Kite runners

Author: Khaled Hosseini

Introduction

Amir, a 12-year-old wealthy Afghan master, and his servant Hassan are brothers. However, after a kite race, a tragic incident occurs, and Amir, feeling guilty and bitter for his cowardice, is unable to face Hassan, so he uses a trick to force Hassan away. Soon war broke out in Afghanistan, and Amir was forced to flee to the United States with his father. As an adult, Amir was never able to forgive himself for betraying Hassan. In order to atone for his sins, Amir returns to his hometown again, hoping to do his last bit for his unfortunate friend, but discovers a shocking lie, his childhood friend turned out to be his half-brother, and in order to redeem, he brought Hassan's son to the United States, and at a party, Amir flew a kite again. The novel is so cruel and beautiful, and the author's warm and delicate penmanship outlines the essence and redemption of human nature, which makes people feel heart-wrenching to read.

preface

The Kite Runner

I became who I am today on a cold cloudy winter day in 1975, when I was 12 years old. I distinctly remember lying behind a collapsed mud wall, peering down the alley next to the frozen stream. Many years have passed, and people have said that old things can be buried, but I finally realized that this was wrong, because the past will climb up on its own.

December 2001

I dedicate this book to Harris and Farah who enlightened me. To all the children of Afghanistan.

Chapter I

I dedicate this book to Harris and Farah who enlightened me. To all the children of Afghanistan.

I became who I am today on a cold cloudy winter day in 1975, when I was 12 years old. I distinctly remember lying behind a collapsed mud wall, peering down the alley next to the frozen stream. Many years have passed, and people have said that old things can be buried, but I finally realized that this was wrong, because the past will climb up on its own. Looking back, I realize that I have been peering at the barren path for the past twenty-six years.

One day this summer, my friend Rahim Khan called from Pakistan and asked me to come back to visit him. As I stood in the kitchen, the receiver to my ear, I knew that it wasn't just Rahim Khan who was connected to the phone, but also my unredeemed past crimes. After hanging up the phone, I left the house and went for a walk on Lake Spreco on the north side of Golden Gate Park. The scorching midday sun shone on the sparkling waters, and dozens of light boats drifted in the breeze. I looked up and saw two red kites with long blue tails rising in the sky. They danced, flying over the woods on the west side of the park, flying over windmills, floating side by side, like eyes looking down on San Francisco, the city I now call home. Suddenly, Hassan's voice rang in my head: For you, a thousand times. Hassan, the hassan with the rabbit lips, the kite chaser.

I sat down on a bench under the willow tree in the park, thinking about what Rahim Khan had said on the phone, and thinking twice. There's a way to be a good person again. I looked up at the kite flying with wings. I remember Hassan. I remember my father. I think of Ali. I miss Kabul. I think about my life, I think about the winter of 1975 that changed everything. That's what makes me who I am today.

Chapter II

When I was a child, my father's house had a driveway with poplar trees on the side, and Hassan and I used to climb up and use a fragment of a mirror to reflect the sunlight into the neighbors' homes, which annoyed them. On the high branches, we sat opposite each other, our shoesless feet dangling, our trouser pockets full of dried mulberries and walnuts. We played with the broken mirror, eating dried mulberries and throwing them at each other, and sometimes we ate and laughed. I can still remember Hassan sitting in a tree, the sun shining through the leaves and shining on his round face. His face resembles a Chinese doll carved out of wood, with a large, flat nose and eyes squinting like bamboo leaves, which appear golden, green, and even sapphire blue in different light. I could still see his small, low-growing ears, and protruding chin, fleshy, looking like a mass of appendages that had been added later. His lips were split in the middle, perhaps because the tools in the hands of the craftsman who made the Chinese dolls had slipped, or simply because he was tired and absent-minded.

Sometimes in the trees I would encourage Hassan to shoot the walnut with a slingshot at the one-eyed German shepherd next door. Hassan never thought of that, but if I asked him, if I really asked him, he wouldn't refuse. Hassan never turned me down on anything. The slingshot was a deadly weapon in his hands. Hassan's father, Ali, often caught us, and people like him were mad at us. He would spread his fingers and shake us off the tree. He would take the mirrors away and tell us that his mother said that the devil also uses mirrors and uses them to shine on those Muslims and distract them. "He laughs out loud when he does that." He always added this sentence and glared angrily at his son.

"Yes, Dad." Hassan would grunt and look down at his feet. But he never told me, never mentioned the mirror, and shot the dog with a walnut was actually my ghost's idea.

The red-brick driveway that leads to two wrought-iron gates is lined with aspen. The driveway extends into the open double door, and then into it is my father's territory. On the left side of the brick road is the house, and at the end is the backyard.

Everyone said that my father's house was the most ornate house in the Wazir Akbar Khan district, and some even considered it the most beautiful building in all of Kabul. Located in a bustling, up-and-coming district north of Kabul, it has a wide entrance and is lined with roses; The house has a lot of rooms, marble floors, and large windows. Dad in Isfahan[1]Isfaham, a city in central Iran. [1] Exquisite mosaic tiles were purchased, covering the floors of the four bathrooms, also from Calcutta, an Indian city. [2] Tapestries made of gold silk were purchased to decorate the walls, and crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceilings.

Upstairs was my bedroom, as well as my father's study, also known as the "smoking room", which always smelled of tobacco and cinnamon. After dinner under Ali's service, Dad and his friend lay down on a black leather chair in the study. They fill the pipes – Dad always says "feed the pipes" – and they talk about three topics: politics, business, football. Sometimes I would beg my dad to let me sit next to them, but he would block the door. "Go away, go away now," he would say, "it's grown-up time." Why don't you go back and read your own books?" He would close the door, leaving me alone to wonder: why did he always have adult time? I sat in the doorway with my knees against my chest. I sat for an hour, sometimes two, listening to their laughter, their conversation.

The downstairs living room has an alcove wall with custom-made cabinetry. Inside there are framed family photographs: there is a blurry old photograph of my grandfather and King Nadir[1]Nadir Shah (1883~1933), the king of Afghanistan, who ascended the throne in 1929 and was assassinated on November 8, 1933. [1] In a group photo in 1931, two years after the king's assassination, they stood in front of a dead deer wearing knee-length boots and carrying rifles on their shoulders. One was taken on my parents' wedding night, my dad was wearing a black suit, and my mother was smiling and white, like a princess. There was also a picture of Dad and his best friend and business partner Rahim Khan standing outside our house, neither of them smiling, I was still a baby in the photo, Dad was holding me, looking tired and stern. I was in my father's arms, but I was holding Rahim Khan's little finger in my hand.

The recess opens onto the dining room, which has a mahogany table in the middle of the room, which seats more than 30 people. Because of Dad's hospitality, it is true that so many people sit here to eat almost every other week. At the other end of the dining room is a tall marble fireplace with an orange flame dancing in winter.

Pull open the large glass door and you can walk up to the semi-circular terrace; Below is a two-acre backyard and rows of cherry trees. Dad and Ali set up a small vegetable garden under the eastern wall, growing tomatoes, mint and pepper, and a row of corn that never bore fruit. Hassan and I always call it the "Wall of Sick Corn."

On the south side of the garden was planted loquat trees, and under the shade of the trees was the servant's dwelling. It was a simple mud hut where Hassan and his father lived.

In the winter of 1964, a year after my mother died in childbirth, Hassan was born in that small shack.

I have lived in the house for eighteen years, but have entered Ali and Hassan's room very rarely. Whenever the sun sets, Hassan and I are separated after a day of playing. I walked through the roses and went back to my father's mansion; Hassan returned to his humble home, where he was born and spent his life there. I remember it was small and clean, with two kerosene lamps lit and dimly lit. At each end of the room was a mattress and a dilapidated Herati[1]Herati, a city in western Afghanistan. [1] The carpet is worn on all sides and placed in the middle. There was also a three-legged stool and a wooden table in the corner of the room, on which Hassan painted. In addition, there is only one tapestry with beads embellished with the words "Allah is great". It was a visit to Mashad, an Iranian city by Daddy. [2] Bought for Ali while traveling.

On a cold winter day in 1964, it was in this hut that Hassan's mother, Shanapha, gave birth to Hassan. My mother died of blood loss during childbirth, and Hassan lost her mother less than seven days after her death. And this fate of losing her, in the eyes of most Afghans, is worse than a dead mother: she ran away with a group of charlatans.

Hassan never mentions his mother, as if she never existed. I always wonder if he will see her in his dreams, what she looks like and where she goes. I wondered if he would be eager to see her. Will he feel sorry for her, just as I feel sorry for my mother, who I never knew all my life? One day, in order to watch a new Iranian movie, we walked from my father's house towards the Zarabo Cinema. We took a shortcut through the barracks next to the independent high school – a shortcut that my dad had never allowed us to take, but he was in Pakistan with Rahim Khan at the time. We jumped over the fence surrounding the barracks, jumped over a stream, and ventured into the open dirt field where dusty old tanks were parked. Several soldiers gather in the shadow of a tank to smoke and play cards. One of the soldiers spotted us, touched the guy next to him with his elbow, and yelled at Hassan.

"Hey, you!" He said, "I know you." ”

We didn't know him. He was short and fat, with short shaved hair and black stubble on his face. He grinned at us with an obscene face, and I panicked. "Keep walking!" I whispered to Hassan.

"You! That Hazara kid! Look at me, I'll talk to you!" The soldier roared. He handed the cigarette to the guy next to him, forming a circle with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, and the middle finger of the other hand poked into the circle, poking in and out. "I know your mother, you know? I have a good relationship with her. I dried her from behind in the creek over there. ”

The soldiers burst into laughter, and one of them let out a scream. I told Hassan to keep walking, keep walking.

"Her pussy is small and tight!" The soldier shook hands with the others as he spoke, laughing. Later, the movie began, and I heard Hassan sitting next to him sobbing in the dark and saw tears fall from his cheeks. I leaned out of my seat, wrapped my arms around him, and pulled him closer. He buried his face in my shoulder. "He recognized the wrong person," I whispered, "and he recognized the wrong person." ”

It is said that no one was surprised when Shanaba abandoned her family and children. Ali, who memorized the Koran, married Shanaba, who was 19 years younger than him, a beautiful woman who was notorious for her unclean self-love. People frowned on the marriage. Like Ali, she is a Shia Muslim,[1] and Islam is divided into Sunni and Shia sects. The difference between the two factions lies primarily in the recognition of the legitimacy of Muhammad's heirs. According to the Shia view, only Ali and his direct descendants are the legitimate heirs, while the Sunnis recognize the legitimacy of the four caliphs of Abu Bakr, 'Umar, Uthman, and Ali. [1], also Hazara[2]Hazara, an ethnic Afghan, is found mainly in the central provinces of the country. [2] Clansmen. She was also his first cousin, so they were born to be a couple. But other than that, at least in their appearance, Ali and Shanaba have nothing in common. Legend has it that Shanabana's kind green eyes and playful face have tempted countless men to fall willingly, and Ali suffered from congenital paralysis on half of his face, so he could not smile and always had a gloomy face. It was not easy to tell whether the stone-faced Ali was happy or sad, for it was only from his squinted brown eyes that he could tell whether there was a flicker of joy or a surge of sorrow. People say that the eyes are the window to the soul, and it couldn't be more appropriate for Ali, who can only reveal himself in his eyes.

I've heard that Shanaba walks with her hips swaying, and that seductive posture makes many men sleep with their lovers. But Ali had polio, his right leg was atrophied, and his vegetable-colored skin was wrapped around bones and sandwiched with a paper-thin layer of muscle. I remember when I was eight years old, Ali took me to the market one day to buy naan[3]Naan, an everyday Afghan staple, made by spreading dough on the oven and baking it. ［3］。 I walked behind him, muttering words and learning the way he walked. I saw him lift the jagged right leg and sway it in an arc; Seeing that every time he stepped on that leg, his body involuntarily leaned down to the right. It is a small miracle that he can stagger forward like this without falling. I learned him to walk and almost fell into the ditch and couldn't help but giggle. Ali turned around and saw that I was learning from him. He didn't say anything. He didn't say it at the time, and he hasn't said it since, he just kept walking.

Ali's face and steps frightened some of the neighbor's children. But the real trouble is the older teenagers. Whenever he walked by, they chased him in the streets and teased him. Some called him "Babaru", a demon who ate children. "Hey, Babaru, who did you eat today?" They shouted together with joy, "Who did you eat, Babaru?"

They called him "Collapsed Nose" because Ali and Hassan were Hazaras with a typical appearance. For a long time, I knew so much about the Hazaras: they were descendants of the Mongols, slightly similar to the Chinese. The school textbooks are vague about them, only mentioning their ancestors. One day, I was rummaging through my father's study and found an old history book left by my mother, written by an Iranian named Korami. I blew away the dust from the book, and secretly brought it to bed that night, and was surprised to find that it was full of stories about the Hazaras. A whole chapter is about the Hazaras! I read about my own people, the Pashtuns[1]Pashtuns, the most populous ethnic group in Afghanistan, whose language is Pashto as the Chinese language of Afghanistan. [1] The Hazaras were persecuted and exploited. It mentions that in the 19th century, the Hazaras tried to rebel against the Pashtuns, but the Pashtuns "suppressed them with unspeakable atrocities." It says that my people slaughtered the Hazaras, forced them to leave their homes, burned their homes, and sold their women. The book argues that the oppression of the Hazaras by the Pashtuns is partly due to the fact that the former are Sunni Muslims, while the latter are Shiites. There were many things I didn't know about in that book, which my teacher never mentioned, and my father didn't talk about it. It also tells the story of things I already know, such as people calling Hazaras "rat-eaters," "nose-splitting," "stupid donkeys," and so on. I have heard some of the neighbor's children insult Hassan like this.

The following week, one day after class, I showed the book to the teacher and pointed to the chapter on the Hazaras. He flipped through a few pages and scoffed at the book and handed it back to me. "The Shiites are the best at this," he said as he collected his lesson plan, "and it would be considered martyrdom to send them to the West Heaven." At the mention of the word Shia, he wrinkled his nose as if it were some kind of disease.

Although they belong to the same clan and are even born from the same roots, Shanaba also joins the ranks of the neighborhood children who make fun of Ali. It is said that she hated his appearance to the point where everyone knew it.

"Is this a husband?" She would sneer and say, "I think it's better to marry an old donkey than to marry him." ”

Eventually, it was speculated that the marriage was some kind of agreement between Ali and his uncle, Shanaba's father. They say that Ali married his cousin in order to restore some honor to his disgraced uncle, even though Ali lost his life at the age of five and had no worth mentioning possessions or inheritance.

0 Ali was always silent about these insults, and I think it had something to do with his deformed legs: he couldn't have caught them. But more than that, these bullies had no effect on him, and by the moment Shanapa gave birth to Hassan, he had already found his happiness, his elixir. That's simple enough, there are no obstetricians, no anesthesiologists, and no weird equipment. Only Shanaba lay on a dirty mattress with nothing underneath her, Ali and the midwife helping by her side. She didn't need any help at all, because, even when she came into the world, Hassan didn't change his true colors - he couldn't hurt anyone. A few moans, a few pushes, and Hassan came out. Came out with a smile on his face.

　　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。
First, the mischievous midwife told the neighbor's servant, who preached it everywhere, saying that Shanaba had glanced at the baby in Ali's arms, caught a glimpse of the rabbit's lips, and let out a bitter laugh.

"Look," she said, "now that you have this idiot son, he can laugh for you!" She was reluctant to hold Hassan, and after only five days, she left.

Dad hired the nurse who had fed me to nurse Hassan. Ali told us that she was a blue-eyed Hazara woman from Bamiyan[1]Bamiyan, an Afghan city 150 kilometers northwest of Kabul. [1] That city has a huge statue of the Buddha. "Her singing voice is so sweet!" That's what he used to say.

What song does she sing? Hassan and I always ask, even though we already know – Ali has told us countless times that we just want to hear Ali sing.

He cleared his throat and began to sing:

I stood high on a mountain

Call Ali's name, the lion of the gods

Ah ~ Ali, the lion of the gods, the king of mortals

Bring joy to my sad heart

Then he will remind us that those who have grown up drinking the same milk are brothers, and this kind of family relationship cannot be separated even by time.

Hassan drank the same milk as me. We took our first steps on the same lawn in the same yard. Also, under the same roof, we say the first word.

I'm talking about "Dad".

He said "Amir". My name.

Looking back now, I think that what happened in the winter of 1975 – and everything that followed – has long since been rooted in those two words.

Chapter III

Legend has it that my father was once in Baluchistan[1]Baluchistan, a Pakistani city. [1] Fighting a black bear with his bare hands. If it's about someone else, someone will dismiss it as a joke. Afghans have always liked to exaggerate things, and unfortunately, this has almost become a characteristic of this people. If someone boasts that his son is a doctor, it is likely that the child once passed a biology test in high school. But when it comes to dad's stories, no one ever doubts their authenticity. If anyone doubts, then the three zigzag scars on Dad's back are evidence. I can't remember how many times, but I imagined the scene of my father's fight, and sometimes I even dreamed about it. And in the dream, I couldn't tell which was my father and which was the bear.

At one point, Rahim Khan called his father "Mr. Hurricane," which later became a well-known nickname. It's a well-deserved nickname. Dad was a typical Pashtun, tall, powerful, with a bushy mustache and curly brown hair, as uninhibited as he was; His hands were strong, and he seemed to be able to uproot a willow tree; And, as Rahim Khan often said, a glaring of black eyes will "make the devil kneel and beg for mercy." Dad is nearly 2 meters tall, and whenever he attends a banquet, he always draws attention to himself like the sun attracts sunflowers.

Daddy, even when he was sleeping, was eye-catching. I used to put cotton balls in my ears and cover my head with a blanket, but my father's snoring was like a roaring car engine, still coming through the walls, and our room was separated from the living room. How can mom sleep in the same room as him? I don't know. If I could meet my mother, I would have a long list of questions about how I was in the late 1960s, when I was five or six years old, and my father decided to build a orphanage. The story was told to me by Rahim Khan. He said that his father designed the construction drawings himself, even though he had no architectural experience at all. People were skeptical of this, and advised him not to be stupid and hire an architect. Of course, Dad refused, and people shook their heads, expressing their bewilderment at Daddy's stubbornness. However, when Dad succeeded, people began to shake their heads again, but this time with awe and praise for his success. The two-storey orphanage is located on the south bank of the Kabul River, next to Yadmewan Boulevard, and is paid for by the father himself. Rahim Khan said that his father was responsible for the entire project alone, engineers, electricians, plumbers, and builders, all of whom were paid by his father. The officials in the city also pumped oil and water, and their "beards had to be oiled".

The orphanage took three years to build, and I was eight years old when it was built. I remember the day before the orphanage was built, my father took me to Lake Khalka, a few miles north of Kabul. He asked me to call Hassan, but I lied and said that Hassan had something to do. I want my dad to be all of me. Besides, once Hassan and I were playing on the shore of Lake Khalka, and he jumped eight times, and I could only jump five times with all my might. Dad was watching us, he reached out and patted Hassan on the back and even put his arm around his shoulder.

We sat down at the picnic table by the lake, just my dad and me, eating hard-boiled eggs and meatball sandwiches – naan sandwiched with meatballs and pickled cucumbers. The water of the lake is clear blue, the waves are as flat as a mirror, and the sun shines on the lake. On Fridays, there are always many families who go to the lake to spend their holidays in the sun. But it wasn't a weekend, and it was just us, Dad and me, and a few tourists with beards and long hair, whom I had heard were called "hippies." They sat on the dock with fishing rods in their hands and their feet dangling in the water. I asked my dad why those people had long hair, but he didn't answer, just snorted. As he was preparing for the next day's speech, he flipped through a stack of manuscripts and made notes with a pencil from time to time. I took a bite of the egg and told my dad that a boy at school said that if he ate the shell of an egg, he had to pee it out. I asked my dad if it was true, and he snorted again.

I took a bite of the sandwich. One yellow-haired tourist laughed and patted another man on the back. In the distance, on the other side of the lake, a truck staggered around the corner of a mountain road, its rearview mirror reflecting the glittering sunlight.

"I think I have cancer." I say. The wind was blowing the manuscripts, and my father looked up and told me that I could go get some soda on my own, and that all I could do was search the trunk of the car.

The next day, outside the orphanage, there were not many chairs. Many people had to stand and watch the inauguration ceremony. It was windy that day, and a salute was erected outside the gate of the new building, with my dad sitting on it and me sitting behind him. Dad wears a green suit and a lambskin hat. During the speech, the wind blew his hat off, and the people laughed. He motioned for me to pick it up for him, and I was very happy because everyone could see that he was my father, my father. He turned around and said into the microphone that he wanted the house to be stronger than his fur hat, and the people laughed again. At the end of Dad's speech, everyone stood up and cheered, and the applause lasted for a long time. Then, the guests shook hands with him. Some people touched my hair and shook my hand. I'm proud of my dad and proud of us.

Although my father has a thriving career, people always talk about it. They said that Dad had no talent for business and should specialize in law like Grandpa. So Dad proved them all wrong: not only did he run his own business, but he also became one of the few giants in Kabul. Dad and Rahim Khan started a carpet export company, two pharmacies, and a restaurant.

At the time, people laughed at my father, saying that he couldn't have a good marriage - after all, he didn't have royal blood, and he married my mother, Sophia Akalami. My mother was well-educated, and she was recognized as one of the most beautiful ladies in Kabul, both in character and in appearance. She teaches classical Farsi at the university[1]Farsi, modern Persian. [1] In literature, the ancestors were royal relatives and nobles. This made his father very happy, and he always called her "my princess" in front of those who doubted him.

My father did whatever he wanted to shape the world around him, with the notable exception of me. The problem, of course, is that the world is only black and white in Dad's eyes. As for what is black and what is white, it is up to him to decide. He is such a person that if you love him, you will be afraid of him, or even have some hatred for him.

When I was in the fifth grade, I took an Islamic class, Mullah[2], an Islamic honorific term for teacher, gentleman, and scholar. [2] He was short and stocky, with pimple scars on his face and a hoarse voice. He taught us that there are five mandates in Islam that give zakat[3]: recitation, prayer, fasting, prayer, and pilgrimage. zakat, or Islamic almsgiving, or religious taxation "at the behest of God", is also known as the "poor tax". [3] benefits, as well as the duty of Hajj. He also taught us that there are five prayers a day[4] in Islam that there are five prayers a day, one at dawn, one at noon, one in the afternoon, one at sunset, and one at night. [4] The complex ritual requires us to recite the Koran. He never translated the scriptures for us, but always emphasized — sometimes with a willow stick — that we had to pronounce the Arabic words accurately so that Allah could hear them more clearly. One day, he said that in Islam it is a great sin to drink alcohol, and that those who drink alcohol will be punished on the day of excess. At that time, people who drank alcohol in Kabul abounded, and no one would openly condemn them. However, those Afghans who like to have a few drinks only dare to disobey the yang and never drink in public. People call spirits "medicine", buy them at specific "pharmacies", and wrap them in brown paper bags. They tied the bags so that they would not be seen; Sometimes, however, people will be squinted on the road, because there are many people who know what these shops are selling.

We were upstairs, in Dad's study, the smoking room, and I told him what Mas. Fathura had said in class. Dad walked over to the bar he had built in the corner and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He nodded as he listened, taking a sip from his glass from time to time. Then he sat down on the leather couch, put his glass down, and hugged me to his lap. I felt as if I was sitting on a pair of tree trunks. He took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled again, his breath hissing through his beard and seemingly never-ending. I don't know if I should hug him or jump off his knees in fear.

"I know you're confused by the schoolwork you're taught and what you're learning in life." His deep voice said.

"But if what he says is true, aren't you a sinner, Daddy?"

"Hmm." Dad bit the ice cube in his mouth, "Do you want to know what your father thinks about crime?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll tell you," said Daddy, "but first you have to know one thing, Amir, that idiot bearded man won't teach you anything worthwhile. ”

"Are you talking about Mullah?"

Dad picked up the wine glass, and the ice clinked. "I mean all of them, the self-righteous monkeys, should pee on their beards."

I giggled. The thought of Dad peeing on the monkey's beard, whether the monkey was self-righteous or not, was hilarious.

"They don't know anything but thumb up the rosary and recite the scripture they can't read at all." He took a sip, "If Afghanistan falls into their hands, everyone will have to ask Allah to bless them." ”

"But the Dyslah mullahs are very good." I couldn't help but laugh.

"Genghis Khan is also very good." Dad said, "That's enough, don't talk about that." You ask me what I think about the crime, and I will tell you. Are you listening?"

"Yes." I said, trying to purse my lips, but laughter came out of my nostrils and made a snorting sound that made me giggle again.

Daddy's eyes were firmly fixed in my eyes, and just that stopped me from laughing. "I mean, talk to you like a man talks to a man. Do you think you can do it?"

"Yes, dear Daddy." I whispered that more than once, it was amazing that Dad could sting me with just a few words. We had a brief good time when Dad rarely spoke to me, let alone held me on his lap - and I, the idiot, wasted it for nothing.

"Very well," said Daddy, but his eyes still betrayed suspicion, "Now, no matter what that mullah says, there is only one crime, and only one." That is theft, and all other crimes are variants of theft. Do you understand?"

"No, dear Daddy." I said, how much I wish I could understand, and I don't want to disappoint him again.

Dad sighed impatiently, and that stung me again, because he wasn't an impatient person. He always didn't come home until nightfall, leaving me alone to eat, and I remember it vividly every time. I asked Ali "where is Daddy and when will he be back", although I know he is at the construction site, look here, check there. Doesn't that require patience? I hated the children in the orphanage he built, and sometimes even wished they all died with their parents.

"When you kill a man, you steal a life," said the father, "you steal his wife's right to be a wife, you take away the father of his children." When you lie, you steal someone else's right to know the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. Do you understand?"

I know. When Dad was six years old, a burglar sneaked into Grandpa's house late at night. My grandfather, a judge who was admired by all, found him, but the thief slit his throat and immediately killed him - taking his father's father. Just before noon the next day, local residents caught the killer and found him from Kunduz,[1] in the northern province of Afghanistan. [1] The homeless people in the area. Two hours before the afternoon prayer service began, the killer was hanged from an oak tree. It wasn't my father who told me about this incident, it was Rahim Khan. I always hear about my dad from other people.

"There's nothing more heinous than theft, Amir." Dad said, "If anyone takes something that doesn't belong to him, whether it's a life or a piece of naan, I'll spit on him." If I had met him in the street, Allah would not have saved him. Do you understand?"

I found the idea of my dad beating up the burglar made me both excited and scared. "I understand, Dad."

"If there is anything Allah, I wish He had other more important things to do than to pay attention to me drinking spirits. Okay, let's go down. Having said so much about crime, I was thirsty again. ”

I watched him fill his glass at the bar and thought to myself, how long will it be before we can talk like this again? Because the truth is there, I always feel that my father hates me a little. Why not? After all, it was I who killed his beloved wife, his beautiful princess, didn't I? All I can do is at least try to be a little more like him. But I didn't become like him, not at all.

When we were in school, we used to play a game of ligatures, which was a poetry contest. The teacher who teaches the Falsi language class presides over it, and the rules are roughly as follows: you memorize a poem, and your opponent has six seconds to answer, but only if it begins with the last word of the poem you memorize. Everyone in the class wanted to join me, because at the age of eleven I was already able to recite Gajamel[1]Omar Khayya'm (1048~1122), an ancient Persian poet represented as RubaiyatofOmar Khayya'm. [1], Hafez[2] Shamseddin Mohammad Ha~fez (c. 1320~c. 1388), ancient Persian poet. [2] can also recite Rumi's famous "Masnavi"[3]Mowlana Jalaluddin Rumi (1207~1273), an ancient Persian poet, "Masnavi" is his story poem. ［3］。 Once, I represented my class and got off to a winning start. I told my dad that night, and he just nodded and muttered, "Not bad."

In order to escape my father's indifference, I immersed myself in the books left by my deceased mother. And, of course, Hassan. I read everything, Rumi, Hafez, Sa'adi[4]Moslehal in Saadi Shirazi (c. 1210~c. 1290), ancient Persian poet. [4], Victor Hugo, Jules Verne, Mark Twain, Ian Fleming[5]Ian Fleming (1908~1964), a British novelist, wrote the 007 series of novels. ［5］。 After reading my mother's legacy—I never touched the boring history books, I only read novels and poetry—and I started buying books with my pocket money. I buy a book every week at the bookstore next to the cinema park, until the shelves can't fit and I put it in a cardboard box.

Of course, it's one thing to marry a poet, but to have a son who likes to write more poetry than hunting...... Let's put it this way, that's not what Daddy wants, I think. Real men don't read poetry - and Allah forbids them to compose. Real men – real boys – should play soccer the way Dad did when he was a kid, and that's what deserves passion. In 1970, Dad suspended the orphanage and flew to Tehran, where he stayed for a month: since there was no television in Afghanistan at the time, he had to go there to watch the World Cup. To pique my passion for football, he signed me up for the team. But I became a burden to the team, either missing the ball or stupidly blocking the attacking path of my teammates. My thin legs stumbled across the pitch, hoarse, but the ball wouldn't roll at my feet. The more I shouted, I threw my hands above my head as hard as I could, shouting, "Pass it to me, pass it to me!" The more my teammates turned a blind eye to me. But Dad never gave up. Once it became clear that he hadn't passed on any athletic talent to me, he began to try to turn me into an enthusiastic spectator. Of course, I can do it, can't I? I tried to pretend to be as excited as I could. I joined him every time the Kabul team met Kandahar[1]Kandahar, a city in southern Afghanistan. [1] When the team plays, they shout; Whenever our team was punished, we cursed the referee. But my dad sensed that I wasn't really sincere, so he gave up and accepted the tragic fact that his son didn't like to play football, he wasn't even a spectator.

I remember one New Year, my dad took me to see the annual jousting competition. The jousting competition was held on the first day of spring and is still a national favorite event in Afghanistan. The skilled knight, usually sponsored by a tycoon, must capture a slaughtered sheep or cow in a scuffle, carry it around the stands at full speed, and throw it into the scoring ring. Behind him, another group of knights would chase him, doing everything in their power – kicking, grappling, whipping, punching – trying to snatch the cattle and sheep away. On that day, the knights shouted loudly on the battlefield and went on a rampage, stirring up a heavy fog of dust; The audience was boiling and excited; The horse's hooves were gained, and the earth trembled. We sat in the seats of the stands and watched as the knights whizzed past us and their mounts frothed.

Dad pointed to someone, "Amir, do you see the guy sitting over there, surrounded by a lot of people?"

I said, "See."

"That's Henry Kissinger."

"Oh." I don't know who Kissinger is, so I asked casually. But at that juncture I saw something terrible: a knight fell from his saddle, and dozens of horses' hooves trampled over him. His body resembled a rag doll, being pulled to and fro between the horse's hooves. The horses galloped past, and at last he fell, twitched, and never moved again; His legs bent at unnatural angles, and large swaths of blood stained the sand.

I burst into tears.

I cried all the way home. I remember my father's hands gripping the steering wheel, grabbing it for a moment and relaxing it for a while. What's more, my dad was silent while driving, and his disgust was palpable, and I will never forget it.

That night, I passed by my father's study and overheard him talking to Rahim Khan. I put my ear to the door panel.

“…… Thankfully, he's in good health. Rahim Khan said.

"I know, I know, but he's always buried in the stacks of books, or he's just wandering around the house as if sleepwalking."

"So what?"

"I'm not like that." Dad said dejectedly, with some anger in his voice.

Rahim Khan laughed. "Children are not picture workbooks, you can't just paint them in your favorite colors."

"I mean," said Dad, "I'm not like that at all." The kids I grew up with didn't have anything like him. ”

"You know, sometimes you're the most self-righteous person I know." Rahim Khan said. Of all the people I know, he dared to talk to his dad like that.

"It has nothing to do with that."

"Didn't you?"

"Nope."

"What does that have to do with that?"

I heard my dad move and the leather chair creaked. I closed my eyes, my ears pressed closer to the door, I wanted to hear it, I didn't want to hear it. "Sometimes I look out of this window and I see him playing in the street with the neighbor's kids. I saw them shoving him, taking away his toys, pushing him here, hitting him there. You know, he never fights back, never. He just...... Bow your head and ......"

"That shows he's not violent." Rahim Khan said.

"That's not what I meant, Racine, you know." Dad yelled at him, "Something is missing from this kid." ”

"Yes, a despicable character."

"Self-defence has nothing to do with meanness. Do you know how things always go? Whenever the neighbors' children bullied him, Hassan always stepped up and blocked them back. This is what I saw with my own eyes. When they got home, I asked him, 'What's the scar on Hassan's face?' He said, 'He fell.' I'm telling you, Racine, there's something missing in this kid. ”

"You just have to let him find his way." Rahim Khan said.

"But where is he going?" Dad said, "A boy who can't protect himself can't protect anything when he grows up." ”

"You're always oversimplifying."

"I don't think so."

"You're angry because you're afraid he's not going to take over your business."

"Who's simplifying the problem now?" Dad said, "Look, I know you're on good terms with him, and I'm glad you do." I mean, I'm a little jealous, but happy. He needs someone...... Someone can understand him, because Allah knows that I can't understand. But there was something in Amir that bothered me, and I couldn't tell, it was like ...... "I can guess he's searching, searching for a proper word." He lowered his voice, but he let me hear it anyway. "If I hadn't watched the doctor pull him out of my wife's womb, I wouldn't have believed he was my son."

