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Chapter 19
Again, the car sickness. By the time we drove past the bulletriddled sign that read THE KHYBER PASS WELCOMES YOU, my mouth had begun to water. Something inside my stomach churned and twisted. Farid, my driver, threw me a cold glance. There was no empathy in his eyes.
"Can we roll down the window??I asked.
He lit a cigarette and tucked it between the remaining two fingers of his left hand, the one resting on the steering wheel. Keeping his black eyes on the road, he stooped forward, picked up the screwdriver lying between his feet, and handed it to me. I stuck it in the small hole in the door where the handle belonged and turned it to roll down my window.
Farid gave me another dismissive look, this one with a hint of barely suppressed animosity, and went back to smoking his cigarette. He hadn't said more than a dozen words since we'd departed from Jamrud Fort.
"Tashakor,?I muttered. I leaned my head out of the window and let the cold midafternoon air rush past my face. The drive through the tribal lands of the Khyber Pass, winding between cliffs of shale and limestone, was just as I remembered it--Baba and I had driven through the broken terrain back in 1974. The arid, imposing mountains sat along deep gorges and soared to jagged peaks. Old fortresses, adobe-walled and crumbling, topped the crags. I tried to keep my eyes glued to the snowcapped Hindu Kush on the north side, but each time my stomach settled even a bit, the truck skidded around yet another turn, rousing a fresh wave of nausea.
"Try a lemon.?
"What??
"Lemon. Good for the sickness,?Farid said. "I always bring one for this drive.?
"Nay, thank you,?I said. The mere thought of adding acidity to my stomach stirred more nausea. Farid snickered. "It's not fancy like American Medicine, I know, just an old remedy my mother taught me.?
I regretted blowing my chance to warm up to him. "In that case, maybe you should give me some.?
He grabbed a paper bag from the backseat and plucked a half lemon out of it. I bit down on it, waited a few minutes. "You were right. I feel better,?I lied. As an Afghan, I knew it was better to be miserable than rude. I forced a weak smile.
"Old watani trick, no need for fancy Medicine,?he said. His tone bordered on the surly. He flicked the ash off his cigarette and gave himself a self-satisfied look in the rearview mirror. He was a Tajik, a lanky, dark man with a weather-beaten face, narrow shoulders, and a long neck punctuated by a protruding Adam's apple that only peeked from behind his beard when he turned his head. He was dressed much as I was, though I suppose it was really the other way around: a rough-woven wool blanket wrapped over a gray pirhan-tumban and a vest. On his head, he wore a brown pakol, tilted slightly to one side, like the Tajik hero Ahmad Shah Massoud--referred to by Tajiks as "the Lion of Panjsher.?
It was Rahim Khan who had introduced me to Farid in Peshawar. He told me Farid was twenty-nine, though he had the wary, lined face of a man twenty years older. He was born in Mazar-i-Sharif and lived there until his father moved the family to Jalalabad when Farid was ten. At fourteen, he and his father had joined the jihad against the Shorawi. They had fought in the Panjsher Valley for two years until helicopter gunfire had torn the older man to pieces. Farid had two wives and five children. "He used to have seven,?Rahim Khan said with a rueful look, but he'd lost his two youngest girls a few years earlier in a land mine blast just outside Jalalabad, the same explosion that had severed toes from his feet and three fingers from his left hand. After that, he had moved his wives and children to Peshawar.
"Checkpoint,?Farid grumbled. I slumped a little in my seat, arms folded across my chest, forgetting for a moment about the nausea. But I needn't have worried. Two Pakistani militia approached our dilapidated Land Cruiser, took a cursory glance inside, and waved us on.
Farid was first on- the list of preparations Rahim Khan and I made, a list that included exchanging dollars for Kaldar and Afghani bills, my garment and pakol--ironically, I'd never worn either when I'd actually lived in Afghanistan--the Polaroid of Hassan and Sohrab, and, finally, perhaps the most important item: an artificial beard, black and chest length, Shari'a friendly--or at least the Taliban version of Shari'a. Rahim Khan knew of a fellow in Peshawar who specialized in weaving them, sometimes for Western journalists who covered the war.
Rahim Khan had wanted me to stay with him a few more days, to plan more thoroughly. But I knew I had to leave as soon as possible. I was afraid I'd change my mind. I was afraid I'd deliberate, ruminate, agonize, rationalize, and talk myself into not going. I was afraid the appeal of my life in America would draw me back, that I would wade back into that great, big river and let myself forget, let the things I had learned these last few days sink to the bottom. I was afraid that I'd let the waters carry me away from what I had to do. From Hassan. From the past that had come calling. And from this one last chance at redemption. So I left before there was any possibility of that happening. As for Soraya, telling her I was going back to Afghanistan wasn't an option. If I had, she would have booked herself on the next flight to Pakistan.
We had crossed the border and the signs of poverty were every where. On either side of the road, I saw chains of little villages sprouting here and there, like discarded toys among the rocks, broken mud houses and huts consisting of little more than four wooden poles and a tattered cloth as a roof. I saw children dressed in rags chasing a soccer ball outside the huts. A few miles later, I spotted a cluster of men sitting on their haunches, like a row of crows, on the carcass of an old burned-out Soviet tank, the wind fluttering the edges of the blankets thrown around them. Behind them, a woman in a brown burqa carried a large clay pot on her shoulder, down a rutted path toward a string of mud houses.
"Strange,?I said.
"What??
"I feel like a tourist in my own country,?I said, taking in a goatherd leading a half-dozen emaciated goats along the side of the road.
Farid snickered. Tossed his cigarette. "You still think of this place as your country??
"I think a part of me always will,?I said, more defensively than I had intended.
"After twenty years of living in America,?he said, swerving the truck to avoid a pothole the size of a beach ball.
I nodded. "I grew up in Afghanistan.?Farid snickered again.
"Why do you do that??
"Never mind,?he murmured.
"No, I want to know. Why do you do that??
In his rearview mirror, I saw something flash in his eyes. "You want to know??he sneered. "Let me imagine, Agha sahib. You probably lived in a big two- or three-story house with a nice back yard that your gardener filled with flowers and fruit trees. All gated, of course. Your father drove an American car. You had servants, probably Hazaras. Your parents hired workers to decorate the house for the fancy mehmanis they threw, so their friends would come over to drink and boast about their travels to Europe or America. And I would bet my first son's eyes that this is the first time you've ever worn a pakol.?He grinned at me, revealing a mouthful of prematurely rotting teeth. "Am I close??
"Why are you saying these things??I said.
"Because you wanted to know,?he spat. He pointed to an old man dressed in ragged clothes trudging down a dirt path, a large burlap pack filled with scrub grass tied to his back. "That's the real Afghanistan, Agha sahib. That's the Afghanistan I know. You? You've always been a tourist here, you just didn't know it.?
Rahim Khan had warned me not to expect a warm welcome in Afghanistan from those who had stayed behind and fought the wars. "I'm sorry about your father,?I said. "I'm sorry about your daughters, and I'm sorry about your hand.?
"That means nothing to me,?he said. He shook his head. "Why are you coming back here anyway? Sell off your Baba's land? Pocket the money and run back to your mother in America??
"My mother died giving birth to me,?I said.
He sighed and lit another cigarette. Said nothing.
"Pull over.?
"What??
"Pull over, goddamn it!?I said. "I'm going to be sick.?I tumbled out of the truck as it was coming to a rest on the gravel alongside the road.
BY LATE AFTERNOON, the terrain had changed from one of sun-beaten peaks and barren cliffs to a greener, more rural land scape. The main pass had descended from Landi Kotal through Shinwari territory to Landi Khana. We'd entered Afghanistan at Torkham. Pine trees flanked the road, fewer than I remembered and many of them bare, but it was good to see trees again after the arduous drive through the Khyber Pass. We were getting closer to Jalalabad, where Farid had a brother who would take us in for the night.
The sun hadn't quite set when we drove into Jalalabad, capital of the state of Nangarhar, a city once renowned for its fruit and warm climate. Farid drove past the buildings and stone houses of the city's central district. There weren't as many palm trees there as I remembered, and some of the Homes had been reduced to roofless walls and piles of twisted clay.
