Faces poke through the haze, linger, fade away. They peer down, ask me questions. They all ask questions. Do I know who I am? Do I hurt anywhere? I know who I am and I hurt everywhere. I want to tell them this but talking hurts. I know this because some time ago, maybe a year ago, maybe two, maybe ten, I tried to talk to a child with rouge on his cheeks and eyes smeared black. The child. Yes, I see him now. We are in a car of sorts, the child and I, and I don’t think Soraya’s driving because Soraya never drives this fast. I want to say something to this child — it seems very important that I do. But I don’t remember what I want to say, or why it might have been important. Maybe I want to tell him to stop crying, that everything will be all right now. Maybe not. For some reason I can’t think of, I want to thank the child. Faces. They’re all wearing green hats. They slip in and out of view They talk rapidly, use words I don’t understand. I hear other voices, other noises, beeps and alarms. And always more faces. Peering down. I don’t remember any of them, except for the one with the gel in his hair and the Clark Gable mustache, the one’ with the Africa stain on his cap. Mister Soap Opera Star. That’s funny. I want to laugh now. But laughing hurts too. I fade out. SHE SAYS HER NAME IS AISHA, “like the prophet’s wife.” Her graying hair is parted in the middle and tied in a ponytail, her nose pierced with a stud shaped like the sun. She wears bifocals that make her eyes bug out. She wears green too and her hands are soft. She sees me looking at her and smiles. Says something in English. Something is jabbing at the side of my chest.
迷迷糊糊间，我看见一些面孔，停留，又退去。他们弯身望着我，问我问题。他们统统在问。我知道我自己是谁吗？我身上哪里发痛吗？我知道我是谁，我浑身发痛。我想告诉他们这些，可是痛得无法开口。这些我从前就知道了，也许是一年前，也许是两年前，也许是十年前。我想和一个脸抹胭脂、眼涂黑影的男孩说话。那个孩子。是的，我现在看见他了。我们似乎在轿车里面，那个孩子和我，而我知道开车的不是索拉雅，因为她从来不开这么快。我想跟那个孩子说话——似乎跟他说话是顶要紧的事情。但我忘了自己想说什么，或者为什么跟他说话那么重要。也许我想告诉他，让他别哭了，现在一切都会好起来。也许不是。由于某种我说不上来的原因，我想谢谢那个孩子。面孔。他们全都戴着绿色帽子。他们进进出出。他们说话很快，说的语言我不懂。我听见别的声音，别的噪声、哔哔声和警笛声。总有更多的面孔，俯视下来。我谁也记不清了，只忆起一张面孔，头发和克拉克‘盖博式的胡子上有咭喱水，帽子上有非洲地图似的污迹。肥皂剧之星。那很好笑。我现在就想笑。但发笑也会疼痛。我昏过去。她说她叫艾莎，“跟先知的妻子一样”。她头发有些灰白，从中间分开，扎着马尾辫；她的鼻子穿着太阳形状的扣子。她戴着眼镜，双眼看上去突出。她也穿绿色衣服，她的手很柔软。她看着我凝望她的笑容。用英语说话。有东西插进我胸膛一侧。
I fade out. A MAN IS STANDING at my bedside. I know him. He is dark and lanky, has a long beard. He wears a hat — what are those hats called? Pakols? Wears it tilted to one side like a famous person whose name escapes me now. I know this man. He drove me somewhere a few years ago. I know him. There is something wrong with my mouth. I hear a bubbling sound. I fade out. MY RIGHT ARM BURNS. The woman with the bifocals and sun-shaped stud is hunched over my arm, attaching a clear plastic tubing to it. She says it’s “the Potassium.” “It stings like a bee, no?” she says. It does. What’s her name? Something to do with a prophet. I know her too from a few years ago. She used to wear her hair in a ponytail. Now it’s pulled back, tied in a bun. Soraya wore her hair like that the first time we spoke. When was that? Last week? Aisha! Yes. There is something wrong with my mouth. And that thing jab bing at my chest. I fade out. WE ARE IN THE SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS of Baluchistan and Baba is wrestling the black bear. He is the Baba of my child hood, _Toophan agha_, the towering specimen of Pashtun might, not the withered man under the blankets, the man with the sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. They roll over a patch of green grass, man and beast, Baba’s curly brown hair flying. The bear roars, or maybe it’s Baba. Spittle and blood fly; claw and hand swipe. They fall to the ground with a loud thud and Baba is sitting on the bear’s chest, his fingers digging in its snout. He looks up at me and I see. He’s me. I am wrestling the bear.
我昏过去。有个男人站在我床边。我认识他。他皮肤黝黑，又高又瘦，胡子很长。他戴着帽子——这些帽子叫什么名字来着？毡帽？帽子斜斜戴在一边，像极了某个我现在想不起来的著名人物。我认识这个男人，几年前，他开车送我到某个地方，我认识他。我的嘴巴不对劲。我听到一阵泡泡的声音。我昏过去。我右臂灼痛。那个戴着眼镜和鼻子穿着太阳状扣子的女人弯身在我的臂膀上，插进一根透明的塑料管子。她说那是“钾”。“好像被蜜蜂叮了一下，对吧？”她说。确实是。她叫什么名字？似乎和先知有关。我也认识她好几年了。她过去常常扎着马尾辫，现在它朝后梳，挽成发髻。我和索拉雅初次交谈的时候，她也是这个发型。那是什么时候？上个星期吗？艾莎！想起来了。我的嘴巴不对劲。那东西插进我的胸膛。我昏过去。我们在俾路支的苏莱曼山，爸爸在跟一只黑熊搏斗。他是我小时候的爸爸，飓风先生，高如铁塔，孔武有力，是典型的普什图人；不是盖着毛毯那个委靡的人，不是那个脸颊深陷、眼神空洞的人。他们，爸爸和黑熊，在一片绿草地来回翻滚，爸爸棕色的卷发飘扬着。黑熊吼叫，或许那是爸爸的叫声。唾沫和血液飞起，熊掌和人手相击。他们倒在地上，发出巨响，爸爸坐在黑熊的前胸，手指插进它的鼻孔。他抬头望向我。他是我。我在和黑熊搏斗。
Where am I? I wanted to ask. But my mouth wouldn’t open. I frowned. Grunted. Armand smiled; his teeth were blinding white.
