He winced when he spoke again in that husky voice, barely above a whisper. “Tired of everything.”I sighed and slumped in my chair. There was a band of sunlight on the bed between us, and, for just a moment, the ashen gray face looking at me from the other side of it was a dead ringer for Hassan’s, not the Hassan I played marbles with until the mullah belted out the evening azan and Ali called us home, not the Hassan I chased down our hill as the sun dipped behind clay rooftops in the west, but the Hassan I saw alive for the last time, dragging his belongings behind Ali in a warm summer downpour, stuffing them in the trunk of Baba’s car while I watched through the rain-soaked window of my room.He gave a slow shake of his head. “Tired of everything,” he repeated.
“What can I do, Sohrab? Please tell me.”
“I want--” he began. He winced again and brought his hand to his throat as if to clear whatever was blocking his voice. My eyes were drawn again to his wrist wrapped tightly with white gauze bandages. “I want my old life back,” he breathed.
“Oh, Sohrab.”
“I want Father and Mother jan. I want Sasa. I want to play with Rahim Khan sahib in the garden. I want to live in our house again.” He dragged his forearm across his eyes. “I want my old life back.”
I didn’t know what to say, where to look, so I gazed down at my hands. Your old life, I thought. My old life too. I played in the same yard, Sohrab. I lived in the same house. But the grass is dead and a stranger’s jeep is parked in the driveway of our house, pissing oil all over the asphalt. Our old life is gone, Sohrab, and everyone in it is either dead or dying. It’s just you and me now. Just you and me.
“I can’t give you that,” I said. “I wish you hadn’t--”
“Please don’t say that.”
“--wish you hadn’t... I wish you had left me in the water.”
“Don’t ever say that, Sohrab,” I said, leaning forward. “I can’t bear to hear you talk like that.” I touched his shoulder and he flinched. Drew away. I dropped my hand, remembering ruefully how in the last days before I’d broken my promise to him he had finally become at ease with my touch. “Sohrab, I can’t give you your old life back, I wish to God I could. But I can take you with me. That was what I was coming in the bathroom to tell you. You have a visa to go to America, to live with me and my wife. It’s true. I promise.”
他一边缩着身子，一边再次用粗哑的嗓音，声音低得几乎听不见地说：“厌倦了一切事情。”我叹气，颓然坐倒在椅子上。一道阳光照在床上，在我们两人中间，而就在那一瞬间，那张死灰的脸从光线那边看着我，它像极了哈桑的面孔，不是那个整天跟我玩弹珠直到毛拉唱起晚祷、阿里喊我们回家的哈桑，不是那个太阳没入西边的黏土屋顶时我们从山丘上追逐而下的哈桑，而是我有生最后一次见到的那个哈桑，那个我透过自己房间雨水迷蒙的窗户望着的、在夏日温暖的倾盆大雨中拖着行李走在阿里背后、将它们塞进爸爸的轿车后厢的哈桑。他慢慢摇着头。“厌倦了一切事情。”他重复说。
“我能做什么，索拉博？请告诉我。”
“我想要……”他开口，身子又是一缩，把手按在喉咙上，似乎要清除掉哽住他嗓音的东西。我的眼光再次落在他手腕上紧紧绑着的医用绷带上。“我想要回原来的生活。”他喘息说。
“哦，索拉博。”
“我想要爸爸和亲爱的妈妈，我想要莎莎，我想要跟拉辛汗老爷在花园玩，我想要回到我们的房子生活。”他用前臂盖住双眼，“我想要回原来的生活。”
我不知道该说什么，该看哪里，所以我望着自己双手。你原来的生活，我想，也是我原来的生活。我在同一个院子玩耍。我住在同一座房子。可是那些草已经死了，我们家房子的车道上停着陌生人的吉普车，油污滴满柏油地面。我们原来的生活不见了，索拉博，原来那些人要么死了，要么正在死去。现在只剩下你和我了。只剩下你和我。
“我没办法给你。”我说。“我希望你没有……”
“请别那么说。”
“……希望你没有……我希望你让我留在水里。”
“别再那么说了，索拉博。”我说，身子前倾，“我无法忍受再听见你那么说。”我碰他的肩膀，他缩身抽开。我放下手，凄凉地想起我在对他食言之前的最后几天，他终于能够自在地接受我的触碰。“索拉博，我没办法把你原来的生活给你，我希望真主给我这样的力量。但我可以带你走。当时我走向浴室，就是要告诉你这个。你有前往美国跟我和我的妻子生活在一起的签证了。真的。我保证。”