By the time I reached the marketplace, the sun had almost sunk behind the hills and dusk had painted the sky pink and purple. A few blocks away, from the Haji Yaghoub Mosque, the mullah bellowed azan, calling for the faithful to unroll their rugs and bow their heads west in prayer. Hassan never missed any of the five daily prayers. Even when we were out playing, he'd excuse himself, draw water from the well in the yard, wash up, and disappear into the hut. He'd come out a few minutes later, smiling, find me sitting against the wall or perched on a tree. He was going to miss prayer tonight, though, because of me.
我到达市场那边时，太阳已经快下山了，粉红色和紫色的晚霞点缀着天空。再走几条街就是哈吉·雅霍清真寺，僧侣在那儿高声呼喊，号令那些朝拜者铺开毯子，朝西边磕头，诚心祷告。每日五次的祈祷哈桑从不错过，就算我们在玩，他也会告退，从院子里的深井汲起一桶水，清洗完毕，消失在那间破屋子里面。隔几分钟，他就会面带微笑走出来，发现我坐在墙上，或者坐在树枝上。可是，他今晚就要错过祈祷了，那全因为我。

The bazaar was emptying quickly, the merchants finishing up their haggling for the day. I trotted in the mud between rows of closely packed cubicles where you could buy a freshly slaughtered pheasant in one stand and a calculator from the adjacent one. I picked my way through the dwindling crowd, the lame beggars dressed in layers of tattered rags, the vendors with rugs on their shoulders, the cloth merchants and butchers closing shop for the day. I found no sign of Hassan.
市场不一会就空荡荡的，做生意的人都打烊了。我在一片泥泞中奔走，两边是成排的、挤得紧紧的小店，人们可以在一个血水横流的摊前买刚宰好的野鸡，而隔壁的小店则出售电子计算器。我在零落的人群中寻路前进，步履维艰的乞丐身上披着一层又一层的破布，小贩肩上扛着毛毯，布料商人和出售生鲜的屠夫则在关上铺门。我找不到哈桑的踪迹。

I stopped by a dried fruit stand, described Hassan to an old merchant loading his mule with crates of pine seeds and raisins. He wore a powder blue turban.
我停在一个卖干果的小摊前面，有个年老的商人戴着蓝色的头巾，把一袋袋松子和葡萄干放到驴子身上。我向他描述哈桑的相貌。

He paused to look at me for a long time before answering. "I might have seen him."
他停下来，久久看着我，然后开口说:"兴许我见过他。"

"Which way did he go?"　　
"他跑哪边去了?"

He eyed me up and down. "What is a boy like you doing here at this time of the day looking for a Hazara?" His glance lingered admiringly on my leather coat and my jeans--cowboy pants, we used to call them. In Afghanistan, owning anything American, especially if it wasn't secondhand, was a sign of wealth.
他上下打量着我:"像你这样的男孩，干吗在这个时候找一个哈扎拉人呢?"他艳羡地看着我的皮衣和牛仔裤--牛仔穿的裤子，我们总是这样说。在阿富汗，拥有任何不是二手的美国货，都是财富的象征。

"I need to find him, Agha."
"我得找到他，老爷。"

"What is he to you?" he said. I didn't see the point of his question, but I reminded myself that impatience wasn't going to make him tell me any faster.
"他是你的什么人?"他问。我不知道他干吗要这样问，但我提醒自己，不耐烦只会让他缄口不言。

"He's our servant's son," I said.
"他是我家仆人的儿子。"我说。

The old man raised a pepper gray eyebrow. "He is? Lucky Hazara, having such a concerned master. His father should get on his knees, sweep the dust at your feet with his eyelashes."
那老人扬了扬灰白的眉毛:"是吗?幸运的哈扎拉人，有这么关心他的主人。他的父亲应该跪在你跟前，用睫毛扫去你靴子上的灰尘。"

"Are you going to tell me or not?"
"你到底告不告诉我啊?"

He rested an arm on the mule's back, pointed south. "I think I saw the boy you described running that way. He had a kite in his hand. A blue one."
他将一只手放在驴背上，指着南边:"我想我看见你说的那个男孩朝那边跑去。他手里拿着一只风筝，蓝色的风筝。"

"He did?" I said. For you a thousand times over, he'd promised. Good old Hassan. Good old reliable Hassan. He'd kept his promise and run the last kite for me.
"真的吗?"我说。为你，千千万万遍。他这样承诺过。好样的，哈桑。好样的，可靠的哈桑。他一诺千金，替我追到了最后那只风筝。

"Of course, they've probably caught him by now,?the old merchant said, grunting and loading another box on the mule's back.
"当然，这个时候他们也许已经逮住他了。"那个老人咕哝着说，把另一个箱子搬到驴背上。

"Who?"
"什么人?"

"The other boys,?he said. "The ones chasing him. They were dressed like you.?He glanced to the sky and sighed. "Now, run along, you're making me late for nainaz."
"其他几个男孩。"他说，"他们追着他，他们的打扮跟你差不多。"他抬眼看看天空，叹了口气，"走开吧，你耽误了我做祷告。"

But I was already scrambling down the lane.
但我已经朝那条小巷飞奔而去。