Farid turned onto a narrow unpaved road and parked the Land Cruiser along a dried-up gutter. I slid out of the truck, stretched, and took a deep breath. In the old days, the winds swept through the irrigated plains around Jalalabad where farmers grew sugarcane, and impregnated the city's air with a sweet scent. I closed my eyes and searched for the sweetness. I didn't find it.
"Let's go,?Farid said impatiently. We walked up the dirt road past a few leafless poplars along a row of broken mud walls. Farid led me to a dilapidated one-story house and knocked on the woodplank door.
A young woman with ocean-green eyes and a white scarf draped around her face peeked out. She saw me first, flinched, spotted Farid and her eyes lit up. "Salaam alaykum, Kaka Farid!?
"Salaam, Maryam jan,?Farid replied and gave her something he'd denied me all day: a warm smile. He planted a kiss on the top of her head. The young woman stepped out of the way, eyeing me a little apprehensively as I followed Farid into the small house.
The adobe ceiling was low, the dirt walls entirely bare, and the only light came from a pair of lanterns set in a corner. We took off our shoes and stepped on the straw mat that covered the floor. Along one of the walls sat three young boys, cross-legged, on a mattress covered with a blanket with shredded borders. A tall bearded man with broad shoulders stood up to greet us. Farid and he hugged and kissed on the cheek. Farid introduced him to me as Wahid, his older brother. "He's from America,?he said to Wahid, flicking his thumb toward me. He left us alone and went to greet the boys.
Wahid sat with me against the wall across from the boys, who had ambushed Farid and climbed his shoulders. Despite my protests, Wahid ordered one of the boys to fetch another blanket so I'd be more comfortable on the floor, and asked Maryam to bring me some tea. He asked about the ride from Peshawar, the drive over the Khyber Pass.
"I hope you didn't come across any dozds,?he said. The Khyber Pass was as famous for its terrain as for the bandits who used that terrain to rob travelers. Before I could answer, he winked and said in a loud voice, "Of course no dozd would waste his time on a car as ugly as my brother's.?
Farid wrestled the smallest of the three boys to the floor and tickled him on the ribs with his good hand. The kid giggled and kicked. "At least I have a car,?Farid panted. "How is your donkey these days??
"My donkey is a better ride than your car.?
"Khar khara mishnassah,?Farid shot back. Takes a donkey to know a donkey. They all laughed and I joined in. I heard female voices from the adjoining room. I could see half of the room from where I sat. Maryam and an older woman wearing a brown hijab--presumably her mother--were speaking in low voices and pouring tea from a kettle into a pot.
"So what do you do in America, Amir agha??Wahid asked.
"I'm a writer,?I said. I thought I heard Farid chuckle at that.
"A writer??Wahid said, clearly impressed. "Do you write about Afghanistan??
"Well, I have. But not currently,?I said. My last novel, A Season for Ashes, had been about a university professor who joins a clan of gypsies after he finds his wife in bed with one of his stu dents. It wasn't a bad book. Some reviewers had called it a "good?book, and one had even used the word "riveting.?But suddenly I was embarrassed by it. I hoped Wahid wouldn't ask what it was about.
"Maybe you should write about Afghanistan again,?Wahid said. "Tell the rest of the world what the Taliban are doing to our country.?
"Well, I'm not... I'm not quite that kind of writer.?
"Oh,?Wahid said, nodding and blushing a bit. "You know best, of course. It's not for me to suggest...
Just then, Maryam and the other woman came into the room with a pair of cups and a teapot on a small platter. I stood up in respect, pressed my hand to my chest, and bowed my head. "Salaam alaykum,?I said.
The woman, who had now wrapped her hijab to conceal her lower face, bowed her head too. "Sataam,?she replied in a barely audible voice. We never made eye contact. She poured the tea while I stood.
The woman placed the steaming cup of tea before me and exited the room, her bare feet making no sound at all as she disappeared. I sat down and sipped the strong black tea. Wahid finally broke the uneasy silence that followed.
"So what brings you back to Afghanistan??
"What brings them all back to Afghanistan, dear brother??Farid said, speaking to Wahid but fixing me with a contemptuous gaze.
"Bas!?Wahid snapped.
"It's always the same thing,?Farid said. "Sell this land, sell that house, collect the money, and run away like a mouse. Go back to America, spend the money on a family vacation to Mexico.?
"Farid!?Wahid roared. His children, and even Farid, flinched. "Have you forgotten your-manners? This is my house! Amir agha is my guest tonight and I will not allow you to dishonor me like this!?
Farid opened his mouth, almost said something, reconsidered and said nothing. He slumped against the wall, muttered some thing under his breath, and crossed his mutilated foot over the good one. His accusing eyes never left me.
"Forgive us, Amir agha,?Wahid said. "Since childhood, my brother's mouth has been two steps ahead of his head.?
"It's my fault, really,?I said, trying to smile under Farid's intense gaze. "I am not offended. I should have explained to him my Business here in Afghanistan. I am not here to sell property. I'm going to Kabul to find a boy.?
"A boy,?Wahid repeated.
"Yes.?I fished the Polaroid from the pocket of my shirt. Seeing Hassan's picture again tore the fresh scab off his death. I had to turn my eyes away from it. I handed it to Wahid. He studied the photo. Looked from me to the photo and back again. "This boy??
I nodded.
"This Hazara boy.?
"Yes.?
"What does he mean to you??
"His father meant a lot to me. He is the man in the photo. He's dead now.?
Wahid blinked. "He was a friend of yours??
My instinct was to say yes, as if, on some deep level, I too wanted to protect Baba's secret. But there had been enough lies already. "He was my half-brother.?I swallowed. Added, "My illegitimate half brother.?I turned the teacup. Toyed with the handle.
"I didn't mean to pry.?
"You're not prying,?I said.
"What will you do with him??
"Take him back to Peshawar. There are people there who will take care of him.?
Wahid handed the photo back and rested his thick hand on my shoulder. "You are an honorable man, Amir agha. A true Afghan.?
I cringed inside.
"I am proud to have you in our Home tonight,?Wahid said. I thanked him and chanced a glance over to Farid. He was looking down now, playing with the frayed edges of the straw mat.
A SHORT WHILE LATER, Maryam and her mother brought two steaming bowls of vegetable shorwa and two loaves of bread. "I'm sorry we can't offer you meat,?Wahid said. "Only the Taliban can afford meat now.?
"This looks wonderful,?I said. It did too. I offered some to him, to the kids, but Wahid said the family had eaten before we arrived. Farid and I rolled up our sleeves, dipped our bread in the shorwa, and ate with our hands.
As I ate, I noticed Wahid's boys, all three thin with dirtcaked faces and short-cropped brown hair under their skullcaps, stealing furtive glances at my digital wristwatch. The youngest whispered something in his brother's ear. The brother nodded, didn't take his eyes off my watch. The oldest of the boys--I guessed his age at about twelve--rocked back and forth, his gaze glued to my wrist. After dinner, after I'd washed my hands with the water Maryam poured from a clay pot, I asked for Wahid's permission to give his boys a hadia, a gift. He said no, but, when I insisted, he reluctantly agreed. I unsnapped the wristwatch and gave it to the youngest of the three boys. He muttered a sheepish "Tashakor.?
"It tells you the time in any city in the world,?I told him. The boys nodded politely, passing the watch between them, taking
turns trying it on. But they lost interest and, soon, the watch sat abandoned on the straw mat.
"You COULD HAVE TOLD ME,?Farid saidlater. The two ofus were lying next to each other on the straw mats Wahid's wife had spread for us.
"Told you what??
"Why you've come to Afghanistan.?His voice had lost the rough edge I'd heard in it since the moment I had met him.
"You didn't ask,?I said.
"You should have told me.?
"You didn't ask.?
He rolled to face me. Curled his arm under his head. "Maybe I will help you find this boy.?
"Thank you, Farid,?I said.
"It was wrong of me to assume.?
I sighed. "Don't worry. You were more right than you know.?
