“You know all those years I lived in your father’s house after you left?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t alone for all of them. Hassan lived there with me.”
“Hassan,” I said. When was the last time I had spoken his name? Those thorny old barbs of guilt bore into me once more, as if speaking his name had broken a spell, set them free to torment me anew. Suddenly the air in Rahim Khan’s little flat was too thick, too hot, too rich with the smell of the street.
“I thought about writing you and telling you before, but I wasn’t sure you wanted to know. Was I wrong?”
The truth was no. The lie was yes. I settled for something in between. “I don’t know.”He coughed another patch of blood into the handkerchief. When he bent his head to spit, I saw honey-crusted sores on his scalp. “I brought you here because I am going to ask something of you. I’m going to ask you to do something for me. But before I do, I want to tell you about Hassan. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I murmured.
“I want to tell you about him. I want to tell you everything. You will listen?”I nodded.Then Rahim Khan sipped some more tea. Rested his head against the wall and spoke.
“你们离开之后，那些年我一直住在你家，你知道吧？”
“是的。”
“那些年我并非都是一人度过，哈桑跟我住在一起。”
“哈桑？”我说。我上次说出这个名字是什么时候？那些久远的负疚和罪恶感再次剌痛了我，似乎说出他的名字就解除了一个魔咒，将它们释放出来，重新折磨我。刹那间，拉辛汗房间里面的空气变得太厚重、太热，带着太多街道上传来的气味。
“之前我有想过写信给你，或者打电话告诉你，但我不知道你想不想听。我错了吗？”
而真相是，他没有错。说他错了则是谎言。我选择了模糊其词：“我不知道。”他又在手帕里面咳出一口血。他弯腰吐痰的时候，我看见他头皮上有结痂的疮口。“我要你到这里来，是因为有些事情想求你。我想求你替我做些事情。但在我求你之前，我会先告诉你哈桑的事情，你懂吗？”
“我懂。”我低声说。
“我想告诉你关于他的事，我想告诉你一切。你会听吗？”我点点头。然后拉辛汗又喝了几口茶，把头靠在墙上，开始说起来。