“Father took me to the Blue Mosque¹,” Sohrab said. “I remember there were so many pigeons outside the masjid, and they weren’t afraid of people. They came right up to us. Sasa gave me little pieces of _naan_ and I fed the birds. Soon, there were pigeons cooing all around me. That was fun.”

“爸爸带我去蓝色清真寺。”索拉博说，“我记得那儿有很多鸽子，在那个回教堂外面，它们不怕人。它们朝我们走来，莎莎给我一小片馕，我喂那些鸟儿。很快，那些鸽子都围在我身边咯咯叫。真好玩。”

“You must miss your parents very much,” I said. I wondered if he’d seen the Taliban drag his parents out into the street. I hoped he hadn’t.“Do you miss your parents?” he aked, resting his cheek on his knees, looking up at me.“Do I miss my parents? Well, I never met my mother. My father died a few years ago, and, yes, I do miss him. Sometimes a lot.”

“你一定很想念你的父母。”我说。我在想他有没有看到塔利班将他的父母拖到街上。我希望他没有。“你想念你的父母吗？”他问，把脸颊放在膝盖上，抬眼看着我。“我想念我的父母吗？嗯，我从没见过我的妈妈。我爸爸几年前死了，是的，我想念他。有时很想。”

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

“你记得他长什么样子吗？”

I thought of Baba’s thick neck, his black eyes, his unruly brown hair. Sitting on his lap had been like sitting on a pair of tree trunks. “I remember what he looked like,” I said. “What he smelled like too.”

我想起爸爸粗壮的脖子，黑色的眼睛，那头不羁的棕发，坐在他大腿上跟坐在树干上一样。“我记得他长什么样子，”我说，“我还记得他身上的味道。”

“I’m starting to forget their faces,” Sohrab said. “Is that bad?”

“我开始忘记他们的面孔，”索拉博说，“这很糟吗？”

“No,” I said. “Time does that.” I thought of something. I looked in the front pocket of my coat. Found the Polaroid snap² shot of Hassan and Sohrab. “Here,” I said.

“不，”我说，“是时间让你忘记的。”我想起某些东西。我翻开外套的前袋，找出那张哈桑和索拉博的宝丽莱合影，“给你。”

He brought the photo to within an inch of his face, turned it so the light from the mosque fell on it. He looked at it for a long time. I thought he might cry, but he didn’t. He just held it in both hands, traced his thumb over its surface. I thought of a line I’d read somewhere, or maybe I’d heard someone say it: There are a lot of children in Afghanistan, but little childhood. He stretched his hand to give it back to me.

他将相片放在面前几英寸的地方，转了一下，以便让清真寺的灯光照在上面。他久久看着它。我想他也许会哭，但他只是双手拿着照片，拇指在它上面抚摸着。我想起一句不知道在什么地方看来的话，或者是从别人口里听来的：阿富汗有很多儿童，但没有童年。他伸出手，把它递给我。

“Keep it,” I said. “It’s yours.”

“你留着吧，”我说，“它是你的。”

“Thank you.” He looked at the photo again and stowed it in the pocket of his vest. A horse-drawn cart clip-clopped by in the parking lot. Little bells dangled³ from the horse’s neck and jingled⁴ with each step.

“谢谢你。”他又看了看照片，把它放在背心的口袋里面。一辆马车发着声响驶进停车场。马脖子上挂着很多小铃铛，随着马步叮当作响。

“I’ve been thinking a lot about mosques⁵ lately,” Sohrab said. “我最近经常想起清真寺。”索拉博说。

“You have? What about them?”

“真的吗？都想些什么呢？”