We crossed the river and drove north through the crowded Pashtunistan Square. Baba used to take me to Khyber Restaurant there for kabob. The building was still standing2, but its doors were padlocked, the windows shattered, and the letters K and R missing from its name.
I saw a dead body near the restaurant. There had been a hanging. A young man dangled3 from the end of a rope tied to a beam, his face puffy and blue, the clothes he'd worn on the last day of his life shredded4, bloody5. Hardly anyone seemed to notice him.
We rode silently through the square and headed toward the WazirAkbar Khan district. Everywhere I looked, a haze6 of dust covered the city and its sun-dried brick buildings. A few blocks north of Pashtunistan Square, Farid pointed7 to two men talking animatedly8 at a busy street corner. One of them was hobbling on one leg, his other leg amputated below the knee. He cradled an artificial leg in his arms. "You know what they're doing? Haggling10 over the leg.?
"He's selling his leg??
Farid nodded. "You can get good money for it on the black market. Feed your kids for a couple of weeks.?
To MY SURPRISE, most of the houses in the WazirAkbar Khan district still had roofs and standing walls. In fact, they were in pretty good shape. Trees still peeked11 over the walls, and the streets weren't nearly as rubble-strewn as the ones in Karteh-Seh. Faded streets signs, some twisted and bullet-pocked, still pointed the way.
"This isn't so bad,?I remarked.
"No surprise. Most of the important people live here now.?
"Taliban??
"Them too,?Farid said.
"Who else??
He drove us into a wide street with fairly clean sidewalks and walled Homes on either side. "The people behind the Taliban. The real brains of this government, if you can call it that: Arabs, Chechens, Pakistanis,?Farid said. He pointed northwest. "Street 15, that way, is called Sarak-e-Mehmana.?Street of the Guests. "That's what they call them here, guests. I think someday these guests are going to pee all over the carpet.?
"I think that's it!?I said. "Over there!?I pointed to the landmark12 that used to serve as a guide for me when I was a kid. If you ever get lost, Baba used to say, remember that our street is the one with the pink house at the end of it. The pink house with the steeply pitched roof had been the neighborhood's only house of that color in the old days. It still was.
Farid turned onto the street. I saw Baba's house right away.
WE FIND THE LITTLE TURTLE behind tangles13 of sweetbrier in the yard. We don't know how it got there and we're too excited to care. We paint its shell a bright red, Hassan's idea, and a good one:
This way, we'll never lose it in the bushes. We pretend we're a pair of daredevil explorers who've discovered a giant prehistoric14 monster in some distant jungle and we've brought it back for the world to see. We set it down in the wooden wagon15 Ali built Hassan last winter for his birthday, pretend it's a giant steel cage. Behold16 the firebreathing monstrosity! We march on the grass and pull the wagon behind us, around apple and cherry trees, which become skyscrap ers soaring into clouds, heads poking17 out of thousands of windows to watch the spectacle passing below. We walk over the little semi lunar bridge Baba has built near a cluster of fig19 trees; it becomes a great suspension bridge joining cities, and the little pond below, a foamy20 sea. Fireworks explode above the bridge's massive pylons21 and armed soldiers salute22 us on both sides as gigantic steel cables shoot to the sky. The little turtle bouncing around in the cab, we drag the wagon around the circular red brick driveway outside the wroughtiron gates and return the salutes23 of the world's leaders as they stand and applaud. We are Hassan and Amir, famed adventurers and the world's greatest explorers, about to receive a medal of honor for our courageous24 feat25...
GINGERLY, I WALKED up the driveway where tufts of weed now grew between the sun-faded bricks. I stood outside the gates of my father's house, feeling like a stranger. I set my hands on the rusty26 bars, remembering how I'd run through these same gates thousands of times as a child, for things that mattered not at all now and yet had seemed so important then. I peered in.
The driveway extension that led from the gates to the yard, where Hassan and I took turns falling the summer we learned to ride a bike, didn't look as wide or as long as I remembered it. The asphalt had split in a lightning-streak pattern, and more tangles of weed sprouted27 through the fissures28. Most of the poplar trees had been chopped down--the trees Hassan and I used to climb to shine our mirrors into the neighbors?Homes. The ones still standing were nearly leafless. The Wall of Ailing29 Corn was still there, though I saw no corn, ailing or otherwise, along that wall now. The paint had begun to peel and sections of it had sloughed30 off altogether. The lawn had turned the same brown as the haze of dust hovering31 over the city, dotted by bald patches of dirt where nothing grew at all.
