I leaned against the gray stone gateway to the cemetery where Hassan had buried his mother. The old metal gates hanging off the hinges were gone, and the headstones were barely visible through the thick tangles of weeds that had claimed the plot. A pair of crows sat on the low wall that enclosed the cemetery. Hassan had said in his letter that the pomegranate tree hadn’t borne fruit in years. Looking at the wilted, leafless tree, I doubted it ever would again. I stood under it, remembered all the times we’d climbed it, straddled its branches, our legs swinging, dappled sunlight flickering through the leaves and casting on our faces a mosaic of light and shadow. The tangy taste of pomegranate crept into my mouth. I hunkered down on my knees and brushed my hands against the trunk. I found what I was looking for. The carving had dulled, almost faded altogether, but it was still there: “Amir and Hassan. The Sultans of Kabul.” I traced the curve of each letter with my fingers. Picked small bits of bark from the tiny crevasses. I sat cross-legged at the foot of the tree and looked south on the city of my childhood. In those days, treetops poked behind the walls of every house. The sky stretched wide and blue, and laundry drying on clotheslines glimmered in the sun. If you listened hard, you might even have heard the call of the fruit seller passing through Wazir Akbar Khan with his donkey: Cherries! Apricots! Grapes! In the early evening, you would have heard azan, the mueszzin’s call to prayer from the mosque in Shar-e-Nau. I heard a honk and saw Farid waving at me. It was time to go. WE DROVE SOUTH AGAIN, back toward Pashtunistan Square. We passed several more red pickup trucks with armed, bearded young men crammed into the cabs. Farid cursed under his breath every time we passed one. I paid for a room at a small hotel near Pashtunistan Square. Three little girls dressed in identical black dresses and white scarves clung to the slight, bespectacled man behind the counter. He charged me $75, an unthinkable price given the run-down appearance of the place, but I didn’t mind. Exploitation to finance a beach house in Hawaii was one thing. Doing it to feed your kids was another. There was no hot running water and the cracked toilet didn’t flush. Just a single steel-frame bed with a worn mattress, a ragged blanket, and a wooden chair in the corner. The window overlooking the square had broken, hadn’t been replaced. As I lowered my suitcase, I noticed a dried bloodstain on the wall behind the bed. I gave Farid some money and he went out to get food. He returned with four sizzling skewers of kabob, fresh _naan_, and a bowl of white rice. We sat on the bed and all but devoured the food. There was one thing that hadn’t changed in Kabul after all: The kabob was as succulent and delicious as I remembered. 我再次倚着墓園的灰色石門，哈桑就在裏面埋葬了他母親。過去那扇折葉鬆脫的鐵門已經不見了，濃密的雜草已經佔領這片土地，幾乎將墓碑全然掩埋。兩隻烏鴉棲息在墓園低矮的圍牆上。 哈桑在信中提到，石榴樹已經多年沒有結果實了。看着那枯萎凋零的樹木，我懷疑它是否能夠再次開花結果。我站在它下面，想起我們無數次爬上去，坐在枝椏上，雙腿搖晃，斑駁的陽光穿越過樹葉，在我們臉上投射出交錯的光和影。我嘴裏涌起強烈的石榴味道。 我屈膝蹲下，雙手撫摸着樹幹。我見到我所要找的，刻痕模糊，幾乎全然消退，但它仍在：“阿米爾和哈桑，喀布爾的蘇丹。”我用手指順着每個字母的筆畫，從那些細微的裂縫刮下一點點樹皮。 我盤膝坐在樹下，朝南眺望這座我童年的城市。曾幾何時，家家戶戶的圍牆都有樹梢探出來，天空廣袤而澄藍，在陽光下閃閃發亮的晾衣線掛滿衣物。如果你仔細聽，興許你甚至能聽到來自瓦茲爾?阿克巴?汗區的叫賣聲，兜售水果的小販高喊：櫻桃！杏子！葡萄！日暮時分，你還可以聽到鐘聲，來自沙裏諾區的清真寺，召喚人們前去禱告。 我聽見喇叭聲，看到法裏德朝我招手。是該走的時候了。我們又朝南駛去，回到普什圖廣場。我們和好幾輛紅色的皮卡擦身而過，車斗上擠滿荷槍實彈、留着大鬍子的年輕人。每次遇到他們，法裏德都會低聲咒罵。 我付錢住進了普什圖廣場附近一間小旅館。三個小女孩穿着統一的黑色服裝，戴着白色頭巾，緊貼着櫃檯後面那個瘦小的四眼佬。他索價75美元，那地方相當破落，這個價格簡直匪夷所思，但我並不在乎。爲了給夏威夷海邊的房子付款漫天要價是一回事，爲了養活孩子這麼做又是一回事。 房間沒有熱水，破舊的廁所無法沖水。只有一張鐵牀，一張破褥子，一條舊毛毯，角落擺着只木椅。正對廣場的窗戶破了，還沒修補。我放下行李箱，發現牀後的牆壁上有塊幹了的血跡。 我給法裏德錢，讓他出去買吃的。他帶回四串熱得磁口茲響的烤肉，剛出爐的饢餅，還有一碗白米飯。我們坐在牀上，埋頭大吃。畢竟，喀布爾還有一樣沒有改變的事情：烤肉依然如我記憶中那般豐腴美味。
