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，估计是哈扎拉人。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，“将塔利班在我们国家的所作所 为告诉世界其他角落的人们。” “嗯，我不是……我不算是那种作家。” “哦，”瓦希德说，点点头，有点脸红，“你知道得最清楚，当然。我不该建议你……” 就在那时，玛丽亚和另一个妇女走进来，端着一个小盘子，上面有茶壶和两个茶杯。 我毕恭毕敬地站起来，双手交叉放在胸前，弯身鞠躬。“你好。”我说。 那妇女放下面纱，遮住下半边脸，也鞠躬。“你好。”她的声音细不可闻。我们不看对方的眼睛。她倒茶水的时候我站立着。 那妇人将热气腾腾的茶杯放在我面前，退出房间。离开的时候，她赤裸的双脚没有发出任何声音。我坐下，喝起那杯浓浓的红茶。瓦希德终于打破那之后令人不安的沉默。 “是什么让你回到阿富汗呢？” “是什么让他们这些人回到阿富汗呢，亲爱的哥哥？”法里德说，他在跟瓦希德说话，鄙夷的眼光却一直看着我。 “住口！”瓦希德怒道。 “总是同样的事情。”法里德说，“卖掉土地，卖掉房子，收钱，像老鼠那样跑开。回到美国去，用那笔钱带上家人去墨西哥度假。” “法里德！”瓦希德咆哮。他的孩子，甚至还有法里德都害怕起来。 “你的礼貌哪里去了？这是我的房子！阿米尔老爷今晚是我的客人，我不容许你这样给我丢脸！” 法里德张开口，几乎就要说出些什么，想了想又没说出来。他颓然倚着墙，无声说着些什么，将那只残废的脚放在完好的脚上面，鄙薄的眼光一直盯着我。 “原谅我们，阿米尔老爷。”瓦希德说，“打小时候起，我弟弟的嘴巴就比脑袋快两步。” “那是我的错，真的。”我说，试图在法里德的逼视之下露出笑脸。“我没觉得被冒犯了。我应该把我到阿富汗来的任务跟他说。我不是来卖田产的，我要去喀布尔找个小男孩。” “小男孩？”瓦希德重复说。 “是的。”我从衬衣的口袋掏出宝丽莱照片。再次看到哈桑的照片，再次让我的心因为他的死揪痛起来。我不得不将眼光移开，把它递给瓦希德。他端详着那张照片，抬眼望望我，又看回去。“这个男孩？” 我点点头。 “这个哈扎拉男孩？” “是的。” “他对你很重要吗？” “他的父亲对我来说很重要，就是照片中那个男人，现在他死了。”瓦希德眨眨眼：“他是你的朋友？”我内心想说是，仿佛在心灵深处，我想保守爸爸的秘密。可是谎言已经足够多了，“他是我同父异母的兄弟。”我压制着情绪说，又加上一句，“我的私生弟弟。”我转过茶杯，把弄着杯柄。 “我不是想要剌探你的隐私。” “你没有。”我说。 “你会怎么安置他呢？” “把他带到白沙瓦，那儿有人会好好照料他。”瓦希德把照片还给我，厚厚的手掌放在我肩膀上。“你是条让人尊敬的汉子，阿米尔老爷。一个真正的阿富汗人。” 我暗自汗颜。 “你今晚来我家做客，让我很骄傲。”瓦希德说。我跟他客气了几句，偷眼看向法里德。现在他低着头，玩弄着草席残破的边缘。 隔了一会，玛丽亚跟她妈妈端来两碗热气腾腾的蔬菜汤，还有两片面包。 “很抱歉，没有肉。”瓦希德说，“现在只有塔利班才能吃上肉。” “这看起来很棒。”我说，它确实很棒。我让他跟小孩也吃些，但瓦希德说 他们在我们来之前刚吃过。法里德和我卷起衣袖，手抓面包，浸在蔬菜汤里面，吃了起来。 吃的时候，我看着瓦希德的儿子，他们三个都很瘦，脸上脏兮兮的，棕色的 头发剪得很短，戴着无边草帽，不时偷偷看着我的电子手表。最小那个在他哥哥耳边说了些什么，他哥哥点点头，眼神一直没离开我的手表。最大那个男孩——我猜想他大概十二岁——摇晃着身体，眼光也落在我的手表上。吃完之后，玛丽亚端来一陶罐水，我洗过手，问瓦希德我能不能送点礼物给他儿子。他不许，但我执意要送，他勉强同意了。我把手表脱下来，交给三个男孩中最小那个。他怯生生地说了句“谢谢”。 “它可以告诉你世界任何城市的时间。”我告诉他。孩子们礼貌地点点头，将手表传来传去，轮流试戴。但他们很快就不感兴趣了，将手表扔在草席上。 “你本来可以告诉我。”法里德后来说。瓦希德的妻子替我们铺好草席，我们两个躺在一起。 “告诉你什么？” “你到阿富汗的原因。”他的声音没有了那种自遇到他以来一直听到的锋芒。 “你没问。”我说。 “你应该告诉我。”他翻过身，脸朝着我，屈手垫在头下。“也许我会帮你找到这个男孩。” “谢谢你，法里德。”我说。 “我错了，不该瞎猜。” 我叹气：“别烦了。你是对的，只是你不知道而已。”他双手被绑在身后，粗粗的绳索勒进他的手腕，黑布蒙住他的眼睛。他跪在街头，跪在一沟死水边上，他的头耷拉在两肩之间。他跪在坚硬的地面上，他祷告，身子摇晃，鲜血浸透了裤子。天色已近黄昏，他长长的身影在沙砾上来回晃动。他低声说着什么。我踏上前。千千万万遍，他低声说，为你，千千万万遍。他来回摇晃。他扬起脸，我看到上唇有道细微的疤痕。 并非只有我们两个。我先是看到枪管，接着看到站在他身后那个人。他很高，穿着人字型背心和黑色长袍。他低头看着身前这个被蒙住眼睛的男人，眼中只有无尽的空虚。他退后一步，举起枪管，放在那个跪着的男人脑后。那时，黯淡的阳光照在那金属上，闪耀着。 来复枪发出震耳欲聋的响声。我顺着枪管向上的弧形，看见枪口冒着袅袅烟雾，看见它后面那张脸。我就是那个穿着人字型背心的人。 我惊醒，尖叫卡在喉咙中。我走到外面。明月半弯，银光黯淡，我伫立，抬头望着星辰遍布的夜空。蟋蟀隐身黑暗中啾啾鸣叫，风拂过树梢。我赤裸的脚下大地寒凉，刹那间，自我们 穿过国境后，我初次感到我回来了。度过所有这些年月，我又回来了，站在祖辈的土地上。正是在这片土地上，我的曾祖父在去世前一年娶了第三个妻子。1915 年那场横扫喀布尔的霍乱要了他的命。最后，她给他生了前两个妻子所未能生出的：一个儿子。正是在这片土地上，我的祖父跟纳迪尔国王一起狩猎，射杀一头鹿。我妈妈死在这片土地上。也是在这片土地上，我曾为了得到父亲的爱苦苦奋斗。 我倚着那屋子的一堵泥墙坐下。突然间，我觉得自己和这片古老的土地血脉相连…… 这让我很吃惊。我的离开很久远了，久远得足以遗忘，也足以被遗忘。我在大地某处有个家，对于那些睡在我倚着这面墙那边的人们来说，那地方或许 遥远如另外一个星系。我曾以为我忘了这片土地。但是我没忘。而且，在皎洁的月光中，我感到在我脚下的阿富汗发出低沉的响声。也许阿富汗也没有把我遗忘。 我朝西望去，觉得真是奇妙，在峰峦那边的某处，喀布尔依然存在。它真的存在，不只是久远的记忆，不只是《旧金山纪事报》第十五版上某篇美联社报道的标题。西方的山脉那边某个地方有座沉睡的城市，我的兔唇弟弟和我曾在那里 追过风筝。那边某个地方，我梦中那个蒙着眼的男人死于非命。曾经，在山那边，我作过一个抉择。而如今，时隔四分之一个世纪，正是那个抉择让我重返这片土地。 我正打算回去，听到屋里传出说话声。我认得有个是瓦希德的嗓音。 “……没有什么留给孩子吃的了。” “我们是很饿，但我们不是野蛮人！他是客人！你说我该怎么办？”他的声音很疲累。 “……明天去找些东西，”她哭泣着说，“我拿什么来养……”我蹑手蹑脚走开。现在我明白为什么那些男孩对手表毫无兴趣了。他们根本就不是在看着手表，他们看着的是我的食物。 我们在隔日早上道别。就在我爬上陆地巡洋舰之前，我谢谢瓦希德的热情招待。他指着身后那座小小的房子。“这里是你的家。”他说。他三个儿子站在门口，看着我们。最小那个戴着手表——它在他瘦小的手腕上荡来荡去。 我们离开的时候，我看着侧视镜。瓦希德被他的儿子环绕着，站在一阵车轮 卷起的尘雾中。我突然想起，要是在另外的世界，这些孩子不会饿得连追逐汽车的力气都没有。 那天早些时候，我确信无人注意，做了一件二十六年前就已经做过的事情：将一把皱皱的钞票塞在草席下面。 |
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Chapter 20
Farid had warned me. He had. But, as it turned out, he had wasted his breath.
We were driving down the cratered road that winds from Jalalabad to Kabul. The last time I'd traveled that road was in a tarpaulin-covered truck going the other way. Baba had nearly gotten himself shot by a singing, stoned Roussi officer--Baba had made me so mad that night, so scared, and, ultimately, so proud. The trek between Kabul and Jalalabad, a bone-jarring ride down a teetering pass snaking through the rocks, had become a relic now, a relic of two wars. Twenty years earlier, I had seen some of the first war with my own eyes. Grim reminders of it were strewn along the road: burned carcasses of old Soviet tanks, overturned military trucks gone to rust, a crushed Russian jeep that had plunged over the mountainside. The second war, I had watched on my TV screen. And now I was seeing it through Farid's eyes.
Swerving effortlessly around potholes in the middle of the broken road, Farid was a man in his element. He had become much chattier since our overnight stay at Wahid's house. He had me sit in the passenger seat and looked at me when he spoke. He even smiled once or twice. Maneuvering the steering wheel with his mangled hand, he pointed to mud-hut villages along the way where he'd known people years before. Most of those people, he said, were either dead or in refugee camps in Pakistan. "And sometimes the dead are luckier,?he said.
He pointed to the crumbled, charred remains of a tiny village. It was just a tuft of blackened, roofless walls now. I saw a dog sleeping along one of the walls. "I had a friend there once,?Farid said. "He was a very good bicycle repairman. He played the tabla well too. The Taliban killed him and his family and burned the village.?
We drove past the burned village, and the dog didn't move.
IN THE OLD DAYS, the drive from Jalalabad to Kabul took two hours, maybe a little more. It took Farid and me over four hours to reach Kabul. And when we did... Farid warned me just after we passed the Mahipar dam.
"Kabul is not the way you remember it,?he said.
"So I hear.?
Farid gave me a look that said hearing is not the same as seeing. And he was right. Because when Kabul finally did unroll before us, I was certain, absolutely certain, that he had taken a wrong turn somewhere. Farid must have seen my stupefied expression; shuttling people back and forth to Kabul, he would have become familiar with that expression on the faces of those who hadn't seen Kabul for a long time.
He patted me on the shoulder. "Welcome back,?he said morosely.
RUBBLE AND BEGGARS. Everywhere I looked, that was what I saw. I remembered beggars in the old days too--Baba always carried an extra handful of Afghani bills in his pocket just for them; I'd never seen him deny a peddler. Now, though, they squatted at every street corner, dressed in shredded burlap rags, mud-caked hands held out for a coin. And the beggars were mostly children now, thin and grim-faced, some no older than five or six. They sat in the laps of their burqa-clad mothers alongside gutters at busy street corners and chanted "Bakhshesh, bakhshesh!?And something else, something I hadn't noticed right away: Hardly any of them sat with an adult male--the wars had made fathers a rare commodity in Afghanistan.
We were driving westbound toward the Karteh-Seh district on what I remembered as a major thoroughfare in the seventies:
Jadeh Maywand. Just north of us was the bone-dry Kabul River. On the hills to the south stood the broken old city wall. Just east of it was the Bala Hissar Fort--the ancient citadel that the warlord Dostum had occupied in 1992--on the Shirdarwaza mountain range, the same mountains from which Mujahedin forces had showered Kabul with rockets between 1992 and 1996, inflicting much of the damage I was witnessing now. The Shirdarwaza range stretched all the way west. It was from those mountains that I remember the firing of the Topeh chasht, the "noon cannon.?It went off every day to announce noontime, and also to signal the end of daylight fasting during the month of Ramadan. You'd hear the roar of that cannon all through the city in those days.
"I used to come here to Jadeh Maywand when I was a kid,?I mumbled. "There used to be shops here and hotels. Neon lights
and restaurants. I used to buy kites from an old man named Saifo. He ran a little kite shop by the old police headquarters.?
"The police headquarters is still there,?Farid said. "No shortage of police in this city But you won't find kites or kite shops on Jadeh Maywand or anywhere else in Kabul. Those days are over.?
Jadeh Maywand had turned into a giant sand castle. The buildings that hadn't entirely collapsed barely stood, with caved in roofs and walls pierced with rockets shells. Entire blocks had been obliterated to rubble. I saw a bullet-pocked sign half buried at an angle in a heap of debris. It read DRINK COCA CO--. I saw children playing in the ruins of a windowless building amid jagged stumps of brick and stone. Bicycle riders and mule-drawn carts swerved around kids, stray dogs, and piles of debris. A haze of dust hovered over the city and, across the river, a single plume of smoke rose to the sky.
"Where are the trees??I said.
"People cut them down for firewood in the winter,?Farid said. "The Shorawi cut a lot of them down too.?
"Why??
"Snipers used to hide in them.?
A sadness came over me. Returning to Kabul was like running into an old, forgotten friend and seeing that life hadn't been good to him, that he'd become Homeless and destitute.
"My father built an orphanage in Shar-e-Kohna, the old city, south of here,?I said.
"I remember it,?Farid said. "It was destroyed a few years ago.?
"Can you pull over??I said. "I want to take a quick walk here.?
Farid parked along the curb on a small backstreet next to a ramshackle, abandoned building with no door. "That used to be a pharmacy,?Farid muttered as we exited the truck. We walked back to Jadeh Maywand and turned right, heading west. "What's that smell??I said. Something was making my eyes water.
"Diesel,?Farid replied. "The city's generators are always going down, so electricity is unreliable, and people use diesel fuel.?
"Diesel. Remember what this street smelled like in the old days??
Farid smiled. "Kabob.?
"Lamb kabob,?I said.
"Lamb,?Farid said, tasting the word in his mouth. "The only people in Kabul who get to eat lamb now are the Taliban.?He pulled on my sleeve. "Speaking of which...?
A vehicle was approaching us. "Beard Patrol,?Farid murmured.
That was the first time I saw the Taliban. I'd seen them on TV on the Internet, on the cover of magazines, and in newspapers. But here I was now, less than fifty feet from them, telling myself that the sudden taste in my mouth wasn't unadulterated, naked fear. Telling myself my flesh hadn't suddenly shrunk against my bones and my heart wasn't battering. Here they came. In all their glory.
The red Toyota pickup truck idled past us. A handful of sternfaced young men sat on their haunches in the cab, Kalashnikovs slung on their shoulders. They all wore beards and black turbans. One of them, a dark-skinned man in his early twenties with thick, knitted eyebrows twirled a whip in his hand and rhythmically swatted the side of the truck with it. His roaming eyes fell on me. Held my gaze. I'd never felt so naked in my entire life. Then the Talib spat tobacco-stained spittle and looked away. I found I could breathe again. The truck rolled down Jadeh Maywand, leaving in its trail a cloud of dust.
"What is the matter with you??Farid hissed.
"What??
"Don't ever stare at them! Do you understand me? Never!?
"I didn't mean to,?I said.
"Your friend is quite right, Agha. You might as well poke a rabid dog with a stick,?someone said. This new voice belonged to an old beggar sitting barefoot on the steps of a bullet-scarred building. He wore a threadbare chapan worn to frayed shreds and a dirt-crusted turban. His left eyelid drooped over an empty socket. With an arthritic hand, he pointed to the direction the red truck had gone. "They drive around looking. Looking and hoping that someone will provoke them. Sooner or later, someone always obliges. Then the dogs feast and the day's boredom is broken at last and everyone says ‘Allah-u-akbar!?And on those days when no one offends, well, there is always random violence, isn't there??
"Keep your eyes on your feet when the Talibs are near,?Farid said.
"Your friend dispenses good advice,?the old beggar chimed in. He barked a wet cough and spat in a soiled handkerchief. "Forgive me, but could you spare a few Afghanis??he breathed.
"Bas. Let's go,?Farid said, pulling me by the arm.
I handed the old man a hundred thousand Afghanis, or the equivalent of about three dollars. When he leaned forward to take the money, his stench--like sour milk and feet that hadn't been washed in weeks--flooded my nostrils and made my gorge rise. He hurriedly slipped the money in his waist, his lone eye darting side to side. "A world of thanks for your benevolence, Agha sahib.?
"Do you know where the orphanage is in Karteh-Seh??I said.
"It's not hard to find, it's just west of Darulaman Boulevard,?he said. "The children were moved from here to Karteh-Seh after the rockets hit the old orphanage. Which is like saving someone from the lion's cage and throwing them in the tiger's.?
"Thank you, Agha,?I said. I turned to go.
"That was your first time, nay??
"I'm sorry??
"The first time you saw a Talib.?
I said nothing. The old beggar nodded and smiled. Revealed a handful of remaining teeth, all crooked and yellow. "I remember the first time I saw them rolling into Kabul. What a joyous day that was!?he said. "An end to the killing! Wah wah! But like the poet says: ‘How seamless seemed love and then came trouble!?
A smile sprouted on my face. "I know that ghazal. That's H?fez.?
"Yes it is. Indeed,?the old man replied. "I should know. I used to teach it at the university.?
"You did??
The old man coughed. "From 1958 to 1996. I taught H?fez, Khayyám, Rumi, Beydel, Jami, Saadi. Once, I was even a guest lecturer in Tehran, 1971 that was. I gave a lecture on the mystic Beydel. I remember how they all stood and clapped. Ha!?He shook his head. "But you saw those young men in the truck. What value do you think they see in Sufism??
"My mother taught at the university,?I said.
"And what was her name??
"Sofia Akrami.?
His eye managed to twinkle through the veil of cataracts. "The desert weed lives on, but the flower of spring blooms and wilts.?Such grace, such dignity, such a tragedy.?
"You knew my mother??I asked, kneeling before the old man.
"Yes indeed,?the old beggar said. "We used to sit and talk after class. The last time was on a rainy day just before final exams when we shared a marvelous slice of almond cake together. Almond cake with hot tea and honey. She was rather obviously pregnant by then, and all the more beautiful for it. I will never forget what she said to me that day.?
"What? Please tell me.?Baba had always described my mother to me in broad strokes, like, "She was a great woman.?But what I had always thirsted for were the details: the way her hair glinted in the sunlight, her favorite ice cream flavor, the songs she liked to hum, did she bite her nails? Baba took his memories of her to the grave with him. Maybe speaking her name would have reminded him of his guilt, of what he had done so soon after she had died. Or maybe his loss had been so great, his pain so deep, he couldn't bear to talk about her. Maybe both.
"She said, ‘I'm so afraid.?And I said, ‘Why?,?and she said, ‘Because I'm so profoundly happy, Dr. Rasul. Happiness like this is frightening.?I asked her why and she said, ‘They only let you be this happy if they're preparing to take something from you,?and I said, ‘Hush up, now. Enough of this silliness.?
Farid took my arm. "We should go, Amir agha,?he said softly. I snatched my arm away. "What else? What else did she say??
The old man's features softened. "I wish I remembered for you. But I don't. Your mother passed away a long time ago and my memory is as shattered as these buildings. I am sorry.?
"But even a small thing, anything at all.?
The old man smiled. "I'll try to remember and that's a promise. Come back and find me.?
"Thank you,?I said. "Thank you so much.?And I meant it. Now I knew my mother had liked almond cake with honey and hot tea, that she'd once used the word "profoundly,?that she'd fretted
about her Happiness. I had just learned more about my mother from this old man on the street than I ever did from Baba.
Walking back to the truck, neither one of us commented about what most non-Afghans would have seen as an improbable coincidence, that a beggar on the street would happen to know my mother. Because we both knew that in Afghanistan, and particularly in Kabul, such absurdity was commonplace. Baba used to say, "Take two Afghans who've never met, put them in a room for ten minutes, and they'll figure out how they're related.?
We left the old man on the steps of that building. I meant to take him up on his offer, come back and see if he'd unearthed any more stories about my mother. But I never saw him again.
WE FOUND THE NEW ORPHANAGE in the northern part of Karteh-Seh, along the banks of the dried-up Kabul River. It was a flat, barracks-style building with splintered walls and windows boarded with planks of wood. Farid had told me on the way there that Karteh-Seh had been one of the most war-ravaged neighborhoods in Kabul, and, as we stepped out of the truck, the evidence was overwhelming. The cratered streets were flanked by little more than ruins of shelled buildings and abandoned Homes. We passed the rusted skeleton of an overturned car, a TV set with no screen half-buried in rubble, a wall with the words ZENDA BAD TAL IRAN! (Long live the Taliban!) sprayed in black.
A short, thin, balding man with a shaggy gray beard opened the door. He wore a ragged tweed jacket, a skullcap, and a pair of eyeglasses with one chipped lens resting on the tip of his nose. Behind the glasses, tiny eyes like black peas flitted from me to Farid. "Salaam alaykum,?he said.
"Salaam alaykum,?I said. I showed him the Polaroid. "We're searching for this boy.?
He gave the photo a cursory glance. "I am sorry. I have never seen him.?
"You barely looked at the picture, my friend,?Farid said. "Why not take a closer look??
"Lotfan,?I added. Please.
The man behind the door took the picture. Studied it. Handed it back to me. "Nay, sorry. I know just about every single child in this institution and that one doesn't look familiar. Now, if you'll permit me, I have work to do.?He closed the door. Locked the bolt.
I rapped on the door with my knuckles. "Agha! Agha, please open the door. We don't mean him any harm.?
"I told you. He's not here,?his voice came from the other side. "Now, please go away.?
Farid stepped up to the door, rested his forehead on it. "Friend, we are not with the Taliban,?he said in a low, cautious voice. "The man who is with me wants to take this boy to a safe place.?
"I come from Peshawar,?I said. "A good friend of mine knows an American couple there who run a charity Home for children.?I felt the man's presence on the other side of the door. Sensed him standing there, listening, hesitating, caught between suspicion and hope. "Look, I knew Sohrab's father,?I said. "His name was Hassan. His mother's name was Farzana. He called his grand mother Sasa. He knows how to read and write. And he's good with the slingshot. There's hope for this boy, Agha, a way out. Please open the door.?
From the other side, only silence.
"I'm his half uncle,?I said.
A moment passed. Then a key rattled in the lock. The man's
narrow face reappeared in the crack. He looked from me to Farid and back. "You were wrong about one thing.?
"What??
"He's great with the slingshot.?
I smiled.
"He's inseparable from that thing. He tucks it in the waist of his pants everywhere he goes.?
THE MAN WHO LET US IN introduced himself as Zaman, the director of the orphanage. "I'll take you to my office,?he said.
We followed him through dim, grimy hallways where barefoot children dressed in frayed sweaters ambled around. We walked past rooms with no floor covering but matted carpets and windows shuttered with sheets of plastic. Skeleton frames of steel beds, most with no mattress, filled the rooms.
"How many orphans live here??Farid asked.
"More than we have room for. About two hundred and fifty,?Zaman said over his shoulder. "But they're not all yateem. Many of them have lost their fathers in the war, and their mothers can't feed them because the Taliban don't allow them to work. So they bring their children here.?He made a sweeping gesture with his hand and added ruefully, "This place is better than the street, but not that much better. This building was never meant to be lived in--it used to be a storage warehouse for a carpet manufacturer. So there's no water heater and they've let the well go dry.?He dropped his voice. "I've asked the Taliban for money to dig a new well more times than I remember and they just twirl their rosaries and tell me there is no money. No money.?He snickered.
He pointed to a row of beds along the wall. "We don't have enough beds, and not enough mattresses for the beds we do have. Worse, we don't have enough blankets.?He showed us a lit tle girl skipping rope with two other kids. "You see that girl? This past winter, the children had to share blankets. Her brother died of exposure.?He walked on. "The last time I checked, we have less than a month's supply of rice left in the warehouse, and, when that runs out, the children will have to eat bread and tea for breakfast and dinner.?I noticed he made no mention of lunch.
He stopped and turned to me. "There is very little shelter here, almost no food, no clothes, no clean water. What I have in ample supply here is children who've lost their childhood. But the tragedy is that these are the lucky ones. We're filled beyond capacity and every day I turn away mothers who bring their children.?He took a step toward me. "You say there is hope for Sohrab? I pray you don't lie, Agha. But... you may well be too late.?
"What do you mean??
Zaman's eyes shifted. "Follow me.?
WHAT PASSED FOR THE DIRECTOR'S OFFICE was four bare, cracked walls, a mat on the floor, a table, and two folding chairs. As Zaman and I sat down, I saw a gray rat poke its head from a burrow in the wall and flit across the room. I cringed when it sniffed at my shoes, then Zaman's, and scurried through the open door.
"What did you mean it may be too late??I said.
"Would you like some chai? I could make some.?
"Nay, thank you. I'd rather we talk.?
Zaman tilted back in his chair and crossed his arms on his chest. "What I have to tell you is not pleasant. Not to mention that it may be very dangerous.?
"For whom??
"You. Me. And, of course, for Sohrab, if it's not too late already.?
"I need to know,?I said.
He nodded. "So you say. But first I want to ask you a question:
How badly do you want to find your nephew??
I thought of the street fights we'd get into when we were kids, all the times Hassan used to take them on for me, two against one, sometimes three against one. I'd wince and watch, tempted to step in, but always stopping short, always held back by something.
I looked at the hallway, saw a group of kids dancing in a circle. A little girl, her left leg amputated below the knee, sat on a ratty mattress and watched, smiling and clapping along with the other children. I saw Farid watching the children too, his own mangled hand hanging at his side. I remembered Wahid's boys and... I realized something: I would not leave Afghanistan without finding Sohrab. "Tell me where he is,?I said.
Zaman's gaze lingered on me. Then he nodded, picked up a pencil, and twirled it between his fingers. "Keep my name out of it.?
"I promise.?
He tapped the table with the pencil. "Despite your promise, I think I'll live to regret this, but perhaps it's just as well. I'm damned anyway. But if something can be done for Sohrab... I'll tell you because I believe you. You have the look of a desperate man.?He was quiet for a long time. "There is a Talib official,?he muttered. "He visits once every month or two. He brings cash with him, not a lot, but better than nothing at all.?His shifty eyes fell on me, rolled away. "Usually he'll take a girl. But not always.?
"And you allow this??Farid said behind me. He was going around the table, closing in on Zaman.
"What choice do I have??Zaman shot back. He pushed himself away from the desk.
"You're the director here,?Farid said. "Your job is watch over these children.?
"There's nothing I can do to stop it.?
"You're selling children!?Farid barked.
"Farid, sit down! Let it go!?I said. But I was too late. Because suddenly Farid was leaping over the table. Zaman's chair went flying as Farid fell on him and pinned him to the floor. The director thrashed beneath Farid and made muffled screaming sounds. His legs kicked a desk drawer free and sheets of paper spilled to the floor.
I ran around the desk and saw why Zaman's screaming was muffled: Farid was strangling him. I grasped Farid's shoulders with both hands and pulled hard. He snatched away from me. "That's enough!?I barked. But Farid's face had flushed red, his lips pulled back in a snarl. "I'm killing him! You can't stop me! I'm killing him,?he sneered.
"Get off him!?
"I'm killing him!?Something in his voice told me that if I didn't do something quickly I'd witness my first murder.
"The children are watching, Farid. They're watching,?I said. His shoulder muscles tightened under my grip and, for a moment, I thought he'd keep squeezing Zaman's neck anyway. Then he turned around, saw the children. They were standing silently by the door, holding hands, some of them crying. I felt Farid's muscles slacken. He dropped his hands, rose to his feet. He looked down on Zaman and dropped a mouthful of spit on his face. Then he walked to the door and closed it.
Zaman struggled to his feet, blotted his bloody lips with his sleeve, wiped the spit off his cheek. Coughing and wheezing, he put on his skullcap, his glasses, saw both lenses had cracked, and took them off. He buried his face in his hands. None of us said anything for a long time.
"He took Sohrab a month ago,?Zaman finally croaked, hands still shielding his face.
"You call yourself a director??Farid said.
Zaman dropped his hands. "I haven't been paid in over six months. I'm broke because I've spent my life's savings on this orphanage. Everything I ever owned or inherited I sold to run this godforsaken place. You think I don't have family in Pakistan and Iran? I could have run like everyone else. But I didn't. I stayed. I stayed because of them.?He pointed to the door. "If I deny him one child, he takes ten. So I let him take one and leave the judging to Allah. I swallow my pride and take his goddamn filthy... dirty money. Then I go to the bazaar and buy food for the children.?
Farid dropped his eyes.
"What happens to the children he takes??I asked.
Zaman rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. "Some times they come back.?
"Who is he? How do we find him??I said.
"Go to Ghazi Stadium tomorrow. You'll see him at halftime. He'll be the one wearing black sunglasses.?He picked up his broken glasses and turned them in his hands. "I want you to go now. The children are frightened.?
He escorted us out.
As the truck pulled away, I saw Zaman in the side-view mirror, standing in the doorway. A group of children surrounded him, clutching the hem of his loose shirt. I saw he had put on his broken glasses.
第二十章
法里德警告过我。他警告过，可是，到头来，他不过是白费唇舌。我们沿着弹坑密布的道路，从贾拉拉巴特，一路蜿蜒驶向喀布尔。我上一次踏上这条征途，是在盖着帆布的卡车中，往相反的方向而去。爸爸差点被那个嗑了毒品的、唱着歌曲的俄国兵射杀——那晚爸爸真让我抓狂，我吓坏了，而最终为他感到骄傲。
喀布尔到贾拉拉巴特的车程非常崎岖，道路在山岩之间逶迤颠簸，足以震得人们的骨头咔咔响。如今沿途景象荒凉，正是两次战争遗下的残迹。二十年前，我目睹了第一场战争的一部分。路边散落的东西无情地提醒着它的存在： 焚毁的旧俄军坦克残骸、锈蚀的倾覆的军车，还有一辆陷在山脚被撞得粉碎的俄军吉普。至于第二次战争，我曾在电视上见过，现在正透过法里德的眼睛审视着它。
法里德驾轻就熟地避开那条破路上的坑洞。他显然是个性情中人。自从我们在瓦希德家借宿之后，他的话多起来了。他让我坐在副驾驶的位置，说话的时候看着我。他甚至还微笑了一两次。他用那只残废的手熟练地把着方向盘，指着路边座座泥屋组成的村落，说多年以前，他就认得那里的村民，他们中多数不是死了，就是聚集在巴基斯坦的难民营。“而有时候死掉的那些更幸运一些。”他说。
他指着一座遭受祝融之灾的小村落，现在它只是一些黑色的墙壁，没有屋顶。我看见有条狗睡在那些墙壁之下。“我在这里有过一个朋友，”法里德说，“他修理自行车的手艺很棒，手鼓也弹得不错。塔利班杀了他全家，放火烧掉这座村 子。”
我们驶过焚毁的村子，那条狗一动不动。曾几何时，贾拉拉巴特到喀布尔只要两个小时的车程，也许多一些。法里德
和我开了四个小时才抵达喀布尔。而当我们到达……我们刚驶过玛希帕水库的时候，法里德便警告我。
“喀布尔不是你记忆中那样了。”他说。
“我听说过。”法里德看了我一眼，仿佛在说听见和看到不是一回事。他是对的。因为当我
们最终驶进喀布尔，我敢肯定，绝对肯定，他一定开错路了。法里德肯定见到我目瞪口呆的表情，也许在累次载人进出喀布尔之后，他对这种久违了喀布尔的人脸上出现的神情早巳习以为常。
他拍拍我的肩头，“欢迎你回来。”他忧郁地说。废墟和乞丐，触目皆是这种景象。我记得从前也有乞丐——爸爸身上总是额
外带着一把阿富汗尼硬币，分发给他们；我从不曾见过他拒绝乞讨的人。可是如今，街头巷尾都能见到他们，身披破麻布，伸出脏兮兮的手，乞讨一个铜板。而如今乞食的多数是儿童，瘦小，脸色冷漠，有些不超过五六岁。妇女裹着长袍，坐在繁忙街道的水沟边，膝盖上是她们的儿子，一遍遍念着：“行行好，行行好！”还有别的，某种我一开始没有注意到的事情：几乎见不到有任何成年男子在他们身边——战争把父亲变成阿富汗的稀缺物品。
我们开在一条朝西通往卡德察区的街道上，我记得在1970年代，这可是主要的商业街：雅德梅湾。干涸的喀布尔河就在我们北边。那边的山麓之上，耸立着残破的旧城墙。它东边紧邻的巴拉。希萨堡垒——1992年军阀多斯敦[Abdul Rashid Dostum（1954～），北方联盟领导人之一]一度占领这座古代城堡——坐落在雪达瓦扎山脉上。1992 年到1996年间，人民圣战者组织的火箭如雨点般从那座山脉射出来，落进喀布尔城里，造成如今摆在我眼前的浩劫。雪达瓦扎山脉朝西逶迤 而去。我记得，“午炮”也是从这些山峦中发出来的，它每天响起，宣告中午来临；在斋月期间，它也是一声信号，意味着白天的禁食可以结束了。那些天，整座城市都能听见午炮的轰鸣。
“我小时候常常路过这儿，前往雅德梅湾。”我喃喃说，“过去这儿商店宾馆林立，遍地食肆和霓虹灯。我经常向一个叫做塞弗的老人买风筝。他在旧警察局旁边开了间小小的风筝铺。”
“警察局还在那儿。”法里德说，“这座城市不缺警察。但你在雅德梅湾，或者喀布尔任何地方，再也找不到风筝或者风筝铺了。那样的日子已经结束。”
雅德梅湾业已变成一座巨大的废墟。那些尚未被彻底摧毁的屋宇赤条条竖在那儿，屋顶破了大洞，墙壁嵌满火箭的弹片。整个街区已经化为瓦砾。我看见一个带着弹孔的招牌斜斜埋在一堆残骸中，上面写着“请喝可口可……”。我看见在那些犬牙交错的砖石废墟中，有座没有窗户的破房子，儿童在里面玩耍。自行车和骡车在孩子、流浪狗和一堆堆废物中穿梭。城市上方是灰蒙蒙的尘雾，河那边，一道青烟袅袅升上天空。
“那些树呢？”我说。
“冬天的时候被人们砍成柴火了。”法里德说，“俄国佬也砍了不少。”
“为什么？”
“树上经常躲着狙击手。”一阵悲哀向我袭来。重返喀布尔，犹如去拜访一个多年未遇的老朋友，却发现他潦倒凄戚，发现他无家可归、身无分文。
“我爸爸过去在沙里诺区盖了个恤孤院，旧城那边，就在这里南面。”我说。
“我有印象，”法里德说，“它在几年前被毁了。”
“你可以停车吗？”我说，“我想在这里走走，很快就好。”法里德把车停在一条小巷，旁边有座摇摇欲坠的房子，没有门。“那过去是间药房。”我们下车时法里德咕哝着说。我们走上雅德梅湾，转右，朝西走去。
“什么味道？”我说。某些东西熏得我眼泪直流。
“柴油。”法里德回答说，“这座城市的发电厂总是出毛病，用电得不到保证，人们烧柴油。”
“柴油。你记得从前这条街道散发着什么味道吗？”法里德笑着说：“烤肉。”
“烤羊羔肉。”我说。
“羊羔肉。”法里德说，舔了舔嘴唇。“现在喀布尔城里只有塔利班吃得上羊羔肉啦。”
他拉拉我的衣袖，“说起……”
一辆汽车朝我们开来。“大胡子巡逻队。”法里德低声说。那是我第一次见到塔利班。
我在电视上、互联网上、杂志封面上、报纸上见过他们。但如今我站在这里，离他们不到五十英尺，告诉自己心里突然涌起的并非纯粹的赤裸裸的恐惧；告诉自己我的血肉没有突然之间压着我的骨头，我的心跳没有加速。他们来了，趾高气扬。
红色的丰田皮卡慢慢驶过我们。几个脸色严峻的青年人蹲在车斗上，肩膀扛着俄制步枪。他们全都留着大胡子，穿着黑色长袍。有个皮肤黝黑的家伙，看上去二十出头，皱着一双浓眉，手中挥舞着鞭子，有节奏地甩打车身一侧。他溜转的眼睛看见我，和我对望。
终我一生，我从未觉得自己如此无遮无拦。接着那个塔利班吐了一口沾有烟丝的口水，眼
睛移开。我发现自己又能呼吸了。皮卡沿雅德梅湾驶去，在车后卷起一阵尘雾。
“你怎么回事？”法里德嘘声说。
“什么？”
“永远不要瞪着他们！你听到了吗？永远不要！”
“我不是故意的。”我说。
“你的朋友说得对，老爷。好像你不该用棍子去捅一条疯狗。”有人说。声音来自一个老乞丐，赤足坐在一座弹印斑斑的建筑的台阶上。他身上的旧衣磨得破烂不堪，戴着肮脏的头巾。他左边眼眶空空如也，眼皮耷拉。他举起患关节炎的手，指着红色皮卡驶去的方向。“他们开着车，四处寻找。希望找到那些激怒他们的人，他们迟早会找到，然后那些疯狗就有得吃了，整天的沉闷终于被打破，每个人都高呼‘真主至尊！’而在那些没人冒犯他们的日子里，嗯，他们就随便发泄。对吧？”
“塔利班走近的时候，你的眼睛要看着地面。”法里德说。
“你的朋友提了个好建议。”老乞丐插嘴说。他咳了一声，把痰吐在油污的手帕上。“原谅我，你能施舍几个阿富汗尼吗？”他喘着气说。
“别理他。我们走。”法里德说，拉着我的手臂。我给了那个老人一张十万阿富汗尼的钞票，大约相等于三美元。他倾着身子过来取钱，身上的臭气——好像酸牛奶和几个星期没洗的臭脚——扑鼻而来，令我欲呕。他匆忙把钱塞在腰间，独眼滴溜溜转。“谢谢你的慷慨布施，老爷。”
“你知道卡德察的恤孤院在哪里吗？”我问。
“它不难找，就在达鲁拉曼大道西端。”他说，“自从火箭炸毁老恤孤院之后，孩子们就搬到那边去了。真是才脱狼群，又落虎口。”
“谢谢你，老爷。”我说，转身走开。
“你这是第一次吗？”
“什么？”
“你第一次看到塔利班。”我一语不发。老乞丐点点头，露出微笑。嘴里剩下的牙齿屈指可数，泛黄且弯曲。“我还记得第一次看到他们席卷喀布尔的情景，那天多么高兴！”他说，
“杀戮结束了！哇，哇！但就像诗人说的：爱情看似美好，但带来麻烦。”
我脸上绽出笑容，“我知道那首诗，哈菲兹写的。”
“对对，是他写的。”那老人回答说，“我知道。我过去在大学教过它。”
“你教大学？”老人咳嗽，“从：1958年到1996年。我教哈菲兹、迦亚谟、鲁米、贝德尔[Abdul Qader Baydel（1644～1720），生活在印度莫卧儿帝国，但用法里语写作，通常 被当成阿富汗诗人。原书作：Beydel，有误]、雅米[Ahmad Jami（1048～1141 ），古代波斯诗人]、萨迪。我甚至还在德黑兰开过讲座，那是在 1971年，关于神秘的贝德尔。我还记得他们都起立鼓掌。哈！”他摇摇头，“但你看到车上那些年轻人。你认为在他们眼里，苏菲主义[Sufism，伊斯兰教一个塞行神秘丰义的派别]有什么价值？”
“我妈妈也在大学教书。”我说。
“她叫什么名字？”
“索菲亚·阿卡拉米。”他那患白内障的眼睛闪出光芒：“‘大漠荒草生息不绝，反教春花盛放凋零。’她那么优雅，那么高贵。真是悲剧啊。”
“你认识我妈妈？”我问，在他身边蹲下。
“是的，我认识。”老乞丐说，“过去下课后我们常坐在一起交谈。最后一次是下雨天，隔天就期末考试，我们分享一块美味的杏仁蛋糕。杏仁蛋糕，热茶，还有蜂蜜。那时她肚子很大了，变得更加美丽。我永远不会忘记她那天对我说的话。”
“那是什么？请告诉我。”爸爸每次向我提起妈妈，总是很含混，比如“她是个了不起的女人”。但我一直渴望知道细节，比如：她的秀发在阳光下是什么样子，她最喜爱的冰淇淋是什么口味，她最喜欢哼唱的歌是哪一首，她也咬指甲吗？爸爸关于妈妈的记忆，已经随着他长埋地下。也许提起她的名字会唤起他心中的负疚，为她死后他犯下的事情。抑或是因为失去她的伤痛太深，他不忍再度 提及。也许两种原因都有。
“她说，‘我很害怕。’我问，‘为什么？’她说，‘因为我深深地感到快乐，拉索尔博士，快乐成这样，真叫人害怕。’我问她为什么，她说，‘他们只有准备要剥夺你某种东西的时候，才会让你这么快乐。’我说，‘快别胡说。这种想法太蠢了。’”
法里德拉我的手臂。“我们该走了，阿米尔老爷。”他轻声说。我将手臂挣脱出来，“还有呢？她还说什么了？”
老人露出柔和的神情。“我希望我能替你记起来。可是我不记得了。你妈妈走得太久了，我的记忆四散崩塌，像这些房子。对不起。”
“可是哪怕一件小事也好，任何事情都好。”老人微笑，“我会想想看。这是承诺，记得回来找我。”
“谢谢你。”我说，“太谢谢你了。”我是说真的。现在我知道妈妈曾经喜欢涂了蜂蜜的杏仁蛋糕，还有热红茶，知道她用过“深深地”这个词，知道她曾为快乐烦恼过。我对妈妈的了解，从这个街头老人身上得到的，甚至比从爸爸身上知道的还要多。
露宿街头的老乞丐恰好认识我妈妈，这在多数非阿富汗人眼里，也许会是匪夷所思的巧合，但我们对此只字不提，默默走回那辆汽车。因为我们知道，在阿富汗，特别是在喀布尔，这样的荒唐事情司空见惯。爸爸过去说过：“把两个素昧平生的阿富汗人关在同一间屋子里，不消十分钟，他们就能找出他们之间的亲戚关系。”
我们离开了坐在那座房子台阶上的老人。我原想带他到他的办公室去，看看他能否想起更多关于我妈妈的事情。但我再也没有见到他。
我们发现新恤孤院在卡德察区北边，紧邻干涸的喀布尔河河堤。那是一座平房，军营式建筑，墙上有裂缝，窗户用木板封上。前去的途中，法里德告诉我说，在喀布尔各个城区中，卡德察区受战争破坏最严重，而当我们下车，证据太明显了。立在满是弹坑的街道两旁的，只有比废墟好不了多少的破落建筑，以及久无人烟的房子。我们走过一具锈蚀的轿车残骸，看到一台半截埋在碎石堆里面、没有荧屏的电视机，一堵涂着黑色“塔利班万岁”标语的墙壁。
应门的是个秃顶男人，矮矮瘦瘦，留着蓬松的灰白胡子。他穿着旧斜纹呢夹克，戴着无边便帽，眼镜挂在鼻尖上，有块镜片已经碎裂。眼镜后面，黑豆似的眼珠在我和法里德身上扫来扫去。“你好。”他说。
“你好，”我说，把宝丽莱照片给他看，“我们在找这个男孩。”他匆匆瞥了一眼照片，
“对不起，我从没见过他。”
“你还没仔细看看那张照片呢，老弟，”法里德说，“为什么不好好看看呢？”
“麻烦你。”我补上一句。门后的男人接过相片，端详着，把它还给我。“不，对不起。我只认得这所机构里面的每一个孩子，但这个看起来很面生。现在，如果你们没别的事情，我得去工作了。”他关上门，上栓。
我用指节敲门：“老爷，老爷，麻烦你开门。我们对他没有恶意。”
“我跟你说过，他不在这里。”门那边传来他的声音，“现在，请你们走开。”法里德上前几步，把前额贴在门上。“老弟，我们没带塔利班的人来。”他小心翼翼，低声说，“这个男人是想把那孩子带到安全的地方。”
“我从白沙瓦来。”我说，“我有个好朋友认识一对美国夫妇，在那儿开设恤孤院。”我感到那人就在门后。知道他站在那儿，倾听着，犹豫不决，在希望和怀疑之间来回挣扎。
“你看，我认识索拉博的父亲，”我说，“名字叫哈桑。他妈妈的名字叫法莎娜。他管他奶奶叫莎莎。他能读书写字，弹弓打得很好。那儿有孩子的希望，老爷，一条生路。麻烦你开门。”
门后只有沉默。
“我是他伯伯。”我说。隔了一会儿，传来开锁的声音，门缝又露出那张窄窄的脸。
他看看我和法里德，对我说：“有件事你说错了。”
“哪件？”
“他的弹弓射得很了不起！”我笑了。
“那东西跟他形影不离。他无论走到那儿，都会将它塞在裤带上。”
那人放我们进去，自我介绍，他叫察曼，恤孤院的负责人。“我带你们去我的办公室。”
他说。
我们跟着他，穿过阴暗污秽的走廊，孩子们穿着残破的羊毛衫，赤着脚走来走去。我们走过一些房间，没有一间铺着地毯，窗子蒙着塑料膜。房间塞满铁床，但多数没有被褥。
“这里有多少个孤儿？”法里德问。
“多到我们都装不下了，大概两百五十个。”察曼回头说，“但他们并非全都无亲无故。
有很多人因为战争失去了父亲，母亲无法抚养他们，因为塔利班不许女人工作。所以她们把孩子送到这里。”他用手做了抹眼泪的动作，伤心地补充道：“这个地方总比街头好，但也好不了多少。这座房子本来就不是给人住的——它过去是仓库，用来存放地毯。所以这里没有热水器，他们留下的井也干了。”他放低声音，“我求过塔利班，跟他们要钱，用来掘一眼更深的井，次数多得记不清了，他们只是转动念珠，告诉我他们没有钱。没有钱。”他冷笑。
他指着墙边的一排床铺。“我们的床不够，已经有的床也缺少褥子。更糟糕的是，我们没有足够的毛毯。”他让我们看着一个在跳绳的女孩，有两个孩子陪着她。“你们见到那个女孩吗？上个冬天，孩子们不得不共用毛毯。她哥哥被冻死了。”他继续走，“上次我检查的时候，发现仓库里面只有不到够一个月吃的大米了，等用完之后，这些孩子的早饭和晚饭只有面包和红茶可吃了。”我注意到他没提起午饭。
他站住，转向我：“这里提供的庇护少得可怜，几乎没有食物，没有衣服，没有干净的水。我这里大量过剩的是那些失去童年的孩子。但可悲的是，这些孩子算是幸运的了。
我们负荷过重，每天我都要拒绝带着孩子到这里来的母亲。”他朝我走上一步，“你说索拉博还有希望？我祈望你没有说谎，老爷。可是……也许你来得太迟了。”
“什么意思？”察曼移开眼光。“跟我来。”
负责人的办公室是这么一间房子：四面空荡荡的开裂墙壁，一张地毯，一张桌子，两张折叠椅。察曼和我坐下的时候，我看见一只灰色的老鼠从墙洞探出头来，窜过房间。它嗅嗅我的鞋子，我身体一缩，接着它去嗅察曼的鞋子，这才奔出洞开的门。
“你刚才说太迟了是什么意思？”我说。
“你们想喝茶吗？我可以去弄一些。”
“不了，谢谢。我们还是谈谈。” 察曼身子倒在座椅上，双臂抱胸，“我要告诉你的是不愉快的事情，更别提可能还很危险。”
“谁危险？”
“你，我。当然还有索拉博，如果还不算太迟的话。”
“我需要知道。”他点点头：“好的。但我首先想问你一个问题。你有多渴望想找到你的侄儿？”我想起童年时代，我们在街头和人打架，每次都是哈桑为我挺身而出，一个打两个，有时是三个。我畏缩旁观，心里想帮忙，但总是望而却步，总是被不知道什么东西拉退。
我望着走廊，看见一群孩子，围成一圈跳舞。有个小女孩，左腿从膝盖以下不见了，她坐在破旧的垫子上观望，微笑着，和其他孩子一起拍着手。我看见法里德也在看着那些孩子，他残废的手就挂在身边。我想起瓦希德的儿子……我恍然省悟：如果没有找到索拉博，我绝不离开阿富汗。“告诉我他在哪儿。”我说。
察曼凝望着我，然后他点点头，捡起一枝铅笔，在手指间转动。“别说是我告诉你的。”
“我答应你。”他用铅笔敲桌子，“尽管你答应了，我想我也许会后悔一辈子，不过，
也许那样也好。反正我很该死。但如果能帮到索拉博什么……我会告诉你，因为我相信你。
看起来你像个负责任的人。”他沉默了好久。“有个塔利班官员，”他低声说，“他每隔一两
个月就来一次，带着钱，虽然不多，但总比什么也没有好。”他滑溜溜的眼睛看着我，又转开，“通常他会带走一个女孩，但不总是这样。”
“你居然同意？”法里德在我身后说。他冲向桌子，接近察曼。
“我能有什么选择呢？”察曼回嘴说，他推着桌子站起来。
“你是这里的负责人。”法里德说，“你的工作是照料这些孩子。”
“我根本没有能力阻止它发生。”
“你卖掉孩子！”法里德大怒。
“法里德，坐下！让他说！”但已经太迟了，因为突然间法里德跳上桌子。他纵身而下，将察曼的椅子踢飞，把他按倒在地。察曼在法里德身下挥舞着手，发出声声闷叫。他的脚踢掉一个抽屉，纸片散落在地面。
我跑到桌子那边，这才发现察曼的叫声为何闷住：法里德扼住他的脖子。我双手抓住法里德的肩膀，使劲拉。他挣脱我。“够了！”我大喊。但法里德的脸涨得通红，张口狂叫：“我要杀了他！你不能阻止我！
我要杀了他！“他冷笑。
“放开他！”
“我要杀了他！”他的叫声让我明白，如果我不尽快采取行动，就只好目睹有生以来见到的第一场谋杀了。
“孩子们在看着，法里德。他们在看着。”我说。他肩膀的肌肉在我手中缩紧，那当头，我以为他不管怎样都会扼着察曼的脖子不放。然而他回头，看到了孩子们。他们默默站在门外，手拉手，有的还哭起来。我觉得法里德的肌肉松弛了，他放手站起来，低头看着察曼，在他脸上吐了一口口水。然后他走到门边，把门关上。
察曼挣扎着站起身，用袖子去擦血淋淋的嘴唇，擦掉脸上的口水。他咳嗽，喘息，戴好便帽和眼镜，看到两块镜片都破了，又把眼镜摘下。他双手掩脸。好长一段时间，我们谁也没说话。
“一个月前，他带走了索拉博。”终于，察曼哽咽着说。手仍掩着脸。
“你还说自己是负责人？”察曼放下手：“我已经有六个月没有收入了。我破产了，因为我毕生的积蓄，都投在这个恤孤院。我卖掉一切财产和遗产，来维持这个凄凉的地方。你以为我 没有家人在巴基斯坦和伊朗吗？我完全可以像其他人那样一走了之。但我没有，我留下。我留下来，全是为了他们。”他指着门，“如果我拒绝给他一个孩子，他会带走十个。
所以我让他带走，让安拉来作决定。我忍气吞声，拿过他那些该死的、肮脏的臭钱，然后
到市场去，给孩子买食物。”法里德垂下眼睛。
“被他带走的孩子会怎样？”我问。察曼用食指和拇指揉揉眼睛：“有时他们会回来。”
“他是谁？我们怎样才能找到他？”
“明天到伽兹体育馆去，中场休息的时候你会看到他，他就是那个戴着黑色太阳镜的人。”他捡起他的破眼镜，在手里翻转，“我要你们现在就离开，孩子吓坏了。”他送我们出去。车开走的时候，我从侧视镜看到察曼，他站在门口，一群孩子围在他身边，拉着他松开的衬衣下摆。我看见他戴上那副破眼镜。
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Chapter 21
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 standing, 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 dangled 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 shredded, bloody. Hardly anyone seemed to notice him.
