"Really? You'd do that?"
"真的吗?你会那样做?"

He threw me a puzzled look. "Do what?"
他疑惑地看了我一眼:"做什么?"

"Eat dirt if I told you to,"I said. I knew I was being cruel, like when I'd taunt him if he didn't know some big word. But there was something fascinating--albeit in a sick way--about teasing Hassan. Kind of like when we used to play insect torture. Except now, he was the ant and I was holding the magnifying glass.
"如果我让你吃泥巴，你会吃吗?"我说。我知道自己这样很残忍，好像以前，我总是拿那些他不懂的字眼来戏弄他，但取笑哈桑有点好玩--虽然是病态的好玩，跟我们折磨昆虫的游戏有点相似。不过现在，他是蚂蚁，而拿着放大镜的人是我。

His eyes searched my face for a long time. We sat there, two boys under a sour cherry tree, suddenly looking, really looking, at each other. That's when it happened again: Hassan's face changed. Maybe not "changed", not really, but suddenly I had the feeling I was looking at two faces, the one I knew, the one that was my first memory, and another, a second face, this one lurking just beneath the surface. I'd seen it happen before--it always shook me up a little. It just appeared, this other face, for a fraction of a moment, long enough to leave me with the unsettling feeling that maybe I'd seen it someplace before. Then Hassan blinked and it was just him again. Just Hassan.
他久久看着我的脸。我们坐在那儿，两个男孩，坐在一棵酸樱桃树下，突然间我们看着，真的看着对方。就在那时，哈桑的脸又变了。也许没有变，不是真的变了，但我瞬间觉得自己看到了两张脸，一张是我认得的，我从小熟悉的；另外一张，第二张，就隐藏在表层之下。我曾经看到过他的脸色变化--总是吓我一跳，它每次出现不过惊鸿一瞥，但足以让我疑惑不安，觉得自己也许曾在什么地方见到过。随后，哈桑眨眨眼，他又是他了，只是哈桑了。

"If you asked, I would,"he finally said, looking right at me. I dropped my eyes. To this day, I find it hard to gaze directly at people like Hassan, people who mean every word they say.
"如果你要求，我会的。"他终于说，眼睛直看着我。我垂下眼光，时至今日，我发现自己很难直视像哈桑这样的人，这种说出的每个字都当真的人。

"But I wonder,"he added. "Would you ever ask me to do such a thing, Amir agha?" And, just like that, he had thrown at me his own little test. If I was going to toy with him and challenge his loyalty, then he'd toy with me, test my integrity.
"不过我怀疑，"他补充说，"你是否会让我这么做。你会吗，阿米尔少爷?"就这样，轮到他考验我了。如果我继续戏弄他，考验他的忠诚，那么他会戏弄我，考验我的正直。

I wished I hadn't started this conversation. I forced a smile. "Don't be stupid, Hassan. You know I wouldn't."
要是我没有开始这场对话就好了!我勉强露出一个笑脸，"别傻了，哈桑，你知道我不会的。"

Hassan returned the smile. Except his didn't look forced. "I know," he said. And that's the thing about people who mean everything they say. They think everyone else does too.
哈桑报我以微笑，不过他并非强颜欢笑。"我知道。"他说。这就是那些一诺千金的人的作风，以为别人也和他们一样。

"Here it comes," Hassan said, pointing to the sky. He rose to his feet and walked a few paces to his left. I looked up, saw the kite plummeting toward us. I heard footfalls, shouts, an approaching melee of kite runners. But they were wasting their time. Because Hassan stood with his arms wide open, smiling, waiting for the kite. And may God--if He exists, that is--strike me blind if the kite didn't just drop into his outstretched arms.
"风筝来了。"哈桑说，指向天空，他站起身来，朝左边走了几步。我抬头，望见风筝正朝我们一头扎下来。我听见脚步声，叫喊声，一群追风筝的人正闹哄哄向这边跑来。但他们只是白费时间。因为哈桑脸带微笑，张开双手，站在那儿等着风筝。除非真主--如果他存在的话--弄瞎了我的眼，不然风筝一定会落进他张开的臂弯里。

IN THE WINTER OF 1975, I saw Hassan run a kite for the last time.
1975年冬天，我最后一次看到哈桑追风筝。