“Snipers used to hide in them.”
“树上经常躲着狙击手。”
A sadness came over me. Returning to Kabul was like running into an old, forgotten friend and seeing that life hadn’t been good to him, that he’d become homeless and destitute.
一阵悲哀向我袭来。重返喀布尔，犹如去拜访一个多年未遇的老朋友，却发现他潦倒凄戚，发现他无家可归、身无分文。
“My father built an orphanage in Shar-e-Kohna, the old city, south of here,” I said.
“我爸爸过去在沙里诺区盖了个恤孤院，旧城那边，就在这里南面。”我说。
“I remember it,” Farid said. “It was destroyed a few years ago.”“Can you pull over?” I said. “I want to take a quick walk here.”Farid parked along the curb on a small backstreet next to a ramshackle, abandoned building with no door. “That used to be a pharmacy,” Farid muttered as we exited the truck. We walked back to Jadeh Maywand and turned right, heading west. “What’s that smell?” I said. Something was making my eyes water.“Diesel,” Farid replied. “The city’s generators are always going down, so electricity is unreliable, and people use diesel fuel.”“Diesel. Remember what this street smelled like in the old days?”Farid smiled. “Kabob.”“Lamb kabob,” I said.“Lamb,” Farid said, tasting the word in his mouth. “The only people in Kabul who get to eat lamb now are the Taliban.” He pulled on my sleeve. “Speaking of which 8230;”
“我有印象，”法里德说， “它在几年前被毁了。”“你可以停车吗？”我说，“我想在这里走走，很快就好。”法里德把车停在一条小巷，旁边有座摇摇欲坠的房子，没有门。“那过去是间药房。”我们下车时法里德咕哝着说。我们走上雅德梅湾，转右，朝西走去。“什么味道？”我说。某些东西熏得我眼泪直流。“柴油。”法里德回答说，“这座城市的发电厂总是出毛病，用电得不到保证，人们烧柴油。”“柴油。你记得从前这条街道散发着什么味道吗？”法里德笑着说：“烤肉。”“烤羊羔肉。”我说。“羊羔肉。”法里德说，舔了舔嘴唇。“现在喀布尔城里只有塔利班吃得上羊羔肉啦。”他拉拉我的衣袖，“说起……”
A vehicle was approaching us. “Beard Patrol,” Farid murmured.That was the first time I saw the Taliban. I’d seen them on TV on the Internet, on the cover of magazines, and in newspapers. But here I was now, less than fifty feet from them, telling myself that the sudden taste in my mouth wasn’t unadulterated, naked fear. Telling myself my flesh hadn’t suddenly shrunk against my bones and my heart wasn’t battering. Here they came. In all their glory.The red Toyota pickup truck idled past us. A handful of sternfaced young men sat on their haunches in the cab, Kalashnikovs slung on their shoulders. They all wore beards and black turbans. One of them, a dark-skinned man in his early twenties with thick, knitted eyebrows twirled a whip in his hand and rhythmically swatted the side of the truck with it. His roaming eyes fell on me. Held my gaze. I’d never felt so naked in my entire life. Then the Talib spat tobacco-stained spittle and looked away. I found I could breathe again. The truck rolled down Jadeh Maywand, leaving in its trail a cloud of dust.
一辆汽车朝我们开来。“大胡子巡逻队。”法里德低声说。那是我第一次见到塔利班。我在电视上、互联网上、杂志封面上、报纸上见过他们。但如今我站在这里，离他们不到五十英尺，告诉自己心里突然涌起的并非纯粹的赤裸裸的恐惧；告诉自己我的血肉没有突然之间压着我的骨头，我的心跳没有加速。他们来了，趾高气扬。红色的丰田皮卡慢慢驶过我们。几个脸色严峻的青年人蹲在车斗上，肩膀扛着俄制步枪。他们全都留着大胡子，穿着黑色长袍。有个皮肤黝黑的家伙，看上去二十出头，皱着一双浓眉，手中挥舞着鞭子，有节奏地甩打车身一侧。他溜转的眼睛看见我，和我对望。终我一生，我从未觉得自己如此无遮无拦。接着那个塔利班吐了一口沾有烟丝的口水，眼睛移开。我发现自己又能呼吸了。皮卡沿雅德梅湾驶去，在车后卷起一阵尘雾。
“What is the matter with you?” Farid hissed.
“你怎么回事？”法里德嘘声说。
“What?”
“什么？”