We rode silently through the square and headed toward the WazirAkbar Khan district. Everywhere I looked, a haze of dust covered the city and its sun-dried brick buildings. A few blocks north of Pashtunistan Square, Farid pointed to two men talking animatedly 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? Haggling 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 peeked 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 landmark 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 tangles 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 prehistoric monster in some distant jungle and we've brought it back for the world to see. We set it down in the wooden wagon Ali built Hassan last winter for his birthday, pretend it's a giant steel cage. Behold 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 poking 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 fig trees; it becomes a great suspension bridge joining cities, and the little pond below, a foamy sea. Fireworks explode above the bridge's massive pylons and armed soldiers salute 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 salutes 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 courageous feat...
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 rusty 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 sprouted through the fissures. 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 Ailing 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 sloughed off altogether. The lawn had turned the same brown as the haze of dust hovering 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 cylinders 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 honked 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 sprawling white mansion I remembered from my childhood. It looked smaller. The roof sagged and the plaster was cracked. The windows to the living room, the foyer, and the upstairs guest bathroom were broken, patched haphazardly with sheets of clear plastic or wooden boards nailed across the frames. The paint, once sparkling white, had faded to ghostly gray and eroded in parts, revealing the layered bricks beneath. The front steps had crumbled. Like so much else in Kabul, my father's house was the picture of fallen splendor.
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 panes and my breath fogging up the glass. I had watched Hassan and Ali load their belongings 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 honk. 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 flicked 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 scampered about the hilltop chasing each other or sat on a sloped ridge 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 ragged breath felt like inhaling fire. Sweat trickled down my face. I stood wheezing for a while, a stitch in my side. Then I went looking for the abandoned cemetery. 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 gateway 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 wilted, 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 flickering through the leaves and casting on our faces a mosaic 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 carving 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 crevasses.
I sat cross-legged at the foot of the tree and looked south on the city of my childhood. In those days, treetops poked behind the walls of every house. The sky stretched wide and blue, and laundry drying on clotheslines glimmered 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 mosque 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 pickup trucks with armed, bearded young men crammed 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 mattress, 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 skewers of kabob, fresh _naan_, and a bowl of white rice. We sat on the bed and all but devoured 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 generator 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 stranded without food and ate locust 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 plentiful 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 chuckled. "Agha, did you hear what Mullah Nasrud din 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 bastard 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 BUSTLING 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 aisles and chased each other up and down the steps. The scent of garbanzo beans in spicy 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 spoke into my ear. Asked me if I wanted to buy some "sexy pictures.?
"Very sexy, Agha,?he said, his alert eyes darting 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 fleeting glance of his sexy pictures: postcards of Hindi movies showing doe-eyed sultry actresses, fully dressed, in the arms of their leading men. "So sexy,?he repeated.
"Nay, 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, aisle, row, and seat. There never had been, even in the old days of the monarchy. 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 craters everywhere, most notably 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 blindfolded 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 mumbled 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 anticipation.
"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 slung across their shoulders helped the blindfolded man from the first truck and two others helped the burqa-clad woman. The woman's knees buckled under her and she slumped 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 pry its mangled 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 protruded from the ground.
A chubby, 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 lengthy prayer from the Koran, his nasal voice undulating through the sudden hush 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 humble, 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 murmur 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 hem 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 rippled through the stadium. I looked around me and saw that everyone was tsk'ing. The Talib, looking absurdly like a baseball pitcher on the mound, hurled 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 squatting 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 bloodied corpses had been unceremoniously tossed into the backs of red pickup trucks--separate ones--a few men with shovels 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.
第二十一章
我们过河，向北驶去，穿过拥挤的普什图广场，从前爸爸常带我到那儿的开伯尔餐馆吃烤肉。那屋宇依然挺立，只是大门上了挂锁，窗户破裂，招牌上不见了“K”和“R”两个字母。
在餐馆附近，我见到一具尸体。那儿行过绞刑，有个年轻人被吊起来，绳索末端绑在横梁上，他脸庞青肿，寿终那日，他穿着残破的衣服，染着血迹。人们对他视而不见。
我们默默驶过广场，直奔瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区。我目光所及，见到的总是一座尘雾笼罩的城市，还有生砖垒成的建筑。在普什图广场往北几条街，法里德指着两个男人，他们在繁忙的街角相谈甚欢。其中有个金鸡独立，他另外那条腿从膝盖以下不见了，怀里抱着一根义肢。
“你知道他们在干什么吗？就那条腿讨价还价呢。”
“他要卖掉他的腿？”法里德点头：“在黑市可以卖个好价钱，足以喂饱你的孩子好几个星期。”让我意外的是，瓦兹尔‘阿克巴·汗区的房子多数依然有屋顶，墙壁依然完整。
实际上，它们保存完好。墙头仍有树枝伸出来，街道也不像卡德察区那样，到处是废墟垃圾。褪色的指路牌虽说偶有弯曲和弹孔，仍指引着方向。
“这儿不算太糟。”我评论说。
“别奇怪，现在多数重要人物住在这里。”
“塔利班？”
“他们也是。”法里德说。
“还有谁？”我们驶上一条宽广的街道，两边是相当干净的人行道，还有高墙耸立的住宅。
“塔利班背后的人，政府的真正首脑，你也可以这么叫他们：阿拉伯人，车臣人，巴基斯坦人。”法里德说，他指着西北方向：“那边的十五号街叫迎宾大道。他们在这儿的尊号就是这个，宾客。我想有朝一日，这些贵宾会在地毯上到处撒尿。”
“我想就是它！”我说，“在那边！”我指着一处地标，小时候，我常靠着它认路。如果你迷路了，爸爸过去说，记得在我们街道的尽头，有一座粉红色的房子。从前，附近只有这座屋顶高耸的房子是粉红色的。现在还是这样。
法里德转上那条街。我立即看到爸爸的房子。我们在院子里的蔷薇花丛后面找到那只小乌龟。我们不知道它怎么会在那里，而我们太高兴了，顾不上关心这个。我们把它涂成鲜红色，哈桑的主意，也是个好主意：这样，我们永远不会在灌木丛中找不到它。我们扮成两个孤胆英雄，在某处遥远的丛林，发现一只巨大的史前怪兽，我们将它带回来，让世人开开眼界。去年冬天，阿里造了一辆木车，送给哈桑当生日礼物。我们假装它是巨大的铁笼，将乌龟放在上面。抓住那只喷火的怪兽了！我们在草丛中游行，背后拖着木车，周围是苹果树和樱桃树，它们变成高耸入云的摩天大厦，人头从成千上万的窗户探出来，争睹楼下的奇观。我们走过爸爸在无花果树林边上搭建的那座小拱桥，它变成连接城市的巨大吊桥；而它下面的小水塘则是波涛汹涌的大海。烟花在壮观的桥塔上方绽放，两边有荷枪实弹的士兵朝我们敬礼，还有巨大的桥索射向天空。小乌龟在车上颠来颠去，我们拖着木车，沿红砖车道穿出锻铁大门，全世界的领导人起立鼓掌，我们报以敬礼。我们是哈桑和阿米尔，著名的冒险家，无人可以匹敌的探险家，正要接受一枚表彰我们丰功伟绩的勋章……
我小心翼翼地走上那条车道，太阳晒得砖块色泽黯淡，砖缝之间杂草丛生。我站在我爸爸房子的大门外面，形同路人。我把手放在锈蚀的铁栅上，回忆起儿童年代，为了一些现在看来微不足道、但当时觉得至关重要的事情，我曾成千上万次跑过这扇大门。我望进去。
车道从大门伸进院子，当年夏天，我和哈桑就在这里轮流学骑自行车，先后摔倒，它看起来没有我记忆中那么宽。柏油路裂开闪电状的缝隙，从中长出更多的野草。多数白杨树已经被伐倒——过去哈桑和我常常爬上那些树，用镜子将光线照进邻居家，那些仍伫立着的树如今叶子稀疏。病玉米之墙仍在那儿，然而我没有看到玉米，无论病的还是健康的。
油漆已经开始剥落，有数处已然整块掉下。草坪变成棕色，跟弥漫在这座城市上空的尘雾一样，点缀着几处裸露的泥土，上面根本没有东西生长。
车道上停了一辆吉普，看上去全然错了：爸爸的黑色野马属于那儿。很多年前，野马的八个气缸每天早晨轰轰作响，将我唤醒。我看见吉普下面漏着油，滴在车道上，活像一块大大的墨渍。吉普车后面，一辆空空的独轮车侧倾倒地。车道左边，我看不到爸爸和阿里所种的蔷薇花丛，只有溅上柏油的泥土和杂草。
法里德在我背后揿了两次喇叭。“我们该走了，老爷。我们会惹人疑心。”他喊道。
“再给我一分钟就好。”我说。房子本身远不是我自童年起便熟悉的宽敞白色房子。
它看上去变小了，屋顶塌陷，泥灰龟裂。客厅、门廊，还有楼顶客房的浴室，这些地方的窗户统统破裂，被人漫不经心地补上透明的塑料片，或者用木板钉满窗框。曾经光鲜的白漆如今黯淡成阴森的灰色，有些已经蜕落，露出下面层层砖块，前面的台阶已经倾颓。和喀布尔其他地方如此相似，我爸爸的房子一派繁华不再的景象。
我看到自己那间旧卧房的窗户，在二楼，房间的主楼梯以南第三个窗户。我踮起脚，除了阴影，看不见窗户后面有任何东西。二十五年前，我曾站在同一扇窗户后面，大雨敲打窗片，我呼出的气在玻璃上结成雾。我目睹哈桑和阿里将他们的行囊放进爸爸轿车的后厢。
“阿米尔老爷。”法里德又喊了。
“我来了。”我回他一句。发疯似的，我想进去。想踏上前门的台阶，过去阿里经常在那儿，要我和哈桑脱掉雪靴。我想走进门廊，闻闻橙皮的香味，阿里总是将它们扔到炉里，跟锯屑一起燃烧。我想坐在厨房的桌子边，喝茶，吃一片馕饼，听哈桑唱古老的哈扎拉歌谣。
又是一声喇叭。我走回停在路边的陆地巡洋舰。法里德在车里吸烟。
“我得再去看一件东西。”我跟他说。
“你能快点吗？”
“给我十分钟。”
“那么，去吧。”接着，我正要转身离开，“都忘了吧，让它容易一些。”
“让什么容易一些？”
“活下去。”法里德说，他将烟蒂弹出车窗，“你还要看多少东西？让我替你省下麻烦吧。你记得的东西，没有一件存下来。最好都忘了。”
“我不想再遗忘了，”我说，“等我十分钟。”当我们爬上爸爸房子北边那座山的时候，我们，我和哈桑，几乎一点汗都没出。我们在山顶奔走嬉闹，彼此追逐，或者坐在倾斜的山脊上，在那儿可以将远处的机场尽收眼底。我们看着飞机起降，又嬉闹起来。
如今，当我爬上崎岖的山顶，气息粗重，仿佛要喷出火来，脸上汗水直流。我站着喘了好一会，身子一阵刺痛。然后我去看那废弃的墓园，没费多少时间就找到了，它仍在那儿，那株苍老的石榴树也在。我再次倚着墓园的灰色石门，哈桑就在里面埋葬了他母亲。
过去那扇折叶松脱的铁门已经不见了，浓密的杂草已经占领这片土地，几乎将墓碑全然掩埋。两只乌鸦栖息在墓园低矮的围墙上。
哈桑在信中提到，石榴树已经多年没有结果实了。看着那枯萎凋零的树木，我怀疑它是否能够再次开花结果。我站在它下面，想起我们无数次爬上去，坐在枝桠上，双腿摇晃，斑驳的阳光穿越过树叶，在我们脸上投射出交错的光和影。我嘴里涌起强烈的石榴味道。
我屈膝蹲下，双手抚摸着树干。我见到我所要找的，刻痕模糊，几乎全然消退，但它仍在：“阿米尔和哈桑，喀布尔的苏丹。”我用手指顺着每个字母的笔画，从那些细微的裂缝刮下一点点树皮。
我盘膝坐在树下，朝南眺望这座我童年的城市。曾几何时，家家户户的围墙都有树梢探出来，天空广袤而澄蓝，在阳光下闪闪发亮的晾衣线挂满衣物。如果你仔细听，兴许你甚至能听到来自瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区的叫卖声，兜售水果的小贩高喊：樱桃！杏子！葡萄！日暮时分，你还可以听到钟声，来自沙里诺区的清真寺，召唤人们前去祷告。
我听见喇叭声，看到法里德朝我招手。是该走的时候了。我们又朝南驶去，回到普什图广场。我们和好几辆红色的皮卡擦身而过，车斗上挤满荷枪实弹、留着大胡子的年轻人。
每次遇到他们，法里德都会低声咒骂。
我付钱住进了普什图广场附近一间小旅馆。三个小女孩穿着统一的黑色服装，戴着白色头巾，紧贴着柜台后面那个瘦小的四眼佬。他索价75美元，那地方相当破落，这个价格简直匪夷所思，但我并不在乎。为了给夏威夷海边的房子付款漫天要价是一回事，为了养活孩子这么做又是一回事。
房间没有热水，破旧的厕所无法冲水。只有一张铁床，一张破褥子，一条旧毛毯，角落摆着只木椅。正对广场的窗户破了，还没修补。我放下行李箱，发现床后的墙壁上有块干了的血迹。
我给法里德钱，让他出去买吃的。他带回四串热得磁口兹响的烤肉，刚出炉的馕饼，还有一碗白米饭。我们坐在床上，埋头大吃。毕竟，喀布尔还有一样没有改变的事情：烤肉依然如我记忆中那般丰腴美味。
那天晚上，我睡床，法里德睡地板，我额外付了钱，让老板取来一条毛毯，给法里德裹上。除了月色从破窗倾泻进来，再无其他光线。法里德说老板告诉过他，喀布尔停电两天了，而他的发电机需要修理。我们谈了一会。他告诉我他在马扎里沙里夫长大的故事，在贾拉拉巴特的故事。他告诉我说，在他和他爸爸加入圣战者组织，在潘杰希尔峡谷抗击俄国佬之后不久，他们粮草告罄，只好吃蝗虫充饥。他跟我说起那天直升机的炮火打死了他父亲，说起那天地雷索走他两个女儿的命。他问我美国的情况。我告诉他，在美国，你可以走进杂货店，随意选 购十五或者二十种不同的麦片。羔羊肉永远是新鲜的，牛奶永远是冰冻的，有大量的水果，自来水很干净。每个家庭都有电视，每个电视都有遥控器，如果你想要的话，可以安装卫星接收器，能看到超过五百个电视台。
“五百个？”法里德惊叹。
“五百个。”我们沉默了一会。我刚以为他睡着，法里德笑起来。“老爷，你听过纳斯鲁丁毛拉的故事吗？他女儿回家，抱怨丈夫打了他，你知道纳斯鲁丁怎么做吗？”
我能感到他在黑暗中脸带微笑，而我脸上也泛起笑容。关于那个装腔作势的毛拉有很多笑话，世界各地的每个阿富汗人多多少少知道一些。
“他怎么说？”
“他也揍了她，然后让她回家告诉她丈夫，说毛拉可不是蠢货：如果哪个混蛋胆敢揍他的女儿，毛拉会揍他的妻子以示报复。”
我大笑。部分是因为这个笑话，部分是由于阿富汗人的幽默从不改变。战争发动了，因特网发明了，机器人在火星的表面上行走。而在阿富汗，我们仍说着纳斯鲁丁毛拉的笑话。“你听说过这个故事吗？有一次毛拉骑着他的驴子，肩膀上扛着一个重重的袋子。”我说。
“没有。”
“有个路人问，你为什么不把袋子放在驴背上呢？他说：“那太残忍了，我已经压得这可怜的东西不堪重负。”我们轮流说着纳斯鲁丁毛拉的笑话，全都讲完之后，我们再次陷入了沉默。
“阿米尔老爷？”法里德说，惊醒睡意蒙咙的我。
“怎么？”
“你为什么到这里来呢？我是说，你为什么真的到这里来呢？”
“我告诉过你。”
“为了那个男孩？”
“为了那个男孩。”法里德在地上翻身，“真叫人难以相信。”
“有时候，我也无法相信自己竟然来到这里。”
“不……我想问的是，为什么是那个男孩？你从美国漂洋过海，就为了…… 一个什叶派信徒？”
这句话让我再也笑不出来，睡意全消。“我累了。”我说，“我们睡觉吧。”法里德的鼾声很快在空荡荡的房间响起。我睡不着，双手交叉放在胸前，透过那扇破窗，望着星光闪闪的夜空，想起人们对阿富汗的评论，也许那是对的。也许它是一个没有希望的地方。
我们走进伽兹体育馆入口通道的时候，喧哗的人群正在纷纷入座。阶梯状的水泥看台上挤满了几千人。儿童在过道嬉闹，上下追逐。空气中散发着辣酱鹰嘴豆的味道，还有动物粪便和汗水的臭味。法里德和我走过那些兜售香烟、松子和饼干的小贩。
有个骨瘦如柴的男孩身穿斜纹呢夹克，抓住我的胳膊，在我耳边低语。他问我要不要买些“性感的图片”。
“非常诱人，老爷。”他说，机警的眼睛四下扫视——让我想起一个女孩，早几年的时候，在旧金山田德龙区街头，她竭力劝我买毒品。那男孩拉开夹克的一边，让我匆匆看一眼他的性感图片：印度电影的明信片，上面是媚眼如丝的女演员，穿着全套衣服，躺在男人怀里。“多么性感。”他重复说。
“不了，谢谢。”我说，把他推开，继续走。
“他要是被抓住，他们会用鞭子打得他父亲从坟里醒过来。”法里德低声说。当然，票上没有座位号码，没有人礼貌地指引我们到哪一区、哪一排就座。
从来就是这样，即使在旧时君主制的那些岁月。我们找到一个视线很好的位置坐下，就在中场左边，不过法里德那边有点挤，推推搡搡的。
我记得在1970年代，爸爸常带我到这里看足球赛，那时球场上的草多么绿啊。现在则是一团糟。到处都是洞和弹坑，特别引人注意的是，南边球门门柱后面，地上有两个很深的洞，球场根本没有草，只有泥土。等到两支队伍各自入场——虽然天气很热，所有人都穿着长裤——开始比赛，球员踢起阵阵尘雾，很难看到球在哪里。年轻的塔利班挥舞着鞭子，在过道来回巡视，鞭打那些喊得太大声的 观众。
中场的哨声吹响之后，他们将球员清走。一对红色的皮卡开进来，跟我来这城市之后到处都看见的一样，它们从大门驶进体育馆。一个妇女穿着蓝色的蒙头长袍，坐在一辆皮卡的后斗上。另外一辆上面有个蒙住眼睛的男子。皮卡慢慢绕着场边的跑道开动，似乎想让观众看得清楚些。它收到了想要的效果：人们伸长脖子，指指点点，踮着脚站起。在我身旁，法里德低声祷告，喉结上下蠕动。
红色卡车并排驶进球场，卷起两道尘雾，阳光在它们的轮毂上反射出来。在球场末端，它们和第三辆车相遇。这一辆的车斗载着的东西，让我突然明白了球门后面那两个洞究竟起何作用。他们将第三辆卡车上的东西卸下来。意料之中，人群窃窃私语。
“你想看下去吗？”法里德悲哀地说。
“不。”我说，有生以来，我从未有过如此强烈地想离开一个地方的渴望，
“但我们必须留下来。”
两个塔利班肩头扛着俄制步枪，将第一辆车上蒙着眼的男子揪下来，另外两个去揪穿着长袍的妇女。那个女人双膝一软，跌倒在地。士兵将她拉起来，她又跌倒。他们试图抬起她，她又叫又踢。只要我还有一口气在，就永远不会忘记那声惨叫。那是跌进陷阱的动物试图把被夹住的脚挣脱出来的惨叫。又来两个塔利班，帮着将她塞进深没胸口的洞。另外一边，蒙着眼的男子安静地让他们将他放 进那个为他而掘的洞里。现在，地面上只有那对被指控的躯体突出来。
有个矮胖的男人站在球门附近，他胡子花白，穿着灰色教袍，对着麦克风清清喉咙。
他身后那个埋在洞里的女人仍不停惨叫。他背诵了《可兰经》上某段长长的经文，体育馆
里面的人群突然鸦雀无声，只有他鼻音甚重的声音抑扬顿挫。我记得很久以前，爸爸对我说过一段话：那些自以为是的猴子，应该在他们的胡子上撒尿。除了用拇指数念珠，背诵那本根本就看不懂的经书，他们什么也不会。要是阿富汗落在他们手里，我们全部人就得求真主保佑了。
当祷告结束，教士清清喉咙。“各位兄弟姐妹！”他用法尔西语说，声音响彻整个体育馆，“今天，我们在这里执行伊斯兰教法。今天，我们在这里秉持正义。今天，我们在这里，是出于安拉的意愿，也是因为先知穆罕默德的指示，愿他安息，在阿富汗，我们深爱的家园，依然存在，得到弘扬。我们倾听真主的意旨，我们服从他，因为我们什么也不是，在伟大的真主面前，我们只是卑微的、无力的造物。而真主说过什么？我问你们！真主说过什么？真主说，对每种罪行，都应量刑，给予恰如其分的惩罚。这不是我说的，也不是我的兄弟说的。这是真 主说的！”他那空出来的手指向天空。我脑里嗡嗡响，觉得阳光太过毒辣了。
“对每种罪行，都应量刑，给予恰如其分的惩罚！”教士对着麦克风，放低声音，慢慢地、一字一句地、紧张地重复了一遍。“各位兄弟姐妹，对于通奸，应该处以什么样的刑罚？对于这些亵渎了婚姻的神圣的人，我们应该怎么处置？我们该怎么对待这些在真主脸上吐口水的人？若有人朝真主房间的窗丢石头，我们应该有什么反应？我们应该把石头丢回去！”他关掉麦克风。低沉的议论声在 人群中迅速传开。
我身边的法里德摇摇头，“他们也配称穆斯林。”他低声说。接着，有个肩膀宽大的高个子男人从皮卡车走出来。他的出现在围观人群中引起了几声欢呼。这一次，没有人会用鞭子抽打喊得太大声的人。高个子男人穿 着光鲜的白色服装，在午后的阳光下闪闪发光。
他的衬衣露在外面，下摆在和风中飘动。他像耶稣那样张开双臂，慢慢转身一圈，向人群致意。他的脸转向我们这边时，我看见他戴着黑色的太阳镜，很像约翰·列农戴的那副。
“他一定就是我们要找的人。”法里德说。戴墨镜的高个子塔利班走过几堆石头，那是他们适才从第三辆车上卸载的。
他举起一块石头，给人群看。喧闹声静下来，取而代之的是阵阵嗡嗡声，在体育馆起伏。我看看身边的人，大家都啧啧有声。那个塔利班，很荒唐的，看上去像个站在球板上的棒球投手，把石头扔向埋在洞里那个蒙着眼的男子，击中了那人的头部，那个妇女又尖叫起来。人群发出一声“啊！”的怵叫。我闭上眼，用手掩着脸。每块投出的石头都伴随着人群的惊呼，持续了好一会。他们住口不喊了，我问法里德是不是结束了，法里德说还没。
我猜想人们叫累了。我不知道自己掩着脸坐了多久，我只知道，当我听到身边人们问“死了吗？死了吗？”，这才重新睁开眼睛。
洞里那个男子变成一团模糊的血肉和破布。他的头垂在前面，下巴抵在胸前。戴着约翰·列农墨镜的塔利班看着蹲在洞边的另一个男子，手里一上一下抛掷石头。蹲下那个男子耳朵挂着听诊器，将另外一端压在洞里男子的胸前。他把听诊器摘离耳朵，朝戴墨镜的塔利班摇摇头。人群哀叹。
“约翰·列农”走回投球板。一切都结束之后，血肉淋漓的尸体各自被草草丢到红色皮卡车的后面，数个男人用铲子匆匆把洞填好。其中有个踢起尘土，盖在血迹上，勉强将其掩住。不 消几分钟，球队回到场上。下半场开始了。我们的会见被安排在下午三点钟。
这么快就得到接见，实在出乎我意料。我原以为会拖一段时间，至少盘问一番，也许还要检查我们的证件。但这提醒我，在阿富汗，直到今天，官方的事情仍是如此不正式：法里德所做的，不过是告诉一个手执鞭子的塔利班，说我们有些私人事情要跟那个穿白色衣服的男子谈谈。法里德和他说了几句。带鞭子那人点点头，用普什图语朝球场上某个年轻人大喊，那人跑到南边球门，戴太阳镜的塔利班在那儿跟刚才发言的教士聊天。他们三个交谈。我看见戴太阳镜那个家伙抬起头，他点点头，在传讯入耳边说话。那个年轻人把消息带给我们。
就这么敲定。三点钟。
-
Chapter 22
Farid eased the Land Cruiser up the driveway of a big house in Wazir Akbar Khan. He parked in the shadows of willow trees that spilled over the walls of the compound located on Street 15, Sarak-e-Mehmana, Street of the Guests. He killed the engine and we sat for a minute, listening to the tink-tink of the engine cooling off, neither one of us saying anything. Farid shifted on his seat and toyed with the keys still hanging from the ignition switch. I could tell he was readying himself to tell me something.
"I guess I'll wait in the car for you,?he said finally, his tone a little apologetic. He wouldn't look at me. "This is your Business now. I--?
I patted his arm. "You've done much more than I've paid you for. I don't expect you to go with me.?But I wished I didn't have to go in alone. Despite what I had learned about Baba, I wished he were standing alongside me now. Baba would have busted through the front doors and demanded to be taken to the man in charge, piss on the beard of anyone who stood in his way. But Baba was long dead, buried in the Afghan section of a little cemetery in Hayward. Just last month, Soraya and I had placed a bouquet of daisies and freesias beside his headstone. I was on my own.
I stepped out of the car and walked to the tall, wooden front gates of the house. I rang the bell but no buzz came--still no electricity--and I had to pound on the doors. A moment later, I heard terse voices from the other side and a pair of men toting Kalash nikovs answered the door.
I glanced at Farid sitting in the car and mouthed, I'll be back, not so sure at all that I would be.
The armed men frisked me head to toe, patted my legs, felt my crotch. One of them said something in Pashtu and they both chuckled. We stepped through the front gates. The two guards escorted me across a well-manicured lawn, past a row of geraniums and stubby bushes lined along the wall. An old hand-pump water well stood at the far end of the yard. I remembered how Kaka Homayoun's house in Jalalabad had had a water well like that--the twins, Fazila and Karima, and I used to drop pebbles in it, listen for the plink.
We climbed a few steps and entered a large, sparsely decorated house. We crossed the foyer--a large Afghan flag draped one of the walls--and the men took me upstairs to a room with twin mint green sofas and a big-screen TV in the far corner. A prayer rug showing a slightly oblong Mecca was nailed to one of the walls. The older of the two men motioned toward the sofa with the barrel of his weapon. I sat down. They left the room.
I crossed my legs. Uncrossed them. Sat with my sweaty hands on my knees. Did that make me look nervous? I clasped them together, decided that was worse and just crossed my arms on my chest. Blood thudded in my temples. I felt utterly alone. Thoughts were flying around in my head, but I didn't want to think at all, because a sober part of me knew that what I had managed to get myself into was insanity. I was thousands of miles from my wife, sitting in a room that felt like a holding cell, waiting for a man I had seen murder two people that same day. It was insanity. Worse yet, it was irresponsible. There was a very realistic chance that I was going to render Soraya a biwa, a widow, at the age of thirty-six. This isn't you, Amir, part of me said. You're gutless. It's how you were made. And that's not such a bad thing because your saving grace is that you've never lied to yourself about it. Not about that. Nothing wrong with cowardice as long as it comes with prudence. But when a coward stops remembering who he is... God help him.
There was a Coffee table by the sofa. The base was X-shaped, walnut-sized brass balls studding the ring where the metallic legs crossed. I'd seen a table like that before. Where? And then it came to me: at the crowded tea shop in Peshawar, that night I'd gone for a walk. On the table sat a bowl of red grapes. I plucked one and tossed it in my mouth. I had to preoccupy myself with something, anything, to silence the voice in my head. The grape was sweet. I popped another one in, unaware that it would be the last bit of solid food I would eat for a long time.
The door opened and the two armed men returned, between them the tall Talib in white, still wearing his dark John Lennon glasses, looking like some broad-shouldered, NewAge mystic guru.
He took a seat across from me and lowered his hands on the armrests. For a long time, he said nothing. Just sat there, watching me, one hand drumming the upholstery, the other twirling turquoise blue prayer beads. He wore a black vest over the white shirt now, and a gold watch. I saw a splotch of dried blood on his left sleeve. I found it morbidly fascinating that he hadn't changed clothes after the executions earlier that day.
Periodically, his free hand floated up and his thick fingers batted at something in the air. They made slow stroking motions, up and down, side to side, as if he were caressing an invisible pet. One of his sleeves retracted and I saw marks on his forearm--I'd seen those same tracks on Homeless people living in grimy alleys in San Francisco.
His skin was much paler than the other two men's, almost sallow, and a crop of tiny sweat beads gleamed on his forehead just below the edge of his black turban. His beard, chest-length like the others, was lighter in color too.
"Salaam alaykum,?he said.
"Salaam.?
"You can do away with that now, you know,?he said.
"Pardon??
He turned his palm to one of the armed men and motioned. Rrrriiiip. Suddenly my cheeks were stinging and the guard was tossing my beard up and down in his hand, giggling. The Talib grinned. "One of the better ones I've seen in a while. But it really is so much better this way, I think. Don't you??He twirled his fingers, snapped them, fist opening and closing. "So, _Inshallah_, you enjoyed the show today??
"Was that what it was??I said, rubbing my cheeks, hoping my voice didn't betray the explosion of terror I felt inside.
"Public justice is the greatest kind of show, my brother. Drama. Suspense. And, best of all, education en masse.?He snapped his fingers. The younger of the two guards lit him a cigarette. The Talib laughed. Mumbled to himself. His hands were shaking and he almost dropped the cigarette. "But you want a real show, you should have been with me in Mazar. August 1998, that was.?
"I'm sorry??
"We left them out for the dogs, you know.?
I saw what he was getting at.
He stood up, paced around the sofa once, twice. Sat down again. He spoke rapidly. "Door to door we went, calling for the men and the boys. We'd shoot them right there in front of their families. Let them see. Let them remember who they were, where they belonged.?He was almost panting now. "Sometimes, we broke down their doors and went inside their Homes. And... I'd... I'd sweep the barrel of my machine gun around the room and fire and fire until the smoke blinded me.?He leaned toward me, like a man about to share a great secret. "You don't know the meaning of the word ‘liberating?until you've done that, stood in a roomful of targets, let the bullets fly, free of guilt and remorse, knowing you are virtuous, good, and decent. Knowing you're doing God's work. It's breathtaking.?He kissed the prayer beads, tilted his head. "You remember that, Javid??
"Yes, Agha sahib,?the younger of the guards replied. "How could I forget??
I had read about the Hazara massacre in Mazar-i-Sharif in the papers. It had happened just after the Taliban took over Mazar, one of the last cities to fall. I remembered Soraya handing me the article over breakfast, her face bloodless.
"Door-to-door. We only rested for food and prayer,?the Talib said. He said it fondly, like a man telling of a great party he'd attended. "We left the bodies in the streets, and if their families tried to sneak out to drag them back into their Homes, we'd shoot them too. We left them in the streets for days. We left them for the dogs. Dog meat for dogs.?He crushed his cigarette. Rubbed his eyes with tremulous hands. "You come from America??
"Yes.?
"How is that whore these days??
I had a sudden urge to urinate. I prayed it would pass. "I'm looking for a boy.?
"Isn't everyone??he said. The men with the Kalashnikovs laughed. Their teeth were stained green with naswar.
"I understand he is here, with you,?I said. "His name is Sohrab.?
"I'll ask you something: What are you doing with that whore? Why aren't you here, with your Muslim brothers, serving your country??
"I've been away a long time,?was all I could think of saying. My head felt so hot. I pressed my knees together, held my bladder.
The Talib turned to the two men standing by the door. "That's an answer??he asked them.
"Nay, Agha sahib,?they said in unison, smiling.
He turned his eyes to me. Shrugged. "Not an answer, they say.?He took a drag of his cigarette. "There are those in my circle who believe that abandoning watan when it needs you the most is the same as treason. I could have you arrested for treason, have you shot for it even. Does that frighten you??
"I'm only here for the boy.?
"Does that frighten you??
"Yes.?
"It should,?he said. He leaned back in the sofa. Crushed the cigarette.
I thought about Soraya. It calmed me. I thought of her sickleshaped birthmark, the elegant curve of her neck, her luminous eyes. I thought of our wedding night, gazing at each other's reflection in the mirror under the green veil, and how her cheeks blushed when I whispered that I loved her. I remembered the two of us dancing to an old Afghan song, round and round, everyone watching and clapping, the world a blur of flowers, dresses, tuxedos, and smiling faces.
The Talib was saying something.
"Pardon??
"I said would you like to see him? Would you like to see my boy??His upper lip curled up in a sneer when he said those last two words.
"Yes.?
The guard left the room. I heard the creak of a door swinging open. Heard the guard say something in Pashtu, in a hard voice. Then, footfalls, and the jingle of bells with each step. It reminded me of the Monkey Man Hassan and I used to chase down in Shar e-Nau. We used to pay him a rupia of our allowance for a dance. The bell around his monkey's neck had made that same jingling sound.
Then the door opened and the guard walked in. He carried a stereo--a boom box--on his shoulder. Behind him, a boy dressed in a loose, sapphire blue pirhan-tumban followed.
The resemblance was breathtaking. Disorienting. Rahim Khan's Polaroid hadn't done justice to it.
The boy had his father's round moon face, his pointy stub of a chin, his twisted, seashell ears, and the same slight frame. It was the Chinese doll face of my childhood, the face peering above fanned-out playing cards all those winter days, the face behind the mosquito net when we slept on the roof of my father's house in the summer. His head was shaved, his eyes darkened with mascara, and his cheeks glowed with an unnatural red. When he stopped in the middle of the room, the bells strapped around his anklets stopped jingling. His eyes fell on me. Lingered. Then he looked away. Looked down at his naked feet.
One of the guards pressed a button and Pashtu music filled the room. Tabla, harmonium, the whine of a dil-roba. I guessed music wasn't sinful as long as it played to Taliban ears. The three men began to clap.
"Wah wah! _Mashallah_!?they cheered.
Sohrab raised his arms and turned slowly. He stood on tiptoes, spun gracefully, dipped to his knees, straightened, and spun again. His little hands swiveled at the wrists, his fingers snapped, and his head swung side to side like a pendulum. His feet pounded the floor, the bells jingling in perfect harmony with the beat of the tabla. He kept his eyes closed.
"_Mashallah_!?they cheered. "Shahbas! Bravo!?The two guards whistled and laughed. The Talib in white was tilting his head back and forth with the music, his mouth half-open in a leer.
Sohrab danced in a circle, eyes closed, danced until the music stopped. The bells jingled one final time when he stomped his foot with the song's last note. He froze in midspin.
"Bia, bia, my boy,?the Talib said, calling Sohrab to him. Sohrab went to him, head down, stood between his thighs. The Talib wrapped his arms around the boy. "How talented he is, nay, my Hazara boy!?he said. His hands slid down the child's back, then up, felt under his armpits. One of the guards elbowed the other and snickered. The Talib told them to leave us alone.
"Yes, Agha sahib,?they said as they exited.
The Talib spun the boy around so he faced me. He locked his arms around Sohrab's belly, rested his chin on the boy's shoulder. Sohrab looked down at his feet, but kept stealing shy, furtive glances at me. The man's hand slid up and down the boy's belly. Up and down, slowly, gently.
"I've been wondering,?the Talib said, his bloodshot eyes peering at me over Sohrab's shoulder. "Whatever happened to old Babalu, anyway??
