THERE WERE THREE OTHER PATIENTS in my room. Two older men, one with a cast on his leg, the other wheezing with asthma, and a young man of fifteen or sixteen who’d had appendix surgery. The old guy in the cast stared at us without blinking, his eyes switching from me to the Hazara boy sitting on a stool. My roommates’ families--old women in bright shalwar-kameezes, children, men wearing skullcaps--shuffled noisily in and out of the room. They brought with them pakoras, _naan_, sa,nosas, biryani. Sometimes people just wandered into the room, like the tall, bearded man who walked in just before Farid and Sohrab arrived. He wore a brown blanket wrapped around him. Aisha asked him something in Urdu. He paid her no attention and scanned the room with his eyes. I thought he looked at me a little longer than necessary. When the nurse spoke to him again, he just spun around and left. “How are you?” I asked Sohrab. He shrugged, looked at his hands. “Are you hungry? That lady there gave me a plate of biryani, but I can’t eat it,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say to him. “You want it?”He shook his head.“Do you want to talk?”He shook his head sat there like that for a while, silent, me propped up in bed, two pillows behind my back, Sohrab on the three-legged stool next to the bed. I fell asleep at some point, and, when I woke up, daylight had dimmed a bit, the shadows had stretched, and Sohrab was still sitting next to me. He was still looking down at his hands. THAT NIGHT, after Farid picked up Sohrab, I unfolded Rahim Khan’s letter. I had delayed reading it as long as possible. It read: Amirjan, _Inshallah_, you have reached this letter safely. I pray that I have not put you in harm’s way and that Afghanistan has not been too unkind to you. You have been in my prayers since the day you left. You were right all those years to suspect that I knew. I did know. Hassan told me shortly after it happened. What you did was wrong, Amir jan, but do not forget that you were a boy when it happened. A troubled little boy. You were too hard on yourself then, and you still are--I saw it in your eyes in Peshawar. But I hope you will heed this: A man who has no conscience, no goodness, does not suffer. I hope your suffering comes to an end with this journey to Afghanistan. Amir jan, I am ashamed for the lies we told you all those years. You were right to be angry in Peshawar. You had a right to know. So did Hassan. I know it doesn’t absolve anyone of anything, but the Kabul we lived in in those days was a strange world, one in which some things mattered more than the truth. 我的房間還有其他三個病人。兩個年紀較大，一個腳上澆着石膏，另外那個患有哮喘，還有個十五六歲的少年，剛割過闌尾炎。澆石膏那個老傢伙目不轉睛地看着我們，他的眼睛來回看着我和那個坐在一張小矮凳上的哈扎拉男孩。我室友的家人——長罩衫光鮮的老太婆、孩子、戴無邊便帽的男子——喧鬧地在病房進進出出。他們帶來炸蔬菜餅、饢餅、土豆餅和印度煸飯。偶爾還有人只是走進屋子，比如剛剛在法裏德和索拉博來之前，有個高高的大鬍子就進來過，身上裹着棕色的毛毯。艾莎用烏爾都語問他話，他不理不睬，自顧用眼光掃射房間。我認爲他看着我的時間長得有點不對頭。那護士又跟他說話，他只是轉過身離開。 “你好嗎？”我問索拉博。他聳聳肩，看着自己的手。 “你餓嗎？那邊的太太給我一盤焗飯，但我吃不下。”我說。我不知道跟他說什麼，“你想吃嗎？”他搖搖頭。“你想說話嗎？”他又搖搖頭。我們就那樣坐了一會，默不作聲，我倚在牀上，背後墊着兩個枕頭；索拉博坐在牀邊的三腳凳上。我不知不覺睡着了，醒來的時候，天色已經有點昏暗，影子變長，而索拉博仍坐在我身邊。他仍在看着自己的雙手。 那晚，法裏德把索拉博接走之後，我展開拉辛汗的信。我儘可能慢慢看，信上寫着： 親愛的阿米爾：安拉保佑，願你毫髮無損地看到這封信。我祈禱我沒讓你受到傷害，我祈禱阿富汗人對你不至於太過刻薄。自從你離開那天，我一直在爲你祈禱。那些年來，你一直在懷疑我是否知道。我確實知道。事情發生之後不久，哈桑就告訴我了。你做錯了。親愛的阿米爾，但別忘記，事情發生的時候，你還只是個孩子，一個騷動不安的小男孩。當時你對自己太過苛刻，現在你依然如此——在白沙瓦時。我從你的眼神看出來。但我希望你會意識到：沒有良心、沒有美德的人不會痛苦。我希望這次你到阿富汗去，能結束你的苦楚。 親愛的阿米爾，那些年來，我們一直瞞着你，我感到羞恥。你在白沙瓦大發雷霆並沒錯。你有權利知道，哈桑也是。我知道這於事無補，但那些年月，我們生活的喀布爾是個奇怪的世界，在那兒，有些事情比真相更加重要。
