I KEPT THINKing OF THAT DAY in 1974, in the hospital room, Just after Hassan’s harelip surgery. Baba, Rahim Khan, Ali, and I had huddled around Hassan’s bed, watched him examine his new lip in a handheld mirror. Now everyone in that room was either dead or dying. Except for me. Then I saw something else: a man dressed in a herringbone vest pressing the muzzle of his Kalashnikov to the back of Hassan’s head. The blast echoes through the street of my father’s house. Hassan slumps to the asphalt, his life of unrequited loyalty drifting from him like the windblown kites he used to chase. “The Taliban moved into the house,” Rahim Khan said. “The pretext was that they had evicted a trespasser. Hassan’s and Farzana’s murders were dismissed as a case of self-defense. No one said a word about it. Most of it was fear of the Taliban, I think. But no one was going to risk anything for a pair of Hazara servants.” “What did they do with Sohrab?” I asked. I felt tired, drained. A coughing fit gripped Rahim Khan and went on for a long time. When he finally looked up, his face was flushed and his eyes bloodshot. “I heard he’s in an orphanage somewhere in Karteh Seh. Amir jan--” then he was coughing again. When he stopped, he looked older than a few moments before, like he was aging with each coughing fit. “Amir jan, I summoned you here because I wanted to see you before I die, but that’s not all.” I said nothing. I think I already knew what he was going to say. 我想着1974年那天，在醫院的病房裏面，哈桑剛剛做完補脣手術。爸爸、拉辛汗、阿里和我圍在哈桑牀前，看着他舉起一面鏡子，察看他的新嘴脣。如今，除我之外，那個房間的人要麼已經死去，要麼即將死去。 接着我還看到其他東西：一個男人穿着人字型背心，將他那把俄製步槍的槍口抵在哈桑腦後。槍聲在我父親房子那條街道上回蕩。哈桑撲倒在柏油路上，他那不求回報的忠貞生命，像他以前經常追逐的斷線風箏那樣，從他身上飄走。 “塔利班搬進了那座房子，”拉辛汗說，“他們託詞趕走非法佔有他人財產的人，殺害哈桑和法莎娜被法庭當成自我防衛，宣佈無罪。沒有人說一句話。我想主要是出於對塔利班的恐懼。但也是因爲，不會有人爲了一對哈扎拉僕人去冒什麼風險。” “他們怎麼處置索拉博？”我問。我覺得勞累不堪，精疲力竭。一陣咳嗽襲擊了拉辛汗，持續了好長時間。當他最終擡起頭時，他的臉漲得通紅，雙眼充血。 “我聽說他在卡德帕灣區某個恤孤院裏面。親愛的阿米爾……”接着他又咳起來。咳嗽停止後，他看上去比剛纔要老一些，似乎每聲咳嗽都催他老去。“親愛的阿米爾，我呼喚你到這裏來，因爲我在死之前想看看你，但這並非全部。” 我一語不發。我想我已經知道他接下來要說什麼。