The question hit me like a hammer between the eyes. I felt the color drain from my face. My legs went cold. Numb.
He laughed. "What did you think? That you'd put on a fake beard and I wouldn't recognize you? Here's something I'll bet you never knew about me: I never forget a face. Not ever.?He brushed his lips against Sohrab's ear, kept his eye on me. "I heard your father died. Tsk-tsk. I always did want to take him on. Looks like I'll have to settle for his weakling of a son.?Then he took off his sunglasses and locked his bloodshot blue eyes on mine.
I tried to take a breath and couldn't. I tried to blink and couldn't. The moment felt surreal--no, not surreal, absurd--it had knocked the breath out of me, brought the world around me to a standstill. My face was burning. What was the old saying about the bad penny? My past was like that, always turning up. His name rose from the deep and I didn't want to say it, as if uttering it might conjure him. But he was already here, in the flesh, sitting less than ten feet from me, after all these years. His name escaped my lips: "Assef.?
"Ainir jan.?
"What are you doing here??I said, knowing how utterly foolish the question sounded, yet unable to think of anything else to say.
"Me??Assef arched an eyebrow "I'm in my element. The question is what are you doing here??
"I already told you,?I said. My voice was trembling. I wished it wouldn't do that, wished my flesh wasn't shrinking against my bones.
"The boy??
"Yes.?
"Why??
"I'll pay you for him,?I said. "I can have money wired.?
"Money??Assef said. He tittered. "Have you ever heard of Rockingham? Western Australia, a slice of heaven. You should see it, miles and miles of beach. Green water, blue skies. My parents live there, in a beachfront villa. There's a golf course behind the villa and a little lake. Father plays golf every day. Mother, she prefers tennis--Father says she has a wicked backhand. They own an Afghan restaurant and two jewelry stores; both Businesses are doing spectacularly.?He plucked a red grape. Put it, lovingly, in Sohrab's mouth. "So if I need money, I'll have them wire it to me.?He kissed the side of Sohrab's neck. The boy flinched a little, closed his eyes again. "Besides, I didn't fight the Shorawi for money. Didn't join the Taliban for money either. Do you want to know why I joined them??
My lips had gone dry. I licked them and found my tongue had dried too.
"Are you thirsty??Assef said, smirking.
"I think you're thirsty.?
"I'm fine,?I said. The truth was, the room felt too hot suddenly--sweat was bursting from my pores, prickling my skin. And was this really happening? Was I really sitting across from Assef?
"As you wish,?he said. "Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, how I joined the Taliban. Well, as you may remember, I wasn't much of a religious type. But one day I had an epiphany. I had it in jail. Do you want to hear??
I said nothing.
"Good. I'll tell you,?he said. "I spent some time in jail, at Poleh-Charkhi, just after Babrak Karmal took over in 1980. I ended up there one night, when a group of Parc hami soldiers marched into our house and ordered my father and me at gun point to follow them. The bastards didn't give a reason, and they wouldn't answer my mother's questions. Not that it was a mys tery; everyone knew the communists had no class. They came from poor families with no name. The same dogs who weren't fit to lick my shoes before the Shorawi came were now ordering me at gunpoint, Parchami flag on their lapels, making their little point about the fall of the bourgeoisie and acting like they were the ones with class. It was happening all over: Round up the rich, throw them in jail, make an example for the comrades.
"Anyway, we were crammed in groups of six in these tiny cells each the size of a refrigerator. Every night the commandant, a haif-Hazara, half-Uzbek thing who smelled like a rotting donkey, would have one of the prisoners dragged out of the cell and he'd beat him until sweat poured from his fat face. Then he'd light a cigarette, crack his joints, and leave. The next night, he'd pick someone else. One night, he picked me. It couldn't have come at a worse time. I'd been peeing blood for three days. Kidney stones. And if you've never had one, believe me when I say it's the worst imaginable pain. My mother used to get them too, and I remember she told me once she'd rather give birth than pass a kidney stone. Anyway, what could I do? They dragged me out and he started kick ing me. He had knee-high boots with steel toes that he wore every night for his little kicking game, and he used them on me. I was screaming and screaming and he kept kicking me and then, suddenly, he kicked me on the left kidney and the stone passed. Just like that! Oh, the relief!?Assef laughed. "And I yelled ‘Allah-u akbar?and he kicked me even harder and I started laughing. He got mad and hit me harder, and the harder he kicked me, the harder I laughed. They threw me back in the cell laughing. I kept laughing and laughing because suddenly I knew that had been a message from God: He was on my side. He wanted me to live for a reason.
"You know, I ran into that commandant on the battlefield a few years later--funny how God works. I found him in a trench just outside Meymanah, bleeding from a piece of shrapnel in his chest. He was still wearing those same boots. I asked him if he remembered me. He said no. I told him the same thing I just told you, that I never forget a face. Then I shot him in the balls. I've been on a mission since.?
"What mission is that??I heard myself say. "Stoning adulterers? Raping children? Flogging women for wearing high heels? Massacring Hazaras? All in the name of Islam??The words spilled suddenly and unexpectedly, came out before I could yank the leash. I wished I could take them back. Swallow them. But they were out. I had crossed a line, and whatever little hope I had of getting out alive had vanished with those words.
A look of surprise passed across Assef's face, briefly, and disappeared. "I see this may turn out to be enjoyable after all,?he said, snickering. "But there are things traitors like you don't understand.?
"Like what??
Assef's brow twitched. "Like pride in your people, your customs, your language. Afghanistan is like a beautiful mansion littered with garbage, and someone has to take out the garbage.?
"That's what you were doing in Mazar, going door-to-door? Taking out the garbage??
"Precisely.?
"In the west, they have an expression for that,?I said. "They call it ethnic cleansing.?
"Do they??Assef's face brightened. "Ethnic cleansing. I like it. I like the sound of it.?
"All I want is the boy.?
"Ethnic cleansing,?Assef murmured, tasting the words.
"I want the boy,?I said again. Sohrab's eyes flicked to me. They were slaughter sheep's eyes. They even had the mascara--I remembered how, on the day of Eid of qorban, the mullah in our backyard used to apply mascara to the eyes of the sheep and feed it a cube of sugar before slicing its throat. I thought I saw pleading in Sohrab's eyes.
"Tell me why,?Assef said. He pinched Sohrab's earlobe between his teeth. Let go. Sweat beads rolled down his brow.
"That's my Business.?
"What do you want to do with him??he said. Then a coy smile. "Or to him.?
"That's disgusting,?I said.
"How would you know? Have you tried it??
"I want to take him to a better place.?
"Tell me why.?
"That's my Business,?I said. I didn't know what had emboldened me to be so curt, maybe the fact that I thought I was going to die anyway.
"I wonder,?Assef said. "I wonder why you've come all this way, Amir, come all this way for a Hazara? Why are you here? Why are you really here??
"I have my reasons,?I said.
"Very well then,?Assef said, sneering. He shoved Sohrab in the back, pushed him right into the table. Sohrab's hips struck the table, knocking it upside down and spilling the grapes. He fell on them, face first, and stained his shirt purple with grape juice. The
table's legs, crossing through the ring of brass balls, were now pointing to the ceiling.
"Take him, then,?Assef said. I helped Sohrab to his feet, swat ted the bits of crushed grape that had stuck to his pants like bar nacles to a pier.
"Go, take him,?Assef said, pointing to the door.
I took Sohrab's hand. It was small, the skin dry and calloused. His fingers moved, laced themselves with mine. I saw Sohrab in that Polaroid again, the way his arm was wrapped around Hassan's leg, his head resting against his father's hip. They'd both been smiling. The bells jingled as we crossed the room.
We made it as far as the door.
"Of course,?Assef said behind us, "I didn't say you could take him for free.?
I turned. "What do you want??
"You have to earn him.?
"What do you want??
"We have some unfinished Business, you and I,?Assef said. "You remember, don't you??
He needn't have worried. I would never forget the day after Daoud Khan overthrew the king. My entire adult life, whenever I heard Daoud Khan's name, what I saw was Hassan with his sling shot pointed at Assef's face, Hassan saying that they'd have to start calling him One-Eyed Assef. instead of Assef Goshkhor. I remember how envious I'd been of Hassan's bravery. Assef had backed down, promised that in the end he'd get us both. He'd kept that promise with Hassan. Now it was my turn.
"All right,?I said, not knowing what else there was to say. I wasn't about to beg; that would have only sweetened the moment for him.
Assef called the guards back into the room. "I want you to listen to me,?he said to them. "In a moment, I'm going to close the door. Then he and I are going to finish an old bit of Business. No matter what you hear, don't come in! Do you hear me? Don't come in.
The guards nodded. Looked from Assef to me. "Yes, Agha sahib.?
"When it's all done, only one of us will walk out of this room alive,?Assef said. "If it's him, then he's earned his freedom and you let him pass, do you understand??
The older guard shifted on his feet. "But Agha sahib--?
"If it's him, you let him pass!?Assef screamed. The two men flinched but nodded again. They turned to go. One of them reached for Sohrab.
"Let him stay,?Assef said. He grinned. "Let him watch. Lessons are good things for boys.?
The guards left. Assef put down his prayer beads. Reached in the breast pocket of his black vest. What he fished out of that pocket didn't surprise me one bit: stainless-steel brass knuckles.
HE HAS GEL IN HIS HAIR and a Clark Gable mustache above his thick lips. The gel has soaked through the green paper surgical cap, made a dark stain the shape of Africa. I remember that about him. That, and the gold Allah chain around his dark neck. He is peering down at me, speaking rapidly in a language I don't understand, Urdu, I think. My eyes keep going to his Adam's apple bob bing up and down, up and down, and I want to ask him how old he is anyway--he looks far too young, like an actor from some foreign soap opera--but all I can mutter is, I think I gave him a good fight. I think I gave him a good fight.
I DON'T KNOW if I gave Assef a good fight. I don't think I did. How could I have? That was the first time I'd fought anyone. I had never so much as thrown a punch in my entire life.
My memory of the fight with Assef is amazingly vivid in stretches: I remember Assef turning on the music before slipping on his brass knuckles. The prayer rug, the one with the oblong, woven Mecca, came loose from the wall at one point and landed on my head; the dust from it made me sneeze. I remember Assef shoving grapes in my face, his snarl all spit-shining teeth, his bloodshot eyes rolling. His turban fell at some point, let loose curls of shoulder-length blond hair.
And the end, of course. That, I still see with perfect clarity. I always will.
Mostly, I remember this: His brass knuckles flashing in the afternoon light; how cold they felt with the first few blows and how quickly they warmed with my blood. Getting thrown against the wall, a nail where a framed picture may have hung once jabbing at my back. Sohrab screaming. Tabla, harmonium, a dil-roba. Getting hurled against the wall. The knuckles shattering my jaw. Choking on my own teeth, swallowing them, thinking about all the countless hours I'd spent flossing and brushing. Getting hurled against the wall. Lying on the floor, blood from my split upper lip staining the mauve carpet, pain ripping through my belly, and wondering when I'd be able to breathe again. The sound of my ribs snapping like the tree branches Hassan and I used to break to swordfight like Sinbad in those old movies. Sohrab screaming. The side of my face slamming against the corner of the television stand. That snapping sound again, this time just under my left eye. music. Sohrab screaming. Fingers grasping my hair, pulling my head back, the twinkle of stainless steel. Here they ?ome. That snapping sound yet again, now my nose. Biting down in pain, noticing how my teeth didn't align like they used to. Getting kicked. Sohrab screaming.
I don't know at what point I started laughing, but I did. It hurt to laugh, hurt my jaws, my ribs, my throat. But I was laughing and laughing. And the harder I laughed, the harder he kicked me, punched me, scratched me.
"WHAT'S SO FUNNY??Assef kept roaring with each blow. His spittle landed in my eye. Sohrab screamed.
"WHAT'S SO FUNNY??Assef bellowed. Another rib snapped, this time left lower. What was so funny was that, for the first time since the winter of 1975, I felt at peace. I laughed because I saw that, in some hidden nook in a corner of my mind, I'd even been looking forward to this. I remembered the day on the hill I had pelted Hassan with pomegranates and tried to provoke him. He'd just stood there, doing nothing, red juice soaking through his shirt like blood. Then he'd taken the pomegranate from my hand, crushed it against his forehead. Are you satisfied now? he'd hissed. Do you feel better? I hadn't been happy and I hadn't felt better, not at all. But I did now. My body was broken--just how badly I wouldn't find out until later--but I felt healed. Healed at last. I laughed.
Then the end. That, I'll take to my grave:
I was on the ground laughing, Assef straddling my chest, his face a mask of lunacy, framed by snarls of his hair swaying inches from my face. His free hand was locked around my throat. The other, the one with the brass knuckles, cocked above his shoulder. He raised his fist higher, raised it for another blow.
Then:"Bas."A thin voice.
We both looked.
"Please, no more.?
I remembered something the orphanage director had said when he'd opened the door to me and Farid. What had been his name? Zaman? He's inseparable from that thing, he had said. He tucks it in the waist of his pants everywhere he goes.
"No more.?
Twin trails of black mascara, mixed with tears, had rolled down his cheeks, smeared the rouge. His lower lip trembled. Mucus seeped from his nose. "Bas,?he croaked.
His hand was cocked above his shoulder, holding the cup of the slingshot at the end of the elastic band which was pulled all the way back. There was something in the cup, something shiny and yellow. I blinked the blood from my eyes and saw it was one of the brass balls from the ring in the table base. Sohrab had the slingshot pointed to Assef's face.
"No more, Agha. Please,?he said, his voice husky and trembling. "Stop hurting him.?
Assef's mouth moved wordlessly. He began to say something, stopped. "What do you think you're you doing??he finally said.
"Please stop,?Sohrab said, fresh tears pooling in his green eyes, mixing with mascara.
"Put it down, Hazara,?Assef hissed. "Put it down or what I'm doing to him will be a gentle ear twisting compared to what I'll do to you.?
The tears broke free. Sohrab shook his head. "Please, Agha,?he said. "Stop.?
"Put it down.?
"Don't hurt him anymore.?
"Put it down.?
"Please.?
"PUT IT DOWN!?
"PUT IT DOWN!?Assef let go of my throat. Lunged at Sohrab.
The slingshot made a thwiiiiit sound when Sohrab released the cup. Then Assef was screaming. He put his hand where his left eye had been just a moment ago. Blood oozed between his fingers. Blood and something else, something white and gel-like. That's called vitreous fluid, I thought with clarity. I've read that somewhere. Vitreous fluid.
Assef rolled on the carpet. Rolled side to side, shrieking, his hand still cupped over the bloody socket.
"Let's go!?Sohrab said. He took my hand. Helped me to my feet. Every inch of my battered body wailed with pain. Behind us, Assef kept shrieking.
"OUT! GET IT OUT!?he screamed.
Teetering, I opened the door. The guards?eyes widened when they saw me and I wondered what I looked like. My stomach hurt with each breath. One of the guards said something in Pashtu and then they blew past us, running into the room where Assef was still screaming. "OUT!?
"Bia,?Sohrab said, pulling my hand. "Let's go!?
I stumbled down the hallway, Sohrab's little hand in mine. I took a final look over my shoulder. The guards were huddled over Assef, doing something to his face. Then I understood: The brass ball was still stuck in his empty eye socket.
The whole world rocking up and down, swooping side to side, I hobbled down the steps, leaning on Sohrab. From above, Assef's screams went on and on, the cries of a wounded animal. We made it outside, into daylight, my arm around Sohrab's shoulder, and I saw Farid running toward us.
"Bismillah! Bismillah!?he said, eyes bulging at the sight of me.
He slung my arm around his shoulder and lifted me. Carried me to the truck, running. I think I screamed. I watched the way his sandals pounded the pavement, slapped his black, calloused heels. It hurt to breathe. Then I was looking up at the roof of the Land Cruiser, in the backseat, the upholstery beige and ripped, listen ing to the ding-ding-ding signaling an open door. Running foot steps around the truck. Farid and Sohrab exchanging quick words. The truck's doors slammed shut and the engine roared to life. The car jerked forward and I felt a tiny hand on my forehead. I heard voices on the street, some shouting, and saw trees blurring past in the window Sohrab was sobbing. Farid was still repeating, "Bis millah! Bismillak!?
It was about then that I passed out.
第二十二章
法里德驾驶陆地巡洋舰，缓缓开上瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区一座大房子的车道。那座院子在十五号街，迎宾大道，柳树的枝条从围墙上伸出来，法里德把车停在柳阴下。他熄了火，我们坐了那么一分钟，听着发动机嘀嘀的冷却声，没有人说话。法里德在座位上转动身子，拨弄那把还挂在点火锁孔的钥匙。我知道他心里有话要对我说。
“我想我会留在车里等你。”他最后说，语气有点抱歉。他没有看着我，“这是你的事情。我……”
我拍拍他的手臂。“你替我做的事情，比我付钱请你做的还多。我没想过要你陪我进去。”但我希望自己不用独自进去。尽管已经知道爸爸的真面目，我还是希望他现在就站在我身边。爸爸会昂首挺胸走进前门，要求去见他们的头目，在那些胆敢拦住去路的人胡子上撒尿。可是爸爸死去很久了，长埋在海沃德一座小小墓园的阿富汗区。就在上个月，索拉雅和我还在他的坟头摆一束雏菊和小苍兰。我只有靠自己了。
我下车，走向那房子高高的木头大门。我按下门铃，但没有反应——还在停电，我只好嘭嘭敲门。片刻之后，门后传来短促的应声，两个扛着俄制步枪的男 人打开门。
我看了看坐在车里的法里德，大声说：“我会回来的。”但心里却是忐忑不安。
持着枪械的家伙搜遍我全身，拍拍我的腿，摸摸我的胯下。其中一个用普什图语说了几句，他们两个哈哈大笑。我们穿过前门。那两个卫兵护送着我，走过一片修剪齐整的草坪，经过一排植在墙边的天竺葵和茂密的灌木丛。远处，在院子尽头，有一泵摇井。我记得霍玛勇叔叔在贾拉拉巴特的房子也有这样的水井——那对双胞胎，法茜拉和卡丽玛，还有我，经常往里面丢石头，听它落水的声音。
我们走上台阶，进入一座装潢精美的大房子。我们穿过门廊——墙上挂着一面巨大的阿富汗国旗，那两个男人带我上楼，走进一间房子，里面摆放着一对翠绿色的沙发，一台大屏幕电视摆在距离颇远的屋角。墙上钉着绣有麦加地图的祷 告地毯。年纪较大那人用枪管指指沙发。我坐下。他们离开房间。
我翘起脚，又放下。我坐在那儿，双手冒着汗水，放在膝盖上。这让我看起来很紧张吧？我合起手掌，觉得这样更糟糕，干脆横抱在胸前。血液在我的太阳穴里面涌动。我感到深深的孤独。思绪在我脑海翻飞，但我根本不想去思考，因为我体内清醒的那部分知道，我是发疯了，才会让自己陷进这一切。我远离妻子几千英里，坐在感觉像地牢的房间里面，等待一个凶手，我刚刚才亲眼看到他杀死两个人。这一定是疯了。甚至更糟糕，这还很不负责任。非常可能的是，我即将让年方三十六岁的索拉雅成为寡妇。这不是你，阿米尔。
我体内有个声音说，你懦弱，这是你的天性。这并非什么坏事，因为你从不强装勇敢，这是你的优点。只要三思而后行，懦弱并没有错。可是，当一个懦夫忘了自己是什么人……
愿真主保佑他。
沙发前面摆着一张咖啡桌，底座是 X状的，金属桌脚交叉的地方，拴着一环胡桃大小的铜球。我之前见过这样的桌子。在哪里？我突然想起来：在白沙瓦那间拥挤的茶馆里面，那天傍晚我出去闲逛时走进去的那间。桌上摆着一盘红色的葡萄，我摘下一个，丢进嘴里。我得找件事来想着，任何事情都行，这样才能让脑子里的声音安静下来。葡萄很甜，我又吃了一个，完全没有想到在接下来很长一段时间里面，这是我吃下的最后一口固体食物。
门打开，那两个持枪的男人回来，他们中间是那个穿白色衣服的高个子塔利班，依然戴着约翰·列农式的墨镜，看上去有点像某个神秘的新世纪巫师。
他坐在我对面，双手放在沙发的扶手上。好长一段时间，他一语不发，只是坐在那儿，看着我，一手拍打着沙发套，一手捻着青绿色的念珠。现在，他在白色的衬衣外面加了件黑色的背心，戴着金表。我看见他左袖有一小块干涸的血迹。他没换掉早些时候行刑的衣服，这对我来说竟然有些病态的魔力。
他那没拿念珠的手不时抬起，厚厚的手指在空气中做拍打状，慢慢地，上下左右拍打着，仿佛他在摸着一只隐形的宠物。他的袖子后缩，我见到他前臂上有吸毒的标记——同样的标记，我也曾在旧金山那些生活在污秽小巷的流浪汉身上见过。
他的皮肤比其他两个自得多，白得近乎病态，他的前额，就在黑色头巾边缘之下，有颗汗珠渗出来。他的胡子跟其他人一样，长到胸前，也是颜色较浅。
“你好。”他说。
“你好。”
“现在可以弄掉那个了，你知道。”他说。
“什么？”他朝一个持枪的家伙做了个手势。嘶嘶。刹那间我脸颊发痛，那个卫兵咯咯发笑，手里拿着我的假胡子丢上丢下。那个塔利班狞笑：“这是我最近见过的最好的假胡子。但我认为现在这样更好一些，你说呢？”他摩着手指，压得它们咯咯响，不断握着拳头，又张开。“好了，安拉保佑，你喜欢今天的表演吗？”
“那是表演吗？”我抚着脸颊说，惟求声音别暴露我心里极大的恐惧。
“杀鸡儆猴是最好的表演，老兄。如同一出戏剧，充满悬念。但，最重要的是，教育大众。”他打了个响指，较年轻的那个卫兵给他点上香烟。塔利班哈哈大笑，喃喃自语，双手颤抖，香烟差点掉下来。“但如果你想看看真正的表演，你应该随着我到马扎[Mazar，按马扎里沙里夫是Mazar-e-Sharif的音译，在波斯 语中即”马扎和沙里夫“，由马扎和沙里夫两个城区组成]去，1998年8月，那才叫精彩。”
“没听明白。”
“你知道的，我们将他们留给狗吃。”我明白他在说什么了。
他站起来，绕着沙发走了一圈，两圈，又坐下。“我们挨家搜索，把男人和 男孩抓出来。我们就在那儿，当着他们家人的面，把他们干掉，给他们颜色看，让他们记得自己是谁，属于哪里。”他现在几乎是在喘气，“有时候，我们破门而入，走进他们的屋子。而我……我拿着冲锋枪，在屋子里一通扫射，直到烟雾弥漫，挡住我的视线。”他倾向我，似乎要跟我分享什么大秘密。“如果你没那么干过，一定不知道‘解放’是什么意思。站在到处是靶子的屋子里面，让子弹纷飞，忘掉负疚和悔恨，知道你自己品德良好，善良，高尚，知道你自己在替天行道。真叫人兴奋。”他亲吻念珠，转过头，“你还记得吗，贾维德？”
“记得，老爷。”年轻那个卫兵回答说，“我怎么会忘记呢？”我在报纸上看过有关马扎里沙里夫的哈扎拉人遭到屠杀的新闻。那在塔利班攻陷马扎之后就发生了。马扎是几个最后沦陷的城市之一。我记得早餐后，索拉 雅给我看那篇报道，她面无血色。
“挨家过户。我们只有吃饭和祷告的时候才停手。”塔利班说。他说的时候神情愉悦，好像一个男人在描绘他参加过的盛宴。“我们将尸体扔在街道上，如果他们的家人试图偷偷将他拉回家，我们就连他们一块干掉。我们将他们扔在街道上好多天，把他们留给狗吃，狗肉应该留给狗。”他吸了一口烟，用颤抖的手揉揉眼睛。“你从美国来？”
“那个婊子近来如何？”我突然想尿尿，祈祷尿意会消失。“我在找一个男孩。”
“谁不是呢？”他说。持枪那两个人哈哈大笑，露出被鼻烟熏成绿色的牙齿。
“我知道他在这里，跟你在一起。”我说，“他的名字叫索拉博。”
“我要问你，你投奔那个婊子干什么呢？你为什么不留在这里，跟你的穆斯林兄弟在一起，保卫你的国家？”
“我离开很久了。”我只想得出这么一句话。我头脑发胀，紧紧压住膝盖，忍住尿意。
塔利班转向那两个站在门口的男子，“这算是答案吗？”他问。
“不算，老爷。”他们笑着齐声说。他把眼光转向我，耸耸肩，“这不算答案，他们说。”
他吸一口烟，“在我生活的圈子里面，人们认为，在祖国需要的时候离开，跟叛国一样可恶。我可以用叛国的罪名逮捕你，甚至将你干掉，你害怕吗？”
“我来这里只是要找那个男孩。”
“你害怕了吗？”
“是的。”
“那是应该的。”他说，回身靠着沙发，吸烟。我想起索拉雅。这让我镇定。我想起她镰刀状的胎记，脖子优雅的曲线，还有明亮的眼睛。我想起婚礼那夜，我们在绿色头巾之下，看着彼此在镜里的容貌，对她说我爱她。我记得我们两个在一首古老的阿富汗歌谣伴奏下翩翩起舞，转了一圈又一圈，大家看着，鼓掌称好，满世界都是花朵、洋装、燕尾服，还有笑脸。
塔利班在说话。
“什么？”
“我问你是不是想见见他，见见我的男孩？”说到最后两个字时，他上唇卷起，发出一声冷笑。
“是的。”卫兵离开房间。我听见一扇摇晃的门打开的声音，听见卫兵声音严厉，用普什图语说了些什么，然后是脚步声，每一步都伴有铃铛的响声。它让我想起过去，我和哈桑经常在沙里诺区追逐的那个耍猴人。我们常常从零用钱中给他一个卢比的硬币，猴脖子上的铃铛就发出同样的声音。
然后门打开，卫兵走进来。他肩膀上扛着个立体声放音机，他后面跟着个男孩，身穿宽松的天蓝色棉袍。
相似得令人心碎、令人迷惑。拉辛汗的宝丽莱照片拍得并不像。那男孩有他父亲那张满月似的脸庞，翘起的下巴，扭曲的海贝般的耳朵，还有同样瘦削的身形。它是那张我童年见到的中国娃娃脸，那张冬天时看着呈扇子状展开的扑克牌的脸，那张我们夏天睡在爸爸房子的屋顶上时躲在蚊帐后面的脸。他剃着平头，眼睛被睫毛膏涂黑，脸颊泛出不自然的红色。他在房子中央停住，套在他脚踝上的铃铛也不再发出声响。
他眼光落在我身上，打量着，然后移开，看着他自己赤裸的双足。有个卫兵按揿下按钮，房间里响起普什图音乐。手鼓，手风琴，还有如泣如诉的雷布巴琴。我猜想，音乐只要传进塔利班的耳朵，就不算是罪恶。那三个男人开始鼓掌。
“哇！哇！太棒了！”索拉博抬起手臂，缓缓转身。他踮起脚尖，优雅地旋转，弯身触碰膝盖，挺直，再次旋转。他的小手在手腕处转动，打着响指，而他的头像钟摆那样来回摇动。他的脚踩着地板，铃铛的响声完美地和手鼓声融合在一起。他始终闭着双眼。
“真棒！”他们欢呼，“跳得好！太棒了！”两个卫兵吹着口哨，哈哈大笑。穿白衣的塔利班身子随着音乐前后晃动，嘴角挂着淫亵的笑容。
索拉博绕着圆圈跳舞，闭着眼睛跳啊跳，直到音乐停止。他的脚随最后一个音符顿在地上，铃铛响了最后一次。他维持半转的姿势。
“好啊，好啊，我的男孩。”塔利班说，把索拉博喊过去。索拉博低头走过去，站在他两腿之间。那个塔利班伸臂抱住索拉博，“多么有天分啊，不是吗，我的哈扎拉男孩！”
他说。他的手在孩子背后滑落，然后摸起，停在他的腋窝下面。一个卫兵用手肘撞了另外那个，偷偷发笑。塔利班让他们退下。
“是，老爷。”他们说完退出去。塔利班扳过男孩的身子，让他面对着我。他把手停在索拉博的小腹上，下巴抵着他的肩膀。索拉博低头看着脚，但不停用羞涩的眼神偷偷看着我。那男人的手在男孩的小腹上下移动、上下抚摸，慢慢地，温柔地。
“我一直在想，”塔利班说，他血红的双眼在索拉博肩膀上看着我，“那个老巴巴鲁后来怎么样了？”
这个问题问得我眼冒金星。我觉得脸上冒出冷汗，双脚渐渐变冷，变麻木。他哈哈大笑：“你想干什么呢？以为挂上一副假胡子我就认不出你来？我敢说，我身上有一点你从来不知道：我从来不会忘记人们的脸，从来不会。”他用嘴唇去擦索拉博的耳朵，眼睛看着我。“我听说你父亲死了，啧啧，我一直想跟他干上一架，看来，我只好解决他这个没用的儿子了。”说完他将太阳镜摘下，血红的眼睛逼视着我。
我想呼吸，但不能。我想眨眼，但不能。那一刻多么虚幻——不，不是虚幻，是荒唐。它让我无力呼吸，让我身边的世界停止转动。我脸上发烧。那句关于烂钱的谚语[英语中有句俗语，“A bad Penny always tums up”，意思是坏人总是会回来] 怎么说来着？
往事就是如此，总是会回来。他的名字从深处冒出来，我却不愿意提及，仿佛一说出来，
他就会现身。但这许多年过去以后，他已经在这里了，活生生的，坐在离我不到十英尺的
地方。我脱口说出他的名字：“阿塞夫。”
“亲爱的阿米尔。”
“你在这里干什么？”我说，明知自己这个问题蠢得无以复加，可是想不出有其他可说的。
“我？”阿塞夫眉毛一扬，“这里是我的地盘，问题是，你在这里干什么？”
“我已经告诉过你了，”我说，声音颤抖。我希望话不是这么说出口，希望自己没有浑身发抖。
“这个男孩？”
“是的。”
“为什么？”
“我可以为了他付钱给你，”我说，“我可以汇钱给你。”
“钱？”阿塞夫说，忍不住狂笑起来。“你听说过洛金汉吗？在澳大利亚西部，天堂般的地方。你应该去看看，沙滩连绵不绝，绿色的海水，蓝色的天空。我父母在那儿，住在海滨别墅里面。别墅后面有高尔夫球场，有个小小的湖泊。爸爸每天打高尔夫球，我妈妈比较喜欢网球——爸爸说她打得很棒。他们开着一家阿富汗餐厅、两间珠宝店，生意非常兴隆。”他拣起一颗葡萄，慈爱地放进索 拉博口里。“所以，如果我需要钱，我会让他们汇给我。”他亲吻索拉博脖子的侧边。男孩身子稍微一缩，又闭上双眼。“再说，我跟俄国佬干仗不是为了钱。加入塔利班也不是为了钱。你想知道我为什么加入他们吗？”
我嘴唇已经变干了，舔了舔，这才发现舌头也变干了。
“你口渴吗？”阿塞夫说，满脸坏笑。
“不。”
“我认为你很渴。”
“还好。”我说。事情的真相是，房间突然之间变热了——汗水从我的毛孔冒出来，浸湿我的皮肤。这是真的吗？我真的坐在阿塞夫对面吗？
“随便你，”他说，“不管怎么说，我讲到哪里了？哦，对了，我为什么加入塔利班。嗯，也许你还记得，我过去不是那么虔诚。但有一天，我看到真主显灵了，在监狱里看到。你想听吗？”
我默默无语。
“很好，我来告诉你。”他说，“我在监狱里面度过了一段时间，在波勒卡其区，1980年，就在巴布拉克·卡尔迈勒[Babrak Karmal（1929～1996），1979 年至1986年任阿富汗总统] 掌权之后不久。我被逮捕那天晚上，一群士兵冲进我家，用枪口指着父亲和我，勒令我们跟他们走。那些混蛋连个理由都没说，也不回答我母亲的问题。那也不算什么秘密，谁都知道新政府仇恨有钱人。他们出身贫贱，就是这些狗，俄国佬打进来之前连舔我的鞋子都不配，现在用枪口指着我，向我下令。他们手臂别着新政府的旗帜，胡言乱语说什么有钱人统统该死，仿佛他们翻身的日子到了一样。到处都是这样的事情，冲进富人家里，将他们投入监狱，给志同道合者树立起榜样。”
“不管怎么说，我们六人一组，被塞在冰箱大小的牢房里。每天晚上，有个军官，一个半哈扎拉、半乌兹别克的东西，身上发出烂驴子的臭味，会将一个犯人拖出牢房，恣意殴打，直到那张肥脸滴着汗水方才罢休。然后他会点香烟，舒展筋骨，走出监狱。进去那夜，他选了别人。有一晚，他挑中我。真是糟糕透顶，我那时患了肾结石，尿了三天血。如果你没得过肾结石，请相信我，那是你所能想像到的痛苦中最厉害的一种。我妈妈过去也患过，我记得有一次，她对我说，她宁愿生孩子，也好过得肾结石。但是，我能做什么呢？他们将我拖出去，他开始踢我。他穿有铁鞋尖的及膝长靴，每天晚上都到这里来玩踢人游戏。他也用它们踢我。他不断踢，我不断惨叫，突然之间，他踢中我的左肾，结石被挤出来了。就是那样！啊，解脱！”阿塞夫大笑，“我高喊‘真主伟大’，他踢得更加厉害了，我开始哈哈大笑。他气得发疯，使劲踢我；但他踢得越重，我笑得越响。他们将我扔回牢房的时候，我仍在发笑。我笑个不停，因为突然之间，我得到了真主的指示：他就在我身上。他要我为了某个目标活下去。”
“你知道吗，隔了几年，我在战场撞见那个军官——真主的行为真是幽默。我在梅曼那[Meymanah，阿富汗西北部省份法里亚布（Faryab）首府]附近的战壕找到他，胸口插着一块弹片，流血不止。他还是穿着那双靴子。我问记不记得我，他说不记得了。我把刚才告诉你的跟他说了，我从来不会忘记人们的脸。我开枪射他的睾丸。自那以后，我就有了使命。”
“什么使命？”我听见自己说，“对偷情的人扔石头？强奸儿童？鞭打穿高跟鞋的妇女？屠杀哈扎拉人？而这一切都以伊斯兰的名义？”突然间，始料不及的是，我还没来得及勒住缰绳，这些话就统统跑出来。我希望我能将它们抓回来，吞下肚。但它们跑出来了。我越线了，活着走出这间房子的希望随着这些话溜走。
诧异的神情在阿塞夫脸上一闪而过。“我觉得这毕竟算是享受。”他冷笑着 说，“但是，有些事情，像你这样的叛国之徒永远不会懂。”
“比如说？”阿塞夫眉头一锁：“比如为你的人民、你的习俗、你的语言骄傲。阿富汗就像一座到处扔着垃圾的美丽大厦，得有人把垃圾清走。”
“那就是你在马扎挨门挨户所做的？清走垃圾？”
“准确无误。”
“在西方，人们有另外一个说法，”我说，“他们管这个叫种族清洗。”
“真的吗？”阿塞夫神色一亮，“种族清洗。我喜欢它。我喜欢它的发音。”
“我只想要这个男孩。”
“种族清洗。”阿塞夫喃喃自语，品味着这个词组。
“我要这个男孩。”我又说了一遍。索拉博的眼睛望着我，那是一双任人宰杀的羔羊的眼睛，甚至还有眼影——我记得，宰牲节那天，我家院子里面，毛拉在割断绵羊的喉咙之前，涂黑它的眼睛，给它吃一块糖。我认为我从索拉博眼中 看到了哀求。
“告诉我为什么。”阿塞夫说。他的牙齿轻轻咬着索拉博的耳垂，在上面游走。他的额头流出汗珠。
“那是我的事情。”
“你想要他干什么呢？”他说，然后露出猥亵的微笑，“或者，想要对他做什么？”
“真恶心。”我说。
“你怎么知道？你试过了吗？”
“我会带他到一个更好的地方去。”
“告诉我为什么。”
“那是我的事情。”我说。我不知道自己何以变得如此强硬，也许是临死一搏吧。
“我真奇怪，”阿塞夫说，“我真的很奇怪，为何你那么老远来？阿米尔，为什么你那么老远来，就为了一个哈扎拉人？你为什么来这儿？你来这里的真正原因是什么？”
“我有我的理由。”我说。
“那么很好。”阿塞夫冷笑着说。他按着索拉博的背，将他推向桌子右边。索拉博的屁股碰到桌子，将其撞翻，葡萄掉了一地。他迎面跌倒在葡萄上，上衣被葡萄汁染成紫色。穿着一圈铜球的桌脚现在指向天花板。
“那么，给你。”阿塞夫说。我把索拉博扶起来，压碎的葡萄粘在他裤子上，如同海贝吸附在码头上，我帮他抹掉。
“去吧，带上他。”阿塞夫指着门说。我拉起索拉博的手。他很小，皮肤干燥，长着茧。他手指挪动，跟我扣在一起。我又看见宝丽莱照片上的索拉博了，看到他的手臂抱着哈桑的大腿、头靠在他父亲臀部上的那种神情，看到他们两个微笑着。我们穿过房间，铃铛叮当叮当响。
我们走到门边。
“当然，”阿塞夫在身后说，“我没有说这是免费的。”我转过身：“你想要什么？”
“你必须自己赢得他。”
“你想要什么？”
“我们还有些没了结的账，你和我。”阿塞夫说，“你记得的，对吧？”
他无须担心。我永世不会忘记达乌德汗推翻国王那天。成年之后，每当我听到达乌德汗的名字，就能想起哈桑举起弹弓，瞄准阿塞夫的脸，哈桑说人们会叫他独眼龙阿塞夫，而不是吃耳朵的阿塞夫。我记得自己对哈桑的勇气钦羡不已。阿塞夫退开，发誓说他会给我们教训。他已经在哈桑身上实现了誓言。现在轮到我了。
“好吧。”我找不到其他话可说。我不想求饶，那只会让他更加痛快。阿塞夫把卫兵唤进屋里。“我要你们听着。”他对他们说，“再过一会，我 会关上门。然后他和我会处理一点陈年烂账。你们无论听到什么，都别进来！听到没有？别进来！”
卫兵点着头，看看阿塞夫，看看我。“是，老爷。”
“完了之后，我们只有一个能活着走出这间房子，”阿塞夫说，“如果是他，那么他就赢得自由，你们放他走，明白了吗？”
年纪较大的卫兵不安地说：“可是老爷……”
“如果他走出去，你们放他走！”阿塞夫大叫。那两个卫兵吓得连连点头。他们转身离开，有个去拉索拉博。
“让他留下，”阿塞夫说，狞笑着，“让他看看。学点教训对孩子有好处。”卫兵离开。
阿塞夫放下念珠，把手伸进黑色背心的上袋。他掏出来的东西，我早就料到了：不锈钢拳
套。
那人的头发涂着睹喱水，厚厚的嘴唇上面留着克拉克·盖博那样的小胡子。睹喱水浸透了绿色的手术纸帽，弄出非洲地图似的污迹。我记得他黑色的脖子上的金项链，挂着安拉的神像。他俯视着我，连珠炮似的说出一种我听不懂的语言，乌尔都语[Urdu，巴基斯坦官方语言]，我想。我的眼睛盯在他的喉结，看着它上上下下，我想问他究竟多大年纪——他看上去太年轻，像外国肥皂剧里面某个演员。但我说出口的只是，我要狠狠揍他一顿，我要狠狠揍他一顿。
我不知道自己有没有狠狠揍阿塞夫一顿。我想没有吧，怎么可能呢？那是我 第一次跟人打架。我长这么大了，还没朝人挥过一拳呢。
在我记忆中，跟阿塞夫打架的情景栩栩如生，真叫人吃惊：我记得阿塞夫在 戴上拳套之前打开了音乐。在某个时刻，长方形的祷告毛毯，织着麦加地图那张，从墙上松落，掉在我头上，它上面的泥土弄得我打喷嚏。我记得阿塞夫抓起葡萄 磨着我的脸，他咬牙切齿，滚动着血红的眼睛。在某个时刻，阿塞夫的头巾脱落，露出几缕长及肩膀的金色头发。还有结局，当然。结局我看得一清二楚。我想我会永远记得。我记得的大体是这样的：他的拳套在午后的阳光中闪亮，他第一次击中我时，我浑身发冷，但很快，我的鲜血就温暖了他的拳套。我被甩到墙壁，一颗本来可能挂着画的钉子刺进我的后背。我听到索拉博的尖叫，还有手鼓、手风琴、雷布巴琴演奏的乐声。身子撞到墙壁上，拳套击打我的下巴。被自己的牙齿噎住，将 它们吞下去，我想起自己曾花了无数时间刷牙、清牙缝。被摔倒墙上。倒在地板上，血从破裂的上唇流出来，滴污了淡紫色的地毯，腹部阵阵剧痛起伏，想着我什么时候才能再次呼吸。我的肋骨断裂，声音跟折断树枝一样，从前哈桑和我经常拿折断的树枝当剑，像旧电影里面的辛巴德那样决斗。听到索拉博的尖叫。我的侧脸撞上电视柜的一角。又是一声断裂，这次正中我左眼下面。我听到音乐声，索拉博的尖叫声。手指抓着我的头发，拖着我向后，不锈钢闪闪发亮，它们挥击过来，断裂声再次响起，这次是我的鼻子。咬牙忍痛，发现我的牙齿已经不像过去那样齐整了。被踢中。索拉博不断尖叫。
我不知道自己何时开始发笑，但我笑了。笑起来很痛，下巴、肋骨、喉咙统统剧痛难忍。但我不停笑着。我笑得越痛快，他就越起劲地踢我、打我、抓我。
“什么事这样好笑？”阿塞夫不断咆哮，一拳拳击出。他的口水溅上我的眼睛。索拉博尖叫。
“什么事这样好笑？”阿塞夫怒不可遏。又一根肋骨断裂，这次在左边胸下。好笑的是，自 1975年冬天以来，我第一次感到心安理得。我大笑，因为我知道，在我大脑深处某个隐蔽的角落，我甚至一直在期待这样的事情。我记得那天，在山上，我用石榴扔哈桑，试图激怒他。他只是站在那儿，一动不动，红色的果汁染在他衬衣上，跟鲜血一样。然后他从我手里拿过一个石榴，在自己额头上磨碎。现在你满意了吗？他凄然说，你觉得好受一些了吗？我从不曾觉得高兴，从不曾觉得好受一些，根本就没有过。但我现在感觉到了。我体无完肤——我当时并不清楚有多糟糕，后来才知道——但心病已愈。终于痊愈了，我大笑。
接着是结局，我就算埋在坟里也会记得。我躺在地上哈哈大笑，阿塞夫坐在我胸膛，一张发疯似的脸被缕缕晃动的头发围绕着，离我的脸只有几英寸。他一只手掐着我的喉咙，另外一只戴着拳套，作势悬在肩上，他举起拳头，准备再次击落。
接着，“别打了。”一个微弱的声音响起。 我们都看着。
“求求你，别再打了。”
我想起在恤孤院的时候，负责人给我和法里德开门，说了一句话。他叫什么名字来着？察曼？那东西跟他形影不离。他说，他无论走到那儿，都会将它塞在裤带上。
“别再打了。”眼影混着泪珠，在他脸上冲出两道黑色的痕迹，弄糊了胭脂。他下唇颤抖着，
流着鼻涕，“别打了。”他哽咽道。
弹弓被拉满，他的手高举过肩，握着橡皮筋末端的弓杯。弓杯里面有个东西，黄色的，闪闪发光。我将血从眼上眨落，看到那是一个铜球，从桌子的底座取下来的。索拉博将弹弓瞄准阿塞夫的脸。
“别再打了，老爷。”他说，嘶哑的声音颤抖着，“别再伤害他。” 阿塞夫的嘴巴无言地扭曲，欲言又止。“你知道你自己在干什么吗？”最后他说。
“求求你，停下来。”索拉博说，泪水又从绿色的眼睛涌出，和眼影混在一起。
“把它放下，哈扎拉人。”阿塞夫气急败坏，“把它放下，不然我会处置你，相比之下，我刚才对他做的，不过是温柔地拧拧耳朵罢了。”
泪水流个不停。索拉博摇摇头。“求求你，老爷，”他说，“停下来。”
“放下。”
“别再伤害他了。”
“放下。”
“求求你。”
“把它放下！”
“别打了。”
“把它放下！”阿塞夫放开我的喉咙，朝索拉博扑去。 索拉博松开弓杯，弹弓发出嘶嘶的声音。接着阿塞夫惨叫起来，用手掩着片刻之前还是左眼所在的地方。血渗出他的指缝。血，还有其他东西，像嗜喱水一 样的白色的东西。那叫玻璃状液，我清楚地想起来。
我在某个地方读到过，玻璃状液。
阿塞夫在地毯上打滚，翻来覆去，不断惨叫，双手仍掩着血淋淋的眼眶。
“我们走！”索拉博说，他拉起我的手，把我扶起来。我被痛击过的身体每一寸都在发痛。阿塞夫在我们后面叫着。
“出去！滚出去！”他高声尖叫。我跌跌撞撞打开门。卫兵看到我的时候，眼睛睁得大大的，我在想自己像什么样子，每次呼吸都带来胃痛。有个卫兵用普什图语说了几句，接着飞也似的跑过我们，奔进房间。阿塞夫仍在里面不停喊着“出去！”。
“快走，”索拉博说，拉着我的手，“我们走。”我拉着索拉博的小手，挣扎着走下门厅。我回头看了最后一眼，卫兵在阿塞夫身边乱成一团，朝他脸上做着什么。我恍然大悟：铜球还嵌在他空洞的眼眶里。
我觉得天旋地转，倚着索拉博，蹒跚走下楼梯。楼上传来阿塞夫声声惨叫，如同受伤野兽的哀嚎。我们走出来了，走进阳光中，我的手臂压在索拉博肩膀上，然后我看见法里德朝我们跑来。
“奉安拉之名！奉安拉之名！”他说，眼睛大大地瞪着我。他将我的手臂摔在肩膀，背起我，朝卡车飞奔而去。我想我尖叫了。我看见他的拖鞋嘭嘭蹬着地面，甩打着他粗黑的后脚跟。呼吸很痛。然后我看到了陆地巡洋舰的车顶，被放进后座，看到发皱的米色坐垫，听见车门打开的叮叮叮声音。一阵跑步声绕过车身，法里德和索拉博匆匆谈了几句，车门用力关上，引擎发动。车子猛然前冲，我感到额头上有只小手。我听见街道上的声音，几声呼喝，看见窗外的模糊的树朝后退去。索拉博在哭泣，法里德仍不停重复着：“奉安拉之名！奉安拉之名！”
大约在那时，我昏了过去。 -
Chapter 23
Faces poke through the haze, linger, fade away. They peer down, ask me questions. They all ask questions. Do I know who I am? Do I hurt anywhere? I know who I am and I hurt everywhere. I want to tell them this but talking hurts. I know this because some time ago, maybe a year ago, maybe two, maybe ten, I tried to talk to a child with rouge on his cheeks and eyes smeared black. The child. Yes, I see him now. We are in a car of sorts, the child and I, and I don't think Soraya's driving because Soraya never drives this fast. I want to say something to this child--it seems very impor tant that I do. But I don't remember what I want to say, or why it might have been important. Maybe I want to tell him to stop cry ing, that everything will be all right now. Maybe not. For some reason I can't think of, I want to thank the child.
