The people in Bamiyan had told me I would find him easily--he lived in the only house in the village that had a wAlled garden. The mud wall, short and pocked with holes, enclosed the tiny house--which was really not much more than a glorified hut. Barefoot children were playing on the street, kicking a ragged tennis ball with a stick, and they stared when I pulled up and killed the engine. I knocked on the wooden door and stepped through into a yard that had very little in it save for a parched strawberry patch and a bare lemon tree. There was a tandoor in the corner in the shadow of an acacia tree and I saw a man squatting beside it. He was placing dough on a large wooden spatula and slapping it against the walls of the _tandoor_. He dropped the dough when he saw me. I had to make him stop kissing my hands. “Let me look at you,” I said. He stepped away. He was so tall now--I stood on my toes and still just came up to his chin. The Bamiyan sun had toughened his skin, and turned it several shades darker than I remembered, and he had lost a few of his front teeth. There were sparse strands of hair on his chin. Other than that, he had those same narrow green eyes, that scar on his upper lip, that round face, that affable smile. You would have recognized him, Amir jan. I am sure of it. We went inside. There was a young light-skinned Hazara woman, sewing a shawl in a corner of the room. She was visibly expecting. “This is my wife, Rahim Khan,” Hassan said proudly. “Her name is Farzana jan.” She was a shy woman, so courteous she spoke in a voice barely higher than a whisper and she would not raise her pretty hazel eyes to meet my gaze. But the way she was looking at Hassan, he might as well have been sitting on the throne at the _Arg_. “When is the baby coming?” I said after we all settled around the adobe room. There was nothing in the room, just a frayed rug, a few dishes, a pair of mattresses, and a lantern. “_Inshallah_, this winter,” Hassan said. “I am praying for a boy to carry on my father’s name.” “Speaking of Ali, where is he?” 在巴米揚，人們說我很會很容易就找到他——整個村莊，只有他住的屋子有壘着圍牆的花園。那堵泥牆很短，有些牆洞點綴在上面，圍住那間小屋——那真的比一間破茅舍好不不了多少。赤着腳的孩子在街道上玩耍，用棒子打一個破網球，我把車停在路邊，熄了火，他們全都看着我。我推開那扇木門，走進一座院子，裏頭很小，一小塊地種着乾枯的草莓，還有株光禿禿的檸檬樹。院子的角落種着合歡樹，樹陰下面擺着烤爐，我看見有個男人站在旁邊。他正在把生麪糰塗到一把木頭抹刀上，用它拍打着烤爐壁。他一看到我就放下生麪糰，捧起我的手親個不停。 “讓我看看你。”我說。他退後一步。他現在可高了——我踮起腳尖，仍只是剛剛有他下巴那麼高。巴米揚的陽光使他的皮膚變得更堅韌了，比我印象中黑得多，他有幾顆門牙不見了，下巴上長着幾撮稀疏的毛。除此之外，他還是那雙狹窄的綠眼睛，上脣的傷痕還在，還是那張圓圓的臉蛋，還是那副和藹的笑容。你一定會認出他的，親愛的阿米爾，我敢肯定。 我們走進屋裏。裏面有個年輕的哈扎拉女人，膚色較淡，在屋角縫披肩。她顯然懷孕了。“這是我的妻子，拉辛汗。”哈桑驕傲地說，“她是親愛的法莎娜。”她是個羞澀的婦人，很有禮貌，說話聲音很輕，只比耳語大聲一點，她淡褐色的美麗眼睛從來不和我的眼光接觸。但她那樣看着哈桑，好像他坐在皇宮內的寶座上。 “孩子什麼時候出世？”參觀完那間泥磚屋之後，我問。屋裏一無所有，只有磨損的褥子，幾個盤子，兩張坐墊，一盞燈籠。 “奉安拉之名，這個冬天，”哈桑說，“我求真主保佑，生個兒子，給他取我父親的名字。” “說到阿里，他在哪兒？”
