[Novel] 追风筝的人——The Kite Runner【中英对照】完结

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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

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[table=76%,#d7e3bc,#4f6128,3][tr][td]
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 ma

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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�

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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

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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
我脽妄河，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，两边有荷熗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。我们薀威桑和阿米尔，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，车斗上挤满荷熗实弹、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

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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。“臒妄去是间药房。”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，肩膀扛着俄制步熗。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！”      
“我不薀褪意的。”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。

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Chapter 19
Again, the car sickness. By the time we drove past the bulletriddled sign that read THE KHYBER PASS WELCOMES YOU, my mouth had begun to water. Something inside my stomach churned and twisted. Farid, my driver, threw me a cold glance. There was no empathy in his eyes.
"Can we roll down the window??I asked.
He lit a cigarette and tucked it between the remaining two fingers of his left hand, the one resting on the steering wheel. Keeping his black eyes on the road, he stooped forward, picked up the screwdriver lying between his feet, and handed it to me. I stuck it in the small hole in the door where the handle belonged and turned it to roll down my window.
Farid gave me another dismissive look, this one with a hint of barely suppressed animosity, and went back to smoking his cigarette. He hadn't said more than a dozen words since we'd departed from Jamrud Fort.
"Tashakor,?I muttered. I leaned my head out of the window and let the cold midafternoon air rush past my face. The drive through the tribal lands of the Khyber Pass, winding between cliffs of shale and limestone, was just as I remembered it--Baba and I had driven through the broken terrain back in 1974. The arid, imposing mountains sat along deep gorges and soared to jagged peaks. Old fortresses, adobe-walled and crumbling, topped the crags. I tried to keep my eyes glued to the snowcapped Hindu Kush on the north side, but each time my stomach settled even a bit, the truck skidded around yet another turn, rousing a fresh wave of nausea.
"Try a lemon.?
"What??
"Lemon. Good for the sickness,?Farid said. "I always bring one for this drive.?
"Nay, thank you,?I said. The mere thought of adding acidity to my stomach stirred more nausea. Farid snickered. "It's not fancy like American Medicine, I know, just an old remedy my mother taught me.?
I regretted blowing my chance to warm up to him. "In that case, maybe you should give me some.?
He grabbed a paper bag from the backseat and plucked a half lemon out of it. I bit down on it, waited a few minutes. "You were right. I feel better,?I lied. As an Afghan, I knew it was better to be miserable than rude. I forced a weak smile.
"Old watani trick, no need for fancy Medicine,?he said. His tone bordered on the surly. He flicked the ash off his cigarette and gave himself a self-satisfied look in the rearview mirror. He was a Tajik, a lanky, dark man with a weather-beaten face, narrow shoulders, and a long neck punctuated by a protruding Adam's apple that only peeked from behind his beard when he turned his head. He was dressed much as I was, though I suppose it was really the other way around: a rough-woven wool blanket wrapped over a gray pirhan-tumban and a vest. On his head, he wore a brown pakol, tilted slightly to one side, like the Tajik hero Ahmad Shah Massoud--referred to by Tajiks as "the Lion of Panjsher.?
It was Rahim Khan who had introduced me to Farid in Peshawar. He told me Farid was twenty-nine, though he had the wary, lined face of a man twenty years older. He was born in Mazar-i-Sharif and lived there until his father moved the family to Jalalabad when Farid was ten. At fourteen, he and his father had joined the jihad against the Shorawi. They had fought in the Panjsher Valley for two years until helicopter gunfire had torn the older man to pieces. Farid had two wives and five children. "He used to have seven,?Rahim Khan said with a rueful look, but he'd lost his two youngest girls a few years earlier in a land mine blast just outside Jalalabad, the same explosion that had severed toes from his feet and three fingers from his left hand. After that, he had moved his wives and children to Peshawar.
"Checkpoint,?Farid grumbled. I slumped a little in my seat, arms folded across my chest, forgetting for a moment about the nausea. But I needn't have worried. Two Pakistani militia approached our dilapidated Land Cruiser, took a cursory glance inside, and waved us on.
Farid was first on- the list of preparations Rahim Khan and I made, a list that included exchanging dollars for Kaldar and Afghani bills, my garment and pakol--ironically, I'd never worn either when I'd actually lived in Afghanistan--the Polaroid of Hassan and Sohrab, and, finally, perhaps the most important item: an artificial beard, black and chest length, Shari'a friendly--or at least the Taliban version of Shari'a. Rahim Khan knew of a fellow in Peshawar who specialized in weaving them, sometimes for Western journalists who covered the war.
Rahim Khan had wanted me to stay with him a few more days, to plan more thoroughly. But I knew I had to leave as soon as possible. I was afraid I'd change my mind. I was afraid I'd deliberate, ruminate, agonize, rationalize, and talk myself into not going. I was afraid the appeal of my life in America would draw me back, that I would wade back into that great, big river and let myself forget, let the things I had learned these last few days sink to the bottom. I was afraid that I'd let the waters carry me away from what I had to do. From Hassan. From the past that had come calling. And from this one last chance at redemption. So I left before there was any possibility of that happening. As for Soraya, telling her I was going back to Afghanistan wasn't an option. If I had, she would have booked herself on the next flight to Pakistan.
We had crossed the border and the signs of poverty were every where. On either side of the road, I saw chains of little villages sprouting here and there, like discarded toys among the rocks, broken mud houses and huts consisting of little more than four wooden poles and a tattered cloth as a roof. I saw children dressed in rags chasing a soccer ball outside the huts. A few miles later, I spotted a cluster of men sitting on their haunches, like a row of crows, on the carcass of an old burned-out Soviet tank, the wind fluttering the edges of the blankets thrown around them. Behind them, a woman in a brown burqa carried a large clay pot on her shoulder, down a rutted path toward a string of mud houses.
"Strange,?I said.
"What??
"I feel like a tourist in my own country,?I said, taking in a goatherd leading a half-dozen emaciated goats along the side of the road.
Farid snickered. Tossed his cigarette. "You still think of this place as your country??
"I think a part of me always will,?I said, more defensively than I had intended.
"After twenty years of living in America,?he said, swerving the truck to avoid a pothole the size of a beach ball.
I nodded. "I grew up in Afghanistan.?Farid snickered again.
"Why do you do that??
"Never mind,?he murmured.
"No, I want to know. Why do you do that??
In his rearview mirror, I saw something flash in his eyes. "You want to know??he sneered. "Let me imagine, Agha sahib. You probably lived in a big two- or three-story house with a nice back yard that your gardener filled with flowers and fruit trees. All gated, of course. Your father drove an American car. You had servants, probably Hazaras. Your parents hired workers to decorate the house for the fancy mehmanis they threw, so their friends would come over to drink and boast about their travels to Europe or America. And I would bet my first son's eyes that this is the first time you've ever worn a pakol.?He grinned at me, revealing a mouthful of prematurely rotting teeth. "Am I close??
"Why are you saying these things??I said.
"Because you wanted to know,?he spat. He pointed to an old man dressed in ragged clothes trudging down a dirt path, a large burlap pack filled with scrub grass tied to his back. "That's the real Afghanistan, Agha sahib. That's the Afghanistan I know. You? You've always been a tourist here, you just didn't know it.?
Rahim Khan had warned me not to expect a warm welcome in Afghanistan from those who had stayed behind and fought the wars. "I'm sorry about your father,?I said. "I'm sorry about your daughters, and I'm sorry about your hand.?
"That means nothing to me,?he said. He shook his head. "Why are you coming back here anyway? Sell off your Baba's land? Pocket the money and run back to your mother in America??
"My mother died giving birth to me,?I said.
He sighed and lit another cigarette. Said nothing.
"Pull over.?
"What??
"Pull over, goddamn it!?I said. "I'm going to be sick.?I tumbled out of the truck as it was coming to a rest on the gravel alongside the road.

BY LATE AFTERNOON, the terrain had changed from one of sun-beaten peaks and barren cliffs to a greener, more rural land scape. The main pass had descended from Landi Kotal through Shinwari territory to Landi Khana. We'd entered Afghanistan at Torkham. Pine trees flanked the road, fewer than I remembered and many of them bare, but it was good to see trees again after the arduous drive through the Khyber Pass. We were getting closer to Jalalabad, where Farid had a brother who would take us in for the night.
The sun hadn't quite set when we drove into Jalalabad, capital of the state of Nangarhar, a city once renowned for its fruit and warm climate. Farid drove past the buildings and stone houses of the city's central district. There weren't as many palm trees there as I remembered, and some of the Homes had been reduced to roofless walls and piles of twisted clay.
Farid turned onto a narrow unpaved road and parked the Land Cruiser along a dried-up gutter. I slid out of the truck, stretched, and took a deep breath. In the old days, the winds swept through the irrigated plains around Jalalabad where farmers grew sugarcane, and impregnated the city's air with a sweet scent. I closed my eyes and searched for the sweetness. I didn't find it.
"Let's go,?Farid said impatiently. We walked up the dirt road past a few leafless poplars along a row of broken mud walls. Farid led me to a dilapidated one-story house and knocked on the woodplank door.
A young woman with ocean-green eyes and a white scarf draped around her face peeked out. She saw me first, flinched, spotted Farid and her eyes lit up. "Salaam alaykum, Kaka Farid!?
"Salaam, Maryam jan,?Farid replied and gave her something he'd denied me all day: a warm smile. He planted a kiss on the top of her head. The young woman stepped out of the way, eyeing me a little apprehensively as I followed Farid into the small house.
The adobe ceiling was low, the dirt walls entirely bare, and the only light came from a pair of lanterns set in a corner. We took off our shoes and stepped on the straw mat that covered the floor. Along one of the walls sat three young boys, cross-legged, on a mattress covered with a blanket with shredded borders. A tall bearded man with broad shoulders stood up to greet us. Farid and he hugged and kissed on the cheek. Farid introduced him to me as Wahid, his older brother. "He's from America,?he said to Wahid, flicking his thumb toward me. He left us alone and went to greet the boys.
Wahid sat with me against the wall across from the boys, who had ambushed Farid and climbed his shoulders. Despite my protests, Wahid ordered one of the boys to fetch another blanket so I'd be more comfortable on the floor, and asked Maryam to bring me some tea. He asked about the ride from Peshawar, the drive over the Khyber Pass.
"I hope you didn't come across any dozds,?he said. The Khyber Pass was as famous for its terrain as for the bandits who used that terrain to rob travelers. Before I could answer, he winked and said in a loud voice, "Of course no dozd would waste his time on a car as ugly as my brother's.?
Farid wrestled the smallest of the three boys to the floor and tickled him on the ribs with his good hand. The kid giggled and kicked. "At least I have a car,?Farid panted. "How is your donkey these days??
"My donkey is a better ride than your car.?
"Khar khara mishnassah,?Farid shot back. Takes a donkey to know a donkey. They all laughed and I joined in. I heard female voices from the adjoining room. I could see half of the room from where I sat. Maryam and an older woman wearing a brown hijab--presumably her mother--were speaking in low voices and pouring tea from a kettle into a pot.
"So what do you do in America, Amir agha??Wahid asked.
"I'm a writer,?I said. I thought I heard Farid chuckle at that.
"A writer??Wahid said, clearly impressed. "Do you write about Afghanistan??
"Well, I have. But not currently,?I said. My last novel, A Season for Ashes, had been about a university professor who joins a clan of gypsies after he finds his wife in bed with one of his stu dents. It wasn't a bad book. Some reviewers had called it a "good?book, and one had even used the word "riveting.?But suddenly I was embarrassed by it. I hoped Wahid wouldn't ask what it was about.
"Maybe you should write about Afghanistan again,?Wahid said. "Tell the rest of the world what the Taliban are doing to our country.?
"Well, I'm not... I'm not quite that kind of writer.?
"Oh,?Wahid said, nodding and blushing a bit. "You know best, of course. It's not for me to suggest...
Just then, Maryam and the other woman came into the room with a pair of cups and a teapot on a small platter. I stood up in respect, pressed my hand to my chest, and bowed my head. "Salaam alaykum,?I said.
The woman, who had now wrapped her hijab to conceal her lower face, bowed her head too. "Sataam,?she replied in a barely audible voice. We never made eye contact. She poured the tea while I stood.
The woman placed the steaming cup of tea before me and exited the room, her bare feet making no sound at all as she disappeared. I sat down and sipped the strong black tea. Wahid finally broke the uneasy silence that followed.
"So what brings you back to Afghanistan??
"What brings them all back to Afghanistan, dear brother??Farid said, speaking to Wahid but fixing me with a contemptuous gaze.
"Bas!?Wahid snapped.
"It's always the same thing,?Farid said. "Sell this land, sell that house, collect the money, and run away like a mouse. Go back to America, spend the money on a family vacation to Mexico.?
"Farid!?Wahid roared. His children, and even Farid, flinched. "Have you forgotten your-manners? This is my house! Amir agha is my guest tonight and I will not allow you to dishonor me like this!?
Farid opened his mouth, almost said something, reconsidered and said nothing. He slumped against the wall, muttered some thing under his breath, and crossed his mutilated foot over the good one. His accusing eyes never left me.
"Forgive us, Amir agha,?Wahid said. "Since childhood, my brother's mouth has been two steps ahead of his head.?
"It's my fault, really,?I said, trying to smile under Farid's intense gaze. "I am not offended. I should have explained to him my Business here in Afghanistan. I am not here to sell property. I'm going to Kabul to find a boy.?
"A boy,?Wahid repeated.
"Yes.?I fished the Polaroid from the pocket of my shirt. Seeing Hassan's picture again tore the fresh scab off his death. I had to turn my eyes away from it. I handed it to Wahid. He studied the photo. Looked from me to the photo and back again. "This boy??
I nodded.
"This Hazara boy.?
"Yes.?
"What does he mean to you??
"His father meant a lot to me. He is the man in the photo. He's dead now.?
Wahid blinked. "He was a friend of yours??
My instinct was to say yes, as if, on some deep level, I too wanted to protect Baba's secret. But there had been enough lies already. "He was my half-brother.?I swallowed. Added, "My illegitimate half brother.?I turned the teacup. Toyed with the handle.
"I didn't mean to pry.?
"You're not prying,?I said.
"What will you do with him??
"Take him back to Peshawar. There are people there who will take care of him.?
Wahid handed the photo back and rested his thick hand on my shoulder. "You are an honorable man, Amir agha. A true Afghan.?
I cringed inside.
"I am proud to have you in our Home tonight,?Wahid said. I thanked him and chanced a glance over to Farid. He was looking down now, playing with the frayed edges of the straw mat.

A SHORT WHILE LATER, Maryam and her mother brought two steaming bowls of vegetable shorwa and two loaves of bread. "I'm sorry we can't offer you meat,?Wahid said. "Only the Taliban can afford meat now.?
"This looks wonderful,?I said. It did too. I offered some to him, to the kids, but Wahid said the family had eaten before we arrived. Farid and I rolled up our sleeves, dipped our bread in the shorwa, and ate with our hands.
As I ate, I noticed Wahid's boys, all three thin with dirtcaked faces and short-cropped brown hair under their skullcaps, stealing furtive glances at my digital wristwatch. The youngest whispered something in his brother's ear. The brother nodded, didn't take his eyes off my watch. The oldest of the boys--I guessed his age at about twelve--rocked back and forth, his gaze glued to my wrist. After dinner, after I'd washed my hands with the water Maryam poured from a clay pot, I asked for Wahid's permission to give his boys a hadia, a gift. He said no, but, when I insisted, he reluctantly agreed. I unsnapped the wristwatch and gave it to the youngest of the three boys. He muttered a sheepish "Tashakor.?
"It tells you the time in any city in the world,?I told him. The boys nodded politely, passing the watch between them, taking
turns trying it on. But they lost interest and, soon, the watch sat abandoned on the straw mat.

"You COULD HAVE TOLD ME,?Farid saidlater. The two ofus were lying next to each other on the straw mats Wahid's wife had spread for us.
"Told you what??
"Why you've come to Afghanistan.?His voice had lost the rough edge I'd heard in it since the moment I had met him.
"You didn't ask,?I said.
"You should have told me.?
"You didn't ask.?
He rolled to face me. Curled his arm under his head. "Maybe I will help you find this boy.?
"Thank you, Farid,?I said.
"It was wrong of me to assume.?
I sighed. "Don't worry. You were more right than you know.?

HIS HANDS ARE TIED BEHIND HIM with roughly woven rope cutting through the flesh of his wrists. He is blindfolded with black cloth. He is kneeling on the street, on the edge of a gutter filled with still water, his head drooping between his shoulders. His knees roll on the hard ground and bleed through his pants as he rocks in prayer. It is late afternoon and his long shadow sways back and forth on the gravel. He is muttering something under his breath. I step closer. A thousand times over, he mutters. For you a thousand times over. Back and forth he rocks. He lifts his face. I see a faint scar above his upper lip.
We are not alone.
I see the barrel first. Then the man standing behind him. He is tall, dressed in a herringbone vest and a black turban. He looks down at the blindfolded man before him with eyes that show nothing but a vast, cavernous emptiness. He takes a step back and raises the barrel. Places it on the back of the kneeling man's head. For a moment, fading sunlight catches in the metal and twinkles.
The rifle roars with a deafening crack.
I follow the barrel on its upward arc. I see the face behind the plume of smoke swirling from the muzzle. I am the man in the herringbone vest.
I woke up with a scream trapped in my throat.

I STEPPED OUTSIDE. Stood in the silver tarnish of a half-moon and glanced up to a sky riddled with stars. Crickets chirped in the shuttered darkness and a wind wafted through the trees. The ground was cool under my bare feet and suddenly, for the first time since we had crossed the border, I felt like I was back. After all these years, I was Home again, standing on the soil of my ancestors. This was the soil on which my great-grandfather had married his third wife a year before dying in the cholera epidemic that hit Kabul in 1915. She'd borne him what his first two wives had failed to, a son at last. It was on this soil that my grandfather had gone on a hunting trip with King Nadir Shah and shot a deer. My mother had died on this soil. And on this soil, I had fought for my father's love.
I sat against one of the house's clay walls. The kinship I felt suddenly for the old land... it surprised me. I'd been gone long enough to forget and be forgotten. I had a Home in a land that might as well be in another galaxy to the people sleeping on the other side of the wall I leaned against. I thought I had forgotten about this land. But I hadn't. And, under the bony glow of a halfmoon, I sensed Afghanistan humming under my feet. Maybe Afghanistan hadn't forgotten me either.
I looked westward and marveled that, somewhere over those mountains, Kabul still existed. It really existed, not just as an old memory, or as the heading of an AP story on page 15 of the San Francisco Chronicle. Somewhere over those mountains in the west slept the city where my harelipped brother and I had run kites. Somewhere over there, the blindfolded man from my dream had died a needless death. Once, over those mountains, I had made a choice. And now, a quarter of a century later, that choice had landed me right back on this soil.
I was about to go back inside when I heard voices coming from the house. I recognized one as Wahid's.
?-nothing left for the children.?
"We're hungry but we're not savages! He is a guest! What was I supposed to do??he said in a strained voice.
?-to find something tomorrow?She sounded near tears. "What do I feed--?
I tiptoed away. I understood now why the boys hadn't shown any interest in the watch. They hadn't been staring at the watch at all. They'd been staring at my food.

WE SAID OUR GOOD - BYE S early the next morning. Just before I climbed into the Land Cruiser, I thanked Wahid for his hospitality. He pointed to the little house behind him. "This is your Home,?he said. His three sons were standing in the doorway watching us. The little one was wearing the watch--it dangled around his twiggy wrist.
I glanced in the side-view mirror as we pulled away. Wahid stood surrounded by his boys in a cloud of dust whipped up by the truck. It occurred to me that, in a different world, those boys wouldn't have been too hungry to chase after the car.
Earlier that morning, when I was certain no one was looking, I did something I had done twenty-six years earlier: I planted a fistful of crumpled money under a mattress.

第十九章    
再次晕车。当时我们驶过一块带着弹孔的标牌，上面写着“开伯尔隘口欢迎你”，我的嘴里开始冒水，胃里有些东西翻滚绞动。司机法里德冷冷看了我一眼，眼里毫无同情。  
“我们可以把车窗摇下来吗？”我问。他一只手抓着方向盘，另外一只手仅有的两根手指夹着点燃的香烟。他黑色的眼睛仍望着前方，弯下腰，拿起放在脚边的螺丝刀，递给我。我把它插进车门的一个小洞里面，那里原先有个摇柄，把我这边的车窗摇下来。    
法里德又鄙夷地看着我，眼中的嫌恶不加掩饰，然后收回目光，继续抽烟。自从我们离开雅姆鲁德堡垒以来，他跟我说的，只有寥寥数语。    
“谢谢。”我低声说，把头伸出车窗，让午后的寒风猎猎吹过我的脸庞。马路穿过开伯尔隘口的部落领地，蜿蜒在页岩和石灰岩的悬崖峭壁间，一如我记得的那样——1974年，爸爸和我曾驾车驶过这片崎岖的地带。那些贫瘠而壮丽的山脉坐拥深沟大壑，峰峦高高耸起。峭壁之上，有座座泥墙砌成的堡垒，年久失修，崩塌倾颓。我试图让眼光盯牢在北方兴都库什山脉[Hindu  Kush  Mountains，东起帕米尔高原南缘，向西南经巴基斯坦延伸至阿富汗境内。山势雄伟，有“阿富汗的脊梁”之称]白雪皑皑的峰顶，但每次我的胃稍微平息一些，卡车便来个转弯，让我又是一阵恶心。    
“吃个柠檬试试。”    
“什么？”    
“柠檬。对晕车很有效。”法里德说，“每次开这条路我都会带一个。”    
“不用，谢谢你。”我说。光是想到要我吃下酸的东西，就够我反胃的了。法里德冷冷一笑，“它不像美国药丸那样灵妙，我知道，不过是我妈妈告诉我的古老药方罢了。”    
我后悔白白放过这个和他套近乎的机会，“要是那样的话，也许你可以给我一些。”    
他从后座抓起一个纸袋，拿出半个柠檬。我咬一口，等上几分钟。“你说得对，我感觉好多了。”我说谎。身为阿富汗人，我深知宁可遭罪也不可失礼，我挤出孱弱的微笑。    
“古老的土方，用不上玄妙的药丸。”他说，语气不再乖戾。他弹去烟灰，自我感觉良好地从观后镜看着自己。他是塔吉克人，皮肤黝黑，高高瘦瘦，满脸风霜；他肩膀不宽，脖子细长，转头的时候，人们可以窥见那长长的胡子后面突起的喉结。他穿得跟我一样多，但我想附近的人应该不是这样的：他穿着一件背心和灰色的棉袍，外面还罩着粗毛线织成的羊毛毯。他头戴棕色的毡帽，稍微斜向一旁，好像塔吉克的英雄艾哈迈德·沙阿·马苏德——塔吉克人称之为“潘杰希尔[Panjsher，阿富汗中部峡谷]雄狮”。    
在白沙瓦，拉辛汗介绍我认识法里德。他告诉我，法里德二十九岁，不过他  那机警的脸满是皱纹，看上去要老二十岁。他生于马扎里沙里夫，在那儿生活，直到十岁那年，他父亲举家搬到贾拉拉巴特。十四岁，他和他父亲加入了人民圣战者组织，抗击俄国佬。他们在潘杰希尔峡谷抗战了两年，直到直升机的炮火将他父亲炸成碎片。法里德娶了两个妻子，有五个小孩。“他过去有七个小孩。”拉辛汗眼露悲哀地说，但在早几年，就在贾拉拉巴特城外，地雷爆炸夺走了他两个最小的女儿；那次爆炸还要去了他的脚趾以及他左手的三个手指。在那之后，他带着妻子和小孩搬到自沙瓦。    
“关卡。”法里德不满地说。我稍稍瘫在座位上，双臂抱胸，暂时忘却了眩晕的感觉。但我不用担心，两个阿富汗民兵朝我们这辆破旧的陆地巡洋舰走来，匆匆看了一眼车内，挥手让我们走。    
在拉辛汗和我准备的清单中，法里德是第一项，清单还包括把美元换成卡尔达[Kaldar，巴基斯坦货币名称]和阿富汗尼钞票，我的长袍和毡帽——讽刺的是，真正在阿富汗生活的那些年，这两件东西我统统没穿过——哈桑和索拉博的宝丽莱合影，最后，也许是最重要的是：一副黑色假胡子，长及胸膛。表示对伊斯兰教——至少是塔利班眼中的伊斯兰教——的友好。拉辛汗认得白沙瓦几个精于此道的家伙，有时他们替那些前来报道战争的西方记者服务。    
拉辛汗曾要求我多陪着他几天，计划得更详尽些。但我知道自己得尽快启程。我害怕自己会改变主意。我害怕自己会犹豫不决，瞻前顾后，寝食难安，寻找理由，说服自己不要前去。我害怕来自美国生活的诱惑会将我拉回去，而我再也不会趟进这条大河，让自己遗忘，让这几天得知的一切沉在水底。我害怕河水将我冲走，将我冲离那些当仁不让的责任，冲离哈桑，冲离那正在召唤我的往事，冲离最后一次赎罪的机会。所以我在这一切都还来不及发生之前就出发了。至于索拉雅，我没有告诉她我回阿富汗并非明智之举。如果我那么做，她会给自己订票，坐上下一班飞往阿富汗的客机。    
我们已经越过国境，触目皆是贫穷的迹象。在路的两旁，我看见村落一座连一座，如同被丢弃的玩具般，散落在岩石间；而那些残破的泥屋和茅舍，无非是四根木柱，加上屋顶的破布。我看见衣不蔽体的孩子在屋外追逐一个足球。再过几里路，我看到有群男人弓身蹲坐，如同一群乌鸦，坐着的是被焚毁的破旧俄军坦克，寒风吹起他们身边毛毯的边缘，猎猎作响。他们身后，有个穿着棕色长袍的女子，肩膀上扛着大陶罐，沿着车辙宛然的小径，走向一排泥屋。    
“真奇怪。”我说。    
“什么？”    
“我回到自己的国家，却发现自己像个游客。”我说。路边有个牧人，领着几只干瘦的山羊在赶路。    
法里德冷笑，扔掉烟蒂，“你还把这个地方当成国家？”    
“我想有一部分的我永远会这么认为。”我说，我的戒备之心出乎自己意料之外。    
“在美国生活了二十年之后？”他说，打着方向盘，避开路上一个海滩球那么大的洞。    
我点点头：“我在阿富汗长大。”法里德又冷笑。  
“你为什么这样？”    
“没什么。”  
“不，我想知道。你干吗这样？”借着他那边的观后镜，我见到他眼里有神色闪动。
“你想知道？”他嗤之以鼻，“我来想像一下，老爷。你也许生活在一座两层或者三层的楼房，有个漂亮的后院，你的园丁给它种满花草和果树。当然，门都锁上了。你父亲开美国车。你有仆人，估计薀威扎拉人。你的父母请来工人，装潢他们举办宴会的房间，好让他们的朋友前来饮酒喝茶，吹嘘他们在美国和欧洲的游历。而我敢拿我大儿子的眼睛打赌，这是你第一次戴毡帽。”他朝我咧嘴而笑，露出一口过早蛀蚀的牙齿，“我说的没错吧？”    
“你为什么要说这些呢？”我说。    
“因为你想知道，”他回嘴说。他指着一个衣裳褴褛的老人，背着装满柴草的麻袋，在泥土路上跋涉前进。“那才是真正的阿富汗人，老爷，那才是我认识的阿富汗人。你？在这里，你一直无非是个过客而已，只是你自己不知道罢了。”    
拉辛汗警告过我，在阿富汗，别指望那些留下来战斗的人会给我好脸色看。  
“我为你父亲感到难过，”我说，“我为你女儿感到难过，我为你的手感到难过。”    
“那对我来说没有意义。”他摇摇头说，“为什么无论如何，你们总是要回到这里呢？
卖掉你们父亲的土地？把钱放进口袋，跑回美国找你们的妈妈？”    
“我妈妈在生我的时候死了。”我说。他叹气，又点一根烟，一语不发。  
“停车。”    
“什么？”    
“停车，该死。”我说，“我要吐了。”车还没在路边的沙砾上停稳，我就吐了出来。    
接近黄昏的时候，地形变了，从烈日灼烤的山峰和光秃秃的悬崖变成一派更翠绿的田园风光。大路从蓝地科托下降，穿过新瓦里地区，直达蓝地卡纳。我们从托尔坎[蓝地科托（Landi  Kotal）、新瓦里（Shinwari）、蓝地卡纳（Landi Khana）和托尔坎（Torkham）均是开伯尔隘口沿途小镇]进入阿富汗。夹道相送的柏树比我记忆中少多了，但在经历开伯尔隘口那段乏味的旅途之后，再次看到树木，还是神情一振。我们正在接近贾拉拉巴特，法里德有个兄弟在那儿，我们会在他家过夜。    
我们驶进贾拉拉巴特的时候，太阳还没有完全下山。这座城市是楠格哈尔省[Nangarhar，阿富汗省份]的首府，过去以温和的气候和水果闻名。法里德驶过市中心的楼宇和石头房子。那儿的棕榈树也没记忆中多，而有些房子已经变成几堵没有屋顶的墙壁、几堆杂乱的泥土。    
法里德驶上一条土路，将陆地巡洋舰停在干涸的水沟旁边。我从他的车上溜出来，伸展拳脚，深深吸了一口气。从前，和风拂过贾拉拉巴特富饶的平原，农民种满甘蔗，城里的空气弥漫着甜蜜的香味。我闭上眼睛，搜索香味，可是没有找到。    
“我们走吧。”法里德不耐烦地说。我们踏上那条土路，经过几株光秃秃的白杨和一排残破的泥墙。法里德将我领到一座破落的平房，敲敲木板门。    
有个用白色头巾蒙住脸的少女探出头来，露出海蓝色的眼睛。她先看到我，身子一缩，然后看到法里德，眼睛亮起来。“你好，法里德叔叔。”    
“你好，亲爱的玛丽亚。”法里德回答说，给了她一种他整天都没给我的东西：一个温暖的微笑。他亲了她的额头。少女让出路，有点紧张地看着我随法里德走进那座小小的房子。    
泥砖屋顶很低，四面泥墙空空如也，赖以照明的是屋角两盏提灯。草席盖住地面，我们脱掉鞋子，踏上去。三个年轻的男孩盘膝坐在一堵墙下的垫子上，下面铺着卷边的毛毯。
有个留着胡子的高个子男人站起来迎接我们。法里德和他拥抱，亲吻彼此的脸颊。法里德介绍说他叫瓦希德，是他哥哥。“他从美国来。”他对瓦希德说，翘起拇指指着我，然后丢下我们，自行去跟那些男孩打招呼。    
瓦希德和我倚着墙，坐在那些男孩对面，他们跟法里德开玩笑，爬上他的肩膀。尽管我一再推辞，瓦希德令其中一个男孩去给我拿毛毯，以便我坐得舒服些，又让玛丽亚给我端茶。他问起从白沙瓦来的旅途，问起路过开伯尔隘口的情况。    
“我希望你们没有碰到任何强盗。”他说。与开伯尔隘口同样远近闻名的是，强盗利用那里的地形打劫过往旅客。我还没有回答，他就眨眨眼，大声说：“当然，没有任何强盗会打我兄弟那辆破车的主意。”法里德将最小那个孩子抱倒在地，用那只完好的手去挠他的肋骨。那孩子咯咯大笑，双脚乱踢。“最少我还有一辆车，”法里德气喘吁吁地说，“你那头驴子最近怎样？”    
“我的驴子骑起来比坐你的车好。”    
“骑驴才知驴难骑。”法里德回敬说。他们全都笑起来，我也笑了。我听见隔壁传来女人的声音。从我坐的地方，可以看到那间屋子的一半。玛丽亚和蒙着棕色面纱的妇女低声交谈，从一个大水壶往茶壶里面倒茶。那女人年纪较大，应该是她妈妈。    
“你在美国干什么呢，老爷？”瓦希德问。    
“我是个作家。”我说，法里德听到之后轻声一笑。    
“作家？”瓦希德说，显然颇有好感。“你写阿富汗吗？”    
“这么说吧，我写过，但现在没有。”我说。我最后一本小说叫《此情可待成追忆》[原文为A  Season  for  Ashes，这里为意译]，写的是一个大学教授的故事，他发现妻子跟他的学生上床之后，追随一群吉卜赛人而去。这本书不错。有些评论家说它是本“好”书，有一个甚至还用了“引人人胜”这样的评语。但突然之间，它让我很难为情。我希望瓦希德不会问起它的内容。    
“也许你应该再写写阿富汗。”瓦希德说，“将塔利

