SEVENTEEN
Rahim Khan slowly uncrossed his legs and leaned against the bare wall in the wary, deliberate way of a man whose every movement triggers spikes of pain. Outside, a donkey was braying and some one was shouting something in Urdu. The sun was beginning to set, glittering red through the cracks between the ramshackle buildings.It hit me again, the enormity of what I had done that winter and that following summer. The names rang in my head: Hassan, Sohrab, Ali, Farzana, and Sanaubar. Hearing Rahim Khan speak Ali’s name was like finding an old dusty music box that hadn’t been opened in years; the melody began to play immediately: Who did you eat today, Babalu? Who did you eat, you slant-eyed Babalu? I tried to conjure Ali’s frozen face, to really see his tranquil eyes, but time can be a greedy thing--sometimes it steals all the details for itself.
“Is Hassan still in that house now?” I asked.Rahim Khan raised the teacup to his parched lips and took a sip. He then fished an envelope from the breast pocket of his vest and handed it to me. “For you.”I tore the sealed envelope. Inside, I found a Polaroid photograph and a folded letter. I stared at the photograph for a full minute.
A tall man dressed in a white turban and a green-striped chapan stood with a little boy in front of a set of wrought-iron gates. Sunlight slanted in from the left, casting a shadow on half of his rotund face. He was squinting and smiling at the camera, showing a pair of missing front teeth. Even in this blurry Polaroid, the man in the chapan exuded a sense of self-assuredness, of ease. It was in the way he stood, his feet slightly apart, his arms comfortably crossed on his chest, his head titled a little toward the sun. Mostly, it was in the way he smiled. Looking at the photo, one might have concluded that this was a man who thought the world had been good to him. Rahim Khan was right: I would have recognized him if I had bumped into him on the street. The little boy stood bare foot, one arm wrapped around the man’s thigh, his shaved head resting against his father’s hip. He too was grinning and squinting.
第十七章
拉辛汗慢慢地伸开双腿，斜倚在光秃秃的墙上，他的举止是那样小心翼翼，仿佛每个动作都会带来剧痛。外面有头驴子叫起来，有人用乌尔都语不知道喊了些什么。太阳开始下山，那些摇摇欲坠的房子的裂缝中，渗出闪闪的红色斜晖。我在那年冬天、以及随后那个夏天所犯下的罪恶，再次向我袭来。那些名字在我脑海回荡：哈桑、索拉博、阿里、法莎娜，还有莎娜芭。听着拉辛汗提起阿里的名字，恍如找到一个尘封多年的老旧唱机，那些旋律立即开始演奏：你今天吃了谁啊，巴巴鲁。你吃了谁啊，你这个斜眼的巴巴鲁？我努力想起阿里那张冰冷的脸，想真的见到他那双安详的眼睛，但时间很贪婪——有时候，它会独自吞噬所有的细节。
“哈桑现在仍住那间屋子吗？”拉辛汗把茶杯举到他干裂的唇边，啜了一口，接着从他背心的上袋掏出一封信，递给我。“给你的。”我撕开贴好的信封，里面有张宝丽莱相片，和一封折叠着的信。我盯着那张照片，足足看了一分钟。
一个高高的男子，头戴白色头巾，身穿绿色条纹长袍，和一个小男孩站在一扇锻铁大门前面。阳光从左边射下，在他那张圆脸投下半边阴影。他眯眼，对着镜头微笑，显示出缺了两个门牙。即使在这张模糊的宝丽莱照片上，这个带着头巾的男人也给人自信、安适的感觉。这可以从他站立的样子看出来：他双脚微微分开，手臂舒适地在胸前交叉，他的头稍微有些倾向太阳。但更多的是体现在他的微笑上。看着这张照片，人们一定会想，这个男人认为世界对他来说很美好。拉辛汗说得对：如果我碰巧在街头见到他，一定能认出他来。那个小男孩赤足站着，一只手抱着那男人的大腿，剃着短发的头靠在他爸爸的臀部上。他也是眯眼微笑着。