We went to bed, and Soraya fell asleep with her head on my chest. In the darkness of our room, I lay awake, an insomniac once more. Awake. And alone with demons of my own. Sometime in the middle of the night, I slid out of bed and went to Sohrab’s room. I stood over him, looking down, and saw some thing protruding from under his pillow. I picked it up. Saw it was Rahim Khan’s Polaroid, the one I had given to Sohrab the night we had sat by the Shah Faisal Mosque. The one of Hassan and Sohrab standing side by side, squinting in the light of the sun, and smiling like the world was a good and just place. I wondered how long Sohrab had lain in bed staring at the photo, turning it in his hands. I looked at the photo. Your father was a man torn between two halves, Rahim Khan had said in his letter. I had been the entitled half, the society-approved, legitimate half, the unwitting embodiment of Baba’s guilt. I looked at Hassan, showing those two missing front teeth, sunlight slanting on his face. Baba’s other half. The unentitled, unprivileged half. The half who had inherited what had been pure and noble in Baba. The half that, maybe, in the most secret recesses of his heart, Baba had thought of as his true son. I slipped the picture back where I had found it. Then I realized something: That last thought had brought no sting with it. Closing Sohrab’s door, I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the GENERAL AND KHALA JAMILA came over for dinner the following night. Khala Jamila, her hair cut short and a darker shade of red than usual, handed Soraya the plate of almondtopped maghout she had brought for dessert. She saw Sohrab and beamed. “_Mashallah_! Soraya jan told us how khoshteep you were, but you are even more handsome in person, Sohrab jan.” She handed him a blue turtleneck sweater. “I knitted this for you,” she said. “For next winter. _Inshallah_, it will fit you.”Sohrab took the sweater from her. “Hello, young man,” was all the general said, leaning with both hands on his cane, looking at Sohrab the way one might study a bizarre decorative item at someone’s house. I answered, and answered again, Khala Jamila’s questions about my injuries--I’d asked Soraya to tell them I had been mugged--reassuring her that I had no permanent damage, that the wires would come out in a few weeks so I’d be able to eat her cooking again, that, yes, I would try rubbing rhubarb juice and sugar on my scars to make them fade faster. The general and I sat in the living room and sipped wine while Soraya and her mother set the table. I told him about Kabul and the Taliban. He listened and nodded, his cane on his lap, and tsk’ed when I told him of the man I had spotted selling his artificial leg. I made no mention of the executions at Ghazi Stadium and Assef. He asked about Rahim Khan, whom he said he had met in Kabul a few times, and shook his head solemnly when I told him of Rahim Khan’s illness. But as we spoke, I caught his eyes drifting again and again to Sohrab sleeping on the couch. As if we were skirting around the edge of what he really wanted to know. The skirting finally came to an end over dinner when the general put down his fork and said, “So, Amir jan, you’re going to tell us why you have brought back this boy with you?” “Iqbal jan! What sort of question is that?” Khala Jamila said. 我們回到牀上，索拉雅頭靠着我的胸膛睡去。在我們黑暗的房間中，我清醒地躺着，再次失眠。清醒、孤獨地陪伴我自己的心魔。那晚夜深人靜的時候，我悄悄下牀，走到索拉博的房間。我站在他身旁，望下去，看到他枕頭下面有東西突出。我把它撿起來，發現是拉辛汗的寶麗萊照片，那張我們坐在費薩爾清真寺附近那夜我給索拉博的照片，那張哈桑和索拉博並排站着在陽光下眯着眼睛似乎世界是個美好而有正義的地方的照片。我在想索拉博究竟躺在牀上將手裏拿着的這張照片翻來覆去地看了多久。 我看着那張照片。你爸爸是被拉扯成兩半的男人。拉辛汗在信裏這麼說。我是有名分的那一半，社會承認的、合法的一半，不知不覺間充當了父親疚恨的化身。我看着哈桑，陽光打在他露出缺了兩個門牙的笑臉上。爸爸的另一半，沒有名分、沒有特權的一半，那繼承了爸爸身上純潔高貴品質的一半，也許，在爸爸內心某處祕密的地方，這是他當成自己的真正兒子的一半。 我把照片塞回剛纔發現的地方，接着意識到：剛纔最後那個念頭居然沒有讓我心痛。我走向索拉博的房門，心下尋思，是否寬恕就這樣萌生？它並非隨着神靈顯身的玄妙而來，而是痛苦在經過一番收拾之後，終於打點完畢，在深夜悄然退去，催生了它。隔日，將軍和雅米拉阿姨前來一起用晚膳。雅米拉阿姨頭髮剪短了，也染得比過去更紅了，將一盤她買來當點心的杏仁糕遞給索拉雅。看到索拉博，她喜形於色：“安拉保佑！親愛的索拉雅告訴我們你有多麼英俊，但是你真人更加好看，親愛的索拉博。”她遞給他一件藍色的圓翻領毛衣。“我替你織了這個，”她說，“到下個冬天，奉安拉之名，你穿上它會合身的。”索拉博從她手裏接過毛衣。 “你好，小夥子。”將軍只說了這麼一句，雙手拄着柺杖，看着索拉博，似乎在研究某人房子的奇異裝飾。 我一遍又一遍地回答雅米拉阿姨關於我受傷的問題——我曾讓索拉雅告訴他們我被搶了——不斷向她保證，我沒有受到永久性的傷害，再過一兩個星期就可以拆線了，我又能吃她做的飯了，也向她保證，是的，我會在傷疤上抹大黃汁和白糖，讓它消失得快一些。 索拉雅和她媽媽收拾桌子的時候，將軍和我在客廳喝葡萄酒。我跟他談起喀布爾和塔利班，他邊聽邊點頭，柺杖放在腿上。當我說起我見到那個賣假腿的傢伙時，他嘖嘖有聲。我沒說到伽茲體育館的處決，也沒提及阿塞夫。他問起拉辛汗，說曾在喀布爾見過他幾面，當我告訴他拉辛汗的病況時，他嚴肅地搖搖頭。但在我們說話的時候，我注意到他的眼睛不斷看向睡在沙發上的索拉博。似乎我們一直在他真正想知道的問題邊緣兜圈。 兜圈終於結束了。用過晚飯之後，將軍放下他的叉子，問：“那麼，親愛的阿米爾，你是不是該告訴我們，你爲什麼要帶這個男孩回來？” “親愛的伊克伯！這是什麼問題？”雅米拉阿姨說。