HIS HANDS ARE TIED BEHIND HIM with roughly woven rope cutting through the flesh of his wrists. He is blindfolded with black cloth. He is kneeling on the street, on the edge of a gutter filled with still water, his head drooping between his shoulders. His knees roll on the hard ground and bleed through his pants as he rocks in prayer. It is late afternoon and his long shadow sways back and forth on the gravel. He is muttering something under his breath. I step closer. A thousand times over, he mutters. For you a thousand times over. Back and forth he rocks. He lifts his face. I see a faint scar above his upper lip.
We are not alone.
I see the barrel first. Then the man standing behind him. He is tall, dressed in a herringbone vest and a black turban. He looks down at the blindfolded man before him with eyes that show nothing but a vast, cavernous emptiness. He takes a step back and raises the barrel. Places it on the back of the kneeling man's head. For a moment, fading sunlight catches in the metal and twinkles.
The rifle roars with a deafening crack.
I follow the barrel on its upward arc. I see the face behind the plume of smoke swirling from the muzzle. I am the man in the herringbone vest.
I woke up with a scream trapped in my throat.
I STEPPED OUTSIDE. Stood in the silver tarnish of a half-moon and glanced up to a sky riddled with stars. Crickets chirped in the shuttered darkness and a wind wafted through the trees. The ground was cool under my bare feet and suddenly, for the first time since we had crossed the border, I felt like I was back. After all these years, I was Home again, standing on the soil of my ancestors. This was the soil on which my great-grandfather had married his third wife a year before dying in the cholera epidemic that hit Kabul in 1915. She'd borne him what his first two wives had failed to, a son at last. It was on this soil that my grandfather had gone on a hunting trip with King Nadir Shah and shot a deer. My mother had died on this soil. And on this soil, I had fought for my father's love.
I sat against one of the house's clay walls. The kinship I felt suddenly for the old land... it surprised me. I'd been gone long enough to forget and be forgotten. I had a Home in a land that might as well be in another galaxy to the people sleeping on the other side of the wall I leaned against. I thought I had forgotten about this land. But I hadn't. And, under the bony glow of a halfmoon, I sensed Afghanistan humming under my feet. Maybe Afghanistan hadn't forgotten me either.
I looked westward and marveled that, somewhere over those mountains, Kabul still existed. It really existed, not just as an old memory, or as the heading of an AP story on page 15 of the San Francisco Chronicle. Somewhere over those mountains in the west slept the city where my harelipped brother and I had run kites. Somewhere over there, the blindfolded man from my dream had died a needless death. Once, over those mountains, I had made a choice. And now, a quarter of a century later, that choice had landed me right back on this soil.
I was about to go back inside when I heard voices coming from the house. I recognized one as Wahid's.
?-nothing left for the children.?
"We're hungry but we're not savages! He is a guest! What was I supposed to do??he said in a strained voice.
?-to find something tomorrow?She sounded near tears. "What do I feed--?
I tiptoed away. I understood now why the boys hadn't shown any interest in the watch. They hadn't been staring at the watch at all. They'd been staring at my food.
WE SAID OUR GOOD - BYE S early the next morning. Just before I climbed into the Land Cruiser, I thanked Wahid for his hospitality. He pointed to the little house behind him. "This is your Home,?he said. His three sons were standing in the doorway watching us. The little one was wearing the watch--it dangled around his twiggy wrist.
I glanced in the side-view mirror as we pulled away. Wahid stood surrounded by his boys in a cloud of dust whipped up by the truck. It occurred to me that, in a different world, those boys wouldn't have been too hungry to chase after the car.
Earlier that morning, when I was certain no one was looking, I did something I had done twenty-six years earlier: I planted a fistful of crumpled money under a mattress.
第十九章
再次晕车。当时我们驶过一块带着弹孔的标牌，上面写着“开伯尔隘口欢迎你”，我的嘴里开始冒水，胃里有些东西翻滚绞动。司机法里德冷冷看了我一眼，眼里毫无同情。
“我们可以把车窗摇下来吗？”我问。他一只手抓着方向盘，另外一只手仅有的两根手指夹着点燃的香烟。他黑色的眼睛仍望着前方，弯下腰，拿起放在脚边的螺丝刀，递给我。我把它插进车门的一个小洞里面，那里原先有个摇柄，把我这边的车窗摇下来。
