I read it to him in the living room by the marble fireplace. No playful straying from the words this time; this was about me! Hassan was the perfect audience in many ways, totally immersed in the tale, his face shifting with the changing tones in the story. When I read the last sentence, he made a muted clapping sound with his hands.

我在客厅里的大理石壁炉前面念给他听。这次可没有开玩笑，不是照本宣科了，这次是我写的故事!就很多方面而言，哈桑堪称完美的听众。他全然沉浸在故事中，脸上的神情随着故事的情节变化。我念完最后一句话，他鼓起掌来，不过没发出声音。

"Mashallah, Amir agha. Bravo!"He was beaming.

"我的天啦!阿米尔少爷，太棒了!"哈桑笑逐颜开。

"You liked it?"I said, getting my second taste--and how sweet it was--of a positive review.

"你喜欢它吗?"我说。得到第二次称赞，真是太甜蜜了。

"Some day, Inshallah, you will be a great writer,"Hassan said. "And people all over the world will read your stories."

"阿拉保佑，你肯定会成为伟大的作家。"哈桑说，"全世界的人都读你的故事。"

"You exaggerate, Hassan,"I said, loving him for it.

"你太夸张了，哈桑。"我说，不过很高兴他这么认为。

"No. You will be great and famous,"he insisted. Then he paused, as if on the verge¹ of adding something. He weighed his words and cleared his throat. "But will you permit me to ask a question about the story?"he said shyly.

"我没有。你会很伟大、很出名。"他坚持自己的观点。接着他停了一下，似乎还想说些什么，他想了想，清清喉咙，"可是，你能允许我问个关于这故事的问题吗?"他羞涩地说。

"Of course."

"当然可以。"

"Well..."he started, broke off.

"那好……"他欲言又止。

"Tell me, Hassan,"I said. I smiled, though suddenly the insecure writer in me wasn't so sure he wanted to hear it.

"告诉我，哈桑。"我说。我脸带微笑，虽然刹那间我这个作家心中惴惴，不知道是否想听下去。

"Well,"he said, "if I may ask, why did the man kill his wife? In fact, why did he ever have to feel sad to shed tears? Couldn't he have just smelled an onion?"

"那好吧，"他说，"如果让我来问，那男人干吗杀了自己的老婆呢?实际上，为什么他必须感到悲伤才能掉眼泪呢?他不可以只是闻闻洋葱吗?"

I was stunned². That particular point, so obvious it was utterly³ stupid, hadn't even occurred to me. I moved my lips soundlessly. It appeared that on the same night I had learned about one of writing's objectives, irony⁴, I would also be introduced to one of its pitfalls⁵: the Plot Hole. Taught by Hassan, of all people. Hassan who couldn't read and had never written a single word in his entire life. A voice, cold and dark, suddenly whispered in my ear, "What does he know, that illiterate⁶ Hazara? He'll never be anything but a cook. How dare he criticize you?"

我目瞪口呆。这个特别的问题，虽说它显然太蠢了，但我从来没有想到过，我无言地动动嘴唇。就在同一个夜晚，我学到了写作的目标之一：讽刺；我还学到了写作的陷阱之一：情节破绽。芸芸众生中，惟独哈桑教给我。这个目不识丁、不会写字的哈桑。有个冰冷而阴暗的声音在我耳边响起：他懂得什么，这个哈扎拉文盲?他一辈子只配在厨房里打杂。他胆敢批评我?

"Well,"I began. But I never got to finish that sentence.

"很好……"我开口说，却无法说完那句话。

Because suddenly Afghanistan changed forever.

因为突然之间，阿富汗一切都变了。