Chapter 18 The sun had almost set and left the sky swathed in smothers of purple and red. I walked down the busy, narrow street that led away from Rahim Khan's building. The street was a noisy lane in a maze of alleyways choked with pedestrians, bicycles, and rickshaws. Billboards hung at its corners, advertising Coca-Cola and cigarettes; Hollywood movie posters displayed sultry actresses dancing with handsome, brown-skinned men in fields of marigolds. I walked into a smoky little samovar house and ordered a cup of tea. I tilted back on the folding chair's rear legs and rubbed my face. That feeling of sliding toward a fall was fading. But in its stead, I felt like a man who awakens in his own house and finds all the furniture rearranged, so that every familiar nook and cranny looks foreign now. Disoriented, he has to reevaluate his surroundings, reorient himself. How could I have been so blind? The signs had been there for me to see all along; they came flying back at me now: Baba hiring Dr. Kumar to fix Hassan's harelip. Baba never missing Hassan's birthday. I remembered the day we were planting tulips, when I had asked Baba if he'd ever consider getting new servants. Hassan's not going anywhere, he'd barked. He's staying right here with us, where he belongs. This is his Home and we're his family. He had wept, wept, when Ali announced he and Hassan were leaving us. The waiter placed a teacup on the table before me. Where the table's legs crossed like an X, there was a ring of brass balls, each walnut-sized. One of the balls had come unscrewed. I stooped and tightened it. I wished I could fix my own life as easily. I took a gulp of the blackest tea I'd had in years and tried to think of Soraya, of the general and Khala Jamila, of the novel that needed finishing. I tried to watch the traffic bolting by on the street, the people milling in and out of the little sweetshops. Tried to listen to the Qawali music playing on the transistor radio at the next table. Anything. But I kept seeing Baba on the night of my graduation, sitting in the Ford he'd just given me, smelling of beer and saying, I wish Hassan had been with us today. How could he have lied to me all those years? To Hassan? He had sat me on his lap when I was little, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, There is only one sin. And that is theft... When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. Hadn't he said those words to me? And now, fifteen years after I'd buried him, I was learning that Baba had been a thief. And a thief of the worst kind, because the things he'd stolen had been sacred: from me the right to know I had a brother, from Hassan his identity, and from Ali his honor. His nang. His namoos. The questions kept coming at me: How had Baba brought himself to look Ali in the eye? How had Ali lived in that house, clay in and day out, knowing he had been dishonored by his master in the single worst way an Afghan man can be dishonored? And how was I going to reconcile this new image of Baba with the one that had been imprinted on my mind for so long, that of him in his old brown suit, hobbling up the Taheris?driveway to ask for Soraya's hand? Here is another clich?my creative writing teacher would have scoffed at; like father, like son. But it was true, wasn't it? As it turned out, Baba and I were more alike than I'd ever known. We had both betrayed the people who would have given their lives for us. And with that came this realization: that Rahim Khan had summoned me here to atone not just for my sins but for Baba's too. Rahim Khan said I'd always been too hard on myself. But I wondered. True, I hadn't made Ali step on the land mine, and I hadn't brought the Taliban to the house to shoot Hassan. But I had driven Hassan and Ali out of the house. Was it too far-fetched to imagine that things might have turned out differently if I hadn't? Maybe Baba would have brought them along to America. Maybe Hassan would have had a Home of his own now, a job, a family, a life in a country where no one cared that he was a Hazara, where most people didn't even know what a Hazara was. Maybe not. But maybe so. I can't go to Kabul, I had said to Rahim Khan. I have a wife in America, a home, a career, and a family. But how could I pack up and go back Home when my actions may have cost Hassan a chance at those very same things? I wished Rahim Khan hadn't called me. I wished he had let me live on in my oblivion. But he had called me. And what Rahim Khan revealed to me changed things. Made me see how my entire life, long before the winter of 1975, dating back to when that singing Hazara woman was still nursing me, had been a cycle of lies, betrayals, and secrets. There is a way to be good again, he'd said. A way to end the cycle. With a little boy. An orphan. Hassan's son. Somewhere in Kabul. ON THE RICKSHAW RIDE back to Rahim Khan's apartment, I remembered Baba saying that my problem was that someone had always done my fighting for me. I was thirty-eight flow. My hair was receding and streaked with gray, and lately I'd traced little crow's-feet etched around the corners of my eyes. I was older now, but maybe not yet too old to start doing my own fighting. Baba had lied about a lot of things as it turned out but he hadn't lied about that. I looked at the round face in the Polaroid again, the way the sun fell on it. My brother's face. Hassan had loved me once, loved me in a way that no one ever had or ever would again. He was gone now, but a little part of him lived on. It was in Kabul. Waiting. I FOUND RAHIM KHAN praying _namaz_ in a corner of the room. He was just a dark silhouette bowing eastward against a bloodred sky. I waited for him to finish. Then I told him I was going to Kabul. Told him to call the Caldwells in the morning. "I'll pray for you, Amir jan,?he said. 第十八章 太阳已经快下山了，天空布满紫色的、红色的晚霞。我沿着那条繁忙而狭窄的街道步行，将拉辛汗的寓所撇在后面。那条街是嘈杂的小巷，和那些迷宫似的深巷里闾交织在一起，挤满了行人、自行车和黄包车。它的拐角处竖着各式各样的布告牌，粘贴着可口可乐和香烟的广告；还有罗丽坞[Lollvwood ，指巴基斯坦拉合尔的电影业]  的电影海报，展示着一片开满万寿菊的原野，卖弄风情的女演  员和古铜色皮肤的英俊男人翩翩起舞。     我走进一间烟雾弥漫的茶室，要了一杯茶。我朝后仰，让折叠椅的前脚离地，双手抹着脸。如坠深渊的感觉渐渐消失，但取而代之的是，我好像睡在自己的家中，一觉醒来，发现所有的家具都被重新摆设过，原先习以为常的每一个角落、每一处裂缝，现在全然陌生了。我茫然失措，只好重新审时度势，重新找到自己的方向。     我怎会如此熟视无睹呢？自始至终，迹象一直都在我眼前，它们现在飞回来了：爸爸请库玛大夫修补哈桑的兔唇。爸爸从来不会忘紵威桑的生日。我想起我们种郁金香那天，我问爸爸他能否考虑请新的仆人。哈桑哪里都不去！他勃然作色，他就在这儿陪着我们，他属于这里。这里是他的家，我们是他的家人。当阿里宣布他和哈桑要离开我们时，他流泪了，流泪了！     服务生把一个茶杯摆在我面前的桌子上。桌脚交叉成 X状的地方有一圈胡桃大小的铜球，有个铜球松了，我弯下腰，把它拧紧。我希望我也能这般轻而易举地拧紧自己的生活。我喝了一口数年来喝过的最浓的茶，试图想着索拉雅，想着将军和亲爱的雅米拉阿姨，想着我未完成的小说。我试图看着街上过往的车辆，看着行人在那些小小的糖铺进进出出。 试图听着临桌客人收音机播放的伊斯兰教音乐。任何东西都可以。但我总是想起我毕业那 天晚上，爸爸坐在那辆他刚买给我的福特车上，身上散发着啤酒的气味，他说，要薀威桑 今天跟我们在一起就好了！     这么多年来，他怎么可以一直欺骗我？欺骗哈桑？我很小的时候，有一次他抱我坐在他的膝盖上，眼睛直勾勾看着我，并说，世间只有一种罪行，那就是盗窃……当你说谎，你剥夺了某人得知真相的权利。难道他没有亲口对我说那些话吗？而现在，在我葬了他十五年之后，我得知爸爸曾经是一个贼！还是最坏那种，因为他偷走的东西非常神圣：于我而言，是得知我有兄弟的权利；对哈桑来说，是他的身份。他还偷走了阿里的荣誉。他的荣誉。他的尊严。     我不禁想起这些问题：爸爸如何能够面对阿里的眼睛？阿里倘若得知他的妻子被他的主人以阿富汗人最不齿的方式侮辱，他如何能够每天在屋子里进进出出？爸爸穿着那身棕色旧西装、踏上塔赫里家的车道、向索拉雅提亲的形象在我脑海  记忆犹深，我如何才能将它和这个新形象结合起来？     这儿又有一句为我的创作老师所不屑的陈词滥调：有其父必有其子。但这是  真的，不是吗？结果证明，我和爸爸的相似超乎原先的想像。我们两个都背叛了愿意为我们付出生命的人。我这才意识到，拉辛汗传唤我到这里来，不只是为了洗刷我的罪行，还有爸爸的。     拉辛汗说我一直太过苛求自己。但我怀疑。是的，我没有让阿里的右脚踩上地雷，没有把塔利班的人带到家里，射杀哈桑。可是我把阿里和哈桑赶出家门。若非我那么做，事情也许会变得全然不同，这样的想法不算太牵强吧？也许爸爸会带着他们到美国。也许在那个没有人在意他薀威扎拉人、人们甚至不知道哈扎拉人是什么意思的国度，哈桑会拥有自己的家、工作、亲人、生活。也许不会。但也许会。     我不能去喀布尔。我刚才对拉辛汗说，我在美国有妻子、房子、事业，还有家庭。但也许正是我的行为断送了哈桑拥有这一切的机会，我能够这样收拾行囊、掉头回家吗？     我希望拉辛汗没有打过电话给我。我希望他没有把真相告诉我。但他打了电话，而且他所揭露的事情使一切面目全非。让我明白我的一生，早在 1975年冬天之前，回溯到那个会唱歌的哈扎拉女人还在哺乳我的时候，种种谎言、背叛和秘密，就已经开始轮回。     那儿有再次成为好人的路。他说。     一条终结轮回的路。   带上一个小男孩。一个孤儿。哈桑的儿子。在喀布尔的某个地方。我雇了黄包车，在回拉辛汗寓所的路上，我想起爸爸说过，我的问题是，总有人为我挺身而出。如今我三十八岁了，我的头发日渐稀疏，两鬓开始灰白，最近我发现鱼尾纹开始侵蚀我的眼角。现在我老了，但也许还没有老到不能为自己挺身而出的地步。尽管最终发现爸爸说过很多谎言，但这句话倒是实情。     我再次看着宝丽莱照片上的圆脸，看着阳光落在它上面。我弟弟的脸。哈桑曾经深爱过我，以前无人那样待我，日后也永远不会有。他已经走了，但他的一部分还在。在喀布尔。   等待。我发现拉辛汗在屋角做祷告。我只见到在血红色的天空下，一个黑色的身影对着东方朝拜。我等待他结束。     然后我告诉他要去喀布尔，告诉他明天早上给卡尔德威打电话。     “我会为你祷告，亲爱的阿米尔。”他说。

