GINGERLY, I WALKED up the driveway where tufts of weed now grew between the sun-faded bricks. I stood outside the gates of my father’s house, feeling like a stranger. I set my hands on the rusty¹ bars, remembering how I’d run through these same gates thousands of times as a child, for things that mattered not at all now and yet had seemed so important then. I peered in.The driveway extension that led from the gates to the yard, where Hassan and I took turns falling the summer we learned to ride a bike, didn’t look as wide or as long as I remembered it. The asphalt had split in a lightning-streak pattern, and more tangles² of weed sprouted³ through the fissures⁴. Most of the poplar trees had been chopped down--the trees Hassan and I used to climb to shine our mirrors into the neighbors’ homes. The ones still standing⁵ were nearly leafless. The Wall of Ailing⁶ Corn was still there, though I saw no corn, ailing or otherwise, along that wall now. The paint had begun to peel and sections of it had sloughed⁷ off altogether. The lawn had turned the same brown as the haze⁸ of dust hovering⁹ over the city, dotted by bald patches of dirt where nothing grew at all.

我小心翼翼地走上那条车道，太阳晒得砖块色泽黯淡，砖缝之间杂草丛生。我站在我爸爸房子的大门外面，形同路人。我把手放在锈蚀的铁栅上，回忆起儿童年代，为了一些现在看来微不足道、但当时觉得至关重要的事情，我曾成千上万次跑过这扇大门。我望进去。车道从大门伸进院子，当年夏天，我和哈桑就在这里轮流学骑自行车，先后摔倒，它看起来没有我记忆中那么宽。柏油路裂开闪电状的缝隙，从中长出更多的野草。多数白杨树已经被伐倒——过去哈桑和我常常爬上那些树，用镜子将光线照进邻居家，那些仍伫立着的树如今叶子稀疏。病玉米之墙仍在那儿，然而我没有看到玉米，无论病的还是健康的。油漆已经开始剥落，有数处已然整块掉下。草坪变成棕色，跟弥漫在这座城市上空的尘雾一样，点缀着几处裸露的泥土，上面根本没有东西生长。

A jeep was parked in the driveway and that looked all wrong:Baba’s black Mustang belonged there. For years, the Mustang’s eight cylinders¹⁰ roared to life every morning, rousing me from sleep. I saw that oil had spilled under the jeep and stained the driveway like a big Rorschach inkblot. Beyond the jeep, an empty wheelbarrow lay on its side. I saw no sign of the rosebushes that Baba and Ali had planted on the left side of the driveway, only dirt that spilled onto the asphalt. And weeds.Farid honked¹¹ twice behind me. “We should go, Agha. We’ll draw attention,” he called.

车道上停了一辆吉普，看上去全然错了：爸爸的黑色野马属于那儿。很多年前，野马的八个气缸每天早晨轰轰作响，将我唤醒。我看见吉普下面漏着油，滴在车道上，活像一块大大的墨渍。吉普车后面，一辆空空的独轮车侧倾倒地。车道左边，我看不到爸爸和阿里所种的蔷薇花丛，只有溅上柏油的泥土和杂草。法里德在我背后揿了两次喇叭。“我们该走了，老爷。我们会惹人疑心。”他喊道。

“Just give me one more minute,” I said.The house itself was far from the sprawling¹² white mansion¹³ I remembered from my childhood. It looked smaller. The roof sagged¹⁴ and the plaster was cracked. The windows to the living room, the foyer, and the upstairs guest bathroom were broken, patched haphazardly¹⁵ with sheets of clear plastic or wooden boards nailed across the frames. The paint, once sparkling white, had faded to ghostly gray and eroded¹⁶ in parts, revealing the layered bricks beneath. The front steps had crumbled¹⁷. Like so much else in Kabul, my father’s house was the picture of fallen splendor¹⁸.I found the window to my old bedroom, second floor, third window sOuth of the main steps to the house. I stood on tiptoes, saw nothing behind the window but shadows. Twenty-five years earlier, I had stood behind that same window, thick rain dripping down the panes¹⁹ and my breath fogging up the glass. I had watched Hassan and Ali load their belongings²⁰ into the trunk of my father’s car.

“再给我一分钟就好。”我说。房子本身远不是我自童年起便熟悉的宽敞白色房子。它看上去变小了，屋顶塌陷，泥灰龟裂。客厅、门廊，还有楼顶客房的浴室，这些地方的窗户统统破裂，被人漫不经心地补上透明的塑料片，或者用木板钉满窗框。曾经光鲜的白漆如今黯淡成阴森的灰色，有些已经蜕落，露出下面层层砖块，前面的台阶已经倾颓。和喀布尔其他地方如此相似，我爸爸的房子一派繁华不再的景象。我看到自己那间旧卧房的窗户，在二楼，房间的主楼梯以南第三个窗户。我踮起脚，除了阴影，看不见窗户后面有任何东西。二十五年前，我曾站在同一扇窗户后面，大雨敲打窗片，我呼出的气在玻璃上结成雾。我目睹哈桑和阿里将他们的行囊放进爸爸轿车的后厢。

“Amir agha,” Farid called again.

“阿米尔老爷。”法里德又喊了。

“I’m coming,” I shot back.

“我来了。”我回他一句。