sickness as yet another of my array of weakness--I saw it on his embarrassed face the couple of times my stomach had clenched9 so badly I had moaned. When the burly guy with the beads--the praying woman's husband--asked if I was going to get sick, I said I might. Baba looked away. The man lifted his corner of the tarpaulin cover and rapped on the driver's window, asked him to stop. But the driver, Karim, a scrawny dark-skinned man with hawk-boned features and a pencil-thin mustache, shook his head.
"We are too close to Kabul,?he shot back. "Tell him to have a strong stomach.?
Baba grumbled10 something under his breath. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, but suddenly I was salivating, the back of my throat tasting bile. I turned around, lifted the tarpaulin, and threw up over the side of the moving truck. Behind me, Baba was apologizing to the other passengers. As if car sickness was a crime. As if you weren't supposed to get sick when you were eighteen. I threw up two more times before Karim agreed to stop, mostly so I wouldn't stink12 up his vehicle, the instrument of his livelihood13. Karim was a people smuggler--it was a pretty lucrative14 Business then, driving people out of Shorawi-occupied Kabul to the relative safety of Pakistan. He was taking us to Jalalabad, about 170 kilometers southeast of Kabul, where his brother, Toor, who had a bigger truck with a second convoy15 of refugees, was waiting to drive us across the Khyber Pass and into Peshawar.
We were a few kilometers west of Mahipar Falls when Karim pulled to the side of the road. Mahipar--which means "Flying Fish?-was a high summit with a precipitous drop overlooking the hydro plant the Germans had built for Afghanistan back in 1967. Baba and I had driven over the summit countless16 times on our way to Jalalabad, the city of cypress17 trees and sugarcane fields where Afghans vacationed in the winter.
I hopped18 down the back of the truck and lurched to the dusty embankment on the side of the road. My mouth filled with saliva11, a sign of the retching that was yet to come. I stumbled to the edge of the cliff overlooking the deep valley that was shrouded20 in dark ness. I stooped, hands on my kneecaps, and waited for the bile. Somewhere, a branch snapped, an owl21 hooted22. The wind, soft and cold, clicked through tree branches and stirred the bushes that sprinkled the slope. And from below, the faint sound of water tumbling through the valley.
Standing23 on the shoulder of the road, I thought of the way we'd left the house where I'd lived my entire life, as if we were going out for a bite: dishes smeared24 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. Tapestries25 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 accordion26 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 comrades, were everywhere and they'd split Kabul into two groups: those who eavesdropped27 and those who didn't. The tricky28 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 dungeons29 of Poleh-charkhi. Complain about the curfew to the butcher and next thing you knew, you were behind bars staring at the muzzle30 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, peek31 out the window: No grim-faced Russian soldiers patrolling the sidewalks, no tanks rolling up and down the streets of my city, their turrets32 swiveling like accusing fingers, no rubble33, no curfews, no Russian Army Personnel Carriers weaving through the bazaars34. Then, behind me, I heard Baba and Karim discussing the arrangement in Jalalabad over a smoke. Karim was reassuring35 Baba that his brother had a big truck of "excellent and first-class quality,?and that the trek36 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 spat37 and cursed at the MiG.
I wondered where Hassan was. Then the inevitable38. I vomited40 on a tangle41 of weeds, my retching and groaning42 drowned in the deafening43 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 gravel44. Words were exchanged, brief and hushed. A flick45 of a lighter46. "Spasseba.?
Another flick of the lighter. Someone laughed, a shrill47 cackling sound that made me jump. Baba's hand clamped down on my thigh48. The laughing man broke into song, a slurring49, off-key rendition of an old Afghan wedding song, delivered with a thick Russian accent:
Ahesta boro, Mah-e-man, ahesta boro.
Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly.
Boot heels clicked on asphalt. Someone flung open the tarpaulin hanging over the back of the truck, and three faces peered in. One was Karim, the other two were soldiers, one Afghan, the other a grinning Russian, face like a bulldog's, cigarette dangling50 from the side of his mouth. Behind them, a bone-colored moon hung in the sky. Karim and the Afghan soldier had a brief exchange in Pashtu. I caught a little of it--something about Toor and his bad luck. The Russian soldier thrust his face into the rear of the truck. He was humming the wedding song and drumming his finger on the edge of the tailgate. Even in the dim light of the moon, I saw the glazed51 look in his eyes as they skipped from passenger to passenger. Despite the cold, sweat streamed from his brow. His eyes settled on the young woman wearing the black shawl. He spoke52 in Russian to Karim without taking his eyes off her. Karim gave a curt53 reply in Russian, which the soldier returned with an even curter retort. The Afghan soldier said some thing too, in a low, reasoning voice. But the Russian soldier shouted something that made the other two flinch54. I could feel Baba tightening56 up next to me. Karim cleared his throat, dropped his head. Said the soldier wanted a half hour with the lady in the back of the truck.
