I leaned against the gray stone gateway¹ to the cemetery² where Hassan had buried his mother. The old metal gates hanging off the hinges were gone, and the headstones were barely visible through the thick tangles³ of weeds that had claimed the plot. A pair of crows sat on the low wall that enclosed the cemetery.

我再次倚着墓园的灰色石门，哈桑就在里面埋葬了他母亲。过去那扇折叶松脱的铁门已经不见了，浓密的杂草已经占领这片土地，几乎将墓碑全然掩埋。两只乌鸦栖息在墓园低矮的围墙上。

Hassan had said in his letter that the pomegranate tree hadn’t borne fruit in years. Looking at the wilted⁴, leafless tree, I doubted it ever would again. I stood under it, remembered all the times we’d climbed it, straddled its branches, our legs swinging, dappled sunlight flickering⁵ through the leaves and casting on our faces a mosaic⁶ of light and shadow. The tangy taste of pomegranate crept into my mouth.

哈桑在信中提到，石榴树已经多年没有结果实了。看着那枯萎凋零的树木，我怀疑它是否能够再次开花结果。我站在它下面，想起我们无数次爬上去，坐在枝桠上，双腿摇晃，斑驳的阳光穿越过树叶，在我们脸上投射出交错的光和影。我嘴里涌起强烈的石榴味道。

I hunkered down on my knees and brushed my hands against the trunk. I found what I was looking for. The carving⁷ had dulled, almost faded altogether, but it was still there: “Amir and Hassan. The Sultans of Kabul.” I traced the curve of each letter with my fingers. Picked small bits of bark from the tiny crevasses⁸.

我屈膝蹲下，双手抚摸着树干。我见到我所要找的，刻痕模糊，几乎全然消退，但它仍在：“阿米尔和哈桑，喀布尔的苏丹。”我用手指顺着每个字母的笔画，从那些细微的裂缝刮下一点点树皮。

I sat cross-legged at the foot of the tree and looked south on the city of my childhood. In those days, treetops poked⁹ behind the walls of every house. The sky stretched wide and blue, and laundry drying on clotheslines glimmered¹⁰ in the sun. If you listened hard, you might even have heard the call of the fruit seller passing through Wazir Akbar Khan with his donkey: Cherries! Apricots! Grapes! In the early evening, you would have heard azan, the mueszzin’s call to prayer from the mosque¹¹ in Shar-e-Nau.

我盘膝坐在树下，朝南眺望这座我童年的城市。曾几何时，家家户户的围墙都有树梢探出来，天空广袤而澄蓝，在阳光下闪闪发亮的晾衣线挂满衣物。如果你仔细听，兴许你甚至能听到来自瓦兹尔?阿克巴?汗区的叫卖声，兜售水果的小贩高喊：樱桃！杏子！葡萄！日暮时分，你还可以听到钟声，来自沙里诺区的清真寺，召唤人们前去祷告。

I heard a honk¹² and saw Farid waving at me. It was time to go. WE DROVE SOUTH AGAIN, back toward Pashtunistan Square. We passed several more red pickup¹³ trucks with armed, bearded young men crammed¹⁴ into the cabs. Farid cursed under his breath every time we passed one.

我听见喇叭声，看到法里德朝我招手。是该走的时候了。我们又朝南驶去，回到普什图广场。我们和好几辆红色的皮卡擦身而过，车斗上挤满荷枪实弹、留着大胡子的年轻人。每次遇到他们，法里德都会低声咒骂。

I paid for a room at a small hotel near Pashtunistan Square. Three little girls dressed in identical black dresses and white scarves clung to the slight, bespectacled man behind the counter. He charged me $75, an unthinkable price given the run-down appearance of the place, but I didn’t mind. Exploitation to finance a beach house in Hawaii was one thing. Doing it to feed your kids was another.

我付钱住进了普什图广场附近一间小旅馆。三个小女孩穿着统一的黑色服装，戴着白色头巾，紧贴着柜台后面那个瘦小的四眼佬。他索价75美元，那地方相当破落，这个价格简直匪夷所思，但我并不在乎。为了给夏威夷海边的房子付款漫天要价是一回事，为了养活孩子这么做又是一回事。

There was no hot running water and the cracked toilet didn’t flush. Just a single steel-frame bed with a worn mattress¹⁵, a ragged¹⁶ blanket, and a wooden chair in the corner. The window overlooking the square had broken, hadn’t been replaced. As I lowered my suitcase, I noticed a dried bloodstain on the wall behind the bed. 房间没有热水，破旧的厕所无法冲水。只有一张铁床，一张破褥子，一条旧毛毯，角落摆着只木椅。正对广场的窗户破了，还没修补。我放下行李箱，发现床后的墙壁上有块干了的血迹。

I gave Farid some money and he went out to get food. He returned with four sizzling skewers¹⁷ of kabob, fresh _naan_, and a bowl of white rice. We sat on the bed and all but devoured¹⁸ the food. There was one thing that hadn’t changed in Kabul after all: The kabob was as succulent and delicious as I remembered.

我给法里德钱，让他出去买吃的。他带回四串热得磁口兹响的烤肉，刚出炉的馕饼，还有一碗白米饭。我们坐在床上，埋头大吃。毕竟，喀布尔还有一样没有改变的事情：烤肉依然如我记忆中那般丰腴美味。