Chapter 17 Rahim Khan slowly uncrossed his legs and leaned against the bare wall in the wary, deliberate way of a man whose every movement triggers spikes of pain. Outside, a donkey was braying and some one was shouting something in Urdu. The sun was beginning to set, glittering red through the cracks between the ramshackle buildings. It hit me again, the enormity of what I had done that winter and that following summer. The names rang in my head: Hassan, Sohrab, Ali, Farzana, and Sanaubar. Hearing Rahim Khan speak Ali's name was like finding an old dusty music box that hadn't been opened in years; the melody began to play immediately: Who did you eat today, Babalu? Who did you eat, you slant-eyed Babalu? I tried to conjure Ali's frozen face, to really see his tranquil eyes, but time can be a greedy thing--sometimes it steals all the details for itself. "Is Hassan still in that house now??I asked. Rahim Khan raised the teacup to his parched lips and took a sip. He then fished an envelope from the breast pocket of his vest and handed it to me. "For you.? I tore the sealed envelope. Inside, I found a Polaroid photograph and a folded letter. I stared at the photograph for a full minute. A tall man dressed in a white turban and a green-striped chapan stood with a little boy in front of a set of wrought-iron gates. Sunlight slanted in from the left, casting a shadow on half of his rotund face. He was squinting and smiling at the camera, showing a pair of missing front teeth. Even in this blurry Polaroid, the man in the chapan exuded a sense of self-assuredness, of ease. It was in the way he stood, his feet slightly apart, his arms comfortably crossed on his chest, his head titled a little toward the sun. Mostly, it was in the way he smiled. Looking at the photo, one might have concluded that this was a man who thought the world had been good to him. Rahim Khan was right: I would have recognized him if I had bumped into him on the street. The little boy stood bare foot, one arm wrapped around the man's thigh, his shaved head resting against his father's hip. He too was grinning and squinting. I unfolded the letter. It was written in Farsi. No dots were omitted, no crosses forgotten, no words blurred together--the handwriting was almost childlike in its neatness. I began to read: In the name of Allah the most beneficent, the most merciful, Amir agha, with my deepest respects, Farzana jan, Sohrab, and I pray that this latest letter finds you in good health and in the light of Allah's good graces. Please offer my warmest thanks to Rahim Khan sahib for carrying it to you. I am hopeful that one day I will hold one of your letters in my hands and read of your life in America. Perhaps a photograph of you will even grace our eyes. 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! Amir agha, Alas the Afghanistan of our youth is long dead. Kindness is gone from the land and you cannot escape the killings. Always the killings. In Kabul, fear is everywhere, in the streets, in the stadium, in the markets, it is a part of our lives here, Amir agha. The savages who rule our watan don't care about human decency. The other day, I accompanied Farzana Jan to the bazaar to buy some potatoes and _naan_. She asked the vendor how much the potatoes cost, but he did not hear her, I think he had a deaf ear. So she asked louder and suddenly a young Talib ran over and hit her on the thighs with his wooden stick. He struck her so hard she fell down. He was screaming at her and cursing and saying the Ministry of Vice and Virtue does not allow women to speak loudly. She had a large purple bruise on her leg for days but what could I do except stand and watch my wife get beaten? If I fought, that dog would have surely put a bullet in me, and gladly! Then what would happen to my Sohrab? The streets are full enough already of hungry orphans and every day I thank Allah that I am alive, not because I fear death, but because my wife has a husband and my son is not an orphan. I wish you could see Sohrab. He is a good boy. Rahim Khan sahib and I have taught him to read and write so he does not grow up stupid like his father. And can he shoot with that slingshot! I take Sohrab around Kabul sometimes and buy him candy. There is still a monkey man in Shar-e Nau and if we run into him, I pay him to make his monkey dance for Sohrab. You should see how he laughs! The two of us often walk up to the cemetery on the hill. Do you remember how we used to sit under the pomegranate tree there and read from the _Shahnamah_? The droughts have dried the hill and the tree hasn't borne fruit in years, but Sohrab and I still sit under its shade and I read to him from the _Shahnamah_. It is not necessary to tell you that his favorite part is the one with his namesake, Rostam and Sohrab. Soon he will be able to read from the book himself. I am a very proud and very lucky father. Amir agha, Rahim Khan sahib is quite ill. He coughs all day and I see blood on his sleeve when he wipes his mouth. He has lost much weight and I wish he would eat a little of the shorwa and rice that Farzana Jan cooks for him. But he only takes a bite or two and even that I think is out of courtesy to Farzana jan. I am so worried about this dear man I pray for him every day. He is leaving for Pakistan in a few days to consult some doctors there and, _Inshallah_, he will return with good news. But in my heart I fear for him. Farzana jan and I have told little Sohrab that Rahim Khan sahib is going to be well. What can we do? He is only ten and he adores Rahim Khan sahib. They have grown so close to each other. Rahim Khan sahib used to take him to the bazaar for balloons and biscuits but he is too weak for that now. I have been dreaming a lot lately, Amir agha. Some of them are nightmares, like hanged corpses rotting in soccer fields with bloodred grass. I wake up from those short of breath and sweaty. Mostly, though, I dream of good things, and praise Allah for that. I dream that Rahim Khan sahib will be well. I dream that my son will grow up to be a good person, a free person, and an important person. I dream that lawla flowers will bloom in the streets of Kabul again and rubab music will play in the samovar houses and kites will fly in the skies. And I dream that someday you will return to Kabul to revisit the land of our childhood. If you do, you will find an old faithful friend waiting for you. May Allah be with you always. -Hassan I read the letter twice. I folded the note and looked at the photograph for another minute. I pocketed both. "How is he??I asked. "That letter was written six months ago, a few days before I left for Peshawar,?Rahim Khan said. "I took the Polaroid the day before I left. A month after I arrived in Peshawar, I received a telephone call from one of my neighbors in Kabul. He told me this story: Soon after I took my leave, a rumor spread that a Hazara family was living alone in the big house in Wazir Akbar Khan, or so the Taliban claim. A pair of Talib officials came to investigate and interrogated Hassan. They accused him of lying when Hassan told them he was living with me even though many of the neighbors, including the one who called me, supported Hassan's story. The Talibs said he was a liar and a thief like all Hazaras and ordered him to get his family out of the house by sundown. Hassan protested. But my neighbor said the Talibs were looking at the big house like--how did he say it?--yes, like ‘wolves looking at a flock of sheep.?They told Hassan they would be moving in to supposedly keep it safe until I return. Hassan protested again. So they took him to the street--? "No,?I breathed. ?-and order him to kneel--? "No. God, no.? ?-and shot him in the back of the head.? ?-Farzana came screaming and attacked them--? "No.? ?-shot her too. Self-defense, they claimed later--? But all I could manage was to whisper "No. No. No?over and over again. I KEPT THINKING OF THAT DAY in 1974, in the hospital room, Just after Hassan's harelip surgery. Baba, Rahim Khan, Ali, and I had huddled around Hassan's bed, watched him examine his new lip in a handheld mirror. Now everyone in that room was either dead or dying. Except for me. Then I saw something else: a man dressed in a herringbone vest pressing the muzzle of his Kalashnikov to the back of Hassan's head. The blast echoes through the street of my father's house. Hassan slumps to the asphalt, his life of unrequited loyalty drifting from him like the windblown kites he used to chase. "The Taliban moved into the house,?Rahim Khan said. "The pretext was that they had evicted a trespasser. Hassan's and Farzana's murders were dismissed as a case of self-defense. No one said a word about it. Most of it was fear of the Taliban, I think. But no one was going to risk anything for a pair of Hazara servants.? "What did they do with Sohrab??I asked. I felt tired, drained. A coughing fit gripped Rahim Khan and went on for a long time. When he finally looked up, his face was flushed and his eyes bloodshot. "I heard he's in an orphanage somewhere in Karteh Seh. Amir jan--?then he was coughing again. When he stopped, he looked older than a few moments before, like he was aging with each coughing fit. "Amir jan, I summoned you here because I wanted to see you before I die, but that's not all.? I said nothing. I think I already knew what he was going to say. "I want you to go to KabuL I want you to bring Sohrab here,?he said. I struggled to find the right words. I'd barely had time to deal with the fact that Hassan was dead. "Please hear me. I know an American pair here in Peshawar, a husband and wife named Thomas and Betty Caldwell. They are Christians and they run a small charity organization that they manage with private donations. Mostly they house and feed Afghan children who have lost their parents. I have seen the place. It's clean and safe, the children are well cared for, and Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell are kind people. They have already told me that Sohrab would be welcome to their Home and--? "Rahim Khan, you can't be serious.? "Children are fragile, Amir Jan. Kabul is already full of broken children and I don't want Sohrab to become another.? "Rahim Khan, I don't want to go to Kabul. I can't!?I said. "Sohrab is a gifted little boy. We can give him a new life here, new hope, with people who would love him. Thomas agha is a good man and Betty khanum is so kind, you should see how she treats those orphans.? "Why me? Why can't you pay someone here to go? I'll pay for it if it's a matter of money.? "It isn't about money, Amir!?Rahim Khan roared. "I'm a dying man and I will not be insulted! It has never been about money with me, you know that. And why you? I think we both know why it has to be you, don't we?? I didn't want to understand that comment, but I did. I understood it all too well. "I have a wife in America, a Home, a career, and a family. Kabul is a dangerous place, you know that, and you'd have me risk everything for...?I stopped. "You know,?Rahim Khan said, "one time, when you weren't around, your father and I were talking. And you know how he always worried about you in those days. I remember he said to me, ‘Rahim, a boy who won't stand up for himself becomes a man who can't stand up to anything.?I wonder, is that what you've become?? I dropped my eyes. "What I'm asking from you is to grant an old man his dying wish,?he said gravely. He had gambled whh that comment. Played his best card. Or so I thought then. His words hung in limbo between us, but at least he'd known what to say. I was still searching for the right words, and I was the writer in the room. Finally, I settled for this: "Maybe Baba was right.? "I'm sorry you think that, Amir.? I couldn't look at him. "And you don't?? "If I did, I would not have asked you to come here.? I toyed with my wedding ring. "You've always thought too highly of me, Rahim Khan.? "And you've always been far too hard on yourself.?He hesitated. "But there's something else. Something you don't know.? "Please, Rahim Khan--? "Sanaubar wasn't Ali's first wife.? Now I looked up. "He was married once before, to a Hazara woman from the Jaghori area. This was long before you were born. They were married for three years.? "What does this have to do with anything?? "She left him childless after three years and married a man in Khost. She bore him three daughters. That's what I am trying to tell you.? I began to see where he was going. But I didn't want to hear the rest of it. I had a good life in California, pretty Victorian Home with a peaked roof, a good marriage, a promising writing career, in-laws who loved me. I didn't need any of this shit. "Ali was sterile,?Rahim Khan said. "No he wasn't. He and Sanaubar had Hassan, didn't they? They had Hassan--? "No they didn't,?Rahim Khan said. "Yes they did!? "No they didn't, Amir.? "Then who--? "I think you know who.? I felt like a man sliding down a steep cliff, clutching at shrubs and tangles of brambles and coming up empty-handed. The room was swooping up and down, swaying side to side. "Did Hassan know??I said through lips that didn't feel like my own. Rahim Khan closed his eyes. Shook his head. "You bastards,?I muttered. Stood up. "You goddamn bastards!?I screamed. "All of you, you bunch of lying goddamn bastards!? "Please sit down,?Rahim Khan said. "How could you hide this from me? From him??I bellowed. "Please think, Amir Jan. It was a shameful situation. People would talk. All that a man had back then, all that he was, was his honor, his name, and if people talked... We couldn't tell anyone, surely you can see that.?He reached for me, but I shed his hand. Headed for the door. "Amir jan, please don't leave.? I opened the door and turned to him. "Why? What can you possibly say to me? I'm thirty-eight years old and I've Just found out my whole life is one big fucking lie! What can you possibly say to make things better? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing!? And with that, I stormed out of the apartment. 第十七章     拉辛汗慢慢地伸开双腿，斜倚在光秃秃的墙上，他的举止是那样小心翼翼，仿佛每个动作都会带来剧痛。外面有头驴子叫起来，有人用乌尔都语不知道喊了些什么。太阳开始下山，那些摇摇欲坠的房子的裂缝中，渗出闪闪的红色斜晖。     我在那年冬天、以及随后那个夏天所犯下的罪恶，再次向我袭来。那些名字在我脑海回荡：哈桑、索拉博、阿里、法莎娜，还有莎娜芭。听着拉辛汗提起阿里的名字，恍如找到一个尘封多年的老旧唱机，那些旋律立即开始演奏：你今天  吃了谁啊，巴巴鲁。你吃了谁啊，你这个斜眼的巴巴鲁？我努力想起阿里那张冰冷的脸，想真的见到他那双安详的眼睛，但时间很贪婪——有时候，它会独自吞噬所有的细节。   “哈桑现在仍住那间屋子吗？”拉辛汗把茶杯举到他干裂的唇边，啜了一口，接着从他背心的上袋掏出一封信，递给我。“给你的。”     我撕开贴好的信封，里面有张宝丽莱相片，和一封折叠着的信。我盯着那张照片，足足看了一分钟。     一个高高的男子，头戴白色头巾，身穿绿色条纹长袍，和一个小男孩站在一扇锻铁大门前面。阳光从左边射下，在他那张圆脸投下半边阴影。他眯眼，对着镜头微笑，显示出缺了两个门牙。即使在这张模糊的宝丽莱照片上，这个带着头巾的男人也给人自信、安适的感觉。这可以从他站立的样子看出来：他双脚微微分开，手臂舒适地在胸前交叉，他的头稍微有些倾向太阳。但更多的是体现在他的微笑上。看着这张照片，人们一定会想，这个男人认为世界对他来说很美好。拉辛汗说得对：如果我碰巧在街头见到他，一定能认出他来。那个小男孩赤足站着，一只手抱着那男人的大腿，剃着短发的头靠在他爸爸的臀部上。他也是眯眼微笑着。     我展开那封信。用法尔西语写的，没有漏写的标点，没有遗忘的笔画，没有模糊的字词——字迹整洁得近乎孩子气。我看了起来：以最仁慈、最悲悯的安拉之名我最尊敬的阿米尔少爷：     亲爱的法莎娜、索拉博和我祈望你见信安好，蒙受安拉的恩宠。请替我谢谢拉辛汗老爷，将这封信带给你。我希望有朝一日，我能亲手捧着你的来信，读到你在美国的生活。也许我们还会有幸看到你的照片。我告诉亲爱的法莎娜和索拉博很多次，那些我脽妄去一起长大、玩游戏、在街上追风筝的事情。听到我脽妄去的恶作剧，他们会大笑起来！     阿米尔少爷，你少年时的那个阿富汗已经死去很久了。这个国度不再有仁慈，杀戮无从避免。在喀布尔，恐惧无所不在，在街道上，在体育馆中，在市场里面；在这里，这是生活的一部分，阿米尔少爷。统治我们祖国的野蛮人根本不顾人类的尊严。有一天，我陪着亲爱的法莎娜到市场去买土豆和馕饼。她问店主土豆多少钱，但他充耳不闻，我以为他是个聋子。所以她提高声音，又问了一句。突然  间有个年轻的塔利班跑过来，用他的木棒打她的大腿。他下手很重，她倒了下去。他朝她破口大骂，说“道德风化部”禁止妇女高声说话。她腿上浮出一大块淤肿，好几天都没消，但我除了束手无策地站在一旁看着自己的妻子被殴打之外，还能做什么呢？如果我反抗，那个狗杂碎肯定会给我一颗子弹，并洋洋自得。那么我的索拉博该怎么办？街头巷尾已经满是饥肠辘辘的孤儿，每天我都会感谢安拉，让我还活着，不是因为我怕死，而是为了我的妻子仍有丈夫，我的儿子不致成为孤儿。     我希望你能见到索拉博，他是个乖男孩。拉辛汗老爷和我教他读书识字，所以他长大成人之后，不至于像他父亲那样愚蠢。而且他还会射弹弓！有时我带索拉博到喀布尔游玩，给他买虩望。沙里诺区那边仍有个耍猴人，如果我们到他那儿去，我会付钱给他，让猴子跳舞给索拉博看。你应该见到他笑得多么开心！我们两个常常走上山顶的墓地。你还记得吗，过去我们坐在那儿的石榴树下面，念着《沙纳玛》的故事？旱灾令山上变得很干，那株树已经多年没有结果实了，但索拉博和我仍坐在树下，我给他念《沙纳玛》。不用说你也知道，他最喜欢的部分是他名字的来源，罗斯坦和索拉博的故事。很快他就能够自己看书了。我真是个非常骄傲和非常幸运的父亲。       阿米尔少爷，拉辛汗老爷病得很重。他整天咳嗽，他擦嘴的时候，我见到他袖子上有血迹。他消瘦得厉害，亲爱的法莎娜给他做米饭和蔬菜汤，我希望他能多吃一些，但他总是只吃一两口，即使这样，我相信也是出于他对亲爱的法莎娜的尊重。我很为这个令人敬爱的男人担忧，每天为他祷告。再过几天，他就要去巴基斯坦看医生了，奉安拉之名，他会带着好消息归来。亲爱的法莎娜和我告诉索拉博，说拉辛汗老爷会好起来。我们能做什么呢？他只有十岁，对拉辛汗老爷十分敬爱。他们两个很要好。拉辛汗老爷过去经常带他去市场，给他买气球和饼干，但他现在太虚弱了，再也做不来。     后来我常常做梦，阿米尔少爷。有些是噩梦，比如说梦到足球场上挂着腐烂的尸体，草地血迹斑斑。我会很快惊醒，喘着气，浑身大汗。但是，我梦到的事情多数是美好的，为此得感谢安拉。我梦到拉辛汗老爷身体好起来了。我梦到我的儿子长大成人，成为一个好人，一个自由的人，还是一个重要人物呢。我梦到花儿再次在喀布尔街头盛开，音乐再次在茶屋响起，风筝再次在天空飞翔。我梦  到有朝一日。你会回到喀布尔，重访这片我们儿时的土地。如果你回来，你会发现有个忠诚的老朋友在等着你。     愿安拉永远与你同在。  哈桑     我将这封信看了两次，把信纸折好，拿起照片，又看了一分钟。我把它们放进口袋，“他现在怎样？”我问。     “信是半年前写的，我到白沙瓦去之前几天。”拉辛汗说，“离开之前我用宝丽莱拍了这张照片。到达白沙瓦一个月后，我接到一个喀布尔邻居的电话。他告诉我这么一件事：我离开之后不久，有个谣言迅速传开，说一个哈扎拉家庭独  自住在瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区的豪宅里面，大约是塔利班放出的风声。两个塔利班官员前来调查，逮捕了哈桑。哈桑告诉他们，他跟我住在一起，虽然有很多邻居作证，包括打电话给我那个，但他们指控他说谎。塔利班说他像所有哈扎拉人那样，是骗子，是小偷，勒令他全家在天黑之前搬离那座房子。哈桑抗议。但我  的邻居说那些塔利班的党羽觊觎那座大房子，就像——他怎么说来着？——是了，就像‘饿狼看见羊群’。他们告诉哈桑，为了保障它的安全，他们会搬进来，直到我回去。哈桑又抗议。所以他们将他拉到街上……”     “不。”我喘气说。     “……下令他跪下……”     “不！天啦，不。”     “……朝他后脑开熗。”     “不。”     “……法莎娜尖叫着跑出来，扑打他们……”     “不。”   “……也杀了她。自我防卫，他们后来宣称……”   但我所能做的，只是一次又一次地低声说着：“不。不。不。”我想着 1974年那天，在医院的病房里面，哈桑刚刚做完补唇手术。爸爸、拉辛汗、阿里和我围在哈桑床前，看着他举起一面镜子，察看他的新嘴唇。如今，除我之外，那个房间的人要么已经死去，要么即将死去。     接着我还看到其他东西：一个男人穿着人字型背心，将他那把俄制步熗的熗口抵在哈桑脑后。熗声在我父亲房子那条街道上回荡。哈桑扑倒在柏油路上，他那不求回报的忠贞生命，像他以前经常追逐的断线风筝那样，从他身上飘走。     “塔利班搬进了那座房子，”拉辛汗说，“他们托词赶走非法占有他人财产的人，杀害哈桑和法莎娜被法庭当成自我防卫，宣布无罪。没有人说一句话。我想主要是出于对塔利班的恐惧。但也是因为，不会有人为了一对哈扎拉仆人去冒什么风险。”     “他们怎么处置索拉博？”我问。我觉得劳累不堪，精疲力竭。一阵咳嗽袭击了拉辛汗，持续了好长时间。当他最终抬起头时，他的脸涨得通红，双眼充血。   “我听说他在卡德帕湾区某个恤孤院里面。亲爱的阿米尔……”接着他又咳起来。咳嗽停止后，他看上去比刚才要老一些，似乎每声咳嗽都催他老去。“亲爱的阿米尔，我呼唤你到这里来，因为我在死之前想看看你，但这并非全部。”     我一语不发。我想我已经知道他接下来要说什么。     “我要你到喀布尔去，我要你把索拉博带到这里。”他说。我搜肠刮肚，寻找恰当的词汇。我还来不及接受哈桑已然死去的事实。     “请听我说。我认识一对在白沙瓦的夫妇，丈夫叫约翰，妻子叫贝蒂·卡尔德威。他们是基督徒，利用私人募捐来的钱，开设了一个小小的慈善机构。他们主要收容和抚养失去双亲的阿富汗儿童。那儿又干净又安全，儿童得到很好的照料，卡尔德威先生和太太都是好人。他们已经告诉我，欢迎索拉博到他们家去，而且……”     “拉辛汗，你不是说真的吧？”     “儿童都很脆弱，亲爱的阿米尔。喀布尔已经有太多身心残缺的孩子，我不  希望索拉博也变成其中之一。”     “拉辛汗，我不想去喀布尔，我不能去！”我说。     “索拉博是个有天分的小男孩。在这里我们可以给他新的生活、新的希望，这里的人们会爱护他。约翰老爷是个善良的人，贝蒂太太为人和善，你应该去看看她如何照料那些孤儿。”     “为什么是我？你干吗不花钱请人去呢？如果是因为经济问题，我愿意出钱。”     “那和钱没有关系，阿米尔！”拉辛汗大怒，“我是个快死的人了，我不想被侮辱！在我身上，从来没有钱的问题，你知道的。至于为什么是你？我想我们都知道，为什么一定要你去，是吗？”     我不想明白他话中的机锋，但是我清楚，我太清楚了。“我在美国有妻子、有房子、有事业、有家庭。喀布尔是个危险的地方，你知道的，你要我冒着失去一切的危险，就为了……”我停住不说。     “你知道吗，”拉辛汗说，“有一次，你不在的时候，你爸爸和我在说话。而你知道他在那些日子里最担心的是什么。我记得他对我说，‘拉辛，一个不能为自己挺身而出的孩子，长大之后只能是个懦夫。’我在想，难道你变成这种人了吗？”     我垂下眼光。   “我所哀求的，是要你满足一个老人的临终遗愿。”他悲伤地说。他把宝押在那句话上，甩出他最好的牌。或者这仅是我的想法。他话中带着模棱两可的意思，但他至少知道说些什么。而我，这个房间里的作家，仍在寻找合适的字眼。最终，我吐出这样的句子： “也许爸爸说对了。”     “你这么想让我很难过，阿米尔。”我无法看着他，“你不这样想吗？”   “如果我这么想，我就不会求你到这儿来。”我拨弄着指上的结婚戒指：“你总是太过抬举我了，拉辛汗。”   “一直以来，你对自己太严苛了。”他犹疑着说，“但还有些事情，还有些你所不知道的事情。”     “拜托，拉辛汗……”     “莎娜芭不是阿里的第一个妻子。”现在我抬起头。     “他之前结过一次婚，跟一个雅荷里来的哈扎拉女人。那是早在你出生之前的事情。他们的婚姻持续了三年。”     “这跟什么事情有关系吗？”     “三年后，她仍没生孩子，抛弃了阿里，去科斯特跟一个男人结婚。她给他生了三个女儿。这就是我想告诉你的。”     我开始明白他要说什么，但我实在不想听下去了。我在加利福尼亚有美好的生活，有座带尖顶的漂亮房子，婚姻幸福，是个前程远大的作家，岳父岳母都很爱我。我不需要这些乱七八糟的事。     “阿里是个不育的男人。”拉辛汗说。     “不，他不是的。他跟莎娜芭生了哈桑，不是吗？他们有哈桑……”     “不，哈桑不是他们生的。”     “是的，是他们生的！”     “不，不是他们，阿米尔。”     “那么是谁……”   “我想你知道是谁。”我觉得自己好像堕入万丈深渊，拼命想抓住树枝和荆棘的藤蔓，却什么也没拉到。突然之间天旋地转，房间左摇右晃。“哈桑知道吗？”这话仿佛不是从我口中说出来的。拉辛汗闭上眼睛，摇摇头。     “你这个混蛋，”我喃喃说，站起来，“你们这群该死的混蛋！”我大叫，   “你们全部，你们这群该死的说谎的混蛋！”     “请你坐下。”拉辛汗说。     “你们怎么可以瞒着我？瞒着他？”我悲愤地说。     “拜托你想想，亲爱的阿米尔。这是丢人的事情，人们会说三道四。那时，男人所能仰仗的全部就是他的声誉、他的威名，而如果人们议论纷纷……我们不能告诉任何人，你一定也知道。”他伸手来摸我，但我推开他的手，埋头奔向门口。   “亲爱的阿米尔，求求你别走。”我打开门，转向他，“为什么？你想对我说什么？我今年三十八岁了，我刚刚才发现我一辈子活在一个他妈的谎言之下！你还想说些什么，能让事情变好？没有！没有！”     我扔下这些话，嘭嘭冲出公寓。

