TWENTY-TWO
Farid eased the Land Cruiser up the driveway of a big house in Wazir Akbar Khan. He parked in the shadows of willow trees that spilled over the walls of the compound located on Street 15, Sarak-e-Mehmana, Street of the Guests. He killed the engine and we sat for a minute, listening to the tink-tink of the engine cooling off, neither one of us saying anything. Farid shifted on his seat and toyed with the keys still hanging from the ignition switch. I could tell he was readying himself to tell me something.
“I guess I’ll wait in the car for you,” he said finally, his tone a little apologetic. He wouldn’t look at me. “This is your business now. I--”
I patted his arm. “You’ve done much more than I’ve paid you for. I don’t expect you to go with me.” But I wished I didn’t have to go in alone. Despite what I had learned about Baba, I wished he were standing alongside me now. Baba would have busted through the front doors and demanded to be taken to the man in charge, piss on the beard of anyone who stood in his way. But Baba was long dead, buried in the Afghan section of a little cemetery in Hayward. Just last month, Soraya and I had placed a bouquet of daisies and freesias beside his headstone. I was on my own.
I stepped out of the car and walked to the tall, wooden front gates of the house. I rang the bell but no buzz came--still no electricity--and I had to pound on the doors. A moment later, I heard terse voices from the other side and a pair of men toting Kalash nikovs answered the door.
I glanced at Farid sitting in the car and mouthed, I’ll be back, not so sure at all that I would be. The armed men frisked me head to toe, patted my legs, felt my crotch. One of them said something in Pashtu and they both chuckled. We stepped through the front gates. The two guards escorted me across a well-manicured lawn, past a row of geraniums and stubby bushes lined along the wall. An old hand-pump water well stood at the far end of the yard. I remembered how Kaka Homayoun’s house in Jalalabad had had a water well like that--the twins, Fazila and Karima, and I used to drop pebbles in it, listen for the plink.
第二十二章
法里德驾驶陆地巡洋舰，缓缓开上瓦兹尔?阿克巴?汗区一座大房子的车道。那座院子在十五号街，迎宾大道，柳树的枝条从围墙上伸出来，法里德把车停在柳阴下。他熄了火，我们坐了那么一分钟，听着发动机嘀嘀的冷却声，没有人说话。法里德在座位上转动身子，拨弄那把还挂在点火锁孔的钥匙。我知道他心里有话要对我说。
“我想我会留在车里等你。”他最后说，他没有看着我，我……”
语气有点抱歉。“这是你的事情。我拍拍他的手臂。“你替我做的事情，比我付钱请你做的还多。我没想过要你陪我进去。”但我希望自己不用独自进去。尽管已经知道爸爸的真面目，我还是希望他现在就站在我身边。爸爸会昂首挺胸走进前门，要求去见他们的头目，在那些胆敢拦住去路的人胡子上撒尿。可是爸爸死去很久了，长埋在海沃德一座小小墓园的阿富汗区。就在上个月，索拉雅和我还在他的坟头摆一束雏菊和小苍兰。我只有靠自己了。
我下车，走向那房子高高的木头大门。我按下门铃，但没有反应——还在停电，我只好嘭嘭敲门。片刻之后，门后传来短促的应声，两个扛着俄制步枪的男人打开门。
我看了看坐在车里的法里德，大声说：“我会回来的。”但心里却是忐忑不安。持着枪械的家伙搜遍我全身，拍拍我的腿，摸摸我的胯下。其中一个用普什图语说了几句，他们两个哈哈大笑。我们穿过前门。那两个卫兵护送着我，走过一片修剪齐整的草坪，经过一排植在墙边的天竺葵和茂密的灌木丛。远处，在院子尽头，有一泵摇井。我记得霍玛勇叔叔在贾拉拉巴特的房子也有这样的水井——那对双胞胎，法茜拉和卡丽玛，还有我，经常往里面丢石头，听它落水的声音。