“Does he think I’m a thief?” Baba said, his voice rising. People had gathered outside. They were staring. “What kind of a country is this? No one trusts anybody!” “他以为我是小偷吗?”爸爸抬高了声音说，外面围满了旁观的人，“这是个什么国家?没有人相信任何人!”

“I call police,” Mrs. Nguyen said, poking¹ out her face. “You get out or I call police.” “我叫警察。”阮太太说，她探出脸来，“你走开，要不我喊警察。”

“Please, Mrs. Nguyen, don’t call the police. I’ll take him home. Just don’t call the police, okay? Please?” “求求你，阮太太，别叫警察。我把他带回家，请别叫警察，好不好?求求你。”

“Yes, you take him home. Good idea,” Mr. Nguyen said. His eyes, behind his wire-rimmed bifocals, never left Baba. I led Baba through the doors. He kicked a magazine on his way out. After I’d made him promise he wouldn’t go back in, I returned to the store and apologized to the Nguyens. Told them my father was going through a difficult time. I gave Mrs. Nguyen our telephone number and address, and told her to get an estimate for the damages. “Please call me as soon as you know. I’ll pay for everything, Mrs. Nguyen. I’m so sorry.” Mrs. Nguyen took the sheet of paper from me and nodded. I saw her hands were shaking more than usual, and that made me angry at Baba, his causing an old woman to shake like that. “好的，你带他回家，好主意。”阮先生说。他戴着金丝眼镜，眼睛一直望着爸爸。我隔着门去拉爸爸，他出来的时候踢飞一本杂志。我说服他别再走进去，然后转身到店里向阮氏夫妇道歉，告诉他们爸爸处境艰难。我把家里的电话和地址给了阮太太，告诉她估计一下损失了多少东西。“算好之后请打电话给我，我会赔偿一切的，阮太太，我很抱歉。”阮太太从我手里接过纸片，点点头。我看到她的手比平时抖得更厉害，那让我很生爸爸的气，他把一个老太太吓成这样。

“My father is still adjusting to life in America,” I said, by way of explanation. “我爸爸仍在适应美国的生活。”我解释着说。

I wanted to tell them that, in Kabul, we snapped a tree branch and used it as a credit card. Hassan and I would take the wooden stick to the bread maker². He’d carve notches⁴ on our stick with his knife, one notch³ for each loaf of _naan_ he’d pull for us from the tandoor’s roaring flames. At the end of the month, my father paid him for the number of notches on the stick. That was it. No questions. No ID. 我想告诉他们，在喀布尔，我们折断树枝，拿它当信用卡。哈桑和我会拿着那根木头到面包店去。店主用刀在木头上刻痕，划下一道，表示他从火焰升腾的烤炉取给我们一个馕饼。每到月底，爸爸按照树枝上的刻痕付钱给他。就是这样。没有问题，不用身份证。

But I didn’t tell them. I thanked Mr. Nguyen for not calling the cops. Took Baba home. He sulked and smoked on the balcony while I made rice with chicken neck stew⁵. A year and a half since we’d stepped off the Boeing from Peshawar, and Baba was still adjusting. 但我没告诉他们。我谢谢阮先生没叫警察，带爸爸回家。我炖鸡脖子饭的时候，他在阳台抽烟生闷气。我们自白沙瓦踏上波音飞机，到如今已经一年半了，爸爸仍在适应期。

We ate in silence that night. After two bites, Baba pushed away his plate. 那晚我们默默吃饭。爸爸吃了两口，把盘子推开。

I glanced at him across the table, his nails chipped and black with engine oil, his knuckles⁶ scraped, the smells of the gas station--dust, sweat, and gasoline--on his clothes. Baba was like the widower⁷ who remarries but can’t let go of his dead wife. He missed the sugarcane fields of Jalalabad and the gardens of Paghman. He missed people milling in and out of his house, missed walking down the bustling⁸ aisles⁹ of Shor Bazaar¹⁰ and greeting people who knew him and his father, knew his grandfather, people who shared ancestors with him, whose pasts intertwined with his. 我的眼光越过桌子，望着他，他的指甲开裂，被机油弄得脏兮兮的，他的手指刮伤了，衣服散发出加油站的味道——尘灰、汗水和汽油。爸爸像个再婚的鳏夫，可是总忍不住想起故去的妻子。他怀念贾拉拉巴特的甘蔗地，还有帕格曼的花园。他怀念那些在他屋里进进出出的人们，怀念索尔市集拥挤的通道，他走在那里，和他打招呼的人认得他，认得他的父亲，认得他的祖父，那些跟他同一个祖宗的人们，他们的过去交织在一起。

For me, America was a place to bury my memories. 对我来说，美国是个埋葬往事的地方。

For Baba, a place to mourn his. 对爸爸来说，这是个哀悼过去的地方。

“Maybe we should go back to Peshawar,” I said, watching the ice float in my glass of water. We’d spent six months in Peshawar waiting for the INS to issue our visas. Our grimy one-bedroom apartment smelled like dirty socks and cat droppings, but we were surrounded by people we knew--at least people Baba knew. He’d invite the entire corridor of neighbors for dinner, most of them Afghans waiting for visas. Inevitably¹¹, someone would bring a set of tabla and someone else a harmonium. Tea would brew¹², and who ever had a passing singing voice would sing until the sun rose, the mosquitoes stopped buzzing, and clapping hands grew sore. “也许我们应该回到白沙瓦。”我说，盯着在玻璃杯里面的水上浮动的冰块。我们在那里度过了半年的光阴，等待移民局核发签证。我们那间满是尘灰的房子散发出脏袜子和猫粪的气味，但住在我们周围的全是熟人——至少爸爸认得他们。他会邀请整条走廊的邻居到家里吃晚饭，他们中多数都是等待签证的阿富汗人。当然，有人会带来手鼓，也有人带手风琴。茶泡好了，嗓子还可以的人会高歌一曲，直到太阳升起，直到蚊子不再嗡嗡叫，直到鼓掌的手都酸了。

“You were happier there, Baba. It was more like home,” I said. “你在那边更开心，爸爸，那儿更有家的感觉。”我说。

“Peshawar was good for me. Not good for you.” “白沙瓦对我来说是好地方，但对你来说不是。”

“You work so hard here.” “你在这儿工作太辛苦了。”