I THOUGHT WE’D END UP DRIVING around the city until night fell. I saw myself calling the police, describing Sohrab to them under Fayyaz’s reproachful glare. I heard the officer, his voice tired and uninterested, asking his obligatory questions. And beneath the official questions, an unofficial one: Who the hell cared about another dead Afghan kid?
But we found him about a hundred yards from the mosque, sitting in the half-full parking lot, on an island of grass. Fayyaz pulled up to the island and let me out. “I have to get back,” he said.
“That’s fine. We’ll walk back,” I said. “Thank you, Mr. Fayyaz. Really.”He leaned across the front seat when I got out. “Can I say something to you?”
“Sure.”
In the dark of twilight, his face was just a pair of eyeglasses reflecting the fading light. “The thing about you Afghanis is that... well, you people are a little reckless.”
I was tired and in pain. My jaws throbbed. And those damn wounds on my chest and stomach felt like barbed wire under my skin. But I started to laugh anyway.
“What... what did I...” Fayyaz was saying, but I was cackling by then, full-throated bursts of laughter spilling through my wired mouth.
“Crazy people,” he said. His tires screeched when he peeled away, his tail-lights blinking red in the dimming light.“You GAVE ME A GOOD SCARE,” I said. I sat beside him, wincing with pain as I bent.He was looking at the mosque. Shah Faisal Mosque was shaped like a giant tent. Cars came and went; worshipers dressed in white streamed in and out. We sat in silence, me leaning against the tree, Sohrab next to me, knees to his chest. We listened to the call to prayer, watched the building’s hundreds of lights come on as daylight faded. The mosque sparkled like a diamond in the dark. It lit up the sky, Sohrab’s face. “Have you ever been to Mazar-i-Sharif?” Sohrab said, his chin resting on his kneecaps.
“A long time ago. I don’t remember it much.”
“Father took me there when I was little. Mother and Sasa came along too. Father bought me a monkey from the bazaar. Not a real one but the kind you have to blow up. It was brown and had a bow tie.”
“I might have had one of those when I was a kid.”
我原以为我们会在城里四处寻找，直到夜幕降临。我以为我会看到自己报警，在费亚兹同情的目光下，给他们描绘索拉博的样子。我以为会听见那个警官疲累冷漠的声音，例行公事的提问。而在那些正式的问题之后，会来个私人的问题：不就是又一个死掉的阿富汗孩子，谁他妈的关心啊？
但我们在离清真寺约莫一百米的地方找到他，坐在车辆停满一半的停车场里面，一片草堆上。费亚兹在那片草堆停下，让我下车。“我得回去。”他说。
“好的。我们会走回去。”我说，“谢谢你，费亚兹先生，真的谢谢。”我走出去的时候，他身子从前座探出来。“我能对你说几句吗？”?
“当然。”
在薄暮的黑暗中，他的脸只剩下一对反照出微光的眼镜。“你们阿富汗的事情……这么说吧，你们有点鲁莽。”
我很累，很痛。我的下巴抖动，胸膛和腹部那些该死的伤口像鱼钩在拉我的皮肤。但尽管这样，我还是开始大笑起来。
“我……我说了……”费亚兹在说话，但我那时哈哈大笑，喉头爆发出来的笑声从我缝着线的嘴巴进出来。
“疯掉了。”他说。他踩下油门，车轮在地面打转，尾灯在黯淡的夜光中闪闪发亮。“你把我吓坏了。”我说。我在他身旁坐下，强忍弯腰带来的剧痛。他望着清真寺。费萨尔清真寺的外观像一顶巨大的帐篷。轿车进进出出，穿着白衣的信徒川流不息。我们默默坐着，我斜倚着树，索拉博挨着我，膝盖抵在胸前。我们听着宣告祈祷开始的钟声，看着那屋宇随日光消退而亮起成千上万的灯光。清真寺在黑暗中像钻石那样闪着光芒。它照亮了夜空，照亮了索拉博的脸庞。“你去过马扎里沙里夫吗？”索拉博说，下巴放在膝盖上。
“很久以前去过，我不太记得了。”
“我很小的时候，爸爸带我去过那儿，妈妈和莎莎也去了。爸爸在市集给我买了一只猴子。不是真的那种，而是你得把它吹起来的那种。它是棕色的，还打着蝴蝶结。”
“我小时候似乎也有一只。”