“You barely looked at the picture, my friend,” Farid said. “Why not take a closer look?” “Lotfan,” I added. 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. I rapped on the door with my knuckles. “Agha! Agha, please open the door. We don’t mean him any harm.” “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.” “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.” From the other side, only silence. “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.” “What?” “你還沒仔細看看那張照片呢，老弟，”法裏德說，“爲什麼不好好看看呢？” “麻煩你。”我補上一句。門後的男人接過相片，端詳着，把它還給我。“不，對不起。我只認得這所機構裏面的每一個孩子，但這個看起來很面生。現在，如果你們沒別的事情，我得去工作了。”他關上門，上栓。 我用指節敲門：“老爺，老爺，麻煩你開門。我們對他沒有惡意。” “我跟你說過，他不在這裏。”門那邊傳來他的聲音，“現在，請你們走開。”法裏德上前幾步，把前額貼在門上。“老弟，我們沒帶塔利班的人來。”他小心翼翼，低聲說，“這個男人是想把那孩子帶到安全的地方。” “我從白沙瓦來。”我說，“我有個好朋友認識一對美國夫婦，在那兒開設恤孤院。 ”我感到那人就在門後。知道他站在那兒，傾聽着，猶豫不決，在希望和懷疑之間來回掙扎。“你看，我認識索拉博的父親，”我說，“名字叫哈桑。他媽媽的名字叫法莎娜。他管他奶奶叫莎莎。他能讀書寫字，彈弓打得很好。那兒有孩子的希望，老爺，一條生路。麻煩你開門。” 門後只有沉默。 “我是他伯伯。”我說。隔了一會兒，傳來開鎖的聲音，門縫又露出那張窄窄的臉。他看看我和法裏德，對我說：“有件事你說錯了。” “哪件？”
