We climbed a few steps and entered a large, sparsely decorated house. We crossed the foyer--a large Afghan flag draped one of the walls--and the men took me upstairs to a room with twin mint green sofas and a big-screen TV in the far corner. A prayer rug showing a slightly oblong Mecca was nailed to one of the walls. The older of the two men motioned toward the sofa with the barrel of his weapon. I sat down. They left the room. I crossed my legs. Uncrossed them. Sat with my sweaty hands on my knees. Did that make me look nervous? I clasped them together, decided that was worse and just crossed my arms on my chest. Blood thudded in my temples. I felt utterly alone. Thoughts were flying around in my head, but I didn’t want to think at all, because a sober part of me knew that what I had managed to get myself into was insanity. I was thousands of miles from my wife, sitting in a room that felt like a holding cell, waiting for a man I had seen murder two people that same day. It was insanity. Worse yet, it was irresponsible. There was a very realistic chance that I was going to render Soraya a biwa, a widow, at the age of thirty-six. This isn’t you, Amir, part of me said. You’re gutless. It’s how you were made. And that’s not such a bad thing because your saving grace is that you’ve never lied to yourself about it. Not about that. Nothing wrong with cowardice as long as it comes with prudence. But when a coward stops remembering who he is... God help him. There was a coffee table by the sofa. The base was X-shaped, walnut-sized brass balls studding the ring where the metallic legs crossed. I’d seen a table like that before. Where? And then it came to me: at the crowded tea shop in Peshawar, that night I’d gone for a walk. On the table sat a bowl of red grapes. I plucked one and tossed it in my mouth. I had to preoccupy myself with something, anything, to silence the voice in my head. The grape was sweet. I popped another one in, unaware that it would be the last bit of solid food I would eat for a long time. The door opened and the two armed men returned, between them the tall Talib in white, still wearing his dark John Lennon glasses, looking like some broad-shouldered, NewAge mystic guru. He took a seat across from me and lowered his hands on the armrests. For a long time, he said nothing. Just sat there, watching me, one hand drumming the upholstery, the other twirling turquoise blue prayer beads. He wore a black vest over the white shirt now, and a gold watch. I saw a splotch of dried blood on his left sleeve. I found it morbidly fascinating that he hadn’t changed clothes after the executions earlier that odically, his free hand floated up and his thick fingers batted at something in the air. They made slow stroking motions, up and down, side to side, as if he were caressing an invisible pet. One of his sleeves retracted and I saw marks on his forearm--I’d seen those same tracks on homeless people living in grimy alleys in San skin was much paler than the other two men’s, almost sallow, and a crop of tiny sweat beads gleamed on his forehead just below the edge of his black turban. His beard, chest-length like the others, was lighter in color too. “Salaam alaykum,” he said. “Salaam.” 我們走上臺階，進入一座裝潢精美的大房子。我們穿過門廊——牆上掛着一面巨大的阿富汗國旗，那兩個男人帶我上樓，走進一間房子，裏面擺放着一對翠綠色的沙發，一臺大屏幕電視擺在距離頗遠的屋角。牆上釘着繡有麥加地圖的禱告地毯。年紀較大那人用槍管指指沙發。我坐下。他們離開房間。我翹起腳，又放下。我坐在那兒，雙手冒着汗水，放在膝蓋上。這讓我看起來很緊張吧？我合起手掌，覺得這樣更糟糕，乾脆橫抱在胸前。血液在我的太陽穴裏面涌動。我感到深深的孤獨。思緒在我腦海翻飛，但我根本不想去思考，因爲我體內清醒的那部分知道，我是發瘋了，纔會讓自己陷進這一切。我遠離妻子幾千英里，坐在感覺像地牢的房間裏面，等待一個兇手，我剛剛纔親眼看到他殺死兩個人。這一定是瘋了。甚至更糟糕，這還很不負責任。非常可能的是，我即將讓年方三十六歲的索拉雅成爲寡婦。這不是你，阿米爾。我體內有個聲音說，你懦弱，這是你的天性。這並非什麼壞事，因爲你從不強裝勇敢，這是你的優點。只要三思而後行，懦弱並沒有錯。可是，當一個懦夫忘了自己是什麼人……願真主保佑他。 沙發前面擺着一張咖啡桌，底座是 X狀的，金屬桌腳交叉的地方，拴着一環胡桃大小的銅球。我之前見過這樣的桌子。在哪裏？我突然想起來：在白沙瓦那間擁擠的茶館裏面，那天傍晚我出去閒逛時走進去的那間。桌上擺着一盤紅色的葡萄，我摘下一個，丟進嘴裏。我得找件事來想着，任何事情都行，這樣才能讓腦子裏的聲音安靜下來。葡萄很甜，我又吃了一個，完全沒有想到在接下來很長一段時間裏面，這是我吃下的最後一口固體食物。門打開，那兩個持槍的男人回來，他們中間是那個穿白色衣服的高個子塔利班，依然戴着約翰?列農式的墨鏡，看上去有點像某個神祕的新世紀巫師。 他坐在我對面，雙手放在沙發的扶手上。好長一段時間，他一語不發，只是坐在那兒，看着我，一手拍打着沙發套，一手捻着青綠色的念珠。現在，他在白色的襯衣外面加了件黑色的背心，戴着金錶。我看見他左袖有一小塊乾涸的血跡。他沒換掉早些時候行刑的衣服，這對我來說竟然有些病態的魔力。他那沒拿念珠的手不時擡起，厚厚的手指在空氣中做拍打狀，慢慢地，上下左右拍打着，彷彿他在摸着一隻隱形的寵物。他的袖子後縮，我見到他前臂上有吸毒的標記——同樣的標記，我也曾在舊金山那些生活在污穢小巷的流浪漢身上見過。他的皮膚比其他兩個自得多，白得近乎病態，他的前額，就在黑色頭巾邊緣之下，有顆汗珠滲出來。他的鬍子跟其他人一樣，長到胸前，也是顏色較淺。 “你好。”他說。 “你好。”
