I KEPT THINKING OF THAT DAY in 1974, in the hospital room, Just after Hassan’s harelip surgery. Baba, Rahim Khan, Ali, and I had huddled around Hassan’s bed, watched him examine his new lip in a handheld mirror. Now everyone in that room was either dead or dying. Except for me. Then I saw something else: a man dressed in a herringbone vest pressing the muzzle of his Kalashnikov to the back of Hassan’s head. The blast echoes through the street of my father’s house. Hassan slumps to the asphalt, his life of unrequited loyalty drifting from him like the windblown kites he used to chase.
“The Taliban moved into the house,” Rahim Khan said. “The pretext was that they had evicted a trespasser. Hassan’s and Farzana’s murders were dismissed as a case of self-defense. No one said a word about it. Most of it was fear of the Taliban, I think. But no one was going to risk anything for a pair of Hazara servants.”
“What did they do with Sohrab?” I asked. I felt tired, drained. A coughing fit gripped Rahim Khan and went on for a long time. When he finally looked up, his face was flushed and his eyes bloodshot. “I heard he’s in an orphanage somewhere in Karteh Seh. Amir jan--” then he was coughing again. When he stopped, he looked older than a few moments before, like he was aging with each coughing fit. “Amir jan, I summoned you here because I wanted to see you before I die, but that’s not all.”
I said nothing. I think I already knew what he was going to say.
我想着1974年那天，在医院的病房里面，哈桑刚刚做完补唇手术。爸爸、拉辛汗、阿里和我围在哈桑床前，看着他举起一面镜子，察看他的新嘴唇。如今，除我之外，那个房间的人要么已经死去，要么即将死去。 接着我还看到其他东西：一个男人穿着人字型背心，将他那把俄制步枪的枪口抵在哈桑脑后。枪声在我父亲房子那条街道上回荡。哈桑扑倒在柏油路上，他那不求回报的忠贞生命，像他以前经常追逐的断线风筝那样，从他身上飘走。
“塔利班搬进了那座房子，”拉辛汗说，“他们托词赶走非法占有他人财产的人，杀害哈桑和法莎娜被法庭当成自我防卫，宣布无罪。没有人说一句话。我想主要是出于对塔利班的恐惧。但也是因为，不会有人为了一对哈扎拉仆人去冒什么风险。”
“他们怎么处置索拉博？”我问。我觉得劳累不堪，精疲力竭。一阵咳嗽袭击了拉辛汗，持续了好长时间。当他最终抬起头时，他的脸涨得通红，双眼充血。 “我听说他在卡德帕湾区某个恤孤院里面。亲爱的阿米尔……”接着他又咳起来。咳嗽停止后，他看上去比刚才要老一些，似乎每声咳嗽都催他老去。“亲爱的阿米尔，我呼唤你到这里来，因为我在死之前想看看你，但这并非全部。”
我一语不发。我想我已经知道他接下来要说什么。