TWENTY-THREE Faces poke through the haze, linger, fade away. They peer down, ask me questions. They all ask questions. Do I know who I am? Do I hurt anywhere? I know who I am and I hurt everywhere. I want to tell them this but talking hurts. I know this because some time ago, maybe a year ago, maybe two, maybe ten, I tried to talk to a child with rouge on his cheeks and eyes smeared black. The child. Yes, I see him now. We are in a car of sorts, the child and I, and I don’t think Soraya’s driving because Soraya never drives this fast. I want to say something to this child--it seems very impor tant that I do. But I don’t remember what I want to say, or why it might have been important. Maybe I want to tell him to stop cry ing, that everything will be all right now. Maybe not. For some reason I can’t think of, I want to thank the child. Faces. They’re all wearing green hats. They slip in and out of view They talk rapidly, use words I don’t understand. I hear other voices, other noises, beeps and alarms. And always more faces. Peering down. I don’t remember any of them, except for the one with the gel in his hair and the Clark Gable mustache, the one’ with the Africa stain on his cap. Mister Soap Opera Star. That’s funny. I want to laugh now. But laughing hurts too.I fade SAYS HER NAME IS AISHA, “like the prophet’s wife.” Her graying hair is parted in the middle and tied in a ponytail, her nose pierced with a stud shaped like the sun. She wears bifocals that make her eyes bug out. She wears green too and her hands are soft. She sees me looking at her and smiles. Says something in English. Something is jabbing at the side of my chest. I fade out.A MAN IS STANDING at my bedside. I know him. He is dark and lanky, has a long beard. He wears a hat--what are those hats called? Pakols? Wears it tilted to one side like a famous person whose name escapes me now. I know this man. He drove me somewhere a few years ago. I know him. There is something wrong with my mouth. I hear a bubbling sound.I fade RIGHT ARM BURNS. The woman with the bifocals and sun-shaped stud is hunched over my arm, attaching a clear plastic tubing to it. She says it’s “the Potassium.” “It stings like a bee, no?” she says. It does. What’s her name? Something to do with a prophet. I know her too from a few years ago. She used to wear her hair in a ponytail. Now it’s pulled back, tied in a bun. Soraya wore her hair like that the first time we spoke. When was that? Last week?Aisha! e is something wrong with my mouth. And that thing jab bing at my chest.I fade ARE IN THE SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS of Baluchistan and Baba is wrestling the black bear. He is the Baba of my child hood, _Toophan agha_, the towering specimen of Pashtun might, not the withered man under the blankets, the man with the sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. They roll over a patch of green grass, man and beast, Baba’s curly brown hair flying. The bear roars, or maybe it’s Baba. Spittle and blood fly; claw and hand swipe. They fall to the ground with a loud thud and Baba is sitting on the bear’s chest, his fingers digging in its snout. He looks up at me and I see. He’s me. I am wrestling the bear. I wake up. The lanky dark man is back at my bedside. His name is Farid, I remember now. And with him is the child from the car. His face reminds me of the sound of bells. I am thirsty. I fade out. 第二十三章 迷迷糊糊間，我看見一些面孔，停留，又退去。他們彎身望着我，問我問題。他們統統在問。我知道我自己是誰嗎？我身上哪裏發痛嗎？我知道我是誰，我渾身發痛。我想告訴他們這些，可是痛得無法開口。這些我從前就知道了，也許是一年前，也許是兩年前，也許是十年前。我想和一個臉抹胭脂、眼塗黑影的男孩說話。那個孩子。是的，我現在看見他了。我們似乎在轎車裏面，那個孩子和我，而我知道開車的不是索拉雅，因爲她從來不開這麼快。我想跟那個孩子說話——似乎跟他說話是頂要緊的事情。但我忘了自己想說什麼，或者爲什麼跟他說話那麼重要。也許我想告訴他，讓他別哭了，現在一切都會好起來。也許不是。由於某種我說不上來的原因，我想謝謝那個孩子。面孔。他們全都戴着綠色帽子。他們進進出出。他們說話很快，說的語言我不懂。我聽見別的聲音，別的噪聲、嗶嗶聲和警笛聲。總有更多的面孔，俯視下來。我誰也記不清了，只憶起一張面孔，頭髮和克拉克‘蓋博式的鬍子上有咭喱水，帽子上有非洲地圖似的污跡。肥皂劇之星。那很好笑。我現在就想笑。但發笑也會疼痛。我昏過去。她說她叫艾莎，“跟先知的妻子一樣 ”。她頭髮有些灰白，從中間分開，扎着馬尾辮；她的鼻子穿着太陽形狀的扣子。她戴着眼鏡，雙眼看上去突出。她也穿綠色衣服，她的手很柔軟。她看着我凝望她的笑容。用英語說話。有東西插進我胸膛一側。 我昏過去。有個男人站在我牀邊。我認識他。他皮膚黝黑，又高又瘦，鬍子很長。他戴着帽子——這些帽子叫什麼名字來着？氈帽？帽子斜斜戴在一邊，像極了某個我現在想不起來的著名人物。我認識這個男人，幾年前，他開車送我到某個地方，我認識他。我的嘴巴不對勁。我聽到一陣泡泡的聲音。我昏過去。我右臂灼痛。那個戴着眼鏡和鼻子穿着太陽狀釦子的女人彎身在我的臂膀上，插進一根透明的塑料管子。她說那是“鉀”。“好像被蜜蜂叮了一下，對吧？”她說。確實是。她叫什麼名字？似乎和先知有關。我也認識她好幾年了。她過去常常扎着馬尾辮，現在它朝後梳，挽成髮髻。我和索拉雅初次交談的時候，她也是這個髮型。那是什麼時候？上個星期嗎？艾莎！想起來了。我的嘴巴不對勁。那東西插進我的胸膛。我昏過去。我們在俾路支的蘇萊曼山，爸爸在跟一隻黑熊搏鬥。他是我小時候的爸爸，颶風先生，高如鐵塔，孔武有力，是典型的普什圖人；不是蓋着毛毯那個委靡的人，不是那個臉頰深陷、眼神空洞的人。他們，爸爸和黑熊，在一片綠草地來回翻滾，爸爸棕色的捲髮飄揚着。黑熊吼叫，或許那是爸爸的叫聲。唾沫和血液飛起，熊掌和人手相擊。他們倒在地上，發出巨響，爸爸坐在黑熊的前胸，手指插進它的鼻孔。他擡頭望向我。他是我。我在和黑熊搏鬥。 我驚醒。那個瘦長的黑漢子又在我牀邊。他叫法裏德，我現在想起來了。我和他還有一個男孩在車裏。他的臉讓我想起了鈴鐺聲。我口渴。 我昏過去。