Faces. They're all wearing green hats. They slip in and out of view They talk rapidly, use words I don't understand. I hear other voices, other noises, beeps and alarms. And always more faces. Peering down. I don't remember any of them, except for the one with the gel in his hair and the Clark Gable mustache, the one?with the Africa stain on his cap. Mister Soap Opera Star. That's funny. I want to laugh now. But laughing hurts too.
I fade out.
SHE SAYS HER NAME IS AISHA, "like the prophet's wife.?Her graying hair is parted in the middle and tied in a ponytail, her nose pierced with a stud shaped like the sun. She wears bifocals that make her eyes bug out. She wears green too and her hands are soft. She sees me looking at her and smiles. Says something in English. Something is jabbing at the side of my chest.
I fade out.
A MAN IS STANDING at my bedside. I know him. He is dark and lanky, has a long beard. He wears a hat--what are those hats called? Pakols? Wears it tilted to one side like a famous person whose name escapes me now. I know this man. He drove me somewhere a few years ago. I know him. There is something wrong with my mouth. I hear a bubbling sound.
I fade out.
MY RIGHT ARM BURNS. The woman with the bifocals and sun-shaped stud is hunched over my arm, attaching a clear plastic tubing to it. She says it's "the Potassium.?"It stings like a bee, no??she says. It does. What's her name? Something to do with a prophet. I know her too from a few years ago. She used to wear her hair in a ponytail. Now it's pulled back, tied in a bun. Soraya
wore her hair like that the first time we spoke. When was that? Last week?
Aisha! Yes.
There is something wrong with my mouth. And that thing jab bing at my chest.
I fade out.
WE ARE IN THE SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS of Baluchistan and Baba is wrestling the black bear. He is the Baba of my child hood, _Toophan agha_, the towering specimen of Pashtun might, not the withered man under the blankets, the man with the sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. They roll over a patch of green grass, man and beast, Baba's curly brown hair flying. The bear roars, or maybe it's Baba. Spittle and blood fly; claw and hand swipe. They fall to the ground with a loud thud and Baba is sitting on the bear's chest, his fingers digging in its snout. He looks up at me and I see. He's me. I am wrestling the bear.
I wake up. The lanky dark man is back at my bedside. His name is Farid, I remember now. And with him is the child from the car. His face reminds me of the sound of bells. I am thirsty.
I fade out.
I keep fading in and out.
THE NAME OF THE MAN with the Clark Gable mustache turned out to be Dr. Faruqi. He wasn't a soap opera star at all, but a head-and-neck surgeon, though I kept thinking of him as some one named Armand in some steamy soap set on a tropical island.
Where am I? I wanted to ask. But my mouth wouldn't open. I frowned. Grunted. Armand smiled; his teeth were blinding white.
"Not yet, Amir,?he said, "but soon. When the wires are out.?He spoke English with a thick, rolling Urdu accent.
Wires?
Armand crossed his arms; he had hairy forearms and wore a gold wedding band. "You must be wondering where you are, what happened to you. That's perfectly normal, the postsurgical state is always disorienting. So I'll tell you what I know.?
I wanted to ask him about the wires. Postsurgical? Where was Aisha? I wanted her to smile at me, wanted her soft hands in mine.
Armand frowned, cocked one eyebrow in a slightly selfimportant way. "You are in a hospital in Peshawar. You've been here two days. You have suffered some very significant injuries, Amir, I should tell you. I would say you're very lucky to be alive, my friend.?He swayed his index finger back and forth like a pendu lum when he said this. "Your spleen had ruptured, probably--and fortunately for you--a delayed rupture, because you had signs of early hemorrhage into your abdominal cavity My colleagues from the general surgery unit had to perform an emergency splenec tomy. If it had ruptured earlier, you would have bled to death.?He patted me on the arm, the one with the IV, and smiled. "You also suffered seven broken ribs. One of them caused a pneumothorax.?
I frowned. Tried to open my mouth. Remembered about the wires.
"That means a punctured lung,?Armand explained. He tugged at a clear plastic tubing on my left side. I felt the jabbing again in my chest. "We sealed the leak with this chest tube.?I followed the tube poking through bandages on my chest to a container halffilled with columns of water. The bubbling sound came from there.
"You had also suffered various lacerations. That means ‘cuts.?I wanted to tell him I knew what the word meant; I was a writer. I went to open my mouth. Forgot about the wires again.
"The worst laceration was on your upper lip,?Armand said. "The impact had cut your upper lip in two, clean down the mid dle. But not to worry, the plastics guys sewed it back together and they think you will have an excellent result, though there will be a scar. That is unavoidable.
"There was also an orbital fracture on the left side; that's the eye socket bone, and we had to fix that too. The wires in your jaws will come out in about six weeks,?Armand said. "Until then it's liq uids and shakes. You will lose some weight and you will be talking like Al Pacino from the first Godfather movie for a little while.?He laughed. "But you have a job to do today. Do you know what it is??
I shook my head.
"Your job today is to pass gas. You do that and we can start feeding you liquids. No fart, no food.?He laughed again.
Later, after Aisha changed the IV tubing and raised the head of the bed like I'd asked, I thought about what had happened to me. Ruptured spleen. Broken teeth. Punctured lung. Busted eye socket. But as I watched a pigeon peck at a bread crumb on the windowsill, I kept thinking of something else Armand/Dr. Faruqi had said: The impact had cut your upper lip in two, he had said, clean down the middle. Clean down the middle. Like a harelip.
FARID AND SOHRAB came to visit the next day. "Do you know who we are today? Do you remember??Farid said, only half-jokingly. I nodded.
"Al hamdullellah!?he said, beaming. "No more talking non sense.?
"Thank you, Farid,?I said through jaws wired shut. Armand was right--I did sound like Al Pacino from The Godfather. And my tongue surprised me every time it poked in one of the empty spaces left by the teeth I had swallowed. "I mean, thank you. For everything.?
He waved a hand, blushed a little. "Bas, it's not worthy of thanks,?he said. I turned to Sohrab. He was wearing a new outfit, light brown pirhan-tumban that looked a bit big for him, and a black skullcap. He was looking down at his feet, toying with the IV line coiled on the bed.
"We were never properly introduced,?I said. I offered him my hand. "I am Amir.?
He looked at my hand, then to me. "You are the Amir agha Father told me about??he said.
"Yes.?I remembered the words from Hassan's letter. I have told much about you to Farzana jan and Sohrab, about us growing up together and playing games and running in the streets. They laugh at the stories of all the mischief you and I used to cause! "I owe you thanks too, Sohrab jan,?I said. "You saved my life.?
He didn't say anything. I dropped my hand when he didn't take it. "I like your new clothes,?I mumbled.
"They're my son's,?Farid said. "He has outgrown them. They fit Sohrab pretty well, I would say.?Sohrab could stay with him, he said, until we found a place for him. "We don't have a lot of room, but what can I do? I can't leave him to the streets. Besides, my children have taken a liking to him. Ha, Sohrab??But the boy just kept looking down, twirling the line with his finger.
"I've been meaning to ask,?Farid said, a little hesitantly. "What happened in that house? What happened between you and the Talib??
"Let's just say we both got what we deserved,?I said.
Farid nodded, didn't push it. It occurred to me that somewhere between the time we had left Peshawar for Afghanistan and now, we had become friends. "I've been meaning to ask something too.?
"What??
I didn't want to ask. I was afraid of the answer. "Rahim Khan,?I said.
"He's gone.?
My heart skipped. "Is he--?
"No, just... gone.?He handed me a folded piece of paper and a small key. "The landlord gave me this when I went looking for him. He said Rahim Khan left the day after we did.?
"Where did he go??
Farid shrugged. "The landlord didn't know He said Rahim Khan left the letter and the key for you and took his leave.?He checked his watch. "I'd better go. Bia, Sohrab.?
"Could you leave him here for a while??I said. "Pick him up later??I turned to Sohrab. "Do you want to stay here with me for a little while??
He shrugged and said nothing.
"Of course,?Farid said. "I'll pick him up just before evening _namaz_.?
THERE WERE THREE OTHER PATIENTS in my room. Two older men, one with a cast on his leg, the other wheezing with asthma, and a young man of fifteen or sixteen who'd had appendix surgery. The old guy in the cast stared at us without blinking, his eyes switching from me to the Hazara boy sitting on a stool. My roommates?families--old women in bright shalwar-kameezes, children, men wearing skullcaps--shuffled noisily in and out of the room. They brought with them pakoras, _naan_, sa,nosas, biryani. Sometimes people just wandered into the room, like the tall, bearded man who walked in just before Farid and Sohrab arrived. He wore a brown blanket wrapped around him. Aisha asked him something in Urdu. He paid her no attention and scanned the room with his eyes. I thought he looked at me a little longer than necessary. When the nurse spoke to him again, he just spun around and left.
"How are you??I asked Sohrab. He shrugged, looked at his hands.
"Are you hungry? That lady there gave me a plate of biryani, but I can't eat it,?I said. I didn't know what else to say to him. "You want it??
He shook his head.
"Do you want to talk??
He shook his head again.
We sat there like that for a while, silent, me propped up in bed, two pillows behind my back, Sohrab on the three-legged stool next to the bed. I fell asleep at some point, and, when I woke up, daylight had dimmed a bit, the shadows had stretched, and Sohrab was still sitting next to me. He was still looking down at his hands.
THAT NIGHT, after Farid picked up Sohrab, I unfolded Rahim Khan's letter. I had delayed reading it as long as possible. It read:
Amirjan, _Inshallah_, you have reached this letter safely. I pray that I have not put you in harm's way and that Afghanistan has not been too unkind to you. You have been in my prayers since the day you left. You were right all those years to suspect that I knew. I did know. Hassan told me shortly after it happened. What you did was wrong, Amir jan, but do not forget that you were a boy when it happened. A troubled little boy. You were too hard on yourself then, and you still are--I saw it in your eyes in Peshawar. But I hope you will heed this: A man who has no conscience, no goodness, does not suffer. I hope your suffering comes to an end with this journey to Afghanistan.
Amir jan, I am ashamed for the lies we told you all those years. You were right to be angry in Peshawar. You had a right to know. So did Hassan. I know it doesn't absolve anyone of anything, but the Kabul we lived in in those days was a strange world, one in which some things mattered more than the truth.
Amir jan, I know how hard your father was on you when you were growing up. I saw how you suffered and yearned for his affections, and my heart bled for you. But your father was a man torn between two halves, Amir jan:
you and Hassan. He loved you both, but he could not love Hassan the way he longed to, openly, and as a father. So he took it out on you instead--Amir, the socially legitimate half, the half that represented the riches he had inherited and the sin-with-impunity privileges that came with them. When he saw you, he saw himself. And his guilt. You are still angry and I realize it is far too early to expect you to accept this, but maybe someday you will see that when your father was hard on you, he was also being hard on himself. Your father, like you, was a tortured soul, Amir jan.
I cannot describe to you the depth and blackness of the sorrow that came over me when I learned of his passing. I loved him because he was my friend, but also because he was a good man, maybe even a great man. And this is what I want you to understand, that good, real good, was born out of your father's remorse. Sometimes, I think everything he did, feeding the poor on the streets, building the orphanage, giving money to friends in need, it was all his way of redeeming himself. And that, I believe, is what true redemption is, Amir jan, when guilt leads to good.
I know that in the end, God will forgive. He will forgive your father, me, and you too. I hope you can do the same. Forgive your father if you can. Forgive me if you wish. But, most important, forgive yourself.
I have left you some money, most of what I have left, in fact. I think you may have some expenses when you return here, and the money should be enough to cover them. There is a bank in Peshawar; Farid knows the location. The money is in a safe-deposit box. I have given you the key.
As for me, it is time to go. I have little time left and I wish to spend it alone. Please do not look for me. That is my final request of you.
I leave you in the hands of God.
Your friend always,
Rahim
I dragged the hospital gown sleeve across my eyes. I folded the letter and put it under my mattress.
Amir, the socially legitimate half, the half that represented the riches he had inherited and the sin-with-impunity privileges that came with them. Maybe that was why Baba and I had been on such better terms in the U.S., I wondered. Selling junk for petty cash, our menial jobs, our grimy apartment--the American version of a hut; maybe in America, when Baba looked at me, he saw a little bit of Hassan.
Your father, like you, was a tortured soul, Rahim Khan had written. Maybe so. We had both sinned and betrayed. But Baba had found a way to create good out of his remorse. What had I done, other than take my guilt out on the very same people I had betrayed, and then try to forget it all? What had I done, other than become an insomniac?
What had I ever done to right things?
When the nurse--not Aisha but a red-haired woman whose name escapes me--walked in with a syringe in hand and asked me if I needed a morphine injection, I said yes.
THEY REMOVED THE CHEST TUBE early the next morning, and Armand gave the staff the go-ahead to let me sip apple juice. I asked Aisha for a mirror when she placed the cup of juice on the dresser next to my bed. She lifted her bifocals to her forehead as she pulled the curtain open and let the morning sun flood the room. "Remember, now,?she said over her shoulder, "it will look better in a few days. My son-in-law was in a moped accident last year. His handsome face was dragged on the asphalt and became purple like an eggplant. Now he is beautiful again, like a Hollywood movie star.?
Despite her reassurances, looking in the mirror and seeing the thing that insisted it was my face left me a little breathless. It looked like someone had stuck an air pump nozzle under my skin and had pumped away. My eyes were puffy and blue. The worst of it was my mouth, a grotesque blob of purple and red, all bruise and stitches. I tried to smile and a bolt of pain ripped through my lips. I wouldn't be doing that for a while. There were stitches
across my left cheek, just under the chin, on the forehead just below the hairline.
The old guy with the leg cast said something in Urdu. I gave him a shrug and shook my head. He pointed to his face, patted it, and grinned a wide, toothless grin. "Very good,?he said in English. "Ins hallah.?
"Thank you,?I whispered.
Farid and Sohrab came in just as I put the mirror away. Sohrab took his seat on the stool, rested his head on the bed's side rail.
"You know, the sooner we get you out of here the better,?Farid said.
"Dr. Faruqi says--?
"I don't mean the hospital. I mean Peshawar.?
"Why??
"I don't think you'll be safe here for long,?Farid said. He lowered his voice. "The Taliban have friends here. They will start looking for you.?
"I think they already may have,?I murmured. I thought suddenly of the bearded man who'd wandered into the room and just stood there staring at me.
Farid leaned in. "As soon as you can walk, I'll take you to Islamabad. Not entirely safe there either, no place in Pakistan is, but it's better than here. At least it will buy you some time.?
"Farid Jan, this can't be safe for you either. Maybe you shouldn't be seen with me. You have a family to take care of.?
Farid made a waving gesture. "My boys are young, but they are very shrewd. They know how to take care of their mothers and sisters.?He smiled. "Besides, I didn't say I'd do it for free.?
"I wouldn't let you if you offered,?I said. I forgot I couldn't
smile and tried. A tiny streak of blood trickled down my chin. "Can I ask you for one more favor??
"For you a thousand times over,?Farid said.
And, just like that, I was crying. I hitched gusts of air, tears gushing down my cheeks, stinging the raw flesh of my lips.
"What's the matter??Farid said, alarmed.
I buried my face in one hand and held up the other. I knew the whole room was watching me. After, I felt tired, hollow. "I'm sorry,?I said. Sohrab was looking at me with a frown creasing his brow.
When I could talk again, I told Farid what I needed. "Rahim Khan said they live here in Peshawar.?
"Maybe you should write down their names,?Farid said, eyeing me cautiously, as if wondering what might set me off next. I scribbled their names on a scrap of paper towel. "John and Betty Caldwell.?
Farid pocketed the folded piece of paper. "I will look for them as soon as I can,?he said. He turned to Sohrab. "As for you, I'll pick you up this evening. Don't tire Amir agha too much.?
But Sohrab had wandered to the window, where a half-dozen pigeons strutted back and forth on the sill, pecking at wood and scraps of old bread.
IN THE MIDDLE DRAWER of the dresser beside my bed, I had found an old _National Geographic_ magazine, a chewed-up pencil, a comb with missing teeth, and what I was reaching for now, sweat pouring down my face from the effort: a deck of cards. I had counted them earlier and, surprisingly, found the deck complete. I asked Sohrab if he wanted to play. I didn't expect him to answer, let alone play. He'd been quiet since we had fled Kabul.
But he turned from the window and said, "The only game I know is panjpar.?
"I feel sorry for you already, because I am a grand master at panjpar. World renowned.?
He took his seat on the stool next to me. I dealt him his five cards. "When your father and I were your age, we used to play this game. Especially in the winter, when it snowed and we couldn't go outside. We used to play until the sun went down.?
He played me a card and picked one up from the pile. I stole looks at him as he pondered his cards. He was his father in so many ways: the way he fanned out his cards with both hands, the way he squinted while reading them, the way he rarely looked a person in the eye.
We played in silence. I won the first game, let him win the next one, and lost the next five fair and square. "You're as good as your father, maybe even better,?I said, after my last loss. "I used to beat him sometimes, but I think he let me win.?I paused before saying, "Your father and I were nursed by the same woman.?
"I know.?
"What... what did he tell you about us??
"That you were the best friend he ever had,?he said.
I twirled the jack of diamonds in my fingers, flipped it back and forth. "I wasn't such a good friend, I'm afraid,?I said. "But I'd like to be your friend. I think I could be a good friend to you. Would that be all right? Would you like that??I put my hand on his arm, gingerly, but he flinched. He dropped his cards and pushed away on the stool. He walked back to the window. The sky was awash with streaks of red and purple as the sun set on Peshawar. From the street below came a succession of honks and the braying of a donkey, the whistle of a policeman. Sohrab stood in that crimson light, forehead pressed to the glass, fists buried in his armpits.
AISHA HAD A MALE ASSISTANT help me take my first steps that night. I only walked around the room once, one hand clutching the wheeled IV stand, the other clasping the assistant's fore arm. It took me ten minutes to make it back to bed, and, by then, the incision on my stomach throbbed and I'd broken out in a drenching sweat. I lay in bed, gasping, my heart hammering in my ears, thinking how much I missed my wife.
Sohrab and I played panjpar most of the next day, again in silence. And the day after that. We hardly spoke, just played panjpar, me propped in bed, he on the three-legged stool, our routine broken only by my taking a walk around the room, or going to the bathroom down the hall. I had a dream later that night. I dreamed Assef was standing in the doorway of my hospital room, brass ball still in his eye socket. "We're the same, you and I,?he was saying. "You nursed with him, but you're my twin.?
I TOLD ARMAND early that next day that I was leaving.
"It's still early for discharge,?Armand protested. He wasn't dressed in surgical scrubs that day, instead in a button-down navy blue suit and yellow tie. The gel was back in the hair. "You are still in intravenous antibiotics and--?
"I have to go,?I said. "I appreciate everything you've done for me, all of you. Really. But I have to leave.?
"Where will you go??Armand said.
"I'd rather not say.?
"You can hardly walk.?
"I can walk to the end of the hall and back,?I said. "I'll b fine.?The plan was this: Leave the hospital. Get the money fror the safe-deposit box and pay my medical bills. Drive to the orphanage and drop Sohrab off with John and Betty Caldwell Then get a ride to Islamabad and change travel plans. Give mysel a few more days to get better. Fly Home.
That was the plan, anyway. Until Farid and Sohrab arrived tha morning. "Your friends, this John and Betty Caldwell, they aren?in Peshawar,?Farid said.
It had taken me ten minutes Just to slip into my pirhan tumban. My chest, where they'd cut me to insert the chest tube hurt when I raised my arm, and my stomach throbbed every time I leaned over. I was drawing ragged breaths just from the effort of packing a few of my belongings into a brown paper bag. But I'd managed to get ready and was sitting on the edge of the bed when Farid came in with the news. Sohrab sat on the bed next to me.
"Where did they go??I asked.
Farid shook his head. "You don't understand--?
"Because Rahim Khan said--?
"I went to the U.S. consulate,?Farid said, picking up my bag. "There never was a John and Betty Caldwell in Peshawar. According to the people at the consulate, they never existed. Not here in Peshawar, anyhow.?
Next to me, Sohrab was flipping through the pages of the old National Geographic.
WE GOT THE MONEY from the bank. The manager, a paunchy man with sweat patches under his arms, kept flashing smiles and telling me that no one in the bank had touched the money.
"Absolutely nobody,?he said gravely, swinging his index finger the same way Armand had.
Driving through Peshawar with so much money in a paper bag was a slightly frightening experience. Plus, I suspected every bearded man who stared at me to be a Talib killer, sent by Assef. Two things compounded my fears: There are a lot of bearded men in Peshawar, and everybody stares.
"What do we do with him??Farid said, walking me slowly from the hospital accounting office back to the car. Sohrab was in the backseat of the Land Cruiser, looking at traffic through the rolled-down window, chin resting on his palms.
"He can't stay in Peshawar,?I said, panting.
"Nay, Amir agha, he can't,?Farid said. He'd read the question in my words. "I'm sorry. I wish I--?
"That's all right, Farid,?I said. I managed a tired smile. "You have mouths to feed.?A dog was standing next to the truck now, propped on its rear legs, paws on the truck's door, tail wagging. Sohrab was petting the dog. "I guess he goes to Islamabad for now,?I said.
I SLEPT THROUGH almost the entire four-hour ride to Islamabad. I dreamed a lot, and most of it I only remember as a hodge podge of images, snippets of visual memory flashing in my head like cards in a Rolodex: Baba marinating lamb for my thirteenth birthday party. Soraya and I making love for the first time, the sun rising in the east, our ears still ringing from the wedding music, her henna-painted hands laced in mine. The time Baba had taken Hassan and me to a strawberry field in Jalalabad--the owner had told us we could eat as much as we wanted to as long as we bought at least four kilos--and how we'd both ended up with bellyaches. How dark, almost black, Hassan's blood had looked on the snow, dropping from the seat of his pants. Blood is a powerful thing, bachem. Khala Jamila patting Soraya's knee and saying, God knows best, maybe it wasn't meant to be. Sleeping on the roof of my father's house. Baba saying that the only sin that mattered was theft. When you tell a lie, you steal a man's right to the truth. Rahim Khan on the phone, telling me there was a way to be good again. A way to be good again...
第二十三章
迷迷糊糊间，我看见一些面孔，停留，又退去。他们弯身望着我，问我问题。他们统统在问。我知道我自己是谁吗？我身上哪里发痛吗？我知道我是谁，我浑身发痛。我想告诉他们这些，可是痛得无法开口。这些我从前就知道了，也许是一年前，也许是两年前，也许是十年前。我想和一个脸抹胭脂、眼涂黑影的男孩说话。那个孩子。是的，我现在看见他了。我们似乎在轿车里面，那个孩子和我，而我知道开车的不是索拉雅，因为她从来不开这么快。我想跟那个孩子说话——似乎跟他说话是顶要紧的事情。但我忘了自己想说什么，或者为什么跟他说话那么重要。也许我想告诉他，让他别哭了，现在一切都会好起来。也许不是。由于某种我说不上来的原因，我想谢谢那个孩子。
面孔。他们全都戴着绿色帽子。他们进进出出。他们说话很快，说的语言我不懂。我听见别的声音，别的噪声、哔哔声和警笛声。总有更多的面孔，俯视下来。我谁也记不清了，只忆起一张面孔，头发和克拉克‘盖博式的胡子上有咭喱水，帽子上有非洲地图似的污迹。肥皂剧之星。那很好笑。我现在就想笑。但发笑也会疼痛。
我昏过去。她说她叫艾莎，“跟先知的妻子一样”。她头发有些灰白，从中间分开，扎着马尾辫；她的鼻子穿着太阳形状的扣子。她戴着眼镜，双眼看上去突出。她也穿绿色衣服，她的手很柔软。她看着我凝望她的笑容。用英语说话。有东西插进我胸膛一侧。
我昏过去。有个男人站在我床边。我认识他。他皮肤黝黑，又高又瘦，胡子很长。他戴着帽子——这些帽子叫什么名字来着？毡帽？帽子斜斜戴在一边，像极了某个我现在想不起来的著名人物。我认识这个男人，几年前，他开车送我到某个地方，我认识他。我的嘴巴不对劲。我听到一阵泡泡的声音。
我昏过去。我右臂灼痛。那个戴着眼镜和鼻子穿着太阳状扣子的女人弯身在我的臂膀上，插进一根透明的塑料管子。她说那是“钾”。“好像被蜜蜂叮了一下，对吧？”她说。
确实是。她叫什么名字？似乎和先知有关。我也认识她好几年了。她过去常常扎着马尾辫，现在它朝后梳，挽成发髻。我和索拉雅初次交谈的时候，她也 是这个发型。那是什么时候？上个星期吗？
艾莎！想起来了。我的嘴巴不对劲。那东西插进我的胸膛。 我昏过去。
我们在俾路支的苏莱曼山，爸爸在跟一只黑熊搏斗。他是我小时候的爸爸，飓风先生，高如铁塔，孔武有力，是典型的普什图人；不是盖着毛毯那个委靡的人，不是那个脸颊深陷、眼神空洞的人。他们，爸爸和黑熊，在一片绿草地来回翻滚，爸爸棕色的卷发飘扬着。黑熊吼叫，或许那是爸爸的叫声。唾沫和血液飞起，熊掌和人手相击。他们倒在地上，发出巨响，爸爸坐在黑熊的前胸，手指插 进它的鼻孔。他抬头望向我。他是我。我在和黑熊搏斗。
我惊醒。那个瘦长的黑汉子又在我床边。他叫法里德，我现在想起来了。我和他还有一个男孩在车里。他的脸让我想起了铃铛声。我口渴。
我昏过去。我不断清醒了又昏过去。
原来那个有着克拉克·盖博胡子的男人叫法鲁奇大夫。他根本不是肥皂剧明星，而是一个专治颅颈的外科医师。不过我总是把他当成阿曼德，某出背景设在一个热带岛屿的肥皂剧的主角。
我在哪儿？我想问，但无法张口。我皱眉，呻吟。阿曼德笑起来，他的牙齿真白。
“还没好，阿米尔。”他说，“不过快了，拆了线就好。”他的英语带有浓厚的乌尔都语翘舌音。
线？阿曼德双臂抱胸，他的小臂毛茸茸的，戴着一条结婚金链。“你肯定在想你在哪儿，发生什么事了。那很正常。手术后总是有这种茫然的状态。所以我会把我知道的告诉你。”
我想问他线的事情。手术后？艾莎在哪里？我想看见她的微笑，想拉着她柔软的手。
阿曼德皱眉，扬起一道眉毛，看上去有点自以为是。“你在白沙瓦的医院。你在这儿两天了。你伤得很重，阿米尔，我得对你说。要我说，你能活下来真的很幸运，我的朋友。”
他一边说，一边伸出食指，像钟摆那样来回晃动。“你的脾脏破裂，幸运的是，很可能是后来才破裂的，因为你的腹腔有出血的初期症状。我那些普通外科的同事已经给你做了脾切手术。如果它破裂的时间早一些，你也许会流血致死。”他拍拍我的手臂，插着输液管那边，露出笑脸。“你还断了七根肋骨，其中有根引发气胸。”
我皱眉，试图张开嘴巴，却想起有线。
“也就是说，你的肺被刺破了。”阿曼德解释说，他拉着我左侧的一根透明塑料管，胸腔又传来阵痛。“我们用这根胸管弥合裂口。”我顺着那根管子，看见它一头插在我胸前的绷带之下，另一头插在装着半罐水柱的容器里面。泡泡的声音就是从那儿传来的。
“你身上还有很多不同的创口。也就是‘伤口’。”我想跟他说我知道那个词是什么意思，我是个作家。我想要张开嘴，又忘记缝着线了。
“最严重的创口在上唇。”阿曼德说，“冲击力让你的上唇裂成两半，从人中裂开。不过别担心，整容医师帮你缝好了，他们认为你会恢复得很好，不过那儿会有道伤痕。这可避免不了。”
“你左边眶骨组织破裂，就是你左眼眶的骨头，我们也替你修好了。你下巴的线要过六个星期才能拆，”阿曼德说，“在那之前，只能吃流食和奶昔。你会消瘦一些，而且在一段很短的时间内，你说话会像电影《教父》第一部里面那个阿尔·帕西诺一样。”他笑起来，“但你今天需要完成一项工作，你知道是什么吗？”
我摇摇头。
“你今天的工作是排便。你完成之后我们才能开始喂你吃流食。不见粪便，不给食物。”
他又哈哈大笑。
稍后，艾莎帮我换输液管，又善解人意地摇起床头。随后，我想起发生在自己身上的事情。脾脏破裂。牙齿脱落。肺被刺穿。眼眶裂开。当我看见窗台上有只鸽子啄食碎面包的时候，忍不住想起阿曼德或者法鲁奇大夫适才说过的话。冲击力让你的上唇裂成两半，他说，从人中裂开。从人中裂开，像兔唇那样。
隔日，法里德和索拉博前来探望。“你今天知道我们是谁吗？你记得吗？”法里德半开玩笑地说。我点头。
“赞美安拉！”他说，喜气洋洋，“不用再说废话了。”
“谢谢你，法里德。”我透过缝着线的下巴说。阿曼德说得对——我听起来确实像《教父》里面那个阿尔·帕西诺。而我的舌头让我大吃一惊：它伸过我赖以进食的牙齿原来所在的地方，却是空空荡荡。“说真的，谢谢你替我做的一切。”
他摇摇手，脸色有点尴尬：“别这么说，没什么好谢的。”我转向索拉博。他穿着新衣服，淡蓝色的棉布长袍，看上去尺寸大了一些，还戴着黑色的无边便帽。他低头看着脚，手里拨弄着床边弯曲的输液管。
“我们还没好好地相互介绍呢。”我说，朝他伸出手，“我是阿米尔。”他看着我的手，然后看着我。“你是爸爸跟我说过的阿米尔老爷吗？”他说。
“是的。”我想起哈桑信里那些话。我告诉亲爱的法莎娜和索拉博很多次，那些我们过去一起长大、玩游戏、在街上追风筝的事情。听到我们过去的恶作剧，他们会大笑起来！
“我也得谢谢你，亲爱的索拉博。”我说，“你救了我一命。”
他默默不语，没跟我握手。我把手放下，“我喜欢你的新衣服。”我低声说。
“那是我儿子的。”法里德说，“这些衣服他穿不下了。我觉得它们穿在索拉博身上真好看。”他说索拉博可以跟着他，直到我们为他找到去处。“我们房间不够，但我能怎么办呢？我不能任他露宿街头。再说，我的孩子们也很喜欢索 拉博。对吧，索拉博？”但那个男孩只是低着头，将线缠在手指上。
“我一直想问，”法里德有点犹疑地说，“在那座屋子里面究竟发生了什么？你和那个塔利班之间究竟发生了什么事？”
“这么说吧，我们都是罪有应得。”我说。法里德点点头，不再追问。我突然发觉，就在我们离开白沙瓦、前往阿富汗到现在，不知什么时候起，我们已经成了朋友。“我也有一直想要问的事情。”
“什么？” 我突然不想问，我害怕听到答案。“拉辛汗。”我说。
“他走了。”
我的心一沉：“他……”
“不，只是……走了。”他递给我一张折好的信纸，还有一把小钥匙。“我前去寻他，房东把这个交给我。他说我们走后隔日，拉辛汗也走了。”
“他去哪里？”法里德耸耸肩：“房东也不知道。他说拉辛汗留下那封信和钥匙给你，就走了。”他看看手表，“我得走了。走吧，索拉博。”
“你能让他在这儿留一会吗？”我说，“迟点再来接他？”我转向索拉博：
“你愿意留下来陪我一会儿吗？”
他耸耸肩，一语不发。
“当然，”法里德说，“做晚祷之前我会来接他。”我的房间还有其他三个病人。两个年纪较大，一个脚上浇着石膏，另外那个患有哮喘，还有个十五六岁的少年，刚割过阑尾炎。浇石膏那个老家伙目不转睛地看着我们，他的眼睛来回看着我和那个坐在一张小矮凳上的哈扎拉男孩。我室友的家人——长罩衫光鲜的老太婆、孩子、戴无边便帽的男子——
喧闹地在病房进进出出。他们带来炸蔬菜饼、馕饼、土豆饼和印度煸饭。偶尔还有人只是走进屋子，比如刚刚在法里德和索拉博来之前，有个高高的大胡子就进来过，身上裹着棕色的毛毯。艾莎用乌尔都语问他话，他不理不睬，自顾用眼光扫射房间。我认为他看着我的时间长得有点不对头。那护士又跟他说话，他只是转过身离开。
“你好吗？”我问索拉博。他耸耸肩，看着自己的手。
“你饿吗？那边的太太给我一盘焗饭，但我吃不下。”我说。我不知道跟他说什么，“你想吃吗？”
他摇摇头。
“你想说话吗？”他又摇摇头。
我们就那样坐了一会，默不作声，我倚在床上，背后垫着两个枕头；索拉博坐在床边的三脚凳上。我不知不觉睡着了，醒来的时候，天色已经有点昏暗，影子变长，而索拉博仍坐在我身边。他仍在看着自己的双手。
那晚，法里德把索拉博接走之后，我展开拉辛汗的信。我尽可能慢慢看，信上写着：亲爱的阿米尔：安拉保佑，愿你毫发无损地看到这封信。我祈祷我没让你受到伤害，我祈祷阿富汗人对你不至于太过刻薄。自从你离开那天，我一直在为你祈祷。
那些年来，你一直在怀疑我是否知道。我确实知道。事情发生之后不久，哈桑就告诉我了。你做错了。亲爱的阿米尔，但别忘记，事情发生的时候，你还只是个孩子，一个骚动不安的小男孩。当时你对自己太过苛刻，现在你依然如此——在白沙瓦时。我从你的眼神看出来。但我希望你会意识到：没有良心、没有美德的人不会痛苦。我希望这次你到阿富汗去，能结束你的苦楚。
亲爱的阿米尔，那些年来，我们一直瞒着你，我感到羞耻。你在白沙瓦大发雷霆并没错。你有权利知道，哈桑也是。我知道这于事无补，但那些年月，我们生活的喀布尔是个奇怪的世界，在那儿，有些事情比真相更加重要。
亲爱的阿米尔，我深知在你成长过程中，你父亲对你有多么严厉。我知道你有多么痛苦，多么渴望得到他的宠爱，而我为你感到心痛。但你父亲是一个被拉扯成两半的男人，亲爱的阿米尔：被你和哈桑。他爱你们两个，但他不能公开表 露对哈桑的爱，以尽人父之责。所以他将怨气发泄在你身上——你恰好相反，阿米尔，你是社会承认的一半，他所继承的财富，以及随之而来的犯罪免受刑罚的特权，统统都会再赠给你。当他看到你，他看到自己，还有他的疚恨。你现在依然愤愤不平，而我明白，要你接受这些为时尚早。但也许有朝一日，你会明白，你父亲对你严厉，也是对自己严厉。你父亲跟你一样，也是个痛苦的人，亲爱的阿米尔。
我无法向你形容，在听到你父亲的死讯之后，我心里的悲恸有多么深。我爱他。因为他是我的朋友，但也因为他是个好人，也许甚至是个了不起的人。而我想让你明白的是，你父亲的深切自责带来了善行，真正的善行。我想起他所做的一切，施舍街头上的穷人，建了那座恤孤院，把钱给有需要的朋友，这些统统是他自我救赎的方式。而我认为。亲爱的阿米尔，当罪行导致善行，那就是真正的获救。
我知道到头来，真主会宽恕。他会宽恕你父亲，宽恕我，还有你。我希望你也一样。如果你可以的话，宽恕你父亲。如果你愿意的话，宽恕我。但，最重要的是，宽恕你自己。
我给你留下一些钱，实际上，我所能留下的，也无非就是这些了。我想你若回到这儿，兴许会有些开销，而那些钱足够让你用的了。白沙瓦有个银行，法里德知道在哪里。钱存在保险箱里面，我给你留了钥匙。至于我，是该走的时候了。我来日无多，而我希望独自度过。请别找我。这是我最后的请求。
我将你交在真主手中。你永远的朋友 拉辛
我拉起病服的袖子，抹抹眼睛，把信折好，放在我的褥子下面。阿米尔，你是社会承认的一半，他所继承的财富，以及随之而来的犯罪免受刑罚的特权，统统都会再赠给你。
也许正是因为这样，我和爸爸在美国才能相处得那么好，我想。为了一点蝇头小利贩售旧货，我们卑微的工作，我们污秽的公寓——美国式的茅舍；也许在美国，当爸爸看到我，他也看到了哈桑的一部分。
你父亲跟你一样，也是个痛苦的人。拉辛汗这样写道。也许是吧，我们都曾犯下罪行，出卖别人。可是爸爸找到一条将负疚变成善行的路。而我所做的，除了将罪行发泄在那个被我背叛的人身上，然后试图全都忘掉之外，我还做过什么？除了让自己夜不能寐之外，我还做过什么？
我又何曾做过什么正确的事呢？当护士——不是艾莎，而是一个我想不起名字的红发女子——拿着针筒走进来，问我要不要打一针吗啡，我说好。
次日清早，他们拿掉我的胸管，阿曼德让工作人员准备给我喝些苹果汁。艾莎在我床头的柜子上放下一杯果汁，我问她要一面镜子。她把眼镜举在额头上，拉开窗帘，让朝晖射进房间。她转过头说：“过几天会好看一些。去年我女婿骑摩托出了车祸，他那张英俊的脸摔在柏油路上，青肿得像个茄子。现在他又是那么英俊了，像个罗丽坞的电影明星。”
尽管她一再安慰，望向镜子，看到它里面那个硬要说是我的脸的东西，我还是差点窒息。看上去好像有人在我脸皮下面插了根气管，然后朝里面泵气。我双眼青肿。最糟糕的是我的嘴，那一大块青紫红肿的东西，满是淤血和缝线。我试图微笑，嘴唇掠过一阵痛楚。看来我很长时间不能这么做了。我左边脸颊也缝着线，就在颧骨下面，额头上的缝口在发际线之下。
脚上打石膏那个老家伙用乌尔都语说了几句。我朝他耸耸肩，摇摇头。他指着自己的脸，轻轻拍打，嘴巴咧得大大的，露出没有牙齿的笑容。“很好，”他用英语说，“安拉保佑。”
“谢谢你。”我低声说。 我刚把镜子放下，法里德和索拉博就进来了。索拉博坐在凳子上，头倚着病床的护栏。
“你知道吗，我们越快让你离开这里越好。”
“法鲁奇大夫说……”
“我不是说出院，我是说离开白沙瓦。”
“为什么？”
“我认为你在这里呆得太久不安全。”法里德降低声音说，“塔利班在这里有朋友，他们会开始搜寻你。”
“我想他们也许已经来过了。”我喃喃说。我突然想起那个留着胡子的男人，他走进房间，只是站在那儿盯着我。
法里德低声说：“一旦你能走动，我会带你去伊斯兰堡[Islamabad，巴基斯坦首都]. 那儿也不尽安全，巴基斯坦没有安全的地方，但好过在这里。至少这能为你赢得一些时间。”
“亲爱的法里德，这会把你也拖下水的。也许你不应该被他们见到跟我在一起，你有家庭需要照顾。”
法里德摆摆手：“我的儿子是还小，但他们很聪明。他们知道如何保护他们的妈妈和姐妹。”他笑着说，“再说，我又没说替你白干。”
“就算你愿意，我也不会答应啊。”我说。我忘了自己无法微笑，想挤出个笑脸，一丝血从下巴流下来。“你能再帮我一个忙吗？”
“为你，千千万万遍。”法里德说。就这样，我哭起来。我呼吸急促，泪水从脸上冲下，刺痛嘴唇翻开的肉。
“你怎么啦？”法里德紧张地说。
我一只手掩着脸，一只手挡在前面。我知道整个房间都在看着我。而后，我觉得很累，很空虚。“对不起，”我说。索拉博露出担忧的神色望着我。
我又能说话的时候，跟法里德说我的要求：“拉辛汗说他们住在白沙瓦。”
“也许你应该将他们的名字写下来。”法里德说，慎重地看着我，似乎在想着接下来我又会为什么而崩溃。我在一张纸巾上写下他们的名字：“约翰和贝蒂·卡尔德威。”
法里德把纸巾叠好，放进口袋。“我会尽快找到他们。”他说。他转向索拉博：“至于你，我今晚再来接你。别累着阿米尔老爷。”
但索拉博走到窗边，几只鸽子在窗台上来回走动，啄食着木头和面包碎片。在我床头柜子中间的抽屉里面，我找到一本旧《国家地理》杂志，一枝用过的铅笔，一把缺了些梳齿的梳子，还有我汗流满面努力伸手去拿的：一副扑克牌。早些时候我数过，出乎意料的是，那副牌竟然是完整的。我问索拉博想不想玩。我没指望他会回答，更别说玩牌了。自我们离开喀布尔之后，他一直很安静。但 他从窗口转身说：“我只会玩‘番吉帕’。”
“真替你感到遗憾，因为我是玩番吉帕的高手，全世界都知道。”他在我旁边的凳子上坐下，我给他发了五张牌。“当你爸爸和我像你这么大的时候，我们经常一起玩这游戏。
特别是在冬季，天下雪、我们不能出去的时候，我们常常玩到太阳下山。”
他出了一张牌，从牌堆抽起一张。他望着牌思考的时候，我偷偷看着他。他很多地方都像他父亲：将牌在手里展成扇形的样子，眯眼看牌的样子，还有他很少看别人眼睛的样子。
我们默默玩着。第一盘我赢了，让他赢了第二盘，接下来五局没使诈，但都输了。“你打得跟你父亲一样好，也许还要好一些。”我输了最后一局之后说，“我过去经常赢他，不过我觉得那是他让我的。”我顿了顿，又说：“你父亲和我是吃同一个女人的奶长大的。”
“我知道。”
“他……他跟你怎么说起我们？”
“他说你是他一生最好的朋友。”他说。我捏着方块杰克上下摇动。“恐怕我没他想的那么好。”我说，“不过我想跟你交朋友。我想我可以成为你的好朋友。好不好？你愿意吗？”
我轻轻将手放 在他手臂上，但他身子后缩。他将牌放下，从凳子上站起来，走回窗边。太
阳在白沙瓦落下，天空铺满了红色和紫色的云霞。下面的街道传来阵阵喇叭声，驴子的叫声，警察的哨声。索拉博站在红色的斜晖中，额头靠着玻璃，把手埋在腋下。
那天晚上，在艾莎和一名男性护理的帮助下，我跨了第一步。我一只手抓住装着滑轮的输液架，另一只手扶在助理的前臂上，绕了房间一圈。十分钟后，我回到床边，体内肺腑翻涌，也冒出浑身大汗。我躺在床上，喘息着，耳边听到心脏怦怦跳，心里十分想念我的妻子。
隔日，索拉博和我仍是默默无语，几乎整天都在玩“番吉帕”。又那样度过一天。我们只是玩着“番吉帕”，几乎没有说过话，我斜倚在床上，他坐在三脚凳上。除了我在房间里走动，或者到走廊尽头的卫生间去，我们一直都在打牌。那天深夜我做了个梦。我梦见阿塞夫站在病房的门口，眼眶仍嵌着铜球。“我们是同一种人，你和我。”他说，“你跟他一个奶妈，但你是我的孪生兄弟。”
第二天早晨，我告诉阿曼德我想离开。
“现在出院太早了。”阿曼德抗议说。那天他穿着的并非手术袍，而是一套海军蓝西装，系着黄色领带，头发又涂着睹喱水。“你还在静脉注射抗生素期间，还有……”
“我非走不可。”我说，“谢谢你，谢谢你们为我所做的一切。真的。但我必须离开。”
“你要去哪里？”阿曼德说。
“我不能说。”
“你几乎寸步难行。”
“我能走到走廊那边，再走回来。”我说，“我会没事的。”计划是这样的：离开医院，从保险箱里面把钱取出来，付清医药费，开车到那家恤孤院，把索拉博交给约翰和贝蒂·卡尔德威。然后前往伊斯兰堡，调整旅行计划，给我自己几 天时间，等身子好一些就飞回家。
无论如何，计划就是这样，直到那天早晨法里德和索拉博来临。“你的朋友，约翰和贝蒂·卡尔德威，他们不在白沙瓦。”法里德说。
我花了十分钟才将棉袍穿上。他们在我胸膛开过插胸管的口子，我抬手的时候那儿痛得厉害；而且每次倾斜身体，总是脏腑翻动。我将一些随身物品收进一个棕色的纸袋，累得气喘吁吁。但法里德带着那个消息到来之前，我已经设法准 备妥当，坐在床沿。索拉博挨着我，坐在床上。
“他们去哪了？”我问。法里德摇摇头：“你还不明白……”
“因为拉辛汗说……”
“我去过美国领事馆，”法里德提起我的袋子说，“白沙瓦从来没有叫约翰和贝蒂·卡尔德威的人。领事馆的人说，没有这两个人。无论如何，自沙瓦这里没有。”
索拉博在我身旁翻阅着那本旧《国家地理》。我们到银行取钱。经理是个大腹便便的男人，腋窝下有汗渍；他不断露出笑脸，告诉我银行的人从未碰过那笔钱。“绝对没有。”
他郑重地说，摇着他的食指。阿曼德也那样做过。
带着这么一大袋钱开车驶过白沙瓦，真有点胆战心惊。另外，我怀疑每个看着我的大胡子都是阿塞夫派来的塔利班杀手。而令我恐惧的是：白沙瓦有很多大胡子，他们都盯着我。
“我们该怎么安置他？”法里德说，陪着我慢慢从医院的付账办公室走回汽车。索拉博在陆地巡洋舰的后座上，摇下车窗，掌心托着下巴，望着街上过往车辆。
“他不能留在白沙瓦。”我喘着气说。
“是的，阿米尔老爷，他不能。”法里德说，他听出我言下之意，“我很抱歉，我希望我……”
“没关系的，法里德。”我说，设法挤出一个疲惫的微笑，“你还得养家糊口。”现在有条狗站在汽车旁边，用后腿支撑着身子，前爪搭在车门上，摇着尾巴。“我想他现在应该到伊斯兰堡去。”我说。
到伊斯兰堡要四个小时，我几乎一路睡过去。我梦到很多东西，而我所记得的，只有大杂烩似的景象，栩栩如生的记忆碎片如同旋转架上的名片，不断在我脑里闪过。爸爸为我十三岁生日腌制羊肉。索拉雅和我初尝云雨，太阳从东边升起，我们耳里仍有婚礼音乐的袅袅余音，她涂了指甲花的手和我十指相扣。爸爸带我和哈桑到贾拉拉巴特的草莓地——主人告诉我们，只要买四公斤，我们就可随意大吃，最后我们两个撑得肚子发痛。哈桑的血从臀部的裤子滴下来，滴在雪地上，看上去那么暗，几乎是黑色的。血缘是最重要的，我的孩子。雅米拉阿姨拍拍索拉雅的膝盖说，只有真主最清楚，也许事情不是这样的。睡在爸爸房子的屋顶上。爸爸说惟一的罪行是盗窃。当你说谎，你偷走了人们知道真相的权利。拉辛汗在电话里，告诉我那儿有条再次成为好人的路。一条再次成为好人的路… -
Chapter 24
If Peshawar was the city that reminded me of what Kabul used to be, then Islamabad was the city Kabul could have become someday. The streets were wider than Peshawar's, cleaner, and lined with rows of hibiscus and flame trees. The bazaars were more organized and not nearly as clogged with rickshaws and pedestrians. The architecture was more elegant too, more modern, and I saw parks where roses and jasmine bloomed in the shadows of trees.