The next morning, while Hassan was preparing breakfast for me, he asked me if I was bothered by anything. I yelled at him and told him to stay out of business.

As for that vile character, Rahim Khan was wrong.

Chapter IV

Dad was born in 1933, the same year King Zahir[1]Mohammed Zahir Shah (1914~), former king of Afghanistan, reigned from 1933~1973. [1] began his 40-year rule over Afghanistan. That year, a pair of young brothers from a prominent family in Kabul drove their father's Ford sports car. They smoked marijuana, drank French wine, got drunk and were a little excited, and were on their way to Paghman, the city of Afghanistan. [2] A Hazara couple were killed on the way. The police arrested the two young men with a little remorse, and brought them to their grandfather, along with the five-year-old orphan of the deceased couple. Grandpa, a respected judge, had heard the ins and outs of the brothers' arguments, and despite their father's pleas, he sentenced the two young men to go to Kandahar immediately and be confined to the army for a year. Previously, their families had not known what means had been used to exempt them from the obligation to serve. Their father pleaded, but not too violently, and in the end, everyone agreed with the sentence, which was considered to be harsh, but not unjust. As for the orphan, his grandfather adopted him in his own home, and let the servants teach him, but he had to be kind to him. That orphan was Ali.

Ali grew up with his father, and they were playmates as children – at least until polio disabled Ali's leg, just as Hassan and I grew up with a generation later. Dad would always tell us about his and Ali's pranks, and Ali would shake his head and say, "But, sir, tell them who are the designers of the pranks, and who are the poor laborers." Dad would laugh and reach out and grab Ali.

But when Dad told these stories, he never mentioned Ali as his friend.

Oddly enough, I also never considered me to be friends with Hassan. In any case, not friends in the general sense. Although we learn from each other how to free our hands while riding a bike, or how to make a fully functional camera out of a cardboard box. Although we flew kites and chased kites together all winter. For me, though, the face of the Afghan is the face of the boy: a thin skeleton, a flat head, low ears, a Chinese doll-like face, a smiling rabbit lip that burns forever.

It doesn't matter about these things, because history doesn't change easily, and neither does religion. At the end of the day, I'm a Pashtun, he's a Hazara, I'm a Sunni, he's a Shia, and nothing can change that. No.

But we are toddlers together, and no history, race, society, or religion can change that. Before I was twelve, I spent most of my time playing with Hassan. Sometimes in retrospect, my whole childhood seems to have been some long, lazy summer day with Hassan, chasing each other among the intertwined trees in my father's yard, playing hide and seek, playing with cops and robbers, playing cowboys and Indians, torturing insects—we plucked the spikes of the bees, tied a rope around that poor thing, and pulled it back whenever it wanted to spread its wings and fly away, which brought us unparalleled pleasure.

We also chased the passing nomadic tribes who passed through Kabul and headed to the mountains of the north. We could hear the sound of their herds approaching: the sheep Mimi, the goats bleating, and the jingling camel bells. We would run out and watch their procession march through the streets, the men covered in dust and their faces vicissitudes, and the women draped in long, colorful shoulder scarves with beaded chains and silver bracelets on their wrists and ankles. We threw stones at their goats and splashed water on their mules. I made Hassan sit on the "wall of sick corn" and shoot their camels in the ass with a slingshot with a small round stone.

The first time we saw a western movie was two of us, in Cinema Park, across the street from my favorite bookstore, and we watched John Wayne's "Die Hard and Dragon Slayer." I remember begging my dad to take us to Iran so we could meet John Wayne. Dad burst into a hearty laugh — similar to the sound of a car engine accelerating, and when he could speak, tell us what the movie dubbing was all about. Hassan and I were dumbfounded. It turns out that John Wayne is not a real speaker, nor is he Iranian! He was an American, like the men and women we often see, with friendly looks, long hair, and colorful clothes as they roamed the city of Kabul. We watched "Dare to Slay the Dragon" three times, but our favorite western was "Seven Heroes and Heroes", which we watched thirteen times. Every time at the end of the movie, we cried as the Mexican kids buried Charles Blanson — and he wasn't Iranian either.

We wandered around the foul-smelling market in Kabul's new city. The new city is called the Sharino district, west of the Wazir Akbar Khan district. We talk about the movie we just finished watching and walk through the bustling crowds of the market. We meander among merchants and beggars, through the crowded aisles of small shops. Dad gave each of us ten Afghani every week[1]Afghanis, the name of the Afghan currency. [1] We used our pocket money to buy warm Coca-Cola and rose sherbet ice cream sprinkled with pistachio nuts.

In the years when we were in school, we had a regular routine every day. Whenever I got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom, Hassan had already washed up, finished his morning prayer with Ali, and helped me make breakfast: a mulled black tea with three sugar cubes, a slice of naan coated with my favorite cherry sauce, all neatly laid out on the table. I complained about my homework while eating, and Hassan cleaned up my bed, polished my shoes, ironed the clothes I was going to wear that day, and put my textbooks and pencils for me. I heard him singing on the porch ironing his clothes, singing old hazara songs in his nasal voice. Then, Dad and I set off and drove his Ford Mustang sedan — which would attract envious glances, because there was a movie called "Police Network Donkey Kong" that had been in theaters for half a year, and the main character, Steve McQueen, drove this kind of car in the film. Hassan stayed at home and helped Ali with chores: washing dirty clothes by hand and drying them in the yard; mopping floors; Go to the market and buy freshly baked naan; Prepare cured meats for dinner; Watering the lawn.

After school, I met up with Hassan, grabbed my books, and trotted up the bowl-shaped hill north of my father's house in the Wazir Akbar Khan district. At the top of the hill there is a long-abandoned cemetery, with various paths overgrown with shrubs and rows of blank tombstones. Years of wind, frost, rain and snow have rusted the iron gates of the cemetery, and the low white stone walls have also crumbling. There is a pomegranate tree next to the entrance to the cemetery. One summer day, I used a knife from Ali's kitchen to carve our names on the trunk of a tree: "Amir and Hassan, Sultan of Kabul." These words officially declare: This tree belongs to us. After school, Hassan and I climbed its branches and picked some blood-red pomegranate fruits. After eating pomegranates and wiping my hands with weeds, I would read to Hassan.

Hassan sat cross-legged as the shadows of the sun and pomegranate leaves danced on his face. I read to him stories he couldn't understand, and he was absentmindedly picking the leaves of the weeds on the ground. When Hassan grows up, like Ali and most Hazaras, he will be doomed to be illiterate from the day he was born, even from the day Shanapa reluctantly conceived him—after all, why should a servant read and write? But despite his illiterateness, perhaps because of this, Hassan was fascinated by the enigmatic words, and the world he couldn't touch was fascinated by it. I read him poems and stories, and sometimes riddles—but then I stopped because I realized that he was far better at solving riddles than I was. So I read something less challenging, like the story of the pretentious Nasruddin mullah and his donkey. We sat under the tree for hours until the sun dimmed in the west, and Hassan would say that the sun was bright enough for us to read one more story and one more chapter.

When I read a story to Hassan, I was very happy when I came across a word that he couldn't understand, and I would make fun of him and mock him for his ignorance. Once, when I read him the story of Mullah Nasruddin, he told me to stop. "What does that word mean?"

"Which one?"

"Ambiguous."

"Don't you know what that means?" I said with a wicked smile on my face.

"I don't know, Master Amir."

"But it's a very common word."

"But I still don't understand." Even when he heard the prickly words in my words, he smiled quietly.

"Let's put it this way, in our school, everyone knows the word." I said, "Let me see, 'Igno,' which means clever and clever. I can use it to form sentences for you. When it comes to reading and literacy, Hassan is ignorant enough. ’”

"Aha." He nodded.

I always felt guilty about it afterwards. So I tried to make up for it by giving him an old shirt or a torn toy. I would tell myself that for an inconsequential joke, such compensation would be enough.

Hassan's favorite book is Shanama, a 10th-century epic about ancient Persian heroes. He liked it all, and he liked the old kings: Felidon, Zal, and Rudabe. But his favorite story, and mine's favorite, is "Rostan and Sohrab," which tells the story of Rostan, a warrior of the gods, and his horse Thousand-mile Marrakech. During the battle, Rothstein dealt a fatal blow to his powerful enemy, Sohrab, only to discover that Sohrab was his long-lost son. Rothstein endured his grief and listened to his son's last words:

If you are my father, you will have a bloody blade of your own son, and your name will be at a loss. This is the result of your tyranny. You hold the token of your ancestor, I repay you with love, call your name, but your heart is difficult to return, I waste my lips and tongue, and I am destined to go to Huangquan at this moment......

"Say it again, Master Amir." Hassan would say so. Sometimes when I read this to him, he burst into tears, and I always wondered who he was weeping for, for the tearful, dusty, and mournful Rostan, or for Sohrab, who was dying and longing for his father's love. In my opinion, Rothstein's fate is not a tragedy. After all, doesn't every father have a desire to kill his son deep down?

One day in July 1973, I made another joke about Hassan. I read to him, and then suddenly I didn't care about the story. I pretended to be reading a book, flipping through the book as I normally would, but what I said had nothing to do with the book, but I put aside the story and made up one myself. Hassan, of course, didn't know anything about it. For him, the words on the pages are nothing more than lines, mysterious and incomprehensible. Words are a secret door, and the key is in my hands. When it was over, I giggled and asked him if he liked the story, and Hassan applauded.

"What are you doing?" I say.

"It's been a long time since you've read such a wonderful story." He said, still clapping his hands.

I laughed, "Really?"

"Really."

"It's amazing," I murmured. I mean really, it's really...... Not at all expected. "You didn't lie to me, did you, Hassan?"

He was still clapping: "Great, Master Amir. Can you read more to me tomorrow?"

"It's amazing." I said it again, a little breathless, like a man who had found a treasure in his backyard. As I descended the mountain, all sorts of thoughts exploded in my mind, like fireworks set off on Chaman Boulevard. It's been a long time since you've read such a wonderful story. He said so. Hassan was asking me questions.

"What?" I say.

"What does 'wonderful' mean?"

I laughed, gave him a hug, and kissed him on the face.

"Why are you doing that?" He blushed and said eatingly.

I gave him a friendly nudge and smiled, "You are the prince, Hassan." You are a prince and I love you. ”

That night, I wrote my first short story, which took me half an hour. It's a sad little story about a man who finds a magic cup and learns that if he cries over it, the tears that fall into it will turn into pearls. But in spite of his poverty, he was a happy fellow, and he rarely shed tears. So he tried to grieve himself so that those tears would become his wealth. The pearls accumulated, and he became more and more greedy. The novel ends with the man sitting on a jeweled mountain, knife in hand, holding in his arms the dead body of his beloved wife, helplessly dripping tears into the magic cup.

　　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。
After dark, I climbed upstairs and walked into my father's smoking room, holding two sheets of manuscript paper with my story written on them. When I went in, Dad and Rahim Khan were smoking big cigarettes and drinking brandy.

　　“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。
"What's that, Amir?" Dad said he was leaning back on the couch with his hands behind his head. Blue smoke surrounded his face, and his eyes made my lips dry. I cleared my throat and told him that I had written a novel.

　　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。
Dad nodded, and the smile showed that he wasn't much interested. "That's good, you're well written, aren't you?" He said, and then there was no more to say, just looking at me through the smoke of smoke.

　　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。
I may have been there for less than a minute, but to this day, it was still the longest minute of my life. Time passes by second by second, and between second and second, it seems to be an eternity. The air became dull, damp, and even frozen, and I struggled to breathe. Dad continued to stare at me, not in the slightest intention of looking.

　　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”。
As always, it was Rahim Khan who saved me. He reached out and gave me an unpretentious smile: "Can you show me, dear Amir?" I would be glad to read the story you wrote. "When my dad calls me, he almost never uses this affectionate "dear".

　　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。
Dad shrugged and stood up. He looked relaxed, as if Rahim Khan had liberated him as well. "That's right, give it to Rahim Khan. I'm going upstairs to get ready. He dropped the sentence and turned to leave. For most of my life, I revered my dad like a god. But at that moment, I wished I could rip open my veins and let his damn bloodline flow out of my body.

　　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。
After an hour, the night grew darker. The two of them drove their dad to the party. As Rahim Khan was about to go out, he crouched down in front of me and handed me the story, along with another folded piece of paper. He smiled and blinked. "Here you go, we'll see later." Then he stopped and added one word: Fantastic! In terms of encouraging me to write, the word gave me more courage than any editorial compliment these days.

　　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。
They left, and I sat on my bed, wishing that Rahim Khan was my father. Then I thought of my dad and his wide chest, and how nice it felt to lean on it when he held me. I think of the sweet smell of wine on his body every morning, and the fact that he my face with his beard. A sudden wave of guilt overwhelmed me, and I ran into the bathroom and threw up in the sink.

　　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：
Later that night, I curled up in bed and read Rahimhan's note over and over again. He writes:

　　亲爱的阿米尔：
Dear Amir,

　　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。
I love your story very much. My God, Allah has given you unique talents. Now it is your duty to temper this genius, because he who wastes the talent given by Allah is a fool. The stories you write are grammatically correct and the style is engaging. But the most memorable thing is that your story is full of irony. You may not know what sarcasm is, but you will. There are writers who have struggled all their lives, dreamed of it, but in vain. Your first story has been reached.

　　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!
My door is always open for you, dear Amir. I'd love to hear any story you have to tell. That's great!

　　你的朋友，
Your friend

　　拉辛
Racine

　　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。
Rahim Khan's note fluttered me, and I grabbed the story and headed downstairs to the porch. Ali and Hassan slept there on the carpet. They only slept in the house when Dad was out and Ali had to take care of me. I woke Hassan awake and asked him if he would like to hear a story.

　　他揉揉惺忪的睡眼，伸伸懒腰:“现在吗?几点了?”
He rubbed his sleepy eyes and stretched, "Now?" What time is it?"

　　“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。
"Don't ask what time it is. This story is special, I wrote it myself. "I don't want to wake Ali, whispered. Hassan's face perked.

　　“那我一定要听听。”他拉开盖在身上的毛毯，说。
"Then I'll have to hear it." He pulled back the blanket from his body and said.

　　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。
I read it to him in front of the marble fireplace in the living room. This time it's no joke, it's not a script, this time it's a story I wrote! In many ways, Hassan was the perfect listener. He was completely immersed in the story, and the expression on his face changed with the plot of the story. When I finished reading the last sentence, he applauded, but didn't make a sound.

　　“我的天啦!阿米尔少爷，太棒了!”哈桑笑逐颜开。
"Oh my God! Master Amir, it's amazing!" Hassan smiled.

　　“你喜欢它吗?”我说。得到第二次称赞，真是太甜蜜了。
"Do you like it?" I say. It was so sweet to get a second compliment.

　　“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。”
"Allah bless, you will surely become a great writer." Hassan said, "People all over the world read your story. ”

　　“你太夸张了，哈桑。”我说，不过很高兴他这么认为。
"You're exaggerating, Hassan." I said, but I'm glad he thinks so.

　　“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。
"I didn't. You're going to be great and famous. "He stood by his point. Then he paused, as if to say something, and he thought for a moment, clearing his throat, "But may you allow me to ask a question about this story?" He said shyly.

　　“当然可以。”
"Absolutely."

　　“那好……”他欲言又止。
"That's good......" he stopped.

　　“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。
"Tell me, Hassan." I say. I had a smile on my face, although for a moment I was worried as a writer, and I didn't know if I wanted to listen to it.

　　“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?”
"Well," he said, "if I were to ask, why did a man kill his wife?" Why, in fact, did he have to feel sad to shed tears? Can't he just smell the onion?"

　　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?
I was dumbfounded. This particular question, though obviously stupid, never occurred to me, and I moved my lips wordlessly. It was on the same night that I learned one of the goals of writing: satire; I also learned one of the pitfalls of writing: plot flaws. Of all the people, Hassan was the only one who taught me. This illiterate and illiterate Hassan who could not write. A cold, dark voice rang in my ears: What does he know, this Hazara illiterate? He only deserves to do chores in the kitchen all his life. How dare he criticize me?

　　“很好……”我开口说，却无法说完那句话。
"Very good......," I said, but I couldn't finish it.

　　因为突然之间，阿富汗一切都变了。
Because all of a sudden, everything has changed in Afghanistan.

第 五 章
Chapter V

　　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”的枪声。“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。
I don't know what made a thunderous sound, and then the ground shook slightly, and we heard the sound of "bang-bang-bang" gunshots. "Daddy!" Hassan shouted. We ran out of the living room and saw Ali limping down the hallway.

　　“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枪声。
"Daddy! What's that sound?" Hassan shouted, stretching out his arms and running towards Ali. Ali reached out and grabbed us. A white light flashed, and the night sky lit up with a silvery glow. Another white light, followed by a storm of gunfire.

　　“他们在猎杀野鸭。”阿里嘶哑地说，“他们在夜里猎鸭子，别害怕。”
"They're hunting mallards." Ali said hoarsely, "They hunt ducks at night, don't be afraid." ”

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　　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。
Sirens can be heard in the distance. I don't know where the sound of glass breaking came from, and there were people shouting loudly. I heard people waking up from their sleep and running out into the streets, perhaps in their pajamas, with their hair disheveled and sleepy-eyed. Hassan was crying, and Ali held him tight and stroked him gently. Later I told myself that I was not jealous of Hassan, not at all.

　　我们就那样哆嗦地抱成一团，直到天快破晓。枪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枪响。当时这些声音对我们来说太奇怪了。那些耳朵里面除了枪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。
We shuddered and hugged each other until dawn was approaching. The gunfire and explosions didn't end in an hour, but they frightened us, because we had never heard gunshots in the streets. These sounds were too strange for us at the time. The Afghan children, who had no other sound in their ears than the sound of gunshots, were not yet born. In the restaurant, we huddled in a heap, waiting for the sun to rise, and no one realized that the old way of life was over. Our way of life, if not yet completely over, is still a staple. The end, the official end, came in April 1978, when the coup d'état took place, and then in December 1979, Russian tanks showed their might in the streets where Hassan and I were playing, bringing death to my fathers and fellow villagers, and ushering in an era of blood that is still not over yet.

　　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。”
As the sun was about to rise, Dad's car pulled into the driveway. He slammed the door shut, his hurried footsteps making a heavy noise on the steps. Then he appeared at the door, and I saw a look on his face that I couldn't make out for a moment, because I had never seen him before: fear. "Amir! Hassan!" He shouted, running towards us with open arms, "They're blocking all the roads, the phone is broken again, I'm worried." ”

　　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。
We stopped in his arms, and for a moment I was madly happy, regardless of what had happened that night.

　　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枪。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［1］MohammedDaoudKhan（1909～1978），1973年起任阿富汗共和国总统，直到1978年被刺杀。［1］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。
They weren't hunting mallards at all. The truth was finally revealed: on the night of July 17, 1973, they didn't shoot anything at all. The next morning, Kabul woke up from a dream to find that the monarchy was history. King Zahir was far away in Italy, and his cousin Daoud Khan[1]Mohammed Daoud Khan (1909~1978), who was President of the Republic of Afghanistan from 1973 until his assassination in 1978. [1] In his absence, he staged a coup d'état, ending his forty-year reign without further killings.

　　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。
I remember the next morning, my father and Rahim Khan drinking black tea, listening to the latest news about the coup d'état on Kabul radio, and Hassan and I hid outside my father's study.

　　“阿米尔少爷?”哈桑低声说。
"Young Master Amir?" Hassan whispered.

　　“怎么啦?”
"What's wrong?"

　　“什么是‘共和’?”
"What is a 'republic'?"

　　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。
I shrugged, "I don't understand." The word "republic" came out over and over again on Dad's radio.

　　“阿米尔少爷?”
"Young Master Amir?"

　　“怎么啦?”
"What's wrong?"

　　“‘共和’是不是要我和爸爸离开这里?”
"Does the Republic want me and Dad to get out of here?"

　　“我觉得不是。”我低声回答。
"I don't think so." I replied in a low voice.

　　哈桑想了想，说:“阿米尔少爷?”
Hassan thought for a moment and said, "Young Master Amir?"

　　“什么呀?”
"What?"

　　“我不想他们把我跟爸爸送走。”
"I don't want them to send me away with my dad."

　　我露出微笑:“好啦，你这头驴子，没有人会送走你们。”
I smiled, "Okay, you donkey, no one will send you away."

　　“阿米尔少爷?”
"Young Master Amir?"

　　“什么呀?”
"What?"

　　“你想去爬我们的树吗?”
"Do you want to climb our tree?"

　　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。
I smiled even more. That's what Hassan is all about, because he always knows how to say the right thing at the right time – the news on the radio is just too boring. Hassan went back to his dreaded room to prepare, and I ran upstairs to grab a book. Then I went to the kitchen, stuffed a handful of pine nuts into my pocket, and ran out, and Hassan was waiting for me outside. We walked through the front door and headed towards the hill.

　　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。
We trudged through residential areas and across a barren clearing leading to a hill. Suddenly, a stone hit Hassan in the back. We turned around, and my heart sank. Assef and his two fox friends, Wari and Kamo, were walking towards us.

　　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。
Assef's father's name was Mahmud, a friend of my father's, and he was an airplane pilot. His home is located in a luxurious residential area, with a deep courtyard with high walls and surrounded by palms, just a few streets south of our house. Anyone who lives in Kabul's Wazir Akbar Khan district knows Assef and his infamous stainless steel gloves, and no one wants to taste it. Since his father was Afghan and his mother was German, the blue-eyed Assef had blonde hair and was taller than any other child. He was cruel and notorious, and people always avoided him. He was surrounded by a group of henchmen who walked the streets of the neighborhood, like a khan inspecting his territory in the company of his sycophants. What he says is the law, and if you need a little legal education, then his stainless steel gloves are undoubtedly the best teaching aid. I've seen him torture a kid in Kadča with that glove. I will never forget the almost mad glint in Assef's blue eyes, and the wicked smile on his face, which the poor boy grinned at when he was so struck unconscious. Some children in the Wazir Akbar Khan district gave him the nickname "Assef the Ear Eater". Of course, no one dared to call him that to his face, unless they wanted to see for themselves what happened to the poor child: he fought Assef for a kite, and then salvaged his right ear in a stinky ditch by the side of the road. Years later, I learned an English word that I couldn't find in Farsi, that could be used to describe a scumbag like Assef: a sociopath.

　　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!
Of the boys who tormented Ali, Assef was far more vicious than the others. In fact, people used "Babaru" to mock Ali, who was the initiator. Hey, Babaru, who did you eat today? Oh? Come on, Babaru, and smile at us. On those days when he felt particularly energetic, he would add fuel and vinegar: Hey, you sloppy-nosed Babaru, who did you eat today? Tell us, you thin-eyed donkey!

　　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。
Right now, he's walking towards us with his hands behind his back, kicking up dust with his rubber-soled sneakers.

　　“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。
"Good morning, bitter haha!" Assef said, waving his hand. "Bitter haha" is another word that Assef likes to use to insult people. All three of them were older than us, and when I saw them approaching, Hassan hid behind me. They were standing in front of us, three tall boys in jeans and t-shirts. Assef was the most burly, with his arms folded over his chest and a murderous smile on his face. More than once I have felt that Assef is not quite a normal person. Luckily, I have a father like my father, and I believe that it is because of this that Assef does not dare to be too presumptuous with me.

　　他朝哈桑扬起下巴。“喂，塌鼻子，”他说，“巴巴鲁可好吗?”
He raised his chin at Hassan. "Hey, Nose," he said, "is Barbaru okay?"

　　哈桑一言不发，在我身后又退了一步。
Without saying a word, Hassan took another step back behind me.

　　“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?”
"Did you hear that, boy?" Assef said, still with that evil smile on his face, "The king ran away, good run!" Long live the president! My father knew Daoud Khan well. Do you know him, Amir?"

　　“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。
"My dad knows him well." I said, I don't even know if that's true or not.

　　“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?”
"Well, Daoud Khan also had dinner at my house last year." "How's it going, Amir?"

　　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!
I wondered, if we were to cry out for help in this wasteland, would anyone hear? Dad's house is a kilometer away. If only we stayed at home!

　　“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。”
"Do you know what I'm going to say to Daoud Khan the next time he comes to our house for dinner?" "I'll talk to him a little bit, men to men." Tell him what I told my mom about Hitler. Now we have a great leader, a great leader, a man with great ambitions. I would tell Daoud Khan and remind him that if Hitler had completed his unfinished business, the world would be a better place than it is now. ”

　　“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。
"My dad said that Hitler was a madman and that he ordered the killing of a lot of innocent people." I didn't have time to cover my mouth with my hand, the words had already blurted out.

　　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。”
Assef said disdainfully: "He said the same thing as my mother. She was German, she should have known better. But they want you to think so, don't they? They don't want you to know the truth. ”

　　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。
I don't know who "they" are, I don't know what truth they're hiding, and I don't want to know at all. I wish I hadn't said anything, and I wish I could look up and see my dad walking up the hill.

　　“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?”
"But you have to read books that you can't see in school." "I read it, and it made me pause. Now I have an ambition, and I'm going to tell our president. Do you want to know what that is?"

　　我摇摇头。他终究还是说了，阿塞夫总是自问自答。
I shook my head. After all, he said that Assef always asked and answered himself.

　　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。”
His blue eyes looked at Hassan: "Afghanistan is the territory of the Pashtuns, it has always been, and always will be." We are real Afghans, purebred Afghans, this collapsed nose is not. People like them pollute our land, our country, they stain our blood. He waved his hands and made an exaggerated gesture, "Pashtun Afghanistan, I say, that's my ambition." ”

　　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。”
Assef looked at me again, and he looked like he had just woken up from a sweet dream. "Hitler was born at the wrong time," he said, "but we were still in time." ”

　　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。”
He reached for something in the back pocket of his jeans, "I'm going to beg the president to do what the previous kings didn't do, send the army to get rid of all this garbage, you filthy Hazaras." ”

　　“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。”
"Let us go, Assef," I said, disgusted by my trembling voice, "and we are not in your way. ”

　　“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’?”
"Oh, you're in my way." Assef said. Seeing him pull that thing out of his pants pocket, my heart began to sink. Of course, what he pulled out was the brass-colored stainless steel gloves, which glistened in the sun. "You're getting in my way badly. Actually, you're more of a hindrance to me than this Hazara boy. How can you talk to him, play with him, let him touch you?" His voice was full of disgust. Wari and Camo nodded in agreement. Assef frowned and shook his head. When he spoke again, his voice was as confused as his expression. "How can you be a 'friend' with him?"

　　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?
But he's not my friend! I almost burst out of my mouth. Have I really thought about this? Of course not, I didn't think about it. I'm very nice to Hassan, like a friend, or even better, like a brother. But if that's the case, then why don't I ever call Hassan when my dad's friends come to visit with their kids? Why do I only play with Hassan when there is no one else around?

　　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［1］Hazarajat，阿富汗中部山区，为哈扎拉人聚居地。［1］，在那个属于他们的地方烂掉。你是个阿富汗败类。”
Assef put on his stainless steel gloves and gave me a cold look. "You're a problem too, Amir. If it weren't for idiots like you and your father to contain these Hazaras, we would have been able to get rid of them a long time ago. They were all supposed to go to Hazarajat[1]Hazarajat, a Hazara settlement in the mountainous region of central Afghanistan. [1] and rot where they belong. You're an Afghan scum. ”

　　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。
I looked into his arrogant eyes and understood the look in his eyes, he really wanted to hurt me. Assef raised his fist and walked towards me.

　　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。
There was a sharp sound of activity behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hassan bent down and quickly stood up. Assef looked behind me, his eyes widening in surprise. I saw Warry and Camo also look behind me, with the same look of shock in their eyes.

　　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。
I turned around and saw Hassan's slingshot. Hassan pulled the rubber belt wide open, and on the bow was a stone the size of a walnut. Hassan pointed the slingshot at Assef's face, and he pulled the slingshot with all his might, his hands trembling and beads of sweat oozing from his forehead.

　　“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?
"Please let us go, young master." Hassan said in a calm tone. He called Assef the young master, and a thought flashed through my mind: what is it like to live in a hierarchical place with this deep-seated consciousness?

　　阿塞夫咬牙切齿:“放下来，你这个没有老娘的哈扎拉小子。”
Assef gritted his teeth: "Put it down, you Hazara kid without an old lady."

　　“请放过我们，少爷。”哈桑说。
"Please spare us, young master." Hassan said.

　　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。”
Assef laughed: "Don't you see it? There are three of us, and there are only two of you. ”

　　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。
Hassan shrugged. To outsiders, he was calm, but Hassan's face was something I had been accustomed to seeing since I was a child, and I knew all the subtle changes in it, and not the slightest tremor on his face could hide my eyes. I could tell he was scared, very scared.

　　“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。
"Yes, young master. But maybe you didn't see it, the person pulling the slingshot was me. If you dare to make a move, they will change your nickname and no longer call you 'Assef the Ear Eater', but 'Assef the One-Eyed Dragon'. For this stone of mine is aimed at your left eye. He said calmly, and even it would take me a lot of effort to hear the fear beneath his calm voice.

　　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。
Assef's mouth twitched. Wari and Kamo couldn't believe it when they saw the strength and weakness of the situation, someone was challenging their god and humiliating him. To make matters worse, this guy turned out to be a skinny Hazara. Assef looked at the stone, and then at Hassan. He looked closely at Hassan's face, and what he saw must have convinced him that Hassan was not threatening, because he had lowered his fist.

　　“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。
"You should know something about me, Hazara." "I'm a very patient person," said Assef with a gloomy face. It's not over today, trust me. He turned to me, "I'm not done with you, Amir. Someday, I'll let you taste my awesomeness myself. Assef took a step back, as did his attendants.

　　“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。
"Your Hazaras have made a big mistake today, Amir." He said, then turned to leave. I watched them walk down the hill and disappear behind a wall.

　　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。
Hassan's hands trembled, and he struggled to put the slingshot back into his waist. His lips curled, or he wanted to smile reassuringly. It took him five tries to tie the slingshot to his pants. We walked home with heavy steps, knowing full well that Assef and his friends were probably waiting around the corner to pick us up, and no one spoke. They didn't, and that should give us a sigh of relief. But we don't, not at all.

　　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。
In the years that followed, people in Kabul kept words like "economic development" and "reform" on their lips. The constitutional monarchy was abolished and replaced by a republic under the President of the Republic. For a while, the country was alive and there were big goals, and people were talking about women's rights and modern technology.

　　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［1］回历的第九个月为斋戒月。［1］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。
For most people, life is the same as it used to be, despite the new owners of the royal palace in Kabul. People still work from Saturday to Thursday and gather on Fridays for picnics in parks, on the shores of Lake Kharka or in Pugman Park. Colourful buses and vans laden with passengers stream through Kabul's narrow streets, with the driver's assistant straddled the back bumper and shouted loudly in the heavily accented Kabul dialect to give the driver directions. On the three-day festival of Eid al-Fitr, the ninth month of Ramadan[1] is the ninth month of the Hijri calendar. [1] On the following holidays, Kabulites don their latest and finest clothes and visit each other. People hug, kiss and wish each other "Happy Eid al-Fitr". Children unwrap gifts and play with dyed boiled eggs.

　　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。
In the early winter of 1974, one day Hassan and I were frolicking in the yard and building a castle out of snow. Then Ali called him into the house: "Hassan, the master wants to talk to you!" He was dressed in white and stood in the doorway, his hands tucked under his armpits, and his mouth exhaled white air.

　　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。
Hassan and I looked at each other and smiled. We waited all day for his summons: it was Hassan's birthday. "What's that, Daddy? Do you know? Can you tell us?" Hassan said, his eyes beaming with happiness.

　　阿里耸耸肩:“老爷没有告诉我。”
Ali shrugged: "The lord didn't tell me."

　　“别这样嘛，阿里，跟我们说说。”我催他，“一本图画册吗?还是一把新手枪?”
"Don't do that, Ali, tell us about it." I urged him, "A picture book?" Or a new pistol?"

　　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。
Like Hassan, Ali is not a good liar. Every year for our birthday, he pretended not to know what gifts Dad bought. Every year his eyes betray him, and we can put gifts out of his mouth. But this time he really didn't seem to know.

　　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。
Dad never forgot Hassan's birthday. Once, he often asked Hassan what he wanted, but then he stopped asking, because what Hassan wanted was too small to be called a gift, so every winter his father chose something on his own. One year he bought a set of Japanese toy cars. The previous year, Hassan's dad overjoyed him by buying him a fur cowboy hat that Clint Eastwood wore to perform in "The Golden Three" — a film that replaced "Seven Heroes" as our favorite Western. Throughout the winter, Hassan and I took turns wearing that hat, singing that famous movie theme song, climbing snowdrifts and having snowball fights.

　　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。
We took off our gloves at the front door and wiped the snow off our boots. We walked into the porch and saw Dad sitting in front of a coal-blaring iron stove with a short, bald Indian in a brown suit and red tie next to him.

　　“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。”
"Hassan," said Dad, with an embarrassed smile on his face, "to meet you for your birthday." ”

　　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。
Hassan and I stared blankly. There were no boxes with gifts, no bags, no toys, just Ali standing behind us, and Daddy, and the Indian who looked like a math teacher.