The young woman pulled the shawl down over her face. Burst into tears. The toddler sitting in her husband's lap started crying too. The husband's face had become as pale as the moon hovering57 above. He told Karim to ask "Mister Soldier Sahib?to show a little mercy, maybe he had a sister or a mother, maybe he had a wife too. The Russian listened to Karim and barked a series of words.
"It's his price for letting us pass,?Karim said. He couldn't bring himself to look the husband in the eye.
"But we've paid a fair price already. He's getting paid good money,?the husband said.
Karim and the Russian soldier spoke. "He says... he says every price has a tax.?
That was when Baba stood up. It was my turn to clamp a hand on his thigh, but Baba pried58 it loose, snatched his leg away. When he stood, he eclipsed the moonlight. "I want you to ask this man something,?Baba said. He said it to Karim, but looked directly at the Russian officer. "Ask him where his shame is.?
They spoke. "He says this is war. There is no shame in war.?
"Tell him he's wrong. War doesn't negate59 decency60. It demands it, even more than in times of peace.?
Do you have to always be the hero? I thought, my heart fluttering. Can't you just let it go for once? But I knew he couldn't--it wasn't in his nature. The problem was, his nature was going to get us all killed.
The Russian soldier said something to Karim, a smile creasing61 his lips. "Agha sahib,?Karim said, "these Roussi are not like us. They understand nothing about respect, honor.?
"What did he say??
"He says he'll enjoy putting a bullet in you almost as much as...?Karim trailed off, but nodded his head toward the young woman who had caught the guard's eye. The soldier flicked62 his unfinished cigarette and unholstered his handgun. So this is where Baba dies, I thought. This is how it's going to happen. In my head, I said a prayer I had learned in school.
"Tell him I'll take a thousand of his bullets before I let this indecency take place,?Baba said. My mind flashed to that winter day six years ago. Me, peering around the corner in the alley19. Kamal and Wali holding Hassan down. Assef's buttock muscles clenching63 and unclenching, his hips64 thrusting back and forth65. Some hero I had been, fretting66 about the kite. Sometimes, I too wondered if I was really Baba's son.
The bulldog-faced Russian raised his gun.
"Baba, sit down please,?I said, tugging67 at his sleeve. "I think he really means to shoot you.?
Baba slapped my hand away. "Haven't I taught you anything??he snapped. He turned to the grinning soldier. "Tell him he'd better kill me good with that first shot. Because if I don't go down, I'm tearing him to pieces, goddamn his father!?
The Russian soldier's grin never faltered68 when he heard the translation. He clicked the safety on the gun. Pointed69 the barrel to Baba's chest. Heart pounding in my throat, I buried my face in my hands.
The gun roared.
It's done, then. I'm eighteen and alone. I have no one left in the world. Baba's dead and now I have to bury him. Where do I bury him? Where do I go after that?
But the whirlwind of half thoughts spinning in my head came to a halt when I cracked my eyelids70, found Baba still standing. I saw a second Russian officer with the others. It was from the muzzle of his upturned gun that smoke swirled71. The soldier who had meant to shoot Baba had already holstered his weapon. He was shuffling72 his feet. I had never felt more like crying and laughing at the same time.
The second Russian officer, gray-haired and heavyset, spoke to us in broken Farsi. He apologized for his comrade's behavior. "Russia sends them here to fight,?he said. "But they are just boys, and when they come here, they find the pleasure of drug.?He gave the younger officer the rueful look of a father exasperated73 with his misbehaving son. "This one is attached to drug now. I try to stop him...?He waved us off.
Moments later, we were pulling away. I heard a laugh and then the first soldier's voice, slurry and off-key, singing the old wedding song.
WE RODE IN SILENCE for about fifteen minutes before the young woman's husband suddenly stood and did something I'd seen many others do before him: He kissed Baba's hand.
TOOR'S BAD LUCK. Hadn't I overheard that in a snippet of conversation back at Mahipar?