A jeep was parked in the driveway and that looked all wrong:
Baba's black Mustang belonged there. For years, the Mustang's eight cylinders32 roared to life every morning, rousing me from sleep. I saw that oil had spilled under the jeep and stained the driveway like a big Rorschach inkblot. Beyond the jeep, an empty wheelbarrow lay on its side. I saw no sign of the rosebushes that Baba and Ali had planted on the left side of the driveway, only dirt that spilled onto the asphalt. And weeds.
Farid honked34 twice behind me. "We should go, Agha. We'll draw attention,?he called.
"Just give me one more minute,?I said.
The house itself was far from the sprawling35 white mansion36 I remembered from my childhood. It looked smaller. The roof sagged37 and the plaster was cracked. The windows to the living room, the foyer, and the upstairs guest bathroom were broken, patched haphazardly38 with sheets of clear plastic or wooden boards nailed across the frames. The paint, once sparkling white, had faded to ghostly gray and eroded39 in parts, revealing the layered bricks beneath. The front steps had crumbled40. Like so much else in Kabul, my father's house was the picture of fallen splendor41.
I found the window to my old bedroom, second floor, third window sOuth of the main steps to the house. I stood on tiptoes, saw nothing behind the window but shadows. Twenty-five years earlier, I had stood behind that same window, thick rain dripping down the panes42 and my breath fogging up the glass. I had watched Hassan and Ali load their belongings43 into the trunk of my father's car.
"Amir agha,?Farid called again.
"I'm coming,?I shot back.
Insanely, I wanted to go in. Wanted to walk up the front steps where Ali used to make Hassan and me take off our snow boots. I wanted to step into the foyer, smell the orange peel Ali always tossed into the stove to burn with sawdust. Sit at the kitchen table, have tea with a slice of _naan_, listen to Hassan sing old Hazara songs.
Another honk33. I walked back to the Land Cruiser parked along the sidewalk. Farid sat smoking behind the wheel.
"I have to look at one more thing,?I told him.
"Can you hurry??
"Give me ten minutes.?
"Go, then.?Then, just as I was turning to go: "Just forget it all. Makes it easier.?
"To what??
"To go on,?Farid said. He flicked44 his cigarette out of the window. "How much more do you need to see? Let me save you the trouble: Nothing that you remember has survived. Best to forget.?
"I don't want to forget anymore,?I said. "Give me ten minutes.?
WE HARDLY BROKE A SWEAT, Hassan and I, when we hiked
up the hill just north of Baba's house. We scampered45 about the hilltop chasing each other or sat on a sloped ridge18 where there was a good view of the airport in the distance. We'd watch airplanes take off and land. Go running again.
Now, by the time I reached the top of the craggy hill, each ragged46 breath felt like inhaling47 fire. Sweat trickled48 down my face. I stood wheezing49 for a while, a stitch in my side. Then I went looking for the abandoned cemetery50. It didn't take me long to find it. It was still there, and so was the old pomegranate tree.
I leaned against the gray stone gateway51 to the cemetery where Hassan had buried his mother. The old metal gates hanging off the hinges were gone, and the headstones were barely visible through the thick tangles of weeds that had claimed the plot. A pair of crows sat on the low wall that enclosed the cemetery.
Hassan had said in his letter that the pomegranate tree hadn't borne fruit in years. Looking at the wilted52, leafless tree, I doubted it ever would again. I stood under it, remembered all the times we'd climbed it, straddled its branches, our legs swinging, dappled sunlight flickering53 through the leaves and casting on our faces a mosaic54 of light and shadow. The tangy taste of pomegranate crept into my mouth.
I hunkered down on my knees and brushed my hands against the trunk. I found what I was looking for. The carving55 had dulled, almost faded altogether, but it was still there: "Amir and Hassan. The Sultans of Kabul.?I traced the curve of each letter with my fingers. Picked small bits of bark from the tiny crevasses56.
I sat cross-legged at the foot of the tree and looked south on the city of my childhood. In those days, treetops poked57 behind the walls of every house. The sky stretched wide and blue, and laundry drying on clotheslines glimmered58 in the sun. If you listened hard, you might even have heard the call of the fruit seller passing through Wazir Akbar Khan with his donkey: Cherries! Apricots! Grapes! In the early evening, you would have heard azan, the mueszzin's call to prayer from the mosque59 in Shar-e-Nau.
I heard a honk and saw Farid waving at me. It was time to go.
WE DROVE SOUTH AGAIN, back toward Pashtunistan Square. We passed several more red pickup60 trucks with armed, bearded young men crammed61 into the cabs. Farid cursed under his breath every time we passed one.
