| 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 in.The 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. | 我小心翼翼地走上那条车道，太阳晒得砖块色泽黯淡，砖缝之间杂草丛生。我站在我爸爸房子的大门外面，形同路人。我把手放在锈蚀的铁栅上，回忆起儿童年代，为了一些现在看来微不足道、但当时觉得至关重要的事情，我曾成千上万次跑过这扇大门。我望进去。车道从大门伸进院子，当年夏天，我和哈桑就在这里轮流学骑自行车，先后摔倒，它看起来没有我记忆中那么宽。柏油路裂开闪电状的缝隙，从中长出更多的野草。多数白杨树已经被伐倒——过去哈桑和我常常爬上那些树，用镜子将光线照进邻居家，那些仍伫立着的树如今叶子稀疏。病玉米之墙仍在那儿，然而我没有看到玉米，无论病的还是健康的。油漆已经开始剥落，有数处已然整块掉下。草坪变成棕色，跟弥漫在这座城市上空的尘雾一样，点缀着几处裸露的泥土，上面根本没有东西生长。 |
| 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 weeds.Farid honked twice behind me. “We should go, Agha. We’ll draw attention,” he called. | 车道上停了一辆吉普，看上去全然错了：爸爸的黑色野马属于那儿。很多年前，野马的八个气缸每天早晨轰轰作响，将我唤醒。我看见吉普下面漏着油，滴在车道上，活像一块大大的墨渍。吉普车后面，一辆空空的独轮车侧倾倒地。车道左边，我看不到爸爸和阿里所种的蔷薇花丛，只有溅上柏油的泥土和杂草。法里德在我背后揿了两次喇叭。“我们该走了，老爷。我们会惹人疑心。”他喊道。 |
| “Just give me one more minute,” I said.The 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. | “再给我一分钟就好。”我说。房子本身远不是我自童年起便熟悉的宽敞白色房子。它看上去变小了，屋顶塌陷，泥灰龟裂。客厅、门廊，还有楼顶客房的浴室，这些地方的窗户统统破裂，被人漫不经心地补上透明的塑料片，或者用木板钉满窗框。曾经光鲜的白漆如今黯淡成阴森的灰色，有些已经蜕落，露出下面层层砖块，前面的台阶已经倾颓。和喀布尔其他地方如此相似，我爸爸的房子一派繁华不再的景象。我看到自己那间旧卧房的窗户，在二楼，房间的主楼梯以南第三个窗户。我踮起脚，除了阴影，看不见窗户后面有任何东西。二十五年前，我曾站在同一扇窗户后面，大雨敲打窗片，我呼出的气在玻璃上结成雾。我目睹哈桑和阿里将他们的行囊放进爸爸轿车的后厢。 |
| “Amir agha,” Farid called again. | “阿米尔老爷。”法里德又喊了。 |
| “I’m coming,” I shot back. | “我来了。”我回他一句。 |
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 in.The 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 weeds.Farid honked twice behind me. “We should go, Agha. We’ll draw attention,” he called.
“Just give me one more minute,” I said.The 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条车道，太阳晒得砖块色泽黯淡，砖缝之间杂草丛生。我站在我爸爸房子的大门外面，形同路人。我把手放在锈蚀的铁栅上，回忆起儿童年代，为了一些现在看来微不足道、但当时觉得至关重要的事情，我曾成千上万次跑过这扇大门。我望进去。车道从大门伸进院子，当年夏天，我和哈桑就在这里轮流学骑自行车，先后摔倒，它看起来没有我记忆中那么宽。柏油路裂开闪电状的缝隙，从中长出更多的野草。多数白杨树已经被伐倒——过去哈桑和我常常爬上那些树，用镜子将光线照进邻居家，那些仍伫立着的树如今叶子稀疏。病玉米之墙仍在那儿，然而我没有看到玉米，无论病的还是健康的。油漆已经开始剥落，有数处已然整块掉下。草坪变成棕色，跟弥漫在这座城市上空的尘雾一样，点缀着几处裸露的泥土，上面根本没有东西生长。
车道上停了一辆吉普，看上去全然错了：爸爸的黑色野马属于那儿。很多年前，野马的八个气缸每天早晨轰轰作响，将我唤醒。我看见吉普下面漏着油，滴在车道上，活像一块大大的墨渍。吉普车后面，一辆空空的独轮车侧倾倒地。车道左边，我看不到爸爸和阿里所种的蔷薇花丛，只有溅上柏油的泥土和杂草。法里德在我背后揿了两次喇叭。“我们该走了，老爷。我们会惹人疑心。”他喊道。
“再给我一分钟就好。”我说。房子本身远不是我自童年起便熟悉的宽敞白色房子。它看上去变小了，屋顶塌陷，泥灰龟裂。客厅、门廊，还有楼顶客房的浴室，这些地方的窗户统统破裂，被人漫不经心地补上透明的塑料片，或者用木板钉满窗框。曾经光鲜的白漆如今黯淡成阴森的灰色，有些已经蜕落，露出下面层层砖块，前面的台阶已经倾颓。和喀布尔其他地方如此相似，我爸爸的房子一派繁华不再的景象。我看到自己那间旧卧房的窗户，在二楼，房间的主楼梯以南第三个窗户。我踮起脚，除了阴影，看不见窗户后面有任何东西。二十五年前，我曾站在同一扇窗户后面，大雨敲打窗片，我呼出的气在玻璃上结成雾。我目睹哈桑和阿里将他们的行囊放进爸爸轿车的后厢。
“阿米尔老爷。”法里德又喊了。
“我来了。”我回他一句。
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