Farid found a small hotel on a side street running along the foot of the Margalla Hills. We passed the famous Shah Faisal Mosque on the way there, reputedly the biggest mosque in the world, with its giant concrete girders and soaring minarets. Sohrab perked up at the sight of the mosque, leaned out of the window and looked at it until Farid turned a corner.
THE HOTEL ROOM was a vast improvement over the one in Kabul where Farid and I had stayed. The sheets were clean, the carpet vacuumed, and the bathroom spotless. There was shampoo, soap, razors for shaving, a bathtub, and towels that smelled like lemon. And no bloodstains on the walls. One other thing: a television set sat on the dresser across from the two single beds.
"Look!?I said to Sohrab. I turned it on manually--no remote--and turned the dial. I found a children's show with two fluffy sheep puppets singing in Urdu. Sohrab sat on one of the beds and drew his knees to his chest. Images from the TV reflected in his green eyes as he watched, stone-faced, rocking back and forth. I remembered the time I'd promised Hassan I'd buy his family a color TV when we both grew up.
"I'll get going, Amir agha,?Farid said.
"Stay the night,?I said. "It's a long drive. Leave tomorrow.?
"Tashakor,?he said. "But I want to get back tonight. I miss my children.?On his way out of the room, he paused in the doorway. "Good-bye, Sohrab jan,?he said. He waited for a reply, but Sohrab paid him no attention. Just rocked back and forth, his face lit by the silver glow of the images flickering across the screen.
Outside, I gave him an envelope. When he tore it, his mouth opened.
"I didn't know how to thank you,?I said. "You've done so much for me.?
"How much is in here??Farid said, slightly dazed.
"A little over two thousand dollars.?
"Two thou--?he began. His lower lip was quivering a little. Later, when he pulled away from the curb, he honked twice and waved. I waved back. I never saw him again.
I returned to the hotel room and found Sohrab lying on the bed, curled up in a big C. His eyes were closed but I couldn't tell if he was sleeping. He had shut off the television. I sat on my bed and grimaced with pain, wiped the cool sweat off my brow. I wondered how much longer it would hurt to get up, sit down, roll over in bed. I wondered when I'd be able to eat solid food. I wondered what I'd do with the wounded little boy lying on the bed, though a part of me already knew.
There was a carafe of water on the dresser. I poured a glass and took two of Armand's pain pills. The water was warm and bitter. I pulled the curtains, eased myself back on the bed, and lay down. I thought my chest would rip open. When the pain dropped a notch and I could breathe again, I pulled the blanket to my chest and waited for Armand's pills to work.
WHEN I WOKE UP, the room was darker. The slice of sky peeking between the curtains was the purple of twilight turning into night. The sheets were soaked and my head pounded. I'd been dreaming again, but I couldn't remember what it had been about.
My heart gave a sick lurch when I looked to Sohrab's bed and found it empty I called his name. The sound of my voice startled me. It was disorienting, sitting in a dark hotel room, thousands of miles from Home, my body broken, calling the name of a boy I'd only met a few days ago. I called his name again and heard nothing. I struggled out of bed, checked the bathroom, looked in the narrow hallway outside the room. He was gone.
I locked the door and hobbled to the manager's office in the lobby, one hand clutching the rail along the walkway for support. There was a fake, dusty palm tree in the corner of the lobby and flying pink flamingos on the wallpaper. I found the hotel manager reading a newspaper behind the Formica-topped check-in counter. I described Sohrab to him, asked if he'd seen him. He put down his paper and took off his reading glasses. He had greasy hair and a square-shaped little mustache speckled with gray. He smelled vaguely of some tropical fruit I couldn't quite recognize.
"Boys, they like to run around,?he said, sighing. "I have three of them. All day they are running around, troubling their mother.?He fanned his face with the newspaper, staring at my jaws.
"I don't think he's out running around,?I said. "And we're not from here. I'm afraid he might get lost.?
He bobbed his head from side to side. "Then you should have kept an eye on the boy, mister.?
"I know,?I said. "But I fell asleep and when I woke up, he was gone.?
"Boys must be tended to, you know.?
"Yes,?I said, my pulse quickening. How could he be so oblivious to my apprehension? He shifted the newspaper to his other hand, resumed the fanning. "They want bicycles now?
"Who??
"My boys,?he said. "They're saying, ‘Daddy, Daddy, please buy us bicycles and we'll not trouble you. Please, Daddy!?He gave a short laugh through his nose. "Bicycles. Their mother will kill me, I swear to you.?
I imagined Sohrab lying in a ditch. Or in the trunk of some car, bound and gagged. I didn't want his blood on my hands. Not his too. "Please...?I said. I squinted. Read his name tag on the lapel of his short-sleeve blue cotton shirt. "Mr. Fayyaz, have you seen him??
"The boy??
I bit down. "Yes, the boy! The boy who came with me. Have you seen him or not, for God's sake??
The fanning stopped. His eyes narrowed. "No getting smart with me, my friend. I am not the one who lost him.?
That he had a point did not stop the blood from rushing to my face. "You're right. I'm wrong. My fault. Now, have you seen him??
"Sorry,?he said curtly. He put his glasses back on. Snapped his newspaper open. "I have seen no such boy.?
I stood at the counter for a minute, trying not to scream. As I was exiting the lobby, he said, "Any idea where he might have wandered to??
"No,?I said. I felt tired. Tired and scared.
"Does he have any interests??he said. I saw he had folded the paper. "My boys, for example, they will do anything for American action films, especially with that Arnold ??WThatsanegger--?
"The mosque!?I said. "The big mosque.?I remembered the way the mosque had jolted Sohrab from his stupor when we'd driven by it, how he'd leaned out of the window looking at it.
"Shah Faisal??
"Yes. Can you take me there??
"Did you know it's the biggest mosque in the world??he asked.
"No, but--?
"The courtyard alone can fit forty thousand people.?
"Can you take me there??
"It's only a kilometer from here,?he said. But he was already pushing away from the counter.
"I'll pay you for the ride,?I said.
He sighed and shook his head. "Wait here.?He disappeared into the back room, returned wearing another pair of eyeglasses, a set of keys in hand, and with a short, chubby woman in an orange sari trailing him. She took his seat behind the counter. "I don't take your money,?he said, blowing by me. "I will drive you because I am a father like you.?
I THOUGHT WE'D END UP DRIVING around the city until night fell. I saw myself calling the police, describing Sohrab to them under Fayyaz's reproachful glare. I heard the officer, his voice tired and uninterested, asking his obligatory questions. And beneath the official questions, an unofficial one: Who the hell cared about another dead Afghan kid?
But we found him about a hundred yards from the mosque, sitting in the half-full parking lot, on an island of grass. Fayyaz pulled up to the island and let me out. "I have to get back,?he said.
"That's fine. We'll walk back,?I said. "Thank you, Mr. Fayyaz. Really.?
He leaned across the front seat when I got out. "Can I say something to you??
"Sure.?
In the dark of twilight, his face was just a pair of eyeglasses reflecting the fading light. "The thing about you Afghanis is that... well, you people are a little reckless.?
I was tired and in pain. My jaws throbbed. And those damn wounds on my chest and stomach felt like barbed wire under my skin. But I started to laugh anyway.
"What... what did I...?Fayyaz was saying, but I was cackling by then, full-throated bursts of laughter spilling through my wired mouth.
"Crazy people,?he said. His tires screeched when he peeled away, his tail-lights blinking red in the dimming light.
"You GAVE ME A GOOD SCARE,?I said. I sat beside him, wincing with pain as I bent.
He was looking at the mosque. Shah Faisal Mosque was shaped like a giant tent. Cars came and went; worshipers dressed in white streamed in and out. We sat in silence, me leaning against the tree, Sohrab next to me, knees to his chest. We listened to the call to prayer, watched the building's hundreds of lights come on as daylight faded. The mosque sparkled like a diamond in the dark. It lit up the sky, Sohrab's face.
"Have you ever been to Mazar-i-Sharif??Sohrab said, his chin resting on his kneecaps.
"A long time ago. I don't remember it much.?
"Father took me there when I was little. Mother and Sasa came along too. Father bought me a monkey from the bazaar. Not a real one but the kind you have to blow up. It was brown and had a bow tie.?
"I might have had one of those when I was a kid.?
"Father took me to the Blue Mosque,?Sohrab said. "I remember there were so many pigeons outside the masjid, and they weren't afraid of people. They came right up to us. Sasa gave me little pieces of _naan_ and I fed the birds. Soon, there were pigeons cooing all around me. That was fun.?
"You must miss your parents very much,?I said. I wondered if he'd seen the Taliban drag his parents out into the street. I hoped he hadn't.
"Do you miss your parents??he aked, resting his cheek on his knees, looking up at me.
"Do I miss my parents? Well, I never met my mother. My father died a few years ago, and, yes, I do miss him. Sometimes a lot.?
"Do you remember what he looked like??
I thought of Baba's thick neck, his black eyes, his unruly brown hair. Sitting on his lap had been like sitting on a pair of tree trunks. "I remember what he looked like,?I said. "What he smelled like too.?
"I'm starting to forget their faces,?Sohrab said. "Is that bad??
"No,?I said. "Time does that.?I thought of something. I looked in the front pocket of my coat. Found the Polaroid snap shot of Hassan and Sohrab. "Here,?I said.
He brought the photo to within an inch of his face, turned it so the light from the mosque fell on it. He looked at it for a long time. I thought he might cry, but he didn't. He just held it in both hands, traced his thumb over its surface. I thought of a line I'd read somewhere, or maybe I'd heard someone say it: There are a lot of children in Afghanistan, but little childhood. He stretched his hand to give it back to me.
"Keep it,?I said. "It's yours.?
"Thank you.?He looked at the photo again and stowed it in the pocket of his vest. A horse-drawn cart clip-clopped by in the parking lot. Little bells dangled from the horse's neck and jingled with each step.
"I've been thinking a lot about mosques lately,?Sohrab said.
"You have? What about them??
He shrugged. "Just thinking about them.?He lifted his face, looked straight at me. Now he was crying, softly, silently. "Can I ask you something, Amir agha??
"Of course.?
"Will God...?he began, and choked a little. "Will God put me in hell for what I did to that man??
I reached for him and he flinched. I pulled back. "Nay. Of course not,?I said. I wanted to pull him close, hold him, tell him the world had been unkind to him, not the other way around.
His face twisted and strained to stay composed. "Father used to say it's wrong to hurt even bad people. Because they don't know any better, and because bad people sometimes become good.?
"Not always, Sohrab.?
He looked at me questioningly.
"The man who hurt you, I knew him from many years ago,?I said. "I guess you figured that out that from the conversation he and I had. He... he tried to hurt me once when I was your age, but your father saved me. Your father was very brave and he was always rescuing me from trouble, standing up for me. So one day the bad man hurt your father instead. He hurt him in a very bad way, and I... I couldn't save your father the way he had saved me.?
"Why did people want to hurt my father??Sohrab said in a wheezy little voice. "He was never mean to anyone.?
"You're right. Your father was a good man. But that's what I'm trying to tell you, Sohrab jan. That there are bad people in this world, and sometimes bad people stay bad. Sometimes you have to stand up to them. What you did to that man is what I should have done to him all those years ago. You gave him what he deserved, and he deserved even more.?
"Do you think Father is disappointed in me??
"I know he's not,?I said. "You saved my life in Kabul. I know he is very proud of you for that.?
He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. It burst a bubble of spittle that had formed on his lips. He buried his face in his hands and wept a long time before he spoke again. "I miss Father, and Mother too,?he croaked. "And I miss Sasa and Rahim Khan sahib. But sometimes I'm glad they're not ... they're not here anymore.?
"Why??I touched his arm. He drew back.
"Because--?he said, gasping and hitching between sobs, "because I don't want them to see me... I'm so dirty.?He sucked in his breath and let it out in a long, wheezy cry. "I'm so dirty and full of sin.?
"You're not dirty, Sohrab,?I said.
"Those men--?
"You're not dirty at all.?
?-they did things... the bad man and the other two... they did things... did things to me.?
"You're not dirty, and you're not full of sin.?I touched his arm again and he drew away. I reached again, gently, and pulled him to me. "I won't hurt you,?I whispered. "I promise.?He resisted a lit tle. Slackened. He let me draw him to me and rested his head on my chest. His little body convulsed in my arms with each sob.
A kinship exists between people who've fed from the same breast. Now, as the boy's pain soaked through my shirt, I saw that a kinship had taken root between us too. What had happened in that room with Assef had irrevocably bound us.
I'd been looking for the right time, the right moment, to ask the question that had been buzzing around in my head and keep ing me up at night. I decided the moment was now, right here, right now, with the bright lights of the house of God shining on us.
"Would you like to come live in America with me and my wife??
He didn't answer. He sobbed into my shirt and I let him.
FOR A WEEK, neither one of us mentioned what I had asked him, as if the question hadn't been posed at all. Then one day, Sohrab and I took a taxicab to the Daman-e-Koh Viewpoint--or "the hem of the mountain.?Perched midway up the Margalla Hills, it gives a panoramic view of Islamabad, its rows of clean, tree-lined avenues and white houses. The driver told us we could see the presidential palace from up there. "If it has rained and the air is clear, you can even see past Rawalpindi,?he said. I saw his eyes in his rearview mirror, skipping from Sohrab to me, back and forth, back and forth. I saw my own face too. It wasn't as swollen as before, but it had taken on a yellow tint from my assortment of fading bruises.
We sat on a bench in one of the picnic areas, in the shade of a gum tree. It was a warm day, the sun perched high in a topaz blue sky. On benches nearby, families snacked on samosas and pakoras. Somewhere, a radio played a Hindi song I thought I remembered from an old movie, maybe Pakeeza. Kids, many of them Sohrab's age, chased soccer balls, giggling, yelling. I thought about the orphanage in Karteh-Seh, thought about the rat that had scurried between my feet in Zaman's office. My chest tightened with a surge of unexpected anger at the way my countrymen were destroying their own land.
"What??Sohrab asked. I forced a smile and told him it wasn't important.
We unrolled one of the hotel's bathroom towels on the picnic table and played panjpar on it. It felt good being there, with my half brother's son, playing cards, the warmth of the sun patting the back of my neck. The song ended and another one started, one I didn't recognize.
"Look,?Sohrab said. He was pointing to the sky with his cards. I looked up, saw a hawk circling in the broad seamless sky. "Didn't know there were hawks in Islamabad,?I said.
"Me neither,?he said, his eyes tracing the bird's circular flight. "Do they have them where you live??
"San Francisco? I guess so. I can't say I've seen too many, though.?
"Oh,?he said. I was hoping he'd ask more, but he dealt another hand and asked if we could eat. I opened the paper bag and gave him his meatball sandwich. My lunch consisted of yet another cup of blended bananas and oranges--I'd rented Mrs. Fayyaz's blender for the week. I sucked through the straw and my mouth filled with the sweet, blended fruit. Some of it dripped from the corner of my lips. Sohrab handed me a napkin and watched me dab at my lips. I smiled and he smiled back.
"Your father and I were brothers,?I said. It just came out. I had wanted to tell him the night we had sat by the mosque, but I hadn't. But he had a right to know; I didn't want to hide anything anymore. "Half brothers, really. We had the same father.?
Sohrab stopped chewing. Put the sandwich down. "Father never said he had a brother.?
"That's because he didn't know.?
"Why didn't he know??
"No one told him,?I said. "No one told me either. I just found out recently.?
Sohrab blinked. Like he was looking at me, really looking at me, for the very first time. "But why did people hide it from Father and you??
"You know, I asked myself that same question the other day. And there's an answer, but not a good one. Let's just say they didn't tell us because your father and I... we weren't supposed to be brothers.?
"Because he was a Hazara??
I willed my eyes to stay on him. "Yes.?
"Did your father,?he began, eyeing his food, "did your father love you and my father equally??
I thought of a long ago day at Ghargha Lake, when Baba had allowed himself to pat Hassan on the back when Hassan's stone had outskipped mine. I pictured Baba in the hospital room, beaming as they removed the bandages from Hassan's lips. "I think he loved us equally but differently.?
"Was he ashamed of my father??
"No,?I said. "I think he was ashamed of himself.?
He picked up his sandwich and nibbled at it silently.
WE LEFT LATE THAT AFTERNOON, tired from the heat, but tired in a pleasant way. All the way back, I felt Sohrab watching me. I had the driver pull over at a store that sold calling cards. I gave him the money and a tip for running in and buying me one.
That night, we were lying on our beds, watching a talk show on TV. Two clerics with pepper gray long beards and white turbans were taking calls from the faithful all over the world. One caller from Finland, a guy named Ayub, asked if his teenaged son could go to hell for wearing his baggy pants so low the seam of his underwear showed.
"I saw a picture of San Francisco once,?Sohrab said.
"Really??
"There was a red bridge and a building with a pointy top.?
"You should see the streets,?I said.
"What about them??He was looking at me now. On the TV screen, the two mullahs were consulting each other.
"They're so steep, when you drive up all you see is the hood of your car and the sky,?I said.
"It sounds scary,?he said. He rolled to his side, facing me, his back to the TV.
"It is the first few times,?I said. "But you get used to it.?
"Does it snow there??
"No, but we get a lot of fog. You know that red bridge you saw??
"Yes.?
"Sometimes the fog is so thick in the morning, all you see is the tip of the two towers poking through.?
There was wonder in his smile. "Oh.?
"Sohrab??
"Yes.?
"Have you given any thought to what I asked you before??
His smiled faded. He rolled to his back. Laced his hands under his head. The mullahs decided that Ayub's son would go to hell after all for wearing his pants the way he did. They claimed it was in the Haddith. "I've thought about it,?Sohrab said.
"And??
"It scares me.?
"I know it's a little scary,?I said, grabbing onto that loose thread of hope. "But you'll learn English so fast and you'll get used to--?
"That's not what I mean. That scares me too, but...
"But what??
He rolled toward me again. Drew his knees up. "What if you get tired of me? What if your wife doesn't like me??
I struggled out of bed and crossed the space between us. I sat beside him. "I won't ever get tired of you, Sohrab,?I said. "Not ever. That's a promise. You're my nephew, remember? And Soraya jan, she's a very kind woman. Trust me, she's going to love you. I promise that too.?I chanced something. Reached down and took his hand. He tightened up a little but let me hold it.
"I don't want to go to another orphanage,?he said.
"I won't ever let that happen. I promise you that.?I cupped his hand in both of mine. "Come Home with me.?
His tears were soaking the pillow. He didn't say anything for a long time. Then his hand squeezed mine back. And he nodded. He nodded.
THE CONNECTION WENT THROUGH on the fourth try. The phone rang three times before she picked it up. "Hello??It was 7:30 in the evening in Islamabad, roughly about the same time in the morning in California. That meant Soraya had been up for an hour, getting ready for school.
"It's me,?I said. I was sitting on my bed, watching Sohrab sleep.
"Amir!?she almost screamed. "Are you okay? Where are you??
"I'm in Pakistan.?
"Why didn't you call earlier? I've been sick with tashweesh! My mother's praying and doing nazr every day.?
"I'm sorry I didn't call. I'm fine now.?I had told her I'd be away a week, two at the most. I'd been gone for nearly a month. I smiled. "And tell Khala Jamila to stop killing sheep.?
"What do you mean ‘fine now? And what's wrong with your voice??
"Don't worry about that for now. I'm fine. Really. Soraya, I have a story to tell you, a story I should have told you a long time ago, but first I need to tell you one thing.?
"What is it??she said, her voice lower now, more cautious.
"I'm not coming Home alone. I'm bringing a little boy with me.?I paused. "I want us to adopt him.?
"What??
I checked my watch. "I have fifty-seven minutes left on this stupid calling card and I have so much to tell you. Sit some where.?I heard the legs of a chair dragged hurriedly across the wooden floor.
"Go ahead,?she said.
Then I did what I hadn't done in fifteen years of marriage: I told my wife everything. Everything. I had pictured this moment so many times, dreaded it, but, as I spoke, I felt something lifting off my chest. I imagined Soraya had experienced something very similar the night of our khastegari, when she'd told me about her past.
By the time I was done with my story, she was weeping.
"What do you think??I said.
"I don't know what to think, Amir. You've told me so much all at once.?
"I realize that.?
I heard her blowing her nose. "But I know this much: You have to bring him Home. I want you to.?
"Are you sure??I said, closing my eyes and smiling.
"Am I sure??she said. "Amir, he's your qaom, your family, so he's my qaom too. Of course I'm sure. You can't leave him to the streets.?There was a short pause. "What's he like??
I looked over at Sohrab sleeping on the bed. "He's sweet, in a solemn kind of way.?
"Who can blame him??she said. "I want to see him, Amir. I really do.?
"Soraya??
"Yeah.?
"Dostet darum.?I love you.
"I love you back,?she said. I could hear the smile in her words. "And be careful.?
"I will. And one more thing. Don't tell your parents who he is. If they need to know, it should come from me.?
"Okay.?
We hung up.
THE LAWN OUTSIDE the American embassy in Islamabad was neatly mowed, dotted with circular clusters of flowers, bordered by razor-straight hedges. The building itself was like a lot of buildings in Islamabad: flat and white. We passed through several road blocks to get there and three different security officials conducted a body search on me after the wires in my jaws set off the metal detectors. When we finally stepped in from the heat, the airconditioning hit my face like a splash of ice water. The secretary in the lobby, a fifty-something, lean-faced blond woman, smiled when I gave her my name. She wore a beige blouse and black slacks--the first woman I'd seen in weeks dressed in something other than a burqa or a shalwar-kameez. She looked me up on the appointment list, tapping the eraser end of her pencil on the desk. She found my name and asked me to take a seat.
"Would you like some lemonade??she asked.
"None for me, thanks,?I said.
"How about your son??
"Excuse me??
"The handsome young gentleman,?she said, smiling at Sohrab.
"Oh. That'd be nice, thank you.?
Sohrab and I sat on the black leather sofa across the reception desk, next to a tall American flag. Sohrab picked up a magazine from the glass-top Coffee table. He flipped the pages, not really looking at the pictures.
"What??Sohrab said.
"Sorry??
"You're smiling.?
"I was thinking about you,?I said.
He gave a nervous smile. Picked up another magazine and flipped through it in under thirty seconds.
"Don't be afraid,?I said, touching his arm. "These people are friendly. Relax.?I could have used my own advice. I kept shifting in my seat, untying and retying my shoelaces. The secretary placed a tall glass of lemonade with ice on the Coffee table. "There you go.?
Sohrab smiled shyly. "Thank you very much,?he said in English. It came out as "Tank you wery match.?It was the only English he knew, he'd told me, that and "Have a nice day.?
She laughed. "You're most welcome.?She walked back to her desk, high heels clicking on the floor.
"Have a nice day,?Sohrab said.
RAYMOND ANDREWS was a short fellow with small hands, nails perfectly trimmed, wedding band on the ring finger. He gave me a curt little shake; it felt like squeezing a sparrow. Those are the hands that hold our fates, I thought as Sohrab and I seated our selves across from his desk. A _Les Misérables_ poster was nailed to the wall behind Andrews next to a topographical map of the U.S. A pot of tomato plants basked in the sun on the windowsill.
"Smoke??he asked, his voice a deep baritone that was at odds with his slight stature.
"No thanks,?I said, not caring at all for the way Andrews's eyes barely gave Sohrab a glance, or the way he didn't look at me when he spoke. He pulled open a desk drawer and lit a cigarette from a half-empty pack. He also produced a bottle of lotion from the same drawer. He looked at his tomato plants as he rubbed lotion into his hands, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Then he closed the drawer, put his elbows on the desktop, and exhaled. "So,?he said, crinkling his gray eyes against the smoke, "tell me your story.?
I felt like Jean Valjean sitting across from Javert. I reminded myself that I was on American soil now, that this guy was on my side, that he got paid for helping people like me. "I want to adopt this boy, take him back to the States with me,?I said.
"Tell me your story,?he repeated, crushing a flake of ash on the neatly arranged desk with his index finger, flicking it into the trash can.
I gave him the version I had worked out in my head since I'd hung up with Soraya. I had gone into Afghanistan to bring back my half brother's son. I had found the boy in squalid conditions, wasting away in an orphanage. I had paid the orphanage director a sum of money and withdrawn the boy. Then I had brought him to Pakistan.
"You are the boy's half uncle??
"Yes.?
He checked his watch. Leaned and turned the tomato plants on the sill. "Know anyone who can attest to that??
"Yes, but I don't know where he is now.?
He turned to me and nodded. I tried to read his face and couldn't. I wondered if he'd ever tried those little hands of his at poker.
"I assume getting your jaws wired isn't the latest fashion statement,?he said. We were in trouble, Sohrab and I, and I knew it then. I told him I'd gotten mugged in Peshawar.
"Of course,?he said. Cleared his throat. "Are you Muslim??
"Yes.?
"Practicing??
"Yes.?In truth, I didn't remember the last time I had laid my forehead to the ground in prayer. Then I did remember: the day Dr. Amani gave Baba his prognosis. I had kneeled on the prayer rug, remembering only fragments of verses I had learned in school.
"Helps your case some, but not much,?he said, scratching a spot on the flawless part in his sandy hair.
"What do you mean??I asked. I reached for Sohrab's hand, intertwined my fingers with his. Sohrab looked uncertainly from me to Andrews.
"There's a long answer and I'm sure I'll end up giving it to you. You want the short one first??
"I guess,?I said.
Andrews crushed his cigarette, his lips pursed. "Give it up.?
"I'm sorry??
"Your petition to adopt this young fellow. Give it up. That's my advice to you.?
"Duly noted,?I said. "Now, perhaps you'll tell me why.?
"That means you want the long answer,?he said, his voice impassive, not reacting at all to my curt tone. He pressed his hands palm to palm, as if he were kneeling before the Virgin Mary. "Let's assume the story you gave me is true, though I'd bet my pension a good deal of it is either fabricated or omitted. Not that I care, mind you. You're here, he's here, that's all that matters. Even so, your petition faces significant obstacles, not the least of which is that this child is not an orphan.?
"Of course he is.?
"Not legally he isn't.?
"His parents were executed in the street. The neighbors saw it,?I said, glad we were speaking in English.
"You have death certificates??
"Death certificates? This is Afghanistan we're talking about. Most people there don't have birth certificates.?
His glassy eyes didn't so much as blink. "I don't make the laws, sir. Your outrage notwithstanding, you still need to prove the parents are deceased. The boy has to be declared a legal orphan.?
"But--?
"You wanted the long answer and I'm giving it to you. Your next problem is that you need the cooperation of the child's country of origin. Now, that's difficult under the best of circumstances, and, to quote you, this is Afghanistan we're talking about. We don't have an American embassy in Kabul. That makes things extremely complicated. Just about impossible.?
"What are you saying, that I should throw him back on the streets??I said.
"I didn't say that.?
"He was sexually abused,?I said, thinking of the bells around Sohrab's ankles, the mascara on his eyes.
"I'm sorry to hear that,?Andrews's mouth said. The way he was looking at me, though, we might as well have been talking about the weather. "But that is not going to make the INS issue this young fellow a visa.?
"What are you saying??
"I'm saying that if you want to help, send money to a reputable relief organization. Volunteer at a refugee camp. But at this point in time, we strongly discourage U.S. citizens from attempting to adopt Afghan children.?
I got up. "Come on, Sohrab,?I said in Farsi. Sohrab slid next to me, rested his head on my hip. I remembered the Polaroid of him and Hassan standing that same way. "Can I ask you some thing, Mr. Andrews??
"Yes.?
"Do you have children??
For the first time, he blinked.
"Well, do you? It's a simple question.?
He was silent.
"I thought so,?I said, taking Sohrab's hand. "They ought to put someone in your chair who knows what it's like to want a child.?I turned to go, Sohrab trailing me.
"Can I ask you a question??Andrews called.
"Go ahead.?
"Have you promised this child you'll take him with you??
"What if I have??
He shook his head. "It's a dangerous Business, making promises to kids.?He sighed and opened his desk drawer again. "You mean to pursue this??he said, rummaging through papers.
"I mean to pursue this.?
He produced a Business card. "Then I advise you to get a good immigration lawyer. Omar Faisal works here in Islamabad. You can tell him I sent you.?
I took the card from him. "Thanks,?I muttered.
"Good luck,?he said. As we exited the room, I glanced over my shoulder. Andrews was standing in a rectangle of sunlight, absently staring out the window, his hands turning the potted tomato plants toward the sun, petting them lovingly.
"TAKE CARE,?the secretary said as we passed her desk.
"Your boss could use some manners,?I said. I expected her to roll her eyes, maybe nod in that "I know, everybody says that,?kind of way. Instead, she lowered her voice. "Poor Ray. He hasn't been the same since his daughter died.?
I raised an eyebrow.
"Suicide,?she whispered.
ON THE TAXI RIDE back to the hotel, Sohrab rested his head on the window, kept staring at the passing buildings, the rows of gum trees. His breath fogged the glass, cleared, fogged it again. I waited for him to ask me about the meeting but he didn't.
ON THE OTHER SIDE of the closed bathroom door the water was running. Since the day we'd checked into the hotel, Sohrab took a long bath every night before bed. In Kabul, hot running water had been like fathers, a rare commodity. Now Sohrab spent almost an hour a night in the bath, soaking in the soapy water, scrubbing. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I called Soraya. I glanced at the thin line of light under the bathroom door. Do you feel clean yet, Sohrab?
I passed on to Soraya what Raymond Andrews had told me. "So what do you think??I said.
"We have to think he's wrong.?She told me she had called a few adoption agencies that arranged international adoptions. She hadn't yet found one that would consider doing an Afghan adoption, but she was still looking.
"How are your parents taking the news??
"Madar is happy for us. You know how she feels about you, Amir, you can do no wrong in her eyes. Padar... well, as always, he's a little harder to read. He's not saying much.?
"And you? Are you happy??
I heard her shifting the receiver to her other hand. "I think we'll be good for your nephew, but maybe that little boy will be good for us too.?
"I was thinking the same thing.?
"I know it sounds crazy, but I find myself wondering what his favorite _qurma_ will be, or his favorite subject in school. I picture myself helping him with Homework...?She laughed. In the bathroom, the water had stopped running. I could hear Sohrab in there, shifting in the tub, spilling water over the sides.
"You're going to be great,?I said.
"Oh, I almost forgot! I called Kaka Sharif.?
I remembered him reciting a poem at our nika from a scrap of hotel stationery paper. His son had held the Koran over our heads as Soraya and I had walked toward the stage, smiling at the flashing cameras. "What did he say??
"Well, he's going to stir the pot for us. He'll call some of his INS buddies,?she said.
"That's really great news,?I said. "I can't wait for you to see Sohrab.?
"I can't wait to see you,?she said.
I hung up smiling.
Sohrab emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later. He had barely said a dozen words since the meeting with Raymond Andrews and my attempts at conversation had only met with a nod or a monosyllabic reply. He climbed into bed, pulled the blanket to his chin. Within minutes, he was snoring.
I wiped a circle on the fogged-up mirror and shaved with one of the hotel's old-fashioned razors, the type that opened and you slid the blade in. Then I took my own bath, lay there until the steaming hot water turned cold and my skin shriveled up. I lay there drifting, wondering, imagining...
OMAR FAISAL WAS CHUBBY, dark, had dimpled cheeks, black button eyes, and an affable, gap-toothed smile. His thinning gray hair was tied back in a ponytail. He wore a brown corduroy suit with leather elbow patches and carried a worn, overstuffed briefcase. The handle was missing, so he clutched the briefcase to his chest. He was the sort of fellow who started a lot of sentences with a laugh and an unnecessary apology, like I'm sorry, I'll be there at five. Laugh. When I had called him, he had insisted on coming out to meet us. "I'm sorry, the cabbies in this town are sharks,?he said in perfect English, without a trace of an accent. "They smell a foreigner, they triple their fares.?
He pushed through the door, all smiles and apologies, wheezing a little and sweating. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief and opened his briefcase, rummaged in it for a notepad and apologized for the sheets of paper that spilled on the bed. Sitting crosslegged on his bed, Sohrab kept one eye on the muted television, the other on the harried lawyer. I had told him in the morning that Faisal would be coming and he had nodded, almost asked some thing, and had just gone on watching a show with talking animals.
"Here we are,?Faisal said, flipping open a yellow legal notepad. "I hope my children take after their mother when it comes to organization. I'm sorry, probably not the sort of thing you want to hear from your prospective lawyer, heh??He laughed.
"Well, Raymond Andrews thinks highly of you.?
"Mr. Andrews. Yes, yes. Decent fellow. Actually, he rang me and told me about you.?
"He did??
"Oh yes.?
"So you're familiar with my situation.?
Faisal dabbed at the sweat beads above his lips. "I'm familiar with the version of the situation you gave Mr. Andrews,?he said. His cheeks dimpled with a coy smile. He turned to Sohrab. "This must be the young man who's causing all the trouble,?he said in Farsi.
"This is Sohrab,?I said. "Sohrab, this is Mr. Faisal, the lawyer I told you about.?
Sohrab slid down the side of his bed and shook hands with Omar Faisal. "Salaam alaykum,?he said in a low voice.
"Alaykum salaam, Sohrab,?Faisal said. "Did you know you are named after a great warrior??
Sohrab nodded. Climbed back onto his bed and lay on his side to watch TV.
"I didn't know you spoke Farsi so well,?I said in English. "Did you grow up in Kabul??
"No, I was born in Karachi. But I did live in Kabul for a number of years. Shar-e-Nau, near the Haji Yaghoub Mosque,?Faisal said. "I grew up in Berkeley, actually. My father opened a music store there in the late sixties. Free love, headbands, tiedyed shirts, you name it.?He leaned forward. "I was at Woodstock.?
"Groovy,?I said, and Faisal laughed so hard he started sweating all over again. "Anyway,?I continued, "what I told Mr. Andrews was pretty much it, save for a thing or two. Or maybe three. I'll give you the uncensored version.?
He licked a finger and flipped to a blank page, uncapped his pen. "I'd appreciate that, Amir. And why don't we just keep it in English from here on out??
"Fine.?
I told him everything that had happened. Told him about my meeting with Rahim Khan, the trek to Kabul, the orphanage, the stoning at Ghazi Stadium.
"God,?he whispered. "I'm sorry, I have such fond memories of Kabul. Hard to believe it's the same place you're telling me about.?
"Have you been there lately??
"God no.?
"It's not Berkeley, I'll tell you that,?I said.
"Go on.?
I told him the rest, the meeting with Assef, the fight, Sohrab and his slingshot, our escape back to Pakistan. When I was done, he scribbled a few notes, breathed in deeply, and gave me a sober look. "Well, Amir, you've got a tough battle ahead of you.?
"One I can win??
He capped his pen. "At the risk of sounding like Raymond Andrews, it's not likely. Not impossible, but hardly likely.?Gone was the affable smile, the playful look in his eyes.
"But it's kids like Sohrab who need a Home the most,?I said. "These rules and regulations don't make any sense to me.?
"You're preaching to the choir, Amir,?he said. "But the fact is, take current immigration laws, adoption agency policies, and the political situation in Afghanistan, and the deck is stacked against you.?
"I don't get it,?I said. I wanted to hit something. "I mean, I get it but I don't get it.?
Omar nodded, his brow furrowed. "Well, it's like this. In the aftermath of a disaster, whether it be natural or man-made--and the Taliban are a disaster, Amir, believe me--it's always difficult to ascertain that a child is an orphan. Kids get displaced in refugee camps, or parents just abandon them because they can't take care of them. Happens all the time. So the INS won't grant a visa unless it's clear the child meets the definition of an eligible orphan. I'm sorry, I know it sounds ridiculous, but you need death certificates.?
"You've been to Afghanistan,?I said. "You know how improbable that is.?
"I know,?he said. "But let's suppose it's clear that the child has no surviving parent. Even then, the INS thinks it's good adoption practice to place the child with someone in his own country so his heritage can be preserved.?
"What heritage??I said. "The Taliban have destroyed what heritage Afghans had. You saw what they did to the giant Buddhas in Bamiyan.?
"I'm sorry, I'm telling you how the INS works, Amir,?Omar said, touching my arm. He glanced at Sohrab and smiled. Turned back to me. "Now, a child has to be legally adopted according to the laws and regulations of his own country. But when you have a country in turmoil, say a country like Afghanistan, government offices are busy with emergencies, and processing adoptions won't be a top priority.?
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. A pounding headache was settling in just behind them.
"But let's suppose that somehow Afghanistan gets its act together,?Omar said, crossing his arms on his protruding belly. "It still may not permit this adoption. In fact, even the more moderate Muslim nations are hesitant with adoptions because in many of those countries, Islamic law, Shari'a, doesn't recognize adoption.?
"You're telling me to give it up??I asked, pressing my palm to my forehead.
"I grew up in the U.S., Amir. If America taught me anything, it's that quitting is right up there with pissing in the Girl Scouts?lemonade jar. But, as your lawyer, I have to give you the facts,?he said. "Finally, adoption agencies routinely send staff members to evaluate the child's milieu, and no reasonable agency is going to send an agent to Afghanistan.?
I looked at Sohrab sitting on the bed, watching TV, watching us. He was sitting the way his father used to, chin resting on one knee.
"I'm his half uncle, does that count for anything??
"It does if you can prove it. I'm sorry, do you have any papers or anyone who can support you??
"No papers,?I said, in a tired voice. "No one knew about it. Sohrab didn't know until I told him, and I myself didn't find out until recently. The only other person who knows is gone, maybe dead.?
"What are my options, Omar??
"I'll be frank. You don't have a lot of them.?
"Well, Jesus, what can I do??
Omar breathed in, tapped his chin with the pen, let his breath out. "You could still file an orphan petition, hope for the best. You could do an independent adoption. That means you'd have to live with Sohrab here in Pakistan, day in and day out, for the next two years. You could seek asylum on his behalf. That's a lengthy process and you'd have to prove political persecution. You could request a humanitarian visa. That's at the discretion of the attorney general and it's not easily given.?He paused. "There is another option, probably your best shot.?
