追风筝的人——The Kite Runner【中英对照】完结_派派后花园

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

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4071鲜花 1鸡蛋

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12岁的阿富汗富家少爷阿米尔与仆人哈桑情同手足。然而，在一场风筝比赛后，发生了一件悲惨不堪的事，阿米尔为自己的懦弱感到自责和痛苦，逼走了哈桑，不久，自己也跟随父亲逃往美国。成年后的阿米尔始终无法原谅自己当年对哈桑的背叛。为了赎罪，阿米尔再度踏上暌违二十多年的故乡，希望能为不幸的好友尽最后一点心力，却发现一个惊天谎言，儿时的噩梦再度重演，阿米尔该如何抉择？
小说如此残忍而又美丽，作者以温暖细腻的笔法勾勒人性的本质与救赎，读来令人荡气回肠。
卡勒德·胡赛尼（Khaled Hosseini），1965年生于喀布尔，后随父亲逃往美国。胡赛尼毕业于加州大学圣地亚哥医学系，现居加州执业。《追风筝的人》是他的第一本小说，因书中角色刻画生动，故事情节震撼感人，出版后大获好评，获得各项新人奖，并跃居全美各大畅销排行榜，后由梦工厂改拍成电影。

[ 此帖被木有有木在2013-12-18 20:43重新编辑 ]
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4071鲜花 1鸡蛋

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ONE

_December 2001_

I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in the winter of 1975. I remember the precise moment, crouching behind a crumbling mud wall, peeking into the alley near the frozen creek. That was a long time ago, but it’s wrong what they say about the past, I’ve learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out. Looking back now, I realize I have been peeking into that deserted alley for the last twenty-six years.

One day last summer, my friend Rahim Khan called from Pakistan. He asked me to come see him. Standing in the kitchen with the receiver to my ear, I knew it wasn’t just Rahim Khan on the line. It was my past of unatoned sins. After I hung up, I went for a walk along Spreckels Lake on the northern edge of Golden Gate Park. The early-afternoon sun sparkled on the water where dozens of miniature boats sailed, propelled by a crisp breeze. Then I glanced up and saw a pair of kites, red with long blue tails, soaring in the sky. They danced high above the trees on the west end of the park, over the windmills, floating side by side like a pair of eyes looking down on San Francisco, the city I now call home. And suddenly Hassan’s voice whispered in my head: _For you, a thousand times over_. Hassan the harelipped kite runner.
  
I sat on a park bench near a willow tree. I thought about something Rahim Khan said just before he hung up, almost as an after thought. _There is a way to be good again_. I looked up at those twin kites. I thought about Hassan. Thought about Baba. Ali. Kabul. I thought of the life I had lived until the winter of 1975 came and changed everything. And made me what I am today.

2001年12月

　　我成为今天的我，是在1975年某个阴云密布的寒冷冬日，那年我十二岁。我清楚地记得当时自己趴在一堵坍塌的泥墙后面，窥视着那条小巷，旁边是结冰的小溪。许多年过去了，人们说陈年旧事可以被埋葬，然而我终于明白这是错的，因为往事会自行爬上来。回首前尘，我意识到在过去二十六年里，自己始终在窥视着那荒芜的小径。

　　今年夏季的某天，朋友拉辛汗从巴基斯坦打来电话，要我回去探望他。我站在厨房里，听筒贴在耳朵上，我知道电话线连着的，并不只是拉辛汗，还有我过去那些未曾赎还的罪行。挂了电话，我离开家门，到金门公园北边的斯普瑞柯湖边散步。晌午的骄阳照在波光粼粼的水面上，数十艘轻舟在和风的吹拂中漂行。我抬起头，望见两只红色的风筝，带着长长的蓝色尾巴，在天空中冉冉升起。它们舞动着，飞越公园西边的树林，飞越风车，并排飘浮着，如同一双眼睛俯视着旧金山，这个我现在当成家园的城市。突然间，哈桑的声音在我脑中响起：为你，千千万万遍。哈桑，那个兔唇的哈桑，那个追风筝的人。

　　我在公园里柳树下的长凳坐下，想着拉辛汗在电话中说的那些事情，再三思量。那儿有再次成为好人的路。我抬眼看看那比翼齐飞的风筝。我忆起哈桑。我缅怀爸爸。我想到阿里。我思念喀布尔。我想起曾经的生活，想起1975年那个改变了一切的冬天。那造就了今天的我。

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TWO
When we were children, Hassan and I used to climb the poplar trees in the driveway of my father's house and annoy our neighbors by reflecting sunlight into their Homes with a shard of mirror. We would sit across from each other on a pair of high branches, our naked feet dangling, our trouser pockets filled with dried mulberries and walnuts. We took turns with the mirror as we ate mulberries, pelted each other with them, giggling, laughing; I can still see Hassan up on that tree, sunlight flickering through the leaves on his almost perfectly round face, a face like a Chinese doll chiseled from hardwood: his flat, broad nose and slanting, narrow eyes like bamboo leaves, eyes that looked, depending on the light, gold, green, even sapphire I can still see his tiny low-set ears and that pointed stub of a chin, a meaty appendage that looked like it was added as a mere afterthought. And the cleft lip, just left of midline, where the Chinese doll maker's instrument may have slipped; or perhaps he had simply grown tired and careless.
Sometimes, up in those trees, I talked Hassan into firing walnuts with his slingshot at the neighbor's one-eyed German shepherd. Hassan never wanted to, but if I asked, _really_ asked, he wouldn't deny me. Hassan never denied me anything. And he was deadly with his slingshot. Hassan's father, Ali, used to catch us and get mad, or as mad as someone as gentle as Ali could ever get. He would wag his finger and wave us down from the tree. He would take the mirror and tell us what his mother had told him, that the devil shone mirrors too, shone them to distract Muslims during prayer. "And he laughs while he does it,?he always added, scowling at his son.
"Yes, Father,?Hassan would mumble, looking down at his feet. But he never told on me. Never told that the mirror, like shooting walnuts at the neighbor's dog, was always my idea.
The poplar trees lined the redbrick driveway, which led to a pair of wrought-iron gates. They in turn opened into an extension of the driveway into my father's estate. The house sat on the left side of the brick path, the backyard at the end of it.
Everyone agreed that my father, my Baba, had built the most beautiful house in the Wazir Akbar Khan district, a new and affluent neighborhood in the northern part of Kabul. Some thought it was the prettiest house in all of Kabul. A broad entryway flanked by rosebushes led to the sprawling house of marble floors and wide windows. Intricate mosaic tiles, handpicked by Baba in Isfahan, covered the floors of the four bathrooms. Gold-stitched tapestries, which Baba had bought in Calcutta, lined the walls; a crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling.
Upstairs was my bedroom, Baba's room, and his study, also known as "the smoking room,?which perpetually smelled of tobacco and cinnamon. Baba and his friends reclined on black leather chairs there after Ali had served dinner. They stuffed their pipes--except Baba always called it "fattening the pipe?-and discussed their favorite three topics: politics, Business, soccer. Sometimes I asked Baba if I could sit with them, but Baba would stand in the doorway. "Go on, now,?he'd say. "This is grown-ups?time. Why don't you go read one of those books of yours??He'd close the door, leave me to wonder why it was always grown-ups?time with him. I'd sit by the door, knees drawn to my chest. Sometimes I sat there for an hour, sometimes two, listening to their laughter, their chatter.
The living room downstairs had a curved wall with custombuilt cabinets. Inside sat framed family pictures: an old, grainy photo of my grandfather and King Nadir Shah taken in 1931, two years before the king's assassination; they are standing over a dead deer, dressed in knee-high boots, rifles slung over their shoulders. There was a picture of my parents?wedding night, Baba dashing in his black suit and my mother a smiling young princess in white. Here was Baba and his best friend and Business partner, Rahim Khan, standing outside our house, neither one smiling--I am a baby in that photograph and Baba is holding me, looking tired and grim. I'm in his arms, but it's Rahim Khan's pinky my fingers are curled around.
The curved wall led into the dining room, at the center of which was a mahogany table that could easily sit thirty guests-- and, given my father's taste for extravagant parties, it did just that almost every week. On the other end of the dining room was a tall marble fireplace, always lit by the orange glow of a fire in the wintertime.
A large sliding glass door opened into a semicircular terrace that overlooked two acres of backyard and rows of cherry trees. Baba and Ali had planted a small vegetable garden along the eastern wall: tomatoes, mint, peppers, and a row of corn that never really took. Hassan and I used to call it "the Wall of Ailing Corn.?
On the south end of the garden, in the shadows of a loquat tree, was the servants?Home, a modest little mud hut where Hassan lived with his father.
It was there, in that little shack, that Hassan was born in the winter of 1964, just one year after my mother died giving birth to me.
In the eighteen years that I lived in that house, I stepped into Hassan and Ali's quarters only a handful of times. When the sun dropped low behind the hills and we were done playing for the day, Hassan and I parted ways. I went past the rosebushes to Baba's mansion, Hassan to the mud shack where he had been born, where he'd lived his entire life. I remember it was spare, clean, dimly lit by a pair of kerosene lamps. There were two mattresses on opposite sides of the room, a worn Herati rug with frayed edges in between, a three-legged stool, and a wooden table in the corner where Hassan did his drawings. The walls stood bare, save for a single tapestry with sewn-in beads forming the words _Allah-u-akbar_. Baba had bought it for Ali on one of his trips to Mashad.
It was in that small shack that Hassan's mother, Sanaubar, gave birth to him one cold winter day in 1964. While my mother hemorrhaged to death during childbirth, Hassan lost his less than a week after he was born. Lost her to a fate most Afghans considered far worse than death: She ran off with a clan of traveling singers and dancers.
Hassan never talked about his mother, as if she'd never existed. I always wondered if he dreamed about her, about what she looked like, where she was. I wondered if he longed to meet her. Did he ache for her, the way I ached for the mother I had never met? One day, we were walking from my father's house to Cinema Zainab for a new Iranian movie, taking the shortcut through the military barracks near Istiqlal Middle School--Baba had forbidden us to take that shortcut, but he was in Pakistan with Rahim Khan at the time. We hopped the fence that surrounded the barracks, skipped over a little creek, and broke into the open dirt field where old, abandoned tanks collected dust. A group of soldiers huddled in the shade of one of those tanks, smoking cigarettes and playing cards. One of them saw us, elbowed the guy next to him, and called Hassan.
"Hey, you!?he said. "I know you.?
We had never seen him before. He was a squatly man with a shaved head and black stubble on his face. The way he grinned at us, leered, scared me. "Just keep walking,?I muttered to Hassan.
"You! The Hazara! Look at me when I'm talking to you!?the soldier barked. He handed his cigarette to the guy next to him, made a circle with the thumb and index finger of one hand. Poked the middle finger of his other hand through the circle. Poked it in and out. In and out. "I knew your mother, did you know that? I knew her real good. I took her from behind by that creek over there.?
The soldiers laughed. One of them made a squealing sound. I told Hassan to keep walking, keep walking.
"What a tight little sugary cunt she had!?the soldier was saying, shaking hands with the others, grinning. Later, in the dark, after the movie had started, I heard Hassan next to me, croaking. Tears were sliding down his cheeks. I reached across my seat, slung my arm around him, pulled him close. He rested his head on my shoulder. "He took you for someone else,?I whispered. "He took you for someone else.?
I'm told no one was really surprised when Sanaubar eloped. People _had_ raised their eyebrows when Ali, a man who had memorized the Koran, married Sanaubar, a woman nineteen years younger, a beautiful but notoriously unscrupulous woman who lived up to her dishonorable reputation. Like Ali, she was a Shi'a Muslim and an ethnic Hazara. She was also his first cousin and therefore a natural choice for a spouse. But beyond those similarities, Ali and Sanaubar had little in common, least of all their respective appearances. While Sanaubar's brilliant green eyes and impish face had, rumor has it, tempted countless men into sin, Ali had a congenital paralysis of his lower facial muscles, a condition that rendered him unable to smile and left him perpetually grimfaced. It was an odd thing to see the stone-faced Ali happy, or sad, because only his slanted brown eyes glinted with a smile or welled with sorrow. People say that eyes are windows to the soul. Never was that more true than with Ali, who could only reveal himself through his eyes.      
I have heard that Sanaubar's suggestive stride and oscillating hips sent men to reveries of infidelity. But polio had left Ali with a twisted, atrophied right leg that was sallow skin over bone with little in between except a paper-thin layer of muscle. I remember one day, when I was eight, Ali was taking me to the bazaar to buy some _naan_. I was walking behind him, humming, trying to imitate his walk. I watched him swing his scraggy leg in a sweeping arc, watched his whole body tilt impossibly to the right every time he planted that foot. It seemed a minor miracle he didn't tip over with each step. When I tried it, I almost fell into the gutter. That got me giggling. Ali turned around, caught me aping him. He didn't say anything. Not then, not ever. He just kept walking.
Ali's face and his walk frightened some of the younger children in the neighborhood. But the real trouble was with the older kids. They chased him on the street, and mocked him when he hobbled by. Some had taken to calling him _Babalu_, or Boogeyman.
"Hey, Babalu, who did you eat today??they barked to a chorus of laughter. "Who did you eat, you flat-nosed Babalu??
They called him "flat-nosed?because of Ali and Hassan's characteristic Hazara Mongoloid features. For years, that was all I knew about the Hazaras, that they were Mogul descendants, and that they looked a little like Chinese people. School text books barely mentioned them and referred to their ancestry only in passing. Then one day, I was in Baba's study, looking through his stuff, when I found one of my mother's old history books. It was written by an Iranian named Khorami. I blew the dust off it, sneaked it into bed with me that night, and was stunned to find an entire chapter on Hazara history. An entire chapter dedicated to Hassan's people! In it, I read that my people, the Pashtuns, had persecuted and oppressed the Hazaras. It said the Hazaras had tried to rise against the Pashtuns in the nineteenth century, but the Pashtuns had "quelled them with unspeakable violence.?The book said that my people had killed the Hazaras, driven them from their lands, burned their Homes, and sold their women. The book said part of the reason Pashtuns had oppressed the Hazaras was that Pashtuns were Sunni Muslims, while Hazaras were Shi'a. The book said a lot of things I didn't know, things my teachers hadn't mentioned. Things Baba hadn't mentioned either. It also said some things I did know, like that people called Hazaras _mice-eating, flat-nosed, load-carrying donkeys_. I had heard some of the kids in the neighborhood yell those names to Hassan.
The following week, after class, I showed the book to my teacher and pointed to the chapter on the Hazaras. He skimmed through a couple of pages, snickered, handed the book back. "That's the one thing Shi'a people do well,?he said, picking up his papers, "passing themselves as martyrs.?He wrinkled his nose when he said the word Shi'a, like it was some kind of disease.
But despite sharing ethnic heritage and family blood, Sanaubar joined the neighborhood kids in taunting Ali. I have heard that she made no secret of her disdain for his appearance.
"This is a husband??she would sneer. "I have seen old donkeys better suited to be a husband.?
In the end, most people suspected the marriage had been an arrangement of sorts between Ali and his uncle, Sanaubar's father. They said Ali had married his cousin to help restore some honor to his uncle's blemished name, even though Ali, who had been orphaned at the age of five, had no worldly possessions or inheritance to speak of.
Ali never retaliated against any of his tormentors, I suppose partly because he could never catch them with that twisted leg dragging behind him. But mostly because Ali was immune to the insults of his assailants; he had found his joy, his antidote, the moment Sanaubar had given birth to Hassan. It had been a simple enough affair. No obstetricians, no anesthesiologists, no fancy monitoring devices. Just Sanaubar lying on a stained, naked mattress with Ali and a midwife helping her. She hadn't needed much help at all, because, even in birth, Hassan was true to his nature:
He was incapable of hurting anyone. A few grunts, a couple of pushes, and out came Hassan. Out he came smiling.
As confided to a neighbor's servant by the garrulous midwife, who had then in turn told anyone who would listen, Sanaubar had taken one glance at the baby in Ali's arms, seen the cleft lip, and barked a bitter laughter.
"There,?she had said. "Now you have your own idiot child to do all your smiling for you!?She had refused to even hold Hassan, and just five days later, she was gone.
Baba hired the same nursing woman who had fed me to nurse Hassan. Ali told us she was a blue-eyed Hazara woman from Bamiyan, the city of the giant Buddha statues. "What a sweet singing voice she had,?he used to say to us.
What did she sing, Hassan and I always asked, though we already knew--Ali had told us countless times. We just wanted to hear Ali sing.
He'd clear his throat and begin:
_On a high mountain I stood,
And cried the name of Ali, Lion of God.
O Ali, Lion of God, King of Men,
Bring joy to our sorrowful hearts._
Then he would remind us that there was a brotherhood between people who had fed from the same breast, a kinship that not even time could break.
Hassan and I fed from the same breasts. We took our first steps on the same lawn in the same yard. And, under the same roof, we spoke our first words.
Mine was _Baba_.
His was _Amir_. My name.
Looking back on it now, I think the foundation for what happened in the winter of 1975--and all that followed--was already laid in those first words.

第二章
　　小时候，爸爸的房子有条车道，边上种着白杨树，哈桑和我经常爬上去，用一块镜子的碎片把阳光反照进邻居家里，惹得他们很恼火。在那高高的枝桠上，我们相对而坐，没穿鞋子的脚丫晃来荡去，裤兜里满是桑椹干和胡桃。我们换着玩那破镜子，边吃桑椹干，边用它们扔对方，忽而吃吃逗乐，忽而开怀大笑。我依然能记得哈桑坐在树上的样子，阳光穿过叶子，照着他那浑圆的脸庞。他的脸很像木头刻成的中国娃娃，鼻子大而扁平，双眼眯斜如同竹叶，在不同光线下会显现出金色、绿色，甚至是宝石蓝。我依然能看到他长得较低的小耳朵，还有突出的下巴，肉乎乎的，看起来像是一团后来才加上去的附属物。他的嘴唇从中间裂开，这兴许是那个制作中国娃娃的工匠手中的工具不慎滑落，又或者只是由于他的疲倦和心不在焉。

　　有时在树上我还会怂恿哈桑，让他用弹弓将胡桃射向邻家那独眼的德国牧羊犬。哈桑从无此想法，但若是我要求他，真的要求他，他不会拒绝。哈桑从未拒绝我任何事情。弹弓在他手中可是致命的武器。哈桑的父亲阿里常常逮到我们，像他那样和蔼的人，也被我们气得要疯了。他会张开手指，将我们从树上摇下来。他会将镜子拿走，并告诉我们，他的妈妈说魔鬼也用镜子，用它们照那些穆斯林信徒，让他们分心。“他这么做的时候会哈哈大笑。”他总是加上这么一句，并对他的儿子怒目相向。

　　“是的，爸爸。”哈桑会咕哝着，低头看自己的双脚。但他从不告发我，从来不提镜子、用胡桃射狗其实都是我的鬼主意。

　　那条通向两扇锻铁大门的红砖车道两旁植满白杨。车道延伸进敞开的双扉，再进去就是我父亲的地盘了。砖路的左边是房子，尽头则是后院。

　　人人都说我父亲的房子是瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区最华丽的屋宇，甚至有人认为它是全喀布尔最美观的建筑。它坐落于喀布尔北部繁华的新兴城区，入口通道甚为宽广，两旁种着蔷薇；房子开间不少，铺着大理石地板，还有很大的窗户。爸爸亲手在伊斯法罕（Isfaham，伊朗中部城市。）选购了精美的马赛克瓷砖，铺满四个浴室的地面，还从加尔各答（Calcutta，印度城市。）买来金丝织成的挂毯，用于装饰墙壁，拱形的天花板上挂着水晶吊灯。

　　楼上是我的卧房，还有爸爸的书房，它也被称为“吸烟室”，总是弥漫着烟草和肉桂的气味。在阿里的服侍下用完晚膳之后，爸爸跟他的朋友躺在书房的黑色皮椅上。他们填满烟管——爸爸总说是“喂饱烟管”，高谈阔论，总不离三个话题：政治，生意，足球。有时我会求爸爸让我坐在他们身边，但爸爸会堵在门口。“走开，现在就走开，”他会说，“这是大人的时间。你为什么不回去看你自己的书本呢?”他会关上门，留下我独自纳闷：何以他总是只有大人的时间?我坐在门口，膝盖抵着胸膛。我坐上一个钟头，有时两个钟头，听着他们的笑声，他们的谈话声。

　　楼下的起居室有一面凹壁，摆着专门订做的橱柜。里面陈列着镶框的家庭照片：有张模糊的老照片，是我祖父和纳迪尔国王（NadirShah（1883～1933），阿富汗国王，1929年登基，1933年11月8日被刺杀。）在1931年的合影，两年后国王遇刺，他们穿着及膝的长靴，肩膀上扛着来复熗，站在一头死鹿前。有张是在我父母新婚之夜拍的，爸爸穿着黑色的套装，朝气蓬勃，脸带微笑的妈妈穿着白色衣服，宛如公主。还有一张照片，爸爸和他最好的朋友和生意伙伴拉辛汗站在我们的房子外面，两人都没笑，我在照片中还是婴孩，爸爸抱着我，看上去疲倦而严厉。我在爸爸怀里，手里却抓着拉辛汗的小指头。

　　凹壁可通往餐厅，餐厅正中摆着红木餐桌，坐下三十人绰绰有余。由于爸爸热情好客，确实几乎每隔一周就有这么多人坐在这里用膳。餐厅的另一端有高大的大理石壁炉，每到冬天总有橙色的火焰在里面跳动。

　　拉开那扇玻璃大滑门，便可走上半圆形的露台；下面是占地两英亩的后院和成排的樱桃树。爸爸和阿里在东边的围墙下辟了个小菜园，种着西红柿、薄荷和胡椒，还有一排从未结实的玉米。哈桑和我总是叫它“病玉米之墙”。

　　花园的南边种着枇杷树，树阴之下便是仆人的住所了。那是一座简陋的泥屋，哈桑和他父亲住在里面。

　　在我母亲因为生我死于难产之后一年，也即1964年冬天，哈桑诞生在那个小小的窝棚里面。

　　我在家里住了十八年，但进入阿里和哈桑房间的次数寥寥无几。每当日落西山，玩了一天的哈桑和我就分开了。我穿过那片蔷薇，回到爸爸的广厦去；哈桑则回到他的寒庐，他在那儿出世，在那儿度过一生。我记得它狭小而干净，点着两盏煤油灯，光线昏暗。屋里两端各摆着一床褥子，一张破旧的赫拉特（Herati，阿富汗西部城市。）出产的地毯四边磨损，摆在中间。屋角还有一把三脚凳，一张木头桌子，哈桑就在那上面画画。此外四壁萧然，仅有一幅挂毯，用珠子缀着“Allah-u-akbar”（真主伟大）的字样。那是爸爸某次去麦什德（Mashad，伊朗城市。）旅行时给阿里买的。

　　1964年某个寒冷的冬日，正是在这间小屋，哈桑的母亲莎娜芭生下了哈桑。我的妈妈因为生产时失血过多而谢世，哈桑则在降临人世尚未满七日就失去了母亲。而这种失去她的宿命，在多数阿富汗人看来，简直比死了老娘还要糟糕：她跟着一群江湖艺人跑了。

　　哈桑从未提及他的母亲，仿佛她从未存在过。我总是寻思他会不会在梦里见到她，会不会梦见她长什么样子，去了哪里。我还寻思他会不会渴望见到她。他会为她心痛吗，好比我为自己素昧平生的妈妈难过一样?有一天，为了看一部新的伊朗电影，我们从爸爸家里朝扎拉博电影院走去。我们抄了近路，穿过独立中学旁边的军营区——爸爸向来不许我们走那条捷径，但当时他跟拉辛汗在巴基斯坦。我们跨过围绕着军营的藩篱，跳过一条小溪，闯进那片开阔的泥地，那儿停放着积满尘灰的废旧坦克。数个士兵聚集在一辆坦克的影子下抽烟玩牌。有个士兵发现了我们，用手肘碰碰身边的家伙，冲哈桑嚷嚷。

　　“喂，你!”他说，“我认识你。”

　　我们跟他素不相识。他又矮又胖，头发剃得很短，脸上还有黑乎乎的胡茬。他脸带淫亵，朝我们咧嘴而笑，我心下慌乱。“继续走!”我低声对哈桑说。

　　“你!那个哈扎拉小子!看着我，我跟你说话呐!”那士兵咆哮着。他把香烟递给身边那个家伙，用一只手的拇指和食指围成圆圈，另外一只手的中指戳进那个圈圈，不断戳进戳出。“我认识你妈妈，你知道吗?我和她交情不浅呢。我在那边的小溪从后面干过她。”

　　众士兵轰然大笑，有个还发出一声尖叫。我告诉哈桑继续走，继续走。

　　“她的蜜穴又小又紧!”那士兵边说边跟其他人握手，哈哈大笑。稍后，电影开始了，我在黑暗中听到坐在身边的哈桑低声啜泣，看到眼泪从他脸颊掉下来。我从座位上探过身去，用手臂环住他，把他拉近。他把脸埋在我的肩膀上。“他认错人了，”我低语，“他认错人了。”

　　据说莎娜芭抛家弃子的时候，没有人感到奇怪。熟背《可兰经》的阿里娶了比他年轻19岁的莎娜芭，这个女人美貌动人，可是不洁身自爱，向来声名狼藉。人们对这桩婚事大皱眉头。跟阿里一样，她也是什叶派穆斯林（伊斯兰教分为逊尼（Sunni）和什叶（Shi’a）两大派系。两派的分别主要在于对于穆罕默德继承人的合法性的承认上。按什叶派的观点，只有阿里及其直系后裔才是合法的继承人，而逊尼派承认艾布·伯克尔、欧麦尔、奥斯曼、阿里四大哈里发的合法性。），也是哈扎拉（Hazara，阿富汗民族，主要分布在该国中部省份。）族人。她还是他的第一个堂妹，因而他们天生就应该是一对。但除了这些，至少在他们的外表上，阿里和莎娜芭毫无共同之处。风传莎娜芭那善睐的绿眼珠和俏皮的脸蛋曾诱得无数男人自甘堕落，阿里的半边脸罹患先天麻痹，因此他无法微笑，总是一副阴骘的脸色。要判断石头脸的阿里究竟高兴还是难过可不是容易的事情，因为只有从他眯斜的棕色眼睛，才能判断其中是欢乐的闪烁，还是哀伤的涌动。人们说眼睛是心灵的窗口，用在阿里身上再贴切不过，他只能在眼神中透露自己。

　　我听说莎娜芭步履款款，双臀摇摆，那诱人的身姿令众多男人跟他们的爱人同床异梦。但阿里得过小儿麻痹症，右腿萎缩，菜色的皮肤包着骨头，夹着一层薄如纸的肌肉。我记得八岁那年，有一天阿里带我到市场去买馕饼（Naan，阿富汗日常主食，将面团抹在烤炉上烘焙而成。）。我走在他后面，嘴里念念有词，学着他走路的样子。我看见他提起那条嶙峋的右腿，摇晃着划出一道弧形；看见他那条腿每次踏下，身体不由自主地往右边倾低。他这样蹒跚前进而又能不摔倒，不能不说是个小小的奇迹。我学着他走路，差点摔进水沟，忍不住咯咯笑起来。阿里转过身，看到我正学着他。他什么也没说。当时没说，以后也一直没说，他只是继续走。

　　阿里的脸庞和步伐吓坏了某些邻居的小孩。但真正麻烦的是那些较大的少年。每逢他走过，他们总在街道上追逐他，作弄他。有些管他叫“巴巴鲁”，也就是专吃小孩的恶魔。“喂，巴巴鲁，今天你吃了谁啊?”他们一起欢乐地叫喊,“你吃了谁啊，塌鼻子巴巴鲁?”

　　他们管他叫“塌鼻子”，因为阿里和哈桑是哈扎拉人，有典型的蒙古人种外貌。很长一段时间内，我对哈扎拉人的了解就这么多：他们是蒙古人的后裔，跟中国人稍微有些相似。学校的教材对他们语焉不详，仅仅提到过他们的祖先。有一天，我在爸爸的书房翻阅他的东西，发现有本妈妈留下的旧历史书，作者是伊朗人，叫寇拉米。我吹去蒙在书上的尘灰，那天晚上偷偷将它带上床，吃惊地发现里面关于哈扎拉人的故事竟然写了满满一章。整整一章都是关于哈扎拉人的!我从中读到自己的族人——普什图人（Pashtuns，阿富汗人口最多的民族，其语言普什图语为阿富汗国语。）曾经迫害和剥削哈扎拉人。它提到19世纪时，哈扎拉人曾试图反抗普什图人，但普什图人“以罄竹难书的暴行镇压了他们”。书中说我的族人对哈扎拉人妄加杀戮，迫使他们离乡背井，烧焚他们的家园，贩售他们的女人。书中认为，普什图人压迫哈扎拉人的原因，部分是由于前者是逊尼派穆斯林，而后者是什叶派。那本书记载着很多我不知道的事情，那些事情我的老师从未提及，爸爸也缄口不谈。它还诉说着一些我已经知道的事情，比如人们管哈扎拉人叫“吃老鼠的人”、“塌鼻子”、“载货蠢驴”等。我曾听到有些邻居的小孩这么辱骂哈桑。

　　随后那个星期，有天下课，我把那本书给老师看，指着关于哈扎拉人那一章。他翻了几页，嗤之以鼻地把书还给我。“这件事什叶派最拿手了，”他边收拾自己的教案边说，“把他们自己送上西天，还当是殉道呢。”提到什叶派这个词的时候，他皱了皱鼻子，仿佛那是某种疾病。

　　虽说同属一族，甚至同根所生，但莎娜芭也加入到邻居小孩取笑阿里的行列里去了。据说她憎恶他的相貌，已经到了尽人皆知的地步。

　　“这是个丈夫吗?”她会冷笑着说,“我看嫁头老驴子都比嫁给他好。”

　　最终，人们都猜测这桩婚事是阿里和他叔叔——也就是莎娜芭的父亲之间的某种协定。他们说阿里娶他的堂妹，是为了给声名受辱的叔叔恢复一点荣誉，尽管阿里五岁痛失牯持，也并无值得一提的财物或遗产。

　　0阿里对这些侮辱总是默默以待，我认为这跟他畸形的腿有关：他不可能逮到他们。但更主要的是，这些欺辱对他来说毫不见效，在莎娜芭生下哈桑那一刻，他已经找到他的快乐、他的灵丹妙药。那真是足够简单的事情，没有产科医生，也没有麻醉师，更没有那些稀奇古怪的仪器设备。只有莎娜芭躺在一张脏兮兮的褥子上，身下什么也没垫着，阿里和接生婆在旁边帮手。她根本就不需要任何帮助，因为，即使在降临人世的时候，哈桑也是不改本色——他无法伤害任何人。几声呻吟，数下推动，哈桑就出来了。脸带微笑地出来了。

　　先是爱搬弄是非的接生婆告诉邻居的仆人，那人又到处宣扬，说莎娜芭看了一眼阿里怀中的婴儿，瞥见那兔唇，发出一阵凄厉的笑声。

　　“看吧，”她说，“现在你有了这个白痴儿子，他可以替你笑了!”她不愿抱着哈桑，仅仅五天之后，她离开了。

　　爸爸雇佣了那个喂过我的奶妈给哈桑哺乳。阿里跟我们说她是个蓝眼睛的哈扎拉女人，来自巴米扬（Bamiyan，阿富汗城市，在喀布尔西北150公里处。），那座城市有巨大的佛陀塑像。“她唱歌的嗓子可甜了!”他常常这么说。

　　她唱什么歌呢?哈桑跟我总是问，虽然我们已经知道——阿里已经告诉过我们无数次了，我们只是想听阿里唱。

　　他清了清喉咙，放声唱起来：

　　我站在高高的山上

　　呼唤阿里的名字，神灵的狮子

　　啊～阿里，神灵的狮子，凡人的国王

　　给我悲伤的心灵带来喜悦

　　然后他会提醒我们，喝过同样的乳汁长大的人就是兄弟，这种亲情连时间也无法拆散。

　　哈桑跟我喝过同样的乳汁。我们在同一个院子里的同一片草坪上迈出第一步。还有，在同一个屋顶下，我们说出第一个字。

　　我说的是“爸爸”。

　　他说的是“阿米尔”。我的名字。

　　如今回头看来，我认为1975年冬天发生的事情——以及随后所有的事情——早已在这两个字里埋下根源。

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4071鲜花 1鸡蛋

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举报 只看该作者 地板   发表于: 2013-12-12 0

THREE
Lore has it my father once wrestled a black bear in Baluchistan with his bare hands. If the story had been about anyone else, it would have been dismissed as _laaf_, that Afghan tendency to exaggerate--sadly, almost a national affliction; if someone bragged that his son was a doctor, chances were the kid had once passed a biology test in high school. But no one ever doubted the veracity of any story about Baba. And if they did, well, Baba did have those three parallel scars coursing a jagged path down his back. I have imagined Baba's wrestling match countless times, even dreamed about it. And in those dreams, I can never tell Baba from the bear.
It was Rahim Khan who first referred to him as what eventually became Baba's famous nickname, _Toophan agha_, or "Mr. Hurricane.?It was an apt enough nickname. My father was a force of nature, a towering Pashtun specimen with a thick beard, a wayward crop of curly brown hair as unruly as the man himself, hands that looked capable of uprooting a willow tree, and a black glare that would "drop the devil to his knees begging for mercy,?as Rahim Khan used to say. At parties, when all six-foot-five of him thundered into the room, attention shifted to him like sunflowers turning to the sun.
Baba was impossible to ignore, even in his sleep. I used to bury cotton wisps in my ears, pull the blanket over my head, and still the sounds of Baba's snoring--so much like a growling truck engine--penetrated the walls. And my room was across the hall from Baba's bedroom. How my mother ever managed to sleep in the same room as him is a mystery to me. It's on the long list of things I would have asked my mother if I had ever met her.
In the late 1960s, when I was five or six, Baba decided to build an orphanage. I heard the story through Rahim Khan. He told me Baba had drawn the blueprints himself despite the fact that he'd had no architectural experience at all. Skeptics had urged him to stop his foolishness and hire an architect. Of course, Baba refused, and everyone shook their heads in dismay at his obstinate ways. Then Baba succeeded and everyone shook their heads in awe at his triumphant ways. Baba paid for the construction of the two-story orphanage, just off the main strip of Jadeh Maywand south of the Kabul River, with his own money. Rahim Khan told me Baba had personally funded the entire project, paying for the engineers, electricians, plumbers, and laborers, not to mention the city officials whose "mustaches needed oiling.?
It took three years to build the orphanage. I was eight by then. I remember the day before the orphanage opened, Baba took me to Ghargha Lake, a few miles north of Kabul. He asked me to fetch Hassan too, but I lied and told him Hassan had the runs. I wanted Baba all to myself. And besides, one time at Ghargha Lake, Hassan and I were skimming stones and Hassan made his stone skip eight times. The most I managed was five. Baba was there, watching, and he patted Hassan on the back. Even put his arm around his shoulder.
We sat at a picnic table on the banks of the lake, just Baba and me, eating boiled eggs with _kofta_ sandwiches--meatballs and pickles wrapped in _naan_. The water was a deep blue and sunlight glittered on its looking glass-clear surface. On Fridays, the lake was bustling with families out for a day in the sun. But it was midweek and there was only Baba and me, us and a couple of longhaired, bearded tourists--"hippies,?I'd heard them called. They were sitting on the dock, feet dangling in the water, Fishing poles in hand. I asked Baba why they grew their hair long, but Baba grunted, didn't answer. He was preparing his speech for the next day, flipping through a havoc of handwritten pages, making notes here and there with a pencil. I bit into my egg and asked Baba if it was true what a boy in school had told me, that if you ate a piece of eggshell, you'd have to pee it out. Baba grunted again.
I took a bite of my sandwich. One of the yellow-haired tourists laughed and slapped the other one on the back. In the distance, across the lake, a truck lumbered around a corner on the hill. Sunlight twinkled in its side-view mirror.
"I think I have _saratan_,?I said. Cancer. Baba lifted his head from the pages flapping in the breeze. Told me I could get the soda myself, all I had to do was look in the trunk of the car.
Outside the orphanage, the next day, they ran out of chairs. A lot of people had to stand to watch the opening ceremony. It was a windy day, and I sat behind Baba on the little podium just outside the main entrance of the new building. Baba was wearing a green suit and a caracul hat. Midway through the speech, the wind knocked his hat off and everyone laughed. He motioned to me to hold his hat for him and I was glad to, because then everyone would see that he was my father, my Baba. He turned back to the microphone and said he hoped the building was sturdier than his hat, and everyone laughed again. When Baba ended his speech, people stood up and cheered. They clapped for a long time. Afterward, people shook his hand. Some of them tousled my hair and shook my hand too. I was so proud of Baba, of us.
But despite Baba's successes, people were always doubting him. They told Baba that running a business wasn't in his blood and he should study law like his father. So Baba proved them all wrong by not only running his own business but becoming one of the richest merchants in Kabul. Baba and Rahim Khan built a wildly successful carpet-exporting Business, two pharmacies, and a restaurant.
When people scoffed that Baba would never marry well--after all, he was not of royal blood--he wedded my mother, Sofia Akrami, a highly educated woman universally regarded as one of Kabul's most respected, beautiful, and virtuous ladies. And not only did she teach classic Farsi literature at the university she was a descendant of the royal family, a fact that my father playfully rubbed in the skeptics?faces by referring to her as "my princess.?
With me as the glaring exception, my father molded the world around him to his liking. The problem, of course, was that Baba saw the world in black and white. And he got to decide what was black and what was white. You can't love a person who lives that way without fearing him too. Maybe even hating him a little.
When I was in fifth grade, we had a mullah who taught us about Islam. His name was Mullah Fatiullah Khan, a short, stubby man with a face full of acne scars and a gruff voice. He lectured us about the virtues of _zakat_ and the duty of _hadj_; he taught us the intricacies of performing the five daily _namaz_ prayers, and made us memorize verses from the Koran--and though he never translated the words for us, he did stress, sometimes with the help of a stripped willow branch, that we had to pronounce the Arabic words correctly so God would hear us better. He told us one day that Islam considered drinking a terrible sin; those who drank would answer for their sin on the day of _Qiyamat_, Judgment Day. In those days, drinking was fairly common in Kabul. No one gave you a public lashing for it, but those Afghans who did drink did so in private, out of respect. People bought their scotch as "Medicine?in brown paper bags from selected "pharmacies.?They would leave with the bag tucked out of sight, sometimes drawing furtive, disapproving glances from those who knew about the store's reputation for such transactions.
We were upstairs in Baba's study, the smoking room, when I told him what Mullah Fatiullah Khan had taught us in class. Baba was pouring himself a whiskey from the bar he had built in the corner of the room. He listened, nodded, took a sip from his drink. Then he lowered himself into the leather sofa, put down his drink, and propped me up on his lap. I felt as if I were sitting on a pair of tree trunks. He took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose, the air hissing through his mustache for what seemed an eternity I couldn't decide whether I wanted to hug him or leap from his lap in mortal fear.
"I see you've confused what you're learning in school with actual education,?he said in his thick voice.
"But if what he said is true then does it make you a sinner, Baba??
"Hmm.?Baba crushed an ice cube between his teeth. "Do you want to know what your father thinks about sin??
"Yes.?
"Then I'll tell you,?Baba said, "but first understand this and understand it now, Amir: You'll never learn anything of value from those bearded idiots.?
"You mean Mullah Fatiullah Khan??
Baba gestured with his glass. The ice clinked. "I mean all of them. Piss on the beards of all those self-righteous monkeys.?
I began to giggle. The image of Baba pissing on the beard of any monkey, self-righteous or otherwise, was too much.
"They do nothing but thumb their prayer beads and recite a book written in a tongue they don't even understand.?He took a sip. "God help us all if Afghanistan ever falls into their hands.?
"But Mullah Fatiullah Khan seems nice,?I managed between bursts of tittering.
"So did Genghis Khan,?Baba said. "But enough about that. You asked about sin and I want to tell you. Are you listening??
"Yes,?I said, pressing my lips together. But a chortle escaped through my nose and made a snorting sound. That got me giggling again.
Baba's stony eyes bore into mine and, just like that, I wasn't laughing anymore. "I mean to speak to you man to man. Do you think you can handle that for once??
"Yes, Baba jan,?I muttered, marveling, not for the first time, at how badly Baba could sting me with so few words. We'd had a fleeting good moment--it wasn't often Baba talked to me, let alone on his lap--and I'd been a fool to waste it.
"Good,?Baba said, but his eyes wondered. "Now, no matter what the mullah teaches, there is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. Do you understand that??
"No, Baba jan,?I said, desperately wishing I did. I didn't want to disappoint him again.
Baba heaved a sigh of impatience. That stung too, because he was not an impatient man. I remembered all the times he didn't come home until after dark, all the times I ate dinner alone. I'd ask Ali where Baba was, when he was coming Home, though I knew full well he was at the construction site, overlooking this, supervising that. Didn't that take patience? I already hated all the kids he was building the orphanage for; sometimes I wished they'd all died along with their parents.
"When you kill a man, you steal a life,?Baba said. "You steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. Do you see??
I did. When Baba was six, a thief walked into my grandfather's house in the middle of the night. My grandfather, a respected judge, confronted him, but the thief stabbed him in the throat, killing him instantly--and robbing Baba of a father. The townspeople caught the killer just before noon the next day; he turned out to be a wanderer from the Kunduz region. They hanged him from the branch of an oak tree with still two hours to go before afternoon prayer. It was Rahim Khan, not Baba, who had told me that story. I was always learning things about Baba from other people.
"There is no act more wretched than stealing, Amir,?Baba said. "A man who takes what's not his to take, be it a life or a loaf of _naan_... I spit on such a man. And if I ever cross paths with him, God help him. Do you understand??
I found the idea of Baba clobbering a thief both exhilarating and terribly frightening. "Yes, Baba.?
"If there's a God out there, then I would hope he has more important things to attend to than my drinking scotch or eating pork. Now, hop down. All this talk about sin has made me thirsty again.?
I watched him fill his glass at the bar and wondered how much time would pass before we talked again the way we just had. Because the truth of it was, I always felt like Baba hated me a little. And why not? After all, I _had_ killed his beloved wife, his beautiful princess, hadn't I? The least I could have done was to have had the decency to have turned out a little more like him. But I hadn't turned out like him. Not at all.

IN SCHOOL, we used to play a game called _Sherjangi_, or "Battle of the Poems.?The Farsi teacher moderated it and it went something like this: You recited a verse from a poem and your opponent had sixty seconds to reply with a verse that began with the same letter that ended yours. Everyone in my class wanted me on their team, because by the time I was eleven, I could recite dozens of verses from Khayyam, H?fez, or Rumi's famous _Masnawi_. One time, I took on the whole class and won. I told Baba about it later that night, but he just nodded, muttered, "Good.?
That was how I escaped my father's aloofness, in my dead mother's books. That and Hassan, of course. I read everything, Rumi, H?fez, Saadi, Victor Hugo, Jules Verne, Mark Twain, Ian Fleming. When I had finished my mother's books--not the boring history ones, I was never much into those, but the novels, the epics--I started spending my allowance on books. I bought one a week from the bookstore near Cinema Park, and stored them in cardboard boxes when I ran out of shelf room.
Of course, marrying a poet was one thing, but fathering a son who preferred burying his face in poetry books to hunting... well, that wasn't how Baba had envisioned it, I suppose. Real men didn't read poetry--and God forbid they should ever write it! Real men--real boys--played soccer just as Baba had when he had been young. Now _that_ was something to be passionate about. In 1970, Baba took a break from the construction of the orphanage and flew to Tehran for a month to watch the World Cup games on television, since at the time Afghanistan didn't have TVs yet. He signed me up for soccer teams to stir the same passion in me. But I was pathetic, a blundering liability to my own team, always in the way of an opportune pass or unwittingly blocking an open lane. I shambled about the field on scraggy legs, squalled for passes that never came my way. And the harder I tried, waving my arms over my head frantically and screeching, "I'm open! I'm open!?the more I went ignored. But Baba wouldn't give up. When it became abundantly clear that I hadn't inherited a shred of his athletic talents, he settled for trying to turn me into a passionate spectator. Certainly I could manage that, couldn't I? I faked interest for as long as possible. I cheered with him when Kabul's team scored against Kandahar and yelped insults at the referee when he called a penalty against our team. But Baba sensed my lack of genuine interest and resigned himself to the bleak fact that his son was never going to either play or watch soccer.
I remember one time Baba took me to the yearly _Buzkashi_ tournament that took place on the first day of spring, New Year's Day. Buzkashi was, and still is, Afghanistan's national passion. A _chapandaz_, a highly skilled horseman usually patronized by rich aficionados, has to snatch a goat or cattle carcass from the midst of a melee, carry that carcass with him around the stadium at full gallop, and drop it in a scoring circle while a team of other _chapandaz_ chases him and does everything in its power--kick, claw, whip, punch--to snatch the carcass from him. That day, the crowd roared with excitement as the horsemen on the field bellowed their battle cries and jostled for the carcass in a cloud of dust. The earth trembled with the clatter of hooves. We watched from the upper bleachers as riders pounded past us at full gallop, yipping and yelling, foam flying from their horses?mouths.
At one point Baba pointed to someone. "Amir, do you see that man sitting up there with those other men around him??
I did.
"That's Henry Kissinger.?
"Oh,?I said. I didn't know who Henry Kissinger was, and I might have asked. But at the moment, I watched with horror as one of the _chapandaz_ fell off his saddle and was trampled under a score of hooves. His body was tossed and hurled in the stampede like a rag doll, finally rolling to a stop when the melee moved on. He twitched once and lay motionless, his legs bent at unnatural angles, a pool of his blood soaking through the sand.
I began to cry.
I cried all the way back Home. I remember how Baba's hands clenched around the steering wheel. Clenched and unclenched. Mostly, I will never forget Baba's valiant efforts to conceal the disgusted look on his face as he drove in silence.
Later that night, I was passing by my father's study when I overheard him speaking to Rahim Khan. I pressed my ear to the closed door.
?-grateful that he's healthy,?Rahim Khan was saying.
"I know, I know. But he's always buried in those books or shuffling around the house like he's lost in some dream.?
"And??
"I wasn't like that.?Baba sounded frustrated, almost angry.
Rahim Khan laughed. "Children aren't coloring books. You don't get to fill them with your favorite colors.?
"I'm telling you,?Baba said, "I wasn't like that at all, and neither were any of the kids I grew up with.?
"You know, sometimes you are the most self-centered man I know,?Rahim Khan said. He was the only person I knew who could get away with saying something like that to Baba.
"It has nothing to do with that.?
"Nay??
"Nay.?
"Then what??
I heard the leather of Baba's seat creaking as he shifted on it. I closed my eyes, pressed my ear even harder against the door, wanting to hear, not wanting to hear. "Sometimes I look out this window and I see him playing on the street with the neighborhood boys. I see how they push him around, take his toys from him, give him a shove here, a whack there. And, you know, he never fights back. Never. He just... drops his head and...?
"So he's not violent,?Rahim Khan said.
"That's not what I mean, Rahim, and you know it,?Baba shot back. "There is something missing in that boy.?
"Yes, a mean streak.?
"Self-defense has nothing to do with meanness. You know what always happens when the neighborhood boys tease him? Hassan steps in and fends them off. I've seen it with my own eyes. And when they come Home, I say to him, ‘How did Hassan get that scrape on his face??And he says, ‘He fell down.?I'm telling you, Rahim, there is something missing in that boy.?
"You just need to let him find his way,?Rahim Khan said.
"And where is he headed??Baba said. "A boy who won't stand up for himself becomes a man who can't stand up to anything.?
"As usual you're oversimplifying.?
"I don't think so.?
"You're angry because you're afraid he'll never take over the Business for you.?
"Now who's oversimplifying??Baba said. "Look, I know there's a fondness between you and him and I'm happy about that. Envious, but happy. I mean that. He needs someone who...understands him, because God knows I don't. But something about Amir troubles me in a way that I can't express. It's like...?I could see him searching, reaching for the right words. He lowered his voice, but I heard him anyway. "If I hadn't seen the doctor pull him out of my wife with my own eyes, I'd never believe he's my son.?
THE NEXT MORNING, as he was preparing my breakfast, Hassan asked if something was bothering me. I snapped at him, told him to mind his own Business.
Rahim Khan had been wrong about the mean streak thing.

第三章


　　传说我父亲曾经在俾路支（Baluchistan，巴基斯坦城市。）赤手空拳，和一只黑熊搏斗。如果这是个关于别人的故事，肯定有人会斥之为笑话奇谈。阿富汗人总喜欢将事物夸大，很不幸，这几乎成了这个民族的特性。如果有人吹嘘说他儿子是医生，很可能是那孩子曾经在高中的生物学测验中考了个及格的分数。但凡涉及爸爸的故事，从来没人怀疑它们的真实性。倘使有人质疑，那么，爸爸背上那三道弯弯曲曲的伤痕就是证据。记不清有多少次，我想像着爸爸那次搏击的场面，甚至有时连做梦也梦到了。而在梦中，我分不清哪个是爸爸，哪个是熊。

　　有一次拉辛汗管爸爸叫“飓风先生”，这随后变成远近闻名的绰号。这个绰号可是名副其实。爸爸是典型的普什图人，身材高大，孔武有力，留着浓密的小胡子，卷曲的棕色头发甚是好看，跟他本人一样不羁；他双手强壮，似乎能将柳树连根拔起；并且，就像拉辛汗经常说的那样，黑色的眼珠一瞪，会“让魔鬼跪地求饶”。爸爸身高近2米，每当他出席宴会，总是像太阳吸引向日葵那样，把注意力引到自己身上。

　　爸爸即使在睡觉的时候，也是引人注目。我常在耳朵里面塞上棉花球，用毯子盖住头，但爸爸的鼾声宛如轰轰作响的汽车引擎，依然穿墙越壁而来，而我们的房间中间还隔着客厅呢。妈妈如何能跟他睡在同一个房间?我不得而知。要是能见到我的妈妈，我还有一长串问在1960年代晚期，我五六岁的样子，爸爸决定建造一座恤孤院。故事是拉辛汗告诉我的。他说爸爸亲自设计施工图，尽管他根本没有半点建筑经验。人们对此表示怀疑，劝他别犯傻，雇个建筑师得了。当然，爸爸拒绝了，人们大摇其头，对爸爸的顽固表示不解。然而爸爸成功了，人们又开始摇头了，不过这次是带着敬畏，对他成功的法门称赞不已。恤孤院楼高两层，位于喀布尔河南岸，在雅德梅湾大道旁边，所耗资费均由父亲自己支付。拉辛汗说爸爸独力承担了整个工程，工程师、电工、管道工、建筑工，这些人的工钱都是爸爸支付的。城里的官员也抽了油水，他们的“胡子得上点油”。

　　恤孤院工程耗时三年，盖好的那年我八岁。我记得恤孤院落成前一天，爸爸带我去喀布尔以北几英里远的喀尔卡湖。他让我叫上哈桑，但我撒谎，说哈桑有事情要做。我要爸爸全属我一人。再说，有一次哈桑和我在喀尔卡湖畔打水漂，他的石头跳了八下，我用尽力气，也只能跳五下。爸爸在旁边看着我们，他伸手拍拍哈桑的后背，甚至还用手臂搂住他的肩膀。

　　我们在湖边的野餐桌旁边坐下来，只有爸爸跟我，吃着水煮蛋和肉丸夹饼——就是馕饼夹着肉丸和腌黄瓜。湖水澄蓝，波平如镜，阳光照在湖上熠熠生辉。每逢周五，总有很多家庭到湖边，在阳光下度过假期。但那天不是周末，那儿只有我们——爸爸和我，还有几个留着胡子和长发的游客，我听说他们叫“嬉皮士”。他们坐在码头上，手里拿着钓鱼竿，脚板在水里晃荡。我问爸爸，为什么那些人留着长头发，但爸爸没有回答，只哼了一声。他正准备翌日的演讲，翻阅着一叠手稿，不时用铅笔做些记号。我吃一口鸡蛋，告诉爸爸，学校里面有个男孩说，要是吃下鸡蛋壳，就得将它尿出来。我问爸爸这是不是真的，爸爸又哼了一声。

　　我咬一口夹饼。有个黄头发的游客放声大笑，用手拍拍另外一人的后背。远处，在湖那边，一辆卡车蹒跚着转过山路的拐角处，它的观后镜反射出闪闪的阳光。

　　“我想我得了癌症。”我说。和风吹拂着那些手稿，爸爸抬头，告诉我可以自行去拿些苏打水，我所能做的，便只有去搜寻那轿车的行李箱。

　　翌日，在恤孤院外面，椅子没有来客多。很多人只好站着观看落成庆典。那天刮风，新建筑的大门外面搭了个礼台，爸爸坐在上面，我坐在他后面。爸爸身穿绿色套装，头戴羔羊皮帽。演讲当中，风把他的帽子吹落，人们开怀大笑。他示意我替他把帽子捡回来，我很高兴，因为当时人人可以看到他是我的父亲，我的爸爸。他转过身，对着麦克风说，他希望这座房子比他的皮帽来得牢靠，人们又大笑起来。爸爸演讲结束的时候，大家站起来，欢呼致意，掌声经久不息。接着，来宾与他握手。有些人摸摸我的头发，也跟我握手。我为爸爸自豪，为我们骄傲。

　　虽说爸爸事业兴旺，人们总是说三道四。他们说爸爸没有经商的天分，应该像爷爷那样专研法律。所以爸爸证明他们统统错了：他不仅经营着自己的生意，还成了喀布尔屈指可数的巨贾。爸爸和拉辛汗创办了一家日进斗金的地毯出口公司，两家药房，还有一家餐厅。

　　当时人们嘲弄爸爸，说他不可能有桩好婚事——毕竟他没有皇族血统，他娶了我妈妈，索菲亚·阿卡拉米。妈妈受过良好教育，无论人品还是外貌，都被公认是喀布尔数得上的淑女。她在大学教授古典法尔西语（Farsi，现代波斯语。）文学，祖上是皇亲贵胄。这让爸爸十分高兴，总在那些对他有所怀疑的人面前称呼她“我的公主”。

　　父亲随心所欲地打造他身边的世界，除了我这个明显的例外。当然，问题在于，爸爸眼里的世界只有黑和白。至于什么是黑，什么是白，全然由他说了算。他就是这么一个人，你若爱他，也必定会怕他，甚或对他有些恨意。

　　我上五年级的时候，上伊斯兰课的毛拉（Mullah，伊斯兰教对老师、先生、学者的敬称。）叫法修拉，个子矮小粗壮，脸上满是青春痘的疤痕，声音嘶哑。他教导我们，让我们知道施天课的（伊斯兰教有五大天命：念、礼、斋、课、朝。天课（zakat），即伊斯兰教法定的施舍，或称“奉主命而定”的宗教赋税，又称“济贫税”。）益处，还有朝觐的责任。他还教给我们每天五次礼拜（伊斯兰教每天要进行五次礼拜，在黎明、中午、下午、日落和晚上各进行一次。）的复杂仪式，要我们背诵《可兰经》。他从不替我们翻译经文，总是强调——有时还会用上一根柳树条——我们必须准确地念出那些阿拉伯字眼，以便真主能听得更清楚。一天，他说在伊斯兰教义里面，喝酒是极大的罪过，那些嗜酒的家伙将会在接受超度那一天（审判日）得到惩罚。当年喀布尔饮酒的人比比皆是，没有人会公然加以谴责。不过那些爱小酌几杯的阿富汗人也只敢阳奉阴违，从不在公开场合喝酒。人们把烈酒称为“药”，到特定的“药店”购买，用棕色纸袋包着。他们将袋子扎好，以免被看到；然而有时在路上仍不免被人偷眼斜睨，因为知道这些商店在兜售什么玩意的人可不少。

　　我们在楼上，爸爸的书房——那个吸烟室——里面，我告诉他法修拉毛拉在课堂上讲的话。爸爸走到那个他造在屋角的吧台，自斟了一杯威士忌。他边听边点头，不时从他的酒杯小啜一口。接着他坐在皮沙发上，把酒杯放下，把我抱在他的膝盖上。我觉得自己好像坐在一对树干上。他用鼻子深深吸一口气，又呼出来，气息嘶嘶作响，穿过他的胡子，似乎永无止境。我不知道自己是该拥抱他呢，还是该害怕得从他膝盖上跳下来。

　　“我知道，你被学校教的功课和在生活中学到的东西搞糊涂了。”他那浑厚的声音说。

　　“可是，如果他说的是真的，那你岂不是罪人了吗，爸爸?”

　　“嗯。”爸爸咬碎嘴里的冰块，“你想知道自己的父亲怎么看待罪行吗?”

　　“想。”

　　“那我会告诉你，”爸爸说，“不过首先，你得知道一件事情，阿米尔，那些白痴大胡子不会教给你任何有价值的东西。”

　　“你是说法修拉毛拉吗?”

　　爸爸拿起酒杯，冰块叮咚作响。“我是说他们全部，那些自以为是的猴子，应该在他们的胡子上撒尿。”

　　我咯咯笑起来。想到爸爸在猴子的胡子上撒尿，不管那猴子是否自以为是，那场面太搞笑了。

　　“除了用拇指数念珠，背诵那本根本就看不懂的经书，他们什么也不会。”他喝了一口，“要是阿富汗落在他们手里，所有人都得求真主保佑了。”

　　“可是法修拉毛拉人很好。”我忍住发笑。

　　“成吉思汗也很好。”爸爸说，“够了，不说这个了。你问我对罪行的看法，我会告诉你。你在听吗?”

　　“是的。”我说，试着抿紧嘴唇，但笑声从鼻孔冒出来，发出一阵鼻息的声响，惹得我又咯咯笑起来。

　　爸爸双眼坚定地看着我的眼睛，仅仅这样，我就止住了笑声。“我的意思是，像男人跟男人说话那样跟你谈谈。你觉得你做得到吗?”

　　“是的，亲爱的爸爸。”我低声说，不止一次，爸爸只用几个字就能刺痛我，这真是叫人惊奇。我们有过一段短暂的美好时光——爸爸平时很少跟我说话，更别提把我抱在膝盖上——而我这个笨蛋，竟然白白将其浪费了。

　　“很好，”爸爸说，但眼睛仍透露出怀疑的神色,“现在，不管那个毛拉怎么说，罪行只有一种，只有一种。那就是盗窃，其他罪行都是盗窃的变种。你明白吗?”

　　“不，亲爱的爸爸。”我说，我多希望自己能懂，我不想再让他失望。

　　爸爸不耐烦地叹了一口气，那又刺痛我了，因为他不是没耐心的人。他总是直到夜幕降临才回家，留我独自吃饭，每一次我都记得清清楚楚。我问阿里“爸爸在哪儿，什么时候回来”，虽然我知道他在建筑工地，看看这儿，检查那儿。难道那不需要耐心吗?我一度恨上他建造的那所恤孤院里面的孩子，有时甚至希望他们统统随着父母一起死掉。

　　“当你杀害一个人，你偷走一条性命，”爸爸说，“你偷走他妻子身为人妇的权利，夺走他子女的父亲。当你说谎，你偷走别人知道真相的权利。当你诈骗，你偷走公平的权利。你懂吗?”