我在哪儿？我想问，但无法张口。我皱眉，呻吟。阿曼德笑起来，他的牙齿真白。
I wake up. The lanky dark man is back at my bedside. His name is Farid, I remember now. And with him is the child from the car. His face reminds me of the sound of bells. I am thirsty.
我惊醒。那个瘦长的黑汉子又在我床边。他叫法里德，我现在想起来了。我和他还有一个男孩在车里。他的脸让我想起了铃铛声。我口渴。
I keep fading in and out.
我不断清醒了又昏过去。
I fade out.
我昏过去。
THE NAME OF THE MAN with the Clark Gable mustache turned out to be Dr. Faruqi. He wasn’t a soap opera star at all, but a head-and-neck surgeon, though I kept thinking of him as some one named Armand in some steamy soap set on a tropical island.
原来那个有着克拉克·盖博胡子的男人叫法鲁奇大夫。他根本不是肥皂剧明星，而是一个专治颅颈的外科医师。不过我总是把他当成阿曼德，某出背景设在一个热带岛屿的肥皂剧的主角。
“Not yet, Amir,” he said, “but soon. When the wires are out.” He spoke English with a thick, rolling Urdu accent.
“还没好，阿米尔。”他说，“不过快了，拆了线就好。”他的英语带有浓厚的乌尔都语翘舌音。
Wires?
线？
Armand crossed his arms; he had hairy forearms and wore a gold wedding band. “You must be wondering where you are, what happened to you. That’s perfectly normal, the postsurgical state is always disorienting. So I’ll tell you what I know.”
阿曼德双臂抱胸，他的小臂毛茸茸的，戴着一条结婚金链。“你肯定在想你在哪儿，发生什么事了。那很正常。手术后总是有这种茫然的状态。所以我会把我知道的告诉你。”
I wanted to ask him about the wires. Postsurgical? Where was Aisha? I wanted her to smile at me, wanted her soft hands in mine. Armand frowned, cocked one eyebrow in a slightly self-important way. “You are in a hospital in Peshawar. You’ve been here two days. You have suffered some very significant injuries, Amir, I should tell you. I would say you’re very lucky to be alive, my friend.” He swayed his index finger back and forth like a pendulum when he said this. “Your spleen had ruptured, probably — and fortunately for you — a delayed rupture, because you had signs of early hemorrhage into your abdominal cavity My colleagues from the general surgery unit had to perform an emergency splenectomy. If it had ruptured earlier, you would have bled to death.” He patted me on the arm, the one with the IV, and smiled. “You also suffered seven broken ribs. One of them caused a pneumothorax.”
我想问他线的事情。手术后？艾莎在哪里？我想看见她的微笑，想拉着她柔软的手。阿曼德皱眉，扬起一道眉毛，看上去有点自以为是。“你在白沙瓦的医院。你在这儿两天了。你伤得很重，阿米尔，我得对你说。要我说，你能活下来真的很幸运，我的朋友。”他一边说，一边伸出食指，像钟摆那样来回晃动。“你的脾脏破裂，幸运的是，很可能是后来才破裂的，因为你的腹腔有出血的初期症状。我那些普通外科的同事已经给你做了脾切手术。如果它破裂的时间早一些，你也许会流血致死。”他拍拍我的手臂，插着输液管那边，露出笑脸。“你还断了七根肋骨，其中有根引发气胸。”
I frowned. Tried to open my mouth. Remembered about the wires.
我皱眉，试图张开嘴巴，却想起有线。
“That means a punctured lung,” Armand explained. He tugged at a clear plastic tubing on my left side. I felt the jabbing again in my chest. “We sealed the leak with this chest tube.” I followed the tube poking through bandages on my chest to a container half-filled with columns of water. The bubbling sound came from there.
“也就是说，你的肺被刺破了。”阿曼德解释说，他拉着我左侧的一根透明塑料管，胸腔又传来阵痛。“我们用这根胸管弥合裂口。”我顺着那根管子，看见它一头插在我胸前的绷带之下，另一头插在装着半罐水柱的容器里面。泡泡的声音就是从那儿传来的。
“You had also suffered various lacerations. That means ‘cuts.” I wanted to tell him I knew what the word meant; I was a writer. I went to open my mouth. Forgot about the wires again.
“你身上还有很多不同的创口。也就是‘伤口’。”我想跟他说我知道那个词是什么意思，我是个作家。我想要张开嘴，又忘记缝着线了。
“The worst laceration was on your upper lip,” Armand said. “The impact had cut your upper lip in two, clean down the middle. But not to worry, the plastics guys sewed it back together and they think you will have an excellent result, though there will be a scar. That is unavoidable.”
“最严重的创口在上唇。”阿曼德说，“冲击力让你的上唇裂成两半，从人中裂开。不过别担心，整容医师帮你缝好了，他们认为你会恢复得很好，不过那儿会有道伤痕。这可避免不了。”
“There was also an orbital fracture on the left side; that’s the eye socket bone, and we had to fix that too. The wires in your jaws will come out in about six weeks,” Armand said. “Until then it’s liquids and shakes. You will lose some weight and you will be talking like Al Pacino from the first Godfather movie for a little while.” He laughed. “But you have a job to do today. Do you know what it is?”