　　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。
The Indian in a brown suit smiled and held out his hand to Hassan. "I'm Dr. Kumar," he said, "and it's a pleasure to meet you." "His Farsi has a thick Indian tongue curl sound.

　　“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。
"Hello." Hassan said. He nodded politely, but his eyes were fixed on his father, who was standing behind him. Ali stepped forward and placed his hand on Hassan's shoulder.

　　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。”
Dad looked into Hassan's bewildered eyes: "I brought in Dr. Kumar from New Delhi, Dr. Kumar is a cosmetic surgeon."

　　“你知道那是什么吗?”那个印度人——库玛大夫说。
"Do you know what that is?" The Indian, said Dr. Kuma.

　　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。
Hassan shook his head. He looked at me with an inquiring look, but I shrugged. All I know is that if people get appendicitis, they have to go to a surgeon. I knew because a classmate had died of appendicitis the year before, and our teacher said he had waited too long to see a surgeon. The two of us looked at Ali together, but of course we couldn't get an answer from him. As before, he was still expressionless, but his eyes became more serious.

　　“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。”
"Well," said Dr. Kumar, "my job is to repair people's bodies, sometimes people's faces. ”

　　“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。
"Oh," said Hassan, looking at Dr. Kuma, at Daddy, and at Ali, and reaching out to cover his upper lip. "Oh." He said again.

　　“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。”
"It's not an ordinary gift, I know." Dad said, "Maybe it's not what you want, but this gift will stay with you for the rest of your life." ”

　　“噢，”哈桑说，他舔舔嘴唇，清清喉咙，说:“老爷，这……这会不会……”
"Oh," said Hassan, licking his lips and clearing his throat, "sir, this ...... Wouldn't this be ......"

　　“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。”
"Don't worry," Dr. Kumar interjected, with a smile on his face, "it won't hurt you. Actually, I'll give you a pill and you won't remember anything. ”

　　“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。
"Oh." Hassan said. He breathed a sigh of relief and smiled, but only a sigh of relief. "I'm not afraid, sir, I'm just ......" Hassan may be a fool, I'm not. I know if the doctor tells you it won't hurt, you're in big trouble. I remembered the circumcision last year, and the doctor told me the same thing, reassuring me that it wouldn't hurt. But late that night, after the anesthetic wore off, it felt like someone was scalding my genita with red, hot charcoal. Why did Dad wait until I was 10 years old to get me circumcised? I couldn't figure it out, and it was one of those things I could never forgive him.

　　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?
I wish I had a similar disability and could beg for my father's mercy. It's so unfair, Hassan didn't do anything, he got his father's love, didn't he just give birth to that stupid rabbit lip?

　　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。
The surgery was a success. We were all a little surprised when they first unbandaged, but we kept smiling as Dr. Kumar had told us before. But it wasn't easy, because Hassan's upper lip looked swollen and weird, with no epidermis. When the nurse handed Hassan the mirror, I wanted him to cry. Hassan looked deeply in the mirror, thoughtful, while Ali held his hand tightly. He muttered a few words, but I didn't hear them clearly. I put my ear to his lips, and he whispered again.

　　“谢谢。”
"Thank you."

　　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。
Then his lips contorted, and I knew exactly what he was doing. He was smiling. Smiling like he did when he came out of his mother's womb.

　　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。
Over time, the swelling subsides and the wound heals. Soon, all that remained of his lips was a curvy suture. By the next winter, it turned into a faint scar. Ironically, it was after that winter that Hassan stopped smiling.

第 六 章
Chapter VI

　　冬天。
Winter.

　　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。
Every year, on the first day of snow, I spend it like this: early in the morning, I put on my pajamas, go outside the house, and wrap my arms around to protect against the cold. I noticed that the driveway, my father's car, the fence, the trees, the roof, and the hill were all covered with a foot of snow. I smile. The sky was clear and cloudless. The white flakes of snow stung my eyes. I picked up a handful of fresh snow and stuffed it into my mouth, and there was silence all around me, except for a few crows' crows. I walked barefoot down the steps of the front door and called Hassan out to take a look.

　　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。
Winter is the favorite season for every child in Kabul, at least for those whose families can afford a warm iron stove. The reason is simple: every day when it is cold, schools are closed. For me, winter means the end of those complicated division problems, the absence of having to memorize the Bulgarian capital, the beginning of a three-month game of poker with Hassan by the fire, a trip to the cinema park on Tuesday mornings to watch free Russian films, and a sweet bibimbap for lunch after building a snowman in the morning.

　　当然还有风筝。放风筝。追风筝。
And of course kites. Kite flying. Kite chasing.

　　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。
For some poor children, winter doesn't mean the end of the semester, and there's something called a voluntary winter program. As far as I know, no students volunteered to attend those classes, of course their parents volunteered to send them there. Luckily, Dad wasn't that kind of parent. I remember a guy named Ahmed who lived across the street from my house. His father might have been some kind of doctor, I thought. Ahmed suffers from epilepsy and always wears woolen underwear and a pair of black-rimmed glasses – Assef often bullies him. Every morning, I looked out of my bedroom window as their Hazara maid shoveled the snow off the driveway to clear the way for the black Opel. I watched Ahmed get into the car with his father, Ahmed in woolen underwear and a winter coat, carrying a schoolbag stuffed with textbooks and pencils. I wore my flannel pajamas and watched them go, turn the corner of the street, and get back into my bed. I pulled the blanket to my neck and looked through the window at the snow-capped hills to the north. Look at them until you fall asleep again.

　　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。
I love winter in Kabul. I love the snow gently knocking on my window at night, I love the fresh snow creaking under my black rubber boots, I love feeling the warmth of the iron stove, and I like to listen to the cold wind howling through the streets and yards. But more importantly, whenever the trees are bleak and the roads are closed by snow and ice, the chill between my father and me will improve a little. That's because of kites. Dad and I live under the same roof, but we live in our respective areas, and the kite is a paper-thin intersection between us.

　　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。
Every winter, kite competitions are held in various districts of Kabul. If you are a child living in Kabul, then the day of the race is undoubtedly the most exhilarating time of this cold season. On the eve of every race, I would lose sleep, tossing and turning, casting animal-shaped shadows on the wall with the light with my hands, or even wrapping myself in a blanket and sitting on the balcony in the dark. I was like a soldier trying to sleep in the trenches on the eve of the big battle. In fact, it is almost the same, in Kabul, kite fighting is a bit similar to going on the battlefield.

　　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。如果风筝是枪，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。
As with any war, you have to prepare yourself. For a while, Hassan and I used to make our own kites. In the autumn, we saved a little pocket money every week and put it into the porcelain horses that my father bought from Herat. When the cold wind was howling and the snowflakes were flying, we lifted the lid on the belly of the porcelain horse and went to the market to buy bamboo, glue, thread, and paper. We spend a few hours a day building the skeleton of the kite and cutting the tissue paper that makes the kite more dynamic. Then, of course, we had to prepare our own threads. If the kite is a gun, then the thread embellished with glass shavings is the bullet in the chamber. We had to go out into the yard, put 500 feet of thread in a bucket of glue mixed with glass shavings, and hang the thread on a tree and let it dry. The next day, we will wrap this battle-ready thread around a wooden shaft. When the snowflakes melt and the spring rains continue, every child in Kabul will have some cross-cut wounds on their fingers, which are evidence of the kite that has been fighting for a winter. I remember the first day of school, when my classmates huddled together and compared their war wounds. The wound was painful and didn't heal for weeks, but I didn't care. Our winter always comes and goes in such a hurry, and the scars remind us of our nostalgia for that most beloved season. Then the class leader whistled, and we lined up and walked into the classroom, already longing for the arrival of winter, but greeted by another long, ghostly school year.

　　0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。
0 But it didn't take long for Hassan and I to make kites, and I was really good at kite fighting. The kites we design always have problems of one kind or another, and they cannot escape a tragic fate. So Dad started taking us to Sever's shop to buy kites. Seifer is a nearly blind old man who repairs people's shoes for a living, but he is also the most famous kite maker in the city. His small workshop is on the crowded Yadmewan Boulevard, on the muddy south bank of the Kabul River. Dad would buy each of us three of the same kites and a few reels of glass string. If I change my mind and beg my dad to buy me a bigger, better looking kite, he will buy it for me, but he will also buy one for Hassan. Sometimes I hope he doesn't buy it for Hassan, I hope he loves me the most.

　　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。
Kite fighting is an ancient winter custom in Afghanistan. The competition starts early in the morning and ends with only one winning kite soaring through the air. I remember one year, the race wasn't over until it got dark. People are on the sidewalks, on rooftops, cheering on their children. The streets are full of kite fighters, sometimes pulling and sometimes quickening, staring up at the sky, trying to get a good position to cut the kite string of their opponents. Each kite fighter has an assistant who helps to collect and fly the kite string. My assistant is Hassan.

　　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。”
Once, a mouthy Indian kid whose family had recently moved to the neighborhood told us that in his hometown, there were some rules and regulations that had to be strictly followed for kite fighting. "You have to fly a kite in a designated area, and you have to stand at right angles to the wind." "Also, you can't make glass wire out of aluminum," he said proudly. ”

　　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。
Hassan and I looked at each other. Let you blow it. What the Indian kid will soon learn is the same thing that the British learned at the beginning of the century and the Russians in the late 1980s: that the Afghans are an independent people. Afghans respect customs, but hate rules, and the same goes for kite fighting. The rules are simple: fly your kite, cut your opponent's string, and good luck.

　　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。
Not only that, but when a kite is cut, the real fun begins. Then the kite runner went out, and the children chased the kite that was fluttering in the wind, and ran around the neighboring neighborhood until it hovered and fell into the field, or fell into the yard of a house, or hung on a tree, or stopped on the roof. The chase was fierce: the kite runners swarmed through the streets, pushing each other, like the Spaniards. I once read a book about how they were chased by bulls at bullfighting festivals. One year, a neighbor's kid climbed a pine tree to pick up a kite, and the branches were so overwhelmed that he fell from a height of thirty feet and could no longer walk, but he fell with the kite still in his hand. If the kite chaser has a kite in his hand, no one can take it away. It's not a rule, it's a custom.

　　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。
The biggest reward for kite runners is picking up the last kite to fall during a winter race. It was a supreme honor, and people would hang it under the mantelpiece for the delight of the guests. When the sky is full of kites and only the last two are left, everyone who chasers the kite is ready to take the prize. They would head towards the spot where they expected the kite to fall, their muscles taut, their necks raised, their eyes squinted, their fighting spirits high. When the last kite was cut, there was an immediate commotion.

　　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。
Over the years, I've seen countless guys get involved in kite chasing, but Hassan is the best at it I've ever met. Strangely enough, he was always waiting at the place where the kite was about to fall before it fell, as if he had some sort of compass inside him.

　　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。
I remember one gloomy winter day, Hassan and I were chasing a kite. I followed him, through the neighborhoods, jumping over ditches, and sideways through the narrow streets. I'm a year older than him, but Hassan is faster than me and I'm lagging behind.

　　“哈桑，等等我。”我气喘吁吁地大喊，有些恼怒。
"Hassan, wait for me." I shouted breathlessly, a little annoyed.

　　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。
He turned around and waved his hand, "This way!" With that, he rushed around the other corner. I looked up and saw that it was in the opposite direction to where the kite fell.

　　“我们追不到它了!我们跑错路了!”我高声叫道。
"We can't catch it! We're on the wrong track!" I shouted.

　　“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。
"Trust me!" I heard him say in front of me. I ran around the corner and found Hassan running with his head down, not even looking up at the sky, sweat soaking through his clothes. I stepped on a rock and fell – not only was I slower than Hassan, but I was also much more clumsy, and I always envied his innate athleticism. I stood up and caught a glimpse of Hassan turning into another alley. I chased after him with difficulty, and there was a sharp pain in my broken knee.

　　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。
I saw that we ended up parked on a rutted dirt road, right next to the independent high school. There is a field by the roadside, which is full of lettuce in the summer; On the other side of the road there are rows of sour cherry trees. Hassan sat cross-legged under one of the trees, eating a handful of dried mulberries in his hand.

　　“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。
"What are we doing here?" I was out of breath, and my stomach was turning over and I almost threw up.

　　他微笑:“在我这边坐下，阿米尔少爷。”
He smiled, "Sit down on my side, Master Amir."

　　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?”
I collapsed next to him, lying on a thin layer of snowflakes, gasping for air. "You're wasting your time. It flew the other way, didn't you see?"

　　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。
Hassan threw a mulberry into his mouth: "It flew over." I was breathing hard, and he wasn't tired at all.

　　“你怎么知道?”我问。
"How do you know?" I asked.

　　“我知道。”
"I know."

　　“你是怎么知道的?”
"How do you know?"

　　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?”
He turned towards me, beads of sweat streaming down his forehead, "Did I lie to you, Master Amir?"

　　刹那间我决定跟他开开玩笑:“我不知道。你会骗我吗?”
In an instant I decided to joke with him: "I don't know. Will you lie to me?"

　　“我宁愿吃泥巴也不骗你。”他带着愤愤的表情说。
"I'd rather eat mud than lie to you." He said with an indignant expression.

　　“真的吗?你会那样做?”
"Really? Would you do that?"

　　他疑惑地看了我一眼:“做什么?”
He looked at me quizzically, "What are you doing?"

　　“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。
"If I asked you to eat mud, would you eat it?" I say. I knew I was cruel to be like this, as if I used to tease him with words he didn't understand, but it was kind of fun to make fun of Hassan—though morbidly funny, a little like our game of torturing insects. But now, he's an ant, and I'm the one with the magnifying glass.

　　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。
He looked at my face for a long time. We were sitting there, two boys, sitting under a sour cherry tree, and all of a sudden we were looking, really looking at each other. It was then that Hassan's face changed again. Maybe it hasn't changed, it's not really changed, but I instantly felt that I saw two faces, one that I recognized and that I was familiar with since I was a child; The other, the second, is hidden beneath the surface. I've seen his face change before—always startling me, it only glances at each time, but it's enough to make me wonder if I've seen it somewhere. Then, Hassan blinked, he was him again, just Hassan.

　　“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。
"If you ask, I will." He finally spoke, eyes looking straight at me. I lowered my eyes, and to this day, I find it difficult to look directly at someone like Hassan, someone who takes every word seriously.

　　“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。
"But I doubt you," he added, "will you let me do that." Will you, Master Amir?" And just like that, it was his turn to test me. If I continue to tease him and test his loyalty, then he will tease me and test my integrity.

　　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。”
If only I hadn't started this conversation! I barely smiled, "Don't be stupid, Hassan, you know I won't." ”

　　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。
Hassan smiled in return, but he didn't force a smile. "I know." He said. This is the style of those who promise a lot of money, thinking that others are like them.

　　“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。
"The kite is coming." Hassan said, pointing to the sky, he stood up and took a few steps to the left. I looked up and saw the kite coming down at us. I heard footsteps, shouts, and a group of kite chasers running towards me. But they just wasted their time. Because Hassan was smiling, with his hands outstretched, standing there waiting for the kite. Unless Allah, if He exists, blinds me, the kite will fall into the crook of His open arm.

　　1975年冬天，我最后一次看到哈桑追风筝。
In the winter of 1975, I saw Hassan chasing a kite for the last time.

　　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。
Usually, each neighborhood hosts its own competition. But that year, the tour was hosted by my neighborhood, the Wazir Akbar Khan district, and several other districts – Kadcha, Kadpawan, Mekorayaan, Khedsanji – were also invited. Everywhere you go, you can hear people talking about the upcoming tour, which is said to be the biggest kite race in 25 years.

　　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?”
One night that winter, four days before the race, Dad and I sat in a fur-covered chair in the study, over the fire, drinking tea and talking. Earlier, Ali served us dinner—potatoes, curry, and broccoli bibimbap—and went back to spend the long night with Hassan. My father stuffed his pipe, and I begged him to tell me the story that one winter a pack of wolves came down from the mountains and wandered to Herat, forcing the people to hide in the house for a week. Dad struck a match and said, "I think you might win the Tour this year, don't you think?"

　　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……
I don't know what to think, or what to say. What if I win? Did he just hand me a key? I'm a good kite fighter, actually, a very good player. I almost won the Winter Tour a couple of times – and on one occasion, I finished in the top three. But handicap and winning a game are two different things, aren't they? Dad was never bad, he just won, the winner wins the game, and everyone else has to go home. Dad always wins, wins everything he wants. Doesn't he have the right to demand the same from his son? Think about it, if I win the game......

　　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。
Dad smoked his cigarette and talked to me. I pretended to be listening, but I couldn't, a little absent-minded, because my dad casually said something that planted a seed in my head: winning the Winter Tour was a good idea. I'm going to win the game, there's no other choice. I'm going to win the race, and my kite will hold on to the end. Then I'll take it home and show it to my dad. Let him see that his son is extraordinary after all, and that perhaps my solitary days at home will be over. I let myself fantasize that I would have dinner full of laughter rather than silence, only the occasional clash of silver cutlery and a few "uh-oh" sounds breaking the silence. I imagined my dad driving me to Pughman on Friday, stopping at Lake Kharka for a break and eating fried trout and potatoes. We'd go to the zoo to see the lion named "Mayan", maybe Dad wouldn't be yawning all the time and sneaking into his watch. Maybe Dad would even look at the stories I wrote, and I'd rather write a hundred for him, even if he only picked one. Maybe he will call me "dear Amir" like Rahim Khan. Maybe, just maybe, he will eventually forgive me for killing his wife.

　　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。
Dad told me that one day he cut the strings of fourteen kites. From time to time, I smiled, nodded, and laughed, everything was just right, but I barely heard what he was saying. Now I have a mission, and I won't let my dad down. Not this time.

　　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”。
It snowed heavily on the eve of the tour. Hassan and I sat at the stove table playing a game of poker called "Panjipa", as the cold wind rustled the branches and rattled against the windows. Earlier in the day, I asked Ali to set up the stove table for us — under a low table, with electric heaters and a thick cotton blanket. He covered the table with carpets and cushions, enough for twenty people to sit down, and put his legs under the table. Whenever it snows, Hassan and I often sit at the stove table all day, playing chess or cards, mainly "Panjipa".

　　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。
I killed Hassan with two 10s and gave him two jacks and a six. Next door was his father's study, where he and Rahim Khan were talking to a few people about business. One of them was Assef's father, whom I recognized. Through the wall, I could hear the rustling of the Kabul news radio station.

　　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。
Hassan killed 6 and asked for two jacks. Daoud Khan announced on the radio about foreign investments.

　　“他说有一天喀布尔也会拥有电视。”我说。
"He said that one day Kabul would have a TV as well." I say.

　　“谁?”
"Who?"

　　“达乌德汗，你这个家伙，我们的总统。”
"Daoud Khan, you guy, our president."

　　哈桑咯咯笑起来，“我听说伊朗已经有了。”他说。
Hassan chuckled, "I heard that Iran already has." He said.

　　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。”
I sighed: "Those Iranians ......" Iran is a refuge for most Hazaras, and I suspect that perhaps because most Iranians, like Hazaras, are Shia Muslims. But I remember a teacher in the summer who talked about Iranians and said they were smiling tigers, patting you on the back with one hand and digging into your pocket with the other. I told my dad about this, and he said that my teacher was nothing more than a jealous Afghan, and he was jealous because Iran's prestige in Asia was growing and most people in the world couldn't find where Afghanistan was when they looked at the world map. "It hurts to say that," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "but it's better to be hurt by the truth than to be comforted by lies." ”

　　“有一天我会给你买的。”我说。
"I'll buy it for you someday." I say.

　　哈桑笑逐颜开:“电视机?真的吗?”
Hassan smiled: "TV? Really?"

　　“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。”
"Of course, it's not black and white. We'll probably all be adults by then, but I'll buy us two. One for you, one for me. ”

　　“我要把它放在我画画的桌子上。”哈桑说。
"I'm going to put it on the table where I paint." Hassan said.

　　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。
It made me sad that he said that. I feel sorry for who Hassan is, for where he lives. When he grows up, he'll live in that shabby house in the yard like his father, and it makes me feel sad that he's taken it all. I drew the last card and gave him a pair of queens and a 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。”
Hassan asked for a pair of Qs, "You know, I think you're going to make the master proud tomorrow." ”

　　“你这样想啊?”
"What do you think?"

　　“安拉保佑。”他说。
"Allah willing." He said.

　　“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。
"Allah willing." I responded, though the phrase "Allah Blessings" came out of my mouth with some incomprehension. Hassan is like that, he's so pure and damn pure, and with him, you will always feel like a liar.

　　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。
I killed his king and threw him one last card: the ace of spades. He had to eat. I won, but when it came time to shuffle the cards, I suspected that Hassan had deliberately let me win.

　　“阿米尔少爷?”
"Young Master Amir?"

　　“怎么啦?”
"What's wrong?"

　　“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。”
"You know...... I loved where I stayed. He was always like this, he could see through my heart, "It's my home." ”

　　“不管怎样，”我说，“准备再输一局吧。”
"Anyway," I said, "I'm going to lose one more game." ”

第 七 章
Chapter VII

　　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。”
The next morning, while Hassan was making black tea for breakfast, he told me he had a dream. "We are in Lake Kharka, you, me, Dad, Lord, Rahim Khan, and thousands of people." "The weather is warm, the sun is shining, and the lake is as clear as a mirror," he said. But no one swam because they said there was a ghost in the lake. It lurks at the bottom of the lake, waiting. ”

　　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。”
He poured me a cup of tea, added sugar, blew it a few times, and brought it to me. "So everyone was scared and didn't dare to go into the water. Suddenly you kick off your shoes, Master Amir, take off your clothes. 'There are no goblins in it,' you say, 'and I'll prove it to you.' Before they could stop you, you plunged headlong into the lake and swam away. I'm following you, and we're all swimming. ”

　　“可是你不会游泳。”
"But you can't swim."

　　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。”
Hassan laughed, "That's in a dream, Master Amir, you can do anything." Everyone screamed: 'Get up! Hurry up!' But we were just swimming in the icy water. We swim to the middle of the lake and stop. We turned to the shore of the lake and waved at the people. They look like tiny ants, but we can hear their applause. Now they know that there are no ghosts in the lake, only water. They then renamed the lake 'Lake of Sultan Amir and Hassan in Kabul'. We collect money from those who go to the lake to swim. ”

　　“这梦是什么意思呢?”我说。
"What does this dream mean?" I say.

　　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。”
He baked the naan for me, spread it with sweet jam, and put it on a plate. "I don't know, I expect you to tell me."

　　“好吧，那是个愚蠢的梦而已，没有什么含义。”
"Well, that's just a stupid dream, it doesn't mean anything."

　　“爸爸说梦总是意味着某种东西。”
"Dad said that dreams always mean something."

　　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。
I drank my tea, "So why don't you go and ask him?" How smart he is. "My impatience was beyond my expectations. I stayed up all night, my neck and back were like tight wires, and my eyes were stinging. Even so, I was too mean to Hassan. I almost apologized to him, but no. Hassan understood that I was just nervous. Hassan always understood me.

　　楼上，我听见从爸爸的卫生间传来一阵水流的声音。
Upstairs, I heard the sound of water running from my father's bathroom.

　　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。
The snow on the streets shimmered with silver, and the sky was impeccably blue. Snowflakes covered every roof, dwarf mulberry trees lined our street, and branches were covered with snow. Overnight, snowflakes filled all the cracks and gutters. As Hassan and I walked out of the wrought-iron gate, the snowflakes reflected a white glow that made me unable to open my eyes. Ali closed the door behind us. I heard him praying in a low voice — every time his son went out, he always prayed.

　　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［1］AhmadZahir（1946～1979），阿富汗歌星。［1］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。
I've never seen so many people on the street. Children are having snowball fights, bickering, chasing each other, giggling. The kite fighters and the person who helped them carry the scroll huddled together to make the final preparations. Laughter can be heard in the surrounding streets, rooftops are already crowded with spectators, reclining on folding chairs, black tea in a kettle is steaming, and Ahmad Zahir (1946~1979), an Afghan singer, is heard on the tape recorder. [1] Loud music. Ahmad Zahir, who took the country by storm, revamped Afghan music by pairing traditional tambourines and accordions with electric guitars, trumpets and drums, angering conservative believers. Whether performing on stage or partying, he is different from the dull singers of his past, refusing to perform with a blank expression, but smiling while singing – and sometimes even smiling at women. I looked into the roof of my house and saw my father and Rahim Khan sitting on a bench, both wearing woolen sweaters and drinking tea. Dad waved, and I didn't know if he was saying hello to me or Hassan.

　　“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。
"We've got to get started." Hassan said. He wears a pair of black rubber snow boots, a thick woolen sweater, and faded corduroy pants over a green robe. The sun shone on his face, and I could see that the pink scar on his lips had healed well.

　　0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。
0 Suddenly I want to give up, put my things away, and turn around and go home. What was I thinking? If I already know the end, why should I let myself experience it? Dad was on the roof, looking at me. I think his eyes are as hot as the sun. Today, even I am bound to fail miserably.

　　“我有点不想在今天放风筝了。”我说。
"I kind of don't want to fly a kite today." I say.

　　“今天是个好日子。”哈桑说。
"Today is a good day." Hassan said.

　　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。”
I turned my feet and tried to get my eyes off the roof of our house. "I don't know, maybe we should go home."

　　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。
Then he stepped forward and whispered something that surprised me a little. "Remember, Master Amir, there are no ghosts, it's just a good day." I often don't know anything about the thoughts that are going on in his head, but how can I be like an open book in front of him? I am the one who goes to school, I am the one who can read and write, and I am the one who is smart and clever. Hassan couldn't read a first-grade textbook, but he could see through me. It's unsettling, but it's reassuring to have someone who always knows your needs.

　　“没有鬼怪。”我低声说，出乎意料的是我竟然觉得好些了。
"There are no ghosts." I whispered, and to my surprise, I felt better.

　　他微笑:“没有鬼怪。”
He smiled, "No ghosts."

　　“你确定?”
"Are you sure?"

　　他闭上双眼，点点头。
He closed his eyes and nodded.

　　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?”
I looked at the kids who were jumping up and down the street and having snowball fights, "It's a good day, right?"

　　“我们来放风筝吧。”他说。
"Let's fly a kite." He said.

　　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?
At the time, I thought that Hassan might have made up that dream. Is that possible? I'm sure not, Hassan isn't that smart, and I'm not that smart. But whether it was made up or not, that silly dream eased my anxiety. Maybe I should take off my clothes and go for a swim in the lake. Why not?

　　“我们来放。”我说。
"Let's put it in." I say.

　　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。
Hassan's expression perked up: "Okay!" He held up our kite: a red kite, trimmed with yellow borders, with Sever's autograph where the vertical and horizontal axes intersect. He licked his fingers, lifted it, tested the direction of the wind, and ran downwind. We also occasionally fly kites in the summer, and he kicks up the dust to see where the wind goes. The scroll in my hand spun until Hassan stopped, about fifty feet away. He lifted the kite high above the top, like an Olympic track and field athlete holding up a gold medal. Following our usual signal, I jerked the string twice, and Hassan let go of the kite.

　　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。
Although my father and the school teacher taught me tirelessly, I could not die to Allah. But at that time, a certain passage of the Koran that I had learned from the catechism question and answer course came to my lips, and I recited it in a low voice, then inhaled deeply, exhaled, and ran away with the string. Within a minute, my kite was soaring like a bird flapping its wings. Hassan clapped his hands and ran behind me. I handed him the scroll and pulled the kite string tightly with both hands, and he quickly rolled the loose string.

　　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。
At least two dozen kites are already hanging in the air, like paper sharks, cruising in search of food. In less than an hour, that number had doubled, and red, blue, and yellow kites flew back and forth in the sky, shining brightly. A cold breeze blew through my hair. This wind is just right for kite flying, the wind speed is not large, just enough to make the kite float, and it is also easy to control. Hassan was beside me, helping with the scroll, his palm bloodied with thread.

　　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。
In an instant, the cutting of the line began, and the first frustrated kites broke their lines and fell in a whirlwind. They streak across the sky like meteors, trailing their shiny tails and scattering around neighborhoods, rewarding kite runners. I could hear the kite-chasers, shouting and running through the streets. Someone ripped their throats and reported that clashes had broken out on two streets.

　　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。
I peeked into my dad and saw him sitting with Rahim Khan, wondering what he was thinking at the moment. Is he cheering me on? Or do you want my failures to bring him pleasure? Kite flying is like this, and your thoughts rise and fall with the kite.

　　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。
The kites are falling, and mine is still flying. I was still flying the kite, my eyes glancing at my dad from time to time, staring at his woolen sweater. Was he surprised that I had persevered for so long? Your eyes aren't looking at the sky, and you won't be able to hold on for long. I retracted my gaze into the air. There's a red kite flying close – I find it just the right time. I confronted it for a while, it lost patience and tried to cut me off from below, and I sent it to the point of no return.

　　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。
The streets are full of triumphant kite chasers, holding up their spoils and showing them off in front of friends and family. But they all know that the best is not yet there, and the biggest awards are still flying. I cut off a yellow kite with a white tail at the cost of another wound on my index finger, and blood gushed into my palm. I asked Hassan to take the thread, suck the blood dry, and wipe his fingers on his jeans.

　　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。
After another hour, the number of surviving kites in the sky had dropped from about fifty to about ten. Mine was one of them, and I made it to the top twelve. I know that the tour is going to be going to last for a while at this stage, because the guys are going to survive and they're not going to fall into simple traps like Hassan's favorite trick, the old ascent and plunge.

　　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。
By three o'clock in the afternoon, the clouds were overcast, the sun was hiding behind them, the shadows were beginning to stretch, and the onlookers on the rooftops were wearing scarves and thick coats. There are only six kites left, and I'm still one of them. My legs hurt and my neck stiffened. But when I saw the kites falling one by one, the hope in my heart increased little by little, like snowflakes piled up on the wall, accumulating one by one.

　　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。
My eyes turned to a blue kite, and in the past hour, it had gone on a killing spree.

　　“它干掉几只?”我问。
"How many did it kill?" I asked.

　　“我数过了，十一只。”哈桑说。
"I've counted, eleven." Hassan said.

　　“你知道放风筝的人是谁吗?”
"Do you know who the kite flyer is?"

　　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。
Hassan snapped his tongue and cocked his chin. It was Hassan's signature gesture, indicating that he didn't know. The blue kite cut off a big purple guy and spun it in two big circles. After ten minutes, it killed two more, and the kite runners swarmed up and chased them.

　　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。
After another half hour, there were only four kites left. My kite is still flying, and my movements are impeccable, as if the cold wind is blowing according to my will. I've never won like this, I've been so lucky, it's so exciting! I didn't dare to look up at the roof, I didn't dare to take my eyes off the sky, I had to concentrate and steer the kite smartly. Fifteen minutes later, the morning's funny-looking dream suddenly came into reach: it was just me and another guy, the blue kite.

　　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。
The tension was as tense as the glass thread of my bleeding hand. People paused, clapped, screamed, and cheered. "Kill it! Kill it!" I wondered, could my dad be cheering too? The music is deafening, and the aroma of steamed buns and fried vegetable cakes wafts from the rooftops and open portals.

　　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。
But all I could hear—and what I forced myself to hear—was the sound of blood rushing in my head. All I saw was the blue kite. All I smell is the smell of victory. Rescued. Expiation. If Dad is wrong, if there is one Allah as they say at school, then He will let me win. I don't know what the other guys are doing kite-fighting, maybe to brag in front of people. But for me, this is the only opportunity for me to be a person who is seen rather than just seen, heard and not just heard. If Allah were there, He would direct the wind and let it help me to succeed, and when I pull the thread, I can cut my pain and my thirst, I have endured too long and gone too far. In an instant, just like that, I was full of confidence. I will win. It's just a matter of time.

　　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!”。
It turned out faster than I expected. A gust of wind lifted my kite and I took the advantageous position. I rolled up the line and let it fly high. My kite spun around and flew on top of the blue guy, and I steadied myself. The blue kite knew it was in trouble, and it desperately resorted to all kinds of tricks to try to get out of danger, but I wouldn't let it go, and I held my ground. The crowd knew the winner was about to be revealed. "Kill it! Kill it!" The cheers grew louder and louder, as if the Romans were shouting "Kill!" to the fighters. Kill!".

　　“你快赢了，阿米尔少爷，快赢了!”哈桑兴奋得直喘气。
"You're about to win, Master Amir, you're about to win!" Hassan gasped with excitement.

　　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。
That moment came. I closed my eyes and let go of the hand that was pulling the thread. The cold wind pulled the kite high, and the thread cut another wound in my finger. Then...... I don't have to listen to the crowd cheering, I know, I don't have to watch. Hassan hugged my neck and screamed incessantly.

　　“太棒了!太棒了!阿米尔少爷!”
"Great! That's great! Master Amir!"

　　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。
When I opened my eyes, I saw the blue kite slam down, as if a tire had come off a speeding car. I blinked, tired, trying to say something, but didn't say it. Suddenly, I took to the air and looked at myself from the air. Black leather jacket, red scarf, faded jeans. A thin boy with a yellowish complexion and a somewhat diminutive stature for a twelve-year-old. His shoulders were narrow, his black eyes were around his hazel eyes, and the breeze ruffled his light brown hair. He looked up at me, and we looked at each other and smiled.