　　我懂。爸爸六岁那年，有个窃贼在深夜溜进爷爷的房子。我的爷爷，一个万众景仰的法官，发现了他，但那个贼割开他的喉咙，立刻要了他的命——夺走了爸爸的父亲。翌日午前，当地居民抓住了那个凶手，人们发现他是来自昆都士（Kunduz，阿富汗北部省份。）地区的流浪汉。在午后祈祷仪式开始之前两个小时，凶手被吊死在橡树上。告诉我这件往事的，不是爸爸，而是拉辛汗。我总是从他人口里得知爸爸的事情。

　　“没有比盗窃更十恶不赦的事情了，阿米尔。”爸爸说，“要是有人拿走不属于他的东西，一条性命也好，一块馕饼也好，我都会唾弃他。要是我在街上碰到他，真主也救不了。你明白吗?”

　　我发现爸爸痛击窃贼这个主意让我既兴奋又害怕。“我明白，爸爸。”

　　“如果说有什么真主的话，我希望他有其他更重要的事情做，而不是来关注我喝烈酒。好了，下去吧。说了这么多关于罪行的看法，我又渴了。”

　　我看着他在吧台斟满酒杯，心里想着，要再过多久我们才能再次这样交谈呢?因为真相摆在那儿，我总觉得爸爸多少有点恨我。为什么不呢?毕竟，是我杀了他深爱着的妻子，他美丽的公主，不是吗?我所能做的，至少应该是试图变得更像他一点。但我没有变得像他，一点都没有。

　　上学时，我们常常玩一种连句的游戏，也就是诗歌比赛。教授法尔西语课的老师从中主持，规则大抵是这样的：你背一句诗，你的对手有六秒钟的时间可以回答，但必须是以你背出来那句诗最后一个字开头的诗句。班里人人都想跟我一组，因为那时十一岁的我已经能背出迦亚谟（OmarKhayya＇m（1048～1122），古代波斯诗人，代表作为《鲁拜集》（RubaiyatofOmarKhayya＇m）。）、哈菲兹（ShamseddinMohammadHa~fez（约1320～约1388），古代波斯诗人。）的数十篇诗歌，也能诵得鲁米著名的《玛斯纳维》（MowlanaJalaluddinRumi（1207～1273），古代波斯诗人,《玛斯纳维》（Masnavi）是他的故事诗。）。有一次，我代表全班出战，并且旗开得胜。那天夜里我告诉爸爸，他只是点点头，咕哝了一声:“不错。”

　　为了逃避爸爸的冷漠，我埋首翻阅故去的母亲留下的书本。此外，当然还有哈桑。我什么都读，鲁米，哈菲兹，萨迪（MoslehalDinSaadiShirazi（约1210～约1290），古代波斯诗人。），维克多·雨果，儒勒·凡尔纳，马克·吐温，伊恩·弗莱明（IanFleming（1908～1964），英国小说家，撰写了007系列小说。）。读完妈妈的遗藏——我从来不碰那些枯燥的历史书，只看小说和诗歌——之后，我开始用零花钱买书。我每周到电影院公园边上的书店买一本书，直到书架放不下了，就放在硬纸箱里面。

　　当然，跟诗人结婚是一回事，但生个喜欢埋首诗书多过打猎的儿子……这么说吧，那可不是爸爸所希望看到的，我想。真正的男人不看诗——真主也禁止他们创作呢。真正的男人——真正的男孩——应该像爸爸小时候那样踢足球去，那才是值得付出热情的玩意儿。1970年，爸爸暂停了恤孤院的工程，飞往德黑兰，在那儿停留一个月：由于阿富汗当时还没有电视，他只好去那边看世界杯足球赛。为了激起我对足球的热情，他替我报名参加球队。但我这个可怜虫变成球队的负担，不是传丢了球，就是愚蠢地挡住队友的进攻路线。我瘦弱的双腿跌跌撞撞地在球场上奔跑，声嘶力竭，球却不会滚到我脚下来。我越是喊得起劲，双手在头顶尽力挥舞，高声大喊:“传给我，传给我!”队友越是对我视若不见。但爸爸从不放弃。等到他没有将任何运动天分遗传给我的事实昭然若揭之后，他又开始试着把我变成一个热情的观众。当然，我能做得到，不是吗?我尽量装得兴致勃勃。我跟他一起，每逢喀布尔队跟坎大哈（Kandahar，阿富汗南部城市。）队比赛，就大喊大叫；每逢我们的球队遭到判罚，就咒骂裁判。但爸爸察觉到我并非真心实意，只好黯然放弃，接受这个悲惨的事实：他的儿子非但不喜欢玩足球，连当观众也心不在焉。

　　我记得有个新年，爸爸带我去看一年一度的比武竞赛。比武竞赛在春季的第一天举行，至今仍是阿富汗举国热爱的赛事。技艺精熟的骑士通常会得到大亨的赞助，他必须在混战中夺得一只屠宰后的羊或牛，驮着它全速绕看台迅跑，然后将其丢进得分圈。在他后面，会有另外一群骑士追逐着他，竭尽所能——脚踢、手抓、鞭打、拳击——试图将牛羊夺过来。那天，骑士在战场上高声叫喊，横冲直撞，激起重重尘雾；观众则沸反盈天，兴奋异常；马蹄得得，震得大地抖动。我们坐在看台的座位上，看着那些骑士在我们面前呼啸而过，他们的坐骑则白沫横飞。

　　爸爸指着某个人:“阿米尔，你看到坐在那边的家伙吗，身边围着很多人那个?”

　　我说:“看到了”。

　　“那是亨利·基辛格。”

　　“哦。”我不知道基辛格是何许人，兴许随口问了。但在那个关头，我见到一件恐怖的事情：有个骑士从鞍上跌落，数十只马蹄从他身上践踏而过。他的身体像个布娃娃，在马蹄飞舞间被拉来扯去。马队飞奔而过，他终于跌落下来，抽搐了一下，便再也没有动弹；他的双腿弯曲成不自然的角度，大片的血液染红了沙地。

　　我放声大哭。

　　我一路上哭着回家。我记得爸爸的手死死抓住方向盘，一会儿抓紧，一会儿放松。更重要的是，爸爸开车时沉默不语，厌恶溢于言表，我永远都不会忘记。

　　那天夜里，我路过爸爸的书房，偷听到他在跟拉辛汗说话。我将耳朵贴在门板上。

　　“……谢天谢地，他身体健康。”拉辛汗说。

　　“我知道，我知道，可他总是埋在书堆里，要不就在家里晃晃悠悠，好像梦游一般。”

　　“那又怎样?”

　　“我可不是这个样子。”爸爸丧气地说，声音中还有些愤怒。

　　拉辛汗笑起来。“孩子又不是图画练习册，你不能光顾着要涂上自己喜欢的色彩。”

　　“我是说，”爸爸说,“我根本不是那个样子的。跟我一起长大的孩子也没有像他那样的。”

　　“你知道，有时你是我认识的人中最自以为是的了。”拉辛汗说。在我认识的人中，只有他敢这么跟爸爸说话。

　　“跟这个没有任何关系。”

　　“没有吗?”

　　“没有。”

　　“那跟什么有关系?”

　　我听到爸爸挪动身子，皮椅吱吱作响。我合上双眼，耳朵更加紧贴着门板，又想听，又不想听。“有时我从这扇窗望出去，我看到他跟邻居的孩子在街上玩。我看到他们推搡他，拿走他的玩具，在这儿推他一下，在那儿打他一下。你知道，他从不反击，从不。他只是……低下头，然后……”

　　“这说明他并不暴戾。”拉辛汗说。

　　“我不是这个意思，拉辛，你知道的。”爸爸朝他嚷着,“这孩子身上缺了某些东西。”

　　“是的，缺了卑劣的性格。”

　　“自我防卫跟卑劣毫不搭边。你知道事情总是怎么样的吗?每当那些邻居的孩子欺负他，总是哈桑挺身而出，将他们挡回去。这是我亲眼见到的。他们回家之后，我问他,‘哈桑脸上的伤痕是怎么回事?’他说:‘他摔了一跤。’我跟你说，拉辛，这孩子身上缺了某些东西。”

　　“你只消让他找到自己的路。”拉辛汗说。

　　“可是他要走去哪里呢?”爸爸说，“一个不能保护自己的男孩，长大之后什么东西都保护不了。”

　　“你总是将问题过度简化了。”

　　“我认为不是的。”

　　“你生气，是因为你害怕他不会接管你的生意。”

　　“现在谁在简化问题?”爸爸说，“看吧，我知道你跟他关系很好，这我很高兴。我是说，我有些妒忌，但很高兴。他需要有人……有人能理解他，因为真主知道我理解不了。可是阿米尔身上有些东西让我很烦恼，我又说不清楚，它像是……”我能猜到他在寻觅，在搜寻一个恰当的字眼。他放低了声音，但终究还是让我听到了。“要不是我亲眼看着大夫把他从我老婆肚子里拉出来，我肯定不相信他是我的儿子。”

　　次日清晨，哈桑在替我准备早餐，他问我是不是有什么烦心的事情。我朝他大吼，叫他别多管闲事。

　　至于那卑劣的性格，拉辛汗错了。


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海蓝见鲸。

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10347鲜花 14鸡蛋

等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 树深见鹿。
举报 只看该作者 4楼  发表于: 2013-12-12 0
i like this book so much

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我也是，先看的电影，后来又特意找的书。
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木有有木

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4071鲜花 1鸡蛋

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举报 只看该作者 5楼  发表于: 2013-12-12 0

FOUR
In 1933, the year Baba was born and the year Zahir Shah began his forty-year reign of Afghanistan, two brothers, young men from a wealthy and reputable family in Kabul, got behind the wheel of their father's Ford roadster. High on hashish and _mast_ on French wine, they struck and killed a Hazara husband and wife on the road to Paghman. The police brought the somewhat contrite young men and the dead couple's five-year-old orphan boy before my grandfather, who was a highly regarded judge and a man of impeccable reputation. After hearing the brothers?account and their father's plea for mercy, my grandfather ordered the two young men to go to Kandahar at once and enlist in the army for one year--this despite the fact that their family had somehow managed to obtain them exemptions from the draft. Their father argued, but not too vehemently, and in the end, everyone agreed that the punishment had been perhaps harsh but fair. As for the orphan, my grandfather adopted him into his own household, and told the other servants to tutor him, but to be kind to him. That boy was Ali.
Ali and Baba grew up together as childhood playmates--at least until polio crippled Ali's leg--just like Hassan and I grew up a generation later. Baba was always telling us about the mischief he and Ali used to cause, and Ali would shake his head and say, "But, Agha sahib, tell them who was the architect of the mischief and who the poor laborer??Baba would laugh and throw his arm around Ali.
But in none of his stories did Baba ever refer to Ali as his friend.
The curious thing was, I never thought of Hassan and me as friends either. Not in the usual sense, anyhow. Never mind that we taught each other to ride a bicycle with no hands, or to build a fully functional Homemade camera out of a cardboard box. Never mind that we spent entire winters flying kites, running kites. Never mind that to me, the face of Afghanistan is that of a boy with a thin-boned frame, a shaved head, and low-set ears, a boy with a Chinese doll face perpetually lit by a harelipped smile.
Never mind any of those things. Because history isn't easy to overcome. Neither is religion. In the end, I was a Pashtun and he was a Hazara, I was Sunni and he was Shi'a, and nothing was ever going to change that. Nothing.
But we were kids who had learned to crawl together, and no history, ethnicity, society, or religion was going to change that either. I spent most of the first twelve years of my life playing with Hassan. Sometimes, my entire childhood seems like one long lazy summer day with Hassan, chasing each other between tangles of trees in my father's yard, playing hide-and-seek, cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, insect torture--with our crowning achievement undeniably the time we plucked the stinger off a bee and tied a string around the poor thing to yank it back every time it took flight.
We chased the _Kochi_, the nomads who passed through Kabul on their way to the mountains of the north. We would hear their caravans approaching our neighborhood, the mewling of their sheep, the _baa_ing of their goats, the jingle of bells around their camels?necks. We'd run outside to watch the caravan plod through our street, men with dusty, weather-beaten faces and women dressed in long, colorful shawls, beads, and silver bracelets around their wrists and ankles. We hurled pebbles at their goats. We squirted water on their mules. I'd make Hassan sit on the Wall of Ailing Corn and fire pebbles with his slingshot at the camels?rears.
We saw our first Western together, _Rio Bravo_ with John Wayne, at the Cinema Park, across the street from my favorite bookstore. I remember begging Baba to take us to Iran so we could meet John Wayne. Baba burst out in gales of his deepthroated laughter--a sound not unlike a truck engine revving up--and, when he could talk again, explained to us the concept of voice dubbing. Hassan and I were stunned. Dazed. John Wayne didn't really speak Farsi and he wasn't Iranian! He was American, just like the friendly, longhaired men and women we always saw hanging around in Kabul, dressed in their tattered, brightly colored shirts. We saw _Rio Bravo_ three times, but we saw our favorite Western, _The Magnificent Seven_, thirteen times. With each viewing, we cried at the end when the Mexican kids buried Charles Bronson--who, as it turned out, wasn't Iranian either.
We took strolls in the musty-smelling bazaars of the Shar-e-Nau section of Kabul, or the new city, west of the Wazir Akbar Khan district. We talked about whatever film we had just seen and walked amid the bustling crowds of _bazarris_. We snaked our way among the merchants and the beggars, wandered through narrow alleys cramped with rows of tiny, tightly packed stalls. Baba gave us each a weekly allowance of ten Afghanis and we spent it on warm Coca-Cola and rosewater ice cream topped with crushed pistachios.
During the school year, we had a daily routine. By the time I dragged myself out of bed and lumbered to the bathroom, Hassan had already washed up, prayed the morning _namaz_ with Ali, and prepared my breakfast: hot black tea with three sugar cubes and a slice of toasted _naan_ topped with my favorite sour cherry marmalade, all neatly placed on the dining table. While I ate and complained about homework, Hassan made my bed, polished my shoes, ironed my outfit for the day, packed my books and pencils. I'd hear him singing to himself in the foyer as he ironed, singing old Hazara songs in his nasal voice. Then, Baba and I drove off in his black Ford Mustang--a car that drew envious looks everywhere because it was the same car Steve McQueen had driven in _Bullitt_, a film that played in one theater for six months. Hassan stayed Home and helped Ali with the day's chores: hand-washing dirty clothes and hanging them to dry in the yard, sweeping the floors, buying fresh _naan_ from the bazaar, marinating meat for dinner, watering the lawn.
After school, Hassan and I met up, grabbed a book, and trotted up a bowl-shaped hill just north of my father's property in Wazir Akbar Khan. There was an old abandoned cemetery atop the hill with rows of unmarked headstones and tangles of brushwood clogging the aisles. Seasons of rain and snow had turned the iron gate rusty and left the cemetery's low white stone walls in decay. There was a pomegranate tree near the entrance to the cemetery. One summer day, I used one of Ali's kitchen knives to carve our names on it: "Amir and Hassan, the sultans of Kabul.?Those words made it formal: the tree was ours. After school, Hassan and I climbed its branches and snatched its bloodred pomegranates. After we'd eaten the fruit and wiped our hands on the grass, I would read to Hassan.
Sitting cross-legged, sunlight and shadows of pomegranate leaves dancing on his face, Hassan absently plucked blades of grass from the ground as I read him stories he couldn't read for himself. That Hassan would grow up illiterate like Ali and most Hazaras had been decided the minute he had been born, perhaps even the moment he had been conceived in Sanaubar's unwelcoming womb--after all, what use did a servant have for the written word? But despite his illiteracy, or maybe because of it, Hassan was drawn to the mystery of words, seduced by a secret world forbidden to him. I read him poems and stories, sometimes riddles--though I stopped reading those when I saw he was far better at solving them than I was. So I read him unchallenging things, like the misadventures of the bumbling Mullah Nasruddin and his donkey. We sat for hours under that tree, sat there until the sun faded in the west, and still Hassan insisted we had enough daylight for one more story, one more chapter.
My favorite part of reading to Hassan was when we came across a big word that he didn't know. I'd tease him, expose his ignorance. One time, I was reading him a Mullah Nasruddin story and he stopped me. "What does that word mean??
"Which one??
"Imbecile.?
"You don't know what it means??I said, grinning.
"Nay, Amir agha.?
"But it's such a common word!?
"Still, I don't know it.?If he felt the sting of my tease, his smiling face didn't show it.
"Well, everyone in my school knows what it means,?I said. "Let's see. ‘Imbecile.?It means smart, intelligent. I'll use it in a sentence for you. ‘When it comes to words, Hassan is an imbecile.'"
"Aaah,?he said, nodding.
I would always feel guilty about it later. So I'd try to make up for it by giving him one of my old shirts or a broken toy. I would tell myself that was amends enough for a harmless prank.
Hassan's favorite book by far was the _Shahnamah_, the tenth-century epic of ancient Persian heroes. He liked all of the chapters, the shahs of old, Feridoun, Zal, and Rudabeh. But his favorite story, and mine, was "Rostam and Sohrab,?the tale of the great warrior Rostam and his fleet-footed horse, Rakhsh. Rostam mortally wounds his valiant nemesis, Sohrab, in battle, only to discover that Sohrab is his long-lost son. Stricken with grief, Rostam hears his son's dying words:
If thou art indeed my father, then hast thou stained thy sword in the life-blood of thy son. And thou didst it of thine obstinacy. For I sought to turn thee unto love, and I implored of thee thy name, for I thought to behold in thee the tokens recounted of my mother. But I appealed unto thy heart in vain, and now is the time gone for meeting...
"Read it again please, Amir agha,?Hassan would say. Sometimes tears pooled in Hassan's eyes as I read him this passage, and I always wondered whom he wept for, the grief-stricken Rostam who tears his clothes and covers his head with ashes, or the dying Sohrab who only longed for his father's love? Personally, I couldn't see the tragedy in Rostam's fate. After all, didn't all fathers in their secret hearts harbor a desire to kill their sons?
One day, in July 1973, I played another little trick on Hassan. I was reading to him, and suddenly I strayed from the written story. I pretended I was reading from the book, flipping pages regularly, but I had abandoned the text altogether, taken over the story, and made up my own. Hassan, of course, was oblivious to this. To him, the words on the page were a scramble of codes, indecipherable, mysterious. Words were secret doorways and I held all the keys. After, I started to ask him if he'd liked the story, a giggle rising in my throat, when Hassan began to clap.
"What are you doing??I said.
"That was the best story you've read me in a long time,?he said, still clapping.
I laughed. "Really??
"Really.?
"That's fascinating,?I muttered. I meant it too. This was... wholly unexpected. "Are you sure, Hassan??
He was still clapping. "It was great, Amir agha. Will you read me more of it tomorrow??
"Fascinating,?I repeated, a little breathless, feeling like a man who discovers a buried treasure in his own backyard. Walking down the hill, thoughts were exploding in my head like the fireworks at _Chaman_. _Best story you've read me in a long time_, he'd said. I had read him a _lot_ of stories. Hassan was asking me something.
"What??I said.
"What does that mean, ‘fascinating??
I laughed. Clutched him in a hug and planted a kiss on his cheek.
"What was that for??he said, startled, blushing.
I gave him a friendly shove. Smiled. "You're a prince, Hassan. You're a prince and I love you.?
That same night, I wrote my first short story. It took me thirty minutes. It was a dark little tale about a man who found a magic cup and learned that if he wept into the cup, his tears turned into pearls. But even though he had always been poor, he was a happy man and rarely shed a tear. So he found ways to make himself sad so that his tears could make him rich. As the pearls piled up, so did his greed grow. The story ended with the man sitting on a mountain of pearls, knife in hand, weeping helplessly into the cup with his beloved wife's slain body in his arms.
That evening, I climbed the stairs and walked into Baba's smoking room, in my hands the two sheets of paper on which I had scribbled the story. Baba and Rahim Khan were smoking pipes and sipping brandy when I came in.
"What is it, Amir??Baba said, reclining on the sofa and lacing his hands behind his head. Blue smoke swirled around his face. His glare made my throat feel dry. I cleared it and told him I'd written a story.
Baba nodded and gave a thin smile that conveyed little more than feigned interest. "Well, that's very good, isn't it??he said. Then nothing more. He just looked at me through the cloud of smoke.
I probably stood there for under a minute, but, to this day, it was one of the longest minutes of my life. Seconds plodded by, each separated from the next by an eternity. Air grew heavy damp, almost solid. I was breathing bricks. Baba went on staring me down, and didn't offer to read.
As always, it was Rahim Khan who rescued me. He held out his hand and favored me with a smile that had nothing feigned about it. "May I have it, Amir jan? I would very much like to read it.?Baba hardly ever used the term of endearment _jan_ when he addressed me.
Baba shrugged and stood up. He looked relieved, as if he too had been rescued by Rahim Khan. "Yes, give it to Kaka Rahim. I'm going upstairs to get ready.?And with that, he left the room. Most days I worshiped Baba with an intensity approaching the religious. But right then, I wished I could open my veins and drain his cursed blood from my body.
An hour later, as the evening sky dimmed, the two of them drove off in my father's car to attend a party. On his way out, Rahim Khan hunkered before me and handed me my story and another folded piece of paper. He flashed a smile and winked. "For you. Read it later.?Then he paused and added a single word that did more to encourage me to pursue writing than any compliment any editor has ever paid me. That word was _Bravo_.
When they left, I sat on my bed and wished Rahim Khan had been my father. Then I thought of Baba and his great big chest and how good it felt when he held me against it, how he smelled of Brut in the morning, and how his beard tickled my face. I was overcome with such sudden guilt that I bolted to the bathroom and vomited in the sink.
Later that night, curled up in bed, I read Rahim Khan's note over and over. It read like this:
Amir jan,
I enjoyed your story very much. _Mashallah_, God has granted you a special talent. It is now your duty to hone that talent, because a person who wastes his God-given talents is a donkey. You have written your story with sound grammar and interesting style. But the most impressive thing about your story is that it has irony. You may not even know what that word means. But you will someday. It is something that some writers reach for their entire careers and never attain. You have achieved it with your first story.
My door is and always will be open to you, Amir jan. I shall hear any story you have to tell. Bravo.
Your friend,
Rahim
Buoyed by Rahim Khan's note, I grabbed the story and hurried downstairs to the foyer where Ali and Hassan were sleeping on a mattress. That was the only time they slept in the house, when Baba was away and Ali had to watch over me. I shook Hassan awake and asked him if he wanted to hear a story.
He rubbed his sleep-clogged eyes and stretched. "Now? What time is it??
"Never mind the time. This story's special. I wrote it myself,?I whispered, hoping not to wake Ali. Hassan's face brightened.
"Then I _have_ to hear it,?he said, already pulling the blanket off him.
I read it to him in the living room by the marble fireplace. No playful straying from the words this time; this was about me! Hassan was the perfect audience in many ways, totally immersed in the tale, his face shifting with the changing tones in the story. When I read the last sentence, he made a muted clapping sound with his hands.
"_Mashallah_, Amir agha. Bravo!?He was beaming.
"You liked it??I said, getting my second taste--and how sweet it was--of a positive review.
"Some day, _Inshallah_, you will be a great writer,?Hassan said. "And people all over the world will read your stories.?
"You exaggerate, Hassan,?I said, loving him for it.
"No. You will be great and famous,?he insisted. Then he paused, as if on the verge of adding something. He weighed his words and cleared his throat. "But will you permit me to ask a question about the story??he said shyly.
"Of course.?
"Well...?he started, broke off.
"Tell me, Hassan,?I said. I smiled, though suddenly the insecure writer in me wasn't so sure he wanted to hear it.
"Well,?he said, "if I may ask, why did the man kill his wife? In fact, why did he ever have to feel sad to shed tears? Couldn't he have just smelled an onion??
I was stunned. That particular point, so obvious it was utterly stupid, hadn't even occurred to me. I moved my lips soundlessly. It appeared that on the same night I had learned about one of writing's objectives, irony, I would also be introduced to one of its pitfalls: the Plot Hole. Taught by Hassan, of all people. Hassan who couldn't read and had never written a single word in his entire life. A voice, cold and dark, suddenly whispered in my ear, _What does he know, that illiterate Hazara? He'll never be anything but a cook. How dare he criticize you?_
"Well,?I began. But I never got to finish that sentence.
Because suddenly Afghanistan changed forever.

第四章
爸爸生于1933年，同年查希尔国王（Mohammed Zahir Shah（1914～），阿富汗前国王，1933～1973年在位。）开始了他对阿富汗长达40载的统治。就在那年，一对来自喀布尔名门望族的年轻兄弟，开着他们父亲的福特跑车一路狂飙。他们抽了大麻，喝了法国葡萄酒，醉意醺然，又有些亢奋，在去往帕格曼（Paghman ，阿富汗城市。）的途中撞死了一对哈扎拉夫妇。警察逮到了这两个略带悔意的青年，连同罹难夫妻那个五岁的遗孤，带到爷爷跟前。爷爷是位德高望重的法官，听完那对兄弟辩说来龙去脉之后，爷爷不顾他们父亲的哀求，判决那两个年轻人立即到坎大哈去，充军一年。此前他们家里已经不知用了什么手段，免去他们服役的义务。他们的父亲有所申辩，然而不是太激烈，最终，人人都赞同这样的判罚，认为也许有些严厉，却不失公正。至于那个孤儿，爷爷将他收养在自己家里，让仆人教导他，不过得对他和蔼一些。那个孤儿就是阿里。        
阿里和爸爸一起长大，他们小时候也是玩伴——至少直到小儿麻痹症令阿里腿患残疾，就像一个世代之后哈桑和我共同长大那样。爸爸总是跟我们说起他和阿里的恶作剧，阿里会摇摇头，说:“可是，老爷，告诉他们谁是那些恶作剧的设计师，谁又是可怜的苦工。”爸爸会开怀大笑，伸手揽住阿里。    
不过爸爸说起这些故事的时候，从来没有提到阿里是他的朋友。    
奇怪的是，我也从来没有认为我与哈桑是朋友。无论如何，不是一般意义上的朋友。
虽然我们彼此学习如何在骑自行车的时候放开双手，或是用硬纸箱制成功能齐备的相机。
虽然我们整个冬天一起放风筝、追风筝。虽然于我而言，阿富汗人的面孔就是那个男孩的容貌：骨架瘦小，理着平头，耳朵长得较低，那中国娃娃似的脸，那永远燃着微笑的兔唇。    
无关乎这些事情，因为历史不会轻易改变，宗教也是。最终，我是普什图人，他是哈扎拉人，我是逊尼派，他是什叶派，这些没有什么能改变得了。没有。    
但我们是一起蹒跚学步的孩子，这点也没有任何历史、种族、社会或者宗教能改变得了。十二岁以前，我大部分时间都在跟哈桑玩耍。有时候回想起来，我的整个童年，似乎就是和哈桑一起度过的某个懒洋洋的悠长夏日，我们在爸爸院子里那些交错的树木中彼此追逐，玩捉迷藏，玩警察与强盗，玩牛仔和印第安人，折磨昆虫——我们拔掉蜜蜂的尖刺，在那可怜的东西身上系根绳子，每当它想展翅飞走，就把它拉回来，这带给我们无与伦比的快乐。    
我们还追逐过路的游牧部落，他们经由喀布尔，前往北方的层峦叠嶂。我们能听到他们的牧群走近的声音：绵羊咪咪，山羊咩咩，还有那叮当作响的驼铃。我们会跑出去，看着他们的队伍在街道上行进，男人满身尘灰，脸色沧桑，女人披着长长的、色彩斑斓的肩巾，挂着珠链，手腕和脚踝都戴着银镯子。我们朝他们的山羊投掷石头，拿水泼他们的骡子。我让哈桑坐在“病玉米之墙”，拿弹弓用小圆石射他们的骆驼的屁股。    
我们第一次看西部电影也是两个人，在与那家我最喜欢的书店一街之隔的电影院公园，看的是约翰·韦恩的《赤胆屠龙》。我记得当时我求爸爸带我们到伊朗去，那样我们就可以见到约翰·韦恩了。爸爸爆发出一阵爽朗的狂笑——与汽车引擎加速的声音颇为相像，等他能说得出话的时候，告诉我们电影配音是怎么回事。哈桑跟我目瞪口呆，愣住了。原来约翰·韦恩不是真的说法尔西语，也不是伊朗人! 他是美国人，就像那些我们经常看到的男男女女一样，他们神情友善，留着长发，吊儿郎当地穿着五颜六色的衣服，在喀布尔城里游荡。我们看了三遍《赤胆屠龙》，但我们最喜欢的西部片是《七侠荡寇志》，看了十三遍。
每次电影快结束的时候，我们哭着观看那些墨西哥小孩埋葬查尔斯·勃朗森——结果他也不是伊朗人。    
我们在喀布尔新城那个弥漫着难闻气味的市场闲逛。新城叫沙里诺区，在瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区以西。我们谈论刚刚看完的电影，走在市场熙熙攘攘的人群中。我们在商人和乞丐中蜿蜒前进，穿过那些小店云集的拥挤过道。爸爸每周给我们每人十块阿富汗尼（Afghanis，阿富汗货币名称。）的零花钱，我们用来买温热的可口可乐，还有洒着开心果仁的玫瑰香露雪糕。    
上学那些年，我们每日有固定的程式。每当我从床上爬起来，拖拖沓沓走向卫生间，哈桑早已洗漱完毕，跟阿里做完早晨的祈祷，帮我弄好早餐：加了三块方糖的热红茶，一片涂着我最爱吃的樱桃酱的馕饼，所有这些整整齐齐地摆在桌子上。我边吃边抱怨功课，哈桑收拾我的床铺，擦亮我的鞋子，熨好我那天要穿的衣服，替我放好课本和铅笔。我听见他在门廊边熨衣服边唱歌，用他那带鼻音的嗓子唱着古老的哈扎拉歌曲。然后，爸爸和我出发，开着他的福特野马轿车——会引来艳羡的目光，因为当时有部叫《警网铁金刚》的电影在电影院已经上映了半年，主角史蒂夫·麦奎因在影片中就开这种车。哈桑留在家里，帮阿里做些杂务：用手将脏衣服洗干净，然后在院子里晾干；拖地板；去市场买刚出炉的馕饼；给晚餐准备腌肉；浇灌草坪。    
放学后，我跟哈桑碰头，抓起书本，一溜小跑，爬上瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区那座就在爸爸房子北边的碗状山丘。山顶有久已废弃的墓园，各条小径灌木丛生，还有成排成排的空白墓碑。多年的风霜雨雪锈蚀了墓园的铁门，也让那低矮的白色石墙摇摇欲坠。墓园的入口边上有株石榴树。某个夏日，我用阿里厨房的小刀在树干刻下我们的名字: “阿米尔和哈桑，喀布尔的苏丹。”这些字正式宣告：这棵树属于我们。放学后，哈桑和我爬上它的枝
桠，摘下一些血红色的石榴果实。吃过石榴，用杂草把手擦干净之后，我会念书给哈桑听。    
哈桑盘腿坐着，阳光和石榴叶的阴影在他脸上翩翩起舞。我念那些他看不懂的故事给他听，他心不在焉地摘着地上杂草的叶片。哈桑长大后，会跟阿里和多数哈扎拉人一样，自出生之日起，甚至自莎娜芭不情不愿地怀上他那天起，就注定要成为文盲——毕竟，仆人要读书识字干吗呢? 但尽管他目不识丁，兴许正因为如此，哈桑对那些谜一样的文字十分入迷，那个他无法接触的世界深深吸引了他。我给他念诗歌和故事，有时也念谜语——不过后来我不念了，因为我发现他解谜语的本领远比我高强。所以我念些不那么有挑战性的东西，比如装腔作势的纳斯鲁丁毛拉和他那头驴子出洋相的故事。我们在树下一坐就是几个钟头，直到太阳在西边黯淡下去，哈桑还会说，日光还足够亮堂，我们可以多念一个故
事、多读一章。    
给哈桑念故事的时候，碰到某个他无法理解的字眼，我就十分高兴，我会取笑他，嘲弄他的无知。有一次，我给他念纳斯鲁丁毛拉的故事，他让我停下来。“那个词是什么意思? ”    
“哪个? ”    
“昧。”    
“你不知道那是什么意思吗? ”我一脸坏笑地说着。    
“不知道，阿米尔少爷。”    
“可是这个词很常见啊。”    
“不过我还是不懂。”就算他听到我话中带刺，他也是不露声色地微笑着。    
“这么说吧，在我们学校，人人都认识这个词。”我说，“让我看看,‘昧’，它的意思是聪明、机灵。我可以用它来给你造句。‘在读书识字方面，哈桑够昧。’”    
“啊哈。”他点头说。    
后来我总是对此心怀愧疚。所以我试着弥补，把旧衬衣或者破玩具送给他。我会告诉自己，对于一个无关紧要的玩笑来说，这样的补偿就足够了。    
哈桑最喜欢的书是《沙纳玛》，一部描写古代波斯英雄的10世纪的史诗。他通篇都喜欢，他喜欢那些垂垂老矣的国王：费里敦、扎尔，还有鲁达贝。但他最喜欢的故事，也是我最喜欢的，是“罗斯坦和索拉博”，讲的是神武的战士罗斯坦和他那匹千里马拉克什的故事。罗斯坦在战斗中，给予他的强敌索拉博以致命一击，最终却发现索拉博是他失散多年的儿子。罗斯坦强忍悲恸，听着他儿子的临终遗言：      若汝果为吾父，血刃亲子，名节有亏矣。此乃汝之专横所致也。汝持先母信物，吾报汝以爱，呼汝之名，然汝心难回，吾徒费唇舌，此刻命赴黄泉……      
“再念一次吧，阿米尔少爷。”哈桑会这么说。有时我给他念这段话的时候，他泪如泉涌，我总是很好奇，他到底为谁哭泣呢，为那个泪满衣襟、埋首尘灰、悲恸难当的罗斯坦，还是为即将断气、渴望得到父爱的索拉博呢? 在我看来，罗斯坦的命运并非悲剧。毕竟，难道每个父亲的内心深处，不是都有想把儿子杀掉的欲望吗?    
1973年7 月某天，我开了哈桑另外一个玩笑。我念书给他听，接着突然不管那个写好的故事。我假装念着书，像平常那样翻着书，可是我说的跟书本毫无关系，而是抛开那个故事，自己杜撰一个。当然，哈桑对此一无所知。对他而言，书页上的文字无非是一些线条，神秘而不知所云。文字是扇秘密的门，钥匙在我手里。完了之后，我嘴里咯咯笑着，问他是否喜欢这个故事，哈桑拍手叫好。    
“你在干吗呢? ”我说。    
“你很久没念过这么精彩的故事了。”他说，仍拍着双手。    
我大笑: “真的吗? ”    
“真的。”    
“太奇妙了，”我喃喃说道。我是说真的，这真是……完全意料不到。“没骗我吧，哈桑? ”    
他仍在鼓掌: “太棒了，阿米尔少爷。你明天可以多念一些给我听吗? ”    
“太奇妙了。”我又说了一遍，有些喘不过气，好比有个男人在自家后院发现了一处宝藏。下山的时候，各种念头在我脑海炸开来，如同在察曼大道燃放的烟花。你好久没念过
这么精彩的故事了。他这么说。哈桑在问我问题。    
“什么? ”我说。    
“‘奇妙’是什么意思? ”    
我哈哈大笑，给了他一个拥抱，在他脸上亲了一下。    
“干吗这样啊? ”他红着脸，吃吃地说。    
我友善地推了他一把，微笑着说: “你是王子，哈桑。你是王子，我爱你。”    
当天夜里，我写了自己第一篇短篇小说，花了我半个小时。那是个悲伤的小故事，讲的是有个男人发现了一个魔法杯，得知如果他对着杯子哭泣，掉进杯里的眼泪会变成珍珠。
可尽管一贫如洗，他却是个快乐的家伙，罕得流泪。于是他想方设法，让自己悲伤，以便那些眼泪会变成他的财富。珍珠越积越多，他越来越贪婪。小说的结尾是，那男人坐在一座珠宝山上，手里提着刀，怀中抱着他深爱着的妻子死于非命的尸体，无助地将眼泪滴进魔法杯。    
入夜之后，我爬上楼，走进爸爸的吸烟室，手里拿着两张稿纸，上面写着我的故事。
我进去的时候，爸爸和拉辛汗边抽大烟边喝白兰地。    
“那是什么，阿米尔? ”爸爸说，他斜靠在沙发上，双手放在脑后。蓝色的烟雾环绕着他的脸庞，他的眼光让我唇干舌燥。我清清喉咙，告诉他我创作了一篇小说。    
爸爸点点头，那丝微笑表明他对此并无多大兴趣。“挺好的，你写得很好吧，是吗? ”
他说，然后就没有话了，只是穿过缭绕的烟雾望着我。    
也许我在那儿站了不到一分钟，但时至今日，那依旧是我生命中最漫长的一分钟。时间一秒一秒过去，而一秒与一秒之间，似乎隔着永恒。空气变得沉闷，潮湿，甚至凝固，我呼吸艰难。爸爸继续盯着我，丝毫没有要看一看的意思。    
一如既往，仍是拉辛汗救了我。他伸出手，给我一个毫不造作的微笑: “可以让我看看吗，亲爱的阿米尔? 我会很高兴能读你写的故事。”爸爸称呼我的时候，几乎从来不用这个表示亲昵的“亲爱的”。    
爸爸耸耸肩，站起来。他看上去浑身轻松，仿佛拉辛汗也解放了他。“这就对了，把它给拉辛汗。我要上楼去准备了。”他扔下这句话，转身离开。在我生命的大部分时光，我对爸爸敬若神明。可是那一刻，我恨不得能扯开自己的血管，让他那些该死的血统统流出我的身体。    
过了一个钟头，夜色更加黯淡了。他们两个开着爸爸的轿车去参加派对。拉辛汗快出门的时候，在我身前蹲下来，递给我那篇故事，还有另外一张折好的纸。他亮起微笑，还眨眨眼。“给你，等会再看。”然后他停下来，加了一个词：太棒了! 就鼓励我写作而言，这个词比如今任何编辑的恭维给了我更多的勇气。    
他们离开了，我坐在自己的床上，心里想要是拉辛汗是我父亲就好了。随后我想起爸爸，还有他宽广的胸膛，他抱着我的时候，靠着它感觉多好啊。我想起每天早晨他身上甜甜的酒味，想起他用胡子扎我的脸蛋。一阵突如其来的罪恶感将我淹没，我跑进卫生间，在水槽里吐了。    
那夜稍晚的时候，我蜷缩在床上，一遍遍读着拉辛汗的字条。他写道：      
亲爱的阿米尔：    
我非常喜欢你的故事。我的天，真主赋予你独特的天分。如今你的责任是磨炼这份天才，因为将真主给予的天分白白浪费的人是蠢驴。你写的故事语法正确，风格引人入胜。
但最令人难忘的是，你的故事饱含讽刺的意味。你也许还不懂得讽刺是什么，但你以后会懂的。有些作家奋斗终生，对它梦寐以求，然而徒唤奈何。你的第一篇故事已经达到了。    
我的大门永远为你开着，亲爱的阿米尔。我愿意倾听你诉说的任何故事。太棒了!    
你的朋友，    
拉辛      
拉辛汗的字条让我飘飘然，我抓起那篇故事，直奔楼下而去，冲到门廊。阿里和哈桑睡在那儿的地毯上。只有当爸爸外出，阿里不得不照看我的时候，他们才会睡在屋子里。
我把哈桑摇醒，问他是否愿意听个故事。    
他揉揉惺忪的睡眼，伸伸懒腰: “现在吗? 几点了? ”    
“别问几点了。这个故事很特别，我自己写的。”我不想吵醒阿里，低声说。哈桑脸上神色一振。    
“那我一定要听听。”他拉开盖在身上的毛毯，说。    
我在客厅里的大理石壁炉前面念给他听。这次可没有开玩笑，不是照本宣科了，这次是我写的故事! 就很多方面而言，哈桑堪称完美的听众。他全然沉浸在故事中，脸上的神情随着故事的情节变化。我念完最后一句话，他鼓起掌来，不过没发出声音。    
“我的天啦! 阿米尔少爷，太棒了! ”哈桑笑逐颜开。    
“你喜欢它吗? ”我说。得到第二次称赞，真是太甜蜜了。    
“阿拉保佑，你肯定会成为伟大的作家。”哈桑说，“全世界的人都读你的故事。”    
“你太夸张了，哈桑。”我说，不过很高兴他这么认为。    
“我没有。你会很伟大、很出名。”他坚持自己的观点。接着他停了一下，似乎还想说些什么，他想了想，清清喉咙，“可是，你能允许我问个关于这故事的问题吗? ”他羞涩地说。    
“当然可以。”    
“那好……”他欲言又止。    
“告诉我，哈桑。”我说。我脸带微笑，虽然刹那间我这个作家心中惴惴，不知道是否想听下去。    
“那好吧，”他说，“如果让我来问，那男人干吗杀了自己的老婆呢? 实际上，为什么他必须感到悲伤才能掉眼泪呢? 他不可以只是闻闻洋葱吗? ”    
我目瞪口呆。这个特别的问题，虽说它显然太蠢了，但我从来没有想到过，我无言地动动嘴唇。就在同一个夜晚，我学到了写作的目标之一：讽刺；我还学到了写作的陷阱之一：情节破绽。芸芸众生中，惟独哈桑教给我。这个目不识丁、不会写字的哈桑。有个冰冷而阴暗的声音在我耳边响起：他懂得什么，这个哈扎拉文盲? 他一辈子只配在厨房里打杂。他胆敢批评我?    
“很好……”我开口说，却无法说完那句话。    
因为突然之间，阿富汗一切都变了。  
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Chapter 5
Something roared like thunder. The earth shook a little and we heard the _rat-a-tat-tat_ of gunfire. "Father!?Hassan cried. We sprung to our feet and raced out of the living room. We found Ali hobbling frantically across the foyer.
"Father! What's that sound??Hassan yelped, his hands outstretched toward Ali. Ali wrapped his arms around us. A white light flashed, lit the sky in silver. It flashed again and was followed by a rapid staccato of gunfire.
"They're hunting ducks,?Ali said in a hoarse voice. "They hunt ducks at night, you know. Don't be afraid.?
A siren went off in the distance. Somewhere glass shattered and someone shouted. I heard people on the street, jolted from sleep and probably still in their pajamas, with ruffled hair and puffy eyes. Hassan was crying. Ali pulled him close, clutched him with tenderness. Later, I would tell myself I hadn't felt envious of Hassan. Not at all.
We stayed huddled that way until the early hours of the morning. The shootings and explosions had lasted less than an hour, but they had frightened us badly, because none of us had ever heard gunshots in the streets. They were foreign sounds to us then. The generation of Afghan children whose ears would know nothing but the sounds of bombs and gunfire was not yet born. Huddled together in the dining room and waiting for the sun to rise, none of us had any notion that a way of life had ended. Our way of life. If not quite yet, then at least it was the beginning of the end. The end, the _official_ end, would come first in April 1978 with the communist coup d'état, and then in December 1979, when Russian tanks would roll into the very same streets where Hassan and I played, bringing the death of the Afghanistan I knew and marking the start of a still ongoing era of bloodletting.
Just before sunrise, Baba's car peeled into the driveway. His door slammed shut and his running footsteps pounded the stairs. Then he appeared in the doorway and I saw something on his face. Something I didn't recognize right away because I'd never seen it before: fear. "Amir! Hassan!?he exclaimed as he ran to us, opening his arms wide. "They blocked all the roads and the tele phone didn't work. I was so worried!?
We let him wrap us in his arms and, for a brief insane moment, I was glad about whatever had happened that night.

THEY WEREN'T SHOOTING ducks after all. As it turned out, they hadn't shot much of anything that night of July 17, 1973. Kabul awoke the next morning to find that the monarchy was a thing of the past. The king, Zahir Shah, was away in Italy. In his absence, his cousin Daoud Khan had ended the king's forty-year reign with a bloodless coup.
I remember Hassan and I crouching that next morning outside my father's study, as Baba and Rahim Khan sipped black tea and listened to breaking news of the coup on Radio Kabul.
"Amir agha??Hassan whispered.
"What??
"What's a ‘republic??
I shrugged. "I don't know.?On Baba's radio, they were saying that word, "republic,?over and over again.
"Amir agha??
"What??
"Does ‘republic?mean Father and I will have to move away??
"I don't think so,?I whispered back.
Hassan considered this. "Amir agha??
"What??
"I don't want them to send me and Father away.?
I smiled. "_Bas_, you donkey. No one's sending you away.?
"Amir agha??
"What??
"Do you want to go climb our tree??
My smile broadened. That was another thing about Hassan. He always knew when to say the right thing--the news on the radio was getting pretty boring. Hassan went to his shack to get ready and I ran upstairs to grab a book. Then I went to the kitchen, stuffed my pockets with handfuls of pine nuts, and ran outside to find Hassan waiting for me. We burst through the front gates and headed for the hill.
We crossed the residential street and were trekking through a barren patch of rough land that led to the hill when, suddenly, a rock struck Hassan in the back. We whirled around and my heart dropped. Assef and two of his friends, Wali and Kamal, were approaching us.
Assef was the son of one of my father's friends, Mahmood, an airline pilot. His family lived a few streets south of our Home, in a posh, high-walled compound with palm trees. If you were a kid living in the Wazir Akbar Khan section of Kabul, you knew about Assef and his famous stainless-steel brass knuckles, hopefully not through personal experience. Born to a German mother and Afghan father, the blond, blue-eyed Assef towered over the other kids. His well-earned reputation for savagery preceded him on the streets. Flanked by his obeying friends, he walked the neighborhood like a Khan strolling through his land with his eager-to-please entourage. His word was law, and if you needed a little legal education, then those brass knuckles were just the right teaching tool. I saw him use those knuckles once on a kid from the Karteh-Char district. I will never forget how Assef's blue eyes glinted with a light not entirely sane and how he grinned, how he _grinned_, as he pummeled that poor kid unconscious. Some of the boys in Wazir Akbar Khan had nicknamed him Assef _Goshkhor_, or Assef "the Ear Eater.?Of course, none of them dared utter it to his face unless they wished to suffer the same fate as the poor kid who had unwittingly inspired that nickname when he had fought Assef over a kite and ended up Fishing his right ear from a muddy gutter. Years later, I learned an English word for the creature that Assef was, a word for which a good Farsi equivalent does not exist:
"sociopath.?
Of all the neighborhood boys who tortured Ali, Assef was by far the most relentless. He was, in fact, the originator of the Babalu jeer, _Hey, Babalu, who did you eat today? Huh? Come on, Babalu, give us a smile!_ And on days when he felt particularly inspired, he spiced up his badgering a little, _Hey, you flat-nosed Babalu, who did you eat today? Tell us, you slant-eyed donkey!_
Now he was walking toward us, hands on his hips, his sneakers kicking up little puffs of dust.
"Good morning, _kunis_!?Assef exclaimed, waving. "Fag,?that was another of his favorite insults. Hassan retreated behind me as the three older boys closed in. They stood before us, three tall boys dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Towering over us all, Assef crossed his thick arms on his chest, a savage sort of grin on his lips. Not for the first time, it occurred to me that Assef might not be entirely sane. It also occurred to me how lucky I was to have Baba as my father, the sole reason, I believe, Assef had mostly refrained from harassing me too much.
He tipped his chin to Hassan. "Hey, Flat-Nose,?he said. "How is Babalu??
Hassan said nothing and crept another step behind me.
"Have you heard the news, boys??Assef said, his grin never faltering. "The king is gone. Good riddance. Long live the president! My father knows Daoud Khan, did you know that, Amir??
"So does my father,?I said. In reality, I had no idea if that was true or not.
"So does my father,?Assef mimicked me in a whining voice. Kamal and Wali cackled in unison. I wished Baba were there.
"Well, Daoud Khan dined at our house last year,?Assef went on. "How do you like that, Amir??
I wondered if anyone would hear us scream in this remote patch of land. Baba's house was a good kilometer away. I wished we'd stayed at the house.
"Do you know what I will tell Daoud Khan the next time he comes to our house for dinner??Assef said. "I'm going to have a little chat with him, man to man, _mard_ to _mard_. Tell him what I told my mother. About Hitler. Now, there was a leader. A great leader.
A man with vision. I'll tell Daoud Khan to remember that if they had let Hitler finish what he had started, the world be a better place now?
"Baba says Hitler was crazy, that he ordered a lot of innocent people killed,?I heard myself say before I could clamp a hand on my mouth.
Assef snickered. "He sounds like my mother, and she's German; she should know better. But then they want you to believe that, don't they? They don't want you to know the truth.?
I didn't know who "they?were, or what truth they were hiding, and I didn't want to find out. I wished I hadn't said anything. I wished again I'd look up and see Baba coming up the hill.
"But you have to read books they don't give out in school,?Assef said. "I have. And my eyes have been opened. Now I have a vision, and I'm going to share it with our new president. Do you know what it is??
I shook my head. He'd tell me anyway; Assef always answered his own questions.
His blue eyes flicked to Hassan. "Afghanistan is the land of Pashtuns. It always has been, always will be. We are the true Afghans, the pure Afghans, not this Flat-Nose here. His people pollute our Homeland, our watan. They dirty our blood.?He made a sweeping, grandiose gesture with his hands. "Afghanistan for Pashtuns, I say. That's my vision.?
Assef shifted his gaze to me again. He looked like someone coming out of a good dream. "Too late for Hitler,?he said. "But not for us.?
He reached for something from the back pocket of his jeans. "I'll ask the president to do what the king didn't have the quwat to do. To rid Afghanistan of all the dirty, kasseef Hazaras.?
"Just let us go, Assef,?I said, hating the way my voice trembled. "We're not bothering you.?
"Oh, you're bothering me,?Assef said. And I saw with a sinking heart what he had fished out of his pocket. Of course. His stainless-steel brass knuckles sparkled in the sun. "You're bothering me very much. In fact, you bother me more than this Hazara here. How can you talk to him, play with him, let him touch you??he said, his voice dripping with disgust. Wali and Kamal nodded and grunted in agreement. Assef narrowed his eyes. Shook his head. When he spoke again, he sounded as baffled as he looked. "How can you call him your ‘friend??
_But he's not my friend!_ I almost blurted. _He's my servant!_ Had I really thought that? Of course I hadn't. I hadn't. I treated Hassan well, just like a friend, better even, more like a brother. But if so, then why, when Baba's friends came to visit with their kids, didn't I ever include Hassan in our games? Why did I play with Hassan only when no one else was around?
Assef slipped on the brass knuckles. Gave me an icy look. "You're part of the problem, Amir. If idiots like you and your father didn't take these people in, we'd be rid of them by now. They'd all just go rot in Hazarajat where they belong. You're a disgrace to Afghanistan.?
I looked in his crazy eyes and saw that he meant it. He _really_ meant to hurt me. Assef raised his fist and came for me.
There was a flurry of rapid movement behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hassan bend down and stand up quickly. Assef's eyes flicked to something behind me and widened with surprise. I saw that same look ol astonishment on Kamal and Wali's faces as they too saw what had happened behind me.
I turned and came face to face with Hassan's slingshot. Hassan had pulled the wide elastic band all the way back. In the cup was a rock the size of a walnut. Hassan held the slingshot pointed directly at Assef's face. His hand trembled with the strain of the pulled elastic band and beads of sweat had erupted on his brow.
"Please leave us alone, Agha,?Hassan said in a flat tone. He'd referred to Assef as "Agha,?and I wondered briefly what it must be like to live with such an ingrained sense of one's place in a hierarchy.
Assef gritted his teeth. "Put it down, you motherless Hazara.?
"Please leave us be, Agha,?Hassan said.
Assef smiled. "Maybe you didn't notice, but there are three of us and two of you.?
Hassan shrugged. To an outsider, he didn't look scared. But Hassan's face was my earliest memory and I knew all of its subtle nuances, knew each and every twitch and flicker that ever rippled across it. And I saw that he was scared. He was scared plenty.
"You are right, Agha. But perhaps you didn't notice that I'm the one holding the slingshot. If you make a move, they'll have to change your nickname from Assef ‘the Ear Eater?to ‘One-Eyed Assef,?because I have this rock pointed at your left eye.?He said this so flatly that even I had to strain to hear the fear that I knew hid under that calm voice.
Assef's mouth twitched. Wali and Kamal watched this exchange with something akin to fascination. Someone had challenged their god. Humiliated him. And, worst of all, that someone was a skinny Hazara. Assef looked from the rock to Hassan. He searched Hassan's face intently. What he found in it must have convinced him of the seriousness of Hassan's intentions, because he lowered his fist.
"You should know something about me, Hazara,?Assef said gravely. "I'm a very patient person. This doesn't end today, believe me.?He turned to me. "This isn't the end for you either, Amir. Someday, I'll make you face me one on one.?Assef retreated a step. His disciples followed.
"Your Hazara made a big mistake today, Amir,?he said. They then turned around, walked away. I watched them walk down the hill and disappear behind a wall.
Hassan was trying to tuck the slingshot in his waist with a pair of trembling hands. His mouth curled up into something that was supposed to be a reassuring smile. It took him five tries to tie the string of his trousers. Neither one of us said much of anything as we walked Home in trepidation, certain that Assef and his friends would ambush us every time we turned a corner. They didn't and that should have comforted us a little. But it didn't. Not at all.

FOR THE NEXT COUPLE of years, the words _economic development_ and _reform_ danced on a lot of lips in Kabul. The constitutional monarchy had been abolished, replaced by a republic, led by a president of the republic. For a while, a sense of rejuvenation and purpose swept across the land. People spoke of women's rights and modern technology.
And for the most part, even though a new leader lived in _Arg_--the royal palace in Kabul--life went on as before. People went to work Saturday through Thursday and gathered for picnics on Fridays in parks, on the banks of Ghargha Lake, in the gardens of Paghman. Multicolored buses and lorries filled with passengers rolled through the narrow streets of Kabul, led by the constant shouts of the driver assistants who straddled the vehicles?rear bumpers and yelped directions to the driver in their thick Kabuli accent. On _Eid_, the three days of celebration after the holy month
of Ramadan, Kabulis dressed in their best and newest clothes and visited their families. People hugged and kissed and greeted each other with "_Eid Mubarak_.?Happy Eid. Children opened gifts and played with dyed hard-boiled eggs.
Early that following winter of 1974, Hassan and I were playing in the yard one day, building a snow fort, when Ali called him in. "Hassan, Agha sahib wants to talk to you!?He was standing by the front door, dressed in white, hands tucked under his armpits, breath puffing from his mouth.
Hassan and I exchanged a smile. We'd been waiting for his call all day: It was Hassan's birthday. "What is it, Father, do you know? Will you tell us??Hassan said. His eyes were gleaming.
Ali shrugged. "Agha sahib hasn't discussed it with me.?
"Come on, Ali, tell us,?I pressed. "Is it a drawing book? Maybe a new pistol??
Like Hassan, Ali was incapable of lying. Every year, he pretended not to know what Baba had bought Hassan or me for our birthdays. And every year, his eyes betrayed him and we coaxed the goods out of him. This time, though, it seemed he was telling the truth.
Baba never missed Hassan's birthday. For a while, he used to ask Hassan what he wanted, but he gave up doing that because Hassan was always too modest to actually suggest a present. So every winter Baba picked something out himself. He bought him a Japanese toy truck one year, an electric locomotive and train track set another year. The previous year, Baba had surprised Hassan with a leather cowboy hat just like the one Clint Eastwood wore in _The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly_--which had unseated _The Magnificent Seven_ as our favorite Western. That whole winter, Hassan and I took turns wearing the hat, and belted out the film's famous music as we climbed mounds of snow and shot each other dead.
We took off our gloves and removed our snow-laden boots at the front door. When we stepped into the foyer, we found Baba sitting by the wood-burning cast-iron stove with a short, balding Indian man dressed in a brown suit and red tie.
"Hassan,?Baba said, smiling coyly, "meet your birthday present.?
Hassan and I traded blank looks. There was no gift-wrapped box in sight. No bag. No toy. Just Ali standing behind us, and Baba with this slight Indian fellow who looked a little like a mathematics teacher.
The Indian man in the brown suit smiled and offered Hassan his hand. "I am Dr. Kumar,?he said. "It's a pleasure to meet you.?He spoke Farsi with a thick, rolling Hindi accent.
"_Salaam alaykum_,?Hassan said uncertainly. He gave a polite tip of the head, but his eyes sought his father behind him. Ali moved closer and set his hand on Hassan's shoulder.
Baba met Hassan's wary--and puzzled--eyes. "I have summoned Dr. Kumar from New Delhi. Dr. Kumar is a plastic surgeon.?
"Do you know what that is??the Indian man--Dr. Kumar-- said.
Hassan shook his head. He looked to me for help but I shrugged. All I knew was that you went to a surgeon to fix you when you had appendicitis. I knew this because one of my classmates had died of it the year before and the teacher had told us they had waited too long to take him to a surgeon. We both looked to Ali, but of course with him you could never tell. His face was impassive as ever, though something sober had melted into his eyes.
"Well,?Dr. Kumar said, "my job is to fix things on people's bodies. Sometimes their faces.?
"Oh,?Hassan said. He looked from Dr. Kumar to Baba to Ali. His hand touched his upper lip. "Oh,?he said again.
"It's an unusual present, I know,?Baba said. "And probably not what you had in mind, but this present will last you forever.?
"Oh,?Hassan said. He licked his lips. Cleared his throat. "Agha sahib, will it... will it--?
"Nothing doing,?Dr. Kumar intervened, smiling kindly. "It will not hurt you one bit. In fact, I will give you a Medicine and you will not remember a thing.?
"Oh,?Hassan said. He smiled back with relief. A little relief anyway. "I wasn't scared, Agha sahib, I just...?Hassan might have been fooled, but I wasn't. I knew that when doctors said it wouldn't hurt, that's when you knew you were in trouble. With dread, I remembered my circumcision the year prior. The doctor had given me the same line, reassured me it wouldn't hurt one bit. But when the numbing Medicine wore off later that night, it felt like someone had pressed a red hot coal to my loins. Why Baba waited until I was ten to have me circumcised was beyond me and one of the things I will never forgive him for.
I wished I too had some kind of scar that would beget Baba's sympathy. It wasn't fair. Hassan hadn't done anything to earn Baba's affections; he'd just been born with that stupid harelip.
The surgery went well. We were all a little shocked when they first removed the bandages, but kept our smiles on just as Dr. Kumar had instructed us. It wasn't easy, because Hassan's upper lip was a grotesque mesh of swollen, raw tissue. I expected Hassan to cry with horror when the nurse handed him the mirror. Ali held his hand as Hassan took a long, thoughtful look into it. He muttered something I didn't understand. I put my ear to his mouth. He whispered it again.
"_Tashakor_.?Thank you.
Then his lips twisted, and, that time, I knew just what he was doing. He was smiling. Just as he had, emerging from his mother's womb.
The swelling subsided, and the wound healed with time. Soon, it was just a pink jagged line running up from his lip. By the following winter, it was only a faint scar. Which was ironic. Because that was the winter that Hassan stopped smiling.