“你左边眶骨组织破裂，就是你左眼眶的骨头，我们也替你修好了。你下巴的线要过六个星期才能拆，”阿曼德说，“在那之前，只能吃流食和奶昔。你会消瘦一些，而且在一段很短的时间内，你说话会像电影《教父》第一部里面那个阿尔·帕西诺一样。”他笑起来，“但你今天需要完成一项工作，你知道是什么吗？”
“Your job today is to pass gas. You do that and we can start feeding you liquids. No fart, no food.” He laughed again.
“你今天的工作是排便。你完成之后我们才能开始喂你吃流食。不见粪便，不给食物。”他又哈哈大笑。
Later, after Aisha changed the IV tubing and raised the head of the bed like I’d asked, I thought about what had happened to me. Ruptured spleen. Broken teeth. Punctured lung. Busted eye socket. But as I watched a pigeon peck at a bread crumb on the windowsill, I kept thinking of something else Armand/Dr. Faruqi had said: The impact had cut your upper lip in two, he had said, clean down the middle. Clean down the middle. Like a harelip.
稍后，艾莎帮我换输液管，又善解人意地摇起床头。随后，我想起发生在自己身上的事情。脾脏破裂。牙齿脱落。肺被刺穿。眼眶裂开。当我看见窗台上有只鸽子啄食碎面包的时候，忍不住想起阿曼德或者法鲁奇大夫适才说过的话。冲击力让你的上唇裂成两半，他说，从人中裂开。从人中裂开，像兔唇那样。
FARID AND SOHRAB came to visit the next day. “Do you know who we are today? Do you remember?” Farid said, only half-jokingly. I nodded.
隔日，法里德和索拉博前来探望。“你今天知道我们是谁吗？你记得吗？”法里德半开玩笑地说。我点头。
“Al hamdullellah!” he said, beaming. “No more talking non sense.”
“赞美安拉！”他说，喜气洋洋，“不用再说废话了。”
“Thank you, Farid,” I said through jaws wired shut. Armand was right — I did sound like Al Pacino from The Godfather. And my tongue surprised me every time it poked in one of the empty spaces left by the teeth I had swallowed. “I mean, thank you. For everything.”
“谢谢你，法里德。”我透过缝着线的下巴说。阿曼德说得对——我听起来确实像《教父》里面那个阿尔·帕西诺。而我的舌头让我大吃一惊：它伸过我赖以进食的牙齿原来所在的地方，却是空空荡荡。“说真的，谢谢你替我做的一切。”
I shook my head.
我摇摇头。
He waved a hand, blushed a little. “Bas, it’s not worthy of thanks,” he said. I turned to Sohrab. He was wearing a new outfit, light brown pirhan-tumban that looked a bit big for him, and a black skullcap. He was looking down at his feet, toying with the IV line coiled on the bed.
他摇摇手，脸色有点尴尬：“别这么说，没什么好谢的。”我转向索拉博。他穿着新衣服，淡蓝色的棉布长袍，看上去尺寸大了一些，还戴着黑色的无边便帽。他低头看着脚，手里拨弄着床边弯曲的输液管。
“We were never properly introduced,” I said. I offered him my hand. “I am Amir.”
“我们还没好好地相互介绍呢。”我说，朝他伸出手，“我是阿米尔。”
He looked at my hand, then to me. “You are the Amir agha Father told me about?” he said.
他看着我的手，然后看着我。“你是爸爸跟我说过的阿米尔老爷吗？”他说。
“Yes.” I remembered the words from Hassan’s letter. I have told much about you to Farzana jan and Sohrab, about us growing up together and playing games and running in the streets. They laugh at the stories of all the mischief you and I used to cause! “I owe you thanks too, Sohrab jan,” I said. “You saved my life.”
“是的。”我想起哈桑信里那些话。我告诉亲爱的法莎娜和索拉博很多次，那些我们过去一起长大、玩游戏、在街上追风筝的事情。听到我们过去的恶作剧，他们会大笑起来！“我也得谢谢你，亲爱的索拉博。”我说，“你救了我一命。”
“They’re my son’s,” Farid said. “He has outgrown them. They fit Sohrab pretty well, I would say.” Sohrab could stay with him, he said, until we found a place for him. “We don’t have a lot of room, but what can I do? I can’t leave him to the streets. Besides, my children have taken a liking to him. Ha, Sohrab?” But the boy just kept looking down, twirling the line with his finger.
“那是我儿子的。”法里德说，“这些衣服他穿不下了。我觉得它们穿在索拉博身上真好看。”他说索拉博可以跟着他，直到我们为他找到去处。“我们房间不够，但我能怎么办呢？我不能任他露宿街头。再说，我的孩子们也很喜欢索拉博。对吧，索拉博？”但那个男孩只是低着头，将线缠在手指上。
He didn’t say anything. I dropped my hand when he didn’t take it. “I like your new clothes,” I mumbled.
他默默不语，没跟我握手。我把手放下，“我喜欢你的新衣服。”我低声说。
“Let’s just say we both got what we deserved,” I said. Farid nodded, didn’t push it. It occurred to me that somewhere between the time we had left Peshawar for Afghanistan and now, we had become friends. “I’ve been meaning to ask something too.”
“这么说吧，我们都是罪有应得。”我说。法里德点点头，不再追问。我突然发觉，就在我们离开白沙瓦、前往阿富汗到现在，不知什么时候起，我们已经成了朋友。“我也有一直想要问的事情。”
“What?”
“什么？”
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Farid said, a little hesitantly. “What happened in that house? What happened between you and the Talib?”
“我一直想问，”法里德有点犹疑地说，“在那座屋子里面究竟发生了什么？你和那个塔利班之间究竟发生了什么事？”
My heart skipped. “Is he –“
我的心一沉：“他…”
I didn’t want to ask. I was afraid of the answer. “Rahim Khan,” I said.