法里德又鄙夷地看着我，眼中的嫌恶不加掩饰，然后收回目光，继续抽烟。自从我们离开雅姆鲁德堡垒以来，他跟我说的，只有寥寥数语。
“谢谢。”我低声说，把头伸出车窗，让午后的寒风猎猎吹过我的脸庞。马路穿过开伯尔隘口的部落领地，蜿蜒在页岩和石灰岩的悬崖峭壁间，一如我记得的那样——1974年，爸爸和我曾驾车驶过这片崎岖的地带。那些贫瘠而壮丽的山脉坐拥深沟大壑，峰峦高高耸起。峭壁之上，有座座泥墙砌成的堡垒，年久失修，崩塌倾颓。我试图让眼光盯牢在北方兴都库什山脉[Hindu Kush Mountains，东起帕米尔高原南缘，向西南经巴基斯坦延伸至阿富汗境内。山势雄伟，有“阿富汗的脊梁”之称]白雪皑皑的峰顶，但每次我的胃稍微平息一些，卡车便来个转弯，让我又是一阵恶心。
“吃个柠檬试试。”
“什么？”
“柠檬。对晕车很有效。”法里德说，“每次开这条路我都会带一个。”
“不用，谢谢你。”我说。光是想到要我吃下酸的东西，就够我反胃的了。法里德冷冷一笑，“它不像美国药丸那样灵妙，我知道，不过是我妈妈告诉我的古老药方罢了。”
我后悔白白放过这个和他套近乎的机会，“要是那样的话，也许你可以给我一些。”
他从后座抓起一个纸袋，拿出半个柠檬。我咬一口，等上几分钟。“你说得对，我感觉好多了。”我说谎。身为阿富汗人，我深知宁可遭罪也不可失礼，我挤出孱弱的微笑。
“古老的土方，用不上玄妙的药丸。”他说，语气不再乖戾。他弹去烟灰，自我感觉良好地从观后镜看着自己。他是塔吉克人，皮肤黝黑，高高瘦瘦，满脸风霜；他肩膀不宽，脖子细长，转头的时候，人们可以窥见那长长的胡子后面突起的喉结。他穿得跟我一样多，但我想附近的人应该不是这样的：他穿着一件背心和灰色的棉袍，外面还罩着粗毛线织成的羊毛毯。他头戴棕色的毡帽，稍微斜向一旁，好像塔吉克的英雄艾哈迈德·沙阿·马苏德——塔吉克人称之为“潘杰希尔[Panjsher，阿富汗中部峡谷]雄狮”。
在白沙瓦，拉辛汗介绍我认识法里德。他告诉我，法里德二十九岁，不过他 那机警的脸满是皱纹，看上去要老二十岁。他生于马扎里沙里夫，在那儿生活，直到十岁那年，他父亲举家搬到贾拉拉巴特。十四岁，他和他父亲加入了人民圣战者组织，抗击俄国佬。他们在潘杰希尔峡谷抗战了两年，直到直升机的炮火将他父亲炸成碎片。法里德娶了两个妻子，有五个小孩。“他过去有七个小孩。”拉辛汗眼露悲哀地说，但在早几年，就在贾拉拉巴特城外，地雷爆炸夺走了他两个最小的女儿；那次爆炸还要去了他的脚趾以及他左手的三个手指。在那之后，他带着妻子和小孩搬到自沙瓦。
“关卡。”法里德不满地说。我稍稍瘫在座位上，双臂抱胸，暂时忘却了眩晕的感觉。但我不用担心，两个阿富汗民兵朝我们这辆破旧的陆地巡洋舰走来，匆匆看了一眼车内，挥手让我们走。
在拉辛汗和我准备的清单中，法里德是第一项，清单还包括把美元换成卡尔达[Kaldar，巴基斯坦货币名称]和阿富汗尼钞票，我的长袍和毡帽——讽刺的是，真正在阿富汗生活的那些年，这两件东西我统统没穿过——哈桑和索拉博的宝丽莱合影，最后，也许是最重要的是：一副黑色假胡子，长及胸膛。表示对伊斯兰教——至少是塔利班眼中的伊斯兰教——的友好。拉辛汗认得白沙瓦几个精于此道的家伙，有时他们替那些前来报道战争的西方记者服务。
拉辛汗曾要求我多陪着他几天，计划得更详尽些。但我知道自己得尽快启程。我害怕自己会改变主意。我害怕自己会犹豫不决，瞻前顾后，寝食难安，寻找理由，说服自己不要前去。我害怕来自美国生活的诱惑会将我拉回去，而我再也不会趟进这条大河，让自己遗忘，让这几天得知的一切沉在水底。我害怕河水将我冲走，将我冲离那些当仁不让的责任，冲离哈桑，冲离那正在召唤我的往事，冲离最后一次赎罪的机会。所以我在这一切都还来不及发生之前就出发了。至于索拉雅，我没有告诉她我回阿富汗并非明智之举。如果我那么做，她会给自己订票，坐上下一班飞往阿富汗的客机。
我们已经越过国境，触目皆是贫穷的迹象。在路的两旁，我看见村落一座连一座，如同被丢弃的玩具般，散落在岩石间；而那些残破的泥屋和茅舍，无非是四根木柱，加上屋顶的破布。我看见衣不蔽体的孩子在屋外追逐一个足球。再过几里路，我看到有群男人弓身蹲坐，如同一群乌鸦，坐着的是被焚毁的破旧俄军坦克，寒风吹起他们身边毛毯的边缘，猎猎作响。他们身后，有个穿着棕色长袍的女子，肩膀上扛着大陶罐，沿着车辙宛然的小径，走向一排泥屋。
“真奇怪。”我说。
“什么？”
“我回到自己的国家，却发现自己像个游客。”我说。路边有个牧人，领着几只干瘦的山羊在赶路。
法里德冷笑，扔掉烟蒂，“你还把这个地方当成国家？”
“我想有一部分的我永远会这么认为。”我说，我的戒备之心出乎自己意料之外。
“在美国生活了二十年之后？”他说，打着方向盘，避开路上一个海滩球那么大的洞。
我点点头：“我在阿富汗长大。”法里德又冷笑。
“你为什么这样？”
“没什么。”
“不，我想知道。你干吗这样？”借着他那边的观后镜，我见到他眼里有神色闪动。
“你想知道？”他嗤之以鼻，“我来想像一下，老爷。你也许生活在一座两层或者三层的楼房，有个漂亮的后院，你的园丁给它种满花草和果树。当然，门都锁上了。你父亲开美国车。你有仆人，估计薀威扎拉人。你的父母请来工人，装潢他们举办宴会的房间，好让他们的朋友前来饮酒喝茶，吹嘘他们在美国和欧洲的游历。而我敢拿我大儿子的眼睛打赌，这是你第一次戴毡帽。”他朝我咧嘴而笑，露出一口过早蛀蚀的牙齿，“我说的没错吧？”
“你为什么要说这些呢？”我说。
“因为你想知道，”他回嘴说。他指着一个衣裳褴褛的老人，背着装满柴草的麻袋，在泥土路上跋涉前进。“那才是真正的阿富汗人，老爷，那才是我认识的阿富汗人。你？在这里，你一直无非是个过客而已，只是你自己不知道罢了。”
拉辛汗警告过我，在阿富汗，别指望那些留下来战斗的人会给我好脸色看。
“我为你父亲感到难过，”我说，“我为你女儿感到难过，我为你的手感到难过。”
“那对我来说没有意义。”他摇摇头说，“为什么无论如何，你们总是要回到这里呢？
卖掉你们父亲的土地？把钱放进口袋，跑回美国找你们的妈妈？”
“我妈妈在生我的时候死了。”我说。他叹气，又点一根烟，一语不发。
“停车。”
“什么？”
“停车，该死。”我说，“我要吐了。”车还没在路边的沙砾上停稳，我就吐了出来。
接近黄昏的时候，地形变了，从烈日灼烤的山峰和光秃秃的悬崖变成一派更翠绿的田园风光。大路从蓝地科托下降，穿过新瓦里地区，直达蓝地卡纳。我们从托尔坎[蓝地科托（Landi Kotal）、新瓦里（Shinwari）、蓝地卡纳（Landi Khana）和托尔坎（Torkham）均是开伯尔隘口沿途小镇]进入阿富汗。夹道相送的柏树比我记忆中少多了，但在经历开伯尔隘口那段乏味的旅途之后，再次看到树木，还是神情一振。我们正在接近贾拉拉巴特，法里德有个兄弟在那儿，我们会在他家过夜。
我们驶进贾拉拉巴特的时候，太阳还没有完全下山。这座城市是楠格哈尔省[Nangarhar，阿富汗省份]的首府，过去以温和的气候和水果闻名。法里德驶过市中心的楼宇和石头房子。那儿的棕榈树也没记忆中多，而有些房子已经变成几堵没有屋顶的墙壁、几堆杂乱的泥土。
法里德驶上一条土路，将陆地巡洋舰停在干涸的水沟旁边。我从他的车上溜出来，伸展拳脚，深深吸了一口气。从前，和风拂过贾拉拉巴特富饶的平原，农民种满甘蔗，城里的空气弥漫着甜蜜的香味。我闭上眼睛，搜索香味，可是没有找到。
“我们走吧。”法里德不耐烦地说。我们踏上那条土路，经过几株光秃秃的白杨和一排残破的泥墙。法里德将我领到一座破落的平房，敲敲木板门。
有个用白色头巾蒙住脸的少女探出头来，露出海蓝色的眼睛。她先看到我，身子一缩，然后看到法里德，眼睛亮起来。“你好，法里德叔叔。”
“你好，亲爱的玛丽亚。”法里德回答说，给了她一种他整天都没给我的东西：一个温暖的微笑。他亲了她的额头。少女让出路，有点紧张地看着我随法里德走进那座小小的房子。
泥砖屋顶很低，四面泥墙空空如也，赖以照明的是屋角两盏提灯。草席盖住地面，我们脱掉鞋子，踏上去。三个年轻的男孩盘膝坐在一堵墙下的垫子上，下面铺着卷边的毛毯。
有个留着胡子的高个子男人站起来迎接我们。法里德和他拥抱，亲吻彼此的脸颊。法里德介绍说他叫瓦希德，是他哥哥。“他从美国来。”他对瓦希德说，翘起拇指指着我，然后丢下我们，自行去跟那些男孩打招呼。
瓦希德和我倚着墙，坐在那些男孩对面，他们跟法里德开玩笑，爬上他的肩膀。尽管我一再推辞，瓦希德令其中一个男孩去给我拿毛毯，以便我坐得舒服些，又让玛丽亚给我端茶。他问起从白沙瓦来的旅途，问起路过开伯尔隘口的情况。
“我希望你们没有碰到任何强盗。”他说。与开伯尔隘口同样远近闻名的是，强盗利用那里的地形打劫过往旅客。我还没有回答，他就眨眨眼，大声说：“当然，没有任何强盗会打我兄弟那辆破车的主意。”法里德将最小那个孩子抱倒在地，用那只完好的手去挠他的肋骨。那孩子咯咯大笑，双脚乱踢。“最少我还有一辆车，”法里德气喘吁吁地说，“你那头驴子最近怎样？”
“我的驴子骑起来比坐你的车好。”
“骑驴才知驴难骑。”法里德回敬说。他们全都笑起来，我也笑了。我听见隔壁传来女人的声音。从我坐的地方，可以看到那间屋子的一半。玛丽亚和蒙着棕色面纱的妇女低声交谈，从一个大水壶往茶壶里面倒茶。那女人年纪较大，应该是她妈妈。
“你在美国干什么呢，老爷？”瓦希德问。
“我是个作家。”我说，法里德听到之后轻声一笑。
“作家？”瓦希德说，显然颇有好感。“你写阿富汗吗？”
“这么说吧，我写过，但现在没有。”我说。我最后一本小说叫《此情可待成追忆》[原文为A Season for Ashes，这里为意译]，写的是一个大学教授的故事，他发现妻子跟他的学生上床之后，追随一群吉卜赛人而去。这本书不错。有些评论家说它是本“好”书，有一个甚至还用了“引人人胜”这样的评语。但突然之间，它让我很难为情。我希望瓦希德不会问起它的内容。
“也许你应该再写写阿富汗。”瓦希德说，“将塔利
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Chapter 19
Again, the car sickness. By the time we drove past the bulletriddled sign that read THE KHYBER PASS WELCOMES YOU, my mouth had begun to water. Something inside my stomach churned and twisted. Farid, my driver, threw me a cold glance. There was no empathy in his eyes.