第五章
不知道什么东西发出一阵雷鸣般的声响，接着大地微微抖动，我们听见“砰——砰——砰”的熗声。“爸爸!”哈桑大声叫喊。我们拔腿跑出起居室，看见阿里跛着脚在走廊狂奔。        
“爸爸! 那是什么声音? ”哈桑大叫，伸开双臂朝阿里奔过去。阿里伸手揽住我们。一道白光闪起，夜空亮起银辉。又是一道白光，随后是暴风骤雨般的熗声。    
“他们在猎杀野鸭。”阿里嘶哑地说，“他们在夜里猎鸭子，别害怕。”    
远处传来警报声。不知道从什么地方传来玻璃破裂的声音，还有人高声叫嚷。我听见人们从睡梦中惊醒，跑到街道上，也许身上还穿着睡衣，披头散发，睡眼惺忪。哈桑在哭，阿里将他抱紧，轻轻地抚摸着他。后来我告诉自己，我没有妒忌哈桑，一点都没有。    
我们就那样哆嗦地抱成一团，直到天快破晓。熗声和爆炸声还没一个钟头就结束，可是把我们吓坏了，因为我们从来没听过街道上会有熗响。当时这些声音对我们来说太奇怪了。那些耳朵里面除了熗响再没有其他声音的阿富汗孩子当时还没出世。在餐厅里，我们挤成一堆，等待太阳升起，没有人意识到过去的生活方式已然告终。我们的生活方式，即使尚未全然终结，那也是苟延残喘。终结，正式的终结是在1978年4 月，其时政变发生，接着是1979年12月，俄国坦克在我和哈桑玩耍的街道上耀武扬威，给我的父老乡亲带来死亡，开启了如今仍未过去的、血流成河的时代。    
太阳快升起的时候，爸爸的轿车驶进车道。他重重地关上车门，匆忙的脚步在台阶上发出沉重的声音。接着他在门口出现，我看见他脸色挂着某种神情，那种脸色我一时辨认不出来，因为此前从未在他身上见过：恐惧。“阿米尔! 哈桑! ”他大喊，张开双臂朝我们跑过来,“他们封锁了所有的道路，电话又坏了，我很担心。”    
我们停在他怀里，有那么一会儿，我竟然发疯似的觉得很高兴，而不管当晚究竟发生了什么事情。      
他们根本不是在猎杀野鸭。真相终于大白：1973年7 月17日夜里，他们根本就没有对什么东西开熗。翌日清晨，大梦初醒的喀布尔发现君主制已然成为历史。查希尔国王远在意大利，他的堂兄达乌德汗（Mohammed Daoud Khan（1909～1978），1973年起任阿富汗共和国总统，直到1978年被刺杀。）趁他不在，发动了政变，没有多加杀戮，就终结了他四十年来的统治。    
我记得隔日早上，爸爸和拉辛汗喝着红茶，听着喀布尔广播电台播送的有关政变的最新消息，我跟哈桑躲在爸爸的书房外面。    
“阿米尔少爷? ”哈桑低声说。    
“怎么啦? ”    
“什么是‘共和’? ”    
我耸耸肩: “我不懂。”爸爸的收音机一遍又一遍地传出“共和”这个词。    
“阿米尔少爷? ”    
“怎么啦? ”    
“‘共和’是不是要我和爸爸离开这里? ”    
“我觉得不是。”我低声回答。    
哈桑想了想，说: “阿米尔少爷? ”    
“什么呀? ”    
“我不想他们把我跟爸爸送走。”    
我露出微笑: “好啦，你这头驴子，没有人会送走你们。”    
“阿米尔少爷? ”    
“什么呀? ”    
“你想去爬我们的树吗? ”    
我笑得更开心了。这也是哈桑的本领，他总是懂得在恰当的时间说恰当的事情——收音机的新闻实在是太闷了。哈桑回到他那寒碜的屋子去做准备，我跑上楼抓起一本书。接着我到厨房去，往口袋里塞一把松子，然后跑出去，哈桑在外面等我。我们穿过前门，朝那座山头进发。    
我们穿过住宅区，在一片通往山丘的荒芜空地上跋涉前进。突然间，一块石头击中了哈桑的后背。我们转过身，我的心一沉。阿塞夫和他的两个狐朋狗友，瓦里和卡莫，正朝我们走过来。    
阿塞夫的父亲叫马赫穆德，我爸爸的朋友，是个飞机驾驶员。他家位于一处豪华的住宅区，深院高墙，棕榈环绕，就在我们家南边，只隔了几条街。住在喀布尔瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区的小孩，人人都知道阿塞夫和他那臭名昭著的不锈钢拳套，谁都不愿意尝尝它的滋味。由于父亲是阿富汗人，母亲是德国人，蓝眼睛的阿塞夫头发金黄，身材比其他孩子都要高大。他凶残成性，恶名远播，人们总是避之惟恐不及。他身旁有群为虎作伥的党羽，
走在附近的街道上，宛如可汗在阿谀逢迎的部属陪伴下，视察自己的领地。他说的话就是法律，如果你需要一点法律教育，那么他那不锈钢拳套无疑是最好的教具。我曾见过他用那拳套折磨一个卡德察区的小孩。我永远都不会忘记阿塞夫蓝色的眼睛中闪烁的近乎疯狂的光芒，还有他那邪恶的笑脸——那可怜的孩子被他痛击得不省人事，他竟然咧嘴而笑。瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区某些儿童给他起了个花名，叫“吃耳朵的阿塞夫”。当然，没有人胆敢当面这样称呼他，除非他们想亲身体会那个可怜孩子的下场：他跟阿塞夫争夺一只风筝，结果之后在路边的臭水沟打捞自己的右耳。多年以后，我学到了一个英文单词，在法尔西语找不到对应的字眼，可以用来形容阿塞夫那样的人渣：反社会分子。    
在那些折磨阿里的男孩中，阿塞夫远比其他人来得恶毒。实际上，人们用“巴巴鲁”来嘲弄阿里，他正是始作俑者。喂，巴巴鲁，你今天吃了谁啊? 哦? 来吧，巴巴鲁，朝我们笑一笑。在那些他觉得特别来劲的日子，他会加油添醋：喂，你这个塌鼻子巴巴鲁，今天吃了谁啊? 告诉我们，你这头细眼睛的驴子!    
眼下他正双手放在背后，用那双胶底运动鞋踢起尘灰，朝我们走来。    
“早上好，苦哈哈! ”阿塞夫说，摆摆手。“苦哈哈”是另外一个阿塞夫喜欢用来侮辱人的词语。他们三个都比我们大，看到他们走近，哈桑躲在我后面。他们站在我们面前，三个穿着牛仔裤T 恤的高大男生。阿塞夫身材最魁梧，双臂抱胸，脸上露出凶残的笑容。我已经不止一次觉得阿塞夫不太像个正常人。幸运的是，我有爸爸这样的父亲，我相信正是因为这个，阿塞夫对我不敢太过放肆造次。    
他朝哈桑扬起下巴。“喂，塌鼻子，”他说，“巴巴鲁可好吗? ”    
哈桑一言不发，在我身后又退了一步。    
“你们听到消息了吗，小子? ”阿塞夫说，脸上还是带着那副邪恶的笑容，“国王跑掉了，跑得好! 总统万岁!我爸爸跟达乌德汗相熟。你认识他吗，阿米尔? ”    
“我爸爸跟他也熟。”我说，实际上连我自己都不知道那是不是真的。    
“好吧，达乌德汗去年还在我家吃过晚饭。”阿塞夫继续说，“怎么样啊，阿米尔? ”    
我在想，如果我们在这片荒地高声求救，会不会有人听到? 爸爸的房子距这儿足足有一公里。要是我们留在家里就好了!    
“你知道下次达乌德汗到我们家里吃晚饭我会对他说什么吗? ”阿塞夫说，“我会跟他稍作交谈，男人和男人的交谈。将我跟妈妈说过的那些告诉他，关于希特勒的。现在我们有位伟大的领袖，伟大的领袖，一个志向远大的男人。我会告诉达乌德汗，提醒他记住，要是希特勒完成他那未竟的事业，这个世界会变得比现在更好。”    
“我爸爸说希特勒是个疯子，他下令杀害了很多无辜的人。”我来不及用手捂住嘴巴，这话已经脱口而出。    
阿塞夫不屑地说: “他说的跟我妈妈一样。她是德国人，她本来应该更清楚。不过他们要你这么认为，是吗? 他们不想让你知道真相。”    
我不知道“他们”是谁，也不知道他们隐瞒了什么真相，我也根本不想去知道。我希望我什么也没说，我又希望我抬起头就能看见爸爸朝山上走来。  
“但是你得读读那些学校里面看不到的书。”阿塞夫说，“我读了，令我茅塞顿开。现在我有个抱负，我要将它告诉我们的总统。你想知道那是什么吗? ”    
我摇摇头。他终究还是说了，阿塞夫总是自问自答。    
他那双蓝眼睛望着哈桑: “阿富汗是普什图人的地盘，过去一直是，将来也永远是。我们是真正的阿富汗人，纯种的阿富汗人，这个塌鼻子不是。他们这种人污染了我们的土地、我们的国家，他们弄脏我们的血脉。”他挥舞双手，做了个夸张的姿势，“普什图人的阿富汗，我说，这就是我的抱负。”    
阿塞夫又看着我，他看起来像是刚从美梦中醒来。“希特勒生不逢时，”他说，“但我们还来得及。”    
他伸手去牛仔裤的后兜摸索某样东西，“我要恳求总统完成从前国王没做的事情，派军队清除所有这些垃圾，这些肮脏的哈扎拉人。”    
“放我们走，阿塞夫，”我说，对自己颤抖的声音感到厌恶，“我们没有碍着你。”    
“哦，你们碍着我了。”阿塞夫说。看到他从裤兜里掏出那个东西，我的心开始下沉。
当然，他掏出来的是那黄铜色的不锈钢拳套，在阳光下闪闪发亮。“你们严重地碍着我。实际上，你比这个哈扎拉小子更加碍着我。你怎么可以跟他说话，跟他玩耍，让他碰你? ”他的声音充满了嫌恶。瓦里和卡莫点头以示同意，随声附和。阿塞夫双眉一皱，摇摇头。他再次说话的时候，声音显得跟他的表情一样困惑。“你怎么可以当他是‘朋友’? ”    
可是他并非我的朋友! 我几乎冲口说出。我真的想过这个问题吗? 当然没有，我没有想过。
我对哈桑很好，就像对待朋友，甚至还要更好，像是兄弟。但如果这样的话，那么何以每逢爸爸的朋友带着他们的孩子来拜访，我玩游戏的时候从来没喊上哈桑? 为什么我只有在身边没有其他人的时候才和哈桑玩耍?    
阿塞夫戴上他的不锈钢拳套，冷冷瞟了我一眼。“你也是个问题，阿米尔。如果没有你和你父亲这样的白痴，收容这些哈扎拉人，我们早就可以清除他们了。他们全都应该去哈扎拉贾特（Hazarajat ，阿富汗中部山区，为哈扎拉人聚居地。），在那个属于他们的地方烂掉。你是个阿富汗败类。”    
我看着他那狂妄的眼睛，看懂了他的眼色，他是真的要伤害我。阿塞夫举起拳头，向我走来。    
我背后传来一阵急遽的活动声音。我眼角一瞄，看见哈桑弯下腰，迅速地站起来。阿塞夫朝我身后望去，吃惊地瞪大了眼睛。我看见瓦里和卡莫也看着我身后，眼里同样带着震惊的神色。    
我转过身，正好看到哈桑的弹弓。哈桑把那根橡皮带满满拉开，弓上是一块核桃大小的石头。哈桑用弹弓对着阿塞夫的脸，他用尽力气拉着弹弓，双手颤抖，汗珠在额头上渗出来。    
“请让我们走，少爷。”哈桑语气平静地说。他称呼阿塞夫为少爷，有个念头在我脑里一闪而过：带着这种根深蒂固的意识，生活在一个等级分明的地方，究竟是什么滋味?    
阿塞夫咬牙切齿: “放下来，你这个没有老娘的哈扎拉小子。”    
“请放过我们，少爷。”哈桑说。    
阿塞夫笑起来: “难道你没有看到吗? 我们有三个人，你们只有两个。”    
哈桑耸耸肩。在外人看来，他镇定自若，但哈桑的脸是我从小就看惯了的，我清楚它所有细微的变化，他脸上任何一丝颤动都躲不过我的眼睛。我看得出他很害怕，非常害怕。    
“是的，少爷。但也许你没有看到，拉着弹弓的人是我。如果你敢动一动，他们会改掉你的花名，不再叫你‘吃耳朵的阿塞夫’，而是叫你‘独眼龙阿塞夫’。因为我这块石头对准你的左眼。”他泰然自若地说着，就算是我，也要费尽力气才能听得出他平静的声音下面的恐惧。    
阿塞夫的嘴巴抽搐了一下。瓦里和卡莫看到强弱易势，简直无法置信，有人在挑战他们的神，羞辱他。更糟糕的是，这个家伙居然是个瘦小的哈扎拉人。阿塞夫看看那块石头，又看看哈桑。他仔细看着哈桑的脸，他所看到的，一定让他相信哈桑并非妄言恫吓，因为他放下了拳头。    
“你应该对我有所了解，哈扎拉人。”阿塞夫阴沉着脸说，“我是个非常有耐心的人。今天这事可没完，相信我。”他转向我,“我跟你也没完，阿米尔。总有一天，我会亲自让你尝尝我的厉害。”阿塞夫退了一步，他的跟班也是。    
“你的哈扎拉人今天犯了大错，阿米尔。”他说，然后转身离开。我看着他们走下山，消失在一堵墙壁之后。    
哈桑双手颤抖，努力把弹弓插回腰间。他的双唇弯起，或是想露出一个安心的微笑吧。
他试了五次，才把弹弓系在裤子上。我们脚步沉重地走回家，深知阿塞夫和他的朋友很可能在某个拐角处等着收拾我们，没有人开口说话。他们没有，那应该让我们松一口气。但是我们没有，根本就没有。      
在随后几年，喀布尔的人们不时将“经济发展”、“改革”之类的词挂在嘴边。君主立宪制被废弃了，取而代之的是在共和国总统领导下的共和制。有那么一阵，这个国家焕发出勃勃生机，也有各种远大目标，人们谈论着妇女权利和现代科技。    
对于大多数人来说，尽管喀布尔的皇宫换了新主人，生活仍和过去并无二致。人们依旧从周六到周四上班，依旧每逢周五聚集在公园、喀尔卡湖边或者帕格曼公园野餐。五颜六色的公共汽车和货车载满乘客，在喀布尔狭窄的街道上川流不息，司机的助手跨坐在后面的保险杠上，用口音浓重的喀布尔方言大声叫嚷，替司机指引方向。到了为期三天的开斋节，斋戒月（回历的第九个月为斋戒月。）之后的节日，喀布尔人穿上他们最新、最好的衣服，相互拜访。人们拥抱，亲吻，互祝“开斋节快乐”。儿童拆开礼物，玩着染色的水煮蛋。    
1974 年初冬，有一天哈桑和我在院子里嬉闹，用雪堆一座城堡。这时阿里唤他进屋:“哈桑，老爷想跟你说话! ”他身穿白色衣服，站在门口，双手缩在腋下，嘴里呼出白气。    
哈桑和我相视而笑。我们整天都在等他的传唤：那天是哈桑的生日。“那是什么，爸爸?你知道吗? 可以告诉我们吗? ”哈桑说，眼里洋溢着快乐。    
阿里耸耸肩: “老爷没有告诉我。”    
“别这样嘛，阿里，跟我们说说。”我催他，“一本图画册吗? 还是一把新手熗? ”    
跟哈桑一样，阿里也不善说谎。每年我们生日，他都假装不知道爸爸买了什么礼物。
每年他的眼神都出卖他，我们都能从他口里将礼物套出来。不过这次他看来似乎真的不知道。    
爸爸从来不会忘记哈桑的生日。曾经，他经常问哈桑想要什么，但后来他就不问了，因为哈桑要的东西太过细微，简直不能被称之为礼物，所以每年冬天爸爸自行挑选些东西。
有一年他给买了一套日本的玩具车。上一年，爸爸让哈桑喜出望外，给他买了一顶毛皮牛仔帽，克林特·伊斯伍德带着这种帽子演出了《黄金三镖客》——这部电影取代了《七侠荡寇志》，成为我们最喜爱的西部片。整整一个冬天，哈桑和我轮流戴那顶帽子，唱着那首著名的电影主题曲，爬上雪堆，打雪仗。    
我们在前门脱掉手套，擦掉靴子上的雪。我们走进门廊，看到爸爸坐在炭火熊熊的铁炉前面，旁边坐着一个矮小的秃头印度人，他穿着棕色西装，系着红领带。    
“哈桑，”爸爸说，脸上带着不好意思的微笑，“来见见你的生日礼物。”    
哈桑和我茫然对视。那儿没有见到任何包着礼物的盒子，没有袋子，没有玩具，只有站在我们后面的阿里，还有爸爸，和那个看上去像数学老师的印度人。    
身穿棕色西装的印度人微笑着，朝哈桑伸出手。“我是库玛大夫，”他说，“很高兴见到你。”他的法尔西语带着浓厚的印度卷舌音。    
“你好。”哈桑惴惴说。他礼貌地点点头，但眼睛却望向站在他后面的父亲。阿里上前一步，把手放在哈桑肩膀上。    
爸爸望着哈桑迷惑不解的眼睛: “我从新德里请来库玛大夫，库玛大夫是名整容外科医生。”    
“你知道那是什么吗? ”那个印度人——库玛大夫说。    
哈桑摇摇头。他带着询问的眼色望向我，但我耸耸肩。我只知道，人们要是得了阑尾炎，就得去找外科医生医治。我之所以知道，是因为此前一年，有个同学死于阑尾炎，我们老师说他拖了太久才去找外科医生。我们两个齐齐望向阿里，但从他那里当然也得不到
答案。跟过去一样，他仍是木无表情，但眼神变得严肃一些。    
“这么说吧，”库玛大夫说，“我的工作是修理人们的身体，有时是人们的脸庞。”    
“噢，”哈桑说，他看看库玛大夫，看看爸爸，又看看阿里，伸手遮住上唇。“噢。”他又说。    
“这不是份寻常的礼物，我知道。”爸爸说，“也许不是你想要的，但这份礼物会陪伴你终生。”    
“噢，”哈桑说，他舔舔嘴唇，清清喉咙，说: “老爷，这……这会不会……”    
“别担心，”库玛大夫插嘴说，脸上带着微笑,“不会让你觉得很痛的。实际上，我会给你用一种药，你什么都不会记得。”    
“噢。”哈桑说。他松了一口气，微笑着，但也只是松了一口气。“我不是害怕，老爷，我只是……”哈桑也许是个傻瓜，我可不是。我知道要是医生跟你说不会痛的时候，你的麻烦就大了。我心悸地想起去年割包皮的情形，医生也是这么对我说，安慰说那不会很痛。
但那天深夜，麻醉药的药性消退之后，感觉像有人拿着又红又热的木炭在烫我的下阴。爸爸为什么要等到我十岁才让我割包皮呢? 我百思不得其解，这也是我永远无法原谅他的事情之一。    
我希望自己身上也有类似的残疾，可以乞换来爸爸的怜悯。太不公平了，哈桑什么都没干，就得到爸爸的爱护，他不就是生了那个愚蠢的兔唇吗?    
手术很成功。他们刚解掉绷带的时候，我们多少都有点吃惊，但还是像库玛大夫先前交代的那样保持微笑。但那并不容易，因为哈桑的上唇看起来又肿又怪，没有表皮。护士递给哈桑镜子的时候，我希望他哭起来。哈桑深深地看着镜子，若有所思，阿里则紧紧握住他的手。他咕哝了几句，我没听清楚。我把耳朵凑到他唇边，他又低声说了一遍。    
“谢谢。”    
接着他的嘴唇扭曲了，当时，我完全知道他在干什么。他在微笑。就像他从母亲子宫里出来时那样微笑着。    
随着时间的过去，肿胀消退，伤口弥合。不久，他的嘴唇上就只剩下一道弯弯曲曲的缝合线。到下一个冬天，它变成淡淡的伤痕。说来讽刺，正是从那个冬天之后，哈桑便不再微笑了。    
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Chapter 6
Winter.
Here is what I do on the first day of snowfall every year: I step out of the house early in the morning, still in my pajamas, hugging my arms against the chill. I find the driveway, my father's car, the walls, the trees, the rooftops, and the hills buried under a foot of snow. I smile. The sky is seamless and blue, the snow so white my eyes burn. I shovel a handful of the fresh snow into my mouth, lis ten to the muffled stillness broken only by the cawing of crows. I walk down the front steps, barefoot, and call for Hassan to come out and see.
Winter was every kid's favorite season in Kabul, at least those whose fathers could afford to buy a good iron stove. The reason was simple: They shut down school for the icy season. Winter to me was the end of long division and naming the capital of Bulgaria, and the start of three months of playing cards by the stove with Hassan, free Russian movies on Tuesday mornings at Cinema Park, sweet turnip _qurma_ over rice for lunch after a morning of building snowmen.
And kites, of course. Flying kites. And running them.
For a few unfortunate kids, winter did not spell the end of the school year. There were the so-called voluntary winter courses. No kid I knew ever volunteered to go to these classes; parents, of course, did the volunteering for them. Fortunately for me, Baba was not one of them. I remember one kid, Ahmad, who lived across the street from us. His father was some kind of doctor, I think. Ahmad had epilepsy and always wore a wool vest and thick blackrimmed glasses--he was one of Assef's regular victims. Every morning, I watched from my bedroom window as their Hazara servant shoveled snow from the driveway, cleared the way for the black Opel. I made a point of watching Ahmad and his father get into the car, Ahmad in his wool vest and winter coat, his schoolbag filled with books and pencils. I waited until they pulled away, turned the corner, then I slipped back into bed in my flannel pajamas. I pulled the blanket to my chin and watched the snowcapped hills in the north through the window. Watched them until I drifted back to sleep.
I loved wintertime in Kabul. I loved it for the soft pattering of snow against my window at night, for the way fresh snow crunched under my black rubber boots, for the warmth of the cast-iron stove as the wind screeched through the yards, the streets. But mostly because, as the trees froze and ice sheathed the roads, the chill between Baba and me thawed a little. And the reason for that was the kites. Baba and I lived in the same house, but in different spheres of existence. Kites were the one paper thin slice of intersection between those spheres.

EVERY WINTER, districts in Kabul held a kite-fighting tournament. And if you were a boy living in Kabul, the day of the tournament was undeniably the highlight of the cold season. I never slept the night before the tournament. I'd roll from side to side, make shadow animals on the wall, even sit on the balcony in the dark, a blanket wrapped around me. I felt like a soldier trying to sleep in the trenches the night before a major battle. And that wasn't so far off. In Kabul, fighting kites was a little like going to war.
As with any war, you had to ready yourself for battle. For a while, Hassan and I used to build our own kites. We saved our weekly allowances in the fall, dropped the money in a little porcelain horse Raba had brought one time from Herat. When the winds of winter began to blow and snow fell in chunks, we undid the snap under the horse's belly. We went to the bazaar and bought bamboo, glue, string, and paper. We spent hours every day shaving bamboo for the center and cross spars, cutting the thin tissue paper which made for easy dipping and recovery And then, of course, we had to make our own string, or tar. If the kite was the gun, then _tar_, the glass-coated cutting line, was the bullet in the chamber. We'd go out in the yard and feed up to five hundred feet of string through a mixture of ground glass and glue. We'd then hang the line between the trees, leave it to dry. The next day, we'd wind the battle-ready line around a wooden spool. By the time the snow melted and the rains of spring swept in, every boy in Kabul bore telltale horizontal gashes on his fingers from a whole winter of fighting kites. I remember how my classmates and I used to huddle, compare our battle scars on the first day of school. The cuts stung and didn't heal for a couple of weeks, but I didn't mind. They were reminders of a beloved season that had once again passed too quickly. Then the class captain would blow his whistle and we'd march in a single file to our classrooms, longing for winter already, greeted instead by the specter of yet another long school year.
But it quickly became apparent that Hassan and I were better kite fighters than kite makers. Some flaw or other in our design always spelled its doom. So Baba started taking us to Saifo's to buy our kites. Saifo was a nearly blind old man who was a _moochi_ by profession--a shoe repairman. But he was also the city's most famous kite maker, working out of a tiny hovel on Jadeh Maywand, the crowded street south of the muddy banks of the Kabul River. I remember you had to crouch to enter the prison cell-sized store, and then had to lift a trapdoor to creep down a set of wooden steps to the dank basement where Saifo stored his coveted kites. Baba would buy us each three identical kites and spools of glass string. If I changed my mind and asked for a bigger and fancier kite, Baba would buy it for me--but then he'd buy it for Hassan too. Sometimes I wished he wouldn't do that. Wished he'd let me be the favorite.
The kite-fighting tournament was an old winter tradition in Afghanistan. It started early in the morning on the day of the contest and didn't end until only the winning kite flew in the sky--I remember one year the tournament outlasted daylight. People gathered on sidewalks and roofs to cheer for their kids. The streets filled with kite fighters, jerking and tugging on their lines, squinting up to the sky, trying to gain position to cut the opponent's line. Every kite fighter had an assistant--in my case, Hassan--who held the spool and fed the line.
One time, a bratty Hindi kid whose family had recently moved into the neighborhood told us that in his Hometown, kite fighting had strict rules and regulations. "You have to play in a boxed area and you have to stand at a right angle to the wind,?he said proudly. "And you can't use aluminum to make your glass string.?Hassan and I looked at each other. Cracked up. The Hindi kid would soon learn what the British learned earlier in the century, and what the Russians would eventually learn by the late 1980s:
that Afghans are an independent people. Afghans cherish custom but abhor rules. And so it was with kite fighting. The rules were simple: No rules. Fly your kite. Cut the opponents. Good luck.
Except that wasn't all. The real fun began when a kite was cut. That was where the kite runners came in, those kids who chased the windblown kite drifting through the neighborhoods until it came spiraling down in a field, dropping in someone's yard, on a tree, or a rooftop. The chase got pretty fierce; hordes of kite runners swarmed the streets, shoved past each other like those people from Spain I'd read about once, the ones who ran from the bulls. One year a neighborhood kid climbed a pine tree for a kite. A branch snapped under his weight and he fell thirty feet. Broke his back and never walked again. But he fell with the kite still in his hands. And when a kite runner had his hands on a kite, no one could take it from him. That wasn't a rule. That was custom.
For kite runners, the most coveted prize was the last fallen kite of a winter tournament. It was a trophy of honor, something to be displayed on a mantle for guests to admire. When the sky cleared of kites and only the final two remained, every kite runner readied himself for the chance to land this prize. He positioned himself at a spot that he thought would give him a head start. Tense muscles readied themselves to uncoil. Necks craned. Eyes crinkled. Fights broke out. And when the last kite was cut, all hell broke loose.
Over the years, I had seen a lot of guys run kites. But Hassan was by far the greatest kite runner I'd ever seen. It was downright eerie the way he always got to the spot the kite would land before the kite did, as if he had some sort of inner compass.
I remember one overcast winter day, Hassan and I were running a kite. I was chasing him through neighborhoods, hopping
gutters, weaving through narrow streets. I was a year older than him, but Hassan ran faster than I did, and I was falling behind.
"Hassan! Wait!?I yelled, my breathing hot and ragged.
He whirled around, motioned with his hand. "This way!?he called before dashing around another corner. I looked up, saw that the direction we were running was opposite to the one the kite was drifting.
"We're losing it! We're going the wrong way!?I cried out.
"Trust me!?I heard him call up ahead. I reached the corner and saw Hassan bolting along, his head down, not even looking at the sky, sweat soaking through the back of his shirt. I tripped over a rock and fell--I wasn't just slower than Hassan but clumsier too; I'd always envied his natural athieticism. When I staggered to my feet, I caught a glimpse of Hassan disappearing around another street corner. I hobbled after him, spikes of pain battering my scraped knees.
I saw we had ended up on a rutted dirt road near Isteqial Middle School. There was a field on one side where lettuce grew in the summer, and a row of sour cherry trees on the other. I found Hassan sitting cross-legged at the foot of one of the trees, eating from a fistful of dried mulberries.
"What are we doing here??I panted, my stomach roiling with nausea.
He smiled. "Sit with me, Amir agha.?
I dropped next to him, lay on a thin patch of snow, wheezing. "You're wasting our time. It was going the other way, didn't you see??
Hassan popped a mulberry in his mouth. "It's coming,?he said. I could hardly breathe and he didn't even sound tired.
"How do you know??I said.
"I know.?
"How can you know??
He turned to me. A few sweat beads rolled from his bald scalp. "Would I ever lie to you, Amir agha??
Suddenly I decided to toy with him a little. "I don't know. Would you??
"I'd sooner eat dirt,?he said with a look of indignation.
"Really? You'd do that??
He threw me a puzzled look. "Do what??
"Eat dirt if I told you to,?I said. I knew I was being cruel, like when I'd taunt him if he didn't know some big word. But there was something fascinating--albeit in a sick way--about teasing Hassan. Kind of like when we used to play insect torture. Except now, he was the ant and I was holding the magnifying glass.
His eyes searched my face for a long time. We sat there, two boys under a sour cherry tree, suddenly looking, really looking, at each other. That's when it happened again: Hassan's face changed. Maybe not _changed_, not really, but suddenly I had the feeling I was looking at two faces, the one I knew, the one that was my first memory, and another, a second face, this one lurking just beneath the surface. I'd seen it happen before--it always shook me up a little. It just appeared, this other face, for a fraction of a moment, long enough to leave me with the unsettling feeling that maybe I'd seen it someplace before. Then Hassan blinked and it was just him again. Just Hassan.
"If you asked, I would,?he finally said, looking right at me. I dropped my eyes. To this day, I find it hard to gaze directly at people like Hassan, people who mean every word they say.
"But I wonder,?he added. "Would you ever ask me to do such a thing, Amir agha??And, just like that, he had thrown at me his own little test. If I was going to toy with him and challenge his loyalty, then he'd toy with me, test my integrity.
I wished I hadn't started this conversation. I forced a smile. "Don't be stupid, Hassan. You know I wouldn't.?
Hassan returned the smile. Except his didn't look forced. "I know,?he said. And that's the thing about people who mean everything they say. They think everyone else does too.
"Here it comes,?Hassan said, pointing to the sky. He rose to his feet and walked a few paces to his left. I looked up, saw the kite plummeting toward us. I heard footfalls, shouts, an approaching melee of kite runners. But they were wasting their time. Because Hassan stood with his arms wide open, smiling, waiting for the kite. And may God--if He exists, that is--strike me blind if the kite didn't just drop into his outstretched arms.

IN THE WINTER OF 1975, I saw Hassan run a kite for the last time.
Usually, each neighborhood held its own competition. But that year, the tournament was going to be held in my neighborhood, Wazir Akbar Khan, and several other districts--Karteh-Char, Karteh-Parwan, Mekro-Rayan, and Koteh-Sangi--had been invited. You could hardly go anywhere without hearing talk of the upcoming tournament. Word had it this was going to be the biggest tournament in twenty-five years.
One night that winter, with the big contest only four days away, Baba and I sat in his study in overstuffed leather chairs by the glow of the fireplace. We were sipping tea, talking. Ali had served dinner earlier--potatoes and curried cauliflower over rice--and had retired for the night with Hassan. Baba was fattening his pipe and I was asking him to tell the story about the winter a pack of wolves had descended from the mountains in Herat and forced everyone to stay indoors for a week, when he lit a match and said, casually, "I think maybe you'll win the tournament this year. What do you think??
I didn't know what to think. Or what to say. Was that what it would take? Had he just slipped me a key? I was a good kite fighter. Actually, a very good one. A few times, I'd even come close to winning the winter tournament--once, I'd made it to the final three. But coming close wasn't the same as winning, was it? Baba hadn't _come close_. He had won because winners won and everyone else just went Home. Baba was used to winning, winning at everything he set his mind to. Didn't he have a right to expect the same from his son? And just imagine. If I did win...
Baba smoked his pipe and talked. I pretended to listen. But I couldn't listen, not really, because Baba's casual little comment had planted a seed in my head: the resolution that I would win that winter's tournament. I was going to win. There was no other viable option. I was going to win, and I was going to run that last kite. Then I'd bring it Home and show it to Baba. Show him once and for all that his son was worthy. Then maybe my life as a ghost in this house would finally be over. I let myself dream: I imagined conversation and laughter over dinner instead of silence broken only by the clinking of silverware and the occasional grunt. I envisioned us taking a Friday drive in Baba's car to Paghman, stopping on the way at Ghargha Lake for some fried trout and potatoes. We'd go to the zoo to see Marjan the lion, and maybe Baba wouldn't yawn and steal looks at his wristwatch all the time. Maybe Baba would even read one of my stories. I'd write him a hundred if I thought he'd read one. Maybe he'd call me Amir jan like Rahim Khan did. And maybe, just maybe, I would finally be pardoned for killing my mother.
Baba was telling me about the time he'd cut fourteen kites on the same day. I smiled, nodded, laughed at all the right places, but
I hardly heard a word he said. I had a mission now. And I wasn't going to fail Baba. Not this time.

IT SNOWED HEAVILY the night before the tournament. Hassan and I sat under the kursi and played panjpar as wind-rattled tree branches tapped on the window. Earlier that day, I'd asked Ali to set up the kursi for us--which was basically an electric heater under a low table covered with a thick, quilted blanket. Around the table, he arranged mattresses and cushions, so as many as twenty people could sit and slip their legs under. Hassan and I used to spend entire snowy days snug under the kursi, playing chess, cards--mostly panjpar.
I killed Hassan's ten of diamonds, played him two jacks and a six. Next door, in Baba's study, Baba and Rahim Khan were discussing Business with a couple of other men-one of them I recognized as Assef's father. Through the wall, I could hear the scratchy sound of Radio Kabul News.
Hassan killed the six and picked up the jacks. On the radio, Daoud Khan was announcing something about foreign investments.
"He says someday we'll have television in Kabul,?I said.
"Who??
"Daoud Khan, you ass, the president.?
Hassan giggled. "I heard they already have it in Iran,?he said. I sighed. "Those Iranians...?For a lot of Hazaras, Iran represented a sanctuary of sorts--I guess because, like Hazaras, most Iranians were Shi'a Muslims. But I remembered something my teacher had said that summer about Iranians, that they were grinning smooth talkers who patted you on the back with one hand and picked your pocket with the other. I told Baba about that and he said my teacher was one of those jealous Afghans, jealous because Iran was a rising power in Asia and most people around the world couldn't even find Afghanistan on a world map. "It hurts to say that,?he said, shrugging. "But better to get hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie.?
"I'll buy you one someday,?I said.
Hassan's face brightened. "A television? In truth??
"Sure. And not the black-and-white kind either. We'll probably be grown-ups by then, but I'll get us two. One for you and one for me.?
"I'll put it on my table, where I keep my drawings,?Hassan said.
His saying that made me kind of sad. Sad for who Hassan was, where he lived. For how he'd accepted the fact that he'd grow old in that mud shack in the yard, the way his father had. I drew the last card, played him a pair of queens and a ten.
Hassan picked up the queens. "You know, I think you're going to make Agha sahib very proud tomorrow.?
"You think so??
"_Inshallah_,?he said.
"_Inshallah_,"I echoed, though the "God willing?qualifier didn't sound as sincere coming from my lips. That was the thing with Hassan. He was so goddamn pure, you always felt like a phony around him.
I killed his king and played him my final card, the ace of spades. He had to pick it up. I'd won, but as I shuffled for a new game, I had the distinct suspicion that Hassan had let me win.
"Amir agha??
"What??
"You know... I _like_ where I live.?He was always doing that, reading my mind. "It's my Home.?
"Whatever,?I said. "Get ready to lose again.?

第六章
冬天。    
每年下雪的第一天，我都会这样度过：一大清早我穿着睡衣，走到屋子外面，双臂环抱抵御严寒。我发现车道、爸爸的轿车、围墙、树木、屋顶还有山丘，统统覆盖着一英尺厚的积雪。我微笑。天空一碧如洗，万里无云。白晃晃的雪花刺痛我的眼睛。我捧起一把新雪，塞进嘴里，四周静谧无声，只有几声乌鸦的啼叫传进耳里。我赤足走下前门的台阶，把哈桑叫出来看看。        
冬天是喀布尔每个孩子最喜欢的季节，至少那些家里买得起一个温暖铁炉的孩子是这样的。理由很简单：每当天寒地冻，学校就停课了。于我而言，冬天意味着那些复杂的除法题目的结束，也不用去背保加利亚的首都，可以开始一连三个月坐在火炉边跟哈桑玩扑克，星期二早晨去电影院公园看免费的俄罗斯影片，早上堆个雪人之后，午餐吃一顿甜芜青拌饭。    
当然还有风筝。放风筝。追风筝。    
对于某些可怜的孩子来说，冬天并不代表学期的结束，还有种叫自愿冬季课程的东西。
据我所知，没有学生自愿去参加那些课程，当然是父母自愿送他们去。幸运的是，爸爸不
是这样的家长。我记得有个叫艾哈迈德的家伙，住的地方跟我家隔街相望。他的父亲可能
是个什么医生，我想。艾哈迈德患有癫痫，总是穿着羊毛内衣，戴一副黑框眼镜——阿塞
夫经常欺负他。每天早晨，我从卧室的窗户看出去，他们家的哈扎拉佣人把车道上的雪铲
开，为那辆黑色的欧宝清道。我看着艾哈迈德和他的父亲上车，艾哈迈德穿着羊毛内衣和
冬天的外套，背着个塞满课本和铅笔的书包。我穿着法兰绒睡衣，看他们扬长而去，转过
街道的拐角，然后钻回我的床上去。我将毛毯拉到脖子上，透过窗户，望着北边白雪皑皑的山头。望着它们，直到再次入睡。    
我喜欢喀布尔的冬天。我喜欢夜里满天飞雪轻轻敲打我的窗户，我喜欢新霁的积雪在我的黑色胶靴下吱嘎作响，我喜欢感受铁炉的温暖，听寒风呼啸着吹过街道、吹过院子。
但更重要的是，每逢林木萧瑟，冰雪封路，爸爸和我之间的寒意会稍微好转。那是因为风
筝。爸爸和我生活在同一个屋顶之下，但我们生活在各自的区域，风筝是我们之间薄如纸
的交集。      
每年冬天，喀布尔的各个城区会举办风筝比赛。如果你是生活在喀布尔的孩子，那么比赛那天，无疑是这个寒冷季节最令人振奋的时候。每次比赛前夜我都会失眠，我会辗转反侧，双手借着灯光在墙上投射出动物形状的影子，甚至裹条毛毯，在一片漆黑中到阳台上呆坐。我像是个士兵，大战来临前夜试图在战壕上入睡。其实也差不多，在喀布尔，斗风筝跟上战场有点相像。    
跟任何战争一样，你必须为自己做好准备。有那么一阵，哈桑和我经常自己制作风筝。
秋天开始，我们每周省下一点零用钱，投进爸爸从赫拉特买来的瓷马里面。到得寒风呼啸、雪花飞舞的时候，我们揭开瓷马腹部的盖子，到市场去买竹子、胶水、线、纸。我们每天
花几个小时，打造风筝的骨架，剪裁那些让风筝更加灵动的薄棉纸。再接着，我们当然还
得自己准备线。如果风筝是熗，那么缀有玻璃屑的线就是膛里的子弹。我们得走到院子里，
把五百英尺线放进一桶混有玻璃屑的胶水里面，接着把线挂在树上，让它风干。第二天，我们会把这为战斗准备的线缠绕在一个木轴上。等到雪花融化、春雨绵绵，喀布尔每个孩子的手指上，都会有一些横切的伤口，那是斗了一个冬天的风筝留下的证据。我记得开学那天，同学们挤在一起，比较各自的战伤。伤口很痛，几个星期都好不了，但我毫不在意。
我们的冬天总是那样匆匆来了又走，伤疤提醒我们怀念那个最令人喜爱的季节。接着班长
会吹口哨，我们排成一列，走进教室，心中已然渴望冬季的到来，但招呼我们的是又一个
幽灵般的漫长学年。    
但是没隔多久，事实证明我和哈桑造风筝实在不行，斗风筝倒是好手。我们设计的风筝总是有这样或那样的问题，难逃悲惨的命运。所以爸爸开始带我们去塞弗的店里买风筝。
塞弗是个近乎瞎眼的老人，以替人修鞋为生，但他也是全城最著名的造风筝高手。他的小
作坊在拥挤的雅德梅湾大道上，也就是喀布尔河泥泞的南岸那边。爸爸会给我们每人买三
个同样的风筝和几轴玻璃线。如果我改变主意，求爸爸给我买个更大、更好看的风筝，爸
爸会买给我，可是也会给哈桑买一个。有时我希望他别给哈桑买，希望他最疼我。    
斗风筝比赛是阿富汗古老的冬日风俗。比赛一大清早就开始，直到仅剩一只胜出的风筝在空中翱翔才告结束。我记得有一年，比赛到了天黑还没终结。人们在人行道上，在屋顶上，为自家的孩子鼓劲加油。街道上满是风筝斗士，手里的线时而猛拉、时而速放，目不转睛地仰望天空，力图占个好位置，以便割断敌手的风筝线。每个斗风筝的人都有助手，帮忙收放风筝线。我的助手是哈桑。    
有一次，有个多嘴的印度小孩，他家最近才搬到附近，告诉我们，在他的家乡，斗风筝必须严格遵守一些规则和规定。“你必须在指定的区域放风筝，并且你必须站在风向成直角的地方。”他骄傲地说，“还有，你不能用铝来做玻璃线。”    
哈桑和我对望了一眼。让你吹吧。这个印度小孩很快会学到的，跟英国人在这个世纪之初以及俄国人在1980年代晚期学到的如出一辙：阿富汗人是独立的民族。阿富汗人尊重风俗，但讨厌规则，斗风筝也是这样。规则很简单：放起你的风筝，割断对手的线，祝你好运。    
不仅如此，若有风筝被割断，真正的乐趣就开始了。这时，该追风筝的人出动，那些孩子追逐那个在随风飘扬的风筝，在临近的街区奔走，直到它盘旋着跌落在田里，或者掉进某家的院子里，或挂在树上，或停在屋顶上。追逐十分激烈：追风筝的人蜂拥着漫过大街小巷，相互推搡，像西班牙人那样。我曾看过一本书，说起他们在斗牛节时被公牛追赶的景象。有一年某个邻居的小孩爬上松树，去捡风筝，结果树枝不堪重负，他从三十英尺高的地方跌下来，摔得再也无法行走，但他跌下来时手里还抓着那只风筝。如果追风筝的人手里拿着风筝，没有人能将它拿走。这不是规则，而是风俗。    
对追风筝的人来说，最大的奖励是在冬天的比赛中捡到最后掉落的那只风筝。那是无上的荣耀，人们会将其挂在壁炉架之下，供客人欢欣赞叹。每当满天风筝消失得只剩下最后两只，每个追风筝的人都厉兵秣马，准备摘取此项大奖。他们会朝向那个他们预计风筝跌落的地方，绷紧的肌肉蓄势待发，脖子抬起，眼睛眯着，斗志昂扬。当最后一只风筝被割断，立即一片骚动。    
多年过去，我曾见到无数家伙参与追风筝，但哈桑是我见过的人中最精此道的高手。
十分奇怪的是，在风筝跌落之前，他总是等在那个它将要跌落的地方，似乎他体内有某种指南针。    
我记得有个阴暗的冬日，哈桑和我追着一只风筝。我跟着他，穿过各处街区，跳过水沟，侧身跑过那些狭窄的街道。我比他大一岁，但哈桑跑得比我快，我落在后面。    
“哈桑，等等我。”我气喘吁吁地大喊，有些恼怒。    
他转过身，挥挥手:“这边! ”说完就冲进另外一个拐角处。我抬头一看，那个方向与风筝跌落的方向恰好相反。    
“我们追不到它了! 我们跑错路了! ”我高声叫道。    
“相信我! ”我听见他在前面说。我跑到拐角处，发现哈桑低首飞奔，根本就没有抬头看看天空，汗水浸透了他后背的衣服。我踩到一块石头，摔了一跤——我非但跑得比哈桑慢，也笨拙得多，我总是羡慕他与生俱来的运动才能。我站起身来，瞥见哈桑又拐进了另一条巷子。我艰难地追着他，摔破的膝盖传来阵阵剧痛。    
我看到我们最终停在一条车辙纵横的泥土路上，就在独立中学旁边。路边有块田地，夏天会种满莴苣；路的另外一边有成排的酸樱桃树。只见哈桑盘起双腿，坐在其中一棵树下，吃着手里的一捧桑椹干。    
“我们在这干吗呢? ”我上气不接下气，胃里翻江倒海，简直要吐出来。    
他微笑: “在我这边坐下，阿米尔少爷。”    
我在他旁边颓然倒下，躺在一层薄薄的雪花上，喘着气。“你在浪费时间。它朝另外一边飞去了，你没看到吗? ”    
哈桑往嘴里扔了一颗桑椹: “它飞过来了。”我呼吸艰难，而他一点都不累。    
“你怎么知道? ”我问。    
“我知道。”    
“你是怎么知道的? ”    
他朝我转过身，有些汗珠从他额头流下来，“我骗过你吗，阿米尔少爷? ” 刹那间我决定跟他开开玩笑: “我不知道。你会骗我吗? ”    
“我宁愿吃泥巴也不骗你。”他带着愤愤的表情说。    
“真的吗? 你会那样做? ”    
他疑惑地看了我一眼: “做什么? ”    
“如果我让你吃泥巴，你会吃吗? ”我说。我知道自己这样很残忍，好像以前，我总是拿那些他不懂的字眼来戏弄他，但取笑哈桑有点好玩——虽然是病态的好玩，跟我们折磨昆虫的游戏有点相似。不过现在，他是蚂蚁，而拿着放大镜的人是我。    
他久久看着我的脸。我们坐在那儿，两个男孩，坐在一棵酸樱桃树下，突然间我们看着，真的看着对方。就在那时，哈桑的脸又变了。也许没有变，不是真的变了，但我瞬间觉得自己看到了两张脸，一张是我认得的，我从小熟悉的；另外一张，第二张，就隐藏在表层之下。我曾经看到过他的脸色变化——总是吓我一跳，它每次出现不过惊鸿一瞥，但足以让我疑惑不安，觉得自己也许曾在什么地方见到过。随后，哈桑眨眨眼，他又是他了，只是哈桑了。    
“如果你要求，我会的。”他终于说，眼睛直看着我。我垂下眼光，时至今日，我发现自己很难直视像哈桑这样的人，这种说出的每个字都当真的人。    
“不过我怀疑，”他补充说，“你是否会让我这么做。你会吗，阿米尔少爷? ”就这样，轮到他考验我了。如果我继续戏弄他，考验他的忠诚，那么他会戏弄我，考验我的正直。    
要是我没有开始这场对话就好了! 我勉强露出一个笑脸，“别傻了，哈桑，你知道我不会的。”    
哈桑报我以微笑，不过他并非强颜欢笑。“我知道。”他说。这就是那些一诺千金的人的作风，以为别人也和他们一样。    
“风筝来了。”哈桑说，指向天空，他站起身来，朝左边走了几步。我抬头，望见风筝正朝我们一头扎下来。我听见脚步声，叫喊声，一群追风筝的人正闹哄哄向这边跑来。但他们只是白费时间。因为哈桑脸带微笑，张开双手，站在那儿等着风筝。除非真主——如果他存在的话——弄瞎了我的眼，不然风筝一定会落进他张开的臂弯里。      
1975年冬天，我最后一次看到哈桑追风筝。    
通常，每个街区都会举办自己的比赛。但那年，巡回赛由我所在的街区，瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区举办，几个其他的城区——卡德察区、卡德帕湾区、梅寇拉扬区、科德桑吉区——也应邀参加。无论走到哪里，都能听见人们在谈论即将举办的巡回赛，据说这是二十五年来规模最大的风筝比赛。    
那年冬天的一个夜里，距比赛还有四天，爸爸和我坐在书房里铺满毛皮的椅子上，烤着火，边喝茶边交谈。早些时候，阿里服侍我们用过晚餐——土豆、咖喱西兰花拌饭，回去跟哈桑度过漫漫长夜。爸爸塞着他的烟管，我求他讲那个故事给我听，据说某年冬天，有一群狼从山上下来，游荡到赫拉特，迫使人们在屋里躲了一个星期。爸爸划了一根火柴，说: “我觉得今年你也许能赢得巡回赛，你觉得呢? ”    
我不知道该怎么想，或者该怎么说。我要是取胜了会怎么样呢? 他只是交给我一把钥匙吗? 我是斗风筝的好手，实际上，是非常出色的好手。好几次我差点赢得冬季巡回赛——有一次，我还进了前三名。但差点儿和赢得比赛是两回事，不是吗? 爸爸从来不差点儿，他只是获胜，获胜者赢得比赛，其他人只能回家。爸爸总是胜利，赢得一切他想赢得的东西。
难道他没有权利要求他的儿子也这样吗? 想想吧，要是我赢得比赛……    
爸爸吸着烟管，跟我说话。我假装在听，但我听不进去，有点心不在焉，因为爸爸随口一说，在我脑海埋下了一颗种子：赢得冬季巡回赛是个好办法。我要赢得比赛，没有其他选择。我要赢得比赛，我的风筝要坚持到最后。然后我会把它带回家，带给爸爸看。让他看看，他的儿子终究非同凡响，那么也许我在家里孤魂野鬼般的日子就可以结束。我让自己幻想着：我幻想吃晚饭的时候，充满欢声笑语，而非一言不发，只有银餐具偶尔的碰撞声和几声“嗯哦”打破寂静。我想像星期五爸爸开着车带我去帕格曼，中途在喀尔卡湖稍作休憩，吃着炸鳟鱼和炸土豆。我们会去动物园看看那只叫“玛扬”的狮子，也许爸爸不会一直打哈欠，偷偷看着他的腕表。也许爸爸甚至还会看看我写的故事，我情愿为他写一百篇，哪怕他只挑一篇看看。也许他会像拉辛汗那样，叫我“亲爱的阿米尔”。也许，只是也许，他最终会原谅我杀了他的妻子。    
爸爸告诉我有一天他割断了十四只风筝的线。我不时微笑，点头，大笑，一切恰到好处，但我几乎没有听清他在说什么。现在我有个使命了，我不会让爸爸失望。这次不会。      
巡回赛前夜大雪纷飞。哈桑和我坐在暖炉桌前玩一种叫做“番吉帕”的扑克游戏，寒风吹着树枝，打在窗户上嗒嗒作响。当天早些时候，我要阿里替我们布置暖炉桌——在一张低矮的桌子下面，摆放电暖片，然后盖上厚厚的棉毯。他在桌旁铺满地毯和坐垫，足够供二十个人坐下，把腿伸进桌子下面。每逢下雪，哈桑和我经常整天坐在暖炉桌边，下棋或者打牌，主要是玩“番吉帕”。    
我杀了哈桑两张方块10，打给他两条J 和一张6。隔壁是爸爸的书房，他和拉辛汗在跟几个人谈生意。其中有个我认得是阿塞夫的父亲。隔着墙，我能听到喀布尔新闻广播电台沙沙的声音。    
哈桑杀了6，要了两条J 。达乌德汗在收音机中宣布有关外国投资的消息。    
“他说有一天喀布尔也会拥有电视。”我说。    
“谁? ”    
“达乌德汗，你这个家伙，我们的总统。”    
哈桑咯咯笑起来，“我听说伊朗已经有了。”他说。    
我叹了一口气: “那些伊朗人……”对多数哈扎拉人来说，伊朗是个避难所，我猜想也许是因为多数伊朗人跟哈扎拉人一样，都是什叶派穆斯林。但我记得夏天的时候有个老师说起伊朗人，说他们都是笑面虎，一边用手拍拍你的后背示好，另一只手却会去掏你的口袋。我将这个告诉爸爸，爸爸说我的老师不过是个嫉妒的阿富汗人，他嫉妒，因为伊朗在亚洲声望日隆，而世界上多数人看世界地图的时候还找不到阿富汗在哪里。“这样说很伤感情，”他说，耸着肩，“但被真相伤害总比被谎言安慰好。”    
“有一天我会给你买的。”我说。    
哈桑笑逐颜开: “电视机? 真的吗? ”    
“当然，还不是黑白的那种。到时我们也许都是大人了，不过我会给我们买两个。一个给你，一个给我。”    
“我要把它放在我画画的桌子上。”哈桑说。    
他这么说让我觉得很难过。我为哈桑的身份、为他居住的地方难过。他长大之后，将会像他父亲一样，住在院子里那间破房子，而他对此照单全收，让我觉得难过。我抽起最后一张牌，给他一对Q 和一张10。    
哈桑要了一对Q，“你知道吗，我觉得你明天会让老爷觉得很骄傲。”    
“你这样想啊? ”    
“安拉保佑。”他说。    
“安拉保佑。”我回应，虽然这句“安拉保佑”从我嘴里说出来有些口不由心。哈桑就是这样，他真是纯洁得该死，跟他在一起，你永远觉得自己是个骗子。    
我杀了他的K，扔给他最后一张牌：黑桃A。他必须吃下。我赢了，不过在洗牌的时候，我怀疑这是哈桑故意让我赢的。    
“阿米尔少爷? ”    
“怎么啦? ”    
“你知道……我喜欢我住的地方。”他总是这样，能看穿我的心事，“它是我的家。”    
“不管怎样，”我说，“准备再输一局吧。”  
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Chapter 7
The next morning, as he brewed black tea for breakfast, Hassan told me he'd had a dream. "We were at Ghargha Lake, you, me, Father, Agha sahib, Rahim Khan, and thousands of other people,?he said. "It was warm and sunny, and the lake was clear like a mirror. But no one was swimming because they said a monster had come to the lake. It was swimming at the bottom, waiting.?
He poured me a cup and added sugar, blew on it a few times. Put it before me. "So everyone is scared to get in the water, and suddenly you kick off your shoes, Amir agha, and take off your shirt. ‘There's no monster,?you say. ‘I'll show you all.?And before anyone can stop you, you dive into the water, start swimming away. I follow you in and we're both swimming.?
"But you can't swim.?
Hassan laughed. "It's a dream, Amir agha, you can do anything. Anyway, everyone is screaming, ‘Get out! Get out!?but we just swim in the cold water. We make it way out to the middle of the lake and we stop swimming. We turn toward the shore and wave to the people. They look small like ants, but we can hear them clapping. They see now. There is no monster, just water. They change the name of the lake after that, and call it the ‘Lake of Amir and Hassan, Sultans of Kabul,?and we get to charge people money for swimming in it.?
"So what does it mean??I said.
He coated my _naan_ with marmalade, placed it on a plate. "I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me.?
"Well, it's a dumb dream. Nothing happens in it.?
"Father says dreams always mean something.?
I sipped some tea. "Why don't you ask him, then? He's so smart,?I said, more curtly than I had intended. I hadn't slept all night. My neck and back were like coiled springs, and my eyes stung. Still, I had been mean to Hassan. I almost apologized, then didn't. Hassan understood I was just nervous. Hassan always understood about me.
Upstairs, I could hear the water running in Baba's bathroom.