Chapter 16 There were a lot of reasons why I went to Hazarajat to find Hassan in 1986. The biggest one, Allah forgive me, was that I was lonely. By then, most of my friends and relatives had either been killed or had escaped the country to Pakistan or Iran. I barely knew anyone in Kabul anymore, the city where I had lived my entire life. Everybody had fled. I would take a walk in the Karteh Parwan section--where the melon vendors used to hang out in the old days, you remember that spot?--and I wouldn't recognize anyone there. No one to greet, no one to sit down with for chai, no one to share stories with, just Roussi soldiers patrolling the streets. So eventually, I stopped going out to the city. I would spend my days in your father's house, up in the study, reading your mother's old books, listening to the news, watching the communist propaganda on television. Then I would pray natnaz, cook something, eat, read some more, pray again, and go to bed. I would rise in the morning, pray, do it all over again. And with my arthritis, it was getting harder for me to maintain the house. My knees and back were always aching--I would get up in the morning and it would take me at least an hour to shake the stiffness from my joints, especially in the wintertime. I did not want to let your father's house go to rot; we had all had many good times in that house, so many memories, Amir jan. It was not right--your father had designed that house himself; it had meant so much to him, and besides, I had promised him I would care for it when he and you left for Pakistan. Now it was just me and the house and... I did my best. I tried to water the trees every few days, cut the lawn, tend to the flowers, fix things that needed fixing, but, even then, I was not a young man anymore. But even so, I might have been able to manage. At least for a while longer. But when news of your father's death reached me... for the first time, I felt a terrible loneliness in that house. An unbearable emptiness. So one day, I fueled up the Buick and drove up to Hazarajat. I remembered that, after Ali dismissed himself from the house, your father told me he and Hassan had moved to a small village just outside Bamiyan. Ali had a cousin there as I recalled. I had no idea if Hassan would still be there, if anyone would even know of him or his whereabouts. After all, it had been ten years since Ali and Hassan had left your father's house. Hassan would have been a grown man in 1986, twenty-two, twenty-three years old. If he was even alive, that is--the Shorawi, may they rot in hell for what they did to our watan, killed so many of our young men. I don't have to tell you that. But, with the grace of God, I found him there. It took very little searching--all I had to do was ask a few questions in Bamiyan and people pointed me to his village. I do not even recall its name, or whether it even had one. But I remember it was a scorching summer day and I was driving up a rutted dirt road, nothing on either side but sunbaked bushes, gnarled, spiny tree trunks, and dried grass like pale straw. I passed a dead donkey rotting on the side of the road. And then I turned a corner and, right in the middle of that barren land, I saw a cluster of mud houses, beyond them nothing but broad sky and mountains like jagged teeth. The people in Bamiyan had told me I would find him easily--he lived in the only house in the village that had a walled garden. The mud wall, short and pocked with holes, enclosed the tiny house--which was really not much more than a glorified hut. Barefoot children were playing on the street, kicking a ragged tennis ball with a stick, and they stared when I pulled up and killed the engine. I knocked on the wooden door and stepped through into a yard that had very little in it save for a parched strawberry patch and a bare lemon tree. There was a tandoor in the corner in the shadow of an acacia tree and I saw a man squatting beside it. He was placing dough on a large wooden spatula and slapping it against the walls of the _tandoor_. He dropped the dough when he saw me. I had to make him stop kissing my hands. "Let me look at you,?I said. He stepped away. He was so tall now--I stood on my toes and still just came up to his chin. The Bamiyan sun had toughened his skin, and turned it several shades darker than I remembered, and he had lost a few of his front teeth. There were sparse strands of hair on his chin. Other than that, he had those same narrow green eyes, that scar on his upper lip, that round face, that affable smile. You would have recognized him, Amir jan. I am sure of it. We went inside. There was a young light-skinned Hazara woman, sewing a shawl in a corner of the room. She was visibly expecting. "This is my wife, Rahim Khan,?Hassan said proudly. "Her name is Farzana jan.?She was a shy woman, so courteous she spoke in a voice barely higher than a whisper and she would not raise her pretty hazel eyes to meet my gaze. But the way she was looking at Hassan, he might as well have been sitting on the throne at the _Arg_. "When is the baby coming??I said after we all settled around the adobe room. There was nothing in the room, just a frayed rug, a few dishes, a pair of mattresses, and a lantern. "_Inshallah_, this winter,?Hassan said. "I am praying for a boy to carry on my father's name.? "Speaking of Ali, where is he?? Hassan dropped his gaze. He told me that Ali and his cousin--who had owned the house--had been killed by a land mine two years before, just outside of Bamiyan. A land mine. Is there a more Afghan way of dying, Amir jan? And for some crazy reason, I became absolutely certain that it had been Ali's right leg--his twisted polio leg--that had finally betrayed him and stepped on that land mine. I was deeply saddened to hear Ali had died. Your father and I grew up together, as you know, and Ali had been with him as long as I could remember. I remember when we were all little, the year Ali got polio and almost died. Your father would walk around the house all day crying. Farzana made us shorwa with beans, turnips, and potatoes. We washed our hands and dipped fresh _naan_ from the tandoor into the shorwa--it was the best meal I had had in months. It was then that I asked Hassan to move to Kabul with me. I told him about the house, how I could not care for it by myself anymore. I told him I would pay him well, that he and his _khanum_ would be comfortable. They looked to each other and did not say anything. Later, after we had washed our hands and Farzana had served us grapes, Hassan said the village was his Home now; he and Farzana had made a life for themselves there. "And Bamiyan is so close. We know people there. Forgive me, Rahim Khan. I pray you understand.? "Of course,?I said. "You have nothing to apologize for. I understand.? It was midway through tea after shorwa that Hassan asked about you. I told him you were in America, but that I did not know much more. Hassan had so many questions about you. Had you married? Did you have children? How tall were you? Did you still fly kites and go to the cinema? Were you happy? He said he had befriended an old Farsi teacher in Bamiyan who had taught him to read and write. If he wrote you a letter, would I pass it on to you? And did I think you would write back? I told him what I knew of you from the few phone conversations I had had with your father, but mostly I did not know how to answer him. Then he asked me about your father. When I told him, Hassan buried his face in his hands and broke into tears. He wept like a child for the rest of that night. They insisted that I spend the night there. Farzana fixed a cot for me and left me a glass of well water in case I got thirsty. All night, I heard her whispering to Hassan, and heard him sobbing. In the morning, Hassan told me he and Farzana had decided to move to Kabul with me. "I should not have come here,?I said. "You were right, Hassan jan. You have a zendagi, a life here. It was presumptuous of me to just show up and ask you to drop everything. It is me who needs to be forgiven.? "We don't have that much to drop, Rahim Khan,?Hassan said. His eyes were still red and puffy. "We'll go with you. We'll help you take care of the house.? "Are you absolutely sure?? He nodded and dropped his head. "Agha sahib was like my second father... God give him peace.? They piled their things in the center of a few worn rags and tied the corners together. We loaded the bundle into the Buick. Hassan stood in the threshold of the house and held the Koran as we all kissed it and passed under it. Then we left for Kabul. I remember as I was pulling away, Hassan turned to take a last look at their Home. When we got to Kabul, I discovered that Hassan had no intention of moving into the house. "But all these rooms are empty, Hassan jan. No one is going to live in them,?I said. But he would not. He said it was a matter of ihtiram, a matter of respect. He and Farzana moved their things into the hut in the backyard, where he was born. I pleaded for them to move into one of the guest bedrooms upstairs, but Hassan would hear nothing of it. "What will Amir agha think??he said to me. "What will he think when he comes back to Kabul after the war and finds that I have assumed his place in the house??Then, in mourning for your father, Hassan wore black for the next forty days. I did not want them to, but the two of them did all the cooking, all the cleaning. Hassan tended to the flowers in the garden, soaked the roots, picked off yellowing leaves, and planted rosebushes. He painted the walls. In the house, he swept rooms no one had slept in for years, and cleaned bathrooms no one had bathed in. Like he was preparing the house for someone's return. Do you remember the wall behind the row of corn your father had planted, Amir jan? What did you and Hassan call it, "the Wall of Ailing Corn? A rocket destroyed a whole section of that wall in the middle of the night early that fall. Hassan rebuilt the wall with his own hands, brick by brick, until it stood?whole again. I do not know what I would have done if he had not been there. Then late that fall, Farzana gave birth to a stillborn baby girl. Hassan kissed the baby's lifeless face, and we buried her in the backyard, near the sweetbrier bushes. We covered the little mound with leaves from the poplar trees. I said a prayer for her. Farzana stayed in the hut all day and wailed--it is a heartbreaking sound, Amir jan, the wailing of a mother. I pray to Allah you never hear it. Outside the walls of that house, there was a war raging. But the three of us, in your father's house, we made our own little haven from it. My vision started going by the late 1980s, so I had Hassan read me your mother's books. We would sit in the foyer, by the stove, and Hassan would read me from _Masnawi_ or _Khayyám_, as Farzana cooked in the kitchen. And every morning, Hassan placed a flower on the little mound by the sweetbrier bushes. In early 1990, Farzana became pregnant again. It was that same year, in the middle of the summer, that a woman covered in a sky blue burqa knocked on the front gates one morning. When I walked up to the gates, she was swaying on her feet, like she was too weak to even stand. I asked her what she wanted, but she would not answer. "Who are you??I said. But she just collapsed right there in the driveway. I yelled for Hassan and he helped me carry her into the house, to the living room. We lay her on the sofa and took off her burqa. Beneath it, we found a toothless woman with stringy graying hair and sores on her arms. She looked like she had not eaten for days. But the worst of it by far was her face. Someone had taken a knife to it and... Amir jan, the slashes cut this way and that way. One of the cuts went from cheekbone to hairline and it had not spared her left eye on the way. It was grotesque. I patted her brow with a wet cloth and she opened her eyes. "Where is Hassan??she whispered. "I'm right here,?Hassan said. He took her hand and squeezed it. Her good eye rolled to him. "I have walked long and far to see if you are as beautiful in the flesh as you are in my dreams. And you are. Even more.?She pulled his hand to her scarred face. "Smile for me. Please.? Hassan did and the old woman wept. "You smiled coming out of me, did anyone ever tell you? And I wouldn't even hold you. Allah forgive me, I wouldn't even hold you.? None of us had seen Sanaubar since she had eloped with a band of singers and dancers in 1964, just after she had given birth to Hassan. You never saw her, Amir, but in her youth, she was a vision. She had a dimpled smile and a walk that drove men crazy. No one who passed her on the street, be it a man or a woman, could look at her only once. And now... Hassan dropped her hand and bolted out of the house. I went after him, but he was too fast. I saw him running up the hill where you two used to play, his feet kicking up plumes of dust. I let him go. I sat with Sanaubar all day as the sky went from bright blue to purple. Hassan still had not come back when night fell and moonlight bathed the clouds. Sanaubar cried that coming back had been a mistake, maybe even a worse one than leaving. But I made her stay. Hassan would return, I knew. He came back the next morning, looking tired and weary, like he had not slept all night. He took Sanaubar's hand in both of his and told her she could cry if she wanted to but she needn't, she was home now, he said, Home with her family. He touched the scars on her face, and ran his hand through her hair. Hassan and Farzana nursed her back to health. They fed her and washed her clothes. I gave her one of the guest rooms upstairs. Sometimes, I would look out the window into the yard and watch Hassan and his mother kneeling together, picking tomatoes or trimming a rosebush, talking. They were catching up on all the lost years, I suppose. As far as I know, he never asked where she had been or why she had left and she never told. I guess some stories do not need telling. It was Sanaubar who delivered Hassan's son that winter of 1990. It had not started snowing yet, but the winter winds were blowing through the yards, bending the flowerbeds and rustling the leaves. I remember Sanaubar came out of the hut holding her grandson, had him wrapped in a wool blanket. She stood beaming under a dull gray sky tears streaming down her cheeks, the needle-cold wind blowing her hair, and clutching that baby in her arms like she never wanted to let go. Not this time. She handed him to Hassan and he handed him to me and I sang the prayer of Ayat-ul-kursi in that little boy's ear. They named him Sohrab, after Hassan's favorite hero from the _Shahnamah_, as you know, Amir jan. He was a beautiful little boy, sweet as sugar, and had the same temperament as his father. You should have seen Sanaubar with that baby, Amir jan. He became the center of her existence. She sewed clothes for him, built him toys from scraps of wood, rags, and dried grass. When he caught a fever, she stayed up all night, and fasted for three days. She burned isfand for him on a skillet to cast out nazar, the evil eye. By the time Sohrab was two, he was calling her Sasa. The two of them were inseparable. She lived to see him turn four, and then, one morning, she just did not wake up. She looked calm, at peace, like she did not mind dying now. We buried her in the cemetery on the hill, the one by the pomegranate tree, and I said a prayer for her too. The loss was hard on Hassan--it always hurts more to have and lose than to not have in the first place. But it was even harder on little Sohrab. He kept walking around the house, looking for Sasa, but you know how children are, they forget so quickly. By then--that would have been 1995--the Shorawi were defeated and long gone and Kabul belonged to Massoud, Rabbani, and the Mujahedin. The infighting between the factions was fierce and no one knew if they would live to see the end of the day. Our ears became accustomed to the whistle of falling shells, to the rumble of gunfire, our eyes familiar with the sight of men digging bodies out of piles of rubble. Kabul in those days, Amir jan, was as close as you could get to that proverbial hell on earth. Allah was kind to us, though. The Wazir Akbar Khan area was not attacked as much, so we did not have it as bad as some of the other neighborhoods. On those days when the rocket fire eased up a bit and the gunfighting was light, Hassan would take Sohrab to the zoo to see Marjan the lion, or to the cinema. Hassan taught him how to shoot the slingshot, and, later, by the time he was eight, Sohrab had become deadly with that thing: He could stand on the terrace and hit a pinecone propped on a pail halfway across the yard. Hassan taught him to read and write--his son was not going to grow up illiterate like he had. I grew very attached to that little boy--I had seen him take his first step, heard him utter his first word. I bought children's books for Sohrab from the bookstore by Cinema Park--they have destroyed that too now--and Sohrab read them as quickly as I could get them to him. He reminded me of you, how you loved to read when you were little, Amir jan. Sometimes, I read to him at night, played riddles with him, taught him card tricks. I miss him terribly. In the wintertime, Hassan took his son kite running. There were not nearly as many kite tournaments as in the old days--no one felt safe outside for too long--but there were still a few scattered tournaments. Hassan would prop Sohrab on his shoulders and they would go trotting through the streets, running kites, climbing trees where kites had dropped. You remember, Amir Jan, what a good kite runner Hassan was? He was still just as good. At the end of winter, Hassan and Sohrab would hang the kites they had run all winter on the walls of the main hallway. They would put them up like paintings. I told you how we all celebrated in 1996 when the Taliban rolled in and put an end to the daily fighting. I remember coming Home that night and finding Hassan in the kitchen, listening to the radio. He had a sober look in his eyes. I asked him what was wrong, and he just shook his head. "God help the Hazaras now, Rahim Khan sahib,?he said. "The war is over, Hassan,?I said. "There's going to be peace, _Inshallah_, and Happiness and calm. No more rockets, no more killing, no more funerals!?But he just turned off the radio and asked if he could get me anything before he went to bed. A few weeks later, the Taliban banned kite fighting. And two years later, in 1998, they massacred the Hazaras in Mazar-i-Sharif. 第十六章 1986年，有很多原因促使我到哈扎拉贾特寻找哈桑。最大的一个，安拉原谅我，是我很寂寞。当时，我多数朋友和亲人若不是死于非命，便是离乡背井，逃往巴基斯坦或者伊朗。在喀布尔，那个我生活了一辈子的城市，我再也没几个熟人了。大家都逃走了。我会到卡德帕湾区散步——你记得吗，过去那儿经常有叫卖甜瓜的小贩出没，看到的都是不认识的人。没有人可以打招呼，没有人可以坐  下来喝杯茶，没有人可以说说话，只有俄国士兵在街头巡逻。所以到了最后，我不再在城里散步。我会整天在你父亲的房间里面，上楼到书房去，看看你妈妈那些旧书，听听新闻，看看电视上那些宣传。然后我会做午祷，煮点东西吃，再看看书，又是祷告，上床睡觉。早上我会醒来，祷告，再重复前一天的生活。     因为患了关节炎，照料房子对我来说越来越难。我的膝盖和后背总是发痛——早晨我起床之后，至少得花上一个小时，才能让麻木的关节活络起来，特别是  在冬天。我不希望你父亲的房子荒废，我们在这座房子有过很多美好的时光，有很多记忆，亲爱的阿米尔。你爸爸亲自设计了那座房子，它对他来说意义重大，除此之外，他和你前往巴基斯坦的时候，我亲口应承他，会把房子照料好。如今只有我和这座房子……我尽力了，我尽力每隔几天给树浇水，修剪草坪，照料花儿，钉牢那些需要固定的东西，但，就算在那个时候，我也已经不再是个年轻人了。     可是即使这样，我仍能勉力维持。至少可以再过一段时间吧。但当我听到你爸爸的死讯……在这座屋子里面，我第一次感到让人害怕的寂寞。还有无法忍受的空虚。     于是有一天，我给别克车加油，驶向哈扎拉贾特。我记得阿里从你家离开之后，你爸爸告诉我，说他和哈桑搬到一座小村落，就在巴米扬城外。我想起阿里在那儿有个表亲。 我不知道哈桑是否还在那儿，不知道是否有人认识，或者知道  他在哪里。毕竟，阿里和哈桑离开你爸爸的家门已经十年了。1986年，哈桑已经是个成年人了，应该是22岁，或者23岁，如果他还活着的话，就是这样的——俄国佬，但愿他们因为在我们祖国所做的一切，在地狱里烂掉，他们杀害了我们很多年轻人。这些我不说你也知道。     但是，感谢真主，我在那儿找到他。没费多大劲就找到了——我所做的，不过是在巴米扬问了几个问题，人们就指引我到他的村子去。我甚至记不起那个村子的名字了，也不知道它究竟有没有名字。但我记得那是个灼热的夏天，我开车驶在坑坑洼洼的泥土路上，路边除了被晒蔫的灌木、枝节盘错而且长着刺的树干、稻秆般的干草之外，什么也没有。 我看见路旁有头死驴，身体开始发烂。然后我拐了个弯，看到几间破落的泥屋，在右边那 片空地中间，它们后面什么也没有，只有广袤的天空和锯齿似的山脉。     在巴米扬，人们说我很会很容易就找到他——整个村庄，只有他住的屋子有垒着围墙的花园。那堵泥墙很短，有些墙洞点缀在上面，围住那间小屋——那真的比一间破茅舍好不不了多少。赤着脚的孩子在街道上玩耍，用棒子打一个破网球，我把车停在路边，熄了火，他们全都看着我。我推开那扇木门，走进一座院子，里头很小，一小块地种着干枯的草莓，还有株光秃秃的柠檬树。院子的角落  种着合欢树，树阴下面摆着烤炉，我看见有个男人站在旁边。他正在把生面团涂到一把木头抹刀上，用它拍打着烤炉壁。他一看到我就放下生面团，捧起我的手亲个不停。     “让我看看你。”我说。他退后一步。他现在可高了——我踮起脚尖，仍只是刚刚有他下巴那么高。巴米扬的阳光使他的皮肤变得更坚韧了，比我印象中黑得多，他有几颗门牙不见了，下巴上长着几撮稀疏的毛。除此之外，他还是那双狭窄的绿眼睛，上唇的伤痕还在，还是那张圆圆的脸蛋，还是那副和蔼的笑容。你一定会认出他的，亲爱的阿米尔，我敢肯定。     我们走进屋里。里面有个年轻的哈扎拉女人，肤色较淡，在屋角缝披肩。她显然怀孕了。“这是我的妻子，拉辛汗。”哈桑骄傲地说，“她是亲爱的法莎娜。”她是个羞涩的妇人，很有礼貌，说话声音很轻，只比耳语大声一点，她淡褐色的美丽眼睛从来不和我的眼光接触。但她那样看着哈桑，好像他坐在皇宫内的宝座上。     “孩子什么时候出世？”参观完那间泥砖屋之后，我问。屋里一无所有，只有磨损的褥子，几个盘子，两张坐垫，一盏灯笼。     “奉安拉之名，这个冬天，”哈桑说，“我求真主保佑，生个儿子，给他取我父亲的名字。”   “说到阿里，他在哪儿？”哈桑垂下眼光。他告诉我说，阿里和他的表亲——这个屋子是他的——两年   前被地雷炸死了，就在巴米扬城外。一枚地雷。阿富汗人还有其他死法吗，亲爱的阿米尔？而且我荒唐地觉得，一定是阿里的右脚——他那患过小儿麻痹的废脚   ——背叛了他，踩在地雷上。听到阿里去世，我心里非常难过。你知道，你爸爸和我一起长大，从我懂事起，阿里就陪伴着他。我还记得那年我们都很小，阿里得了小儿麻痹症，差点死掉。你爸爸整天绕着屋子走来走去，哭个不停。     法莎娜用豆子、芜青、土豆做了蔬菜汤，我们洗手，抓起从烤炉取下的新鲜馕饼，浸在汤里——那是我几个月来吃过的最好的一顿。就在那时，我求哈桑搬到喀布尔，跟我住一起。我把屋子的情况告诉他，跟他说我再也不能独力打理。我告诉他我会给他可观的报酬，让他和他的妻子过得舒服。他们彼此对望，什么也没说。饭后，我们洗过手，法莎娜端给我们葡萄。哈桑说这座村庄现在就是他的家，他和法莎娜在那儿自食其力。     “而且离巴米扬很近，我们在那儿有熟人。原谅我，拉辛汗。我请求你的原谅。”   “当然，”我说，“你不用向我道歉，我知道。”喝完蔬菜汤又喝茶，喝到一半，哈桑问起你来。我告诉你在美国，但其他情况我也不清楚。哈桑问了很多跟你有关的问题。你结婚了吗？你有孩子吗？你多高？ 你还放风筝吗？还去电影院吗？你快乐吗？他说他跟巴米扬一个年老的法尔西语教师成了 朋友，他教他读书写字。如果他给你写一封信，我会转交给你吗？还问我，你会不会回信？ 我告诉他，我跟你爸爸打过几次电话，从他口里得知你的情况，但我不知道该怎么回答他。 接着他问起你爸爸。我告诉他时，他双手掩着脸，号啕大哭。那天晚上，他像小孩一样， 抹了整夜的眼泪。     他们执意留我过夜。我在那儿住了一晚。法莎娜给我弄了个铺位，给我一杯井水，以便渴了可以喝。整个夜里，我听见她低声跟哈桑说话，听着他哭泣。     翌日早晨，哈桑跟我说，他和法莎娜决定搬到喀布尔，跟我一起住。     “我不该到这里来，”我说，“你是对的，亲爱的哈桑，这儿有你的生活。我到这里来，要求你放弃一切，真是太冒失了。需要得到原谅的人是我。”     “我们没有什么可以放弃的，拉辛汗。”哈桑说，他的眼睛仍是又红又肿。   “我们会跟你走，我们会帮你照料屋子。”   “你真的想好了吗？”他点点头，把头垂下。“老爷待我就像父亲一样……真主保佑他安息。”他们把家当放在几块破布中间，绑好那些布角。我们把那个包袱放在别克车里。哈桑站在门槛，举起《可兰经》，我们都亲了亲它，从下面穿过。然后我们  前往喀布尔。我记得我开车离开的时候，哈桑转过头，最后一次看了他们的家。     到了喀布尔之后，我发现哈桑根本没有搬进屋子的意思。“可是所有这些房间都空着，亲爱的哈桑，没有人打算住进来。”我说。但他不听。他说臒拓乎尊重。他和法莎娜把家当搬进后院那间破屋子，那个他出生的地方。我求他们搬进  楼顶的客房，但哈桑一点都没听进去。“阿米尔少爷会怎么想呢？”他对我说，   “要是战争结束，有朝一日阿米尔少爷回来，发现我鸠占鹊巢，他会怎么想？”然后，为了悼念你的父亲，哈桑穿了四十天黑衣服。     我并不想要他们那么做，但他们两个包办了所有做饭洗衣的事情。哈桑悉心照料花园里的花儿，松土，摘掉枯萎的叶子，种植蔷薇篱笆。他粉刷墙壁，把那些多年无人住过的房间抹干净，把多年无人用过的浴室清洗整洁。好像他在打理  房间，等待某人归来。你记得你爸爸种植的那排玉米后面的那堵墙吗，亲爱的阿米尔？你和哈桑怎么称呼它？“病玉米之墙”？那年初秋某个深夜，一枚火箭把  那墙统统炸塌了。哈桑亲手把它重新建好，垒起一块块砖头，直到它完整如初。要不是有他在那儿，我真不知道该怎么办。     那年深秋，法莎娜生了个死产的女婴。哈桑亲吻那个婴儿毫无生气的脸，我们将她葬在后院，就在蔷薇花丛旁边，我们用白杨树叶盖住那个小坟堆。我替她祷告。法莎娜整天躲在小屋里面，凄厉地哭喊。母亲的哀嚎。我求安拉，保佑你永远不会听到。     在那屋子的围墙之外，战争如火如荼。但我们三个，在你爸爸的房子里，我们自己营造了小小的天堂。自 1980年代晚期开始，我的视力就衰退了，所以我让哈桑给我读你妈妈的书。我们会坐在门廊，坐在火炉边，法莎娜在厨房煮饭的时候，哈桑会给我念《玛斯纳维》或者《鲁拜集》。每天早晨，哈桑总会在蔷薇花丛那边小小的坟堆上摆一朵鲜花。     1990年年初，法莎娜又怀孕了。也是在这一年，盛夏的时候，某天早晨，有个身披天蓝色长袍的女人敲响前门，她双脚发抖，似乎孱弱得连站都站不稳。我问她想要什么，她沉默不语。     “你是谁？”我说。但她一语不发，就在那儿瘫下，倒在车道上。我把哈桑喊出来，他帮我把她扶进屋子，走进客厅。我们让她躺在沙发上，除下她的长袍。长袍之下是个牙齿掉光的妇女，蓬乱的灰白头发，手臂上生着疮。她看上去似乎很多天没有吃东西了。但更糟糕的是她的脸。有人用刀在她脸上……亲爱的阿米尔，到处都是刀痕，有一道从颧骨到发际线，她的左眼也没有幸免。太丑怪了。我用一块湿布拍拍她的额头，她睁开眼。“哈桑在哪里？”她细声说。   “我在这里。”哈桑说，他拉起她的手，紧紧握住。她那只完好的眼打量着他。“我走了很久很远，来看看你是否像我梦中见到那样英俊。你是的。甚至更好看。”她拉着他的手，贴近她伤痕累累的脸庞。   “朝我笑一笑，求求你。”     哈桑笑了，那个老妇人流出泪水。“你的笑是从我这里来的，有没有人告诉过你？而我甚至没有抱过你。愿安拉宽恕我，我甚至没有抱过你。”     自从莎娜芭1964年刚生下哈桑不久就跟着一群艺人跑掉之后，我们再也没人见过她。 你从来没见过她，阿米尔，但她年轻的时候，她是个美人。她微笑起来脸带酒窝，步履款款，令男人发狂。凡是在街上见到她的人，无论是男的还是女的，都会忍不住再看她一眼。而现在……     哈桑放下她的手，冲出房子。我跟着他后面，但他跑得太快了。我看见他跑上那座你们两个以前玩耍的山丘，他的脚步踢起阵阵尘土。我任他走开。我整天坐在莎娜芭身边，看着天空由澄蓝变成紫色。夜幕降临，月亮在云层中穿梭，哈桑仍没回来。莎娜芭哭着说回来是一个错误，也许比当年离家出走错得更加厉害。但我安抚她。哈桑会回来的，我知道。     隔日早上他回来了，看上去疲累而憔悴，似乎彻夜未睡。他双手捧起莎娜芭的手，告诉她，如果她想哭就哭吧，但她不用哭，现在她在家里了，他说，在家里和家人在一起。 他抚摸着她脸上的伤疤，把手伸进她的头发里面。     在哈桑和法莎娜照料下，她康复了。他们喂她吃饭，替她洗衣服。我让她住在楼上一间客房里面。有时我会从窗户望出去，看见哈桑和他母亲跪在院子里，摘番茄，或者修剪蔷薇篱笆，彼此交谈。他们在补偿所有失去的那些岁月，我猜想。就我所知，他从来没有问起她到哪里去了，或者为什么要离开，而她也没有说。我想有些事情不用说出来。     1990年冬天，莎娜芭把哈桑的儿子接生出来。那时还没有下雪，但冬天的寒风呼啸着吹过院子，吹弯了苗圃里的花儿，吹落了树叶。我记得莎娜芭用一块羊毛毯抱着她的孙子，将他从小屋里面抱出来。她站在阴暗的灰色天空下，喜悦溢于言表，泪水从她脸上流下，刺人的寒风吹起她的头发，她死死抱着那个孩子，仿佛永远不肯放手。这次不会了。她把他交给哈桑，哈桑把他递给我，我在那个男婴耳边，轻轻唱起《可兰经》的经文。     他们给他起名索拉博，那是《沙纳玛》里面哈桑最喜欢的英雄，你知道的，亲爱的阿米尔。他是个漂亮的小男孩，甜蜜得像糖一样，而性子跟他爸爸毫无二致。你应该看看莎娜芭带那个孩子，亲爱的阿米尔。他变成她生活的中心，她给他缝衣服，用木块、破布和稻秆给他做玩具。他要是发热，她会整晚睡不着，斋戒三天。她在锅里烧掉一本回历，说是驱走魔鬼的眼睛。索拉博两岁的时候，管她叫“莎莎”。他们两个形影不离。     她活到他四岁的时候，然后，某个早晨，她再也没有醒来。她神情安详平静，似乎死得无牵无挂。我们在山上的墓地埋了她，那座种着石榴树的墓地，我也替她祷告了。她的去世让哈桑很难过——得到了再失去，总是比从来就没有得到更伤人。但小索拉博甚至更加难过，他不停地在屋里走来走去，找他的“莎莎”，但你知道，小孩就是那样，他们很快就忘了。     那时——应该是1995 年——俄国佬已经被赶走很久了，喀布尔依次落在马苏德[Ahmad  Shah  Massoud（1953～2001），20世纪80年代组织游击队在阿富汗潘  杰希尔谷地抗击苏联游击队，1996年后为北方联盟领导人之一]、拉巴尼[Burhanuddin  Rabbani（1940～），阿富汗政治家，1992年至1996年任阿富汗总统]  和人民圣战者组织手里。不同派系间的内战十分激烈，没有人知道自己是否能活到一天结束。我们的耳朵听惯了炮弹落下、机熗嗒嗒的声音，人们从废墟爬出来的景象也司空见惯。那些日子里的喀布尔，亲爱的阿米尔，你在地球上再也找不到比这更像地狱的地方了。瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区没有遭受太多的袭击，所以我们的处境不像其他城区一样糟糕。     在那些炮火稍歇、熗声较疏的日子，哈桑会带索拉博去动物园看狮子“玛扬”，或者去看电影。哈桑教他射弹弓，而且，后来，到了他八岁的时候，弹弓在索拉博手里变成了一件致命的武器：他可以站在阳台上，射中院子中央水桶上摆放着  的松果。哈桑教他读书识字——以免他的儿子长大之后跟他一样是个文盲。我和那个小男孩越来越亲近——我看着他学会走路，听着他牙牙学语。我从电影院公园那边的书店给索拉博买童书——现在它们也被炸毁了——索拉博总是很快看完。他让我想起你，你小时候多么喜欢读书，亲爱的阿米尔。有时，我在夜里讲故事  给他听，和他猜谜语，教他玩扑克。我想他想得厉害。     冬天，哈桑带他儿子追风筝。那儿再也没有过去那么多风筝大赛了——因为缺乏安全，没有人敢在外面待得太久——但零星有一些。哈桑会让索拉博坐在他的肩膀上，在街道上小跑，追风筝，爬上那些挂着风筝的树。你记得吗，亲爱的阿米尔，哈桑追风筝多么在行？ 他仍和过去一样棒。冬天结束的时候，哈桑和索拉博会把他们整个冬天追来的风筝挂在门廊的墙上，他们会像挂画像那样将它们摆好。     我告诉过你，1996年，当塔利班掌权，结束日复一日的战争之后，我们全都欢呼雀跃。 我记得那晚回家，发现哈桑在厨房，听着收音机，神情严肃。我问他怎么了，他只是摇摇 头：“现在求真主保佑哈扎拉人，拉辛汗老爷。”     “战争结束了，哈桑，”我说，“很快就会有和平，奉安拉之名，还有幸福和安宁。再没有火箭，再没有杀戮，再没有葬礼！”但他只薀拓掉收音机，问我在他睡觉之前还需要什么。     几个星期后，塔利班禁止斗风筝。隔了两年，在1998年，他们开始在马扎里沙里夫屠杀哈扎拉人。