I paid for a room at a small hotel near Pashtunistan Square. Three little girls dressed in identical black dresses and white scarves clung to the slight, bespectacled man behind the counter. He charged me $75, an unthinkable price given the run-down appearance of the place, but I didn't mind. Exploitation to finance a beach house in Hawaii was one thing. Doing it to feed your kids was another.
There was no hot running water and the cracked toilet didn't flush. Just a single steel-frame bed with a worn mattress62, a ragged blanket, and a wooden chair in the corner. The window overlooking the square had broken, hadn't been replaced. As I lowered my suitcase, I noticed a dried bloodstain on the wall behind the bed.
I gave Farid some money and he went out to get food. He returned with four sizzling skewers63 of kabob, fresh _naan_, and a bowl of white rice. We sat on the bed and all but devoured64 the food. There was one thing that hadn't changed in Kabul after all:
The kabob was as succulent and delicious as I remembered.
That night, I took the bed and Farid lay on the floor, wrapped himself with an extra blanket for which the hotel owner charged me an additional fee. No light came into the room except for the moonbeams streaming through the broken window. Farid said the owner had told him that Kabul had been without electricity for two days now and his generator65 needed fixing. We talked for a while. He told me about growing up in Mazar-i-Sharif, in Jalalabad. He told me about a time shortly after he and his father joined the jihad and fought the Shorawi in the Panjsher Valley. They were stranded66 without food and ate locust67 to survive. He told me of the day helicopter gunfire killed his father, of the day the land mine took his two daughters. He asked me about America. I told him that in America you could step into a grocery store and buy any of fifteen or twenty different types of cereal. The lamb was always fresh and the milk cold, the fruit plentiful68 and the water clear. Every Home had a TV, and every TV a remote, and you could get a satellite dish if you wanted. Receive over five hundred channels.
"Five hundred??Farid exclaimed.
"Five hundred.?
We fell silent for a while. Just when I thought he had fallen asleep, Farid chuckled69. "Agha, did you hear what Mullah Nasrud din1 did when his daughter came Home and complained that her husband had beaten her??I could feel him smiling in the dark and a smile of my own formed on my face. There wasn't an Afghan in the world who didn't know at least a few jokes about the bumbling mullah.
"What??
"He beat her too, then sent her back to tell the husband that Mullah was no fool: If the bastard70 was going to beat his daughter, then Mullah would beat his wife in return.?
I laughed. Partly at the joke, partly at how Afghan humor never changed. Wars were waged, the Internet was invented, and a robot had rolled on the surface of Mars, and in Afghanistan we were still telling Mullah Nasruddin jokes. "Did you hear about the time Mullah had placed a heavy bag on his shoulders and was riding his donkey??I said.
"No.?
"Someone on the street said why don't you put the bag on the donkey? And he said, "That would be cruel, I'm heavy enough already for the poor thing.?
We exchanged Mullah Nasruddin jokes until we ran out of them and we fell silent again.
"Amir agha??Farid said, startling me from near sleep.
"Yes??
"Why are you here? I mean, why are you really here??
"I told you.?
"For the boy??
"For the boy.?
Farid shifted on the ground. "It's hard to believe.?
"Sometimes I myself can hardly believe I'm here.?
"No... What I mean to ask is why that boy? You come all the way from America for... a Shi'a??
That killed all the laughter in me. And the sleep. "I am tired,?I said. "Let's just get some sleep.?
Farid's snoring soon echoed through the empty room. I stayed awake, hands crossed on my chest, staring into the starlit night through the broken window, and thinking that maybe what people said about Afghanistan was true. Maybe it was a hopeless place.
A BUSTLING71 CROWD was filling Ghazi Stadium when we walked through the entrance tunnels. Thousands of people milled about the tightly packed concrete terraces. Children played in the aisles72 and chased each other up and down the steps. The scent74 of garbanzo beans in spicy75 sauce hung in the air, mixed with the smell of dung and sweat. Farid and I walked past street peddlers selling cigarettes, pine nuts, and biscuits.
A scrawny boy in a tweed jacket grabbed my elbow and spoke76 into my ear. Asked me if I wanted to buy some "sexy pictures.?
"Very sexy, Agha,?he said, his alert eyes darting77 side to side-- reminding me of a girl who, a few years earlier, had tried to sell me crack in the Tenderloin district in San Francisco. The kid peeled one side of his jacket open and gave me a fleeting78 glance of his sexy pictures: postcards of Hindi movies showing doe-eyed sultry actresses, fully79 dressed, in the arms of their leading men. "So sexy,?he repeated.
"Nay80, thanks,?I said, pushing past him.