　　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!”
Then I screamed loudly, everything was so colorful, so pleasant, everything was so vivid, so beautiful. I held Hassan with my free hand, and we jumped up and down, and we both laughed and cried. "You've won, Master Amir! You won!"

　　“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。
"We won! We won!" I'll just say that. Is this true? In the old days, I blinked, woke up from a sweet dream, got up, went downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast, and no one spoke to me but Hassan. Get dressed. Wait for Dad. Abandon. Back to my old life. Then I saw my dad on our roof, and he was standing on the edge of the roof, waving his fists, cheering loudly, and clapping his hands. It was there that I experienced the best moment of my life, seeing my dad standing on the rooftop, finally proud of me.

　　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……”
But he seemed to be doing something else, his hands shaking anxiously. So I understood, "Hassan, we ......"

　　“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。
"I know," he said, breaking free from our embrace, "Allah willing, we'll celebrate later." Now, I'm going to help you chase that blue kite. He put down the scroll and ran, the back frills of the green robe he wore dragging on the snow.

　　“哈桑!”我大喊，“把它带回来!”
"Hassan!" I yelled, "Bring it back!"

　　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。
His rubber boots kicked up puffs of snow and were already hurtling around the corner of the street. He stopped, turned around, put his hands to his lips, and said, "For you, a thousand times!" Then he smiled and disappeared around the corner. The second time I saw him smile so brightly, twenty-six years later, on a faded photograph of Polaroid.

　　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。
The crowd came up to congratulate me, and I began to retract the kite. I shook hands with them and thanked them. The children younger than me looked at me with awe in their eyes, I was a hero. People reached out and patted me on the back and stroked my hair. I pulled the string and smiled at everyone, but my mind was on the blue kite.

　　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。”
Eventually, I retracted my kite. I picked up the scroll from my feet, put away the loose thread, shook a few more hands in the process, and walked home. As he walked to the wrought-iron gate, Ali waited behind the gate, and he reached out from the fence, "Congratulations. ”

　　我把风筝和卷轴给他，握握他的手,“谢谢你，亲爱的阿里。”
I gave him the kite and the scroll, shook his hand, "Thank you, dear Ali. ”

　　“我一直为你祈祷。”
"I've been praying for you."

　　“继续祈祷吧，我们还没全赢呢。”
"Keep praying, we haven't won it all."

　　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?
I hurried back down the street. I didn't ask Ali about my father, I didn't want to see him yet. In my head, everything was planned: I wanted to return to the court, like a hero, holding the spoils of war in my bloody hands. I want to be crowded, all eyes are watched, Rothstein and Sohrab look at each other, and silence is better than sound at this time. Then the old warrior will go to the younger warrior, hold him, and admit that he is superior. Prove. Rescued. Expiation. And then what? Let's put it this way...... After that, of course, eternal happiness. Could there be anything else?

There are not many streets in the Wazir Akbar Khan district, which crisscross each other at right angles, like a chessboard. It was a new town at the time, still thriving, with built residential areas with eight-foot-high fences, and between them, there were plenty of vacant lots and unfinished houses on the streets. I ran through every alley, searching for Hassan. Everywhere there were people busy putting away folding chairs, putting away food and utensils after a long day of revelry. Some of them sat on their rooftops and shouted congratulations to me.

On the fourth street south of our house, I ran into Omar, whose father was an engineer and a friend of his father's. He was playing football with his brother on the lawn in front of his house. Omar is a nice guy. We were in the fourth grade, and he once gave me a fountain pen with a draw-on ink tank.

"I heard you won, Amir," he said, "Congratulations." ”

"Thanks, did you see Hassan?"

"Your Hazaras?"

I nodded.

Omar gave his brother a soccer ball with his head, "I've heard he's a great kite runner." "His brother pushes the ball back, and Omar reaches out and grabs it, and slaps it on and down." But I always wonder how he managed to catch him. I mean, how can he see anything with so small eyes?"

His brother laughed and then went back to football, but Omar ignored him.

"Did you see him?"

Omar stretched out his thumb and pointed to the southwest behind his shoulder: "I saw him running towards the market."

"Thank you." I hurried away.

By the time I got to the market, the sun was almost setting and pink and purple sunsets dotted the sky. A few blocks further is the Haji Yaho Mosque, where monks shout and order worshippers to spread out their blankets and kowtow to the west in prayer. Hassan never misses five daily prayers, and even when we were playing, he would quit, draw a bucket of water from the deep well in the courtyard, wash it, and disappear into the dilapidated house. Every few minutes, he would come out smiling and find me sitting on the wall or on a branch. But he's going to miss the prayer tonight, and that's all because of me.

The market was empty in a few moments, and the people doing business were closed. I was running through a muddy mess lined with rows of tightly packed shops where people could buy freshly slaughtered pheasants at a bloodied stall while the little shop next door sold electronic calculators. I made my way through the scattered crowds, struggling beggars draped in rags, vendors with blankets on their shoulders, and cloth merchants and butchers selling fresh food closing their doors. I couldn't find any trace of Hassan.

I stopped in front of a stall selling dried fruits, where an old merchant wearing a blue turban was putting bags of pine nuts and raisins on a donkey. I described Hassan's appearance to him.

He paused, looked at me for a long time, and then said, "Maybe I've seen him."

"Where did he go?"

　　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。
He looked me up and down: "Why are you looking for a Hazara at this time, a boy like you?" He looked enviously at my leather jacket and jeans – the pants that cowboys wear, and we always say that. In Afghanistan, owning anything that isn't second-hand is a symbol of wealth.

　　“我得找到他，老爷。”
"I'll have to find him, sir."

"Who is he?" He asked. I don't know why he asks that, but I remind myself that impatience only keeps him silent.

"He is the son of my servant." I say.

The old man raised his gray eyebrows: "Really? The lucky Hazara man has such a caring master. His father should kneel in front of you and sweep the dust off your boots with his eyelashes. ”

"Are you going to tell me?"

He put a hand on the donkey's back and pointed to the south: "I think I saw the boy you said running that way." He was holding a kite in his hand, a blue one. ”

"Really?" I say. For you, thousands of times. He promised that. Well done, Hassan. Well done, reliable Hassan. He made a promise to chase me to the last kite.

"Of course, they may have caught him by this time." The old man muttered as he carried another box to the donkey's back.

"Who?"

"A few other boys." "They're chasing him, and they're dressed like you," he said. He looked up at the sky and sighed, "Go away, you're delaying my prayer." ”

But I'm already running down that alley.

For a few minutes, I searched the market in vain. The old man might have looked away, but he saw the blue kite. The thought of holding that kite in my own hands...... I probe every aisle, every store. There is no trace of Hassan.

I was worried that it was getting dark when I heard a noise ahead. I came to a secluded, muddy alley. The market is divided in half by a large road, which stretches out at right angles at the end of the road. The alley was rutted, and I walked on it, following the sound. The boots creaked in the mud and my exhaled breath turned into a white mist. The narrow laneway runs parallel to a frozen stream, and in the spring, the stream flows. On the other side of the alley are rows of cypress trees, their branches covered with snow, scattered among the narrow alleys of flat-roofed clay houses – not much better than mud huts.

I heard the sound again, louder this time, coming from an alley. I crept into the alleyway, held my breath, and spied around the corner.

The alley was a dead end, and Hassan stood at the end, in a defensive posture: fists clenched, legs slightly spread. Behind him, there was a pile of rags and rubble, and the blue kite was on it. That was the key that opened the door to my father's heart.

Standing in Hassan's way were three boys, the three we met at the foot of the mountain the day after Daoud Khan's coup d'état, and who were then sent away by Hassan with a slingshot. Wari was on one side, Kamo on the other, and Assef in the middle. I felt my body contract, and a chill rose up my spine. Assef looks relaxed and confident, and he's putting on his stainless steel gloves. The other two men moved their feet nervously, looking at Assef and then at Hassan, as if they were trapping some kind of beast that only Assef could tame.

"Where's your slingshot, Hazara?" Assef said, fiddling with the gloves in his hand, "What did you say?" They'll call you Assef the One-Eyed Dragon. 'Very well, Assef the One-Eyed Dragon. Too smart, really smart. Again, it's hard not to be smart when people have loaded weapons in their hands. ”

I felt like I couldn't breathe. I exhaled slowly, quietly, numb all over. I saw them approaching the boy I had grown up with, the boy I had remembered since I could be sensible.

"But you're lucky today, Hazara." Assef said. He had his back to me, but I bet he must have an evil grin on his face. "I'm in a good mood and can forgive you. What do you say, boys?"

"It's so magnanimous," Camo shouted, "especially considering how rude he was to us last time." He tried to learn Assef's tone, but there was a tremor in his voice. Then I understood: it wasn't Hassan who was afraid of him, absolutely not. He was scared because he didn't know what Assef was up to.

Assef made a gesture to dissolve. "Forgive you, that's all." He lowered his voice, "Of course, nothing in this world is free, and my forgiveness requires a small price. ”

"Fair enough." Camo said.

　　“没有什么是免费的。”瓦里加上一句。
"Nothing is free." Wari added.

"You're such a lucky Hazara." Assef said, taking a step towards Hassan. "Because today, all you pay is this blue kite. Fair deal, boys, isn't it?"

"It's more than fair." Camo said.

Even from where I stood, I could see the fear in Hassan's eyes, but he shook his head. "Master Amir won the tour, and I chased the kite for him. I caught it fairly, and it was his kite. ”

"Faithful Hazaras, faithful as dogs." Assef said.

Camo let out a shuddering, nervous laugh.

"But before you gave your life for him, did you think about it? Will he give his life for you? Don't you wonder why he doesn't call you when he plays with guests? Why does he always ignore you when no one is around? I'll tell you why, Hazaras. Because to him, you are nothing but an ugly pet. Something he can play with when he's bored, something he can kick away when he's angry. Don't deceive yourself, don't think you mean more. ”

"Young Master Amir is friends with me." Hassan said with a red face.

"Friends?" Assef laughed and said, "You poor idiot! One day you will wake up from this little fantasy and realize what a good friend he is. Listen, that's enough, give us the kite. ”

Hassan stooped down and picked up a rock.

Assef was stunned for a moment, and he began to take a step back, "Last chance, Hazara." ”

Hassan's answer was to hold aloft the hand that was holding the stone.

"Whatever you want," Assef unbuttoned his coat, took it off, folded it slowly, and placed it against the wall.

I opened my mouth and almost shouted. If I shout out, the rest of my life will be completely different. But I didn't, I just watched, numb.

With a wave of his hand, Assef spread out and the other two boys formed a semicircle, enveloping Hassan in the alley.

"I have changed my mind," said Assef, "I will not take your kite, Hazara. You'll keep it so that it can keep you reminded of what I'm going to do. ”

Then he moved, and Hassan threw a stone that hit Assef in the forehead. Assef screamed and lunged at Hassan, knocking him to the ground. Wari and Kamo swarmed up.

I clenched my fists and closed my eyes.

A memory:

"Did you know that Hassan grew up drinking the same breast milk as you? Did you know, Master Amir? Sagina, the name of the nurse. She is a beautiful Hazara woman with blue eyes, and she comes from Bamiyan, and she sings to you the old wedding ballads. People say that people who have the same breasts are brothers. You know what?"

A memory:

"One rupee per person, kids. Just one rupee per person, and I will lift the curtain of your destiny for you. The old man sat against the wall, his dull eyes like slippery silver, embedded in a deep volcanic cavern. The fortune teller bent over his crutches and stretched out a craggy hand from under his emaciated cheek to make a cup in front of us. "One rupee per person can know the fate, isn't it expensive?" Hassan put a copper on his rough palm, and I put one too. "In the name of Allah, the most merciful and merciful." The old fortune teller whispered. He first took Hassan's hand and turned and turned and turned in the palm of his hand with a fingernail like a beast's horn. Follow the finger to Hassan's face, slowly groping the curves of Hassan's cheeks and the contours of his ears, making a dry scratching sound. His fingers were calloused, brushing Hassan's eyelids gently. The hand stopped there, hesitating. A shadow crossed the old man's face, and Hassan and I looked at each other. The old man grabbed Hassan by the hand and gave him the rupee back. "Let me see how you are, little friend?" He said. The rooster crows from the other side of the wall. The old man reached out to take my hand, and I pulled it back.

A dream:

I was lost in a blizzard. The cold wind blew snowflakes and stung my eyes. I trudged through the snow. I cried out for help, but the wind drowned out my cries. I fell, lying on the snow gasping for breath, staring blankly at the white expanse, the cold wind howling in my ears, and I saw the snowflakes erase the footprints I had just stepped on. I'm a ghost now, I think, a ghost without footprints. I shouted again, but hope faded with the footprints. At this moment, someone responded in a muffled voice. I put my hands on my eyes and struggled to sit up. Through the curtain of wind and snow, I saw figures swaying and colors swaying. A familiar figure appeared. A hand was stretched out in front of me, and I saw deep, parallel scars on the palm of the hand, dripping with blood and staining the snow red. I grabbed that hand, and in an instant the snow stopped. We stood on a field with green grass and white clouds in the sky and the wind blowing. I looked up, but I saw a clear sky, full of kites flying, green, yellow, red, orange. They shine in the afternoon sun.

The alleys were littered with scraped bicycle tires, peeling glass bottles, curly magazines, yellowed newspapers, all of them, scattered among a pile of bricks and cement slabs. There was a rusty iron furnace by the wall, and the hole opened like a bloody mouth. But among the garbage, there were two things that kept me from looking away: a blue kite, leaning against the wall, next to the iron furnace; The other was Hassan's brown corduroy pants, which were thrown on top of the pile of broken bricks.

"I don't know," Warry said, "my dad said it was a crime." His voice was full of doubt, excitement, and fear throughout. Hassan lay on the ground. Kamo and Wari each grabbed one of his hands, twisted it from his elbow, and pressed it against Hassan's back. Assef stood above them, stepping on the back of Hassan's neck with the heel of his snowshoes.

"Your dad won't find out." "What does it have to do with crime to teach this impudent stupid donkey a lesson?"

"I don't know." Wari grunted.

"Whatever you want." Assef said, turning to Kamo, "What do you say?"

"I ...... Well......"

"He's just a Hazara." Assef said, but Kamo looked away.

"All right," said Assef dissatisfiedly, "you cowards, just hold him down for me." Can you do it?"

Wari and Camo nodded, looking relieved.

Assef fell to his knees behind Hassan, put his hands on Hassan's hips, and lifted his bare ass up. He put one hand on Hassan's back and the other to untie his belt. He took off his jeans and took off his underwear. He took his position behind Hassan. Hassan did not resist, not even groan. He turned his head slightly, and I caught a glimpse of his face, a look of resignation. I've seen this look before, this look of a lamb. The next day is the tenth day of the last month of Hijri, the three-day Eid al-Adha[1]Eid orban, an important Islamic festival, also known as Eid al-Adha. [1] From this day onwards. The Prophet Abraham is commemorated on this day when he sacrificed his son for Allah. This year, Dad personally picked another sheep, a pink and white sheep with curved black ears.

We were all standing in the courtyard, Hassan, Ali, Dad, and me. The mage recites the scriptures and turns his rosary. Dad muttered, "Let's get it done." He whispered. He was tired of the flesh-splitting ritual and the endless prayers. Dad was as unimpressed by the story of the origin of Eid al-Adha as he was with all religious things. But he respected the custom of Eid al-Adha, which required people to divide the meat into three portions, one for family, one for friends, and one for the poor. Every year Dad would give all the meat to the poor. "Rich people are fat enough." He said.

The Master finished the prayer. Thank God. He picked up a long, long-edged kitchen knife. It is customary not to let the sheep see the knife. Ali fed the sheep a sugar cube – a custom that sweetened death. The sheep stretched out its feet and kicked wildly, but not too violently. The mage grabbed its jaw, and the blade slashed at its neck. A moment before his skillful knife technique was applied to the throat of the sheep, I saw the eyes of the sheep. For weeks, I kept seeing those eyes in my dreams. I don't know why I watch this ritual in the courtyard every year, and my nightmare will continue even if the blood stains on the grass fade without a trace. But I always look. I went to see it for the helpless look in the animal's eyes. It's ridiculous that I imagined it to understand. I imagine it knowing that the impending doom was for some noble purpose......

I stopped watching and turned away from the alley. Something warm trickled down my wrist. I blinked, and saw that I was still biting my fist, biting so hard that blood was oozing from between my knuckles. I realized there was something else. I'm in tears. From the corner of the room just now, there was a hasty and rhythmic moan from Assef.

I still have one last chance to decide, one last chance to decide who I will become. I could rush into the alley and stand up for Hassan – as he has done countless times in the past – and accept whatever could happen to me. Or I can run away.

As a result, I ran away.

I ran away because I was a coward. I was afraid of Assef, afraid that he would torment me. I was afraid of being hurt. I said this to myself as I turned to leave the alley, to leave Hassan. I tried to make myself think so. Seriously, I'd rather believe that I was out of weakness, because the other answer, the real reason I ran away, was that I felt that Assef was right: that nothing in this world is free. In order to win back Daddy, maybe Hassan is just the price that must be paid, the lamb I have to slaughter. Is this a fair price? Before I could restrain myself, the answer came to mind: he was just a Hazara, wasn't he?

I ran back the way I came, back to the empty market. I stumbled into a small shop, leaning against the closed sliding door. I stood there, panting and sweating, hoping that things didn't turn out that way.

About fifteen minutes later, I heard human voices and footsteps. I hid in the shop and watched Assef and the two men walk by, laughter wafting through the empty aisles. I forced myself to wait another ten minutes. Then I walked back to the alley that ran parallel to the frozen creek and was full of car marks. I squinted in the dim light and saw Hassan slowly walking towards me. I met him under a bare birch tree by the river.

He had the blue kite in his hand, and that was the first thing I saw. To this day, I can't lie that I didn't check the kite for any cracks. The front of his robe was covered in mud, and the collar of his shirt was cracked. He stood, his legs wobbling and seemed to be going to collapse at any moment. Then he stood firm and handed me the kite.

"Where have you been? I'm looking for you. I said with difficulty, as if I was chewing a rock.

Hassan reached out and wiped his face with his sleeve, wiping away tears and snot. I waited for him to speak, but we just stood there quietly, in the fading light. I'm thankful that night fell and covered Hassan's face and also my face. I'm glad I didn't have to look him in the eye. Does he know I know? If he knew, what could I see in his eyes? Complain? Disgrace? Or, may Allah stop what I fear most of all: sincere devotion. Of all of these, that's the last thing I want to see.

He started to say something, but he choked up a little. He closed his mouth, opened it, closed it again, took a step back, and wiped his face. At that point, I was almost going to talk to Hassan about what was happening in the alley. I had expected him to cry bitterly, but, thankfully, he didn't, and I pretended not to hear the choking in his throat. It's like I pretended not to see the dark stain on the back of his pants. Also pretending not to see the drops of blood dripping from between his legs, they dripped down, staining the snow black.

"I'm going to be worried." That's what he said. He turned his head and staggered away.

Things were just as I imagined. I opened the door and walked into the smoky study. Dad and Rahim Khan were drinking tea and listening to the crackling news on the radio. They turned their heads, and then a smile lit up on Dad's lips, and he opened his hands, and I buried my face in his warm chest and began to cry. Dad hugged me tightly and kept stroking my back. In his arms, I forgot what I had done. That feels so good.

Chapter VIII

For a week, I barely saw Hassan. When I got up, I found that the bread was baked, the tea had been brewed, and there was a boiled egg, all on the kitchen table. The clothes I was going to wear that day had been ironed and folded and placed on the wicker chair on the porch, where Hassan used to iron his clothes. He always waited for me to sit down for breakfast before ironing it - so we had a chance to talk. He used to sing, humming the old hazara ballads to the hiss of the irons, of the tulip-filled fields. Now I was greeted only by folded clothes, and besides, the breakfast that I could no longer eat.

One cloudy morning, I was fiddling with hard-boiled eggs on my plate. Ali walked in with a bundle of chopped firewood, and I asked him where Hassan was.

"He went back to sleep." Ali said that he knelt down in front of the fire and opened the small square door.

"Will Hassan play with me today?"

Ali was stunned, holding a log in his hand, a trace of worry on his face. "Wait a minute, it looks like he just wants to sleep. He finished the work—I watched him finish—but then he was willing to wrap himself under the blanket. Can I ask you something?"

"Just ask."

"After the kite race, he came home bleeding a little and his shirt was torn. I asked him what had happened, and he said it was fine, just that he had a confrontation with a few kids while fighting for kites. ”

I didn't say anything, just continued to fiddle with the egg on the plate.

"What the hell is wrong with him, Master Amir? Is he hiding anything from me?"

I shrugged, "How do I know?"

"You're going to tell me, right? Allah willing, if you knew what had happened, would you tell me?"

"Like I said, how do I know what's wrong with him?" I said impatiently, "Maybe he's sick." People get sick all the time, Ali. Look, do you want to freeze me to death, or are you going to set the stove on fire?"

That night, I asked my dad if he could take me to Jalalabad[1]Jalalabad, a city in eastern Afghanistan. ［1］。 He sat in a leather swivel chair behind his desk, reading the newspaper. He put the newspaper down and took off the pair of reading glasses that I hated. Dad wasn't old, not old at all, and had many years to live, but why did he wear those stupid glasses?

"Absolutely!" He said. Lately, my dad has been doing everything I need. Not only that, but two nights ago, he asked me if I wanted to go to the Aryana Cinema to see Charlton Heston's "Heroes of the Ages." "Do you want Hassan to follow him to Jalalabad?"

Why is Dad always so upset?" He wasn't feeling well. I said.

"Really?" Dad was still sitting in his chair, "What's wrong with him?"

I shrugged and sat down on the couch by the fire. "He probably had a cold or something. Ali said he always slept every day. ”

"I don't see Hassan very often these days." Dad said, "Is that all?" Cold?" Seeing that his brows were furrowed and his worries were overflowing, I was very dissatisfied.

"It's just a cold, let's go on Friday, aren't we, Dad?"

"Yes, yes," Dad said, pushing his desk and standing up, "Hassan can't go, it's too bad." I think if he could go, you'd be even happier. ”

"Well, the two of us can have fun, too." I say.

Dad smiled and blinked, "Dress warmer." ”

It was supposed to be just the two of us—I was hoping that—but on Wednesday night, Dad managed to invite about twenty other people. He called his cousin Homayong — who was actually his father's second cousin — and said he would be going to Jalalabad on Friday. Homayong, who studied mechanical engineering in France and now owns a house in Jalalabad, said everyone was welcome to go, and he would bring his children and two wives. Also, Cousin Shephegar and her family have visited from Herat and are still there, and perhaps she would like to go with them. And this time, Shephega came to Kabul to stay at her cousin Nader's house, so she had to invite their family as well, although Homayong and Nader had always been at odds. If Nader is invited, he will naturally have to invite his brother Farak, or it will hurt his feelings, and their daughter will get married next month, so Homayong may not be invited......

We filled three station wagons. I took a ride with my father, Rahim Khan, and Khomayong "Kaka" – when I was a child, my father taught me to call my male elders "Kaka", which is my uncle and uncle, and my female elders "Kahala", which is my aunt and aunt. Uncle Ho Ma Yong's two wives were with us—the older one with a wrinkled face and sarcoma on his hands; The younger one smelled of perfume and danced with his eyes closed—and Uncle Homayong's twin daughters. I sat in the last row, motion sick and dizzy, caught in the middle by the twins, who kept going over my knees and slapping each other. The road to Jalalabad is a winding mountain road that takes two hours of bumpy walking, and every sharp turn of the car makes my stomach tumble. Everyone in the car was talking, and at the same time talking loudly, almost shouting, this is how Afghans talk. I asked one of the twins, Fasira or Karima, who I couldn't tell who was who, and asked if she would let me move to the window because I was motion sick and needed some fresh air. She stuck out her tongue and said no. I told her it didn't matter, but I might vomit and stain her new clothes. After a while, I stuck my head out the window. I saw the road potholes, undulating, spiraling and disappearing into the side of the mountain; Count the trucks that passed by us, they were colorful, full of noisy passengers, and staggered along. I tried to close my eyes and let the wind beat against my cheeks; I opened my mouth and gulped in the clean air, but I still didn't feel better. Someone poked me with their fingers, it was Fasila or Karima.

"Why?" I say.

"I just told you about the kite competition!" Dad said from the driver's seat. Uncle Homayong and his two wives sat in the middle row, smiling at me.

"There must have been a hundred kites in the sky that day, right?" Dad said, "Is that right, Amir?"

"I think there should be." I muttered.

"A hundred kites, dear Homayong, are not bragging. The last kite still flying in the sky that day was flown by Amir. He also got the last kite and took it home, a beautiful blue kite. Hassan and Amir chased it back together. ”

"Congratulations." Uncle Homayong said. His first wife, the one with the tumor on her hand, clapped her hands: "Wow, wow, dear Amir, we are all so proud of you!" The young wife joined in, and they all applauded, rejoiced, and told me how proud they were of me. Only Rahim Khan, sitting in the co-pilot's seat, next to his father, did not say a word. He looked at me strangely.

"Please stop, Daddy." I say.

"Why?"

"I get motion sickness." I muttered, slumping into my seat, leaning against Uncle Homayong's daughter.

Fasira or Karima's face changed. "Stop, uncle! His face turned yellow! I don't want him to stain my new clothes!" She screamed.

Dad started braking, but I couldn't hold on. After a few minutes, I sat on a stone on the side of the road, and they let the wind blow away the smell in the car. Dad was smoking a cigarette and was with Uncle Homayong, and he was comforting Fasira or Karima to stop crying and to buy her a new set of clothes when it came time for Jalalabad. I closed my eyes and turned my face to the sun. A small shadow appeared behind the eyelids, as if playing with a shadow on the wall with a hand, twisting and blending into a picture: Hassan's brown corduroy pants, thrown on top of a pile of old bricks in that alley.

Uncle Homayong's white house in Jalalabad is a two-storey building with a balcony from which you can see a large garden surrounded by walls with apple and persimmon trees. There are also hedgerows, which the gardeners cut into animal shapes in the summer. There is also a swimming pool with emerald green tiles. There was no water in the pool and there was a layer of semi-melted snow at the bottom, and I sat on the edge of the pool with my feet dangling in the pool. Uncle Homayong's children play hide and seek at the other end of the yard. Women were cooking in the kitchen, and I smelled fried onions, heard the pressure cooker fluttering, and the sound of music and laughter. Dad, Rahim Khan, Uncle Homayong, and Uncle Nader sat on the balcony and smoked. Uncle Homayong said he had brought a projector so he could show his slides in France. It's been ten years since he came back from Paris and he's still showing off those stupid slides.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Dad and I finally became friends, and a few days ago we went to the zoo to see the lion named "Mayan", and I threw a rock at the bear while no one was looking. After that, we went to the "Dakda" kebab restaurant opposite the cinema park and ordered roast lamb and naan from that Indian oven. Dad told me stories about his trips to India and Russia, and told me about the people he met, such as in Bombay, an Indian city. [1] I saw a couple, without hands or feet, who had been married for forty-seven years and had eleven children. It's so much fun to spend a day like this with my dad and listen to his stories. I finally got what I've been dreaming of for years. But now that I have it, I feel very empty, like this pool in which I am rocking my legs.

At dusk, the wives and daughters gather for dinner – rice, naan meatballs, and chicken curry. We ate in the traditional way, with tablecloths on the floor, sitting on cushions scattered throughout the room, sharing a large plate for every four or five people, and eating with our hands on the food. I wasn't hungry, but I sat down with my father, Farak, and Uncle Homayong's two sons. Dad drank a little liquor before dinner and bragged to them about the kite race, vividly describing how I beat everyone else and how I came home with the last kite. People looked up from the big shallow plate and congratulated me, and Uncle Farak patted me on the back with his clean hand. I felt as if a knife had been stabbed in the eye.

Later, after midnight, Dad and his relatives played poker for several hours, and finally collapsed in the house where we were eating, and fell asleep on the carpet laid out in parallel. The women went upstairs. After an hour, I still couldn't sleep. My relatives were muttering, sighing, or snoring in their sleep, and I tossed and turned. I sat up, and a ray of moonlight filtered through the window.

"I watched Hassan being raped." I'm talking to myself. Dad was turning over in a dream, and Uncle Homayong was babbling. Part of me longs for someone to wake up and listen to me, so that I can no longer live with this lie. But no one woke up, and in the silence that followed, I understood that it was a spell that had been placed on me, and that I would carry this lie for the rest of my life.

I remembered Hassan's dream, the dream we had swimming in the lake. There are no ghosts there. He said that there was only water from the lake. But he was wrong. There was a goblin in the lake, and it grabbed Hassan by the ankle and pulled him into the dark bottom of the lake. I'm that goblin.

Since that night, I've had insomnia.

It was another half a week before I spoke to Hassan. I was halfway through my lunch and Hassan was cleaning up his plates. I walked up the stairs to my room, and Hassan asked me if I wanted to climb the mountain. I said I was tired. Hassan also looked tired - he was emaciated, his eyes were swollen, and there were gray circles underneath. But he asked again, and I reluctantly agreed.

We climbed that mountain, our boots creaking on the muddy snowflakes. No one spoke. We sat under our pomegranate tree and I knew I had made a mistake. I should not come to the mountains. The handwriting I carved on the trunk with Ali's kitchen knife is still there: Amir and Hassan, Sultan of Kabul...... Now I can't stand to see those words.

He begged me to read the Sanama to him, and I said I had changed my mind. Tell him I just want to go back to my room. He looked into the distance and shrugged. We walked down the road we had come from, and no one spoke. For the first time in my life, I longed for spring to come sooner.

The rest of the winter of 1975 is a blur in my memory. I remember being so happy when my dad was home. We'd eat together, watch movies together, visit Uncle Homayong or Uncle Farak together. Sometimes Rahim Khan came to visit, and my father would let me drink tea in the study. He even asked me to read some of the stories he had written to him. Everything is beautiful, and I even believe that it will last forever. Dad thinks so too, I think. We get to know each other better. At least, in the months following the kite competition, Dad and I had sweet fantasies about each other, getting along in some way we had never had before. We are actually deceiving ourselves into thinking that a toy made of tissue paper, glue and bamboo can bridge the gap between the two.

But whenever my dad wasn't around, he was often away from home, I locked myself in my room. I finished reading a book, writing stories, and learning to draw horses in a few days. Every morning, I hear Hassan busy in the kitchen, the clanging of silverware, and the hissing of boiling water in a teapot. I'll wait until he closes the door and then I will go downstairs to eat. I circled the first day of school on my calendar and started counting down the days to class.

To my embarrassment, Hassan did everything he could to restore our relationship. I remember the last time I was in my room, looking at the Falsi translation of The Heroes of the Aftermath[1]Ivanhoe, by the Scottish writer SirWalter Scott (1771~1832), who told the story of knights in medieval England. [1], he came knocking on my door.

"Who?"

"I'm going to the bakery to buy naan," he said outside the door, "I'm coming...... Ask if you want to go along. ”

"I feel like I just want to read," I said, rubbing my temples with my hands. Later, every time Hassan was around me, I had a headache.

"It's sunny today." He said.

"I know."

"Maybe it's going to be fun to go out for a walk."

"There you go."

"I want you to go too." He said. After a moment's pause, I don't know what was banging on the door again, maybe it was his forehead. "I don't know what I've done wrong, Master Amir. You want you to tell me. I don't know why we don't play together anymore. ”

"You didn't do anything wrong, Hassan, you go away."

"You can tell me and I'll change it."

I buried my head between my legs and squeezed my temples with my knees. "I'll tell you what I want you not to do." I said, my eyes closed.

"Say it."

"I want you to stop harassing me, I want you to go away." I said impatiently. I hope he'll take revenge on me, break down the door, and scold me — so things will be easier and better. But he didn't, and after a few minutes, I opened the door and he was gone. I collapsed on my bed, my head buried in the pillow, tears streaming down my face.

Since then, Hassan has messed up my life. I try not to see him every day and organize my life accordingly. Because whenever he was around, the oxygen in the room would run out. My chest would shrink and I wouldn't be able to breathe; I would stand there, surrounded by some airless bubbles, gasping for breath. But even when he wasn't with me, I still felt him, there he was, on the wicker chair with his own laundry and ironing, in the warm loafers that lay outside my door, and whenever I went downstairs for breakfast, he was on the burning wood in the stove. Everywhere I went, I could see the signs of his loyalty, his damned, unwavering loyalty.

In the early spring of that year, a few days before school started, my dad and I planted tulips in the garden. Most of the snow has melted, and patches of green grass are beginning to emerge on the hills to the north. It was a cold, gloomy morning, and Dad was beside me, digging through the dirt as he spoke, and planting the bulbs I had handed him. He told me that many people think that autumn is the best time to grow tulips, but that's wrong. At this point, I asked him a question: "Dad, have you ever thought about hiring a new servant?"

He threw down the bulbs, stuck the shovel in the dirt, threw away the work gloves in his hands, and it seemed that I had taken him by surprise, "What? What did you just say?"

"I'm just thinking about it, nothing else."

"Why would I do that?" Dad whispered.

"You won't, I think. That's just a question. I said, lowering my voice. I already regret saying that.

"Is it because of you and Hassan? I know there's a problem between you, but whatever it is, it's you, not me, who should deal with it. I'll sit on the sidelines. ”

"I'm sorry, Dad."