Chapter 15 Three hours after my flight landed in Peshawar, I was sitting on shredded upholstery in the backseat of a smoke-filled taxicab. My driver, a chain-smoking, sweaty little man who introduced himself as Gholam, drove nonchalantly and recklessly, averting collisions by the thinnest of margins, all without so much as a pause in the incessant stream of words spewing from his mouth: ??terrible what is happening in your country, yar. Afghani people and Pakistani people they are like brothers, I tell you. Muslims have to help Muslims so...? I tuned him out, switched to a polite nodding mode. I remembered Peshawar pretty well from the few months Baba and I had spent there in 1981. We were heading west now on Jamrud road, past the Cantonment and its lavish, high-walled Homes. The bustle of the city blurring past me reminded me of a busier, more crowded version of the Kabul I knew, particularly of the KochehMorgha, or Chicken Bazaar, where Hassan and I used to buy chutney-dipped potatoes and cherry water. The streets were clogged with bicycle riders, milling pedestrians, and rickshaws popping blue smoke, all weaving through a maze of narrow lanes and alleys. Bearded vendors draped in thin blankets sold animalskin lampshades, carpets, embroidered shawls, and copper goods from rows of small, tightly jammed stalls. The city was bursting with sounds; the shouts of vendors rang in my ears mingled with the blare of Hindi music, the sputtering of rickshaws, and the jingling bells of horse-drawn carts. Rich scents, both pleasant and not so pleasant, drifted to me through the passenger window, the spicy aroma of pakora and the nihari Baba had loved so much blended with the sting of diesel fumes, the stench of rot, garbage, and feces. A little past the redbrick buildings of Peshawar University, we entered an area my garrulous driver referred to as "Afghan Town.?I saw sweetshops and carpet vendors, kabob stalls, kids with dirtcaked hands selling cigarettes, tiny restaurants--maps of Afghanistan painted on their windows--all interlaced with backstreet aid agencies. "Many of your brothers in this area, yar. They are opening Businesses, but most of them are very poor.?He tsk'ed his tongue and sighed. "Anyway, we're getting close now.? I thought about the last time I had seen Rahim Khan, in 1981. He had come to say good-bye the night Baba and I had fled Kabul. I remember Baba and him embracing in the foyer, crying softly. When Baba and I arrived in the U.S., he and Rahim Khan kept in touch. They would speak four or five times a year and, sometimes, Baba would pass me the receiver. The last time I had spoken to Rahim Khan had been shortly after Baba's death. The news had reached Kabul and he had called. We'd only spoken for a few minutes and lost the connection. The driver pulled up to a narrow building at a busy corner where two winding streets intersected. I paid the driver, took my lone suitcase, and walked up to the intricately carved door. The building had wooden balconies with open shutters--from many of them, laundry was hanging to dry in the sun. I walked up the creaky stairs to the second floor, down a dim hallway to the last door on the right. Checked the address on the piece of stationery paper in my palm. Knocked. Then, a thing made of skin and bones pretending to be Rahim Khan opened the door. A CREATIVE writing TEACHER at San Jose State used to say about clichés: "Avoid them like the plague.?Then he'd laugh at his own joke. The class laughed along with him, but I always thought clichés got a bum rap. Because, often, they're dead-on. But the aptness of the clichéd saying is overshadowed by the nature of the saying as a clich? For example, the "elephant in the room?saying. Nothing could more correctly describe the initial moments of my reunion with Rahim Khan. We sat on a wispy mattress set along the wall, across the window overlooking the noisy street below. Sunlight slanted in and cast a triangular wedge of light onto the Afghan rug on the floor. Two folding chairs rested against one wall and a small copper samovar sat in the opposite corner. I poured us tea from it. "How did you find me??I asked. "It's not difficult to find people in America. I bought a map of the U.S., and called up information for cities in Northern California,?he said. "It's wonderfully strange to see you as a grown man.? I smiled and dropped three sugar cubes in my tea. He liked his black and bitter, I remembered. "Baba didn't get the chance to tell you but I got married fifteen years ago.?The truth was, by then, the cancer in Baba's brain had made him forgetful, negligent. "You are married? To whom?? "Her name is Soraya Taheri.?I thought of her back Home, worrying about me. I was glad she wasn't alone. "Taheri... whose daughter is she?? I told him. His eyes brightened. "Oh, yes, I remember now. Isn't General Taheri married to Sharif jan's sister? What was her name...? "Jamila jan.? "Balay!?he said, smiling. "I knew Sharif jan in Kabul, long time ago, before he moved to America.? "He's been working for the INS for years, handles a lot of Afghan cases.? "Haiiii,?he sighed. "Do you and Soraya jan have children?? "Nay.? "Oh.?He slurped his tea and didn't ask more; Rahim Khan had always been one of the most instinctive people I'd ever met. I told him a lot about Baba, his job, the flea market, and how, at the end, he'd died happy. I told him about my schooling, my books--four published novels to my credit now. He smiled at this, said he had never had any doubt. I told him I had written short stories in the leather-bound notebook he'd given me, but he didn't remember the notebook. The conversation inevitably turned to the Taliban. "Is it as bad as I hear??I said. "Nay, it's worse. Much worse,?he said. "They don't let you be human.?He pointed to a scar above his right eye cutting a crooked path through his bushy eyebrow. "I was at a soccer game in Ghazi Stadium in 1998. Kabul against Mazar-i-Sharif, I think, and by the way the players weren't allowed to wear shorts. Indecent exposure, I guess.?He gave a tired laugh. "Anyway, Kabul scored a goal and the man next to me cheered loudly. Suddenly this young bearded fellow who was patrolling the aisles, eighteen years old at most by the look of him, he walked up to me and struck me on the forehead with the butt of his Kalashnikov. ‘Do that again and I'll cut out your tongue, you old donkey!?he said.?Rahim Khan rubbed the scar with a gnarled finger. "I was old enough to be his grandfather and I was sitting there, blood gushing down my face, apologizing to that son of a dog.? I poured him more tea. Rahim Khan talked some more. Much of it I knew already, some not. He told me that, as arranged between Baba and him, he had lived in Baba's house since 1981--this I knew about. Baba had "sold?the house to Rahim Khan shortly before he and I fled Kabul. The way Baba had seen it those days, Afghanistan's troubles were only a temporary interruption of our way of life--the days of parties at the Wazir Akbar Khan house and picnics in Paghman would surely return. So he'd given the house to Rahim Khan to keep watch over until that day. Rahim Khan told me how, when the Northern Alliance took over Kabul between 1992 and 1996, different factions claimed different parts of Kabul. "If you went from the Shar-e-Nau section to Kerteh-Parwan to buy a carpet, you risked getting shot by a sniper or getting blown up by a rocket--if you got past all the checkpoints, that was. You practically needed a visa to go from one neighborhood to the other. So people just stayed put, prayed the next rocket wouldn't hit their home.?He told me how people knocked holes in the walls of their Homes so they could bypass the dangerous streets and would move down the block from hole to hole. In other parts, people moved about in underground tunnels. "Why didn't you leave??I said. "Kabul was my Home. It still is.?He snickered. "Remember the street that went from your house to the Qishla, the military bar racks next to Istiqial School?? "Yes.?It was the shortcut to school. I remembered the day Hassan and I crossed it and the soldiers had teased Hassan about his mother. Hassan had cried in the cinema later, and I'd put an arm around him. "When the Taliban rolled in and kicked the Alliance out of Kabul, I actually danced on that street,?Rahim Khan said. "And, believe me, I wasn't alone. People were celebrating at _Chaman_, at Deh-Mazang, greeting the Taliban in the streets, climbing their tanks and posing for pictures with them. People were so tired of the constant fighting, tired of the rockets, the gunfire, the explosions, tired of watching Gulbuddin and his cohorts firing on any thing that moved. The Alliance did more damage to Kabul than the Shorawi. They destroyed your father's orphanage, did you know that?? "Why??I said. "Why would they destroy an orphanage??I remembered sitting behind Baba the day they opened the orphanage. The wind had knocked off his caracul hat and everyone had laughed, then stood and clapped when he'd delivered his speech. And now it was just another pile of rubble. All the money Baba had spent, all those nights he'd sweated over the blueprints, all the visits to the construction site to make sure every brick, every beam, and every block was laid just right... "Collateral damage,?Rahim Khan said. "You don't want to know, Amir jan, what it was like sifting through the rubble of that orphanage. There were body parts of children...? "So when the Taliban came...? "They were heroes,?Rahim Khan said. "Peace at last.? "Yes, hope is a strange thing. Peace at last. But at what price??A violent coughing fit gripped Rahim Khan and rocked his gaunt body back and forth. When he spat into his handkerchief, it immediately stained red. I thought that was as good a time as any to address the elephant sweating with us in the tiny room. "How are you??I asked. "I mean really, how are you?? "Dying, actually,?he said in a gurgling voice. Another round of coughing. More blood on the handkerchief. He wiped his mouth, blotted his sweaty brow from one wasted temple to the other with his sleeve, and gave me a quick glance. When he nodded, I knew he had read the next question on my face. "Not long,?he breathed. "How long?? He shrugged. Coughed again. "I don't think I'll see the end of this summer,?he said. "Let me take you Home with me. I can find you a good doctor. They're coming up with new treatments all the time. There are new drugs and experimental treatments, we could enroll you in one...?I was rambling and I knew it. But it was better than crying, which I was probably going to do anyway. He let out a chuff of laughter, revealed missing lower incisors. It was the most tired laughter I'd ever heard. "I see America has infused you with the optimism that has made her so great. That's very good. We're a melancholic people, we Afghans, aren't we? Often, we wallow too much in ghamkhori and self-pity. We give in to loss, to suffering, accept it as a fact of life, even see it as necessary. Zendagi migzara, we say, life goes on. But I am not surrendering to fate here, I am being pragmatic. I have seen several good doctors here and they have given the same answer. I trust them and believe them. There is such a thing as God's will.? "There is only what you do and what you don't do,?I said. Rahim Khan laughed. "You sounded like your father just now. I miss him so much. But it is God's will, Amir jan. It really is.?He paused. "Besides, there's another reason I asked you to come here. I wanted to see you before I go, yes, but something else too.? "Anything.? "You know all those years I lived in your father's house after you left?? "Yes.? "I wasn't alone for all of them. Hassan lived there with me.? "Hassan,?I said. When was the last time I had spoken his name? Those thorny old barbs of guilt bore into me once more, as if speaking his name had broken a spell, set them free to torment me anew. Suddenly the air in Rahim Khan's little flat was too thick, too hot, too rich with the smell of the street. "I thought about writing you and telling you before, but I wasn't sure you wanted to know. Was I wrong?? The truth was no. The lie was yes. I settled for something in between. "I don't know.? He coughed another patch of blood into the handkerchief. When he bent his head to spit, I saw honey-crusted sores on his scalp. "I brought you here because I am going to ask something of you. I'm going to ask you to do something for me. But before I do, I want to tell you about Hassan. Do you understand?? "Yes,?I murmured. "I want to tell you about him. I want to tell you everything. You will listen?? I nodded. Then Rahim Khan sipped some more tea. Rested his head against the wall and spoke. 第十五章     我乘坐的航班在白沙瓦着陆三个小时之后，我坐在一辆弥漫着烟味的的士破旧的后座上。汗津津的司机个子矮小，一根接一根抽着烟，自我介绍说他叫戈蓝。他开起车来毫无顾忌，横冲直撞，每每与其他车辆擦身而过，一路上滔滔不绝的话语片刻不停地从他口中涌出来：     “……你的祖国发生的一切太恐怖了，真的。阿富汗人和巴基斯坦人就像兄  弟，我告诉你，穆斯林必须帮助穆斯林，所以……”     我不搭腔，带着礼貌点头称是。1981年，爸爸和我在这里住过几个月，脑海里依然认得白沙瓦。现在我们在雅姆鲁德路往西开着，路过兵站，还有那些高墙耸立的豪宅。这喧嚣的城市匆匆后退，让我想起记忆中的喀布尔，比这里更繁忙、更拥挤，特别是鸡市，哈桑和我过去常常去那儿，买酸辣酱腌过的土豆和樱桃水。街路上挤满了自行车、摩肩接踵的行人，还有冒出袅袅蓝烟的黄包车，所有这些，都在迷宫般的狭窄巷道穿来插去。拥挤的小摊排成一行行，留着胡子的小贩在地面摆开一张张薄薄的褥子，兜售兽皮灯罩、地毯、绣花披肩和铜器。这座城市喧闹非凡，小贩的叫卖声、震耳欲聋的印度音乐声、黄包车高喊让路的叫声、马车的叮叮当当声，全都混在一起，在我耳边回荡。还有各种各样的味道，香的臭的，炸蔬菜的香辣味、爸爸最喜爱的炖肉味、柴油机的烟味，还有腐烂物、垃圾、粪便的臭味，纷纷飘进车窗，扑鼻而来。     驶过白沙瓦大学的红砖房子之后不久，我们进入了一个区域，那个饶舌的司机称之为“阿富汗城”。我看到了糖铺、售卖地毯的小贩、烤肉摊，还有双手脏兮兮的小孩在兜售香烟，窗户上贴着阿富汗地图的小餐馆，厕身其中的是众多救  助机构。“这个地区有你很多同胞，真的。他们做生意，不过多数很穷。”他“啧”了一声，叹了口气，“反正，我们就快到了。”     我想起最后一次见到拉辛汗的情景，那是在1981年。我和爸爸逃离喀布尔那晚，他前来道别。我记得爸爸和他在门廊拥抱，轻声哭泣。爸爸和我到了美国之后，他和拉辛汗保持联系。他们每年会交谈上那么四五次，有时爸爸会把听筒给我。最后一次和拉辛汗说话是在爸爸去世后不久。死讯传到喀布尔，他打电话来。我们只说了几分钟，电话线就断了。   司机停在一座房子前，这房子位于两条蜿蜒街道的繁忙交叉路口。我付了车钱，提起仅有的一个箱子，走进那雕刻精美的大门。这座建筑有木  板阳台和敞开的窗户，窗外多数晾着衣服。我踩上吱嘎作响的楼梯，登上二楼，转右，走到那昏暗走廊最后一扇门。我看看手里那张写着地址的信纸，敲敲门。   然后，一具皮包骨的躯体伪装成拉辛汗，把门打开。圣荷塞州立大学有位创作老师经常谈起陈词滥调：“应该像逃瘟疫那样避开它们。”然后他会为自己的幽默笑起来。全班也跟着他大笑，可是我总觉得这种对陈词滥调的指责毫无价值。因为它们通常准确无误。但是因为人们把这些说法当成陈词滥调， 它们的贴切反而无人提及。例如，“房间里的大象”[指大家都知道，但避而不谈的事情]   这句话，用来形容我和拉辛汗重逢那一刻再也贴切不过了。     我们坐在墙边一张薄薄的褥子上，对面是窗口，可以看到下面喧闹的街道。阳光照进来，在门口的阿富汗地毯上投射出三角形的光影。两张折叠椅倚在墙上，对面的屋角摆放着一个小小的铜壶。我从它里面倒出两杯茶。     “你怎么找到我？”我问。     “在美国要找一个人并不难。我买了张美国地图，打电话查询北加利福尼亚城市的资料。”他说，“看到你已经长大成人，感觉真是又奇怪又美好。”     我微笑，在自己的茶杯中放了三块方糖。我记得他不喜欢加糖。     “爸爸来不及告诉你我十五年前就结婚了。”真相是，当其时爸爸脑里的肿瘤让他变得健忘，忽略了。     “你结婚了？和谁？”     “她的名字叫索拉雅·塔赫里。”我想起她在家里，替我担忧。我很高兴她并窡吐身一人。   “塔赫里……她是谁的女儿？”我告诉他。他眼睛一亮：“哦，没错，我想起来了。塔赫里将军是不是娶了   亲爱的沙利夫的姐姐？她的名字叫……”     “亲爱的雅米拉。”     “对！对！”他说，微笑着。“我在喀布尔认识亲爱的沙利夫，很久以前了，那时他还没搬去美国。”     “他在移民局工作好多年了，处理了很多阿富汗案子。”     “哎，”他叹气说，“你和亲爱的索拉雅有孩子吗？”     “没有。”     “哦。”他啜着茶，不再说什么。在我遇到的人中，拉辛汗总是最能识破人心那个。     我向他说了很多爸爸的事情，他的工作，跳蚤市场，还有到了最后，他如何在幸福中溘然长辞。我告诉我上学的事情，我出的书——如今我已经出版了四部小说。他听了之后微微一笑，说他对此从未怀疑。我跟他说，我在他送我那本皮  面笔记本上写小故事，但他不记得那笔记本。     话题不可避免地转向塔利班[Taliban，阿富汗政治组织，主要由普什图人组成，1994年在坎大哈成立，推行原教旨主义，禁止电视、录像、音乐、跳舞等，随后于1996年执政，直到2001年被美国军队击溃。为了行文简洁和阅读方便起见，译文同时用塔利班来指称塔利班组织和塔利班常人].     “不是我听到的那么糟糕吧？”我说。     “不，更糟，糟得多。”他说，“他们不会把你当人看。”他指着右眼上方的伤疤，弯弯曲曲地穿过他浓密的眉毛。“1998年，我坐在伽兹体育馆里面看足球赛。我记得是喀布尔队和马扎里沙里夫[Mazar-e-Sharif，阿富汗西部城市] 队，还记得球员被禁止穿短衣短裤。 我猜想那是因为裸露不合规矩。”他疲惫地  笑起来。“反正，喀布尔队每进一球，坐在我身 边的年轻人就高声欢呼。突然间，一个留着胡子的家伙向我走来，他在通道巡逻，样子看起来最多十八岁。他用俄  制步熗的熗托撞我的额头。‘再喊我把你的舌头割下来，你这头老驴子！’他说。”拉辛汗用骨节嶙峋的手指抹抹伤疤。“我老得可以当他爷爷了，坐在那里，血流满面，向那个狗杂碎道歉。”     我给他添茶。拉辛汗说了更多。有些我已经知道，有些则没听说过。他告诉我，就像他和爸爸安排好那样，自 1981年起，他住进了爸爸的屋子——这个我知道。爸爸和我离开喀布尔之后不久，就把房子“卖”给拉辛汗。爸爸当时的看法是，阿富汗遇到的麻烦是暂时的，我们被打断的生活——那些在瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区的房子大摆宴席和去帕格曼野炊的时光毫无疑问会重演。所以直到那天，他把房子交给拉辛汗托管。     拉辛汗告诉我，在1992到1996年之间，北方联盟[Northern  alliance，主要由三支非普什图族的军事力量于1992年组成，得到美国等西方国家的支持，1996 年被塔利班推翻] 占领了喀布尔，不同的派系管辖喀布尔不同的地区。“如果你从沙里诺区走到卡德帕湾区去买地毯，就算你能通过所有的关卡，也得冒着被狙击手熗杀或者被火箭炸飞的危险，事情就是这样。实际上，你从一个城区到另外的城区去，都需要通行证。所以人们留在家里，祈祷下一枚火箭别击中他们的房子。”他告诉我，人们如何穿墙凿壁，在家里挖出洞来，以便能避开危险的街道，可以穿过一个又一个的墙洞，在临近活动。在其他地区，人们还挖起地道。     “你干吗不离开呢？”我说。     “喀布尔是我的家园。现在还是。”他冷笑着说，“还记得那条从你家通向独立中学旁边那座兵营的路吗？”     “记得。”那是条通往学校的近路。我记得那天，哈桑和我走过去，那些士兵侮辱哈桑的妈妈。后来哈桑还在电影院里面哭了，我伸手抱住他。     “当塔利班打得联军节节败退、撤离喀布尔时，我真的在那条路上跳起舞来。”拉辛汗说，“还有，相信我，雀跃起舞的不止我一个。人们在夏曼大道、在德马赞路庆祝，在街道上朝塔利班欢呼，爬上他们的坦克，跟他们一起摆姿势拍照片。人们厌倦了连年征战，厌倦了火箭、炮火、爆炸，厌倦了古勒卜丁[Gulbuddin  Hekmatyar（1948～），1993年至1996年任阿富汗总理]和他的党羽朝一切会动的东西开熗。联军对喀布尔的破坏比俄国佬还厉害。他们毁掉你爸爸的恤孤院，你知道吗？”     “为什么？”我说，“他们干吗要毁掉一个恤孤院呢？”我记得恤孤院落成那天，我坐在爸爸后面，风吹落他那顶羔羊皮帽，大家都笑起来，当他讲完话，人们纷纷起立鼓掌。 而如今它也变成一堆瓦砾了。那些爸爸所花的钱，那些画蓝  图时挥汗如雨的夜晚，那些在 工地悉心监工、确保每一块砖头、每一根梁子、每一块石头都没摆错的心血……     “城门失火，殃及池鱼罢了，”拉辛汗说，“你不忍知道的，亲爱的阿米尔，那在恤孤院的废墟上搜救的情景，到处是小孩的身体碎片……”     “所以当塔利班刚来的时候……”     “他们是英雄。”拉辛汗说。     “至少带来了和平。”     “是的，希望是奇怪的东西。至少带来了和平。但代价是什么呢？”拉辛汗  剧烈地咳嗽起来，瘦弱的身体咳得前后摇晃。他掏出手帕，往里面吐痰，立刻将它染红。我想这当头，说一头汗流浃背的大象跟我们同在这小小的房间里面，那再也贴切不过。     “你怎么样？”我说，“别说客套话，你身体怎样？”     “实际上，来日无多了。”他用沙哑的声音说，又是一轮咳嗽。手帕染上更多的血。 他擦擦嘴巴，用袖子从一边塌陷的太阳穴抹向另一边，抹去额头上的汗珠，匆匆瞥了我一眼。他点点头，我知道他读懂了我脸上的疑问。“不久了。”他喘息着。     “多久？”他耸耸肩，再次咳嗽。“我想我活不到夏天结束。”他说。     “跟我回家吧。我给你找个好大夫。他们总有各种各样的新疗法。那边有新药，实验性疗法，我们可以让你住进……”我知道自己在信口开河。但这总比哭喊好，我终究可能还是会哭的。     他发出一阵咔咔的笑声，下排牙齿已经不见了。那是我有生以来听到最疲累的笑声。 “我知道美国给你灌输了乐观的性子，这也是她了不起的地方。那非常好。我们是忧郁的 民族，我们阿富汗人，对吧？我们总是陷在悲伤和自恋中。我们在失败、灾难面前屈服， 将这些当成生活的实质，甚至视为必须。我们总是说，生活会继续的。但我在这里，没有 向命运投降，我看过几个很好的大夫，他们给的答案都一样。我信任他们，相信他们。像 这样的事情，是真主的旨意。”   “只有你想做和不想做的事情罢了。”我说。拉辛汗大笑。“你刚才的口气可真像你父亲。我很怀念他。但这真的是真主的旨意，亲爱的阿米尔。这真的是。”他停下。“另外，我要你来这里还有另一个原因。 我希望在离开人世之前看到你，但也还有其他缘故。”     “什么原因都行。”     “你们离开之后，那些年我一直住在你家，你知道吧？”     “是的。”     “那些年我并非都是一人度过，哈桑跟我住在一起。”     “哈桑？”我说。我上次说出这个名字是什么时候？那些久远的负疚和罪恶感再次剌痛了我，似乎说出他的名字就解除了一个魔咒，将它们释放出来，重新折磨我。刹那间，拉辛汗房间里面的空气变得太厚重、太热，带着太多街道上传来的气味。     “之前我有想过写信给你，或者打电话告诉你，但我不知道你想不想听。我错了吗？”     而真相是，他没有错。说他错了则是谎言。我选择了模糊其词：   “我不知道。”他又在手帕里面咳出一口血。他弯腰吐痰的时候，我看见他头皮上有结痂的  疮口。“我要你到这里来，是因为有些事情想求你。我想求你替我做些事情。但在我求你之前，我会先告诉你哈桑的事情，你懂吗？”     “我懂。”我低声说。     “我想告诉你关于他的事，我想告诉你一切。你会听吗？”我点点头。然后拉辛汗又喝了几口茶，把头靠在墙上，开始说起来。

Chapter 14 _June 2001_ I lowered the phone into the cradle and stared at it for a long time. It wasn't until Aflatoon startled me with a bark that I realized how quiet the room had become. Soraya had muted the television. "You look pale, Amir,?she said from the couch, the same one her parents had given us as a housewarming gift for our first apartment. She'd been tying on it with Aflatoon's head nestled on her chest, her legs buried under the worn pillows. She was halfwatching a PBS special on the plight of wolves in Minnesota, half-correcting essays from her summer-school class--she'd been teaching at the same school now for six years. She sat up, and Aflatoon leapt down from the couch. It was the general who had given our cocker spaniel his name, Farsi for "Plato,?because, he said, if you looked hard enough and long enough into the dog's filmy black eyes, you'd swear he was thinking wise thoughts. There was a sliver of fat, just a hint of it, beneath Soraya's chin now The past ten years had padded the curves of her hips some, and combed into her coal black hair a few streaks of cinder gray. But she still had the face of a Grand Ball princess, with her bird-in-flight eyebrows and nose, elegantly curved like a letter from ancient Arabic writings. "You took pale,?Soraya repeated, placing the stack of papers on the table. "I have to go to Pakistan.? She stood up now. "Pakistan?? "Rahim Khan is very sick.?A fist clenched inside me with those words. "Kaka's old Business partner??She'd never met Rahim Khan, but I had told her about him. I nodded. "Oh,?she said. "I'm so sorry, Amir.? "We used to be close,?I said. "When I was a kid, he was the first grown-up I ever thought of as a friend.?I pictured him and Baba drinking tea in Baba's study, then smoking near the window, a sweetbrier-scented breeze blowing from the garden and bending the twin columns of smoke. "I remember you telling me that,?Soraya said. She paused. "How long will you be gone?? "I don't know. He wants to see me.? "Is it...? "Yes, it's safe. I'll be all right, Soraya.?It was the question she'd wanted to ask all along--fifteen years of marriage had turned us into mind readers. "I'm going to go for a walk.? "Should I go with you?? "Nay, I'd rather be alone.? I DROVE TO GOLDEN GATE PARK and walked along Spreckels Lake on the northern edge of the park. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon; the sun sparkled on the water where dozens of miniature boats sailed, propelled by a crisp San Francisco breeze. I sat on a park bench, watched a man toss a football to his son, telling him to not sidearm the ball, to throw over the shoulder. I glanced up and saw a pair of kites, red with long blue tails. They floated high above the trees on the west end of the park, over the windmills. I thought about a comment Rahim Khan had made just before we hung up. Made it in passing, almost as an afterthought. I closed my eyes and saw him at the other end of the scratchy longdistance line, saw him with his lips slightly parted, head tilted to one side. And again, something in his bottomless black eyes hinted at an unspoken secret between us. Except now I knew he knew. My suspicions had been right all those years. He knew about Assef, the kite, the money, the watch with the lightning bolt hands. He had always known. Come. There is a way to be good again, Rahim Khan had said on the phone just before hanging up. Said it in passing, almost as an afterthought. A way to be good again. WHEN I CAME Home, Soraya was on the phone with her mother. "Won't be long, Madarjan. A week, maybe two... Yes, you and Padar can stay with me.? Two years earlier, the general had broken his right hip. He'd had one of his migraines again, and emerging from his room, bleary-eyed and dazed, he had tripped on a loose carpet edge. His scream had brought Khala Jamila running from the kitchen. "It sounded like a jaroo, a broomstick, snapping in half,?she was always fond of saying, though the doctor had said it was unlikely she'd heard anything of the sort. The general's shattered hip--and all of the ensuing complications, the pneumonia, blood poisoning, the protracted stay at the nursing Home--ended Khala Jamila's long-running soliloquies about her own health. And started new ones about the general's. She'd tell anyone who would listen that the doctors had told them his kidneys were failing. "But then they had never seen Afghan kidneys, had they??she'd say proudly. What I remember most about the general's hospital stay is how Khala Jamila would wait until he fell asleep, and then sing to him, songs I remembered from Kabul, playing on Baba's scratchy old transistor radio. The general's frailty--and time--had softened things between him and Soraya too. They took walks together, went to lunch on Saturdays, and, sometimes, the general sat in on some of her classes. He'd sit in the back of the room, dressed in his shiny old gray suit, wooden cane across his lap, smiling. Sometimes he even took notes. THAT NIGHT, Soraya and I lay in bed, her back pressed to my chest, my face buried in her hair. I remembered when we used to lay forehead to forehead, sharing afterglow kisses and whispering until our eyes drifted closed, whispering about tiny, curled toes, first smiles, first words, first steps. We still did sometimes, but the whispers were about school, my new book, a giggle over someone's ridiculous dress at a party. Our lovemaking was still good, at times better than good, but some nights all I'd feel was a relief to be done with it, to be free to drift away and forget, at least for a while, about the futility of what we'd just done. She never said so, but I knew sometimes Soraya felt it too. On those nights, we'd each roll to our side of the bed and let our own savior take us away. Soraya's was sleep. Mine, as always, was a book. I lay in the dark the night Rahim Khan called and traced with my eyes the parallel silver lines on the wall made by moonlight pouring through the blinds. At some point, maybe just before dawn, I drifted to sleep. And dreamed of Hassan running in the snow, the hem of his green chapan dragging behind him, snow crunching under his black rubber boots. He was yelling over his shoulder: For you, a thousand times over! A WEEK LATER, I sat on a window seat aboard a Pakistani International Airlines flight, watching a pair of uniformed airline workers remove the wheel chocks. The plane taxied out of the terminal and, soon, we were airborne, cutting through the clouds. I rested my head against the window. Waited, in vain, for sleep. 第十四章 2001年6  月     我把话筒放回座机，久久凝望着它。阿夫拉图的吠声吓了我一跳，我这才意识到房间变得多么安静。索拉雅消掉了电视的声音。     “你脸色苍白，阿米尔。”她说，坐在沙发上，就是她父母当成我们第一套房子的乔迁之礼的沙发。她躺在那儿，阿夫拉图的头靠在她胸前，她的脚伸在几个破旧的枕头下面。 她一边看着公共电视台关于明尼苏达濒危狼群的特别节目， 一边给暑期学校的学生改作文——六年来，她在同一所学校执教。她坐起来，阿夫拉图从沙发跳下。给我们这只长耳软毛猎犬取名的是将军，名字在法尔西语里  面的意思是柏拉图，因为，他说，如果你长时间观察那只猎犬朦胧的黑眼睛，你一定会发现它在思索着哲理。     索拉雅白皙的下巴稍微胖了些。逝去的十年使得她臀部的曲线变宽了一些，在她乌黑的秀发渗进几丝灰白。然而她仍是个公主，脸庞圆润，眉毛如同小鸟张开的翅膀，鼻子的曲线像某些古代阿拉伯书籍中的字母那样优雅。     “你脸色苍白。”索拉雅重复说，将那叠纸放在桌子上。     “我得去一趟巴基斯坦。”她当即站起来：“巴基斯坦？”   “拉辛汗病得很厉害。”我说着这话的时候内心绞痛。     “叔叔以前的合伙人吗？”她从未见过拉辛汗，但我提及过他。我点点头。     “哦，”她说，“我很难过，阿米尔。”     “过去我们很要好。”我说，“当我还是孩子的时候，他是第一个被我当成朋友的成年人。”我描述起来，说到他和爸爸在书房里面喝茶，然后靠近窗户吸烟，和风从花园带来阵阵蔷薇的香味，吹得两根烟柱袅袅飘散。     “我记得你提到过。”索拉雅说。她沉默了一会，“你会去多久？”     “我不知道，他想看到我。”     “那儿……”     “是的，那儿很安全。我会没事的，索拉雅。”她想问的是这个问题——十五年的琴瑟和鸣让我们变得心有灵犀。“我想出去走走。”     “要我陪着你吗？”   “不用，我想一个人。”我驱车前往金门公园，独自沿着公园北边的斯普瑞柯湖边散步。那是个美丽   的星期天下午，太阳照在波光粼粼的水面上，数十艘轻舟在旧金山清新的和风吹  拂中漂行。我坐在公园的长椅上，看着一个男人将橄榄球扔给他的儿子，告诉他不可横臂投球，要举过肩膀。我抬起头，望见两只红色的风筝，拖着蓝色的长尾巴。它们越过公园西端的树林，越过风车。     我想起挂电话之前拉辛汗所说的一句话。他不经意间提起，却宛如经过深思熟虑。我闭上眼，看见他在嘈杂的长途电话线那端，看见他歪着头，嘴唇微微分合。再一次，他深邃莫测的黑色眼珠中，有些东西暗示着我们之间未经说出的秘密。但是此刻我知道他知道。 我这些年来的怀疑是对的。他知道阿塞夫、风筝、钱，还有那个指针闪光的手表的事情。 他一直都知道。     “来吧。这儿有再次成为好人的路。”拉辛汗在挂电话之前说了这句话。不经意间提起，却宛如经过深思熟虑。     再次成为好人的路。     我回到家中，索拉雅在跟她妈妈打电话。“不会太久的，亲爱的妈妈。一个星期吧，也许两个……是的，你跟爸爸可以来陪我住……”     两年前，将军摔断了右边髋骨。那时他的偏头痛又刚刚发作过，他从房间里  出来，眼睛模糊昏花，被地毯松脱的边缘绊倒。听到他的惨叫，雅米拉阿姨从厨房跑出来。“听起来就像是一根扫把断成两半。”她总是喜欢那么说，虽然大夫说她不太可能听到那样的声音。 将军摔断髋骨之后出现了诸多并发症状，有肺炎、败血症，在疗养院度过不少时日，雅米拉阿姨结束长期以来对自身健康状况的自怜自艾，而开始对将军的病况喋喋不休。她遇到人就说，大夫告诉他们，他的肾功能衰退了。“可是他们从来没有见过阿富汗人的肾，是吧？” 她骄傲地说。至于将军住院的那些日子，我印象最深刻的是，雅米拉阿姨如何在将军身边 轻轻哼唱，直到他人眠，在喀布尔的时候，那些歌谣也曾从爸爸那个嘶嘶作响的破旧变频 收音机里传出来。     将军的病痛——还有时间——缓和了他和索拉雅之间的僵局。他们会一起散步，周六出去下馆子，而且，将军偶尔还会去听她讲课。他身穿那发亮的灰色旧西装，膝盖上横摆着拐杖，微笑着坐在教室最后一排。他有时甚至还做笔记。     那天夜里，索拉雅和我躺在床上，她的后背贴着我的胸膛，我的脸埋在她秀发里面。 我记得过去，我们总是额头抵额头躺着，缠绵拥吻，低声呻吟，直到我们的眼睛不知不觉间闭上，细说着她那纤细弯曲的脚趾、第一次微笑、第一次交谈、第一次散步。如今我们偶尔也会这样，不过低语的薀拓于学校、我的新书，也为某人在宴会穿了不得体的衣服咯咯发笑。我们的性生活依然很好，有时甚至可以说是很棒。但有的夜晚，做完爱之后，我的全部感觉只是如释重负：终于做完了，终于可以放任思绪飘散了，至少可以有那么一时半会儿，忘记我们适才所做的竟然是徒劳无功。虽然她从没提起，但我知道有时索拉雅也有这样的感觉。在那些夜晚，我们会各自蜷缩在床的两边，让我们的恩人来解救我们。索拉雅的  恩人是睡眠，我的永远是一本书。     拉辛汗打电话来那晚，我躺在黑暗中，眼望月光剌穿黑暗、在墙壁上投射出  来的银光。 也许快到黎明的某一刻，我昏昏睡去。梦见哈桑在雪地奔跑，绿色长袍的后摆拖在他身后，黑色的橡胶靴子踩得积雪吱吱响。他举臂挥舞：为你，千千万万遍！     一周之后，我上了巴基斯坦国际航空公司的飞机，坐在靠窗的位置，看着两个地勤人员把挡住机轮的东西搬开。飞机滑行，离开航站楼，很快，我们腾空而上，刺穿云层。我将头靠在窗子上，徒劳地等着入眠。

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Chapter 13
When we arrived at the Taheris?home the next evening--for lafz, the ceremony of "giving word?-I had to park the Ford across the street. Their driveway was already jammed with cars. I wore a navy blue suit I had bought the previous day, after I had brought Baba Home from _khastegari_. I checked my tie in the rearview mirror.
"You look khoshteep,?Baba said. Handsome.
"Thank you, Baba. Are you all right? Do you feel up to this??
"Up to this? It's the happiest day of my life, Amir,?he said, smiling tiredly.

