IN THE MIDDLE DRAWER of the dresser beside my bed, I had found an old _National Geographic_ magazine, a chewed-up pencil, a comb with missing teeth, and what I was reaching for now, sweat pouring down my face from the effort: a deck of cards. I had counted them earlier and, surprisingly, found the deck complete. I asked Sohrab if he wanted to play. I didn’t expect him to answer, let alone play. He’d been quiet since we had fled he turned from the window and said, “The only game I know is panjpar.”“I feel sorry for you already, because I am a grand master at panjpar. World renowned.”He took his seat on the stool next to me. I dealt him his five cards. “When your father and I were your age, we used to play this game. Especially in the winter, when it snowed and we couldn’t go outside. We used to play until the sun went down.” He played me a card and picked one up from the pile. I stole looks at him as he pondered his cards. He was his father in so many ways: the way he fanned out his cards with both hands, the way he squinted while reading them, the way he rarely looked a person in the played in silence. I won the first game, let him win the next one, and lost the next five fair and square. “You’re as good as your father, maybe even better,” I said, after my last loss. “I used to beat him sometimes, but I think he let me win.” I paused before saying, “Your father and I were nursed by the same woman.” “I know.” “What... what did he tell you about us?” “That you were the best friend he ever had,” he said.I twirled the jack of diamonds in my fingers, flipped it back and forth. “I wasn’t such a good friend, I’m afraid,” I said. “But I’d like to be your friend. I think I could be a good friend to you. Would that be all right? Would you like that?” I put my hand on his arm, gingerly, but he flinched. He dropped his cards and pushed away on the stool. He walked back to the window. The sky was awash with streaks of red and purple as the sun set on Peshawar. From the street below came a succession of honks and the braying of a donkey, the whistle of a policeman. Sohrab stood in that crimson light, forehead pressed to the glass, fists buried in his A HAD A MALE ASSISTANT help me take my first steps that night. I only walked around the room once, one hand clutching the wheeled IV stand, the other clasping the assistant’s fore arm. It took me ten minutes to make it back to bed, and, by then, the incision on my stomach throbbed and I’d broken out in a drenching sweat. I lay in bed, gasping, my heart hammering in my ears, thinking how much I missed my ab and I played panjpar most of the next day, again in silence. And the day after that. We hardly spoke, just played panjpar, me propped in bed, he on the three-legged stool, our routine broken only by my taking a walk around the room, or going to the bathroom down the hall. I had a dream later that night. I dreamed Assef was standing in the doorway of my hospital room, brass ball still in his eye socket. “We’re the same, you and I,” he was saying. “You nursed with him, but you’re my twin.” I TOLD ARMAND early that next day that I was leaving. “It’s still early for discharge,” Armand protested. He wasn’t dressed in surgical scrubs that day, instead in a button-down navy blue suit and yellow tie. The gel was back in the hair. “You are still in intravenous antibiotics and--” “I have to go,” I said. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, all of you. Really. But I have to leave.” “Where will you go?” Armand said. “I’d rather not say.” 在我牀頭櫃子中間的抽屜裏面，我找到一本舊《國家地理》雜誌，一枝用過的鉛筆，一把缺了些梳齒的梳子，還有我汗流滿面努力伸手去拿的：一副撲克牌。早些時候我數過，出乎意料的是，那副牌竟然是完整的。我問索拉博想不想玩。我沒指望他會回答，更別說玩牌了。自我們離開喀布爾之後，他一直很安靜。但他從窗口轉身說：“我只會玩‘番吉帕’。”“真替你感到遺憾，因爲我是玩番吉帕的高手，全世界都知道。”他在我旁邊的凳子上坐下，我給他發了五張牌。“當你爸爸和我像你這麼大的時候，我們經常一起玩這遊戲。特別是在冬季，天下雪、我們不能出去的時候，我們常常玩到太陽下山。” 他出了一張牌，從牌堆抽起一張。他望着牌思考的時候，我偷偷看着他。他很多地方都像他父親：將牌在手裏展成扇形的樣子，眯眼看牌的樣子，還有他很少看別人眼睛的樣子。我們默默玩着。第一盤我贏了，讓他贏了第二盤，接下來五局沒使詐，但都輸了。“你打得跟你父親一樣好，也許還要好一些。”我輸了最後一局之後說，“我過去經常贏他，不過我覺得那是他讓我的。”我頓了頓，又說：“你父親和我是吃同一個女人的奶長大的。” “我知道。” “他……他跟你怎麼說起我們？” “他說你是他一生最好的朋友。”他說。我捏着方塊傑克上下搖動。“恐怕我沒他想的那麼好。”我說，“不過我想跟你交朋友。我想我可以成爲你的好朋友。好不好？你願意嗎？”我輕輕將手放在他手臂上，但他身子後縮。他將牌放下，從凳子上站起來，走回窗邊。太陽在白沙瓦落下，天空鋪滿了紅色和紫色的雲霞。下面的街道傳來陣陣喇叭聲，驢子的叫聲，警察的哨聲。索拉博站在紅色的斜暉中，額頭靠着玻璃，把手埋在腋下。那天晚上，在艾莎和一名男性護理的幫助下，我跨了第一步。我一隻手抓住裝着滑輪的輸液架，另一隻手扶在助理的前臂上，繞了房間一圈。十分鐘後，我回到牀邊，體內肺腑翻涌，也冒出渾身大汗。我躺在牀上，喘息着，耳邊聽到心臟怦怦跳，心裏十分想念我的妻子。隔日，索拉博和我仍是默默無語，幾乎整天都在玩“番吉帕”。又那樣度過一天。我們只是玩着“番吉帕”，幾乎沒有說過話，我斜倚在牀上，他坐在三腳凳上。除了我在房間裏走動，或者到走廊盡頭的衛生間去，我們一直都在打牌。那天深夜我做了個夢。我夢見阿塞夫站在病房的門口，眼眶仍嵌着銅球。“我們是同一種人，你和我。”他說，“你跟他一個奶媽，但你是我的孿生兄弟。” 第二天早晨，我告訴阿曼德我想離開。 “現在出院太早了。”阿曼德抗議說。那天他穿着的並非手術袍，而是一套海軍藍西裝，繫着黃色領帶，頭髮又塗着睹喱水。“你還在靜脈注射抗生素期間，還有……” “我非走不可。”我說，“謝謝你，謝謝你們爲我所做的一切。真的。但我必須離開。” “你要去哪裏？”阿曼德說。 “我不能說。”