He put on his gloves again. "I grew up with Ali." He gritted his teeth and said, "My dad brought him home, and he treats Ali like his own. Ali has been in my house for forty years, forty years. And you think I'm going to get rid of him?" He turned to me, blushing like a tulip, "I won't touch you, Amir, but if you dare to say it again......" He looked away and shook his head, "You're making me feel ashamed." As for Hassan...... Hassan is not going anywhere. Did You Know?"

I looked at the ground, grabbed a handful of cold dirt in my hand, and let it slip between my fingers.

"I said, do you know?" Daddy roared.

I was scared: "I know, Dad."

"Hassan is not going anywhere," said Dad angrily, as he picked up his shovel and dug another hole in the ground, shoveling away the dirt with more force than before, "and he's here with us, he belongs here." This is his home, and we are his family. Don't ask me such questions again!"

　　“不会了，爸爸，对不起。”
"No, Dad, I'm sorry."

　　他闷声把剩下的郁金香都种完。
He muffled and planted all the remaining tulips.

　　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。
In the second week, school started, and I was relieved. The students were given new notebooks, sharpened pencils in their hands, gathered on the playground, kicked up dust, talked in groups, and waited for the class leader's whistle. Dad's car drove up the dirt road that led to the school gate. The school is a two-storey old building with leaky windows, a cobbled porch that is dimly lit, and its original earthy yellow paint can be seen between the peeling plaster. Most of the boys walked to class, and Dad's black Mustang attracted more than envious glances. I should have felt proud that he drove me to school – that was how I used to be – but now all I felt was awkwardness, embarrassment and emptiness. Dad didn't even say "goodbye" and turned around and left.

　　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。
Instead of comparing the scars of kite fighting with people as I did in the past, I stood in the middle of the line. The bell rang and we rushed into the assigned classroom, finding a seat and sitting at the back of the classroom. While the Farsi teacher was handing out the textbooks, I prayed for an endless homework.

　　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。
School gave me an excuse to stay in my room for a long time. And, indeed, for a while, I forgot about the things that happened in the winter, the things I let them happen. For weeks on end, my mind was full of gravity and power, atoms and cells, the Anglo-Afghan war, not thinking about Hassan, not thinking about what happened to him. However, my mind kept returning to that alley. I always think of Hassan's brown corduroy pants lying on the bricks, and of the drops of blood that stain the snow a dark red, almost black.

　　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。
In the early summer of that year, on a sleepy afternoon, I asked Hassan to go hiking with me. Tell him I'm going to read him a story I just wrote. He was drying clothes in the yard at the time, and the way he was busy drying them made me see his expectations.

　　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。
We climbed up the hill and had a little conversation. He asked about school, about what I was studying, about the teachers, especially the stern math teacher, who punished the students for talking too much, put an iron rod between their fingers, and pinched their fingers hard. Hassan was taken aback and said he wished I never had to be punished. I said I've been lucky so far, but I know it has nothing to do with luck. I also speak in class, but my dad is rich and everyone knows him, so I am not punished with an iron rod.

　　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。
We sat on the low walls of the cemetery, under the shadow of the pomegranate trees. In a month or two, patches of scorched weeds will cover the hillside, but the rain will last longer than usual that spring, and in early summer it will still be green, scattered with wildflowers. Below us, the flat-roofed houses in the Wazir Akbar Khan district are glittered by the sun; The laundry line in the yard is full of clothes, dancing like butterflies in the breeze.

We picked a dozen pomegranates from the tree. I opened the storybook I brought, flipped to the first page, and put it down again. I stood up and picked up a ripe pomegranate that had fallen to the ground.

"What would you do if I hit you with this?" I said, "The pomegranate is thrown up and down in my hand."

Hassan's smile withered. He looked bigger than I remembered, no, not big, old. How so? Wrinkles crept up his weather-beaten face, crawled over the corners of his eyes, over his lips. Maybe those wrinkles were carved out with a knife in my own hands.

"What would you do?" I repeat.

His face was bloodless. The storybook I had promised to read to him was at his feet, and the pages crackled in the breeze. I threw a pomegranate at him and hit him in the chest, bursting red flesh. Hassan was shocked and distressed, and cried loudly.

"Fight back!" I roared. Hassan looked at the stain on his chest, then at me.

"Get up! Hit me!" I say. Hassan stood up, but he just stood there with a dazed expression, like a man who had been walking happily on the beach just now, but was now swept into the middle of the ocean by the waves.

I threw out another pomegranate, this time hitting him on the shoulder, the juice staining his face. "Fight back!" I yelled, "Fight back, you damn thing!" I hope he will shoot back. I hope he grants my wish and punishes me well so that I can sleep at night. Maybe then things will go back to the way we used to be. But Hassan didn't move, and let me throw him again and again. "You're a coward!" I said, "You're nothing, just a damn coward!"

I don't know how many times I hit him. All I knew was that when I finally stopped, exhausted and out of breath, Hassan was blood-red, as if he had been shot by a squad of soldiers. I fell to my knees, tired and depressed.

Then Hassan picks up a pomegranate. He walked up to me, broke it open, and grinded it on his forehead. "So," he choked, red pomegranate juice dripping down his face like blood. "Are you satisfied? Do you feel better?" He turned and walked down the mountain.

I let the tears blow and fell to my knees, my body shaking back and forth. "What am I going to do with you, Hassan? What am I going to do with you?" But when the tears dried and I walked home with heavy steps, I found the answer.

My thirteenth birthday was in the summer of 1976. These were the last quiet years of peace in Afghanistan. My relationship with my dad cooled down again. I think it's all because of that stupid thing I said on the day we planted the tulips, that one about hiring a new servant. I regret saying that – really regretting it – but I think even if I hadn't said it, our short happy episode would have ended. Maybe not so soon, but it will end eventually. By the end of the summer, the sound of spoons and forks clattering plates had replaced conversation at the dinner table, and Dad began to go back to the study after dinner and close the door. I went back to the books of Hafez and Gajam, biting my nails until I saw the skin, and writing stories. I put the stories on the shelf under the bed and kept them in case Dad was going to see them with me, though I suspected he wouldn't.

　　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。
Dad's motto for a banquet is: If you don't invite people from all over the world, it's not a banquet. I remember looking at the invitation list a week before my birthday and seeing that at least three-quarters of the nearly 400 people I didn't know — including the aunts and uncles who were going to give me birthday presents to congratulate me on my thirteenth birthday. Then I realized that they weren't really here because of me. It was my birthday, but I knew who was the superstar at the banquet.

　　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。
For several days, the house was crowded with helpers that my father had invited. There was a butcher named Salahuddin who brought in a calf and two sheep and refused to accept even a penny. He personally slaughtered the beasts under the poplar trees in the yard. "Watering with blood is good for the tree." I remember when blood stained the grass under the red trees, he said this. Some men I didn't know climbed up oak trees and hung strings of light bulbs and long wires. Others set up dozens of tables in the courtyard and draped them over tablecloths one by one. The night before the feast began, Dad's friend Del Mohammed, who opened a barbecue restaurant in the Charino district, brought bags of spices. Like the butcher, Del Mohammed — whom his father called "Derot" — refused to take money. He said that his father had already helped his family too much. While Dro was marinating meat, Rahim Khan whispered to me that Dro's father had lent him money to open the restaurant, and that he had not asked him to pay it back. Until one day, Droz drove a Mercedes Benz car and came to my door and said that if Dad didn't take the money, he wouldn't leave, and Dad accepted it.

I think my birthday feast was a great success in every way, or at least by the standards by which the banquet is judged. I've never seen so many people in the house. Guests chatted on the porch with wine glasses in hand, smoked on the steps, or leaned against the door. They sat down when they found a vacant seat, and the kitchen counter, the porch, and even the staircase were full. In the courtyard, blue, red, and green light bulbs glittered in the trees, and people gathered below, kerosene lamps lit everywhere illuminating their faces. Dad set the stage on a balcony overlooking the garden, but the speakers filled the entire courtyard. Ahmad Zahir played the accordion, sang songs, and people danced under the stage.

I had to greet the guests one by one - he didn't want anyone to chew his tongue the next day and say that he had a son who didn't know how to behave. I kissed hundreds of cheeks and hugged all the strangers and thanked them for their gifts. My face ached from the stiff smile.

I was standing in front of the bar in the yard with my dad and someone said, "Happy birthday, Amir." It was Assef, and his parents. Assef's father, Mahmud, was short, short and thin, with dark skin and a narrow face. His mother, Tanya, was a little woman, nervous, smiling, and blinking. Now Assef stood between the two of them, grinning and condescending, with his hands around their shoulders. He came with them, as if he were carrying them, as if he were the father and they were the children. I felt a wave of vertigo. Dad thanked them for coming.

"I personally picked out the gift for you." Assef said. Tanya's face twitched, and her eyes moved from Assef to mine. She smiled, looking a little reluctant, blinking. I doubt Dad saw it.

"Do you still play football, dear Asseff?" Dad said he had always wanted me to be friends with Assef.

Assef smiled, his sweet smile so innocent that it was chilling. "Of course, dear uncle."

"I remember you playing on the right side?"

'Yes, I've switched to midfielding this year. "Then I can score more goals." We play Mekorayan next week. It would be exciting and they had a couple of great players. ”

Dad nodded: "You know, I also played as a midfielder when I was younger."

"I bet you can play now if you want to." Assef said that he winked innocently and slapped his father's ass.

Dad winked at him too: "I see that your dad has passed on his world-famous sycophancy technique to you." He elbowed Assef's father, nearly knocking the little guy over. Mahmud's laughter is as hypocritical as Tanya's smile. All of a sudden, I was thinking, maybe in a way, that they were afraid of their own son. I tried to put on a smile, but all I could do was barely the corners of my mouth - my stomach churned to see Dad and Assef so speculative.

Assef looked at me. "Wari and Camo are here too, and they won't miss your birthday." He said with a smirk. I nodded silently.

"We're going to play volleyball at my house tomorrow," Assef said, "maybe you can come and play with us, and if you want, bring Hassan." ”

"Sounds interesting." Dad said, his eyes lit up. "What do you think, Amir?"

"I really don't like volleyball." I muttered as I saw the light in my father's eyes disappear, followed by an uncomfortable silence.

"I'm sorry, dear Assef." Dad said, shrugging. He apologized for me! That stung me.

"No, it's okay." "But the door is always open for you, dear Amir," said Assef. Anyway, I heard you like to read, so I brought you one, my favorite. He handed me a bandaged gift, "Happy birthday." ”

He wears a cotton shirt, blue pants, a red tie, and shiny black leather shoes. He smelled of cologne, and his blonde hair was neatly combed back. In terms of appearance, he is every parent's dream son: strong, tall, well-dressed, well-behaved, surprisingly handsome, talented, not to mention witty jokes with adults. But it seems to me that his eyes betrayed him. I looked into his eyes and saw through his appearance, a kind of madness hidden within him.

"Why don't you take it, Amir?" Dad said.

"Huh?"

"Your gift," he said impatiently, "dear Assef has given you a gift." ”

　　“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。
"Oh." I said, taking the box from Assef and lowering my gaze. If only I could be alone in my room, with my books, away from these people.

"Hello?" Dad said.

"What?"

Dad lowered his voice, and every time I embarrassed him in public, he would be like this, "Don't you thank dear Assef?" He was so thoughtful. ”

I hope Dad doesn't call him that, how many times did he call me "Dear Amir"?" Thank you. I said. Assef's mother looked at me and stopped talking. I realized that Assef's parents hadn't said a word yet. In order not to embarrass myself and my dad again – but mostly because I didn't want to see Assef and his smiling face – I walked away. "Thank you for coming." I say.

I stepped out of the crowd and snuck out of the wrought-iron door. Two houses down from our house, there is a large open space. I heard my father tell Rahim Khan that a judge had bought the land and that the architect was working on the blueprints. Now, the land is barren with only dirt, rocks, and weeds.

I ripped open the wrapping paper on the outside of Assef's gift and looked at the cover of the book in the moonlight. It was an autobiography of Hitler. I threw it in the weeds.

Leaning against my neighbor's wall, I slid to the ground, just sitting in the dark for a while, my knees against my chest, looking up at the stars, waiting for the night to end.

"Don't you have to go with your guests?" A familiar voice said, Rahim Khan walked along the wall towards me.

"They don't need me to accompany them. Daddy is over there, you forgot?" I say. The ice in Rahimhan's wine glass clanked, and he sat next to me. "I didn't know you drank too."

"I drink," he said, happily elbowing me, "but only on important occasions." ”

I smiled, "Thank you."

He raised his glass to me and took a sip. He lit a cigarette, a Pakistani cigarette without a filter, which he and his dad smoked all the time. "Did I tell you I almost got married?"

"Really?" I said, thinking that Rahim Khan was also married, I couldn't help but smile slightly. I've always been my father's quiet confidant, my writing mentor, my friend, and the guy who never forgets to buy me a little gift every time I travel abroad. But the husband? Father?

He nodded, "Really." I was eighteen years old. Her name is Homera. She is a Hazara, the daughter of a servant in my neighbor's house. She is good-looking like a fairy, with light brown hair and big brown eyes...... She always laughs like that...... I can still hear her laughing sometimes. "We often had trysts in my father's apple orchard, always in the dead of night. We were chatting under the tree and I held her hand...... Did I embarrass you, Amir?"

"A little bit." I say.

"That won't hurt you," he said, taking another sip. "Anyway, we have this fantasy. We will have a grand, fantastic wedding with friends and family from Kandahar and Kabul. I would build us a big house, white, with tiled terraces and big windows. We would plant fruit trees in the garden and a variety of flowers, and there was a lawn on which our children played. On Fridays, after prayers in the mosque, everyone would come to our house for lunch, and we would eat in the garden, under the cherry trees, and draw water from the well. Then we drank tea, ate sweets, and watched our children play with the children of relatives......"

He took a long sip of the liquor and coughed. "It's a pity you can't see the look on Dad's face when I tell him about it. My mom was completely fainting and my sisters slapped her face with cold water and they fanned her as if I had cut her throat with a knife. If my dad hadn't stopped him in time, my brother Yalal would have grabbed his shotgun. Rahim Khan said, laughing bitterly, "I am fighting with Homera against the whole world. And I tell you, dear Amir, in the end, it is always the world that wins. That's it. ”

"What happened?"

"That very day, my dad drove Homera and her family into a van and drove them to Hazarajat. I never saw her again. ”

"It's a pity." I say.

"But that's probably the best," Rahim Khan said, shrugging. "She's going to be humiliated. My family will never treat her equally. You don't order someone to clean your shoes and call her 'sister' later that day. He looked at me, "You know, you can tell me anything you want, dear Amir, anytime." ”

"I know," I said wistfully. He looked at me for a long time, as if waiting; His black eyes were deep and bottomless, hiding an unspoken secret between us. At that moment, I almost told him, almost told him everything, but what would he think of me then? He's going to hate me, and rightly so.

"Here you go," he handed me something, "I almost forgot, happy birthday." "It was a brown leather notebook. I stretched out my fingers and fumbled the edges of it with gold thread, smelling the leather. "For you to write a story." He said. I was just about to thank him when something exploded and flamed in the sky.

"Fireworks!"

We hurried home to find all the guests standing in the courtyard, looking at the sky. Every time the sound of popping and whistling into the air is caused by loud screams from the children. Every time the flame hissed, burst open, and turned into a bouquet, it caused people to cheer and applaud. Every few seconds, the backyard would be lit up by a sudden burst of firelight, red, green, and yellow.

In a brief flash of light, I saw a scene that I will never forget: Hassan holding a silver platter, serving Assef and Wari to drink. The light was gone, and there was another hiss, a crack, followed by an orange fire: Assef grinned and struck Hassan on the chest with a knuckle.

Then, God was pitiful, and nothing could be seen.

Chapter IX

The next morning, I sat in the middle of the room, unpacking gift boxes one after another. I don't know why I'm bothering, because I'm always looking at it with interest and throwing it in the corner. They're piling up over there: a Polaroid camera, a inverter radio, a tiny electric train assortment toy — and a couple of envelopes with cash. I knew I would never spend that money, I wouldn't listen to that radio, and that electric train wouldn't climb its tracks in my room. I don't want these things - it's all bloody money; And if I hadn't won the kite contest, my dad wouldn't have held such a party for me.

Dad gave me two gifts. A brand new Schwinn Stingray[1]Schwinn Stingray, a famous American high-end bicycle brand. [1] The king of bicycles will undoubtedly make the neighboring children salivate, and there are very few children in Kabul who have Nova Styngare, and now I am among them. It has handlebars raised high, handles made of black rubber, and a well-known banana-shaped saddle with golden spokes and a steel body that is red and ochre, like blood. If you were a child, you would immediately jump on it and ride it through the city. I might have done that a few months ago.

"Do you like it?" Dad asked, leaning against the door of my room. I smiled meekly and hurriedly said "thank you". I wish I could have said more.

"We can go for a ride." Dad said. He's inviting me, but not genuinely.

"Besides, I'm a little tired."

"Okay." Dad said.

"Daddy?"

"How?"

"Thank you for the fireworks." I say. I'm thanking him, but not sincerely.

"Rest well." Dad said, walking towards his room.

Another gift that Dad gave me – he didn't even want to wait for me to open it – was a watch. The surface is blue, and the golden hands are lightning bolt-shaped. I didn't even try to put it on, I threw it into the pile of toys in the corner. The only gift that wasn't thrown into the pile was Rahim Khan's leather-faced notebook, the only thing that didn't look like blood money.

I sat on the edge of my bed, with my notebook open with both hands, thinking that Rahim Khan had told the story of Homera and that being chased away by his father would be the best fate for her. She's going to suffer. It's like Uncle Khomayong's projector getting stuck on the same slide, and there's always one image that lingers in my head: Hassan, his head bowed, serving Assef and Wari with a drink. Perhaps that was the best outcome, to alleviate his pain and ease my suffering. One way or another, things became clear: we had one that had to leave.

That afternoon, I rode that Schwyn bike for the first and last time. I rode around that neighborhood several times and headed home. I rode down the driveway to the backyard, where Hassan and Ali were cleaning up the mess left by last night's feast. The yard was littered with paper cups, crumpled paper towels, and empty soda bottles. Ali was folding up his chair and placing it against the wall. He saw me and beckoned.

"Hello, Ali." I said, waving my hand.

He held up a finger and told me to wait, then walked into the room where he lived. A moment later, he walked out with something in his hand. "Hassan and I couldn't find a chance to give you this gift last night," he said, handing me a box, "it's too ordinary to be worthy of you, Master Amir." We hope you enjoy it, though. Happy birthday. ”

My throat choked. "Thank you, Ali." I say. I'd rather they didn't buy me anything. I opened the box and saw a brand new copy of Shanama, crusty, with beautiful color illustrations at the bottom of each page. This is of Philangi gazing at her newborn son, Kecoslau; It was Aphracea with a sword in his hand and a horse on his hips, leading the way forward. And, of course, Rothstein gave his son, the warrior Sohrab, the fatal blow. "It's beautiful." I say.

"Hassan said your book was old and broken, and some pages had been lost." "All the drawings in this book are hand-drawn with pen and ink. He added proudly, looking at the book that neither he nor his son could read.

"It's lovely." I say. It's lovely indeed. It's not even cheap, I suspect. I want to tell Ali that the book is not worthy of me, it is that I am not worthy of their gift. I jumped back on that bike. "Thank you Hassan for me." I say.

I ended up throwing the book on top of the pile of gifts in the corner of the room. But my eyes couldn't help but look at it, so I buried it underneath. Before going to bed that night, I asked my dad if he had seen my new watch.

The next morning, I waited in my room for Ali to clean the table in the kitchen where he had breakfast. Wait for him to wash the dishes and wipe the stove. I leaned against the window and waited until I saw Ali and Hassan pushing the empty wheelbarrow to the market to buy groceries.

Then, I picked up several envelopes containing the bills and the watch from the pile of gifts and tiptoed out. As I passed by my father's study, I stopped to listen to the movement. He'd been there on the phone all morning, and now he's talking to someone with a batch of rugs expected to arrive next week. I walked down the stairs, through the courtyard, and from behind the loquat tree into Ali and Hassan's room. I lifted Hassan's blanket and tucked a new watch and a handful of Afghani bills underneath.

I waited another half hour, then knocked on my father's door and told the lie — I hope it was the last in a long list of shameful lies.

Through the bedroom window, I saw Ali and Hassan pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with beef, naan, fruits, and vegetables onto the driveway. I saw my father emerge from the house and walk towards Ali. Their mouths were saying things I couldn't hear, Dad pointed to the room, and Ali nodded. They separated. Dad walked back to the house, and Ali followed Hassan into their room.

After a few minutes, my dad knocked on my door. "Come to my office," he said, "and we'll have to sit down and get this thing done." ”

I walked to my dad's study and sat down on a leather couch. About thirty minutes later, Hassan and Ali arrived.

Their eyes were red and swollen, and I'm sure they must have cried. They stood in front of my dad hand in hand, and I wondered when I had the power to cause this pain.

Dad got straight to the point and asked, "Did you steal the money?" Did you steal Amir's watch, Hassan?"

Hassan's answer was as simple as one word, and in his hoarse and weak voice, he said, "Yes."

My body tightened, as if I had been slapped in the face. My heart sank, and I almost blurted out the truth. I immediately understood: this was the last time Hassan would die for me. If he had said "no", Dad would have believed it, because we all know that Hassan never lies. If Dad believed him, then the blame would turn to me, and I had to argue that my true colors would eventually be seen through, and Dad would never forgive me. This made me understand something else: Hassan knew. He knew I saw everything in the alley, and he knew I was standing there, standing by. He knew I had betrayed him, but he saved me again, maybe for the last time. At that moment I fell in love with him, I loved him more than anyone, I just wanted to tell them that I was a snake in the grass and a ghost at the bottom of the lake. I don't deserve the sacrifice he made, I'm a liar, I'm a liar, I'm a thief. I would have almost said it, if it weren't for the faint joy in my heart. Rejoice because it will soon be over, Dad will chase them away, maybe there will be some pain, but life will go on. That's what I want, to move on with life, to forget, to write off the past and start all over again. I want to be able to breathe again.

But Dad said something that shocked me: "I forgive you."

Forgive? But theft is an unforgivable crime, and it is the prototype of all crimes. When you kill a man, you steal a life, you steal his wife's right to be a woman, you take the father of his children. When you lie, you steal someone else's right to know the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. There is nothing more heinous than theft. Didn't Dad hold me in his lap and say that to me? So how can he just forgive Hassan? And, if Dad is willing to forgive such a thing, then why won't he forgive me, just because I didn't become the son he wanted me to be? Why......

"We're leaving, sir." Ali said.

"What?" Dad's face changed dramatically.

"We can't live here anymore." Ali said.

"But I forgive him, Ali, didn't you hear?" Dad said.

"There's no way we're going to live here, sir. We're leaving. Ali pulled Hassan to his side and put his arm around his son's shoulder. It was a protective gesture, and I knew that Ali's protection of Hassan was defending against someone. Ali glanced at me, with a cold, incomprehensible look in his eyes, and I understood what Hassan had told him. He told him everything, about what Assef and his friends had done to him, about the kite, about me. Oddly enough, I'm glad that someone finally saw my true colors, I pretended to be too tired.

"I don't care about the money or the watch." Dad said, palms up, arms outstretched, "I don't know why you did that...... What do you mean by 'impossible'?"

"I'm sorry, sir. But our bags have been packed, and we have decided. ”

Dad stood up, his sad expression overflowing: "Ali, haven't I given you enough?" Am I bad for you and Hassan? I don't have a brother, you are my brother, Ali, you know. Please don't do that. ”

"We're already in a hard place, don't make it any harder, sir." Ali said. His mouth twitched, and I saw his pained expression, and it was then that I realized the depth of the pain I had caused, the grief I had brought to everyone, and the fact that even Ali's paralyzed face could not hide his sorrow. I forced myself to look at Hassan, but he had his head down, his shoulders flabby, and his fingers wrapped around a loose thread under the hem of his shirt.

Now Dad is pleading, "Tell me why, I need to know!"

Ali didn't tell his father, just as Hassan confessed to stealing without the slightest defense. I'll never know why, but I can imagine the two of them weeping from tears in that dimly lit room, and Hassan begging him not to expose me. But I can't imagine what kind of self-control would keep Ali silent.

"Can you take us to the bus station?"

"I'm not going to let you do that!" Dad yelled, "Did you hear that? I'm not going to let you do that!"

"Honorable sir, you can't forbid me anything," said Ali, "and we're not working for you anymore." ”

"Where are you going?" Dad asked, his voice shaking.

"Hazarajat."

"To your cousin's house?"

"Yes, can you take us to the bus station, sir?"

Then I saw my dad do something I'd never seen before: cry. I was taken aback when I saw adults crying. I never thought my dad would cry too. "Please." Dad said. But Ali had already reached the door, and Hassan followed him. I will never forget the look on my father's face when he said those words, the pain revealed in the pleading, and the fear.

Summer in Kabul rarely rains, the sky is so blue that the sun burns the back of the neck like a soldering iron. Hassan and I spent the spring in the streams, and by the summer they had dried up. The rickshaw whizzed past, kicking up puffs of dust. During the midday prayers, people go to the mosque to pray "sha'ah" ten times, and then find a shady place to hide in and wait for the evening to cool off. Summer means a long school life, sitting in an airtight and crowded classroom, sweating profusely learning to memorize verses from the Koran and battling the rapping and strange Arabic words; Summer means listening to mullahs chanting and swatting flies to death with the palms of their hands; It meant that a gust of wind blew, bringing with it the smell of feces from the toilet on the other side of the playground, blowing dust and mist next to the distorted basketball hoop.

But the afternoon that Dad dropped Ali and Hassan to the station, it was raining. Thunder and lightning flashed, and the sky was gray. In an instant, the rain poured down, and the sound of the rain echoed in my ears.

Dad was going to send them to Bamiyan himself, but Ali refused. Through the dim, rain-soaked window of my bedroom, I saw Ali dragging a lone suitcase with all their worth in it, towards his father's car parked outside the gate. Hassan's blanket was tightly rolled up, tied with rope, and carried behind him. He had left all his toys in the sparse room, and the next day I found them stacked in the corner of the room, like birthday presents in my room.

Raindrops brushed down my window. I saw my dad slam the door of the trunk shut. Soaked through, he walked to the driver's seat, leaned back, and said something to Ali in the back seat, perhaps in a last-ditch effort to get him to change his mind. They talked like that for a moment, and Dad was drenched, bent over, and put one hand on the roof of the car. But when he stood up, I could tell from his sagging shoulders that the familiar life I had been born with was gone. Dad got into the car, and the headlights came on, shining two lights in the rain. If this was the Indian movie that Hassan and I used to watch, at this point, I should have run out and splash the rain with my bare feet. I should have chased the car, shouted at the top of my lungs, and made it stop. I should have pulled Hassan out of the back seat and told him I was sorry, very sorry, that my tears would be mixed with the rain. We will embrace in the pouring rain. But this is not an Indian movie. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to cry, I'm not going to chase that car. I watched my dad's car drive off the side of the road and take the man, the man whose first name came out of his life. I caught one last vague glimpse of Hassan, who was slumped in the back seat, and then Dad turned around the corner, the place where we had played marbles countless times.

I stepped back, and all I saw was the rain outside the glass window, which looked like molten silver.

Chapter 10

In March 1981, a young woman sat across from us. She wore an olive green outfit with a black shawl that tightly wrapped her face to ward off the chill of the night. She prays out whenever the truck brakes sharply or bumps over a depression in the road, and every time the car rises and falls, it is always accompanied by her "In Allah's name". Her husband, a stocky man in shabby trousers and a sky-blue robe, held the baby in one hand, his free hand turning the rosary with his thumb. His lips opened and closed, praying silently. There were a dozen or so people with us, including Dad and me, with suitcases between our legs, sitting cross-legged on the backbox wrapped in canvas, huddled with these strangers in this dilapidated Russian truck.

We left Kabul at 2 a.m., and since then my entrails have been overturned. Although Dad didn't say anything, I knew that in his eyes, motion sickness was a sign of weakness and incompetence - it could be seen from his face, and on several occasions, my stomach contracted so hard that I couldn't help but moan, and his expression was embarrassed. The stocky man with the rosary—the husband of the woman who was praying—asked me if I was going to throw up, and I said probably. Daddy turned his head away. The man lifted the corner of the canvas and knocked on the driver's cab window door, demanding that the driver stop. The driver, Carlin, a thin black man with an eagle-like face and a mustache, shook his head.

"We are too close to Kabul." He yelled, "Let him hold on." ”

Dad muttered a few words. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, but in an instant my mouth was full of saliva and I tasted the bitterness of bile in my throat. I turned around, lifted the canvas, and vomited on the side of the moving truck. Behind me, Dad was paying compensation to the other passengers, as if motion sickness was a crime, as if people shouldn't have motion sickness when they reached the age of eighteen. I threw up two more times before Carlin agreed to stop, mostly out of fear that I would dirty his car, the tool he relied on for his livelihood. Kalin was a smuggler who smuggled people from Russian-occupied Kabul to the relative safety of Pakistan, which was a lucrative business at the time. He drove us to Jalalabhat, 170 kilometres southwest of Kabul, where his cousin Tur was in charge of transporting the refugees, and he had a larger truck that would take us 60 kilometres through the Khyber Pass[1]KyberPass, an important pass from Afghanistan to Pakistan. [1] to Peshawar[2] Peshawar, a city in central Pakistan. ［2］。

Carlin pulled over to the side of the road and we were a few kilometers west of Mahipa Falls. Mahipa, which means "flying fish", is a mountain peak with a thousand walls overlooking the hydroelectric power station below, which was built by the Germans for Afghanistan in 1967. I can't count how many times my dad and I have passed by that mountain peak to Jalalabhat, a city full of cypress trees and sugar cane that is a winter destination for Afghans.

I jumped from the back of the truck and stumbled to the dusty guardrail on the side of the road. My mouth was full of saliva, which was a sign that I was about to vomit. I staggered to the edge of the cliff, the abyss below swallowed by darkness. I bent over and put my hands on my knees, ready to vomit. Somewhere there was the sound of branches crackling, and the call of owls. The cold wind gently stirred the branches and blew through the bushes on the hillside. Below, the water flowed through the valley, and there was a faint sound.

I stood on the shoulder of the road and remembered how we left our home, the place where I had lived my whole life. It was as if we were just out and about: the kitchen sink was stacked with plates stained with meatball crumbs, wicker baskets full of clothes were on the porch, the bedding was not yet folded, and the closet was hung with Daddy's business suit. Tapestries still hung on the walls of the living room, and my mom's books still crowded the shelves in my dad's study. The signs of our escape were subtle: my parents' wedding photos were missing, and the old photo of my grandfather and King Nadal standing in front of a dead deer was missing. A few pieces of clothing were missing from the closet. The leather-faced notebook that Rahim Khan had given me five years ago is gone.

In the morning, Jalaruddin, the seventh servant in five years, might have thought we were going out for a walk or a ride. We didn't tell him. In Kabul, you can no longer trust anyone – people snitch each other for a reward or because they are threatened: neighbors denounce neighbors, children denounce parents, brothers frame brothers, servants betray their masters, friends betray friends. I think of the singer Ahmed Zahir, who played the accordion on my 13th birthday. He and a few friends were driving for a ride when his body was found on the side of the road, with a bullet in the back of the head. Those people are omnipresent, and they divide the Kabul people into two factions: those who inform, and those who do not. The most troublesome thing is that no one knows who belongs to which faction. When a tailor gives you a weight, a few unintentional words from you can put you in a black jail in the Polekhaki district. Complain a few words about the curfew to the owner of the meat seller, and you will most likely end up looking at the barrel of a Russian-made rifle from behind the bars. Even at the dinner table, in their own rooms, people have to speak carefully — there are people in the classrooms who teach children to spy on their parents, what to listen to, and who to denounce.

What am I doing on the side of the road in the middle of the night? I should be lying on the bed with a blanket over a frayed old book beside me. It's definitely a dream, it's definitely going to be. Tomorrow morning, I will wake up and look out the window: there are no Russian soldiers patrolling the sidewalk with gloomy faces; There are no tanks in my city that flaunt their might, their turrets turn like fingers of reproach; There were no ruins, no curfews, no troop carriers of the Russian army making a detour through the market. At this point, I heard my dad and Carlin behind me discussing Jalarabat's arrangements for a cigarette of smoke. Carlin repeatedly assured his father that his brother had a "great, top-quality" truck and would be a breeze to Peshawar. "He can get you there with his eyes closed." Carlin said. I heard him tell his dad that he and his brother knew the Russian and Afghan soldiers guarding the checkpoint, and that they had a "mutually beneficial" relationship. This is not a dream. A "MiG" fighter suddenly whizzed overhead, as if to remind that all this was true. Carlin threw away the cigarette in his hand, pulled a pistol from his waist, pointed it to the sky, and made a shooting gesture, he spat at the MiG, cursing loudly.

I wonder where Hassan is. Then, inevitably, I spat out into the weeds, and my vomiting and moaning were drowned out by the deafening roar of the MiG.

After twenty minutes, we stopped at the checkpoint in Mahipa. The driver didn't turn off the engine and jumped out of the car to greet the voice that came forward. Shoes step on the gravel. Short, whispered conversations. The sound of a lighter firing. "Thank you." Someone said it in Russian.

