One day, in July 1973, I played another little trick on Hassan. I was reading to him, and suddenly I strayed from the written story. I pretended I was reading from the book, flipping¹ pages regularly, but I had abandoned the text altogether, taken over the story, and made up my own. Hassan, of course, was oblivious² to this. To him, the words on the page were a scramble³ of codes, indecipherable, mysterious. Words were secret doorways⁴ and I held all the keys. After, I started to ask him if he'd liked the story, a giggle⁵ rising in my throat, when Hassan began to clap.

1973年7月某天，我开了哈桑另外一个玩笑。我念书给他听，接着突然不管那个写好的故事。我假装念着书，像平常那样翻着书，可是我说的跟书本毫无关系，而是抛开那个故事，自己杜撰一个。当然，哈桑对此一无所知。对他而言，书页上的文字无非是一些线条，神秘而不知所云。文字是扇秘密的门，钥匙在我手里。完了之后，我嘴里咯咯笑着，问他是否喜欢这个故事，哈桑拍手叫好。

"What are you doing?"I said.

"你在干吗呢?"我说。

"That was the best story you've read me in a long time,"he said, still clapping.

"你很久没念过这么精彩的故事了。"他说，仍拍着双手。

I laughed. "Really?"

我大笑:"真的吗?"

"Really."

"真的。"

"That's fascinating,"I muttered. I meant it too. This was... wholly unexpected. "Are you sure, Hassan?"

"太奇妙了，"我喃喃说道。我是说真的，这真是……完全意料不到。"没骗我吧，哈桑?"

He was still clapping. "It was great, Amir agha. Will you read me more of it tomorrow?"

他仍在鼓掌:"太棒了，阿米尔少爷。你明天可以多念一些给我听吗?"

"Fascinating,"I repeated, a little breathless, feeling like a man who discovers a buried treasure in his own backyard. Walking down the hill, thoughts were exploding in my head like the fireworks at "Chaman". "Best story you've read me in a long time", he'd said. I had read him a "lot" of stories. Hassan was asking me something.

"太奇妙了。"我又说了一遍，有些喘不过气，好比有个男人在自家后院发现了一处宝藏。下山的时候，各种念头在我脑海炸开来，如同在察曼大道燃放的烟花。你好久没念过这么精彩的故事了。他这么说。哈桑在问我问题。

"What?"I said.

"什么?"我说。

"What does that mean, ‘fascinating'?"

"'奇妙'是什么意思?"

I laughed. Clutched him in a hug and planted a kiss on his cheek.

我哈哈大笑，给了他一个拥抱，在他脸上亲了一下。

"What was that for?"he said, startled, blushing.

"干吗这样啊?"他红着脸，吃吃地说。

I gave him a friendly shove. Smiled. "You're a prince, Hassan. You're a prince and I love you."

我友善地推了他一把，微笑着说:"你是王子，哈桑。你是王子，我爱你。"