"Can we roll down the window??I asked.
He lit a cigarette and tucked it between the remaining two fingers of his left hand, the one resting on the steering wheel. Keeping his black eyes on the road, he stooped forward, picked up the screwdriver lying between his feet, and handed it to me. I stuck it in the small hole in the door where the handle belonged and turned it to roll down my window.
Farid gave me another dismissive look, this one with a hint of barely suppressed animosity, and went back to smoking his cigarette. He hadn't said more than a dozen words since we'd departed from Jamrud Fort.
"Tashakor,?I muttered. I leaned my head out of the window and let the cold midafternoon air rush past my face. The drive through the tribal lands of the Khyber Pass, winding between cliffs of shale and limestone, was just as I remembered it--Baba and I had driven through the broken terrain back in 1974. The arid, imposing mountains sat along deep gorges and soared to jagged peaks. Old fortresses, adobe-walled and crumbling, topped the crags. I tried to keep my eyes glued to the snowcapped Hindu Kush on the north side, but each time my stomach settled even a bit, the truck skidded around yet another turn, rousing a fresh wave of nausea.
"Try a lemon.?
"What??
"Lemon. Good for the sickness,?Farid said. "I always bring one for this drive.?
"Nay, thank you,?I said. The mere thought of adding acidity to my stomach stirred more nausea. Farid snickered. "It's not fancy like American Medicine, I know, just an old remedy my mother taught me.?
I regretted blowing my chance to warm up to him. "In that case, maybe you should give me some.?
He grabbed a paper bag from the backseat and plucked a half lemon out of it. I bit down on it, waited a few minutes. "You were right. I feel better,?I lied. As an Afghan, I knew it was better to be miserable than rude. I forced a weak smile.
"Old watani trick, no need for fancy Medicine,?he said. His tone bordered on the surly. He flicked the ash off his cigarette and gave himself a self-satisfied look in the rearview mirror. He was a Tajik, a lanky, dark man with a weather-beaten face, narrow shoulders, and a long neck punctuated by a protruding Adam's apple that only peeked from behind his beard when he turned his head. He was dressed much as I was, though I suppose it was really the other way around: a rough-woven wool blanket wrapped over a gray pirhan-tumban and a vest. On his head, he wore a brown pakol, tilted slightly to one side, like the Tajik hero Ahmad Shah Massoud--referred to by Tajiks as "the Lion of Panjsher.?
It was Rahim Khan who had introduced me to Farid in Peshawar. He told me Farid was twenty-nine, though he had the wary, lined face of a man twenty years older. He was born in Mazar-i-Sharif and lived there until his father moved the family to Jalalabad when Farid was ten. At fourteen, he and his father had joined the jihad against the Shorawi. They had fought in the Panjsher Valley for two years until helicopter gunfire had torn the older man to pieces. Farid had two wives and five children. "He used to have seven,?Rahim Khan said with a rueful look, but he'd lost his two youngest girls a few years earlier in a land mine blast just outside Jalalabad, the same explosion that had severed toes from his feet and three fingers from his left hand. After that, he had moved his wives and children to Peshawar.
"Checkpoint,?Farid grumbled. I slumped a little in my seat, arms folded across my chest, forgetting for a moment about the nausea. But I needn't have worried. Two Pakistani militia approached our dilapidated Land Cruiser, took a cursory glance inside, and waved us on.
Farid was first on- the list of preparations Rahim Khan and I made, a list that included exchanging dollars for Kaldar and Afghani bills, my garment and pakol--ironically, I'd never worn either when I'd actually lived in Afghanistan--the Polaroid of Hassan and Sohrab, and, finally, perhaps the most important item: an artificial beard, black and chest length, Shari'a friendly--or at least the Taliban version of Shari'a. Rahim Khan knew of a fellow in Peshawar who specialized in weaving them, sometimes for Western journalists who covered the war.
Rahim Khan had wanted me to stay with him a few more days, to plan more thoroughly. But I knew I had to leave as soon as possible. I was afraid I'd change my mind. I was afraid I'd deliberate, ruminate, agonize, rationalize, and talk myself into not going. I was afraid the appeal of my life in America would draw me back, that I would wade back into that great, big river and let myself forget, let the things I had learned these last few days sink to the bottom. I was afraid that I'd let the waters carry me away from what I had to do. From Hassan. From the past that had come calling. And from this one last chance at redemption. So I left before there was any possibility of that happening. As for Soraya, telling her I was going back to Afghanistan wasn't an option. If I had, she would have booked herself on the next flight to Pakistan.
We had crossed the border and the signs of poverty were every where. On either side of the road, I saw chains of little villages sprouting here and there, like discarded toys among the rocks, broken mud houses and huts consisting of little more than four wooden poles and a tattered cloth as a roof. I saw children dressed in rags chasing a soccer ball outside the huts. A few miles later, I spotted a cluster of men sitting on their haunches, like a row of crows, on the carcass of an old burned-out Soviet tank, the wind fluttering the edges of the blankets thrown around them. Behind them, a woman in a brown burqa carried a large clay pot on her shoulder, down a rutted path toward a string of mud houses.
"Strange,?I said.
"What??
"I feel like a tourist in my own country,?I said, taking in a goatherd leading a half-dozen emaciated goats along the side of the road.
Farid snickered. Tossed his cigarette. "You still think of this place as your country??
"I think a part of me always will,?I said, more defensively than I had intended.
"After twenty years of living in America,?he said, swerving the truck to avoid a pothole the size of a beach ball.
I nodded. "I grew up in Afghanistan.?Farid snickered again.
"Why do you do that??
"Never mind,?he murmured.
"No, I want to know. Why do you do that??
In his rearview mirror, I saw something flash in his eyes. "You want to know??he sneered. "Let me imagine, Agha sahib. You probably lived in a big two- or three-story house with a nice back yard that your gardener filled with flowers and fruit trees. All gated, of course. Your father drove an American car. You had servants, probably Hazaras. Your parents hired workers to decorate the house for the fancy mehmanis they threw, so their friends would come over to drink and boast about their travels to Europe or America. And I would bet my first son's eyes that this is the first time you've ever worn a pakol.?He grinned at me, revealing a mouthful of prematurely rotting teeth. "Am I close??
"Why are you saying these things??I said.
"Because you wanted to know,?he spat. He pointed to an old man dressed in ragged clothes trudging down a dirt path, a large burlap pack filled with scrub grass tied to his back. "That's the real Afghanistan, Agha sahib. That's the Afghanistan I know. You? You've always been a tourist here, you just didn't know it.?
Rahim Khan had warned me not to expect a warm welcome in Afghanistan from those who had stayed behind and fought the wars. "I'm sorry about your father,?I said. "I'm sorry about your daughters, and I'm sorry about your hand.?
"That means nothing to me,?he said. He shook his head. "Why are you coming back here anyway? Sell off your Baba's land? Pocket the money and run back to your mother in America??
"My mother died giving birth to me,?I said.
He sighed and lit another cigarette. Said nothing.
"Pull over.?
"What??
"Pull over, goddamn it!?I said. "I'm going to be sick.?I tumbled out of the truck as it was coming to a rest on the gravel alongside the road.
BY LATE AFTERNOON, the terrain had changed from one of sun-beaten peaks and barren cliffs to a greener, more rural land scape. The main pass had descended from Landi Kotal through Shinwari territory to Landi Khana. We'd entered Afghanistan at Torkham. Pine trees flanked the road, fewer than I remembered and many of them bare, but it was good to see trees again after the arduous drive through the Khyber Pass. We were getting closer to Jalalabad, where Farid had a brother who would take us in for the night.
The sun hadn't quite set when we drove into Jalalabad, capital of the state of Nangarhar, a city once renowned for its fruit and warm climate. Farid drove past the buildings and stone houses of the city's central district. There weren't as many palm trees there as I remembered, and some of the Homes had been reduced to roofless walls and piles of twisted clay.
