“But I forgive him, Ali, didn’t you hear?” said Baba. “可是我原谅他了，阿里，你没听到吗?”爸爸说。

“Life here is impossible for us now, Agha sahib. We’re leaving.” Ali drew Hassan to him, curled his arm around his son’s shoulder. It was a protective gesture and I knew whom Ali was protecting him from. Ali glanced my way and in his cold, unforgiving look, I saw that Hassan had told him. He had told him everything, about what Assef and his friends had done to him, about the kite, about me. Strangely, I was glad that someone knew me for who I really was; I was tired of pretending. “我们不可能在这里过日子了，老爷。我们要走了。”阿里把哈桑拉到身旁，伸臂环住他儿子的肩膀。这是个保护的动作，我知道阿里对哈桑的保护是在抵御什么人的伤害。阿里朝我瞟来，带着冷冷的、不可谅解的眼神，我明白哈桑告诉他了。他把一切都告诉他了，关于阿塞夫和他的朋友对他所做的事情，关于那只风筝，关于我。奇怪的是，我很高兴终于有人识破我的真面目，我装得太累了。

“I don’t care about the money or the watch,” Baba said, his arms open, palms up. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this... what do you mean ‘impossible’?” “我不在乎那些钱或者那个手表。”爸爸说，他手掌朝上，张开双臂，“我不知道你为什么这样做……你说‘不可能’是什么意思?”

“I’m sorry, Agha sahib, but our bags are already packed. We have made our decision.” “很抱歉，老爷。可是我们的行李已经收拾好了，我们已经决定了。”

Baba stood up, a sheen of grief across his face. “Ali, haven’t I provided well for you? Haven’t I been good to you and Hassan? You’re the brother I never had, Ali, you know that. Please don’t do this.” 爸爸站起身来，悲伤的神情溢于言表:“阿里，我给你的还不够多吗?我对你和哈桑不好吗?我没有兄弟，你就是我的兄弟，阿里，你知道的。请别这样做。”

“Don’t make this even more difficult than it already is, Agha sahib,” Ali said. His mouth twitched¹ and, for a moment, I thought I saw a grimace². That was when I understood the depth of the pain I had caused, the blackness of the grief I had brought onto everyone, that not even Ali’s paralyzed face could mask his sorrow. I forced myself to look at Hassan, but his head was downcast, his shoulders slumped³, his finger twirling a loose string on the hem⁴ of his shirt. “我们已经很为难了，别让事情变得更难，老爷。”阿里说。他嘴巴抽搐，我看见了他痛楚的表情，正是那个时候，我才明白自己引起的痛苦有多深，才明白我给大家带来的悲伤有多浓，才明白甚至连阿里那张麻痹的脸也无法掩饰他的哀愁。我强迫自己看看哈桑，但他低着头，肩膀松垮，手指缠绕着衬衫下摆一根松开的线。

Baba was pleading now. “At least tell me why. I need to know!” 现在爸爸哀求着:“告诉我为什么，我得知道!”

Ali didn’t tell Baba, just as he didn’t protest when Hassan confessed to the stealing. I’ll never really know why, but I could imagine the two of them in that dim little hut, weeping, Hassan pleading him not to give me away. But I couldn’t imagine the restraint it must have taken Ali to keep that promise. 阿里没有告诉爸爸，一如哈桑承认偷窃，没有丝毫抗辩。我永远不会知道那究竟是为什么，但我能够想像，他们两个在那间昏暗的斗室里面，抹泪哭泣，哈桑求他别揭发我。但我想像不出，是什么样的自制力才会让阿里缄口不言。

“Will you drive us to the bus station?” “你可以送我们去汽车站吗?”

“I forbid you to do this!” Baba bellowed⁵. “Do you hear me? I forbid you!” “我不许你这么做!”爸爸大喊，“你听到了吗?我不许你这么做!”

“Respectfully, you can’t forbid me anything, Agha sahib,” Ali said. “We don’t work for you anymore.” “尊敬的老爷，你不能禁止我任何事情了，”阿里说，“我们不再为你工作了。”

“Where will you go?” Baba asked. His voice was breaking. “你们要去哪儿?”爸爸问，他的声音颤抖着。

“Hazarajat.” “哈扎拉贾特。”

“To your cousin?” “去你表亲家?”

“Yes. Will you take us to the bus station, Agha sahib?” “是的，你可以送我们去汽车站吗，老爷?”

Then I saw Baba do something I had never seen him do before: He cried. It scared me a little, seeing a grown man sob⁶. Fathers weren’t supposed to cry. “Please,” Baba was saying, but Ali had already turned to the door, Hassan trailing him. I’ll never forget the way Baba said that, the pain in his plea, the fear. 接着我看到爸爸做了我之前从未见过的事情：号啕大哭。见到大人哭泣，我被吓了一跳。我从未想到爸爸也会哭。“求求你。”爸爸说。可是阿里已经走到门口，哈桑跟在他后面。我永远不会忘记爸爸说出那话的神情，那哀求中透露的痛苦，还有恐惧。

IN KABUL, it rarely rained in the summer. Blue skies stood tall and far, the sun like a branding iron searing the back of your neck. Creeks⁷ where Hassan and I skipped stones all spring turned dry, and rickshaws stirred dust when they sputtered⁸ by. People went to mosques⁹ for their ten raka’ts of noontime prayer and then retreated to whatever shade they could find to nap in, waiting for the cool of early evening. Summer meant long school days sweating in tightly packed, poorly ventilated classrooms learning to recite ayats from the Koran, struggling with those tongue-twisting, exotic Arabic words. It meant catching¹⁰ flies in your palm while the mullah droned on and a hot breeze brought with it the smell of shit from the outhouse across the schoolyard, churning dust around the lone¹¹ rickety basketball hoop¹². 喀布尔的夏天罕得下雨，天空一碧如洗，阳光像烙铁般灼痛后颈。整个春天我和哈桑在溪流打水漂，到得夏天它们也干涸了。黄包车嗒嗒走过，扬起阵阵灰尘。午间祈祷时分，人们到清真寺去行十次“晌礼”，跟着随便找个荫凉的地方躲进去，等待傍晚的凉意。夏天意味着漫长的学校生活，坐在密不透风的拥挤教室里面，浑身大汗地学着背诵《可兰经》的经文，和那些饶舌而奇怪的阿拉伯单词作斗争；夏天意味着听毛拉念念有词，用手掌拍死苍蝇；意味着一阵和风吹过，带来操场那边厕所的粪便气味，在那形影相吊的歪斜篮球架旁边吹起尘雾。