“Don’t ever stare at them! Do you understand me? Never!”
“I didn’t mean to,” I said.
“Your friend is quite right, Agha. You might as well poke a rabid dog with a stick,” someone said. This new voice belonged to an old beggar sitting barefoot on the steps of a bullet-scarred building. He wore a threadbare chapan worn to frayed shreds and a dirt-crusted turban. His left eyelid drooped over an empty socket. With an arthritic hand, he pointed to the direction the red truck had gone. “They drive around looking. Looking and hoping that someone will provoke them. Sooner or later, someone always obliges. Then the dogs feast and the day’s boredom is broken at last and everyone says ‘Allah-u-akbar!’ And on those days when no one offends, well, there is always random violence, isn’t there?”
“Keep your eyes on your feet when the Talibs are near,” Farid said.
“Your friend dispenses good advice,” the old beggar chimed in. He barked a wet cough and spat in a soiled handkerchief. “Forgive me, but could you spare a few Afghanis?” he breathed.
“Bas. Let’s go,” Farid said, pulling me by the arm.I handed the old man a hundred thousand Afghanis, or the equivalent of about three dollars. When he leaned forward to take the money, his stench--like sour milk and feet that hadn’t been washed in weeks--flooded my nostrils and made my gorge rise. He hurriedly slipped the money in his waist, his lone eye darting side to side.

“A world of thanks for your benevolence, Agha sahib.”
“Do you know where the orphanage is in Karteh-Seh?” I said.
“It’s not hard to find, it’s just west of Darulaman Boulevard,” he said. “The children were moved from here to Karteh-Seh after the rockets hit the old orphanage. Which is like saving someone from the lion’s cage and throwing them in the tiger’s.”
“Thank you, Agha,” I said. I turned to go.
“That was your first time, nay?”
“I’m sorry?”
“永远不要瞪着他们！你听到了吗？永远不要！”
“我不是故意的。”我说。
“你的朋友说得对，老爷。好像你不该用棍子去捅一条疯狗。”有人说。声音来自一个老乞丐，赤足坐在一座弹印斑斑的建筑的台阶上。他身上的旧衣磨得破烂不堪，戴着肮脏的头巾。他左边眼眶空空如也，眼皮耷拉。他举起患关节炎的手，指着红色皮卡驶去的方向。“他们开着车，四处寻找。希望找到那些激怒他们的人，他们迟早会找到，然后那些疯狗就有得吃了，整天的沉闷终于被打破，每个人都高呼‘真主至尊！’而在那些没人冒犯他们的日子里，嗯，他们就随便发泄。对吧？”
“塔利班走近的时候，你的眼睛要看着地面。”法里德说。
“你的朋友提了个好建议。”老乞丐插嘴说。他咳了一声，把痰吐在油污的手帕上。“原谅我，你能施舍几个阿富汗尼吗？”他喘着气说。
“别理他。我们走。”法里德说，拉着我的手臂。我给了那个老人一张十万阿富汗尼的钞票，大约相等于三美元。他倾着身子过来取钱，身上的臭气——好像酸牛奶和几个星期没洗的臭脚——扑鼻而来，令我欲呕。他匆忙把钱塞在腰间，独眼滴溜溜转。
“谢谢你的慷慨布施，老爷。”
“你知道卡德察的恤孤院在哪里吗？”我问。
“它不难找，就在达鲁拉曼大道西端。”他说，“自从火箭炸毁老恤孤院之后，孩子们就搬到那边去了。真是才脱狼群，又落虎口。”
“谢谢你，老爷。”我说，转身走开。
“你这是第一次吗？”
“什么？”