We rolled into Jalalabad about an hour before sunrise. Karim ushered74 us quickly from the truck into a one-story house at the intersection75 of two dirt roads lined with flat one-story Homes, acacia trees, and closed shops. I pulled the collar of my coat against the chill as we hurried into the house, dragging our belongings76. For some reason, I remember smelling radishes.
Once he had us inside the dimly lit, bare living room, Karim locked the front door, pulled the tattered77 sheets that passed for curtains. Then he took a deep breath and gave us the bad news:
His brother Toor couldn't take us to Peshawar. It seemed his truck's engine had blown the week before and Toor was still waiting for parts.
"Last week??someone exclaimed. "If you knew this, why did you bring us here??
I caught a flurry of movement out of the corner of my eye. Then a blur78 of something zipping across the room, and the next thing I saw was Karim slammed against the wall, his sandaled feet dangling two feet above the floor. Wrapped around his neck were Baba's hands.
"I'll tell you why,?Baba snapped. "Because he got paid for his leg of the trip. That's all he cared about.?Karim was making guttural choking sounds. Spittle dripped from the corner of his mouth.
"Put him down, Agha, you're killing79 him,?one of the passengers said.
"It's what I intend to do,?Baba said. What none of the others in the room knew was that Baba wasn't joking. Karim was turning red and kicking his legs. Baba kept choking him until the young mother, the one the Russian officer had fancied, begged him to stop.
Karim collapsed80 on the floor and rolled around fighting for air when Baba finally let go. The room fell silent. Less than two hours ago, Baba had volunteered to take a bullet for the honor of a woman he didn't even know. Now he'd almost choked a man to death, would have done it cheerfully if not for the pleas of that same woman.
Something thumped82 next door. No, not next door, below.
"What's that??someone asked.
"The others,?Karim panted between labored83 breaths. "In the basement.?
"How long have they been waiting??Baba said, standing over Karim.
"Two weeks.?
"I thought you said the truck broke down last week.?
Karim rubbed his throat. "It might have been the week before,?he croaked85.
"How long??
"What??
"How long for the parts??Baba roared. Karim flinched86 but said nothing. I was glad for the darkness. I didn't want to see the murderous look on Baba's face.
THE STENCH OF SOMETHING DANK, like mildew87, bludgeoned my nostrils88 the moment Karim opened the door that led down the creaky steps to the basement. We descended89 in single file. The steps groaned90 under Baba's weight. Standing in the cold basement, I felt watched by eyes blinking in the dark. I saw shapes huddled91 around the room, their silhouettes92 thrown on the walls by the dim light of a pair of kerosene93 lamps. A low murmur94 buzzed through the basement, beneath it the sound of water drops trickling95 somewhere, and, something else, a scratching sound.
Baba sighed behind me and dropped the bags.
Karim told us it should be a matter of a couple of short days before the truck was fixed96. Then we'd be on our way to Peshawar. On to freedom. On to safety.
The basement was our Home for the next week and, by the third night, I discovered the source of the scratching sounds. Rats.
ONCE MY EYES ADJUSTED to the dark, I counted about thirty refugees in that basement. We sat shoulder to shoulder along the walls, ate crackers97, bread with dates, apples. That first night, all the men prayed together. One of the refugees asked Baba why he wasn't joining them. "God is going to save us all. Why don't you pray to him??
Baba snorted a pinch of his snuff. Stretched his legs. "What'll save us is eight cylinders98 and a good carburetor.?That silenced the rest of them for good about the matter of God.
It was later that first night when I discovered that two of the people hiding with us were Kamal and his father. That was shocking enough, seeing Kamal sitting in the basement just a few feet away from me. But when he and his father came over to our side of the room and I saw Kamal's face, really saw it...
He had withered--there was simply no other word for it. His eyes gave me a hollow look and no recognition at all registered in them. His shoulders hunched99 and his cheeks sagged100 like they were too tired to cling to the bone beneath. His father, who'd owned a movie theater in Kabul, was telling Baba how, three months before, a stray bullet had struck his wife in the temple and killed her. Then he told Baba about Kamal. I caught only snippets of it: Should have never let him go alone... always so handsome, you know... four of them... tried to fight... God... took him... bleeding down there... his pants... doesn't talk any more... just stares...
THERE WOULD BE NO TRUCK, Karim told us after we'd spent a week in the rat-infested basement. The truck was beyond repair.
