“You barely looked at the picture, my friend,” Farid said. “Why not take a closer look?”
“你还没仔细看看那张照片呢，老弟，”法里德说，“为什么不好好看看呢？”
“Lotfan,” I added. Please.The man behind the door took the picture. Studied it. Handed it back to me. “Nay, sorry. I know just about every single child in this institution and that one doesn’t look familiar. Now, if you’ll permit me, I have work to do.” He closed the door. Locked the bolt.
“麻烦你。”我补上一句。门后的男人接过相片，端详着，把它还给我。“不，对不起。我只认得这所机构里面的每一个孩子，但这个看起来很面生。现在，如果你们没别的事情，我得去工作了。”他关上门，上栓。
I rapped on the door with my knuckles. “Agha! Agha, please open the door. We don’t mean him any harm.”
我用指节敲门：“老爷，老爷，麻烦你开门。我们对他没有恶意。”
“I told you. He’s not here,” his voice came from the other side. “Now, please go away.”Farid stepped up to the door, rested his forehead on it. “Friend, we are not with the Taliban,” he said in a low, cautious voice. “The man who is with me wants to take this boy to a safe place.”
“我跟你说过，他不在这里。”门那边传来他的声音，“现在，请你们走开。”法里德上前几步，把前额贴在门上。“老弟，我们没带塔利班的人来。”他小心翼翼，低声说，“这个男人是想把那孩子带到安全的地方。”
“I come from Peshawar,” I said. “A good friend of mine knows an American couple there who run a charity home for children.” I felt the man’s presence on the other side of the door. Sensed him standing there, listening, hesitating, caught between suspicion and hope. “Look, I knew Sohrab’s father,” I said. “His name was Hassan. His mother’s name was Farzana. He called his grand mother Sasa. He knows how to read and write. And he’s good with the slingshot. There’s hope for this boy, Agha, a way out. Please open the door.”
“我从白沙瓦来。”我说，“我有个好朋友认识一对美国夫妇，在那儿开设恤孤院。 ”我感到那人就在门后。知道他站在那儿，倾听着，犹豫不决，在希望和怀疑之间来回挣扎。“你看，我认识索拉博的父亲，”我说，“名字叫哈桑。他妈妈的名字叫法莎娜。他管他奶奶叫莎莎。他能读书写字，弹弓打得很好。那儿有孩子的希望，老爷，一条生路。麻烦你开门。”
From the other side, only silence.
门后只有沉默。
“I’m his half uncle,” I said.A moment passed. Then a key rattled in the lock. The man’snarrow face reappeared in the crack. He looked from me to Farid and back. “You were wrong about one thing.”
“我是他伯伯。”我说。隔了一会儿，传来开锁的声音，门缝又露出那张窄窄的脸。他看看我和法里德，对我说：“有件事你说错了。”
“What?”
“哪件？”