RAYMOND ANDREWS was a short fellow with small hands, nails perfectly trimmed, wedding band on the ring finger. He gave me a curt little shake; it felt like squeezing a sparrow. Those are the hands that hold our fates, I thought as Sohrab and I seated our selves across from his desk. A _Les Misérables_ poster was nailed to the wall behind Andrews next to a topographical map of the U.S. A pot of tomato plants basked in the sun on the windowsill. “Smoke?” he asked, his voice a deep baritone that was at odds with his slight stature. “No thanks,” I said, not caring at all for the way Andrews’s eyes barely gave Sohrab a glance, or the way he didn’t look at me when he spoke. He pulled open a desk drawer and lit a cigarette from a half-empty pack. He also produced a bottle of lotion from the same drawer. He looked at his tomato plants as he rubbed lotion into his hands, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Then he closed the drawer, put his elbows on the desktop, and exhaled. “So,” he said, crinkling his gray eyes against the smoke, “tell me your story.” I felt like Jean Valjean sitting across from Javert. I reminded myself that I was on American soil now, that this guy was on my side, that he got paid for helping people like me. “I want to adopt this boy, take him back to the States with me,” I said. “Tell me your story,” he repeated, crushing a flake of ash on the neatly arranged desk with his index finger, flicking it into the trash can. I gave him the version I had worked out in my head since I’d hung up with Soraya. I had gone into Afghanistan to bring back my half brother’s son. I had found the boy in squalid conditions, wasting away in an orphanage. I had paid the orphanage director a sum of money and withdrawn the boy. Then I had brought him to Pakistan. “You are the boy’s half uncle?”“Yes.”He checked his watch. Leaned and turned the tomato plants on the sill. “Know anyone who can attest to that?”“Yes, but I don’t know where he is now.”He turned to me and nodded. I tried to read his face and couldn’t. I wondered if he’d ever tried those little hands of his at poker.“I assume getting your jaws wired isn’t the latest fashion statement,” he said. We were in trouble, Sohrab and I, and I knew it then. I told him I’d gotten mugged in Peshawar. “Of course,” he said. Cleared his throat. “Are you Muslim?” “Yes.” “Practicing?” “Yes.” In truth, I didn’t remember the last time I had laid my forehead to the ground in prayer. Then I did remember: the day Dr. Amani gave Baba his prognosis. I had kneeled on the prayer rug, remembering only fragments of verses I had learned in school. “Helps your case some, but not much,” he said, scratching a spot on the flawless part in his sandy hair.“What do you mean?” I asked. I reached for Sohrab’s hand, intertwined my fingers with his. Sohrab looked uncertainly from me to Andrews.“There’s a long answer and I’m sure I’ll end up giving it to you. You want the short one first?”I guess,” I said. Andrews crushed his cigarette, his lips pursed. “Give it up.” “I’m sorry?”padding-bottom: 75%;"> 雷蒙德?安德魯個子不高，手掌很小，指甲修剪得很好，手機指上戴着結婚戒指。他草草和我握手，感覺像捏着一隻麻雀。這是一雙掌握我們命運的手，我想。索拉博和我坐在他的辦公桌對面。一張《悲慘世界》的海報釘在安德魯身後的牆壁上，挨着一張美國地形圖。陽光照耀的窗臺上有盆番茄藤。 “吸菸嗎？”他問，和他瘦弱的身形相比起來，他低沉洪亮的聲音顯得十分古怪。 “不，謝謝。”我說。安德魯甚至都沒看索拉博一眼，跟我說話的時候眼睛也沒看着我，但我不在乎。他拉開辦公桌的抽屜，從半包煙裏面抽出一根點上。他還從同一個抽屜拿起一瓶液體，一邊塗抹在手上，一邊看窗臺上的番茄藤，香菸斜斜吊在他嘴角。然後他關上抽屜，把手肘放在辦公桌上，呼出一口氣。“好了，”他說，在煙霧中眨眨他灰色的眼睛，“告訴我你的故事。” 我感覺就像冉?阿讓坐在沙威 [冉?阿讓（ jean Valjean）和沙威（javert）都是雨果作品《悲慘世界》中的人物，前者因爲偷東西入獄，後者是警察 ]對面。我提醒自己，我如今在美國的領地上，這個傢伙跟我是一邊的，他領薪水，就爲了幫助我這樣的人。“我想收養這個孩子，將他帶回美國。”我說。 “告訴我你的故事。”他重複說，用食指把菸灰在整潔的辦公桌上壓碎，將其掃進菸灰缸。 我把跟索拉雅通電話之後編好的故事告訴他。我前往阿富汗，帶回我同父異母兄弟的兒子。我發現這個孩子處境堪憂，在恤孤院中浪費生命。我給恤孤院的負責人一筆錢，將孩子帶出來。接着我把他帶到巴基斯坦。 “你算是這個孩子的伯伯？”“是的。”他看看錶，側身轉向窗臺上的番茄藤，“有人能證明嗎？”“有的，但我不知道他現在在哪兒。”他轉向我，點點頭。我試圖從他臉上看出他的想法，但一無所獲。我在想他這雙小手有沒有玩過撲克。“我想，把下巴縫成這樣，該不是最近時興的證詞吧。”他說。我們麻煩了，索拉博和我，我頓時明白。我告訴他我在白沙瓦被搶了。 “當然，”他說，清清喉嚨，“你是穆斯林嗎？” “是的。” “虔誠嗎？” “是的。”實際上，我都不記得上次把頭磕在地上禱告是什麼時候。然後我想起來了：阿曼尼大夫給爸爸看病那天。我跪在祈禱毯上，想起的卻只有幾段課堂上學到的經文。 “對你的事情有點幫助，但起不了太大作用。”他說，作勢在他那蓬鬆的頭髮上搔癢。“你是什麼意思？”我問。我拉起索拉博的手，扣着他的手指。索拉博不安地看着我和安德魯。“有個長的答案，到了最後我會告訴你。你想先聽個短的嗎？” “說吧。”我說。安德魯將香菸掐滅，抿着嘴，“放棄吧。” “什麼？”