"There is another option,?Karim said, his voice rising amid the groans101. His cousin owned a fuel truck and had smuggled102 people with it a couple of times. He was here in Jalalabad and could probably fit us all.
Everyone except an elderly couple decided103 to go.
We left that night, Baba and I, Kamal and his father, the others. Karim and his cousin, a square-faced balding man named Aziz, helped us get into the fuel tank. One by one, we mounted the idling truck's rear deck, climbed the rear access ladder, and slid down into the tank. I remember Baba climbed halfway104 up the ladder, hopped back down and fished the snuffbox from his pocket. He emptied the box and picked up a handful of dirt from the middle of the unpaved road. He kissed the dirt. Poured it into the box. Stowed the box in his breast pocket, next to his heart.
PANIC.
You open your mouth. Open it so wide your jaws105 creak. You order your lungs to draw air, NOW, you need air, need it NOW But your airways106 ignore you. They collapse81, tighten55, squeeze, and suddenly you're breathing through a drinking straw. Your mouth closes and your lips purse and all you can manage is a strangled croak84. Your hands wriggle107 and shake. Somewhere a dam has cracked open and a flood of cold sweat spills, drenches108 your body. You want to scream. You would if you could. But you have to breathe to scream.
Panic.
The basement had been dark. The fuel tank was pitch-black. I looked right, left, up, down, waved my hands before my eyes, didn't see so much as a hint of movement. I blinked, blinked again. Nothing at all. The air wasn't right, it was too thick, almost solid. Air wasn't supposed to be solid. I wanted to reach out with my hands, crush the air into little pieces, stuff them down my windpipe. And the stench of gasoline. My eyes stung from the fumes109, like someone had peeled my lids back and rubbed a lemon on them. My nose caught fire with each breath. You could die in a place like this, I thought. A scream was coming. Coming, coming...
And then a small miracle. Baba tugged110 at my sleeve and some thing glowed green in the dark. Light! Baba's wristwatch. I kept my eyes glued to those fluorescent111 green hands. I was so afraid I'd lose them, I didn't dare blink.
Slowly I became aware of my surroundings. I heard groans and muttered prayers. I heard a baby cry, its mother's muted soothing112. Someone retched. Someone else cursed the Shorawi. The truck bounced side to side, up and down. Heads banged against metal.
"Think of something good,?Baba said in my ear. "Something happy.?
Something good. Something happy. I let my mind wander. I let it come:
Friday afternoon in Paghman. An open field of grass speckled with mulberry trees in blossom. Hassan and I stand ankle-deep in untamed grass, I am tugging on the line, the spool113 spinning in Hassan's calloused114 hands, our eyes turned up to the kite in the sky. Not a word passes between us, not because we have nothing to say, but because we don't have to say anything--that's how it is between people who are each other's first memories, people who have fed from the same breast. A breeze stirs the grass and Hassan lets the spool roll. The kite spins, dips, steadies. Our twin shadows dance on the rippling115 grass. From somewhere over the low brick wall at the other end of the field, we hear chatter116 and laughter and the chirping117 of a water fountain. And music, some thing old and familiar, I think it's Ya Mowlah on rubab strings118. Someone calls our names over the wall, says it's time for tea and cake.
I didn't remember what month that was, or what year even. I only knew the memory lived in me, a perfectly119 encapsulated morsel120 of a good past, a brushstroke of color on the gray, barren canvas that our lives had become.
THE REST OF THAT RIDE is scattered121 bits and pieces of memory that come and go, most of it sounds and smells: MiGs roaring past overhead; staccatos of gunfire; a donkey braying122 nearby; the jingling123 of bells and mewling of sheep; gravel crushed under the truck's tires; a baby wailing125 in the dark; the stench of gasoline, vomit39, and shit.
What I remember next is the blinding light of early morning as I climbed out of the fuel tank. I remember turning my face up to the sky, squinting126, breathing like the world was running out of air.
I lay on the side of the dirt road next to a rocky trench127, looked up to the gray morning sky, thankful for air, thankful for light, thankful to be alive.
"We're in Pakistan, Amir,?Baba said. He was standing over me. "Karim says he will call for a bus to take us to Peshawar.?
