“When it’s all done, only one of us will walk out of this room alive,” Assef said. “If it’s him, then he’s earned his freedom and you let him pass, do you understand?” The older guard shifted on his feet. “But Agha sahib--” “If it’s him, you let him pass!” Assef screamed. The two men flinched but nodded again. They turned to go. One of them reached for Sohrab. “Let him stay,” Assef said. He grinned. “Let him watch. Lessons are good things for boys.”The guards left. Assef put down his prayer beads. Reached in the breast pocket of his black vest. What he fished out of that pocket didn’t surprise me one bit: stainless-steel brass knuckles. HE HAS GEL IN HIS HAIR and a Clark Gable mustache above his thick lips. The gel has soaked through the green paper surgical cap, made a dark stain the shape of Africa. I remember that about him. That, and the gold Allah chain around his dark neck. He is peering down at me, speaking rapidly in a language I don’t understand, Urdu, I think. My eyes keep going to his Adam’s apple bob bing up and down, up and down, and I want to ask him how old he is anyway--he looks far too young, like an actor from some foreign soap opera--but all I can mutter is, I think I gave him a good fight. I think I gave him a good fight. I DON’T KNOW if I gave Assef a good fight. I don’t think I did. How could I have? That was the first time I’d fought anyone. I had never so much as thrown a punch in my entire life. My memory of the fight with Assef is amazingly vivid in stretches: I remember Assef turning on the music before slipping on his brass knuckles. The prayer rug, the one with the oblong, woven Mecca, came loose from the wall at one point and landed on my head; the dust from it made me sneeze. I remember Assef shoving grapes in my face, his snarl all spit-shining teeth, his bloodshot eyes rolling. His turban fell at some point, let loose curls of shoulder-length blond hair. And the end, of course. That, I still see with perfect clarity. I always will.padding-bottom: 75%;"> “完了之後，我們只有一個能活着走出這間房子，”阿塞夫說，“如果是他，那麼他就贏得自由，你們放他走，明白了嗎？” 年紀較大的衛兵不安地說：“可是老爺……” “如果他走出去，你們放他走！”阿塞夫大叫。那兩個衛兵嚇得連連點頭。他們轉身離開，有個去拉索拉博。 “讓他留下，”阿塞夫說，獰笑着，“讓他看看。學點教訓對孩子有好處。”衛兵離開。阿塞夫放下念珠，把手伸進黑色背心的上袋。他掏出來的東西，我早就料到了：不鏽鋼拳套。 那人的頭髮塗着睹喱水，厚厚的嘴脣上面留着克拉克?蓋博那樣的小鬍子。睹喱水浸透了綠色的手術紙帽，弄出非洲地圖似的污跡。我記得他黑色的脖子上的金項鍊，掛着安拉的神像。他俯視着我，連珠炮似的說出一種我聽不懂的語言，烏爾都語 [Urdu，巴基斯坦官方語言]，我想。我的眼睛盯在他的喉結，看着它上上下下，我想問他究竟多大年紀——他看上去太年輕，像外國肥皂劇裏面某個演員。但我說出口的只是，我要狠狠揍他一頓，我要狠狠揍他一頓。 我不知道自己有沒有狠狠揍阿塞夫一頓。我想沒有吧，怎麼可能呢？那是我第一次跟人打架。我長這麼大了，還沒朝人揮過一拳呢。 在我記憶中，跟阿塞夫打架的情景栩栩如生，真叫人吃驚：我記得阿塞夫在戴上拳套之前打開了音樂。在某個時刻，長方形的禱告毛毯，織着麥加地圖那張，從牆上鬆落，掉在我頭上，它上面的泥土弄得我打噴嚏。我記得阿塞夫抓起葡萄磨着我的臉，他咬牙切齒，滾動着血紅的眼睛。在某個時刻，阿塞夫的頭巾脫落，露出幾縷長及肩膀的金色頭髮。 還有結局，當然。結局我看得一清二楚。我想我會永遠記得。
