“Nay, Amir agha, he can’t,” Farid said. He’d read the question in my words. “I’m sorry. I wish I--”
“That’s all right, Farid,” I said. I managed a tired smile. “You have mouths to feed.” A dog was standing next to the truck now, propped on its rear legs, paws on the truck’s door, tail wagging. Sohrab was petting the dog. “I guess he goes to Islamabad for now,” I said.
I SLEPT THROUGH almost the entire four-hour ride to Islamabad. I dreamed a lot, and most of it I only remember as a hodge podge of images, snippets of visual memory flashing in my head like cards in a Rolodex: Baba marinating lamb for my thirteenth birthday party. Soraya and I making love for the first time, the sun rising in the east, our ears still ringing from the wedding music, her henna-painted hands laced in mine. The time Baba had taken Hassan and me to a strawberry field in Jalalabad--the owner had told us we could eat as much as we wanted to as long as we bought at least four kilos--and how we’d both ended up with bellyaches. How dark, almost black, Hassan’s blood had looked on the snow, dropping from the seat of his pants. Blood is a powerful thing, bachem. Khala Jamila patting Soraya’s knee and saying, God knows best, maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Sleeping on the roof of my father’s house. Baba saying that the only sin that mattered was theft. When you tell a lie, you steal a man’s right to the truth. Rahim Khan on the phone, telling me there was a way to be good again. A way to be good again...
If Peshawar was the city that reminded me of what Kabul used to be, then Islamabad was the city Kabul could have become someday. The streets were wider than Peshawar’s, cleaner, and lined with rows of hibiscus and flame trees. The bazaars were more organized and not nearly as clogged with rickshaws and pedestrians. The architecture was more elegant too, more modern, and I saw parks where roses and jasmine bloomed in the shadows of trees.
Farid found a small hotel on a side street running along the foot of the Margalla Hills. We passed the famous Shah Faisal Mosque on the way there, reputedly the biggest mosque in the world, with its giant concrete girders and soaring minarets. Sohrab perked up at the sight of the mosque, leaned out of the window and looked at it until Farid turned a corner.
THE HOTEL ROOM was a vast improvement over the one in Kabul where Farid and I had stayed. The sheets were clean, the carpet vacuumed, and the bathroom spotless. There was shampoo, soap, razors for shaving, a bathtub, and towels that smelled like lemon. And no bloodstains on the walls. One other thing: a television set sat on the dresser across from the two single beds.
“Look!” I said to Sohrab. I turned it on manually--no remote--and turned the dial. I found a children’s show with two fluffy sheep puppets singing in Urdu. Sohrab sat on one of the beds and drew his knees to his chest. Images from the TV reflected in his green eyes as he watched, stone-faced, rocking back and forth. I remembered the time I’d promised Hassan I’d buy his family a color TV when we both grew up.
“I’ll get going, Amir agha,” Farid said.
“Stay the night,” I said. “It’s a long drive. Leave tomorrow.”
“Tashakor,” he said. “But I want to get back tonight. I miss my children.” On his way out of the room, he paused in the doorway. “Good-bye, Sohrab jan,” he said. He waited for a reply, but Sohrab paid him no attention. Just rocked back and forth, his face lit by the silver glow of the images flickering across the screen.
Outside, I gave him an envelope. When he tore it, his mouth opened.
“I didn’t know how to thank you,” I said. “You’ve done so much for me.”
“How much is in here?” Farid said, slightly dazed.
“A little over two thousand dollars.”
“是的，阿米尔老爷，他不能。”法里德说，他听出我言下之意，“我很抱歉，我希望我…”
“没关系的，法里德。”我说，设法挤出一个疲惫的微笑，“你还得养家糊口。”现在有条狗站在汽车旁边，用后腿支撑着身子，前爪搭在车门上，摇着尾巴。“我想他现在应该到伊斯兰堡去。”我说。
到伊斯兰堡要四个小时，我几乎一路睡过去。我梦到很多东西，而我所记得的，只有大杂烩似的景象，栩栩如生的记忆碎片如同旋转架上的名片，不断在我脑里闪过。爸爸为我十三岁生日腌制羊肉。索拉雅和我初尝云雨，太阳从东边升起，我们耳里仍有婚礼音乐的袅袅余音，她涂了指甲花的手和我十指相扣。爸爸带我和哈桑到贾拉拉巴特的草莓地——主人告诉我们，只要买四公斤，我们就可随意大吃，最后我们两个撑得肚子发痛。哈桑的血从臀部的裤子滴下来，滴在雪地上，看上去那么暗，几乎是黑色的。血缘是最重要的，我的孩子。雅米拉阿姨拍拍索拉雅的膝盖说，只有真主最清楚，也许事情不是这样的。睡在爸爸房子的屋顶上。爸爸说惟一的罪行是盗窃。当你说谎，你偷走了人们知道真相的权利。拉辛汗在电话里，告诉我那儿有条再次成为好人的路。一条再次成为好人的路……
如果说白沙瓦让我回忆起喀布尔过去的光景，那么，伊斯兰堡就是喀布尔将来可能成为的城市。街道比白沙瓦的要宽，也更整洁，种着成排的木槿和凤凰树。市集更有秩序，而且也没有那么多行人和黄包车挡道。屋宇也更美观，更摩登，我还见到一些公园，林阴之下有蔷薇和茉莉盛开。
法里德在一条通往玛加拉山的巷道找了个小旅馆。前去的路上，我们经过著名的费萨尔清真寺，世界上最大的清真寺，香ｗωｗ奇Qìsuu書com网火甚旺，耸立着巨大的水泥柱和直插云霄的尖塔。看到清真寺，索拉博神色一振，趴在车窗上，一直看着它，直到法里德开车拐了个弯。
旅馆的房间比我和法里德在喀布尔住过那间好得太多了。被褥很干净，地毯用吸尘器吸过，卫生间没有污迹，里面有洗发水、香皂、刮胡刀、浴缸，有散发着柠檬香味的毛巾。墙上没有血迹。还有，两张单人床前面的柜子上摆着个电视机。
“看！ ”我对索拉博说。我用手将它打开——没有遥控器，转动旋钮。我调到一个儿童节目，两只毛茸茸的卡通绵羊唱着乌尔都语歌曲。索拉博坐在床上，膝盖抵着胸膛。他看得入迷，绿眼珠反射出电视机里面的影像，前后晃动身子。我想起有一次，我承诺哈桑，在我们长大之后，要给他家里买台彩电。
“我要走了，阿米尔老爷。”法里德说。
“留下过夜吧，”我说，“路途遥远。明天再走。”
“谢谢你。”他说，“但我想今晚就回去。我想念我的孩子。”他走出房间，在门口停下来。“再见，亲爱的索拉博。”他说。他等着回应，但索拉博没理他，自顾摇着身子，屏幕上闪动的图像在他脸上投下银光。
在门外，我给他一个信封。打开之后，他张大了口。
“真不知道该怎么谢谢你。”我说，“你帮了我这么多。”
“这里面有多少钱？”法里德有点手足无措。
“将近两干美元。”