THE STREETS GLISTENED with fresh snow and the sky was a blameless blue. Snow blanketed every rooftop and weighed on the branches of the stunted mulberry trees that lined our street. Overnight, snow had nudged its way into every crack and gutter. I squinted against the blinding white when Hassan and I stepped through the wrought-iron gates. Ali shut the gates behind us. I heard him mutter a prayer under his breath--he always said a prayer when his son left the house.
I had never seen so many people on our street. Kids were flinging snowballs, squabbling, chasing one another, giggling. Kite fighters were huddling with their spool holders, making lastminute preparations. From adjacent streets, I could hear laughter and chatter. Already, rooftops were jammed with spectators reclining in lawn chairs, hot tea steaming from thermoses, and the music of Ahmad Zahir blaring from cassette players. The immensely popular Ahmad Zahir had revolutionized Afghan music and outraged the purists by adding electric guitars, drums, and horns to the traditional tabla and harmonium; on stage or at parties, he shirked the austere and nearly morose stance of older singers and actually smiled when he sang--sometimes even at women. I turned my gaze to our rooftop, found Baba and Rahim Khan sitting on a bench, both dressed in wool sweaters, sipping tea. Baba waved. I couldn't tell if he was waving at me or Hassan.
"We should get started,?Hassan said. He wore black rubber snow boots and a bright green chapan over a thick sweater and faded corduroy pants. Sunlight washed over his face, and, in it, I saw how well the pink scar above his lip had healed.
Suddenly I wanted to withdraw. Pack it all in, go back Home. What was I thinking? Why was I putting myself through this, when I already knew the outcome? Baba was on the roof, watching me. I felt his glare on me like the heat of a blistering sun. This would be failure on a grand scale, even for me.
"I'm not sure I want to fly a kite today,?I said.
"It's a beautiful day,?Hassan said.
I shifted on my feet. Tried to peel my gaze away from our rooftop. "I don't know. Maybe we should go Home.?
Then he stepped toward me and, in a low voice, said something that scared me a little. "Remember, Amir agha. There's no monster, just a beautiful day.?How could I be such an open book to him when, half the time, I had no idea what was milling around in his head? I was the one who went to school, the one who could read, write. I was the smart one. Hassan couldn't read a firstgrade textbook but he'd read me plenty. That was a little unsettling, but also sort of comfortable to have someone who always knew what you needed.
"No monster,?I said, feeling a little better, to my own surprise.
He smiled. "No monster.?
"Are you sure??
He closed his eyes. Nodded.
I looked to the kids scampering down the street, flinging snowballs. "It is a beautiful day, isn't it??
"Let's fly,?he said.
It occurred to me then that maybe Hassan had made up his dream. Was that possible? I decided it wasn't. Hassan wasn't that smart. I wasn't that smart. But made up or not, the silly dream had lifted some of my anxiety. Maybe I should take off my shirt, take a swim in the lake. Why not?
"Let's do it,?I said.
Hassan's face brightened. "Good,?he said. He lifted our kite, red with yellow borders, and, just beneath where the central and cross spars met, marked with Saifo's unmistakable signature. He licked his finger and held it up, tested the wind, then ran in its direction-on those rare occasions we flew kites in the summer, he'd kick up dust to see which way the wind blew it. The spool rolled in my hands until Hassan stopped, about fifty feet away. He held the kite high over his head, like an Olympic athlete showing his gold medal. I jerked the string twice, our usual signal, and Hassan tossed the kite.
Caught between Baba and the mullahs at school, I still hadn't made up my mind about God. But when a Koran ayat I had learned in my diniyat class rose to my lips, I muttered it. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and pulled on the string. Within a minute, my kite was rocketing to the sky. It made a sound like a paper bird flapping its wings. Hassan clapped his hands, whistled, and ran back to me. I handed him the spool, holding on to the string, and he spun it quickly to roll the loose string back on.
At least two dozen kites already hung in the sky, like paper sharks roaming for prey. Within an hour, the number doubled, and red, blue, and yellow kites glided and spun in the sky. A cold breeze wafted through my hair. The wind was perfect for kite flying, blowing just hard enough to give some lift, make the sweeps easier. Next to me, Hassan held the spool, his hands already bloodied by the string.
Soon, the cutting started and the first of the defeated kites whirled out of control. They fell from the sky like shooting stars with brilliant, rippling tails, showering the neighborhoods below with prizes for the kite runners. I could hear the runners now, hollering as they ran the streets. Someone shouted reports of a fight breaking out two streets down.
I kept stealing glances at Baba sitting with Rahim Khan on the roof, wondered what he was thinking. Was he cheering for me? Or did a part of him enjoy watching me fail? That was the thing about kite flying: Your mind drifted with the kite.
They were coming down all over the place now, the kites, and I was still flying. I was still flying. My eyes kept wandering over to Baba, bundled up in his wool sweater. Was he surprised I had lasted as long as I had? You don't keep your eyes to the sky, you won't last much longer. I snapped my gaze back to the sky. A red kite was closing in on me--I'd caught it just in time. I tangled a bit with it, ended up besting him when he became impatient and tried to cut me from below.
Up and down the streets, kite runners were returning triumphantly, their captured kites held high. They showed them off to their parents, their friends. But they all knew the best was yet to come. The biggest prize of all was still flying. I sliced a bright yellow kite with a coiled white tail. It cost me another gash on the?index finger and blood trickled down into my palm. I had Hassan hold the string and sucked the blood dry, blotted my finger against my jeans.
Within another hour, the number of surviving kites dwindled from maybe fifty to a dozen. I was one of them. I'd made it to the last dozen. I knew this part of the tournament would take a while, because the guys who had lasted this long were good--they wouldn't easily fall into simple traps like the old lift-and-dive, Hassan's favorite trick.
By three o'clock that afternoon, tufts of clouds had drifted in and the sun had slipped behind them. Shadows started to lengthen. The spectators on the roofs bundled up in scarves and thick coats. We were down to a half dozen and I was still flying. My legs ached and my neck was stiff. But with each defeated kite,?hope grew in my heart, like snow collecting on a wall, one flake at a time.
My eyes kept returning to a blue kite that had been wreaking havoc for the last hour.
"How many has he cut??I asked.
"I counted eleven,?Hassan said.
"Do you know whose it might be??
Hassan clucked his tongue and tipped his chin. That was a trademark Hassan gesture, meant he had no idea. The blue kite sliced a big purple one and swept twice in big loops. Ten minutes later, he'd cut another two, sending hordes of kite runners racing after them.
After another thirty minutes, only four kites remained. And I was still flying. It seemed I could hardly make a wrong move, as if every gust of wind blew in my favor. I'd never felt so in command, so lucky It felt intoxicating. I didn't dare look up to the roof. Didn't dare take my eyes off the sky. I had to concentrate, play it smart. Another fifteen minutes and what had seemed like a laughable dream that morning had suddenly become reality: It was just me and the other guy. The blue kite.
The tension in the air was as taut as the glass string I was tugging with my bloody hands. People were stomping their feet, clapping, whistling, chanting, "Boboresh! Boboresh!?Cut him! Cut him! I wondered if Baba's voice was one of them. music blasted. The smell of steamed mantu and fried pakora drifted from rooftops and open doors.
But all I heard--all I willed myself to hear--was the thudding of blood in my head. All I saw was the blue kite. All I smelled was victory. Salvation. Redemption. If Baba was wrong and there was a God like they said in school, then He'd let me win. I didn't know what the other guy was playing for, maybe just bragging rights. But this was my one chance to become someone who was looked at, not seen, listened to, not heard. If there was a God, He'd guide the winds, let them blow for me so that, with a tug of my string, I'd cut loose my pain, my longing. I'd endured too much, come too far. And suddenly, just like that, hope became knowledge. I was going to win. It was just a matter of when.
It turned out to be sooner than later. A gust of wind lifted my kite and I took advantage. Fed the string, pulled up. Looped my kite on top of the blue one. I held position. The blue kite knew it was in trouble. It was trying desperately to maneuver out of the jam, but I didn't let go. I held position. The crowd sensed the end was at hand. The chorus of "Cut him! Cut him!?grew louder, like Romans chanting for the gladiators to kill, kill!
"You're almost there, Amir agha! Almost there!?Hassan was panting.
Then the moment came. I closed my eyes and loosened my grip on the string. It sliced my fingers again as the wind dragged it. And then... I didn't need to hear the crowd's roar to know I didn't need to see either. Hassan was screaming and his arm was wrapped around my neck.
"Bravo! Bravo, Amir agha!?
I opened my eyes, saw the blue kite spinning wildly like a tire come loose from a speeding car. I blinked, tried to say something. Nothing came out. Suddenly I was hovering, looking down on myself from above. Black leather coat, red scarf, faded jeans. A thin boy, a little sallow, and a tad short for his twelve years. He had narrow shoulders and a hint of dark circles around his pale hazel eyes. The breeze rustled his light brown hair. He looked up to me and we smiled at each other.
Then I was screaming, and everything was color and sound, everything was alive and good. I was throwing my free arm around Hassan and we were hopping up and down, both of us laughing, both of us weeping. "You won, Amir agha! You won!?
"We won! We won!?was all I could say. This wasn't happening. In a moment, I'd blink and rouse from this beautiful dream, get out of bed, march down to the kitchen to eat breakfast with no one to talk to but Hassan. Get dressed. Wait for Baba. Give up. Back to my old life. Then I saw Baba on our roof. He was standing on the edge, pumping both of his fists. Hollering and clapping. And that right there was the single greatest moment of my twelve years of life, seeing Baba on that roof, proud of me at last.
But he was doing something now, motioning with his hands in an urgent way. Then I understood. "Hassan, we--?
"I know,?he said, breaking our embrace. "_Inshallah_, we'll celebrate later. Right now, I'm going to run that blue kite for you,?he said. He dropped the spool and took off running, the hem of his green chapan dragging in the snow behind him.
"Hassan!?I called. "Come back with it!?
He was already turning the street corner, his rubber boots kicking up snow. He stopped, turned. He cupped his hands around his mouth. "For you a thousand times over!?he said. Then he smiled his Hassan smile and disappeared around the corner. The next time I saw him smile unabashedly like that was twenty-six years later, in a faded Polaroid photograph.
I began to pull my kite back as people rushed to congratulate me. I shook hands with them, said my thanks. The younger kids looked at me with an awestruck twinkle in their eyes; I was a hero. Hands patted my back and tousled my hair. I pulled on the string and returned every smile, but my mind was on the blue kite.
Finally, I had my kite in hand. I wrapped the loose string that had collected at my feet around the spool, shook a few more hands, and trotted Home. When I reached the wrought-iron gates, Ali was waiting on the other side. He stuck his hand through the bars. "Congratulations,?he said.
I gave him my kite and spool, shook his hand. "Tashakor, Ali jan.?
"I was praying for you the whole time.?
"Then keep praying. We're not done yet.?
I hurried back to the street. I didn't ask Ali about Baba. I didn't want to see him yet. In my head, I had it all planned: I'd make a grand entrance, a hero, prized trophy in my bloodied hands. Heads would turn and eyes would lock. Rostam and Sohrab sizing each other up. A dramatic moment of silence. Then the old warrior would walk to the young one, embrace him, acknowledge his worthiness. Vindication. Salvation. Redemption. And then? Well... happily ever after, of course. What else?
The streets of Wazir Akbar Khan were numbered and set at right angles to each other like a grid. It was a new neighborhood then, still developing, with empty lots of land and half-constructed Homes on every street between compounds surrounded by eight-foot walls. I ran up and down every street, looking for Hassan. Everywhere, people were busy folding chairs, packing food and utensils after a long day of partying. Some, still sitting on their rooftops, shouted their congratulations to me.
Four streets south of ours, I saw Omar, the son of an engineer who was a friend of Baba's. He was dribbling a soccer ball with his brother on the front lawn of their house. Omar was a pretty good guy. We'd been classmates in fourth grade, and one time he'd given me a fountain pen, the kind you had to load with a cartridge.
"I heard you won, Amir,?he said. "Congratulations.?
"Thanks. Have you seen Hassan??
"Your Hazara??
I nodded.
Omar headed the ball to his brother. "I hear he's a great kite runner.?His brother headed the ball back to him. Omar caught it, tossed it up and down. "Although I've always wondered how he manages. I mean, with those tight little eyes, how does he see anything??
His brother laughed, a short burst, and asked for the ball. Omar ignored him.
"Have you seen him??
Omar flicked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing southwest. "I saw him running toward the bazaar awhile ago.?
"Thanks.?I scuttled away.
By the time I reached the marketplace, the sun had almost sunk behind the hills and dusk had painted the sky pink and purple. A few blocks away, from the Haji Yaghoub Mosque, the mullah bellowed azan, calling for the faithful to unroll their rugs and bow their heads west in prayer. Hassan never missed any of the five daily prayers. Even when we were out playing, he'd excuse himself, draw water from the well in the yard, wash up, and disappear into the hut. He'd come out a few minutes later, smiling, find me sitting against the wall or perched on a tree. He was going to miss prayer tonight, though, because of me.
The bazaar was emptying quickly, the merchants finishing up their haggling for the day. I trotted in the mud between rows of closely packed cubicles where you could buy a freshly slaughtered pheasant in one stand and a calculator from the adjacent one. I picked my way through the dwindling crowd, the lame beggars dressed in layers of tattered rags, the vendors with rugs on their shoulders, the cloth merchants and butchers closing shop for the day. I found no sign of Hassan.
I stopped by a dried fruit stand, described Hassan to an old merchant loading his mule with crates of pine seeds and raisins. He wore a powder blue turban.
He paused to look at me for a long time before answering. "I might have seen him.?
"Which way did he go??
He eyed me up and down. "What is a boy like you doing here at this time of the day looking for a Hazara??His glance lingered admiringly on my leather coat and my jeans--cowboy pants, we used to call them. In Afghanistan, owning anything American, especially if it wasn't secondhand, was a sign of wealth.
"I need to find him, Agha.?
"What is he to you??he said. I didn't see the point of his question, but I reminded myself that impatience wasn't going to make him tell me any faster.
"He's our servant's son,?I said.
The old man raised a pepper gray eyebrow. "He is? Lucky Hazara, having such a concerned master. His father should get on his knees, sweep the dust at your feet with his eyelashes.?
"Are you going to tell me or not??
He rested an arm on the mule's back, pointed south. "I think I saw the boy you described running that way. He had a kite in his hand. A blue one.?
"He did??I said. For you a thousand times over, he'd promised. Good old Hassan. Good old reliable Hassan. He'd kept his promise and run the last kite for me.
"Of course, they've probably caught him by now,?the old merchant said, grunting and loading another box on the mule's back.
"Who??
"The other boys,?he said. "The ones chasing him. They were dressed like you.?He glanced to the sky and sighed. "Now, run along, you're making me late for nainaz.?
But I was already scrambling down the lane.
For the next few minutes, I scoured the bazaar in vain. Maybe the old merchant's eyes had betrayed him. Except he'd seen the blue kite. The thought of getting my hands on that kite... I poked my head behind every lane, every shop. No sign of Hassan.
I had begun to worry that darkness would fall before I found Hassan when I heard voices from up ahead. I'd reached a secluded, muddy road. It ran perpendicular to the end of the main thoroughfare bisecting the bazaar. I turned onto the rutted track and followed the voices. My boot squished in mud with every step and my breath puffed out in white clouds before me. The narrow path ran parallel on one side to a snow-filled ravine through which a stream may have tumbled in the spring. To my other side stood rows of snow-burdened cypress trees peppered among flat-topped clay houses--no more than mud shacks in most cases--separated by narrow alleys.
I heard the voices again, louder this time, coming from one of the alleys. I crept close to the mouth of the alley. Held my breath. Peeked around the corner.
Hassan was standing at the blind end of the alley in a defiant stance: fists curled, legs slightly apart. Behind him, sitting on piles of scrap and rubble, was the blue kite. My key to Baba's heart.
Blocking Hassan's way out of the alley were three boys, the same three from that day on the hill, the day after Daoud Khan's coup, when Hassan had saved us with his slingshot. Wali was standing on one side, Kamal on the other, and in the middle, Assef. I felt my body clench up, and something cold rippled up my spine. Assef seemed relaxed, confident. He was twirling his brass knuckles. The other two guys shifted nervously on their feet, looking from Assef to Hassan, like they'd cornered some kind of wild animal that only Assef could tame.
"Where is your slingshot, Hazara??Assef said, turning the brass knuckles in his hand. "What was it you said? ‘They'll have to call you One-Eyed Assef.?That's right. One-Eyed Assef. That was clever. Really clever. Then again, it's easy to be clever when you're holding a loaded weapon.?
I realized I still hadn't breathed out. I exhaled, slowly, quietly. I felt paralyzed. I watched them close in on the boy I'd grown up with, the boy whose harelipped face had been my first memory.
"But today is your lucky day, Hazara,?Assef said. He had his back to me, but I would have bet he was grinning. "I'm in a mood to forgive. What do you say to that, boys??
"That's generous,?Kamal blurted, "Especially after the rude manners he showed us last time.?He was trying to sound like Assef, except there was a tremor in his voice. Then I understood:
He wasn't afraid of Hassan, not really. He was afraid because he had no idea what Assef had in mind.
Assef waved a dismissive hand. "Bakhshida. Forgiven. It's done.?His voice dropped a little. "Of course, nothing is free in this world, and my pardon comes with a small price.?
"That's fair,?Kamal said.
"Nothing is free,?Wali added.
"You're a lucky Hazara,?Assef said, taking a step toward Hassan. "Because today, it's only going to cost you that blue kite. A fair deal, boys, isn't it??
"More than fair,?Kamal said.
Even from where I was standing, I could see the fear creeping into Hassan's eyes, but he shook his head. "Amir agha won the tournament and I ran this kite for him. I ran it fairly. This is his kite.?
"A loyal Hazara. Loyal as a dog,?Assef said. Kamal's laugh was a shrill, nervous sound.
"But before you sacrifice yourself for him, think about this:
Would he do the same for you? Have you ever wondered why he never includes you in games when he has guests? Why he only plays with you when no one else is around? I'll tell you why, Hazara. Because to him, you're nothing but an ugly pet. Something he can play with when he's bored, something he can kick when he's angry. Don't ever fool yourself and think you're something more.?
"Amir agha and I are friends,?Hassan said. He looked flushed.
"Friends??Assef said, laughing. "You pathetic fool! Someday you'll wake up from your little fantasy and learn just how good of a friend he is. Now, bas! Enough of this. Give us that kite.?
Hassan stooped and picked up a rock.
Assef flinched. He began to take a step back, stopped. "Last chance, Hazara.?
Hassan's answer was to cock the arm that held the rock.
"Whatever you wish.?Assef unbuttoned his winter coat, took it off, folded it slowly and deliberately. He placed it against the wall.
I opened my mouth, almost said something. Almost. The rest of my life might have turned out differently if I had. But I didn't. I just watched. Paralyzed.
Assef motioned with his hand, and the other two boys separated, forming a half circle, trapping Hassan in the alley.
"I've changed my mind,?Assef said. "I'm letting you keep the kite, Hazara. I'll let you keep it so it will always remind you of what I'm about to do.?
Then he charged. Hassan hurled the rock. It struck Assef in the forehead. Assef yelped as he flung himself at Hassan, knocking him to the ground. Wall and Kamal followed.
I bit on my fist. Shut my eyes.

A MEMORY:
Did you know Hassan and you fed from the same breast? Did you know that, Amir agha? Sakina, her name was. She was a fair, blue-eyed Hazara woman from Bamiyan and she sang you old wedding songs. They say there is a brotherhood between people who've fed from the same breast. Did you know that?
A memory:
"A rupia each, children. Just one rupia each and I will part the curtain of truth.?The old man sits against a mud wall. His sightless eyes are like molten silver embedded in deep, twin craters.
Hunched over his cane, the fortune-teller runs a gnarled hand across the surface of his deflated cheeks. Cups it before us. "Not much to ask for the truth, is it, a rupia each??Hassan drops a coin in the leathery palm. I drop mine too. "In the name of Allah most beneficent, most merciful,?the old fortune-teller whispers. He takes Hassan's hand first, strokes the palm with one hornlike fingernail, round and round, round and round. The finger then floats to Hassan's face and makes a dry, scratchy sound as it slowly traces the curve of his cheeks, the outline of his ears. The calloused pads of his fingers brush against Hassan's eyes. The hand stops there. Lingers. A shadow passes across the old man's face. Hassan and I exchange a glance. The old man takes Hassan's hand and puts the rupia back in Hassan's palm. He turns to me. "How about you, young friend??he says. On the other side of the wall, a rooster crows. The old man reaches for my hand and I withdraw it.
A dream:
I am lost in a snowstorm. The wind shrieks, blows stinging sheets of snow into my eyes. I stagger through layers of shifting white. I call for help but the wind drowns my cries. I fall and lie panting on the snow, lost in the white, the wind wailing in my ears. I watch the snow erase my fresh footprints. I'm a ghost now, I think, a ghost with no footprints. I cry out again, hope fading like my footprints. But this time, a muffled reply. I shield my eyes and manage to sit up. Out of the swaying curtains of snow, I catch a glimpse of movement, a flurry of color. A familiar shape materializes. A hand reaches out for me. I see deep, parallel gashes across the palm, blood dripping, staining the snow. I take the hand and suddenly the snow is gone. We're standing in afield of apple green grass with soft wisps of clouds drifting above. I look up and see the clear sky is filled with kites, green, yellow, red, orange. They shimmer in the afternoon light.
A HAVOC OF SCRAP AND RUBBLE littered the alley. Worn bicycle tires, bottles with peeled labels, ripped up magazines, yellowed newspapers, all scattered amid a pile of bricks and slabs of cement. A rusted cast-iron stove with a gaping hole on its side tilted against a wall. But there were two things amid the garbage that I couldn't stop looking at: One was the blue kite resting against the wall, close to the cast-iron stove; the other was Hassan's brown corduroy pants thrown on a heap of eroded bricks.
"I don't know,?Wali was saying. "My father says it's sinful.?He sounded unsure, excited, scared, all at the same time. Hassan lay with his chest pinned to the ground. Kamal and Wali each gripped an arm, twisted and bent at the elbow so that Hassan's hands were pressed to his back. Assef was standing over them, the heel of his snow boots crushing the back of Hassan's neck.
"Your father won't find out,?Assef said. "And there's nothing sinful about teaching a lesson to a disrespectful donkey.?
"I don't know,?Wali muttered.
"Suit yourself,?Assef said. He turned to Kamal. "What about you??
"I... well...?
"It's just a Hazara,?Assef said. But Kamal kept looking away.
"Fine,?Assef snapped. "All I want you weaklings to do is hold him down. Can you manage that??
Wali and Kamal nodded. They looked relieved.
Assef knelt behind Hassan, put his hands on Hassan's hips and lifted his bare buttocks. He kept one hand on Hassan's back and undid his own belt buckle with his free hand. He unzipped his jeans. Dropped his underwear. He positioned himself behind Hassan. Hassan didn't struggle. Didn't even whimper. He moved his head slightly and I caught a glimpse of his face. Saw the resignation in it. It was a look I had seen before. It was the look of the lamb.

TOMORROW IS THE TENTH DAY of Dhul-Hijjah, the last month of the Muslim calendar, and the first of three days of Eid AlAdha, or Eid-e-Qorban, as Afghans call it--a day to celebrate how the prophet Ibrahim almost sacrificed his own son for God. Baba has handpicked the sheep again this year, a powder white one with crooked black ears.
We all stand in the backyard, Hassan, Ali, Baba, and I. The mullah recites the prayer, rubs his beard. Baba mutters, Get on with it, under his breath. He sounds annoyed with the endless praying, the ritual of making the meat halal. Baba mocks the story behind this Eid, like he mocks everything religious. But he respects the tradition of Eid-e-Qorban. The custom is to divide the meat in thirds, one for the family, one for friends, and one for the poor. Every year, Baba gives it all to the poor. The rich are fat enough already, he says.
The mullah finishes the prayer. Ameen. He picks up the kitchen knife with the long blade. The custom is to not let the sheep see the knife. All feeds the animal a cube of sugar--another custom, to make death sweeter. The sheep kicks, but not much. The mullah grabs it under its jaw and places the blade on its neck. Just a second before he slices the throat in one expert motion, I see the sheep's eyes. It is a look that will haunt my dreams for weeks. I don't know why I watch this yearly ritual in our backyard; my nightmares persist long after the bloodstains on the grass have faded. But I always watch. I watch because of that look of acceptance in the animal's eyes. Absurdly, I imagine the animal understands. I imagine the animal sees that its imminent demise is for a higher purpose. This is the look...

I STOPPED WATCHING, turned away from the alley. Something warm was running down my wrist. I blinked, saw I was still biting down on my fist, hard enough to draw blood from the knuckles. I realized something else. I was weeping. From just around the corner, I could hear Assef's quick, rhythmic grunts.
I had one last chance to make a decision. One final opportunity to decide who I was going to be. I could step into that alley, stand up for Hassan--the way he'd stood up for me all those times in the past--and accept whatever would happen to me. Or I could run.
In the end, I ran.
I ran because I was a coward. I was afraid of Assef and what he would do to me. I was afraid of getting hurt. That's what I told myself as I turned my back to the alley, to Hassan. That's what I made myself believe. I actually aspired to cowardice, because the alternative, the real reason I was running, was that Assef was right: Nothing was free in this world. Maybe Hassan was the price I had to pay, the lamb I had to slay, to win Baba. Was it a fair price? The answer floated to my conscious mind before I could thwart it: He was just a Hazara, wasn't he?
I ran back the way I'd come. Ran back to the all but deserted bazaar. I lurched to a cubicle and leaned against the padlocked swinging doors. I stood there panting, sweating, wishing things had turned out some other way.
About fifteen minutes later, I heard voices and running footfalls. I crouched behind the cubicle and watched Assef and the other two sprinting by, laughing as they hurried down the deserted
lane. I forced myself to wait ten more minutes. Then I walked back to the rutted track that ran along the snow-filled ravine. I squinted in the dimming light and spotted Hassan walking slowly toward me. I met him by a leafless birch tree on the edge of the ravine.
He had the blue kite in his hands; that was the first thing I saw. And I can't lie now and say my eyes didn't scan it for any rips. His chapan had mud smudges down the front and his shirt was ripped just below the collar. He stopped. Swayed on his feet like he was going to collapse. Then he steadied himself. Handed me the kite.
"Where were you? I looked for you,?I said. Speaking those words was like chewing on a rock.
Hassan dragged a sleeve across his face, wiped snot and tears. I waited for him to say something, but we just stood there in silence, in the fading light. I was grateful for the early-evening shadows that fell on Hassan's face and concealed mine. I was glad I didn't have to return his gaze. Did he know I knew? And if he knew, then what would I see if I did look in his eyes? Blame? Indignation? Or, God forbid, what I feared most: guileless devotion? That, most of all, I couldn't bear to see.
He began to say something and his voice cracked. He closed his mouth, opened it, and closed it again. Took a step back. Wiped his face. And that was as close as Hassan and I ever came to discussing what had happened in the alley. I thought he might burst into tears, but, to my relief, he didn't, and I pretended I hadn't heard the crack in his voice. Just like I pretended I hadn't seen the dark stain in the seat of his pants. Or those tiny drops that fell from between his legs and stained the snow black.
"Agha sahib will worry,?was all he said. He turned from me and limped away.
IT HAPPENED JUST THE WAY I'd imagined. I opened the door to the smoky study and stepped in. Baba and Rahim Khan were drinking tea and listening to the news crackling on the radio. Their heads turned. Then a smile played on my father's lips. He opened his arms. I put the kite down and walked into his thick hairy arms. I buried my face in the warmth of his chest and wept. Baba held me close to him, rocking me back and forth. In his arms, I forgot what I'd done. And that was good.

第七章
次日早晨，哈桑在泡早餐红茶，他告诉我他做了一个梦。“我们在喀尔卡湖，你，我，爸爸，老爷，拉辛汗，还有几千个人。”他说，“天气暖和，阳光灿烂，湖水像镜子一样清澈。但是没有人游泳，因为他们说湖里有个鬼怪。它在湖底潜伏着，等待着。”        
他给我倒了一杯茶，加了糖，吹了几下，把它端给我。“所以大家都很害怕，不敢下水。
突然间你踢掉鞋子，阿米尔少爷，脱掉你的衣服。‘里面没有鬼怪，’你说，‘我证明给你们
看看。’大家还来不及阻止你，你一头扎进湖里，游开了。我跟着你，我们都游着。”    
“可是你不会游泳。”    
哈桑哈哈大笑： “那是在梦里啊，阿米尔少爷，你能做任何事情。每个人都尖声叫唤：‘快起来！ 快起来！ ’但我们只是在冰冷的湖水里面游泳。我们游到湖中央，停下来。我们转向湖岸，朝人们挥手。他们看起来像小小的蚂蚁，但我们能听到他们的掌声。现在他们知道了，湖里没有鬼怪，只有湖水。随后他们给湖改了名字，管它叫‘喀布尔的苏丹阿米尔和哈桑之湖’。我们向那些到湖里游泳的人收钱。”    
“这梦是什么意思呢？ ”我说。    
他替我烤好馕饼，涂上甜果酱，放在盘子里。“我不知道，我还指望你告诉我呢。”    
“好吧，那是个愚蠢的梦而已，没有什么含义。”    
“爸爸说梦总是意味着某种东西。”    
我喝着茶，“那么你为什么不去问他呢？ 他多聪明呀。”我的不耐烦简直出乎自己意料。我彻夜未眠，脖子和后背像绷紧的钢丝，眼睛刺痛。即使这样，我对哈桑也太刻薄了。我差点向他道歉，但是没有。哈桑明白我只是精神紧张。哈桑总是明白我。    
楼上，我听见从爸爸的卫生间传来一阵水流的声音。      
街上新霁的积雪银光闪闪，天空蓝得无可挑剔。雪花覆盖了每一个屋顶，矮小的桑椹树在我们这条街排开，树枝上也堆满了积雪。一夜之间，雪花塞满了所有的裂缝和水沟。
哈桑和我走出锻铁大门时，雪花反射出白晃晃的光芒，照得我睁不开眼。阿里在我们身后关上门。我听见他低声祈祷——每次他儿子外出，他总是要祈祷。    
我从来没有见到街上有这么多人。儿童在打雪仗，拌嘴，相互追逐，咯咯笑着。风筝斗士和帮他们拿卷轴的人挤在一起，做最后的准备。周围的街道传来欢声笑语，各处屋顶已经挤满了看客，他们斜躺在折叠椅上，暖水壶里的红茶热气腾腾，录音机传出艾哈迈德·查希尔（Ahmad Zahir（1946 ～1979），阿富汗歌星。）喧闹的音乐。风靡全国的艾哈迈德·查希尔改进了阿富汗音乐，给传统的手鼓和手风琴配上电吉他、小号和鼓，激怒了那些保守的教徒。无论在台上表演还是开派对，他都跟以前那些呆板的歌手不同，他拒绝木无表情的演出，而是边唱边微笑——有时甚至对女人微笑。我朝自家的屋顶看去，发现爸爸和拉辛汗坐在一张长凳上，两人都穿着羊毛衫，喝着茶。爸爸挥挥手，我不知道他究竟是跟我还是跟哈桑打招呼。    
“我们得开始了。”哈桑说。他穿着一双黑色的橡胶雪靴，厚厚的羊毛衫和褪色的灯芯绒裤外面，罩着绿色的长袍。阳光照在他脸上，我看到他唇上那道粉红色的伤痕已经弥合得很好了。    
突然间我想放弃，把东西收起来，转身回家。我在想什么呢？ 我既然已经知道结局，何必还要让自己来体验这一切呢？ 爸爸在屋顶上，看着我。我觉得他的眼光像太阳那样热得令人发烫。今天，即使是我，也必定难逃惨败。    
“我有点不想在今天放风筝了。”我说。    
“今天是个好日子。”哈桑说。    
我转动双脚，试图让眼光离开我们家的屋顶。“我不知道，也许我们该回家去。”    
接着他上前一步，低声说了一句让我有些吃惊的话。“记住，阿米尔少爷，没有鬼怪，只是个好日子。”我对他脑海盘桓的念头常常一无所知，可是我在他面前怎么就像一本打开的书？ 到学校上学的人是我，会读书写字的人是我，聪明伶俐的也是我。哈桑虽然看不懂一年级的课本，却能看穿我。这让人不安，可是有人永远对你的需求了如指掌，毕竟也叫人宽心。    
“没有鬼怪。”我低声说，出乎意料的是我竟然觉得好些了。    
他微笑： “没有鬼怪。”    
“你确定？ ”    
他闭上双眼，点点头。    
我看着那些在街道蹿上蹿下打雪仗的孩子，“今天是个好日子，对吧？ ”    
“我们来放风筝吧。”他说。    
当时我觉得哈桑那个梦可能是他编出来的。那可能吗？ 我确定不是，哈桑没那么聪明，我也没那么聪明。但不管是否是编造的，那个愚蠢的梦缓解了我的焦虑。兴许我该除去衣服，到湖里去游一游。为什么不呢？    
“我们来放。”我说。    
哈桑神色一振：“好啊！”他举起我们的风筝：红色的风筝，镶着黄边，在竖轴和横轴交叉的地方，有塞弗的亲笔签名。他舔舔手指，把它举起，测试风向，然后顺风跑去。我们偶尔也在夏天放风筝，他会踢起灰尘，看风吹向什么方位。我手里的卷轴转动着，直到哈桑停下来，大约在五十英尺开外。他将风筝高举过顶，仿佛一个奥运会的田径运动员高举获得的金牌。按照我们往常的信号，我猛拉两次线，哈桑放开了风筝。    
虽说爸爸和学校的老师诲我不倦，我终究无法对真主死心塌地。可是当时，从教义答问课程学到的某段《可兰经》涌上嘴边，我低声念诵，然后深深吸气，呼气，跟着拉线跑开。不消一分钟，我的风筝扶摇直上，发出宛如鸟儿扑打翅膀的声音。哈桑拍掌称好，跑在我身后。我把卷轴交给他，双手拉紧风筝线，他敏捷地将那松弛的线卷起来。    
空中已经挂着至少二十来只风筝，如同纸制的鲨鱼，巡游搜猎食物。不到一个钟头，这个数字翻了一番，红色的、蓝色的、黄色的风筝在苍穹来回飞舞，熠熠生辉。寒冷的微风吹过我的头发。这风正适宜放风筝，风速不大，恰好能让风筝飘浮起来，也便于操控。
哈桑在我身旁，帮忙拿着卷轴，手掌已被线割得鲜血淋漓。  
顷刻间，割线开始了，第一批被挫败的风筝断了线，回旋着跌落下来。它们像流星那样划过苍天，拖着闪亮的尾巴，散落在临近的街区，给追风筝的人带来奖赏。我能听得见那些追风筝的人，高声叫嚷，奔过大街小巷。有人扯开喉咙，报告说有两条街上爆发冲突了。    
我偷眼望向爸爸，看见他和拉辛汗坐在一起，寻思他眼下在想些什么。他在为我加油吗？ 还是希望我的失败给他带来愉悦？ 放风筝就是这样的，思绪随着风筝高低起伏。    
风筝纷纷坠下，而我的仍在翱翔。我仍在放着风筝，双眼不时瞟向爸爸，紧紧盯着他的羊毛衫。我坚持了这么久，他是不是很吃惊？ 你的眼睛没有看着天上，你坚持不了多久啦我将视线收回空中。有只红色的风筝正在飞近——我发现它的时间恰到好处。我跟它对峙了一会，它失去耐心，试图从下面割断我，我将它送上了不归路。    
街头巷尾满是凯旋而回的追风筝者，他们高举追到的战利品，拿着它们在亲朋好友面前炫耀。但他们统统知道最好的还没出现，最大的奖项还在飞翔。我割断了一只带有白色尾巴的黄风筝，代价是食指又多了一道伤口，血液汩汩流入我的掌心。我让哈桑拿着线，把血吸干，在牛仔裤上擦擦手指。    
又过了一个钟头，天空中幸存的风筝，已经从约莫五十只剧减到十来只。我的是其中之一，我杀入前十二名。我知道巡回赛到了这个阶段，会持续一段时间，因为那些家伙既然能活下来，技术实在非同小可——他们可不会掉进简单的陷阱里面，比如哈桑最喜欢用的那招，古老的猛升急降。    
到下午三点，阴云密布，太阳躲在它们后面，影子开始拉长，屋顶那些看客戴上围巾，穿上厚厚的外套。只剩下六只风筝了，我仍是其中之一。我双腿发痛，脖子僵硬。但看到风筝一只只掉落，心里的希望一点点增大，就像堆在墙上的雪花那样，一次一片地累积。    
我的眼光转向一只蓝风筝，在过去那个钟头里面，它大开杀戒。    
“它干掉几只？ ”我问。    
“我数过了，十一只。”哈桑说。    
“你知道放风筝的人是谁吗？ ”    
哈桑啪嗒一下舌头，仰起下巴。那是哈桑的招牌动作，表示他不知道。蓝风筝割断一只紫色的大家伙，转了两个大圈。隔了十分钟，它又干掉两只，追风筝的人蜂拥而上，追逐它们去了。    
又过了半个小时，只剩下四只风筝了。我的风筝仍在飞翔，我的动作无懈可击，仿佛阵阵寒风都照我的意思吹来。我从来没有这般胜券在握，这么幸运，太让人兴奋了！ 我不敢抬眼望向那屋顶，眼光不敢从天空移开，我得聚精会神，聪明地操控风筝。又过了十五分钟，早上那个看起来十分好笑的梦突然之间触手可及：只剩下我和另外一个家伙了，那只蓝风筝。    
局势紧张得如同我流血的手拉着的那条玻璃线。人们纷纷顿足、拍掌、尖叫、欢呼。“干掉它！ 干掉它！ ”我在想，爸爸会不会也在欢呼呢？ 音乐震耳欲聋，蒸馒头和油炸菜饼的香味
从屋顶和敞开的门户飘出来。    
但我所能听到的——我迫使自己听到的——是脑袋里血液奔流的声音。我所看到的，只是那只蓝风筝。我所闻到的，只是胜利的味道。获救。赎罪。如果爸爸是错的，如果真像他们在学校说的，有那么一位真主，那么他会让我赢得胜利。我不知道其他家伙斗风筝为了什么，也许是为了在人前吹嘘吧。但于我而言，这是惟一的机会，让我可以成为一个被注目而非仅仅被看到、被聆听而非仅仅被听到的人。倘若真主存在，他会引导风向，让它助我成功，我一拉线，就能割断我的痛苦，割断我的渴求，我业已忍耐得太久，业已走得太远。刹那之间，就这样，我信心十足。我会赢。只是迟早的问题。    
结果比我预想的要快。一阵风拉升了我的风筝，我占据了有利的位置。我卷开线，让它飞高。我的风筝转了一个圈，飞到那只蓝色家伙的上面，我稳住位置。蓝风筝知道自己麻烦来了，它绝望地使出各种花招，试图摆脱险境，但我不会放过它，我稳住位置。人群知道胜负即将揭晓。“干掉它！ 干掉它！ ”的齐声欢呼越来越响，仿佛罗马人对着斗士高喊“杀啊！ 杀啊！ ”。    
“你快赢了，阿米尔少爷，快赢了！ ”哈桑兴奋得直喘气。    
那一刻来临了。我合上双眼，松开拉着线的手。寒风将风筝拉高，线又在我手指割开一个创口。接着……不用听人群欢呼我也知道，我也不用看。哈桑抱着我的脖子，不断尖叫。    
“太棒了！ 太棒了！ 阿米尔少爷！ ”    
我睁开眼睛，望见蓝风筝猛然扎下，好像轮胎从高速行驶的轿车脱落。我眨眨眼，疲累不堪，想说些什么，却没有说出来。突然间我腾空而起，从空中望着自己。黑色的皮衣，红色的围巾，褪色的牛仔裤。一个瘦弱的男孩，肤色微黄，身材对于十二岁的孩子来说显得有些矮小。他肩膀窄小，黑色的眼圈围着淡褐色的眼珠，微风吹起他淡棕色的头发。他抬头望着我，我们相视微笑。    
然后我高声尖叫，一切都是那么色彩斑斓、那么悦耳动听，一切都是那么鲜活、那么美好。我伸出空手抱着哈桑，我们跳上跳下，我们两个都笑着、哭着。“你赢了，阿米尔少爷！ 你赢了！”    
“我们赢了！ 我们赢了！ ”我只说出这句话。这是真的吗？ 在过去的日子里，我眨眨眼，从美梦中醒来，起床，下楼到厨房去吃早餐，除了哈桑没人跟我说话。穿好衣服。等爸爸。
放弃。回到我原来的生活。然后我看到爸爸在我们的屋顶上，他站在屋顶边缘，双拳挥舞，
高声欢呼，拍掌称快。就在那儿，我体验到有生以来最棒的一刻，看见爸爸站在屋顶上，终于以我为荣。    
但他似乎在做别的事情，双手焦急地摇动。于是我明白了，“哈桑，我们……”    
“我知道，”他从我们的拥抱中挣脱，“安拉保佑，我们等会再庆祝吧。现在，我要去帮你追那只蓝风筝。”他放下卷轴，撒腿就跑，他穿的那件绿色长袍的后褶边拖在雪地上。    
“哈桑！ ”我大喊，“把它带回来！ ”    
他的橡胶靴子踢起阵阵雪花，已经飞奔到街道的拐角处。他停下来，转身，双手放在嘴边，说：“为你，千千万万遍！ ”然后露出一脸哈桑式的微笑，消失在街角之后。再一次看到他笑得如此灿烂，已是二十六年之后，在一张褪色的宝丽莱照片上。    
人群涌上来向我道贺，我开始把风筝收回来。我跟他们握手，向他们道谢。那些比我更小的孩童望着我的眼神充满敬畏，我是个英雄。人们伸手拍拍我的后背，摸摸我的头发。
我边拉着线，边朝每个人微笑，但我的心思在那个蓝风筝上。    
最后，我收回了自己的风筝。我捡起脚下的卷轴，把松弛的线收好，期间又握了几双手，接着走回家。走到那扇锻铁大门时，阿里在门后等着，他从栅栏伸出手，“恭喜。”    
我把风筝和卷轴给他，握握他的手，“谢谢你，亲爱的阿里。”    
“我一直为你祈祷。”    
“继续祈祷吧，我们还没全赢呢。”    
我匆忙走回街上。我没向阿里问起爸爸，我还不想见到他。在我脑里，一切都计划好了：我要班师回朝，像一个英雄，用鲜血淋漓的手捧着战利品。我要万头攒动，万众瞩目，罗斯坦和索拉博彼此打量，此时无声胜有声。然后年老的战士会走向年轻的战士，抱着他，承认他出类拔萃。证明。获救。赎罪。然后呢？ 这么说吧……之后当然是永远幸福。还会有别的吗？    
瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区的街道不多，彼此成直角纵横交错，像个棋盘。当时它是个新城区，仍在蓬勃发展中，已建成的住宅区有八英尺高的围墙，在它们之间，街道上有大量的空地和尚未完工的房子。我跑遍每条街巷，搜寻哈桑的踪迹。到处都是忙着收起折叠椅的人们，在整天的狂欢之后，收起食物和器皿。有些还坐在他们的屋顶上，高声向我道贺。    
在我们家南边第四条街，我碰到奥马尔，他父亲是工程师，也是爸爸的朋友。他正在自家门前的草坪上，跟他弟弟玩足球。奥马尔是个不错的家伙。我们是四年级的同学，有次他送给我一枝水笔，配有抽取式墨水盒那种。    
“听说你赢了，阿米尔，”他说，“恭喜恭喜。”    
“谢谢，你见到哈桑了吗？ ”    
“你的哈扎拉人？ ”    
我点点头。    
奥马尔用头将足球顶给他弟弟，“我听说他追风筝可厉害了。”他弟弟将足球顶回来，奥马尔伸手抓住，拍上拍下。“不过我总是奇怪他是怎么追到的。我的意思是说，他的眼睛那么小，怎么能看到任何东西呢？ ”    
他弟弟哈哈大笑，随后又要回足球，奥马尔没理他。    
“你见到他了吗？ ”    
奥马尔伸出拇指，朝肩膀后指了指西南边的方向： “刚才我看见他朝市场那边跑过去。”    
“谢谢。”我赶忙跑开。我到达市场那边时，太阳已经快下山了，粉红色和紫色的晚霞点缀着天空。再走几条街就是哈吉·雅霍清真寺，僧侣在那儿高声呼喊，号令那些朝拜者铺开毯子，朝西边磕头，诚心祷告。每日五次的祈祷哈桑从不错过，就算我们在玩，他也会告退，从院子里的深井汲起一桶水，清洗完毕，消失在那间破屋子里面。隔几分钟，他就会面带微笑走出来，发现我坐在墙上，或者坐在树枝上。可是，他今晚就要错过祈祷了，那全因为我。
市场不一会就空荡荡的，做生意的人都打烊了。我在一片泥泞中奔走，两边是成排的、挤得紧紧的小店，人们可以在一个血水横流的摊前买刚宰好的野鸡，而隔壁的小店则出售电子计算器。我在零落的人群中寻路前进，步履维艰的乞丐身上披着一层又一层的破布，小贩肩上扛着毛毯，布料商人和出售生鲜的屠夫则在关上铺门。我找不到哈桑的踪迹。        
我停在一个卖干果的小摊前面，有个年老的商人戴着蓝色的头巾，把一袋袋松子和葡萄干放到驴子身上。我向他描述哈桑的相貌。    
他停下来，久久看着我，然后开口说： “兴许我见过他。”    
“他跑哪边去了？ ”    
他上下打量着我：“像你这样的男孩，干吗在这个时候找一个哈扎拉人呢？ ”他艳羡地看
着我的皮衣和牛仔裤——牛仔穿的裤子，我们总是这样说。在阿富汗，拥有任何不是二手
的美国货，都是财富的象征。    
“我得找到他，老爷。”    
“他是你的什么人？ ”他问。我不知道他干吗要这样问，但我提醒自己，不耐烦只会让他缄口不言。    
“他是我家仆人的儿子。”我说。    
那老人扬了扬灰白的眉毛：“是吗？ 幸运的哈扎拉人，有这么关心他的主人。他的父亲应该跪在你跟前，用睫毛扫去你靴子上的灰尘。”    
“你到底告不告诉我啊？ ”    
他将一只手放在驴背上，指着南边： “我想我看见你说的那个男孩朝那边跑去。他手里拿着一只风筝，蓝色的风筝。”    
“真的吗？ ”我说。为你，千千万万遍。他这样承诺过。好样的，哈桑。好样的，可靠的哈桑。他一诺千金，替我追到了最后那只风筝。    
“当然，这个时候他们也许已经逮住他了。”那个老人咕哝着说，把另一个箱子搬到驴背上。    
“什么人？ ”    
“其他几个男孩。”他说，“他们追着他，他们的打扮跟你差不多。”他抬眼看看天空，叹了口气，“走开吧，你耽误了我做祷告。”    
但我已经朝那条小巷飞奔而去。    
有那么几分钟，我徒劳无功地在市场中搜寻着。兴许那个老人看走了眼，可是他看到了蓝色的风筝。想到亲手拿着那只风筝……我探头寻找每条通道，每家店铺。没有哈桑的踪迹。    
我正在担心天就快黑了，听到前面传来一阵声响。我来到一条僻静、泥泞的小巷。市场被一条大路分成两半，它就在那条大路的末端，成直角伸展开去。小巷车辙宛然，我走在上面，随着声音而去。靴子在泥泞中吱嘎作响，我呼出的气变成白雾。这狭窄的巷道跟一条冻结小溪平行，要是在春天，会有溪水潺潺流淌。小巷的另外一边是成排的柏树，枝头堆满积雪，散落在一些窄巷交错的平顶黏土房屋之间——那些房子比土屋茅舍好不了多少。    
我又听见那声音，这次更响了，从某条小巷传出来。我悄悄走进巷口，屏住呼吸，在拐角处窥探。    
那小巷是死胡同，哈桑站在末端，摆出一副防御的姿势：拳头紧握，双腿微微张开。
在他身后，有一堆破布瓦砾，摆着那只蓝风筝。那是我打开爸爸心门的钥匙。    
挡住哈桑去路的是三个男孩，就是达乌德汗发动政变隔日，我们在山脚遇到、随后又被哈桑用弹弓打发走的那三个。瓦里站在一边，卡莫在另外一边，阿塞夫站在中间。我感到自己身体收缩，一阵寒意从脊背升起。阿塞夫神态放松而自信，他正在戴上他的不锈钢拳套。其他两个家伙紧张地挪动着双脚，看看阿塞夫，又看看哈桑，仿佛他们困住某种野兽，只有阿塞夫才能驯服。    
“你的弹弓呢，哈扎拉人？ ”阿塞夫说，玩弄着手上的拳套，“你说过什么来着？‘他们
会管你叫独眼龙阿塞夫。’很好，独眼龙阿塞夫。太聪明了，真的很聪明。再说一次，当人
们手里握着上了膛的武器，想不变得聪明也难。”    
我觉得自己无法呼吸。我慢慢地、安静地呼着气，全身麻木。我看见他们逼近那个跟我共同长大的男孩，那个我懂事起就记得他的兔唇的男孩。    
“但你今天很幸运，哈扎拉人。”阿塞夫说。他背朝我，但我敢打赌他脸上一定挂着邪恶的笑容。“我心情很好，可以原谅你。你们说呢，小子们？ ”    
“太宽宏大量了，”卡莫喊道，“特别是考虑到他上次对我们那样粗鲁无礼。”他想学着阿塞夫的语调，可是声音里面有些颤抖。于是我明白了：他害怕的不是哈桑，绝对不是。
他害怕，是因为不知道阿塞夫在打什么主意。    
阿塞夫做了个解散的手势。“原谅你，就这样。”他声音放低一些，“当然，这个世界没有什么是免费的，我的原谅需要一点小小的代价。”    
“很公平。”卡莫说。    
“没有什么是免费的。”瓦里加上一句。    
“你真是个幸运的哈扎拉人。”阿塞夫说，朝哈桑迈上一步。“因为今天，你所有付出的代价只是这个蓝风筝。公平的交易，小子们，是不是啊？ ”    
“不止公平呢。”卡莫说。    
即使从我站的地方，我也能看到哈桑眼里流露的恐惧，可是他摇摇头。“阿米尔少爷赢得巡回赛，我替他追这只风筝。我公平地追到它，这是他的风筝。”    
“忠心的哈扎拉人，像狗一样忠心。”阿塞夫说。    
卡莫发出一阵战栗、紧张的笑声。    
“但在你为他献身之前，你想过吗？ 他会为你献身吗？ 难道你没有觉得奇怪，为什么他跟客人玩总不喊上你？ 为什么他总是在没有人的时候才理睬你？ 我告诉你为什么，哈扎拉人。
因为对他来说，你什么都不是，只是一只丑陋的宠物。一种他无聊的时候可以玩的东西，一种他发怒的时候可以踢开的东西。别欺骗自己了，别以为你意味着更多。”    
“阿米尔少爷跟我是朋友。”哈桑红着脸说。    
“朋友？ ”阿塞夫大笑说，“你这个可怜的白痴！ 总有一天你会从这小小的幻想中醒来，
发现他是个多么好的朋友。听着，够了，把风筝给我们。”    
哈桑弯腰捡起一块石头。    
阿塞夫一愣，他开始退后一步，“最后的机会了，哈扎拉人。”    
哈桑的回答是高举那只抓着石头的手。    
“不管你想干吗，”阿塞夫解开外套的纽扣，将其脱下，慢条斯理地折叠好，将它放在墙边。    
我张开嘴，几乎喊出来。如果我喊出来，我生命中剩下的光阴将会全然改观。但我没有，我只是看着，浑身麻木。    
阿塞夫挥挥手，其他两个男孩散开，形成半圆，将哈桑包围在小巷里面。    
“我改变主意了，”阿塞夫说，“我不会拿走你的风筝，哈扎拉人。你会留着它，以便它可以一直提醒你我将要做的事情。”    
然后他动手了，哈桑扔出石块，击中了阿塞夫的额头。阿塞夫大叫着扑向哈桑，将他击倒在地。瓦里和卡莫一拥而上。    
我抓紧拳头，合上双眼。 一段记忆：    
“你知道哈桑跟你喝着同一个胸脯的奶水长大吗？ 你知道吗，阿米尔少爷？ 萨吉娜，乳母的名字。她是个漂亮的哈扎拉女人，有双蓝眼睛，从巴米扬来，她给你们唱古老的婚礼歌谣。人们说同一个胸脯喂大的人就是兄弟。你知道吗？ ”      
一段记忆：    
“每人一个卢比，孩子们。每人只要一个卢比，我就会替你们揭开命运的帷幕。”那个老人倚墙而坐，黯淡无光的双眼像滑溜溜的银子，镶嵌在一双深深的火山洞口中。算命先生弯腰拄着拐杖，从消瘦的脸颊下面伸出一只嶙峋的手，在我们面前做成杯状。“每人一个卢比就可知道命运，不贵吧？ ”哈桑放了个铜钿在他粗糙的手掌上，我也放了一个。“以最仁慈、最悲悯的安拉之名。”那位老算命先生低声说。他先是拿起哈桑的手，用一只兽角般的指甲，在他掌心转了又转，转了又转。跟着那根手指飘向哈桑的脸庞，慢慢摸索着哈桑脸颊的曲线、耳朵的轮廓，发出干燥的刮擦声。他的手指生满老茧，轻轻拂着哈桑的眼睑。手停在那儿，迟疑不去。老人脸上掠过一抹阴影，哈桑和我对望了一眼。老人抓起哈桑手，把那个卢比还给他。“让我看看你怎么样，小朋友？ ”他说。墙那边传来公鸡的叫声。老人伸手来拉我的手，我抽回来。      
一个梦境：    
我在暴风雪中迷失了方向。寒风凛冽，吹着雪花，刺痛了我的双眼。我在白雪皑皑中跋涉。我高声求救，但风淹没了我的哭喊。我颓然跌倒，躺在雪地上喘息，茫然望着一片白茫茫，寒风在我耳边呼啸，我看见雪花抹去我刚踩下的脚印。我现在是个鬼魂，我想，一个没有脚印的鬼魂。我又高声呼喊，但希望随着脚印消逝。这当头，有人闷声回应。我把手架在眼睛上，挣扎着坐起来。透过风雪飞舞的帘幕，我看见人影摇摆，颜色晃动。一个熟悉的身影出现了。一只手伸在我面前，我望见手掌上有深深的、平行的伤痕，鲜血淋漓，染红了雪地。我抓住那只手，瞬间雪停了。我们站在一片原野上，绿草如茵，天空中和风吹着白云。我抬眼望去，但见万里晴空，满是风筝在飞舞，绿的、黄的、红的、橙的。它们在午后的阳光中闪耀着光芒。      
小巷堆满了破铜烂铁，废弃的自行车轮胎、标签剥落的玻璃瓶子、卷边的杂志、发黄的报纸，所有这些，散落在一堆砖头和水泥板间。墙边有个锈蚀的铁火炉，炉洞像血盆大口般张开。但在那些垃圾之间，有两件东西让我无法移开眼光：一件是蓝风筝，倚在墙边，紧邻铁炉；另一件是哈桑的棕色灯芯绒裤，丢在那堆碎砖块上面。    
“我不知道，”瓦里说，“我爸爸说那是犯罪。”他的声音自始至终充满了怀疑、兴奋、害怕。哈桑趴在地上。卡莫和瓦里一人抓住他一只手，将其从手肘扭转，压在哈桑背后。
阿塞夫站在他们上方，用雪靴的后跟踩着哈桑的脖子后面。    
“你爸爸不会发现。”阿塞夫说，“给这头无礼的蠢驴一点教训，跟犯罪有什么关系？”    
“我不知道。”瓦里咕哝着。    
“随便你。”阿塞夫说，他转向卡莫，“你怎么说呢？ ”    
“我……好吧……”    
“他只是个哈扎拉人。”阿塞夫说，但卡莫把眼睛望向别处。    
“好吧，”阿塞夫不满地说，“你们这些懦夫，帮我把他按住就好了。你们能做到吗？” 瓦里和卡莫点点头，看上去如释重负。    
阿塞夫在哈桑身后跪倒，双手放在哈桑的臀部，把他光光的屁股抬起。他一手伸在哈桑背上，另外一只手去解开自己的皮带。他脱下牛仔裤，脱掉内裤。他在哈桑身后摆好位置。哈桑没有反抗，甚至没有呻吟。他稍稍转过头，我瞥见他的脸庞，那逆来顺受的神情。
之前我也见过这种神色，这种羔羊的神色。第二天是回历最后一个月的第十天，为期三天
的宰牲节（Eid-e-Qorban，伊斯兰教重要节日，也称古尔邦节。）从这天开始。人们在这一
天纪念先知亚伯拉罕为真主牺牲了他的儿子。这一年，爸爸又亲手挑选了一只绵羊，粉白
色的绵羊，有着弯弯的黑色耳朵。    
我们全部人站在院子里，哈桑，阿里，爸爸，还有我。法师背诵经文，转动他的念珠。
爸爸咕哝着，“快了结吧。”他低声说。他对这分肉的仪式和无止境的祷告感到厌烦。爸爸对
宰牲节起源的故事不以为然，就像他对所有宗教事物不以为然一样。但他尊重宰牲节的风
俗，这个风俗要求人们把肉分成三份，一份给家人，一份给朋友，一份给穷人。每年爸爸
都会把肉全给穷人。“有钱人已经足够肥了。”他说。    
法师完成了祷告。谢天谢地。他拿起一柄刀锋长长的菜刀。风俗要求不能让绵羊看见刀。阿里喂给绵羊一块方糖——这也是风俗，让死亡变得甜蜜些。那羊伸脚乱踢，但不是太激烈。法师抓住它的下巴，刀锋在它脖子上一割。就在他精熟的刀法施加在绵羊喉咙之上的前一刻，我看见了羊的眼睛。好几个星期，我总是在梦里见到那双眼睛。我不知道自己为什么每年都要在院子里观看这个仪式，即使草地上的血污消退得不见痕迹，我的噩梦仍会继续。但我总是去看。我去看，是为了那只动物眼里无可奈何的神色。荒唐的是，我竟然想像它能理解。我想像它知道，那迫在眉睫的厄运，是为了某个崇高的目的……    
我停止了观看，转身离开那条小巷。有种温热的东西从我手腕流淌下来。我眨眨眼，看见自己依旧咬着拳头，咬得很紧，从指节间渗出血来。我意识到还有别的东西。我在流泪。就从刚才那个屋角，传来阿塞夫仓促而有节奏的呻吟。    
我仍有最后的机会可以作决定，一个决定我将成为何等人物的最后机会。我可以冲进小巷，为哈桑挺身而出——就像他过去无数次为我挺身而出那样——接受一切可能发生在我身上的后果。或者我可以跑开。    
结果，我跑开了。    
我逃跑，因为我是懦夫。我害怕阿塞夫，害怕他折磨我。我害怕受到伤害。我转身离开小巷、离开哈桑的时候，心里这样对自己说。我试图让自己这么认为。说真的，我宁愿相信自己是出于软弱，因为另外的答案，我逃跑的真正原因，是觉得阿塞夫说得对：这个世界没有什么是免费的。为了赢回爸爸，也许哈桑只是必须付出的代价，是我必须宰割的羔羊。这是个公平的代价吗？我还来不及抑止，答案就从意识中冒出来：他只是个哈扎拉人，不是吗？    
我沿着来路跑回去，回到那个空无一人的市场。我跌撞上一家小店铺，斜倚着那紧闭的推门。我站在那儿，气喘吁吁，汗水直流，希望事情并没有变成这个样子。    
约莫隔了十五分钟，我听到人声，还有脚步声。我躲在那家小店，望着阿塞夫和那两个人走过，笑声飘过空荡荡的过道。我强迫自己再等十分钟。然后我走回到那条和冰封的小溪平行、满是车痕的小巷。我在昏暗的光芒中眯起眼睛，看见哈桑慢慢朝我走来。在河边一棵光秃秃的桦树下，我和他相遇。    
他手里拿着那只蓝风筝，那是我第一眼看到的东西。时至今日，我无法扯谎说自己当时没有查看风筝是否有什么裂痕。他的长袍前方沾满泥土，衬衣领子下面开裂。他站着，双腿摇摇晃晃，似乎随时都会倒下。接着他站稳了，把风筝递给我。    
“你到哪里去了？我在找你。”我艰难地说，仿佛在吞嚼一块石头。    
哈桑伸手用衣袖擦擦脸，抹去眼泪和鼻涕。我等待他开口，但我们只是静静地站在那儿，在消逝的天光中。我很感谢夜幕降临，遮住了哈桑的脸，也掩盖了我的面庞。我很高兴我不用看着他的眼睛。他知道我知道吗？如果他知道，我能从他眼里看到什么呢？埋怨？耻辱？ 或者，愿真主制止，我最怕看到的：真诚的奉献。所有这些里，那是我最不愿看到的。    
他开始说些什么，但他有点哽咽。他闭上嘴巴，张开，又闭上，往后退了一步，擦擦他的脸。就在当时，我几乎就要和哈桑谈论起在小巷里头发生的事情来。我原以为他会痛哭流涕，但，谢天谢地，他没有，而我假装没有听到他喉咙的哽咽。就像我假装没有看到他裤子后面深色的污渍一样。也假装没有看到从他双腿之间滴下的血滴，它们滴下来，将雪地染成黑色。    
“老爷会担心的。”他就说了这么一句。他转过头，蹒跚着走开。      
事情就如我想像的那样。我打开门，走进那烟雾缭绕的书房。爸爸和拉辛汗在喝茶，听着收音机传出的劈里啪啦的新闻。他们转过头，接着爸爸嘴角亮起一丝笑容，他张开双手，我把脸埋在他温暖的胸膛上，哭起来。爸爸紧紧抱着我，不断抚摸着我的后背。在他怀里，我忘了自己的所作所为。那感觉真好。    
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4071鲜花 1鸡蛋

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Chapter 8
For a week, I barely saw Hassan. I woke up to find toasted bread, brewed tea, and a boiled egg already on the kitchen table. My clothes for the day were ironed and folded, left on the cane-seat chair in the foyer where Hassan usually did his ironing. He used to wait for me to sit at the breakfast table before he started ironing--that way, we could talk. Used to sing too, over the hissing of the iron, sang old Hazara songs about tulip fields. Now only the folded clothes greeted me. That, and a breakfast I hardly finished anymore.
One overcast morning, as I was pushing the boiled egg around on my plate, Ali walked in cradling a pile of chopped wood. I asked him where Hassan was.
"He went back to sleep,?Ali said, kneeling before the stove. He pulled the little square door open.
Would Hassan be able to play today?
Ali paused with a log in his hand. A worried look crossed his face. "Lately, it seems all he wants to do is sleep. He does his chores--I see to that--but then he just wants to crawl under his blanket. Can I ask you something??
"If you have to.?
"After that kite tournament, he came Home a little bloodied and his shirt was torn. I asked him what had happened and he said it was nothing, that he'd gotten into a little scuffle with some kids over the kite.?
I didn't say anything. Just kept pushing the egg around on my plate.
"Did something happen to him, Amir agha? Something he's not telling me??
I shrugged. "How should I know??
"You would tell me, nay? _Inshallah_, you would tell me if some thing had happened??
"Like I said, how should I know what's wrong with him??I snapped. "Maybe he's sick. People get sick all the time, Ali. Now, am I going to freeze to death or are you planning on lighting the stove today??