Another lighter sounded. Someone laughed, and a creepy crackling sound made me jump. Dad reached out and pressed my thigh. The laughing man hummed a song, with a thick Russian accent, and sang an old Afghan wedding ballad in a vague and out of tune:

Walk slowly, my beloved moon, walk slowly.

Shoes on the asphalt road. Someone lifted the canvas hanging from the back of the truck and poked into three faces. One was Kalin, the others were two soldiers, an Afghan, and the other was a grinning Russian with a face like a bulldog and a cigarette in his mouth. Behind them, a bright moon hung high in the sky. Kalin and the Afghan soldier spoke in Pashto. I heard a little bit about Tours and his bad luck. The Russian soldier stuck his head in the back of the truck, humming the wedding ballad and tapping his fingers on the tailgate of the truck. Even though the moon was dim, I could still see his blazing gaze, scanning one passenger after another. Despite the cold weather, beads of sweat were oozing from his forehead. His eyes fell on the woman in the black shawl, and he fixed his eyes on her as he said a few words of Russian to Kalin. Carlin replied briefly in Russian. The soldier turned, and roared more briefly. The Afghan soldier also spoke, his voice low and reasonable. But the Russian soldier shouted a few words, and the two of them cringed. I could feel my dad next to me getting nervous. Carlin faked a few coughs and lowered his head, saying that the Russian soldier wanted to be alone with the lady in the back of the truck for half an hour.

The young woman pulled down her shawl and covered her face, tears welling up in her eyes. The baby on her husband's knee cried out. The husband's face was as pale as the moon in the sky, and he said to Carlin, beg the "soldier master" to be kind, maybe he had sisters, maybe he had a mother, maybe he had a wife. The Russians shouted a few words after listening to Carlin.

"That's the price he paid for letting us through," Carlin said, not daring to look the husband in the eye.

"But we've paid handsomely, and he's been paid a lot of money." The husband said.

Carlin talks to Russian soldiers. He said...... He said there was a little tax attached to any cost. ”

At that moment, Dad stood up. This time it was my turn to hold his hand on his thigh, but Dad wiped it away and pulled it up, his standing figure blocking the moonlight. "I want you to say a few words to this guy," said Dad, as he was talking to Carlin, but his eyes were fixed on the Russian soldier, "and you ask him where his shame is." ”

They talk. "He said it was war. There is no shame in war. ”

"Tell him he's wrong. War does not make noble sentiments disappear, and people need it even more than in peacetime. ”

Do you have to be a good man every time? I thought, my heart pounding. Can't you just put up with it even once? But I know he won't—it's not in his nature to swallow his anger. The problem is that his nature is about to send us to the western heavens.

The Russian soldier said something to Carlin, and a wicked smile appeared on the corner of his mouth. "Sir," said Carlin, "these Russians, unlike us, do not know what respect and honor are. ”

"What did he say?"

"He said it must be cool to shoot a bullet in your head, like ......" Carlin couldn't go on, but spouted at Nunu, the woman who was favored by the soldiers. The soldier flicked off his unfinished cigarette and removed his pistol. It looks like Dad is going to die here, and that's how it happened, I think. In my mind's eye, I read a prayer I learned from class.

"Tell him that even if I get a thousand bullets, I won't let this filthy thing happen." Dad said. My mind flashed back to that winter six years ago. I, peeking around the corner of the alley. Kamo and Wari pressed Hassan to the ground, the muscles in Assef's hips tightened and relaxed, and his ass swayed back and forth. What kind of hero am I? Just worry about kites. Sometimes I wonder if I'm my father's real son.

The Russian soldier, with a face like a bulldog, raised his gun.

"Daddy, sit down, please," I said, tugging at his sleeve, "he's going to shoot you." ”

Dad opened my hand. "Didn't I teach you anything?" He said angrily, turning to the soldier with a wicked smile on his face, "Tell him that it's better to shoot me to death, because if I don't fall, I'll tear him to shreds." Fuck it. ”

After listening to the translation, the Russian soldier still smiled. He opened the safety bolt and pointed the gun at his father's chest. My heart was about to jump out of my throat, and I covered my face with my hands.

Gunshots rang out.

It's over, it's over. I was eighteen years old, alone, and unaccompanied. Daddy is dead, and I have to bury him. Where will he be buried? Where do I go after I'm buried?

But when I opened my eyes and saw that my father was still standing, the thoughts that were swirling in my head stopped. I saw another Russian soldier, and others. The muzzle of his gun was pointed into the sky, and a puff of smoke came out. The soldier who was about to shoot his father had put away his weapon and stood up in salute. I've never wanted to laugh and cry like I did at this moment.

The second Russian officer, gray-haired and burly, spoke to us in a broken Farsi language. He apologized for what his men had done, "Russia sent them here to fight," he said, "but they were just children, and as soon as they came here, they were hooked on drugs." He looked at the young soldier with hatred, like a strict father enraged by his son's misconduct. This guy is now having a drug seizure. I'll try to stop him......" He waved us away.

Moments later, our car drove away. I heard a loud laugh, followed by the voice of the first soldier, singing the old wedding ballad in a muffled tone.

We had been on the road in silence for fifteen minutes when the young woman's husband suddenly stood up and did something that I had seen many people do before him: he kissed his father's hand.

Bad luck in Tours. Didn't I hear this from a brief conversation on the Mahipa's side?

About an hour before the sun went up, we drove into Jalalabhat. Carlin hurriedly led us from the truck into a house. It was a single-storey bungalow at the intersection of two dirt roads, with bungalows on either side of the road, and unopened shops with acacia trees. We dragged our bags into the house, and I pulled up my collar to keep out the cold. I don't know why, I remember the smell of radish.

　　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。
As soon as we entered the dimly lit and empty room, Carlin locked the front door and closed the rags that replaced the curtains. Then he took a deep breath and told us the bad news. His brother Tur couldn't take us to Peshawar. Last week, the engine in his truck broke down, and Tours was still waiting for parts.

　　“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?”
"Last week?" Someone shouted, "If you know this, why did you bring us here?"

　　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。
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a sharp movement. Then a vague figure crossed the room, and the next thing I saw was Carlin slamming into the wall, his father's hands on his neck.

　　“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。
"I'll tell you why," said Dad angrily, "because he's going to earn the fare for the ride, and that's all he cares about." Carlin made a choked sound, and saliva flowed from the corners of his mouth.

"Put him down, sir, and you'll kill him." One passenger said.

"That's what I'm going to do." Dad said. What no one else in the room knew was that Dad wasn't joking. Carlin's face flushed, and his feet kicked wildly. Dad still pinched him until the young mother, who was taken by the Russian soldiers, took a fancy to him and begged him to let go.

Dad finally let go, Carlin collapsed on the floor, rolling and panting, and the room fell silent. Less than two hours ago, for the innocence of a woman who had never known her life, my father was willing to eat a bullet. And now, if it weren't for the intercession of the same woman, he would not hesitate to strangle a man to death.

There was a banging sound next door. No, not next door, it's underground.

"What's that?" Someone asked.

"The others," Carlin gasped with hard breath, "in the basement. ”

"How long have they been waiting?" Dad said, eyes on Carlin.

"Two weeks."

　　“我记得你说过那辆卡车是上星期坏的。”
"I remember you said the truck broke down last week."

Carlin rubbed his neck, "It should be another week." ”

"How long?"

"What?"

"How long will it take for the parts to arrive?" Daddy roared. Carlin shrunk back, but was speechless. I'm glad it's pitch black around me, and I don't want to see my dad murderous.

Carlin opened the door, and behind it was a broken staircase leading to the basement, and a damp smell like mold came to his nose. We went down one by one, and the stairs creaked as my father crushed. Standing inside the cold basement, I felt many pairs of blinking eyes looking at us in the dark. I saw people huddled all over the room, two dim kerosene lamps casting their figures on the wall. The people in the basement whispered, and in addition to that, the sound of dripping water came from somewhere, and the sound of scraping.

Dad sighed behind me and threw his duffel bag down.

Carlin told us that it should be a few days before the truck could be repaired. Then we can go to Peshawar and embark on the journey to freedom and security.

The following week, the basement was our home; By the third night, I discovered the source of the scratching sound: rats.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I counted about thirty refugees in the basement. We sat shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the wall, eating biscuits and bread with dates and apples. On the first night, all the men prayed together, and one of them asked Dad why he didn't join, "Allah will save us all, why don't you pray to Him?"

Dad snorted heavily, stretching his legs. "What saved us were eight cylinders and a good carburetor." This sentence left the others speechless and never spoke of Allah again.

Later in the first night, I found Camo and his father hiding among our group. It was a surprise to see Camo sitting in the basement, just a few feet away from me. But when he and his father came to us, I saw Camo's face, really ......

He withered - apparently there is no other word to replace this. He looked at me with vacant eyes and didn't recognize me in the slightest. His shoulders drooped, his cheeks sunken, as if he were tired of clinging to the bones below. His father, who owned a movie theater in Kabul, was complaining to him that three months earlier, his wife had been killed instantly when he was hit by a stray bullet in the temple. Then he talked to his dad about Carmo, and I heard something sporadically: I shouldn't have let him go alone...... You know, he's so handsome...... There were four of them...... He tried to rebel...... Allah...... Where does the blood come from...... His pants...... No more talking...... Dementia of the eyes......

After we spent a week in the basement with rats, Carlin said there were no trucks, and trucks couldn't be repaired.

"There's another option," Carlin said, raising his voice in the midst of a sigh. His cousin had a tanker truck and had used it to smuggle passengers a few times. He's right here, in Jalalabat, and maybe can fit all of us.

With the exception of an elderly couple, everyone else decided to hit the road.

We left that night, dad and me, Camo and his father, and others. Carlin and his cousin Agez, a square-faced balding man, helped us into the tank. The car started, stopped there, and one by one we climbed onto the back pedals of the tanker, climbed the ladder in the back, and slid into the tank. I remember my dad climbing halfway up, jumping down the ladder and pulling out a cigarette case from his pocket. He emptied the box and grabbed a handful of plaster from the middle of the dirt road. He kissed the dirt and put it in the box, put the box in his breast pocket, and pressed it against his heart.

Dismayed.

You open your mouth and it opens so wide that even your palate bone gurgles. You order your lungs to inhale air, and now, you need air, and you need it now. But the airways in your lungs don't listen, they collapse, they tighten, they compress, and all of a sudden, you can only breathe through a straw. Your mouth is closed, your lips are pursed, and all you can do is let out a choking cough. Your hands twitch and shake. It seems that a dam has burst somewhere, and cold sweat is pouring out and soaking your body. You want to cry. If you can, shout out. But you have to breathe in to cry.

Dismayed.

The basement was dark enough, and the oil tank was not visible. I looked right, left, up, down, stretched out my hand and waved it in front of my eyes, but I couldn't see anything. I blinked, blinked, and I couldn't see my fingers. Something was wrong with the air, it was too thick and heavy, almost solid. Air should not be solid. I would love to reach out and crush the air into pieces and stuff them into my windpipe. There was also the smell of gasoline, and the oil and gas stung my eyes, as if someone had pulled my eyelids open and rubbed a lemon on them. Every breath makes my nose hot. I'm going to die in a place like this, I think. The screams are coming, coming, coming......

Then there was a small miracle. Dad rolled up my sleeve, and something glowed green in the dark. Radiance! A watch from Dad. My eyes were fixed on the fluorescent green pointer. I was afraid that I would lose them, and I didn't dare blink.

Slowly, I became aware of the situation around me. I heard groans and prayers. I heard a baby crying and her mother whispering reassurance. Someone gags, someone curses the Russians. The truck swayed from side to side, bumping up and down. Everyone's heads hit the metal plates.

"Thinking of something beautiful," Dad said in my ear, "happy things." ”

Good things, happy things. I let my mind fly, and what came to mind was:

Friday afternoon, in Pugman. An open meadow with mulberry trees full of flowers. Hassan and I sat on ankle-length weeds as I pulled the thread and the scroll rolled in Hassan's calloused hands as our eyes fixed on the kite in the sky. We are silent, but not because we have nothing to say, but because we don't need to talk to each other – as is the case with those who have known each other since birth and grew up drinking the same milk. The breeze blew through the grass, and Hassan laid the line. The kite spun, lowered, and stabilized again. Our shadows are all dancing on the undulating grass. At the end of the meadow, over the low brick wall, somewhere there was the sound of talking, laughter, and the murmuring of springs. And the music, old and familiar tunes, I think it's the Rebab[1] Rubab, the national instrument of Afghanistan. [1] The Mora Song played. Someone on the other side of the wall called our names, and it was time for tea and snacks.

I don't remember what year or month it was. All I know is that the memories are with me, perfectly condensing the good things of the past, like a thick brush, smeared on the canvas of our life that has become gray and monotonous.

The rest of the journey leaves only fragmentary memories in the mind, most of which have to do with sounds and smells: MiGs roaring overhead; intermittent gunfire; There was a donkey barking beside him; the sound of bells and the bleating of sheep; the sound of wheels clattering against the sand; the cry of a baby in the dark; The stench of gasoline, vomit and feces.

The next thing I remember is the morning light after climbing out of the tank. I remember lifting my face to the sky, squinting my eyes, and breathing heavily, as if I was running out of air. I lay on the side of the dirt road, with strange rocky potholes below, and I looked at the gray sky of the early morning, thankful for the air, grateful for the light, grateful for still alive.

"We're in Pakistan, Amir." Dad said, he was standing next to me, "Carlin said he would call a bus and take us to Peshawar. ”

I rolled over, still lying on the cold dirt, and saw our suitcases on either side of my dad's feet. Looking through the triangle between his legs, I saw the tanker truck parked on the side of the road and the other fleeing people coming down the ladder in the back. Farther away, the earth looked like lead under the gray sky, and the dirt road stretched out, disappearing behind a row of bowl-shaped hills. There is a small village along the road, hanging from the sunny hillside.

I turned my eyes back to our suitcases, and they made me feel sorry for my dad. After he had built, planned, struggled, troubled, dreamed of everything, there was only one thing left in his life: an indisputable son and two suitcases.

Someone was crying. No, not crying, it's wailing. I saw the travelers huddled around and heard their anxious voices. Someone said one word: "Oil and gas." Someone said it too. The wail turned into a heart-rending scream.

Dad and I hurried over to the crowd of onlookers, pushed them away, and stepped forward. Camo's father sat cross-legged in the middle of the crowd of onlookers, his body swaying back and forth, kissing his son's dead face.

"He's out of gas! My son is out of gas!" He cried. Camo's lifeless body lay on his father's lap, his right hand hanging limply, shaking back and forth as his father cried. "My child! He's out of gas! Allah, help him and bring him back to life!"

Dad knelt down beside him and reached out to put his hands around his shoulders. But Camo's father pushed him away and rushed to Carlin, who was standing next to his cousin. What happened next was too fast, too short, to even call it a scuffle. Carlin screamed in surprise and stepped back. I saw a hand waving and a foot kicking out. After a while, Camo's father stood with Carlin's pistol in his hand.

"Don't kill me!" Carlin cried.

But before we all had time to say or do anything, Camo's father stuck the muzzle of the gun into his mouth. I will never forget the reverberating gunshot, the flash of light and the blood red splatter.

I bent down again and retched on the side of the road.

Chapter XI

Fremont, California, 1980s

Daddy loves American ideals.

It was living in the United States that gave him ulcers.

I remember the two of us walking a few streets and walking in Lake Elizabeth Park in Fremont, watching the boys practice their swings and the girls giggling on the swings in the playground. Dad would take advantage of the walk and instill his political views in me at length. "There are only three real men in this world, Amir," he said, holding out his hand and counting, "the reckless savior of the United States, Great Britain, and Israel." The rest of ......," he usually waved his hand and made a disdainful voice, "they were like rapping old women." ”

His claims about Israel annoyed Afghans in Fremont, who accused him of being close to Jews, when in fact being against Islam. Dad partyed with them, drank tea, ate snacks, and drove them crazy with his political ideas. "What they didn't understand," he told me later, "had nothing to do with religion." In my father's eyes, Israel was an island inhabited by "real men", and although it was surrounded by the Arabian Ocean, the Arabs only cared about selling oil to make money, and did not care about their own family's affairs. "Israel does this, Israel does that," Dad would say in an Arab tone, "then do something!" Action! You Arabs, then go and help Palestine!"

He hated Jimmy Carter and called him "the big-toothed idiot." Back in 1980, when we were still in Kabul, the United States announced a boycott of the Olympics in Moscow. "Wow! Wow!" Dad said with disgust, "Brezhnev invaded Afghanistan, and the guy who pinched the soft persimmon actually only said that I would not go to your pool to swim." "Dad thinks Carter's stupidity fueled Brezhnev's arrogance." He doesn't deserve to be in charge of this country. It's like asking a kid who doesn't even know how to ride a bicycle to drive a brand new Cadillac. "What the United States, and the world, needs is a tough man, someone who will be looked up to, who will act, not be helpless. Ronald Reagan was such a tough guy. When Reagan appeared on television and called Russia an "evil empire," Dad ran out and bought back a picture of the president smiling and giving him a thumbs up. He framed the photograph and hung it on the wall of the entrance, nailing it to the right of an old black-and-white photograph in which he was wearing a tie and shaking hands with King Zahir. Most of our neighbors in Fremont are bus drivers, police officers, gas station workers, unwed mothers living on benefits, or, to be exact, blue-collar workers overwhelmed by Reagan's economic policies. Dad was the only Republican in our building.

But the fog of traffic stung his eyes, the sound of cars gave him headaches, and the pollen made him cough. The fruit is never sweet enough, the water is never clean enough, where are all the woods and fields? For the first two years, I tried to get my dad to take an English course to improve his broken English, but he didn't bother about it. "Maybe I'll spell out the 'cat' and the teacher will award me a sparkling star so I can run home and show it off to you." He'll grunt like that.

One Sunday in the spring of 1983, I walked into a small shop selling used paperback books, next to an Indian movie theater, and east of the National Railroad and Fremont Avenue. I told my dad to wait for me for five minutes, and he shrugged. He was working at a gas station in Fremont and was off that day. I saw him cross Fremont Avenue and walk into a grocery convenience store owned by an elderly Vietnamese couple, Mr. Nguyen and his wife. They were gray-haired and friendly, his wife had Parkinson's disease, and his husband had his hip bone. "He looks like King Kong now," she always said to me with a smile on her face, opening her toothless mouth. "Remember King Kong, Amir?" Mr. Nguyen would then follow Lee Majors' example, raising his eyebrows and pretending to be running with a slow movement.

I'm flipping through a dilapidated Mike Hammer[1]MikeHammer, the protagonist of a series of horror novels by American writer Mike Spillane (1918~). [1] Mystery novels, where there was a scream and the sound of glass shattering. I put down my book and hurried across the street. I found Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen behind the counter, their faces as dead ashes, pressed against the wall, Mr. Nguyen holding his wife in both hands. The floor was littered with oranges, overturned magazine racks, a broken jar of beef jerky, and shards of glass at Dad's feet.

It turned out that my father bought oranges, but he didn't have any cash on him. He wrote a check to Mr. Nguyen, who wanted to see his ID card. "He wants to see my papers," Dad growled in Farsi, "it's been almost two years, I've been here to buy these damn fruits, put the money in his pocket, and this shit wants to see my papers!"

"Dad, it's not aimed at you." I said, squeezing out a smile at the Nguyen couple, "They should have checked their papers." ”

"I don't welcome you here," Mr. Nguyen said, standing in front of his wife, who pointed at his father with his cane, and then turned to me, "You're a nice young man, but your father, he's a madman." He was no longer welcome here. ”

"Does he think I'm a thief?" Dad raised his voice and said, surrounded by bystanders, "What country is this?" No one trusts anyone!"

"My name is the police." Mrs. Nguyen said, leaning out her face, "You go away, or I'll call the police." ”

"Please, Mrs. Nguyen, don't call the police. I'll take him home, please don't call the police, okay? Please. ”

"Okay, you take him home, good idea." Mr. Nguyen said. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and kept his eyes on his father. I went through the door to pull my dad, and he kicked a magazine when he came out. I convinced him not to go in again, then turned around and went to the store to apologize to the Nguyen couple and tell them that their father was in a difficult situation. I gave Mrs. Nguyen my home phone number and address and told her to estimate how much she had lost. "Please call me when you're done, I'll compensate you for everything, Mrs. Ruan, I'm sorry." Mrs. Nguyen took the piece of paper from my hand and nodded. I saw her hands shaking more than usual, and that made me angry with my dad for scaring an old lady like that.

"My dad is still adjusting to life in the United States." I explained.

I want to tell them that in Kabul we broke branches and used them as credit cards. Hassan and I would take the log to the bakery. The shopkeeper made a mark on the wood with his knife to indicate that he had taken us a naan from the oven where the flames were rising. At the end of each month, Dad paid him according to the notches on the branches. That's it. No problem, no ID.

But I didn't tell them. I thank Mr. Nguyen for not calling the police and taking my dad home. When I was stewing chicken neck rice, he was sulking on the balcony. It's been a year and a half since we stepped on a Boeing plane in Peshawar, and Dad is still adapting.

We ate in silence that night. Dad took two bites and pushed the plate away.

I looked over the table and at him, his nails cracked, dirty with oil, his fingers scratched, his clothes smelling of the gas station - dust, sweat and gasoline. Dad is like a widower who has remarried, but he can't help but think of his deceased wife. He misses the sugar cane fields of Jalalabat and the gardens of Pugman. He missed the people who came and went in his house, the crowded passages of the market of Thor, where he walked and the people who greeted him knew him, his father, his grandfather, those who were of the same ancestors as him, their pasts intertwined.

For me, America is a place to bury the past.

For Dad, it was a place to mourn the past.

"Maybe we should go back to Peshawar." I said, staring at the ice cubes floating on the water inside the glass. We spent half a year there, waiting for the visa to be issued by the immigration authorities. Our dusty house smelled of dirty socks and cat droppings, but we were surrounded by acquaintances – at least dad recognized them. He would invite neighbors from all over the corridor, most of them Afghans waiting for visas, to his home for dinner. Of course, some people will bring tambourines, and some will bring accordions. When the tea is brewed, the person with an okay voice will sing a song until the sun rises, until the mosquitoes no longer buzz, until the clapping hands are sore.

"You're happier over there, Dad, and it feels more like home there." I say.

"Peshawar is a good place for me, but not for you."

"You're working too hard here."

"It's okay now." He said he meant since he was promoted to the day manager of the gas station. But on wet days, I can always see him rubbing his wrists in pain. I have also seen him after a meal, with a cold sweat on his head to get a bottle of painkillers. "Besides, I didn't bring the two of us here for myself, you know?"

I reached over the table and took his hand. Mine is the student's brother's hands, clean and soft; His hands were laborers' hands, dirty and calloused. I think of all those trucks, train toys, and bicycles that he bought me when I was in Kabul. Today, America is Daddy's last gift to Amir.

Just a month after we arrived in the U.S., Dad got a job on Washington Avenue as an assistant at a gas station owned by an Afghan acquaintance—he had been looking for work since the day we arrived in the U.S. Six days a week, in shifts of twelve hours, Dad refueled the car, cashiered, changed the oil, and scrubbed the windshield. On several occasions, I brought him lunch and found him looking for cigarettes on the shelves, and at the end of the oil-stained counter, there was a customer waiting, and his father's face was distorted and pale against the bright fluorescent background. Every time I walked in, the electric bell on the door would "ding dong" and my father would look up, wave and smile, his eyes watering with tiredness.

On the day we were hired, Dad and I went to San Jose[1]SanJose, a city in California, USA. [1] Go to our Immigration Eligibility Officer, Mrs. Dubbins. She was a very fat black woman with bright eyes and two dimples when she smiled. Once she told me she sang in church, and I believe – her voice reminded me of hot milk and honey. Dad places a stack of food stamps on her counter. "Thank you, but I don't want to." Dad said, "I've always had a job. In Afghanistan, I have a job; In the U.S., I have a job. Thank you very much, Mrs. Dobbins, but I don't like to accept handouts. ”

Mrs. Dobbins blinked, picked up the food stamps, and looked at me and at Daddy, as if we were joking with her, or "tricking her" as Hassan used to say. "I've been in this business for fifteen years, and no one has ever done that." She said. And that's it, Dad ended the humiliating days of paying with food stamps at the cash register and eliminated one of his biggest fears: being seen by Afghans buying food with his handouts. When Dad walked out of the welfare office, it seemed that he had just recovered from a serious illness. In the summer of 1983, I was 20 years old and graduated from high school. I was the oldest of the people who threw hats on the football field that day. I remember the court was full of blue robes, the students' families, the flashing shots, and drowning my father. I found him near the twenty-yard line, his hands in his pockets and the camera dangling across his chest. There was a group of people between us, and one moment they blocked him, and the next they reappeared. Girls in blue were screaming, hugging each other, crying; The boys clapped their hands in celebration. Dad's beard has turned gray, the hair on his sideburns has decreased, and besides, is he taller in Kabul? He wore that brown suit — he had the only one to wear to Afghan weddings and funerals — and the red tie I gave him on his fiftieth birthday that year. Then he saw me, waved his hand, and smiled. He motioned for me to put on my hat and took a picture of me with the school's clock tower in the background. I smiled at him—in a sense, it was not so much mine as it was his. He walked up to me, put his arms around my neck, and kissed me on the forehead. "I'm proud, Amir." He said. His eyes lit up when he spoke, and it was looking at me like that, and it made me happy.

That night, he took me to Hayward[1]Hayward, a city in California, near Fremont. [1] of the Afghan restaurant, ordering too much food. He told the shopkeeper that his son would be going to college in the fall. Before I graduated, I had a little argument with him about going to college, telling him that I wanted to work, support my family, save some money, and maybe go to college the next year. But he stared at me with hatred, and I had to shut up.

After dinner, my dad took me to the bar across the street from the hotel. It was a dark place, and the walls smelled of beer sour that I didn't like. Men wore baseball caps and sleeveless shirts and played billiards, and smoke rose from green tables with fluorescent lights curling. Dad was in a brown suit and I was standing out in pleated trousers and a sports coat. We found a seat at the bar and sat next to an old man. The old man had a McCroo beer logo on his head, which glowed blue, illuminating his vicissitudes of life sickly. Dad lit a cigarette and asked us for beer. "I'm so happy tonight!" He took care of himself and announced to everyone, "I'm bringing my son for a drink tonight." Come, please give my friend a drink. His hand slapped on the old man's back. The old man lifted his hat and smiled, he had no teeth in the upper row.

Dad finished his beer in three sips and asked for another one. I forced myself that before I had finished a quarter, he had already drained three glasses. He asked the old man for a glass of Scotch spirits, and the four pool guys for a big jar of Budweiser. They shook hands with him and patted him on the back. They toasted him, and someone lit a cigarette for him. Dad loosened his tie and gave the old man a two-and-a-half cent coin and pointed to the record player. "Tell him to come up with a few songs that he is best at." He said to me. The old man nodded and saluted his father. Soon country music sounded, and just like that, Dad began the feast.

When the wine was finished, Dad stood up, raised his glass, and threw it on the sawdust floor, shouting loudly. "Fuck the Russians!" There was a burst of laughter in the bar, everyone echoed each other, and Dad bought everyone beers.

When we left, everyone was reluctant to let him go. Kabul, Peshawar, Hayward. Daddy is still Daddy, I thought, smiling.

I drove back to our house in my dad's old, khaki Buick Century sedan. Dad fell asleep on the road, snoring like a drill. I smelled tobacco on him, and alcohol, sweet and spicy. But when I was parking, he woke up and said in a hoarse voice, "Keep driving and go to the other side of the street."

"What's going on, Dad?"

"Just drive over," he told me to stop at the south end of the street. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled me a bunch of keys, "Over there." He pointed to a car parked in front of us. It was an old Ford, long and wide, with a dark body that I couldn't make out the color in the moonlight. "It's going to have to be painted, and I'll get the guy at the gas station to get a new shock, but it still works."

I looked at the key and was stunned. I look at him, look at the car.

"You need a car to go to college." He said.

I took his hand and held it tightly. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I was glad that a shadow had cast over our faces. "Thank you, Dad."

We got out of the car and got into the Ford. It was a "Grand Turin". "Navy Blue." Dad said. I drove around the block, trying the brakes, the radio, the turn signals. I parked it in the parking lot of our building and turned off the engine. "Thank you, dear Dad." I say. I can't get enough of it, and I want to tell him how touched me by his kind behavior, and how grateful I am for all that he has done for me, past and present. But I knew it would embarrass him, "Thank you." "I just repeated it once.

He smiled and leaned back on his headrest, his forehead almost touching the canopy. We didn't say anything, just sat quietly in the dark, listening to the "tick-tick" of the engine cooling, and a siren chirping in the distance. Then my dad turned his head to me, "If only Hassan had been with us today." ”

At the sound of Hassan's name, it was as if my neck was being choked by a pair of iron hands. I rolled down the window and waited for the iron hands to release.

The day after the graduation ceremony, I told my dad that I was going to register at a junior college in the fall. He was drinking cooled black tea and chewing cardamom, a home remedy he himself used for headaches.

"I think I'll major in English." I said, feeling apprehensive and waiting for his answer.

"English?"

"Creation."

He thought for a moment and sipped his black tea, "Story, you mean, you're going to write a story?" I looked down at my feet.

"Is there money to be made by writing stories?"

"If you write well," I said, "and you're discovered." ”

"Discovered? What are the chances?"

"There's a chance." I say.

He nodded. "So what are you going to do before you write well and get discovered? How do you make money? If you get married, how will you support your family?"

I didn't dare look him in the eye, "I'll ...... Get a job. ”

"Oh!" He said, "Wow! Wow! So, if I'm not mistaken, you're going to spend years, get a degree, and then you're going to find a humble job like mine, a job that you can easily find today, just for the slim chance that the degree you're waiting to get might help you someday...... Discovered by others. He took a deep breath, sipped his black tea, and muttered about medical school, law school, and "real work."

My face was feverish, and a wave of guilt welled up in my heart. I felt guilty that my indulgence had been paid for his ulcers, black nails, and sore wrists. But I'll stand my ground, I've decided. I don't want to sacrifice for my dad anymore. It's the last time, I curse myself.

Dad sighed, and this time, threw a large handful of cardamom into his mouth.

Sometimes, I'd drive my Ford, roll down the window, and drive for hours on end from East Bay to South Bay to the Peninsula District[1] East Bay, South Bay, and Penisula, all of which are San Francisco metro areas. [1] and drove back. I would drive through the criss-crossed, chessboard-like streets of Fremont, where people had never shook hands with the king, lived in dilapidated bungalows with broken windows; The old cars here are the same as mine, dripping with oil and parked on the asphalt road. The yards near us were fenced off with lead-gray wire fences, and the messy lawns were littered with toys, car inner tubes, and beer bottles with peeling labels. I drove past the bark-smelling park and past the huge shopping plaza, which was big enough to host five horse jousting competitions at the same time. In this Turin, I glided over the hills of Rose Atos and over a residential area where houses had landscaped windows, silver lions stood guard outside wrought-iron gates, fountains with angel statues lined up on well-manicured pavements, and no Ford Turin in the parking lanes. The house here makes my dad's house in Kabul look like a servant's house.

Sometimes, on Saturdays, I wake up early and head south on Highway 17 and follow the winding mountain road to Santa Cruz. I would park next to the old lighthouse, wait for the sun to rise, sit in my car, and watch the fog roll over the sea. In Afghanistan, I've only seen the ocean in movies. In the dark, sitting next to Hassan, I always wondered, I read in a book, that the sea smelled of salt, is that true? I used to tell Hassan that one day, we would walk along the seaweed-covered beach, sink our feet in the sand, and watch the water recede from our toes. The first time I saw the Pacific Ocean, I almost cried. It was so big, so blue, exactly what I saw on a movie screen when I was a kid.

Sometimes, at nightfall, I park my car and climb the flyover across the highway. My face pressed against the guardrail, and I looked far away, counting the slowly moving shiny taillights, BMWs, Senovas, Porsches, cars I'd never seen in Kabul, where people drove Russian Volga, dilapidated Opel, or Iranian Peikang.

It's been almost two years since we arrived in the United States, and I'm still amazed by the sheer size of the country. Beyond the highways, there are highways, there are cities beyond the cities, there are peaks beyond the mountains, there are mountains beyond the peaks, and beyond all of that, there are more cities, more people.

Long before the Russians invaded Afghanistan, long before the villages were burned and schools destroyed, long before landmines were scattered like seeds of death and children were hastily buried, Kabul was a city of ghosts, a city of haunting haunts of rabbit lips.

The United States is different. The United States is a river, rushing forward, and no one talks about the past. I can enter this great river, let my sins sink to the deepest depths, and let the flowing water take me far away, to a distant place where there are no ghosts, no past, no sin.

If not for anything else, for this alone, I will embrace the United States.

The following summer, in the summer of 1984 — when I turned 21 — my father sold his Buick for $550 and bought a dilapidated 1971 Volkswagen bus owned by an old Afghan acquaintance who had previously taught high school science in Kabul. That afternoon, the bus roared into the street and "burst" to our parking lot, and the neighbors turned their heads. Dad turned off the fire and let the bus slide quietly into our parking space. We sat in our seats, laughing until tears fell down our cheeks, and, more importantly, didn't come out until we were sure that no neighbors were watching. The bus was a pile of scrap metal corpses, black garbage bags filling cracked windows, bare tires, springs peeking out from under the seats. But the old teacher repeatedly assured Dad that there were no problems with the engine and transmission, and in fact, the guy was not lying.

