IN THE DAYTIME, the hospital was a maze of teeming, angled hallways, a blur of blazing-white overhead fluorescence. I came to know its layout, came to know that the fourth-floor button in the east wing elevator didn’t light up, that the door to the men’s room on that same floor was jammed and you had to ram your shoulder into it to open it. I came to know that hospital life has a rhythm, the flurry of activity just before the morning shift change, the midday hustle, the stillness and quiet of the late-night hours interrupted occasionally by a blur of doctors and nurses rushing to revive someone. I kept vigil at Sohrab’s bedside in the daytime and wandered through the hospital’s serpentine corridors at night, listening to my shoe heels clicking on the tiles, thinking of what I would say to Sohrab when he woke up. I’d end up back in the ICU, by the whooshing ventilator beside his bed, and I’d be no closer to r three days in the ICU, they withdrew the breathing tube and transferred him to a ground-level bed. I wasn’t there when they moved him. I had gone back to the hotel that night to get some sleep and ended up tossing around in bed all night. In the morning, I tried to not look at the bathtub. It was clean now, someone had wiped off the blood, spread new floor mats on the floor, and scrubbed the walls. But I couldn’t stop myself from sitting on its cool, porcelain edge. I pictured Sohrab filling it with warm water. Saw him undressing. Saw him twisting the razor handle and opening the twin safety latches on the head, sliding the blade out, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. I pictured him lowering himself into the water, lying there for a while, his eyes closed. I wondered what his last thought had been as he had raised the blade and brought it down.I was exiting the lobby when the hotel manager, Mr. Fayyaz, caught up with me. “I am very sorry for you,” he said, “but I am asking for you to leave my hotel, please. This is bad for my business, very bad.” I told him I understood and I checked out. He didn’t charge me for the three days I’d spent at the hospital. Waiting for a cab outside the hotel lobby, I thought about what Mr. Fayyaz had said to me that night we’d gone looking for Sohrab: The thing about you Afghanis is that... well, you people are a little reckless. I had laughed at him, but now I wondered. Had I actually gone to sleep after I had given Sohrab the news he feared most?When I got in the cab, I asked the driver if he knew any Persian bookstores. He said there was one a couple of kilometers south. We stopped there on the way to the AB’S NEW ROOM had cream-colored walls, chipped, dark gray moldings, and glazed tiles that might have once been white. He shared the room with a teenaged Punjabi boy who, I later learned from one of the nurses, had broken his leg when he had slipped off the roof of a moving bus. His leg was in a cast, raised and held bytongs strapped to several ab’s bed was next to the window, the lower half lit by the late-morning sunlight streaming