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月某個陰冷的雨天，發生了一個小小的奇蹟。我帶索拉雅、雅米拉阿姨和索拉博參加弗裏蒙特伊麗莎白湖公園的阿富汗人聚會。上個月，阿富汗終於徵召將軍回去履任一個大臣的職位，他兩個星期前飛走——他留下了灰色西裝和懷錶。雅米拉阿姨計劃等他安頓好之後，過一兩個月再去和他團聚。 上個星期二是春季的第一天，過去是阿富汗的新年，灣區的阿富汗人計劃在東灣和半島舉行盛大的慶祝活動。 我們是在中午到的，發現地面插了六根柱子，上面搭了長方形的塑料布，裏面有一些人。有人已經開始炸麪餅；蒸汽從茶杯和花椰菜面鍋冒出來。一臺磁帶播放機放着艾哈邁德?查希爾聒噪的老歌。我們四個人衝過那片潮溼的草地時，我微微發笑；索拉雅和我走在前面，雅米拉阿姨在中間，後面是索拉博，他穿着黃色雨衣，兜帽拍打着他的後背。 索拉博在雨棚下面站了一會，接着走回雨中，雙手插進雨衣的口袋，他的頭髮貼在頭上。他在一個咖啡色的水坑旁邊停下，看着它。似乎沒有人注意到他，沒有人喊他進來。隨着時間流逝，人們終於仁慈地不再問起我們收養這個——他的行爲怪異一目瞭然——小男孩的問題。而考慮到阿富汗人的提問有時毫不拐彎抹角，這當真是個很大的解脫。人們不再問爲什麼他不說話，爲什麼他不和其他小孩玩。而最令人高興的是，他們不再用誇張的同情、他們的慢慢搖頭、他們的咋舌、他們的“噢，這個可憐的小啞巴”來讓我們窒息。新奇的感覺不見了，索拉博就像發舊的牆紙一樣融進了這個生活環境。 下午，雨晴了，鉛灰色的天空陰雲密佈，一陣寒風吹過公園。更多的家庭來到了。阿富汗人彼此問候，擁抱，親吻，交換食物。我正在跟那個原來當外科醫師的人聊天，他說他念八年級的時候跟我爸爸是同學，索拉雅拉拉我的衣袖：“阿米爾，看！ 她指着天空。幾隻風箏高高飛翔，黃色的、紅色的、綠色的，點綴在灰色的天空上，格外奪目。 “去看看。”索拉雅說，這次她指着一個在附近擺攤賣風箏的傢伙。 我把風箏帶到索拉博站着的地方，他仍倚着垃圾桶，雙手抱在胸前，擡頭望着天空。
