He winced when he spoke again in that husky voice, barely above a whisper. “Tired of everything.”I sighed and slumped in my chair. There was a band of sunlight on the bed between us, and, for just a moment, the ashen gray face looking at me from the other side of it was a dead ringer for Hassan’s, not the Hassan I played marbles with until the mullah belted out the evening azan and Ali called us home, not the Hassan I chased down our hill as the sun dipped behind clay rooftops in the west, but the Hassan I saw alive for the last time, dragging his belongings behind Ali in a warm summer downpour, stuffing them in the trunk of Baba’s car while I watched through the rain-soaked window of my gave a slow shake of his head. “Tired of everything,” he repeated. “What can I do, Sohrab? Please tell me.” “I want--” he began. He winced again and brought his hand to his throat as if to clear whatever was blocking his voice. My eyes were drawn again to his wrist wrapped tightly with white gauze bandages. “I want my old life back,” he breathed. “Oh, Sohrab.” “I want Father and Mother jan. I want Sasa. I want to play with Rahim Khan sahib in the garden. I want to live in our house again.” He dragged his forearm across his eyes. “I want my old life back.” I didn’t know what to say, where to look, so I gazed down at my hands. Your old life, I thought. My old life too. I played in the same yard, Sohrab. I lived in the same house. But the grass is dead and a stranger’s jeep is parked in the driveway of our house, pissing oil all over the asphalt. Our old life is gone, Sohrab, and everyone in it is either dead or dying. It’s just you and me now. Just you and me. “I can’t give you that,” I said. “I wish you hadn’t--” “Please don’t say that.” “--wish you hadn’t... I wish you had left me in the water.” “Don’t ever say that, Sohrab,” I said, leaning forward. “I can’t bear to hear you talk like that.” I touched his shoulder and he flinched. Drew away. I dropped my hand, remembering ruefully how in the last days before I’d broken my promise to him he had finally become at ease with my touch. “Sohrab, I can’t give you your old life back, I wish to God I could. But I can take you with me. That was what I was coming in the bathroom to tell you. You have a visa to go to America, to live with me and my wife. It’s true. I promise.” 他一邊縮着身子，一邊再次用粗啞的嗓音，聲音低得幾乎聽不見地說：“厭倦了一切事情。”我嘆氣，頹然坐倒在椅子上。一道陽光照在牀上，在我們兩人中間，而就在那一瞬間，那張死灰的臉從光線那邊看着我，它像極了哈桑的面孔，不是那個整天跟我玩彈珠直到毛拉唱起晚禱、阿里喊我們回家的哈桑，不是那個太陽沒入西邊的黏土屋頂時我們從山丘上追逐而下的哈桑，而是我有生最後一次見到的那個哈桑，那個我透過自己房間雨水迷濛的窗戶望着的、在夏日溫暖的傾盆大雨中拖着行李走在阿里背後、將它們塞進爸爸的轎車後廂的哈桑。他慢慢搖着頭。“厭倦了一切事情。”他重複說。 “我能做什麼，索拉博？請告訴我。” “我想要……”他開口，身子又是一縮，把手按在喉嚨上，似乎要清除掉哽住他嗓音的東西。我的眼光再次落在他手腕上緊緊綁着的醫用繃帶上。“我想要回原來的生活。”他喘息說。 “哦，索拉博。” “我想要爸爸和親愛的媽媽，我想要莎莎，我想要跟拉辛汗老爺在花園玩，我想要回到我們的房子生活。”他用前臂蓋住雙眼，“我想要回原來的生活。” 我不知道該說什麼，該看哪裏，所以我望着自己雙手。你原來的生活，我想，也是我原來的生活。我在同一個院子玩耍。我住在同一座房子。可是那些草已經死了，我們家房子的車道上停着陌生人的吉普車，油污滴滿柏油地面。我們原來的生活不見了，索拉博，原來那些人要麼死了，要麼正在死去。現在只剩下你和我了。只剩下你和我。 “我沒辦法給你。”我說。“我希望你沒有……” “請別那麼說。” “……希望你沒有……我希望你讓我留在水裏。” “別再那麼說了，索拉博。”我說，身子前傾，“我無法忍受再聽見你那麼說。”我碰他的肩膀，他縮身抽開。我放下手，淒涼地想起我在對他食言之前的最後幾天，他終於能夠自在地接受我的觸碰。“索拉博，我沒辦法把你原來的生活給你，我希望真主給我這樣的力量。但我可以帶你走。當時我走向浴室，就是要告訴你這個。你有前往美國跟我和我的妻子生活在一起的簽證了。真的。我保證。”