through the rectangular panes. A uniformed security guard was standing at the window, munching on cooked watermelon seeds--Sohrab was under twenty-four hours-a-day suicide watch. Hospital protocol, Dr. Nawaz had informed me. The guard tipped his hat when he saw me and left the room. Sohrab was wearing short-sleeved hospital pajamas and lying on his back, blanket pulled to his chest, face turned to the window. I thought he was sleeping, but when I scooted a chair up to his bed his eyelids fluttered and opened. He looked at me, then looked away. He was so pale, even with all the blood they had given him, and there was a large purple bruise in the crease of his right arm. “How are you?” I said. He didn’t answer. He was looking through the window at a fenced-in sandbox and swing set in the hospital garden. There was an arch-shaped trellis near the playground, in the shadow of a row of hibiscus trees, a few green vines climbing up the timber lattice. A handful of kids were playing with buckets and pails in the sand box. The sky was a cloudless blue that day, and I saw a tiny jet leaving behind twin white trails. I turned back to Sohrab. “I spoke to Dr. Nawaz a few minutes ago and he thinks you’ll be discharged in a couple of days. That’s good news, nay?”Again I was met by silence. The Punjabi boy at the other end of the room stirred in his sleep and moaned something. “I like your room,” I said, trying not to look at Sohrab’s bandaged wrists. “It’s bright, and you have a view.” Silence. A few more awkward minutes passed, and a light sweat formed on my brow, my upper lip. I pointed to the untouched bowl of green pea aush on his nightstand, the unused plastic spoon. “You should try to eat some thing. Gain your quwat back, your strength. Do you want me to help you?”He held my glance, then looked away, his face set like stone. His eyes were still lightless, I saw, vacant, the way I had found them when I had pulled him out of the bathtub. I reached into the paper bag between my feet and took out the used copy of the Shah namah I had bought at the Persian bookstore. I turned the cover so it faced Sohrab. “I used to read this to your father when we were children. We’d go up the hill by our house and sit beneath the pomegranate...” I trailed off. Sohrab was looking through the window again. I forced a smile. “Your father’s favorite was the story of Rostam and Sohrab and that’s how you got your name, I know you know that.” I paused, feeling a bit like an idiot. “Any way, he said in his letter that it was your favorite too, so I thought I’d read you some of it. Would you like that?” Sohrab closed his eyes. Covered them with his arm, the one with the bruise.I flipped to the page I had bent in the taxicab. “Here we go,” I said, wondering for the first time what thoughts had passed through Hassan’s head when he had finally read the _Shahnamah_ for himself and discovered that I had deceived him all those times. I cleared my throat and read. “Give ear unto the combat of Sohrab against Rostam, though it be a