Every Saturday, my father calls me up at dawn. While he was dressing, I browsed the classified ads section of the local newspaper and circled the ads in the garage store. We set the route – Fremont, Union City, Newark and Hayward first, then San Jose, Milpitas, Sunnyvale, and if time permits, Campbell. Dad drove the bus and drank hot black tea from a thermos cup, and I was in charge of guiding the way. We parked in the garage and bought second-hand items that the original owner no longer needed. We scoured old sewing machines, one-eyed Barbie dolls, wooden tennis rackets, guitars with missing strings, and old Electrolux vacuum cleaners. Halfway through the afternoon, the back of our Volkswagen bus will be crammed with these old goods. Then, early on Sunday morning, we drove to the San Jose Valiasha Flea Market, rented a stall, and sold the garbage at a small margin: the Chicago records we had bought the day before might sell for a dollar a reel, or a dollar for five reels; A worn-out Singh sewing machine bought for ten yuan may sell for twenty-five yuan after some haggling.

By the summer, the Afghans had taken over an entire area of the San Jose flea market. Afghan music is played in the passages of the second-hand area. Among Afghans at flea markets, there is a tacit code of conduct: you greet the guy across the aisle, ask him for a potato cake or a bit of assorted rice, and talk to him. If his parents die, you can persuade him; If you have a baby, you say congratulations; When the conversation inevitably turns to Afghans and Russians, you shake your head sadly. But you have to avoid talking about Saturday, because the guy across the street is probably the guy who was blocked by you at the exit of the highway yesterday and missed a good deal.

The only thing that is more popular than tea in those passages is the rumor of the Afghans. The flea market is a place where you can drink green tea, eat macaroons, and hear that someone's daughter broke her marriage contract and eloped with her American boyfriend; Who bought a house in Kabul with black money, but still received a handout. Tea, politics, scandals, these are all must-have ingredients for an Afghan Sunday at the flea market.

Sometimes I would look after the stalls while my dad wandered down the aisles. With his hands solemnly on his chest, he greeted acquaintances he had met in Kabul: mechanics and tailors peddling scuffed bicycle helmets and old cardigans, and aisles lined with former diplomats, unemployed surgeons and university professors.

Early one Sunday morning in July 1984, while my father was cleaning the stall, I went to the sales office to buy two cups of coffee, and when I returned, I found my father talking to an elderly and good-looking gentleman. I put the mug on the bumper in the back of the bus, close to the neighborhood roots and the poster of Bush's campaign for president in 1984.

"Amir," said my father, motioning for me to come over, "this is the General, Mr. Iqber Tahri, who originally lived in Kabul, was awarded the Order of Merit, and worked in the Ministry of Defense."

Tahri. How is the name so familiar?

The general laughed dryly, usually at banquets, whenever an important person told a joke that was not funny, people would hear such laughter. His silver hair was neatly combed back, revealing a smooth brass-colored forehead and a pinch of white in his thick eyebrows. He smelled of cologne, wore an iron-gray three-breasted suit that glowed from washing and ironing too many times, and a gold chain of a pocket watch was exposed on his waistcoat.

"I don't dare to make such an introduction." He said his voice was deep and cultured. "Hello, my child."

"Hello, General." I said, shake his hand. His hands looked thin, but they were strong, as if there were steel bars hidden under the shiny skin.

"Amir is going to be an amazing writer." Dad said. I was stunned for a moment before I reacted. "He just finished his first year of college, and he did well in all the exams."

"It's a vocational school." I corrected him.

"Allah willing." General Tahri said, "Will you write the story of our country, maybe the history?" Economy?"

"I write novels." As I spoke, I remembered the dozen or so stories I had written in the leather-faced notebook that Rahim Khan had given me, and wondered why I was suddenly a little uncomfortable in front of this person.

"Ah, the storyteller." "It's good that people need stories to distract them in hard times like these," the general said. He put his hand on his father's shoulder and turned to me. Speaking of stories, one summer your father went with me to Jalalabat to hunt pheasants," he said, "and it was amazing. If I'm not mistaken, your dad was just as good at hunting as he was at business. ”

Dad was kicking a wooden tennis racket on our canvas with the tip of his shoe. "It's just some business."

General Tahri smiled politely and sadly, sighed, and patted his father on the shoulder. "Life goes on." He looked at me, "We Afghans always like to exaggerate, kid, I've heard countless people stupidly use the word 'great'. However, your dad belongs to the few who deserve this adjective. These short words sounded to me exactly the same as his clothes: they were used on too many occasions, and they were a little artificial.

"You're flattering me." Dad said.

"I didn't." The general said, tilting his head sideways and putting his hands on his chest in respect, "Boys and girls need to know the merits of their fathers." He turned to me, "Do you revere your father, my child?" Do you really revere him?"

"Of course, General, I revere him." I said if only he hadn't called me "my child."

"Well, congratulations, you're about to grow into a man." He said that there was no humor in his tone, no sarcasm, only compliments that were neither humble nor arrogant.

"Dear Daddy, you forgot your tea." The voice of a young woman. She stood behind us as a slender beauty with velvety black hair, holding an open thermos mug and a plastic mug in her hands. I blinked, my heart beating faster. Her eyebrows were dark and thick, joined together in the middle, like the outstretched wings of a flying bird, and her straight nose was elegant, like that of an ancient Persian princess—perhaps like Thomine, the wife of Rostan in Shanama, and the mother of Sohrab. Her walnut eyes under her long eyelashes looked at me for a moment, then looked away.

"You're so good, my dear." General Tahri said, taking the cup from her hand. Before she turned to leave, I saw a sickle-shaped brown birthmark on her smooth skin, just on the left side of her chin. She walked through two aisles and put the thermos mug in a van. She knelt in the middle of a box containing records and paperbacks, her hair pouring to her side.

"My daughter, dear Soraya." General Tahri said. He took a deep breath, and it seemed that he wanted to change the subject, he pulled out his gold pocket watch and looked at the time. "Okay, it's time, I've got to sort it out." He and Dad kissed each other on the cheek and shook me goodbye with both hands. "Good luck with your writing." He stared into my eyes and said, his light blue eyes not revealing the slightest hint of what was in his mind.

For the rest of the day, I couldn't help but look at the gray van.

On our way home, I remembered. Tahri, I know I've heard this name before.

"Have there been any gossips about General Tahri's daughter?" I asked my dad pretending to be nonchalant.

"You know me," said Dad, who drove the bus slowly through the long line of flea market exits. "Whenever people say something, I walk away."

"But there were, didn't we?" I say.

"Why do you ask?" He looked at me hesitantly.

I shrugged my shoulders and squeezed out a smile, "Just curious, Dad."

"Really? Is that really the case?" He said, looking into my eyes with a hint of cunning, "Aren't you interested in her?"

I looked away, "Please, Dad." ”

He smiled and drove away from the flea market. We headed towards Route 680. For a moment, we didn't speak. "What I've heard is that she's had a man, and things are ...... Not too good. He said with a serious expression, as if telling me that she had breast cancer.

"Oh."

"I've heard that she's a lady, she works hard and treats people well. But since then, no matchmaker has knocked on the general's door. Dad sighed, "It may not be fair, but what happens in a few days, sometimes even in a day, is enough to change a life, Amir." ”

I tossed and turned that night, thinking about Soraya Tahri's sickle birthmark, about her graceful straight nose, about her bright eyes looking at me. My mind lingered on her. Soraya Tahri, my trade fair princess.

Chapter XII

In Afghanistan, Yalta is the first night of the month of Jati in the Hijri calendar, the first night of winter, and the longest night of the year. According to custom, Hassan and I would stay up late into the night, we would hide our feet under the stove table, and Ali would throw the apple peel into the stove and tell us the old legend of the sultan and the thief. It was from Ali that I learned the story of Yalda, that the moths fought the fire because they were enchanted, and that the wolves climbed the mountain in search of the sun. Ali swore that if he had eaten watermelon that night in Yalda, he would not be thirsty the following summer.

　　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。
A little older, I read from the poetry book that Yalta is a starry night, and lovers stay awake all night, enduring the endless darkness, waiting for the sun to rise and bring their lovers. For the week after I met Soraya, every night was Yalta for me. By the time Sunday morning came, I woke up from bed, and Soraya Tahri's face and bright brown eyes were already in my head. Sitting in my father's bus, I counted the distances until I saw her sitting barefoot, fiddling with the yellowed encyclopedia boxes, her ankles white against the tarmac, and silver rings jingling on her soft wrists. A head of hair flicked from behind her back, hanging down like a velvet curtain, and I was stunned as I looked at the shadow of her hair cast on the ground. Soraya, my trade fair princess, my Yalta rising sun.

　　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。
I made all sorts of excuses—Dad obviously knew, but only smiled playfully—and walked down the aisle, past Tahri's stalls. I would wave to the General, and he, always dressed in his shiny gray suit, would wave in response. Sometimes he would get up from that director's chair and we'd have a little conversation, talking about my writing, the war, the deal of the day. And I had to keep my eyes from peeking and not always glancing at Soraya sitting there reading a paperback book. The general and I would say goodbye to each other, and as I walked away, I had to brace myself to hide my disappointment.

　　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。
Sometimes the general would go to other aisles to make friends with people, leaving her alone to guard the stalls, and I would walk over and pretend not to know her, but I would die trying to know her. She was sometimes accompanied by a stocky, middle-aged woman with dyed red hair and a pale complexion. I was secretly determined to strike up a conversation with her before the end of the summer, but when school started, the leaves turned red, yellow, and fell, and the winter rain sprinkled and tormented my father's wrists, and new shoots spat out from the branches, and I still didn't have the courage, the guts, or even the eyes to look her in the eye.

　　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。
The spring semester ended at the end of May 1985. It was a small miracle that I did well in all my classes, because I was in the classroom, but I was always thinking about Soraya's soft and straight nose.

　　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。
Then, on a sweltering summer Sunday, Dad and I sat in our stall at the flea market, fanning our faces with newspapers. Even though the sun was as hot as a soldering iron, the market was full that day and the sales were quite good—by 12:30, we had already made $160. I stood up, stretched, and asked my dad if he wanted a Coca-Cola. He said have a drink.

　　“当心点，阿米尔。”我举步离开时他说。
"Be careful, Amir." He said as I walked away.

　　“当心什么，爸爸?”
"Watch out for what, Daddy?"

　　“我不是蠢货，少跟我装蒜。”
"I'm not stupid, don't pretend to be garlic with me."

　　“我不知道你在说什么啊。”
"I don't know what you're talking about."

　　“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。
"You have to remember," Dad pointed to me, "that guy is a pure Pashtun, he has honor and dignity. This is the credo of the Pashtuns, especially when it comes to the chastity of their wives or daughters.

　　“我不过是去给我们买饮料。”
"I'm just going to buy us a drink."

　　“别让我难看，我就这点要求。”
"Don't make me ugly, that's what I ask."

　　“我不会的，天啦，爸爸。”
"I won't, oh my god, Daddy."

　　爸爸点了根烟，继续扇着风。
Dad lit a cigarette and continued to fan the wind.

　　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。
At first I walked towards the vending office and then turned left at the shirt stall. There, for just $5, you can get a Jesus, Elvis Presley or Jim Morrison portrait printed on a white nylon shirt, or all three. Mariachi[1] is a Mexican traditional music ensemble that uses trumpets, mandolins, guitars, harps, and violins, and usually sings songs in a more enthusiastic style. [1] The music echoed overhead, and I could smell pickled cucumbers and roasted meat.

　　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。
I saw the gray truck in Tahri, two rows away from ours, next to a stall selling mango bunches. She was single, reading a book, and today she was wearing an ankle-length white summer dress, sandals with her toes exposed, and her hair tied back in a tulip-shaped bun. I was going to just walk by as before, I thought I could do it, but all of a sudden, I found myself standing on the edge of Tahri's white tablecloth, staring at Soraya over the iron hairpins and old tie used for perms. She looked up.

　　“你好，”我说，“打扰了，对不起。我不是故意打扰你的。”
"Hello," I said, "sorry for the interruption." I didn't mean to bother you. ”

　　“你好。”
"Hello."

　　“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。
"Isn't the General here today?" I say. My ears were feverish and I couldn't meet her eyes.

　　“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。
"He's gone over there." She said, pointing to the right, where the green silver bracelet slipped from her elbow.

　　“你可不可以跟他说，我路过这里，问候他一下。”我说。
"Can you tell him that I'm passing by here and greet him?" I say.

　　“可以。”
"Yes."

　　“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。”
"Thank you." I said, "Oh, my name is Amir. You need to know this time so you can tell him. Said I was passing by here, and ...... to him Say hello. ”

　　“好的。”
"Okay."

　　我挪了挪脚，清清喉咙，“我要走了，很抱歉打扰到你。”
I shifted my foot and cleared my throat, "I'm leaving, I'm sorry to disturb you." ”

　　“没有，你没有。”她说。
"No, you don't." She said.

　　“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。”
"Oh, that's good." I nodded, giving her a forced smile. "I'm leaving." Looks like I've already said it, right?" Good bye. ”

　　“再见。”
"Goodbye."

　　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?”
I walked away. Stop, turn around. While my courage was not gone, I hurriedly said, "Can I know what book you are reading?"

　　她眨眨眼。
She blinked.

　　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。
I held my breath. All of a sudden, I felt that all the eyes in the flea market were looking at us. I guess there seemed to be a sudden silence around me, and I stopped talking abruptly in the middle of the conversation. People turned their heads and squinted their eyes in interest.

　　这是怎么回事?
What's going on?

　　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!”
Until then, our encounter could be interpreted as a courtesy greeting, with one man asking about another. But I asked her questions, and if she answered, we would...... Let's put it this way, we'll talk. I, a single young man, and she was an unmarried girl. She has a history, and that's enough. We are teetering on the perilous edge of gossip, gossip, and it will be her, not me, who will suffer from the rumours – I am well aware of the double standards of the Afghans, and as a man, I take advantage of them. It's not "Didn't you see him talking to her?" It's "Wow, didn't you see that she was reluctant to let him go?" How shameless it is!"

　　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?
By Afghan standards, my question was abrupt. Asking this sentence means that I have nothing to hide, and my interest in her can no longer be questioned. But I'm a man, and the risk I'm taking is at best a loss of dignity, and if I get hurt, I'll heal, but if my reputation is ruined, I'll no longer be innocent. Will she accept my challenge?

　　她翻过书，让封面对着我。《呼啸山庄》。“你看过吗?”她说。
She flipped through the book so that the cover was facing me. Wuthering Heights. "Have you seen it?" She said.

　　我点点头。我感到自己的心怦怦跳。“那是个悲伤的故事。”
I nodded. I felt my heart pounding. "That's a sad story."

　　“好书总是跟悲伤的故事有关。”她说。
"Good books are always about sad stories." She said.

　　“确实这样。”
"That's true."

　　“听说你写作?”
"I heard you write?"

　　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。
How does she know? I wondered if her father had said it, maybe she had asked him. I immediately dismissed these two ridiculous thoughts. Fathers and sons can talk about women as much as they want. But no Afghan woman — at least a cultured Afghan lady — would ask her father about young men. Moreover, no father, especially a Pashtun man of honor and dignity, would talk to his daughter about an unmarried boy, unless the guy was a suitor and had done enough courtesy to invite his father to come and propose.

　　难以置信的是，我听见自己说:“你愿意看看我写的故事吗?”
Incredulously, I heard myself say, "Would you like to see the story I wrote?"

　　“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?
"I do." She said. Now I sensed from her look that she was a little uneasy, and her eyes began to look around, perhaps to see if the general was coming. I wonder how he would react if he saw me talking to her daughter for so long.

　　“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。
"Maybe I'll bring it to you another day," I said. I wanted to say something, the woman I had seen with Soraya walk into the aisle. She carried a plastic bag full of fruit. She looked at us with dripping eyes at me and Soraya and smiled.

　　“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。”
"Dear Amir, it's a pleasure to see you." She said, placing the bag on the tablecloth. Beads of sweat were on her forehead, and her red hair looked like a helmet and glistened in the sun—a nod of her scalp peeking out of her thinning hair. She had small green eyes, buried in her face as round as a cabbage, her teeth inlaid with gold, and her short fingers resembling sausages. A golden statue of Allah hung from her breast, and chains flickered between the folds of her skin and the fat of her neck. "My name is Jamila, dear Soraya's mother."

　　“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。
"Hello, dear auntie." I said, it's a bit embarrassing that I'm often in the middle of Afghans, who know who I am, but I don't know who their names are.

　　“你爸爸还好吗?”她说。
"Is your dad okay?" She said.

　　“他很好，谢谢。”
"He's fine, thank you."

　　“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。
"Do you know your grandfather, Lord Gatz? He's a judge. Well, his uncle and my grandfather are cousins. "So you see, we're still relatives." She smiled and showed a mouthful of gold teeth, and I noticed that the corner of her mouth on the right side of her mouth drooped a little. Her eyes rolled between me and Soraya again.

　　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。
Once, I asked my dad why General Tahri's daughter hadn't married off yet. "There are no suitors," Dad said, "there are no suitors who are the right suitors." He added. But he never said it again—Dad knew what this deadly gossip would do to the girl's future marriage. Afghan men, especially those from prestigious families, are the ones who see the wind and steer. A few gossips here, a few slanders there, and they will flee like frightened birds. So there were weddings all the time, but no one sang "Go Slowly" to Soraya, no one painted henna on her palms, no one put the Koran on her headscarf, and at every wedding, it was always General Tahri who danced with her.

　　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。
And now, this woman, this mother, with a heartbreaking longing, flattering smiles, does not hide the hope in her eyes. I was intimidated by the vantage point I was in, and it was all because I had won the genetic bet that decided my gender.

　　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。
I've never been able to see through the general's eyes, but I know a lot from his wife's eyes: if I'm going to have an opponent in this matter, whatever it may be, it's definitely not her.

　　“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。”
"You may be seated, dear Amir." She said, "Soraya, give him a chair, my child." Wash a few peaches, they are sweet and juicy. ”

　　“不用了，谢谢。”我说，“我得回去了，爸爸在等我。”
"No thanks." I said, "I have to go back, Daddy is waiting for me." ”

　　“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。”
"Oh?" Mrs. Taheri said, apparently, she was struck by my polite rejection of her manners. "So, here you go, at least bring this." She grabbed a handful of kiwi and a few peaches, put them in a paper bag, and insisted that I take them. "Greet your dad for me, come and see us often."

　　“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。
"I will, thank you, dear aunt." I said, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Soraya looking away.

　　“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。”
"I thought you were going to buy Coke." Dad said, taking the bag of peaches from me. He looked at me with a look that was both serious and playful. I started looking for words, but he took a bite of the peach and waved his hand, "Don't bother, Amir." Just remember what I said. ”

　　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。
That night, lying in bed, I thought about the way the twinkling sun danced in Soraya's eyes, the beautiful depression above her collarbone. I replayed our conversation over and over again in my head. Did she say, "I heard you're a writer" or "I heard you write"? I clutched my quilt and stared at the ceiling, painfully remembering that it would take six long nights in Yalta in a row before I could see her again.

　　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。
This was the case for weeks. I waited until the general walked away, and then walked past the stalls in Tahri. If Mrs. Tahri was there, she would treat me to tea and biscuits, and we would talk about the old days in Kabul, the people we knew, and her arthritis. She obviously noticed that I always showed up when her husband was away, but she never debunked. "Oh, your uncle just walked away." She would say. I really enjoyed Mrs. Taheri being there, and not only because of her kind attitude, but also because of the presence of her mother, Soraya became more relaxed and talkative. Moreover, she is also making our interactions seem normal—though not comparable to General Tahri's presence. With Mrs. Taheri in her custody, our date can at least be a little less provocative, if not gossip-free. However, her attitude towards me was obviously embarrassing for Soraya.

　　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。
One day, Soraya and I were alone at their stall. She was telling me about the school, how she worked hard for her general elective courses, and she was at Oron College in Fremont.

　　“你打算主修什么呢?”
"What are you going to major in?"

　　“我想当老师。”她说。
"I want to be a teacher." She said.

　　“真的吗?为什么?”
"Really? Why?"

　　“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。”
"It's something I've always dreamed of. While we were living in Virginia, I earned a certificate in English language training, and now I teach at the public library one night a week. My mom used to be a teacher and she taught Farsi and history to girls at the senior high school in Kabul. ”

　　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。”
A pot-bellied man wearing a hunting hat bids $3 for a set of $5 candle stands, and Soraya sells them to him. She tossed the money into the tiny candy jar at her feet and looked at me shyly. "I want to tell you a story," she said, "but I'm a little embarrassed." ”

"Tell me about it."

"It's kind of silly."

"Tell me."

She laughed, "Well, in Kabul, when I was in the fourth grade, my dad hired a housekeeper named Ziba. She has a sister in Iran, Mashad. Because Ziba was illiterate, every once in a while she would beg me to write a letter to her sister. Whenever her sister wrote back, I would read it to Ziba. One day, I asked her if she wanted to read and write. She gave me a big smile and her eyes lit up, saying she wanted to think about it. So, after I finished my homework, we sat at the kitchen table and I taught her to recognize the alphabet. I remember sometimes, halfway through my homework, I looked up and found Ziba in the kitchen, stirring the beef in the pressure cooker, then sitting down and using my pencil to do the alphabet homework I had given her the night before. ”

Anyway, in less than a year, Ziba was able to read children's books. We sat in the courtyard and she read to me the story of Darla and Salad—slowly, but right. She started calling me 'Soraya-sensei'. She laughed again, "I know it sounds childish, but when Ziba first wrote to myself, I knew I didn't want to do anything but teach." I was proud of her and felt like I had done something truly worthwhile. What do you say?"

"Yes." I'm lying. I remembered how I had fooled the illiterate Hassan, how I had made fun of him with obscure words he didn't understand.

　　“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。”
"My dad wanted me to go to law school, and my mom always hinted that I chose medical school. But I wanted to be a teacher. Although the income here is not high, that's what I want. ”

　　“我妈妈也是教师。”我说。
"My mom is also a teacher." I say.

"I know," she said, "my mom told me." Then her face flushed because of that. Her answer implied that they had "talked about Amir" in my absence. It took me a lot of effort to keep myself from laughing.

"I've brought you something," I said, pulling out a bound roll of paper from my back pocket, "fulfilling my promise." I handed her a short story that I had written.

"Oh, you remember." She said, smiling, "Thank you!" I didn't have time to appreciate what it meant the first time she addressed me as "you" instead of the more formal "you," because suddenly her smile was gone, the flush on her face faded, and her eyes were staring behind me. I turned and stood face to face with General Tahri.

"Dear Amir, aspiring storyteller, it's a pleasure to meet you." He said, with a faint smile.

"Hello, General." I muttered.

He walked past me and walked towards the stall. "It's a nice day, isn't it?" He said, his thumb on the top pocket of his vest and his other hand reaching for Soraya. She gave him the roll of paper.

"They said it was going to rain all week. It's hard to believe, isn't it?" He threw the roll of paper in the trash. Turning to me and gently placing a hand on my shoulder, we took a few steps side by side.

"You know, my boy, I like you quite a bit. You're a well-bred child, I really think so, but ......," he sighed and waved his hand, "...... Even well-bred boys sometimes need to be reminded. So, it's my duty to remind you that you're doing things in plain sight at the flea market. He paused, his unflinching eyes staring into my eyes, "You know, everybody here tells a story. He smiled, revealing a mouthful of neat teeth, "Say hello to your dad for me, dear Amir." ”

He put his hand down and smiled again.

"What's going on?" Dad said he had taken the money from an old woman to buy a Trojan horse.

"It's fine." I say. I was sitting on an old TV. But I told him anyway.

"Alas, Amir." He sighed.

As a result, what just happened didn't bother me for long.

Because a little later that week, Dad had a cold.

Just a little cough and runny nose at first. His runny nose was cured, but the cough was still not good. He would cough on a handkerchief and hide it in his pocket. I kept begging him to check it out, but he would wave me away. He hated doctors and hospitals. As far as I know, the only time my dad went to the hospital was when he contracted malaria in India.

Then, two weeks later, I bumped into him coughing up a mouthful of bloodshot phlegm down the toilet.

"How long have you been like this?" I say.

"What's for dinner?" He said.

　　“我要带你去看大夫。”
"I'm going to take you to the doctor."

Although Dad was already the manager of the gas station, the boss did not provide him with medical insurance, and Dad didn't care and didn't insist. So I took him to the county hospital in San Jose. We were greeted by a doctor with a vegetable-looking face and puffy eyes, who introduced himself as a resident physician for the second year. "He looks younger than you, but he's sicker than me." Dad grunted. The resident physician told us to go downstairs for a chest X-ray. When the nurse called us in, the doctor was filling out a form.

"Bring this watch to the front desk." He said, writing hastily.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Referral." He writes and writes.

"What for?"

"To the pulmonary."

"What's that?"

He glanced at me, pushed his glasses, and began to write again. "There's a black spot on the right side of his lung, and I want them to have it checked."

"Black dots?" All of a sudden, I said, the room was too small.

"Cancer?" Dad added casually.

"Perhaps, it's suspicious." The doctor grunted.

"Can you tell us more?" I asked.

"No way, I need to go for a CAT scan and then see a pulmonologist." He handed me the referral form. "You told your dad smoked, right?"

"Yes."

He nodded, looked at me again, looked at my father, and took it back. "Within two weeks, they'll call you."

I wanted to question him, with the word "suspicious", how did I survive these two weeks? How can I eat, work, and study? How could he send me home with that word?

I took the form and handed it in. That night, I waited until my dad went to sleep, then folded a blanket and used it as a mattress for prayer. I threw my head on the ground and secretly recited the Koran that I couldn't remember very well—the verses that the mullahs asked us to recite when we were in Kabul—asking Allah to be kind, even though I didn't know if he existed. At that time I envied that mullah and envied his faith and steadfastness.

Two weeks have passed and we have not received a call. I called and they told me they couldn't find the referral form and asked me if I had turned it in. They said they would call in three weeks. I was so angry that after some negotiations, I changed the three weeks to one week for CAT and two weeks for a doctor.

The pulmonologist who received him was called Schneider, and everything was fine at first, until Dad asked him where he was from, and he said Russia. Dad turned his face on the spot.

"I'm sorry, doctor." I said, pulling Dad aside. Dr. Schneider stood up with a smile in his hand, his stethoscope still in hand.

"Dad, I've read Dr. Schneider's resume in the waiting room. His birthplace was Michigan, Michigan! He's American, far more American than you and me. ”

"I don't care where he was born, he's a Russian." Dad said, making a contorted expression as if it were a dirty word. "His parents were Russians, and his grandparents were Russians. I swear to your mother's face that if he dares to touch me again, I'll break his hand. ”

"Dr. Schneider's parents fled from Russia, you know? They're on the run!"

But Dad didn't listen at all. Sometimes I think that the only thing Dad loves as much as his wife loves is Afghanistan, his homeland. I almost screamed in frenzy, but I just sighed and turned to Dr. Schneider. "I'm sorry, doctor, but there's no way."

The second pulmonologist was named Amani, who was Iranian, and Dad agreed. Dr. Amani has a soft voice, a crooked mustache, and silver hair. He told us that he had seen the results of the CAT scan and that the next thing he was going to do was to do a procedure called bronchoscopy to remove a piece of lung for pathological analysis. He scheduled it for next week. I helped my dad out of the room and thanked the doctor, thinking to myself that I would have to spend a whole week with the word "lung mass," which was even more unlucky than "suspicious." I hope Soraya can be here with me.

Just like the devil, cancer goes by a variety of different names. Dad's treatment is called "oat cell malignancy". has spread. You can't do it. When Dad asked about his condition, Dr. Amani bit his lip and used the word "serious." "Of course, chemotherapy can be done." "But that's just a palliative, not a cure." ”

"What does that mean?" Dad asked.

"That is, it can't change the outcome, it can only delay it," Amani sighed.

"That's a lot clearer, Dr. Amani, thank you." Dad said, "But please don't do chemotherapy on me." He looked as relieved as he had had been at Mrs. Dobbins's counter that day.

"But, Daddy......"

"Don't talk back to me in public, Amir, never. Who do you think you are?"

The rain mentioned by General Tahri at the flea market was weeks late, but as we walked out of Dr. Amani's office, passing traffic splashed the water on the ground onto the sidewalk. Dad lit a cigarette. On our way home, he smoked in the car all the time.

Just as he reached into the keyhole of the downstairs door, I said, "I hope you'll consider chemotherapy, Dad."

Dad put the keys in his pocket, pulled me out of the rain under the building's dilapidated canopy, and poked my chest with his hand holding a cigarette: "Shut up! I've decided. ”

"What about me, Daddy? What should I do?" I said, tears welling up.

A look of disgust swept over his rain-soaked face. When I was a child, whenever I fell, scraped my knee, and cried loudly, he would give me that look. At the time, it was because crying disgusted him, and now it is also because crying makes him unhappy. "You're twenty-two, Amir! An adult! You ......" he opened his mouth, closed, opened it again, and thought again. Above us, the rain pounded on the canvas canopy. "What will happen to you, you say? What I've been trying to teach you all these years is to never ask this question. ”

He opened the door and turned to face me. "Also, don't let people know about it, do you hear? Don't let anyone know. I don't need anyone's mercy. Then he disappeared into the dimly lit hall. For the rest of the day, he sat in front of the television, smoking cigarette after cigarette. I don't know what he despised or who it was. I? Dr. Amani? Or maybe Allah, whom he never believed?

For a while, even cancer didn't stop Dad from going to the flea market. We still scoured the garage stores on Saturdays, with my dad as the driver, me as the guide, and set up a stall on Sundays. Copper lamps. Baseball gloves. Ski jacket with broken zipper. Dad exchanged greetings with people he knew in that old country, and I haggled with customers for a dollar or two. It's as if it's business as usual. It was as if the day of my orphanage was not approaching with each stall closure.

General Taheri and his wife sometimes come to our side. The general still had the demeanor of a diplomat, greeting me with a smile on his face and shaking hands with both hands. But Mrs. Taheri was a little aloof, but she would take advantage of the General's inattention, and secretly bow her head and smile at me, casting an apologetic look.

I remember a lot of "firsts" in those years: the first time I heard my dad moaning in the bathroom. Blood was first found on his pillow. In the three years since he took charge of the gas station, Dad has never called in sick. Another first.

By Halloween that year, just after halfway through the afternoon of Saturday, Dad was tired, and he stayed in the car to wait when I got out of the car to pick up the scrap. By Thanksgiving, he couldn't eat it before noon. When the sleigh appeared on the lawn in front of the house, the fake snow sprinkled on the branches of the Douglas firs, my dad stayed at home, and I drove the Volkswagen bus around the peninsula by myself.

At flea markets, Afghans occasionally talk about their father's wasting. At first, they flattered and asked Dad what was the secret recipe for his diet. But the questioning and flattery stopped, and Dad's weight continued to drop. The pounds keep decreasing, and then decreasing. His cheeks were sunken, his temples were sagging, and his eyes were sunken deep into his sockets.

Then, shortly after the New Year, on a cold Sunday morning, Dad was selling lampshades to a stout Filipino, and I rummaged around the Volkswagen bus for a blanket to cover his legs.

"Hey, boy, this guy needs help!" The Filipino shouted anxiously. I turned around and found my dad on the ground, his limbs twitching.

"Help!" I yelled, "Someone!" I ran to my dad. He foamed at the mouth, and the bubbles that flowed out soaked his beard. His eyes rolled up, and he saw a blank patch.

Everyone is coming to us. I heard someone say they had a seizure, another said "Hit 911!", and I heard a run. The crowd gathered around, and the sky became dark.

Daddy's foam was turning red, and he was biting his tongue. I knelt beside him, grabbed his arm, and said I'm here daddy, I'm here, you'll be fine, I'm right here. As if that way, I was able to ease his ailments and stop bothering my father. I felt my knees wet. Dad was incontinent. Shhhhh Your son is here.

The white-bearded doctor had a shiny head on his head and pulled me out of the room. "I'd like to see your dad's CAT scan with you." He said. He placed Filin on a light box in the hallway, and pointed to the picture of his father's cancer with a pencil and eraser, as if the police were showing the murderer's portrait to the victims' families. In those photos, Dad's brain looks like a cut of a walnut, dotted with several tennis-like shades of gray.

"As you can see, the cancer has metastasized." "He had to take steroids to shrink the lump in his brain and take anti-stroke medications," he said. I'm suggesting radiation therapy, you know what I mean?"

I said I understood. I'm already familiar with the terminology associated with cancer.

"That's good," he said, looking at his pager, "I have to go, but if you have any questions, you can page." ”

"Thank you."

That night, I sat all night in a chair next to my father's bed.

The next morning, the waiting room at the end of the corridor was filled with Afghans, including a butcher from Newark and an engineer from Dad when he was building an orphanage. They walked in one after another, expressing their respect to their father in a mournful tone, wishing him a speedy recovery. By that time Dad had woken up, he was weak and tired, but sober.