"He gets caught, they'll give him a flogging that will waken his father in the grave,?Farid muttered.
There was no assigned seating, of course. No one to show us politely to our section, aisle73, row, and seat. There never had been, even in the old days of the monarchy81. We found a decent spot to sit, just left of midfield, though it took some shoving and elbowing on Farid's part.
I remembered how green the playing field grass had been in the ?0s when Baba used to bring me to soccer games here. Now the pitch was a mess. There were holes and craters82 everywhere, most notably83 a pair of deep holes in the ground behind the southend goalposts. And there was no grass at all, just dirt. When the two teams finally took the field--all wearing long pants despite the heat--and play began, it became difficult to follow the ball in the clouds of dust kicked up by the players. Young, whip-toting Talibs roamed the aisles, striking anyone who cheered too loudly.
They brought them out shortly after the halftime whistle blew. A pair of dusty red pickup trucks, like the ones I'd seen around town since I'd arrived, rode into the stadium through the gates. The crowd rose to its feet. A woman dressed in a green burqa sat in the cab of one truck, a blindfolded84 man in the other. The trucks drove around the track, slowly, as if to let the crowd get a long look. It had the desired effect: People craned their necks, pointed, stood on tiptoes. Next to me, Farid's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he mumbled85 a prayer under his breath.
The red trucks entered the playing field, rode toward one end in twin clouds of dust, sunlight reflecting off their hubcaps. A third truck met them at the end of the field. This one's cab was filled with something and I suddenly understood the purpose of those two holes behind the goalposts. They unloaded the third truck. The crowd murmured in anticipation87.
"Do you want to stay??Farid said gravely.
"No,?I said. I had never in my life wanted to be away from a place as badly as I did now. "But we have to stay.?
Two Talibs with Kalashnikovs slung88 across their shoulders helped the blindfolded man from the first truck and two others helped the burqa-clad woman. The woman's knees buckled89 under her and she slumped90 to the ground. The soldiers pulled her up and she slumped again. When they tried to lift her again, she screamed and kicked. I will never, as long as I draw breath, forget the sound of that scream. It was the cry of a wild animal trying to pry91 its mangled92 leg free from the bear trap. Two more Talibs joined in and helped force her into one of the chest-deep holes. The blindfolded man, on the other hand, quietly allowed them to lower him into the hole dug for him. Now only the accused pair's torsos protruded93 from the ground.
A chubby94, white-bearded cleric dressed in gray garments stood near the goalposts and cleared his throat into a handheld microphone. Behind him the woman in the hole was still screaming. He recited a lengthy95 prayer from the Koran, his nasal voice undulating through the sudden hush96 of the stadium's crowd. I remem bered something Baba had said to me a long time ago: Piss on the beards of all those self-righteous monkeys. They do nothing but thumb their rosaries and recite a book written in a tongue they don't even understand. God help us all if Afghanistan ever falls into their hands.
When the prayer was done, the cleric cleared his throat. "Brothers and sisters!?he called, speaking in Farsi, his voice booming through the stadium. "We are here today to carry out Shari'a. We are here today to carry out justice. We are here today because the will of Allah and the word of the Prophet Muham mad, peace be upon him, are alive and well here in Afghanistan, our beloved Homeland. We listen to what God says and we obey because we are nothing but humble97, powerless creatures before God's greatness. And what does God say? I ask you! WHAT DOES GOD SAY? God says that every sinner must be punished in a manner befitting his sin. Those are not my words, nor the words of my brothers. Those are the words of GOD!?He pointed with his free hand to the sky. My head was pounding and the sun felt much too hot.
"Every sinner must be punished in a manner befitting his sin!?the cleric repeated into the mike, lowering his voice, enunciating each word slowly, dramatically. "And what manner of punishment, brothers and sisters, befits the adulterer? How shall we punish those who dishonor the sanctity of marriage? How shall we deal with those who spit in the face of God? How shall we answer those who throw stones at the windows of God's house? WE SHALL THROW THE STONES BACK!?He shut off the microphone. A low-pitched murmur86 spread through the crowd.
Next to me, Farid was shaking his head. "And they call themselves Muslims,?he whispered.
Then a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out of the pickup truck. The sight of him drew cheers from a few spectators. This time, no one was struck with a whip for cheering too loudly. The tall man's sparkling white garment glimmered in the afternoon sun. The hem9 of his loose shirt fluttered in the breeze, his arms spread like those of Jesus on the cross. He greeted the crowd by turning slowly in a full circle. When he faced our section, I saw he was wearing dark round sunglasses like the ones John Lennon wore.
