When we were children, Hassan and I used to climb the poplar trees in the driveway of my father's house and annoy our neighbors by reflecting sunlight into their Homes with a shard1 of mirror. We would sit across from each other on a pair of high branches, our naked feet dangling2, our trouser pockets filled with dried mulberries and walnuts3. We took turns with the mirror as we ate mulberries, pelted4 each other with them, giggling5, laughing; I can still see Hassan up on that tree, sunlight flickering6 through the leaves on his almost perfectly7 round face, a face like a Chinese doll chiseled8 from hardwood: his flat, broad nose and slanting9, narrow eyes like bamboo leaves, eyes that looked, depending on the light, gold, green, even sapphire10 I can still see his tiny low-set ears and that pointed11 stub of a chin, a meaty appendage12 that looked like it was added as a mere13 afterthought. And the cleft14 lip, just left of midline, where the Chinese doll maker's instrument may have slipped; or perhaps he had simply grown tired and careless.
Sometimes, up in those trees, I talked Hassan into firing walnuts with his slingshot at the neighbor's one-eyed German shepherd. Hassan never wanted to, but if I asked, _really_ asked, he wouldn't deny me. Hassan never denied me anything. And he was deadly with his slingshot. Hassan's father, Ali, used to catch us and get mad, or as mad as someone as gentle as Ali could ever get. He would wag his finger and wave us down from the tree. He would take the mirror and tell us what his mother had told him, that the devil shone mirrors too, shone them to distract Muslims during prayer. "And he laughs while he does it,?he always added, scowling15 at his son.
"Yes, Father,?Hassan would mumble16, looking down at his feet. But he never told on me. Never told that the mirror, like shooting walnuts at the neighbor's dog, was always my idea.
The poplar trees lined the redbrick driveway, which led to a pair of wrought-iron gates. They in turn opened into an extension of the driveway into my father's estate. The house sat on the left side of the brick path, the backyard at the end of it.
Everyone agreed that my father, my Baba, had built the most beautiful house in the Wazir Akbar Khan district, a new and affluent17 neighborhood in the northern part of Kabul. Some thought it was the prettiest house in all of Kabul. A broad entryway flanked by rosebushes led to the sprawling18 house of marble floors and wide windows. Intricate mosaic19 tiles, handpicked by Baba in Isfahan, covered the floors of the four bathrooms. Gold-stitched tapestries20, which Baba had bought in Calcutta, lined the walls; a crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted21 ceiling.
Upstairs was my bedroom, Baba's room, and his study, also known as "the smoking room,?which perpetually smelled of tobacco and cinnamon. Baba and his friends reclined on black leather chairs there after Ali had served dinner. They stuffed their pipes--except Baba always called it "fattening22 the pipe?-and discussed their favorite three topics: politics, Business, soccer. Sometimes I asked Baba if I could sit with them, but Baba would stand in the doorway23. "Go on, now,?he'd say. "This is grown-ups?time. Why don't you go read one of those books of yours??He'd close the door, leave me to wonder why it was always grown-ups?time with him. I'd sit by the door, knees drawn24 to my chest. Sometimes I sat there for an hour, sometimes two, listening to their laughter, their chatter25.
The living room downstairs had a curved wall with custombuilt cabinets. Inside sat framed family pictures: an old, grainy photo of my grandfather and King Nadir26 Shah taken in 1931, two years before the king's assassination27; they are standing28 over a dead deer, dressed in knee-high boots, rifles slung29 over their shoulders. There was a picture of my parents?wedding night, Baba dashing in his black suit and my mother a smiling young princess in white. Here was Baba and his best friend and Business partner, Rahim Khan, standing outside our house, neither one smiling--I am a baby in that photograph and Baba is holding me, looking tired and grim. I'm in his arms, but it's Rahim Khan's pinky my fingers are curled around.
The curved wall led into the dining room, at the center of which was a mahogany table that could easily sit thirty guests-- and, given my father's taste for extravagant30 parties, it did just that almost every week. On the other end of the dining room was a tall marble fireplace, always lit by the orange glow of a fire in the wintertime.
A large sliding glass door opened into a semicircular terrace that overlooked two acres of backyard and rows of cherry trees. Baba and Ali had planted a small vegetable garden along the eastern wall: tomatoes, mint, peppers, and a row of corn that never really took. Hassan and I used to call it "the Wall of Ailing31 Corn.?
On the south end of the garden, in the shadows of a loquat tree, was the servants?Home, a modest little mud hut where Hassan lived with his father.
It was there, in that little shack32, that Hassan was born in the winter of 1964, just one year after my mother died giving birth to me.
In the eighteen years that I lived in that house, I stepped into Hassan and Ali's quarters only a handful of times. When the sun dropped low behind the hills and we were done playing for the day, Hassan and I parted ways. I went past the rosebushes to Baba's mansion33, Hassan to the mud shack where he had been born, where he'd lived his entire life. I remember it was spare, clean, dimly lit by a pair of kerosene34 lamps. There were two mattresses35 on opposite sides of the room, a worn Herati rug with frayed37 edges in between, a three-legged stool, and a wooden table in the corner where Hassan did his drawings. The walls stood bare, save for a single tapestry38 with sewn-in beads39 forming the words _Allah-u-akbar_. Baba had bought it for Ali on one of his trips to Mashad.
