We climbed a few steps and entered a large, sparsely decorated house. We crossed the foyer--a large Afghan flag draped one of the walls--and the men took me upstairs to a room with twin mint green sofas and a big-screen TV in the far corner. A prayer rug showing a slightly oblong Mecca was nailed to one of the walls. The older of the two men motioned toward the sofa with the barrel of his weapon. I sat down. They left the room. I crossed my legs. Uncrossed them. Sat with my sweaty hands on my knees. Did that make me look nervous? I clasped them together, decided that was worse and just crossed my arms on my chest. Blood thudded in my temples. I felt utterly alone. Thoughts were flying around in my head, but I didn’t want to think at all, because a sober part of me knew that what I had managed to get myself into was insanity. I was thousands of miles from my wife, sitting in a room that felt like a holding cell, waiting for a man I had seen murder two people that same day. It was insanity. Worse yet, it was irresponsible. There was a very realistic chance that I was going to render Soraya a biwa, a widow, at the age of thirty-six. This isn’t you, Amir, part of me said. You’re gutless. It’s how you were made. And that’s not such a bad thing because your saving grace is that you’ve never lied to yourself about it. Not about that. Nothing wrong with cowardice as long as it comes with prudence. But when a coward stops remembering who he is... God help him.
There was a coffee table by the sofa. The base was X-shaped, walnut-sized brass balls studding the ring where the metallic legs crossed. I’d seen a table like that before. Where? And then it came to me: at the crowded tea shop in Peshawar, that night I’d gone for a walk. On the table sat a bowl of red grapes. I plucked one and tossed it in my mouth. I had to preoccupy myself with something, anything, to silence the voice in my head. The grape was sweet. I popped another one in, unaware that it would be the last bit of solid food I would eat for a long time. The door opened and the two armed men returned, between them the tall Talib in white, still wearing his dark John Lennon glasses, looking like some broad-shouldered, NewAge mystic guru.
He took a seat across from me and lowered his hands on the armrests. For a long time, he said nothing. Just sat there, watching me, one hand drumming the upholstery, the other twirling turquoise blue prayer beads. He wore a black vest over the white shirt now, and a gold watch. I saw a splotch of dried blood on his left sleeve. I found it morbidly fascinating that he hadn’t changed clothes after the executions earlier that day.Periodically, his free hand floated up and his thick fingers batted at something in the air. They made slow stroking motions, up and down, side to side, as if he were caressing an invisible pet. One of his sleeves retracted and I saw marks on his forearm--I’d seen those same tracks on homeless people living in grimy alleys in San Francisco.His skin was much paler than the other two men’s, almost sallow, and a crop of tiny sweat beads gleamed on his forehead just below the edge of his black turban. His beard, chest-length like the others, was lighter in color too.
“Salaam alaykum,” he said.
“Salaam.”
我们走上台阶，进入一座装潢精美的大房子。我们穿过门廊——墙上挂着一面巨大的阿富汗国旗，那两个男人带我上楼，走进一间房子，里面摆放着一对翠绿色的沙发，一台大屏幕电视摆在距离颇远的屋角。墙上钉着绣有麦加地图的祷告地毯。年纪较大那人用枪管指指沙发。我坐下。他们离开房间。我翘起脚，又放下。我坐在那儿，双手冒着汗水，放在膝盖上。这让我看起来很紧张吧？我合起手掌，觉得这样更糟糕，干脆横抱在胸前。血液在我的太阳穴里面涌动。我感到深深的孤独。思绪在我脑海翻飞，但我根本不想去思考，因为我体内清醒的那部分知道，我是发疯了，才会让自己陷进这一切。我远离妻子几千英里，坐在感觉像地牢的房间里面，等待一个凶手，我刚刚才亲眼看到他杀死两个人。这一定是疯了。甚至更糟糕，这还很不负责任。非常可能的是，我即将让年方三十六岁的索拉雅成为寡妇。这不是你，阿米尔。我体内有个声音说，你懦弱，这是你的天性。这并非什么坏事，因为你从不强装勇敢，这是你的优点。只要三思而后行，懦弱并没有错。可是，当一个懦夫忘了自己是什么人……愿真主保佑他。
沙发前面摆着一张咖啡桌，底座是 X状的，金属桌脚交叉的地方，拴着一环胡桃大小的铜球。我之前见过这样的桌子。在哪里？我突然想起来：在白沙瓦那间拥挤的茶馆里面，那天傍晚我出去闲逛时走进去的那间。桌上摆着一盘红色的葡萄，我摘下一个，丢进嘴里。我得找件事来想着，任何事情都行，这样才能让脑子里的声音安静下来。葡萄很甜，我又吃了一个，完全没有想到在接下来很长一段时间里面，这是我吃下的最后一口固体食物。门打开，那两个持枪的男人回来，他们中间是那个穿白色衣服的高个子塔利班，依然戴着约翰?列农式的墨镜，看上去有点像某个神秘的新世纪巫师。
他坐在我对面，双手放在沙发的扶手上。好长一段时间，他一语不发，只是坐在那儿，看着我，一手拍打着沙发套，一手捻着青绿色的念珠。现在，他在白色的衬衣外面加了件黑色的背心，戴着金表。我看见他左袖有一小块干涸的血迹。他没换掉早些时候行刑的衣服，这对我来说竟然有些病态的魔力。他那没拿念珠的手不时抬起，厚厚的手指在空气中做拍打状，慢慢地，上下左右拍打着，仿佛他在摸着一只隐形的宠物。他的袖子后缩，我见到他前臂上有吸毒的标记——同样的标记，我也曾在旧金山那些生活在污秽小巷的流浪汉身上见过。他的皮肤比其他两个自得多，白得近乎病态，他的前额，就在黑色头巾边缘之下，有颗汗珠渗出来。他的胡子跟其他人一样，长到胸前，也是颜色较浅。
“你好。”他说。
“你好。”