Farid turned onto a narrow unpaved road and parked the Land Cruiser along a dried-up gutter. I slid out of the truck, stretched, and took a deep breath. In the old days, the winds swept through the irrigated plains around Jalalabad where farmers grew sugarcane, and impregnated the city's air with a sweet scent. I closed my eyes and searched for the sweetness. I didn't find it.
"Let's go,?Farid said impatiently. We walked up the dirt road past a few leafless poplars along a row of broken mud walls. Farid led me to a dilapidated one-story house and knocked on the woodplank door.
A young woman with ocean-green eyes and a white scarf draped around her face peeked out. She saw me first, flinched, spotted Farid and her eyes lit up. "Salaam alaykum, Kaka Farid!?
"Salaam, Maryam jan,?Farid replied and gave her something he'd denied me all day: a warm smile. He planted a kiss on the top of her head. The young woman stepped out of the way, eyeing me a little apprehensively as I followed Farid into the small house.
The adobe ceiling was low, the dirt walls entirely bare, and the only light came from a pair of lanterns set in a corner. We took off our shoes and stepped on the straw mat that covered the floor. Along one of the walls sat three young boys, cross-legged, on a mattress covered with a blanket with shredded borders. A tall bearded man with broad shoulders stood up to greet us. Farid and he hugged and kissed on the cheek. Farid introduced him to me as Wahid, his older brother. "He's from America,?he said to Wahid, flicking his thumb toward me. He left us alone and went to greet the boys.
Wahid sat with me against the wall across from the boys, who had ambushed Farid and climbed his shoulders. Despite my protests, Wahid ordered one of the boys to fetch another blanket so I'd be more comfortable on the floor, and asked Maryam to bring me some tea. He asked about the ride from Peshawar, the drive over the Khyber Pass.
"I hope you didn't come across any dozds,?he said. The Khyber Pass was as famous for its terrain as for the bandits who used that terrain to rob travelers. Before I could answer, he winked and said in a loud voice, "Of course no dozd would waste his time on a car as ugly as my brother's.?
Farid wrestled the smallest of the three boys to the floor and tickled him on the ribs with his good hand. The kid giggled and kicked. "At least I have a car,?Farid panted. "How is your donkey these days??
"My donkey is a better ride than your car.?
"Khar khara mishnassah,?Farid shot back. Takes a donkey to know a donkey. They all laughed and I joined in. I heard female voices from the adjoining room. I could see half of the room from where I sat. Maryam and an older woman wearing a brown hijab--presumably her mother--were speaking in low voices and pouring tea from a kettle into a pot.
"So what do you do in America, Amir agha??Wahid asked.
"I'm a writer,?I said. I thought I heard Farid chuckle at that.
"A writer??Wahid said, clearly impressed. "Do you write about Afghanistan??
"Well, I have. But not currently,?I said. My last novel, A Season for Ashes, had been about a university professor who joins a clan of gypsies after he finds his wife in bed with one of his stu dents. It wasn't a bad book. Some reviewers had called it a "good?book, and one had even used the word "riveting.?But suddenly I was embarrassed by it. I hoped Wahid wouldn't ask what it was about.
"Maybe you should write about Afghanistan again,?Wahid said. "Tell the rest of the world what the Taliban are doing to our country.?
"Well, I'm not... I'm not quite that kind of writer.?
"Oh,?Wahid said, nodding and blushing a bit. "You know best, of course. It's not for me to suggest...
Just then, Maryam and the other woman came into the room with a pair of cups and a teapot on a small platter. I stood up in respect, pressed my hand to my chest, and bowed my head. "Salaam alaykum,?I said.
The woman, who had now wrapped her hijab to conceal her lower face, bowed her head too. "Sataam,?she replied in a barely audible voice. We never made eye contact. She poured the tea while I stood.
The woman placed the steaming cup of tea before me and exited the room, her bare feet making no sound at all as she disappeared. I sat down and sipped the strong black tea. Wahid finally broke the uneasy silence that followed.
"So what brings you back to Afghanistan??
"What brings them all back to Afghanistan, dear brother??Farid said, speaking to Wahid but fixing me with a contemptuous gaze.
"Bas!?Wahid snapped.
"It's always the same thing,?Farid said. "Sell this land, sell that house, collect the money, and run away like a mouse. Go back to America, spend the money on a family vacation to Mexico.?
"Farid!?Wahid roared. His children, and even Farid, flinched. "Have you forgotten your-manners? This is my house! Amir agha is my guest tonight and I will not allow you to dishonor me like this!?
Farid opened his mouth, almost said something, reconsidered and said nothing. He slumped against the wall, muttered some thing under his breath, and crossed his mutilated foot over the good one. His accusing eyes never left me.
"Forgive us, Amir agha,?Wahid said. "Since childhood, my brother's mouth has been two steps ahead of his head.?
"It's my fault, really,?I said, trying to smile under Farid's intense gaze. "I am not offended. I should have explained to him my Business here in Afghanistan. I am not here to sell property. I'm going to Kabul to find a boy.?
"A boy,?Wahid repeated.
"Yes.?I fished the Polaroid from the pocket of my shirt. Seeing Hassan's picture again tore the fresh scab off his death. I had to turn my eyes away from it. I handed it to Wahid. He studied the photo. Looked from me to the photo and back again. "This boy??
I nodded.
"This Hazara boy.?
"Yes.?
"What does he mean to you??
"His father meant a lot to me. He is the man in the photo. He's dead now.?
Wahid blinked. "He was a friend of yours??
My instinct was to say yes, as if, on some deep level, I too wanted to protect Baba's secret. But there had been enough lies already. "He was my half-brother.?I swallowed. Added, "My illegitimate half brother.?I turned the teacup. Toyed with the handle.
"I didn't mean to pry.?
"You're not prying,?I said.
"What will you do with him??
"Take him back to Peshawar. There are people there who will take care of him.?
Wahid handed the photo back and rested his thick hand on my shoulder. "You are an honorable man, Amir agha. A true Afghan.?
I cringed inside.
"I am proud to have you in our Home tonight,?Wahid said. I thanked him and chanced a glance over to Farid. He was looking down now, playing with the frayed edges of the straw mat.
A SHORT WHILE LATER, Maryam and her mother brought two steaming bowls of vegetable shorwa and two loaves of bread. "I'm sorry we can't offer you meat,?Wahid said. "Only the Taliban can afford meat now.?
"This looks wonderful,?I said. It did too. I offered some to him, to the kids, but Wahid said the family had eaten before we arrived. Farid and I rolled up our sleeves, dipped our bread in the shorwa, and ate with our hands.
As I ate, I noticed Wahid's boys, all three thin with dirtcaked faces and short-cropped brown hair under their skullcaps, stealing furtive glances at my digital wristwatch. The youngest whispered something in his brother's ear. The brother nodded, didn't take his eyes off my watch. The oldest of the boys--I guessed his age at about twelve--rocked back and forth, his gaze glued to my wrist. After dinner, after I'd washed my hands with the water Maryam poured from a clay pot, I asked for Wahid's permission to give his boys a hadia, a gift. He said no, but, when I insisted, he reluctantly agreed. I unsnapped the wristwatch and gave it to the youngest of the three boys. He muttered a sheepish "Tashakor.?
"It tells you the time in any city in the world,?I told him. The boys nodded politely, passing the watch between them, taking
turns trying it on. But they lost interest and, soon, the watch sat abandoned on the straw mat.
"You COULD HAVE TOLD ME,?Farid saidlater. The two ofus were lying next to each other on the straw mats Wahid's wife had spread for us.
"Told you what??
"Why you've come to Afghanistan.?His voice had lost the rough edge I'd heard in it since the moment I had met him.
"You didn't ask,?I said.
"You should have told me.?
"You didn't ask.?
He rolled to face me. Curled his arm under his head. "Maybe I will help you find this boy.?
"Thank you, Farid,?I said.
"It was wrong of me to assume.?
I sighed. "Don't worry. You were more right than you know.?
