RAYMOND ANDREWS was a short fellow with small hands, nails perfectly¹ trimmed, wedding band on the ring finger. He gave me a curt² little shake; it felt like squeezing a sparrow. Those are the hands that hold our fates, I thought as Sohrab and I seated our selves across from his desk. A _Les Misérables_ poster was nailed to the wall behind Andrews next to a topographical map of the U.S. A pot of tomato plants basked³ in the sun on the windowsill.

雷蒙德?安德鲁个子不高，手掌很小，指甲修剪得很好，手机指上戴着结婚戒指。他草草和我握手，感觉像捏着一只麻雀。这是一双掌握我们命运的手，我想。索拉博和我坐在他的办公桌对面。一张《悲惨世界》的海报钉在安德鲁身后的墙壁上，挨着一张美国地形图。阳光照耀的窗台上有盆番茄藤。

“Smoke?” he asked, his voice a deep baritone that was at odds⁴ with his slight stature⁵.

“吸烟吗？”他问，和他瘦弱的身形相比起来，他低沉洪亮的声音显得十分古怪。

“No thanks,” I said, not caring at all for the way Andrews’s eyes barely gave Sohrab a glance, or the way he didn’t look at me when he spoke⁶. He pulled open a desk drawer and lit a cigarette from a half-empty pack. He also produced a bottle of lotion⁷ from the same drawer. He looked at his tomato plants as he rubbed lotion into his hands, cigarette dangling⁸ from the corner of his mouth. Then he closed the drawer, put his elbows on the desktop⁹, and exhaled¹⁰. “So,” he said, crinkling his gray eyes against the smoke, “tell me your story.” “不，谢谢。”我说。安德鲁甚至都没看索拉博一眼，跟我说话的时候眼睛也没看着我，但我不在乎。他拉开办公桌的抽屉，从半包烟里面抽出一根点上。他还从同一个抽屉拿起一瓶液体，一边涂抹在手上，一边看窗台上的番茄藤，香烟斜斜吊在他嘴角。然后他关上抽屉，把手肘放在办公桌上，呼出一口气。“好了，”他说，在烟雾中眨眨他灰色的眼睛，“告诉我你的故事。”

I felt like Jean Valjean sitting across from Javert. I reminded myself that I was on American soil now, that this guy was on my side, that he got paid for helping¹¹ people like me. “I want to adopt this boy, take him back to the States with me,” I said.

我感觉就像冉?阿让坐在沙威 [冉?阿让（ jean Valjean）和沙威（javert）都是雨果作品《悲惨世界》中的人物，前者因为偷东西入狱，后者是警察 ]对面。我提醒自己，我如今在美国的领地上，这个家伙跟我是一边的，他领薪水，就为了帮助我这样的人。“我想收养这个孩子，将他带回美国。”我说。

“Tell me your story,” he repeated, crushing a flake¹² of ash on the neatly¹³ arranged desk with his index finger, flicking¹⁴ it into the trash can.

“告诉我你的故事。”他重复说，用食指把烟灰在整洁的办公桌上压碎，将其扫进烟灰缸。

I gave him the version I had worked out in my head since I’d hung up with Soraya. I had gone into Afghanistan to bring back my half brother’s son. I had found the boy in squalid conditions, wasting away in an orphanage¹⁵. I had paid the orphanage director a sum of money and withdrawn¹⁶ the boy. Then I had brought him to Pakistan. 我把跟索拉雅通电话之后编好的故事告诉他。我前往阿富汗，带回我同父异母兄弟的儿子。我发现这个孩子处境堪忧，在恤孤院中浪费生命。我给恤孤院的负责人一笔钱，将孩子带出来。接着我把他带到巴基斯坦。

“You are the boy’s half uncle?”“Yes.”He checked his watch. Leaned and turned the tomato plants on the sill. “Know anyone who can attest¹⁷ to that?”“Yes, but I don’t know where he is now.”He turned to me and nodded. I tried to read his face and couldn’t. I wondered if he’d ever tried those little hands of his at poker¹⁸.“I assume getting your jaws¹⁹ wired isn’t the latest fashion statement,” he said. We were in trouble, Sohrab and I, and I knew it then. I told him I’d gotten mugged in Peshawar.

“你算是这个孩子的伯伯？”“是的。”他看看表，侧身转向窗台上的番茄藤，“有人能证明吗？”“有的，但我不知道他现在在哪儿。”他转向我，点点头。我试图从他脸上看出他的想法，但一无所获。我在想他这双小手有没有玩过扑克。“我想，把下巴缝成这样，该不是最近时兴的证词吧。”他说。我们麻烦了，索拉博和我，我顿时明白。我告诉他我在白沙瓦被抢了。

“Of course,” he said. Cleared his throat. “Are you Muslim?”

“当然，”他说，清清喉咙，“你是穆斯林吗？”

“Yes.”

“是的。”

“Practicing?”

“虔诚吗？”

“Yes.” In truth, I didn’t remember the last time I had laid my forehead to the ground in prayer. Then I did remember: the day Dr. Amani gave Baba his prognosis. I had kneeled on the prayer rug, remembering only fragments of verses I had learned in school.

“是的。”实际上，我都不记得上次把头磕在地上祷告是什么时候。然后我想起来了：阿曼尼大夫给爸爸看病那天。我跪在祈祷毯上，想起的却只有几段课堂上学到的经文。

“Helps your case some, but not much,” he said, scratching a spot on the flawless part in his sandy hair.“What do you mean?” I asked. I reached for Sohrab’s hand, intertwined my fingers with his. Sohrab looked uncertainly from me to Andrews.“There’s a long answer and I’m sure I’ll end up giving it to you. You want the short one first?”I guess,” I said.

“对你的事情有点帮助，但起不了太大作用。”他说，作势在他那蓬松的头发上搔痒。“你是什么意思？”我问。我拉起索拉博的手，扣着他的手指。索拉博不安地看着我和安德鲁。“有个长的答案，到了最后我会告诉你。你想先听个短的吗？”

Andrews crushed his cigarette, his lips pursed. “Give it up.”

“说吧。”我说。安德鲁将香烟掐灭，抿着嘴，“放弃吧。”

“I’m sorry?”

“什么？”