THAT NIGHT I asked Baba if we could go to Jalalabad on Friday. He was rocking on the leather swivel chair behind his desk, reading a newspaper. He put it down, took off the reading glasses I disliked so much--Baba wasn't old, not at all, and he had lots of years left to live, so why did he have to wear those stupid glasses?
"Why not!?he said. Lately, Baba agreed to everything I asked. Not only that, just two nights before, he'd asked me if I wanted to see _El Cid_ with Charlton Heston at Cinema Aryana. "Do you want to ask Hassan to come along to Jalalabad??
Why did Baba have to spoil it like that? "He's mazreez,?I said. Not feeling well.
"Really??Baba stopped rocking in his chair. "What's wrong with him??
I gave a shrug and sank in the sofa by the fireplace. "He's got a cold or something. Ali says he's sleeping it off.?
"I haven't seen much of Hassan the last few days,?Baba said. "That's all it is, then, a cold??I couldn't help hating the way his brow furrowed with worry.
"Just a cold. So are we going Friday, Baba??
"Yes, yes,?Baba said, pushing away from the desk. "Too bad about Hassan. I thought you might have had more fun if he came.?
"Well, the two of us can have fun together,?I said. Baba smiled. Winked. "Dress warm,?he said.

IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN just the two of us--that was the way, I wanted it--but by Wednesday night, Baba had managed to invite another two dozen people. He called his cousin Homayoun--he was actually Baba's second cousin--and mentioned he was going to Jalalabad on Friday, and Homayoun, who had studied engineering in France and had a house in Jalalabad, said he'd love to have everyone over, he'd bring the kids, his two wives, and, while he was at it, cousin Shafiqa and her family were visiting from Herat, maybe she'd like to tag along, and since she was staying with cousin Nader in Kabul, his family would have to be invited as well even though Homayoun and Nader had a bit of a feud going, and if Nader was invited, surely his brother Faruq had to be asked too or his feelings would be hurt and he might not invite them to his daughter's wedding next month and...
We filled three vans. I rode with Baba, Rahim Khan, Kaka Homayoun--Baba had taught me at a young age to call any older male Kaka, or Uncle, and any older female, Khala, or Aunt. Kaka Homayoun's two wives rode with us too--the pinch-faced older one with the warts on her hands and the younger one who always smelled of perfume and danced with her eyes close--as did Kaka Homayoun's twin girls. I sat in the back row, carsick and dizzy, sandwiched between the seven-year-old twins who kept reaching over my lap to slap at each other. The road to Jalalabad is a two-hour trek through mountain roads winding along a steep drop, and my stomach lurched with each hairpin turn. Everyone in the van was talking, talking loudly and at the same time, nearly shrieking, which is how Afghans talk. I asked one of the twins--Fazila or Karima, I could never tell which was which--if she'd trade her window seat with me so I could get fresh air on account of my car sickness. She stuck her tongue out and said no. I told her that was fine, but I couldn't be held accountable for vomiting on her new dress. A minute later, I was leaning out the window. I watched the cratered road rise and fall, whirl its tail around the mountainside, counted the multicolored trucks packed with squatting men lumbering past. I tried closing my eyes, letting the wind slap at my cheeks, opened my mouth to swallow the clean air. I still didn't feel better. A finger poked me in the side. It was Fazila/Karima.
"What??I said.
"I was just telling everyone about the tournament,?Baba said from behind the wheel. Kaka Homayoun and his wives were smiling at me from the middle row of seats.
"There must have been a hundred kites in the sky that day??Baba said. "Is that about right, Amir??
"I guess so,?I mumbled.
"A hundred kites, Homayoun jan. No _laaf_. And the only one still flying at the end of the day was Amir's. He has the last kite at Home, a beautiful blue kite. Hassan and Amir ran it together.?
"Congratulations,?Kaka Homayoun said. His first wife, the one with the warts, clapped her hands. "Wah wah, Amir jan, we're all so proud of you!?she said. The younger wife joined in. Then they were all clapping, yelping their praises, telling me how proud I'd made them all. Only Rahim Khan, sitting in the passenger seat next to Baba, was silent. He was looking at me in an odd way.
"Please pull over, Baba,?I said.
"What??
"Getting sick,?I muttered, leaning across the seat, pressing against Kaka Homayoun's daughters.
Fazilal/Karima's face twisted. "Pull over, Kaka! His face is yellow! I don't want him throwing up on my new dress!?she squealed.
Baba began to pull over, but I didn't make it. A few minutes later, I was sitting on a rock on the side of the road as they aired out the van. Baba was smoking with Kaka Homayoun who was telling Fazila/Karima to stop crying; he'd buy her another dress in Jalalabad. I closed my eyes, turned my face to the sun. Little shapes formed behind my eyelids, like hands playing shadows on the wall. They twisted, merged, formed a single image: Hassan's brown corduroy pants discarded on a pile of old bricks in the alley.

KAKA HOMAYOUN'S WHITE, two-story house in Jalalabad had a balcony overlooking a large, walled garden with apple and persimmon trees. There were hedges that, in the summer, the gardener shaped like animals, and a swimming pool with emeraldcolored tiles. I sat on the edge of the pool, empty save for a layer of slushy snow at the bottom, feet dangling in. Kaka Homayoun's kids were playing hide-and-seek at the other end of the yard. The women were cooking and I could smell onions frying already, could hear the phht-phht of a pressure cooker, music, laughter. Baba, Rahim Khan, Kaka Homayoun, and Kaka Nader were sitting on the balcony, smoking. Kaka Homayoun was telling them he'd brought the projector along to show his slides of France. Ten years since he'd returned from Paris and he was still showing those stupid slides.
It shouldn't have felt this way. Baba and I were finally friends. We'd gone to the zoo a few days before, seen Marjan the lion, and I had hurled a pebble at the bear when no one was watching. We'd gone to Dadkhoda's Kabob House afterward, across from Cinema Park, had lamb kabob with freshly baked _naan_ from the tandoor. Baba told me stories of his travels to India and Russia, the people he had met, like the armless, legless couple in Bombay who'd been married forty-seven years and raised eleven children. That should have been fun, spending a day like that with Baba, hearing his stories. I finally had what I'd wanted all those years. Except now that I had it, I felt as empty as this unkempt pool I was dangling my legs into.
The wives and daughters served dinner--rice, kofta, and chicken _qurma_--at sundown. We dined the traditional way, sitting on cushions around the room, tablecloth spread on the floor, eating with our hands in groups of four or five from common platters. I wasn't hungry but sat down to eat anyway with Baba, Kaka Faruq, and Kaka Homayoun's two boys. Baba, who'd had a few scotches before dinner, was still ranting about the kite tournament, how I'd outlasted them all, how I'd come Home with the last kite. His booming voice dominated the room. People raised their heads from their platters, called out their congratulations. Kaka Faruq patted my back with his clean hand. I felt like sticking a knife in my eye.
Later, well past midnight, after a few hours of poker between Baba and his cousins, the men lay down to sleep on parallel mattresses in the same room where we'd dined. The women went upstairs. An hour later, I still couldn't sleep. I kept tossing and turning as my relatives grunted, sighed, and snored in their sleep. I sat up. A wedge of moonlight streamed in through the window.
"I watched Hassan get raped,?I said to no one. Baba stirred in his sleep. Kaka Homayoun grunted. A part of me was hoping someone would wake up and hear, so I wouldn't have to live with this lie anymore. But no one woke up and in the silence that followed, I understood the nature of my new curse: I was going to get away with it.
I thought about Hassan's dream, the one about us swimming in the lake. There is no monster, he'd said, just water. Except he'd been wrong about that. There was a monster in the lake. It had grabbed Hassan by the ankles, dragged him to the murky bottom. I was that monster.
That was the night I became an insomniac.

I DIDN'T SPEAK TO HASSAN until the middle of the next week. I had just half-eaten my lunch and Hassan was doing the dishes. I was walking upstairs, going to my room, when Hassan asked if I wanted to hike up the hill. I said I was tired. Hassan looked tired too--he'd lost weight and gray circles had formed under his puffed-up eyes. But when he asked again, I reluctantly agreed.
We trekked up the hill, our boots squishing in the muddy snow. Neither one of us said anything. We sat under our pomegranate tree and I knew I'd made a mistake. I shouldn't have come up the hill. The words I'd carved on the tree trunk with Ali's kitchen knife, Amir and Hassan: The Sultans of Kabul... I couldn't stand looking at them now.
He asked me to read to him from the _Shahnamah_ and I told him I'd changed my mind. Told him I just wanted to go back to my room. He looked away and shrugged. We walked back down the way we'd gone up in silence. And for the first time in my life, I couldn't wait for spring.

MY MEMORY OF THE REST of that winter of 1975 is pretty hazy. I remember I was fairly happy when Baba was Home. We'd eat together, go to see a film, visit Kaka Homayoun or Kaka Faruq. Sometimes Rahim Khan came over and Baba let me sit in his study and sip tea with them. He'd even have me read him some of my stories. It was good and I even believed it would last. And Baba believed it too, I think. We both should have known better. For at least a few months after the kite tournament, Baba and I immersed ourselves in a sweet illusion, saw each other in a way that we never had before. We'd actually deceived ourselves into thinking that a toy made of tissue paper, glue, and bamboo could somehow close the chasm between us.
But when Baba was out--and he was out a lot--I closed myself in my room. I read a book every couple of days, wrote sto ries, learned to draw horses. I'd hear Hassan shuffling around the kitchen in the morning, hear the clinking of silverware, the whistle of the teapot. I'd wait to hear the door shut and only then I would walk down to eat. On my calendar, I circled the date of the first day of school and began a countdown.
To my dismay, Hassan kept trying to rekindle things between us. I remember the last time. I was in my room, reading an abbreviated Farsi translation of Ivanhoe, when he knocked on my door.
"What is it??
"I'm going to the baker to buy _naan_,?he said from the other side. "I was wondering if you... if you wanted to come along.?
"I think I'm just going to read,?I said, rubbing my temples. Lately, every time Hassan was around, I was getting a headache.
"It's a sunny day,?he said.
"I can see that.?
"Might be fun to go for a walk.?
"You go.?
"I wish you'd come along,?he said. Paused. Something thumped against the door, maybe his forehead. "I don't know what I've done, Amir agha. I wish you'd tell me. I don't know why we don't play anymore.?
"You haven't done anything, Hassan. Just go.?
"You can tell me, I'll stop doing it.?
I buried my head in my lap, squeezed my temples with my knees, like a vice. "I'll tell you what I want you to stop doing,?I said, eyes pressed shut.
"Anything.?
"I want you to stop harassing me. I want you to go away,?I snapped. I wished he would give it right back to me, break the door open and tell me off--it would have made things easier, better. But he didn't do anything like that, and when I opened the door minutes later, he wasn't there. I fell on my bed, buried my head under the pillow, and cried.

HASSAN MILLED ABOUT the periphery of my life after that. I made sure our paths crossed as little as possible, planned my day that way. Because when he was around, the oxygen seeped out of the room. My chest tightened and I couldn't draw enough air; I'd stand there, gasping in my own little airless bubble of atmosphere. But even when he wasn't around, he was. He was there in the hand-washed and ironed clothes on the cane-seat chair, in the warm slippers left outside my door, in the wood already burning in the stove when I came down for breakfast. Everywhere I turned, I saw signs of his loyalty, his goddamn unwavering loyalty.
Early that spring, a few days before the new school year started, Baba and I were planting tulips in the garden. Most of the snow had melted and the hills in the north were already dotted with patches of green grass. It was a cool, gray morning, and Baba was squatting next to me, digging the soil and planting the bulbs I handed to him. He was telling me how most people thought it was better to plant tulips in the fall and how that wasn't true, when I came right out and said it. "Baba, have you ever thought about get ting new servants??
He dropped the tulip bulb and buried the trowel in the dirt. Took off his gardening gloves. I'd startled him. "Chi? What did you say??
"I was just wondering, that's all.?
"Why would I ever want to do that??Baba said curtly.
"You wouldn't, I guess. It was just a question,?I said, my voice fading to a murmur. I was already sorry I'd said it.
"Is this about you and Hassan? I know there's something going on between you two, but whatever it is, you have to deal with it, not me. I'm staying out of it.?
"I'm sorry, Baba.?
He put on his gloves again. "I grew up with Ali,?he said through clenched teeth. "My father took him in, he loved Ali like his own son. Forty years Ali's been with my family. Forty goddamn years. And you think I'm just going to throw him out??He turned to me now, his face as red as a tulip. "I've never laid a hand on you, Amir, but you ever say that again...?He looked away, shaking his head. "You bring me shame. And Hassan... Hassan's not going anywhere, do you understand??
I looked down and picked up a fistful of cool soil. Let it pour between my fingers.
"I said, Do you understand??Baba roared.
I flinched. "Yes, Baba.?
"Hassan's not going anywhere,?Baba snapped. He dug a new hole with the trowel, striking the dirt harder than he had to. "He's staying right here with us, where he belongs. This is his Home and we're his family. Don't you ever ask me that question again!?
"I won't, Baba. I'm sorry.?
We planted the rest of the tulips in silence.
I was relieved when school started that next week. Students with new notebooks and sharpened pencils in hand ambled about the courtyard, kicking up dust, chatting in groups, waiting for the class captains?whistles. Baba drove down the dirt lane that led to the entrance. The school was an old two-story building with broken windows and dim, cobblestone hallways, patches of its original dull yellow paint still showing between sloughing chunks of plaster. Most of the boys walked to school, and Baba's black Mustang drew more than one envious look. I should have been beaming with pride when he dropped me off--the old me would have--but all I could muster was a mild form of embarrassment. That and emptiness. Baba drove away without saying good-bye.
I bypassed the customary comparing of kite-fighting scars and stood in line. The bell rang and we marched to our assigned class, filed in in pairs. I sat in the back row. As the Farsi teacher handed out our textbooks, I prayed for a heavy load of Homework.
School gave me an excuse to stay in my room for long hours. And, for a while, it took my mind off what had happened that winter, what I had let happen. For a few weeks, I preoccupied myself with gravity and momentum, atoms and cells, the Anglo-Afghan wars, instead of thinking about Hassan and what had happened to him. But, always, my mind returned to the alley. To Hassan's brown corduroy pants lying on the bricks. To the droplets of blood staining the snow dark red, almost black.
One sluggish, hazy afternoon early that summer, I asked Hassan to go up the hill with me. Told him I wanted to read him a new story I'd written. He was hanging clothes to dry in the yard and I saw his eagerness in the harried way he finished the job.
We climbed the hill, making small talk. He asked about school, what I was learning, and I talked about my teachers, especially the mean math teacher who punished talkative students by sticking a metal rod between their fingers and then squeezing them together. Hassan winced at that, said he hoped I'd never have to experience it. I said I'd been lucky so far, knowing that luck had nothing to do with it. I had done my share of talking in class too. But my father was rich and everyone knew him, so I was spared the metal rod treatment.
We sat against the low cemetery wall under the shade thrown by the pomegranate tree. In another month or two, crops of scorched yellow weeds would blanket the hillside, but that year the spring showers had lasted longer than usual, nudging their way into early summer, and the grass was still green, peppered with tangles of wildflowers. Below us, Wazir Akbar Khan's white walled, flat-topped houses gleamed in the sunshine, the laundry hanging on clotheslines in their yards stirred by the breeze to dance like butterflies.
We had picked a dozen pomegranates from the tree. I unfolded the story I'd brought along, turned to the first page, then put it down. I stood up and picked up an overripe pomegranate that had fallen to the ground.
"What would you do if I hit you with this??I said, tossing the fruit up and down.
Hassan's smile wilted. He looked older than I'd remembered. No, not older, old. Was that possible? Lines had etched into his tanned face and creases framed his eyes, his mouth. I might as well have taken a knife and carved those lines myself.
"What would you do??I repeated.
The color fell from his face. Next to him, the stapled pages of the story I'd promised to read him fluttered in the breeze. I hurled the pomegranate at him. It struck him in the chest, exploded in a spray of red pulp. Hassan's cry was pregnant with surprise and pain.
"Hit me back!?I snapped. Hassan looked from the stain on his chest to me.
"Get up! Hit me!?I said. Hassan did get up, but he just stood there, looking dazed like a man dragged into the ocean by a riptide when, just a moment ago, he was enjoying a nice stroll on the beach.
I hit him with another pomegranate, in the shoulder this time. The juice splattered his face. "Hit me back!?I spat. "Hit me back, goddamn you!?I wished he would. I wished he'd give me the punishment I craved, so maybe I'd finally sleep at night. Maybe then things could return to how they used to be between us. But Hassan did nothing as I pelted him again and again. "You're a coward!?I said. "Nothing but a goddamn coward!?
I don't know how many times I hit him. All I know is that, when I finally stopped, exhausted and panting, Hassan was smeared in red like he'd been shot by a firing squad. I fell to my knees, tired, spent, frustrated.
Then Hassan did pick up a pomegranate. He walked toward me. He opened it and crushed it against his own forehead. "There,?he croaked, red dripping down his face like blood. "Are you satisfied? Do you feel better??He turned around and started down the hill.
I let the tears break free, rocked back and forth on my knees.
"What am I going to do with you, Hassan? What am I going to do with you??But by the time the tears dried up and I trudged down the hill, I knew the answer to that question.

I TURNED THIRTEEN that summer of 1976, Afghanistan's next to last summer of peace and anonymity. Things between Baba and me were already cooling off again. I think what started it was the stupid comment I'd made the day we were planting tulips, about getting new servants. I regretted saying it--I really did--but I think even if I hadn't, our happy little interlude would have come to an end. Maybe not quite so soon, but it would have. By the end of the summer, the scraping of spoon and fork against the plate had replaced dinner table chatter and Baba had resumed retreating to his study after supper. And closing the door. I'd gone back to thumbing through H?fez and Khayyám, gnawing my nails down to the cuticles, writing stories. I kept the stories in a stack under my bed, keeping them just in case, though I doubted Baba would ever again ask me to read them to him.
Baba's motto about throwing parties was this: Invite the whole world or it's not a party. I remember scanning over the invitation list a week before my birthday party and not recognizing at least three-quarters of the four hundred--plus Kakas and Khalas who were going to bring me gifts and congratulate me for having lived to thirteen. Then I realized they weren't really coming for me. It was my birthday, but I knew who the real star of the show was.
For days, the house was teeming with Baba's hired help. There was Salahuddin the butcher, who showed up with a calf and two sheep in tow, refusing payment for any of the three. He slaughtered the animals himself in the yard by a poplar tree. "Blood is good for the tree,?I remember him saying as the grass around the poplar soaked red. Men I didn't know climbed the oak trees with coils of small electric bulbs and meters of extension cords. Others set up dozens of tables in the yard, spread a tablecloth on each. The night before the big party Baba's friend Del-Muhammad, who owned a kabob house in Shar-e-Nau, came to the house with his bags of spices. Like the butcher, Del-Muhammad--or Dello, as Baba called him--refused payment for his services. He said Baba had done enough for his family already. It was Rahim Khan who whispered to me, as Dello marinated the meat, that Baba had lent Dello the money to open his restaurant. Baba had refused repayment until Dello had shown up one day in our driveway in a Benz and insisted he wouldn't leave until Baba took his money.
I guess in most ways, or at least in the ways in which parties are judged, my birthday bash was a huge success. I'd never seen the house so packed. Guests with drinks in hand were chatting in the hallways, smoking on the stairs, leaning against doorways. They sat where they found space, on kitchen counters, in the foyer, even under the stairwell. In the backyard, they mingled under the glow of blue, red, and green lights winking in the trees, their faces illuminated by the light of kerosene torches propped everywhere. Baba had had a stage built on the balcony that overlooked the garden and planted speakers throughout the yard. Ahmad Zahir was playing an accordion and singing on the stage over masses of dancing bodies.
I had to greet each of the guests personally--Baba made sure of that; no one was going to gossip the next day about how he'd raised a son with no manners. I kissed hundreds of cheeks, hugged total strangers, thanked them for their gifts. My face ached from the strain of my plastered smile.
I was standing with Baba in the yard near the bar when someone said, "Happy birthday, Amir.?It was Assef, with his parents. Assef's father, Mahmood, was a short, lanky sort with dark skin and a narrow face. His mother, Tanya, was a small, nervous woman who smiled and blinked a lot. Assef was standing between the two of them now, grinning, looming over both, his arms resting on their shoulders. He led them toward us, like he had brought them here. Like he was the parent, and they his children. A wave of dizziness rushed through me. Baba thanked them for coming.
"I picked out your present myself,?Assef said. Tanya's face twitched and her eyes flicked from Assef to me. She smiled, unconvincingly, and blinked. I wondered if Baba had noticed.
"Still playing soccer, Assef jan??Baba said. He'd always wanted me to be friends with Assef.
Assef smiled. It was creepy how genuinely sweet he made it look. "Of course, Kaka jan.?
"Right wing, as I recall??
"Actually, I switched to center forward this year,?Assef said. "You get to score more that way. We're playing the Mekro-Rayan team next week. Should be a good match. They have some good players.?
Baba nodded. "You know, I played center forward too when I was young.?
"I'll bet you still could if you wanted to,"Assef said. He favored Baba with a good-natured wink.
Baba returned the wink. "I see your father has taught you his world-famous flattering ways.?He elbowed Assef's father, almost knocked the little fellow down. Mahmood's laughter was about as convincing as Tanya's smile, and suddenly I wondered if maybe, on some level, their son frightened them. I tried to fake a smile, but all I could manage was a feeble upturning of the corners of my mouth--my stomach was turning at the sight of my father bonding with Assef.
Assef shifted his eyes to me. "Wali and Kamal are here too. They wouldn't miss your birthday for anything,?he said, laughter lurking just beneath the surface. I nodded silently.
"We're thinking about playing a little game of volleyball tomorrow at my house,?Assef said. "Maybe you'll join us. Bring Hassan if you want to.?
"That sounds fun,?Baba said, beaming. "What do you think, Amir??
"I don't really like volleyball,?I muttered. I saw the light wink out of Baba's eyes and an uncomfortable silence followed.
"Sorry, Assefjan,?Baba said, shrugging. That stung, his apologizing for me.
"Nay, no harm done,?Assef said. "But you have an open invitation, Amir jan. Anyway, I heard you like to read so I brought you a book. One of my favorites.?He extended a wrapped birthday gift to me. "Happy birthday.?
He was dressed in a cotton shirt and blue slacks, a red silk tie and shiny black loafers. He smelled of cologne and his blond hair was neatly combed back. On the surface, he was the embodiment of every parent's dream, a strong, tall, well-dressed and well-mannered boy with talent and striking looks, not to mention the wit to joke with an adult. But to me, his eyes betrayed him. When I looked into them, the facade faltered, revealed a glimpse of the madness hiding behind them.
"Aren't you going to take it, Amir??Baba was saying. "Huh??
"Your present,?he said testily. "Assefjan is giving you a present.?
"Oh,?I said. I took the box from Assef and lowered my gaze. I wished I could be alone in my room, with my books, away from these people.
"Well??Baba said.
"What??
Baba spoke in a low voice, the one he took on whenever I embarrassed him in public. "Aren't you going to thank Assef jan? That was very considerate of him.?
I wished Baba would stop calling him that. How often did he call me "Amir jan? "Thanks,?I said. Assef's mother looked at me like she wanted to say something, but she didn't, and I realized that neither of Assef's parents had said a word. Before I could embarrass myself and Baba anymore--but mostly to get away from Assef and his grin--I stepped away. "Thanks for coming,?I said.
I squirmed my way through the throng of guests and slipped through the wrought-iron gates. Two houses down from our house, there was a large, barren dirt lot. I'd heard Baba tell Rahim Khan that a judge had bought the land and that an architect was working on the design. For now, the lot was bare, save for dirt, stones, and weeds.
I tore the wrapping paper from Assef's present and tilted the book cover in the moonlight. It was a biography of Hitler. I threw it amid a tangle of weeds.
I leaned against the neighbor's wall, slid down to the ground. I just sat in the dark for a while, knees drawn to my chest, looking up at the stars, waiting for the night to be over.
"Shouldn't you be entertaining your guests??a familiar voice said. Rahim Khan was walking toward me along the wall.
"They don't need me for that. Baba's there, remember??I said. The ice in Rahim Khan's drink clinked when he sat next to me. "I didn't know you drank.?
"Turns out I do,?he said. Elbowed me playfully. "But only on the most important occasions.?
I smiled. "Thanks.?
He tipped his drink to me and took a sip. He lit a cigarette, one of the unfiltered Pakistani cigarettes he and Baba were always smoking. "Did I ever tell you I was almost married once??
"Really??I said, smiling a little at the notion of Rahim Khan getting married. I'd always thought of him as Baba's quiet alter ego, my writing mentor, my pal, the one who never forgot to bring me a souvenir, a saughat, when he returned from a trip abroad. But a husband? A father?
He nodded. "It's true. I was eighteen. Her name was Homaira. She was a Hazara, the daughter of our neighbor's servants. She was as beautiful as a pari, light brown hair, big hazel eyes... she had this laugh... I can still hear it sometimes.?He twirled his glass. "We used to meet secretly in my father's apple orchards, always after midnight when everyone had gone to sleep. We'd walk under the trees and I'd hold her hand... Am I embarrassing you, Amir jan??
"A little,?I said.
"It won't kill you,?he said, taking another puff. "Anyway, we had this fantasy. We'd have a great, fancy wedding and invite family and friends from Kabul to Kandahar. I would build us a big house, white with a tiled patio and large windows. We would plant fruit trees in the garden and grow all sorts of flowers, have a lawn for our kids to play on. On Fridays, after _namaz_ at the mosque, everyone would get together at our house for lunch and we'd eat in the garden, under cherry trees, drink fresh water from the well. Then tea with candy as we watched our kids play with their cousins...?
He took a long gulp of his scotch. Coughed. "You should have seen the look on my father's face when I told him. My mother actually fainted. My sisters splashed her face with water. They fanned her and looked at me as if I had slit her throat. My brother Jalal actually went to fetch his hunting rifle before my father stopped him.?Rahim Khan barked a bitter laughter. "It was Homaira and me against the world. And I'll tell you this, Amir jan: In the end, the world always wins. That's just the way of things.?
"So what happened??
"That same day, my father put Homaira and her family on a lorry and sent them off to Hazarajat. I never saw her again.?
"I'm sorry,?I said.
"Probably for the best, though,?Rahim Khan said, shrugging. "She would have suffered. My family would have never accepted her as an equal. You don't order someone to polish your shoes one day and call them ‘sister?the next.?He looked at me. "You know, you can tell me anything you want, Amir jan. Anytime.?
"I know,?I said uncertainly. He looked at me for a long time, like he was waiting, his black bottomless eyes hinting at an unspoken secret between us. For a moment, I almost did tell him. Almost told him everything, but then what would he think of me? He'd hate me, and rightfully.
"Here.?He handed me something. "I almost forgot. Happy birthday.?It was a brown leather-bound notebook. I traced my fingers along the gold-colored stitching on the borders. I smelled the
leather. "For your stories,?he said. I was going to thank him when something exploded and bursts of fire lit up the sky.
"Fireworks!?
We hurried back to the house and found the guests all standing in the yard, looking up to the sky. Kids hooted and screamed with each crackle and whoosh. People cheered, burst into applause each time flares sizzled and exploded into bouquets of fire. Every few seconds, the backyard lit up in sudden flashes of red, green, and yellow.
In one of those brief bursts of light, I saw something I'll never forget: Hassan serving drinks to Assef and Wali from a silver platter. The light winked out, a hiss and a crackle, then another flicker of orange light: Assef grinning, kneading Hassan in the chest with a knuckle.
Then, mercifully, darkness.

第八章
有一个星期，我几乎没有看见哈桑。我起床，发现面包已经烤好，茶已经泡好，还有个水煮蛋，统统放在厨房的桌子上。我当天要穿的衣服已经熨好叠好，摆在门廊的藤椅上，过去哈桑就在那儿熨衣服。他总是等我坐下来吃早餐才熨——这样我们就有机会谈谈心了。
过去他还唱歌，在熨斗的嘶嘶声中，哼着那些古老的哈扎拉民谣，歌唱那郁金香盛开的原野。现在迎接我的，只有叠好的衣服，此外，还有那顿我已经吃不下去的早餐。        
某个阴天的早晨，我正在拨弄着餐盘里的水煮蛋。阿里背着一捆劈好的柴走进来，我问他哈桑到哪里去了。    
“他回去睡觉了。”阿里说，他在火炉前跪低，拉开那个小方门。    
“哈桑今天会陪我玩吗？ ”    
阿里怔了怔，手里拿着一根木头，脸上掠过一丝担忧。“迟些吧，看起来他只想睡觉。
他把活干完——我看着他做完——可是随后他就只愿意裹在毛毯下面了。我能问你一些事情吗？ ”    
“你问吧。”    
“风筝比赛过后，他回家的时候有点流血，衬衣也破了。我问他发生什么事情了，他说没事，只是在争风筝的时候跟几个小孩发生了冲突。”    
我什么也没说，只是继续在盘子里拨弄着那个鸡蛋。    
“他到底怎么了，阿米尔少爷？ 他对我隐瞒了什么吗？ ”    
我耸耸肩： “我哪里知道？ ”    
“你会告诉我的，对吗？ 安拉保佑，如果你知道发生了什么事，你会告诉我吗？ ”    
“就像我说的，我哪里知道他出了什么问题？ ”我不耐烦地说，“也许他生病了。人们总是会生病的，阿里。看吧，你想冻死我呢，还是准备给炉子点火？ ”      
当天夜里，我问爸爸可不可以在星期五带我去贾拉拉巴德（Jalalabad ，阿富汗东部城市。）。他坐在办公桌后面的皮转椅上，看着报纸。他把报纸放下，摘下那副我很讨厌的老花镜。爸爸又不老，一点都不老，还有好多年可以活，可是他干吗要戴那副愚蠢的眼镜啊？  
“当然可以！ ”他说。最近，爸爸对我有求必应。不止这些，两个晚上之前，他还问我要不要去亚雅纳电影院看查尔顿·赫斯顿主演的《万世英雄》。“你想让哈桑跟着去贾拉拉
巴德吗？ ”    
为什么爸爸总是如此扫兴呢？ “他不舒服。”我说。    
“真的？ ”爸爸仍坐在椅子上，“他怎么啦？ ”    
我耸耸肩，在火炉边的沙发坐下来。“他可能感冒了或者什么吧。阿里说他每天总是在睡觉。”    
“这几天我很少见到哈桑。”爸爸说，“仅仅是这样吗？ 感冒？ ”看到他双眉紧蹙，忧虑溢于言表，我十分不满。    
“只是感冒而已啦，我们星期五去，是吗，爸爸？ ”    
“是，是，”爸爸说，推着书桌站起来，“哈桑不能去，太糟糕了。我想他要是能去，你会更加开心的。”    
“好吧，我们两个也可以很开心啊。”我说。    
爸爸笑着，眨眨眼，“穿暖和些。”      
本来就应该只有我们两个——我就希望这样——但星期三那夜，爸爸设法邀请了另外二十来个人。他打电话给他堂弟霍玛勇——实际上他是爸爸第二个堂弟——说星期五会到贾拉拉巴德去。霍玛勇曾在法国进修机械工程，如今在贾拉拉巴德有座房子，他说欢迎大家都去，他会带上他的孩子和两个老婆。还有，雪菲嘉表姐和家人从赫拉特到访，目前还在，或许她也想一起去。而这次雪菲嘉来喀布尔住在表哥纳德家，所以也得邀请他们一家，虽然霍玛勇跟纳德向来不和。倘使邀请了纳德，自然也得请他的哥哥法拉克，要不就伤害到他的感情了，并且下个月他们的女儿结婚，可能会因此不邀请霍玛勇……    
我们坐满了三辆旅行车。我跟爸爸、拉辛汗、霍玛勇“卡卡”搭一辆车——小时候爸爸教我管男性长辈叫“卡卡”，也就是叔叔伯伯，管女性长辈叫“卡哈拉”，也就是姑姑阿姨。霍玛勇叔叔的两个老婆也跟我们一起——较老那个满脸皱纹，手上长着肉瘤；较年轻那个则浑身散发着香水的味道，跳舞的时候老闭着眼睛——还有霍玛勇叔叔那对双胞胎女儿。我坐在最后一排，晕车并且头昏眼花，被那对双胞胎夹在中间，她们不停地越过我的膝盖，相互拍打。通往贾拉拉巴德的是条盘旋的山路，要两个小时的颠簸才能走完，车每次急转都会让我的胃翻江倒海。车里每个人都在说话，同时大声说话，近乎叫喊，这是阿富汗人交谈的方式。我问了双胞胎中的一个——法茜拉或者卡丽玛，我总是分不清她们谁是谁——问她愿不愿意让我换到窗边的位置去，因为我晕车，需要呼吸一点新鲜空气。她伸了伸舌头，说不。我告诉她无所谓，不过我也许会呕吐，弄脏她的新衣服。隔了一会儿，我把头伸出车窗外面。我看见路面坑坑洼洼，高低起伏，盘旋着消失在山那边；数着从我们车边经过的货车，它们五颜六色，载满喧哗的乘客，蹒跚前进。我试图合上双眼，让风扑打我的脸颊；我张开嘴巴，大口大口吸着干净的空气，但仍没有觉得好一些。有人用手指戳了我一下，是法茜拉或者卡丽玛。    
“干吗？ ”我说。    
“我刚把风筝比赛的事情跟大家说了！ ”爸爸坐在驾驶座上说。霍玛勇叔叔和他两个老婆坐在中间那排，朝我微笑。    
“那天天上一定有一百只风筝吧？ ”爸爸说，“对吗，阿米尔？ ”    
“我想应该有的。”我喃喃说。    
“一百只风筝，亲爱的霍玛勇，不是吹牛。那天最后一只还在天上飞的风筝，是阿米尔放的。他还得到最后那只风筝，把它带回家，一只漂亮的蓝风筝。哈桑和阿米尔一起追回来的。”    
“恭喜恭喜。”霍玛勇叔叔说。他的第一个老婆，手上生瘤那个，拍起掌来： “哇，哇，
亲爱的阿米尔，我们都为你感到骄傲！ ”年轻的老婆也加入了，然后他们全都鼓掌，欢喜赞叹，告诉我他们有多么以我为荣。只有拉辛汗，坐在副驾驶的位子上，紧邻着爸爸，一言
不发。他的眼神奇怪地看着我。    
“请停一停，爸爸。”我说。    
“干吗？ ”    
“我晕车。”我喃喃说，倒在座位上，靠着霍玛勇叔叔的女儿。    
法茜拉或卡丽玛脸色一变。“快停，叔叔！ 他脸色都黄了！ 我可不希望他弄脏我的新衣服！ ”她尖叫道。    
爸爸开始刹车，但我没能撑住。隔了几分钟，我坐在路边的一块石头上，他们让风吹散车里的气味。爸爸吸着烟，跟霍玛勇叔叔在一起，他正在安慰法茜拉或者卡丽玛，要她别哭泣，说到了贾拉拉巴德再给她另买一套新衣服。我合上双眼，把脸对着太阳。眼睑后面出现一小片阴影，好像用手在墙上玩影子那样，它们扭曲着，混合着，变成一副画面：哈桑的棕色灯芯绒裤子，扔在那条小巷的一堆旧砖头上面。      
霍玛勇叔叔在贾拉拉巴德的白色房子楼高两层，带有阳台，从上面可以看到一个大花园，有围墙环绕，种着苹果树和柿子树。那儿还植有树篱，到了夏天，园丁会将其剪成动物形状。此外还有个铺着翡翠绿瓷砖的游泳池。游泳池没有水，底部积着一层半融的雪，我坐在池边，双脚在池里晃荡。霍玛勇叔叔的孩子在院子的另外一端玩捉迷藏。妇女在厨房做饭，我闻到炒洋葱的味道，听到高压锅扑哧扑哧的声音，还有音乐声和笑声。爸爸、拉辛汗、霍玛勇叔叔、纳德叔叔坐在阳台上抽烟。霍玛勇叔叔说他带了投影机，可以放他在法国的幻灯片给大家看。他从巴黎回来已经十年了，还在炫耀那些愚蠢的幻灯片。    
事情本来不应该是这样的。爸爸和我终于变成朋友了，几天前我们去了动物园，看那头叫“玛扬”的狮子，我趁没人注意，还朝熊扔了一块石头。之后，我们去电影院公园对面那家“达克达”烤肉店吃饭，点了烤羊肉和从那个印度烤炉取下来的馕饼。爸爸跟我说他去印度和俄罗斯的故事，给我讲他碰到的人，比如说他在孟买（Bombay，印度城市。）
看到一对夫妇，没手没脚，结婚已经四十七年，还养了十一个孩子。跟爸爸这样过上一天，
听他讲故事，太有趣了。我终于得到了我多年来梦寐以求的东西。可是现在我得到了，却觉得十分空虚，跟这个我在里面摇晃双腿的游泳池一样。    
黄昏的时候，诸位太太和女儿张罗着晚餐——米饭、馕饼肉丸，还有咖喱鸡肉。我们按照传统的方式用膳，在地面铺上桌布，坐在遍布房间的坐垫上，每四人或者五人共用一个大浅盘，用手抓着东西吃。我不饿，不过还是坐下了，跟爸爸、法拉克，还有霍玛勇叔叔的两个儿子一起。爸爸在晚饭前喝了一点烈酒，还在跟他们吹嘘风筝比赛，活灵活现地描述我如何将其他人统统打败，如何带着最后那只风筝回家。人们从大浅盘抬起头来，纷纷向我道贺，法拉克叔叔用他那只干净的手拍拍我的后背。我感觉好像有把刀子刺进眼睛。    
后来，午夜过后，爸爸和他的亲戚玩了几个小时的扑克，终于在我们吃饭那间房子倒下，躺在平行摆放的地毯上呼呼入睡。妇女则到楼上去。过了一个钟头，我仍睡不着。各位亲戚在睡梦中或咕哝，或叹气，或打鼾，我翻来覆去。我坐起身，一缕月光穿过窗户，弥漫进来。    
“我看着哈桑被人强暴。”我自说自话。爸爸在梦里翻身，霍玛勇叔叔在说呓语。有一部分的我渴望有人醒来听我诉说，以便我可以不再背负着这个谎言度日。但没有人醒来，在随后而来的寂静中，我明白这是个下在我身上的咒语，终此一生，我将背负着这个谎言。    
我想起哈桑的梦，那个我们在湖里游泳的梦。那儿没有鬼怪。他说，只有湖水。但是他错了。湖里有鬼怪，它抓住哈桑的脚踝，将他拉进暗无天日的湖底。我就是那个鬼怪。    
自从那夜起，我得了失眠症。      
又隔了半个星期，我才开口跟哈桑说话。当时我的午餐吃到一半，哈桑在收拾碟子。
我走上楼梯，回房间去，哈桑问我想不想去爬山。我说我累了。哈桑看起来也很累——他
消瘦了，双眼泡肿，下面还有灰白的眼圈。但他又问了一次，我勉为其难地答应了。    
我们爬上那座山，靴子踩在泥泞的雪花上吱嘎吱嘎响。没有人开口说话。我们坐在我们的石榴树下，我知道自己犯了个错误。我不应到山上来。我用阿里的菜刀在树干上刻下的字迹犹在：阿米尔和哈桑，喀布尔的苏丹……现在我无法忍受看到这些字。    
他求我念《沙纳玛》给他听，我说我改变主意了。告诉他我只想走回自己的房间去。
他望着远方，耸耸肩。我们沿着那条来路走下，没有人说话。我生命中第一次渴望春天早
点到来。      
1975年冬天剩下的那些日子在我记忆里面十分模糊。我记得每当爸爸在家，我就十分高兴。我们会一起吃饭，一起看电影，一起拜访霍玛勇叔叔或者法拉克叔叔。有时拉辛汗来访，爸爸也会让我在书房里喝茶。他甚至还让我念些自己写的故事给他听。一切都很美好，我甚至相信这会永恒不变。爸爸也这么想，我认为。我们彼此更加了解。至少，在风筝大赛之后的几个月里，爸爸和我相互抱有甜蜜的幻想，以某种我们过去从未有过的方式相处。我们其实在欺骗自己，居然认为一个用棉纸、胶水和竹子做的玩具，能弥合两人之间的鸿沟。    
可是，每当爸爸不在——他经常不在家——我便将自己锁在房间里面。我几天就看完一本书，写故事，学着画马匹。每天早晨，我会听见哈桑在厨房忙上忙下，听见银器碰撞的叮当声，还有茶壶烧水的嘶嘶声。我会等着，直到他把房门关上，我才会下楼吃饭。我在日历上圈出开学那天，开始倒数上课的日子。    
让我难堪的是，哈桑尽一切努力，想恢复我们的关系。我记得最后一次，我在自己的房间里，看着法尔西语节译本的《劫后英雄传》（Ivanhoe，苏格兰作家瓦尔特·司各特（Sir Walter Scott ，1771～1832）著，讲述中世纪英格兰的骑士故事。），他来敲我的门。    
“谁？ ”    
“我要去烘焙房买馕饼，”他在门外说，“我来……问问要不要一起去。”    
“我觉得我只想看书，”我说，用手揉揉太阳穴。后来，每次哈桑在我身边，我就头痛。  
“今天阳光很好。”他说。    
“我知道。”    
“也许出去走走会很好玩。”    
“你去吧。”    
“我希望你也去。”他说。停了一会儿，不知道什么东西又在撞着门，也许是他的额头。
“我不知道自己做错了什么，阿米尔少爷。你希望你告诉我。我不知道为什么我们不再一
起玩了。”    
“你没有做错任何事情，哈桑，你走开。”    
“你可以告诉我，我会改的。”    
我将头埋在双腿间，用膝盖挤着太阳穴。“我会告诉你我希望你别做什么。”我说，双眼紧紧闭上。    
“你说吧。”    
“我要你别再骚扰我，我要你走开。”我不耐烦地说。我希望他会报复我，破门而入，将我臭骂一顿——这样事情会变得容易一些，变得好一些。但他没有那样做，隔了几分钟，我打开门，他已经不在了。我倒在自己的床上，将头埋在枕上，眼泪直流。    
自那以后，哈桑搅乱了我的生活。我每天尽可能不跟他照面，并以此安排自己的生活。
因为每当他在旁边，房间里的氧气就会消耗殆尽。我的胸口会收缩，无法呼吸；我会站在那儿，被一些没有空气的泡泡包围，喘息着。可就算他不在我身边，我仍然感觉到他在，他就在那儿，在藤椅上那些他亲手浆洗和熨烫的衣服上，在那双摆在我门外的温暖的便鞋里面，每当我下楼吃早餐，他就在火炉里那些熊熊燃烧的木头上。无论我走到哪儿，都能看见他忠心耿耿的信号，他那该死的、毫不动摇的忠心。        
那年早春，距开学还有几天，爸爸和我在花园里种郁金香。大部分积雪已经融化，北边的山头开始露出一片片如茵绿草。那是个寒冷、阴沉的早晨，爸爸在我身旁，一边说话，一边掘开泥土，把我递给他的球茎种下。他告诉我，有很多人都以为秋天是种植郁金香的最好季节，然而那是错的。这当头，我问了他一个问题：“爸爸，你有没有想过请新的佣人？”  
他扔下球茎，把铲子插在泥土中，扔掉手里的工作手套，看来我让他大吃一惊，“什么？你刚才说什么？ ”    
“我只是想想而已，没别的。”    
“为什么我要那样做？ ”爸爸粗声说。    
“你不会，我想。那只是一个问题而已。”我说，声音降低了。我已经后悔自己那样说了。    
“是因为你和哈桑吗？ 我知道你们之间有问题，但不管那是什么问题，应该处理它的人是你，不是我。我会袖手旁观。”    
“对不起，爸爸。”    
他又戴上手套。“我和阿里一起长大。”他咬牙切齿地说，“我爸爸将他带回家，他对阿里视如己出。阿里待在我家四十年了，整整四十年。而你认为我会将他赶走？”他转向我，脸红得像郁金香一样，“我不会碰你一下，阿米尔，但你要是胆敢再说一次……”他移开眼睛，摇摇头，“你真让我觉得羞耻。至于哈桑……哈桑哪里也不去。你知不知道？”    
我望着地面，手里抓起一把冷冷的泥土，任由它从我指缝间滑落。    
“我说，你知不知道？”爸爸咆哮了。    
我害怕了：“我知道，爸爸。”    
“哈桑哪儿都不去，”爸爸愤怒地说，他拿起铲子，在地上又掘了一个坑，用比刚才更大的力气将泥土铲开，“他就在这儿陪着我们，他属于这儿。这里是他的家，我们是他的家人。以后别再问我这样的问题！”    
“不会了，爸爸，对不起。”    
他闷声把剩下的郁金香都种完。    
第二个星期，开学了，我如释重负。学生分到了新的笔记本，手里拿着削尖的铅笔，在操场上聚集在一起，踢起尘土，三五成群地交谈，等待班长的哨声。爸爸的车开上那条通向校门的土路。学校是座两层的古旧建筑，窗户漏风，鹅卵石砌成的门廊光线阴暗，在剥落的泥灰之间，还可以看见它原来的土黄色油漆。多数男孩走路上课，爸爸黑色的野马轿车引来的不仅仅是艳羡的眼光。本来他开车送我上学，我应该觉得很骄傲——过去的我就是这样——但如今我感到的只是有些尴尬，尴尬和空虚。爸爸连声“再见”都没说，就掉头离开。    
我没有像过去那样，跟人比较斗风筝的伤痕，而是站到队伍中去。钟声响起，我们鱼贯进入分配的教室，找座位坐好，我坐在教室后面。法尔西语老师分发课本的时候，我祈祷有做不完的作业。    
上学给了我长时间待在房间里头的借口。并且，确实有那么一阵，我忘记了冬天发生的那些事，那些我让它们发生的事。接连几个星期，我满脑子重力和动力，原子和细胞，英阿战争，不去想着哈桑，不去想他的遭遇。可是，我的思绪总是回到那条小巷。总是想到躺在砖头上的哈桑的棕色灯芯绒裤，想到那些将雪地染成暗红色、几乎是黑色的血滴。    
那年初夏，某个让人昏昏欲睡的午后，我让哈桑跟我一起去爬山。告诉他我要给他念一个刚写的故事。他当时在院子里晾衣服，他手忙脚乱把衣服晾好的样子让我看到他的期待。    
我们爬上山，稍作交谈。他问起学校的事情，问起我在学什么，我谈起那些老师，尤其是那个严厉的数学老师，他惩罚那些多话的学生，将铁棍放在他们的指缝间，然后用力捏他们的手指。哈桑吓了一跳，说希望我永远不用被惩罚。我说我到目前为止都很幸运，不过我知道那和运气没什么关系。我也在课堂上讲话，但我的爸爸很有钱，人人认识他，所以我免受铁棍的刑罚。    
我们坐在墓园低矮的围墙上，在石榴树的树影之下。再过一两个月，成片的焦黄野草会铺满山坡，但那年春天雨水绵绵，比往年持续得久，到了初夏也还不停地下着，杂草依然是绿色的，星星点点的野花散落其间。在我们下面，瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区的房子平顶白墙，被阳光照得闪闪发亮；院子里的晾衣线挂满衣物，在和风的吹拂中如蝴蝶般翩翩起舞。    
我们从树上摘了十来个石榴。我打开带来那本故事书，翻到第一页，然后又把书放下。
我站起身来，捡起一个熟透了的跌落在地面的石榴。    
“要是我拿这个打你，你会怎么做啊？”我说，石榴在手里抛上抛下。    
哈桑的笑容枯萎了。他看起来比我记得的要大，不，不是大，是老。怎么会这样呢？皱纹爬上他那张饱经风吹日晒的脸，爬过他的眼角，他的唇边。也许那些皱纹，正是我亲手拿刀刻出来的。    
“你会怎么做呢？ ”我重复。    
他脸无血色。我答应要念给他听的那本故事书在他脚下，书页被微风吹得劈啪响。我朝他扔了个石榴，打中他的胸膛，爆裂出红色的果肉。哈桑又惊又痛，放声大哭。    
“还手啊！”我咆哮着。哈桑看看胸前的污渍，又看看我。    
“起来！打我！”我说。哈桑站起来了，但他只是站在那儿，露出茫然失措的表情，好比一个男人，刚才还在海滩愉快地散步，此刻却被浪花卷到大洋中间。    
我又扔出一个石榴，这次打在他的肩膀上，果汁染上他的脸。“还手！”我大喊，“还手，你这个该死的家伙！”我希望他还击。我希望他满足我的愿望，好好惩罚我，这样我晚上就能睡着了。也许到时事情就会回到我们以前那个样子。但哈桑纹丝不动，任由我一次又一次扔他。“你是个懦夫！”我说，“你什么都不是，只是个该死的懦夫！”    
我不知道自己击中他多少次。我所知道的是，当我终于停下来，筋疲力尽，气喘吁吁，哈桑浑身血红，仿佛被一队士兵射击过那样。我双足跪倒，疲累不堪，垂头丧气。    
然后哈桑捡起一个石榴。他朝我走来，将它掰开，在额头上磨碎。“那么，”他哽咽着，红色的石榴汁如同鲜血一样从他脸上滴下来。“你满意了吧？ 你觉得好受了吗？”他转过身，朝山下走去。    
我任由泪水决堤，跪在地上，身体前后摇晃。“我该拿你怎么办，哈桑？我该拿你怎么办？”但等到泪痕风干，我脚步沉重地走回家，我找到了答案。      
我的十三岁生日在1976年夏天。这是阿富汗最后一段平静的和平岁月。我和爸爸的关系再度冷却了。我想这都是因为在我们种郁金香那天我所说的那句愚蠢的话，关于请新仆人的那句话。我后悔说了那句话——真的很后悔——但我认为即使我没说，我们这段短短的快乐插曲也会告终。也许不会这么快，但终究会结束。到夏天结束的时候，勺子和叉子碰撞盘子的声音又取代了晚餐桌上的交谈，爸爸开始在晚饭后回到书房去，并把门关上。
我则回去翻看哈菲兹和迦亚谟的书，咬指甲咬到见皮，写故事。我将故事放在床底的架子上，将它们保留起来，以备万一爸爸会跟我要去看，虽然我怀疑他不会。    
爸爸举办宴会的座右铭是：如果没请来全世界的人，就不算是个宴会。我记得生日之前一个星期，我看着那份邀请名单，发现在近四百人中，至少有四分之三我并不认识——包括那些将要送我生日礼物以祝贺我活过十三个年头的叔伯姑姨。然后我意识到他们并非真的因我而来。那天是我的生日，但我知道谁才是宴会上的天皇巨星。    
一连数天，屋子里挤满了爸爸请来的帮手。有个叫萨拉胡丁的屠夫拖来一头小牛和两只绵羊，拒绝收下哪怕一分钱。他亲自在院子里的白杨树下宰了那些畜生。“用血浇灌对树有好处。”我记得鲜血染红树下的青草时，他这么说。有些我不认识的男人爬上橡树，挂上成串的灯泡和长长的电线。其他人在院子里摆出几十张桌子，逐一披上桌布。盛宴开始之前一夜，爸爸的朋友德尔－穆罕默德带来几袋香料，他在沙里诺区开了一间烧烤店。跟屠夫一样，德尔－穆罕默德——爸爸管他叫“德罗”——也拒绝收钱。他说爸爸已经帮了他家里太多忙了。德罗在腌肉的时候，拉辛汗低声告诉我，德罗开餐厅的钱是爸爸借给他的，并且没有要他还钱。直到有一天，德罗开着奔驰轿车，来到我家门口，说要是爸爸不收钱他就不走，爸爸这才收下。    
我想从各个方面来说，或者至少从评价宴会的标准来说，我的生日盛宴称得上极为成功。我从来没有见到屋子里有那么多人。来宾或是手拿酒杯，在门廊聊天，或是在台阶上吸烟，或是倚着门口。他们找到空位就坐下，厨房的柜台上，门廊里面，甚至楼梯下面都坐满了人。院子里，蓝色的、红色的、绿色的灯泡在树上闪闪发光，人们在聚集在下面，四处点燃的煤油灯照亮他们的脸庞。爸爸把舞台设在俯览花园的阳台上，但扬声器布满整个院子。艾哈迈德·查希尔弹着手风琴，唱着歌，人们在舞台下面跳舞。    
我不得不逐一跟来宾打招呼——爸爸这么要求，他可不希望翌日有人乱嚼舌头，说他养了个不懂礼貌的儿子。我亲了几百个脸颊，和所有的陌生人拥抱，感谢他们的礼物。我的脸因为僵硬的微笑而发痛。    
我跟爸爸站在院子里的酒吧前面，这当头有人说：“生日快乐，阿米尔。”是阿塞夫，还有他的父母。阿塞夫的父亲马赫穆德是矮个子，又矮又瘦，皮肤黝黑，脸部狭小。他的妈妈谭雅是个小妇人，神经兮兮，脸带微笑，不停眨眼。如今阿塞夫就站在他们两个之间，咧嘴笑着，居高临下，双手搂着他们的肩膀。他带着他们走过来，好像拎着他们过来一样，似乎他才是父亲，他们是孩子。我感到一阵眩晕。爸爸对他们的莅临表示感谢。    
“我亲自给你挑选了礼物。”阿塞夫说。谭雅的脸抽动，眼光从阿塞夫身上移到我身上。
她微笑着，显得有些勉强，眨着眼。我怀疑爸爸有没有看到。    
“还玩足球吗，亲爱的阿塞夫？ ”爸爸说，他一直希望我跟阿塞夫交朋友。    
阿塞夫微笑，他甜蜜的笑容显得纯真无瑕，真叫人不寒而栗。“当然，亲爱的叔叔。”    
“我记得你踢右路？ ”    
“是的，我今年改踢中场了。”阿塞夫说，“那样我就可以多进一些球了。我们下个星期跟梅寇拉扬队比赛。那会很精彩，他们有几个球员很棒。”    
爸爸点点头： “你知道，我年轻的时候也踢中场。”    
“我敢打赌，现在你要是愿意，也能踢。”阿塞夫说，他一脸天真地眨眨眼，拍爸爸的马屁。    
爸爸也朝他眨眼：“我看你老爸已经把他举世闻名的拍马屁技术传给你了。”他用手肘碰碰阿塞夫的父亲，差点把那个小家伙撞倒。马赫穆德的笑声就像谭雅的微笑那样虚伪。突然之间，我在想，也许从某种程度上说，他们害怕自己的儿子。我试图装出一个笑容，但我所能做到的，只是勉强让嘴角往上翘了翘——看到爸爸和阿塞夫这么投机，我的胃翻动着。    
阿塞夫把眼光移向我。“瓦里和卡莫也来了，他们怎么也不会错过你的生日。”他皮笑肉不笑地说。我默默点头。    
“我们打算明天在我家玩排球，”阿塞夫说，“也许你可以来一起玩，如果你愿意，也可以带上哈桑。”    
“听起来很有趣。”爸爸说，双眼放光。“你觉得呢，阿米尔？ ”    
“我真的不喜欢排球。”我喃喃说，看到爸爸眼里的光芒消失了，接着是一阵令人不适的沉默。    
“很抱歉，亲爱的阿塞夫。”爸爸说，耸耸肩。他替我道歉！ 那刺痛了我。    
“不，没关系。”阿塞夫说，“不过大门随时为你开放，亲爱的阿米尔。不管怎样，我听说你喜欢看书，所以我给你带了一本，我最喜欢的。”他将一份包扎好的礼物递给我，“生日快乐。”    
他穿着棉布衬衣、蓝色裤子，系着红色领带，脚上是一双闪亮的黑色皮鞋。他身上散发着古龙水的香味，金黄色的头发整齐地梳向后面。就外表而言，他是每个父母梦想中的儿子：强壮，高大，衣冠楚楚，举止得体，英俊得令人吃惊，还富有才华，更不用说还能机智地跟大人打趣。但在我看来，他的眼睛出卖了他。我看着他的眼睛，看穿他虚有其表，有一种疯狂隐藏在他身内。    
“怎么不收下，阿米尔？ ”爸爸说。    
“嗯？ ”    
“你的礼物啊，”他不耐烦地说，“亲爱的阿塞夫给你送礼物呢。”    
“哦。”我说，从阿塞夫手里接过那个盒子，放低视线。要是我能独自在房间里，陪着我的书，远离这些人就好了。    
“喂？ ”爸爸说。    
“什么？ ”    
爸爸放低了声音，每次我当众给他难堪，他就会这样，“你不谢谢亲爱的阿塞夫吗？ 他太周到了。”    
我希望爸爸别那样叫他，他叫过我几次“亲爱的阿米尔”呢？ “谢谢。”我说。阿塞夫的母亲看着我，欲言又止。我意识到阿塞夫的双亲还没说过一句话。为了不再让我自己和爸爸难堪——但主要是因为不想看到阿塞夫和他的笑脸——我走开了。“谢谢你来。”我说。    
我从拥挤的宾客中走出来，偷偷溜出那扇锻铁大门。我们家往下两座房子，有一片很大的空地。我听爸爸告诉拉辛汗，有个法官买下了那片地，建筑师正在设计蓝图。现在，那块地皮是荒芜的，只有泥土、石块和野草。    
我扯开阿塞夫的礼物外面那层包装纸，借着月光端详书的封面。那是一本希特勒自传。
我将它扔在杂草中。    
我倚着邻居的墙壁，滑坐在地上，只是在黑暗中坐一会儿，膝盖抵着胸膛，抬眼望着星星，等着夜晚结束。    
“你不用去陪你的客人吗？ ”一个熟悉的声音说，拉辛汗沿着墙壁朝我走来。    
“他们不用我陪。爸爸在那边呢，你忘了？”我说。拉辛汗酒杯中的冰块叮咚响，他坐在我身边。“我不知道原来你也喝酒。”    
“我喝酒，”他说，高兴地用手肘撞了我一下，“不过只有在重要的场合才喝。”    
我微笑： “谢谢。”    
他朝我举举杯，喝了一口。他点起一根香烟，没有过滤嘴的巴基斯坦香烟，他和爸爸总是抽这种。“我有没有告诉过你我差点就结婚了？ ”    
“真的吗？ ”我说，想到拉辛汗也结婚，不由微微笑着。我一直当他是爸爸寡言的知交，我的写作导师，我的朋友，当他是那个每次到国外旅行总不忘给我买点小礼物的人。但是
丈夫？ 父亲？    
他点点头： “真的。那年我十八岁。她的名字叫荷麦拉。她是哈扎拉人，我家邻居仆人的女儿。她像仙女一样好看，淡棕色的头发，褐色的大眼睛……她总是这样笑……我有时还能听到她的笑声。”他晃晃酒杯，“我们经常在我父亲的苹果园里幽会，总是在夜阑人静的时候。我们在树下聊天，我拉着她的手……我让你不好意思了吗，阿米尔？ ”    
“有一点点。”我说。    
“那对你无害的，”他说，又喝了一口。“不管怎样，我们有着这样的幻想。我们会有一个盛大的、梦幻般的婚礼，从坎大哈和喀布尔请亲朋好友来参加。我会给我们盖一座大房子，白色的，露台铺着瓷砖，窗户很大。我们会在花园里种果树，还有各种各样的花儿，有一个草坪，我们的孩子在上面玩耍。星期五，在清真寺做过祷告之后，每个人会到我们家里吃午饭，我们在花园用膳，在樱桃树下，从井里打水喝。然后我们喝着茶，吃着糖果，看着我们的孩子跟亲戚的小孩玩……”    
他喝了一大口烈酒，咳嗽。“可惜你看不到我把这件事告诉我爸爸时他脸上的表情。我妈妈完全昏厥了，我的姐妹用冷水扑打她的脸，她们对着她扇风，仿佛我用刀子割了她的喉咙。要不是我爸爸及时阻止，我哥哥雅拉尔真的会去抓来他的猎熗。”拉辛汗说，带着痛苦的笑声，“我跟荷麦拉对抗着整个世界。并且我告诉你，亲爱的阿米尔，到了最后，总是这个世界赢得胜利。就这么回事。”    
“后来怎样呢？ ”    
“就在那天，我爸爸将荷麦拉和她的家人赶上一辆货车，送他们去哈扎拉贾特。我再也没有见到过她。”    
“真遗憾。”我说。    
“不过这也许是最好的结果了，”拉辛汗说，耸耸肩。“她会受辱的。我的家人将永远不会平等对待她。你不会下令让某人替你擦鞋子，而当天晚些时候管她叫‘姐妹’。”他看着我，“你知道，你可以告诉我任何你想说的事情，亲爱的阿米尔，任何时候。”    
“我知道，”我惴惴地说。他久久看着我，似乎在等待；他黑色的眼睛深洞无底，隐藏着我们之间一个没有说出的秘密。那一刻，我差点就告诉他了，差点把什么都对他说，可是到时他会怎么看待我？ 他会恨我，而且合情合理。    
“给你，”他递给我某件东西，“我差点忘记了，生日快乐。”那是个棕色的皮面笔记本。
我伸出手指，摸索着它镶着金线的边缘，闻到皮革的味道。“给你写故事用的。”他说。我刚要向他道谢，有些东西爆炸了，在天空中燃起火焰。    
“烟花！”
我们匆忙赶回家，发现所有的宾客都站在院子里，望着天空。每次爆裂和呼啸升空的声音，都会引来孩子们大声尖叫。每次火焰嘶嘶作响，爆裂开来，变成花束，都会引起人们欢呼，拍掌称好。每隔几秒钟，后院就会被突然爆发的火光点亮，有红的、绿的、黄的。    
在一次短暂的闪光中，我看到永世不会忘记的情景：哈桑端着银盘，服侍阿塞夫和瓦里喝酒。那阵光芒消失了，又是一声嘶嘶，一声爆裂，接着是一道橙色的火光：阿塞夫狞笑着，用一根指节敲打着哈桑的胸膛。    
然后，天可怜见，什么都看不到了。
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4071鲜花 1鸡蛋

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Chapter 9
Sitting in the middle of my room the next morning, I ripped open box after box of presents. I don't know why I even bothered, since I just gave them a joyless glance and pitched them to the corner of the room. The pile was growing there: a Polaroid camera, a transistor radio, an elaborate electric train set--and several sealed envelopes containing cash. I knew I'd never spend the money or listen to the radio, and the electric train would never trundle down its tracks in my room. I didn't want any of it--it was all blood money; Baba would have never thrown me a party like that if I hadn't won the tournament.
Baba gave me two presents. One was sure to become the envy of every kid in the neighborhood: a brand new Schwinn Stingray, the king of all bicycles. Only a handful of kids in all of Kabul owned a new Stingray and now I was one of them. It had high-rise handlebars with black rubber grips and its famous banana seat. The spokes were gold colored and the steel-frame body red, like a candy apple. Or blood. Any other kid would have hopped on the bike immediately and taken it for a full block skid. I might have done the same a few months ago.
"You like it??Baba said, leaning in the doorway to my room. I gave him a sheepish grin and a quick "Thank you.?I wished I could have mustered more.
"We could go for a ride,?Baba said. An invitation, but only a halfhearted one.
"Maybe later. I'm a little tired,?I said.
"Sure,?Baba said.
"Baba??
"Yes??
"Thanks for the fireworks,?I said. A thank-you, but only a halfhearted one.
"Get some rest,?Baba said, walking toward his room.
The other present Baba gave me--and he didn't wait around for me to open this one--was a wristwatch. It had a blue face with gold hands in the shape of lightning bolts. I didn't even try it on. I tossed it on the pile of toys in the corner. The only gift I didn't toss on that mound was Rahim Khan's leather-bound notebook. That was the only one that didn't feel like blood money.
I sat on the edge of my bed, turned the notebook in my hands, thought about what Rahim Khan had said about Homaira, how his father's dismissing her had been for the best in the end. She would have suffered. Like the times Kaka Homayoun's projector got stuck on the same slide, the same image kept flashing in my mind over and over: Hassan, his head downcast, serving drinks to Assef and Wali. Maybe it would be for the best. Lessen his suffering. And mine too. Either way, this much had become clear: One of us had to go.
Later that afternoon, I took the Schwinn for its first and last spin. I pedaled around the block a couple of times and came back. I rolled up the driveway to the backyard where Hassan and Ali were cleaning up the mess from last night's party. Paper cups, crumpled napkins, and empty bottles of soda littered the yard. Ali was folding chairs, setting them along the wall. He saw me and waved.
"Salaam, All,?I said, waving back.
He held up a finger, asking me to wait, and walked to his living quarters. A moment later, he emerged with something in his hands. "The opportunity never presented itself last night for Hassan and me to give you this,?he said, handing me a box. "It's mod est and not worthy of you, Amir agha. But we hope you like it still. Happy birthday.?
A lump was rising in my throat. "Thank you, Ali,?I said. I wished they hadn't bought me anything. I opened the box and found a brand new _Shahnamah_, a hardback with glossy colored illustrations beneath the passages. Here was Ferangis gazing at her newborn son, Kai Khosrau. There was Afrasiyab riding his horse, sword drawn, leading his army. And, of course, Rostam inflicting a mortal wound onto his son, the warrior Sohrab. "It's beautiful,?I said.
"Hassan said your copy was old and ragged, and that some of the pages were missing,?Ali said. "All the pictures are hand-drawn in this one with pen and ink,?he added proudly, eyeing a book neither he nor his son could read.
"It's lovely,?I said. And it was. And, I suspected, not inexpensive either. I wanted to tell Ali it was not the book, but I who was unworthy. I hopped back on the bicycle. "Thank Hassan for me,?I said.
I ended up tossing the book on the heap of gifts in the corner of my room. But my eyes kept going back to it, so I buried it at the
bottom. Before I went to bed that night, I asked Baba if he'd seen my new watch anywhere.