HIS HANDS ARE TIED BEHIND HIM with roughly woven rope cutting through the flesh of his wrists. He is blindfolded with black cloth. He is kneeling on the street, on the edge of a gutter filled with still water, his head drooping between his shoulders. His knees roll on the hard ground and bleed through his pants as he rocks in prayer. It is late afternoon and his long shadow sways back and forth on the gravel. He is muttering something under his breath. I step closer. A thousand times over, he mutters. For you a thousand times over. Back and forth he rocks. He lifts his face. I see a faint scar above his upper lip.
We are not alone.
I see the barrel first. Then the man standing behind him. He is tall, dressed in a herringbone vest and a black turban. He looks down at the blindfolded man before him with eyes that show nothing but a vast, cavernous emptiness. He takes a step back and raises the barrel. Places it on the back of the kneeling man's head. For a moment, fading sunlight catches in the metal and twinkles.
The rifle roars with a deafening crack.
I follow the barrel on its upward arc. I see the face behind the plume of smoke swirling from the muzzle. I am the man in the herringbone vest.
I woke up with a scream trapped in my throat.
I STEPPED OUTSIDE. Stood in the silver tarnish of a half-moon and glanced up to a sky riddled with stars. Crickets chirped in the shuttered darkness and a wind wafted through the trees. The ground was cool under my bare feet and suddenly, for the first time since we had crossed the border, I felt like I was back. After all these years, I was Home again, standing on the soil of my ancestors. This was the soil on which my great-grandfather had married his third wife a year before dying in the cholera epidemic that hit Kabul in 1915. She'd borne him what his first two wives had failed to, a son at last. It was on this soil that my grandfather had gone on a hunting trip with King Nadir Shah and shot a deer. My mother had died on this soil. And on this soil, I had fought for my father's love.
I sat against one of the house's clay walls. The kinship I felt suddenly for the old land... it surprised me. I'd been gone long enough to forget and be forgotten. I had a Home in a land that might as well be in another galaxy to the people sleeping on the other side of the wall I leaned against. I thought I had forgotten about this land. But I hadn't. And, under the bony glow of a halfmoon, I sensed Afghanistan humming under my feet. Maybe Afghanistan hadn't forgotten me either.
I looked westward and marveled that, somewhere over those mountains, Kabul still existed. It really existed, not just as an old memory, or as the heading of an AP story on page 15 of the San Francisco Chronicle. Somewhere over those mountains in the west slept the city where my harelipped brother and I had run kites. Somewhere over there, the blindfolded man from my dream had died a needless death. Once, over those mountains, I had made a choice. And now, a quarter of a century later, that choice had landed me right back on this soil.
I was about to go back inside when I heard voices coming from the house. I recognized one as Wahid's.
?-nothing left for the children.?
"We're hungry but we're not savages! He is a guest! What was I supposed to do??he said in a strained voice.
?-to find something tomorrow?She sounded near tears. "What do I feed--?
I tiptoed away. I understood now why the boys hadn't shown any interest in the watch. They hadn't been staring at the watch at all. They'd been staring at my food.
WE SAID OUR GOOD - BYE S early the next morning. Just before I climbed into the Land Cruiser, I thanked Wahid for his hospitality. He pointed to the little house behind him. "This is your Home,?he said. His three sons were standing in the doorway watching us. The little one was wearing the watch--it dangled around his twiggy wrist.
I glanced in the side-view mirror as we pulled away. Wahid stood surrounded by his boys in a cloud of dust whipped up by the truck. It occurred to me that, in a different world, those boys wouldn't have been too hungry to chase after the car.
Earlier that morning, when I was certain no one was looking, I did something I had done twenty-six years earlier: I planted a fistful of crumpled money under a mattress.
第十九章