我突然不想问，我害怕听到答案。“拉辛汗。”我说。
“He’s gone.”
“他走了。”
“No, just… gone.” He handed me a folded piece of paper and a small key. “The landlord gave me this when I went looking for him. He said Rahim Khan left the day after we did.”
“不，只是…走了。”他递给我一张折好的信纸，还有一把小钥匙。“我前去寻他，房东把这个交给我。他说我们走后隔日，拉辛汗也走了。”
He shrugged and said nothing.
他耸耸肩，一语不发。
“Where did he go?” Farid shrugged. “The landlord didn’t know He said Rahim Khan left the letter and the key for you and took his leave.” He checked his watch. “I’d better go. Bia, Sohrab.”
“他去哪里？”法里德耸耸肩：“房东也不知道。他说拉辛汗留下那封信和钥匙给你，就走了。”他看看手表，“我得走了。走吧，索拉博。”
“Could you leave him here for a while?” I said. “Pick him up later?” I turned to Sohrab. “Do you want to stay here with me for a little while?”
“你能让他在这儿留一会吗？”我说，“迟点再来接他？”我转向索拉博：“你愿意留下来陪我一会儿吗？”
THERE WERE THREE OTHER PATIENTS in my room. Two older men, one with a cast on his leg, the other wheezing with asthma, and a young man of fifteen or sixteen who’d had appendix surgery. The old guy in the cast stared at us without blinking, his eyes switching from me to the Hazara boy sitting on a stool. My roommates’ families — old women in bright shalwar-kameezes, children, men wearing skullcaps — shuffled noisily in and out of the room. They brought with them pakoras, _naan_, sa, nosas, biryani. Sometimes people just wandered into the room, like the tall, bearded man who walked in just before Farid and Sohrab arrived. He wore a brown blanket wrapped around him. Aisha asked him something in Urdu. He paid her no attention and scanned the room with his eyes. I thought he looked at me a little longer than necessary. When the nurse spoke to him again, he just spun around and left.
我的房间还有其他三个病人。两个年纪较大，一个脚上浇着石膏，另外那个患有哮喘，还有个十五六岁的少年，刚割过阑尾炎。浇石膏那个老家伙目不转睛地看着我们，他的眼睛来回看着我和那个坐在一张小矮凳上的哈扎拉男孩。我室友的家人——长罩衫光鲜的老太婆、孩子、戴无边便帽的男子——喧闹地在病房进进出出。他们带来炸蔬菜饼、馕饼、土豆饼和印度煸饭。偶尔还有人只是走进屋子，比如刚刚在法里德和索拉博来之前，有个高高的大胡子就进来过，身上裹着棕色的毛毯。艾莎用乌尔都语问他话，他不理不睬，自顾用眼光扫射房间。我认为他看着我的时间长得有点不对头。那护士又跟他说话，他只是转过身离开。
“Of course,” Farid said. “I’ll pick him up just before evening _namaz_.”
“当然，”法里德说，“做晚祷之前我会来接他。”
“How are you?” I asked Sohrab. He shrugged, looked at his hands.
“你好吗？”我问索拉博。他耸耸肩，看着自己的手。
“Are you hungry? That lady there gave me a plate of biryani, but I can’t eat it,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say to him. “You want it?” He shook his head. “Do you want to talk?” He shook his head again. We sat there like that for a while, silent, me propped up in bed, two pillows behind my back, Sohrab on the three-legged stool next to the bed. I fell asleep at some point, and, when I woke up, daylight had dimmed a bit, the shadows had stretched, and Sohrab was still sitting next to me. He was still looking down at his hands.
“你饿吗？那边的太太给我一盘焗饭，但我吃不下。”我说。我不知道跟他说什么，“你想吃吗？”他摇摇头。“你想说话吗？”他又摇摇头。我们就那样坐了一会，默不作声，我倚在床上，背后垫着两个枕头；索拉博坐在床边的三脚凳上。我不知不觉睡着了，醒来的时候，天色已经有点昏暗，影子变长，而索拉博仍坐在我身边。他仍在看着自己的双手。
THAT NIGHT, after Farid picked up Sohrab, I unfolded Rahim Khan’s letter. I had delayed reading it as long as possible. It read:
那晚，法里德把索拉博接走之后，我展开拉辛汗的信。我尽可能慢慢看，信上写着：
Amirjan, _Inshallah_, you have reached this letter safely. I pray that I have not put you in harm’s way and that Afghanistan has not been too unkind to you. You have been in my prayers since the day you left. You were right all those years to suspect that I knew. I did know. Hassan told me shortly after it happened. What you did was wrong, Amir jan, but do not forget that you were a boy when it happened. A troubled little boy. You were too hard on yourself then, and you still are — I saw it in your eyes in Peshawar. But I hope you will heed this: A man who has no conscience, no goodness, does not suffer. I hope your suffering comes to an end with this journey to Afghanistan.
亲爱的阿米尔：安拉保佑，愿你毫发无损地看到这封信。我祈祷我没让你受到伤害，我祈祷阿富汗人对你不至于太过刻薄。自从你离开那天，我一直在为你祈祷。那些年来，你一直在怀疑我是否知道。我确实知道。事情发生之后不久，哈桑就告诉我了。你做错了。亲爱的阿米尔，但别忘记，事情发生的时候，你还只是个孩子，一个骚动不安的小男孩。当时你对自己太过苛刻，现在你依然如此——在白沙瓦时。我从你的眼神看出来。但我希望你会意识到：没有良心、没有美德的人不会痛苦。我希望这次你到阿富汗去，能结束你的苦楚。
Amir jan, I am ashamed for the lies we told you all those years. You were right to be angry in Peshawar. You had a right to know. So did Hassan. I know it doesn’t absolve anyone of anything, but the Kabul we lived in in those days was a strange world, one in which some things mattered more than the truth.