THE NEXT MORNING, I waited in my room for Ali to clear the breakfast table in the kitchen. Waited for him to do the dishes, wipe the counters. I looked out my bedroom window and waited until Ali and Hassan went grocery shopping to the bazaar, pushing the empty wheelbarrows in front of them.
Then I took a couple of the envelopes of cash from the pile of gifts and my watch, and tiptoed out. I paused before Baba's study and listened in. He'd been in there all morning, making phone calls. He was talking to someone now, about a shipment of rugs due to arrive next week. I went downstairs, crossed the yard, and entered Ali and Hassan's living quarters by the loquat tree. I lifted Hassan's mattress and planted my new watch and a handful of Afghani bills under it.
I waited another thirty minutes. Then I knocked on Baba's door and told what I hoped would be the last in a long line of shameful lies.

THROUGH MY BEDROOM WINDOW, I watched Ali and Hassan push the wheelbarrows loaded with meat, _naan_, fruit, and vegetables up the driveway. I saw Baba emerge from the house and walk up to Ali. Their mouths moved over words I couldn't hear. Baba pointed to the house and Ali nodded. They separated. Baba came back to the house; Ali followed Hassan to their hut.
A few moments later, Baba knocked on my door. "Come to my office,?he said. "We're all going to sit down and settle this thing.?
I went to Baba's study, sat in one of the leather sofas. It was thirty minutes or more before Hassan and Ali joined us.

THEY'D BOTH BEEN CRYING; I could tell from their red, puffed up eyes. They stood before Baba, hand in hand, and I wondered how and when I'd become capable of causing this kind of pain.
Baba came right out and asked. "Did you steal that money? Did you steal Amir's watch, Hassan??
Hassan's reply was a single word, delivered in a thin, raspy voice: "Yes.?
I flinched, like I'd been slapped. My heart sank and I almost blurted out the truth. Then I understood: This was Hassan's final sacrifice for me. If he'd said no, Baba would have believed him because we all knew Hassan never lied. And if Baba believed him, then I'd be the accused; I would have to explain and I would be revealed for what I really was. Baba would never, ever forgive me. And that led to another understanding: Hassan knew He knew I'd seen everything in that alley, that I'd stood there and done nothing. He knew I had betrayed him and yet he was rescuing me once again, maybe for the last time. I loved him in that moment, loved him more than I'd ever loved anyone, and I wanted to tell them all that I was the snake in the grass, the monster in the lake. I wasn't worthy of this sacrifice; I was a liar, a cheat, and a thief. And I would have told, except that a part of me was glad. Glad that this would all be over with soon. Baba would dismiss them, there would be some pain, but life would move on. I wanted that, to move on, to forget, to start with a clean slate. I wanted to be able to breathe again.
Except Baba stunned me by saying, "I forgive you.?
Forgive? But theft was the one unforgivable sin, the common denominator of all sins. When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. There is no act more wretched than stealing. Hadn't Baba sat me on his lap and said those words to me? Then how could he just forgive Hassan? And if Baba could forgive that, then why couldn't he forgive me for not being the son he'd always wanted? Why--"We are leaving, Agha sahib,?Ali said.
"What??Baba said, the color draining from his face.
"We can't live here anymore,?Ali said.
"But I forgive him, Ali, didn't you hear??said Baba.
"life here is impossible for us now, Agha sahib. We're leaving.?Ali drew Hassan to him, curled his arm around his son's shoulder. It was a protective gesture and I knew whom Ali was protecting him from. Ali glanced my way and in his cold, unforgiving look, I saw that Hassan had told him. He had told him everything, about what Assef and his friends had done to him, about the kite, about me. Strangely, I was glad that someone knew me for who I really was; I was tired of pretending.
"I don't care about the money or the watch,?Baba said, his arms open, palms up. "I don't understand why you're doing this... what do you mean ‘impossible??
"I'm sorry, Agha sahib, but our bags are already packed. We have made our decision.?
Baba stood up, a sheen of grief across his face. "Ali, haven't I provided well for you? Haven't I been good to you and Hassan? You're the brother I never had, Ali, you know that. Please don't do this.?
"Don't make this even more difficult than it already is, Agha sahib,?Ali said. His mouth twitched and, for a moment, I thought I saw a grimace. That was when I understood the depth of the pain I had caused, the blackness of the grief I had brought onto everyone, that not even Ali's paralyzed face could mask his sorrow. I forced myself to look at Hassan, but his head was downcast, his shoulders slumped, his finger twirling a loose string on the hem of his shirt.
Baba was pleading now. "At least tell me why. I need to know!?
Ali didn't tell Baba, just as he didn't protest when Hassan confessed to the stealing. I'll never really know why, but I could imagine the two of them in that dim little hut, weeping, Hassan pleading him not to give me away. But I couldn't imagine the restraint it must have taken Ali to keep that promise.
"Will you drive us to the bus station??
"I forbid you to do this!?Baba bellowed. "Do you hear me? I forbid you!?
"Respectfully, you can't forbid me anything, Agha sahib,?Ali said. "We don't work for you anymore.?
"Where will you go??Baba asked. His voice was breaking.
"Hazarajat.?
"To your cousin??
"Yes. Will you take us to the bus station, Agha sahib??
Then I saw Baba do something I had never seen him do before:
He cried. It scared me a little, seeing a grown man sob. Fathers weren't supposed to cry. "Please,?Baba was saying, but Ali had already turned to the door, Hassan trailing him. I'll never forget the way Baba said that, the pain in his plea, the fear.

IN KABUL, it rarely rained in the summer. Blue skies stood tall and far, the sun like a branding iron searing the back of your neck. Creeks where Hassan and I skipped stones all spring turned dry, and rickshaws stirred dust when they sputtered by. People went to mosques for their ten raka'ts of noontime prayer and then retreated to whatever shade they could find to nap in, waiting for the cool of early evening. Summer meant long school days sweating in tightly packed, poorly ventilated classrooms learning to recite ayats from the Koran, struggling with those tongue-twisting, exotic Arabic words. It meant catching flies in your palm while the mullah droned on and a hot breeze brought with it the smell of shit from the outhouse across the schoolyard, churning dust around the lone rickety basketball hoop.
But it rained the afternoon Baba took Ali and Hassan to the bus station. Thunderheads rolled in, painted the sky iron gray. Within minutes, sheets of rain were sweeping in, the steady hiss of falling water swelling in my ears.
Baba had offered to drive them to Bamiyan himself, but Ali refused. Through the blurry, rain-soaked window of my bedroom, I watched Ali haul the lone suitcase carrying all of their belongings to Baba's car idling outside the gates. Hassan lugged his mattress, rolled tightly and tied with a rope, on his back. He'd left all of his toys behind in the empty shack--I discovered them the next day, piled in a corner just like the birthday presents in my room.
Slithering beads of rain sluiced down my window. I saw Baba slam the trunk shut. Already drenched, he walked to the driver's side. Leaned in and said something to Ali in the backseat, perhaps one last-ditch effort to change his mind. They talked that way awhile, Baba getting soaked, stooping, one arm on the roof of the car. But when he straightened, I saw in his slumping shoulders that the life I had known since I'd been born was over. Baba slid in. The headlights came on and cut twin funnels of light in the rain. If this were one of the Hindi movies Hassan and I used to watch, this was the part where I'd run outside, my bare feet splashing rainwater. I'd chase the car, screaming for it to stop. I'd pull Hassan out of the backseat and tell him I was sorry, so sorry, my tears mixing with rainwater. We'd hug in the downpour. But this was no Hindi movie. I was sorry, but I didn't cry and I didn't chase the car. I watched Baba's car pull away from the curb, taking with it the person whose first spoken word had been my name. I caught one final blurry glimpse of Hassan slumped in the back seat before Baba turned left at the street corner where we'd played marbles so many times.
I stepped back and all I saw was rain through windowpanes that looked like melting silver.

第九章
隔日清早，我坐在房间中间，拆开一个又一个礼品盒子。我不知道自己为何如此费劲，因为我总是兴味索然地看上一眼，就将礼物丢到屋角去。它们在那边积成一堆：宝丽莱相机，变频收音机，精巧的电动列车组合玩具——还有几个装着现金的信封。我知道自己永远不会花那些钱，不会听那个收音机，而那辆电动列车也不会在我房间中爬上它的轨道。
我不想要这些东西——这些全都是血腥钱；而且，若非我赢得风筝大赛，爸爸根本就不会替我举办那么一场宴会。        
爸爸给了我两件礼物。一辆崭新的施温·斯丁格雷（Schwinn Stingray，美国著名高档自行车品牌。），自行车之王，毫无疑问会让临近的小孩垂涎三尺，喀布尔拥有新斯丁格雷的孩子寥寥无几，如今我也跻身其中了。它的手把高高升起，握柄由黑色橡胶制成，还有个蜚声久远的香蕉型车座，轮辐是金色的，钢做的车身是红色的，赭红色，像鲜血那样。
换成别的孩子，恐怕会立即跳上去，骑着它招摇过市。几个月前的我也许会这么做。    
“你喜欢吗？”爸爸斜倚在我房间门口问。我露出温顺的笑容，匆匆说了声“谢谢”。
我多希望我能多说几句话。    
“我们可以去骑骑。”爸爸说。他在邀请我，不过并非真心实意。    
“再说吧，我有点累了。”    
“好的。”爸爸说。    
“爸爸？”    
“怎么？”    
“谢谢你的烟花。”我说。我在感谢他，不过并非真心实意。    
“好好休息吧。”爸爸说，朝他房间走去。    
爸爸给我的另一件礼物——他甚至不愿意等我打开它——是手表。表面是蓝色的，金色的指针呈闪电状。我甚至都没试着戴一下，就将其扔到角落那堆玩具中去。惟一没有被扔到那堆东西里去的礼物是拉辛汗的皮面笔记本，只有它不像是血腥钱。    
我坐在自己的床沿，双手打开笔记本，想着拉辛汗提起荷麦拉的故事，被他父亲逐走是她最好的下场。她会受苦的。好比霍玛勇叔叔的投影机被同一面幻灯片卡住，总有个画面在我脑中挥之不去：哈桑，他低着头，端饮料服侍阿塞夫和瓦里。兴许那是最好的结局，既可减少他的伤痛，也可缓和我的苦楚。不管怎样，事情变得清楚起来：我们有一个必须离开。    
那天午后，我第一次，也是最后一次骑上那辆施温自行车。我绕着那个街区骑了好几圈，然后回家。我骑上那条车道，通向后院，哈桑和阿里正在那儿打扫昨夜宴会留下的一片狼藉。院子里到处是纸杯、揉成一团的纸巾，还有空空如也的汽水瓶。阿里正把椅子折叠起来，放到墙边去。他看见我，招招手。    
“你好，阿里。”我挥着手说。    
他举起一只手指，让我稍等，接着走进他住那间屋子。片刻之后，他手里拿着某些东西走出来。“昨晚我和哈桑找不到机会把这份礼物给你，”他说着交给我一个盒子，“它太普通，配不上你，阿米尔少爷。不过我们还是希望你喜欢它。生日快乐。”    
我喉咙一哽。“谢谢你，阿里。”我说。我宁愿他们什么也没给我买。我打开盒子，看到一本崭新的《沙纳玛》，硬皮的，每页的下方附有精美的彩色插图。这张是菲兰吉凝望她刚出世的儿子凯寇斯劳；那张是阿佛拉西雅手执利剑，胯骑骏马，领军前进。当然还有罗斯坦给他儿子，勇士索拉博以致命一击。“真漂亮。”我说。    
“哈桑说你那本又旧又破，还掉了一些书页。”阿里说，“这本书里面全部图画都是用钢笔和墨水手绘的。”他骄傲地补充说，望着这本他和他的儿子都看不懂的书。    
“它很可爱。”我说。确实很可爱。甚至也不便宜，我怀疑。我想告诉阿里，书没有配不上我，是我配不上他们的礼物。我重新跳上那辆自行车。“替我谢谢哈桑。”我说。    
我终究将这本书扔在屋角那堆礼物上面。可是我的眼睛总是忍不住看向它，所以我将它埋在下面。那夜睡觉之前，我问爸爸有没有看到我的新手表。      
翌日清早，我在房间里等着阿里清理完厨房用过早餐的桌子。等着他把盘碗洗好，把灶台抹净。我倚窗等着，直到望见阿里和哈桑推着那辆空的独轮车，到市场去购买杂货。    
然后，我从那堆礼物中拣起数个装着钞票的信封和那个手表，蹑手蹑脚走出去。路过爸爸书房时，我停下来听听动静。整个早上他都在那儿打电话，现在他正跟某人说话，有一批地毯预计下星期到达。我走下楼梯，穿过院子，从枇杷树后进入阿里和哈桑的房间。
我掀起哈桑的毛毯，将新手表和一把阿富汗尼钞票塞在下面。    
我又等了半个小时，然后敲敲爸爸的房门，说了那个谎——我希望这是一长串可耻的谎话中最后一个。      
透过卧房的窗户，我看见阿里和哈桑推着独轮车，载满牛肉、馕饼、水果、蔬菜，推上车道。我看见爸爸从屋子里出现，朝阿里走过去。他们的嘴巴说着我听不见的话，爸爸指了指屋子，阿里点点头。他们分开。爸爸走回屋子，阿里随着哈桑走进他们的斗室。    
隔了几分钟，爸爸敲敲我的房门。“到我的办公室来，”他说，“我们得坐下来，把这件事处理好。”    
我走到爸爸的书房，坐在一只皮沙发上。约莫过了三十分钟，哈桑和阿里也来了。      
他们双眼红肿，我敢肯定他们一定哭过。他们手拉手站在爸爸面前，而我则寻思自己究竟在什么时候具有造成这种痛苦的能力。    
爸爸开门见山，问道：“钱是你偷的吗？你偷了阿米尔的手表吗，哈桑？”    
哈桑的回答简单得只有一个字，以他嘶哑孱弱的声音说：“是。”    
我身体紧缩，好似被人扇了个耳光。我的心一沉，真话差点脱口而出。我随即明白：这是哈桑最后一次为我牺牲。如果他说“不是”，爸爸肯定相信，因为我们都知道哈桑从来不骗人。若爸爸相信他，那么矛头就转向我了，我不得不辩解，我的真面目终究会被看穿，
爸爸将永远永远不会原谅我。这让我明白了另外的事情：哈桑知道。他知道我看到了小巷里面的一切，知道我站在那儿，袖手旁观。他明知我背叛了他，然而还是再次救了我，也许是最后一次。那一刻我爱上了他，爱他胜过爱任何人，我只想告诉他们，我就是草丛里面的毒蛇，湖底的鬼怪。我不配他作出的牺牲，我是撒谎蛋，我是骗子，我是小偷。我几乎就要说出来，若非心里隐隐有高兴的念头。高兴是因为这一切很快就要终结了，爸爸会赶走他们，也许会有些痛苦，但生活会继续。那是我所想要的，要继续生活，要遗忘，要将过去一笔勾销，从头来过。我想要能重新呼吸。  
然而爸爸说出了让我震惊的话：“我原谅你。”    
原谅？可是盗窃是不能被原谅的罪行啊，是所有罪行的原型啊。当你杀害一个人，你偷走一条性命，你偷走他妻子身为人妇的权利，夺走他子女的父亲。当你说谎，你偷走别人知道真相的权利。当你诈骗，你偷走公平的权利。没有比盗窃更十恶不赦的事情了。难道爸爸没有将我抱在膝盖上，对我说出这番话吗？那么他对哈桑怎么可以只是原谅了事？而且，如果爸爸肯原谅这样的事情，那么他为何不肯原谅我，仅仅是因为我没有成为他所期许的儿子？为什么……    
“我们要走了，老爷。”阿里说。    
“什么？”爸爸脸色大变。    
“我们没法在这里生活下去了。”阿里说。    
“可是我原谅他了，阿里，你没听到吗？”爸爸说。    
“我们不可能在这里过日子了，老爷。我们要走了。”阿里把哈桑拉到身旁，伸臂环住他儿子的肩膀。这是个保护的动作，我知道阿里对哈桑的保护是在抵御什么人的伤害。阿里朝我瞟来，带着冷冷的、不可谅解的眼神，我明白哈桑告诉他了。他把一切都告诉他了，关于阿塞夫和他的朋友对他所做的事情，关于那只风筝，关于我。奇怪的是，我很高兴终于有人识破我的真面目，我装得太累了。    
“我不在乎那些钱或者那个手表。”爸爸说，他手掌朝上，张开双臂，“我不知道你为什么这样做……你说‘不可能’是什么意思？”    
“很抱歉，老爷。可是我们的行李已经收拾好了，我们已经决定了。”    
爸爸站起身来，悲伤的神情溢于言表:“阿里，我给你的还不够多吗？我对你和哈桑不好吗？我没有兄弟，你就是我的兄弟，阿里，你知道的。请别这样做。”    
“我们已经很为难了，别让事情变得更难，老爷。”阿里说。他嘴巴抽搐，我看见了他痛楚的表情，正是那个时候，我才明白自己引起的痛苦有多深，才明白我给大家带来的悲伤有多浓，才明白甚至连阿里那张麻痹的脸也无法掩饰他的哀愁。我强迫自己看看哈桑，但他低着头，肩膀松垮，手指缠绕着衬衫下摆一根松开的线。    
现在爸爸哀求着：“告诉我为什么，我得知道！”    
阿里没有告诉爸爸，一如哈桑承认偷窃，没有丝毫抗辩。我永远不会知道那究竟是为什么，但我能够想像，他们两个在那间昏暗的斗室里面，抹泪哭泣，哈桑求他别揭发我。
但我想像不出，是什么样的自制力才会让阿里缄口不言。    
“你可以送我们去汽车站吗？”    
“我不许你这么做！”爸爸大喊，“你听到了吗？我不许你这么做！”    
“尊敬的老爷，你不能禁止我任何事情了，”阿里说，“我们不再为你工作了。”    
“你们要去哪儿？”爸爸问，他的声音颤抖着。    
“哈扎拉贾特。”    
“去你表亲家？”    
“是的，你可以送我们去汽车站吗，老爷？”    
接着我看到爸爸做了我之前从未见过的事情：号啕大哭。见到大人哭泣，我被吓了一跳。我从未想到爸爸也会哭。“求求你。”爸爸说。可是阿里已经走到门口，哈桑跟在他后面。我永远不会忘记爸爸说出那话的神情，那哀求中透露的痛苦，还有恐惧。      
喀布尔的夏天罕得下雨，天空一碧如洗，阳光像烙铁般灼痛后颈。整个春天我和哈桑在溪流打水漂，到得夏天它们也干涸了。黄包车嗒嗒走过，扬起阵阵灰尘。午间祈祷时分，人们到清真寺去行十次“晌礼”，跟着随便找个荫凉的地方躲进去，等待傍晚的凉意。夏天意味着漫长的学校生活，坐在密不透风的拥挤教室里面，浑身大汗地学着背诵《可兰经》的经文，和那些饶舌而奇怪的阿拉伯单词作斗争；夏天意味着听毛拉念念有词，用手掌拍死苍蝇；意味着一阵和风吹过，带来操场那边厕所的粪便气味，在那形影相吊的歪斜篮球架旁边吹起尘雾。    
但爸爸送阿里和哈桑去车站那天下午，天下雨了。雷轰电闪，天空灰沉沉的。顷刻之间，大雨倾盆而至，哗哗的雨声在我耳边回荡。    
爸爸本来要亲自送他们到巴米扬，但阿里拒绝了。透过我的卧房那扇被雨水湿透的模糊窗户，我看见阿里拖着个孤零零的箱子，里面装着他们全副身家，走向爸爸停在大门外的轿车。哈桑的毯子紧紧卷起来，用绳子系住，背在他身后。他把所有的玩具都留在那间四壁萧然的斗室了，隔天我发现它们堆在屋角，如同我房间里面的生日礼物。    
雨珠刷刷流下我的窗户。我看见爸爸将行李厢的门摔上。他浑身湿透，走向驾驶座那边，斜倚着身子，向后座的阿里说些什么，也许是作最后的努力，以便让他回心转意。他们那样交谈了片刻，爸爸身上湿淋淋的，弯下腰，一只手放在轿车的顶篷上。但当他站起身来，我从他松垮的肩膀看出，我与生俱来的那种熟悉的生活已经一去不返了。爸爸上车，车前灯亮起，在雨水中照出两道灯光。如果这是哈桑跟我过去常看的印度电影，在这个时候，我应该跑出去，赤裸的双脚溅起雨水。我应该追逐着轿车，高声叫喊，让它停下来。
我应该把哈桑从后座拉出来，告诉他我很抱歉，非常抱歉，我的眼泪会跟雨水混在一起。我们会在如注大雨中拥抱。可这不是印度电影。我很抱歉，但我不会哭喊，不会追逐那辆轿车。我看着爸爸的轿车驶离路边，带走那个人，那个平生说出的第一个字是我名字的人。
我最后一次模糊地瞥见哈桑，他瘫坐在后座，接着爸爸转过街角，那个我们曾无数次玩弹珠的地方。    
我退后，眼里只见到玻璃窗外的雨水，看上去好像熔化的白银。  
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Chapter 10
_March 1981_
A young woman sat across from us. She was dressed in an olive green dress with a black shawl wrapped tightly around her face against the night chill. She burst into prayer every time the truck jerked or stumbled into a pothole, her "Bismillah!?peaking with each of the truck's shudders and jolts. Her husband, a burly man in baggy pants and sky blue turban, cradled an infant in one arm and thumbed prayer beads with his free hand. His lips moved in silent prayer. There were others, in all about a dozen, including Baba and me, sitting with our suitcases between our legs, cramped with these strangers in the tarpaulin-covered cab of an old Russian truck.
My innards had been roiling since we'd left Kabul just after two in the morning. Baba never said so, but I knew he saw my car sickness as yet another of my array of weakness--I saw it on his embarrassed face the couple of times my stomach had clenched so badly I had moaned. When the burly guy with the beads--the praying woman's husband--asked if I was going to get sick, I said I might. Baba looked away. The man lifted his corner of the tarpaulin cover and rapped on the driver's window, asked him to stop. But the driver, Karim, a scrawny dark-skinned man with hawk-boned features and a pencil-thin mustache, shook his head.
"We are too close to Kabul,?he shot back. "Tell him to have a strong stomach.?
Baba grumbled something under his breath. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, but suddenly I was salivating, the back of my throat tasting bile. I turned around, lifted the tarpaulin, and threw up over the side of the moving truck. Behind me, Baba was apologizing to the other passengers. As if car sickness was a crime. As if you weren't supposed to get sick when you were eighteen. I threw up two more times before Karim agreed to stop, mostly so I wouldn't stink up his vehicle, the instrument of his livelihood. Karim was a people smuggler--it was a pretty lucrative Business then, driving people out of Shorawi-occupied Kabul to the relative safety of Pakistan. He was taking us to Jalalabad, about 170 kilometers southeast of Kabul, where his brother, Toor, who had a bigger truck with a second convoy of refugees, was waiting to drive us across the Khyber Pass and into Peshawar.
We were a few kilometers west of Mahipar Falls when Karim pulled to the side of the road. Mahipar--which means "Flying Fish?-was a high summit with a precipitous drop overlooking the hydro plant the Germans had built for Afghanistan back in 1967. Baba and I had driven over the summit countless times on our way to Jalalabad, the city of cypress trees and sugarcane fields where Afghans vacationed in the winter.
I hopped down the back of the truck and lurched to the dusty embankment on the side of the road. My mouth filled with saliva, a sign of the retching that was yet to come. I stumbled to the edge of the cliff overlooking the deep valley that was shrouded in dark ness. I stooped, hands on my kneecaps, and waited for the bile. Somewhere, a branch snapped, an owl hooted. The wind, soft and cold, clicked through tree branches and stirred the bushes that sprinkled the slope. And from below, the faint sound of water tumbling through the valley.
Standing on the shoulder of the road, I thought of the way we'd left the house where I'd lived my entire life, as if we were going out for a bite: dishes smeared with kofta piled in the kitchen sink; laundry in the wicker basket in the foyer; beds unmade; Baba's Business suits hanging in the closet. Tapestries still hung on the walls of the living room and my mother's books still crowded the shelves in Baba's study. The signs of our elopement were subtle: My parents?wedding picture was gone, as was the grainy photograph of my grandfather and King Nader Shah standing over the dead deer. A few items of clothing were missing from the closets. The leather-bound notebook Rahim Khan had given me five years earlier was gone.
In the morning, Jalaluddin--our seventh servant in five years--would probably think we'd gone out for a stroll or a drive. We hadn't told him. You couldn't trust anyone in Kabul any more--for a fee or under threat, people told on each other, neighbor on neighbor, child on parent, brother on brother, servant on master, friend on friend. I thought of the singer Ahmad Zahir, who had played the accordion at my thirteenth birthday. He had gone for a drive with some friends, and someone had later found his body on the side of the road, a bullet in the back of his head. The rafiqs, the comrades, were everywhere and they'd split Kabul into two groups: those who eavesdropped and those who didn't. The tricky part was that no one knew who belonged to which. A casual remark to the tailor while getting fitted for a suit might land you in the dungeons of Poleh-charkhi. Complain about the curfew to the butcher and next thing you knew, you were behind bars staring at the muzzle end of a Kalashnikov. Even at the dinner table, in the privacy of their Home, people had to speak in a calculated manner--the rafiqs were in the classrooms too; they'd taught children to spy on their parents, what to listen for, whom to tell.
What was I doing on this road in the middle of the night? I should have been in bed, under my blanket, a book with dog-eared pages at my side. This had to be a dream. Had to be. Tomorrow morning, I'd wake up, peek out the window: No grim-faced Russian soldiers patrolling the sidewalks, no tanks rolling up and down the streets of my city, their turrets swiveling like accusing fingers, no rubble, no curfews, no Russian Army Personnel Carriers weaving through the bazaars. Then, behind me, I heard Baba and Karim discussing the arrangement in Jalalabad over a smoke. Karim was reassuring Baba that his brother had a big truck of "excellent and first-class quality,?and that the trek to Peshawar would be very routine. "He could take you there with his eyes closed,?Karim said. I overheard him telling Baba how he and his brother knew the Russian and Afghan soldiers who worked the checkpoints, how they had set up a "mutually profitable?arrangement. This was no dream. As if on cue, a MiG suddenly screamed past overhead. Karim tossed his cigarette and produced a hand gun from his waist. Pointing it to the sky and making shooting gestures, he spat and cursed at the MiG.
I wondered where Hassan was. Then the inevitable. I vomited on a tangle of weeds, my retching and groaning drowned in the deafening roar of the MiG. WE PULLED UP to the checkpoint at Mahipar twenty minutes later. Our driver let the truck idle and hopped down to greet the approaching voices. Feet crushed gravel. Words were exchanged, brief and hushed. A flick of a lighter. "Spasseba.?
Another flick of the lighter. Someone laughed, a shrill cackling sound that made me jump. Baba's hand clamped down on my thigh. The laughing man broke into song, a slurring, off-key rendition of an old Afghan wedding song, delivered with a thick Russian accent:
Ahesta boro, Mah-e-man, ahesta boro.
Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly.
Boot heels clicked on asphalt. Someone flung open the tarpaulin hanging over the back of the truck, and three faces peered in. One was Karim, the other two were soldiers, one Afghan, the other a grinning Russian, face like a bulldog's, cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. Behind them, a bone-colored moon hung in the sky. Karim and the Afghan soldier had a brief exchange in Pashtu. I caught a little of it--something about Toor and his bad luck. The Russian soldier thrust his face into the rear of the truck. He was humming the wedding song and drumming his finger on the edge of the tailgate. Even in the dim light of the moon, I saw the glazed look in his eyes as they skipped from passenger to passenger. Despite the cold, sweat streamed from his brow. His eyes settled on the young woman wearing the black shawl. He spoke in Russian to Karim without taking his eyes off her. Karim gave a curt reply in Russian, which the soldier returned with an even curter retort. The Afghan soldier said some thing too, in a low, reasoning voice. But the Russian soldier shouted something that made the other two flinch. I could feel Baba tightening up next to me. Karim cleared his throat, dropped his head. Said the soldier wanted a half hour with the lady in the back of the truck.
The young woman pulled the shawl down over her face. Burst into tears. The toddler sitting in her husband's lap started crying too. The husband's face had become as pale as the moon hovering above. He told Karim to ask "Mister Soldier Sahib?to show a little mercy, maybe he had a sister or a mother, maybe he had a wife too. The Russian listened to Karim and barked a series of words.
"It's his price for letting us pass,?Karim said. He couldn't bring himself to look the husband in the eye.
"But we've paid a fair price already. He's getting paid good money,?the husband said.
Karim and the Russian soldier spoke. "He says... he says every price has a tax.?
That was when Baba stood up. It was my turn to clamp a hand on his thigh, but Baba pried it loose, snatched his leg away. When he stood, he eclipsed the moonlight. "I want you to ask this man something,?Baba said. He said it to Karim, but looked directly at the Russian officer. "Ask him where his shame is.?
They spoke. "He says this is war. There is no shame in war.?
"Tell him he's wrong. War doesn't negate decency. It demands it, even more than in times of peace.?
Do you have to always be the hero? I thought, my heart fluttering. Can't you just let it go for once? But I knew he couldn't--it wasn't in his nature. The problem was, his nature was going to get us all killed.
The Russian soldier said something to Karim, a smile creasing his lips. "Agha sahib,?Karim said, "these Roussi are not like us. They understand nothing about respect, honor.?
"What did he say??
"He says he'll enjoy putting a bullet in you almost as much as...?Karim trailed off, but nodded his head toward the young woman who had caught the guard's eye. The soldier flicked his unfinished cigarette and unholstered his handgun. So this is where Baba dies, I thought. This is how it's going to happen. In my head, I said a prayer I had learned in school.
"Tell him I'll take a thousand of his bullets before I let this indecency take place,?Baba said. My mind flashed to that winter day six years ago. Me, peering around the corner in the alley. Kamal and Wali holding Hassan down. Assef's buttock muscles clenching and unclenching, his hips thrusting back and forth. Some hero I had been, fretting about the kite. Sometimes, I too wondered if I was really Baba's son.
The bulldog-faced Russian raised his gun.
"Baba, sit down please,?I said, tugging at his sleeve. "I think he really means to shoot you.?
Baba slapped my hand away. "Haven't I taught you anything??he snapped. He turned to the grinning soldier. "Tell him he'd better kill me good with that first shot. Because if I don't go down, I'm tearing him to pieces, goddamn his father!?
The Russian soldier's grin never faltered when he heard the translation. He clicked the safety on the gun. Pointed the barrel to Baba's chest. Heart pounding in my throat, I buried my face in my hands.
The gun roared.
It's done, then. I'm eighteen and alone. I have no one left in the world. Baba's dead and now I have to bury him. Where do I bury him? Where do I go after that?
But the whirlwind of half thoughts spinning in my head came to a halt when I cracked my eyelids, found Baba still standing. I saw a second Russian officer with the others. It was from the muzzle of his upturned gun that smoke swirled. The soldier who had meant to shoot Baba had already holstered his weapon. He was shuffling his feet. I had never felt more like crying and laughing at the same time.
The second Russian officer, gray-haired and heavyset, spoke to us in broken Farsi. He apologized for his comrade's behavior. "Russia sends them here to fight,?he said. "But they are just boys, and when they come here, they find the pleasure of drug.?He gave the younger officer the rueful look of a father exasperated with his misbehaving son. "This one is attached to drug now. I try to stop him...?He waved us off.
Moments later, we were pulling away. I heard a laugh and then the first soldier's voice, slurry and off-key, singing the old wedding song.

WE RODE IN SILENCE for about fifteen minutes before the young woman's husband suddenly stood and did something I'd seen many others do before him: He kissed Baba's hand.

TOOR'S BAD LUCK. Hadn't I overheard that in a snippet of conversation back at Mahipar?
We rolled into Jalalabad about an hour before sunrise. Karim ushered us quickly from the truck into a one-story house at the intersection of two dirt roads lined with flat one-story Homes, acacia trees, and closed shops. I pulled the collar of my coat against the chill as we hurried into the house, dragging our belongings. For some reason, I remember smelling radishes.
Once he had us inside the dimly lit, bare living room, Karim locked the front door, pulled the tattered sheets that passed for curtains. Then he took a deep breath and gave us the bad news:
His brother Toor couldn't take us to Peshawar. It seemed his truck's engine had blown the week before and Toor was still waiting for parts.
"Last week??someone exclaimed. "If you knew this, why did you bring us here??
I caught a flurry of movement out of the corner of my eye. Then a blur of something zipping across the room, and the next thing I saw was Karim slammed against the wall, his sandaled feet dangling two feet above the floor. Wrapped around his neck were Baba's hands.
"I'll tell you why,?Baba snapped. "Because he got paid for his leg of the trip. That's all he cared about.?Karim was making guttural choking sounds. Spittle dripped from the corner of his mouth.
"Put him down, Agha, you're killing him,?one of the passengers said.
"It's what I intend to do,?Baba said. What none of the others in the room knew was that Baba wasn't joking. Karim was turning red and kicking his legs. Baba kept choking him until the young mother, the one the Russian officer had fancied, begged him to stop.
Karim collapsed on the floor and rolled around fighting for air when Baba finally let go. The room fell silent. Less than two hours ago, Baba had volunteered to take a bullet for the honor of a woman he didn't even know. Now he'd almost choked a man to death, would have done it cheerfully if not for the pleas of that same woman.
Something thumped next door. No, not next door, below.
"What's that??someone asked.
"The others,?Karim panted between labored breaths. "In the basement.?
"How long have they been waiting??Baba said, standing over Karim.
"Two weeks.?
"I thought you said the truck broke down last week.?
Karim rubbed his throat. "It might have been the week before,?he croaked.
"How long??
"What??
"How long for the parts??Baba roared. Karim flinched but said nothing. I was glad for the darkness. I didn't want to see the murderous look on Baba's face.

THE STENCH OF SOMETHING DANK, like mildew, bludgeoned my nostrils the moment Karim opened the door that led down the creaky steps to the basement. We descended in single file. The steps groaned under Baba's weight. Standing in the cold basement, I felt watched by eyes blinking in the dark. I saw shapes huddled around the room, their silhouettes thrown on the walls by the dim light of a pair of kerosene lamps. A low murmur buzzed through the basement, beneath it the sound of water drops trickling somewhere, and, something else, a scratching sound.
Baba sighed behind me and dropped the bags.
Karim told us it should be a matter of a couple of short days before the truck was fixed. Then we'd be on our way to Peshawar. On to freedom. On to safety.
The basement was our Home for the next week and, by the third night, I discovered the source of the scratching sounds. Rats.

ONCE MY EYES ADJUSTED to the dark, I counted about thirty refugees in that basement. We sat shoulder to shoulder along the walls, ate crackers, bread with dates, apples. That first night, all the men prayed together. One of the refugees asked Baba why he wasn't joining them. "God is going to save us all. Why don't you pray to him??
Baba snorted a pinch of his snuff. Stretched his legs. "What'll save us is eight cylinders and a good carburetor.?That silenced the rest of them for good about the matter of God.
It was later that first night when I discovered that two of the people hiding with us were Kamal and his father. That was shocking enough, seeing Kamal sitting in the basement just a few feet away from me. But when he and his father came over to our side of the room and I saw Kamal's face, really saw it...
He had withered--there was simply no other word for it. His eyes gave me a hollow look and no recognition at all registered in them. His shoulders hunched and his cheeks sagged like they were too tired to cling to the bone beneath. His father, who'd owned a movie theater in Kabul, was telling Baba how, three months before, a stray bullet had struck his wife in the temple and killed her. Then he told Baba about Kamal. I caught only snippets of it: Should have never let him go alone... always so handsome, you know... four of them... tried to fight... God... took him... bleeding down there... his pants... doesn't talk any more... just stares...

THERE WOULD BE NO TRUCK, Karim told us after we'd spent a week in the rat-infested basement. The truck was beyond repair.
"There is another option,?Karim said, his voice rising amid the groans. His cousin owned a fuel truck and had smuggled people with it a couple of times. He was here in Jalalabad and could probably fit us all.
Everyone except an elderly couple decided to go.
We left that night, Baba and I, Kamal and his father, the others. Karim and his cousin, a square-faced balding man named Aziz, helped us get into the fuel tank. One by one, we mounted the idling truck's rear deck, climbed the rear access ladder, and slid down into the tank. I remember Baba climbed halfway up the ladder, hopped back down and fished the snuffbox from his pocket. He emptied the box and picked up a handful of dirt from the middle of the unpaved road. He kissed the dirt. Poured it into the box. Stowed the box in his breast pocket, next to his heart.
PANIC.
You open your mouth. Open it so wide your jaws creak. You order your lungs to draw air, NOW, you need air, need it NOW But your airways ignore you. They collapse, tighten, squeeze, and suddenly you're breathing through a drinking straw. Your mouth closes and your lips purse and all you can manage is a strangled croak. Your hands wriggle and shake. Somewhere a dam has cracked open and a flood of cold sweat spills, drenches your body. You want to scream. You would if you could. But you have to breathe to scream.
Panic.
The basement had been dark. The fuel tank was pitch-black. I looked right, left, up, down, waved my hands before my eyes, didn't see so much as a hint of movement. I blinked, blinked again. Nothing at all. The air wasn't right, it was too thick, almost solid. Air wasn't supposed to be solid. I wanted to reach out with my hands, crush the air into little pieces, stuff them down my windpipe. And the stench of gasoline. My eyes stung from the fumes, like someone had peeled my lids back and rubbed a lemon on them. My nose caught fire with each breath. You could die in a place like this, I thought. A scream was coming. Coming, coming...
And then a small miracle. Baba tugged at my sleeve and some thing glowed green in the dark. Light! Baba's wristwatch. I kept my eyes glued to those fluorescent green hands. I was so afraid I'd lose them, I didn't dare blink.
Slowly I became aware of my surroundings. I heard groans and muttered prayers. I heard a baby cry, its mother's muted soothing. Someone retched. Someone else cursed the Shorawi. The truck bounced side to side, up and down. Heads banged against metal.
"Think of something good,?Baba said in my ear. "Something happy.?
Something good. Something happy. I let my mind wander. I let it come:
Friday afternoon in Paghman. An open field of grass speckled with mulberry trees in blossom. Hassan and I stand ankle-deep in untamed grass, I am tugging on the line, the spool spinning in Hassan's calloused hands, our eyes turned up to the kite in the sky. Not a word passes between us, not because we have nothing to say, but because we don't have to say anything--that's how it is between people who are each other's first memories, people who have fed from the same breast. A breeze stirs the grass and Hassan lets the spool roll. The kite spins, dips, steadies. Our twin shadows dance on the rippling grass. From somewhere over the low brick wall at the other end of the field, we hear chatter and laughter and the chirping of a water fountain. And music, some thing old and familiar, I think it's Ya Mowlah on rubab strings. Someone calls our names over the wall, says it's time for tea and cake.
I didn't remember what month that was, or what year even. I only knew the memory lived in me, a perfectly encapsulated morsel of a good past, a brushstroke of color on the gray, barren canvas that our lives had become.

THE REST OF THAT RIDE is scattered bits and pieces of memory that come and go, most of it sounds and smells: MiGs roaring past overhead; staccatos of gunfire; a donkey braying nearby; the jingling of bells and mewling of sheep; gravel crushed under the truck's tires; a baby wailing in the dark; the stench of gasoline, vomit, and shit.
What I remember next is the blinding light of early morning as I climbed out of the fuel tank. I remember turning my face up to the sky, squinting, breathing like the world was running out of air.
I lay on the side of the dirt road next to a rocky trench, looked up to the gray morning sky, thankful for air, thankful for light, thankful to be alive.
"We're in Pakistan, Amir,?Baba said. He was standing over me. "Karim says he will call for a bus to take us to Peshawar.?
I rolled onto my chest, still lying on the cool dirt, and saw our suitcases on either side of Baba's feet. Through the upside down V between his legs, I saw the truck idling on the side of the road, the other refugees climbing down the rear ladder. Beyond that, the dirt road unrolled through fields that were like leaden sheets under the gray sky and disappeared behind a line of bowl-shaped hills. Along the way, it passed a small village strung out atop a sun baked slope.
My eyes returned to our suitcases. They made me sad for Baba. After everything he'd built, planned, fought for, fretted over, dreamed of, this was the summation of his life: one disappointing son and two suitcases.
Someone was screaming. No, not screaming. Wailing. I saw the passengers huddled in a circle, heard their urgent voices. Someone said the word "fumes.?Someone else said it too. The wail turned into a throat-ripping screech.
Baba and I hurried to the pack of onlookers and pushed our way through them. Kamal's father was sitting cross-legged in the center of the circle, rocking back and forth, kissing his son's ashen face.
"He won't breathe! My boy won't breathe!?he was crying. Kamal's lifeless body lay on his father's lap. His right hand, uncurled and limp, bounced to the rhythm of his father's sobs. "My boy! He won't breathe! Allah, help him breathe!?
Baba knelt beside him and curled an arm around his shoulder. But Kamal's father shoved him away and lunged for Karim who was standing nearby with his cousin. What happened next was too fast and too short to be called a scuffle. Karim uttered a surprised cry and backpedaled. I saw an arm swing, a leg kick. A moment later, Kamal's father was standing with Karim's gun in his hand.
"Don't shoot me!?Karim cried.
But before any of us could say or do a thing, Kamal's father shoved the barrel in his own mouth. I'll never forget the echo of that blast. Or the flash of light and the spray of red.
I doubled over again and dry-heaved on the side of the road.

