“He’s great with the slingshot.” I smiled. “He’s inseparable from that thing. He tucks it in the waist of his pants everywhere he goes.” THE MAN WHO LET US IN introduced himself as Zaman, the director of the orphanage. “I’ll take you to my office,” he said. We followed him through dim, grimy hallways where barefoot children dressed in frayed sweaters ambled around. We walked past rooms with no floor covering but matted carpets and windows shuttered with sheets of plastic. Skeleton frames of steel beds, most with no mattress, filled the rooms. “How many orphans live here?” Farid asked. “More than we have room for. About two hundred and fifty,” Zaman said over his shoulder. “But they’re not all yateem. Many of them have lost their fathers in the war, and their mothers can’t feed them because the Taliban don’t allow them to work. So they bring their children here.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand and added ruefully, “This place is better than the street, but not that much better. This building was never meant to be lived in--it used to be a storage warehouse for a carpet manufacturer. So there’s no water heater and they’ve let the well go dry.” He dropped his voice. “I’ve asked the Taliban for money to dig a new well more times than I remember and they just twirl their rosaries and tell me there is no money. No money.” He snickered. He pointed to a row of beds along the wall. “We don’t have enough beds, and not enough mattresses for the beds we do have. Worse, we don’t have enough blankets.” He showed us a lit tle girl skipping rope with two other kids. “You see that girl? This past winter, the children had to share blankets. Her brother died of exposure.” He walked on. “The last time I checked, we have less than a month’s supply of rice left in the warehouse, and, when that runs out, the children will have to eat bread and tea for breakfast and dinner.” I noticed he made no mention of lunch. He stopped and turned to me. “There is very little shelter here, almost no food, no clothes, no clean water. What I have in ample supply here is children who’ve lost their childhood. But the tragedy is that these are the lucky ones. We’re filled beyond capacity and every day I turn away mothers who bring their children.” He took a step toward me. “You say there is hope for Sohrab? I pray you don’t lie, Agha. But... you may well be too late.” “What do you mean?” Zaman’s eyes shifted. “Follow me.” “他的彈弓射得很了不起！” 我笑了。 “那東西跟他形影不離。他無論走到那兒，都會將它塞在褲帶上。” 那人放我們進去，自我介紹，他叫察曼，恤孤院的負責人。“我帶你們去我的辦公室。”他說。 我們跟着他，穿過陰暗污穢的走廊，孩子們穿着殘破的羊毛衫，赤着腳走來走去。我們走過一些房間，沒有一間鋪着地毯，窗子蒙着塑料膜。房間塞滿鐵牀，但多數沒有被褥。 “這裏有多少個孤兒？”法裏德問。 “多到我們都裝不下了，大概兩百五十個。”察曼回頭說，“但他們並非全都無親無故。有很多人因爲戰爭失去了父親，母親無法撫養他們，因爲塔利班不許女人工作。所以她們把孩子送到這裏。”他用手做了抹眼淚的動作，傷心地補充道：“這個地方總比街頭好，但也好不了多少。這座房子本來就不是給人住的——它過去是倉庫，用來存放地毯。所以這裏沒有熱水器，他們留下的井也幹了。”他放低聲音，“我求過塔利班，跟他們要錢，用來掘一眼更深的井，次數多得記不清了，他們只是轉動念珠，告訴我他們沒有錢。沒有錢。”他冷笑。 他指着牆邊的一排牀鋪。“我們的牀不夠，已經有的牀也缺少褥子。更糟糕的是，我們沒有足夠的毛毯。”他讓我們看着一個在跳繩的女孩，“你們見到那個女孩嗎？有兩個孩子陪着她。上個冬天，孩子們不得不共用毛毯。她哥哥被凍死了。”他繼續走，“上次我檢查的時候，發現倉庫裏面只有不到夠一個月吃的大米了，等用完之後，這些孩子的早飯和晚飯只有麪包和紅茶可吃了。”我注意到他沒提起午飯。 他站住，轉向我：“這裏提供的庇護少得可憐，幾乎沒有食物，沒有衣服，沒有乾淨的水。我這裏大量過剩的是那些失去童年的孩子。但可悲的是，這些孩子算是幸運的了。我們負荷過重，每天我都要拒絕帶着孩子到這裏來的母親。”他朝我走上一步，“你說索拉博還有希望？我祈望你沒有說謊，老爺。可是……也許你來得太遲了。” “什麼意思？” 察曼移開眼光。 “跟我來。”