亲爱的阿米尔，那些年来，我们一直瞒着你，我感到羞耻。你在白沙瓦大发雷霆并没错。你有权利知道，哈桑也是。我知道这于事无补，但那些年月，我们生活的喀布尔是个奇怪的世界，在那儿，有些事情比真相更加重要。
Amir jan, I know how hard your father was on you when you were growing up. I saw how you suffered and yearned for his affections, and my heart bled for you. But your father was a man torn between two halves, Amir jan: you and Hassan. He loved you both, but he could not love Hassan the way he longed to, openly, and as a father. So he took it out on you instead-Amir, the socially legitimate half, the half that represented the riches he had inherited and the sin-with-impunity privileges that came with them. When he saw you, he saw himself. And his guilt. You are still angry and I realize it is far too early to expect you to accept this, but maybe someday you will see that when your father was hard on you, he was also being hard on himself. Your father, like you, was a tortured soul, Amir jan.
亲爱的阿米尔，我深知在你成长过程中，你父亲对你有多么严厉。我知道你有多么痛苦，多么渴望得到他的宠爱，而我为你感到心痛。但你父亲是一个被拉扯成两半的男人，亲爱的阿米尔：被你和哈桑。他爱你们两个，但他不能公开表露对哈桑的爱，以尽人父之责。所以他将怨气发泄在你身上——你恰好相反，阿米尔，你是社会承认的一半，他所继承的财富，以及随之而来的犯罪免受刑罚的特权，统统都会再赠给你。当他看到你，他看到自己，还有他的疚恨。你现在依然愤愤不平，而我明白，要你接受这些为时尚早。但也许有朝一日，你会明白，你父亲对你严厉，也是对自己严厉。你父亲跟你一样，也是个痛苦的人，亲爱的阿米尔。
I cannot describe to you the depth and blackness of the sorrow that came over me when I learned of his passing. I loved him because he was my friend, but also because he was a good man, maybe even a great man. And this is what I want you to understand, that good, real good, was born out of your father’s remorse. Sometimes, I think everything he did, feeding the poor on the streets, building the orphanage, giving money to friends in need, it was all his way of redeeming himself. And that, I believe, is what true redemption is, Amir jan, when guilt leads to good. I know that in the end, God will forgive. He will forgive your father, me, and you too. I hope you can do the same. Forgive your father if you can. Forgive me if you wish. But, most important, forgive yourself. I have left you some money, most of what I have left, in fact. I think you may have some expenses when you return here, and the money should be enough to cover them. There is a bank in Peshawar; Farid knows the location. The money is in a safe-deposit box. I have given you the key.
我无法向你形容，在听到你父亲的死讯之后，我心里的悲恸有多么深。我爱他。因为他是我的朋友，但也因为他是个好人，也许甚至是个了不起的人。而我想让你明白的是，你父亲的深切自责带来了善行，真正的善行。我想起他所做的一切，施舍街头上的穷人，建了那座恤孤院，把钱给有需要的朋友，这些统统是他自我救赎的方式。而我认为。亲爱的阿米尔，当罪行导致善行，那就是真正的获救。我知道到头来，真主会宽恕。他会宽恕你父亲，宽恕我，还有你。我希望你也一样。如果你可以的话，宽恕你父亲。如果你愿意的话，宽恕我。但，最重要的是，宽恕你自己。我给你留下一些钱，实际上，我所能留下的，也无非就是这些了。我想你若回到这儿，兴许会有些开销，而那些钱足够让你用的了。白沙瓦有个银行，法里德知道在哪里。钱存在保险箱里面，我给你留了钥匙。
I leave you in the hands of God.
我将你交在真主手中。
Your friend always,
你永远的朋友
As for me, it is time to go. I have little time left and I wish to spend it alone. Please do not look for me. That is my final request of you.
至于我，是该走的时候了。我来日无多，而我希望独自度过。请别找我。这是我最后的请求。
I dragged the hospital gown sleeve across my eyes. I folded the letter and put it under my mattress. Amir, the socially legitimate half, the half that represented the riches he had inherited and the sin-with-impunity privileges that came with them. Maybe that was why Baba and I had been on such better terms in the U. S., I wondered. Selling junk for petty cash, our menial jobs, our grimy apartment — the American version of a hut; maybe in America, when Baba looked at me, he saw a little bit of Hassan. Your father, like you, was a tortured soul, Rahim Khan had written. Maybe so. We had both sinned and betrayed. But Baba had found a way to create good out of his remorse. What had I done, other than take my guilt out on the very same people I had betrayed, and then try to forget it all? What had I done, other than become an insomniac?
我拉起病服的袖子，抹抹眼睛，把信折好，放在我的褥子下面。阿米尔，你是社会承认的一半，他所继承的财富，以及随之而来的犯罪免受刑罚的特权，统统都会再赠给你。也许正是因为这样，我和爸爸在美国才能相处得那么好，我想。为了一点蝇头小利贩售旧货，我们卑微的工作，我们污秽的公寓——美国式的茅舍；也许在美国，当爸爸看到我，他也看到了哈桑的一部分。你父亲跟你一样，也是个痛苦的人。拉辛汗这样写道。也许是吧，我们都曾犯下罪行，出卖别人。可是爸爸找到一条将负疚变成善行的路。而我所做的，除了将罪行发泄在那个被我背叛的人身上，然后试图全都忘掉之外，我还做过什么？除了让自己夜不能寐之外，我还做过什么？
Rahim
拉辛
When the nurse — not Aisha but a red-haired woman whose name escapes me — walked in with a syringe in hand and asked me if I needed a morphine injection, I said yes. THEY REMOVED THE CHEST TUBE early the next morning, and Armand gave the staff the go-ahead to let me sip apple juice. I asked Aisha for a mirror when she placed the cup of juice on the dresser next to my bed. She lifted her bifocals to her forehead as she pulled the curtain open and let the morning sun flood the room. “Remember, now,” she said over her shoulder, “it will look better in a few days. My son-in-law was in a moped accident last year. His handsome face was dragged on the asphalt and became purple like an eggplant. Now he is beautiful again, like a Hollywood movie star.” Despite her reassurances, looking in the mirror and seeing the thing that insisted it was my face left me a little breathless. It looked like someone had stuck an air pump nozzle under my skin and had pumped away. My eyes were puffy and blue. The worst of it was my mouth, a grotesque blob of purple and red, all bruise and stitches. I tried to smile and a bolt of pain ripped through my lips. I wouldn’t be doing that for a while. There were stitches across my left cheek, just under the chin, on the forehead just below the hairline. The old guy with the leg cast said something in Urdu. I gave him a shrug and shook my head. He pointed to his face, patted it, and grinned a wide, toothless grin. “Very good,” he said in English. “Ins hallah.” “Thank you,” I whispered. Farid and Sohrab came in just as I put the mirror away. Sohrab took his seat on the stool, rested his head on the bed’s side rail.
