THEN, FOUR DAYS AGO, on a cool rainy day in March 2002, a small, wondrous thing happened. I took Soraya, Khala Jamila, and Sohrab to a gathering of Afghans at Lake Elizabeth Park in Fremont. The general had finally been summoned to Afghanistan the month before for a ministry position, and had flown there two weeks earlier--he had left behind his gray suit and pocket watch. The plan was for Khala Jamila to join him in a few months once he had settled. She missed him terribly--and worried about his health there--and we had insisted she stay with us for a while.
The previous Thursday, the first day of spring, had been the Afghan New Year’s Day--the Sawl-e-Nau--and Afghans in the Bay Area had planned celebrations throughout the East Bay and the peninsula.
We arrived around noon and found a handful of people taking cover under a large rectangular plastic sheet mounted on six poles spiked to the ground. Someone was already frying bolani; steam rose from teacups and a pot of cauliflower aush. A scratchy old Ahmad Zahir song was blaring from a cassette player. I smiled a little as the four of us rushed across the soggy grass field, Soraya and I in the lead, Khala Jamila in the middle, Sohrab behind us, the hood of his yellow raincoat bouncing on his back.
Sohrab stayed under the canopy for a moment, then stepped back out into the rain, hands stuffed in the pockets of his raincoat, his hair--now brown and straight like Hassan’s--plastered against his scalp. He stopped near a coffee-colored puddle and stared at it. No one seemed to notice. No one called him back in. With time, the queries about our adopted--and decidedly eccentric--little boy had mercifully ceased, and, considering how tactless Afghan queries can be sometimes, that was a considerable relief. People stopped asking why he never spoke. Why he didn’t play with the other kids. And best of all, they stopped suffocating us with their exaggerated empathy, their slow head shaking, their tsk tsks, their “Oh gung bichara.” Oh, poor little mute one. The novelty had worn off. Like dull wallpaper, Sohrab had blended into the background.
By three o’clock, the rain had stopped and the sky was a curdled gray burdened with lumps of clouds. A cool breeze blew through the park. More families turned up. Afghans greeted each other, hugged, kissed, exchanged food. “Amir, look!” She was pointing to the sky. A half-dozen kites were flying high, speckles of bright yellow, red, and green against the gray sky.
“Check it out,” Soraya said, and this time she was pointing to a guy selling kites from a stand nearby.
I took the kite to where Sohrab was standing, still leaning against the garbage pail, arms crossed on his chest. He was looking up at the sky.
然而，4天之前，2002年 3月某个阴冷的雨天，发生了一个小小的奇迹。我带索拉雅、雅米拉阿姨和索拉博参加弗里蒙特伊丽莎白湖公园的阿富汗人聚会。上个月，阿富汗终于征召将军回去履任一个大臣的职位，他两个星期前飞走——他留下了灰色西装和怀表。雅米拉阿姨计划等他安顿好之后，过一两个月再去和他团聚。
上个星期二是春季的第一天，过去是阿富汗的新年，湾区的阿富汗人计划在东湾和半岛举行盛大的庆祝活动。
我们是在中午到的，发现地面插了六根柱子，上面搭了长方形的塑料布，里面有一些人。有人已经开始炸面饼；蒸汽从茶杯和花椰菜面锅冒出来。一台磁带播放机放着艾哈迈德?查希尔聒噪的老歌。我们四个人冲过那片潮湿的草地时，我微微发笑；索拉雅和我走在前面，雅米拉阿姨在中间，后面是索拉博，他穿着黄色雨衣，兜帽拍打着他的后背。
索拉博在雨棚下面站了一会，接着走回雨中，双手插进雨衣的口袋，他的头发贴在头上。他在一个咖啡色的水坑旁边停下，看着它。似乎没有人注意到他，没有人喊他进来。随着时间流逝，人们终于仁慈地不再问起我们收养这个——他的行为怪异一目了然——小男孩的问题。而考虑到阿富汗人的提问有时毫不拐弯抹角，这当真是个很大的解脱。人们不再问为什么他不说话，为什么他不和其他小孩玩。而最令人高兴的是，他们不再用夸张的同情、他们的慢慢摇头、他们的咋舌、他们的“噢，这个可怜的小哑巴”来让我们窒息。新奇的感觉不见了，索拉博就像发旧的墙纸一样融进了这个生活环境。
下午，雨晴了，铅灰色的天空阴云密布，一阵寒风吹过公园。更多的家庭来到了。阿富汗人彼此问候，拥抱，亲吻，交换食物。我正在跟那个原来当外科医师的人聊天，他说他念八年级的时候跟我爸爸是同学，索拉雅拉拉我的衣袖：“阿米尔，看！ 她指着天空。几只风筝高高飞翔，黄色的、红色的、绿色的，点缀在灰色的天空上，格外夺目。
“去看看。”索拉雅说，这次她指着一个在附近摆摊卖风筝的家伙。
我把风筝带到索拉博站着的地方，他仍倚着垃圾桶，双手抱在胸前，抬头望着天空。