I COULD HEAR CHATTER from the other side of the door, laughter, and Afghan music playing softly--it sounded like a classical ghazal by Ustad Sarahang. I rang the bell. A face peeked through the curtains of the foyer window and disappeared. "They're here!?I heard a woman's voice say. The chatter stopped. Someone turned off the music.
Khanum Taheri opened the door. "_Salaam alaykum_,?she said, beaming. She'd permed her hair, I saw, and wore an elegant, ankle-length black dress. When I stepped into the foyer, her eyes moistened. "You're barely in the house and I'm crying already, Amir jan,?she said. I planted a kiss on her hand, just as Baba had instructed me to do the night before.
She led us through a brightly lit hallway to the living room. On the wood-paneled walls, I saw pictures of the people who would become my new family: A young bouffant-haired Khanum Taheri and the general--Niagara Falls in the background; Khanum Taheri in a seamless dress, the general in a narrow-lapelled jacket and thin tie, his hair full and black; Soraya, about to board a wooden roller coaster, waving and smiling, the sun glinting off the silver wires in her teeth. A photo of the general, dashing in full military outfit, shaking hands with King Hussein of Jordan. A portrait of Zahir Shah.
The living room was packed with about two dozen guests seated on chairs placed along the walls. When Baba entered, everybody stood up. We went around the room, Baba leading slowly, me behind him, shaking hands and greeting the guests. The general--still in his gray suit--and Baba embraced, gently tapping each other on the back. They said their Salaams in respectful hushed tones.
The general held me at arm's length and smiled knowingly, as if saying, "Now, this is the right way--the Afghan way--to do it, _bachem_.?We kissed three times on the cheek.
We sat in the crowded room, Baba and I next to each other, across from the general and his wife. Baba's breathing had grown a little ragged, and he kept wiping sweat off his forehead and scalp with his handkerchief. He saw me looking at him and managed a strained grin. I'm all right,?he mouthed.
In keeping with tradition, Soraya was not present.
A few moments of small talk and idle chatter followed until the general cleared his throat. The room became quiet and everyone looked down at their hands in respect. The general nodded toward Baba.
Baba cleared his own throat. When he began, he couldn't speak in complete sentences without stopping to breathe. "General Sahib, Khanum Jamila jan... it's with great humility that my son and I... have come to your Home today. You are... honorable people... from distinguished and reputable families and... proud lineage. I come with nothing but the utmost ihtiram... and the highest regards for you, your family names, and the memory... of your ancestors.?He stopped. Caught his breath. Wiped his brow. "Amirjan is my only son... my only child, and he has been a good son to me. I hope he proves... worthy of your kindness. I ask that you honor Amir jan and me... and accept my son into your family.?
The general nodded politely.
"We are honored to welcome the son of a man such as yourself into our family,?he said. "Your reputation precedes you. I was your humble admirer in Kabul and remain so today. We are honored that your family and ours will be joined.
"Amirjan, as for you, I welcome you to my Home as a son, as the husband of my daughter who is the noor of my eye. Your pain will be our pain, your joy our joy. I hope that you will come to see your Khala Jamila and me as a second set of parents, and I pray for your and our lovely Soraya jan's Happiness. You both have our blessings.?
Everyone applauded, and with that signal, heads turned toward the hallway. The moment I'd waited for.
Soraya appeared at the end. Dressed in a stunning winecolored traditional Afghan dress with long sleeves and gold trimmings. Baba's hand took mine and tightened. Khanum Taheri burst into fresh tears. Slowly, Soraya caine to us, tailed by a procession of young female relatives.
She kissed my father's hands. Sat beside me at last, her eyes downcast.
The applause swelled.

ACCORDING TO TRADITION, Soraya's family would have thrown the engagement party the Shirini-khori---or "Eating of the Sweets?ceremony. Then an engagement period would have followed which would have lasted a few months. Then the wedding, which would be paid for by Baba.
We all agreed that Soraya and I would forgo the Shirini-khori. Everyone knew the reason, so no one had to actually say it: that Baba didn't have months to live.
Soraya and I never went out alone together while preparations for the wedding proceeded--since we weren't married yet, hadn't even had a Shirini-khori, it was considered improper. So I had to make do with going over to the Taheris with Baba for dinner. Sit across from Soraya at the dinner table. Imagine what it would be like to feel her head on my chest, smell her hair. Kiss her. Make love to her.
Baba spent $35,000, nearly the balance of his life savings, on the awroussi, the wedding ceremony. He rented a large Afghan banquet hail in Fremont--the man who owned it knew him from Kabul and gave him a substantial discount. Baba paid for the ??chi las, our matching wedding bands, and for the diamond ring I picked out. He bought my tuxedo, and my traditional green suit for the nika--the swearing ceremony. For all the frenzied preparations that went into the wedding night--most of it, blessedly, by Khanum Taheri and her friends-- I remember only a handful of moments from it.
I remember our nika. We were seated around a table, Soraya and I dressed in green--the color of Islam, but also the color of spring and new beginnings. I wore a suit, Soraya (the only woman at the table) a veiled long-sleeved dress. Baba, General Taheri (in a tuxedo this time), and several of Soraya's uncles were also present at the table. Soraya and I looked down, solemnly respectful, casting only sideway glances at each other. The mullah questioned the witnesses and read from the Koran. We said our oaths. Signed the certificates. One of Soraya's uncles from Virginia, Sharif jan, Khanum Taheri's brother, stood up and cleared his throat. Soraya had told me that he had lived in the U.S. for more than twenty years. He worked for the INS and had an American wife. He was also a poet. A small man with a birdlike face and fluffy hair, he read a lengthy poem dedicated to Soraya, jotted down on hotel stationery paper. "Wah wah, Sharifjan!?everyone exclaimed when he finished.
I remember walking toward the stage, now in my tuxedo, Soraya a veiled pan in white, our hands locked. Baba hobbled next to me, the general and his wife beside their daughter. A procession of uncles, aunts, and cousins followed as we made our way through the hail, parting a sea of applauding guests, blinking at flashing cameras. One of Soraya's cousins, Sharif jan's son, held a Koran over our heads as we inched along. The wedding song, ahesta boro, blared from the speakers, the same song the Russian soldier at the Mahipar checkpoint had sung the night Baba and I left Kabul:
Make morning into a key and throw it into the well,
Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly. Let the morning sun forget to rise in the east, Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly.
I remember sitting on the sofa, set on the stage like a throne, Soraya's hand in mine, as three hundred or so faces looked on. We did Ayena Masshaf, where they gave us a mirror and threw a veil over our heads, so we'd be alone to gaze at each other's reflection. Looking at Soraya's smiling face in that mirror, in the momentary privacy of the veil, I whispered to her for the first time that I loved her. A blush, red like henna, bloomed on her cheeks.
I picture colorful platters of chopan kabob, sholeh-goshti, and wild-orange rice. I see Baba between us on the sofa, smiling. I remember sweat-drenched men dancing the traditional attan in a circle, bouncing, spinning faster and faster with the feverish tempo of the tabla, until all but a few dropped out of the ring with exhaustion. I remember wishing Rahim Khan were there.
And I remember wondering if Hassan too had married. And if so, whose face he had seen in the mirror under the veil? Whose henna-painted hands had he held?

AROUND 2 A.M., the party moved from the banquet hall to Baba's apartment. Tea flowed once more and music played until the neighbors called the cops. Later that night, the sun less than an hour from rising and the guests finally gone, Soraya and I lay together for the first time. All my life, I'd been around men. That night, I discovered the tenderness of a woman.

IT WAS SORAYA who suggested that she move in with Baba and me.
"I thought you might want us to have our own place,?I said.
"With Kaka jan as sick as he is??she replied. Her eyes told me that was no way to start a marriage. I kissed her. "Thank you.?
Soraya dedicated herself to taking care of my father. She made his toast and tea in the morning, and helped him in and out of bed. She gave him his pain pills, washed his clothes, read him the international section of the newspaper every afternoon, She cooked his favorite dish, potato shorwa, though he could scarcely eat more than a few spoonfuls, and took him out every day for a brief walk around the block. And when he became bedridden, she turned him on his side every hour so he wouldn't get a bedsore.
One day, I came Home from the pharmacy with Baba's morphine pills. Just as I shut the door, I caught a glimpse of Soraya quickly sliding something under Baba's blanket. "Hey, I saw that! What were you two doing??I said.
"Nothing,?Soraya said, smiling.
"Liar.?I lifted Baba's blanket. "What's this??I said, though as soon as I picked up the leather-bound book, I knew. I traced my fingers along the gold-stitched borders. I remembered the fire works the night Rahim Khan had given it to me, the night of my thirteenth birthday, flares sizzling and exploding into bouquets of red, green, and yellow.
"I can't believe you can write like this,?Soraya said.
Baba dragged his head off the pillow. "I put her up to it. I hope you don't mind.?
I gave the notebook back to Soraya and left the room. Baba hated it when I cried.
A MONTH AFTER THE wedding, the Taheris, Sharif, his wife Suzy, and several of Soraya's aunts came over to our apartment for dinner. Soraya made sabzi challow--white rice with spinach and lamb. After dinner, we all had green tea and played cards in groups of four. Soraya and I played with Sharif and Suzy on the Coffee table, next to the couch where Baba lay under a wool blanket. He watched me joking with Sharif, watched Soraya and me lacing our fingers together, watched me push back a loose curl of her hair. I could see his internal smile, as wide as the skies of Kabul on nights when the poplars shivered and the sound of crickets swelled in the gardens.
Just before midnight, Baba asked us to help him into bed. Soraya and I placed his arms on our shoulders and wrapped ours around his back. When we lowered him, he had Soraya turn off the bedside lamp. He asked us to lean in, gave us each a kiss.
"I'll come back with your morphine and a glass of water, Kaka jan,?Soraya said.
"Not tonight,?he said. "There is no pain tonight.?
"Okay,?she said. She pulled up his blanket. We closed the door. Baba never woke up.

THEY FILLED THE PARKING SPOTS at the mosque in Hayward. On the balding grass field behind the building, cars and SUVs parked in crowded makeshift rows. People had to drive three or four blocks north of the mosque to find a spot.
The men's section of the mosque was a large square room, covered with Afghan rugs and thin mattresses placed in parallel lines. Men filed into the room, leaving their shoes at the entrance, and sat cross-legged on the mattresses. A mullah chanted surrahs from the Koran into a microphone. I sat by the door, the customary position for the family of the deceased. General Taheri was seated next to me.
Through the open door, I could see lines of cars pulling in, sunlight winking in their windshields. They dropped off passengers, men dressed in dark suits, women clad in black dresses, their heads covered with traditional white hijabs.
As words from the Koran reverberated through the room, I thought of the old story of Baba wrestling a black bear in Baluchistan. Baba had wrestled bears his whole life. Losing his young wife. Raising a son by himself. Leaving his beloved Homeland, his watan. Poverty. Indignity. In the end, a bear had come that he couldn't best. But even then, he had lost on his own terms.
After each round of prayers, groups of mourners lined up and greeted me on their way out. Dutifully, I shook their hands. Many of them I barely knew I smiled politely, thanked them for their wishes, listened to whatever they had to say about Baba.
??helped me build the house in Taimani...?bless him...
??no one else to turn to and he lent me...?
?..found me a job... barely knew me...?
?..like a brother to me...?
Listening to them, I realized how much of who I was, what I was, had been defined by Baba and the marks he had left on people's lives. My whole life, I had been "Baba's son.?Now he was gone. Baba couldn't show me the way anymore; I'd have to find it on my own.
The thought of it terrified me.
Earlier, at the gravesite in the small Muslim section of the cemetery, I had watched them lower Baba into the hole. The ??mul Iah and another man got into an argument over which was the correct ayat of the Koran to recite at the gravesite. It might have turned ugly had General Taheri not intervened. The mullah chose an ayat and recited it, casting the other fellow nasty glances. I watched them toss the first shovelful of dirt into the grave. Then I left. Walked to the other side of the cemetery. Sat in the shade of a red maple.
Now the last of the mourners had paid their respects and the mosque was empty, save for the mullah unplugging the microphone and wrapping his Koran in green cloth. The general and I stepped out into a late-afternoon sun. We walked down the steps, past men smoking in clusters. I heard snippets of their conversations, a soccer game in Union City next weekend, a new Afghan restaurant in Santa Clara. life moving on already, leaving Baba behind.
"How are you, bachem??General Taheri said.
I gritted my teeth. Bit back the tears that had threatened all day. "I'm going to find Soraya,?I said.
"Okay.?
I walked to the women's side of the mosque. Soraya was standing on the steps with her mother and a couple of ladies I recognized vaguely from the wedding. I motioned to Soraya. She said something to her mother and came to me.
"Can we walk??I said.
"Sure.?She took my hand.
We walked in silence down a winding gravel path lined by a row of low hedges. We sat on a bench and watched an elderly couple kneeling beside a grave a few rows away and placing a bouquet of daisies by the headstone. "Soraya??
"Yes??
"I'm going to miss him.?
She put her hand on my lap. Baba's chila glinted on her ring finger. Behind her, I could see Baba's mourners driving away on Mission Boulevard. Soon we'd leave too, and for the first time ever, Baba would be all alone.
Soraya pulled me to her and the tears finally came.

BECAUSE SORAYA AND I never had an engagement period, much of what I learned about the Taheris I learned after I married into their family. For example, I learned that, once a month, the general suffered from blinding migraines that lasted almost a week. When the headaches struck, the general went to his room, undressed, turned off the light, locked the door, and didn't come out until the pain subsided. No one was allowed to go in, no one was allowed to knock. Eventually, he would emerge, dressed in his gray suit once more, smelling of sleep and bedsheets, his eyes puffy and bloodshot. I learned from Soraya that he and Khanum Taheri had slept in separate rooms for as long as she could remember. I learned that he could be petty, such as when he'd take a bite of the _qurma_ his wife placed before him, sigh, and push it away. "I'll make you something else,?Khanum Taheri would say, but he'd ignore her, sulk, and eat bread and onion. This made Soraya angry and her mother cry. Soraya told me he took antide pressants. I learned that he had kept his family on welfare and had never held a job in the U.S., preferring to cash government-issued checks than degrading himself with work unsuitable for a man of his stature--he saw the flea market only as a hobby, a way to socialize with his fellow Afghans. The general believed that, sooner or later, Afghanistan would be freed, the monarchy restored, and his services would once again be called upon. So every day, he donned his gray suit, wound his pocket watch, and waited.
I learned that Khanum Taheri--whom I called Khala Jamila now--had once been famous in Kabul for her enchanting singing voice. Though she had never sung professionally, she had had the talent to--I learned she could sing folk songs, ghazals, even raga, which was usually a man's domain. But as much as the general appreciated listening to music--he owned, in fact, a considerable collection of classical ghazal tapes by Afghan and Hindi singers--he believed the performing of it best left to those with lesser reputations. That she never sing in public had been one of the general's conditions when they had married. Soraya told me that her mother had wanted to sing at our wedding, only one song, but the general gave her one of his looks and the matter was buried. Khala Jamila played the lotto once a week and watched Johnny Carson every night. She spent her days in the garden, tending to her roses, geraniums, potato vines, and orchids.
When I married Soraya, the flowers and Johnny Carson took a backseat. I was the new delight in Khala Jamila's life. Unlike the general's guarded and diplomatic manners--he didn't correct me when I continued to call him "General Sahib?-Khala Jamila made no secret of how much she adored me. For one thing, I listened to her impressive list of maladies, something the general had long turned a deaf ear to. Soraya told me that, ever since her mother's stroke, every flutter in her chest was a heart attack, every aching joint the onset of rheumatoid arthritis, and every twitch of the eye another stroke. I remember the first time Khala Jamila mentioned a lump in her neck to me. "I'll skip school tomorrow and take you to the doctor,?I said, to which the general smiled and said, "Then you might as well turn in your books for good, bachem. Your khala's medical charts are like the works of Rumi: They come in volumes.?
But it wasn't just that she'd found an audience for her monologues of illness. I firmly believed that if I had picked up a rifle and gone on a murdering rampage, I would have still had the benefit of her unblinking love. Because I had rid her heart of its gravest malady. I had relieved her of the greatest fear of every Afghan mother: that no honorable khastegar would ask for her daughter's hand. That her daughter would age alone, husbandless, childless. Every woman needed a husband. Even if he did silence the song in her.
And, from Soraya, I learned the details of what had happened in Virginia.
We were at a wedding. Soraya's uncle, Sharif, the one who worked for the INS, was marrying his son to an Afghan girl from Newark. The wedding was at the same hall where, six months prior, Soraya and I had had our awroussi. We were standing in a crowd of guests, watching the bride accept rings from the groom's family, when we overheard two middle-aged women talking, their backs to us.
"What a lovely bride,?one of them said, "Just look at her. So maghbool, like the moon.?
"Yes,?the other said. "And pure too. Virtuous. No boyfriends.?
"I know. I tell you that boy did well not to marry his cousin.?
Soraya broke down on the way Home. I pulled the Ford off to the curb, parked under a streetlight on Fremont Boulevard.
"It's all right,?I said, pushing back her hair. "Who cares??
"It's so fucking unfair,?she barked.
"Just forget it.?
"Their sons go out to nightclubs looking for meat and get their girlfriends pregnant, they have kids out of wedlock and no one says a goddamn thing. Oh, they're just men having fun! I make one mistake and suddenly everyone is talking nang and namoos, and I have to have my face rubbed in it for the rest of my life.?
I wiped a tear from her jawline, just above her birthmark, with the pad of my thumb.
"I didn't tell you,?Soraya said, dabbing at her eyes, "but my father showed up with a gun that night. He told... him... that he had two bullets in the chamber, one for him and one for himself if I didn't come Home. I was screaming, calling my father all kinds of names, saying he couldn't keep me locked up forever, that I wished he were dead.?Fresh tears squeezed out between her lids. "I actually said that to him, that I wished he were dead.
"When he brought me Home, my mother threw her arms around me and she was crying too. She was saying things but I couldn't understand any of it because she was slurring her words so badly. So my father took me up to my bedroom and sat me in front of the dresser mirror. He handed me a pair of scissors and calmly told me to cut off all my hair. He watched while I did it.
"I didn't step out of the house for weeks. And when I did, I heard whispers or imagined them everywhere I went. That was four years ago and three thousand miles away and I'm still hearing them.?
"Fuck ‘em,?I said.
She made a sound that was half sob, half laugh. "When I told you about this on the phone the night of khastegari, I was sure you'd change your mind.?
"No chance of that, Soraya.?
She smiled and took my hand. "I'm so lucky to have found you. You're so different from every Afghan guy I've met.?
"Let's never talk about this again, okay??
"Okay.?
I kissed her cheek and pulled away from the curb. As I drove, I wondered why I was different. Maybe it was because I had been raised by men; I hadn't grown up around women and had never been exposed firsthand to the double standard with which Afghan society sometimes treated them. Maybe it was because Baba had been such an unusual Afghan father, a liberal who had lived by his own rules, a maverick who had disregarded or embraced societal customs as he had seen fit.
But I think a big part of the reason I didn't care about Soraya's past was that I had one of my own. I knew all about regret.

SHORTLY AFTER BABA'S DEATH, Soraya and I moved into a one-bedroom apartment in Fremont, just a few blocks away from the general and Khala Jamila's house. Soraya's parents bought us a brown leather couch and a set of Mikasa dishes as housewarming presents. The general gave me an additional present, a brand new IBM typewriter. In the box, he had slipped a note written in Farsi:

Amir jan,
I hope you discover many tales on these keys.
General Iqbal Taheri

I sold Baba's VW bus and, to this day, I have not gone back to the flea market. I would drive to his gravesite every Friday, and, sometimes, I'd find a fresh bouquet of freesias by the headstone and know Soraya had been there too.
Soraya and I settled into the routines--and minor wonders-- of married life. We shared toothbrushes and socks, passed each other the morning paper. She slept on the right side of the bed, I preferred the left. She liked fluffy pillows, I liked the hard ones. She ate her cereal dry, like a snack, and chased it with milk.
I got my acceptance at San Jose State that summer and declared an English major. I took on a security job, swing shift at a furniture warehouse in Sunnyvale. The job was dreadfully boring, but its saving grace was a considerable one: When everyone left at 6 P.M. and shadows began to crawl between aisles of plastic-covered sofas piled to the ceiling, I took out my books and studied. It was in the Pine-Sol-scented office of that furniture warehouse that I began my first novel.
Soraya joined me at San Jose State the following year and enrolled, to her father's chagrin, in the teaching track.
"I don't know why you're wasting your talents like this,?the general said one night over dinner. "Did you know, Amir jan, that she earned nothing but A's in high school??He turned to her. "An intelligent girl like you could become a lawyer, a political scientist. And, _Inshallah_, when Afghanistan is free, you could help write the new constitution. There would be a need for young talented Afghans like you. They might even offer you a ministry position, given your family name.?
I could see Soraya holding back, her face tightening. "I'm not a girl, Padar. I'm a married woman. Besides, they'd need teachers too.?
"Anyone can teach.?
"Is there any more rice, Madar??Soraya said.
After the general excused himself to meet some friends in Hayward, Khala Jamila tried to console Soraya. "He means well,?she said. "He just wants you to be successful.?
"So he can boast about his attorney daughter to his friends. Another medal for the general,?Soraya said.
"Such nonsense you speak!?
"Successful,?Soraya hissed. "At least I'm not like him, sitting around while other people fight the Shorawi, waiting for when the dust settles so he can move in and reclaim his posh little government position. Teaching may not pay much, but it's what I want to do! It's what I love, and it's a whole lot better than collecting welfare, by the way.?
Khala Jamila bit her tongue. "If he ever hears you saying that, he will never speak to you again.?
"Don't worry,?Soraya snapped, tossing her napkin on the plate. "I won't bruise his precious ego.?

IN THE SUMMER of 1988, about six months before the Soviets withdrew from Afghanistan, I finished my first novel, a father-son story set in Kabul, written mostly with the typewriter the general had given me. I sent query letters to a dozen agencies and was stunned one August day when I opened our mailbox and found a request from a New York agency for the completed manuscript. I mailed it the next day. Soraya kissed the carefully wrapped manuscript and Khala Jamila insisted we pass it under the Koran. She told me that she was going to do nazr for me, a vow to have a sheep slaughtered and the meat given to the poor if my book was accepted.
"Please, no nazn, Khala jan,?I said, kissing her face. "Just do _zakat_, give the money to someone in need, okay? No sheep killing.?
Six weeks later, a man named Martin Greenwalt called from New York and offered to represent me. I only told Soraya about it. "But just because I have an agent doesn't mean I'll get published. If Martin sells the novel, then we'll celebrate.?
A month later, Martin called and informed me I was going to be a published novelist. When I told Soraya, she screamed.
We had a celebration dinner with Soraya's parents that night. Khala Jamila made kofta--meatballs and white rice--and white ferni. The general, a sheen of moisture in his eyes, said that he was proud of me. After General Taheri and his wife left, Soraya and I celebrated with an expensive bottle of Merlot I had bought on the way Home--the general did not approve of women drinking alcohol, and Soraya didn't drink in his presence.
"I am so proud of you,?she said, raising her glass to mine. "Kaka would have been proud too.?
"I know,?I said, thinking of Baba, wishing he could have seen me.
Later that night, after Soraya fell asleep--wine always made her sleepy--I stood on the balcony and breathed in the cool summer air. I thought of Rahim Khan and the little note of support he had written me after he'd read my first story. And I thought of Hassan. Some day, _Inshallah_, you will be a great writer, he had said once, and people all over the world will read your stories. There was so much goodness in my life. So much Happiness. I wondered whether I deserved any of it.
The novel was released in the summer of that following year, 1989, and the publisher sent me on a five-city book tour. I became a minor celebrity in the Afghan community. That was the year that the Shorawi completed their withdrawal from Afghanistan. It should have been a time of glory for Afghans. Instead, the war raged on, this time between Afghans, the Mujahedin, against the Soviet puppet government of Najibullah, and Afghan refugees kept flocking to Pakistan. That was the year that the cold war ended, the year the Berlin Wall came down. It was the year of Tiananmen Square. In the midst of it all, Afghanistan was forgotten. And General Taheri, whose hopes had stirred awake after the Soviets pulled out, went back to winding his pocket watch.
That was also the year that Soraya and I began trying to have a child.

THE IDEA OF FATHERHOOD unleashed a swirl of emotions in me. I found it frightening, invigorating, daunting, and exhilarating all at the same time. What sort of father would I make, I wondered. I wanted to be just like Baba and I wanted to be nothing like him.
But a year passed and nothing happened. With each cycle of blood, Soraya grew more frustrated, more impatient, more irritable. By then, Khala Jamila's initially subtle hints had become overt, as in "Kho dega!?So! "When am I going to sing alahoo for my little nawasa??The general, ever the Pashtun, never made any queries--doing so meant alluding to a sexual act between his daughter and a man, even if the man in question had been married to her for over four years. But his eyes perked up when Khala Jamila teased us about a baby.
"Sometimes, it takes a while,?I told Soraya one night.
"A year isn't a while, Amir!?she said, in a terse voice so unlike her. "Something's wrong, I know it.?
"Then let's see a doctor.?
DR. ROSEN, a round-bellied man with a plump face and small, even teeth, spoke with a faint Eastern European accent, some thing remotely Slavic. He had a passion for trains--his office was littered with books about the history of railroads, model locomotives, paintings of trains trundling on tracks through green hills and over bridges. A sign above his desk read, life IS A TRAIN. GET ON BOARD.
He laid out the plan for us. I'd get checked first. "Men are easy,?he said, fingers tapping on his mahogany desk. "A man's plumbing is like his mind: simple, very few surprises. You ladies, on the other hand... well, God put a lot of thought into making you.?I wondered if he fed that bit about the plumbing to all of his couples.
"Lucky us,?Soraya said.
Dr. Rosen laughed. It fell a few notches short of genuine. He gave me a lab slip and a plastic jar, handed Soraya a request for some routine blood tests. We shook hands. "Welcome aboard,?he said, as he showed us out.

