“This Hazara boy.”
“Yes.”
“What does he mean to you?”
“His father meant a lot to me. He is the man in the photo. He’s dead now.”
Wahid blinked. “He was a friend of yours?”
My instinct was to say yes, as if, on some deep level, I too wanted to protect Baba’s secret. But there had been enough lies already. “He was my half-brother.” I swallowed. Added, “My illegitimate half brother.” I turned the teacup. Toyed with the handle.
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You’re not prying,” I said.“What will you do with him?”“Take him back to Peshawar. There are people there who will take care of him.”
Wahid handed the photo back and rested his thick hand on my shoulder. “You are an honorable man, Amir agha. A true Afghan.”I cringed inside.
“I am proud to have you in our home tonight,” Wahid said. I thanked him and chanced a glance over to Farid. He was looking down now, playing with the frayed edges of the straw mat.
A SHORT WHILE LATER, Maryam and her mother brought two steaming bowls of vegetable shorwa and two loaves of bread. “I’m sorry we can’t offer you meat,” Wahid said. “Only the Taliban can afford meat now.”
“This looks wonderful,” I said. It did too. I offered some to him, to the kids, but Wahid said the family had eaten before we arrived. Farid and I rolled up our sleeves, dipped our bread in the shorwa, and ate with our hands. As I ate, I noticed Wahid’s boys, all three thin with dirtcaked faces and short-cropped brown hair under their skullcaps, stealing furtive glances at my digital wristwatch. The youngest whispered something in his brother’s ear. The brother nodded, didn’t take his eyes off my watch. The oldest of the boys--I guessed his age at about twelve--rocked back and forth, his gaze glued to my wrist. After dinner, after I’d washed my hands with the water Maryam poured from a clay pot, I asked for Wahid’s permission to give his boys a hadia, a gift. He said no, but, when I insisted, he reluctantly agreed. I unsnapped the wristwatch and gave it to the youngest of the three boys. He muttered a sheepish “Tashakor.”
“It tells you the time in any city in the world,” I told him. The boys nodded politely, passing the watch between them, taking turns trying it on. But they lost interest and, soon, the watch sat abandoned on the straw mat.
“这个哈扎拉男孩？”
“是的。”
“他对你很重要吗？”
“他的父亲对我来说很重要，就是照片中那个男人，现在他死了。”
瓦希德眨眨眼：“他是你的朋友？”
我内心想说是，仿佛在心灵深处，我想保守爸爸的秘密。可是谎言已经足够多了，“他是我同父异母的兄弟。”我压制着情绪说，又加上一句，“我的私生弟弟。”我转过茶杯，把弄着杯柄。
“我不是想要剌探你的隐私。”
“你没有。”我说。“你会怎么安置他呢？”“把他带到白沙瓦，那儿有人会好好照料他。”

瓦希德把照片还给我，厚厚的手掌放在我肩膀上。“你是条让人尊敬的汉子，阿米尔老爷。一个真正的阿富汗人。 ”我暗自汗颜。
“你今晚来我家做客，让我很骄傲。”瓦希德说。我跟他客气了几句，偷眼看向法里德。现在他低着头，玩弄着草席残破的边缘。
隔了一会，玛丽亚跟她妈妈端来两碗热气腾腾的蔬菜汤，还有两片面包。 “很抱歉，没有肉。”瓦希德说，“现在只有塔利班才能吃上肉。”
“这看起来很棒。”我说，它确实很棒。我让他跟小孩也吃些，但瓦希德说他们在我们来之前刚吃过。法里德和我卷起衣袖，手抓面包，浸在蔬菜汤里面，吃了起来。吃的时候，我看着瓦希德的儿子，他们三个都很瘦，脸上脏兮兮的，棕色的头发剪得很短，戴着无边草帽，不时偷偷看着我的电子手表。最小那个在他哥哥耳边说了些什么，他哥哥点点头，眼神一直没离开我的手表。最大那个男孩——我猜想他大概十二岁——摇晃着身体，眼光也落在我的手表上。吃完之后，玛丽亚端来一陶罐水，我洗过手，问瓦希德我能不能送点礼物给他儿子。他不许，但我执意要送，他勉强同意了。我把手表脱下来，交给三个男孩中最小那个。他怯生生地说了句“谢谢”。
“它可以告诉你世界任何城市的时间。”我告诉他。孩子们礼貌地点点头，将手表传来传去，轮流试戴。但他们很快就不感兴趣了，将手表扔在草席上。