再次晕车。当时我们驶过一块带着弹孔的标牌，上面写着“开伯尔隘口欢迎你”，我的嘴里开始冒水，胃里有些东西翻滚绞动。司机法里德冷冷看了我一眼，眼里毫无同情。
“我们可以把车窗摇下来吗？”我问。他一只手抓着方向盘，另外一只手仅有的两根手指夹着点燃的香烟。他黑色的眼睛仍望着前方，弯下腰，拿起放在脚边的螺丝刀，递给我。我把它插进车门的一个小洞里面，那里原先有个摇柄，把我这边的车窗摇下来。
法里德又鄙夷地看着我，眼中的嫌恶不加掩饰，然后收回目光，继续抽烟。自从我们离开雅姆鲁德堡垒以来，他跟我说的，只有寥寥数语。
“谢谢。”我低声说，把头伸出车窗，让午后的寒风猎猎吹过我的脸庞。马路穿过开伯尔隘口的部落领地，蜿蜒在页岩和石灰岩的悬崖峭壁间，一如我记得的那样——1974年，爸爸和我曾驾车驶过这片崎岖的地带。那些贫瘠而壮丽的山脉坐拥深沟大壑，峰峦高高耸起。峭壁之上，有座座泥墙砌成的堡垒，年久失修，崩塌倾颓。我试图让眼光盯牢在北方兴都库什山脉[Hindu Kush Mountains，东起帕米尔高原南缘，向西南经巴基斯坦延伸至阿富汗境内。山势雄伟，有“阿富汗的脊梁”之称]白雪皑皑的峰顶，但每次我的胃稍微平息一些，卡车便来个转弯，让我又是一阵恶心。
“吃个柠檬试试。”
“什么？”
“柠檬。对晕车很有效。”法里德说，“每次开这条路我都会带一个。”
“不用，谢谢你。”我说。光是想到要我吃下酸的东西，就够我反胃的了。法里德冷冷一笑，“它不像美国药丸那样灵妙，我知道，不过是我妈妈告诉我的古老药方罢了。”
我后悔白白放过这个和他套近乎的机会，“要是那样的话，也许你可以给我一些。”
他从后座抓起一个纸袋，拿出半个柠檬。我咬一口，等上几分钟。“你说得对，我感觉好多了。”我说谎。身为阿富汗人，我深知宁可遭罪也不可失礼，我挤出孱弱的微笑。
“古老的土方，用不上玄妙的药丸。”他说，语气不再乖戾。他弹去烟灰，自我感觉良好地从观后镜看着自己。他是塔吉克人，皮肤黝黑，高高瘦瘦，满脸风霜；他肩膀不宽，脖子细长，转头的时候，人们可以窥见那长长的胡子后面突起的喉结。他穿得跟我一样多，但我想附近的人应该不是这样的：他穿着一件背心和灰色的棉袍，外面还罩着粗毛线织成的羊毛毯。他头戴棕色的毡帽，稍微斜向一旁，好像塔吉克的英雄艾哈迈德·沙阿·马苏德——塔吉克人称之为“潘杰希尔[Panjsher，阿富汗中部峡谷]雄狮”。
在白沙瓦，拉辛汗介绍我认识法里德。他告诉我，法里德二十九岁，不过他 那机警的脸满是皱纹，看上去要老二十岁。他生于马扎里沙里夫，在那儿生活，直到十岁那年，他父亲举家搬到贾拉拉巴特。十四岁，他和他父亲加入了人民圣战者组织，抗击俄国佬。他们在潘杰希尔峡谷抗战了两年，直到直升机的炮火将他父亲炸成碎片。法里德娶了两个妻子，有五个小孩。“他过去有七个小孩。”拉辛汗眼露悲哀地说，但在早几年，就在贾拉拉巴特城外，地雷爆炸夺走了他两个最小的女儿；那次爆炸还要去了他的脚趾以及他左手的三个手指。在那之后，他带着妻子和小孩搬到自沙瓦。
“关卡。”法里德不满地说。我稍稍瘫在座位上，双臂抱胸，暂时忘却了眩晕的感觉。但我不用担心，两个阿富汗民兵朝我们这辆破旧的陆地巡洋舰走来，匆匆看了一眼车内，挥手让我们走。
在拉辛汗和我准备的清单中，法里德是第一项，清单还包括把美元换成卡尔达[Kaldar，巴基斯坦货币名称]和阿富汗尼钞票，我的长袍和毡帽——讽刺的是，真正在阿富汗生活的那些年，这两件东西我统统没穿过——哈桑和索拉博的宝丽莱合影，最后，也许是最重要的是：一副黑色假胡子，长及胸膛。表示对伊斯兰教——至少是塔利班眼中的伊斯兰教——的友好。拉辛汗认得白沙瓦几个精于此道的家伙，有时他们替那些前来报道战争的西方记者服务。
拉辛汗曾要求我多陪着他几天，计划得更详尽些。但我知道自己得尽快启程。我害怕自己会改变主意。我害怕自己会犹豫不决，瞻前顾后，寝食难安，寻找理由，说服自己不要前去。我害怕来自美国生活的诱惑会将我拉回去，而我再也不会趟进这条大河，让自己遗忘，让这几天得知的一切沉在水底。我害怕河水将我冲走，将我冲离那些当仁不让的责任，冲离哈桑，冲离那正在召唤我的往事，冲离最后一次赎罪的机会。所以我在这一切都还来不及发生之前就出发了。至于索拉雅，我没有告诉她我回阿富汗并非明智之举。如果我那么做，她会给自己订票，坐上下一班飞往阿富汗的客机。
我们已经越过国境，触目皆是贫穷的迹象。在路的两旁，我看见村落一座连一座，如同被丢弃的玩具般，散落在岩石间；而那些残破的泥屋和茅舍，无非是四根木柱，加上屋顶的破布。我看见衣不蔽体的孩子在屋外追逐一个足球。再过几里路，我看到有群男人弓身蹲坐，如同一群乌鸦，坐着的是被焚毁的破旧俄军坦克，寒风吹起他们身边毛毯的边缘，猎猎作响。他们身后，有个穿着棕色长袍的女子，肩膀上扛着大陶罐，沿着车辙宛然的小径，走向一排泥屋。
“真奇怪。”我说。
“什么？”
“我回到自己的国家，却发现自己像个游客。”我说。路边有个牧人，领着几只干瘦的山羊在赶路。
法里德冷笑，扔掉烟蒂，“你还把这个地方当成国家？”
“我想有一部分的我永远会这么认为。”我说，我的戒备之心出乎自己意料之外。
“在美国生活了二十年之后？”他说，打着方向盘，避开路上一个海滩球那么大的洞。
我点点头：“我在阿富汗长大。”法里德又冷笑。
“你为什么这样？”
“没什么。”
“不，我想知道。你干吗这样？”借着他那边的观后镜，我见到他眼里有神色闪动。
“你想知道？”他嗤之以鼻，“我来想像一下，老爷。你也许生活在一座两层或者三层的楼房，有个漂亮的后院，你的园丁给它种满花草和果树。当然，门都锁上了。你父亲开美国车。你有仆人，估计薀威扎拉人。你的父母请来工人，装潢他们举办宴会的房间，好让他们的朋友前来饮酒喝茶，吹嘘他们在美国和欧洲的游历。而我敢拿我大儿子的眼睛打赌，这是你第一次戴毡帽。”他朝我咧嘴而笑，露出一口过早蛀蚀的牙齿，“我说的没错吧？”
“你为什么要说这些呢？”我说。
“因为你想知道，”他回嘴说。他指着一个衣裳褴褛的老人，背着装满柴草的麻袋，在泥土路上跋涉前进。“那才是真正的阿富汗人，老爷，那才是我认识的阿富汗人。你？在这里，你一直无非是个过客而已，只是你自己不知道罢了。”
拉辛汗警告过我，在阿富汗，别指望那些留下来战斗的人会给我好脸色看。
“我为你父亲感到难过，”我说，“我为你女儿感到难过，我为你的手感到难过。”
“那对我来说没有意义。”他摇摇头说，“为什么无论如何，你们总是要回到这里呢？
卖掉你们父亲的土地？把钱放进口袋，跑回美国找你们的妈妈？”
“我妈妈在生我的时候死了。”我说。他叹气，又点一根烟，一语不发。
“停车。”
“什么？”
“停车，该死。”我说，“我要吐了。”车还没在路边的沙砾上停稳，我就吐了出来。
接近黄昏的时候，地形变了，从烈日灼烤的山峰和光秃秃的悬崖变成一派更翠绿的田园风光。大路从蓝地科托下降，穿过新瓦里地区，直达蓝地卡纳。我们从托尔坎[蓝地科托（Landi Kotal）、新瓦里（Shinwari）、蓝地卡纳（Landi Khana）和托尔坎（Torkham）均是开伯尔隘口沿途小镇]进入阿富汗。夹道相送的柏树比我记忆中少多了，但在经历开伯尔隘口那段乏味的旅途之后，再次看到树木，还是神情一振。我们正在接近贾拉拉巴特，法里德有个兄弟在那儿，我们会在他家过夜。
我们驶进贾拉拉巴特的时候，太阳还没有完全下山。这座城市是楠格哈尔省[Nangarhar，阿富汗省份]的首府，过去以温和的气候和水果闻名。法里德驶过市中心的楼宇和石头房子。那儿的棕榈树也没记忆中多，而有些房子已经变成几堵没有屋顶的墙壁、几堆杂乱的泥土。
法里德驶上一条土路，将陆地巡洋舰停在干涸的水沟旁边。我从他的车上溜出来，伸展拳脚，深深吸了一口气。从前，和风拂过贾拉拉巴特富饶的平原，农民种满甘蔗，城里的空气弥漫着甜蜜的香味。我闭上眼睛，搜索香味，可是没有找到。
“我们走吧。”法里德不耐烦地说。我们踏上那条土路，经过几株光秃秃的白杨和一排残破的泥墙。法里德将我领到一座破落的平房，敲敲木板门。
有个用白色头巾蒙住脸的少女探出头来，露出海蓝色的眼睛。她先看到我，身子一缩，然后看到法里德，眼睛亮起来。“你好，法里德叔叔。”
“你好，亲爱的玛丽亚。”法里德回答说，给了她一种他整天都没给我的东西：一个温暖的微笑。他亲了她的额头。少女让出路，有点紧张地看着我随法里德走进那座小小的房子。
泥砖屋顶很低，四面泥墙空空如也，赖以照明的是屋角两盏提灯。草席盖住地面，我们脱掉鞋子，踏上去。三个年轻的男孩盘膝坐在一堵墙下的垫子上，下面铺着卷边的毛毯。
有个留着胡子的高个子男人站起来迎接我们。法里德和他拥抱，亲吻彼此的脸颊。法里德介绍说他叫瓦希德，是他哥哥。“他从美国来。”他对瓦希德说，翘起拇指指着我，然后丢下我们，自行去跟那些男孩打招呼。
瓦希德和我倚着墙，坐在那些男孩对面，他们跟法里德开玩笑，爬上他的肩膀。尽管我一再推辞，瓦希德令其中一个男孩去给我拿毛毯，以便我坐得舒服些，又让玛丽亚给我端茶。他问起从白沙瓦来的旅途，问起路过开伯尔隘口的情况。
“我希望你们没有碰到任何强盗。”他说。与开伯尔隘口同样远近闻名的是，强盗利用那里的地形打劫过往旅客。我还没有回答，他就眨眨眼，大声说：“当然，没有任何强盗会打我兄弟那辆破车的主意。”法里德将最小那个孩子抱倒在地，用那只完好的手去挠他的肋骨。那孩子咯咯大笑，双脚乱踢。“最少我还有一辆车，”法里德气喘吁吁地说，“你那头驴子最近怎样？”
“我的驴子骑起来比坐你的车好。”
“骑驴才知驴难骑。”法里德回敬说。他们全都笑起来，我也笑了。我听见隔壁传来女人的声音。从我坐的地方，可以看到那间屋子的一半。玛丽亚和蒙着棕色面纱的妇女低声交谈，从一个大水壶往茶壶里面倒茶。那女人年纪较大，应该是她妈妈。
“你在美国干什么呢，老爷？”瓦希德问。
“我是个作家。”我说，法里德听到之后轻声一笑。
“作家？”瓦希德说，显然颇有好感。“你写阿富汗吗？”
“这么说吧，我写过，但现在没有。”我说。我最后一本小说叫《此情可待成追忆》[原文为A Season for Ashes，这里为意译]，写的是一个大学教授的故事，他发现妻子跟他的学生上床之后，追随一群吉卜赛人而去。这本书不错。有些评论家说它是本“好”书，有一个甚至还用了“引人人胜”这样的评语。但突然之间，它让我很难为情。我希望瓦希德不会问起它的内容。
“也许你应该再写写阿富汗。”瓦希德说，“将塔利
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