第十章    
1981年3 月    
有个年轻的妇女坐在我们对面。她穿着一身橄榄绿服装，黑色的披肩将面部包得严严实实，以抵御深夜的寒意。每逢卡车急刹或颠簸过路面的凹陷，她就会出声祈祷，每次汽车的高低起伏总伴随着她的“奉安拉之名”。她的丈夫身材矮壮，穿着破旧的裤子、天蓝色的长袍，一手抱着婴儿，空出来的那只手用拇指转动着念珠。他嘴唇开合，默默祈祷。同行的还有其他人，总共十来个，包括爸爸跟我，行李箱放在我们两腿之间，盘膝坐在被帆布包起来的后斗上，跟这些陌生人挤在一起，搭乘这辆破旧的俄国卡车。        
我们凌晨两点离开喀布尔，自那时起我的内脏就已经翻江倒海。虽然爸爸没有说什么，但我知道在他眼里，晕车是孱弱无能的表现——这可以从他的脸色看出来，有好几次，我的胃收缩得厉害，忍不住呻吟，他的表情很尴尬。那个拿着念珠的矮壮男人——在祈祷的那个妇女的丈夫——问我是不是要吐了，我说可能是。爸爸把头别开。那男人掀起帆布的一角，敲敲驾驶室的窗门，要求司机停下来。司机卡林是个黑瘦的汉子，一张老鹰般的脸上留着小胡子，他摇摇头。    
“我们离喀布尔太近了。”他大喊，“让他撑住。”    
爸爸低声咕哝了几句。我想告诉他我很抱歉，但刹那间我满嘴唾液，喉底尝到胆汁的苦味。我转过身，揭起帆布，在行进的卡车一边呕吐起来。在我身后，爸爸正向其他乘客赔不是，仿佛晕车是犯罪，仿佛人们到了十八岁就不应该晕车。我又吐了两次，卡林这才同意停车，大部分原因还是因为担心我弄脏他的车，他赖以谋生的工具。卡林是个蛇头，从被俄国人占领的喀布尔，将人们偷偷运到相对安全的巴基斯坦，这在当时可是日进斗金的生意。他把我们载往喀布尔西南170 公里外的贾拉拉巴特，他的堂兄图尔在那边接应，负责再送逃难的人一程，他有一辆更大的卡车，会载着我们通过开伯尔隘口（Kyber Pass，阿富汗通往巴基斯坦的重要隘口，长60公里。），去往白沙瓦（Peshawar ，巴基斯坦中部城市。）。    
卡林把车停在路旁，这时我们在玛希帕瀑布以西数公里的地方。玛希帕——它的意思是“飞翔的鱼儿”——是一处山峰，壁立千仞，俯览着下面 1967年德国人为阿富汗援建的水电站。数不清有多少次，爸爸跟我路过那座山峰，前往贾拉拉巴特，那个遍地柏树和甘蔗的城市是阿富汗人过冬的胜地。    
我从卡车后面跳下去，跌跌撞撞走到路边布满尘灰的护栏。我嘴里涨满了唾液，那是快要呕吐的征兆。我蹒跚着走近悬崖边，下面的深渊被黑暗吞噬了。我弯下腰，双手撑在膝盖上，做好呕吐的准备。在某个地方传来树枝劈啪作响的声音，还有猫头鹰的叫声。寒风微微拂动树枝，吹过山坡上的灌木丛。而下面，水流在山谷淌动，传来阵阵微弱的声音。    
我站在路肩上，想起我们如何离开家园，那个我生活了一辈子的地方。仿佛我们只是外出下馆子：厨房的洗碗盆堆放着沾有肉丸夹饼残渣的盘子，盛满衣物的柳条篮子摆在门廊，被褥还没叠好，衣橱里挂着爸爸做生意穿的套装。起居室的墙上仍挂着壁毯，我妈妈的图书仍拥挤地占据着爸爸书房里的架子。我们出逃的迹象很微妙：我父母的结婚照不见了，爷爷跟纳达尔国王站在死鹿之前合影的那张老照片杳然无踪。衣橱里少了几件衣服。五年前拉辛汗送我的那本皮面笔记本也消失了。    
早晨，贾拉鲁丁——五年来的第七个仆人——兴许会以为我们出去散步或者兜风。我们没有告诉他。在喀布尔，你再不能相信任何人——为了获得悬赏或者因为受到威胁，人们彼此告密：邻居告发邻居，儿童揭发父母，兄弟陷害兄弟，仆人背叛主人，朋友出卖朋友。我想起歌手艾哈迈德·查希尔，他在我 13岁生日那天弹奏手风琴。他和几个朋友开车去兜风，随后有人在路边发现他的尸体，有颗子弹射中他的后脑。那些人无所不在，他们将喀布尔人分成两派：告密的和没有告密的。最麻烦的是，没有人知道谁属于哪一派。裁缝给你量身时，你几句无心快语可能会让你身处波勒卡其区的黑牢。对卖肉的老板抱怨几句宵禁，你的下场很可能是在牢栏之后望着俄制步熗的熗管。甚至在吃晚饭的桌子上，在自家的屋子里，人们说话也得深思熟虑——教室里面也有这样的人，他们教小孩监视父母，该监听些什么，该向谁告发。    
我三更半夜在这路边干什么呢？我应当躺在床上，盖着毯子，身旁放着一本毛边的旧书。
这肯定是一场梦，肯定是。明天早晨，我会醒来，朝窗外望出去：人行道上没有那些阴沉
着脸的俄国士兵在巡逻；没有坦克在我的城市里面耀武扬威，它们的炮塔活像责难的手指
那样转动；没有断壁残垣，没有宵禁，没有俄国军队的运兵车在市场上迂回前进。这时，我听到爸爸和卡林在我身后讨论到了贾拉拉巴特的安排，持续了一根烟的时间。卡林一再向爸爸保证，他的兄弟有辆“很棒的、质量一流的”大卡车，到白沙瓦去可谓轻车熟路。“他闭上眼也能把你们送到那儿。”卡林说。我听见他跟爸爸说，他和他的兄弟认识把守关卡的俄国和阿富汗士兵，他们建立了一种“互惠互利”的关系。这不是梦。一架“米格”战斗机突然从头顶呼啸而过，仿佛在提醒这一切都是真的。卡林扔掉手里的香烟，从腰间掏出一把手熗，指向天空，做出射击的姿势，他朝那架米格吐口水，高声咒骂。    
我想知道哈桑在哪里。跟着，不可避免地，我对着杂草丛吐出来，我的呕吐声和呻吟声被米格震耳欲聋的轰鸣淹没了。      
过了二十分钟，我们停在玛希帕的检查站。司机没熄火，跳下车去问候走上前来的声音。鞋子踏上沙砾。短促的低声交谈。火机打火的声音。“谢谢。”有人用俄语说。    
又一声打火的火机声。有人大笑，一阵令人毛骨悚然的劈啪声让我跳起来。爸爸伸手按住我的大腿。发笑的那个男人哼起歌来，带着厚厚的俄国口音，含糊走调地唱着一首古老的阿富汗婚礼歌谣：      
慢慢走，我心爱的月亮，慢慢走。      
鞋子踏上柏油路。有人掀开悬挂在卡车后面的帆布，探进三张脸。一张是卡林，其他是两个士兵，一个阿富汗人，另外的是一个咧嘴而笑的俄国佬，脸庞像牛头犬，嘴巴叼着香烟。在他们身后，一轮明月高悬在空中。卡林和那个阿富汗士兵用普什图语谈了几句。
我听到一点——有关图尔和他的霉运。俄国士兵把头伸进卡车的后斗，他哼着那首婚礼歌谣，手指敲打着卡车的后挡板。虽然月色昏暗，我还是能看到他的炯炯目光，扫视过一个又一个的乘客。尽管天气寒冷，他的额头仍有汗珠渗出。他的眼光落在那个戴着黑色披肩的妇女身上，他眼睛死死盯着她，朝卡林说了几句俄语。卡林用俄语简略地回答。那士兵听了之后转过身，更简略地咆哮了一下。阿富汗士兵也开口说话，声音低沉，晓之以理。
但俄国士兵高声说了几句，他们两个畏缩了。我能感到身旁的爸爸变得紧张起来。卡林假咳几声，低下脑袋，他说俄国士兵想与那位女士单独在卡车后面相处半个钟头。    
那年轻的妇女拉下披肩，盖住脸，泪如泉涌。她丈夫膝盖上那个婴孩也哭喊起来。那个丈夫的脸色变得跟天上的月亮一样苍白，他跟卡林说，求求那个“士兵老爷”发发善心，也许他也有姐妹，也有母亲，也许他还有妻子。俄国佬听卡林说完，连珠炮般叫嚣了几句。    
“这是他放我们通过的代价，”卡林说，他不敢正视那丈夫的眼光。    
“但我们已经付出可观的报酬，他得到了一大笔钱。”丈夫说。    
卡林跟俄国士兵交谈。“他说……他说任何代价都有一点附加税费。”    
那当头，爸爸站起身。这回轮到我用手按住他的大腿了，可是爸爸将其抹开，拔起腿来，他站立的身影挡住了月光。“我要你跟这个家伙说几句，”爸爸说，他在跟卡林说话，但眼睛直望着那个俄国兵，“你问他的羞耻到哪里去了。”    
他们交谈。“他说这是战争。战争无所谓羞耻。”    
“跟他说他错了。战争不会使高尚的情操消失，人们甚至比和平时期更需要它。”    
你每次都得充好汉不可吗？我想，心怦怦跳。你就不能忍哪怕一次吗？但我知道他不会——忍气吞声不是他的本性。问题是，他的本性正要送我们上西天。    
俄国兵对卡林说了什么，嘴角露出一丝邪笑。“老爷，”卡林说，“这些俄国佬跟我们不同，他们不懂得尊重、荣誉是什么。”    
“他说什么？”    
“他说在你脑袋射颗子弹一定很爽，就像……”卡林说不下去，但朝那个被士兵看中的女人努努嘴。那士兵弹掉手里还没吸完的香烟，取下他的手熗。看来爸爸要死在这里了，我想，事情就会这么发生。在我的脑海里，我念了一段从课堂上学来的祈祷。    
“告诉他，我就算中了一千颗子弹，也不会让这龌龊下流的事情发生。”爸爸说。我的心思一闪，回到六年前那个冬天。我，在小巷的拐角处窥视。卡莫和瓦里把哈桑按在地上，阿塞夫臀部的肌肉收紧放松，他的屁股前后晃动。我算哪门子英雄？只担心风筝。有时我也怀疑自己究竟是不是爸爸的亲生儿子。    
脸庞像牛头犬的俄国兵举起他的熗。    
“爸爸，坐下吧，求求你，”我说，拉着他的衣袖，“他真的会朝你开熗。”    
爸爸将我的手打开。“我什么也没教过你吗？”他生气地说，转向那个一脸坏笑的士兵，“告诉他最好一熗就把我打死，因为如果我没有倒下，我会把他撕成碎片。操他妈的。”    
听完翻译，俄国兵狞笑依然。他打开保险栓，将熗口对准爸爸的胸膛。我的心快要跳出喉咙，用双手把脸掩住。    
熗声响起。    
完了，完了。我十八岁，孤身一人，在这世上举目无亲。爸爸死了，我得埋葬他。把他埋在哪里呢？埋完之后我该去哪里呢？  
但我睁开眼睛，看到爸爸仍站着，脑里这些盘旋的念头停止了。我看见又一个俄国兵，还有其他人。他的熗口朝天，冒出一阵烟雾。那个要射杀爸爸的士兵已经把他的武器收好，立正敬礼。我从未像此刻一样，又想笑又想哭。    
第二个俄国军官头发灰白，身材魁梧，用一口破法尔西语对我们说话。他为他手下的所作所为道歉，“俄国送他们来这里战斗，”他说，“但他们只是孩子，一来到这里，他们就迷上了毒品。”他恨恨地望着那个年轻的士兵，如同严父被儿子的行为不端激怒。“这个家伙现在药性发作。我会试试阻止他……”他挥手让我们离开。    
顷刻之后，我们的车开走了。我听到一声大笑，跟着传来第一个士兵的声音，含混而走调地唱着那古老的婚礼歌谣。      
我们在路上默默行进了十五分钟，那年轻妇女的丈夫突然站起来，做了一件在他之前我曾见到很多人做过的事情：他亲了爸爸的手。      
图尔的霉运。在玛希帕那边，我不是从短暂的交谈中听到过这句话吗？  
大约在太阳上山之前一个钟头，我们驶进了贾拉拉巴特。卡林匆匆将我们从卡车领进一座房子。那是单层的平房，位于两条土路的交叉处，路的两边是平房，还有没开门的商店，种着合欢树。我们拖着行李走进屋子里头，我拉起衣领，以抵御严寒。不知道为什么，我记得有萝卜的味道。    
我们刚进入那间昏暗且一无所有的房间，卡林就把前门锁上，拉上那代替窗帘的破布。
跟着他深深吸了一口气，告诉我们坏消息。他的兄弟图尔没法送我们去白沙瓦。上个星期，
他那卡车的发动机坏了，图尔还在等零件。    
“上星期？”有人叫道，“要是你知道这事情，为什么还把我们带到这里来？”    
我用眼角的余光瞥见一阵急遽的动作。随后有个模糊的身影穿过房间，接下来我看到的事情是，卡林猛然撞在墙上，爸爸的双手掐住他的脖子。    
“我来告诉你们为什么，”爸爸愤怒地说，“因为他要赚这一程的车费，他只在乎这个。”
卡林发出哽咽的声音，唾液从嘴角流出来。    
“把他放下来，老爷，你会杀了他的。”有个乘客说。    
“我正要这么做。”爸爸说。这个屋子里面其他人所不知道的是，爸爸并非在开玩笑。
卡林脸色涨红，双脚乱踢。爸爸仍掐着他，直到那个年轻的妈妈，被俄国兵看中那个，求他放手。    
爸爸终于放手，卡林瘫倒在地板上，翻滚喘气，房间安静下来。不到两个钟头之前，
为了一个素昧平生的女子的清白，爸爸甘愿吃一颗子弹。而如今，若非同一个女人的求情，他会毫不犹豫地将一个汉子掐死。    
隔壁传来一阵敲打的声音。不，不是隔壁，是地下。    
“那是什么？”有人问。    
“其他人，”卡林呼吸艰难地喘息着，“在地下室。”    
“他们等多久了？”爸爸说，眼睛盯着卡林。    
“两个星期。”    
“我记得你说过那辆卡车是上星期坏的。”    
卡林揉揉脖子，“应该是再上一个星期的事情。”    
“多久？”    
“什么？”    
“要过多久零件才会到？”爸爸咆哮了。卡林身子一缩，但哑口无言。我很高兴身边漆黑一片，我可不想看到爸爸杀气腾腾的凶相。      
卡林打开门，门后是通往地下室的破楼梯，一股像霉菌的潮湿臭味扑鼻而来。我们一个个下去，楼梯被爸爸压得吱嘎作响。站在寒冷的地下室里面，我感到黑暗中有很多双一眨一眨的眼睛在看着我们。我看见房间到处有人蜷缩着，两盏昏暗的煤油灯将他们的身影投射在墙上。地下室的人窃窃私语，除此之外，不知道从什么地方传来滴水的声音，还有刮擦声。    
爸爸在我身后叹了口气，把行李包扔下。    
卡林告诉我们，应该再过几天，卡车就可以修好了。那时我们便可前往白沙瓦，奔上那通往自由和安全的旅途。    
接下来那个星期，地下室就是我们的家；到了第三晚，我发现了刮擦声的来源：老鼠。      
待得眼睛适应了黑暗，我数出地下室里面约莫有三十个难民。我们肩挨着肩，倚墙而坐，吃着饼干、面包，配以椰枣和苹果。第一天夜里，所有的男人在一起祷告，当中有个问爸爸为什么不加入,“真主会拯救我们所有人，你怎么不向他祷告呢？”    
爸爸重重哼了一声，伸伸他的双腿。“能够救我们的是八个气缸和一个好的化油器。”
这句话让其他人说不出话来，再也不提真主的事。    
第一天夜里稍晚的时候，我发现卡莫和他父亲藏身在我们这群人之间。看到卡莫坐在地下室里面，距我只有数尺之遥，这太让我吃惊了。但当他和他的父亲走到我们这边来的时候，我看见了卡莫的脸，真的看见了……    
他枯萎了——显然没有其他词可以代替这个。他双眼空洞地看着我，丝毫没有认出我。
他耷拉着肩膀，脸颊凹陷，似乎已经厌倦了附在下面的骨头上。他的父亲在喀布尔有座电影院，正在跟爸爸诉苦，三个月前，他的妻子在庙里，被一颗流弹击中，当场毙命。然后他跟爸爸说起卡莫，我零星听到一点：不该让他一个人去的……你知道，他那么俊美……
他们有四个人……他试图反抗……真主……血从那儿流下来……他的裤子……不再说话……目光痴呆……    
我们在地下室与老鼠做伴一个星期之后，卡林说没有卡车了，卡车没法修。    
“还有另外的选择，”卡林说，在一片哀叹之中，他提高了声音。他的堂兄有辆油罐车，曾经用它偷运过几次旅客。他就在这里，在贾拉拉巴特，也许可以装下我们所有人。    
除了一对老年夫妻，其他人都决定上路。    
那晚我们离开，爸爸和我，卡莫和他的父亲，还有其他人。卡林和他的堂兄阿吉兹，一个方脸秃顶的汉子，帮助我们进入油罐。汽车发动了，停在那里，我们挨个爬上油罐车的后踏板，爬上后面那条梯子，滑进油罐。我记得爸爸爬到一半，从梯子一跃而下，从口袋里掏出烟盒。他把盒子清空，从土路中央抓起一把灰泥。他亲吻泥土，把它放进盒子，把盒子放进胸前的口袋，贴着他的心。      
惊惶。    
你张开嘴巴，张得大大的，连腭骨都咯咯作响。你下令自己的肺吸进空气，如今，你需要空气，现在就需要。但是你肺里的气道不听使唤，它们坍塌，收紧，压缩，突然之间，你只能用一根吸管呼吸。你的嘴巴闭上，嘴唇抿紧，你所能做的，只是发出一阵窒息的咳嗽。你双手抽搐，晃动。身体里似乎某个地方有座水坝决堤，冰冷的汗水汹涌而出，浸湿你的身体。你想哭喊。如果你能，一定喊出声来。可是你必须吸气才能哭喊。    
惊惶。    
地下室已经够暗了，油罐更是不见天日。我右看，左看，上看，下看，伸手在眼前挥动，可是什么也见不到。我眨眼，再眨眼，不见五指。空气不对劲，它太厚重了，几乎是固态的。空气不应该是固态的。我很想伸出手，把空气捏成碎片，把它们塞进我的气管。
还有汽油的味道，油气刺痛我的眼睛，好像有人拉开我的眼皮，拿个柠檬在上面摩擦。每次呼吸都让我的鼻子火辣辣的。我会死在这样的地方，我想。尖叫就要来了，来了，来了……    
接着出现了小小的神迹。爸爸卷起我的衣袖，有个东西在黑暗中发出绿光。光芒！爸爸送的手表。我的眼睛盯着那萤绿的指针。我害怕会失去它们，我不敢眨眼。    
慢慢地，我对周边的景况有所知觉。我听到呻吟声，还有祷告声。我听到一个婴儿哭喊，母亲在低声安抚。有人作呕，有人咒骂俄国佬。卡车左右摇晃，上下颠簸。大家的头撞上金属板。    
“想着一些美好的事情，”爸爸在我耳边说，“快乐的事情。”    
美好的事情，快乐的事情。我放任自己思绪翻飞，浮现出来的是：    
星期五下午，在帕格曼。一片开阔的草地，上面有繁花满枝头的桑椹树。哈桑和我坐在浅及脚踝的野草上，我拉着线，卷轴在哈桑长满老茧的手里滚动，我们的眼睛望着天空中的风筝。我们默默无声，但并非因为我们无话可说，而是因为我们之间无需交谈——那些自出世就认识、喝着同样奶水长大的人就是这样。和风拂过草丛，哈桑放着线。风筝旋转，降下，又稳定了。我们的影子双双，在波动的草丛上跳舞。草地那端，越过那低矮的砖墙，某个地方传来谈话声、笑声，和泉水的潺潺声。还有音乐，古老而熟悉的曲调，我想那是雷巴布琴（Rubab，阿富汗民族乐器。）演奏的《莫拉曲》。墙那边有人喊我们的名字，说到时间喝茶吃点心了。    
我不记得那是何年何月的事情。我只知道记忆与我同在，将美好的往事完美地浓缩起来，如同一笔浓墨重彩，涂抹在我们那已经变得灰白单调的生活画布上。      
剩下的路程只在脑海里留下零零碎碎、时隐时现的记忆，多数跟声音和味道有关：米格战斗机在头顶轰鸣；断断续续的熗声；旁边有驴子昂昂叫；一阵铃铛的声音和羊群的咩咩叫；车轮压上沙砾的响声；黑暗中婴孩的哭嚎；汽油、呕吐物和粪便的臭味。    
接下来我还记得的，是爬出油罐之后清早耀眼的光线。我记得自己抬脸向天，眯着眼睛，大口呼吸，仿佛世间的空气即将用完。我躺在泥土路一边，下面是怪石嶙峋的坑壕，我望着清晨灰蒙蒙的天空，为空气感恩，为光芒感恩，为仍活着感恩。    
“我们在巴基斯坦，阿米尔。”爸爸说，他站在我身边，“卡林说他会唤来巴士，把我们送到白沙瓦。”    
我翻过身，仍趴在冰冷的泥土上，看到爸爸脚下两边放着我们的行李箱。从他双腿间的三角形望去，我看到油罐车停在路边，其他逃难的人正从后面的梯子下来。更远处，大地在灰蒙的天空下宛如铅板，土路伸延而去，消失在一排碗状的山丘之后。有座小小的村落沿着马路，悬挂在向阳的山坡上。    
我把眼光转回我们的行李箱，它们让我替爸爸感到难过。在他打造、谋划、奋斗、烦恼、梦想了一切之后，他的生命只剩下这么点东西：一个不争气的儿子和两个手提箱。    
有人在哭喊。不，不是哭喊，是哀嚎。我看到旅客围成一团，听到他们焦急的声音。
有人说了一个字：“油气。”有人也说了。哀嚎变成撕心裂肺的惨叫。    
爸爸跟我匆忙走到那堆围观者身边，推开他们，走上前去。卡莫的父亲盘腿坐在围观的人群中间，身体前后摇晃，亲吻着他儿子死灰的脸。    
“他没气了！我的儿子没气了！”他哭喊着。卡莫毫无生气的身体躺在他父亲的膝盖上，他的右手软软垂着，随着他父亲的哭泣来回抖动。“我的孩子！他没气了！安拉，帮帮他，让他活过来！”    
爸爸在他身边跪下，伸手揽住他的肩膀。但卡莫的父亲把他推开，冲向跟他堂兄站在旁边的卡林。接着发生的事情太快、太短，甚至不能称之为扭打。卡林吃惊地大叫，朝后退去。我看见一只手挥舞，一只脚踢出。过了一会儿，卡莫的父亲手里拿着卡林的手熗站着。    
“别杀我！”卡林哭喊。    
但我们所有人还来不及说什么或者做什么，卡莫的父亲将熗口伸进自己的嘴里。我永远不会忘记那声回荡的熗响，不会忘记那一道闪光和溅出的血红。    
我又弯下腰，在路边干呕。    
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4071鲜花 1鸡蛋

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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? ”接着阮先生会学着李·梅杰斯，怒眉倒竖，以缓慢的动作假装正在跑步。    
我正在翻阅一本破旧的麦克·汉默（Mike Hammer，美国作家迈克·斯毕兰（Mike Spillane
1918～）创作的系列恐怖小说主角。）悬疑小说，这当头传来一声尖叫，还有玻璃碎裂的声
音。我放下书，匆匆穿过马路。我发现阮先生夫妇在柜台后面，脸如死灰，紧贴墙壁，阮先生双手抱着他的太太。地板上散落着橙子，翻倒的杂志架，一个装牛肉干的破罐子，爸爸脚下还有玻璃的碎片。    
原来爸爸买了橙子，身上却没有现金。他给阮先生开了支票，阮先生想看看他的身份证。“他想看我的证件，”爸爸用法尔西语咆哮，“快两年了，我在这里买这些该死的水果，把钱放进他的口袋，而这个狗杂碎居然要看我的证件! ”    
“爸爸，这又不是针对你。”我说，朝阮氏夫妇挤出微笑，“他们理应查看证件的。”    
“我不欢迎你在这里，”阮先生说，站在他妻子身前，他用拐杖指着爸爸，然后转向我，“你是个很好的年轻人，但是你爸爸，他是个疯子。这里再也不欢迎他。”    
“他以为我是小偷吗? ”爸爸抬高了声音说，外面围满了旁观的人，“这是个什么国家?没有人相信任何人! ”    
“我叫警察。”阮太太说，她探出脸来，“你走开，要不我喊警察。”    
“求求你，阮太太，别叫警察。我把他带回家，请别叫警察，好不好? 求求你。”    
“好的，你带他回家，好主意。”阮先生说。他戴着金丝眼镜，眼睛一直望着爸爸。我隔着门去拉爸爸，他出来的时候踢飞一本杂志。我说服他别再走进去，然后转身到店里向阮氏夫妇道歉，告诉他们爸爸处境艰难。我把家里的电话和地址给了阮太太，告诉她估计一下损失了多少东西。“算好之后请打电话给我，我会赔偿一切的，阮太太，我很抱歉。”
阮太太从我手里接过纸片，点点头。我看到她的手比平时抖得更厉害，那让我很生爸爸的气，他把一个老太太吓成这样。    
“我爸爸仍在适应美国的生活。”我解释着说。    
我想告诉他们，在喀布尔，我们折断树枝，拿它当信用卡。哈桑和我会拿着那根木头到面包店去。店主用刀在木头上刻痕，划下一道，表示他从火焰升腾的烤炉取给我们一个馕饼。每到月底，爸爸按照树枝上的刻痕付钱给他。就是这样。没有问题，不用身份证。    
但我没告诉他们。我谢谢阮先生没叫警察，带爸爸回家。我炖鸡脖子饭的时候，他在阳台抽烟生闷气。我们自白沙瓦踏上波音飞机，到如今已经一年半了，爸爸仍在适应期。    
那晚我们默默吃饭。爸爸吃了两口，把盘子推开。    
我的眼光越过桌子，望着他，他的指甲开裂，被机油弄得脏兮兮的，他的手指刮伤了，衣服散发出加油站的味道——尘灰、汗水和汽油。爸爸像个再婚的鳏夫，可是总忍不住想起故去的妻子。他怀念贾拉拉巴特的甘蔗地，还有帕格曼的花园。他怀念那些在他屋里进进出出的人们，怀念索尔市集拥挤的通道，他走在那里，和他打招呼的人认得他，认得他的父亲，认得他的祖父，那些跟他同一个祖宗的人们，他们的过去交织在一起。    
对我来说，美国是个埋葬往事的地方。    
对爸爸来说，这是个哀悼过去的地方。    
“也许我们应该回到白沙瓦。”我说，盯着在玻璃杯里面的水上浮动的冰块。我们在那里度过了半年的光阴，等待移民局核发签证。我们那间满是尘灰的房子散发出脏袜子和猫粪的气味，但住在我们周围的全是熟人——至少爸爸认得他们。他会邀请整条走廊的邻居到家里吃晚饭，他们中多数都是等待签证的阿富汗人。当然，有人会带来手鼓，也有人带手风琴。茶泡好了，嗓子还可以的人会高歌一曲，直到太阳升起，直到蚊子不再嗡嗡叫，直到鼓掌的手都酸了。    
“你在那边更开心，爸爸，那儿更有家的感觉。”我说。    
“白沙瓦对我来说是好地方，但对你来说不是。”    
“你在这儿工作太辛苦了。”    
“现在还好啦。”他说，他的意思是自升任加油站日班经理之后。但在天气潮湿的日子，我总能见到他忍痛揉着手腕。也见过他在饭后，头冒冷汗去拿止痛药瓶子的模样。“再说，我又不是为了自己才让我们两个来到这里的，你知道吗? ”    
我把手伸过桌子，握住他的手。我的是学生哥儿的手，干净柔软；他的是劳动者的手，肮脏且长满老茧。我想起在喀布尔时，他给我买的所有那些卡车、火车玩具，还有那些自行车。如今，美国是爸爸送给阿米尔的最后一件礼物。    
我们到美国仅一个月之后，爸爸在华盛顿大道找到工作，在一个阿富汗熟人开的加油站当助理——他从我们到美国那天就开始找工作了。每周六天，每天轮班十二小时，爸爸给汽车加油、收银、换油、擦洗挡风玻璃。有好几次，我带午饭给他吃，发现他正在货架上找香烟，油污斑斑的柜台那端，有个顾客在等着，在明亮的荧光映衬下，爸爸的脸扭曲而苍白。每次我走进去，门上的电铃会“叮咚叮咚”响，爸爸会抬起头，招招手，露出微笑，他的双眼因为疲累而流泪。    
被聘请那天，爸爸和我到圣荷塞（San Jose ，美国加利福尼亚州城市。）去找我们的移民资格审核官杜宾斯太太。她是个很胖的黑人妇女，眼睛明亮，笑起来露出两个酒窝。有一回她跟我说她在教堂唱歌，我相信——她的声音让我想起热牛奶和蜂蜜。爸爸将一叠食物券放在她的柜台上。“谢谢你，可是我不想要。”爸爸说，“我一直有工作。在阿富汗，我有工作；在美国，我有工作。非常感谢，杜宾斯太太，可是我不喜欢接受施舍。”    
杜宾斯太太眨眨眼，把食物券捡起来，看看我，又看看爸爸，好像我们在开她玩笑，或者像哈桑经常说的“耍她一下”。“我干这行十五年了，从来没人这么做过。”她说。就是这样，爸爸结束了在收银台用食物券支付的屈辱日子，也消除了他最担心的事情之一：被阿富汗人看到他用救济金买食物。爸爸走出福利办公室时，好像大病初愈。1983年那个夏天，我 20岁，高中毕业。那天在足球场上掷帽子的人中，要数我最老了。我记得球场上满是蓝色袍子，学生的家人、闪光的镜头，把爸爸淹没了。我在二十码线附近找到他，双手插袋，相机在胸前晃荡。我们之间隔着一群人，一会儿把他挡住，一会儿他又出现。穿蓝色衣服的女生尖叫着，相互拥抱，哭泣；男生和他们的父亲拍掌庆贺。爸爸的胡子变灰了，鬓边的头发也减少了，还有，难道他在喀布尔更高? 他穿着那身棕色西装——他只有这么一套，穿着它参加阿富汗人的婚礼和葬礼——系着那年他五十岁生日时我送的红色领带。接着他看到我，挥挥手，微笑。他示意我戴上方帽子，以学校的钟楼为背景，替我拍了张照片。我朝他微笑着——在某种意义上，那日子与其说是我的，毋宁说是他的。他朝我走来，伸手揽住我的脖子，亲吻了我的额头。“我很骄傲，阿米尔。”他说。他说话的时候眼睛闪亮，那样的眼光望着的是我，让我很高兴。    
那晚，他带我到海沃德（Hayward，美国加利福尼亚州城市，近弗里蒙特。）的阿富汗餐厅，点了太多的食物。他跟店主说，他的儿子秋天就要上大学了。毕业之前，我就上大学的事情跟他稍稍争论过，告诉他我想工作，补贴家用，存些钱，也许次年才上大学。但他恨铁不成钢地盯了我一眼，我只好闭嘴。    
晚饭后，爸爸带我去饭店对面的酒吧。那地方光线阴暗，墙壁上散发着我素来不喜欢的啤酒酸味。男人们头戴棒球帽，身穿无袖上衣，玩着撞球，绿色的桌子上烟雾升腾，袅袅绕着荧光灯。爸爸穿着棕色西装，我穿着打褶长裤和运动外套，显得格外引人注目。我们在吧台找到位子，坐在一个老人身边。老人头上有个麦克罗啤酒的商标，发出蓝光，将他那张沧桑的脸照得病恹恹的。爸爸点了根香烟，给我们要了啤酒。“今晚我太高兴了! ”他自顾自地向每个人宣布，“今晚我带我的儿子来喝酒。来，请给我的朋友来一杯。”他的手拍在那个老人背上。老头抬抬帽子，露出微笑，他没有上排的牙齿。    
爸爸三口就喝完了他的啤酒，又要了一杯。我强迫自己，还没喝完四分之一，他已经干掉三杯了。他请那个老头一杯苏格兰烈酒，还请那四个打撞球的家伙一大罐百威。人们同他握手，用力拍他的后背。他们向他敬酒，有人给他点烟。爸爸松了松领带，给那个老人一把二毛五分的硬币，指指电唱机。“告诉他，来几首他最拿手的。”他对我说。老人点点头，向爸爸敬礼。不久就响起乡村音乐，就像这样，爸爸开始宴会了。    
酒到酣处，爸爸站起来，举起酒杯，将它摔在遍地锯屑的地板，高声喊叫。“操他妈的俄国佬! ”酒吧里爆发出一阵笑声，大家高声附和，爸爸又给每个人买啤酒。    
我们离开的时候，大家都舍不得他走。喀布尔，白沙瓦，海沃德。爸爸还是爸爸，我想，微笑着。    
我开着爸爸那辆土黄色的旧别克世纪轿车，驶回我们家。爸爸在路上睡着了，鼾声如气钻。我在他身上闻到烟草的味道，还有酒精味，甜蜜而辛辣。但我在停车的时候，他醒过来，嘶哑的嗓音说: “继续开，到街道那边去。”    
“干吗，爸爸? ”    
“只管开过去，”他让我停在街道的南端。他把手伸进外衣的口袋，掏给我一串钥匙，“那边。”他指着停在我们前面的一辆轿车。那是一辆旧款的福特，又长又宽，车身很暗，在月光下我辨认不出是什么颜色。“它得烤漆，我会让加油站的伙计换上新的避震器，但它还能开。”    
我看着钥匙，惊呆了。我看看他，看看轿车。    
“你上大学需要一辆车。”他说。    
我捧起他的手，紧紧握住。泪水从我眼里涌出来，我庆幸阴影笼罩了我们的面庞。“谢谢你，爸爸。”    
我们下车，坐进福特车。那是一辆“大都灵”。“海军蓝。”爸爸说。我绕着街区开，试试刹车、收音机、转向灯。我把它停在我们那栋楼的停车场，熄了引擎。“谢谢你，亲爱的爸爸。”我说。我意犹未尽，想告诉他，他慈祥的行为让我多么感动，我多么感激他过去和现在为我所做的一切。但我知道那会让他不好意思,“谢谢。”我只是重复了一次。    
他微微一笑，靠在头枕上，他的前额几乎碰到顶篷。我们什么也没说，静静坐在黑暗中，听着引擎冷却的“嘀嘀”声，远处传来一阵警笛的鸣叫。然后爸爸将头转向我, “要是哈桑今天跟我们在一起就好了。”    
听到哈桑的名字，我的脖子好像被一对铁手掐住了。我把车窗摇下，等待那双铁手松开。      
毕业典礼隔日，我告诉爸爸，秋天我就要去专科学校注册了。他正在喝冷却的红茶，嚼着豆蔻子，他自己用来治头痛的偏方。    
“我想我会主修英文。”我说，内心忐忑，等着他的回答。    
“英文? ”    
“创作。”    
他想了想，啜他的红茶,“故事，你是说，你要写故事? ”我低头看着自己的双脚。    
“写故事能赚钱吗? ”    
“如果你写得好，”我说，“而且又被人发掘的话。”    
“被人发掘? 机会有多大? ”    
“有机会的。”我说。    
他点点头。“那你在写得好和被人发掘之前准备干什么呢? 你怎么赚钱? 要是结婚了，你怎么撑起自己的家庭? ”    
我不敢看着他的眼睛,“我会……找份工作。”    
“哦! ”他说，“哇! 哇! 这么说，如果我没理解错，你将会花好几年，拿个学位，然后你会找一份像我这样卑微的工作，一份你今天可以轻易找到的工作，就为渺茫的机会，等待你拿的学位也许某天会帮助你……被人发掘。”他深深呼吸，啜他的红茶，咕哝地说着什么医学院、法学院，还有“真正的工作”。    
我脸上发烧，一阵罪恶感涌上心头。我很负疚，我的放纵是他的溃疡、黑指甲和酸痛的手腕换来的。但我会坚持自己的立场，我决定了。我不想再为爸爸牺牲了。这是最后一次了，我咒骂自己。    
爸爸叹气，这一次，扔了一大把豆蔻子到嘴里。    
有时，我会开着我的福特，摇下车窗，一连开几个钟头，从东湾到南湾，前往半岛区（东湾（East Bay）、南湾（South Bay）和半岛区（Penisula）均为旧金山城区。），然后开回来。我会驶过弗里蒙特附近那些纵横交错、棋盘似的街道，这里的人们没有和国王握过手，住在破旧的平房里面，窗户破损；这里的旧车跟我的一样，滴着油，停在柏油路上。我们附近那些院子都被铅灰色的铁丝栅栏围起来，乱糟糟的草坪上到处扔着玩具、汽车内胎、标签剥落的啤酒瓶子。我驶过散发着树皮味道的林阴公园，驶过巨大的购物广场，它们大得足可以同时举办五场马上比武竞赛。我开着这辆都灵，越过罗斯·阿托斯的山丘，滑行过一片住宅区，那儿的房子有景观窗，银色的狮子守护在锻铁大门之外，塑有天使雕像的喷泉在修葺完善的人行道排开，停车道上没有福特都灵。这里的房子使我爸爸在喀布尔的房子看起来像仆人住的。    
有时候，在星期六我会早起，朝南开上17号高速公路，沿着蜿蜒的山路前往圣克鲁斯。
我会在旧灯塔旁边停车，等待太阳升起，坐在我的轿车里面，看着雾气在海面翻滚。在阿
富汗，我只在电影里面见过海洋。在黑暗中，挨哈桑坐着，我总是寻思，我在书上看到，说海水闻起来有盐的味道，那是不是真的? 我常常告诉哈桑，有朝一日，我们会沿着海藻丛生的海滩散步，让我们的脚陷进沙里，看着海水从我们的脚趾退去。第一次看到太平洋时，我差点哭起来。它那么大，那么蓝，跟我孩提时在电影屏幕上看到的一模一样。        
有时候，夜幕初降，我会把车停好，爬上横跨高速公路的天桥。我的脸压着护栏，极目远望，数着那缓缓移动的闪闪发亮的汽车尾灯，宝马，绅宝，保时捷，那些我在喀布尔从来没见过的汽车，在那儿，人们开着俄国产的伏尔加，破旧的欧宝，或者伊朗出产的培康。    
我们来到美国几乎快两年了，我仍为这个国家辽阔的幅员惊叹不已。高速公路之外，还有高速公路，城市之外还有城市，山脉之外还有峰峦，峰峦之外还有山脉，而所有这些之外，还有更多的城市，更多的人群。    
早在俄国佬的军队入侵阿富汗之前，早在乡村被烧焚、学校被毁坏之前，早在地雷像死亡的种子那样遍布、儿童被草草掩埋之前，对我来说，喀布尔就已成了一座鬼魂之城，一座兔唇的鬼魂萦绕之城。    
美国就不同了。美国是河流，奔腾前进，往事无人提起。我可以进这条大川，让自己的罪恶沉在最深处，让流水把我带往远方，带往没有鬼魂、没有往事、没有罪恶的远方。    
就算不为别的，单单为了这个，我也会拥抱美国。    
接下来那个夏天，也就是 1984年夏天——那年夏天我满21岁——爸爸卖掉他的别克，花了550 美元，买了一辆破旧的 1971年出厂的大众巴士，车主是阿富汗的老熟人了，先前在喀布尔教高中的科学课程。那天下午，巴士轰鸣着驶进街道，“突突”前往我们的停车场，邻居都把头转过来。爸爸熄了火，让巴士安静地滑进我们的停车位。我们坐在座椅上，哈哈大笑，直到眼泪从脸颊掉下来，还有，更重要的是，直到我们确信没有任何邻居在观望，这才走出来。那辆巴士是一堆废铁的尸体，黑色的垃圾袋填补破裂的车窗，光秃秃的轮胎，弹簧从座椅下面露出来。但那位老教师一再向爸爸保证，引擎和变速器都没有问题，实际上，那个家伙没有说谎。    
每逢星期六，天一亮爸爸就喊我起来。他穿衣的时候，我浏览本地报纸的分类广告栏，圈出车库卖场的广告。我们设定线路——先到弗里蒙特、尤宁城、纽瓦克和海沃德，接着是圣荷塞、米尔皮塔斯、桑尼维尔，如果时间许可，则再去坎贝尔。爸爸开着巴士，喝着保温杯里面的热红茶，我负责引路。我们停在车库卖场，买下那些原主不再需要的二手货。
我们搜罗旧缝纫机，独眼的芭比娃娃，木制的网球拍，缺弦的吉他，还有旧伊莱克斯吸尘器。下午过了一半，我们的大众巴士后面就会塞满这些旧货。然后，星期天清早，我们开车到圣荷塞巴利雅沙跳蚤市场，租个档位，加点微薄的利润把这些垃圾卖出去：我们前一天花二毛五分买来的芝加哥唱片也许可以卖到每盘一元，或者五盘四元；一台花十元买来的破旧辛格牌缝纫机经过一番讨价还价，也许可以卖出二十五元。    
到得那个夏天，阿富汗人已经在圣荷塞跳蚤市场占据了一整个区域。二手货区域的通道上播放着阿富汗音乐。在跳蚤市场的阿富汗人中间，有一套心照不宣的行为规范：你要跟通道对面的家伙打招呼，请他吃一块土豆饼或一点什锦饭，你要跟他交谈。要是他家死了父母，你就好言相劝；要是生了孩子你就道声恭喜；当话题不可避免地转到阿富汗人和俄国佬，你就悲伤地摇摇头。但是你得避免说起星期六的事情，因为对面那人很可能就是昨天在高速公路出口被你超车挡住、以致错过一桩好买卖的家伙。    
在那些通道里，惟一比茶更流行的是阿富汗人的流言。跳蚤市场是这样的地方，你可以喝绿茶，吃杏仁饼，听人说谁家的女儿背弃婚约，跟美国男友私奔去了；谁在喀布尔用黑钱买了座房子，却还领救济金。茶，政治，丑闻，这些都是跳蚤市场的阿富汗星期天必备的成分。    
有时我会看管摊位，爸爸则沿着过道闲逛。他双手庄重地放在胸前，跟那些在喀布尔认识的熟人打招呼：机械师和裁缝兜售有擦痕的自行车头盔和旧羊毛衫，过道两边是原来的外交官、找不到工作的外科医生和大学教授。    
1984年7 月某个星期天清早，爸爸在清理摊位，我到贩卖处买了两杯咖啡，回来的时候，发现爸爸在跟一位上了年纪、相貌出众的先生说话。我把杯子放在巴士后面的保险杠上，紧邻里根和布什竞选1984年总统的宣传画。    
“阿米尔，”爸爸说，示意我过去:“这是将军大人，伊克伯·塔赫里先生，原来住在喀布尔，得过军功勋章，在国防部上班。”    
塔赫里。这个名字怎么如此熟悉?    
将军哈哈干笑，通常在宴会上，每当重要人物说了不好笑的笑话，人们就会听到这样的笑声。他一头银发整齐地梳向后面，露出平滑的黄铜色前额，浓密的眉毛中有撮撮白色。
他身上闻起来有古龙水的香味，穿着铁灰色的三排扣套装，因为洗熨了太多次而泛着亮光，
背心上面露出一根怀表的金链子。    
“这样的介绍可不敢当。”他说，他的声音低沉而有教养。“你好，我的孩子。”    
“你好，将军大人。”我说，跟他握手。他的手貌似瘦弱，但握得很有力，好像那油亮的皮肤下面藏着钢条。    
“阿米尔将会成为一个了不起的作家。”爸爸说。我愣了一下才反应过来。“他刚念完大学一年级，考试门门都得优。”    
“是专科学校。”我纠正他。    
“安拉保佑。”塔赫里将军说，“你会写我们国家的故事吗，也许可以写写历史? 经济? ”    
“我写小说。”我说着想起了自己写在拉辛汗送的皮面笔记本里面那十来个故事，奇怪自己为什么在这个人面前突然有些不自在。    
“啊，讲故事的。”将军说，“很好，人们在如今这样的艰苦岁月需要故事来分散注意力。”他把手伸在爸爸的肩膀上，转向我。“说到故事，有一年夏天，你爸爸跟我到贾拉拉巴特去猎野鸡，”他说，“那次真叫人称奇。如果我没记错，你爸爸打猎跟他做生意一样，都是一把好手。”    
爸爸正在用鞋尖踢着摆在我们的帆布上一把木制网球拍。“有些生意而已。”    
塔赫里将军露出一丝礼貌而哀伤的微笑，叹了口气，轻轻拍拍爸爸的肩膀。“生活总会继续。”他把眼光投向我，“我们阿富汗人总是喜欢夸大其词，孩子，我听过无数人愚蠢地使用‘了不起’这个词。但是，你的爸爸属于少数几个配得上这个形容词的人。”这番短短的话在我听来，跟他的衣服如出一辙：用的场合太多了，闪亮得有些造作。    
“你在奉承我。”爸爸说。    
“我没有。”将军说，他侧过头，把手放在胸前表示尊敬，“男孩和女孩得知道他们父亲的优点。”他转向我，“你崇敬你的爸爸吗，我的孩子? 你真的崇敬他吗? ”    
“当然，将军大人，我崇敬他。”我说，要是他别叫我“我的孩子”就好了。    
“那么，恭喜你，你已经快要长成一位男子汉了。”他说，口气没有半点幽默，没有讽刺，只有不卑不亢的恭维。    
“亲爱的爸爸，你忘了你的茶。”一个年轻女子的声音。她站在我们后面，是个身材苗条的美人，天鹅绒般的黑发，手里拿着一个打开的保温杯和一个塑料杯。我眨眨眼，心跳加快。她的眉毛又黑又浓，中间连在一起，宛如飞翔的鸟儿张开的双翅，笔挺的鼻子很优雅，活像古代波斯公主——也许像拓敏妮,《沙纳玛》书中罗斯坦的妻子，索拉博的妈妈。
她那长长睫毛下面胡桃色的眼睛跟我对望了一会儿，移开了视线。    
“你真乖，我亲爱的。”塔赫里将军说，从她手里接过杯子。在她转身离去之前，我见到她光滑的皮肤上有个镰状的棕色胎记，就在左边下巴上。她走过两条通道，把保温杯放在一辆货车里面。她跪在装着唱片和平装书的盒子中间，秀发倾泻在一旁。    
“我的女儿，亲爱的索拉雅。”塔赫里将军说。他深深吸了一口气，看来想换个话题了，他掏出金怀表，看了看时间。“好啦，到时间了，我得去整理整理。”他和爸爸相互亲吻脸颊，用双手跟我握别。“祝你写作顺利。”他盯着我的眼睛说，浅蓝色的双眼没有透露出半点他心里的想法。    
在那天剩下的时间里，我总忍不住望向那辆灰色的货车。      
在我们回家的路上，我想起来了。塔赫里，我知道我以前听过这个名字。    
“是不是有过关于塔赫里将军女儿的流言蜚语啊? ”我假装漫不经心地问爸爸。    
“你知道我的，”爸爸说，他开着巴士，在跳蚤市场出口长长的车队中缓慢前进。“每当人们说三道四我都会走开。”    
“可是有过，是吗? ”我说。    
“你为什么要问呢? ”他犹疑地看着我。    
我耸耸肩，挤出微笑: “好奇而已，爸爸。”    
“真的吗? 真是这样吗? ”他说，眼光露出一丝狡狯，看着我的眼睛，“你该不是对她有意思了吧? ”    
我把眼光移开，“拜托，老爸。”    
他微微一笑，驱车离开跳蚤市场。我们朝680 公路前进。有那么一会儿，我们并没有说话。“我所听到的是她有过一个男人，而且事情……不是太好。”他神情严肃地说，好像跟我说她得了乳癌一样。    
“哦。”    
“我听说她是个淑女，工作卖力，待人也不错。但自那以后，再也没有媒人敲响将军的家门。”爸爸叹气，“这也许不公平，但几天内发生的事情，有时甚至是一天内发生的事情，也足以改变一生，阿米尔。”      
那晚我辗转反侧，老想着索拉雅·塔赫里的镰状胎记，想着她那优雅的笔挺鼻子，想着她明亮的眼睛跟我对望的情景。我的思绪在她身上迟疑不肯离去。索拉雅·塔赫里，我的交易会公主。    
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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 which I saw potted geraniums. The general's gray van was parked in the driveway.
I helped Baba out of the Ford and slipped back behind the wheel. He leaned in the passenger window. "Be Home, I'll call you in an hour.?
"Okay, Baba,?I said. "Good luck.?
He smiled.
I drove away. In the rearview mirror, Baba was hobbling up the Taheris?driveway for one last fatherly duty.

I PACED THE LIVING ROOM of our apartment waiting for Baba's call. Fifteen paces long. Ten and a half paces wide. What if the general said no? What if he hated me? I kept going to the kitchen, checking the oven clock.
The phone rang just before noon. It was Baba.
"Well??
"The general accepted.?
I let out a burst of air. Sat down. My hands were shaking. "He did??
"Yes, but Soraya jan is upstairs in her room. She wants to talk to you first.?
"Okay.?
Baba said something to someone and there was a double click as he hung up.
"Amir??Soraya's voice. "Salaam.?
"My father said yes.?
"I know,?I said. I switched hands. I was smiling. "I'm so happy I don't know what to say.?
"I'm happy too, Amir. I... can't believe this is happening.?
I laughed. "I know.?
"Listen,?she said, "I want to tell you something. Something you have to know before...?
"I don't care what it is.?
"You need to know. I don't want us to start with secrets. And I'd rather you hear it from me.?
"If it will make you feel better, tell me. But it won't change anything.?
There was a long pause at the other end. "When we lived in Virginia, I ran away with an Afghan man. I was eighteen at the time... rebellious... stupid, and... he was into drugs... We lived together for almost a month. All the Afghans in Virginia were talking about it.
"Padar eventually found us. He showed up at the door and... made me come Home. I was hysterical. Yelling. Screaming. Saying I hated him...
"Anyway, I came home and--?She was crying. "Excuse me.?I heard her put the phone down. Blow her nose. "Sorry,?she came back on, sounding hoarse. "When I came Home, I saw my mother had had a stroke, the right side of her face was paralyzed and... I felt so guilty. She didn't deserve that.
"Padar moved us to California shortly after.?A silence followed.
"How are you and your father now??I said.
"We've always had our differences, we still do, but I'm grateful he came for me that day. I really believe he saved me.?She paused. "So, does what I told you bother you??
"A little,?I said. I owed her the truth on this one. I couldn't lie to her and say that my pride, my iftikhar, wasn't stung at all that she had been with a man, whereas I had never taken a woman to bed. It did bother me a bit, but I had pondered this quite a lot in the weeks before I asked Baba to go khastegari. And in the end the question that always came back to me was this: How could I, of all people, chastise someone for their past?
"Does it bother you enough to change your mind??
"No, Soraya. Not even close,?I said. "Nothing you said changes anything. I want us to marry.?
She broke into fresh tears.
I envied her. Her secret was out. Spoken. Dealt with. I opened my mouth and almost told her how I'd betrayed Hassan, lied, driven him out, and destroyed a forty-year relationship between Baba and Ali. But I didn't. I suspected there were many ways in which Soraya Taheri was a better person than me. Courage was just one of them.

