“Yes.” I placed a finger under his chin, turned his face up to mine. “There is one other thing, Sohrab.”
“What?”
“Well, Mr. Faisal thinks that it would really help if we could... if we could ask you to stay in a home for kids for a while.”
“Home for kids?” he said, his smile fading. “You mean an orphanage?”
“It would only be for a little while.”
“No,” he said. “No, please.”
“Sohrab, it would be for just a little while. I promise.”
“You promised you’d never put me in one of those places, Amir agha,” he said. His voice was breaking, tears pooling in his eyes. I felt like a prick.
“This is different. It would be here, in Islamabad, not in Kabul. And I’d visit you all the time until we can get you out and take you to America.”
“Please! Please, no!” he croaked. “I’m scared of that place. They’ll hurt me! I don’t want to go.”
“No one is going to hurt you. Not ever again.”
“Yes they will! They always say they won’t but they lie. They lie! Please, God!”
I wiped the tear streaking down his cheek with my thumb. “Sour apples, remember? It’s just like the sour apples,” I said softly.
“No it’s not. Not that place. God, oh God. Please, no!” He was trembling, snot and tears mixing on his face.
“Shhh.” I pulled him close, wrapped my arms around his shaking little body. “Shhh. It’ll be all right. We’ll go home together. You’ll see, it’ll be all right.”
His voice was muffled against my chest, but I heard the panic in it. “Please promise you won’t! Oh God, Amir agha! Please promise you won’t!”
How could I promise? I held him against me, held him tightly, and rocked badk and forth. He wept into my shirt until his tears dried, until his shaking stopped and his frantic pleas dwindled to indecipherable mumbles. I waited, rocked him until his breathing slowed and his body slackened. I remembered something I had read somewhere a long time ago: That’s how children deal with terror. They fall asleep.
I carried him to his bed, set him down. Then I lay in my own bed, looking out the window at the purple sky over Islamabad.
“是的，”我伸了一根手指在他下巴，把他的脸转过来，“还有一件事，索拉博。”
“什么事？”
“嗯，费萨尔先生那会很有帮助，如果我们……如果我们能让你在一间为孩子准备的房子待上一阵。”
“为孩子准备的房间？”他的笑容消失了，“你是说孤儿院吗？”
“只是待上一阵。”
“不，”他说， “别这样，求求你。”
“索拉博，那只是很短的时间，我保证。”
“你向我保证过永远不让我去那些地方，阿米尔老爷。”他说。他声音颤抖，泪如泉涌。我一阵心痛。
“那不同的。就在这儿，在伊斯兰堡，不是在喀布尔。我会每天去探望你，直到我们能够离开，把你带去美国。”
“求求你！求求你！别这样！”他哽咽着，“我很怕那些地方。他们伤害我！我不想去。”
“没有人会伤害你。再也不会了。”
“他们会的！他们总是说他们不会，但他们说谎！他们说谎！求求你，真主啊！ ”
我用拇指抹去他脸上的泪痕。“酸苹果，记得吗？这就像一个酸苹果。”我轻声说。
“不，它不是。不要那些地方。天，天啦！求求你，别这样！”他浑身颤抖，涕泗俱下。
“嘘。”我把他拉近，抱着他颤抖的身体。“嘘。会没事的。我们会一起回家。你会看到的，没事的。”
他的声音被我的胸膛闷住，但我能听到话里的痛苦。“求求你答应我你不会这么做！天啊，阿米尔老爷！求求你答应我你不会！”
我如何能答应呢？我抱着他，紧紧抱着，前后摇晃。他的泪水滴进我的衣裳，直到泪流干了，直到不再颤抖了，直到惊恐的哀求变成听不清的喃喃自语。我等着，摇着他，直到他呼吸缓下来，身体松弛。我想起曾经从某个地方看来的一句话：孩子们就是这样对付恐惧：他们睡觉。
我抱他上床，把他放下。然后我躺在自己床上，望着窗外伊斯兰堡上方紫色的天空。