I dragged the hospital gown sleeve across my eyes. I folded the letter and put it under my , the socially legitimate half, the half that represented the riches he had inherited and the sin-with-impunity privileges that came with them. Maybe that was why Baba and I had been on such better terms in the U.S., I wondered. Selling junk for petty cash, our menial jobs, our grimy apartment--the American version of a hut; maybe in America, when Baba looked at me, he saw a little bit of father, like you, was a tortured soul, Rahim Khan had written. Maybe so. We had both sinned and betrayed. But Baba had found a way to create good out of his remorse. What had I done, other than take my guilt out on the very same people I had betrayed, and then try to forget it all? What had I done, other than become an insomniac? What had I ever done to right things? When the nurse--not Aisha but a red-haired woman whose name escapes me--walked in with a syringe in hand and asked me if I needed a morphine injection, I said REMOVED THE CHEST TUBE early the next morning, and Armand gave the staff the go-ahead to let me sip apple juice. I asked Aisha for a mirror when she placed the cup of juice on the dresser next to my bed. She lifted her bifocals to her forehead as she pulled the curtain open and let the morning sun flood the room. “Remember, now,” she said over her shoulder, “it will look better in a few days. My son-in-law was in a moped accident last year. His handsome face was dragged on the asphalt and became purple like an eggplant. Now he is beautiful again, like a Hollywood movie star.”Despite her reassurances, looking in the mirror and seeing the thing that insisted it was my face left me a little breathless. It looked like someone had stuck an air pump nozzle under my skin and had pumped away. My eyes were puffy and blue. The worst of it was my mouth, a grotesque blob of purple and red, all bruise and stitches. I tried to smile and a bolt of pain ripped through my lips. I wouldn’t be doing that for a while. There were stitchesacross my left cheek, just under the chin, on the forehead just below the old guy with the leg cast said something in Urdu. I gave him a shrug and shook my head. He pointed to his face, patted it, and grinned a wide, toothless grin. “Very good,” he said in English. “Ins hallah.”“Thank you,” I d and Sohrab came in just as I put the mirror away. Sohrab took his seat on the stool, rested his head on the bed’s side rail. “You know, the sooner we get you out of here the better,” Farid said. “Dr. Faruqi says--”- “I don’t mean the hospital. I mean Peshawar.” “Why?” 我拉起病服的袖子，抹抹眼睛，把信摺好，放在我的褥子下面。阿米爾，你是社會承認的一半，他所繼承的財富，以及隨之而來的犯罪免受刑罰的特權，統統都會再贈給你。也許正是因爲這樣，我和爸爸在美國才能相處得那麼好，我想。爲了一點蠅頭小利販售舊貨，我們卑微的工作，我們污穢的公寓——美國式的茅舍；也許在美國，當爸爸看到我，他也看到了哈桑的一部分。你父親跟你一樣，也是個痛苦的人。拉辛汗這樣寫道。也許是吧，我們都曾犯下罪行，出賣別人。可是爸爸找到一條將負疚變成善行的路。而我所做的，除了將罪行發泄在那個被我背叛的人身上，然後試圖全都忘掉之外，我還做過什麼？除了讓自己夜不能寐之外，我還做過什麼？ 我又何曾做過什麼正確的事呢？ 當護士——不是艾莎，而是一個我想不起名字的紅髮女子——拿着針筒走進來，問我要不要打一針嗎啡，我說好。次日清早，他們拿掉我的胸管，阿曼德讓工作人員準備給我喝些蘋果汁。艾莎在我牀頭的櫃子上放下一杯果汁，我問她要一面鏡子。她把眼鏡舉在額頭上，拉開窗簾，讓朝暉射進房間。她轉過頭說：“過幾天會好看一些。去年我女婿騎摩托出了車禍，他那張英俊的臉摔在柏油路上，青腫得像個茄子。現在他又是那麼英俊了，像個羅麗塢的電影明星。”儘管她一再安慰，望向鏡子，看到它裏面那個硬要說是我的臉的東西，我還是差點窒息。看上去好像有人在我臉皮下面插了根氣管，然後朝裏面泵氣。我雙眼青腫。最糟糕的是我的嘴，那一大塊青紫紅腫的東西，滿是淤血和縫線。我試圖微笑，嘴脣掠過一陣痛楚。看來我很長時間不能這麼做了。我左邊臉頰也縫着線，就在顴骨下面，額頭上的縫口在髮際線之下。腳上打石膏那個老傢伙用烏爾都語說了幾句。我朝他聳聳肩，搖搖頭。他指着自己的臉，輕輕拍打，嘴巴咧得大大的，露出沒有牙齒的笑容。“很好，”他用英語說，“安拉保佑。”“謝謝你。”我低聲說。我剛把鏡子放下，法裏德和索拉博就進來了。索拉博坐在凳子上，頭倚着病牀的護欄。 “你知道嗎，我們越快讓你離開這裏越好。” “法魯奇大夫說……” “我不是說出院，我是說離開白沙瓦。” “爲什麼？”