当护士——不是艾莎，而是一个我想不起名字的红发女子——拿着针筒走进来，问我要不要打一针吗啡，我说好。次日清早，他们拿掉我的胸管，阿曼德让工作人员准备给我喝些苹果汁。艾莎在我床头的柜子上放下一杯果汁，我问她要一面镜子。她把眼镜举在额头上，拉开窗帘，让朝晖射进房间。她转过头说：“过几天会好看一些。去年我女婿骑摩托出了车祸，他那张英俊的脸摔在柏油路上，青肿得像个茄子。现在他又是那么英俊了，像个罗丽坞的电影明星。”尽管她一再安慰，望向镜子，看到它里面那个硬要说是我的脸的东西，我还是差点窒息。看上去好像有人在我脸皮下面插了根气管，然后朝里面泵气。我双眼青肿。最糟糕的是我的嘴，那一大块青紫红肿的东西，满是淤血和缝线。我试图微笑，嘴唇掠过一阵痛楚。看来我很长时间不能这么做了。我左边脸颊也缝着线，就在颧骨下面，额头上的缝口在发际线之下。脚上打石膏那个老家伙用乌尔都语说了几句。我朝他耸耸肩，摇摇头。他指着自己的脸，轻轻拍打，嘴巴咧得大大的，露出没有牙齿的笑容。“很好，”他用英语说，“安拉保佑。”“谢谢你。”我低声说。我刚把镜子放下，法里德和索拉博就进来了。索拉博坐在凳子上，头倚着病床的护栏。
What had I ever done to right things?
我又何曾做过什么正确的事呢？
“Dr. Faruqi says –“
“法鲁奇大夫说…”
“I think they already may have,” I murmured. I thought suddenly of the bearded man who’d wandered into the room and just stood there staring at me. Farid leaned in. “As soon as you can walk, I’ll take you to Islamabad. Not entirely safe there either, no place in Pakistan is, but it’s better than here. At least it will buy you some time.”
“我想他们也许已经来过了。”我喃喃说。我突然想起那个留着胡子的男人，他走进房间，只是站在那儿盯着我。法里德低声说：“一旦你能走动，我会带你去伊斯兰堡【Islamabad，基斯坦首都】。那儿也不尽安全，巴基斯坦没有安全的地方，但好过在这里。至少这能为你赢得一些时间。”
“Why?”
“为什么？”
“You know, the sooner we get you out of here the better,” Farid said.
“你知道吗，我们越快让你离开这里越好。”
“Farid Jan, this can’t be safe for you either. Maybe you shouldn’t be seen with me. You have a family to take care of.”
“亲爱的法里德，这会把你也拖下水的。也许你不应该被他们见到跟我在一起，你有家庭需要照顾。”
“I don’t think you’ll be safe here for long,” Farid said. He lowered his voice. “The Taliban have friends here. They will start looking for you.”
“我认为你在这里呆得太久不安全。”法里德降低声音说，“塔利班在这里有朋友，他们会开始搜寻你。”
“I don’t mean the hospital. I mean Peshawar.”
“我不是说出院，我是说离开白沙瓦。”
Farid made a waving gesture. “My boys are young, but they are very shrewd. They know how to take care of their mothers and sisters.” He smiled. “Besides, I didn’t say I’d do it for free.”
法里德摆摆手：“我的儿子是还小，但他们很聪明。他们知道如何保护他们的妈妈和姐妹。”他笑着说，“再说，我又没说替你白干。”
“I wouldn’t let you if you offered,” I said. I forgot I couldn’t smile and tried. A tiny streak of blood trickled down my chin. “Can I ask you for one more favor?”
“就算你愿意，我也不会答应啊。”我说。我忘了自己无法微笑，想挤出个笑脸，一丝血从下巴流下来。“你能再帮我一个忙吗？”
“Maybe you should write down their names,” Farid said, eyeing me cautiously, as if wondering what might set me off next. I scribbled their names on a scrap of paper towel. “John and Betty Caldwell.” Farid pocketed the folded piece of paper. “I will look for them as soon as I can,” he said. He turned to Sohrab. “As for you, I’ll pick you up this evening. Don’t tire Amir agha too much.”
“也许你应该将他们的名字写下来。”法里德说，慎重地看着我，似乎在想着接下来我又会为什么而崩溃。我在一张纸巾上写下他们的名字：“约翰和贝蒂·卡尔德威。”法里德把纸巾叠好，放进口袋。“我会尽快找到他们。”他说。他转向索拉博：“至于你，我今晚再来接你。别累着阿米尔老爷。”
“For you a thousand times over,” Farid said. And, just like that, I was crying. I hitched gusts of air, tears gushing down my cheeks, stinging the raw flesh of my lips.”What’s the matter?” Farid said, alarmed. I buried my face in one hand and held up the other. I knew the whole room was watching me. After, I felt tired, hollow. “I’m sorry,” I said. Sohrab was looking at me with a frown creasing his brow. When I could talk again, I told Farid what I needed. “Rahim Khan said they live here in Peshawar.”