"What??I said, leaning forward.
"You could relinquish him to an orphanage here, then file an orphan petition. Start your I-600 form and your Home study while he's in a safe place.?
"What are those??
"I'm sorry, the 1-600 is an INS formality. The Home study is done by the adoption agency you choose,?Omar said. "It's, you know, to make sure you and your wife aren't raving lunatics.?
"I don't want to do that,?I said, looking again at Sohrab. "I promised him I wouldn't send him back to an orphanage.?
"Like I said, it may be your best shot.?
We talked a while longer. Then I walked him out to his car, an old VW Bug. The sun was setting on Islamabad by then, a flaming red nimbus in the west. I watched the car tilt under Omar's weight as he somehow managed to slide in behind the wheel. He rolled down the window. "Amir??
"Yes.?
"I meant to tell you in there, about what you're trying to do? I think it's pretty great.?
He waved as he pulled away. Standing outside the hotel room and waving back, I wished Soraya could be there with me.
SOHRAB HAD TURNED OFF THE TV when l went back into the room. I sat on the edge of my bed, asked him to sit next to me. "Mr. Faisal thinks there is a way I can take you to America with me,?I said.
"He does??Sohrab said, smiling faintly for the first time in days. "When can we go??
"Well, that's the thing. It might take a little while. But he said it can be done and he's going to help us.?I put my hand on the back of his neck. From outside, the call to prayer blared through the streets.
"How long??Sohrab asked.
"I don't know. A while.?
Sohrab shrugged and smiled, wider this time. "I don't mind. I can wait. It's like the sour apples.?
"Sour apples??
"One time, when I was really little, I climbed a tree and ate these green, sour apples. My stomach swelled and became hard like a drum, it hurt a lot. Mother said that if I'd just waited for the apples to ripen, I wouldn't have become sick. So now, whenever I really want something, I try to remember what she said about the apples.?
"Sour apples,?I said. "_Mashallah_, you're just about the smartest little guy I've ever met, Sohrab jan.?His ears reddened with a blush.
"Will you take me to that red bridge? The one with the fog??he said.
"Absolutely,?I said. "Absolutely.?
"And we'll drive up those streets, the ones where all you see is the hood of the car and the sky??
"Every single one of them,?I said. My eyes stung with tears and I blinked them away.
"Is English hard to learn??
"I say, within a year, you'll speak it as well as Farsi.?
"Really??
"Yes.?I placed a finger under his chin, turned his face up to mine. "There is one other thing, Sohrab.?
"What??
"Well, Mr. Faisal thinks that it would really help if we could... if we could ask you to stay in a Home for kids for a while.?
"Home for kids??he said, his smile fading. "You mean an orphanage??
"It would only be for a little while.?
"No,?he said. "No, please.?
"Sohrab, it would be for just a little while. I promise.?
"You promised you'd never put me in one of those places, Amir agha,?he said. His voice was breaking, tears pooling in his eyes. I felt like a prick.
"This is different. It would be here, in Islamabad, not in Kabul. And I'd visit you all the time until we can get you out and take you to America.?
"Please! Please, no!?he croaked. "I'm scared of that place. They'll hurt me! I don't want to go.?
"No one is going to hurt you. Not ever again.?
"Yes they will! They always say they won't but they lie. They lie! Please, God!?
I wiped the tear streaking down his cheek with my thumb. "Sour apples, remember? It's just like the sour apples,?I said softly.
"No it's not. Not that place. God, oh God. Please, no!?He was trembling, snot and tears mixing on his face.
"Shhh.?I pulled him close, wrapped my arms around his shaking little body. "Shhh. It'll be all right. We'll go Home together. You'll see, it'll be all right.?
His voice was muffled against my chest, but I heard the panic in it. "Please promise you won't! Oh God, Amir agha! Please promise you won't!?
How could I promise? I held him against me, held him tightly, and rocked badk and forth. He wept into my shirt until his tears dried, until his shaking stopped and his frantic pleas dwindled to indecipherable mumbles. I waited, rocked him until his breathing slowed and his body slackened. I remembered something I had read somewhere a long time ago: That's how children deal with terror. They fall asleep.
I carried him to his bed, set him down. Then I lay in my own bed, looking out the window at the purple sky over Islamabad.
THE SKY WAS A DEEP BLACK when the phone jolted me from sleep. I rubbed my eyes and turned on the bedside lamp. It was a little past 10:30 P.M.; I'd been sleeping for almost three hours. I picked up the phone. "Hello??
"Call from America.?Mr. Fayyaz's bored voice.
"Thank you,?I said. The bathroom light was on; Sohrab was taking his nightly bath. A couple of clicks and then Soraya:
"Salaam!?She sounded excited.
"How did the meeting go with the lawyer??
I told her what Omar Faisal had suggested. "Well, you can forget about it,?she said. "We won't have to do that.?
I sat up. "Rawsti? Why, what's up??
"I heard back from Kaka Sharif. He said the key was getting Sohrab into the country. Once he's in, there are ways of keeping him here. So he made a few calls to his INS friends. He called me back tonight and said he was almost certain he could get Sohrab a humanitarian visa.?
"No kidding??I said. "Oh thank God! Good ol?Sharifjan!?
"I know. Anyway, we'll serve as the sponsors. It should all happen pretty quickly. He said the visa would be good for a year, plenty of time to apply for an adoption petition.?
"It's really going to happen, Soraya, huh??
"It looks like it,?she said. She sounded happy. I told her I loved her and she said she loved me back. I hung up.
"Sohrab!?I called, rising from my bed. "I have great news.?I knocked on the bathroom door. "Sohrab! Soraya jan just called from California. We won't have to put you in the orphanage, Sohrab. We're going to America, you and I. Did you hear me? We're going to America!?
I pushed the door open. Stepped into the bathroom.
Suddenly I was on my knees, screaming. Screaming through my clenched teeth. Screaming until I thought my throat would rip and my chest explode.
Later, they said I was still screaming when the ambulance arrived.
第二十四章
如果说白沙瓦让我回忆起喀布尔过去的光景，那么，伊斯兰堡就是喀布尔将来可能成为的城市。街道比白沙瓦的要宽，也更整洁，种着成排的木槿和凤凰树。市集更有秩序，而且也没有那么多行人和黄包车挡道。屋宇也更美观，更摩登，我还见到一些公园，林阴之下有蔷薇和茉莉盛开。
法里德在一条通往玛加拉山的巷道找了个小旅馆。前去的路上，我们经过著名的费萨尔清真寺，世界上最大的清真寺，香火甚旺，耸立着巨大的水泥柱和直插云霄的尖塔。看到清真寺，索拉博神色一振，趴在车窗上，一直看着它，直到法里德开车拐了个弯。
旅馆的房间比我和法里德在喀布尔住过那间好得太多了。被褥很干净，地毯用吸尘器吸过，卫生间没有污迹，里面有洗发水、香皂、刮胡刀、浴缸，有散发着柠檬香味的毛巾。
墙上没有血迹。还有，两张单人床前面的柜子上摆着个电视机。
“看！”我对索拉博说。我用手将它打开——没有遥控器，转动旋钮。我调到一个儿童节目，两只毛茸茸的卡通绵羊唱着乌尔都语歌曲。索拉博坐在床上，膝盖抵着胸膛。他看得入迷，绿眼珠反射出电视机里面的影像，前后晃动身子。我想起有一次，我承诺哈桑，在我们长大之后，要给他家里买台彩电。
“我要走了，阿米尔老爷。”法里德说。
“留下过夜吧，”我说，“路途遥远。明天再走。”
“谢谢你。”他说，“但我想今晚就回去。我想念我的孩子。”他走出房间，在门口停下来。“再见，亲爱的索拉博。”他说。他等着回应，但索拉博没理他，自顾摇着身子，屏幕上闪动的图像在他脸上投下银光。
在门外，我给他一个信封。打开之后，他张大了口。
“真不知道该怎么谢谢你。”我说，“你帮了我这么多。”
“这里面有多少钱？”法里德有点手足无措。
“将近两干美元。”
“两干……”他说，下唇稍微有点颤抖。稍后，他驶离停车道的时候，揿了两下喇叭，摇摇手。我也朝他招手。再也没有见到他。
我回到旅馆房间，发现索拉博躺在床上，身子弯成弓形。他双眼合上，但我不知道他是不是睡着了。他关掉了电视。我坐在床上，痛得龇牙咧嘴，抹去额头上的冷汗。我在想，要过多久，起身、坐下、在床上翻身才不会发痛呢？我在想，什么时候才能吃固体食物呢？
我在想，我该拿这个躺在床上的受伤的小男孩怎么办？不过我心里已经有了想法。
柜台上有个饮水机。我倒了一玻璃杯水，吞下两片阿曼德的药丸。水是温的，带有苦味。我拉上窗帘，慢慢躺在床上。我觉得自己的胸膛会裂开。等到痛楚稍减、我又能呼吸的时候，我拉过毛毯盖在身上，等着阿曼德的药丸生效。
醒来之后，房间变黑了。窗帘之间露出一线天光，那是即将转入黑夜的紫色斜晖。汗水浸透被褥，我脑袋昏重。我又做梦了，但忘记梦到什么。
我望向索拉博的床，发现它是空的，心里一沉。我叫他的名字，发出的嗓音吓了自己一跳。那真是茫然失措，坐在阴暗的旅馆房间，离家万里，身体伤痕累累，呼唤着一个几天前才遇到的男孩的名字。我又喊了他的名字，没听到回答。我挣扎着起床，查看卫生间，朝外面那条狭窄的走廊望去。他不见了。
我锁上房门，一只手扶在走廊的栏杆上，跌跌撞撞走到大堂的经理办公室。大堂的角落有株满是尘灰的假棕榈树，粉红的火烈鸟在壁纸上飞舞。我在塑料贴面的登记柜台后面，找到正在看报纸的经理。我向他描绘索拉博的样子，问他有没有见到过。他放下报纸，摘掉老花镜。他的头发油腻，整齐的小胡子有些灰白，身上依稀有种我叫不上名字的热带水果味道。
“男孩嘛，他们总喜欢出去玩。”他叹气说，“我有三个男孩，他们整天都跑得不见踪影，给他们母亲惹麻烦。”他用报纸扇风，看着我的下巴。
“我认为他不是出去玩，”我说，“我们不是本地人，我担心他会迷路。”他摇摇头：“你应该看好那个男孩，先生。”
“我知道，”我说，“但我睡着了，醒来他已经不见了。”
“男孩应该多加关心的，你知道。”
“是的。”我说，血气上涌。他怎么可以对我的焦急如此无动于衷？他把报纸交在另外一只手上，继续扇风，“他们现在想要自行车。”
“谁？”
“我的孩子。”他说，“他们总在说：”爸爸，爸爸，请给我们买自行车，我们不会给你带来麻烦。求求你，爸爸。‘“他哼笑一声，”自行车。他们的母亲会杀了我，我敢向你保证。“我想像着索拉博横尸街头，或者在某辆轿车的后厢里面，手脚被绑，嘴巴被 塞住。我不想他死在我手里，不想他也因我而死。“麻烦你……”我说，皱起眉头，看见他那件短袖蓝色棉衬衫翻领上的商标，“费亚兹先生，你见过他吗？”
“那个男孩？”我强忍怒火：“对，那个男孩！那个跟我一起来的男孩。以真主的名义，你见过他吗？”
扇风停止。他眼睛一缩：“别跟我来这套，老弟，把他弄丢的不是我。”虽然他说得没错，但不能平息我的怒火。“你对，我错了，是我的错。那么，你见过他吗？”
“对不起。”他强硬地说，戴上眼镜，打开报纸，“我没见过这样的男孩。”我在柜台站了一会，抑制自己别发火。我走出大厅的时候，他说：“有没有 想过他会去什么地方？”
“没有。”我说。我感到疲惫，又累又怕。
“他有什么爱好吗？”他说，我看见他把报纸收起来。“比如说我的孩子，他们无论如何总是要看美国动作片，特别是那个阿诺什么辛格演的……”
“清真寺！”我说，“大清真寺。”我记得我们路过的时候，清真寺让索拉博从委靡中振奋起来，记得他趴在车窗望着它的样子。
“费萨尔？”
“是的，你能送我去吗？”
“你知不知道它是世界上最大的清真寺？”他问。
“不知道，可是……”
“光是它的院子就可以容下四万人。”
“你能送我到那边去吗？”
“那儿距这里还不到一公里。”他说，不过他已经从柜台站起来。
“我会付你车钱。”
他叹气，摇摇头，“在这里等着。”他走进里间，出来的时候换了一副眼镜，手里拿着串钥匙，有个披着橙色纱丽的矮胖女人跟在身后。她坐上他在柜台后面的位子。“我不会收你的钱。”他朝我吹着气，“我会载你去，因为我跟你一样，也是个父亲。”
我原以为我们会在城里四处寻找，直到夜幕降临。我以为我会看到自己报警，在费亚兹同情的目光下，给他们描绘索拉博的样子。我以为会听见那个警官疲累冷漠的声音，例行公事的提问。而在那些正式的问题之后，会来个私人的问题：不就是又一个死掉的阿富汗孩子，谁他妈的关心啊？
但我们在离清真寺约莫一百米的地方找到他，坐在车辆停满一半的停车场里面，一片草堆上。费亚兹在那片草堆停下，让我下车。“我得回去。”他说。
“好的。我们会走回去。”我说，“谢谢你，费亚兹先生，真的谢谢。”我走出去的时候，他身子从前座探出来。“我能对你说几句吗？”
“当然。”
在薄暮的黑暗中，他的脸只剩下一对反照出微光的眼镜。“你们阿富汗的事情……这么说吧，你们有点鲁莽。”
我很累，很痛。我的下巴抖动，胸膛和腹部那些该死的伤口像鱼钩在拉我的皮肤。但尽管这样，我还是开始大笑起来。
“我……我说了……”费亚兹在说话，但我那时哈哈大笑，喉头爆发出来的笑声从我缝着线的嘴巴进出来。
“疯掉了。”他说。他踩下油门，车轮在地面打转，尾灯在黯淡的夜光中闪闪发亮。
“你把我吓坏了。”我说。我在他身旁坐下，强忍弯腰带来的剧痛。他望着清真寺。
费萨尔清真寺的外观像一顶巨大的帐篷。轿车进进出出，穿着白衣的信徒川流不息。我们默默坐着，我斜倚着树，索拉博挨着我，膝盖抵在胸前。我们听着宣告祈祷开始的钟声，看着那屋宇随日光消退而亮起成千上万的灯光。清真寺在黑暗中像钻石那样闪着光芒。它照亮了夜空，照亮了索拉博的脸庞。
“你去过马扎里沙里夫吗？”索拉博说，下巴放在膝盖上。
“很久以前去过，我不太记得了。”
“我很小的时候，爸爸带我去过那儿，妈妈和莎莎也去了。爸爸在市集给我买了一只猴子。不是真的那种，而是你得把它吹起来的那种。它是棕色的，还打着蝴蝶结。”
“我小时候似乎也有一只。”
“爸爸带我去蓝色清真寺。”索拉博说，“我记得那儿有很多鸽子，在那个回教堂外面，它们不怕人。它们朝我们走来，莎莎给我一小片馕，我喂那些鸟儿。很快，那些鸽子都围在我身边咯咯叫。真好玩。”
“你一定很想念你的父母。”我说。我在想他有没有看到塔利班将他的父母拖到街上。我希望他没有。
“你想念你的父母吗？”他问，把脸颊放在膝盖上，抬眼看着我。
“我想念我的父母吗？嗯，我从没见过我的妈妈。我爸爸几年前死了，是的，我想念他。有时很想。”
“你记得他长什么样子吗？”
我想起爸爸粗壮的脖子，黑色的眼睛，那头不羁的棕发，坐在他大腿上跟坐在树干上一样。“我记得他长什么样子，”我说，“我还记得他身上的味道。”
“我开始忘记他们的面孔，”索拉博说，“这很糟吗？”
“不，”我说，“是时间让你忘记的。”我想起某些东西。我翻开外套的前袋，找出那张哈桑和索拉博的宝丽莱合影，“给你。”
他将相片放在面前几英寸的地方，转了一下，以便让清真寺的灯光照在上面。他久久看着它。我想他也许会哭，但他只是双手拿着照片，拇指在它上面抚摸着。我想起一句不知道在什么地方看来的话，或者是从别人口里听来的：阿富汗有很多儿童，但没有童年。
他伸出手，把它递给我。
“你留着吧，”我说，“它是你的。”
“谢谢你。”他又看了看照片，把它放在背心的口袋里面。一辆马车发着声响驶进停车场。马脖子上挂着很多小铃铛，随着马步叮当作响。
“我最近经常想起清真寺。”索拉博说。
“真的吗？都想些什么呢？”他耸耸肩，“就是想想而已。”他仰起脸，看着我的眼睛。这时，他哭了起来，轻柔地，默默地。“我能问你一些问题吗，阿米尔老爷？”
“当然。”
“真主会不会……”他开始说，语声有点哽咽，“真主会不会因为我对那个人做的事情让我下地狱？”
我伸手去碰他，他身子退缩。我收回手。“不会，当然不会。”我说。我想把他拉近，抱着他，告诉他世界曾经对他不仁，他别无选择。
他的脸扭曲绷紧，试图保持平静：“爸爸常说，甚至连伤害坏人也是不对的。因为他们不知道什么是好的，还因为坏人有时也会变好。”
“不一定的，索拉博。”他疑惑地看着我。
“那个伤害你的人，我认识他很多年。”我说，“我想这个你从我和他的对话中听出来了。我像你这样大的时候，他……他有一次想伤害我，但你父亲救了我。你父亲非常勇敢，他总是替我解决麻烦，为我挺身而出。所以有一天那个坏人伤害了你父亲，他伤得你父亲很重，而我……我不能像你父亲救过我那样救他。”
“为什么人们总是伤害我父亲？”索拉博有点喘着气说，“他从不针对任何人。”
“你说得对。你父亲是个好人。但我想告诉你的是，亲爱的索拉博，这个世界有坏人，有时坏人坏得很彻底，有时你不得不反抗他们。你对那个人所做的，我很多年前就应该对他做的。他是罪有应得，甚至还应该得到更多的报应。”
“你觉得爸爸会对我失望吗？”
“我知道他不会。”我说，“你在喀布尔救了我的命。我知道他会为你感到非常骄傲。”
他用衣袖擦脸，弄破了他嘴唇上挂着的唾液泡泡。他把脸埋在手里，哭了很久才重新说话。“我想念爸爸，也想念妈妈，”他哽咽说，
“我想念莎莎和拉辛汗。但有时我很高兴他们不……他们不在了。”
“为什么？”我碰碰他的手臂，他抽开。
“因为……”他抽泣着说，“因为我不想让他们看到我……我这么脏。”他深吸一口气，
然后抽泣着慢慢呼出，“我很脏，浑身是罪。”
“你不脏，索拉博。”我说。
“那些男人……”
“你一点都不脏。”
“……他们对我……那个坏人和其他两个……他们对我……对我做了某些事情。”
“你不脏，你身上没有罪。”我又去碰他的手臂，他抽开。我再伸出手，轻轻地将他拉近。“我不会伤害你，”我低声说，“我保证。”他挣扎了一下，全身放松，让我将他拉近，把头靠在我胸膛上。他小小的身体在我怀里随着每声啜泣抽动。
喝着同样的奶水长大的人之间会有亲情。如今，就在这个男孩痛苦的泪水浸湿我的衣裳时，我看到我们身上也有亲情开始生长出来。在那间房间里面和阿塞夫发生的事情让我们紧紧联系在一起，不可分开。
我一直在寻找恰当的机会、恰当的时间，问出那个萦绕在我脑里、让我彻夜无眠的问题。我决定现在就问，就在此地，就在此刻，就在照射着我们的真主房间的蓝色灯光之下。
“你愿意到美国去、跟我和我的妻子一起生活吗？”他没有回答，他的泪水流进我的衬衣，我随他去。
整整一个星期，我们两个都没提起我所问过他的，似乎那个问题从来没被说出来。接着某天，我和索拉博坐出租车，前往“达曼尼科”——它的意思是“那座山的边缘”——观景台。它坐落在玛加拉山半腰，可以看到伊斯兰堡的全景，树木夹道的纵横街路，还有白色房子。司机告诉我们，从上面能看到总统的宫殿。
“如果刚下过雨，空气清新，你们甚至能看到拉瓦尔品第[Rawalpindi，伊斯兰堡附近古城]. ”他说。我从他那边的观后镜，看见他扫视着我和索拉博，来回看个不停。我也看到自己的脸，不像过去那样浮肿，但各处消退中的淤伤在它上面留下黄色的痕迹。
我们坐在橡胶树的阴影里面，野餐区的长椅上。那天很暖和，太阳高悬在澄蓝的天空中，旁边的长椅上坐着几个家庭，在吃土豆饼和炸蔬菜饼。不知何处传来收音机播放印度音乐的声音，我想我在某部旧电影里面听过，也许是《纯洁》[Pakeeza，1971年公映，巴基斯坦电影] 吧。一些孩子追逐着足球，他们多数跟索拉博差不多年纪，咯咯发笑，大声叫喊。我想起卡德察区那个恤孤院，想起在察曼的办公室，那只老鼠从我双脚之间穿过。我心口发紧，猛然升起一阵始料不及的怒火，为着我的同胞正在摧毁他们的家园。
“怎么了？”索拉博问。我挤出笑脸，跟他说没什么。我们把一条从旅馆卫生间取来的浴巾铺在野餐桌上，在它上面玩起番吉帕。
在那儿跟我同父异母兄弟的儿子一起玩牌，温暖的阳光照射在我脖子后面，那感觉真好。那首歌结束了，另外一首响起，我没听过。
“看。”索拉博说，他用扑克牌指着天空。我抬头，见到有只苍鹰在一望无垠的天空中翱翔。
“我还不知道伊斯兰堡有老鹰呢。”
“我也不知道。”他说，眼睛看着那只回旋的鸟儿，“你生活的地方有老鹰吗？”
“旧金山？我想有吧，不过我没有见过很多。”
“哦。”他说。我希望他会多问几句，但他又甩出一手牌，问是不是可以吃东西了。
我打开纸袋，给他肉丸夹饼。我的午餐是一杯混合的香蕉汁和橙汁——那个星期我租了费亚兹太太的榨汁机。我用吸管吮着，满嘴甜甜的混合果汁。有些从嘴角流出来，索拉博递给我一张纸巾，看着我擦嘴唇。我朝他微笑，他也微笑。
“你父亲跟我是兄弟。”我说，自然而然地。在我们坐在清真寺附近那晚，我本来打算告诉他，但终究没说出口。可是他有权利知道，我不想再隐瞒什么事情了。“同父异母，真的。我们有共同的爸爸。”
索拉博不再吃东西了，把夹饼放下，“爸爸没说过他有兄弟。”
“那是因为他不知道。”
“他为什么不知道？”
“没人告诉他，”我说，“也没人告诉我。我最近才发现。”索拉博眨眼，好像那是他第一次看着我，第一次真正看着我。“可是人们为什么瞒着爸爸和你呢？”
“你知道吗，那天我也问了这个问题。那儿有个答案，但不是个好答案。让我们这么说吧，人们瞒着我们，因为你父亲和我……我们不应该被当成兄弟。”
“因为他是哈扎拉人吗？”我强迫自己看着他：“是的。”
“你父亲，”他眼睛看着食物，说，“你父亲爱你和爱我爸爸一样多吗？”
我想起很久以前，有一天我们在喀尔卡湖，哈桑的石头比我多跳了几下，爸爸情不自禁拍着哈桑的后背。我想起爸爸在病房里，看着人们揭开哈桑唇上的绷带，喜形于色。“我想他对我们的爱是一样的，但方式不同。”
“他为我爸爸感到羞耻吗？”
“不，”我说，“我想他为自己感到羞耻。”他捡起夹饼，默默地吃起来。
我们快傍晚的时候才离开，天气很热，让人疲累，不过疲累得开心。回去的路上，我觉得索拉博一直在观察我。我让司机在某间出售电话卡的商店门口停车。我给他钱还有小费，让他帮我去买电话卡。
那天晚上，我们躺在床上，看着电视上的谈话节目。两个教士胡子花白，穿着白袍，接听世界各地信徒打来的电话。有人从芬兰打来，那家伙叫艾优博，问他十来岁的儿子会不会下地狱，因为他穿的裤子宽大耷拉，低得露出内裤的橡皮 筋勒带。
“我见过一幅旧金山的照片。”索拉博说。
“真的？”
“那儿有座红色的大桥，和一座屋顶尖尖的建筑。”
“你应该看看那些街道。”我说。
“它们是什么样的？”他现在看着我。电视上，两个毛拉正在交换意见。
“它们很陡，当你开车上坡的时候，你只能见到前面的车顶和天空。”
“听起来真吓人。”他说。他翻过身，脸朝着我，背对着电视。
“刚开始有点吓人，”我说，“不过你会习惯的。”
“那儿下雪吗？”
“不，不过有很多雾。你知道那座你看过的红色大桥吧？”
“是的。”
“有时候，早晨的雾很浓，你只能看到两座尖耸的塔顶。”他惊奇地微笑着：“哦。”
“索拉博？”
“怎么？”
“你有考虑过我之前问你的问题吗？”他的笑容不见了，翻身仰面躺着，十指交叉，放在脑后。毛拉确定了，艾优博的儿子那样穿着裤子是会下地狱的。他们说《圣训》里面有提及。“我想过了。”索拉博说。
“怎么样？”
“我很怕。”
“我知道那有点可怕，”我说，抓住那一丝渺茫的希望，“但你很快就可以学会英语，等你习惯了……”
“我不是这个意思。那也让我害怕。可是……”
“可是什么？”他又翻身朝着我，屈起双膝，“要是你厌倦我怎么办呢？要是你妻子不喜欢我怎么办？”
我从床上挣扎起来，走过我们之间的距离，坐在他身边。“我永远不会厌倦你，索拉博。”我说，“永远不会。这是承诺。你是我的侄儿，记得吗？而亲爱的索拉雅，她是个很好的女人。相信我，她会爱上你的。这也是承诺。”我试探着伸手拉住他的手掌，他稍微有点紧张，但让我拉着。
“我不想再到恤孤院去。”他说。
“我永远不会让那发生。我向你保证。”我双手压住他的手，“跟我一起回家。”
他泪水浸湿了枕头，很长很久默不作声。然后他把手抽回去，点点头。他点头了。
拨到第四次，电话终于接通了。铃声响了三次，她接起电话。“喂？”当时在伊斯兰堡是晚上7点半，加利福尼亚那边差不多是早晨这个时间。那意味着索拉雅已经起床一个小时了，在为去上课做准备。“是我，”我说。我坐在自己的床上，看着索拉博睡觉。
“阿米尔！”她几乎是尖叫，“你还好吗？你在哪儿？”
“我在巴基斯坦。”
“你为什么不早点打电话来？我担心得都生病了！我妈妈每天祷告，还许愿！”
“我很抱歉没打电话。我现在没事了。”我曾经跟她说我会离开一个星期，也许两个星期，但我离开将近一个月了。我微笑。“跟雅米拉阿姨说不要再杀羊了。”
“你说‘没事’是什么意思？你的声音怎么回事？”
“现在别担心这个。我没事，真的。索拉雅，我要告诉你一个故事，一个我早就该告诉你的故事，但我得先告诉你一件事。”
“什么事？”她放低声音说，语气谨慎一些了。
“我不会一个人回家。我会带着一个小男孩。”我顿了顿，说，“我想我们要收养他。”
“什么？” 我看看时间：“这张该死的电话卡还剩下四十七分钟，我有很多话要对你说。
找个地方坐下。”我听见椅脚匆匆拖过木地板的声音。
“说吧。”她说。然后我做了结婚十五年来没做过的事：我向妻子坦白了一切事情。一切事情。
我很多次设想过这一刻，害怕这一刻，可是，我说了，我感到胸口有些东西涌起来。
我觉得就在提亲那夜，索拉雅跟我说起她的过去，也体验过某种非常相似的感觉。
但这一次，说故事的人是我，她在哭泣。
“你怎么想？”我说。
“我不知道该怎么想，阿米尔。你一下子告诉我太多了。”
“我知道。” 我听见她擦鼻子的声音。“但我很清楚地知道的是：你必须把他带回家。
我要你这么做。”
“你确定吗？”我说，闭上双眼，微笑起来。
“我确定吗？”她说，“阿米尔，他是你的侄儿，你的家人，所以他也是我的侄儿。
我当然确定，你不能任他流落街头。”她停顿了一会，“他性子怎样？”
我望向睡在床上的索拉博：“他很可爱，很严肃那种。”
“谁能怪他呢？”她说，“我想见到他，阿米尔。我真的想。”
“索拉雅？”
“嗯。”
“我爱你。”
“我也爱你。”她说。我听得见她话里的笑意，“小心点。”
“我会的。还有，别告诉你父母他是谁。如果他们想知道，应该让我来说。”
“好的。”我们挂上电话。
伊斯兰堡美国大使馆外面的草坪修剪齐整，点缀着一圈圈花儿，四周是挺直的篱笆。
房子本身跟伊斯兰堡很多建筑很相像：白色的平房。我们穿过几个街区，到达那儿，三个不同的安检人员搜我的身，因为我下巴缝着的线弄响了金属探测 器。我们最终从热浪中走进去，空调的冷风扑面而来，好像冰水泼在脸上。接待室的秘书是个五十来岁的金发妇女，脸庞瘦削。我自报家门，她微微一笑。她穿着米色的罩衫和黑色的休闲裤——她是我数个星期来见到的第一个没有穿着蒙脸长袍或者棉袍的女人。她在预约单上查找我的名字，用铅笔带橡皮擦那头敲着办公桌。她找到我的名字，让我坐下。
“你们想来杯柠檬汁吗？”她问。
“我不要，谢谢。”
“你儿子要吗？”
“什么？”
“那个英俊的小绅士，”她说，朝索拉博笑着。
“哦，好的，谢谢你。”索拉博和我坐在黑色的皮沙发上，就在接待柜台对面，挨着一面高高的美国国旗。索拉博从玻璃桌面的咖啡桌挑起一本杂志。他翻阅着，心不在焉地看着图片。
“怎么啦？”索拉博说。
“什么？”
“你在微笑。”
“我在想着你的事情呢。”我说。他露出紧张的微笑。挑起另外一本杂志，还不到三十秒就翻完了。
“别害怕。”我碰碰他的手臂说，“这些人很友善，放松点。”我自己才应该听从这个建议。我在座位上不停挪动身子，解开鞋带，又系上。秘书将一大杯混有冰块的柠檬汁放在咖啡桌上。“请用。”
索拉博羞涩一笑。“非常谢谢。”他用英语说，听起来像“灰常歇歇。”他跟我说过，他只懂得这句英语，还有“祝你今天愉快”。
她笑起来：“别客气。”她走回办公桌，高跟鞋在地板上敲响。
“祝你今天愉快。”索拉博说。雷蒙德·安德鲁个子不高，手掌很小，指甲修剪得很好，无名指上戴着结婚戒指。他草草和我握手，感觉像捏着一只麻雀。这是一双掌握我们命运的手，我想。索拉博和我坐在他的办公桌对面。一张《悲惨世界》的海报钉在安德鲁身后的墙壁上，挨着一张美国地形图。阳光照耀的窗台上有盆番茄藤。
“吸烟吗？”他问，和他瘦弱的身形相比起来，他低沉洪亮的声音显得十分古怪。
“不，谢谢。”我说。安德鲁甚至都没看索拉博一眼，跟我说话的时候眼睛也没看着我，但我不在乎。他拉开办公桌的抽屉，从半包烟里面抽出一根点上。他还从同一个抽屉拿起一瓶液体，一边涂抹在手上，一边看窗台上的番茄藤，香烟斜斜吊在他嘴角。然后他关上抽屉，把手肘放在办公桌上，呼出一口气。“好了，”他说，在烟雾中眨眨他灰色的眼睛，“告诉我你的故事。”
我感觉就像冉·阿让坐在沙威[冉·阿让（jean Valjean）和沙威（javert）都是雨果作品《悲惨世界》中的人物，前者因为偷东西入狱，后者是警察]对面。我提醒自己，我如今在美国的领地上，这个家伙跟我是一边的，他领薪水，就为了帮助我这样的人。“我想收养这个孩子，将他带回美国。”我说。
“告诉我你的故事。”他重复说，用食指把烟灰在整洁的办公桌上压碎，将其扫进烟灰缸。
我把跟索拉雅通电话之后编好的故事告诉他。我前往阿富汗，带回我同父异母兄弟的儿子。我发现这个孩子处境堪忧，在恤孤院中浪费生命。我给恤孤院的负责人一笔钱，将孩子带出来。接着我把他带到巴基斯坦。
“你算是这个孩子的伯伯？”
“是的。”他看看表，侧身转向窗台上的番茄藤，“有人能证明吗？”
“有的，但我不知道他现在在哪儿。”
他转向我，点点头。我试图从他脸上看出他的想法，但一无所获。我在想他这双小手
有没有玩过扑克。
“我想，把下巴缝成这样，该不是最近时兴的证词吧。”他说。我们麻烦了，索拉博和我，我顿时明白。我告诉他我在白沙瓦被抢了。
“当然，”他说，清清喉咙，“你是穆斯林吗？”
“是的。”
“虔诚吗？”
“是的。”实际上，我都不记得上次把头磕在地上祷告是什么时候。然后我想起来了：阿曼尼大夫给爸爸看病那天。我跪在祈祷毯上，想起的却只有几段课堂上学到的经文。
“对你的事情有点帮助，但起不了太大作用。”他说，作势在他那蓬松的头发上搔痒。
“你是什么意思？”我问。我拉起索拉博的手，扣着他的手指。索拉博不安地看着我和安德鲁。
“有个长的答案，到了最后我会告诉你。你想先听个短的吗？”
“说吧。”我说。安德鲁将香烟掐灭，抿着嘴，“放弃吧。”
“什么？”
“你提出的收养这个孩子的请求。放弃吧。那是我给你的建议。”
“知道了。”我说，“现在，也许你可以告诉我原因了。”
“那就是说你想听长的答案了？”他语气冷淡地说，对我不快的语气无动于衷。他合起手掌，似乎他正跪在圣母面前。“让我们假设你告诉我的故事是真的，不过我非常怀疑它是假的，或者省略掉一大部分。告诉你一声，我不关心。你在这里，他在这里，这才是要紧的事情。即使这样，你的请求面临着明显的障碍，更何况这个孩子并非孤儿。”
“他当然是。”
“从法律上来讲他不是。”
“他的父母在街上被处决了，邻居都看到。”我说，为我们用英语交谈而高兴。
“你有死亡证明吗？”
“死亡证明？我们在说的是阿富汗，很多人甚至连出生证明都没有。”他明亮的眼睛
一眨不眨，“先生，法律不是我制定的。你生气也没用，你还是得证明他的父母确实去世了。
这个男孩必须让法律承认他是孤儿。”
“可是……”
“你想要长的答案，我现在正给你呢。你的下一个问题是，你需要这个孩子出生国的合作。现在，就算在最好的情况下，这也很难，还有，引用你说过的，我们在谈论的是阿富汗。我们在喀布尔没有大使馆。这使事情极端复杂，几乎是不可能的。”
“你在说什么？我应该将他扔到街头上吗？”我说。
“我可没那么说。”
“他受过性虐待。”我说，想起索拉博脚踝上的铃铛，他眼睛上的眼影。
“听到这个我很抱歉，”安德鲁张口说，不过他望着我的样子，好像我们一直在谈论天气，“但那不会让移民局给这个小男孩放发签证。”
“你在说什么？”
“我的意思是，如果你想帮忙，可以捐钱给可靠的慈善组织，或者去难民营当义工。但在现在这样的时刻，我们非常不赞成美国公民收养阿富汗儿童。”
我站起来。“走吧，索拉博。”我用法尔西语说。索拉博倚着我，头靠在我的臀部上。
我想起那张宝丽莱照片，他和哈桑就这样站着。“我能问你一些问题吗，安德鲁先生？”
“可以。”
“你有孩子吗？”这下，他第一次眨眼了。
“嗯，你有吗？随便问问而已。”
他默默无语。
“我这么认为，”我说，拉起索拉博的手，“他们应该找个知道想要孩子是什么感觉的人坐你的位置。”我转身离开，索拉博跟着我。
“我可以问你一个问题吗？”安德鲁喊道。
“说吧。”
“你承诺过这个孩子带他回家吗？”
“要是有又怎样？”他摇摇头，“真是危险的事情，给孩子承诺。”他叹气，又打开抽屉，“你真想要这么做？”他说，翻着文件。
“我真的想这么做。”他抽出一张名片：“那么我建议你找个优秀的移民律师。奥马尔‘费萨尔在伊斯兰堡工作，你可以跟他说我让你去找他。”
我从他那里拿过名片。“谢谢。”我低声说。
“祝你好运。”他说。我们走出房间的时候，我回头看了一眼。安德鲁站在长方形的阳光中，茫然地望着窗外，双手将那盆番茄藤转到阳光下，慈爱地拍打着。
“保重。”我们走过秘书的办公桌时她说。
“你老板应该礼貌一些。”我说。我以为她会转动眼珠，也许点头说“我知道，每个人都那么说”，诸如此类。相反的是，她降低声音：“可怜的雷，自从他女儿死后，他就跟变了个人似的。”
我扬起眉头。
“自杀。”她说。在回旅馆的出租车上，索拉博头靠车窗，望着栋栋后退的房子和成排的橡胶树。他的呼吸模糊了玻璃，擦干净，又模糊了。我等待他问起会谈的情况，但他没问。
浴室的门关上，门后传来水流声。自从我们住进宾馆那天起，索拉博每晚上床之前总要洗很久的澡。在喀布尔，热自来水像父亲一样，是稀缺的产品。现在索拉博每晚几乎要用一个小时洗澡，浸在肥皂水中，不停擦着身体。我坐在床边给索拉雅打电话，看着浴室门下渗出来的光线。你觉得干净了吗，索拉博？
我将雷蒙德跟我说过的告诉索拉雅。“你现在怎么想？”
“我们得认为他错了。”她说她给几家安排国际收养的机构打过电话，她还没发现有考虑收养阿富汗孩子的机构，但她还在找。
“你父母对这个消息怎么看？”
“妈妈很为我们高兴。你知道她对你的感觉，阿米尔，在她眼里，你做什么都不会错。爸爸……嗯，跟过去一样，他有点让人猜不透。他没说太多。”
“你呢？你高兴吗？”我听见她把听筒换到另一只手上。“我想这对你的侄儿来说是好的，但也许他也会给我们带来帮助。”
“我也这么想。”
“我知道这听起来很疯狂，可是我发现自己在想着他最喜欢吃什么菜，或者最喜欢学校里的哪门课。我设想自己在帮他做作业……' ‘她哈哈大笑。浴室的水声停止了，我能听到索拉博在那儿，从浴缸爬出来，擦干身体。
“你真是太好了。”我说。
“啊，我差点忘了！我给沙利夫舅舅打过电话！” 我记得在我们的婚礼上，他朗诵一首写在酒店信纸上的诗歌。我和索拉雅走向舞台，朝闪光的镜头微笑的时候，他的儿子在我们头顶高举《可兰经》。“他怎么说？”
“嗯，他会帮助我们。他会给他在移民局的朋友打电话。”她说。
“真是个好消息。”我说，“我忍不住想让你快点见到索拉博。”
“我忍不住想快点见到你。”她说。我笑着挂上电话。
几分钟后，索拉博从浴室出来。自从与安德鲁会面之后，他说过的话几乎不超过十来个单词，我每次试图跟他交谈，他总是点点头，或者用一个字回答我。他爬上床，把毯子拉到下巴。没过几分钟，他呼呼睡去。
我抹开水汽迷濛的镜子，用旅馆的旧式刮胡刀刮脸。你得把它打开，然后把刀片装进去。接着我洗澡，躺在浴缸里面，直到冒着汽的热水变冷，让我的皮肤起鸡皮疙瘩。我躺在那儿漂浮着、思索着、想像着……
奥马尔·费萨尔皮肤很暗，矮矮胖胖，脸上有酒窝，黑色的大眼睛，还有和蔼的笑容，露出来的齿缝很大。他稀疏的头发在后面梳成马尾，穿着棕色灯芯绒西装，手肘的位置上有几块毛皮补丁，还带着个鼓鼓的破旧公文包。公文包的提 手不见了，所以他将其抱在胸前。他是一见面就笑着说很多话而且过分客套的人，比如说“对不起，我将会在五点在那儿”之类的。我打电话给他，听到他的笑声，他执意要出来会晤我们。“很抱歉，这个城市里面的出租车跟鲨鱼一样，”他的英语说得很棒，没有任何口音，“一旦嗅到外国人的味道，就会多要三倍车费。”
他推开门，脸带微笑，道歉连连，稍微有点喘气和流汗。他用手帕擦额头，打开公文包，乱翻着找记事本，为把文件扔得满床都是不停道歉。索拉博盘膝坐在床上，一边看着消掉声音的电视，一边看着那个手忙脚乱的律师。那天早晨我 跟他说过费萨尔要来，他点点头，似乎想问些什么，但只是走开去看一个有动物在说话的电视节目。
“找到了。”费萨尔说，翻开一本黄色的法律记事本。“就安排事物的能力而言，我希望我的孩子像他们的妈妈。很抱歉，也许这不是你所想要从你未来的律师口里听到的，对吧？”他哈哈大笑。
“嗯，雷蒙德·安德鲁对你评价很高。”
“安德鲁先生。是的，是的，那个家伙人很好。实际上，他打过电话给我，把你的事情告诉我了。”
“真的吗？”
“哦，是的。”
“那么你清楚我的情况了。” 费萨尔擦去唇边的汗水。“我清楚你告诉安德鲁先生的情况。”他说，脸上出现两个酒窝，泛起狡狺的微笑。他转向索拉博。“肯定就是这个少年惹起所有的麻烦吧？”他用法尔西语说。
“这是索拉博。”我说，“索拉博，他是费萨尔先生，我跟你说过的那个律师。”
索拉博从他的床上滑下来，跟费萨尔握手。“你好。”他低声说。
“你好，索拉博。”费萨尔说，“你知道自己的名字来自一个了不起的战士吗？”
索拉博点点头，爬回床上，继续侧身躺着看电视。
“我不知道你的法尔西语说得这么好，”我用英语说，“你在喀布尔长大吗？”
“不是，我在卡拉奇[Karachi，巴基斯坦南部城市]出生，但在喀布尔生活了好几年。沙里诺区，靠近哈吉雅霍清真寺。”费萨尔说。“实际上，我在伯克利[Berkeley，美国加州城市] 长大。1960年代后期，我爸爸在那儿开了间唱片店。自由恋爱，染了领带的衫，
你叫得出来的全都有。”他身体前倾，“我去过伍德斯托克音乐节[Woodstock ，位于纽约州东南，每年8月举办民谣和摇滚音乐节]. ”
“太帅了！”我说。费萨尔哈哈大笑，又开始冒汗珠了。“反正，”我继续说，“我跟安德鲁先生说得差不多了，省略掉一两件事，也许三件。我会完完整整告诉你。”
他舔了一根手指，翻到空白页，把笔帽打开。“那最好了，阿米尔。我们何不用英语交谈，免得外面的人听到？”
“好的。”我把发生过的一切统统告诉他：我跟拉辛汗的会面、前往喀布尔、恤孤院、伽兹体育馆的掷石头。
“天！”他低声惊呼，“很抱歉，我在喀布尔有很多美好的回忆。很难相信你刚才告诉我的竟然是同一个地方。”
“你后来回去过吗？”
“天，没有。”
“我会告诉你，那儿不是伯克利。”我说。
“继续。”我把剩下的都告诉他了：跟阿塞夫见面、搏斗、索拉博和他的弹弓、逃回巴基斯坦。当我说完，他飞快地写下一些东西，深深呼吸，镇定地看了我一眼：“好了，阿米尔，你前面有场艰苦的战斗。”
“我能打赢吗？”他把笔帽装上。“就安德鲁的语气判断，希望渺茫。不是不可能，但是机会很小。”和蔼的笑容和戏谑的眼神不见了。
“可是像索拉博这样的孩子最需要有个家，”我说，“这些规章制度对我来说毫无意
义。”
“我也心有戚戚，阿米尔。”他说，“但事实是，就当前的移民法、收养机构政策和阿富汗的政治局势看来，你的情况很不妙。”
“我真不理解，”我说，想找个东西揍一顿，“我是说，我明白，但是我不理解。”
奥马尔点头，双眉紧锁。“好了，就这样。灾难之后，不管天灾还是人祸——塔利班真是一场大灾难，阿米尔，相信我——一个孩子是否孤儿，总是很难判断。孩子们被遗弃在难民营，或者被双亲抛弃，因为他们无法加以照料。这些情况向来都有。所以除非孩子满足孤儿的法律定义，否则移民局不会放发签证。我很抱歉，我知道这听起来很荒唐，但你需要一纸死亡证书。”
“你在阿富汗住过，”我说，“你知道这事的可能性有多大。”
“我知道，”他说，“但让我们假设现在这个孩子父母双亡的情况弄清楚了。即使那样，移民局会认为，最好由该国的人来收养这个孩子，以便他能保持本国的文化传统。”
“什么传统？”我说，“阿富汗有过的文化传统被塔利班毁掉了。你知道他们怎么对待巴米扬的大佛。”
“很抱歉，我在告诉你的是移民局怎么工作，阿米尔。”奥马尔说，碰碰我的手臂。
他望向索拉博，露出微笑，然后看着我。“说到这里，一个孩子必须根据他自己国家的法规被合法地收养。但假如你碰到一个乱糟糟的国家，比如说阿富汗，政府官员会忙于处理各种突发事件，处理收养事宜不会得到优先考虑。”
我叹气，揉揉眼睛。眼睛后面突突发痛。
“但是让我们假设不管怎样，阿富汗人肯帮忙。”奥马尔说，双手交叉放在隆起的肚子上，“这次收养仍有可能被拒绝。实际上，就算是那些较为温和的穆斯林国家，对收养也不无疑虑，因为在多数这些国家中，穆斯林教法不赞同收养。”
“你是在叫我放弃？”我问，用手压着额头。
“我在美国长大，阿米尔。如果说美国让我学到什么东西，那就是，认输简直就像在女童军[Girl Scouts，美国女童军是世界上最大的专门服务于女孩的组织，成员多为成年义工，旨在帮助女孩提高使她们终身受益的素质] 的柠檬水罐里面撒尿一样不可原谅。可是，身为你的律师，我必须把事实告诉你。”他说，“最后一点，收养机构会定期派人前去评估那个孩子所处的环境，而没有正常的机构会派人去阿富汗。”
我看见索拉博坐在那儿，看着电视和我们。他的坐姿跟他父亲过去一样，膝盖抵着下巴。
“我是他伯父，难道这没有用吗？”
“如果你能证明，它会起作用。很抱歉，你有什么证明文件或者什么证人吗？”
“没有文件，”我用虚脱的声音说，“没有人知道这回事。索拉博也是我说了他才知道的，而我自己也是最近才发现这个秘密。惟一知道的那个人已经走了，也许死了。”
“嗯。”
“我该怎么办，奥马尔？”
“我会坦诚相告，你的选择不多。”
“天哪，我能做什么？”奥马尔吸气，用钢笔敲打下巴，然后把气呼出来。“你还是填一份收养申请表，期待最好的结果。你可以做独立的收养。也就是说，你得和索拉博一起生活在巴基斯坦，日复一日，挨过两年，你可以替他申请政治庇护。那是个漫长的过程，你得证明他受到政治迫害。你也可以申请人道主义签证。那得由检察总长审核，很难得到。”
他顿了顿，“还有个选择，也许是你最好的办法了。”
“什么？”我靠近身体问。
“你可以把他重新送进这儿的恤孤院，然后填收养申请表。让他们审核你的I一600表格和你的家庭，把孩子留在安全的地方。”
“那是什么？”
“很抱歉，I 一600 表格是移民局的官方文件。家庭评估由你选择的收养机构执行。”奥马尔说，“你知道，那是要确保你和你的妻子没有精神病。”
“我不想那么做。”我说，看了一眼索拉博，“我答应过他，不再让他进恤孤院。”
“正如我所说的，那是你最好的选择。”我们又谈了一会，然后我送他上车，一辆旧大众甲壳虫。当时伊斯兰堡巳近黄昏，一轮红日挂在西边。奥马尔不知道使了什么法子，居然能挤到车里去，我看见他上车的时候车身一沉。他摇下车窗：“阿米尔？”
“嗯？”
“我刚才跟你说过吗？你正在努力争取的事情很了不起。”他招招手，把车驶离。我站在宾馆房间门外，也朝他挥手。我希望索拉雅在身边陪着我。
我回到房间的时候，索拉博已经关掉电视了。我坐在自己的床沿，让他挨着我坐下。
“费萨尔先生说有个办法可以让我把你带去美国。”我说。
“真的吗？”他好几天来第一次露出微弱的笑容，“我们什么时候能走？”
“嗯，事情是这样的。可能需要一段时间，但他说可以做到，而且他会帮助我们。”
我把手放在他脖子后面。外面，召唤人们祷告的钟声。响彻大街小巷。
“多久？”索拉博问。
“我不知道，一阵吧。”
索拉博耸耸肩，微笑着，这次笑得更灿烂了：“我不在乎，我能等。那就像酸苹果。”
“酸苹果？”
“有一次，我很小的时候，我爬上一棵树，吃那些青青的酸苹果。我的小腹变得又肿又硬，像鼓那样，痛得厉害。妈妈说只要我等到苹果熟透，就不会生病了。所以现在，无论我真正想要什么，我都会想起她说过的关于苹果的话。”
“酸苹果，”我说，“安拉保佑，你是我见过最聪明的孩子，亲爱的索拉博。”他的耳朵红了起来。
“绝对是。”我说，“绝对是。”
“我们会开车到那些街上去吗？那些你只能看见车顶和天空的街道？”
“我们每一条都去。”我说，眼泪涌上来，我眨眼强行忍住。
“英语难学吗？”
“我敢说，不用一年，你就可以说得跟法尔西语一样流利。”
“真的吗？”
“是的，”我伸了一根手指在他下巴，把他的脸转过来，“还有一件事，索拉博。”
“什么事？”
“嗯，费萨尔先生那会很有帮助，如果我们……如果我们能让你在一间为孩子准备的房子待上一阵。”
“为孩子准备的房间？”他的笑容消失了，“你是说孤儿院吗？”
“只是待上一阵。”
“不，”他说，“别这样，求求你。”
“索拉博，那只是很短的时间，我保证。”
“你向我保证过永远不让我去那些地方，阿米尔老爷。”他说。他声音颤抖，泪如泉涌。我一阵心痛。
“那不同的。就在这儿，在伊斯兰堡，不是在喀布尔。我会每天去探望你，直到我们能够离开，把你带去美国。”
“求求你！求求你！别这样！”他哽咽着，“我很怕那些地方。他们伤害我！我不想去。”
“没有人会伤害你。再也不会了。”
“他们会的！他们总是说他们不会，但他们说谎！他们说谎！求求你，真主啊！”
我用拇指抹去他脸上的泪痕。“酸苹果，记得吗？这就像一个酸苹果。”我轻声说。
“不，它不是。不要那些地方。天，天啦！求求你，别这样！”他浑身颤抖，涕泗俱下。
“嘘。”我把他拉近，抱着他颤抖的身体。“嘘。会没事的。我们会一起回家。你会看到的，没事的。”
他的声音被我的胸膛闷住，但我能听到话里的痛苦。“求求你答应我你不会这么做！天啊，阿米尔老爷！求求你答应我你不会！”
我如何能答应呢？我抱着他，紧紧抱着，前后摇晃。他的泪水滴进我的衣裳，直到泪流干了，直到不再颤抖了，直到惊恐的哀求变成听不清的喃喃自语。我等着，摇着他，直到他呼吸缓下来，身体松弛。我想起曾经从某个地方看来的一句话：孩子们就是这样对付恐惧：他们睡觉。
我抱他上床，把他放下。然后我躺在自己床上，望着窗外伊斯兰堡上方紫色 的天空。
电话将我惊醒的时候，天已经全黑了。我揉揉眼睛，旋开床头灯。刚过晚上10点半，我睡了将近三个小时。我拿起话筒。“喂？”
“美国打来的电话。”费亚兹先生的声音。
“谢谢。”我说。浴室的灯光亮着，索拉博又在洗澡了。电话传来两声按键声，然后是索拉雅的声音。“你好！”她声音振奋。
“嗨。”
“你跟那个律师谈得怎样？”我把费萨尔的建议告诉她。“好了，你可以忘了它，”她说，“我们不用那么做。”
我坐起来。“什么？为什么？怎么回事？”
“我接到沙利夫舅舅的回电了。他说关键是把索拉博送进这个国家。只要他进来，就有很多把他留下的办法。所以他给几个在移民局的朋友打了电话。他今晚给我回电，说他很有把握能替索拉博争取到人道主义签证。”
“不是开玩笑吧？”我说，“啊，谢谢真主！亲爱的沙利夫太好了！”
“我知道。不管怎样，我们可以当保证人。一切会很快的。他说那种签证有效期一年，足够我们申请收养请求了。”
“这样最好了，索拉雅。对吧？”
“看起来是的。”她说。她的声音很快乐。我说我爱她，她说她也爱我。我们挂上电话。
“索拉博！”我喊道，从床上起来，“我有个好消息。”我敲着浴室的门，“索拉博！亲爱的索拉雅刚才从加利福尼亚打电话来。我们不用把你放到恤孤院了，索拉博。我们就要去美国了，你和我。你听到吗？我们就要去美国了！”
我推开门，走进浴室。刹那间我跪倒在地，放声大叫。我牙齿打颤，不断大叫。叫得
我的喉咙快要裂开，叫得我的胸膛快要炸开。
后来，他们说救护车来了之后我还不停叫着。 -
Chapter 25
They won't let me in.
