The old man smiled. “I’ll try to remember and that’s a promise. Come back and find me.”

老人微笑，“我会想想看。这是承诺，记得回来找我。”

“Thank you,” I said.

“谢谢你。”我说，

“Thank you so much.” And I meant it. Now I knew my mother had liked almond cake with honey and hot tea, that she’d once used the word “profoundly,” that she’d fretted¹ about her happiness. I had just learned more about my mother from this old man on the street than I ever did from Baba. Walking back to the truck, neither one of us commented about what most non-Afghans would have seen as an improbable coincidence, that a beggar on the street would happen to know my mother. Because we both knew that in Afghanistan, and particularly in Kabul, such absurdity² was commonplace. Baba used to say, “Take two Afghans who’ve never met, put them in a room for ten minutes, and they’ll figure out how they’re related.”

“太谢谢你了。”我是说真的。现在我知道妈妈曾经喜欢涂了蜂蜜的杏仁蛋糕，还有热红茶，知道她用过“深深地”这个词，知道她曾为快乐烦恼过。我对妈妈的了解，从这个街头老人身上得到的，甚至比从爸爸身上知道的还要多。露宿街头的老乞丐恰好认识我妈妈，这在多数非阿富汗人眼里，也许会是匪夷所思的巧合，但我们对此只字不提，默默走回那辆汽车。因为我们知道，在阿富汗，特别是在喀布尔，这样的荒唐事情司空见惯。爸爸过去说过：“把两个素昧平生的阿富汗人关在同一间屋子里，不消十分钟，他们就能找出他们之间的亲戚关系。”

We left the old man on the steps of that building. I meant to take him up on his offer, come back and see if he’d unearthed³ any more stories about my mother. But I never saw him again. WE FOUND THE NEW ORPHANAGE⁴ in the northern part of Karteh-Seh, along the banks of the dried-up Kabul River. It was a flat, barracks-style building with splintered walls and windows boarded with planks⁵ of wood. Farid had told me on the way there that Karteh-Seh had been one of the most war-ravaged neighborhoods in Kabul, and, as we stepped out of the truck, the evidence was overwhelming. The cratered⁶ streets were flanked by little more than ruins of shelled buildings and abandoned homes. We passed the rusted⁷ skeleton of an overturned car, a TV set with no screen half-buried in rubble⁸, a wall with the words ZENDA BAD TAL IRAN! (Long live the Taliban!) sprayed in black. A short, thin, balding man with a shaggy gray beard opened the door. He wore a ragged⁹ tweed jacket, a skullcap, and a pair of eyeglasses with one chipped lens resting on the tip of his nose. Behind the glasses, tiny eyes like black peas flitted from me to Farid. “Salaam¹⁰ alaykum,” he said.

我们离开了坐在那座房子台阶上的老人。我原想带他到他的办公室去，看看他能否想起更多关于我妈妈的事情。但我再也没有见到他我们发现新恤孤院在卡德察区北边，紧邻干涸的喀布尔河河堤。那是一座平房，军营式建筑，墙上有裂缝，窗户用木板封上。前去的途中，法里德告诉我说，在喀布尔各个城区中，卡德察区受战争破坏最严重，而当我们下车，证据太明显了。立在满是弹坑的街道两旁的，只有比废墟好不了多少的破落建筑，以及久无人烟的房子。我们走过一具锈蚀的轿车残骸，看到一台半截埋在碎石堆里面、没有荧屏的电视机，一堵涂着黑色“塔利班万岁”标语的墙壁。 应门的是个秃顶男人，矮矮瘦瘦，留着蓬松的灰白胡子。他穿着旧斜纹呢夹克，戴着无边便帽，眼镜挂在鼻尖上，有块镜片已经碎裂。眼镜后面，黑豆似的眼珠在我和法里德身上扫来扫去。 “你好。”他说。

“Salaam alaykum,” I said. I showed him the Polaroid. “We’re searching for this boy.”

“你好，”我说，把宝丽莱照片给他看，“我们在找这个男孩。”

He gave the photo a cursory¹¹ glance. “I am sorry. I have never seen him.”

他匆匆瞥了一眼照片，“对不起，我从没见过他。”