“I feel like a tourist in my own country,” I said, taking in a goatherd leading a half-dozen emaciated goats along the side of the road.
Farid snickered. Tossed his cigarette. “You still think of this place as your country?”
“I think a part of me always will,” I said, more defensively than I had intended.
“After twenty years of living in America,” he said, swerving the truck to avoid a pothole the size of a beach ball.
I nodded. “I grew up in Afghanistan.” Farid snickered again.
“Why do you do that?”
“Never mind,” he murmured.
“No, I want to know. Why do you do that?” In his rearview mirror, I saw something flash in his eyes. “You want to know?” he sneered. “Let me imagine, Agha sahib. You probably lived in a big two- or three-story house with a nice back yard that your gardener filled with flowers and fruit trees. All gated, of course. Your father drove an American car. You had servants, probably Hazaras. Your parents hired workers to decorate the house for the fancy mehmanis they threw, so their friends would come over to drink and boast about their travels to Europe or America. And I would bet my first son’s eyes that this is the first time you’ve ever worn a pakol.” He grinned at me, revealing a mouthful of prematurely rotting teeth. “Am I close?”
“Why are you saying these things?” I said.
“Because you wanted to know,” he spat. He pointed to an old man dressed in ragged clothes trudging down a dirt path, a large burlap pack filled with scrub grass tied to his back. “That’s the real Afghanistan, Agha sahib. That’s the Afghanistan I know. You? You’ve always been a tourist here, you just didn’t know it.”
Rahim Khan had warned me not to expect a warm welcome in Afghanistan from those who had stayed behind and fought the wars. “I’m sorry about your father,” I said. “I’m sorry about your daughters, and I’m sorry about your hand.”
“That means nothing to me,” he said. He shook his head. “Why are you coming back here anyway? Sell off your Baba’s land? Pocket the money and run back to your mother in America?”
“My mother died giving birth to me,” I said. He sighed and lit another cigarette. Said nothing.
“Pull over.”
“What?”
“我回到自己的国家，却发现自己像个游客。”我说。路边有个牧人，领着几只干瘦的山羊在赶路。
法里德冷笑，扔掉烟蒂，“你还把这个地方当成国家？”
“我想有一部分的我永远会这么认为。”我说，我的戒备之心出乎自己意料之外。
“在美国生活了二十年之后？”他说，打着方向盘，避开路上一个海滩球那么大的洞。
我点点头：“我在阿富汗长大。”法里德又冷笑。
“你为什么这样？”
“没什么。”
“不，我想知道。你干吗这样？”借着他那边的观后镜，我见到他眼里有神色闪动。“你想知道？”他嗤之以鼻，“我来想像一下，老爷。你也许生活在一座两层或者三层的楼房，有个漂亮的后院，你的园丁给它种满花草和果树。当然，门都锁上了。你父亲开美国车。你有仆人，估计是哈扎拉人。你的父母请来工人，装潢他们举办宴会的房间，好让他们的朋友前来饮酒喝茶，吹嘘他们在美国和欧洲的游历。而我敢拿我大儿子的眼睛打赌，这是你第一次戴毡帽。”他朝我咧嘴而笑，露出一口过早蛀蚀的牙齿，“我说的没错吧？”
“你为什么要说这些呢？”我说。
“因为你想知道，”他回嘴说。他指着一个衣裳褴褛的老人，背着装满柴草的麻袋，在泥土路上跋涉前进。“那才是真正的阿富汗人，老爷，那才是我认识的阿富汗人。你？在这里，你一直无非是个过客而已，只是你自己不知道罢了。”
拉辛汗警告过我，在阿富汗，别指望那些留下来战斗的人会给我好脸色看。“我为你父亲感到难过，”我说，“我为你女儿感到难过，我为你的手感到难过。 ”
“那对我来说没有意义。”他摇摇头说，“为什么无论如何，你们总是要回到这里呢？卖掉你们父亲的土地？把钱放进口袋，跑回美国找你们的妈妈？”
“我妈妈在生我的时候死了。”我说。他叹气，又点一根烟，一语不发。
“停车。”
“什么？”