I see them wheel him through a set of double doors and I follow. I burst through the doors, the smell of iodine and peroxide hits me, but all I have time to see is two men wearing surgical caps and a woman in green huddling over a gurney. A white sheet spills over the side of the gurney and brushes against grimy checkered tiles. A pair of small, bloody feet poke out from under the sheet and I see that the big toenail on the left foot is chipped. Then a tall, thickset man in blue presses his palm against my chest and he's pushing me back out through the doors, his wedding band cold on my skin. I shove forward and I curse him, but he says you cannot be here, he says it in English, his voice polite but firm. "You must wait,?he says, leading me back to the waiting area, and now the double doors swing shut behind him with a sigh and all I see is the top of the men's surgical caps through the doors?narrow rectangular windows.
He leaves me in a wide, windowless corridor crammed with people sitting on metallic folding chairs set along the walls, others on the thin frayed carpet. I want to scream again, and I remember the last time I felt this way, riding with Baba in the tank of the fuel truck, buried in the dark with the other refugees. I want to tear myself from this place, from this reality rise up like a cloud and float away, melt into this humid summer night and dissolve somewhere far, over the hills. But I am here, my legs blocks of concrete, my lungs empty of air, my throat burning. There will be no floating away. There will be no other reality tonight. I close my eyes and my nostrils fill with the smells of the corridor, sweat and ammonia, rubbing alcohol and curry. On the ceiling, moths fling themselves at the dull gray light tubes running the length of the corridor and I hear the papery flapping of their wings. I hear chatter, muted sobbing, sniffling, someone moaning, someone else sighing, elevator doors opening with a bing, the operator paging someone in Urdu.
I open my eyes again and I know what I have to do. I look around, my heart a jackhammer in my chest, blood thudding in my ears. There is a dark little supply room to my left. In it, I find what I need. It will do. I grab a white bedsheet from the pile of folded linens and carry it back to the corridor. I see a nurse talking to a policeman near the restroom. I take the nurse's elbow and pull, I want to know which way is west. She doesn't understand and the lines on her face deepen when she frowns. My throat aches and my eyes sting with sweat, each breath is like inhaling fire, and I think I am weeping. I ask again. I beg. The policeman is the one who points.
I throw my makeshift _jai-namaz_, my prayer rug, on the floor and I get on my knees, lower my forehead to the ground, my tears soaking through the sheet. I bow to the west. Then I remember I haven't prayed for over fifteen years. I have long forgotten the words. But it doesn't matter, I will utter those few words I still remember: ??La iflaha ii Allah, Muhammad u rasul ullah. There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is His messenger. I see now that Baba was wrong, there is a God, there always had been. I see Him here, in the eyes of the people in this corridor of desperation. This is the real house of God, this is where those who have lost God will find Him, not the white masjid with its bright diamond lights and towering minarets. There is a God, there has to be, and now I will pray, I will pray that He forgive that I have neglected Him all of these years, forgive that I have betrayed, lied, and sinned with impunity only to turn to Him now in my hour of need, I pray that He is as merciful, benevolent, and gracious as His book says He is. I bow to the west and kiss the ground and promise that I will do _zakat_, I will do _namaz_, I will fast during Ramadan and when Ramadan has passed I will go on fasting, I will commit to memory every last word of His holy book, and I will set on a pilgrimage to that sweltering city in the desert and bow before the Ka'bah too. I will do all of this and I will think of Him every day from this day on if He only grants me this one wish: My hands are stained with Hassan's blood; I pray God doesn't let them get stained with the blood of his boy too.
I hear a whimpering and realize it is mine, my lips are salty with the tears trickling down my face. I feel the eyes of everyone in this corridor on me and still I bow to the west. I pray. I pray that my sins have not caught up with me the way I'd always feared they would.
A STARLESS, BLACK NIGHT falls over Islamabad. It's a few hours later and I am sitting now on the floor of a tiny lounge off the corridor that leads to the emergency ward. Before me is a dull brown Coffee table cluttered with newspapers and dog-eared magazines--an April 1996 issue of Time; a Pakistani newspaper showing the face of a young boy who was hit and killed by a train the week before; an entertainment magazine with smiling Hollywood actors on its glossy cover. There is an old woman wearing a jade green shalwar-kameez and a crocheted shawl nodding off in a wheelchair across from me. Every once in a while, she stirs awake and mutters a prayer in Arabic. I wonder tiredly whose prayers will be heard tonight, hers or mine. I picture Sohrab's face, the pointed meaty chin, his small seashell ears, his slanting bambooleaf eyes so much like his father's. A sorrow as black as the night outside invades me, and I feel my throat clamping.
I need air.
I get up and open the windows. The air coming through the screen is musty and hot--it smells of overripe dates and dung. I force it into my lungs in big heaps, but it doesn't clear the clamping feeling in my chest. I drop back on the floor. I pick up the Time magazine and flip through the pages. But I can't read, can't focus on anything. So I toss it on the table and go back to staring at the zigzagging pattern of the cracks on the cement floor, at the cobwebs on the ceiling where the walls meet, at the dead flies littering the windowsill. Mostly, I stare at the clock on the wall. It's just past 4 A.M. and I have been shut out of the room with the swinging double doors for over five hours now. I still haven't heard any news.
The floor beneath me begins to feel like part of my body, and my breathing is growing heavier, slower. I want to sleep, shut my eyes and lie my head down on this cold, dusty floor. Drift off. When I wake up, maybe I will discover that everything I saw in the hotel bathroom was part of a dream: the water drops dripping from the faucet and landing with a plink into the bloody bathwater; the left arm dangling over the side of the tub, the blood-soaked razor sitting on the toilet tank--the same razor I had shaved with the day before--and his eyes, still half open but light less. That more than anything. I want to forget the eyes.
Soon, sleep comes and I let it take me. I dream of things I can't remember later.
SOMEONE IS TAPPING ME on the shoulder. I open my eyes. There is a man kneeling beside me. He is wearing a cap like the men behind the swinging double doors and a paper surgical mask over his mouth--my heart sinks when I see a drop of blood on the mask. He has taped a picture of a doe-eyed little girl to his beeper. He unsnaps his mask and I'm glad I don't have to look at Sohrab's blood anymore. His skin is dark like the imported Swiss chocolate Hassan and I used to buy from the bazaar in Shar-e-Nau; he has thinning hair and hazel eyes topped with curved eyelashes. In a British accent, he tells me his name is Dr. Nawaz, and suddenly I want to be away from this man, because I don't think I can bear to hear what he has come to tell me. He says the boy had cut himself deeply and had lost a great deal of blood and my mouth begins to mutter that prayer again:
La illaha il Allah, Muhammad u rasul ullah.
They had to transfuse several units of red cells-- How will I tell Soraya?
Twice, they had to revive him--I will do _namaz_, I will do _zakat_.
They would have lost him if his heart hadn't been young and strong--
I will fast.
He is alive.
Dr. Nawaz smiles. It takes me a moment to register what he has just said. Then he says more but I don't hear him. Because I have taken his hands and I have brought them up to my face. I weep my relief into this stranger's small, meaty hands and he says nothing now. He waits.
THE INTENSIVE CARE UNIT is L-shaped and dim, a jumble of bleeping monitors and whirring machines. Dr. Nawaz leads me between two rows of beds separated by white plastic curtains. Sohrab's bed is the last one around the corner, the one nearest the nurses?station where two nurses in green surgical scrubs are jotting notes on clipboards, chatting in low voices. On the silent ride up the elevator with Dr. Nawaz, I had thought I'd weep again when I saw Sohrab. But when I sit on the chair at the foot of his bed, looking at his white face through the tangle of gleaming plastic tubes and IV lines, I am dry-eyed. Watching his chest rise and fall to the rhythm of the hissing ventilator, a curious numbness washes over me, the same numbness a man might feel seconds after he has swerved his car and barely avoided a head-on collision.
I doze off, and, when I wake up, I see the sun rising in a buttermilk sky through the window next to the nurses?station. The light slants into the room, aims my shadow toward Sohrab. He hasn't moved.
"You'd do well to get some sleep,?a nurse says to me. I don't recognize her--there must have been a shift change while I'd napped. She takes me to another lounge, this one just outside the ICU. It's empty. She hands me a pillow and a hospital-issue blanket. I thank her and lie on the vinyl sofa in the corner of the lounge. I fall asleep almost immediately.
I dream I am back in the lounge downstairs. Dr. Nawaz walks in and I rise to meet him. He takes off his paper mask, his hands suddenly whiter than I remembered, his nails manicured, he has
neatly parted hair, and I see he is not Dr. Nawaz at all but Raymond Andrews, the little embassy man with the potted tomatoes. Andrews cocks his head. Narrows his eyes.
IN THE DAYTIME, the hospital was a maze of teeming, angled hallways, a blur of blazing-white overhead fluorescence. I came to know its layout, came to know that the fourth-floor button in the east wing elevator didn't light up, that the door to the men's room on that same floor was jammed and you had to ram your shoulder into it to open it. I came to know that hospital life has a rhythm, the flurry of activity just before the morning shift change, the midday hustle, the stillness and quiet of the late-night hours interrupted occasionally by a blur of doctors and nurses rushing to revive someone. I kept vigil at Sohrab's bedside in the daytime and wandered through the hospital's serpentine corridors at night, listening to my shoe heels clicking on the tiles, thinking of what I would say to Sohrab when he woke up. I'd end up back in the ICU, by the whooshing ventilator beside his bed, and I'd be no closer to knowing.
After three days in the ICU, they withdrew the breathing tube and transferred him to a ground-level bed. I wasn't there when they moved him. I had gone back to the hotel that night to get some sleep and ended up tossing around in bed all night. In the morning, I tried to not look at the bathtub. It was clean now, someone had wiped off the blood, spread new floor mats on the floor, and scrubbed the walls. But I couldn't stop myself from sitting on its cool, porcelain edge. I pictured Sohrab filling it with warm water. Saw him undressing. Saw him twisting the razor handle and opening the twin safety latches on the head, sliding the blade out, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. I pictured him lowering himself into the water, lying there for a while, his eyes closed. I wondered what his last thought had been as he had raised the blade and brought it down.
I was exiting the lobby when the hotel manager, Mr. Fayyaz, caught up with me. "I am very sorry for you,?he said, "but I am asking for you to leave my hotel, please. This is bad for my Business, very bad.?
I told him I understood and I checked out. He didn't charge me for the three days I'd spent at the hospital. Waiting for a cab outside the hotel lobby, I thought about what Mr. Fayyaz had said to me that night we'd gone looking for Sohrab: The thing about you Afghanis is that... well, you people are a little reckless. I had laughed at him, but now I wondered. Had I actually gone to sleep after I had given Sohrab the news he feared most?
When I got in the cab, I asked the driver if he knew any Persian bookstores. He said there was one a couple of kilometers south. We stopped there on the way to the hospital.
SOHRAB'S NEW ROOM had cream-colored walls, chipped, dark gray moldings, and glazed tiles that might have once been white. He shared the room with a teenaged Punjabi boy who, I later learned from one of the nurses, had broken his leg when he had slipped off the roof of a moving bus. His leg was in a cast, raised and held bytongs strapped to several weights.
Sohrab's bed was next to the window, the lower half lit by the late-morning sunlight streaming through the rectangular panes. A uniformed security guard was standing at the window, munching on cooked watermelon seeds--Sohrab was under twenty-four hours-a-day suicide watch. Hospital protocol, Dr. Nawaz had informed me. The guard tipped his hat when he saw me and left the room.
Sohrab was wearing short-sleeved hospital pajamas and lying on his back, blanket pulled to his chest, face turned to the window. I thought he was sleeping, but when I scooted a chair up to his bed his eyelids fluttered and opened. He looked at me, then looked away. He was so pale, even with all the blood they had given him, and there was a large purple bruise in the crease of his right arm.
"How are you??I said.
He didn't answer. He was looking through the window at a fenced-in sandbox and swing set in the hospital garden. There was an arch-shaped trellis near the playground, in the shadow of a row of hibiscus trees, a few green vines climbing up the timber lattice. A handful of kids were playing with buckets and pails in the sand box. The sky was a cloudless blue that day, and I saw a tiny jet leaving behind twin white trails. I turned back to Sohrab. "I spoke to Dr. Nawaz a few minutes ago and he thinks you'll be discharged in a couple of days. That's good news, nay??
Again I was met by silence. The Punjabi boy at the other end of the room stirred in his sleep and moaned something. "I like your room,?I said, trying not to look at Sohrab's bandaged wrists. "It's bright, and you have a view.?Silence. A few more awkward minutes passed, and a light sweat formed on my brow, my upper lip. I pointed to the untouched bowl of green pea aush on his nightstand, the unused plastic spoon. "You should try to eat some thing. Gain your quwat back, your strength. Do you want me to help you??
He held my glance, then looked away, his face set like stone. His eyes were still lightless, I saw, vacant, the way I had found them when I had pulled him out of the bathtub. I reached into the paper bag between my feet and took out the used copy of the Shah namah I had bought at the Persian bookstore. I turned the cover so it faced Sohrab. "I used to read this to your father when we were children. We'd go up the hill by our house and sit beneath the pomegranate...?I trailed off. Sohrab was looking through the window again. I forced a smile. "Your father's favorite was the story of Rostam and Sohrab and that's how you got your name, I know you know that.?I paused, feeling a bit like an idiot. "Any way, he said in his letter that it was your favorite too, so I thought I'd read you some of it. Would you like that??
Sohrab closed his eyes. Covered them with his arm, the one with the bruise.
I flipped to the page I had bent in the taxicab. "Here we go,?I said, wondering for the first time what thoughts had passed through Hassan's head when he had finally read the _Shahnamah_ for himself and discovered that I had deceived him all those times. I cleared my throat and read. "Give ear unto the combat of Sohrab against Rostam, though it be a tale replete with tears,?I began. "It came about that on a certain day Rostam rose from his couch and his mind was filled with forebodings. He bethought him...?I read him most of chapter 1, up to the part where the young warrior Sohrab comes to his mother, Tahmineh, the princess of Samen gan, and demands to know the identity of his father. I closed the book. "Do you want me to go on? There are battles coming up, remember? Sohrab leading his army to the White Castle in Iran? Should I read on??
He shook his head slowly. I dropped the book back in the paper bag. "That's fine,?I said, encouraged that he had responded at all. "Maybe we can continue tomorrow. How do you feel??
Sohrab's mouth opened and a hoarse sound came out. Dr. Nawaz had told me that would happen, on account of the breathing tube they had slid through his vocal cords. He licked his lips and tried again. "Tired.?
"I know. Dr. Nawaz said that was to be expected--?He was shaking his head.
"What, Sohrab??
He winced when he spoke again in that husky voice, barely above a whisper. "Tired of everything.?
I sighed and slumped in my chair. There was a band of sunlight on the bed between us, and, for just a moment, the ashen gray face looking at me from the other side of it was a dead ringer for Hassan's, not the Hassan I played marbles with until the mullah belted out the evening azan and Ali called us Home, not the Hassan I chased down our hill as the sun dipped behind clay rooftops in the west, but the Hassan I saw alive for the last time, dragging his belongings behind Ali in a warm summer downpour, stuffing them in the trunk of Baba's car while I watched through the rain-soaked window of my room.
He gave a slow shake of his head. "Tired of everything,?he repeated.
"What can I do, Sohrab? Please tell me.?
"I want--?he began. He winced again and brought his hand to his throat as if to clear whatever was blocking his voice. My eyes were drawn again to his wrist wrapped tightly with white gauze bandages. "I want my old life back,?he breathed.
"Oh, Sohrab.?
"I want Father and Mother jan. I want Sasa. I want to play with Rahim Khan sahib in the garden. I want to live in our house again.?He dragged his forearm across his eyes. "I want my old life back.?
I didn't know what to say, where to look, so I gazed down at my hands. Your old life, I thought. My old life too. I played in the same yard, Sohrab. I lived in the same house. But the grass is dead and a stranger's jeep is parked in the driveway of our house, pissing oil all over the asphalt. Our old life is gone, Sohrab, and everyone in it is either dead or dying. It's just you and me now. Just you and me.
"I can't give you that,?I said. "I wish you hadn't--?
"Please don't say that.?
?-wish you hadn't... I wish you had left me in the water.?
"Don't ever say that, Sohrab,?I said, leaning forward. "I can't bear to hear you talk like that.?I touched his shoulder and he flinched. Drew away. I dropped my hand, remembering ruefully how in the last days before I'd broken my promise to him he had finally become at ease with my touch. "Sohrab, I can't give you your old life back, I wish to God I could. But I can take you with me. That was what I was coming in the bathroom to tell you. You have a visa to go to America, to live with me and my wife. It's true. I promise.?
He sighed through his nose and closed his eyes. I wished I hadn't said those last two words. "You know, I've done a lot of things I regret in my life,?I said, "and maybe none more than going back on the promise I made you. But that will never happen again, and I am so very profoundly sorry. I ask for your bakhshesh, your forgiveness. Can you do that? Can you forgive me? Can you believe me??I dropped my voice. "Will you come with me??
As I waited for his reply, my mind flashed back to a winter day from long ago, Hassan and I sitting on the snow beneath a leafless sour cherry tree. I had played a cruel game with Hassan that day, toyed with him, asked him if he would chew dirt to prove his loyalty to me. Now I was the one under the microscope, the one who had to prove my worthiness. I deserved this.
Sohrab rolled to his side, his back to me. He didn't say anything for a long time. And then, just as I thought he might have drifted to sleep, he said with a croak, "I am so khasta.?So very tired. I sat by his bed until he fell asleep. Something was lost between Sohrab and me. Until my meeting with the lawyer, Omar Faisal, a light of hope had begun to enter Sohrab's eyes like a timid guest. Now the light was gone, the guest had fled, and I wondered when it would dare return. I wondered how long before Sohrab smiled again. How long before he trusted me. If ever.
So I left the room and went looking for another hotel, unaware that almost a year would pass before I would hear Sohrab speak another word.
IN THE END, Sohrab never accepted my offer. Nor did he decline it. But he knew that when the bandages were removed and the hospital garments returned, he was just another Homeless Hazara orphan. What choice did he have? Where could he go? So what I took as a yes from him was in actuality more of a quiet surrender, not so much an acceptance as an act of relinquishment by one too weary to decide, and far too tired to believe. What he yearned for was his old life. What he got was me and America. Not that it was such a bad fate, everything considered, but I couldn't tell him that. Perspective was a luxury when your head was constantly buzzing with a swarm of demons.
And so it was that, about a week later, we crossed a strip of warm, black tarmac and I brought Hassan's son from Afghanistan to America, lifting him from the certainty of turmoil and dropping him in a turmoil of uncertainty.
ONE DAY, maybe around 1983 or 1984, I was at a video store in Fremont. I was standing in the Westerns section when a guy next to me, sipping Coke from a 7-Eleven cup, pointed to _The Magnificent Seven_ and asked me if I had seen it. "Yes, thirteen times,?I said. "Charles Bronson dies in it, so do James Coburn and Robert Vaughn.?He gave me a pinch-faced look, as if I had just spat in his soda. "Thanks a lot, man,?he said, shaking his head and muttering something as he walked away. That was when I learned that, in America, you don't reveal the ending of the movie, and if you do, you will be scorned and made to apologize profusely for having committed the sin of Spoiling the End.
In Afghanistan, the ending was all that mattered. When Hassan and I came Home after watching a Hindi film at Cinema Zainab, what Ali, Rahim Khan, Baba, or the myriad of Baba's friends--second and third cousins milling in and out of the house--wanted to know was this: Did the Girl in the film find Happiness? Did the bacheh film, the Guy in the film, become katnyab and fulfill his dreams, or was he nah-kam, doomed to wallow in failure?
Was there Happiness at the end, they wanted to know.
If someone were to ask me today whether the story of Hassan, Sohrab, and me ends with Happiness, I wouldn't know what to say.
Does anybody's?
After all, life is not a Hindi movie. Zendagi migzara, Afghans like to say: life goes on, unmindful of beginning, end, kamyab, nah-kam, crisis or catharsis, moving forward like a slow, dusty caravan of kochis.
I wouldn't know how to answer that question. Despite the matter of last Sunday's tiny miracle.
WE ARRIVED Home about seven months ago, on a warm day in August 2001. Soraya picked us up at the airport. I had never been away from Soraya for so long, and when she locked her arms around my neck, when I smelled apples in her hair, I realized how much I had missed her. "You're still the morning sun to my yelda,?I whispered.
"What??
"Never mind.?I kissed her ear.
After, she knelt to eye level with Sohrab. She took his hand and smiled at him. "Sataam, Sohrab jan, I'm your Khala Soraya. We've all been waiting for you.?
Looking at her smiling at Sohrab, her eyes tearing over a little, I had a glimpse of the mother she might have been, had her own womb not betrayed her.
Sohrab shifted on his feet and looked away.
SORAYA HAD TURNED THE STUDY upstairs into a bedroom for Sohrab. She led him in and he sat on the edge of the bed. The sheets showed brightly colored kites flying in indigo blue skies. She had made inscriptions on the wall by the closet, feet and inches to measure a child's growing height. At the foot of the bed, I saw a wicker basket stuffed with books, a locomotive, a water color set.
Sohrab was wearing the plain white T-shirt and new denims I had bought him in Islamabad just before we'd left--the shirt hung loosely over his bony, slumping shoulders. The color still hadn't seeped back into his face, save for the halo of dark circles around his eyes. He was looking at us now in the impassive way he looked at the plates of boiled rice the hospital orderly placed before him.
Soraya asked if he liked his room and I noticed that she was trying to avoid looking at his wrists and that her eyes kept swaying back to those jagged pink lines. Sohrab lowered his head. Hid his hands under his thighs and said nothing. Then he simply lay his head on the pillow. Less than five minutes later, Soraya and I watching from the doorway, he was snoring.
We went to bed, and Soraya fell asleep with her head on my chest. In the darkness of our room, I lay awake, an insomniac once more. Awake. And alone with demons of my own. Sometime in the middle of the night, I slid out of bed and went to Sohrab's room. I stood over him, looking down, and saw some thing protruding from under his pillow. I picked it up. Saw it was Rahim Khan's Polaroid, the one I had given to Sohrab the night we had sat by the Shah Faisal Mosque. The one of Hassan and Sohrab standing side by side, squinting in the light of the sun, and smiling like the world was a good and just place. I wondered how long Sohrab had lain in bed staring at the photo, turning it in his hands.
I looked at the photo. Your father was a man torn between two halves, Rahim Khan had said in his letter. I had been the entitled half, the society-approved, legitimate half, the unwitting embodiment of Baba's guilt. I looked at Hassan, showing those two missing front teeth, sunlight slanting on his face. Baba's other half. The unentitled, unprivileged half. The half who had inherited what had been pure and noble in Baba. The half that, maybe, in the most secret recesses of his heart, Baba had thought of as his true son.
I slipped the picture back where I had found it. Then I realized something: That last thought had brought no sting with it. Closing Sohrab's door, I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.
THE GENERAL AND KHALA JAMILA came over for dinner the following night. Khala Jamila, her hair cut short and a darker shade of red than usual, handed Soraya the plate of almondtopped maghout she had brought for dessert. She saw Sohrab and beamed. "_Mashallah_! Soraya jan told us how khoshteep you were, but you are even more handsome in person, Sohrab jan.?She handed him a blue turtleneck sweater. "I knitted this for you,?she said. "For next winter. _Inshallah_, it will fit you.?
Sohrab took the sweater from her.
"Hello, young man,?was all the general said, leaning with both hands on his cane, looking at Sohrab the way one might study a bizarre decorative item at someone's house.
I answered, and answered again, Khala Jamila's questions about my injuries--I'd asked Soraya to tell them I had been mugged--reassuring her that I had no permanent damage, that the wires would come out in a few weeks so I'd be able to eat her cooking again, that, yes, I would try rubbing rhubarb juice and sugar on my scars to make them fade faster.
The general and I sat in the living room and sipped wine while Soraya and her mother set the table. I told him about Kabul and the Taliban. He listened and nodded, his cane on his lap, and tsk'ed when I told him of the man I had spotted selling his artificial leg. I made no mention of the executions at Ghazi Stadium and Assef. He asked about Rahim Khan, whom he said he had met in Kabul a few times, and shook his head solemnly when I told him of Rahim Khan's illness. But as we spoke, I caught his eyes drifting again and again to Sohrab sleeping on the couch. As if we were skirting around the edge of what he really wanted to know.
The skirting finally came to an end over dinner when the general put down his fork and said, "So, Amir jan, you're going to tell us why you have brought back this boy with you??
"Iqbal jan! What sort of question is that??Khala Jamila said.
"While you're busy knitting sweaters, my dear, I have to deal with the community's perception of our family. People will ask. They will want to know why there is a Hazara boy living with our daughter. What do I tell them??
Soraya dropped her spoon. Turned on her father. "You can tell them--?
"It's okay, Soraya,?I said, taking her hand. "It's okay. General Sahib is quite right. People will ask.?
"Amir--?she began.
"It's all right.?I turned to the general. "You see, General Sahib, my father slept with his servant's wife. She bore him a son named Hassan. Hassan is dead now. That boy sleeping on the couch is Hassan's son. He's my nephew. That's what you tell people when they ask.?
They were all staring at me.
"And one more thing, General Sahib,?I said. "You will never again refer to him as ‘Hazara boy?in my presence. He has a name and it's Sohrab.?
No one said anything for the remainder of the meal.
IT WOULD BE ERRONEOUS to say Sohrab was quiet. Quiet is peace. Tranquillity. Quiet is turning down the VOLUME knob on life.
Silence is pushing the OFF button. Shutting it down. All of it.
Sohrab's silence wasn't the self-imposed silence of those with convictions, of protesters who seek to speak their cause by not speaking at all. It was the silence of one who has taken cover in a dark place, curled up all the edges and tucked them under.
He didn't so much live with us as occupy space. And precious little of it. Sometimes, at the market, or in the park, I'd notice how other people hardly seemed to even see him, like he wasn't there at all. I'd look up from a book and realize Sohrab had entered the room, had sat across from me, and I hadn't noticed. He walked like he was afraid to leave behind footprints. He moved as if not to stir the air around him. Mostly, he slept.
Sohrab's silence was hard on Soraya too. Over that long-distance line to Pakistan, Soraya had told me about the things she was planning for Sohrab. Swimming classes. Soccer. Bowling league. Now she'd walk past Sohrab's room and catch a glimpse of books sitting unopened in the wicker basket, the growth chart unmarked, the jigsaw puzzle unassembled, each item a reminder of a life that could have been. A reminder of a dream that was wilting even as it was budding. But she hadn't been alone. I'd had my own dreams for Sohrab.
While Sohrab was silent, the world was not. One Tuesday morning last September, the Twin Towers came crumbling down and, overnight, the world changed. The American flag suddenly appeared everywhere, on the antennae of yellow cabs weaving around traffic, on the lapels of pedestrians walking the sidewalks in a steady stream, even on the grimy caps of San Francisco's pan handlers sitting beneath the awnings of small art galleries and open-fronted shops. One day I passed Edith, the Homeless woman who plays the accordion every day on the corner of Sutter and Stockton, and spotted an American flag sticker on the accordion case at her feet.
Soon after the attacks, America bombed Afghanistan, the Northern Alliance moved in, and the Taliban scurried like rats into the caves. Suddenly, people were standing in grocery store lines and talking about the cities of my childhood, Kandahar, Herat, Mazar-i-Sharif. When I was very little, Baba took Hassan and me to Kunduz. I don't remember much about the trip, except sitting in the shade of an acacia tree with Baba and Hassan, taking turns sipping fresh watermelon juice from a clay pot and seeing who could spit the seeds farther. Now Dan Rather, Tom Brokaw, and people sipping lattes at Starbucks were talking about the battle for Kunduz, the Taliban's last stronghold in the north. That December, Pashtuns, Tajiks, Uzbeks, and Hazaras gathered in Bonn and, under the watchful eye of the UN, began the process that might someday end over twenty years of unHappiness in their watan. Hamid Karzai's caracul hat and green chapan became famous.
Sohrab sleepwalked through it all.
Soraya and I became involved in Afghan projects, as much out of a sense of civil duty as the need for something--anything--to fill the silence upstairs, the silence that sucked everything in like a black hole. I had never been the active type before, but when a man named Kabir, a former Afghan ambassador to Sofia, called and asked if I wanted to help him with a hospital project, I said yes. The small hospital had stood near the Afghan-Pakistani border and had a small surgical unit that treated Afghan refugees with land mine injuries. But it had closed down due to a lack of funds. I became the project manager, Soraya my comanager. I spent most of my days in the study, e-mailing people around the world, applying for grants, organizing fund-raising events. And telling myself that bringing Sohrab here had been the right thing to do.
The year ended with Soraya and me on the couch, blanket spread over our legs, watching Dick Clark on TV. People cheered and kissed when the silver ball dropped, and confetti whitened the screen. In our house, the new year began much the same way the last one had ended. In silence.
THEN, FOUR DAYS AGO, on a cool rainy day in March 2002, a small, wondrous thing happened.
I took Soraya, Khala Jamila, and Sohrab to a gathering of Afghans at Lake Elizabeth Park in Fremont. The general had finally been summoned to Afghanistan the month before for a ministry position, and had flown there two weeks earlier--he had left behind his gray suit and pocket watch. The plan was for Khala Jamila to join him in a few months once he had settled. She missed him terribly--and worried about his health there--and we had insisted she stay with us for a while.
The previous Thursday, the first day of spring, had been the Afghan New Year's Day--the Sawl-e-Nau--and Afghans in the Bay Area had planned celebrations throughout the East Bay and the peninsula. Kabir, Soraya, and I had an additional reason to rejoice: Our little hospital in Rawalpindi had opened the week before, not the surgical unit, just the pediatric clinic. But it was a good start, we all agreed.
It had been sunny for days, but Sunday morning, as I swung my legs out of bed, I heard raindrops pelting the window. Afghan luck, I thought. Snickered. I prayed morning _namaz_ while Soraya slept--I didn't have to consult the prayer pamphlet I had obtained from the mosque anymore; the verses came naturally now, effortlessly.
We arrived around noon and found a handful of people taking cover under a large rectangular plastic sheet mounted on six poles spiked to the ground. Someone was already frying bolani; steam rose from teacups and a pot of cauliflower aush. A scratchy old Ahmad Zahir song was blaring from a cassette player. I smiled a little as the four of us rushed across the soggy grass field, Soraya and I in the lead, Khala Jamila in the middle, Sohrab behind us, the hood of his yellow raincoat bouncing on his back.
"What's so funny??Soraya said, holding a folded newspaper over her head.
"You can take Afghans out of Paghman, but you can't take Paghman out of Afghans,?I said.
We stooped under the makeshift tent. Soraya and Khala Jamila drifted toward an overweight woman frying spinach bolani. Sohrab stayed under the canopy for a moment, then stepped back out into the rain, hands stuffed in the pockets of his raincoat, his hair--now brown and straight like Hassan's--plastered against his scalp. He stopped near a Coffee-colored puddle and stared at it. No one seemed to notice. No one called him back in. With time, the queries about our adopted--and decidedly eccentric--little boy had mercifully ceased, and, considering how tactless Afghan queries can be sometimes, that was a considerable relief. People stopped asking why he never spoke. Why he didn't play with the other kids. And best of all, they stopped suffocating us with their exaggerated empathy, their slow head shaking, their tsk tsks, their "Oh gung bichara.?Oh, poor little mute one. The novelty had worn off. Like dull wallpaper, Sohrab had blended into the background.
I shook hands with Kabir, a small, silver-haired man. He introduced me to a dozen men, one of them a retired teacher, another an engineer, a former architect, a surgeon who was now running a hot dog stand in Hayward. They all said they'd known Baba in Kabul, and they spoke about him respectfully. In one way or another, he had touched all their lives. The men said I was lucky to have had such a great man for a father.
We chatted about the difficult and maybe thankless job Karzai had in front of him, about the upcoming Loya jirga, and the king's imminent return to his Homeland after twenty-eights years of exile. I remembered the night in 1973, the night Zahir Shah's cousin overthrew him; I remembered gunfire and the sky lighting up silver--Ali had taken me and Hassan in his arms, told us not to be afraid, that they were just shooting ducks.
Then someone told a Mullah Nasruddin joke and we were all laughing. "You know, your father was a funny man too,?Kabir said.
"He was, wasn't he??I said, smiling, remembering how, soon after we arrived in the U.S., Baba started grumbling about American flies. He'd sit at the kitchen table with his flyswatter, watch the flies darting from wall to wall, buzzing here, buzzing there, harried and rushed. "In this country, even flies are pressed for time,?he'd groan. How I had laughed. I smiled at the memory now.
By three o'clock, the rain had stopped and the sky was a curdled gray burdened with lumps of clouds. A cool breeze blew through the park. More families turned up. Afghans greeted each other, hugged, kissed, exchanged food. Someone lighted coal in a barbecue and soon the smell of garlic and morgh kabob flooded my senses. There was music, some new singer I didn't know, and the giggling of children. I saw Sohrab, still in his yellow raincoat, leaning against a garbage pail, staring across the park at the empty batting cage.
A little while later, as I was chatting with the former surgeon, who told me he and Baba had been classmates in eighth grade, Soraya pulled on my sleeve. "Amir, look!?
She was pointing to the sky. A half-dozen kites were flying high, speckles of bright yellow, red, and green against the gray sky.
"Check it out,?Soraya said, and this time she was pointing to a guy selling kites from a stand nearby.
"Hold this,?I said. I gave my cup of tea to Soraya. I excused myself and walked over to the kite stand, my shoes squishing on the wet grass. I pointed to a yellow seh-parcha. "Sawl-e-nau mubabrak,?the kite seller said, taking the twenty and handing me the kite and a wooden spool of glass tar. I thanked him and wished him a Happy New Year too. I tested the string the way Hassan and I used to, by holding it between my thumb and forefinger and pulling it. It reddened with blood and the kite seller smiled. I smiled back.
I took the kite to where Sohrab was standing, still leaning against the garbage pail, arms crossed on his chest. He was looking up at the sky.
"Do you like the seh-parcha??I said, holding up the kite by the ends of the cross bars. His eyes shifted from the sky to me, to the kite, then back. A few rivulets of rain trickled from his hair, down his face.
"I read once that, in Malaysia, they use kites to catch fish,?I said. "I'll bet you didn't know that. They tie a Fishing line to it and fly it beyond the shallow waters, so it doesn't cast a shadow and scare the fish. And in ancient China, generals used to fly kites over battlefields to send messages to their men. It's true. I'm not slipping you a trick.?I showed him my bloody thumb. "Nothing wrong with the tar either.?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Soraya watching us from the tent. Hands tensely dug in her armpits. Unlike me, she'd gradually abandoned her attempts at engaging him. The unanswered questions, the blank stares, the silence, it was all too painful. She had shifted to "Holding Pattern,?waiting for a green light from Sohrab. Waiting.
