“Why didn’t you call earlier? I’ve been sick with tashweesh! My mother’s praying and doing nazr every day.” “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’m fine now.” I had told her I’d be away a week, two at the most. I’d been gone for nearly a month. I smiled. “And tell Khala Jamila to stop killing sheep.” “What do you mean ‘fine now’? And what’s wrong with your voice?” “Don’t worry about that for now. I’m fine. Really. Soraya, I have a story to tell you, a story I should have told you a long time ago, but first I need to tell you one thing.” “What is it?” she said, her voice lower now, more cautious. “I’m not coming home alone. I’m bringing a little boy with me.” I paused. “I want us to adopt him.” “What?”I checked my watch. “I have fifty-seven minutes left on this stupid calling card and I have so much to tell you. Sit some where.” I heard the legs of a chair dragged hurriedly across the wooden floor. “Go ahead,” she I did what I hadn’t done in fifteen years of marriage: I told my wife everything. Everything. I had pictured this moment so many times, dreaded it, but, as I spoke, I felt something lifting off my chest. I imagined Soraya had experienced something very similar the night of our khastegari, when she’d told me about her the time I was done with my story, she was weeping. “What do you think?” I said. “I don’t know what to think, Amir. You’ve told me so much all at once.” “I realize that.”I heard her blowing her nose. “But I know this much: You have to bring him home. I want you to.” “Are you sure?” I said, closing my eyes and smiling. “Am I sure?” she said. “Amir, he’s your qaom, your family, so he’s my qaom too. Of course I’m sure. You can’t leave him to the streets.” There was a short pause. “What’s he like?” I looked over at Sohrab sleeping on the bed. “He’s sweet, in a solemn kind of way.” “Who can blame him?” she said. “I want to see him, Amir. I really do.” “Soraya?” “Yeah.” “你爲什麼不早點打電話來？我擔心得都生病了！我媽媽每天禱告，還許願！” “我很抱歉沒打電話。我現在沒事了。”我曾經跟她說我會離開一個星期，也許兩個星期，但我離開將近一個月了。我微笑。“跟雅米拉阿姨說不要再殺羊了。” “你說‘沒事’是什麼意思？你的聲音怎麼回事？” “現在別擔心這個。我沒事，真的。索拉雅，我要告訴你一個故事，一個我早就該告訴你的故事，但我得先告訴你一件事。” “什麼事？”她放低聲音說，語氣謹慎一些了。 “我不會一個人回家。我會帶着一個小男孩。”我頓了頓，說，“我想我們要收養他。” “什麼？”我看看時間：“這張該死的電話卡還剩下四十七分鐘，我有很多話要對你說。找個地方坐下。”我聽見椅腳匆匆拖過木地板的聲音。 “說吧。”她說。然後我做了結婚十五年來沒做過的事：我向妻子坦白了一切事情。一切事情。我很多次設想過這一刻，害怕這一刻，可是，我說了，我感到胸口有些東西涌起來。我覺得就在提親那夜，索拉雅跟我說起她的過去，也體驗過某種非常相似的感覺。但這一次，說故事的人是我，她在哭泣。 “你怎麼想？”我說。 “我不知道該怎麼想，阿米爾。你一下子告訴我太多了。” “我知道。”我聽見她擦鼻子的聲音。“但我很清楚地知道的是：你必須把他帶回家。我要你這麼做。” “你確定嗎？”我說，閉上雙眼，微笑起來。 “我確定嗎？”她說，“阿米爾，他是你的侄兒，你的家人，所以他也是我的侄兒。我當然確定，你不能任他流落街頭。”她停頓了一會，“他性子怎樣？” 我望向睡在牀上的索拉博：“他很可愛，很嚴肅那種。” “誰能怪他呢？”她說，“我想見到他，阿米爾。我真的想。” “索拉雅？” “嗯。”