It was in that small shack that Hassan's mother, Sanaubar, gave birth to him one cold winter day in 1964. While my mother hemorrhaged to death during childbirth, Hassan lost his less than a week after he was born. Lost her to a fate most Afghans considered far worse than death: She ran off with a clan40 of traveling singers and dancers.
Hassan never talked about his mother, as if she'd never existed. I always wondered if he dreamed about her, about what she looked like, where she was. I wondered if he longed to meet her. Did he ache for her, the way I ached for the mother I had never met? One day, we were walking from my father's house to Cinema Zainab for a new Iranian movie, taking the shortcut41 through the military barracks near Istiqlal Middle School--Baba had forbidden us to take that shortcut, but he was in Pakistan with Rahim Khan at the time. We hopped42 the fence that surrounded the barracks, skipped over a little creek43, and broke into the open dirt field where old, abandoned tanks collected dust. A group of soldiers huddled44 in the shade of one of those tanks, smoking cigarettes and playing cards. One of them saw us, elbowed the guy next to him, and called Hassan.
"Hey, you!?he said. "I know you.?
We had never seen him before. He was a squatly45 man with a shaved head and black stubble on his face. The way he grinned at us, leered, scared me. "Just keep walking,?I muttered to Hassan.
"You! The Hazara! Look at me when I'm talking to you!?the soldier barked. He handed his cigarette to the guy next to him, made a circle with the thumb and index finger of one hand. Poked46 the middle finger of his other hand through the circle. Poked it in and out. In and out. "I knew your mother, did you know that? I knew her real good. I took her from behind by that creek over there.?
The soldiers laughed. One of them made a squealing47 sound. I told Hassan to keep walking, keep walking.
"What a tight little sugary cunt she had!?the soldier was saying, shaking hands with the others, grinning. Later, in the dark, after the movie had started, I heard Hassan next to me, croaking48. Tears were sliding down his cheeks. I reached across my seat, slung my arm around him, pulled him close. He rested his head on my shoulder. "He took you for someone else,?I whispered. "He took you for someone else.?
I'm told no one was really surprised when Sanaubar eloped. People _had_ raised their eyebrows49 when Ali, a man who had memorized the Koran, married Sanaubar, a woman nineteen years younger, a beautiful but notoriously unscrupulous woman who lived up to her dishonorable reputation. Like Ali, she was a Shi'a Muslim and an ethnic50 Hazara. She was also his first cousin and therefore a natural choice for a spouse51. But beyond those similarities, Ali and Sanaubar had little in common, least of all their respective appearances. While Sanaubar's brilliant green eyes and impish face had, rumor52 has it, tempted53 countless54 men into sin, Ali had a congenital paralysis55 of his lower facial muscles, a condition that rendered him unable to smile and left him perpetually grimfaced. It was an odd thing to see the stone-faced Ali happy, or sad, because only his slanted56 brown eyes glinted with a smile or welled with sorrow. People say that eyes are windows to the soul. Never was that more true than with Ali, who could only reveal himself through his eyes.
I have heard that Sanaubar's suggestive stride and oscillating hips57 sent men to reveries of infidelity. But polio had left Ali with a twisted, atrophied58 right leg that was sallow skin over bone with little in between except a paper-thin layer of muscle. I remember one day, when I was eight, Ali was taking me to the bazaar59 to buy some _naan_. I was walking behind him, humming, trying to imitate his walk. I watched him swing his scraggy leg in a sweeping60 arc, watched his whole body tilt61 impossibly to the right every time he planted that foot. It seemed a minor62 miracle he didn't tip over with each step. When I tried it, I almost fell into the gutter63. That got me giggling. Ali turned around, caught me aping him. He didn't say anything. Not then, not ever. He just kept walking.
Ali's face and his walk frightened some of the younger children in the neighborhood. But the real trouble was with the older kids. They chased him on the street, and mocked him when he hobbled by. Some had taken to calling him _Babalu_, or Boogeyman.
"Hey, Babalu, who did you eat today??they barked to a chorus of laughter. "Who did you eat, you flat-nosed Babalu??
They called him "flat-nosed?because of Ali and Hassan's characteristic Hazara Mongoloid features. For years, that was all I knew about the Hazaras, that they were Mogul descendants, and that they looked a little like Chinese people. School text books barely mentioned them and referred to their ancestry64 only in passing. Then one day, I was in Baba's study, looking through his stuff, when I found one of my mother's old history books. It was written by an Iranian named Khorami. I blew the dust off it, sneaked65 it into bed with me that night, and was stunned66 to find an entire chapter on Hazara history. An entire chapter dedicated67 to Hassan's people! In it, I read that my people, the Pashtuns, had persecuted68 and oppressed the Hazaras. It said the Hazaras had tried to rise against the Pashtuns in the nineteenth century, but the Pashtuns had "quelled69 them with unspeakable violence.?The book said that my people had killed the Hazaras, driven them from their lands, burned their Homes, and sold their women. The book said part of the reason Pashtuns had oppressed the Hazaras was that Pashtuns were Sunni Muslims, while Hazaras were Shi'a. The book said a lot of things I didn't know, things my teachers hadn't mentioned. Things Baba hadn't mentioned either. It also said some things I did know, like that people called Hazaras _mice-eating, flat-nosed, load-carrying donkeys_. I had heard some of the kids in the neighborhood yell those names to Hassan.
