Mostly, I remember this: His brass knuckles flashing in the afternoon light; how cold they felt with the first few blows and how quickly they warmed with my blood. Getting thrown against the wall, a nail where a framed picture may have hung once jabbing at my back. Sohrab screaming. Tabla, harmonium, a dil-roba. Getting hurled against the wall. The knuckles shattering my jaw. Choking on my own teeth, swallowing them, thinking about all the countless hours I’d spent flossing and brushing. Getting hurled against the wall. Lying on the floor, blood from my split upper lip staining the mauve carpet, pain ripping through my belly, and wondering when I’d be able to breathe again. The sound of my ribs snapping like the tree branches Hassan and I used to break to swordfight like Sinbad in those old movies. Sohrab screaming. The side of my face slamming against the corner of the television stand. That snapping sound again, this time just under my left eye. Music. Sohrab screaming. Fingers grasping my hair, pulling my head back, the twinkle of stainless steel. Here they ?ome. That snapping sound yet again, now my nose. Biting down in pain, noticing how my teeth didn’t align like they used to. Getting kicked. Sohrab screaming.I don’t know at what point I started laughing, but I did. It hurt to laugh, hurt my jaws, my ribs, my throat. But I was laughing and laughing. And the harder I laughed, the harder he kicked me, punched me, scratched me. “WHAT’S SO FUNNY?” Assef kept roaring with each blow. His spittle landed in my eye. Sohrab screamed. “WHAT’S SO FUNNY?” Assef bellowed. Another rib snapped, this time left lower. What was so funny was that, for the first time since the winter of 1975, I felt at peace. I laughed because I saw that, in some hidden nook in a corner of my mind, I’d even been looking forward to this. I remembered the day on the hill I had pelted Hassan with pomegranates and tried to provoke him. He’d just stood there, doing nothing, red juice soaking through his shirt like blood. Then he’d taken the pomegranate from my hand, crushed it against his forehead. Are you satisfied now? he’d hissed. Do you feel better? I hadn’t been happy and I hadn’t felt better, not at all. But I did now. My body was broken--just how badly I wouldn’t find out until later--but I felt healed. Healed at last. I laughed. Then the end. That, I’ll take to my grave:I was on the ground laughing, Assef straddling my chest, his face a mask of lunacy, framed by snarls of his hair swaying inches from my face. His free hand was locked around my throat. The other, the one with the brass knuckles, cocked above his shoulder. He raised his fist higher, raised it for another blow. Then:“Bas.”A thin voice. 我記得的大體是這樣的：他的拳套在午後的陽光中閃亮，他第一次擊中我時，我渾身發冷，但很快，我的鮮血就溫暖了他的拳套。我被甩到牆壁，一顆本來可能掛着畫的釘子刺進我的後背。我聽到索拉博的尖叫，還有手鼓、手風琴、雷布巴琴演奏的樂聲。身子撞到牆壁上，拳套擊打我的下巴。被自己的牙齒噎住，將它們吞下去，我想起自己曾花了無數時間刷牙、清牙縫。被摔倒牆上。倒在地板上，血從破裂的上脣流出來，滴污了淡紫色的地毯，腹部陣陣劇痛起伏，想着我什麼時候才能再次呼吸。我的肋骨斷裂，聲音跟折斷樹枝一樣，從前哈桑和我經常拿折斷的樹枝當劍，像舊電影裏面的辛巴德那樣決鬥。聽到索拉博的尖叫。我的側臉撞上電視櫃的一角。又是一聲斷裂，這次正中我左眼下面。我聽到音樂聲，索拉博的尖叫聲。手指抓着我的頭髮，拖着我向後，不鏽鋼閃閃發亮，它們揮擊過來，斷裂聲再次響起，這次是我的鼻子。咬牙忍痛，發現我的牙齒已經不像過去那樣齊整了。被踢中。索拉博不斷尖叫。我不知道自己何時開始發笑，但我笑了。笑起來很痛，下巴、肋骨、喉嚨統統劇痛難忍。但我不停笑着。我笑得越痛快，他就越起勁地踢我、打我、抓我。 “什麼事這樣好笑？”阿塞夫不斷咆哮，一拳拳擊出。他的口水濺上我的眼睛。索拉博尖叫。 “什麼事這樣好笑？”阿塞夫怒不可遏。又一根肋骨斷裂，這次在左邊胸下。好笑的是，自1975年冬天以來，我第一次感到心安理得。我大笑，因爲我知道，在我大腦深處某個隱蔽的角落，我甚至一直在期待這樣的事情。我記得那天，在山上，我用石榴扔哈桑，試圖激怒他。他只是站在那兒，一動不動，紅色的果汁染在他襯衣上，跟鮮血一樣。然後他從我手裏拿過一個石榴，在自己額頭上磨碎。現在你滿意了嗎？他悽然說，你覺得好受一些了嗎？我從不曾覺得高興，從不曾覺得好受一些，根本就沒有過。但我現在感覺到了。我體無完膚——我當時並不清楚有多糟糕，後來才知道——但心病已愈。終於痊癒了，我大笑。 接着是結局，我就算埋在墳裏也會記得。我躺在地上哈哈大笑，阿塞夫坐在我胸膛，一張發瘋似的臉被縷縷晃動的頭髮圍繞着，離我的臉只有幾英寸。他一隻手掐着我的喉嚨，另外一隻戴着拳套，作勢懸在肩上，他舉起拳頭，準備再次擊落。 接着，“別打了。”一個微弱的聲音響起。