I wet my index finger and held it up. "I remember the way your father checked the wind was to kick up dust with his sandal, see which way the wind blew it. He knew a lot of little tricks like that,?I said. Lowered my finger. "West, I think.?
Sohrab wiped a raindrop from his earlobe and shifted on his feet. Said nothing. I thought of Soraya asking me a few months ago what his voice sounded like. I'd told her I didn't remember anymore.
"Did I ever tell you your father was the best kite runner in Wazir Akbar Khan? Maybe all of Kabul??I said, knotting the loose end of the spool tar to the string loop tied to the center spar. "How jealous he made the neighborhood kids. He'd run kites and never look up at the sky, and people used to say he was chasing the kite's shadow. But they didn't know him like I did. Your father wasn't chasing any shadows. He just... knew?
Another half-dozen kites had taken flight. People had started to gather in clumps, teacups in hand, eyes glued to the sky.
"Do you want to help me fly this??I said.
Sohrab's gaze bounced from the kite to me. Back to the sky.
"Okay.?I shrugged. "Looks like I'll have to fly it tanhaii.?Solo.
I balanced the spool in my left hand and fed about three feet of tar. The yellow kite dangled at the end of it, just above the wet grass. "Last chance,?I said. But Sohrab was looking at a pair of kites tangling high above the trees.
"All right. Here I go.?I took off running, my sneakers splashing rainwater from puddles, the hand clutching the kite end of the string held high above my head. It had been so long, so many years since I'd done this, and I wondered if I'd make a spectacle of myself. I let the spool roll in my left hand as I ran, felt the string cut my right hand again as it fed through. The kite was lifting behind my shoulder now, lifting, wheeling, and I ran harder. The spool spun faster and the glass string tore another gash in my right palm. I stopped and turned. Looked up. Smiled. High above, my kite was tilting side to side like a pendulum, making that old paper-bird-flapping-its-wings sound I always associated with winter mornings in Kabul. I hadn't flown a kite in a quarter of a century, but suddenly I was twelve again and all the old instincts came rushing back.
I felt a presence next to me and looked down. It was Sohrab. Hands dug deep in the pockets of his raincoat. He had followed me.
"Do you want to try??I asked. He said nothing. But when I held the string out for him, his hand lifted from his pocket. Hesitated. Took the string. My heart quickened as I spun the spool to gather the loose string. We stood quietly side by side. Necks bent up.
Around us, kids chased each other, slid on the grass. Someone was playing an old Hindi movie soundtrack now. A line of elderly men were praying afternoon _namaz_ on a plastic sheet spread on the ground. The air smelled of wet grass, smoke, and grilled meat. I wished time would stand still.
Then I saw we had company. A green kite was closing in. I traced the string to a kid standing about thirty yards from us. He had a crew cut and a T-shirt that read THE ROCK RULES in bold block letters. He saw me looking at him and smiled. Waved. I waved back.
Sohrab was handing the string back to me.
"Are you sure??I said, taking it.
He took the spool from me.
"Okay,?I said. "Let's give him a sabagh, teach him a lesson, nay??I glanced over at him. The glassy, vacant look in his eyes was gone. His gaze flitted between our kite and the green one. His face was a little flushed, his eyes suddenly alert. Awake. Alive. I wondered when I had forgotten that, despite everything, he was still just a child.
The green kite was making its move. "Let's wait,?I said. "We'll let him get a little closer.?It dipped twice and crept toward us. "Come on. Come to me,?I said.
The green kite drew closer yet, now rising a little above us, unaware of the trap I'd set for it. "Watch, Sohrab. I'm going to show you one of your father's favorite tricks, the old lift-and-dive.?
Next to me, Sohrab was breathing rapidly through his nose. The spool rolled in his palms, the tendons in his scarred wrists like rubab strings. Then I blinked and, for just a moment, the hands holding the spool were the chipped-nailed, calloused hands of a harelipped boy. I heard a crow cawing somewhere and I looked up. The park shimmered with snow so fresh, so dazzling white, it burned my eyes. It sprinkled soundlessly from the branches of white-clad trees. I smelled turnip qurina now. Dried mulberries. Sour oranges. Sawdust and walnuts. The muffled quiet, snow-quiet, was deafening. Then far away, across the stillness, a voice calling us Home, the voice of a man who dragged his right leg.
The green kite hovered directly above us now. "He's going for it. Anytime now,?I said, my eyes flicking from Sohrab to our kite.
The green kite hesitated. Held position. Then shot down. "Here he comes!?I said.
I did it perfectly. After all these years. The old lift-and-dive trap. I loosened my grip and tugged on the string, dipping and dodging the green kite. A series of quick sidearm jerks and our kite shot up counterclockwise, in a half circle. Suddenly I was on top. The green kite was scrambling now, panic-stricken. But it was too late. I'd already slipped him Hassan's trick. I pulled hard and our kite plummeted. I could almost feel our string sawing his. Almost heard the snap.
Then, just like that, the green kite was spinning and wheeling out of control.
Behind us, people cheered. Whistles and applause broke out. I was panting. The last time I had felt a rush like this was that day in the winter of 1975, just after I had cut the last kite, when I spotted Baba on our rooftop, clapping, beaming.
I looked down at Sohrab. One corner of his mouth had curled up just so.
A smile.
Lopsided.
Hardly there.
But there.
Behind us, kids were scampering, and a melee of screaming kite runners was chasing the loose kite drifting high above the trees. I blinked and the smile was gone. But it had been there. I had seen it.
"Do you want me to run that kite for you??
His Adam's apple rose and fell as he swallowed. The wind lifted his hair. I thought I saw him nod.
"For you, a thousand times over,?I heard myself say.
Then I turned and ran.
It was only a smile, nothing more. It didn't make everything all right. It didn't make anything all right. Only a smile. A tiny thing. A leaf in the woods, shaking in the wake of a startled bird's flight.
But I'll take it. With open arms. Because when spring comes, it melts the snow one flake at a time, and maybe I just witnessed the first flake melting.
I ran. A grown man running with a swarm of screaming children. But I didn't care. I ran with the wind blowing in my face, and a smile as wide as the Valley of Panjsher on my lips.
I ran.
The End
第二十五章
他们不让我进去。
我看见他们推着他，穿过一些双层门，我跟在后面，冲进一扇又一扇的门，闻到碘酒和消毒水的味道，但我所来得及看到的，是两个戴着手术帽的男人和一个穿着绿色衣服的女人围在轮床之上。我看见白色床单从轮床侧面垂落，拂着污 秽的花格地砖。一双鲜血淋漓的小脚从床单下面伸出来，我看见左脚大脚趾的指甲被削掉了。接着有个穿蓝色衣服的高壮汉子用手掌压住我的胸口，将我从门口往后推，我的皮肤能感觉到他那冰凉的结婚戒指。我向前挣扎，咒骂他，但他用英语说你不能留在这儿，声音礼貌而坚决。“你必须等。”
他说，领着我回到等候。现在双层门在他身后砰地关上，透过门上狭窄的长方形窗口，我只见到那男人的手术帽。
他把我留在一条宽大的走廊上，没有窗，墙边的金属折叠椅上坐满了人，还有人坐在薄薄的破地毯上。我又想尖叫。我想起上次有这种感觉，是跟爸爸在油罐车的油罐里面，埋在黑暗和其他难民之间。我想把自己撕成碎片，离开这个地方，离开现实世界，像云朵那样升起，飘荡而去，融进湿热的夏夜，在某个遥远的地方，在山丘上方飘散。但我就在这儿，双脚沉重如水泥块，肺里空气一泻而空，喉咙发热。无法随风而去。今晚没有别的世界。我合上双眼，鼻子里塞满走廊的种种味道：汗水和氨水的气味、药用酒精和咖喱的气味。整条走廊的天花板上布满昏暗的灯管，飞蛾围绕，我听见它们拍打翅膀的声音。我听见谈话声、默默的啜泣声、擤鼻声；有人在呻吟，有人在哀叹，电梯门砰地一声打开，操作员用乌尔都语呼喊某人。
我再次睁开眼，知道自己该做些什么。我四周环顾，心脏怦怦地在胸口跳动，耳朵听得见血液流动的声音。我左边有间又暗又小的储藏室，我在里面找到自己想要的东西。用它就好了。我从一堆折叠好的白色尼龙床单中抽出一条，带回走廊。我看见护士在休息室附近和一名警察交谈。我拉拉那名护士的手肘，问她哪个方位是西边。她没听懂，眉头一皱，脸色的皱纹更深了。我喉咙发痛，汗水刺痛了双眼，每次呼吸都像在喷火，我想我在哭泣。我又问一声，苦苦哀求，警察把方向指给我。
我在地面铺开那张滥竽充数的祷告毯，双膝跪倒，头磕在地上，泪水湿透了床单。我朝西弯下腰，那时我才想起自己已经不止十五年没祷告过了，早巳把祷词忘得一干二净。
但这没有关系，我会说出依然记得的片言只语：惟安拉是真主，穆罕默德是他的使者。现在我明白爸爸错了，真主真的存在，一直存在。我看到他在这里，从这条绝望的走廊的人群眼里见到。这里才是真主真正的住所，正是在这里，而非在那些发出钻石般明亮光芒的尖塔耸立的清真寺，只有那些失去真主的人们才能找到真主。真主真的存在，他必须存在，而如今我将祷告，我会祈祷他原谅我这些年来对他的漠然不觉，原谅我曾经背叛、说谎、作恶而未受惩罚，只有在我的危难时刻才想起他。我祈祷他如经书记载的那样慈悲、仁爱、宽宏。我朝西方磕头，亲吻地面，承诺我将会施天课，将会每天祷告，承诺我在斋月期间将会素食，而当斋月结束，我会继续素食，我将会熟背他的圣书中每个字，我将会到沙漠中那座湿热难当的城市去朝圣，也会在天房之前磕头。我将会践行所有这些，从今日后，将会每天想起他，只要他实现我的这个愿望：我的手已经沾上哈桑的血，我祈求真主，别让它们也沾上这个小男孩的血。
我听到呜咽声，意识到正是自己发出来的，泪水从脸上汩汩而下，流过嘴唇，让我尝到咸味。我感到走廊上每个人都在看着我，而我依然朝西方磕头。我祈祷。我祈祷别以这种我向来害怕的方式惩罚我的罪行。
星光黯淡的黑夜降临在伊斯兰堡。过了数个钟头，我坐在走廊外面一间通往急诊室的小房间的地板上。在我身前是一张暗棕色的咖啡桌，上面摆着报纸和卷边的杂志——有本1996年4月的《时代》，一份巴基斯坦报纸，上面印着某个上星期被火车撞死的男孩的脸孔；一份娱乐杂志，平滑的封面印着微笑的罗丽坞男星。在我对面，有位老太太身穿碧绿的棉袍，戴着针织头巾，坐在轮椅上打瞌睡。每隔一会她就会惊醒，用阿拉伯语低声祷告。我疲惫地想，不知道今晚真主会听到谁的祈祷，她的还是我的？我想起索拉博的面容，那肉乎乎的尖下巴，海贝似的小耳朵，像极了他父亲的竹叶般眯斜的眼睛。一阵悲哀如同窗外的黑夜，漫过我全身，我觉得喉咙被掐住。
我需要空气。
我站起来，打开窗门。湿热的风带着发霉的味道从窗纱吹进来——闻起来像腐烂的椰枣和动物粪便。我大口将它吸进肺里，可是它没有消除胸口的窒闷。我颓然坐倒在地面，捡起那本《时代》杂志，随手翻阅。可是我看不进去，无法将 注意力集中在任何东西上。
所以我把它扔回桌子，怔怔望着水泥地面上弯弯曲曲的裂缝，还有窗台上散落的死苍蝇。
更多的时候，我盯着墙上的时钟。刚过四点，我被关在双层门之外已经超过五个小时，仍
没得到任何消息。
我开始觉得身下的地板变成身体的一部分，呼吸越来越沉重，越来越缓慢。我想睡觉，阖上双眼，把头放低在这满是尘灰的冰冷地面，昏然欲睡。也许当我醒来，会发现我在旅馆浴室看到的一切无非是一场梦：水从水龙头滴答落进血红的洗澡水里，他的左臂悬挂在浴缸外面，沾满鲜血的剃刀——就是那把我前一天用来刮胡子的剃刀——落在马桶的冲水槽上，而他的眼虽仍睁开一半，但眼神黯淡。
很快，睡意袭来，我任它将我占据。我梦到一些后来想不起来的事情。有人在拍我的肩膀。我睁开眼，看到有个男人跪在我身边。他头上戴着帽子，
很像双层门后面那个男人，脸上戴着手术口罩——看见口罩上有一滴血，我的心一沉。
他的传呼机上贴着一张小姑娘的照片，眼神纯洁无瑕。他解下口罩，我很高兴自己再也不用看着索拉博的血了。他皮肤黝黑，像哈桑和我经常去沙里诺区市场买的那种从瑞士进口的巧克力；他头发稀疏，浅褐色的眼睛上面是弯弯的睫毛。他用带英国口音的英语告诉我，他叫纳瓦兹大夫。刹那间，我想远离这个男人，因为我认为我无法忍受他所要告诉我的事情。他说那男孩将自己割得很深，失血很多，我的嘴巴又开始念出祷词来：
惟安拉是真主，穆罕默德是他的使者。他们不得不输入几个单位的红细胞……我该怎么告诉索拉雅？两次，他们不得不让他复苏过来……我会做祷告，我会做天课。
如果他的心脏不是那么年轻而强壮，他们就救不活他了……
我会茹素……他活着。
纳瓦兹大夫微笑。我花了好一会才弄明白刚才他所说的。然后他又说了几句，我没听到，因为我抓起他的双手，放在自己脸上。我用这个陌生人汗津津的手去抹自己的眼泪，而他没有说什么。他等着。
重症病区呈L形，很阴暗，充塞着很多哔哔叫的监视仪和呼呼响的器械。纳瓦兹大夫领着我走过两排用白色塑料帘幕隔开的病床。索拉博的病床是屋角最后那张，最接近护士站。两名身穿绿色手术袍的护士在夹纸板上记东西，低声交谈。我默默和纳瓦兹大夫从电梯上来，我以为我再次看到索拉博会哭。可是当我坐在他床脚的椅子上，透过悬挂着的泛着微光的塑料试管和输液管，我没流泪水。看着他的胸膛随着呼吸机的嘶嘶声有节奏地一起一伏，身上漫过一阵奇怪的麻木感觉，好像自己刚突然掉转车头，在干钧一发之际避过一场惨烈的车祸。
我打起瞌睡，醒来后发现阳光正从乳白色的天空照射进紧邻护士站的窗户。光线倾泻进来，将我的影子投射在索拉博身上。他一动不动。
“你最好睡一会。”有个护士对我说。我不认识她——我打盹时她们一定换班了。她把我带到另一间房，就在急救中心外面。里面没有人。她给我一个枕头，还有一床印有医院标记的毛毯。我谢过她，在屋角的塑胶皮沙发上躺下，几乎立刻就睡着了。
我梦见自己回到楼下的休息室，纳瓦兹大夫走进来，我起身迎向他。他脱掉纸口罩，双手突然比我记得的要白，指甲修剪整洁，头发一丝不苟，而我发现他原来不是纳瓦兹大夫，而是雷蒙德·安德鲁，大使馆那个抚摸着番茄藤的小个子。
安德鲁抬起头，眯着眼睛。
白天，医院是一座纵横交错的走廊组成的迷宫，荧光灯在人们头顶放射出耀眼的光芒，弄得人迷迷糊糊。我弄清楚了它的结构，知道东楼电梯那颗四楼的按钮不会亮，明白同一层的男厕的门卡住了，你得用肩膀去顶才能把它打开。我了解到医院的生活有它的节奏：每天早晨换班之前匆匆忙忙，白天手忙脚乱，而深夜则寂静无声，偶然有一群医师和护士跑过，去抢救某个病患。白天我警惕地守在索拉博床前，晚上则在医院曲折的走廊游荡，倾听我的鞋跟敲击地面的声音，想着当索拉博苏醒过来我该跟他说什么。最后我会走回重症病房，站在他床边嘶嘶作响的呼吸机，依然一筹莫展。
在重症病房度过三天之后，他们撤去了呼吸管道，把他换到一张低矮的病床。他们搬动他的时候我不在。那天晚上我回到旅馆，想睡一觉，最终却在床上彻夜辗转反侧。那天早晨，我强迫自己不去看浴缸。它现在干干净净，有人抹去血迹，地板上铺了新的脚踏垫，墙上也擦过了。可是我忍不住坐在它那冰凉的陶瓷边缘。我想像索拉博放满一缸水，看见他脱掉衣服，看见他转动刮胡刀的手柄，拨出刀头的双重安全插销，退出刀片，用食指和拇指捏住。我想像他滑进浴缸，躺了一会，闭上双眼。我在寻思他举起刀片划落的时候最后在想着什么。
我走出大堂的时候，旅馆经理费亚兹先生在身后跟上。“我很为你感到难过，”他说，“可是我要你搬离我的旅馆，拜托了。这对我的生意有影响，影响很大。”
我告诉我能理解，退了房。他没有收取我在医院度过的那三个晚上的房钱。在大堂门口等出租车的时候，我想起那天晚上费亚兹先生对我说过的：你们阿富汗人的事情……你们有些鲁莽。我曾对他大笑，但现在我怀疑。在把索拉博最担 心的消息告诉他之后，我真的睡着了吗？
坐上出租车之后，我问司机知不知道有什么波斯文书店。他说南边几公里远的地方有一家。我们去医院途中在那儿停了一会。
索拉博的新病房有乳白色的墙，墙上有断裂的灰色装饰嵌线，还有本来也许是白色的珐琅地砖。跟他同间病房的还有一个十来岁的旁遮普族[Punjabi，生活在印度和巴基斯坦一带的民族]男孩，后来我从某个护士那里听到，他从一辆开动的巴士车顶跌下来，摔断了腿。他上了石膏的腿抬起，由一些绑着砝码的夹子夹住。
索拉博的病床靠近窗口，早晨的阳光从长方形的玻璃窗照射进来，落在病床的后半部上。窗边站着一个身穿制服的保安，嗑着煮过的西瓜子——医院给索拉博安排了24小时的防止自杀看护。纳瓦兹大夫跟我说过，这是医院的制度。保安看到我，举帽致意，随后离开房间。
索拉博穿着短袖的病服，仰面躺着，毛毯盖到他胸口，脸转向窗那边。我以为他睡了，但当我将一张椅子拉到他床边时，他眼睑跳动，跟着睁开。他看看我，移开视线。尽管他们给他输了很多血，他脸色依然苍白，而且在他的臂弯有一大块淤伤。
“你还好吗？”我说。他没回答，眼望向窗外，看着医院花园里面一个围着护栏的方形沙地和秋千架。运动场旁边有个拱形的凉棚，在一排木槿的树影之下，几株葡萄藤爬上木格子。几个孩子拿着铲斗和小提桶在沙地里面玩耍。那天天空万里无云，一碧如洗，我看见一架小小的喷气式飞机，拖着两道白色的尾巴。我转向索拉博：“我刚跟纳瓦兹大夫聊过，他说你再过几天就可以出院了，这是个好消息，对吧？”
我遇到的又是沉默。病房那端，旁遮普男孩睡着翻了个身，发出几声呻吟。
“我喜欢你这间房，”我说，忍住不去看索拉博缠着绷带的手腕，“光线明亮，你还能看到外面的景色。”没有回应。又是尴尬的几分钟过去，丝丝汗水从我额头和上唇冒出来。
他床头的柜子上摆着一碗没碰过的豌豆糊，一把没用过的塑料调羹，我指着它们说：“你应该试着吃些东西，才能恢复元气。要我喂你吃吗？”
他看向我的眼睛，接着望开，脸上木无表情。我看见他的眼神依然黯淡空洞，就像我把他从浴缸里面拉出来时看到的那样。我把手伸进两腿之间的纸袋，拿出一本我在那间波斯文书店买来的《沙纳玛》旧书。我将封面转向索拉博。“我们还是小孩的时候，我经常读这些故事给你父亲听。我们爬上我们家后面的山丘，坐在石榴树下面……”我降低声音。索拉博再次望着窗外，我挤出笑脸。“你父亲最喜欢的是罗斯坦和索拉博的故事，你的名字就是从那儿来的，我知道你知道。”我停顿，觉得自己有点像个白痴，“反正，他在信里说你也最喜欢这个故事。所以我想我会念一些给你听，你会喜欢吗？”
索拉博闭上眼睛，将手臂放在它们上面，有淤伤的那只手臂。我翻到在出租车里面折好的那页。“我们从这里开始，”我说，第一次想到，当哈桑终于能自己阅读《沙纳玛》，发现我曾无数次欺骗过他的时候，他的脑子里转过什么念头呢？我清清喉咙，读了起来。“请听索拉博和罗斯坦战斗的故事，不过这个故事催人泪下。”我开始了，“话说某日，罗斯坦自躺椅起身，心里闪过不祥之兆。他忆起他……”我给他念了第一章的大部分，直到年轻的斗士索拉博去找他的妈妈，萨门干王国的公主拓敏妮，要求得知他的父亲姓甚名谁。我合上书。“你想我读下去吗？接下来有战斗场面，你记得吗？索拉博带领他的军队进攻伊朗的白色城堡？要我念下去吗？”
他慢慢摇头。我把书放回纸袋，“那好。”我说，为他终于有所反应而鼓舞。
“也许我们可以明天再继续。你感觉怎样？”
索拉博张开口，发出嘶哑的嗓音。纳瓦兹大夫跟我说过会有这样的情况，那是他们把呼吸管插进他的声带引发的。他舔舔嘴唇，又试一次。“厌倦了。”
“我知道，纳瓦兹大夫说过会出现这种感觉……”他摇着头。
“怎么了，索拉博？”
他一边缩着身子，一边再次用粗哑的嗓音，声音低得几乎听不见地说：“厌倦了一切事情。”
我叹气，颓然坐倒在椅子上。一道阳光照在床上，在我们两人中间，而就在那一瞬间，那张死灰的脸从光线那边看着我，它像极了哈桑的面孔，不是那个整天跟我玩弹珠直到毛拉唱起晚祷、阿里喊我们回家的哈桑，不是那个太阳没入西边的黏土屋顶时我们从山丘上追逐而下的哈桑，而是我有生最后一次见到的那个哈桑，那个我透过自己房间雨水迷蒙的窗户望着的、在夏日温暖的倾盆大雨中拖 着行李走在阿里背后、将它们塞进爸爸的轿车后厢的哈桑。
他慢慢摇着头。“厌倦了一切事情。”他重复说。
“我能做什么，索拉博？请告诉我。”
“我想要……”他开口，身子又是一缩，把手按在喉咙上，似乎要清除掉哽住他嗓音的东西。我的眼光再次落在他手腕上紧紧绑着的医用绷带上。“我想要回原来的生活。”他喘息说。
“哦，索拉博。”
“我想要爸爸和亲爱的妈妈，我想要莎莎，我想要跟拉辛汗老爷在花园玩，我想要回到我们的房子生活。”他用前臂盖住双眼，“我想要回原来的生活。”
我不知道该说什么，该看哪里，所以我望着自己双手。你原来的生活，我想，也是我原来的生活。我在同一个院子玩耍。我住在同一座房子。可是那些草已经死了，我们家房子的车道上停着陌生人的吉普车，油污滴满柏油地面。我们原来的生活不见了，索拉博，原来那些人要么死了，要么正在死去。现在只剩下你和我了。只剩下你和我。
“我没办法给你。”我说。
“我希望你没有……”
“请别那么说。”
“……希望你没有……我希望你让我留在水里。”
“别再那么说了，索拉博。”我说，身子前倾，“我无法忍受再听见你那么说。”我碰他的肩膀，他缩身抽开。我放下手，凄凉地想起我在对他食言之前的最后几天，他终于能够自在地接受我的触碰。“索拉博，我没办法把你原来的生活给你，我希望真主给我这样的力量。但我可以带你走。当时我走向浴室，就是要告诉你这个。你有前往美国跟我和我的妻子生活在一起的签证了。真的。我保证。”
他从鼻子叹出气，闭上眼睛。我要是没有说出最后三个字就好了。
“你知道吗，我这一辈子做过很多后悔的事情，”我说，“也许最后悔的事情是对你出尔反尔。但那再也不会发生了，我感到非常非常对不起你。我乞求你的原谅。你能做到吗？你能原谅我吗？你能相信我吗？”我降低声音，“你会跟 我一起走吗？”
等待他回答的时候，我脑里一闪，思绪回到了很久以前的某个冬日，哈桑和我坐在一株酸樱桃树下的雪地上。那天我跟哈桑开了个残酷的玩笑，取笑他，问他愿不愿意吃泥巴证明对我的忠诚。而如今，我是那个被考验的人，那个需要证明自己值得尊重的人。我罪有应得。
索拉博翻过身，背朝我。很久很久，他一语不发。接着，就在我以为他也许昏昏睡去的时候，他嘶哑地说：“我很累很累。”
我坐在他床沿，直到他睡去。我和索拉博之间有些东西不见了。直到和奥马尔·费萨尔律师碰面之前，一道希望的光芒曾像怯生生的客人那样走进索拉博的眼睛。现在那光芒不见了，客人逃跑了，而我怀疑他是否有胆量回来。我寻思要 再过多久才能见到索拉博的微笑，再过多久才会信任我，倘若他会的话。
于是我离开病房，走出去寻找别的旅馆，根本没有意识到我再次听到索拉博说话，已经是一年之后的事情。
结局，索拉博从来没有接受我的邀请。他也没有拒绝。当绷带拆开，脱去病服，他只是又一个无家可归的哈扎拉孤儿。他能有什么选择呢？他能去哪儿呢？所以我当他同意了，可是实际上，那更像是无言的屈服；与其说是同意，毋宁说 是由于他心灰意懒、怀疑一切而来的任人摆布。他渴望的是他原来的生活，而他得到的是我和美国。从方方面面看来，这并不能说是什么凄惨的命运，可是我不能这么告诉他。倘使恶魔仍在你脑中徘徊萦绕，前程又从何谈起呢？
于是就这样，一个星期之后，穿过一片温暖的黑色的停机坪，我把哈桑的儿子从阿富汗带到美国，让他飞离那业已过去的凄恻往事，降落在即将到来的未知 生活之中。
某天，兴许是 1983年或1984年，我在弗里蒙特一间卖录像带的商店。我站在西片区之前，身边有个家伙拿着便利店的纸杯，边喝可乐边指着《七侠荡寇志》，问我有没有看过。
“看过，看了十三次。”我说，
“查尔斯·勃朗森在里面死了，詹姆斯‘科本和罗伯特·华恩也死了。”他狠狠盯了我一眼，好像我朝他的汽水吐口水一样。“太谢谢你啦，老兄。”他说，摇头咕哝着走开了。
那时我才明白，在美国，你不能透露电影的结局，要不然你会被谴责，还得为糟蹋了结局
的罪行致上万分歉意。
在阿富汗，结局才是最重要的。每逢哈桑和我在索拉博电影院看完印度片回家，阿里、拉辛汗、爸爸或者爸爸那些九流三教的朋友——各种远房亲戚在那座房子进进出出——想知道的只有这些：电影里面那个姑娘找到幸福了吗？电影里面那个家伙胜利地实现了他的梦想吗？还是失败了，郁郁而终？
他们想知道的是结局是不是幸福。如果今天有人问起哈桑、索拉博和我的故事结局是否圆满，我不知道该怎么说。
有人能回答吗？
毕竟，生活并非印度电影。阿富汗人总喜欢说：生活总会继续。他们不关心 开始或结束、成功或失败、危在旦夕或柳暗花明，只顾像游牧部落那样风尘仆仆地缓慢前进。
我不知道如何回答那个问题。尽管上个星期天出现了小小的奇迹。
7个月前，也就是2001年8月某个温暖的日子，我们回到家里。索拉雅到机场接我们。我从未离开这么长时间，当她双臂环住我脖子的时候，我闻到她头发上的苹果香味，意识到我有多么想念她。“你仍是我的雅尔达的朝阳。”我低声说。
“什么？”
“没什么。”我亲吻她的耳朵。随后，她将身子蹲到跟索拉博一样高，拉起他的手，笑着对他说：“你好，亲爱的索拉博，我是你的索拉雅阿姨，我们大家一直在等你。”
我看到她朝索拉博微笑，眼噙泪水的模样，也看到假如她的子宫没有背叛主人，她该会是什么样的母亲。
索拉博双脚原地挪动，眼睛望向别处。索拉雅已经把楼上的书房收拾成索拉博的卧房。
她领他进去，他坐在床沿。
床单绣着风筝在靛蓝的天空中飞翔的图案。她在衣橱旁边的墙上做了刻度尺，标记英尺和英寸，用来测量孩子日益长高的身材。我看到床脚有个装满图书的柳条篮子，一个玩具火车头，还有一盒水彩笔。
索拉博穿着纯白色衬衣，和我们离开之前我在伊斯兰堡给他新买的斜纹粗棉裤，衬衣松松垮垮地挂在他胛骨毕现的瘦削肩膀上。除了黑色的眼圈，他的面庞仍是苍白得没有其他颜色。现在他看着我们，神情冷淡，一如看着医院那些整齐地摆放在他面前的装着白米饭的盘子。
索拉雅问他喜不喜欢他的房间，我注意到她竭力避免去看他的手腕，但眼光总是瞟向那些弯曲的粉红伤痕。索拉博低下头，把手藏在大腿之间，什么也没说。接着他自顾把头倒在枕上，我和索拉雅站在门口看着他，不消五分钟，他就呼呼入睡。
我们回到床上，索拉雅头靠着我的胸膛睡去。在我们黑暗的房间中，我清醒地躺着，再次失眠。清醒、孤独地陪伴我自己的心魔。
那晚夜深人静的时候，我悄悄下床，走到索拉博的房间。我站在他身旁，望下去，看到他枕头下面有东西突出。我把它捡起来，发现是拉辛汗的宝丽莱照片，那张我们坐在费萨尔清真寺附近那夜我给索拉博的照片，那张哈桑和索拉博并排 站着在阳光下眯着眼睛似乎世界是个美好而有正义的地方的照片。我在想索拉博究竟躺在床上将手里拿着的这张照片翻来覆去地看了多久。
我看着那张照片。你爸爸是被拉扯成两半的男人。拉辛汗在信里这么说。我是有名分的那一半，社会承认的、合法的一半，不知不觉间充当了父亲疚恨的化身。我看着哈桑，阳光打在他露出缺了两个门牙的笑脸上。爸爸的另一半，没有 名分、没有特权的一半，那继承了爸爸身上纯洁高贵品质的一半，也许，在爸爸内心某处秘密的地方，这是他当成自己的真正儿子的一半。
我把照片塞回刚才发现的地方，接着意识到：刚才最后那个念头居然没有让我心痛。
我走向索拉博的房门，心下寻思，是否宽恕就这样萌生？它并非随着神灵显身的玄妙而来，
而是痛苦在经过一番收拾之后，终于打点完毕，在深夜悄然 退去，催生了它。
隔日，将军和雅米拉阿姨前来一起用晚膳。雅米拉阿姨头发剪短了，也染得比过去更红了，将一盘她买来当点心的杏仁糕递给索拉雅。看到索拉博，她喜形于色：“安拉保佑！
亲爱的索拉雅告诉我们你有多么英俊，但是你真人更加好看，亲爱的索拉博。”她递给他一件蓝色的圆翻领毛衣。“我替你织了这个，”她说，“到下个冬天，奉安拉之名，你穿上它会合身的。”
索拉博从她手里接过毛衣。
“你好，小伙子。”将军只说了这么一句，双手拄着拐杖，看着索拉博，似乎在研究某人房子的奇异装饰。
我一遍又一遍地回答雅米拉阿姨关于我受伤的问题——我曾让索拉雅告诉他们我被抢了——不断向她保证，我没有受到永久性的伤害，再过一两个星期就可以拆线了，我又能吃她做的饭了，也向她保证，是的，我会在伤疤上抹大黄汁和 白糖，让它消失得快一些。
索拉雅和她妈妈收拾桌子的时候，将军和我在客厅喝葡萄酒。我跟他谈起喀 布尔和塔利班，他边听边点头，拐杖放在腿上。当我说起我见到那个卖假腿的家伙时，他啧啧有声。
我没说到伽兹体育馆的处决，也没提及阿塞夫。他问起拉辛汗，说曾在喀布尔见过他几面，
当我告诉他拉辛汗的病况时，他严肃地摇摇头。但在我们说话的时候，我注意到他的眼睛不断看向睡在沙发上的索拉博。似乎我们一直在他真正想知道的问题边缘兜圈。
兜圈终于结束了。用过晚饭之后，将军放下他的叉子，问：“那么，亲爱的阿米尔，你是不是该告诉我们，你为什么要带这个男孩回来？”
“亲爱的伊克伯！这是什么问题？”雅米拉阿姨说。
“你在忙着编织毛衣的时候，亲爱的，我不得不应付邻居对我们家的看法。人们会有疑问。他们会想知道为什么有个哈扎拉男孩住在我女儿家。我怎么跟他 们说？”
索拉雅放下她的调羹，转向她父亲，“你可以告诉他们……”
“没什么，索拉雅。”我说，拉起她的手，“没什么，将军说得没错，人们会有疑问。”
“阿米尔……”她说。
“没关系，”我转向将军，“你知道吗，将军大人，我爸爸睡了他仆人的老婆。她给他生了个儿子，名字叫做哈桑。现在哈桑死掉了，睡在沙发上那个男孩是哈桑的儿子。他是我的侄儿。要是有人发问，你可以这样告诉我。”
他们全都瞪着我。
“还有，将军大人，”我说，“以后我在场的时候，请你永远不要叫他‘哈扎拉男孩’。
他有名字，他的名字叫索拉博。”
大家默默吃完那顿饭。如果说索拉博很安静是错误的。安静是祥和，是平静，是降下生命音量的旋钮。
沉默是把那个按钮关掉，把它旋下，全部旋掉。索拉博的沉默既不是来自洞明世事之后的泰然自若，也并非由于他选择了默默不语来秉持自己的信念和表达抗议，而是对生活曾有过的黑暗忍气吞声地照单 全收。
他身在曹营心在汉，人跟我们共同生活，而心跟我们一起的时候少得可怜。有时候，在市场或者公园里面，我注意到人们仿佛甚至没有看到他，似乎他根本并不存在。我曾经从书本抬头，发现索拉博业已走进房间，坐在我对面，而我毫无察觉。他走路的样子似乎害怕留下脚印，移动的时候似乎不想搅起周围的空气。多数时候，他选择了睡觉。
索拉博沉默的时候，世界风起云涌。“九一一”之后，美国轰炸了阿富汗，北方联盟乘机而进，塔利班像老鼠逃回洞穴那样四处亡命。突然间，人们在杂货店排队等待收银，谈着我童年生活过的那些城市：坎大哈、赫拉特、马扎里沙里夫。阿富汗人的羊皮帽和绿色长袍变得众所周知。
索拉博依然梦游般地度过这段日子。
然而，4天之前，2002年3 月某个阴冷的雨天，发生了一个小小的奇迹。我带索拉雅、雅米拉阿姨和索拉博参加弗里蒙特伊丽莎白湖公园的阿富汗人聚会。上个月，阿富汗终于征召将军回去履任一个大臣的职位，他两个星期前飞走——他留下了灰色西装和怀表。雅米拉阿姨计划等他安顿好之后，过一两个月再去和他团聚。
上个星期二是春季的第一天，过去是阿富汗的新年，湾区的阿富汗人计划在东湾和半岛举行盛大的庆祝活动。
我们是在中午到的，发现地面插了六根柱子，上面搭了长方形的塑料布，里面有一些人。有人已经开始炸面饼；蒸汽从茶杯和花椰菜面锅冒出来。一台磁带播放机放着艾哈迈德·查希尔聒噪的老歌。我们四个人冲过那片潮湿的草地时，我微微发笑；索拉雅和我走在前面，雅米拉阿姨在中间，后面是索拉博，他穿着黄色雨衣，兜帽拍打着他的后背。
索拉博在雨棚下面站了一会，接着走回雨中，双手插进雨衣的口袋，他的头发贴在头上。他在一个咖啡色的水坑旁边停下，看着它。似乎没有人注意到他，没有人喊他进来。
随着时间流逝，人们终于仁慈地不再问起我们收养这个——他的行为怪异一目了然——小
男孩的问题。而考虑到阿富汗人的提问有时毫不拐弯抹角，这当真是个很大的解脱。人们不再问为什么他不说话，为什么他不和其他小孩玩。而最令人高兴的是，他们不再用夸张的同情、他们的慢慢摇头、他们的咋舌、他们的“噢，这个可怜的小哑巴”来让我们窒息。
新奇的感觉不见了，索拉博就像发旧的墙纸一样融进了这个生活环境。
下午，雨晴了，铅灰色的天空阴云密布，一阵寒风吹过公园。更多的家庭来到了。阿富汗人彼此问候，拥抱，亲吻，交换食物。我正在跟那个原来当外科医师的人聊天，他说他念八年级的时候跟我爸爸是同学，索拉雅拉拉我的衣袖：“阿米尔，看！”
她指着天空。几只风筝高高飞翔，黄色的、红色的、绿色的，点缀在灰色的天空上，格外夺目。
“去看看。”索拉雅说，这次她指着一个在附近摆摊卖风筝的家伙。我买了一只黄色的风筝。我试试风筝线，像过去哈桑和我经常做的那样，用拇指和食指捏着拉开。它被血染红，卖风筝那人微微发笑，我报以微笑。
我把风筝带到索拉博站着的地方，他仍倚着垃圾桶，双手抱在胸前，抬头望着天空。
“你喜欢风筝吗？”我举起风筝横轴的两端。他的眼睛从天空落到我身上，看看风筝，又望着我。几点雨珠从他头发上滴下来，流下他的脸庞。
我舔舔食指，将它竖起来。“我记得你父亲测风向的办法是用他的拖鞋踢起尘土，看风将它吹到那儿。他懂得很多这样的小技巧。”我放低手指说，“西风，我想。”
索拉博擦去耳垂上的一点雨珠，双脚磨地，什么也没说。
“我有没有跟你说过，你爸爸是瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区最棒的追风筝的人？也许还是
全喀布尔最棒的？”我一边说，一边将卷轴的线头系在风筝中轴的圆环上。“邻居的小孩都
很妒忌他。他追风筝的时候从来不用看着天空，大家经常说 他追着风筝的影子。但他们不
知道我知道的事情，你爸爸不是在追什么影子，他只是……知道。”
又有几只风筝飞起来，人们开始三五成群聚在一起，手里拿着茶杯，望向天空。
“好吧。”我耸耸肩，“看来我得一个人把它放起来了。”
我左手拿稳卷轴，放开大约三英尺的线。黄色的风筝吊在线后摇晃，就在湿草地上面。
“最后的机会了哦。”我说。可是索拉博看着两只高高飞在树顶之上的风筝。
“好吧，那我开始了。”我撒腿跑开，运动鞋从水洼中溅起阵阵雨水，手里抓着线连着风筝的那头，高举在头顶。我已经有很久、很多年没这么做过了，我在怀疑自己会不会出洋相。我边跑边让卷轴在我手里转开，感到线放开的时候又 割伤了我的右手。风筝在我肩膀后面飞起来了，飞翔着，旋转着，我跑得更快了。卷轴迅速旋转，风筝线再次在我右掌割开一道伤痕。我站住，转身，举头，微笑。我已经有四分之一个世纪没有放过风筝了，但刹那之间，我又变成十二岁，过去那些感觉统统涌上心头。
我感到有人在我旁边，眼睛朝下看：是索拉博。他双手深深插在雨衣口袋中，跟在我身后。
“你想试试吗？”我问。他一语不发，但我把线递给他的时候，他的手从口袋伸出来，犹疑不决，接过线。我转动卷轴把线松开，心跳加速。我们静静地并排站着，脖子仰起。
一只绿色的风筝正在靠近。我沿着线往下看，见到一个孩子站在离我们三十米外。他留着平头，身上的恤衫用粗黑字体印着“ROCK RULES ”。他见到我在看着他，微微发笑，招招手。我也朝他招手。
索拉博把线交还我。
“你确定吗？”我说，接过它。他从我手里拿回卷轴。
“好的。”我说，“让我们给他一点颜色瞧瞧，教训他一下，好吧？”我俯视着他，他眼里那种模糊空洞的神色已经不见了。他的眼光在我们的风筝和那只绿色风筝之间来回转动，脸色有一点点发红，眼睛骤然机警起来。苏醒了。复活了。我在寻思，我什么时候忘了？不管怎么说，他仍只是一个孩子。
绿色风筝采取行动了。“我们等等，”我说，“我们会让它再靠近一些。”它下探了两次，慢慢朝我们挪过来。“来啊，过来啊。”我说。
绿风筝已经更近了，在我们稍高的地方拉升，对我为它布下的陷阱毫不知情。
“看，索拉博，我会让你看看你爸爸最喜欢的招数，那招古老的猛升急降。”
索拉博挨着我，用鼻子急促地呼吸着。卷轴在他手中滚动，他伤痕累累的手腕上的筋腱很像雷巴布琴的琴弦。我眨眨眼，瞬间，拿着卷轴的是一个兔唇男孩指甲破裂、长满老茧的手。我听见某个地方传来牛的哞哞叫，而我抬头，公园闪闪发光，铺满的雪多么新鲜，白得多么耀眼，令我目眩神迷。雪花无声地洒落在白色的枝头上，现在我闻到了芜青拌饭的香味，还有桑椹干、酸橙子、锯屑和胡 桃的气味。一阵雪花飞舞的寂静盖住了所有声音。
然后，远远地，有个声音穿透这片死寂，呼喊我们回家，是那个拖着右腿的男人的声音。
绿风筝现在就在我们正上方翱翔。“我们现在随时可以把它干掉了。”我说，眼睛在索拉博和我们的风筝间飞快地转着。
绿风筝摇摇晃晃，定住位，接着向下冲。“他玩完了！”我说。 这么多年之后，我无懈可击地再次使出那招古老的猛升急降。我松开手，猛拉着线，往下避开那只绿风筝。我侧过手臂，一阵急遽的抖动之后，我们的风筝 逆时针划出一个半圆。我突然占据了上面的位置。绿色风筝现在惊惶失措，慌乱地向上攀升。但它已经太迟了，我已经使出哈桑的绝技。
我猛拉着线，我们的风 筝直坠而下。我几乎能听见我们的线割断他的线，几乎能听见那一
声断裂。
然后，就那样，绿风筝失去控制，摇摇晃晃地摔下来。我们身后的人们欢呼叫好，爆发出阵阵口哨声和掌声。我喘着气。上一次感到这么激动，是在 1975年那个冬日，就在我刚刚割断最后一只风筝之后，当时我看见爸爸在我们的屋顶上，鼓着掌，容光焕发。
我俯视索拉博，他嘴角的一边微微翘起。
微笑。斜斜的。
几乎看不见。但就在那儿。
在我们后面，孩子们在飞奔，追风筝的人不断尖叫，乱成一团，追逐那只在树顶高高之上飘摇的断线风筝。我眨眼，微笑不见了。但它在那儿出现过，我看见了。
“你想要我追那只风筝给你吗？”他的喉结吞咽着上下蠕动。风掠起他的头发。我想我看到他点头。
“为你，千千万万遍。”我听见自己说。
然后我转过身，我追。它只是一个微笑，没有别的了。它没有让所有事情恢复正常。
它没有让任何事情恢复正常。只是一个微笑，一件小小的事情，像是树林中的一片叶子，在惊鸟的飞起中晃动着。
但我会迎接它，张开双臂。因为每逢春天到来，它总是每次融化一片雪花；而也许我刚刚看到的，正是第一片雪花的融化。
我追。一个成年人在一群尖叫的孩子中奔跑。但我不在乎。我追，风拂过我的脸庞，我唇上挂着一个像潘杰希尔峡谷那样大大的微笑。
我追。 -
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好书 感谢分享