The following week, after class, I showed the book to my teacher and pointed to the chapter on the Hazaras. He skimmed through a couple of pages, snickered, handed the book back. "That's the one thing Shi'a people do well,?he said, picking up his papers, "passing themselves as martyrs70.?He wrinkled his nose when he said the word Shi'a, like it was some kind of disease.
But despite sharing ethnic heritage and family blood, Sanaubar joined the neighborhood kids in taunting71 Ali. I have heard that she made no secret of her disdain72 for his appearance.
"This is a husband??she would sneer73. "I have seen old donkeys better suited to be a husband.?
In the end, most people suspected the marriage had been an arrangement of sorts between Ali and his uncle, Sanaubar's father. They said Ali had married his cousin to help restore some honor to his uncle's blemished74 name, even though Ali, who had been orphaned75 at the age of five, had no worldly possessions or inheritance to speak of.
Ali never retaliated76 against any of his tormentors, I suppose partly because he could never catch them with that twisted leg dragging behind him. But mostly because Ali was immune to the insults of his assailants; he had found his joy, his antidote77, the moment Sanaubar had given birth to Hassan. It had been a simple enough affair. No obstetricians, no anesthesiologists, no fancy monitoring devices. Just Sanaubar lying on a stained, naked mattress36 with Ali and a midwife helping78 her. She hadn't needed much help at all, because, even in birth, Hassan was true to his nature:
He was incapable79 of hurting anyone. A few grunts80, a couple of pushes, and out came Hassan. Out he came smiling.
As confided81 to a neighbor's servant by the garrulous82 midwife, who had then in turn told anyone who would listen, Sanaubar had taken one glance at the baby in Ali's arms, seen the cleft lip, and barked a bitter laughter.
"There,?she had said. "Now you have your own idiot child to do all your smiling for you!?She had refused to even hold Hassan, and just five days later, she was gone.
Baba hired the same nursing woman who had fed me to nurse Hassan. Ali told us she was a blue-eyed Hazara woman from Bamiyan, the city of the giant Buddha83 statues. "What a sweet singing voice she had,?he used to say to us.
What did she sing, Hassan and I always asked, though we already knew--Ali had told us countless times. We just wanted to hear Ali sing.
He'd clear his throat and begin:
_On a high mountain I stood,
And cried the name of Ali, Lion of God.
O Ali, Lion of God, King of Men,
Bring joy to our sorrowful hearts._
Then he would remind us that there was a brotherhood84 between people who had fed from the same breast, a kinship that not even time could break.
Hassan and I fed from the same breasts. We took our first steps on the same lawn in the same yard. And, under the same roof, we spoke85 our first words.
Mine was _Baba_.
His was _Amir_. My name.
Looking back on it now, I think the foundation for what happened in the winter of 1975--and all that followed--was already laid in those first words.
收听单词发音 |
1
shard
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| n.（陶瓷器、瓦等的）破片，碎片 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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walnuts
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| 胡桃（树）( walnut的名词复数 )； 胡桃木 | |
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pelted
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| （连续地）投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续抨击； 攻击； 剥去…的皮 | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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chiseled
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| adj.凿刻的，轮廓分明的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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appendage
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| n.附加物 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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mumble
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| n./v.喃喃而语，咕哝 | |
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affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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fattening
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| adj.（食物）要使人发胖的v.喂肥( fatten的现在分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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nadir
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| n.最低点，无底 | |
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assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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shortcut
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| n.近路，捷径 | |
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hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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45
squatly
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| vi.蹲，蹲伏；擅自占用土地；依法在政府公地上定居；〈口〉坐vt.使蹲坐；使蹲下；擅自占用n.蹲坐，蹲姿；擅自占用的土地；[体]蹲举式举重；动物的窝adj.矮胖的；蹲着的 | |
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46
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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47
squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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48
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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49
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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50
ethnic
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| adj.人种的，种族的，异教徒的 | |
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51
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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52
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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53
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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54
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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58
atrophied
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| adj.萎缩的，衰退的v.（使）萎缩，（使）虚脱，（使）衰退( atrophy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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61
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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63
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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66
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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quelled
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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71
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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72
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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blemished
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| v.有损…的完美，玷污( blemish的过去式 ) | |
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orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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76
retaliated
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| v.报复，反击( retaliate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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80
grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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82
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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83
Buddha
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| n.佛；佛像；佛陀 | |
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84
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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85
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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