“Two thou--” he began. His lower lip was quivering a little. Later, when he pulled away from the curb, he honked twice and waved. I waved back. I never saw him again. I returned to the hotel room and found Sohrab lying on the bed, curled up in a big C. His eyes were closed but I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping. He had shut off the television. I sat on my bed and grimaced with pain, wiped the cool sweat off my brow. I wondered how much longer it would hurt to get up, sit down, roll over in bed. I wondered when I’d be able to eat solid food. I wondered what I’d do with the wounded little boy lying on the bed, though a part of me already knew. There was a carafe of water on the dresser. I poured a glass and took two of Armand’s pain pills. The water was warm and bitter. I pulled the curtains, eased myself back on the bed, and lay down. I thought my chest would rip open. When the pain dropped a notch and I could breathe again, I pulled the blanket to my chest and waited for Armand’s pills to work. WHEN I WOKE UP, the room was darker. The slice of sky peeking between the curtains was the purple of twilight turning into night. The sheets were soaked and my head pounded. I’d been dreaming again, but I couldn’t remember what it had been about. My heart gave a sick lurch when I looked to Sohrab’s bed and found it empty I called his name. The sound of my voice startled me. It was disorienting, sitting in a dark hotel room, thousands of miles from home, my body broken, calling the name of a boy I’d only met a few days ago. I called his name again and heard nothing. I struggled out of bed, checked the bathroom, looked in the narrow hallway outside the room. He was gone. I locked the door and hobbled to the manager’s office in the lobby, one hand clutching the rail along the walkway for support. There was a fake, dusty palm tree in the corner of the lobby and flying pink flamingos on the wallpaper. I found the hotel manager reading a newspaper behind the Formica-topped check-in counter. I described Sohrab to him, asked if he’d seen him. He put down his paper and took off his reading glasses. He had greasy hair and a square-shaped little mustache speckled with gray. He smelled vaguely of some tropical fruit I couldn’t quite recognize. “Boys, they like to run around,” he said, sighing. “I have three of them. All day they are running around, troubling their mother.” He fanned his face with the newspaper, staring at my jaws. “I don’t think he’s out running around,” I said. “And we’re not from here. I’m afraid he might get lost.”He bobbed his head from side to side. “Then you should have kept an eye on the boy, mister.” “I know,” I said. “But I fell asleep and when I woke up, he was gone.” “Boys must be tended to, you know.” “Yes,” I said, my pulse quickening. How could he be so oblivious to my apprehension? He shifted the newspaper to his other hand, resumed the fanning. “They want bicycles now” “Who?” “My boys,” he said. “They’re saying, ‘Daddy, Daddy, please buy us bicycles and we’ll not trouble you. Please, Daddy!” He gave a short laugh through his nose. “Bicycles. Their mother will kill me, I swear to you.” I imagined Sohrab lying in a ditch. Or in the trunk of some car, bound and gagged. I didn’t want his blood on my hands. Not his too. “Please...” I said. I squinted. Read his name tag on the lapel of his short-sleeve blue cotton shirt. “Mr. Fayyaz, have you seen him?” “The boy?”padding-bottom: 75%;"> “兩幹……”他說，下脣稍微有點顫抖。稍後，他駛離停車道的時候，撳了兩下喇叭，搖搖手。我也朝他招手。再也沒有見到他。 我回到旅館房間，發現索拉博躺在牀上，身子彎成弓形。他雙眼合上，但我不知道他是不是睡着了。他關掉了電視。我坐在牀上，痛得齜牙咧嘴，抹去額頭上的冷汗。我在想，要過多久，起身、坐下、在牀上翻身才不會發痛呢？我在想，什麼時候才能吃固體食物呢？我在想，我該拿這個躺在牀上的受傷的小男孩怎麼辦？不過我心裏已經有了想法。 櫃檯上有個飲水機。我倒了一玻璃杯水，吞下兩片阿曼德的藥丸。水是溫的，帶有苦味。我拉上窗簾，慢慢躺在牀上。我覺得自己的胸膛會裂開。等到痛楚稍減、我又能呼吸的時候，我拉過毛毯蓋在身上，等着阿曼德的藥丸生效。 醒來之後，房間變黑了。窗簾之間露出一線天光，那是即將轉入黑夜的紫色斜暉。汗水浸透被褥，我腦袋昏重。我又做夢了，但忘記夢到什麼。我望向索拉博的牀，發現它是空的，心裏一沉。我叫他的名字，發出的嗓音嚇了自己一跳。那真是茫然失措，坐在陰暗的旅館房間，離家萬里，身體傷痕累累，呼喚着一個幾天前才遇到的男孩的名字。我又喊了他的名字，沒聽到回答。我掙扎着起牀，查看衛生間，朝外面那條狹窄的走廊望去。他不見了。 我鎖上房門，一隻手扶在走廊的欄杆上，跌跌撞撞走到大堂的經理辦公室。大堂的角落有株滿是塵灰的假棕櫚樹，粉紅的火烈鳥在壁紙上飛舞。我在塑料貼面的登記櫃檯後面，找到正在看報紙的經理。我向他描繪索拉博的樣子，問他有沒有見到過。他放下報紙，摘掉老花鏡。他的頭髮油膩，整齊的小鬍子有些灰白，身上依稀有種我叫不上名字的熱帶水果味道。 “男孩嘛，他們總喜歡出去玩。”他嘆氣說，“我有三個男孩，他們整天都跑得不見蹤影，給他們母親惹麻煩。”他用報紙扇風，看着我的下巴。? “我認爲他不是出去玩，”我說，“我們不是本地人，我擔心他會迷路。”他搖搖頭：“你應該看好那個男孩，先生。” “我知道，”我說，“但我睡着了，醒來他已經不見了。” “男孩應該多加關心的，你知道。” “是的。”我說，血氣上涌。他怎麼可以對我的焦急如此無動於衷？他把報紙交在另外一隻手上，繼續扇風，“他們現在想要自行車。” “誰？” “我的孩子。”他說，“他們總在說：”爸爸，爸爸，請給我們買自行車，我們不會給你帶來麻煩。求求你，爸爸。”笑一聲，自行車。他們的母親會殺了我，我敢向你保證。” 我想像着索拉博橫屍街頭，或者在某輛轎車的後廂裏面，手腳被綁，嘴巴被塞住。我不想他死在我手裏，不想他也因我而死。“麻煩你……”我說，皺起眉頭，看見他那件短袖藍色棉襯衫翻領上的商標，“費亞茲先生，你見過他嗎？” “那個男孩？”
