“Good. I’ll tell you,” he said. “I spent some time in jail, at Poleh-Charkhi, just after Babrak Karmal took over in 1980. I ended up there one night, when a group of Parc hami soldiers marched into our house and ordered my father and me at gun point to follow them. The bastards didn’t give a reason, and they wouldn’t answer my mother’s questions. Not that it was a mys tery; everyone knew the communists had no class. They came from poor families with no name. The same dogs who weren’t fit to lick my shoes before the Shorawi came were now ordering me at gunpoint, Parchami flag on their lapels, making their little point about the fall of the bourgeoisie and acting like they were the ones with class. It was happening all over: Round up the rich, throw them in jail, make an example for the comrades. “Anyway, we were crammed in groups of six in these tiny cells each the size of a refrigerator. Every night the commandant, a haif-Hazara, half-Uzbek thing who smelled like a rotting donkey, would have one of the prisoners dragged out of the cell and he’d beat him until sweat poured from his fat face. Then he’d light a cigarette, crack his joints, and leave. The next night, he’d pick someone else. One night, he picked me. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. I’d been peeing blood for three days. Kidney stones. And if you’ve never had one, believe me when I say it’s the worst imaginable pain. My mother used to get them too, and I remember she told me once she’d rather give birth than pass a kidney stone. Anyway, what could I do? They dragged me out and he started kick ing me. He had knee-high boots with steel toes that he wore every night for his little kicking game, and he used them on me. I was screaming and screaming and he kept kicking me and then, suddenly, he kicked me on the left kidney and the stone passed. Just like that! Oh, the relief!” Assef laughed. “And I yelled ‘Allah-u akbar’ and he kicked me even harder and I started laughing. He got mad and hit me harder, and the harder he kicked me, the harder I laughed. They threw me back in the cell laughing. I kept laughing and laughing because suddenly I knew that had been a message from God: He was on my side. He wanted me to live for a reason. “You know, I ran into that commandant on the battlefield a few years later--funny how God works. I found him in a trench just outside Meymanah, bleeding from a piece of shrapnel in his chest. He was still wearing those same boots. I asked him if he remembered me. He said no. I told him the same thing I just told you, that I never forget a face. Then I shot him in the balls. I’ve been on a mission since.” “What mission is that?” I heard myself say. “Stoning adulterers? Raping children? Flogging women for wearing high heels? Massacring Hazaras? All in the name of Islam?” The words spilled suddenly and unexpectedly, came out before I could yank the leash. I wished I could take them back. Swallow them. But they were out. I had crossed a line, and whatever little hope I had of getting out alive had vanished with those words. A look of surprise passed across Assef’s face, briefly, and disappeared. “I see this may turn out to be enjoyable after all,” he said, snickering. “But there are things traitors like you don’t understand.” “Like what?” “很好，我來告訴你。 ”他說，“我在監獄裏面度過了一段時間，在波勒卡其區， 1980年，就在巴布拉克 ?卡爾邁勒 [BabrakKarmal（1929～1996）， 1979年至 1986年任阿富汗總統]掌權之後不久。我被逮捕那天晚上，一羣士兵衝進我家，用槍口指着父親和我，勒令我們跟他們走。那些混蛋連個理由都沒說，也不回答我母親的問題。那也不算什麼祕密，誰都知道新政府仇恨有錢人。他們出身貧賤，就是這些狗，俄國佬打進來之前連舔我的鞋子都不配，現在用槍口指着我，向我下令。他們手臂彆着新政府的旗幟，胡言亂語說什麼有錢人統統該死，彷彿他們翻身的日子到了一樣。到處都是這樣的事情，衝進富人家裏，將他們投入監獄，給志同道合者樹立起榜樣。” “不管怎麼說，我們六人一組，被塞在冰箱大小的牢房裏。每天晚上，有個軍官，一個半哈扎拉、半烏茲別克的東西，身上發出爛驢子的臭味，會將一個犯人拖出牢房，恣意毆打，直到那張肥臉滴着汗水方纔罷休。然後他會點香菸，舒展筋骨，走出監獄。進去那夜，他選了別人。有一晚，他挑中我。真是糟糕透頂，我那時患了腎結石，尿了三天血。如果你沒得過腎結石，請相信我，那是你所能想像到的痛苦中最厲害的一種。我媽媽過去也患過，我記得有一次，她對我說，她寧願生孩子，也好過得腎結石。但是，我能做什麼呢？他們將我拖出去，他開始踢我。他穿有鐵鞋尖的及膝長靴，每天晚上都到這裏來玩踢人遊戲。他也用它們踢我。他不斷踢，我不斷慘叫，突然之間，他踢中我的左腎，結石被擠出來了。就是那樣！啊，解脫！”阿塞夫大笑，“我高喊‘真主偉大’，他踢得更加厲害了，我開始哈哈大笑。他氣得發瘋，使勁踢我；但他踢得越重，我笑得越響。他們將我扔回牢房的時候，我仍在發笑。我笑個不停，因爲突然之間，我得到了真主的指示：他就在我身上。他要我爲了某個目標活下去。” “你知道嗎，隔了幾年，我在戰場撞見那個軍官——真主的行爲真是幽默。我在梅曼那[Meymanah，阿富汗西北部省份法里亞布（ Faryab）首府 ]附近的戰壕找到他，胸口插着一塊彈片，流血不止。他還是穿着那雙靴子。我問記不記得我，他說不記得了。我把剛纔告訴你的跟他說了，我從來不會忘記人們的臉。我開槍射他的睾丸。自那以後，我就有了使命。” “什麼使命？”我聽見自己說，“對偷情的人扔石頭？強姦兒童？鞭打穿高跟鞋的婦女？屠殺哈扎拉人？而這一切都以伊斯蘭的名義？”突然間，始料不及的是，我還沒來得及勒住繮繩，這些話就統統跑出來。我希望我能將它們抓回來，吞下肚。但它們跑出來了。我越線了，活着走出這間房子的希望隨着這些話溜走。 詫異的神情在阿塞夫臉上一閃而過。“我覺得這畢竟算是享受。”他冷笑着說，“但是，有些事情，像你這樣的叛國之徒永遠不會懂。” “比如說？ ”