Halfway through the morning, General Tahri and his wife also came. Soraya followed, and we glanced at each other, looking away. "How are you, old friend?" General Tahri said, holding his father's hand.

Dad motioned for him to look at the infusion tube on his arm, and smiled weakly. The general smiled back.

"You shouldn't be so troublesome, all of you." Dad groaned.

"It's not a hassle." Mrs. Tahri said.

"No hassle at all. More importantly, do you need anything?" General Tahri said, "Anything, please treat me as your brother." ”

I remember one time my dad told me about Pashtuns. We may be stubborn, and I know we're too proud, but in times of crisis, believe me, you'd rather be a Pashtun by your side.

Dad shook his head on the pillow, "I'm glad you're here." The general smiled and squeezed his father's hand. "How are you? Dear Amir? Do you need anything?"

He looked at me like that, his eyes full of love...... "No, thank you, General." I ...... "My throat choked, tears couldn't stop falling, and I rushed out of the hospital room.

I was standing on the edge of the lightbox in the hallway crying, and it was there that the night before, I saw the murderer for what he really was.

Daddy's door opened, and Soraya stepped out of his hospital room. She was standing next to me, dressed in a gray kaftan and jeans. Her hair poured down. I wanted to seek comfort in her arms.

"I'm sorry, Amir." "We all know things are bad, but we don't have any ideas," she said. ”

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, "He doesn't want anyone to know." ”

"Do you need anything?"

"Nope." I squeezed out a smile. She put her hand on mine. This was our first touch. I took her hand, pulled it over my face, over my eyes, and let her pull it away. "You'd better go back inside, or your dad will come out looking for it."

She smiled and nodded, "Then I'll go back." She turned away.

"Soraya?"

"What's wrong?"

"I'm glad you're here. This is ...... for me means everything. ”

Two days later, they discharged Dad from the hospital. They brought in a radiation oncologist to persuade my father to undergo radiation therapy. Dad refused. They tried to get me to join the lobby as well. But I saw the look on my dad's face, thanked them, signed their form, and took him home in that Ford Turin.

That night, Dad lay on the couch with a woolen blanket over his body. I brought him hot black tea and roasted almonds, put my hand behind his back, and easily helped him up. His shoulder felt like a bird's wing in my hand. I pulled the blanket over his chest, where he was skinny and had a very poor complexion.

"Need I do something for you, Daddy?"

"No, my child, thank you."

I sat down next to him: "I wonder if you can do something for me, if you can still get through it."

"What's the matter?"

"I want you to help me propose, I want you to go to General Taheri's house and propose to him."

Daddy's dry lips bloomed with a smile, like a little green on a withered leaf. "Have you figured it out?"

"I've never been so clear."

"Have you thought it through?"

"Of course, Dad."

"Give me the phone, and my little notebook."

I winked, "Now?"

"How long will it take?"

I smiled, "Okay." I gave him the phone number, and the notebook that my dad used to record the phone numbers of his Afghan friends. He finds Tahri's number. Dial. Bring the earpiece to your ear. My heart was pounding in my chest.

"Dear Jamila? Good evening. He identified himself, he said. Stop it. "Much better, thank you. Thank you so much for visiting me. He listened for a moment and nodded, "I'll remember, thank you." Is the General at home?" Stop it. "Thank you."

His eyes were on me. Somehow I wanted to laugh, or scream. My hand was clenched into a fist, stuffed in my mouth, and bit it. Dad chuckled softly.

"Good evening, General...... Yes, much better, much better...... Good...... You're so good. I have called, Sir. General, to ask if I can visit you and Mrs. Tahri tomorrow morning, for there is something very honorable...... Yes...... Eleven o'clock was just right. See you then. Good bye. ”

He hung up. We looked at each other. I burst out laughing, and my dad joined in.

Daddy wets his hair and combs it back. I put him on a clean white shirt and tie his tie, and noticed that there was an extra two inches of space between the buttons on the collar and Dad's neck. I'm thinking about how much void my dad will leave behind when he dies. I forced myself to think of something else. He's not gone, he's not, and he should think of something beautiful today. His brown blazer, which I wore on my graduation day, hung loosely on him — Dad was so thin that it didn't fit anymore. I had to roll up my sleeves. I bent down to tie his shoelaces.

The Taheri family lives in a single-story bungalow in the Fremont area, which is known as the Afghan colony. The house had bay windows, a pitched roof, and a fenced porch, on which I saw several geraniums.

I helped my dad out of the Ford and slipped back in. He leaned against the passenger window: "Go home, I'll call you in an hour."

"Okay, Dad." I said, "Good luck." ”

He smiled.

I drove away. Through the rearview mirror, Dad is walking into the driveway of Taheri's house, fulfilling his responsibilities as a father for the last time.

I walked around the living room of our residence, waiting for my dad's call. The living room is 15 steps long and 10 and a half steps wide. What if the general refuses? What if he hates me? I kept going into the kitchen to check the clock on the oven.

It was almost noon when the phone rang. It's Daddy.

"How?"

"The general agreed."

I breathed a sigh of relief. Sit down, hands shaking. "He agreed?"

"Yes. But dear Soraya is in her room in the attic, and she wants to talk to you first. ”

"Okay."

Dad said a few words to someone, and then there were two keystrokes, and he hung up.

"Amir?" Soraya's voice.

"Hello."

"My dad agreed."

"I know." I said, holding the handset in another hand. I'm smiling. "I'm so happy I don't know what to say."

"I'm happy too, Amir. I...... I can't believe it's true. ”

I laughed, "I know."

"Listen," she said, "I want to tell you something. Something you must know beforehand......"

"I don't care what it is."

"You have to know. I don't want us to have a secret in the first place, and I'd rather tell you personally. ”

"If that makes you feel better, just tell me. But it doesn't change anything. ”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a long time. "When we were living in Virginia, I eloped with an Afghan. I was eighteen years old...... Very rebellious...... Stupidity...... He was a drug addict...... We lived together for almost a month. All Afghans in Virginia are talking. ”

"Finally Dad found us. He stood in the doorway...... You want me to go home. I was hysterical, crying, screaming, saying I hated him......"

"Anyway, I went home, and ......," she was crying, "I'm sorry." I heard her lower the mic and wipe her nose. I'm sorry," she started again, her voice a little hoarse, "I went home and found that my mother had had a stroke and the right side of her face was paralyzed...... I felt guilty. She wouldn't have been like this. ”

Soon after, my dad moved the family to California." There was silence.

"How are you and your dad doing?" I say.

"We've always had disagreements, and we still have, but I'm grateful that he came to me that day. I truly believe he saved me. She paused, "So, did what I say embarrass you?"

"A little." I say. This time I told her the truth. I can't deceive her, after hearing her sleep with a man, it's a lie to say that my dignity is unharmed, after all, I never brought a woman to bed. It was very difficult for me, but I had been thinking about it for weeks before asking my dad to propose to me. And at the end of each time, it always comes back to the same question: Why should I blame someone else's past?

"Are you embarrassed to change your mind?"

"No, Soraya. It's not that serious. I said, "Whatever you say, it won't change anything." I want to marry you. ”

She began to cry again.

　　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。
I'm jealous of her. Her secret was revealed, told, and solved. I opened my mouth and almost told her how I betrayed Hassan, lied to him, kicked him out of the house, and ruined my father's forty-year friendship with Ali. But I didn't. I suspect that in many ways, Soraya Tahri is much better than me. Courage is just one of them.

结局
finale

　　我与索拉雅结了婚，然后爸爸去世，生活如常，直到有一天接到电话。
I got married to Soraya and then my dad died and life went on as usual until one day I got a phone call.

　　2001年6月
June 2001

　　我把话筒放回座机，久久凝望着它。
I put the microphone back on my desk and stared at it for a long time.

　　“你脸色苍白，阿米尔。”索拉雅说。
"You're pale, Amir." Soraya said.

　　“我得去一趟巴基斯坦。”
"I need to go to Pakistan."

　　她当即站起来:“巴基斯坦?”
She immediately stood up: "Pakistan?"

　　“拉辛汗病得很厉害。”我说着这话的时候内心绞痛。
"Rahim Khan is very sick." I said this with a cramping in my heart.

　　“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。
"Uncle's former partner?" She had never met Rahim Khan, but I mentioned him. I nodded.

　　“哦，”她说，“我很难过，阿米尔，要我陪着你吗?”
"Oh," she said, "I'm sad, Amir, do you want me to stay with you?"

　　“不用，我想一个人。”
"No, I want to be alone."

　　“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。
"Come on. There's a way to be a good person again. Rahim Khan said this before hanging up the phone. It's mentioned casually, but it seems to be well thought out.

　　再次成为好人的路。
The way to be a good guy again.

　　一周之后，我上了巴基斯坦国际航空公司的飞机。
A week later, I was on a Pakistan International Airlines plane.

　　与拉辛汗的会面，让我陷入极度的震惊中。哈桑是我同父异母的兄弟。我知道我要把他正在受难的孩子找到。
The meeting with Rahim Khan threw me into extreme shock. Hassan is my half-brother. I knew I was going to find his suffering child.

　　想办法救出哈桑的儿子，想办法把他带到美国，经历了常人难以想象的磨难……
Trying to find a way to rescue Hassan's son and bring him to the United States has gone through unimaginable hardships......

　　我终于把哈桑的儿子从阿富汗带到美国，让他飞离那业已过去的凄恻往事，降落在即将到来的未知生活之中。索拉雅到机场接我们。我从未离开这么长时间，当她双臂环住我脖子的时候，我闻到她头发上的苹果香味，意识到我有多么想念她。她将身子蹲到跟索拉博一样高，拉起他的手，笑着对他说:“你好，亲爱的索拉博，我是你的索拉雅阿姨，我们大家一直在等你。”
I finally brought Hassan's son from Afghanistan to the United States, and let him fly away from the sad past and land in the unknown life that was about to come. Soraya picked us up from the airport. I've never been away for so long, and as she wrapped her arms around my neck, I smelled the scent of apples in her hair and realized how much I missed her. She crouched down to the same height as Sorabo, took his hand, and said to him with a smile, "Hello, dear Sorabo, I am your Aunt Soraya, and we have all been waiting for you."

　　我看到她朝索拉博微笑，眼噙泪水的模样，也看到假如她的子宫没有背叛主人，她该会是什么样的母亲。
I saw her smile at Sohrab with tears in her eyes, and I saw what kind of mother she would have been if her womb had not betrayed her master.

　　索拉博双脚原地挪动，眼睛望向别处。
Sohrab moved his feet and looked away.

　　索拉雅已经把楼上的书房收拾成索拉博的卧房。床单绣着风筝在靛蓝的天空中飞翔的图案。她在衣橱旁边的墙上做了刻度尺，标记英尺和英寸，用来测量孩子日益长高的身材。我看到床脚有个装满图书的柳条篮子，一个玩具火车头，还有一盒水彩笔。
Soraya had already packed the upstairs study into Sorabo's bedroom. The sheets are embroidered with a kite flying in the indigo sky. She made a scale on the wall next to the closet, marking feet and inches, to measure the child's growing stature. I saw a wicker basket full of books, a toy locomotive, and a box of watercolor pens at the foot of the bed.

　　索拉博看着我们，神情冷淡。
Sohrab looked at us with a grim expression.

　　那晚夜深人静的时候，我悄悄下床，走到索拉博的房间。我站在他身旁，望下去，看到他枕头下面有东西突出。我把它捡起来，发现是拉辛汗的宝丽莱照片，那张我们坐在费萨尔清真寺附近那夜我给索拉博的照片。我在想索拉博究竟躺在床上将手里拿着的这张照片翻来覆去地看了多久。
In the dead of night, I quietly got out of bed and walked to Sohrab's room. I stood next to him, looked down, and saw something sticking out from under his pillow. I picked it up and found that it was Rahim Khan's Polaroid photo, the one I gave to Sohrab the night we sat near the Faisal Mosque. I wondered how long Sohrab had been lying in bed and flipping through the picture he was holding.

　　我看着那张照片，阳光打在哈桑露出缺了两个门牙的笑脸上。爸爸的另一半，没有名分、没有特权的一半，那继承了爸爸身上纯洁高贵品质的一半，也许，在爸爸内心某处秘密的地方，这是他当成自己的真正儿子的一半。
I looked at the photo, and the sun was shining on Hassan's smiling face, which was missing two front teeth. Daddy's other half, the half without title and privilege, the half who inherited Daddy's pure and noble qualities, perhaps, somewhere secret in Daddy's heart, this is half of what he regarded as his true son.

　　隔日，将军和雅米拉阿姨前来一起用晚膳。看到索拉博，雅米拉阿姨喜形于色:“安拉保佑!亲爱的索拉雅告诉我们你有多么英俊，但是你真人更加好看，亲爱的索拉博。”她递给他一件蓝色的圆翻领毛衣。“我替你织了这个，”她说，“到下个冬天，奉安拉之名，你穿上它会合身的。”
The next day, the general and Aunt Jamila came to have dinner together. At the sight of Sohrab, Aunt Jamila was overjoyed: "Allah willing! Dear Soraya tells us how handsome you are, but you are even more beautiful in real life, dear Sorabo. She handed him a blue roll-neck sweater. I have woven this for you," she said, "and in the name of Allah next winter, you will wear it and it will fit." ”

　　索拉博从她手里接过毛衣。
Sohrab took the sweater from her.

　　“你好，小伙子。”将军只说了这么一句，双手拄着拐杖，看着索拉博，似乎在研究某人房子的奇异装饰。
"Hello, lad." The general said only that, with his hands on crutches, and looked at Sohrab, as if studying the bizarre decoration of someone's house.

　　用过晚饭之后，将军放下他的叉子，问:“那么，亲爱的阿米尔，你是不是该告诉我们，你为什么要带这个男孩回来?”
After dinner, the general put down his fork and asked, "So, dear Amir, should you tell us why you brought this boy back?"

　　“亲爱的伊克伯!这是什么问题?”雅米拉阿姨说。
"Dear Ikeber! What's the problem?" Aunt Jamila said.

　　“你在忙着编织毛衣的时候，亲爱的，我不得不应付邻居对我们家的看法。人们会有疑问。他们会想知道为什么有个哈扎拉男孩住在我女儿家。我怎么跟他们说?”
"While you're busy knitting sweaters, honey, I have to deal with what the neighbors think of our home. People will have doubts. They will wonder why there is a Hazara boy living in my daughter's house. How do I tell them?"

　　我转向将军，“你知道吗，将军大人，我爸爸睡了他仆人的老婆。她给他生了个儿子，名字叫做哈桑。现在哈桑死掉了，睡在沙发上那个男孩是哈桑的儿子。他是我的侄儿。要是有人发问，你可以这样告诉他们。”
I turned to the general, "You know, General, my dad slept with his servant's wife. She bore him a son named Hassan. Now Hassan is dead, and the boy sleeping on the couch is Hassan's son. He is my nephew. If someone asks questions, you can tell them this. ”

　　他们全都瞪着我。
They all glared at me.

　　“还有，将军大人，”我说，“以后我在场的时候，请你永远不要叫他‘哈扎拉男孩’。他有名字，他的名字叫索拉博。”
"And, Lord General," I said, "I beg you never to call him 'Hazara Boy' when I am here." He has a name, and his name is Sohrab. ”

　　大家默默吃完那顿饭。
Everyone finished the meal in silence.

　　如果说索拉博很安静是错误的。安静是祥和，是平静，是降下生命音量的旋钮。
It would be a mistake to say that Sohrab was quiet. Silence is peaceful, it is calm, it is the knob that lowers the volume of life.

　　沉默是把那个按钮关掉，把它旋下，全部旋掉。
Silence is to turn that button off, unscrew it, unscrew it all.

　　索拉博的沉默既不是来自洞明世事之后的泰然自若，也并非由于他选择了默默不语来秉持自己的信念和表达抗议，而是对生活曾有过的黑暗忍气吞声地照单全收。
Sohrab's silence did not come from his composure after the events of the world, nor did he choose to remain silent to uphold his beliefs and protest, but to swallow the darkness of life as it had been.

　　他身在曹营心在汉，人跟我们共同生活，而心跟我们一起的时候少得可怜。有时候，在市场或者公园里面，我注意到人们仿佛甚至没有看到他，似乎他根本并不存在。我曾经从书本抬头，发现索拉博业已走进房间，坐在我对面，而我毫无察觉。他走路的样子似乎害怕留下脚印，移动的时候似乎不想搅起周围的空气。多数时候，他选择了睡觉。
He is in Cao Ying, his heart is in Han, people live with us, and the heart is pitiful when he is with us. Sometimes, in the market or in the park, I notice that people don't even see him, as if he doesn't exist at all. I once looked up from my book and saw that Sohrab had walked into the room and sat across from me, and I didn't know it. He walked as if he was afraid of leaving footprints, and when he moved, he didn't seem to want to stir up the air around him. Most of the time, he chose to sleep.

　　索拉博沉默的时候，世界风起云涌。“九一一”之后，美国轰炸了阿富汗，北方联盟乘机而进，塔利班像老鼠逃回洞穴那样四处亡命。突然间，人们在杂货店排队等待收银，谈着我童年生活过的那些城市：坎大哈、赫拉特、马扎里沙里夫。阿富汗人的羊皮帽和绿色长袍变得众所周知。
While Sohrab was silent, the world was in turmoil. After 9/11, the United States bombed Afghanistan, the Northern Alliance took advantage of the opportunity, and the Taliban fled like rats back to their caves. All of a sudden, people were waiting in line at the grocery store waiting for the cashier, talking about the cities I lived in as a child: Kandahar, Herat, Mazar-e-Sharif. Afghans with sheepskin hats and green robes became known.

　　索拉博依然梦游般地度过这段日子。
Sohrab still sleepwalks through it.

　　然而，4天之前，2002年3月某个阴冷的雨天，发生了一个小小的奇迹。
However, four days ago, on a cold and rainy day in March 2002, a small miracle happened.

　　我带索拉雅、雅米拉阿姨和索拉博参加弗里蒙特伊丽莎白湖公园的阿富汗人聚会。上个月，阿富汗终于征召将军回去履任一个大臣的职位，他两个星期前飞走——他留下了灰色西装和怀表。雅米拉阿姨计划等他安顿好之后，过一两个月再去和他团聚。
I took Soraya, Aunt Jamila, and Sorabo to the Afghan gathering at Lake Elizabeth Park in Fremont. Last month, Afghanistan finally called the general back to his post as a minister, who flew away two weeks ago — leaving behind a gray suit and pocket watch. Aunt Jamila planned to join him in a month or two after he was settled.

　　上个星期二是春季的第一天，过去是阿富汗的新年，湾区的阿富汗人计划在东湾和半岛举行盛大的庆祝活动。
Last Tuesday was the first day of spring, which used to be the Afghan New Year, and Afghans in the Bay Area planned a grand celebration in the East Bay and the peninsula.

　　我们是在中午到的，发现地面插了六根柱子，上面搭了长方形的塑料布，里面有一些人。有人已经开始炸面饼；蒸汽从茶杯和花椰菜面锅冒出来。一台磁带播放机放着艾哈迈德·查希尔聒噪的老歌。我们四个人冲过那片潮湿的草地时，我微微发笑；索拉雅和我走在前面，雅米拉阿姨在中间，后面是索拉博，他穿着黄色雨衣，兜帽拍打着他的后背。
We arrived at noon and found six pillars in the ground with rectangular plastic sheeting on them, and there were some people in them. Someone has already started frying dough; Steam came out of the teacup and cauliflower noodle pot. A cassette player played Ahmad Zahir's noisy old songs. I laughed slightly as the four of us rushed across the wet meadow; Soraya and I walked in front, Aunt Jamila in the middle, and Sorabo in the back, wearing a yellow raincoat with a hood lapping his back.

　　索拉博在雨棚下面站了一会，接着走回雨中，双手插进雨衣的口袋，他的头发贴在头上。他在一个咖啡色的水坑旁边停下，看着它。似乎没有人注意到他，没有人喊他进来。随着时间流逝，人们终于仁慈地不再问起我们收养这个——他的行为怪异一目了然——小男孩的问题。而考虑到阿富汗人的提问有时毫不拐弯抹角，这当真是个很大的解脱。人们不再问为什么他不说话，为什么他不和其他小孩玩。而最令人高兴的是，他们不再用夸张的同情、他们的慢慢摇头、他们的咋舌、他们的“噢，这个可怜的小哑巴”来让我们窒息。新奇的感觉不见了，索拉博就像发旧的墙纸一样融进了这个生活环境。
Sohrab stood under the canopy for a moment, then walked back into the rain, his hands in the pockets of his raincoat, his hair on his head. He stopped next to a coffee-colored puddle and looked at it. No one seemed to notice him, no one called him in. As time passed, people were finally merciful enough to stop asking us about the adoption of this little boy whose behavior was strange at a glance. And that's a great relief to consider that Afghans sometimes ask questions without beating around the bush. People no longer ask why he doesn't talk, why he doesn't play with other children. And the most pleasing thing is that they no longer suffocate us with exaggerated sympathy, their slow shaking of their heads, their staggering, their "oh, poor little mute". The novelty is gone, and Sohrab blends into the living environment like old wallpaper.

　　下午，雨晴了，铅灰色的天空阴云密布，一阵寒风吹过公园。更多的家庭来到了。阿富汗人彼此问候，拥抱，亲吻，交换食物。我正在跟那个原来当外科医师的人聊天，他说他念八年级的时候跟我爸爸是同学，索拉雅拉拉我的衣袖:“阿米尔，看!”
In the afternoon, the rain cleared, the lead-gray sky was overcast, and a cold wind blew through the park. More families came. Afghans greeted each other, hugged, kissed, exchanged food. I was talking to the man who used to be a surgeon, and he said that he was a classmate of my dad when he was in eighth grade, and Soraya pulled my sleeve: "Amir, look!"

　　她指着天空。几只风筝高高飞翔，黄色的、红色的、绿色的，点缀在灰色的天空上，格外夺目。
She pointed to the sky. Several kites fly high, yellow, red, and green, dotted on the gray sky, which is particularly eye-catching.

　　“去看看。”索拉雅说，这次她指着一个在附近摆摊卖风筝的家伙。
"Check it out." This time, Soraya said, she pointed to a guy who was selling kites at a stall nearby.

　　我买了一只黄色的风筝。我试试风筝线，像过去哈桑和我经常做的那样，用拇指和食指捏着拉开。它被血染红，卖风筝那人微微发笑，我报以微笑。
I bought a yellow kite. I tried kite strings, pinching and pulling apart with my thumb and forefinger, as Hassan and I used to do in the past. It was stained red with blood, and the kite seller smiled slightly, and I smiled back.

　　我把风筝带到索拉博站着的地方，他仍倚着垃圾桶，双手抱在胸前，抬头望着天空。
I took the kite to where Sorabo was standing, still leaning on the trash can, his hands clasped to his chest, looking up at the sky.

　　“你喜欢风筝吗?”我举起风筝横轴的两端。他的眼睛从天空落到我身上，看看风筝，又望着我。几点雨珠从他头发上滴下来，流下他的脸庞。
"Do you like kites?" I lifted both ends of the kite's horizontal axis. His eyes fell on me from the sky, looked at the kite, and looked at me again. A few drops of rain dripped down his hair and down his face.

　　我舔舔食指，将它竖起来。“我记得你父亲测风向的办法是用他的拖鞋踢起尘土，看风将它吹到那儿。他懂得很多这样的小技巧。”我放低手指说，“西风，我想。”
I licked my index finger and put it upright. "I remember your father's way of measuring the direction of the wind was to kick up the dust with his slippers and watch the wind blow it there. He knows a lot of these tricks. I lowered my finger and said, "Zephyr, I think." ”

　　索拉博擦去耳垂上的一点雨珠，双脚磨地，什么也没说。
Sohrab wiped a little raindrop off his earlobe, rubbed his feet on the ground, and said nothing.

　　“我有没有跟你说过，你爸爸是瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区最棒的追风筝的人?也许还是全喀布尔最棒的?”我一边说，一边将卷轴的线头系在风筝中轴的圆环上。“邻居的小孩都很妒忌他。他追风筝的时候从来不用看着天空，大家经常说他追着风筝的影子。但他们不知道我知道的事情，你爸爸不是在追什么影子，他只是……知道。”
"Did I tell you that your father was the best kite runner in the Wazir Akbar Khan district? Maybe it's the best in all of Kabul?" As I spoke, I tied the end of the reel to the ring of the kite's central axis. The neighbor's children were jealous of him. He never had to look at the sky when he was chasing a kite, and people often said that he chased the shadow of the kite. But they don't know what I know, your dad isn't chasing a shadow, he's just ...... Know. ”

　　又有几只风筝飞起来，人们开始三五成群聚在一起，手里拿着茶杯，望向天空。
A few more kites flew up, and people began to gather in groups of three or five, teacups in their hands, looking at the sky.

　　“好吧。”我耸耸肩，“看来我得一个人把它放起来了。”
"Okay." I shrugged, "Looks like I'm going to have to put it up alone." ”

　　我左手拿稳卷轴，放开大约三英尺的线。黄色的风筝吊在线后摇晃，就在湿草地上面。“最后的机会了哦。”我说。可是索拉博看着两只高高飞在树顶之上的风筝。
I held the scroll in my left hand and let go of about three feet of thread. The yellow kite swayed behind the line, just above the wet grass. "It's a last chance." I say. But Sohrab looked at the two kites flying high above the treetops.

　　“好吧，那我开始了。”我撒腿跑开，运动鞋从水洼中溅起阵阵雨水，手里抓着线连着风筝的那头，高举在头顶。我已经有很久、很多年没这么做过了，我在怀疑自己会不会出洋相。我边跑边让卷轴在我手里转开，感到线放开的时候又割伤了我的右手。风筝在我肩膀后面飞起来了，飞翔着，旋转着，我跑得更快了。卷轴迅速旋转，风筝线再次在我右掌割开一道伤痕。我站住，转身，举头，微笑。我已经有四分之一个世纪没有放过风筝了，但刹那之间，我又变成十二岁，过去那些感觉统统涌上心头。
"Okay, then I'll get started." I ran away, my sneakers splashing rain from the puddle, and I held the end of the kite with the string in my hand and held it high above my head. I haven't done this in a long, many years, and I'm wondering if I'm going to look foreign. I let the scroll spin away in my hand as I ran, and felt the thread cut my right hand again as it let go. The kite flew up behind my shoulder, flying, spinning, and I ran faster. The reel spun rapidly, and the kite string cut a scar on my right palm again. I stopped, turned around, raised my head, and smiled. I hadn't flown a kite for a quarter of a century, but in an instant, I was twelve years old again, and all the feelings I had had come back to me.

　　我感到有人在我旁边，眼睛朝下看：是索拉博。他双手深深插在雨衣口袋中，跟在我身后。
I felt someone next to me, eyes down: it was Sohrab. He followed me with his hands deep in the pockets of his raincoat.

　　“你想试试吗?”我问。他一语不发，但我把线递给他的时候，他的手从口袋伸出来，犹疑不决，接过线。我转动卷轴把线松开，心跳加速。我们静静地并排站着，脖子仰起。
"Do you want to try?" I asked. He didn't say a word, but when I handed him the thread, his hand came out of his pocket, hesitated, and took it. I turned the reel to loosen the string, and my heart raced. We stood quietly side by side, our necks up.

　　一只绿色的风筝正在靠近。我沿着线往下看，见到一个孩子站在离我们三十米外。他留着平头，身上的恤衫用粗黑字体印着“ROCKRULES”。他见到我在看着他，微微发笑，招招手。我也朝他招手。
A green kite is approaching. I looked down the line and saw a child standing thirty meters away from us. He has a flat head and a shirt with "ROCKRULES" printed in bold black letters. When he saw me looking at him, he smiled and beckoned. I waved to him too.

　　索拉博把线交还我。
Sohrab handed me back the line.

　　“你确定吗?”我说，接过它。
"Are you sure?" I said, take it.

　　他从我手里拿回卷轴。
He took the scroll back from me.

　　“好的。”我说，“让我们给他一点颜色瞧瞧，教训他一下，好吧?”我俯视着他，他眼里那种模糊空洞的神色已经不见了。他的眼光在我们的风筝和那只绿色风筝之间来回转动，脸色有一点点发红，眼睛骤然机警起来。苏醒了。复活了。我在寻思，我什么时候忘了?不管怎么说，他仍只是一个孩子。
"Okay." I said, "Let's give him a little bit of color and teach him a lesson, okay?" I looked down at him, and the vague and empty look in his eyes was gone. His eyes went back and forth between our kite and the green kite, his face a little red, and his eyes suddenly became alert. Woke up. Resurrected. I'm thinking, when did I forget? Anyway, he's just a kid.

　　绿色风筝采取行动了。“我们等等，”我说，“我们会让它再靠近一些。”它下探了两次，慢慢朝我们挪过来。“来啊，过来啊。”我说。
The green kite took action. "We'll wait," I said, "we'll get it a little closer." "It poked down twice and slowly moved towards us." Come on, come here. I said.

　　绿风筝已经更近了，在我们稍高的地方拉升，对我为它布下的陷阱毫不知情。“看，索拉博，我会让你看看你爸爸最喜欢的招数，那招古老的猛升急降。”
The green kite was already closer, pulling up a little higher than us, unaware of the trap I had laid for it. "Look, Sohrab, I'll show you your father's favorite trick, the ancient ascent and plunge."

　　索拉博挨着我，用鼻子急促地呼吸着。卷轴在他手中滚动，他伤痕累累的手腕上的筋腱很像雷巴布琴的琴弦。我眨眨眼，瞬间，拿着卷轴的是一个兔唇男孩指甲破裂、长满老茧的手。我听见某个地方传来牛的哞哞叫，而我抬头，公园闪闪发光，铺满的雪多么新鲜，白得多么耀眼，令我目眩神迷。雪花无声地洒落在白色的枝头上，现在我闻到了芜青拌饭的香味，还有桑椹干、酸橙子、锯屑和胡桃的气味。一阵雪花飞舞的寂静盖住了所有声音。然后，远远地，有个声音穿透这片死寂，呼喊我们回家，是那个拖着右腿的男人的声音。
Sohrab was next to me, breathing sharply through his nose. The scroll rolled in his hand, and the tendons on his scarred wrist resembled the strings of a rebab. I blinked, and in an instant, holding the scroll was the hand of a boy with cleft lips with cracked nails and calluses. I heard the mooing of cows somewhere, and when I looked up, the park was shining, and I was dazzled by how fresh and white the snow was. Snowflakes fell silently on the white branches, and now I could smell the scent of turnips, dried mulberries, limes, sawdust, and walnuts. The silence of snowflakes drowning out all sounds. Then, in the distance, a voice pierced through the dead silence and called for us to go home, the voice of the man dragging his right leg.

　　绿风筝现在就在我们正上方翱翔。“我们现在随时可以把它干掉了。”我说，眼睛在索拉博和我们的风筝间飞快地转着。
The green kite is now soaring directly above us. "We can get rid of it at any time now." I said, eyes darting between Sohrab and our kites.

　　绿风筝摇摇晃晃，定住位，接着向下冲。“他玩完了!”我说。
The green kite staggered, held its seat, and then rushed downward. "He's done!" I say.

　　这么多年之后，我无懈可击地再次使出那招古老的猛升急降。我松开手，猛拉着线，往下避开那只绿风筝。我侧过手臂，一阵急遽的抖动之后，我们的风筝逆时针划出一个半圆。我突然占据了上面的位置。绿色风筝现在惊惶失措，慌乱地向上攀升。但它已经太迟了，我已经使出哈桑的绝技。我猛拉着线，我们的风筝直坠而下。我几乎能听见我们的线割断他的线，几乎能听见那一声断裂。
After all these years, I have been impeccable enough to pull off that ancient ascent and plunge again. I let go of my hand and tugged on the string, going down to avoid the green kite. I turned my arm sideways, and after a sharp shaking, our kite drew a semicircle counterclockwise. I suddenly took the position above. The green kite is now panicked and climbs upwards in a panic. But it's too late, and I've already pulled off Hassan's stunt. I jerked the string and our kite plummeted down. I could almost hear our thread cut his thread, I could almost hear the snap.

Then, just like that, the green kite lost control and staggered down.

The people behind us cheered and erupted in whistles and applause. I gasped. The last time I felt this excitement was on that winter day in 1975, just after I had cut my last kite, when I saw my dad on our rooftop, clapping and radiant.

I looked down at Sohrab, the corners of his mouth slightly curled.

Smile.

Diagonally.

Almost invisible.

But right there.

Behind us, the children were racing, and the kite runners were screaming and chaotic as they chased the broken kite fluttering high above the treetops. I blinked, and the smile was gone. But it appeared there, I saw it.

"Do you want me to chase that kite for you?"

His Adam's apple swallowed and squirmed up and down. The wind ruffled his hair. I think I saw him nodding.

"For you, thousands of times." I heard myself say.

Then I turned around and I chased.

It's just a smile and nothing else. It didn't get everything back to normal. It didn't bring anything back to normal. Just a smile, a little thing, like a leaf in the woods, swaying in the flight of a startled bird.

But I'll meet it, arms open. Because every time spring comes, it always melts a snowflake at a time; And maybe what I just saw was the melting of the first snowflakes.

I chase. An adult runs through a group of screaming children. But I don't care. I chased, the wind blowing across my face, and a big smile on my lips like the Panjshir Gorge.