“Nay, Amir agha, he can’t,” Farid said. He’d read the question in my words. “I’m sorry. I wish I--” “That’s all right, Farid,” I said. I managed a tired smile. “You have mouths to feed.” A dog was standing next to the truck now, propped on its rear legs, paws on the truck’s door, tail wagging. Sohrab was petting the dog. “I guess he goes to Islamabad for now,” I said. I SLEPT THROUGH almost the entire four-hour ride to Islamabad. I dreamed a lot, and most of it I only remember as a hodge podge of images, snippets of visual memory flashing in my head like cards in a Rolodex: Baba marinating lamb for my thirteenth birthday party. Soraya and I making love for the first time, the sun rising in the east, our ears still ringing from the wedding music, her henna-painted hands laced in mine. The time Baba had taken Hassan and me to a strawberry field in Jalalabad--the owner had told us we could eat as much as we wanted to as long as we bought at least four kilos--and how we’d both ended up with bellyaches. How dark, almost black, Hassan’s blood had looked on the snow, dropping from the seat of his pants. Blood is a powerful thing, bachem. Khala Jamila patting Soraya’s knee and saying, God knows best, maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Sleeping on the roof of my father’s house. Baba saying that the only sin that mattered was theft. When you tell a lie, you steal a man’s right to the truth. Rahim Khan on the phone, telling me there was a way to be good again. A way to be good again... If Peshawar was the city that reminded me of what Kabul used to be, then Islamabad was the city Kabul could have become someday. The streets were wider than Peshawar’s, cleaner, and lined with rows of hibiscus and flame trees. The bazaars were more organized and not nearly as clogged with rickshaws and pedestrians. The architecture was more elegant too, more modern, and I saw parks where roses and jasmine bloomed in the shadows of trees. Farid found a small hotel on a side street running along the foot of the Margalla Hills. We passed the famous Shah Faisal Mosque on the way there, reputedly the biggest mosque in the world, with its giant concrete girders and soaring minarets. Sohrab perked up at the sight of the mosque, leaned out of the window and looked at it until Farid turned a corner. THE HOTEL ROOM was a vast improvement over the one in Kabul where Farid and I had stayed. The sheets were clean, the carpet vacuumed, and the bathroom spotless. There was shampoo, soap, razors for shaving, a bathtub, and towels that smelled like lemon. And no bloodstains on the walls. One other thing: a television set sat on the dresser across from the two single beds. “Look!” I said to Sohrab. I turned it on manually--no remote--and turned the dial. I found a children’s show with two fluffy sheep puppets singing in Urdu. Sohrab sat on one of the beds and drew his knees to his chest. Images from the TV reflected in his green eyes as he watched, stone-faced, rocking back and forth. I remembered the time I’d promised Hassan I’d buy his family a color TV when we both grew up. “I’ll get going, Amir agha,” Farid said. “Stay the night,” I said. “It’s a long drive. Leave tomorrow.” “Tashakor,” he said. “But I want to get back tonight. I miss my children.” On his way out of the room, he paused in the doorway. “Good-bye, Sohrab jan,” he said. He waited for a reply, but Sohrab paid him no attention. Just rocked back and forth, his face lit by the silver glow of the images flickering across the screen. Outside, I gave him an envelope. When he tore it, his mouth opened. “I didn’t know how to thank you,” I said. “You’ve done so much for me.” “How much is in here?” Farid said, slightly dazed. “A little over two thousand dollars.” “是的，阿米爾老爺，他不能。”法裏德說，他聽出我言下之意，“我很抱歉，我希望我…” “沒關係的，法裏德。”我說，設法擠出一個疲憊的微笑，“你還得養家餬口。”現在有條狗站在汽車旁邊，用後腿支撐着身子，前爪搭在車門上，搖着尾巴。“我想他現在應該到伊斯蘭堡去。”我說。 到伊斯蘭堡要四個小時，我幾乎一路睡過去。我夢到很多東西，而我所記得的，只有大雜燴似的景象，栩栩如生的記憶碎片如同旋轉架上的名片，不斷在我腦裏閃過。爸爸爲我十三歲生日醃製羊肉。索拉雅和我初嘗雲雨，太陽從東邊升起，我們耳裏仍有婚禮音樂的嫋嫋餘音，她塗了指甲花的手和我十指相扣。爸爸帶我和哈桑到賈拉拉巴特的草莓地——主人告訴我們，只要買四公斤，我們就可隨意大吃，最後我們兩個撐得肚子發痛。哈桑的血從臀部的褲子滴下來，滴在雪地上，看上去那麼暗，幾乎是黑色的。血緣是最重要的，我的孩子。雅米拉阿姨拍拍索拉雅的膝蓋說，只有真主最清楚，也許事情不是這樣的。睡在爸爸房子的屋頂上。爸爸說惟一的罪行是盜竊。當你說謊，你偷走了人們知道真相的權利。拉辛汗在電話裏，告訴我那兒有條再次成爲好人的路。一條再次成爲好人的路…… 如果說白沙瓦讓我回憶起喀布爾過去的光景，那麼，伊斯蘭堡就是喀布爾將來可能成爲的城市。街道比白沙瓦的要寬，也更整潔，種着成排的木槿和鳳凰樹。市集更有秩序，而且也沒有那麼多行人和黃包車擋道。屋宇也更美觀，更摩登，我還見到一些公園，林陰之下有薔薇和茉莉盛開。 法裏德在一條通往瑪加拉山的巷道找了個小旅館。前去的路上，我們經過著名的費薩爾清真寺，世界上最大的清真寺，香ｗωｗ奇Qìsuu書com網火甚旺，聳立着巨大的水泥柱和直插雲霄的尖塔。看到清真寺，索拉博神色一振，趴在車窗上，一直看着它，直到法裏德開車拐了個彎。 旅館的房間比我和法裏德在喀布爾住過那間好得太多了。被褥很乾淨，地毯用吸塵器吸過，衛生間沒有污跡，裏面有洗髮水、香皂、刮鬍刀、浴缸，有散發着檸檬香味的毛巾。牆上沒有血跡。還有，兩張單人牀前面的櫃子上擺着個電視機。 “看！ ”我對索拉博說。我用手將它打開——沒有遙控器，轉動旋鈕。我調到一個兒童節目，兩隻毛茸茸的卡通綿羊唱着烏爾都語歌曲。索拉博坐在牀上，膝蓋抵着胸膛。他看得入迷，綠眼珠反射出電視機裏面的影像，前後晃動身子。我想起有一次，我承諾哈桑，在我們長大之後，要給他家裏買臺彩電。 “我要走了，阿米爾老爺。”法裏德說。 “留下過夜吧，”我說，“路途遙遠。明天再走。” “謝謝你。”他說，“但我想今晚就回去。我想念我的孩子。”他走出房間，在門口停下來。“再見，親愛的索拉博。”他說。他等着迴應，但索拉博沒理他，自顧搖着身子，屏幕上閃動的圖像在他臉上投下銀光。 在門外，我給他一個信封。打開之後，他張大了口。 “真不知道該怎麼謝謝你。”我說，“你幫了我這麼多。” “這裏面有多少錢？”法裏德有點手足無措。 “將近兩幹美元。”
