“He was sexually abused,” I said, thinking of the bells around Sohrab’s ankles, the mascara on his eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Andrews’s mouth said. The way he was looking at me, though, we might as well have been talking about the weather. “But that is not going to make the INS issue this young fellow a visa.” “What are you saying?” “I’m saying that if you want to help, send money to a reputable relief organization. Volunteer at a refugee camp. But at this point in time, we strongly discourage U.S. citizens from attempting to adopt Afghan children.” I got up. “Come on, Sohrab,” I said in Farsi. Sohrab slid next to me, rested his head on my hip. I remembered the Polaroid of him and Hassan standing that same way. “Can I ask you some thing, Mr. Andrews?” “Yes.” “Do you have children?” For the first time, he blinked. “Well, do you? It’s a simple question.” He was silent. “I thought so,” I said, taking Sohrab’s hand. “They ought to put someone in your chair who knows what it’s like to want a child.” I turned to go, Sohrab trailing me. “Can I ask you a question?” Andrews called. “Go ahead.” “Have you promised this child you’ll take him with you?” “What if I have?” He shook his head. “It’s a dangerous business, making promises to kids.” He sighed and opened his desk drawer again. “You mean to pursue this?” he said, rummaging through papers. “I mean to pursue this.” He produced a business card. “Then I advise you to get a good immigration lawyer. Omar Faisal works here in Islamabad. You can tell him I sent you.” I took the card from him. “Thanks,” I muttered. “Good luck,” he said. As we exited the room, I glanced over my shoulder. Andrews was standing in a rectangle of sunlight, absently staring out the window, his hands turning the potted tomato plants toward the sun, petting them lovingly. “TAKE CARE,” the secretary said as we passed her desk. “Your boss could use some manners,” I said. I expected her to roll her eyes, maybe nod in that “I know, everybody says that,” kind of way. Instead, she lowered her voice. “Poor Ray. He hasn’t been the same since his daughter died.” I raised an eyebrow. “Suicide,” she whispered. “他受過性虐待。”我說，想起索拉博腳踝上的鈴鐺，他眼睛上的眼影。 “聽到這個我很抱歉，”安德魯張口說，不過他望着我的樣子，好像我們一直在談論天氣，“但那不會讓移民局給這個小男孩放發籤證。” “你在說什麼？” “我的意思是，如果你想幫忙，可以捐錢給可靠的慈善組織，或者去難民營當義工。但在現在這樣的時刻，我們非常不贊成美國公民收養阿富汗兒童。” 我站起來。“走吧，索拉博。”我用法爾西語說。索拉博倚着我，頭靠在我的臀部上。我想起那張寶麗萊照片，他和哈桑就這樣站着。“我能問你一些問題嗎，安德魯先生？” “可以。” “你有孩子嗎？” 這下，他第一次眨眼了。 “嗯，你有嗎？隨便問問而已。” 他默默無語。 “我這麼認爲，”我說，拉起索拉博的手，“他們應該找個知道想要孩子是什麼感覺的人坐你的位置。”我轉身離開，索拉博跟着我。 “我可以問你一個問題嗎？”安德魯喊道。 “說吧。” “你承諾過這個孩子帶他回家嗎？” “要是有又怎樣？” 他搖搖頭，“真是危險的事情，給孩子承諾。”他嘆氣，又打開抽屜，“你真想要這麼做？”他說，翻着文件。 “我真的想這麼做。” 他抽出一張名片：“那麼我建議你找個優秀的移民律師。奧馬爾‘費薩爾在伊斯蘭堡工作，你可以跟他說我讓你去找他。” 我從他那裏拿過名片。“謝謝。”我低聲說。 “祝你好運。”他說。我們走出房間的時候，我回頭看了一眼。安德魯站在長方形的陽光中，茫然地望着窗外，雙手將那盆番茄藤轉到陽光下，慈愛地拍打着。 “保重。”我們走過祕書的辦公桌時她說。 “你老闆應該禮貌一些。”我說。我以爲她會轉動眼珠，也許點頭說“我知道，每個人都那麼說”，諸如此類。相反的是，她降低聲音：“可憐的雷，自從他女兒死後，他就跟變了個人似的。” 我揚起眉頭。 “自殺。”她說。
