“Just go.” He had me park at the south end of the street. He reached in his coat pocket and handed me a set of keys. “There,” he said, pointing to the car in front of us. It was an old model Ford, long and wide, a dark color I couldn’t discern in the moon light. “It needs painting, and I’ll have one of the guys at the station put in new shocks, but it runs.”
“只管开过去，”他让我停在街道的南端。他把手伸进外衣的口袋，掏给我一串钥匙，“那边。”他指着停在我们前面的一辆轿车。那是一辆旧款的福特，又长又宽，车身很暗，在月光下我辨认不出是什么颜色。“它得烤漆，我会让加油站的伙计换上新的避震器，但它还能开。”
I took the keys, stunned. I looked from him to the car.
我看着钥匙，惊呆了。我看看他，看看轿车。
“You’ll need it to go to college,” he said.
“你上大学需要一辆车。”他说。
I took his hand in mine. Squeezed it. My eyes were tearing over and I was glad for the shadows that hid our faces. “Thank you, Baba.”
我捧起他的手，紧紧握住。泪水从我眼里涌出来，我庆幸阴影笼罩了我们的面庞。“谢谢你，爸爸。”
We got out and sat inside the Ford. It was a Grand Torino. Navy blue, Baba said. I drove it around the block, testing the brakes, the radio, the turn signals. I parked it in the lot of our apartment building and shut off the engine. “Tashakor, Baba jan,” I said. I wanted to say more, tell him how touched I was by his act of kindness, how much I appreciated all that he had done for me, all that he was still doing. But I knew I’d embarrass him. “Tashakor,” I repeated instead.
我们下车，坐进福特车。那是一辆“大都灵”。“海军蓝。”爸爸说。我绕着街区开，试试刹车、收音机、转向灯。我把它停在我们那栋楼的停车场，熄了引擎。“谢谢你，亲爱的爸爸。”我说。我意犹未尽，想告诉他，他慈祥的行为让我多么感动，我多么感激他过去和现在为我所做的一切。但我知道那会让他不好意思,“谢谢。”我只是重复了一次。
He smiled and leaned back against the headrest, his forehead almost touching the ceiling. We didn’t say anything. Just sat in the dark, listened to the tink-tink of the engine cooling, the wail of a siren in the distance. Then Baba rolled his head toward me. “I wish Hassan had been with us today,” he said.
他微微一笑，靠在头枕上，他的前额几乎碰到顶篷。我们什么也没说，静静坐在黑暗中，听着引擎冷却的“嘀嘀”声，远处传来一阵警笛的鸣叫。然后爸爸将头转向我,“要是哈桑今天跟我们在一起就好了。”
A pair of steel hands closed around my windpipe at the sound of Hassan’s name. I rolled down the window. Waited for the steel hands to loosen their grip.
听到哈桑的名字，我的脖子好像被一对铁手掐住了。我把车窗摇下，等待那双铁手松开。
I WOULD ENROLL in junior college classes in the fall, I told Baba the day after graduation. He was drinking cold black tea and chewing cardamom seeds, his personal trusted antidote for hang over headaches.
毕业典礼隔日，我告诉爸爸，秋天我就要去专科学校注册了。他正在喝冷却的红茶，嚼着豆蔻子，他自己用来治头痛的偏方。
“I think I’ll major in English,” I said. I winced inside, waiting for his reply.
“我想我会主修英文。”我说，内心忐忑，等着他的回答。
“English?”
“英文?”
“Creative writing.”
“创作。”
He considered this. Sipped his tea. “Stories, you mean. You’ll make up stories.” I looked down at my feet.
他想了想，啜他的红茶,“故事，你是说，你要写故事?”我低头看着自己的双脚。
“They pay for that, making up stories?”
“写故事能赚钱吗?”
“If you’re good,” I said. “And if you get discovered.”
“如果你写得好，”我说，“而且又被人发掘的话。”
“How likely is that, getting discovered?”
“被人发掘?机会有多大?”
“It happens,” I said.
“有机会的。”我说。
He nodded. “And what will you do while you wait to get good and get discovered? How will you earn money? If you marry, how will you support your khanum?”
他点点头。“那你在写得好和被人发掘之前准备干什么呢?你怎么赚钱?要是结婚了，你怎么撑起自己的家庭?”
I couldn’t lift my eyes to meet his. “I’ll 8230; find a job.”
我不敢看着他的眼睛,“我会……找份工作。”
“Oh,” he said. “Wah wah! So, if I understand, you’ll study several years to earn a degree, then you’ll get a chatti job like mine, one you could just as easily land today, on the small chance that your degree might someday help you get 8230; discovered.” He took a deep breath and sipped his tea. Grunted something about medical school, law school, and “real work.”
“哦!”他说，“哇!哇!这么说，如果我没理解错，你将会花好几年，拿个学位，然后你会找一份像我这样卑微的工作，一份你今天可以轻易找到的工作，就为渺茫的机会，等待你拿的学位也许某天会帮助你……被人发掘。”他深深呼吸，啜他的红茶，咕哝地说着什么医学院、法学院，还有“真正的工作”。
My cheeks burned and guilt coursed through me, the guilt of indulging myself at the expense of his ulcer, his black fingernails and aching wrists. But I would stand my ground, I decided. I didn’t want to sacrifice for Baba anymore. The last time I had done that, I had damned myself.
我脸上发烧，一阵罪恶感涌上心头。我很负疚，我的放纵是他的溃疡、黑指甲和酸痛的手腕换来的。但我会坚持自己的立场，我决定了。我不想再为爸爸牺牲了。这是最后一次了，我咒骂自己。
Baba sighed and, this time, tossed a whole handful of car damom seeds in his mouth.
爸爸叹气，这一次，扔了一大把豆蔻子到嘴里。