第十二章
在阿富汗，雅尔达是回历中嘉帝月的第一夜，也是冬天的第一夜，一年之中最长的夜晚。按照风俗，哈桑和我会熬到深夜，我们把脚藏在火炉桌下面，阿里将苹果皮丢进炉子，给我们讲苏丹和小偷的古老传说，度过漫漫长夜。正是从阿里口中，我得知了雅尔达的故事，知道了飞蛾扑火是因为着魔，还知道狼群爬山是要寻找太阳。阿里发誓说，要是在雅尔达那夜吃到西瓜，翌年夏天就不会口渴。        
稍大一些之后，我从诗书中读到，雅尔达是星光黯淡的夜晚，恋人彻夜难眠，忍受着无边黑暗，等待太阳升起，带来他们的爱人。遇到索拉雅之后那个星期，对我来说，每个夜晚都是雅尔达。等到星期天早晨来临，我从床上起来，索拉雅·塔赫里的脸庞和那双棕色的明眸已然在我脑里。坐在爸爸的巴士里面，我暗暗数着路程，直到看见她赤足坐着，摆弄那些装着发黄的百科全书的纸箱，她的脚踝在柏油路的映衬下分外白皙，柔美的手腕上有银环叮当作响。一头秀发从她背后甩过，像天鹅绒幕布那样垂下来，我望着她的头发投射在地上的影子怔怔出神。索拉雅，我的交易会公主，我的雅尔达的朝阳。    
我制造各种各样的借口——爸爸显然知道，但只露出戏谑的微笑——沿着那条过道走下去，经过塔赫里的摊位。我会朝将军招招手，而他，永远穿着那身熨得发亮的灰色套装，会挥手应答。有时他从那张导演椅站起来，我们会稍作交谈，提及我的写作、战争、当天的交易。而我不得不管住自己的眼睛别偷看，别总是瞟向坐在那里读一本平装书的索拉雅。
将军和我会彼此告别，而我走开的时候，得强打精神，掩饰自己心中的失望。    
有时将军到其他过道去跟人攀交情，留她一人看守摊位，我会走过去，假装不认识她，可是心里想认识她想得要死。有时陪着她的还有个矮胖的中年妇女，染红发，肤色苍白。
我暗下决心，在夏天结束之前一定要跟她搭讪，但学校开学了，叶子变红、变黄、掉落，冬天的雨水纷纷洒洒，折磨爸爸的手腕，树枝上吐出新芽，而我依然没有勇气、没有胆量，甚至不敢直望她的眼睛。    
春季学期在1985年5 月底结束。我所有的课程都得了优，这可是个小小的神迹，因为我人在课堂，心里却总是想着索拉雅柔美而笔挺的鼻子。    
然后，某个闷热的夏季星期天，爸爸跟我在跳蚤市场，坐在我们的摊位，用报纸往脸上扇风。尽管阳光像烙铁那样火辣辣，那天市场人满为患，销售相当可观——才到12点半，我们已经赚了160 美元。我站起来，伸伸懒腰，问爸爸要不要来杯可口可乐。他说来一杯。    
“当心点，阿米尔。”我举步离开时他说。    
“当心什么，爸爸? ”    
“我不是蠢货，少跟我装蒜。”    
“我不知道你在说什么啊。”    
“你要记住，”爸爸指着我说，“那家伙是个纯正的普什图人，他有名誉和尊严。”这是普什图人的信条，尤其是关系到妻子或者女儿的贞节时。    
“我不过是去给我们买饮料。”    
“别让我难看，我就这点要求。”    
“我不会的，天啦，爸爸。”    
爸爸点了根烟，继续扇着风。    
起初我朝贩卖处走去，然后在卖衬衫的摊位左转。在那儿，你只消花5 块钱，便可以在白色的尼龙衬衫上印上耶稣、猫王或者吉姆·莫里森的头像，或者三个一起印。马里亚奇［1］Mariachi，墨西哥传统音乐乐团，主要使用乐器有小号、曼陀铃、吉他、竖琴以及小提琴等，所演唱歌曲风格通常较为热烈。［1］的音乐在头顶回响，我闻到腌黄瓜和烤肉的味道。    
我看见塔赫里灰色的货车，和我们的车隔着两排，紧挨着一个卖芒果串的小摊。她单身一人，在看书，今天穿着长及脚踝的白色夏装，凉鞋露出脚趾，头发朝后扎，梳成郁金香形状的发髻。我打算跟以前一样只是走过，我以为可以做到，可是突然之间，我发现自己站在塔赫里的白色桌布边上，越过烫发用的铁发夹和旧领带，盯着索拉雅。她抬头。    
“你好，”我说，“打扰了，对不起。我不是故意打扰你的。”    
“你好。”    
“将军大人今天不在吗? ”我说。我的耳朵发烧，无法正视她的明眸。    
“他去那边了。”她说，指着右边，绿色镶银的手镯从她的胳膊肘上滑落。    
“你可不可以跟他说，我路过这里，问候他一下。”我说。    
“可以。”    
“谢谢你。”我说，“哦，我的名字叫阿米尔。这次你需要知道，才好跟他说。说我路过这里，向他……问好。”    
“好的。”    
我挪了挪脚，清清喉咙，“我要走了，很抱歉打扰到你。”    
“没有，你没有。”她说。    
“哦，那就好。”我点点头，给她一个勉强的微笑。“我要走了。”好像我已经说过了吧?
“再见。”    
“再见。”    
我举步离开。停下，转身。趁着勇气还没有消失，我赶忙说: “我可以知道你在看什么书吗? ”    
她眨眨眼。    
我屏住呼吸。刹那间，我觉得跳蚤市场里面所有的眼睛都朝我们看来。我猜想四周似乎突然寂静下来，话说到一半戛然而止。人们转过头，饶有兴致地眯起眼睛。    
这是怎么回事?    
直到那时，我们的邂逅可以解释成礼节性的问候，一个男人问起另外一个男人。但我问了她问题，如果她回答，我们将会……这么说吧，我们将会聊天。我，一个单身的青年男子，而她是个未婚的少女。她有过一段历史，这就够了。我们正徘徊在风言风语的危险边缘，毒舌会说长道短，而承受流言毒害的将会是她，不是我——我十分清楚阿富汗人的双重标准，身为男性，我占尽便宜。不是“你没见到他找她聊天吗? ”而是“哇，你没看到她舍不得他离开吗? 多么不知道廉耻啊! ”    
按照阿富汗人的标准，我的问题很唐突。问出这句话，意味着我无所遮掩，对她的兴趣再也毋庸置疑。但我是个男人，我所冒的风险，顶多是尊严受伤罢了，受伤了会痊愈，可是名誉毁了不再有清白。她会接受我的挑战吗?    
她翻过书，让封面对着我。《呼啸山庄》。“你看过吗? ”她说。    
我点点头。我感到自己的心怦怦跳。“那是个悲伤的故事。”    
“好书总是跟悲伤的故事有关。”她说。    
“确实这样。”    
“听说你写作? ”    
她怎么知道? 我寻思是不是她父亲说的，也许她曾问过他。我立即打消了这两个荒谬的念头。父亲跟儿子可以随心所欲地谈论妇女。但不会有阿富汗女子——至少是有教养的阿富汗淑女——向她父亲问起青年男子。而且，没有父亲，特别是一个有名誉和尊严的普什图男人，会跟自己的女儿谈论未婚少男，除非这个家伙是求爱者，已经做足体面的礼节，请他父亲前来提亲。    
难以置信的是，我听见自己说: “你愿意看看我写的故事吗? ”    
“我愿意。”她说。现在我从她的神情感觉她有些不安，她的眼睛开始东瞟西看，也许是看看将军来了没有。我怀疑，要是让他看到我跟她女儿交谈了这么久，他会有什么反应呢?    
“也许改天我会带给你，”我说。我还想说些什么，那个我曾见到跟索拉雅在一起的女人走进过道。她提着塑料袋，里面装满水果。她看到我们，滴溜溜的眼珠看着我和索拉雅，微笑起来。    
“亲爱的阿米尔，见到你真高兴。”她说，把袋子放在桌布上。她的额头泛出丝丝汗珠，一头红发看上去像头盔，在阳光下闪闪发亮——在她头发稀疏的地方露出点点头皮。她有双绿色的小眼睛，埋藏在那圆得像卷心菜的脸蛋上，牙齿镶金，短短的手指活像香肠。她胸前挂着一尊金色的安拉，链子在她皮肤的褶皱和脖子的肥肉间忽隐忽现。“我叫雅米拉，亲爱的索拉雅的妈妈。”    
“你好，亲爱的阿姨。”我说，有些尴尬，我经常身处阿富汗人之间，他们认得我是什么人，我却不知道对方姓甚名谁。    
“你爸爸还好吗? ”她说。    
“他很好，谢谢。”    
“你认识你的爷爷伽兹老爷吗? 他是个法官。喏，他的叔叔跟我爷爷是表亲。”她说，“所以你看，我们还是亲戚呢。”她微笑着露出一口金牙，我注意到她右边的嘴角有点下垂。她的眼睛又在我和索拉雅之间转起来。    
有一次，我问爸爸，为什么塔赫里将军的女儿还没有嫁出去。“没有追求者，”爸爸说，“没有门当户对的追求者。”他补充说。但他再也不说了——爸爸知道这种致命的闲言碎语会给少女未来的婚姻造成什么样的影响。阿富汗男人，尤其是出身名门望族的那些人，都是见风使舵的家伙。这儿几句闲话，那儿数声诋毁，他们就会像惊鸟般落荒而逃。所以不断有婚礼举行，可是没人给索拉雅唱“慢慢走”，没有人在她手掌涂指甲花，没有人把《可兰经》摆放在她头巾上，每个婚礼上，陪着她跳舞的，总是塔赫里将军。    
而如今，这个妇女，这个母亲，带着令人心碎的渴望，讨好微笑，对眼中的希望不加掩饰。我对自己所处的有利地位感到畏怯，而这全都因为，我赢得了那场决定我性别的基因博彩。    
我从来没能看穿将军的双眸，但我从他妻子眼里懂得的可就多了：如果我在这件事情上——不管这件事情是什么——会遇到对手，那绝对不是她。    
“请坐，亲爱的阿米尔。”她说，“索拉雅，给他一张椅子，我的孩子。洗几个桃子，它们又甜又多汁。”    
“不用了，谢谢。”我说，“我得回去了，爸爸在等我。”    
“哦? ”塔赫里太太说，显然，她被我礼貌地婉拒她的得体举止打动了。“那么，给你，至少带上这个。”她抓起一把猕猴桃，还有几个桃子，放进纸袋，坚持要我收下。“替我问候你爸爸，常来看看我们。”    
“我会的，谢谢你，亲爱的阿姨。”我说，我用眼角的余光看到索拉雅正望着别处。      
“我还以为你去买可乐了呢。”爸爸说，从我手里接过那袋桃子。他看着我，神情既严肃，又戏谑。我开始找说词，但他咬了一口桃子，挥挥手: “别费劲了，阿米尔。只要记得我说的就行。”  
那天夜晚，躺在床上，我想着闪烁的阳光在索拉雅眼里舞动的样子，想着她锁骨上方那美丽的凹陷。我在脑里一遍又一遍回放着我们的对话。她说的是“我听说你是个作家”还是“我听说你写作”? 是哪句呢? 我捂紧被子，盯着天花板，痛苦地想起，要度过连续六个漫漫的雅尔达之夜，我才能再次见到她。        
好几个星期都是如此这般。我等到将军散步离开，然后走过塔赫里的货摊。如果塔赫里太太在，她会请我喝茶、吃饼干，我们会谈起旧时在喀布尔的光景，那些我们认识的人，还有她的关节炎。她显然注意到我总是在她丈夫离开的时候出现，但她从不揭穿。“哦，你家叔叔刚刚才走开。”她会说。我真的喜欢塔赫里太太在那儿，并且不仅是由于她和善的态度，还因为有她母亲在场，索拉雅会变得更放松、更健谈。何况她在也让我们之间的交往显得正常——虽然不能跟塔赫里将军在场相提并论。有了塔赫里太太的监护，我们的约会就算不能杜绝风言风语，至少也可以少招惹一些。不过她对我套近乎的态度明显让索拉雅觉得尴尬。    
某天，索拉雅跟我单独在他们的货摊上交谈。她正告诉我学校里的事情，她如何努力学习她的通选课程，她在弗里蒙特的“奥龙专科学校”就读。    
“你打算主修什么呢? ”    
“我想当老师。”她说。    
“真的吗? 为什么? ”    
“这是我一直梦想的。我们在弗吉尼亚生活的时候，我获得了英语培训证书，现在我每周有一个晚上到公共图书馆教书。我妈妈过去也是教师，她在喀布尔的高级中学教女生法尔西语和历史。”    
一个大腹便便的男人头戴猎帽，出价 3 块钱，想买一组 5 块钱的烛架，索拉雅卖给他。
她把钱丢进脚下那个小小的糖果罐，羞涩地望着我。“我想给您讲个故事，”她说，“可是我有点难为情。”    
“讲来听听。”    
“它有点傻。”    
“告诉我吧。”    
她笑起来,“好吧，在喀布尔，我四年级的时候，我爸爸请了个打理家务的佣人，叫兹芭。她有个姐妹在伊朗的马夏德。因为兹芭不识字，每隔不久，她就会求我给她姐妹写信。
每当她姐妹回信，我会念给兹芭听。有一天，我问她想不想读书识字。她给我一个大大的微笑，双眼放光，说她很想很想。所以，我完成自己的作业之后，我们就坐在厨房的桌子上，我教她认字母。我记得有时候，我作业做到一半，抬起头，发现兹芭在厨房里，搅搅高压锅里面的牛肉，然后坐下，用铅笔做我前一天夜里给她布置的字母表作业。”    
“不管怎样，不到一年，兹芭能读儿童书了。我们坐在院子里，她给我念达拉和沙拉的故事——念得很慢，不过全对。她开始管我叫‘索拉雅老师’。”她又笑起来，“我知道这听起来很孩子气，但当兹芭第一次自己写信，我就知道自己除了教书，别的什么都不想做。
我为她骄傲，觉得自己做了些真正有价值的事情。您说呢? ”    
“是的。”我说谎。我想起自己如何愚弄不识字的哈桑，如何用他不懂的晦涩字眼取笑他。    
“我爸爸希望我去念法学院，我妈妈总是暗示我选择医学院。但我想要成为教师。虽然在这里收入不高，但那是我想要的。”    
“我妈妈也是教师。”我说。    
“我知道，”她说，“我妈妈跟我说过。”接着因为这句话，她脸上泛起红晕。她的答案暗示着，我不在的时候，她们曾经“谈起阿米尔”。我费了好大劲才忍住让自己不发笑。    
“我给你带了些东西，”我从后裤兜掏出一卷订好的纸张，“实现诺言。”我递给她一篇自己写的小故事。    
“哦，你还记得。”她说，笑逐颜开, “谢谢你! ”我没有时间体会她第一次用“你”而非用较正式的“您”称呼我到底意味着什么，因为突然间她的笑容消失了，脸上的红晕褪去，眼睛盯着我身后。我转过身，跟塔赫里将军面对面站着。    
“亲爱的阿米尔，抱负远大的说故事的人，很高兴见到你。”他说，挂着淡淡的微笑。    
“你好，将军大人。”我嗫嚅着说。    
他从我身旁走过，迈向货摊。“今天天气很好，是吗? ”他说，拇指搭在他那间背心的上袋，另一只手伸向索拉雅。她把纸卷给了他。    
“他们说整个星期都会下雨呢。很难相信吧，是吗? ”他把那卷纸张丢进垃圾桶。转向我，轻轻地把手放在我的肩膀上，我们并排走了几步。    
“你知道，我的孩子，我相当喜欢你。你是个有教养的孩子，我真的这么认为，但是……”
他叹了口气，挥挥手，“……即使有教养的男孩有时也需要提醒。所以，我有责任提醒你，你是在跳蚤市场的众目睽睽之下做事情。”他停住，他那不露喜怒的眸子直盯着我双眼，“你
知道，这里每个人都会讲故事。”他微笑，露出一口整整齐齐的牙齿,“替我向你爸爸问好，亲爱的阿米尔。”    
他把手放下，又露出微笑。      
“怎么回事? ”爸爸说，接过一个老妇人买木马的钱。    
“没事。”我说。我坐在一台旧电视机上。不过还是告诉他了。    
“唉，阿米尔。”他叹气。    
结果，刚才发生的事情没有让我烦恼太久。    
因为那个星期稍晚一些时候，爸爸感冒了。      
开始只是有点咳嗽和流鼻涕。他的流鼻涕痊愈了，可是咳嗽还是没好。他会咳在手帕上，把它藏在口袋里。我不停地求他去检查，但他会挥手叫我走开。他讨厌大夫和医院。
就我所知，爸爸惟一去医院那次，是在印度染上疟疾。    
然后，过了两个星期，我撞见他正把一口带血丝的痰咳到马桶里面去。    
“你这样多久了? ”我说。    
“晚饭吃什么? ”他说。    
“我要带你去看大夫。”    
虽说爸爸已经是加油站的经理，那老板没有给他提供医疗保险，而爸爸满不在乎，没有坚持。于是我带他去圣荷塞的县立医院。有个面带菜色、双眼浮肿的大夫接待了我们，自我介绍说是第二年的驻院医师。“他看起来比你还年轻，但比我病得还重。”爸爸咕哝说。
那驻院医师让我们下楼去做胸部X 光扫描。护士喊我们进去的时候，医师正在填一张表。    
“把这张表带到前台。”他说，匆匆写着。    
“那是什么? ”我问。    
“转诊介绍。”他写啊写。    
“干吗用? ”    
“给肺科。”    
“那是什么? ”    
他瞥了我一眼，推了推眼镜，又开始写起来。“他肺部的右边有个黑点，我想让他们复查一下。”    
“黑点? ”我说，房间突然之间变得太小了。    
“癌症吗? ”爸爸若无其事地加上一句。    
“也许是，总之很可疑。”医生咕哝道。    
“你可以多告诉我们一些吗? ”我问。    
“没办法，需要先去做 CAT 扫描，然后去看肺科医生。”他把转诊单递给我。“你说过你爸爸吸烟，对吧? ”    
“是的。”    
他点点头，眼光又看看我，看看爸爸，又收回来。“两个星期之内，他们会给你打电话。”    
我想质问他，带着“可疑”这个词，我怎么撑过这两个星期? 我怎么能够吃饭、工作、学习? 他怎么可以用这个词打发我回家?    
我接过那张表格，交了上去。那晚，我等到爸爸入睡，然后叠起一条毛毯，把它当成祷告用的褥子。我把头磕在地面，暗暗念诵那些记不太清楚的《可兰经》——在喀布尔的时候毛拉要求我们背诵的经文——求求真主大发善心，虽则我不知道他是否存在。那时我很羡慕那个毛拉，羡慕他的信仰和坚定。    
两个星期过去了，我们没有接到电话。我打电话过去，他们告诉我说找不到那张转诊单，问我究竟有没有把它交上去。他们说再过三个星期，会打电话来。我勃然作色，经过一番交涉，把三个星期改为一个星期内做CAT ，两个星期内看医生。    
接诊的肺科医师叫施内德，开头一切都好，直到爸爸问他从哪里来，他说俄国。爸爸当场翻脸。    
“对不起，大夫。”我说，将爸爸拉到一旁。施内德大夫微笑着站起来，手里还拿着听诊器。    
“爸爸，我在候诊室看过施内德大夫的简历。他的出生地是密歇根，密歇根! 他是美国人，远比你和我更美国。”    
“我不在乎他在哪儿出生，他是俄国佬。”爸爸说，做出扭曲的表情，仿佛那是个肮脏的字眼。“他的父母是俄国佬，他的祖父母是俄国佬。我当着你妈妈的面发誓，要是他胆敢再碰我一下，我就扭断他的手。”    
“施内德大夫的父母从俄国逃亡出来，你懂吗? 他们逃亡!”    
但爸爸一点都没听进去。有时我认为，爸爸惟一像爱他妻子那样深爱着的，是阿富汗，他的故国。我差点儿抓狂大叫，但我只是叹口气，转向施内德医师。“对不起，大夫，没有办法。”    
第二个肺科医师叫阿曼尼，是伊朗人，爸爸同意了。阿曼尼大夫声音轻柔，留着弯曲的小胡子，一头银发。他告诉我们，他已经看过CAT 扫描的结果，接下来他要做的，是进行一项叫支气管镜检查的程序，取下一片肺块做病理学分析。他安排下个星期进行。我搀扶爸爸走出诊室，向大夫道谢，心里想着如今我得带着“肺块”这个词过一整个星期了，这个字眼甚至比“可疑”更不吉利。我希望索拉雅能在这儿陪着我。    
就像魔鬼一样，癌症有各种不同的名字。爸爸患的叫“燕麦细胞恶性肿瘤”。已经扩散。没法开刀。爸爸问起病况，阿曼尼大夫咬咬嘴唇，用了“严重”这个词。“当然，可以做化疗。”他说，“但那只是治标不治本。”    
“那是什么意思? ”爸爸问。    
阿曼尼叹气说: “那就是说，它无法改变结果，只能延迟它的到来。”    
“这个答案清楚多了，阿曼尼大夫，谢谢你。”爸爸说，“但请不要在我身上做化疗。”
他露出如释重负的神情，一如那天在杜宾斯太太的柜台上放下那叠食物券。    
“可是，爸爸……”    
“别在公众场合跟我顶嘴，阿米尔，永远不要。你以为你是谁? ”      
塔赫里将军在跳蚤市场提到的雨水姗姗来迟了几个星期，但当我们走出阿曼尼大夫的诊室，过往的车辆令地面上的积水溅上人行道。爸爸点了根烟。我们回家的路上，他一直在车里抽烟。    
就在他把钥匙伸进楼下大门的锁眼时，我说: “我希望你能考虑一下化疗，爸爸。”    
爸爸将钥匙放进口袋，把我从雨中拉进大楼破旧的雨棚之下，用拿着香烟的手戳戳我的胸膛: “住口! 我已经决定了。”    
“那我呢，爸爸? 我该怎么办? ”我说，泪如泉涌。    
一抹厌恶的神色掠过他那张被雨水打湿的脸。在我小时候，每逢我摔倒，擦破膝盖，放声大哭，他也会给我这种脸色。当时是因为哭泣让他厌恶，现在也是因为哭泣惹他不快。
“你二十二岁了，阿米尔! 一个成年人! 你……”他张开嘴巴，闭上，再次张开，重新思索。
在我们头顶，雨水敲打着帆布雨棚。“你会碰到什么事情，你说? 这些年来，我一直试图教你的，就是让你永远别问这个问题。”    
他打开门，转身对着我。“还有，别让人知道这件事情，听到没有? 别让人知道。我不需要任何人的怜悯。”然后他消失在昏暗的大厅里。那天剩下的时间里，他坐在电视机前，一根接一根抽烟。我不知道他藐视的是什么，或者是谁。我? 阿曼尼大夫? 或者也许是他从来都不相信的真主?    
有那么一阵，即使是癌症也没能阻止爸爸到跳蚤市场去。我们星期六仍搜罗各处车库卖场，爸爸当司机，我指路，并且在星期天摆摊。铜灯。棒球手套。坏了拉链的滑雪夹克。
爸爸跟在那个古老的国家就认识的人互致问候，我和顾客为一两块钱讨价还价。仿佛一切如常。仿佛我成为孤儿的日子并没有随着每次收摊渐渐逼近。        
塔赫里将军和他的太太有时会逛到我们这边来。将军仍是一派外交官风范，脸带微笑跟我打招呼，用双手跟我握手。但是塔赫里太太的举止显得有些冷漠，但她会趁将军不留神，偷偷低头朝我微笑，投来一丝歉意的眼光。    
我记得那段岁月出现了很多“第一次”：我第一次听到爸爸在浴室里呻吟。第一次发现他的枕头上有血。执掌加油站三年以来，爸爸从未请过病假。又是一个第一次。    
等到那年万圣节，星期六的下午刚过一半，爸爸就显得疲累不堪，我下车去收购那些废品时，他留在车上等待。到了感恩节，还没到中午他就吃不消了。待得雪橇在屋前草坪上出现，假雪洒在花旗松的枝桠上，爸爸呆在家里，而我独自开着那辆大众巴士，穿梭在半岛地区。    
在跳蚤市场，阿富汗人偶尔会对爸爸的消瘦议论纷纷。起初，他们阿谀奉承，问及爸爸饮食有何秘方。可是询问和奉承停止了，爸爸的体重却继续下降。磅数不断减少，再减少。他脸颊深陷，太阳穴松塌，眼睛深深凹进眼眶。    
接着，新年之后不久，在一个寒冷的星期天早晨，爸爸在卖灯罩给一个壮硕的菲律宾人，我在大众巴士里面东翻西找，寻找一条毛毯盖住他的腿。    
“喂，小子，这个家伙需要帮忙! ”菲律宾人焦急地喊道。我转过身，发现爸爸倒在地上，四肢抽搐。    
“救命! ”我大喊，“来人啊! ”我奔向爸爸。他口吐白沫，流出的泡泡浸湿了胡子。他眼珠上翻，只见一片白。    
大家都朝我们涌过来。我听见有人说发作了，另外有人说“快打 911! ”，我听见一阵跑步声。人群围过来，天空变得阴暗。    
爸爸的泡沫变红了，他在咬自己的舌头。我跪在他身旁，抓住他的手臂，说我在这里爸爸，我在这里，你会好的，我就在这里。好像如此这般，我就能减缓他的病痛，让它们不再烦我爸爸。我感到膝盖一片潮湿。爸爸小便失禁了。嘘，亲爱的爸爸，我在这里。你的儿子就在这里。      
那个白胡子的大夫头顶油光可鉴，把我拉出病房。“我想跟你一起看看你爸爸的CAT扫描。”他说。他把菲林放在走廊的灯箱上，用铅笔带橡皮擦的那头指着爸爸的癌症所在的图片，好像警察将凶手的大头像展示给罹难者的家属看。在那些照片上，爸爸的大脑看起来像个胡桃的切面，点缀着几个网球状的灰色阴影。    
“正如你看到的，癌症转移了。”他说，“他必须服用类固醇，以便缩减他大脑里的肿块，还得吃抗中风的药物。我建议做放射线治疗，你明白的我意思吗? ”    
我说我明白。我已经熟悉癌症的相关术语了。    
“那就好，”他说，看看他的寻呼机，“我得走了，不过如果你有任何问题，可以给我打传呼。”    
“谢谢你。”    
那天晚上，我彻夜坐在爸爸床边的椅子上。      
翌日早晨，走廊那端的候诊室挤满了阿富汗人，有纽瓦克来的屠夫，爸爸建造恤孤院时的工程师。他们纷纷走进来，语调沉痛地向爸爸表达他们的敬意，祝福他尽早康复。那时爸爸已经醒了，他虚弱而疲倦，但清醒。    
早晨过了一半，塔赫里将军和他太太也来了。索拉雅跟在后面，我们对望了一眼，同时将眼光移开。“你好吗，老朋友。”塔赫里将军说，捂着爸爸的手。    
爸爸示意他看着臂上的输液管，露出孱弱的微笑。将军回以微笑。    
“你们不应如此麻烦的，你们大家。”爸爸呻吟着说。    
“这不麻烦。”塔赫里太太说。    
“一点都不麻烦。更重要的是，你需要什么吗? ”塔赫里将军说，“什么都行，请把我当成你的兄弟。”    
我记得有一次爸爸跟我说起普什图人的事情。我们也许头脑顽固，我知道我们太过骄傲，可是，在危难的时刻，相信我，你会宁愿在身边的是普什图人。    
爸爸在枕上摇摇头:“你能到这里来已经叫我很高兴了。”将军脸现微笑，捏捏爸爸的手。
“你怎么样? 亲爱的阿米尔? 你需要什么东西吗? ”    
他竟然那样看着我，眼中充满慈爱……“不，谢谢，将军大人。我……”我喉咙一哽，泪水止不住掉下来，冲出病房。    
我站在走廊的灯箱边上哭泣，就在那儿，前一天晚上，我看到了凶手的真面目。    
爸爸的门开了，索拉雅从他的病房走出来。她站在我身边，穿着灰色的长衫和牛仔裤。
她的头发倾泻而下。我想在她怀里寻求安慰。    
“我很抱歉，阿米尔。”她说，“我们大家都知道事情很糟糕，但却拿不出什么主意。”    
我用衣袖擦擦眼睛，“他不想让任何人知道。”    
“你需要什么吗? ”    
“不。”我挤出微笑。她把手放在我的手上。这是我们第一次碰触。我捧起她的手，拉到我的脸上，眼睛上，然后任她抽走。“你最好还是回到里面去，不然你爸爸会出来找的。”    
她笑着点点头，“那我回去。”她转身离开。    
“索拉雅? ”    
“怎么啦? ”    
“我很高兴你来了。这对我……意味着一切。”    
  隔了两天，他们让爸爸出院。他们请来一位放射线肿瘤学专家，游说爸爸接  受放射线治疗。爸爸拒绝了。他们试图让我也加入到游说的行列中去。但我见到  爸爸脸上的表情，对他们表达谢意，在他们的表格上签名，用那辆福特都灵将爸爸带回家。    
那晚爸爸躺在沙发上，身上盖着一条羊毛毯。我给他端来热红茶和烤杏仁，把手伸在他背后，轻而易举地将他扶上来。他的肩侧在我手中感觉就像鸟儿的翅膀。我把毛毯拉到他的胸膛上，那儿瘦骨嶙峋，肤色很差。    
“需要我为你做些什么吗，爸爸？”    
“不用，我的孩子，谢谢你。”  我坐在他身旁：“我想你能不能替我办点事情，如果你身体还撑得过去的话。”  
“什么事？”    
“我想你帮我提亲，我想你到塔赫里将军家里去，向他提亲。”  爸爸的干嘴唇绽放出微笑，宛如枯萎的树叶上的一点绿色。“你想好了吗？”  
“我从来没有这么清楚过。”    
“你仔细考虑了吗？”    
“当然，爸爸。”    
“那把电话给我，还有我那本小笔记本。”  我眨眨眼：“现在？”  
“不然还等什么时候？”    
我微笑：“好的。”我把电话给他，还有爸爸用来记录他那些阿富汗朋友的电话号码的本子。他找到塔赫里的号码。拨号。把听筒提到耳边。我的心脏在胸  口怦怦跳。    
“亲爱的雅米拉？晚上好。”他说，他表明身份。停下。“好多了，谢谢你。    
你去看望我，真是太谢谢了。”他听了一会儿，点点头，“我会记住的，谢谢。将军大人在家吗？”停下。“谢谢。”    
他的眼光射向我。不知何故我直想发笑，或者尖叫。我的手握成拳头，塞在嘴里，咬着它。爸爸轻轻哼笑。    
“将军大人，晚上好……是的，好多了好多了……好的……你太好了。将军  大人，我打电话来，是想问，明天早上我可不可以去拜访你和塔赫里太太，有件很荣誉的事情……是的……十一点刚刚好。到时见。再见。”  
他挂上电话。我们看着对方。我突然笑起来，爸爸也跟着加入。爸爸弄湿头发，将其朝后梳。我帮他穿上干净的白衬衫，替他打好领带，发现领口的纽扣和爸爸的脖子之间多出了两英寸的空间。我在想当爸爸逝去，该留下多大的虚空。我强迫自己想别的。他没逝去，还没有，今天应该想些美好的事情。他那套棕色西装的上衣，我毕业那天他穿着那件，松松垮垮挂在他身上——爸爸消瘦得太厉害了，
再也不合身了。我只好把袖子卷起来。我弯腰替他绑好鞋带。    
塔赫里一家住在一座单层的平房里面，那一带是弗里蒙特知名的阿富汗人聚居地。那房子有凸窗，斜屋顶，还有个围起的门廊，我看见上面有几株天竺葵。    
我扶爸爸下福特车，再溜回车里。他倚着副驾驶座的车窗：“回家去吧，过一个小时我打电话给你。”    
“好的，爸爸。”我说，“好运。”  他微笑。    
我驱车离开。透过观后镜，爸爸正走上塔赫里家的车道，尽最后一次为人父的责任。    
我在我们住所的客厅走来走去，等待爸爸的电话。客厅长 15步，宽 10步半。如果将
军拒绝怎么办？要是他讨厌我那又如何？我不停走进厨房，查看烤炉上的时钟。    
快到中午的时候电话响起。是爸爸。    
“怎么样？”    
“将军同意了。”  我松了一口气。坐下，双手颤抖。“他同意了？”  
“是的。不过亲爱的索拉雅在阁楼她的房间里面，她想先跟你谈谈。”    
“好的。”  爸爸对某个人说了几句话，接着传来两下按键声，他挂了电话。  
“阿米尔？”索拉雅的声音。    
“你好。”    
“我爸爸同意了。”    
“我知道。”我说，换手握住听筒。我在微笑。“我太高兴了，不知道说什么。”    
“我也很高兴，阿米尔。我……我无法相信这是真的。”我大笑：“我知道。”    
“听着，”她说，“我想告诉你一些事情。一些你必须事先知道的事情……”    
“我不在乎那是什么。”    
“你必须知道。我不想我们一开始就有秘密，而且我宁愿亲口告诉你。”  
“如果那会让你觉得好一些，你就告诉我吧。但是它不会改变任何事情。”电话那端沉默了好久。“我们在弗吉尼亚生活的时候，我跟一个阿富汗人私奔了。那时我十八岁……很叛逆……愚蠢……他吸毒……我们同居了将近一个月。弗吉尼亚所有的阿富汗人议论纷纷。”    
“最后爸爸找到我们。他站在门口……要我回家。我歇斯底里，哭喊，尖叫，说我恨他……”    
“不管怎样，我回家了，并且……”她在哭，“对不起。”我听见她放低话筒，擦着鼻子。“对不起，”她又开始了，声音有点嘶哑，“我回到家里，发现妈妈中风了，她右半边脸麻痹……我觉得很内疚。她本来不会这样的。”    
“过后不久，爸爸就举家搬到加利福尼亚来了。”跟着一阵沉默。    
“你和你爸爸现在怎么样？”我说。    
“我们一直有分歧，现在还有，但我很感激他那天去找我。我真的相信他救了我。”
她停顿，“那么，我所说的让你为难吗？”    
“有一点。”我说。这次我对她说了真话。我不能欺骗她，在听到她跟男人上床之后，说我的尊严毫发无伤是假的，毕竟我从来没把女人带上床。这让我非常为难，但在让爸爸替我求婚之前，我已经想了好几个星期。而每次到最后，总是回到同一个问题：我凭什么去指责别人的过去？    
“你很为难，要改变主意吗？”    
“不，索拉雅。没那么严重。”我说，“你无论说什么，都不会改变任何事情。我想娶你。”  
她又哭起来。我妒忌她。她的秘密公开了，说出来了，得到解决了。我张开嘴巴，差点告诉她，我如何背叛了哈桑，对他说谎，把他赶出家门，还毁坏了爸爸和阿里四十年的情谊。但我没有。我怀疑，在很多方面，索拉雅·塔赫里都比我好得多。勇气只是其中之一。    
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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. It was called "Unexplained Infertility.?
Then came the treatment phase. We tried a drug called Clomiphene, and hMG, a series of shots which Soraya gave to herself. When these failed, Dr. Rosen advised in vitro fertilization. We received a polite letter from our HMO, wishing us the best of luck, regretting they couldn't cover the cost.
We used the advance I had received for my novel to pay for it. IVF proved lengthy, meticulous, frustrating, and ultimately unsuccessful. After months of sitting in waiting rooms reading magazines like Good Housekeeping and Reader's Digest, after endless paper gowns and cold, sterile exam rooms lit by fluorescent lights, the repeated humiliation of discussing every detail of our sex life with a total stranger, the injections and probes and specimen collections, we went back to Dr. Rosen and his trains.
He sat across from us, tapped his desk with his fingers, and used the word "adoption?for the first time. Soraya cried all the way Home.
Soraya broke the news to her parents the weekend after our last visit with Dr. Rosen. We were sitting on picnic chairs in the Taheris?backyard, grilling trout and sipping yogurt dogh. It was an early evening in March 1991. Khala Jamila had watered the roses and her new honeysuckles, and their fragrance mixed with the smell of cooking fish. Twice already, she had reached across her chair to caress Soraya's hair and say, "God knows best, bachem. Maybe it wasn't meant to be.?
Soraya kept looking down at her hands. She was tired, I knew, tired of it all. "The doctor said we could adopt,?she murmured.
General Taheri's head snapped up at this. He closed the barbecue lid. "He did??
"He said it was an option,?Soraya said.
We'd talked at Home about adoption. Soraya was ambivalent at best. "I know it's silly and maybe vain,?she said to me on the way to her parents?house, "but I can't help it. I've always dreamed that I'd hold it in my arms and know my blood had fed it for nine months, that I'd look in its eyes one day and be startled to see you or me, that the baby would grow up and have your smile or mine. Without that... Is that wrong??
"No,?I had said.
"Am I being selfish??
"No, Soraya.?
"Because if you really want to do it...?
"No,?I said. "If we're going to do it, we shouldn't have any doubts at all about it, and we should both be in agreement. It wouldn't be fair to the baby otherwise.?
She rested her head on the window and said nothing else the rest of the way.
Now the general sat beside her. "Bachem, this adoption... thing, I'm not so sure it's for us Afghans.?Soraya looked at me tiredly and sighed.
"For one thing, they grow up and want to know who their natural parents are,?he said. "Nor can you blame them. Sometimes, they leave the Home in which you labored for years to provide for them so they can find the people who gave them life. Blood is a powerful thing, bachem, never forget that.?
"I don't want to talk about this anymore,?Soraya said.
"I'll say one more thing,?he said. I could tell he was getting revved up; we were about to get one of the general's little speeches. "Take Amir jan, here. We all knew his father, I know who his grandfather was in Kabul and his great-grandfather before him, I could sit here and trace generations of his ancestors for you if you asked. That's why when his father--God give him peace--came khastegari, I didn't hesitate. And believe me, his father wouldn't have agreed to ask for your hand if he didn't know whose descendant you were. Blood is a powerful thing, bachem, and when you adopt, you don't know whose blood you're bringing into your house.
"Now, if you were American, it wouldn't matter. People here marry for love, family name and ancestry never even come into the equation. They adopt that way too, as long as the baby is healthy, everyone is happy. But we are Afghans, bachem.?
"Is the fish almost ready??Soraya said. General Taheri's eyes lingered on her. He patted her knee. "Just be happy you have your health and a good husband.?
"What do you think, Amir jan??Khala Jamila said.
I put my glass on the ledge, where a row of her potted geraniums were dripping water. "I think I agree with General Sahib.?
Reassured, the general nodded and went back to the grill.
We all had our reasons for not adopting. Soraya had hers, the general his, and I had this: that perhaps something, someone, somewhere, had decided to deny me fatherhood for the things I had done. Maybe this was my punishment, and perhaps justly so. It wasn't meant to be, Khala Jamila had said. Or, maybe, it was meant not to be.

A FEW MONTHS LATER, we used the advance for my second novel and placed a down payment on a pretty, two-bedroom Victorian house in San Francisco's Bernal Heights. It had a peaked roof, hardwood floors, and a tiny backyard which ended in a sun deck and a fire pit. The general helped me refinish the deck and paint the walls. Khala Jamila bemoaned us moving almost an hour away, especially since she thought Soraya needed all the love and support she could get--oblivious to the fact that her well-intended but overbearing sympathy was precisely what was driving Soraya to move.

SOMETIMES, SORAYA SLEEPING NEXT TO ME, I lay in bed and listened to the screen door swinging open and shut with the breeze, to the crickets chirping in the yard. And I could almost feel the emptiness in Soraya's womb, like it was a living, breathing thing. It had seeped into our marriage, that emptiness, into our laughs, and our lovemaking. And late at night, in the darkness of our room, I'd feel it rising from Soraya and settling between us. Sleeping between us. Like a newborn child.

第十三章
隔日早晨，我们到塔赫里家里，完成“定聘”的仪式，我不得不把福特停在  马路对面。
他们的车道挤满了轿车。我穿着海军蓝西装，昨天我把前来提亲的爸爸接回家之后，去买
了这身衣服。我对着观后镜摆了摆领带。    
“你看上去很帅。”爸爸说。    
“谢谢你，爸爸。你还好吗？你觉得撑得住吗？”    
“撑得住？今天是我有生以来最高兴的一天，阿米尔。”他说，露出疲累的微笑。    
我能听见门那边的交谈声、欢笑声，还有轻柔的阿富汗音乐——听起来像乌斯塔德·萨
拉汉[Ustad  Sarahang（1924～1983），阿富汗歌星] 的情歌。我按门铃。一张脸从前窗的窗帘露出来，又缩回去。“他们来了。”我听见有个女人说。交谈声戛然而止，有人关掉音乐。    
塔赫里太太打开门。“早上好。”她说，眼里洋溢着喜悦。我见她做了头发，穿着一件长及脚踝的黑色衣服。我跨进门廊，她眼睛湿润。“你还没进屋子我就已经哭了，亲爱的阿米尔。”她说。我在她手上吻了一下，跟爸爸前一天夜里教  我那样如出一辙。    
她领着我们，走过被灯光照得通明的走廊，前往客厅。我看见镶木板的墙上挂着照片，照片中的人都将成为我的亲人：年轻的塔赫里太太头发蓬松，跟将军在一起，背景是尼亚加拉大瀑布；塔赫里太太穿着无缝外套，将军穿着窄领外套，系着细领带，头发又黑又密；索拉雅正要登上过山车，挥手微笑，阳光照得她银色的牙套闪闪发亮。还有张照片是将军全套戎装，跟约旦国王侯赛因[HuSSein bin Talal 1935～1999），1953年至1999年在位]握手。另一张是查希尔国王的画像。    
客厅约莫有二十来个客人，坐在靠墙边的椅子上。爸爸走进去时，全部人起立。我们绕屋走着，爸爸慢慢领路，我跟在后边，和各位宾客握手问好。将军仍穿着他的灰色西装，跟爸爸拥抱，彼此轻拍对方的后背。他们用严肃的语气，相互说“你好”。    
将军抱住我，心照不宣地微笑着，仿佛在说：“喏，这就对了，按照阿富汗人的方式，我的孩子。”我们互相亲吻了三次脸颊。    
我们坐在拥挤的房间里，爸爸和我一边，对面是塔赫里将军和他的太太。爸爸的呼吸变得有点艰难，不断擦去额头上的汗水，掏出他的手帕咳嗽。他看见我在望着他，挤出勉强的笑容。“我还好。”他低声说。  
遵从传统风习，索拉雅没出场。大家谈了几句，就随意闲聊起来，随后将军假咳了几声。房间变得安静，每个人都低头看着自己的手，以示尊重。将军朝爸爸点点头。    
爸爸清清喉咙。他开口说话，然而总要停下来喘气，才能把话说完整。“将军大人，亲爱的雅米拉……今天，我和我的儿子怀着敬意……到你家来。你们是  ……有头有面的人……出身名门望族……血统尊荣。我今天带来的，没有别的，只有无上的崇敬……献给你，你的家族，还有……对你先人的缅怀。”他歇了一会儿，等呼吸平息，擦擦额头。“亲爱的阿米尔是我惟一的儿子……惟一的儿子，他一直是我的好儿子。我希望他……不负你的慈爱。我请求你赐亲爱的阿米尔和我以荣幸……接纳我们成为你的亲人。”    
将军礼貌地点点头。    
“像你这样的男人的儿子成为我们的家人，我们很荣幸。”他说，“你声誉卓著，在喀布尔，我就是你谦卑的崇拜者，今天也是如此。你家和我家结成姻亲，这让我们觉得荣幸。”    
“亲爱的阿米尔，至于你，我欢迎你到我的家里来，你是我们的女婿，是我掌上明珠的丈夫。今后我们休戚与共。我希望你能够将亲爱的雅米拉和我当成你的父母，我会为你和亲爱的索拉雅祷告，愿你们幸福。我们祝福你们俩。”  
每个人鼓起掌来，在掌声中，人们把头转向走廊。那一刻我等待已久。索拉雅在那端出现。她穿着酒红色的传统阿富汗服装，长长的袖子，配着黄金镶饰，真是惊艳夺目。爸爸紧紧抓着我的手。塔赫里太太又哭了。索拉雅慢慢地向我们走来，身后跟着一群年轻的女性亲戚。    
她亲了亲爸爸的手。终于坐在我身边，眼光低垂。掌声响起。    
根据传统，索拉雅家里会举办订婚宴会，也就是所谓“食蜜”仪式。之后是订婚期，一连持续几个月。随后是婚礼，所有费用将由爸爸支付。    
我们全部人都同意索拉雅和我省略掉“食蜜”仪式。原因大家都知道，虽然没人真的说出来：爸爸没几个月好活了。    
在筹备婚礼期间，索拉雅和我从无独处的机会——因为我们还没有结婚，甚至连订婚都没有，那于礼不合。所以我只好满足于跟爸爸一起，到塔赫里家用晚餐。晚餐桌上，索拉雅坐在我对面。我想像着她把头放在我胸膛上，闻着她的秀发，那该是什么感觉呢？我想像着亲吻她，跟她做爱。    
为了婚礼，爸爸花了三万五千美元，那几乎是他毕生的积蓄。他在弗里蒙特租了个很大的阿富汗宴会厅，老板是他在喀布尔的旧识，给了他优惠的折扣。爸爸请来了乐队，给我挑选的钻石戒指付款，给我买燕尾服，还有在誓约仪式要穿的传统绿色套装。    
在为婚礼之夜所做的全部乱糟糟的准备一幸好多数由塔赫里太太和她的朋友帮忙——中，我只记得屈指可数的几件事。    
我记得我们的誓约仪式。大家围着一张桌子坐下，索拉雅和我穿着绿色的衣服——伊斯兰的颜色，但也是春天和新起点的颜色。我穿着套装，索拉雅（桌子上惟一的女子）蒙着面，穿长袖衣服。爸爸、塔赫里将军（这回他穿着燕尾服）还有索拉雅几个叔伯舅舅也坐在桌子上。索拉雅和我低着头，表情神圣而庄重，只能偷偷斜视对方。毛拉向证人提问，读起《可兰经》。我们发誓，在结婚证书上签名。索拉雅的舅舅，塔赫里太太的兄弟，来自弗吉尼亚，站起来，清清他的喉咙。索拉雅曾告诉过我，他在美国生活已经超过二十年。
他在移民局工作，娶了个美国老婆。他还是个诗人，个子矮小，鸟儿似的脸庞，头发蓬松。
他念了一首献给索拉雅的长诗，那是草草写在酒店的信纸上。“哇！哇！亲爱的沙利夫！”他
一念完，每个人都欢呼起来。    
我记得走向台上的情景，当时我穿着燕尾服，索拉雅蒙着面，穿着白色礼服，我们挽着手。爸爸紧挨着我，将军和他太太在他们的女儿那边，身后跟着一群亲戚，我们走向宴会厅。两旁是鼓掌喝彩的宾客，还有闪个不停的镜头。我和索拉  雅并排站着，她的表弟，亲爱的沙利夫的儿子，在我们头上举起《可兰经》。扬声器传来婚礼歌谣，慢慢走，就是爸爸和我离开喀布尔那天晚上，玛希帕检查站那个俄国兵唱的那首。    
将清晨化成钥匙，扔到水井去，慢慢走，我心爱的月亮，慢慢走，让朝阳忘记从东方升起，慢慢走，我心爱的月亮，慢慢走。    
我记得我们坐在沙发上，舞台上那对沙发好像王位，索拉雅拉着我的手，大约三百位客人注视着我们。我们举行另外的仪式。在那儿，人们拿给我们一面镜子，在我们头上覆上一条纱巾，留下我们两个凝望彼此在镜子中的容颜。看到镜子中索拉雅笑靥如花，我第一次低声对她说我爱她。一阵指甲花般的红晕在她脸庞绽放。    
我记得各色佳肴，有烤肉，炖肉饭，野橙子饭。我看见爸爸夹在我们两个中间，坐在沙发上，面带微笑。我记得浑身大汗的男人围成一圈，跳着传统舞蹈，他们跳跃着，在手鼓热烈的节拍之下越转越快，直到有人精疲力竭，退出那个圆圈。我记得我希望拉辛汗也在。    
并且，我还记得，我寻思哈桑是不是也结婚了。如果是的话，他蒙着头巾，在镜子中看到的那张脸是谁呢？他手里握着那涂了指甲花的手是谁的？    
2 点左右，派对从宴会厅移到爸爸的寓所。又上一轮茶，音乐响起，直到邻居叫来警察。一直到了很晚，离日出不到一个小时，才总算曲终人散，索拉雅和我第一次并排躺着。终我一生，周围环绕的都是男人。那晚，我发现了女性的温柔。    
索拉雅亲自提议她搬过来，跟我和爸爸住在一起。    
“我还以为你要求我们住到自己的地方去。”我说。    
“扔下生病的叔叔不顾？”她回答说。她的眼睛告诉我，那并非她为人妻之道。我亲吻她：“谢谢你。”    
索拉雅尽心照料我的爸爸。早上，她替他准备好面包和红茶，帮助他起床。她递给他止痛药，浆洗他的衣服，每天下午给他读报纸的国际新闻报道。她做他最爱吃的菜，杂锦土豆汤，尽管他每次只喝几勺子。她还每天带着他在附近散步。  等到他卧床不起，她每隔一个小时就帮他翻身，以免他得褥疮。    
某天，我去药房给爸爸买吗啡回家。刚关上门，我看见索拉雅匆匆把某些东  西塞到爸爸的毛毯下面。“喂，我看见了。你们两个在干什么？”我说。    
“没什么。”索拉雅微笑说。    
“骗人。”我掀起爸爸的毛毯。“这是什么？”我说，虽然我刚一拿起那本皮面的笔记本，心里就知道了。我的手指抚摸着那挑金线的边缘。我记得拉辛汗把它送给我那夜，我13岁生日那夜，烟花嘶嘶升空，绽放出朵朵的火焰，红的，绿的，黄的。    
“我简直无法相信你会写这些东西。”索拉雅说。 爸爸艰难地从枕上抬起头：“是我给她的，希望你别介意。”我把笔记本交回给索拉雅，走出房间。爸爸不喜欢见到我哭泣。    
婚礼之后一个月，塔赫里夫妇、沙利夫和他的妻子苏丝，还有索拉雅几个阿姨到我们家吃晚饭。索拉雅用白米饭、菠菜和羊肉招待客人。晚饭后，大家都喝着绿茶，四人一组打扑克牌。索拉雅和我在咖啡桌上跟沙利夫两口子对垒，旁边就是沙发，爸爸躺在上面，盖着毛毯。他看着我和沙利夫开玩笑，看着索拉雅和我勾指头，看着我帮她掠起一丝滑落的秀发。我能见到他发自内心的微笑，辽阔如同喀布尔的夜空，那些白杨树沙沙响、蟋蟀在花园啾啾叫的夜晚。    
快到午夜，爸爸让我们扶他上床睡觉。索拉雅和我将他的手臂架在我们的肩膀上，我们的手搭在他背后。我们把他放低，他让索拉雅关掉床头灯，叫我们弯下身，分别亲了我们一下。    
“我去给你倒杯水，带几片吗啡，亲爱的叔叔。”索拉雅说。    
“今晚不用了。”他说，“今晚不痛。”    
“好的。”她说。她替他盖好毛毯。我们关上门。爸爸再也没有醒来。    
他们填满了海沃德清真寺的停车场。在那座建筑后面光秃秃的草坪上，乱七八糟地停放着众多轿车和越野车。人们不得不朝清真寺以北开上三四条街，才能找到停车位。    
清真寺的男人区是个巨大的正方形房间，铺着阿富汗地毯，薄薄的褥子井然有序地排列着。男人们把鞋脱在门口，鱼贯进入房间，盘膝坐在褥子上。有个毛拉对着麦克风，诵读《可兰经》的章节。根据风俗，我作为死者的家人坐在门边。塔赫里将军坐在我身边。
透过洞开的大门，我看见轿车越停越多，阳光在它们的挡风玻璃上闪耀。从车上跳下乘客，
男人穿着黑色的西装，女眷身穿黑色的衣服，头部则笼罩白色面纱。    
《可兰经》的经文在屋子里回荡，我想起爸爸在俾路支赤手空拳和黑熊搏斗那个古老的传说。爸爸毕生都在和熊搏斗。痛失正值芳年的妻子；独自把儿子抚养成人；离开他深爱的家园，他的祖国；遭受贫穷、屈辱。而到了最后，终于来了一只他无法打败的熊。但即便这样，他也绝不妥协。    
每轮祷告过后，成群的哀悼者排着队，他们在退出的时候安慰我。我尽人子之责，和他们握手。他们之中大多数人我素未晤面。我不失礼节地微笑，感谢他们的祝愿，倾听他们提到爸爸时的言语。    
“……帮我在泰曼尼盖了房子……”    
“……保佑他……”    
“……我走投无路，他借钱给我……”    
“……他与我一面之缘，帮我找到工作……”  
“……他就像我的兄弟……”听到这些，我才明白自己的生活、身上的秉性有多少是来自爸爸，才知道他在人们的生命中留下的烙印。终我一生，我是“爸爸的儿子”。如今他走了。爸爸再也不会替我引路了，我得自己走。  
想到这个，我不由害怕。早些时候，在公共墓地那块小小的穆斯林墓区，我看着他们将爸爸放到墓穴里面。毛拉和另外一个男人开始争论，在下葬的时候究竟该引用哪段《可兰经》经文才算正确。若非塔赫里将军插手，他们一定闹得不可开交。毛拉选了一段经文，将其颂读出来，鄙夷地望着那个人。我看着他们将第一铲泥土丢进爸爸墓穴，然后走开。我走到墓园的另一边，坐在一株红枫树的阴影下面。    
最后一批哀悼者已经致哀完毕，清真寺人去楼空，只有那个毛拉在收起麦克风，用一块绿布裹起《可兰经》。将军和我走进黄昏的阳光中。我们走下台阶，走过一群吸烟的男人。我零星听到他们谈话，下个周末在尤宁城有场足球赛，圣克拉拉新开了一家阿富汗餐厅。
生活已然在前进，留下爸爸在后面。    
“你怎么样，我的孩子？”塔赫里将军说。我咬紧牙齿，将忍了一整天的泪水咽下。
“我去找索拉雅。”我说。  
“好的。”    
我走进清真寺的女人区。索拉雅和她妈妈站在台阶上，还有几个我似乎在婚礼上见过的女士。我朝索拉雅招招手。她跟母亲说了几句话，向我走来。    
“可以陪我走走吗？”  
“当然。”她拉起我的手。我们沿着一条蜿蜒的碎石路，默默前行，旁边有一排低矮的篱笆。我们坐在长凳上，看见不远处有对年老夫妇，跪在墓前，将一束雏菊放在墓碑上。“索拉  雅？”    
“怎么了？”    
“我开始想他了。” 她把手放在我的膝盖上。爸爸的戒指在她手上闪闪发亮。我能看到，在她身后，那些前来哀悼爸爸的人们驾车离开，驶上传教大道。很快，我们也会离开，第一次，也是永远，留下爸爸孤独一人。  
索拉雅将我拉近，泪水终于掉下来。由于我和索拉雅没有经历过订婚期，我对塔赫里一家的了解，多半是来自婚后。例如，将军患有严重的偏头痛，每月发作一次，持续将近一个星期。当头痛难忍的时候，将军到自己的房间去，脱光衣服，关掉电灯，把门锁上，直到疼痛消退才走出来。他不许任何人进去，不许任何人敲门。他终究会出来，穿着那身灰色的西装，散发着睡眠和床单的气味，血红的双眼浮肿。我从索拉雅口中得知，自她懂事起，将军就和塔赫里太太分房睡。我还知道他有时很小气，比如说他妻子把菜肴摆在他面前，他会尝一口，就叹着气把它推开。“我给你做别的。”塔赫里太太会说。但他不理不睬，阴沉着脸，只顾吃面包和洋葱。这让索拉雅很恼怒，让她妈妈哭起来。索拉雅告诉我，说他服用抗抑郁的药物。我了解到他靠救济金生活，而他到了美国之后还没工作过，宁愿用政府签发的支票去换现金，也不愿自贬身份，去干那些与他地位不配的活儿。至于跳蚤市场的营生，在他看来只是个爱好，一种可以跟他的阿富汗朋友交际的方式。将军相信，迟早有一天，阿富汗会解放，君主制会恢复，而当权者会再次征召他服役。所以他每天穿上那身灰色套装，捂着怀表，等待时来运转。    
我了解到塔赫里太太——现在我管她叫雅米拉阿姨——在喀布尔时，一度以  美妙的歌喉闻名。虽然她从不曾得到专业训练，但她有唱歌的天赋——我听说她会唱民歌、情歌，甚至还会唱“拉格”，[Raga，印度的一种传统音乐] 这可通常是男人才唱的。可是，尽管将军非常喜欢听音乐——实际上，他拥有大量阿富  汗和印度歌星演唱的经典情歌磁带，他认为演唱的事情最好还是留给那些地位低下的人去做。他们结婚的时候，将军的条款之一就是，她永远不能在公开场合唱歌。索拉雅告诉我，她妈妈本来很想在我们的婚礼上高歌一曲，只唱一首，但将军冷冷地盯了她一眼，这事就不了了之。雅米拉阿姨每周买一次彩票，每晚看强尼·卡森[Johnny  Carson（1925-2005），美国著名电视节目主持人] 的节目。白天她在花园里劳动，照料她的蔷薇、天竺葵、土豆藤和胡姬花。    
我和索拉雅结婚之后，花草和强尼·卡森不再那么受宠了。我成了雅米拉阿  姨生活中的新欢。跟将军防人之心甚强的外交手腕——我继续喊他“将军大人”，他甚至都没纠正我——不同，雅米拉阿姨毫不掩饰她有多么喜欢我。首先，她细数身上病痛的时候，我总是专心聆听，而将军对此充耳不闻。索拉雅告诉我，自从她母亲中风之后，每次心悸都是心脏病，每一处关节疼痛都是风湿关节炎发作，每一次眼跳都是中风。我记得第一次，雅米拉阿姨给我看她脖子上的肿块。“明天我会逃课，带你去看医生。”我说。将军笑着说：“那么，你干脆退学不去上课算了，我的孩子，你阿姨的病历就像鲁米的著作，厚厚好几册呢。”    
但她发现，我不仅是听她诉说病痛的好听众。我深信不疑，就算我抓起来复熗杀人越货，也依然能得到她对我毫不动摇的怜爱。因为我治愈了她最大的心病，我使她免受折磨，摆脱了每个阿富汗母亲最大的恐惧：没有门户光彩的人来向她  的女儿提亲。那她的女儿就会独自随着年华老去，无夫无子，无依无靠。凡是女人都需要丈夫，即使他扼杀了她唱歌的天赋。  
并且，从索拉雅口中，我得知了在弗吉尼亚发生的事情的细节。我们去参加婚礼。索拉雅的舅舅，沙利夫，替移民局工作那位，替他儿子娶了个纽瓦克的阿富汗女孩。婚礼举行的宴会厅，就是半年前我和索拉雅成百年之好的地方。我们站在一群宾客之中，看着新娘从新郎家人手中接过戒指。其时我们听到两个中年妇女在谈话，她们背对着我们。    
“多么可爱的新娘啊，”她们中一个说，“看看她，那么美丽，就像月亮一般。”    
“是的，”另外一个说，“而且还纯洁呢，品德良好，没有谈过男朋友。”  
“我知道，我告诉你，男孩最好别和他表姐那样的女人结婚。”回家路上，索拉雅放声大哭。我把福特驶向路边，停在弗里蒙特大道的一盏路灯下面。    
“事情已经过去了，”我说，撩拨着她的秀发，“谁在乎呢？”    
“这太他妈的不公平了。”她嚎叫道。    
“忘掉就好。”    
“她们的儿子晚上到酒吧鬼混，寻欢作乐，搞大女朋友的肚子，未婚生子，没有人会说半句闲话。哦，他们只是找乐子的男人罢了。我不过犯了一次错，而突然之间，所有人都开始谈论清白和尊严，我一辈子将不得不背负这个罪名，抬不起头来。”    
我伸出拇指，从她下巴抹去一颗泪珠，就在她的胎记上方。    
“我没跟你说，”索拉雅说，眼里泛着泪花，“那天夜里，我爸爸掏出一把熗。他告诉……
那人……说熗膛里有两颗子弹，如果我不回家，他就一熗打死他，然后自杀。我尖叫着，用各种各样的话骂我爸爸，跟他说他无法将我锁上一辈子，告诉他我希望他去死。”她又哭起来，泪水沾满嘴唇。“我真的对他那么说，说我希望他去死。”    
“他把我带回家时，我妈妈伸臂抱住我，她也哭起来了。她在说话，可是我一句也没听清，因为她口齿不清，说话含混。于是我爸爸将我带回我的房间，令我坐在化妆镜前面，给我一把剪刀，不动声色地叫我把头发都剪下来。我剪的时候，他就在旁边看着。”    
“一连好几个星期，我都没有出门。而当我走出去的时候，无论走到哪里，我都能听到有人窃窃私语，或者那是想像出来的。四年过去了，那个地方离这儿三千英里，而我还能听到这些话。”  
“让他们去死。”我说。她破涕为笑，说：“提亲那夜，我在电话里把事情告诉你，原以为你会改变主意。”  
“没有什么能改变，索拉雅。”她微笑起来，握住我的手。“能够找到你我真幸运。你和我遇到的阿富汗男人都不同。”    
“让我们永远别提这个了，好吗？”  
“好的。”我亲亲她的脸颊，驶离路边。我边开车边寻思自己何以与众不同。也许那是因为我在男人堆中长大，在我成长的时候，身旁没有女人，从未切身体会到阿富汗社会有时对待女人的双重标准。也许那是因为爸爸，他是非同寻常的阿富汗父亲，依照自己规则生活的自由人士，他总是先看社会规范是否人情入理，才决定  遵从还是拒绝。    
但我认为，我不在乎别人的过去，很大一部分原因，是由于我自己也有过去。我全都知道，但悔恨莫及。    
爸爸死后不久，索拉雅和我搬进弗里蒙特一套一居室的房子，离将军和雅米拉阿姨的寓所只有几条街。索拉雅的双亲给我们买了棕色的沙发，还有一套日本产的三笠瓷器[Mikasa，日本出产的高档瓷器品牌]，作为乔迁之礼。将军还额  外送我一份礼物，崭新的IBM  打字机。他用法尔西语写了一张字条，塞在箱子里面：
亲爱的阿米尔：我希望你从这键盘上发现很多故事。  
伊克伯·塔赫里将军    
我卖掉爸爸的大众巴士，时至今日，我再也没回到跳蚤市场去。每逢周五，我会开车到墓地去，有时，我发现墓碑上摆着一束新鲜的小苍兰，就知道索拉雅刚刚来过。    
索拉雅和我的婚姻生活变得波澜不兴，像例行公事。我们共用牙刷和袜子，交换着看晨报。她睡在床的右边，我喜欢睡在左边。她喜欢松软的枕头，我喜欢硬的。她喜欢像吃点心那样干吃早餐麦片，然后用牛奶送下。    
那年夏天，我接到圣荷塞州立大学的录取通知，主修英文。我在桑尼维尔找到一份保安工作，轮班看守太阳谷某家家具仓库。工作极其无聊，但也带来相当的好处：下午六点之后，人们统统离开，仓库的沙发堆至天花板，一排排盖着塑料覆膜，阴影爬上它们之间的通道，我掏出书本学习。正是在家具仓库那间弥漫着松香除臭剂的办公室，我开始创作自己的第一本小说。    
第二年，索拉雅也跟着进了圣荷塞州立大学，主修教育，这令她父亲大为光火。    
“我搞不懂你干吗要这样浪费自己的天分，”某天用过晚饭后，将军说，  
“你知道吗，亲爱的阿米尔，她念高中的时候所有课程都得优秀？”他转向她，  
“像你这样的聪明女孩，应该去当律师，当政治科学家。并且，奉安拉之名，阿富汗重获自由之后，你可以帮忙起草新的宪法。像你这样聪明的年轻阿富汗人大有用武之地。他们甚至会让你当大臣，旌表你的家族。”    
我看到索拉雅身子一缩，绷紧了脸。“我又不是女孩，爸爸。我是结了婚的妇女。还有，他们也需要教师。”    
“谁都可以当教师。”  
“还有米饭吗，妈妈？”索拉雅说。在将军找借口去海沃德看望朋友之后，雅米拉阿姨试着安慰索拉雅。“他没有恶意，”她说，“他只是希望你出人头地。”    
“那么他便可以跟他的朋友吹牛啦，说他有个当律师的女儿。又是一个军功章。”索拉雅说。    
“胡说八道！”    
“出人头地，”索拉雅不屑地说，“至少我不喜欢他，当人们跟俄国佬干仗，他只是坐在那儿，干等尘埃落地，他就可以趁机而入，去要回他那个一点也不高贵的官职。教书也许清贫，但那是我想做的！那是我所喜爱的，顺便说一下，它比领救济金好得太多了。”    
雅米拉阿姨欲说还休：“要是他听到你这么说，以后再也不会跟你搭腔了。”    
“别担心，”索拉雅不耐烦地说，将纸巾丢在盘子里，“我不会伤害他那宝贝的尊严。”    
1988年夏季，俄国人从阿富汗撤军之前约莫半年，我完成第一部小说，讲述父与子的故事，背景设在喀布尔，大部分是用将军送的打字机写出来的。我给十几家出版机构寄去征询信。8 月某天，我打开信箱，看到有个纽约的出版机构来  函索取完整的书稿，我高兴得呆住了。次日我把书稿寄出。索拉雅亲了那包扎妥当的书稿，雅米拉阿姨坚持让我们将它从《可兰经》下穿过。她说要是我书稿被接受，她就会替我感谢真主，宰一头羊，把肉分给穷人。    
“拜托，别宰羊，亲爱的阿姨。”我说，亲了亲她的脸颊。“只要把钱分给  有需要的人就好了，别杀羊。”    
隔了六个星期，有个叫马丁·格林瓦特的家伙从纽约给我打电话，许诺当我的出版代表。我只告诉了索拉雅：“仅仅有了代理机构，并不意味着我的书能够出版。如果马丁把小说卖掉，我们到时再庆祝不迟。”    
一个月后，马丁来电话，说我就要成为一名有作品出版的小说家。我告诉索拉雅，她尖叫起来。    
那天晚上，我们做了丰盛的晚饭，请来索拉雅的父母，以示庆祝。雅米拉阿姨做了瓤饭团——米饭包着肉丸——和杏仁布丁。将军眼里泛着泪花，说他为我感到骄傲。塔赫里将军和他妻子离开之后，我拿出一瓶回家路上买的昂贵干红葡萄酒，索拉雅和我举杯相庆。
将军不赞同女人喝酒，他在的时候索拉雅滴酒不沾。    
“你让我感到很骄傲，”她说，举杯和我碰了一下，“叔叔也一定会为你骄傲。”  
“我知道。”我说，想起爸爸，希望他地下有灵。等到夜阑人静，索拉雅入睡——酒精总是让她睡意蒙咙——之后，我站在阳台，吸着冰凉的夏夜空气。我想起拉辛汗，还有那鼓励我写作的字条，那是他读了我写的第一个故事之后写下的。我想起哈桑。总有一天，奉安拉之名，你会成为了不起的作家。他曾经说。全世界的人都会读你的故事。我生命中有过这么多美好的事情，这么多幸福的事情，我寻思自己究竟哪点配得上这些。    
小说在第二年，也就是1989年夏天出版，出版社让我到五个城市签售。就在那年，俄国佬的军队从阿富汗撤得干干净净。那本来应该是阿富汗人的光荣。可是，战乱继续，这次是内战，人民圣战者组织[Muiahedin，1979 年在美国的帮助下成立的民族激进组织，抗击苏联军队；后来成长为阿富汗重要的政治势力]和纳吉布拉[Mohamed  Najibullah（1947～1996），1987年出任阿富汗人民民主共和国总统，1992年辞职]傀儡政权之间的斗争。阿富汗难民依旧如潮水般涌向巴基斯坦。就在那一年，冷战结束，柏林墙倒塌。在所有这些之中，阿富汗被人遗忘。而塔赫里将军，俄国人撤军曾让他燃起希望，又开始给他的怀表上发条了。  
也就是在那一年，我和索拉雅打算生个孩子。想到自己要当父亲，我心中像打翻了五味瓶。我又害怕又开心，又沮丧又兴  奋。我在想，自己会成为什么样的父亲呢？我既想成为爸爸那样的父亲，又希望自己一点都不像他。    
但一年过去了，什么都没发生。随着月经一次次如期而至，索拉雅越来越沮丧，越来越焦躁，越来越烦恼。等到那时，原先只是旁敲侧击的雅米拉阿姨也变得不耐烦了。“好啦！我什么时候能给我的孙子唱摇篮曲啊？”将军永远不失普  什图人风范，从来不过问——提起这些问题，意味着试探他女儿和一个男人的性生活，尽管这个男人跟他女儿结婚已经超过四年之久。但每当雅米拉阿姨问起孩子，让我们难为情的时候，他总是眼睛一亮。    
“有时生孩子需要花一点时间。”某天夜里我对索拉雅说。    
“一年了，可不是一点时间，阿米尔！”她冷冷说，声音完全像变了一个人，“肯定有问题，我知道。”  
“那么我们去看看大夫。”  罗森大夫大腹便便，脸蛋圆润，一口细牙齿相当整齐，说话稍微带点东欧口音，有些像斯拉夫人。他对火车情有独钟——他的办公室到处都是跟铁路历史有关的书籍、火车头模型，还有各种照片：铁轨上的火车穿过如黛青山或者桥梁。他的桌子上方悬挂着一条标语：生命如火车，请上车。    
他替我们出谋策划。我先做检查。“男人简单些。”他说，手指在红木办公  桌上轻轻敲打。“男人的管道就像他的头脑：简单，很少出入意外。你们女士就不同了……这么说吧，上帝造你们的时候花了很多心思。”我怀疑他是不是碰到  每对夫妇，都要扯这套管道理论。  
“我们真幸运。”索拉雅说。罗森大夫大笑，不过笑声听上去很假。他给我一张测试纸和一个塑料罐，要求索拉雅定期做血检。我们握手作别。“欢迎上车。”他说，请我们出去。  
我通过了测试。接下来几个月，索拉雅不断做检查：基础体温，抽血检查每一种所能想像得到的荷尔蒙，某种叫“子宫黏液测试”的检查，超声波，更多的血检，更多的尿检。
索拉雅还接受了“宫腔镜”检查——罗森大夫将显微镜插进索拉雅的阴道，进行检视，他
没发现异常。“管道很干净。”他一边脱掉橡胶手套，一边宣布。我希望他别这样称呼——
我们又不是浴室！检查统统结束之后，他解释说他无法解释为什么我们怀不上小孩。而且，
很显然，这并不罕见。这叫“原因不明性不孕症”。    
接下来是治疗期。我们服用一种叫“克罗米芬”的药物，索拉雅还定期给自己注射“尿促性素”。这些全没效，罗森大夫建议我们考虑体外受孕。我们收到一封来自“健康维护组织”[Health  Maintenance  Organization，美国的预付费医疗组织，最初出现于 20世纪30、40年代之间，1973年美国通过《健康维护法案》，自此这种医疗保障制度得到全国性的法律支持。参与HMO的人通常预先支付若干费用，即可得到免费医疗和康复服务，但某些特殊的病情除外，如小说中的体外受孕]的信函，措辞礼貌，祝我们好运，并说恕不替我们支付那笔费用。    
我们动用我那本小说的预付金支付了治疗费用。体外受孕繁琐冗长，令人沮丧，最终也没有成功。好几个月在候诊室翻阅诸如《时尚好管家》、《读者文摘》之类的杂志之后，穿过无数纸袍、走进一间间点着荧光灯的冰冷无菌检查室之后，一次次屈辱地跟素昧平生的人谈论我们性生活的每一个细节之后，无数次注射、探针和采集精子之后，我们回去找罗森大夫和他的火车。    
他坐在我们对面，用手指敲着桌子，第一次用了“收养”这个字眼。索拉雅一路上哭着回家。    
我们最后一次去拜访罗森大夫之后那个周末，索拉雅把这惊人的消息告诉她父母。我们坐在塔赫里家后院的烧烤椅子上，烤着鳟鱼，喝着酸奶。那是1991年3 月的某个黄昏。雅米拉阿姨已经给她的蔷薇和新种的金银花浇过水，它们的芳  香混杂着烤鱼的味道。她已经两次从椅子上伸出手，去抚摸索拉雅的头发。“只有真主最清楚。
我的孩子，也许事情不是这样的。”    
索拉雅一直低头看着她的双手。我知道她很疲累，厌倦了这一切。“大夫说  我们可以收养一个。”她低声说。    
听到这个，塔赫里将军抬起头来，给烤炉盖上盖子。“他真的这么说？”  
“他说那是个选择。”索拉雅说。在家里我们已经就收养交换过意见，索拉雅并不想那么做。“我知道这很蠢，也许还有些虚荣，”在去她父母家的途中，她说，“可是我止不住这个念头。我总是梦想，我可以把孩子拥在怀里，知道我用血水养了他九个月，我梦想有一天，我看着他的眼睛，吃惊地看到你或我的影子。我梦想那婴儿会长大成人，笑起来像你或者像我。如果没有……这有错吗？”    
“没有。”我说。    
“我很自私吗？”    
“不，索拉雅。”    
“因为如果你真的想那么做”……“    
“不，”我说，“如果我们打算那么做，我们根本就不应该有任何动摇，并且，我们的意见必须一致。要不然对孩子不公平。”  
她把头靠在车窗上，在剩下的路程中一言不发。当时将军坐在她身旁：“我的孩子，关于收养……这件事，我不知道对我们阿富汗人来说是否合适。”索拉雅疲惫地看着我，幽幽叹气。“首先，他们长大成人，想要知道亲生父母是谁，”他说，“你们对此不能抱怨。你们操劳多年，所做全为了他们，有时候，他们会离家出走，去寻找给他们生命的人。血缘是最重要的，我的孩子，千万不能忘记。”    
“我不想再谈论这个话题了。”索拉雅说。    
“我再说一件事。”他说。我察觉到他激动起来了，我们听到将军的一番高谈阔论：“这里就拿亲爱的阿米尔来说吧。我们都认得他的父亲，我在喀布尔之时，便认得他的祖父是什么人，还认得他的曾祖父。如果你们问起，我可以坐下来，细数他好几代祖先。这就是为什么他的爸爸——真主保佑他安息——前来提亲，我不假思索就应承的原因。而且，相信我，如果他的爸爸不了解你祖上的历史，也不会要你当他的媳妇。血缘是最重要的，我的孩子，你们收养别人的时候，根本不知道将谁的血带进家门。”    
“现在，如果你们是美国人，这不成问题。这里的人们为了爱情结合，家族和祖辈根本不起作用。他们收养孩子也是这样的，只要婴儿健康，每个人都很高兴。但我们是阿富汗人，我的孩子。”    
“鱼烤好了吗？”索拉雅说。塔赫里将军眼睛盯着她，他拍拍她的膝盖。  
“高兴点吧，就为你身体健康，还有个好丈夫。”    
“你怎么想呢，亲爱的阿米尔？”雅米拉阿姨问。我把酒杯放到架子上，上面一排天竺葵滴着水。“我同意将军大人的看法。”将军很满意，点点头，走回烤架去。    
我们都有不收养的理由。索拉雅有她的理由，将军有他的理由，而我的理由是：也许在某个地方，有某个人，因为某件事，决定剥夺我为人父的权利，以报复我曾经的所作所为。也许这是我的报应，也许这样是罪有应得。也许事情不是这样的。雅米拉阿姨说。或者，也许事情注定是这样的。    
几个月后，我们用我第二部小说的预付款作为最低首期付款，买下一座漂亮的维多利亚式房子，有两个卧房，位于旧金山的巴诺尔山庄。它有尖尖的屋顶，硬木地板，还有个小小的后院，尽头处有一个晒台和一个火炉。将军帮我重新擦  亮晒台，粉刷墙壁。雅米拉阿姨抱怨我们搬得这么远，开车要一个半小时，特别是她认为索拉雅需要她全心全意的爱护和支持——殊不知正是她的好意和怜悯让  索拉雅难以承受，这才决定搬家。    
有时候，索拉雅睡在我身旁，我躺在床上，听着纱门在和风吹拂下开开关关，听着蟋蟀在院子里鸣叫。我几乎能感知到索拉雅子宫里的虚空，它好像是个活着的、会呼吸的东西。它渗进我们的婚姻，那虚空，渗进我们的笑声，还有我们的交欢。每当夜阑人静，我会察觉到它从索拉雅身上升起，横亘在我们之间。像新生儿那样，睡在我们中间。    
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4071鲜花 1鸡蛋

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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，不过低语的是关于学校、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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4071鲜花 1鸡蛋

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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。我很高兴她并非孤身一人。  
“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。    
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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。他说那关乎尊重。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！”但他只是关掉收音机，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。  
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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，那些我们过去一起长大、玩游戏、在街上追风筝的事情。听到我们过去的恶作剧，他们会大笑起来！    
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，给他买糖果。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。  
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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。爸爸从来不会忘记哈桑的生日。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，要是哈桑
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是哈扎拉人、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。  

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