按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
pray God doesn t let them get stained with the blood of his boy too。
I hear a whimpering and realize it is mine； my lips are salty with the tears trickling down my face。 I feel the eyes of everyone in this corridor on me and still I bow to the west。 I pray。 I pray that my sins have not caught up with me the way I d always feared they would。
A STARLESS； BLACK NIGHT falls over Islamabad。 It s a few hours later and I am sitting now on the floor of a tiny lounge off the corridor that leads to the emergency ward。 Before me is a dull brown coffee table cluttered with newspapers and dog…eared magazines……an April 1996 issue of Time； a Pakistani newspaper showing the face of a young boy who was hit and killed by a train the week before； an entertainment magazine with smiling Hollywood actors on its glossy cover。 There is an old woman wearing a jade green shalwar…kameez and a crocheted shawl nodding off in a wheelchair across from me。 Every once in a while； she stirs awake and mutters a prayer in Arabic。 I wonder tiredly whose prayers will be heard tonight； hers or mine。 I picture Sohrab s face； the pointed meaty chin； his small seashell ears； his slanting bambooleaf eyes so much like his father s。 A sorrow as black as the night outside invades me； and I feel my throat clamping。
I need air。
I get up and open the windows。 The air ing through the screen is musty and hot……it smells of overripe dates and dung。 I force it into my lungs in big heaps； but it doesn t clear the clamping feeling in my chest。 I drop back on the floor。 I pick up the Time magazine and flip through the pages。 But I can t read； can t focus on anything。 So I toss it on the table and go back to staring at the zigzagging pattern of the cracks on the cement floor； at the cobwebs on the ceiling where the walls meet； at the dead flies littering the windowsill。 Mostly； I stare at the clock on the wall。 It s just past 4 A。M。 and I have been shut out of the room with the swinging double doors for over five hours now。 I still haven t heard any news。
The floor beneath me begins to feel like part of my body； and my breathing is growing heavier； slower。 I want to sleep； shut my eyes and lie my head down on this cold； dusty floor。 Drift off。 When I wake up； maybe I will discover that everything I saw in the hotel bathroom was part of a dream： the water drops dripping from the faucet and landing with a plink into the bloody bathwater； the left arm dangling over the side of the tub； the blood…soaked razor sitting on the toilet tank……the same razor I had shaved with the day before……and his eyes； still half open but light less。 That more than anything。 I want to forget the eyes。
Soon； sleep es and I let it take me。 I dream of things I can t remember later。
SOMEONE IS TAPPING ME on the shoulder。 I open my eyes。 There is a man kneeling beside me。 He is wearing a cap like the men behind the swinging double doors and a paper surgical mask over his mouth……my heart sinks when I see a drop of blood on the mask。 He has taped a picture of a doe…eyed little girl to his beeper。 He unsnaps his mask and I m glad I don t have to look at Sohrab s blood anymore。 His skin is dark like the imported Swiss chocolate Hassan and I used to buy from the bazaar in Shar…e…Nau； he has thinning hair and hazel eyes topped with curved eyelashes。 In a British accent； he tells me his name is Dr。 Nawaz； and suddenly I want to be away from this man； because I don t think I can bear to hear what he has e to tell me。 He says the boy had cut himself deeply and had lost a great deal of blood and my mouth begins to mutter that prayer again：
La illaha il All