"That must be our man,?Farid said.
The tall Talib with the black sunglasses walked to the pile of stones they had unloaded from the third truck. He picked up a rock and showed it to the crowd. The noise fell, replaced by a buzzing sound that rippled98 through the stadium. I looked around me and saw that everyone was tsk'ing. The Talib, looking absurdly like a baseball pitcher99 on the mound100, hurled101 the stone at the blindfolded man in the hole. It struck the side of his head. The woman screamed again. The crowd made a startled "OH!?sound. I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hands. The spectators?"OH!?rhymed with each flinging of the stone, and that went on for a while. When they stopped, I asked Farid if it was over. He said no. I guessed the people's throats had tired. I don't know how much longer I sat with my face in my hands. I know that I reopened my eyes when I heard people around me asking, "Mord? Mord? Is he dead??
The man in the hole was now a mangled mess of blood and shredded rags. His head slumped forward, chin on chest. The Talib in the John Lennon sunglasses was looking down at another man squatting102 next to the hole, tossing a rock up and down in his
hand. The squatting man had one end of a stethoscope to his ears and the other pressed on the chest of the man in the hole. He removed the stethoscope from his ears and shook his head no at the Talib in the sunglasses. The crowd moaned.
John Lennon walked back to the mound.
When it was all over, when the bloodied103 corpses104 had been unceremoniously tossed into the backs of red pickup trucks--separate ones--a few men with shovels105 hurriedly filled the holes. One of them made a passing attempt at covering up the large blood stains by kicking dirt over them. A few minutes later, the teams took the field. Second half was under way.
Our meeting was arranged for three o'clock that afternoon. The swiftness with which the appointment was set surprised me. I'd expected delays, a round of questioning at least, perhaps a check of our papers. But I was reminded of how unofficial even official matters still were in Afghanistan: all Farid had to do was tell one of the whip-carrying Talibs that we had personal Business to discuss with the man in white. Farid and he exchanged words. The guy with the whip then nodded and shouted something in Pashtu to a young man on the field, who ran to the south-end goalposts where the Talib in the sunglasses was chatting with the plump cleric who'd given the sermon. The three spoke. I saw the guy in the sunglasses look up. He nodded. Said something in the messenger's ear. The young man relayed the message back to us.
It was set, then. Three o'clock.
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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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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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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shredded
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| shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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animatedly
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| adv.栩栩如生地，活跃地 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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haggling
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的现在分词 ) | |
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peeked
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| v.很快地看( peek的过去式和过去分词 )；偷看；窥视；微露出 | |
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landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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tangles
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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fig
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foamy
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| adj.全是泡沫的，泡沫的，起泡沫的 | |
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pylons
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| n.（架高压输电线的）电缆塔( pylon的名词复数 )；挂架 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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fissures
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| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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sloughed
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| v.使蜕下或脱落( slough的过去式和过去分词 )；舍弃；除掉；摒弃 | |
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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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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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honk
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| n.雁叫声，汽车喇叭声 | |
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honked
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| v.（使）发出雁叫似的声音，鸣（喇叭），按（喇叭）( honk的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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36
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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37
sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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38
haphazardly
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| adv.偶然地，随意地，杂乱地 | |
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39
eroded
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| adj. 被侵蚀的，有蚀痕的 动词erode的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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40
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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41
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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42
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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43
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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44
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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45
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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47
inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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48
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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49
wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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50
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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51
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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52
wilted
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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54
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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55
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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56
crevasses
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| n.破口，崩溃处，裂缝( crevasse的名词复数 ) | |
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57
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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58
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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60
pickup
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| n.拾起，获得 | |
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61
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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62
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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63
skewers
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| n.串肉扦( skewer的名词复数 )；烤肉扦；棒v.（用串肉扦或类似物）串起，刺穿( skewer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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64
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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65
generator
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| n.发电机，发生器 | |
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66
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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67
locust
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| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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71
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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72
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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73
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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74
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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76
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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77
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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78
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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79
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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80
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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81
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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82
craters
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| n.火山口( crater的名词复数 )；弹坑等 | |
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83
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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84
blindfolded
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| v.（尤指用布）挡住（某人）的视线( blindfold的过去式 )；蒙住（某人）的眼睛；使不理解；蒙骗 | |
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85
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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87
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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88
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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89
buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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90
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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91
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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92
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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93
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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95
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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96
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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97
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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98
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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99
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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100
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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101
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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102
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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103
bloodied
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| v.血污的( bloody的过去式和过去分词 )；流血的；屠杀的；残忍的 | |
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104
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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105
shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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