“The first time you saw a Talib.” I said nothing. The old beggar nodded and smiled. Revealed a handful of remaining teeth, all crooked and yellow. “I remember the first time I saw them rolling into Kabul. What a joyous day that was!” he said. “An end to the killing! Wah wah! But like the poet says: ‘How seamless seemed love and then came trouble!”A smile sprouted on my face. “I know that ghazal. That’s H?fez.”“Yes it is. Indeed,” the old man replied. “I should know. I used to teach it at the university.” “You did?” The old man coughed. “From 1958 to 1996. I taught H?fez, Khayyám, Rumi, Beydel, Jami, Saadi. Once, I was even a guest lecturer in Tehran, 1971 that was. I gave a lecture on the mystic Beydel. I remember how they all stood and clapped. Ha!” He shook his head. “But you saw those young men in the truck. What value do you think they see in Sufism?”“My mother taught at the university,” I said.“And what was her name?”“Sofia Akrami.”His eye managed to twinkle through the veil of cataracts. “The desert weed lives on, but the flower of spring blooms and wilts.’ Such grace, such dignity, such a tragedy.”“You knew my mother?” I asked, kneeling before the old man.“Yes indeed,” the old beggar said. “We used to sit and talk after class. The last time was on a rainy day just before final exams when we shared a marvelous slice of almond cake together. Almond cake with hot tea and honey. She was rather obviously pregnant by then, and all the more beautiful for it. I will never forget what she said to me that day.”“What? Please tell me.” Baba had always described my mother to me in broad strokes, like, “She was a great woman.” But what I had always thirsted for were the details: the way her hair glinted in the sunlight, her favorite ice cream flavor, the songs she liked to hum, did she bite her nails? Baba took his memories of her to the grave with him. Maybe speaking her name would have reminded him of his guilt, of what he had done so soon after she had died. Or maybe his loss had been so great, his pain so deep, he couldn’t bear to talk about her. Maybe both.“She said, ‘I’m so afraid.’ And I said, ‘Why?,’ and she said, ‘Because I’m so profoundly happy, Dr. Rasul. Happiness like this is frightening.’ I asked her why and she said, ‘They only let you be this happy if they’re preparing to take something from you,’ and I said, ‘Hush up, now. Enough of this silliness.”Farid took my arm. “We should go, Amir agha,” he said softly. I snatched my arm away. “What else? What else did she say?”Theold man’s features softened. “I wish I remembered for you. But I don’t. Your mother passed away a long time ago and my memory is as shattered as these buildings. I am sorry.” “But even a small thing, anything at all.” “你第一次看到塔利班。” 我一語不發。老乞丐點點頭，露出微笑。嘴裏剩下的牙齒屈指可數，泛黃且彎曲。“我還記得第一次看到他們席捲喀布爾的情景，那天多麼高興！”他說，“殺戮結束了！哇，哇！但就像詩人說的：“愛情看似美好，但帶來麻煩。”我臉上綻出笑容，“我知道那首詩，哈菲茲寫的。”“對對，是他寫的。”那老人回答說，“我知道。我過去在大學教過它。” “你教大學？” 老人咳嗽，“從1958年到1996年。我教哈菲茲、迦亞謨、魯米、貝德爾，生活在印度莫臥兒帝國，但用法里語寫作，通常被當成阿富汗詩人。原書作：Beydel，有誤]、雅米[Ahmad Jami（1048～1141），古代波斯詩人 ]、薩迪。我甚至還在德黑蘭開過講座，那是在1971年，關於神祕的貝德爾。我還記得他們都起立鼓掌。哈！”他搖搖頭，“但你看到車上那些年輕人。你認爲在他們眼裏，蘇菲主義[Sufism，伊斯蘭教一個塞行神祕豐義的派別]有什麼價值？”“我媽媽也在大學教書。”我說。“她叫什麼名字？”“索菲亞 ?阿卡拉米。”他那患白內障的眼睛閃出光芒：“‘大漠荒草生息不絕，反教春花盛放凋零。’她那麼優雅，那麼高貴。真是悲劇啊。”“你認識我媽媽？”我問，在他身邊蹲下。“是的，我認識。”老乞丐說，“過去下課後我們常坐在一起交談。最後一次是下雨天，隔天就期末考試，我們分享一塊美味的杏仁蛋糕。杏仁蛋糕，熱茶，還有蜂蜜。那時她肚子很大了，變得更加美麗。我永遠不會忘記她那天對我說的話。”“那是什麼？請告訴我。”爸爸每次向我提起媽媽，總是很含混，比如“她是個了不起的女人”。但我一直渴望知道細節，比如：她的秀髮在陽光下是什麼樣子，她最喜愛的冰淇淋是什麼口味，她最喜歡哼唱的歌是哪一首，她也咬指甲嗎？爸爸關於媽媽的記憶，已經隨着他長埋地下。也許提起她的名字會喚起他心中的負疚，爲她死後他犯下的事情。抑或是因爲失去她的傷痛太深，他不忍再度提及。也許兩種原因都有。“她說，‘我很害怕。’我問，‘爲什麼？’她說，‘因爲我深深地感到快樂，拉索爾博士，快樂成這樣，真叫人害怕。’我問她爲什麼，她說，‘他們只有準備要剝奪你某種東西的時候，纔會讓你這麼快樂。’我說，‘快別胡說。這種想法太蠢了。 ’”法裏德拉我的手臂。“我們該走了，阿米爾老爺。”他輕聲說。我將手臂掙脫出來，“還有呢？她還說什麼了？”老人露出柔和的神情。“我希望我能替你記起來。可是我不記得了。你媽媽走得太久了，我的記憶四散崩塌，像這些房子。對不起。” “可是哪怕一件小事也好，任何事情都好。”
