But it wasn’t just that she’d found an audience for her monologues of illness. I firmly believed that if I had picked up a rifle and gone on a murdering rampage, I would have still had the benefit of her unblinking love. Because I had rid her heart of its gravest malady. I had relieved her of the greatest fear of every Afghan mother: that no honorable khastegar would ask for her daughter’s hand. That her daughter would age alone, husbandless, childless. Every woman needed a husband. Even if he did silence the song in her.And, from Soraya, I learned the details of what had happened in Virginia.We were at a wedding. Soraya’s uncle, Sharif, the one who worked for the INS, was marrying his son to an Afghan girl from Newark. The wedding was at the same hall where, six months prior, Soraya and I had had our awroussi. We were standing in a crowd of guests, watching the bride accept rings from the groom’s family, when we overheard two middle-aged women talking, their backs to us.
但她发现，我不仅是听她诉说病痛的好听众。我深信不疑，就算我抓起来复枪杀人越货，也依然能得到她对我毫不动摇的怜爱。因为我治愈了她最大的心病，我使她免受折磨，摆脱了每个阿富汗母亲最大的恐惧：没有门户光彩的人来向她的女儿提亲。那她的女儿就会独自随着年华老去，无夫无子，无依无靠。凡是女人都需要丈夫，即使他扼杀了她唱歌的天赋。并且，从索拉雅口中，我得知了在弗吉尼亚发生的事情的细节。我们去参加婚礼。索拉雅的舅舅，沙利夫，替移民局工作那位，替他儿子娶了个纽瓦克的阿富汗女孩。婚礼举行的宴会厅，就是半年前我和索拉雅成百年之好的地方。我们站在一群宾客之中，看着新娘从新郎家人手中接过戒指。其时我们听到两个中年妇女在谈话，她们背对着我们。
“What a lovely bride,” one of them said, “Just look at her. So maghbool, like the moon.”
“多么可爱的新娘啊，”她们中一个说，“看看她，那么美丽，就像月亮一般。”
“Yes,” the other said. “And pure too. Virtuous. No boyfriends.”
“是的，”另外一个说，“而且还纯洁呢，品德良好，没有谈过男朋友。”
“I know. I tell you that boy did well not to marry his cousin.”
“我知道，我告诉你，男孩最好别和他表姐那样的女人结婚。”回家路上，索拉雅放声大哭。
Soraya broke down on the way home. I pulled the Ford off to the curb, parked under a streetlight on Fremont Boulevard.
我把福特驶向路边，停在弗里蒙特大道的一盏路灯下面。
“It’s all right,” I said, pushing back her hair. “Who cares?”
“事情已经过去了，”我说，撩拨着她的秀发，“谁在乎呢？”
“It’s so fucking unfair,” she barked.
“这太他妈的不公平了。”她嚎叫道。
“Just forget it.”
“忘掉就好。”