“The first time you saw a Talib.”
I said nothing. The old beggar nodded and smiled. Revealed a handful of remaining teeth, all crooked and yellow. “I remember the first time I saw them rolling into Kabul. What a joyous day that was!” he said. “An end to the killing! Wah wah! But like the poet says: ‘How seamless seemed love and then came trouble!”A smile sprouted on my face. “I know that ghazal. That’s H?fez.”“Yes it is. Indeed,” the old man replied. “I should know. I used to teach it at the university.”
“You did?”
The old man coughed. “From 1958 to 1996. I taught H?fez, Khayyám, Rumi, Beydel, Jami, Saadi. Once, I was even a guest lecturer in Tehran, 1971 that was. I gave a lecture on the mystic Beydel. I remember how they all stood and clapped. Ha!” He shook his head. “But you saw those young men in the truck. What value do you think they see in Sufism?”“My mother taught at the university,” I said.“And what was her name?”“Sofia Akrami.”His eye managed to twinkle through the veil of cataracts. “The desert weed lives on, but the flower of spring blooms and wilts.’ Such grace, such dignity, such a tragedy.”“You knew my mother?” I asked, kneeling before the old man.“Yes indeed,” the old beggar said. “We used to sit and talk after class. The last time was on a rainy day just before final exams when we shared a marvelous slice of almond cake together. Almond cake with hot tea and honey. She was rather obviously pregnant by then, and all the more beautiful for it. I will never forget what she said to me that day.”“What? Please tell me.” Baba had always described my mother to me in broad strokes, like, “She was a great woman.” But what I had always thirsted for were the details: the way her hair glinted in the sunlight, her favorite ice cream flavor, the songs she liked to hum, did she bite her nails? Baba took his memories of her to the grave with him. Maybe speaking her name would have reminded him of his guilt, of what he had done so soon after she had died. Or maybe his loss had been so great, his pain so deep, he couldn’t bear to talk about her. Maybe both.“She said, ‘I’m so afraid.’ And I said, ‘Why?,’ and she said, ‘Because I’m so profoundly happy, Dr. Rasul. Happiness like this is frightening.’ I asked her why and she said, ‘They only let you be this happy if they’re preparing to take something from you,’ and I said, ‘Hush up, now. Enough of this silliness.”Farid took my arm. “We should go, Amir agha,” he said softly. I snatched my arm away. “What else? What else did she say?”Theold man’s features softened. “I wish I remembered for you. But I don’t. Your mother passed away a long time ago and my memory is as shattered as these buildings. I am sorry.”
“But even a small thing, anything at all.”
“你第一次看到塔利班。”
我一语不发。老乞丐点点头，露出微笑。嘴里剩下的牙齿屈指可数，泛黄且弯曲。“我还记得第一次看到他们席卷喀布尔的情景，那天多么高兴！”他说，“杀戮结束了！哇，哇！但就像诗人说的：“爱情看似美好，但带来麻烦。”我脸上绽出笑容，“我知道那首诗，哈菲兹写的。”“对对，是他写的。”那老人回答说，“我知道。我过去在大学教过它。”
“你教大学？”
老人咳嗽，“从1958年到1996年。我教哈菲兹、迦亚谟、鲁米、贝德尔，生活在印度莫卧儿帝国，但用法里语写作，通常被当成阿富汗诗人。原书作：Beydel，有误]、雅米[Ahmad Jami（1048～1141），古代波斯诗人 ]、萨迪。我甚至还在德黑兰开过讲座，那是在1971年，关于神秘的贝德尔。我还记得他们都起立鼓掌。哈！”他摇摇头，“但你看到车上那些年轻人。你认为在他们眼里，苏菲主义[Sufism，伊斯兰教一个塞行神秘丰义的派别]有什么价值？”“我妈妈也在大学教书。”我说。“她叫什么名字？”“索菲亚 ?阿卡拉米。”他那患白内障的眼睛闪出光芒：“‘大漠荒草生息不绝，反教春花盛放凋零。’她那么优雅，那么高贵。真是悲剧啊。”“你认识我妈妈？”我问，在他身边蹲下。“是的，我认识。”老乞丐说，“过去下课后我们常坐在一起交谈。最后一次是下雨天，隔天就期末考试，我们分享一块美味的杏仁蛋糕。杏仁蛋糕，热茶，还有蜂蜜。那时她肚子很大了，变得更加美丽。我永远不会忘记她那天对我说的话。”“那是什么？请告诉我。”爸爸每次向我提起妈妈，总是很含混，比如“她是个了不起的女人”。但我一直渴望知道细节，比如：她的秀发在阳光下是什么样子，她最喜爱的冰淇淋是什么口味，她最喜欢哼唱的歌是哪一首，她也咬指甲吗？爸爸关于妈妈的记忆，已经随着他长埋地下。也许提起她的名字会唤起他心中的负疚，为她死后他犯下的事情。抑或是因为失去她的伤痛太深，他不忍再度提及。也许两种原因都有。“她说，‘我很害怕。’我问，‘为什么？’她说，‘因为我深深地感到快乐，拉索尔博士，快乐成这样，真叫人害怕。’我问她为什么，她说，‘他们只有准备要剥夺你某种东西的时候，才会让你这么快乐。’我说，‘快别胡说。这种想法太蠢了。 ’”法里德拉我的手臂。“我们该走了，阿米尔老爷。”他轻声说。我将手臂挣脱出来，“还有呢？她还说什么了？”老人露出柔和的神情。“我希望我能替你记起来。可是我不记得了。你妈妈走得太久了，我的记忆四散崩塌，像这些房子。对不起。”
“可是哪怕一件小事也好，任何事情都好。”