I rolled onto my chest, still lying on the cool dirt, and saw our suitcases on either side of Baba's feet. Through the upside down V between his legs, I saw the truck idling on the side of the road, the other refugees climbing down the rear ladder. Beyond that, the dirt road unrolled through fields that were like leaden sheets under the gray sky and disappeared behind a line of bowl-shaped hills. Along the way, it passed a small village strung out atop a sun baked slope.
My eyes returned to our suitcases. They made me sad for Baba. After everything he'd built, planned, fought for, fretted128 over, dreamed of, this was the summation129 of his life: one disappointing son and two suitcases.
Someone was screaming. No, not screaming. Wailing. I saw the passengers huddled in a circle, heard their urgent voices. Someone said the word "fumes.?Someone else said it too. The wail124 turned into a throat-ripping screech130.
Baba and I hurried to the pack of onlookers131 and pushed our way through them. Kamal's father was sitting cross-legged in the center of the circle, rocking back and forth, kissing his son's ashen132 face.
"He won't breathe! My boy won't breathe!?he was crying. Kamal's lifeless body lay on his father's lap. His right hand, uncurled and limp, bounced to the rhythm of his father's sobs133. "My boy! He won't breathe! Allah, help him breathe!?
Baba knelt beside him and curled an arm around his shoulder. But Kamal's father shoved him away and lunged for Karim who was standing nearby with his cousin. What happened next was too fast and too short to be called a scuffle. Karim uttered a surprised cry and backpedaled. I saw an arm swing, a leg kick. A moment later, Kamal's father was standing with Karim's gun in his hand.
"Don't shoot me!?Karim cried.
But before any of us could say or do a thing, Kamal's father shoved the barrel in his own mouth. I'll never forget the echo of that blast. Or the flash of light and the spray of red.
I doubled over again and dry-heaved on the side of the road.
收听单词发音 |
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pothole
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| n.坑，穴 | |
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shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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jolts
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的名词复数 ) | |
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baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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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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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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tarpaulin
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| n.涂油防水布，防水衣，防水帽 | |
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roiling
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| v.搅混（液体）( roil的现在分词 )；使烦恼；使不安；使生气 | |
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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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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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saliva
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| n.唾液，口水 | |
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stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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accordion
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| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
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eavesdropped
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| 偷听（别人的谈话）( eavesdrop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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dungeons
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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31
peek
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| vi.偷看，窥视；n.偷偷的一看，一瞥 | |
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32
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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33
rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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34
bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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35
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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36
trek
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| vi.作长途艰辛的旅行；n.长途艰苦的旅行 | |
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37
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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38
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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39
vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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40
vomited
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41
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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42
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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43
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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44
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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45
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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46
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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47
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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48
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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49
slurring
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| 含糊地说出( slur的现在分词 )； 含糊地发…的声； 侮辱； 连唱 | |
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50
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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51
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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52
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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53
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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54
flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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55
tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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56
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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57
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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58
pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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59
negate
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| vt.否定，否认；取消，使无效 | |
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60
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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61
creasing
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的现在分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 挑檐 | |
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62
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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63
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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64
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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65
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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66
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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67
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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68
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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69
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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70
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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71
swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
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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73
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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74
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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76
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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77
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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78
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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79
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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80
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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81
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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82
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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84
croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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85
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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86
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
mildew
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| n.发霉；v.（使）发霉 | |
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88
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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89
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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90
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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91
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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92
silhouettes
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| 轮廓( silhouette的名词复数 )； （人的）体形； （事物的）形状； 剪影 | |
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93
kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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94
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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95
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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96
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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97
crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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98
cylinders
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| n.圆筒( cylinder的名词复数 )；圆柱；汽缸；（尤指用作容器的）圆筒状物 | |
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99
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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100
sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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101
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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102
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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103
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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104
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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105
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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106
AIRWAYS
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| 航空公司 | |
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107
wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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108
drenches
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| v.使湿透( drench的第三人称单数 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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109
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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110
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
fluorescent
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| adj.荧光的，发出荧光的 | |
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112
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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113
spool
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| n.（缠录音带等的）卷盘（轴）；v.把…绕在卷轴上 | |
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114
calloused
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| adj.粗糙的，粗硬的，起老茧的v.（使）硬结，（使）起茧( callous的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）冷酷无情 | |
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115
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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116
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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117
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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118
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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119
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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120
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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121
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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122
braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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123
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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124
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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125
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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126
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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127
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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128
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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129
summation
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| n.总和；最后辩论 | |
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130
screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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131
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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132
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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133
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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