tale replete with tears,” I began. “It came about that on a certain day Rostam rose from his couch and his mind was filled with forebodings. He bethought him...” I read him most of chapter 1, up to the part where the young warrior Sohrab comes to his mother, Tahmineh, the princess of Samen gan, and demands to know the identity of his father. I closed the book. “Do you want me to go on? There are battles coming up, remember? Sohrab leading his army to the White Castle in Iran? Should I read on?” He shook his head slowly. I dropped the book back in the paper bag. “That’s fine,” I said, encouraged that he had responded at all. “Maybe we can continue tomorrow. How do you feel?”Sohrab’s mouth opened and a hoarse sound came out. Dr. Nawaz had told me that would happen, on account of the breathing tube they had slid through his vocal cords. He licked his lips and tried again. “Tired.” “I know. Dr. Nawaz said that was to be expected--” He was shaking his head. “What, Sohrab?” 白天，醫院是一座縱橫交錯的走廊組成的迷宮，熒光燈在人們頭頂放射出耀眼的光芒，弄得人迷迷糊糊。我弄清楚了它的結構，知道東樓電梯那顆四樓的按鈕不會亮，明白同一層的男廁的門卡住了，你得用肩膀去頂才能把它打開。我瞭解到醫院的生活有它的節奏：每天早晨換班之前匆匆忙忙，白天手忙腳亂，而深夜則寂靜無聲，偶然有一羣醫師和護士跑過，去搶救某個病患。白天我警惕地守在索拉博牀前，晚上則在醫院曲折的走廊遊蕩，傾聽我的鞋跟敲擊地面的聲音，想着當索拉博甦醒過來我該跟他說什麼。最後我會走回重症病房，站在他牀邊嘶嘶作響的呼吸機，依然一籌莫展。在重症病房度過三天之後，他們撤去了呼吸管道，把他換到一張低矮的病牀。他們搬動他的時候我不在。那天晚上我回到旅館，想睡一覺，最終卻在牀上徹夜輾轉反側。那天早晨，我強迫自己不去看浴缸。它現在乾乾淨淨，有人抹去血跡，地板上鋪了新的腳踏墊，牆上也擦過了。可是我忍不住坐在它那冰涼的陶瓷邊緣。我想像索拉博放滿一缸水，看見他脫掉衣服，看見他轉動刮鬍刀的手柄，撥出刀頭的雙重安全插銷，退出刀片，用食指和拇指捏住。我想像他滑進浴缸，躺了一會，閉上雙眼。我在尋思他舉起刀片劃落的時候最後在想着什麼。我走出大堂的時候，旅館經理費亞茲先生在身後跟上。 “我很爲你感到難過，”他說，“可是我要你搬離我的旅館，拜託了。這對我的生意有影響，影響很大。” 我告訴我能理解，退了房。他沒有收取我在醫院度過的那三個晚上的房錢。在大堂門口等出租車的時候，我想起那天晚上費亞茲先生對我說過的：你們阿富汗人的事情……你們有些魯莽。我曾對他大笑，但現在我懷疑。在把索拉博最擔心的消息告訴他之後，我真的睡着了嗎？男孩，後來我從某個護士那裏聽到，他從一輛開動的巴士車頂跌下來，摔斷了腿。他上了石膏的腿擡起，由一些綁着砝碼的夾子夾住。索拉博的病牀靠近窗口，早晨的陽光從長方形的玻璃窗照射進來，落在病牀的後半部上。窗邊站着一個身穿制服的保安，嗑着煮過的西瓜子——醫院給索拉博安排了 24小時的防止自殺看護。納瓦茲大夫跟我說過，這是醫院的制度。保安看到我，舉帽致意，隨後離開房間。 索拉博穿着短袖的病服，仰面躺着，毛毯蓋到他胸口，臉轉向窗那邊。我以爲他睡了，但當我將一張椅子拉到他牀邊時，他眼瞼跳動，跟着睜開。他看看我，移開視線。儘管他們給他輸了很多血，他臉色依然蒼白，而且在他的臂彎有一大塊淤傷。 “你還好嗎？”我說。 他沒回答，眼望向窗外，看着醫院花園裏面一個圍着護欄的方形沙地和鞦韆架。運動場旁邊有個拱形的涼棚，在一排木槿的樹影之下，幾株葡萄藤爬上木格子。幾個孩子拿着剷鬥和小提桶在沙地裏面玩耍。那天天空萬里無雲，一碧如洗，我看見一架小小的噴氣式飛機，拖着兩道白色的尾巴。我轉向索拉博：“我剛跟納瓦茲大夫聊過，他說你再過幾天就可以出院了，這是個好消息，對吧？”我遇到的又是沉默。病房那端，旁遮普男孩睡着翻了個身，發出幾聲呻吟。 “我喜歡你這間房，”我說，忍住不去看索拉博纏着繃帶的手腕，“光線明亮，你還能看到外面的景色。”沒有迴應。又是尷尬的幾分鐘過去，絲絲汗水從我額頭和上脣冒出來。他牀頭的櫃子上擺着一碗沒碰過的豌豆糊，一把沒用過的塑料調羹，我指着它們說：“你應該試着吃些東西，才能恢復元氣。要我餵你吃嗎？”他看向我的眼睛，接着望開，臉上木無表情。我看見他的眼神依然黯淡空洞，就像我把他從浴缸裏面拉出來時看到的那樣。我把手伸進兩腿之間的紙袋，拿出一本我在那間波斯文書店買來的《沙納瑪》舊書。我將封面轉向索拉博。“我們還是小孩的時候，我經常讀這些故事給你父親聽。我們爬上我們家後面的山丘，坐在石榴樹下面……”我降低聲音。索拉博再次望着窗外，我擠出笑臉。“你父親最喜歡的是羅斯坦和索拉博的故事，你的名字就是從那兒來的，我知道你知道。”我停頓，覺得自己有點像個白癡，“反正，他在信裏說你也最喜歡這個故事。所以我想我會念一些給你聽，你會喜歡嗎？” 索拉博閉上眼睛，將手臂放在它們上面，有淤傷的那隻手臂。我翻到在出租車裏面折好的那頁。“我們從這裏開始，”我說，第一次想到，當哈桑終於能自己閱讀《沙納瑪》，發現我曾無數次欺騙過他的時候，他的腦子裏轉過什麼念頭呢？我清清喉嚨，讀了起來。“請聽索拉博和羅斯坦戰鬥的故事，不過這個故事催人淚下。 ”我開始了，“話說某日，羅斯坦自躺椅起身，心裏閃過不祥之兆。他憶起他……”我給他念了第一章的大部分，直到年輕的鬥士索拉博去找他的媽媽，薩門幹王國的公主拓敏妮，要求得知他的父親姓甚名誰。我合上書。“你想我讀下去嗎？接下來有戰鬥場面，你記得嗎？索拉博帶領他的軍隊進攻伊朗的白色城堡？要我念下去嗎？” 他慢慢搖頭。我把書放回紙袋，“那好。”我說，爲他終於有所反應而鼓舞。“也許我們可以明天再繼續。你感覺怎樣？”索拉博張開口，發出嘶啞的嗓音。納瓦茲大夫跟我說過會有這樣的情況，那是他們把呼吸管插進他的聲帶引發的。他舔舔嘴脣，又試一次。 “厭倦了。” “我知道，納瓦茲大夫說過會出現這種感覺……”他搖着頭。 “怎麼了，索拉博？”
