“He was sexually abused,” I said, thinking of the bells around Sohrab’s ankles, the mascara on his eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Andrews’s mouth said. The way he was looking at me, though, we might as well have been talking about the weather. “But that is not going to make the INS issue this young fellow a visa.” “What are you saying?” “I’m saying that if you want to help, send money to a reputable relief organization. Volunteer at a refugee camp. But at this point in time, we strongly discourage U.S. citizens from attempting to adopt Afghan children.” I got up. “Come on, Sohrab,” I said in Farsi. Sohrab slid next to me, rested his head on my hip. I remembered the Polaroid of him and Hassan standing that same way. “Can I ask you some thing, Mr. Andrews?” “Yes.” “Do you have children?” For the first time, he blinked. “Well, do you? It’s a simple question.” He was silent. “I thought so,” I said, taking Sohrab’s hand. “They ought to put someone in your chair who knows what it’s like to want a child.” I turned to go, Sohrab trailing me. “Can I ask you a question?” Andrews called. “Go ahead.” “Have you promised this child you’ll take him with you?” “What if I have?” He shook his head. “It’s a dangerous business, making promises to kids.” He sighed and opened his desk drawer again. “You mean to pursue this?” he said, rummaging through papers. “I mean to pursue this.” He produced a business card. “Then I advise you to get a good immigration lawyer. Omar Faisal works here in Islamabad. You can tell him I sent you.” I took the card from him. “Thanks,” I muttered. “Good luck,” he said. As we exited the room, I glanced over my shoulder. Andrews was standing in a rectangle of sunlight, absently staring out the window, his hands turning the potted tomato plants toward the sun, petting them lovingly. “TAKE CARE,” the secretary said as we passed her desk. “Your boss could use some manners,” I said. I expected her to roll her eyes, maybe nod in that “I know, everybody says that,” kind of way. Instead, she lowered her voice. “Poor Ray. He hasn’t been the same since his daughter died.” I raised an eyebrow. “Suicide,” she whispered. “他受过性虐待。”我说，想起索拉博脚踝上的铃铛，他眼睛上的眼影。 “听到这个我很抱歉，”安德鲁张口说，不过他望着我的样子，好像我们一直在谈论天气，“但那不会让移民局给这个小男孩放发签证。” “你在说什么？” “我的意思是，如果你想帮忙，可以捐钱给可靠的慈善组织，或者去难民营当义工。但在现在这样的时刻，我们非常不赞成美国公民收养阿富汗儿童。” 我站起来。“走吧，索拉博。”我用法尔西语说。索拉博倚着我，头靠在我的臀部上。我想起那张宝丽莱照片，他和哈桑就这样站着。“我能问你一些问题吗，安德鲁先生？” “可以。” “你有孩子吗？” 这下，他第一次眨眼了。 “嗯，你有吗？随便问问而已。” 他默默无语。 “我这么认为，”我说，拉起索拉博的手，“他们应该找个知道想要孩子是什么感觉的人坐你的位置。”我转身离开，索拉博跟着我。 “我可以问你一个问题吗？”安德鲁喊道。 “说吧。” “你承诺过这个孩子带他回家吗？” “要是有又怎样？” 他摇摇头，“真是危险的事情，给孩子承诺。”他叹气，又打开抽屉，“你真想要这么做？”他说，翻着文件。 “我真的想这么做。” 他抽出一张名片：“那么我建议你找个优秀的移民律师。奥马尔‘费萨尔在伊斯兰堡工作，你可以跟他说我让你去找他。” 我从他那里拿过名片。“谢谢。”我低声说。 “祝你好运。”他说。我们走出房间的时候，我回头看了一眼。安德鲁站在长方形的阳光中，茫然地望着窗外，双手将那盆番茄藤转到阳光下，慈爱地拍打着。 “保重。”我们走过秘书的办公桌时她说。 “你老板应该礼貌一些。”我说。我以为她会转动眼珠，也许点头说“我知道，每个人都那么说”，诸如此类。相反的是，她降低声音：“可怜的雷，自从他女儿死后，他就跟变了个人似的。” 我扬起眉头。 “自杀。”她说。
