GingERLY, I WALKED up the driveway where tufts of weed now grew between the sun-faded bricks. I stood outside the gates of my father’s house, feeling like a stranger. I set my hands on the rusty bars, remembering how I’d run through these same gates thousands of times as a child, for things that mattered not at all now and yet had seemed so important then. I peered driveway extension that led from the gates to the yard, where Hassan and I took turns falling the summer we learned to ride a bike, didn’t look as wide or as long as I remembered it. The asphalt had split in a lightning-streak pattern, and more tangles of weed sprouted through the fissures. Most of the poplar trees had been chopped down--the trees Hassan and I used to climb to shine our mirrors into the neighbors’ homes. The ones still standing were nearly leafless. The Wall of Ailing Corn was still there, though I saw no corn, ailing or otherwise, along that wall now. The paint had begun to peel and sections of it had sloughed off altogether. The lawn had turned the same brown as the haze of dust hovering over the city, dotted by bald patches of dirt where nothing grew at all. A jeep was parked in the driveway and that looked all wrong:Baba’s black Mustang belonged there. For years, the Mustang’s eight cylinders roared to life every morning, rousing me from sleep. I saw that oil had spilled under the jeep and stained the driveway like a big Rorschach inkblot. Beyond the jeep, an empty wheelbarrow lay on its side. I saw no sign of the rosebushes that Baba and Ali had planted on the left side of the driveway, only dirt that spilled onto the asphalt. And d honked twice behind me. “We should go, Agha. We’ll draw attention,” he called. “Just give me one more minute,” I house itself was far from the sprawling white mansion I remembered from my childhood. It looked smaller. The roof sagged and the plaster was cracked. The windows to the living room, the foyer, and the upstairs guest bathroom were broken, patched haphazardly with sheets of clear plastic or wooden boards nailed across the frames. The paint, once sparkling white, had faded to ghostly gray and eroded in parts, revealing the layered bricks beneath. The front steps had crumbled. Like so much else in Kabul, my father’s house was the picture of fallen splendor.I found the window to my old bedroom, second floor, third window sOuth of the main steps to the house. I stood on tiptoes, saw nothing behind the window but shadows. Twenty-five years earlier, I had stood behind that same window, thick rain dripping down the panes and my breath fogging up the glass. I had watched Hassan and Ali load their belongings into the trunk of my father’s car. “Amir agha,” Farid called again. “I’m coming,” I shot back. 我小心翼翼地走上那條車道，太陽曬得磚塊色澤黯淡，磚縫之間雜草叢生。我站在我爸爸房子的大門外面，形同路人。我把手放在鏽蝕的鐵柵上，回憶起兒童年代，爲了一些現在看來微不足道、但當時覺得至關重要的事情，我曾成千上萬次跑過這扇大門。我望進去。車道從大門伸進院子，當年夏天，我和哈桑就在這裏輪流學騎自行車，先後摔倒，它看起來沒有我記憶中那麼寬。柏油路裂開閃電狀的縫隙，從中長出更多的野草。多數白楊樹已經被伐倒——過去哈桑和我常常爬上那些樹，用鏡子將光線照進鄰居家，那些仍佇立着的樹如今葉子稀疏。病玉米之牆仍在那兒，然而我沒有看到玉米，無論病的還是健康的。油漆已經開始剝落，有數處已然整塊掉下。草坪變成棕色，跟瀰漫在這座城市上空的塵霧一樣，點綴着幾處裸露的泥土，上面根本沒有東西生長。 車道上停了一輛吉普，看上去全然錯了：爸爸的黑色野馬屬於那兒。很多年前，野馬的八個氣缸每天早晨轟轟作響，將我喚醒。我看見吉普下面漏着油，滴在車道上，活像一塊大大的墨漬。吉普車後面，一輛空空的獨輪車側傾倒地。車道左邊，我看不到爸爸和阿里所種的薔薇花叢，只有濺上柏油的泥土和雜草。法裏德在我背後撳了兩次喇叭。“我們該走了，老爺。我們會惹人疑心。”他喊道。 “再給我一分鐘就好。”我說。房子本身遠不是我自童年起便熟悉的寬敞白色房子。它看上去變小了，屋頂塌陷，泥灰龜裂。客廳、門廊，還有樓頂客房的浴室，這些地方的窗戶統統破裂，被人漫不經心地補上透明的塑料片，或者用木板釘滿窗框。曾經光鮮的白漆如今黯淡成陰森的灰色，有些已經蛻落，露出下面層層磚塊，前面的臺階已經傾頹。和喀布爾其他地方如此相似，我爸爸的房子一派繁華不再的景象。我看到自己那間舊臥房的窗戶，在二樓，房間的主樓梯以南第三個窗戶。我踮起腳，除了陰影，看不見窗戶後面有任何東西。二十五年前，我曾站在同一扇窗戶後面，大雨敲打窗片，我呼出的氣在玻璃上結成霧。我目睹哈桑和阿里將他們的行囊放進爸爸轎車的後廂。 “阿米爾老爺。”法裏德又喊了。 “我來了。”我回他一句。
