“Successful,” Soraya hissed¹. “At least I’m not like him, sitting around while other people fight the Shorawi, waiting for when the dust settles so he can move in and reclaim² his posh little government position. Teaching may not pay much, but it’s what I want to do! It’s what I love, and it’s a whole lot better than collecting welfare, by the way.”

“出人头地，”索拉雅不屑地说，“至少我不喜欢他，当人们跟俄国佬干仗，他只是坐在那儿，干等尘埃落地，他就可以趁机而入，去要回他那个一点也不高贵的官职。教书也许清贫，但那是我想做的！那是我所喜爱的，顺便说一下，它比领救济金好得太多了。 ”

Khala Jamila bit her tongue. “If he ever hears you saying that, he will never speak to you again.”

雅米拉阿姨欲说还休：“要是他听到你这么说，以后再也不会跟你搭腔了。”

“Don’t worry,” Soraya snapped, tossing her napkin on the plate. “I won’t bruise³ his precious ego⁴.”

“别担心，”索拉雅不耐烦地说，将纸巾丢在盘子里，“我不会伤害他那宝贝的尊严。”

IN THE SUMMER of 1988, about six months before the Soviets⁵ withdrew from Afghanistan, I finished my first novel, a father-son story set in Kabul, written mostly with the typewriter the general had given me. I sent query⁶ letters to a dozen agencies and was stunned⁷ one August day when I opened our mailbox and found a request from a New York agency for the completed manuscript. I mailed it the next day. Soraya kissed the carefully wrapped manuscript and Khala Jamila insisted we pass it under the Koran. She told me that she was going to do nazr for me, a vow⁸ to have a sheep slaughtered⁹ and the meat given to the poor if my book was accepted.1988年夏季，俄国人从阿富汗撤军之前约莫半年，我完成第一部小说，讲述父与子的故事，背景设在喀布尔，大部分是用将军送的打字机写出来的。我给十几家出版机构寄去征询信。 8月某天，我打开信箱，看到有个纽约的出版机构来函索取完整的书稿，我高兴得呆住了。次日我把书稿寄出。索拉雅亲了那包扎妥当的书稿，雅米拉阿姨坚持让我们将它从《可兰经》下穿过。她说要是我书稿被接受，她就会替我感谢真主，宰一头羊，把肉分给穷人。

“Please, no nazn, Khala jan,” I said, kissing her face. “Just do _zakat_, give the money to someone in need, okay? No sheep killing¹⁰.” “拜托，别宰羊，亲爱的阿姨。”我说，亲了亲她的脸颊。“只要把钱分给有需要的人就好了，别杀羊。”

Six weeks later, a man named Martin Greenwalt called from New York and offered to represent me. I only told Soraya about it. “But just because I have an agent doesn’t mean I’ll get published. If Martin sells the novel, then we’ll celebrate.”隔了六个星期，有个叫马丁?格林瓦特的家伙从纽约给我打电话，许诺当我的出版代表。我只告诉了索拉雅：“仅仅有了代理机构，并不意味着我的书能够出版。如果马丁把小说卖掉，我们到时再庆祝不迟。”

A month later, Martin called and informed me I was going to be a published novelist. When I told Soraya, she screamed.一个月后，马丁来电话，说我就要成为一名有作品出版的小说家。我告诉索拉雅，她尖叫起来。

We had a celebration dinner with Soraya’s parents that night. Khala Jamila made kofta--meatballs and white rice--and white ferni. The general, a sheen of moisture in his eyes, said that he was proud of me. After General Taheri and his wife left, Soraya and I celebrated¹¹ with an expensive bottle of Merlot I had bought on the way home--the general did not approve of women drinking alcohol, and Soraya didn’t drink in his presence.那天晚上，我们做了丰盛的晚饭，请来索拉雅的父母，以示庆祝。雅米拉阿姨做了瓤饭团——米饭包着肉丸——和杏仁布丁。将军眼里泛着泪花，说他为我感到骄傲。塔赫里将军和他妻子离开之后，我拿出一瓶回家路上买的昂贵干红葡萄酒，索拉雅和我举杯相庆。将军不赞同女人喝酒，他在的时候索拉雅滴酒不沾。

“I am so proud of you,” she said, raising her glass to mine. “Kaka would have been proud too.”“你让我感到很骄傲，”她说，举杯和我碰了一下，“叔叔也一定会为你骄傲。”

“I know,” I said, thinking of Baba, wishing he could have seen me. “我知道。”我说，想起爸爸，希望他地下有灵。