“Don’t you challenge me in public, Amir. Ever. Who do you think you are?” “别在公众场合跟我顶嘴，阿米尔，永远不要。你以为你是谁?”

THE RAIN General Taheri had spoken about at the flea¹ market was a few weeks late, but when we stepped out of Dr. Amani’s office, passing cars sprayed grimy water onto the sidewalks. Baba lit a cigarette. He smoked all the way to the car and all the way home. 塔赫里将军在跳蚤市场提到的雨水姗姗来迟了几个星期，但当我们走出阿曼尼大夫的诊室，过往的车辆令地面上的积水溅上人行道。爸爸点了根烟。我们回家的路上，他一直在车里抽烟。

As he was slipping the key into the lobby door, I said, “I wish you’d give the chemo a chance, Baba.” 就在他把钥匙伸进楼下大门的锁眼时，我说:“我希望你能考虑一下化疗，爸爸。”

Baba pocketed the keys, pulled me out of the rain and under the building’s striped awning². He kneaded me on the chest with the hand holding the cigarette. “Bas! I’ve made my decision.” 爸爸将钥匙放进口袋，把我从雨中拉进大楼破旧的雨棚之下，用拿着香烟的手戳戳我的胸膛:“住口!我已经决定了。”

“What about me, Baba? What am I supposed to do?” I said, my eyes welling up. “那我呢，爸爸?我该怎么办?”我说，泪如泉涌。

A look of disgust swept across his rain-soaked face. It was the same look he’d give me when, as a kid, I’d fall, scrape my knees, and cry. It was the crying that brought it on then, the crying that brought it on now. “You’re twenty-two years old, Amir! A grown man! You...” he opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, reconsidered. Above us, rain drummed on the canvas awning. “What’s going to happen to you, you say? All those years, that’s what I was trying to teach you, how to never have to ask that question.” 一抹厌恶的神色掠过他那张被雨水打湿的脸。在我小时候，每逢我摔倒，擦破膝盖，放声大哭，他也会给我这种脸色。当时是因为哭泣让他厌恶，现在也是因为哭泣惹他不快。“你二十二岁了，阿米尔!一个成年人!你……”他张开嘴巴，闭上，再次张开，重新思索。在我们头顶，雨水敲打着帆布雨棚。“你会碰到什么事情，你说?这些年来，我一直试图教你的，就是让你永远别问这个问题。”

He opened the door. Turned back to me. “And one more thing. No one finds out about this, you hear me? No one. I don’t want anybody’s sympathy.” Then he disappeared into the dim lobby. He chain-smoked the rest of that day in front of the TV. I didn’t know what or whom he was defying. Me? Dr. Amani? Or maybe the God he had never believed in. 他打开门，转身对着我。“还有，别让人知道这件事情，听到没有?别让人知道。我不需要任何人的怜悯。”然后他消失在昏暗的大厅里。那天剩下的时间里，他坐在电视机前，一根接一根抽烟。我不知道他藐视的是什么，或者是谁。我?阿曼尼大夫?或者也许是他从来都不相信的真主?

FOR A WHILE, even cancer couldn’t keep Baba from the flea market. We made our garage sale treks³ on Saturdays, Baba the driver and me the navigator, and set up our display on Sundays. Brass⁴ lamps. Baseball gloves. Ski jackets with broken zippers⁵. Baba greeted acquaintances from the old country and I haggled⁶ with buyers over a dollar or two. Like any of it mattered. Like the day I would become an orphan⁷ wasn’t inching closer with each closing of shop. 有那么一阵，即使是癌症也没能阻止爸爸到跳蚤市场去。我们星期六仍搜罗各处车库卖场，爸爸当司机，我指路，并且在星期天摆摊。铜灯。棒球手套。坏了拉链的滑雪夹克。爸爸跟在那个古老的国家就认识的人互致问候，我和顾客为一两块钱讨价还价。仿佛一切如常。仿佛我成为孤儿的日子并没有随着每次收摊渐渐逼近。

Sometimes, General Taheri and his wife strolled by. The general, ever the diplomat⁸, greeted me with a smile and his two-handed shake. But there was a new reticence⁹ to Khanum Taheri’s demeanor¹⁰. A reticence broken only by her secret, droopy smiles and the furtive¹¹, apologetic looks she cast my way when the general’s attention was engaged elsewhere. 塔赫里将军和他的太太有时会逛到我们这边来。将军仍是一派外交官风范，脸带微笑跟我打招呼，用双手跟我握手。但是塔赫里太太的举止显得有些冷漠，但她会趁将军不留神，偷偷低头朝我微笑，投来一丝歉意的眼光。

I remember that period as a time of many “firsts”: The first time I heard Baba moan in the bathroom. The first time I found blood on his pillow. In over three years running the gas station, Baba had never called in sick. Another first. 我记得那段岁月出现了很多“第一次”：我第一次听到爸爸在浴室里呻吟。第一次发现他的枕头上有血。执掌加油站三年以来，爸爸从未请过病假。又是一个第一次。

By Halloween of that year, Baba was getting so tired by mid-Saturday afternoon that he’d wait behind the wheel while I got out and bargained for junk. By Thanksgiving, he wore out before noon. When sleighs appeared on front lawns and fake snow on Douglas firs, Baba stayed home and I drove the VW bus alone up and down the peninsula. 等到那年万圣节，星期六的下午刚过一半，爸爸就显得疲累不堪，我下车去收购那些废品时，他留在车上等待。到了感恩节，还没到中午他就吃不消了。待得雪橇在屋前草坪上出现，假雪洒在花旗松的枝桠上，爸爸呆在家里，而我独自开着那辆大众巴士，穿梭在半岛地区。

Sometimes at the flea market, Afghan acquaintances made remarks about Baba’s weight loss. At first, they were complimentary¹². They even asked the secret to his diet. But the queries¹³ and compliments stopped when the weight loss didn’t. When the pounds kept shedding. And shedding. When his cheeks hollowed. And his temples melted. And his eyes receded¹⁴ in their sockets¹⁵. 在跳蚤市场，阿富汗人偶尔会对爸爸的消瘦议论纷纷。起初，他们阿谀奉承，问及爸爸饮食有何秘方。可是询问和奉承停止了，爸爸的体重却继续下降。磅数不断减少，再减少。他脸颊深陷，太阳穴松塌，眼睛深深凹进眼眶。

Then, one cool Sunday shortly after New Year’s Day, Baba was selling a lampshade to a stocky Filipino man while I rummaged¹⁶ in the VW for a blanket to cover his legs with. 接着，新年之后不久，在一个寒冷的星期天早晨，爸爸在卖灯罩给一个壮硕的菲律宾人，我在大众巴士里面东翻西找，寻找一条毛毯盖住他的腿。