I PASSED WITH FLYING COLORS.
The next few months were a blur of tests on Soraya: Basal body temperatures, blood tests for every conceivable hormone, urine tests, something called a "Cervical Mucus Test,?ultrasounds, more blood tests, and more urine tests. Soraya underwent a procedure called a hysteroscopy--Dr. Rosen inserted a telescope into Soraya's uterus and took a look around. He found nothing. "The plumbing's clear,?he announced, snapping off his latex gloves. I wished he'd stop calling it that--we weren't bathrooms. When the tests were over, he explained that he couldn't explain why we couldn't have kids. And, apparently, that wasn't so unusual

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Chapter 12
In Afghanistan, _yelda_ is the first night of the month of _Jadi_, the first night of winter, and the longest night of the year. As was the tradition, Hassan and I used to stay up late, our feet tucked under the kursi, while Ali tossed apple skin into the stove and told us ancient tales of sultans and thieves to pass that longest of nights. It was from Ali that I learned the lore of _yelda_, that bedeviled moths flung themselves at candle flames, and wolves climbed mountains looking for the sun. Ali swore that if you ate water melon the night of _yelda_, you wouldn't get thirsty the coming summer.
When I was older, I read in my poetry books that _yelda_ was the starless night tormented lovers kept vigil, enduring the endless dark, waiting for the sun to rise and bring with it their loved one. After I met Soraya Taheri, every night of the week became a _yelda_ for me. And when Sunday mornings came, I rose from bed, Soraya Taheri's brown-eyed face already in my head. In Baba's bus, I counted the miles until I'd see her sitting barefoot, arranging cardboard boxes of yellowed encyclopedias, her heels white against the asphalt, silver bracelets jingling around her slender wrists. I'd think of the shadow her hair cast on the ground when it slid off her back and hung down like a velvet curtain. Soraya. Swap Meet Princess. The morning sun to my yelda.
I invented excuses to stroll down the aisle--which Baba acknowledged with a playful smirk--and pass the Taheris?stand. I would wave at the general, perpetually dressed in his shiny overpressed gray suit, and he would wave back. Sometimes he'd get up from his director's chair and we'd make small talk about my writing, the war, the day's bargains. And I'd have to will my eyes not to peel away, not to wander to where Soraya sat reading a paperback. The general and I would say our good-byes and I'd try not to slouch as I walked away.
Sometimes she sat alone, the general off to some other row to socialize, and I would walk by, pretending not to know her, but dying to. Sometimes she was there with a portly middle-aged woman with pale skin and dyed red hair. I promised myself that I would talk to her before the summer was over, but schools reopened, the leaves reddened, yellowed, and fell, the rains of winter swept in and wakened Baba's joints, baby leaves sprouted once more, and I still hadn't had the heart, the dil, to even look her in the eye.
The spring quarter ended in late May 1985. I aced all of my general education classes, which was a minor miracle given how I'd sit in lectures and think of the soft hook of Soraya's nose.
Then, one sweltering Sunday that summer, Baba and I were at the flea market, sitting at our booth, fanning our faces with news papers. Despite the sun bearing down like a branding iron, the market was crowded that day and sales had been strong--it was only 12:30 but we'd already made $160. I got up, stretched, and asked Baba if he wanted a Coke. He said he'd love one.
"Be careful, Amir,?he said as I began to walk. "Of what, Baba??
"I am not an ahmaq, so don't play stupid with me.?
"I don't know what you're talking about.?
"Remember this,?Baba said, pointing at me, "The man is a Pashtun to the root. He has nang and namoos.?Nang. Namoos. Honor and pride. The tenets of Pashtun men. Especially when it came to the chastity of a wife. Or a daughter.
"I'm only going to get us drinks.?
"Just don't embarrass me, that's all I ask.?
"I won't. God, Baba.?
Baba lit a cigarette and started fanning himself again.
I walked toward the concession booth initially, then turned left at the T-shirt stand--where, for $5, you could have the face of Jesus, Elvis, Jim Morrison, or all three, pressed on a white nylon T-shirt. Mariachi music played overhead, and I smelled pickles and grilled meat.
I spotted the Taheris?gray van two rows from ours, next to a kiosk selling mango-on-a-stick. She was alone, reading. White ankle-length summer dress today. Open-toed sandals. Hair pulled back and crowned with a tulip-shaped bun. I meant to simply walk by again and I thought I had, except suddenly I was standing at the edge of the Taheris?white tablecloth, staring at Soraya across curling irons and old neckties. She looked up.
"Salaam,?I said. "I'm sorry to be mozahem, I didn't mean to disturb you.?
"Salaam.?
"Is General Sahib here today??I said. My ears were burning. I couldn't bring myself to look her in the eye.
"He went that way,?she said. Pointed to her right. The bracelet slipped down to her elbow, silver against olive.
"Will you tell him I stopped by to pay my respects??I said.
"I will.?
"Thank you,?I said. "Oh, and my name is Amir. In case you need to know. So you can tell him. That I stopped by. To... pay my respects.?
"Yes.?
I shifted on my feet, cleared my throat. "I'll go now. Sorry to have disturbed you.?
"Nay, you didn't,?she said.
"Oh. Good.?I tipped my head and gave her a half smile. "I'll go now.?Hadn't I already said that? "Khoda h?fez.?
"Khoda h?fez.?
I began to walk. Stopped and turned. I said it before I had a chance to lose my nerve: "Can I ask what you're reading??
She blinked.
I held my breath. Suddenly, I felt the collective eyes of the flea market Afghans shift to us. I imagined a hush falling. Lips stop ping in midsentence. Heads turning. Eyes narrowing with keen interest.
What was this?
Up to that point, our encounter could have been interpreted as a respectful inquiry, one man asking for the whereabouts of another man. But I'd asked her a question and if she answered, we'd be... well, we'd be chatting. Me a mojarad, a single young man, and she an unwed young woman. One with a history, no less. This was teetering dangerously on the verge of gossip material, and the best kind of it. Poison tongues would flap. And she would bear the brunt of that poison, not me--I was fully aware of the Afghan double standard that favored my gender. Not Did you see him chatting with her? but Wooooy! Did you see how she wouldn't let him go? What a lochak!
By Afghan standards, my question had been bold. With it, I had bared myself, and left little doubt as to my interest in her. But I was a man, and all I had risked was a bruised ego. Bruises healed. Reputations did not. Would she take my dare?
She turned the book so the cover faced me. Wuthering Heights. "Have you read it??she said.
I nodded. I could feel the pulsating beat of my heart behind my eyes. "It's a sad story.?
"Sad stories make good books,?she said.
"They do.?
"I heard you write.?
How did she know? I wondered if her father had told her, maybe she had asked him. I immediately dismissed both scenarios as absurd. Fathers and sons could talk freely about women. But no Afghan girl--no decent and mohtaram Afghan girl, at least--queried her father about a young man. And no father, especially a Pashtun with nang and namoos, would discuss a mojarad with his daughter, not unless the fellow in question was a khastegar, a suitor, who had done the honorable thing and sent his father to knock on the door.
Incredibly, I heard myself say, "Would you like to read one of my stories??
"I would like that,?she said. I sensed an unease in her now, saw it in the way her eyes began to flick side to side. Maybe checking for the general. I wondered what he would say if he found me speaking for such an inappropriate length of time with his daughter.
"Maybe I'll bring you one someday,?I said. I was about to say more when the woman I'd seen on occasion with Soraya came walking up the aisle. She was carrying a plastic bag full of fruit. When she saw us, her eyes bounced from Soraya to me and back. She smiled.
"Amir jan, good to see you,?she said, unloading the bag on the tablecloth. Her brow glistened with a sheen of sweat. Her red hair, coiffed like a helmet, glittered in the sunlight--I could see bits of her scalp where the hair had thinned. She had small green eyes buried in a cabbage-round face, capped teeth, and little fingers like sausages. A golden Allah rested on her chest, the chain burrowed under the skin tags and folds of her neck. "I am Jamila, Soraya jan's mother.?
"Salaam, Khala jan,?I said, embarrassed, as I often was around Afghans, that she knew me and I had no idea who she was.
"How is your father??she said.
"He's well, thank you.?
"You know, your grandfather, Ghazi Sahib, the judge? Now, his uncle and my grandfather were cousins,?she said. "So you see, we're related.?She smiled a cap-toothed smile, and I noticed the right side of her mouth drooping a little. Her eyes moved between Soraya and me again.
I'd asked Baba once why General Taheri's daughter hadn't married yet. No suitors, Baba said. No suitable suitors, he amended. But he wouldn't say more--Baba knew how lethal idle talk could prove to a young woman's prospects of marrying well. Afghan men, especially those from reputable families, were fickle creatures. A whisper here, an insinuation there, and they fled like startled birds. So weddings had come and gone and no one had sung ahesta boro for Soraya, no one had painted her palms with henna, no one had held a Koran over her headdress, and it had been General Taheri who'd danced with her at every wedding.
And now, this woman, this mother, with her heartbreakingly eager, crooked smile and the barely veiled hope in her eyes. I cringed a little at the position of power I'd been granted, and all because I had won at the genetic lottery that had determined my sex.
I could never read the thoughts in the general's eyes, but I knew this much about his wife: If I was going to have an adversary in this--whatever this was--it would not be her.
"Sit down, Amir jan,?she said. "Soraya, get him a chair, hachem. And wash one of those peaches. They're sweet and fresh.?
"Nay, thank you,?I said. "I should get going. My father's waiting.?
"Oh??Khanum Taheri said, clearly impressed that I'd done the polite thing and declined the offer. "Then here, at least have this.?She threw a handful of kiwis and a few peaches into a paper bag and insisted I take them. "Carry my Salaam to your father. And come back to see us again.?
"I will. Thank you, Khala jan,?I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Soraya looking away.

"I THOUGHT YOU WERE GETTING COKES,?Baba said, taking the bag of peaches from me. He was looking at me in a simultaneously serious and playful way. I began to make some thing up, but he bit into a peach and waved his hand, "Don't bother, Amir. Just remember what I said.?

THAT NIGHT IN BED, I thought of the way dappled sunlight had danced in Soraya's eyes, and of the delicate hollows above her collarbone. I replayed our conversation over and over in my head. Had she said I heard you write or I heard you're a writer? Which was it? I tossed in my sheets and stared at the ceiling, dismayed at the thought of six laborious, interminable nights of yelda until I saw her again.

IT WENT ON LIKE THAT for a few weeks. I'd wait until the general went for a stroll, then I'd walk past the Taheris?stand. If Khanum Taheri was there, she'd offer me tea and a kolcha and we'd chat about Kabul in the old days, the people we knew, her arthritis. Undoubtedly, she had noticed that my appearances always coincided with her husband's absences, but she never let on. "Oh you just missed your Kaka,?she'd say. I actually liked it when Khanum Taheri was there, and not just because of her amiable ways; Soraya was more relaxed, more talkative with her mother around. As if her presence legitimized whatever was happening between us--though certainly not to the same degree that the general's would have. Khanum Taheri's chaperoning made our meetings, if not gossip-proof, then less gossip-worthy, even if her borderline fawning on me clearly embarrassed Soraya.
One day, Soraya and I were alone at their booth, talking. She was telling me about school, how she too was working on her general education classes, at Ohlone Junior college in Fremont.
"What will you major in??
"I want to be a teacher,?she said.
"Really? Why??
"I've always wanted to. When we lived in Virginia, I became ESL certified and now I teach at the public library one night a week. My mother was a teacher too, she taught Farsi and history at Zarghoona High School for girls in Kabul.?
A potbellied man in a deerstalker hat offered three dollars for a five-dollar set of candlesticks and Soraya let him have it. She dropped the money in a little candy box by her feet. She looked at me shyly. "I want to tell you a story,?she said, "but I'm a little embarrassed about it.?
"Tell me.?
"It's kind of silly.?
"Please tell me.?
She laughed. "Well, when I was in fourth grade in Kabul, my father hired a woman named Ziba to help around the house. She had a sister in Iran, in Mashad, and, since Ziba was illiterate, she'd ask me to write her sister letters once in a while. And when the sister replied, I'd read her letter to Ziba. One day, I asked her if she'd like to learn to read and write. She gave me this big smile, crinkling her eyes, and said she'd like that very much. So we'd sit at the kitchen table after I was done with my own schoolwork and I'd teach her Alef-beh. I remember looking up sometimes in the middle of homework and seeing Ziba in the kitchen, stirring meat in the pressure cooker, then sitting down with a pencil to do the alphabet Homework I'd assigned to her the night before.
"Anyway, within a year, Ziba could read children's books. We sat in the yard and she read me the tales of Dara and Sara--slowly but correctly. She started calling me Moalem Soraya, Teacher Soraya.?She laughed again. "I know it sounds childish, but the first time Ziba wrote her own letter, I knew there was nothing else I'd ever want to be but a teacher. I was so proud of her and I felt I'd done something really worthwhile, you know??
"Yes,?I lied. I thought of how I had used my literacy to ridicule Hassan. How I had teased him about big words he didn't know.
"My father wants me to go to law school, my mother's always throwing hints about medical school, but I'm going to be a teacher. Doesn't pay much here, but it's what I want.?
"My mother was a teacher too,?I said.
"I know,?she said. "My mother told me.?Then her face red dened with a blush at what she had blurted, at the implication of her answer, that "Amir Conversations?took place between them when I wasn't there. It took an enormous effort to stop myself from smiling.
"I brought you something.?I fished the roll of stapled pages from my back pocket. "As promised.?I handed her one of my short stories.
"Oh, you remembered,?she said, actually beaming. "Thank you!?I barely had time to register that she'd addressed me with "tu?for the first time and not the formal "shoma,?because suddenly her smile vanished. The color dropped from her face, and her eyes fixed on something behind me. I turned around. Came face-to-face with General Taheri.
"Amir jan. Our aspiring storyteller. What a pleasure,?he said. He was smiling thinly.
"Salaam, General Sahib,?I said through heavy lips.
He moved past me, toward the booth. "What a beautiful day it is, nay??he said, thumb hooked in the breast pocket of his vest, the other hand extended toward Soraya. She gave him the pages.
"They say it will rain this week. Hard to believe, isn't it??He dropped the rolled pages in the garbage can. Turned to me and gently put a hand on my shoulder. We took a few steps together.
"You know, bachem, I have grown rather fond of you. You are a decent boy, I really believe that, but--?he sighed and waved a hand ?-even decent boys need reminding sometimes. So it's my duty to remind you that you are among peers in this flea market.?He stopped. His expressionless eyes bore into mine. "You see, everyone here is a storyteller.?He smiled, revealing perfectly even teeth. "Do pass my respects to your father, Amir jan.?
He dropped his hand. Smiled again.
"WHAT'S WRONG??Baba said. He was taking an elderly woman's money for a rocking horse.
"Nothing,?I said. I sat down on an old TV set. Then I told him anyway.
"Akh, Amir,?he sighed.
As it turned out, I didn't get to brood too much over what had happened.
Because later that week, Baba caught a cold.

IT STARTED WITH A HACKING COUGH and the sniffles. He got over the sniffles, but the cough persisted. He'd hack into his handkerchief, stow it in his pocket. I kept after him to get it checked, but he'd wave me away. He hated doctors and hospitals. To my knowledge, the only time Baba had ever gone to a doctor was the time he'd caught malaria in India.
Then, two weeks later, I caught him coughing a wad of blood-stained phlegm into the toilet.
"How long have you been doing that??I said.
"What's for dinner??he said.
"I'm taking you to the doctor.?
Even though Baba was a manager at the gas station, the owner hadn't offered him health insurance, and Baba, in his recklessness, hadn't insisted. So I took him to the county hospital in San Jose. The sallow, puffy-eyed doctor who saw us introduced himself as a second-year resident. "He looks younger than you and sicker than me,?Baba grumbled. The resident sent us down for a chest X-ray. When the nurse called us back in, the resident was filling out a form.
"Take this to the front desk,?he said, scribbling quickly.
"What is it??I asked.
"A referral.?Scribble scribble.
"For what??
"Pulmonary clinic.?
"What's that??
He gave me a quick glance. Pushed up his glasses. Began scribbling again. "He's got a spot on his right lung. I want them to check it out.?
"A spot??I said, the room suddenly too small.
"Cancer??Baba added casually.
"Possible. It's suspicious, anyway,?the doctor muttered.
"Can't you tell us more??I asked.
"Not really. Need a CAT scan first, then see the lung doctor.?He handed me the referral form. "You said your father smokes, right??
"Yes.?
He nodded. Looked from me to Baba and back again. "They'll call you within two weeks.?
I wanted to ask him how I was supposed to live with that word, "suspicious,?for two whole weeks. How was I supposed eat, work, study? How could he send me Home with that word?
I took the form and turned it in. That night, I waited until Baba fell asleep, and then folded a blanket. I used it as a prayer rug. Bowing my head to the ground, I recited half-forgotten verses from the Koran--verses the mullah had made us commit to memory in Kabul--and asked for kindness from a God I wasn't sure existed. I envied the mullah now, envied his faith and certainty.
Two weeks passed and no one called. And when I called them, they told me they'd lost the referral. Was I sure I had turned it in? They said they would call in another three weeks. I raised hell and bargained the three weeks down to one for the CAT scan, two to see the doctor.
The visit with the pulmonologist, Dr. Schneider, was going well until Baba asked him where he was from. Dr. Schneider said Russia. Baba lost it.
"Excuse us, Doctor,?I said, pulling Baba aside. Dr. Schneider smiled and stood back, stethoscope still in hand.
"Baba, I read Dr. Schneider's biography in the waiting room. He was born in Michigan. Michigan! He's American, a lot more American than you and I will ever be.?
"I don't care where he was born, he's Roussi,?Baba said, grimacing like it was a dirty word. "His parents were Roussi, his grandparents were Roussi. I swear on your mother's face I'll break his arm if he tries to touch me.?
"Dr. Schneider's parents fled from Shorawi, don't you see? They escaped!?
But Baba would hear none of it. Sometimes I think the only thing he loved as much as his late wife was Afghanistan, his late country. I almost screamed with frustration. Instead, I sighed and turned to Dr. Schneider. "I'm sorry, Doctor. This isn't going to work out.?
The next pulmonologist, Dr. Amani, was Iranian and Baba approved. Dr. Amani, a soft-spoken man with a crooked mustache and a mane of gray hair, told us he had reviewed the CAT scan results and that he would have to perform a procedure called a bronchoscopy to get a piece of the lung mass for pathology. He scheduled it for the following week. I thanked him as I helped Baba out of the office, thinking that now I had to live a whole week with this new word, "mass,?an even more ominous word than "suspicious.?I wished Soraya were there with me.
It turned out that, like Satan, cancer had many names. Baba's was called "Oat Cell Carcinoma.?Advanced. Inoperable. Baba asked Dr. Amani for a prognosis. Dr. Amani bit his lip, used the word "grave.?"There is chemotherapy, of course,?he said. "But it would only be palliative.?
"What does that mean??Baba asked.
Dr. Amani sighed. "It means it wouldn't change the outcome, just prolong it.?
"That's a clear answer, Dr. Amani. Thank you for that,?Baba said. "But no chemo-medication for me.?He had the same resolved look on his face as the day he'd dropped the stack of food stamps on Mrs. Dobbins's desk.
"But Baba--?
"Don't you challenge me in public, Amir. Ever. Who do you think you are??

THE RAIN General Taheri had spoken about at the flea market was a few weeks late, but when we stepped out of Dr. Amani's office, passing cars sprayed grimy water onto the sidewalks. Baba lit a cigarette. He smoked all the way to the car and all the way Home.
As he was slipping the key into the lobby door, I said, "I wish you'd give the chemo a chance, Baba.?
Baba pocketed the keys, pulled me out of the rain and under the building's striped awning. He kneaded me on the chest with the hand holding the cigarette. "Bas! I've made my decision.?
"What about me, Baba? What am I supposed to do??I said, my eyes welling up.
A look of disgust swept across his rain-soaked face. It was the same look he'd give me when, as a kid, I'd fall, scrape my knees, and cry. It was the crying that brought it on then, the crying that brought it on now. "You're twenty-two years old, Amir! A grown man! You...?he opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, reconsidered. Above us, rain drummed on the canvas awning. "What's going to happen to you, you say? All those years, that's what I was trying to teach you, how to never have to ask that question.?
He opened the door. Turned back to me. "And one more thing. No one finds out about this, you hear me? No one. I don't want anybody's sympathy.?Then he disappeared into the dim lobby. He chain-smoked the rest of that day in front of the TV. I didn't know what or whom he was defying. Me? Dr. Amani? Or maybe the God he had never believed in.

FOR A WHILE, even cancer couldn't keep Baba from the flea market. We made our garage sale treks on Saturdays, Baba the driver and me the navigator, and set up our display on Sundays. Brass lamps. Baseball gloves. Ski jackets with broken zippers. Baba greeted acquaintances from the old country and I haggled with buyers over a dollar or two. Like any of it mattered. Like the day I would become an orphan wasn't inching closer with each closing of shop.
Sometimes, General Taheri and his wife strolled by. The general, ever the diplomat, greeted me with a smile and his two-handed shake. But there was a new reticence to Khanum Taheri's demeanor. A reticence broken only by her secret, droopy smiles and the furtive, apologetic looks she cast my way when the general's attention was engaged elsewhere.
I remember that period as a time of many "firsts? The first time I heard Baba moan in the bathroom. The first time I found blood on his pillow. In over three years running the gas station, Baba had never called in sick. Another first.
By Halloween of that year, Baba was getting so tired by mid-Saturday afternoon that he'd wait behind the wheel while I got out and bargained for junk. By Thanksgiving, he wore out before noon. When sleighs appeared on front lawns and fake snow on Douglas firs, Baba stayed Home and I drove the VW bus alone up and down the peninsula.
Sometimes at the flea market, Afghan acquaintances made remarks about Baba's weight loss. At first, they were complimentary. They even asked the secret to his diet. But the queries and compliments stopped when the weight loss didn't. When the pounds kept shedding. And shedding. When his cheeks hollowed. And his temples melted. And his eyes receded in their sockets.
Then, one cool Sunday shortly after New Year's Day, Baba was selling a lampshade to a stocky Filipino man while I rummaged in the VW for a blanket to cover his legs with.
"Hey, man, this guy needs help!?the Filipino man said with alarm. I turned around and found Baba on the ground. His arms and legs were jerking.
"Komak!?I cried. "Somebody help!?I ran to Baba. He was frothing at the mouth, the foamy spittle soaking his beard. His upturned eyes showed nothing but white.
People were rushing to us. I heard someone say seizure. Some one else yelling, "Call 911!?I heard running footsteps. The sky darkened as a crowd gathered around us.
Baba's spittle turned red. He was biting his tongue. I kneeled beside him and grabbed his arms and said I'm here Baba, I'm here, you'll be all right, I'm right here. As if I could soothe the convulsions out of him. Talk them into leaving my Baba alone. I felt a wetness on my knees. Saw Baba's bladder had let go. Shhh, Baba jan, I'm here. Your son is right here.

THE DOCTOR, white-bearded and perfectly bald, pulled me out of the room. "I want to go over your father's CAT scans with you,?he said. He put the films up on a viewing box in the hallway and pointed with the eraser end of his pencil to the pictures of Baba's cancer, like a cop showing mug shots of the killer to the victim's family. Baba's brain on those pictures looked like cross sections of a big walnut, riddled with tennis ball-shaped gray things.
"As you can see, the cancer's metastasized,?he said. "He'll have to take steroids to reduce the swelling in his brain and antiseizure medications. And I'd recommend palliative radiation. Do you know what that means??
I said I did. I'd become conversant in cancer talk.
"All right, then,?he said. He checked his beeper. "I have to go, but you can have me paged if you have any questions.?
"Thank you.?
I spent the night sitting on a chair next to Baba's bed.

THE NEXT MORNING, the waiting room down the hall was jammed with Afghans. The butcher from Newark. An engineer who'd worked with Baba on his orphanage. They filed in and paid Baba their respects in hushed tones. Wished him a swift recovery. Baba was awake then, groggy and tired, but awake.
Midmorning, General Taheri and his wife came. Soraya followed. We glanced at each other, looked away at the same time. "How are you, my friend??General Taheri said, taking Baba's hand.
Baba motioned to the IV hanging from his arm. Smiled thinly. The general smiled back.
"You shouldn't have burdened yourselves. All of you,?Baba croaked.
"It's no burden,?Khanum Taheri said.
"No burden at all. More importantly, do you need anything??General Taheri said. "Anything at all? Ask me like you'd ask a brother.?
I remembered something Baba had said about Pashtuns once. We may be hardheaded and I know we're far too proud, but, in the hour of need, believe me that there's no one you'd rather have at your side than a Pashtun.
Baba shook his head on the pillow. "Your coming here has brightened my eyes.?The general smiled and squeezed Baba's hand. "How are you, Amir jan? Do you need anything??
The way he was looking at me, the kindness in his eyes... "Nay thank you, General Sahib. I'm...?A lump shot up in my throat and my eyes teared over. I bolted out of the room.
I wept in the hallway, by the viewing box where, the night before, I'd seen the killer's face.
Baba's door opened and Soraya walked out of his room. She stood near me. She was wearing a gray sweatshirt and jeans. Her hair was down. I wanted to find comfort in her arms.
"I'm so sorry, Amir,?she said. "We all knew something was wrong, but we had no idea it was this.?
I blotted my eyes with my sleeve. "He didn't want anyone to know.?
"Do you need anything??
"No.?I tried to smile. She put her hand on mine. Our first touch. I took it. Brought it to my face. My eyes. I let it go. "You'd better go back inside. Or your father will come after me.?
She smiled and nodded. "I should.?She turned to go. "Soraya??
"Yes??
"I'm happy you came, It means... the world to me.?

THEY DISCHARGED BABA two days later. They brought in a specialist called a radiation oncologist to talk Baba into getting radiation treatment. Baba refused. They tried to talk me into talking him into it. But I'd seen the look on Baba's face. I thanked them, signed their forms, and took Baba Home in my Ford Torino.
That night, Baba was lying on the couch, a wool blanket covering him. I brought him hot tea and roasted almonds. Wrapped my arms around his back and pulled him up much too easily. His shoulder blade felt like a bird's wing under my fingers. I pulled the blanket back up to his chest where ribs stretched his thin, sallow skin.
"Can I do anything else for you, Baba??
"Nay, bachem. Thank you.?
I sat beside him. "Then I wonder if you'll do something for me. If you're not too exhausted.?
"What??
"I want you to go khastegari. I want you to ask General Taheri for his daughter's hand.?
Baba's dry lips stretched into a smile. A spot of green on a wilted leaf. "Are you sure??
"More sure than I've ever been about anything.?
"You've thought it over??
"Balay, Baba.?
"Then give me the phone. And my little notebook.?
I blinked. "Now??
"Then when??
I smiled. "Okay.?I gave him the phone and the little black notebook where Baba had scribbled his Afghan friends?numbers.
He looked up the Taheris. Dialed. Brought the receiver to his ear. My heart was doing pirouettes in my chest.
"Jamila jan? Salaam alaykum,?he said. He introduced himself. Paused. "Much better, thank you. It was so gracious of you to come.?He listened for a while. Nodded. "I'll remember that, thank you. Is General Sahib Home??Pause. "Thank you.?
His eyes flicked to me. I wanted to laugh for some reason. Or scream. I brought the ball of my hand to my mouth and bit on it. Baba laughed softly through his nose.
"General Sahib, Salaam alaykum... Yes, much much better... Balay... You're so kind. General Sahib, I'm calling to ask if I may pay you and Khanum Taheri a visit tomorrow morning. It's an honorable matter... Yes... Eleven o'clock is just fine. Until then. Khoda h?fez.?
He hung up. We looked at each other. I burst into giggles. Baba joined in.

