“Okay,” I said. “Let’s give him a sabagh, teach him a lesson, nay?” I glanced over at him. The glassy, vacant look in his eyes was gone. His gaze flitted between our kite and the green one. His face was a little flushed, his eyes suddenly Alert. Awake. Alive. I wondered when I had forgotten that, despite everything, he was still just a child. The green kite was making its move. “Let’s wait,” I said. “We’ll let him get a little closer.” It dipped twice and crept toward us. “Come on. Come to me,” I said. The green kite drew closer yet, now rising a little above us, unaware of the trap I’d set for it. “Watch, Sohrab. I’m going to show you one of your father’s favorite tricks, the old lift-and-dive.” Next to me, Sohrab was breathing rapidly through his nose. The spool rolled in his palms, the tendons in his scarred wrists like rubab strings. Then I blinked and, for just a moment, the hands holding the spool were the chipped-nailed, calloused hands of a harelipped boy. I heard a crow cawing somewhere and I looked up. The park shimmered with snow so fresh, so dazzling white, it burned my eyes. It sprinkled soundlessly from the branches of white-clad trees. I smelled turnip qurina now. Dried mulberries. Sour oranges. Sawdust and walnuts. The muffled quiet, snow-quiet, was deafening. Then far away, across the stillness, a voice calling us home, the voice of a man who dragged his right leg. The green kite hovered directly above us now. “He’s going for it. Anytime now,” I said, my eyes flicking from Sohrab to our kite. The green kite hesitated. Held position. Then shot down. “Here he comes!” I said. I did it perfectly. After all these years. The old lift-and-dive trap. I loosened my grip and tugged on the string, dipping and dodging the green kite. A series of quick sidearm jerks and our kite shot up counterclockwise, in a half circle. Suddenly I was on top. The green kite was scrambling now, panic-stricken. But it was too late. I’d already slipped him Hassan’s trick. I pulled hard and our kite plummeted. I could almost feel our string sawing his. Almost heard the snap. Then, just like that, the green kite was spinning and wheeling out of nd us, people cheered. Whistles and applause broke out. I was panting. The last time I had felt a rush like this was that day in the winter of 1975, just after I had cut the last kite, when I spotted Baba on our rooftop, clapping, beaming. I looked down at Sohrab. One corner of his mouth had curled up just so. “好的。”我說，“讓我們給他一點顏色瞧瞧，教訓他一下，好吧？”我俯視着他，他眼裏那種模糊空洞的神色已經不見了。他的眼光在我們的風箏和那隻綠色風箏之間來回轉動，臉色有一點點發紅，眼睛驟然機警起來。甦醒了。復活了。我在尋思，我什麼時候忘了？不管怎麼說，他仍只是一個孩子。 綠色風箏採取行動了。 “我們等等，”我說，“我們會讓它再靠近一些。”它下探了兩次，慢慢朝我們挪過來。 “來啊，過來啊。”我說。 綠風箏已經更近了，在我們稍高的地方拉昇，對我爲它佈下的陷阱毫不知情。“看，索拉博，我會讓你看看你爸爸最喜歡的招數，那招古老的猛升急降。” 索拉博挨着我，用鼻子急促地呼吸着。卷軸在他手中滾動，他傷痕累累的手腕上的筋腱很像雷巴布琴的琴絃。我眨眨眼，瞬間，拿着卷軸的是一個兔脣男孩指甲破裂、長滿老繭的手。 我聽見某個地方傳來牛的哞哞叫，而我擡頭，公園閃閃發光，鋪滿的雪多麼新鮮，白得多麼耀眼，令我目眩神迷。雪花無聲地灑落在白色的枝頭上，現在我聞到了蕪青拌飯的香味，還有桑椹幹、酸橙子、鋸屑和胡桃的氣味。一陣雪花飛舞的寂靜蓋住了所有聲音。然後，遠遠地，有個聲音穿透這片死寂，呼喊我們回家，是那個拖着右腿的男人的聲音。 綠風箏現在就在我們正上方翱翔。“我們現在隨時可以把它幹掉了。”我說，眼睛在索拉博和我們的風箏間飛快地轉着。 綠風箏搖搖晃晃，定住位，接着向下衝。 “他玩完了！”我說。 這麼多年之後，我無懈可擊地再次使出那招古老的猛升急降。我鬆開手，猛拉着線，往下避開那隻綠風箏。我側過手臂，一陣急遽的抖動之後，我們的風箏逆時針劃出一個半圓。我突然佔據了上面的位置。綠色風箏現在驚惶失措，慌亂地向上攀升。但它已經太遲了，我已經使出哈桑的絕技。我猛拉着線，我們的風箏直墜而下。我幾乎能聽見我們的線割斷他的線，幾乎能聽見那一聲斷裂。 然後，就那樣，綠風箏失去控制，搖搖晃晃地摔下來。我們身後的人們歡呼叫好，爆發出陣陣口哨聲和掌聲。我喘着氣。上一次感到這麼激動，是在1975年那個冬日，就在我剛剛割斷最後一隻風箏之後，當時我看見爸爸在我們的屋頂上，鼓着掌，容光煥發。 我俯視索拉博，他嘴角的一邊微微翹起。