“为你，千千万万遍。”法里德说。就这样，我哭起来。我呼吸急促，泪水从脸上冲下，刺痛嘴唇翻开的肉。“你怎么啦？”法里德紧张地说。我一只手掩着脸，一只手挡在前面。我知道整个房间都在看着我。而后，我觉得很累，很空虚。“对不起，”我说。索拉博露出担忧的神色望着我。我又能说话的时候，跟法里德说我的要求：“拉辛汗说他们住在白沙瓦。”
But Sohrab had wandered to the window, where a half-dozen pigeons strutted back and forth on the sill, pecking at wood and scraps of old bread.
但索拉博走到窗边，几只鸽子在窗台上来回走动，啄食着木头和面包碎片。
IN THE MIDDLE DRAWER of the dresser beside my bed, I had found an old _National Geographic_ magazine, a chewed-up pencil, a comb with missing teeth, and what I was reaching for now, sweat pouring down my face from the effort: a deck of cards. I had counted them earlier and, surprisingly, found the deck complete. I asked Sohrab if he wanted to play. I didn’t expect him to answer, let alone play. He’d been quiet since we had fled Kabul. But he turned from the window and said, “The only game I know is panjpar.”
在我床头柜子中间的抽屉里面，我找到一本旧《国家地理》杂志，一枝用过的铅笔，一把缺了些梳齿的梳子，还有我汗流满面努力伸手去拿的：一副扑克牌。早些时候我数过，出乎意料的是，那副牌竟然是完整的。我问索拉博想不想玩。我没指望他会回答，更别说玩牌了。自我们离开喀布尔之后，他一直很安静。但他从窗口转身说：“我只会玩‘番吉帕’。”
“I feel sorry for you already, because I am a grand master at panjpar. World renowned.”He took his seat on the stool next to me. I dealt him his five cards. “When your father and I were your age, we used to play this game. Especially in the winter, when it snowed and we couldn’t go outside. We used to play until the sun went down.”
“真替你感到遗憾，因为我是玩番吉帕的高手，全世界都知道。”他在我旁边的凳子上坐下，我给他发了五张牌。“当你爸爸和我像你这么大的时候，我们经常一起玩这游戏。特别是在冬季，天下雪、我们不能出去的时候，我们常常玩到太阳下山。”
He played me a card and picked one up from the pile. I stole looks at him as he pondered his cards. He was his father in so many ways: the way he fanned out his cards with both hands, the way he squinted while reading them, the way he rarely looked a person in the eye. We played in silence. I won the first game, let him win the next one, and lost the next five fair and square. “You’re as good as your father, maybe even better,” I said, after my last loss. “I used to beat him sometimes, but I think he let me win.” I paused before saying, “Your father and I were nursed by the same woman.”
他出了一张牌，从牌堆抽起一张。他望着牌思考的时候，我偷偷看着他。他很多地方都像他父亲：将牌在手里展成扇形的样子，眯眼看牌的样子，还有他很少看别人眼睛的样子。我们默默玩着。第一盘我赢了，让他赢了第二盘，接下来五局没使诈，但都输了。“你打得跟你父亲一样好，也许还要好一些。”我输了最后一局之后说，“我过去经常赢他，不过我觉得那是他让我的。”我顿了顿，又说：“你父亲和我是吃同一个女人的奶长大的。”
“What… what did he tell you about us?”
“他…他跟你怎么说起我们？”
“I know.”
“我知道。”
“That you were the best friend he ever had,” he said. I twirled the jack of diamonds in my fingers, flipped it back and forth. “I wasn’t such a good friend, I’m afraid,” I said. “But I’d like to be your friend. I think I could be a good friend to you. Would that be all right? Would you like that?” I put my hand on his arm, gingerly, but he flinched. He dropped his cards and pushed away on the stool. He walked back to the window. The sky was awash with streaks of red and purple as the sun set on Peshawar. From the street below came a succession of honks and the braying of a donkey, the whistle of a policeman. Sohrab stood in that crimson light, forehead pressed to the glass, fists buried in his armpits. AISHA HAD A MALE ASSISTANT help me take my first steps that night. I only walked around the room once, one hand clutching the wheeled IV stand, the other clasping the assistant’s fore arm. It took me ten minutes to make it back to bed, and, by then, the incision on my stomach throbbed and I’d broken out in a drenching sweat. I lay in bed, gasping, my heart hammering in my ears, thinking how much I missed my wife. Sohrab and I played panjpar most of the next day, again in silence. And the day after that. We hardly spoke, just played panjpar, me propped in bed, he on the three-legged stool, our routine broken only by my taking a walk around the room, or going to the bathroom down the hall. I had a dream later that night. I dreamed Assef was standing in the doorway of my hospital room, brass ball still in his eye socket. “We’re the same, you and I,” he was saying. “You nursed with him, but you’re my twin.”