BABA WET HIS HAIR and combed it back. I helped him into a clean white shirt and knotted his tie for him, noting the two inches of empty space between the collar button and Baba's neck. I thought of all the empty spaces Baba would leave behind when he was gone, and I made myself think of something else. He wasn't gone. Not yet. And this was a day for good thoughts. The jacket of his brown suit, the one he'd worn to my graduation, hung over him--too much of Baba had melted away to fill it anymore. I had to roll up the sleeves. I stooped and tied his shoelaces for him.
The Taheris lived in a flat, one-story house in one of the residential areas in Fremont known for housing a large number of Afghans. It had bay windows, a pitched roof, and an enclosed front porch on wh

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Chapter 11
Fremont, California. 1980s
Baba loved the idea of America.
It was living in America that gave him an ulcer.
I remember the two of us walking through Lake Elizabeth Park in Fremont, a few streets down from our apartment, and watching boys at batting practice, little girls giggling on the swings in the playground. Baba would enlighten me with his politics during those walks with long-winded dissertations. "There are only three real men in this world, Amir,?he'd say. He'd count them off on his fingers: America the brash savior, Britain, and Israel. "The rest of them--?he used to wave his hand and make a phht sound ?-they're like gossiping old women.?
The bit about Israel used to draw the ire of Afghans in Fremont who accused him of being pro-Jewish and, de facto, anti Islam. Baba would meet them for tea and rowt cake at the park, drive them crazy with his politics. "What they don't understand,?he'd tell me later, "is that religion has nothing to do with it.?In Baba's view, Israel was an island of "real men?in a sea of Arabs too busy getting fat off their oil to care for their own. "Israel does this, Israel does that,?Baba would say in a mock-Arabic accent. "Then do something about it! Take action. You're Arabs, help the Palestinians, then!?
He loathed Jimmy Carter, whom he called a "big-toothed cretin.?In 1980, when we were still in Kabul, the U.S. announced it would be boycotting the Olympic games in Moscow. "Wah wah!?Baba exclaimed with disgust. "Brezhnev is massacring Afghans and all that peanut eater can say is I won't come swim in your pool.?Baba believed Carter had unwittingly done more for communism than Leonid Brezhnev. "He's not fit to run this country. It's like putting a boy who can't ride a bike behind the wheel of a brand new Cadillac.?What America and the world needed was a hard man. A man to be reckoned with, someone who took action instead of wringing his hands. That someone came in the form of Ronald Reagan. And when Reagan went on TV and called the Shorawi "the Evil Empire,?Baba went out and bought a picture of the grinning president giving a thumbs up. He framed the picture and hung it in our hallway, nailing it right next to the old black-and-white of himself in his thin necktie shaking hands with King Zahir Shah. Most of our neighbors in Fremont were bus drivers, policemen, gas station attendants, and unwed mothers collecting welfare, exactly the sort of blue-collar people who would soon suffocate under the pillow Reganomics pressed to their faces. Baba was the lone Republican in our building.
But the Bay Area's smog stung his eyes, the traffic noise gave him headaches, and the pollen made him cough. The fruit was never sweet enough, the water never clean enough, and where were all the trees and open fields? For two years, I tried to get Baba to enroll in ESL classes to improve his broken English. But he scoffed at the idea. "Maybe I'll spell ‘cat?and the teacher will give me a glittery little star so I can run Home and show it off to you,?he'd grumble.
One Sunday in the spring of 1983, I walked into a small bookstore that sold used paperbacks, next to the Indian movie theater just west of where Amtrak crossed Fremont Boulevard. I told Baba I'd be out in five minutes and he shrugged. He had been working at a gas station in Fremont and had the day off. I watched him jaywalk across Fremont Boulevard and enter Fast & Easy, a little grocery store run by an elderly Vietnamese couple, Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen. They were gray-haired, friendly people; she had Parkinson's, he'd had his hip replaced. "He's like Six Million Dollar Man now,?she always said to me, laughing toothlessly. "Remember Six Million Dollar Man, Amir??Then Mr. Nguyen would scowl like Lee Majors, pretend he was running in slow motion.
I was flipping through a worn copy of a Mike Hammer mystery when I heard screaming and glass breaking. I dropped the book and hurried across the street. I found the Nguyens behind the counter, all the way against the wall, faces ashen, Mr. Nguyen's arms wrapped around his wife. On the floor: oranges, an overturned magazine rack, a broken jar of beef jerky, and shards of glass at Baba's feet.
It turned out that Baba had had no cash on him for the oranges. He'd written Mr. Nguyen a check and Mr. Nguyen had asked for an ID. "He wants to see my license,?Baba bellowed in Farsi. "Almost two years we've bought his damn fruits and put money in his pocket and the son of a dog wants to see my license!?
"Baba, it's not personal,?I said, smiling at the Nguyens. "They're supposed to ask for an ID.?
"I don't want you here,?Mr. Nguyen said, stepping in front of his wife. He was pointing at Baba with his cane. He turned to me.
"You're nice young man but your father, he's crazy. Not welcome anymore.?
"Does he think I'm a thief??Baba said, his voice rising. People had gathered outside. They were staring. "What kind of a country is this? No one trusts anybody!?
"I call police,?Mrs. Nguyen said, poking out her face. "You get out or I call police.?
"Please, Mrs. Nguyen, don't call the police. I'll take him Home. Just don't call the police, okay? Please??
"Yes, you take him Home. Good idea,?Mr. Nguyen said. His eyes, behind his wire-rimmed bifocals, never left Baba. I led Baba through the doors. He kicked a magazine on his way out. After I'd made him promise he wouldn't go back in, I returned to the store and apologized to the Nguyens. Told them my father was going through a difficult time. I gave Mrs. Nguyen our telephone number and address, and told her to get an estimate for the damages. "Please call me as soon as you know. I'll pay for everything, Mrs. Nguyen. I'm so sorry.?Mrs. Nguyen took the sheet of paper from me and nodded. I saw her hands were shaking more than usual, and that made me angry at Baba, his causing an old woman to shake like that.
"My father is still adjusting to life in America,?I said, by way of explanation.
I wanted to tell them that, in Kabul, we snapped a tree branch and used it as a credit card. Hassan and I would take the wooden stick to the bread maker. He'd carve notches on our stick with his knife, one notch for each loaf of _naan_ he'd pull for us from the tandoor's roaring flames. At the end of the month, my father paid him for the number of notches on the stick. That was it. No questions. No ID.
But I didn't tell them. I thanked Mr. Nguyen for not calling the cops. Took Baba Home. He sulked and smoked on the balcony while I made rice with chicken neck stew. A year and a half since we'd stepped off the Boeing from Peshawar, and Baba was still adjusting.
We ate in silence that night. After two bites, Baba pushed away his plate.
I glanced at him across the table, his nails chipped and black with engine oil, his knuckles scraped, the smells of the gas station--dust, sweat, and gasoline--on his clothes. Baba was like the widower who remarries but can't let go of his dead wife. He missed the sugarcane fields of Jalalabad and the gardens of Paghman. He missed people milling in and out of his house, missed walking down the bustling aisles of Shor Bazaar and greeting people who knew him and his father, knew his grandfather, people who shared ancestors with him, whose pasts intertwined with his.
For me, America was a place to bury my memories.
For Baba, a place to mourn his.
"Maybe we should go back to Peshawar,?I said, watching the ice float in my glass of water. We'd spent six months in Peshawar waiting for the INS to issue our visas. Our grimy one-bedroom apartment smelled like dirty socks and cat droppings, but we were surrounded by people we knew--at least people Baba knew. He'd invite the entire corridor of neighbors for dinner, most of them Afghans waiting for visas. Inevitably, someone would bring a set of tabla and someone else a harmonium. Tea would brew, and who ever had a passing singing voice would sing until the sun rose, the mosquitoes stopped buzzing, and clapping hands grew sore.
"You were happier there, Baba. It was more like Home,?I said.
"Peshawar was good for me. Not good for you.?
"You work so hard here.?
"It's not so bad now,?he said, meaning since he had become the day manager at the gas station. But I'd seen the way he winced and rubbed his wrists on damp days. The way sweat erupted on his forehead as he reached for his bottle of antacids after meals. "Besides, I didn't bring us here for me, did I??
I reached across the table and put my hand on his. My student hand, clean and soft, on his laborer's hand, grubby and calloused. I thought of all the trucks, train sets, and bikes he'd bought me in Kabul. Now America. One last gift for Amir.
Just one month after we arrived in the U.S., Baba found a job off Washington Boulevard as an assistant at a gas station owned by an Afghan acquaintance--he'd started looking for work the same week we arrived. Six days a week, Baba pulled twelve-hour shifts pumping gas, running the register, changing oil, and washing windshields. I'd bring him lunch sometimes and find him looking for a pack of cigarettes on the shelves, a customer waiting on the other side of the oil-stained counter, Baba's face drawn and pale under the bright fluorescent lights. The electronic bell over the door would ding-dong when I walked in, and Baba would look over his shoulder, wave, and smile, his eyes watering from fatigue.
The same day he was hired, Baba and I went to our eligibility officer in San Jose, Mrs. Dobbins. She was an overweight black woman with twinkling eyes and a dimpled smile. She'd told me once that she sang in church, and I believed her--she had a voice that made me think of warm milk and honey. Baba dropped the stack of food stamps on her desk. "Thank you but I don't want,?Baba said. "I work always. In Afghanistan I work, in America I work. Thank you very much, Mrs. Dobbins, but I don't like it free money.?
Mrs. Dobbins blinked. Picked up the food stamps, looked from me to Baba like we were pulling a prank, or "slipping her a trick?as Hassan used to say. "Fifteen years I been doin?this job and nobody's ever done this,?she said. And that was how Baba ended those humiliating food stamp moments at the cash register and alleviated one of his greatest fears: that an Afghan would see him buying food with charity money. Baba walked out of the welfare office like a man cured of a tumor.

THAT SUMMER OF 1983, I graduated from high school at the age of twenty, by far the oldest senior tossing his mortarboard on the football field that day. I remember losing Baba in the swarm of families, flashing cameras, and blue gowns. I found him near the twenty-yard line, hands shoved in his pockets, camera dangling on his chest. He disappeared and reappeared behind the people moving between us: squealing blue-clad girls hugging, crying, boys high-fiving their fathers, each other. Baba's beard was graying, his hair thinning at the temples, and hadn't he been taller in Kabul? He was wearing his brown suit--his only suit, the same one he wore to Afghan weddings and funerals--and the red tie I had bought for his fiftieth birthday that year. Then he saw me and waved. Smiled. He motioned for me to wear my mortarboard, and took a picture of me with the school's clock tower in the background. I smiled for him--in a way, this was his day more than mine. He walked to me, curled his arm around my neck, and gave my brow a single kiss. "I am moftakhir, Amir,?he said. Proud. His eyes gleamed when he said that and I liked being on the receiving end of that look.
He took me to an Afghan kabob house in Hayward that night and ordered far too much food. He told the owner that his son was going to college in the fall. I had debated him briefly about that just before graduation, and told him I wanted to get a job. Help out, save some money, maybe go to college the following year. But he had shot me one of his smoldering Baba looks, and the words had vaporized on my tongue.
After dinner, Baba took me to a bar across the street from the restaurant. The place was dim, and the acrid smell of beer I'd always disliked permeated the walls. Men in baseball caps and tank tops played pool, clouds of cigarette smoke hovering over the green tables, swirling in the fluorescent light. We drew looks, Baba in his brown suit and me in pleated slacks and sports jacket. We took a seat at the bar, next to an old man, his leathery face sickly in the blue glow of the Michelob sign overhead. Baba lit a cigarette and ordered us beers. "Tonight I am too much happy,?he announced to no one and everyone. "Tonight I drinking with my son. And one, please, for my friend,?he said, patting the old man on the back. The old fellow tipped his hat and smiled. He had no upper teeth.
Baba finished his beer in three gulps and ordered another. He had three before I forced myself to drink a quarter of mine. By then he had bought the old man a scotch and treated a foursome of pool players to a pitcher of Budweiser. Men shook his hand and clapped him on the back. They drank to him. Someone lit his cigarette. Baba loosened his tie and gave the old man a handful of quarters. He pointed to the jukebox. "Tell him to play his favorite songs,?he said to me. The old man nodded and gave Baba a salute. Soon, country music was blaring, and, just like that, Baba had started a party.
At one point, Baba stood, raised his beer, spilling it on the sawdust floor, and yelled, "Fuck the Russia!?The bar's laughter, then its full-throated echo followed. Baba bought another round of pitchers for everyone.
When we left, everyone was sad to see him go. Kabul, Peshawar, Hayward. Same old Baba, I thought, smiling.
I drove us Home in Baba's old, ochre yellow Buick Century. Baba dozed off on the way, snoring like a jackhammer. I smelled tobacco on him and alcohol, sweet and pungent. But he sat up when I stopped the car and said in a hoarse voice, "Keep driving to the end of the block.?
"Why, Baba??
"Just go.?He had me park at the south end of the street. He reached in his coat pocket and handed me a set of keys. "There,?he said, pointing to the car in front of us. It was an old model Ford, long and wide, a dark color I couldn't discern in the moon light. "It needs painting, and I'll have one of the guys at the station put in new shocks, but it runs.?
I took the keys, stunned. I looked from him to the car.
"You'll need it to go to college,?he said.
I took his hand in mine. Squeezed it. My eyes were tearing over and I was glad for the shadows that hid our faces. "Thank you, Baba.?
We got out and sat inside the Ford. It was a Grand Torino. Navy blue, Baba said. I drove it around the block, testing the brakes, the radio, the turn signals. I parked it in the lot of our apartment building and shut off the engine. "Tashakor, Baba jan,?I said. I wanted to say more, tell him how touched I was by his act of kindness, how much I appreciated all that he had done for me, all that he was still doing. But I knew I'd embarrass him. "Tashakor,?I repeated instead.
He smiled and leaned back against the headrest, his forehead almost touching the ceiling. We didn't say anything. Just sat in the dark, listened to the tink-tink of the engine cooling, the wail of a siren in the distance. Then Baba rolled his head toward me. "I wish Hassan had been with us today,?he said.
A pair of steel hands closed around my windpipe at the sound of Hassan's name. I rolled down the window. Waited for the steel hands to loosen their grip.

I WOULD ENROLL in junior college classes in the fall, I told Baba the day after graduation. He was drinking cold black tea and chewing cardamom seeds, his personal trusted antidote for hang over headaches.
"I think I'll major in English,?I said. I winced inside, waiting for his reply.
"English??
"Creative writing.?
He considered this. Sipped his tea. "Stories, you mean. You'll make up stories.?I looked down at my feet.
"They pay for that, making up stories??
"If you're good,?I said. "And if you get discovered.?
"How likely is that, getting discovered??
"It happens,?I said.
He nodded. "And what will you do while you wait to get good and get discovered? How will you earn money? If you marry, how will you support your khanum??
I couldn't lift my eyes to meet his. "I'll... find a job.?
"Oh,?he said. "Wah wah! So, if I understand, you'll study several years to earn a degree, then you'll get a chatti job like mine, one you could just as easily land today, on the small chance that your degree might someday help you get... discovered.?He took a deep breath and sipped his tea. Grunted something about medical school, law school, and "real work.?
My cheeks burned and guilt coursed through me, the guilt of indulging myself at the expense of his ulcer, his black fingernails and aching wrists. But I would stand my ground, I decided. I didn't want to sacrifice for Baba anymore. The last time I had done that, I had damned myself.
Baba sighed and, this time, tossed a whole handful of car damom seeds in his mouth.

SOMETIMES, I GOT BEHIND the wheel of my Ford, rolled down the windows, and drove for hours, from the East Bay to the South Bay, up the Peninsula and back. I drove through the grids of cottonwood-lined streets in our Fremont neighborhood, where people who'd never shaken hands with kings lived in shabby, flat one-story houses with barred windows, where old cars like mine dripped oil on blacktop driveways. Pencil gray chain-link fences closed off the backyards in our neighborhood. Toys, bald tires, and beer bottles with peeling labels littered unkempt front lawns. I drove past tree-shaded parks that smelled like bark, past strip malls big enough to hold five simultaneous Buzkashi tournaments. I drove the Torino up the hills of Los Altos, idling past estates with picture windows and silver lions guarding the wrought-iron gates, homes with cherub fountains lining the manicured walkways and no Ford Torinos in the drive ways. Homes that made Baba's house in Wazir Akbar Khan look like a servant's hut.
I'd get up early some Saturday mornings and drive south on Highway 17, push the Ford up the winding road through the mountains to Santa Cruz. I would park by the old lighthouse and wait for sunrise, sit in my car and watch the fog rolling in from the sea. In Afghanistan, I had only seen the ocean at the cinema. Sitting in the dark next to Hassan, I had always wondered if it was true what I'd read, that sea air smelled like salt. I used to tell Hassan that someday we'd walk on a strip of seaweed-strewn beach, sink our feet in the sand, and watch the water recede from our toes. The first time I saw the Pacific, I almost cried. It was as vast and blue as the oceans on the movie screens of my childhood.
Sometimes in the early evening, I parked the car and walked up a freeway overpass. My face pressed against the fence, I'd try to count the blinking red taillights inching along, stretching as far as my eyestould see. BMWs. Saabs. Porsches. Cars I'd never seen in Kabul, where most people drove Russian Volgas, old Opels, or Iranian Paikans.
Almost two years had passed since we had arrived in the U.S., and I was still marveling at the size of this country, its vastness. Beyond every freeway lay another freeway, beyond every city another city hills beyond mountains and mountains beyond hills, and, beyond those, more cities and more people.
Long before the Roussi army marched into Afghanistan, long before villages were burned and schools destroyed, long before mines were planted like seeds of death and children buried in rock-piled graves, Kabul had become a city of ghosts for me. A city of harelipped ghosts.
America was different. America was a river, roaring along, unmindful of the past. I could wade into this river, let my sins drown to the bottom, let the waters carry me someplace far. Someplace with no ghosts, no memories, and no sins.
If for nothing else, for that, I embraced America.

THE FOLLOWING SUMMER, the summer of 1984--the summer I turned twenty-one--Baba sold his Buick and bought a dilapidated ?1 Volkswagen bus for $550 from an old Afghan acquaintance who'd been a high-school science teacher in Kabul. The neighbors?heads turned the afternoon the bus sputtered up the street and farted its way across our lot. Baba killed the engine and let the bus roll silently into our designated spot. We sank in our seats, laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks, and, more important, until we were sure the neighbors weren't watching anymore. The bus was a sad carcass of rusted metal, shattered windows replaced with black garbage bags, balding tires, and upholstery shredded down to the springs. But the old teacher had reassured Baba that the engine and transmission were sound and, on that account, the man hadn't lied.
On Saturdays, Baba woke me up at dawn. As he dressed, I scanned the classifieds in the local papers and circled the garage sale ads. We mapped our route--Fremont, Union City, Newark, and Hayward first, then San Jose, Milpitas, Sunnyvale, and Campbell if time permitted. Baba drove the bus, sipping hot tea from the thermos, and I navigated. We stopped at garage sales and bought knickknacks that people no longer wanted. We haggled over old sewing machines, one-eyed Barbie dolls, wooden tennis rackets, guitars with missing strings, and old Electrolux vacuum cleaners. By midafternoon, we'd filled the back of the VW bus with used goods. Then early Sunday mornings, we drove to the San Jose flea market off Berryessa, rented a spot, and sold the junk for a small profit: a Chicago record that we'd bought for a quarter the day before might go for $1, or $4 for a set of five; a ramshackle Singer sewing machine purchased for $10 might, after some bargaining, bring in $25.
By that summer, Afghan families were working an entire section of the San Jose flea market. Afghan music played in the aisles of the Used Goods section. There was an unspoken code of behavior among Afghans at the flea market: You greeted the guy across the aisle, you invited him for a bite of potato bolani or a little qabuli, and you chatted. You offered tassali, condolences, for the death of a parent, congratulated the birth of children, and shook your head mournfully when the conversation turned to Afghanistan and the Roussis--which it inevitably did. But you avoided the topic of Saturday. Because it might turn out that the fellow across the isle was the guy you'd nearly blindsided at the freeway exit yesterday in order to beat him to a promising garage sale.
The only thing that flowed more than tea in those aisles was Afghan gossip. The flea market was where you sipped green tea with almond kolchas, and learned whose daughter had broken off an engagement and run off with her American boyfriend, who used to be Parchami--a communist--in Kabul, and who had bought a house with under-the-table money while still on welfare. Tea, politics, and Scandal, the ingredients of an Afghan Sunday at the flea market.
I ran the stand sometimes as Baba sauntered down the aisle, hands respectfully pressed to his chest, greeting people he knew from Kabul: mechanics and tailors selling hand-me-down wool coats and scraped bicycle helmets, alongside former ambassadors, out-of-work surgeons, and university professors.
One early Sunday morning in July 1984, while Baba set up, I bought two cups of Coffee from the concession stand and returned to find Baba talking to an older, distinguished-looking man. I put the cups on the rear bumper of the bus, next to the REAGAN/BUSH FOR ?4 sticker.
"Amir,?Baba said, motioning me over, "this is General Sahib, Mr. Iqbal Taheri. He was a decorated general in Kabul. He worked for the Ministry of Defense.?
Taheri. Why did the name sound familiar? The general laughed like a man used to attending formal parties where he'd laughed on cue at the minor jokes of important people. He had wispy silver-gray hair combed back from his smooth, tanned forehead, and tufts of white in his bushy eye brows. He smelled like cologne and wore an iron-gray three-piece suit, shiny from too many pressings; the gold chain of a pocket watch dangled from his vest.
"Such a lofty introduction,?he said, his voice deep and cultured. "_Salaam, bachem_.?Hello, my child.
"_Salaam_, General Sahib,?I said, shaking his hand. His thin hands belied a firm grip, as if steel hid beneath the moisturized skin.
"Amir is going to be a great writer,?Baba said. I did a double take at this. "He has finished his first year of college and earned A's in all of his courses.?
"Junior college,?I corrected him.
"_Mashallah_,?General Taheri said. "Will you be writing about our country, history perhaps? Economics??
"I write fiction,?I said, thinking of the dozen or so short stories I had written in the leather-bound notebook Rahim Khan had given me, wondering why I was suddenly embarrassed by them in this man's presence.
"Ah, a storyteller,?the general said. "Well, people need stories to divert them at difficult times like this.?He put his hand on Baba's shoulder and turned to me. "Speaking of stories, your father and I hunted pheasant together one summer day in Jalalabad,?he said. "It was a marvelous time. If I recall correctly, your father's eye proved as keen in the hunt as it had in Business.?
Baba kicked a wooden tennis racket on our tarpaulin spread with the toe of his boot. "Some Business.?
General Taheri managed a simultaneously sad and polite smile, heaved a sigh, and gently patted Baba's shoulder. "Zendagi migzara,?he said. life goes on. He turned his eyes to me. "We Afghans are prone to a considerable degree of exaggeration, bachem, and I have heard many men foolishly labeled great. But your father has the distinction of belonging to the minority who truly deserves the label.?This little speech sounded to me the way his suit looked: often used and unnaturally shiny.
"You're flattering me,?Baba said.
"I am not,?the general said, tilting his head sideways and pressing his hand to his chest to convey humility. "Boys and girls must know the legacy of their fathers.?He turned to me. "Do you appreciate your father, bachem? Do you really appreciate him??
"Balay, General Sahib, I do,?I said, wishing he'd not call me "my child.?
"Then congratulations, you are already halfway to being a man,?he said with no trace of humor, no irony, the compliment of the casually arrogant.
"Padar jan, you forgot your tea.?A young woman's voice. She was standing behind us, a slim-hipped beauty with velvety coal black hair, an open thermos and Styrofoam cup in her hand. I blinked, my heart quickening. She had thick black eyebrows that touched in the middle like the arched wings of a flying bird, and the gracefully hooked nose of a princess from old Persia--maybe that of Tahmineh, Rostam's wife and Sohrab's mother from the _Shahnamah_. Her eyes, walnut brown and shaded by fanned lashes, met mine. Held for a moment. Flew away.
"You are so kind, my dear,?General Taheri said. He took the cup from her. Before she turned to go, I saw she had a brown, sickle-shaped birthmark on the smooth skin just above her left jawline. She walked to a dull gray van two aisles away and put the thermos inside. Her hair spilled to one side when she kneeled amid boxes of old records and paperbacks.
"My daughter, Soraya jan,?General Taheri said. He took a deep breath like a man eager to change the subject and checked his gold pocket watch. "Well, time to go and set up.?He and Baba kissed on the cheek and he shook my hand with both of his. "Best of luck with the writing,?he said, looking me in the eye. His pale blue eyes revealed nothing of the thoughts behind them.
For the rest of that day, I fought the urge to look toward the gray van.

IT CAME TO ME on our way Home. Taheri, I knew I'd heard that name before.
"Wasn't there some story floating around about Taheri's daughter??I said to Baba, trying to sound casual.
"You know me,?Baba said, inching the bus along the queue exiting the flea market. "Talk turns to gossip and I walk away.?
"But there was, wasn't there??I said.
"Why do you ask??He was looking at me coyly.
I shrugged and fought back a smile. "Just curious, Baba.?
"Really? Is that all??he said, his eyes playful, lingering on mine. "Has she made an impression on you??
I rolled my eyes. "Please, Baba.?
He smiled, and swung the bus out of the flea market. We headed for Highway 680. We drove in silence for a while. "All I've heard is that there was a man once and things... didn't go well.?He said this gravely, like he'd disclosed to me that she had Breast Cancer.
"I hear she is a decent girl, hardworking and kind. But no khastegars, no suitors, have knocked on the general's door since.?Baba sighed. "It may be unfair, but what happens in a few days, sometimes even a single day, can change the course of a whole lifetime, Amir,?he said.

LYING AWAKE IN BED that night, I thought of Soraya Taheri's sickle-shaped birthmark, her gently hooked nose, and the way her luminous eyes had fleetingly held mine. My heart stuttered at the thought of her. Soraya Taheri. My Swap Meet Princess.

第十一章
弗里蒙特，加利福尼亚，1980年代    
爸爸爱美国的理想。    
正是在美国生活，让他得了溃疡。        
我记得我们两个走过几条街道，在弗里蒙特的伊丽莎白湖公园散步，看着男孩练习挥棒，女孩在游戏场的秋千上咯咯娇笑。爸爸会利用步行的机会，长篇大论对我灌输他的政治观点。“这个世界上只有三个真正的男人，阿米尔，”他说，他伸出手指数着，“美国这个鲁莽的救世主，英国，还有以色列。剩下那些……”通常他会挥挥手，发出不屑的声音，“他们都像是饶舌的老太婆。”    
他关于以色列的说法惹恼了弗里蒙特的阿富汗人，他们指责他亲近犹太人，而这实际上就是反对伊斯兰。爸爸跟他们聚会，喝茶，吃点心，用他的政治观念将他们气疯。“他们所不明白的是，”后来他告诉我，“那跟宗教毫无关系。”在爸爸眼里，以色列是“真正的男人”居住的岛屿，虽然处在阿拉伯海洋的包围之下，可是阿拉伯人只顾着出卖石油赚钱，毫不关心自家人的事情。“以色列干这个，以色列干那个，”爸爸会模仿阿拉伯人的语气说，“那做些事情啊! 行动啊! 你们这些阿拉伯人，那么去帮巴勒斯坦啊! ”    
他讨厌吉米·卡特，管他叫“大牙齿的蠢货”。早在1980年，我们还在喀布尔，美国宣布抵制在莫斯科举办的奥运会。“哇! 哇! ”爸爸充满厌恶地说，“勃列日涅夫入侵阿富汗，那个捏软柿子的家伙居然只说我不去你家的泳池游泳。”爸爸认为卡特愚蠢的做法助长了勃列日涅夫的气焰。“他不配掌管这个国家。这好像让一个连自行车都不会骑的小孩去驾驶一辆崭新的卡迪拉克。”美国，乃至世界需要的是一个强硬的汉子，一个会被看得起、会采取行动而非一筹莫展的人。罗纳德·里根就是这样的硬汉。当里根在电视现身，将俄国称为“邪恶帝国”，爸爸跑出去，买回一张照片：总统微笑着竖起拇指。他把照片裱起来，挂在入门的墙上，将它钉在一张黑白的老照片右边，在那张照片里面，他系着领带，跟查希尔国王握手。我们在弗里蒙特的邻居多数是巴士司机、警察、加油站工人、靠救济金生活的未婚妈妈，确切地说，全都是被里根的经济政策压得喘不过气来的蓝领工人。爸爸是我们那栋楼惟一的共和党员。    
但交通的浓雾刺痛他的眼睛，汽车的声响害他头痛，还有，花粉也让他咳嗽。水果永远不够甜，水永远不够干净，所有的树林和原野到哪里去了? 开头两年，我试着让爸爸参加英语培训班的课程，提高他那口破英语，但他对此不屑一顾。“也许我会把‘cat’拼出来，然后老师会奖给我一颗闪闪发光的星星，那么我就可以跑回家，拿着它向你炫耀了。”他会这么咕哝。    
1983年春季的某个星期天，我走进一家出售平装旧书的小店，旁边是家印度电影院，往东是美国国家铁路和弗里蒙特大道交界的地方。我跟爸爸说等我五分钟，他耸耸肩。他当时在弗里蒙特某个加油站上班，那天休假。我看到他横跨弗里蒙特大道，走进一家杂货便利店，店主是一对年老的越南夫妻，阮先生和他的太太。他们白发苍苍，待人友善，太太得了帕金森症，先生则换过髋骨。“他现在看起来像《无敌金刚》了，”她总是这么笑着对我说，张开没有牙齿的嘴巴。“记得《无敌金刚》吗，阿米尔? ”接着