FIFTEEN
Three hours after my flight landed in Peshawar, I was sitting on shredded upholstery in the backseat of a smoke-filled taxicab. My driver, a chain-smoking, sweaty little man who introduced himself as Gholam, drove nonchalantly and recklessly, averting collisions by the thinnest of margins, all without so much as a pause in the incessant stream of words spewing from his mouth: terrible what is happening in your country, yar. Afghani people and Pakistani people they are like brothers, I tell you. Muslims have to help Muslims so...”
I tuned him out, switched to a polite nodding mode. I remembered Peshawar pretty well from the few months Baba and I had spent there in 1981. We were heading west now on Jamrud road, past the Cantonment and its lavish, high-walled homes. The bustle of the city blurring past me reminded me of a busier, more crowded version of the Kabul I knew, particularly of the KochehMorgha, or Chicken Bazaar, where Hassan and I used to buy chutney-dipped potatoes and cherry water. The streets were clogged with bicycle riders, milling pedestrians, and rickshaws popping blue smoke, all weaving through a maze of narrow lanes and alleys. Bearded vendors draped in thin blankets sold animalskin lampshades, carpets, embroidered shawls, and copper goods from rows of small, tightly jammed stalls. The city was bursting with sounds; the shouts of vendors rang in my ears mingled with the blare of Hindi music, the sputtering of rickshaws, and the jingling bells of horse-drawn carts. Rich scents, both pleasant and not so pleasant, drifte d to me through the passenger window, the spicy aroma of pakora and the nihari Baba had loved so much blended with the sting of diesel fumes, the stench of rot, garbage, and feces.
A little past the redbrick buildings of Peshawar University, we entered an area my garrulous driver referred to as “Afghan Town.” I saw sweetshops and carpet vendors, kabob stalls, kids with dirtcaked hands selling cigarettes, tiny restaurants--maps of Afghanistan painted on their windows--all interlaced with backstreet aid agencies. “Many of your brothers in this area, yar. They are opening businesses, but most of them are very poor.” He tsk’ed his tongue and sighed. “Anyway, we’re getting close now.”
I thought about the last time I had seen Rahim Khan, in 1981. He had come to say good-bye the night Baba and I had fled Kabul. I remember Baba and him embracing in the foyer, crying softly. When Baba and I arrived in the U.S., he and Rahim Khan kept in touch. They would speak four or five times a year and, sometimes, Baba would pass me the receiver. The last time I had spoken to Rahim Khan had been shortly after Baba’s death. The news had reached Kabul and he had called. We’d only spoken for a few minutes and lost the connection.
The driver pulled up to a narrow building at a busy corner where two winding streets intersected. I paid the driver, took my lone suitcase, and walked up to the intricately carved door. The building had wooden balconies with open shutters--from many of them, laundry was hanging to dry in the sun. I walked up the creaky stairs to the second floor, down a dim hallway to the last door on the right. Checked the address on the piece of stationery paper in my palm. Knocked.
Then, a thing made of skin and bones pretending to be Rahim Khan opened the door.
第十五章
我乘坐的航班在白沙瓦着陆三个小时之后，我坐在一辆弥漫着烟味的的士破旧的后座上。汗津津的司机个子矮小，一根接一根抽着烟，自我介绍说他叫戈蓝。他开起车来毫无顾忌，横冲直撞，每每与其他车辆擦身而过，一路上滔滔不绝的话语片刻不停地从他口中涌出来：“……你的祖国发生的一切太恐怖了，真的。阿富汗人和巴基斯坦人就像兄弟，我告诉你，穆斯林必须帮助穆斯林，所以……”
我不搭腔，带着礼貌点头称是。 1981年，爸爸和我在这里住过几个月，脑海里依然认得白沙瓦。现在我们在雅姆鲁德路往西开着，路过兵站，还有那些高墙耸立的豪宅。这喧嚣的城市匆匆后退，让我想起记忆中的喀布尔，比这里更繁忙、更拥挤，特别是鸡市，哈桑和我过去常常去那儿，买酸辣酱腌过的土豆和樱桃水。街路上挤满了自行车、摩肩接踵的行人，还有冒出袅袅蓝烟的黄包车，所有这些，都在迷宫般的狭窄巷道穿来插去。拥挤的小摊排成一行行，留着胡子的小贩在地面摆开一张张薄薄的褥子，兜售兽皮灯罩、地毯、绣花披肩和铜器。这座城市喧闹非凡，小贩的叫卖声、震耳欲聋的印度音乐声、黄包车高喊让路的叫声、马车的叮叮当当声，全都混在一起，在我耳边回荡。还有各种各样的味道，香的臭的，炸蔬菜的香辣味、爸爸最喜爱的炖肉味、柴油机的烟味，还有腐烂物、垃圾、粪便的臭味，纷纷飘进车窗，扑鼻而来。
驶过白沙瓦大学的红砖房子之后不久，我们进入了一个区域，那个饶舌的司机称之为“阿富汗城”。我看到了糖铺、售卖地毯的小贩、烤肉摊，还有双手脏兮兮的小孩在兜售香烟，窗户上贴着阿富汗地图的小餐馆，厕身其中的是众多救助机构。“这个地区有你很多同胞，真的。他们做生意，不过多数很穷。”他“啧”了一声，叹了口气， “反正，我们就快到了。”
我想起最后一次见到拉辛汗的情景，那是在1981年。我和爸爸逃离喀布尔那晚，他前来道别。我记得爸爸和他在门廊拥抱，轻声哭泣。爸爸和我到了美国之后，他和拉辛汗保持联系。
他们每年会交谈上那么四五次，有时爸爸会把听筒给我。最后一次和拉辛汗说话是在爸爸去世后不久。死讯传到喀布尔，他打电话来。我们只说了几分钟，电话线就断了。司机停在一座房子前，这房子位于两条蜿蜒街道的繁忙交叉路口。我付了车钱，提起仅有的一个箱子，走进那雕刻精美的大门。这座建筑有木板阳台和敞开的窗户，窗外多数晾着衣服。我踩上吱嘎作响的楼梯，登上二楼，转右，走到那昏暗走廊最后一扇门。我看看手里那张写着地址的信纸，敲敲门。
然后，一具皮包骨的躯体伪装成拉辛汗，把门打开。