“他说你是他一生最好的朋友。”他说。我捏着方块杰克上下摇动。“恐怕我没他想的那么好。”我说，“不过我想跟你交朋友。我想我可以成为你的好朋友。好不好？你愿意吗？”我轻轻将手放在他手臂上，但他身子后缩。他将牌放下，从凳子上站起来，走回窗边。太阳在白沙瓦落下，天空铺满了红色和紫色的云霞。下面的街道传来阵阵喇叭声，驴子的叫声，警察的哨声。索拉博站在红色的斜晖中，额头靠着玻璃，把手埋在腋下。那天晚上，在艾莎和一名男性护理的帮助下，我跨了第一步。我一只手抓住装着滑轮的输液架，另一只手扶在助理的前臂上，绕了房间一圈。十分钟后，我回到床边，体内肺腑翻涌，也冒出浑身大汗。我躺在床上，喘息着，耳边听到心脏怦怦跳，心里十分想念我的妻子。隔日，索拉博和我仍是默默无语，几乎整天都在玩“番吉帕”。又那样度过一天。我们只是玩着“番吉帕”，几乎没有说过话，我斜倚在床上，他坐在三脚凳上。除了我在房间里走动，或者到走廊尽头的卫生间去，我们一直都在打牌。那天深夜我做了个梦。我梦见阿塞夫站在病房的门口，眼眶仍嵌着铜球。“我们是同一种人，你和我。”他说，“你跟他一个奶妈，但你是我的孪生兄弟。”
“I can walk to the end of the hall and back,” I said.
“我能走到走廊那边，再走回来。”我说，
“It’s still early for discharge,” Armand protested. He wasn’t dressed in surgical scrubs that day, instead in a button-down navy blue suit and yellow tie. The gel was back in the hair. “You are still in intravenous antibiotics and –“
“现在出院太早了。”阿曼德抗议说。那天他穿着的并非手术袍，而是一套海军蓝西装，系着黄色领带，头发又涂着睹喱水。“你还在静脉注射抗生素期间，还有…”
“I have to go,” I said. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, all of you. Really. But I have to leave.”
“我非走不可。”我说，“谢谢你，谢谢你们为我所做的一切。真的。但我必须离开。”
“I’d rather not say.”
“我不能说。”
I TOLD ARMAND early that next day that I was leaving.
第二天早晨，我告诉阿曼德我想离开。
“Where will you go?” Armand said.
“你要去哪里？”阿曼德说。
“I’ll b fine.” The plan was this: Leave the hospital. Get the money fror the safe-deposit box and pay my medical bills. Drive to the orphanage and drop Sohrab off with John and Betty Caldwell Then get a ride to Islamabad and change travel plans. Give mysel a few more days to get better. Fly home. That was the plan, anyway. Until Farid and Sohrab arrived tha morning. “Your friends, this John and Betty Caldwell, they aren’ in Peshawar,” Farid said. It had taken me ten minutes Just to slip into my pirhan tumban. My chest, where they’d cut me to insert the chest tube hurt when I raised my arm, and my stomach throbbed every time I leaned over. I was drawing ragged breaths just from the effort of packing a few of my belongings into a brown paper bag. But I’d managed to get ready and was sitting on the edge of the bed when Farid came in with the news. Sohrab sat on the bed next to me.
“我会没事的。”计划是这样的：离开医院，从保险箱里面把钱取出来，付清医药费，开车到那家恤孤院，把索拉博交给约翰和贝蒂·卡尔德威。然后前往伊斯兰堡，调整旅行计划，给我自己几天时间，等身子好一些就飞回家。无论如何，计划就是这样，直到那天早晨法里德和索拉博来临。“你的朋友，约翰和贝蒂·卡尔德威，他们不在白沙瓦。”法里德说。我花了十分钟才将棉袍穿上。他们在我胸膛开过插胸管的口子，我抬手的时候那儿痛得厉害；而且每次倾斜身体，总是脏腑翻动。我将一些随身物品收进一个棕色的纸袋，累得气喘吁吁。但法里德带着那个消息到来之前，我已经设法准备妥当，坐在床沿。索拉博挨着我，坐在床上。
“You can hardly walk.”
“你几乎寸步难行。”
“Because Rahim Khan said –“
“因为拉辛汗说…”
“Where did they go?” I asked. Farid shook his head. “You don’t understand –“
“他们去哪了？”我问。法里德摇摇头：“你还不明白…”
“I went to the U. S. consulate,” Farid said, picking up my bag. “There never was a John and Betty Caldwell in Peshawar. According to the people at the consulate, they never existed. Not here in Peshawar, anyhow.” Next to me, Sohrab was flipping through the pages of the old National Geographic. WE GOT THE MONEY from the bank. The manager, a paunchy man with sweat patches under his arms, kept flashing smiles and telling me that no one in the bank had touched the money. “Absolutely nobody,” he said gravely, swinging his index finger the same way Armand had. Driving through Peshawar with so much money in a paper bag was a slightly frightening experience. Plus, I suspected every bearded man who stared at me to be a Talib killer, sent by Assef. Two things compounded my fears: There are a lot of bearded men in Peshawar, and everybody stares. “What do we do with him?” Farid said, walking me slowly from the hospital accounting office back to the car. Sohrab was in the backseat of the Land Cruiser, looking at traffic through the rolled-down window, chin resting on his palms.
“我去过美国领事馆，”法里德提起我的袋子说，“白沙瓦从来没有叫约翰和贝蒂·卡尔德威的人。领事馆的人说，没有这两个人。无论如何，自沙瓦这里没有。”索拉博在我身旁翻阅着那本旧《国家地理》。我们到银行取钱。经理是个大腹便便的男人，腋窝下有汗渍；他不断露出笑脸，告诉我银行的人从未碰过那笔钱。“绝对没有。”他郑重地说，摇着他的食指。阿曼德也那样做过。带着这么一大袋钱开车驶过白沙瓦，真有点胆战心惊。另外，我怀疑每个看着我的大胡子都是阿塞夫派来的塔利班杀手。而令我恐惧的是：白沙瓦有很多大胡子，他们都盯着我。“我们该怎么安置他？”法里德说，陪着我慢慢从医院的付账办公室走回汽车。索拉博在陆地巡洋舰的后座上，摇下车窗，掌心托着下巴，望着街上过往车辆。
“He can’t stay in Peshawar,” I said, panting.
“他不能留在白沙瓦。”我喘着气说。
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