He said. The Khyber Pass was as famous for its terrain as for the bandits who used that terrain to rob travelers. Before I could answer, he winked and said in a loud voice, “Of course no dozd would waste his time on a car as ugly as my brother’s.”
Farid wrestled the smallest of the three boys to the floor and tickled him on the ribs with his good hand. The kid giggled and kicked. “At least I have a car,” Farid panted. “How is your donkey these days?”
“My donkey is a better ride than your car.”
“Khar khara mishnassah,” Farid shot back. Takes a donkey to know a donkey. They all laughed and I joined in. I heard female voices from the adjoining room. I could see half of the room from where I sat. Maryam and an older woman wearing a brown hijab--presumably her mother--were speaking in low voices and pouring tea from a kettle into a pot.
“So what do you do in America, Amir agha?” Wahid asked.
“I’m a writer,” I said. I thought I heard Farid chuckle at that.
“A writer?” Wahid said, clearly impressed. “Do you write about Afghanistan?”
“Well, I have. But not currently,” I said. My last novel, A Season for Ashes, had been about a university professor who joins a clan of gypsies after he finds his wife in bed with one of his stu dents. It wasn’t a bad book. Some reviewers had called it a “good” book, and one had even used the word “riveting.” But suddenly I was embarrassed by it. I hoped Wahid wouldn’t ask what it was about.
“Maybe you should write about Afghanistan again,” Wahid said. “Tell the rest of the world what the Taliban are doing to our country.”
“Well, I’m not... I’m not quite that kind of writer.”
他说。与开伯尔隘口同样远近闻名的是，强盗利用那里的地形打劫过往旅客。我还没有回答，他就眨眨眼，大声说：“当然，没有任何强盗会打我兄弟那辆破车的主意。”
法里德将最小那个孩子抱倒在地，用那只完好的手去挠他的肋骨。那孩子咯咯大笑，双脚乱踢。“最少我还有一辆车，”法里德气喘吁吁地说，“你那头驴子最近怎样？”
“我的驴子骑起来比坐你的车好。”
“骑驴才知驴难骑。”法里德回敬说。他们全都笑起来，我也笑了。我听见隔壁传来女人的声音。从我坐的地方，可以看到那间屋子的一半。玛丽亚和蒙着棕色面纱的妇女低声交谈，从一个大水壶往茶壶里面倒茶。那女人年纪较大，应该是她妈妈。
“你在美国干什么呢，老爷？”瓦希德问。
“我是个作家。”我说，法里德听到之后轻声一笑。
“作家？”瓦希德说，显然颇有好感。“你写阿富汗吗？”
，写的是一个大学教授的故事，他发现妻子跟他的学生上床之后，追随一群吉卜赛人而去。这本书不错。有些评论家说它是本“好”书，有一个甚至还用了“引人人胜”这样的评语。但突然之间，它让我很难为情。我希望瓦希德不会问起它的内容。
“也许你应该再写写阿富汗。”瓦希德说，“将塔利班在我们国家的所作所为告诉世界其他角落的人们。”
“嗯，我不是……我不算是那种作家。”