雙語(yǔ)名著·The Kite Runner 追風(fēng)箏的人(3)

12歲的阿富汗富家少爺阿米爾與仆人哈桑情同手足。然而，在一場(chǎng)風(fēng)箏比賽后，發(fā)生了一件悲慘不堪的事，阿米爾為自己的懦弱感到自責(zé)和痛苦，逼走了哈桑，不久，自己也跟隨父親逃往美國(guó)。

成年后的阿米爾始終無(wú)法原諒自己當(dāng)年對(duì)哈桑的背叛。為了贖罪，阿米爾再度踏上暌違二十多年的故鄉(xiāng)，希望能為不幸的好友盡最后一點(diǎn)心力，卻發(fā)現(xiàn)一個(gè)驚天謊言，兒時(shí)的噩夢(mèng)再度重演，阿米爾該如何抉擇?

故事如此殘忍而又美麗，作者以溫暖細(xì)膩的筆法勾勒人性的本質(zhì)與救贖，讀來(lái)令人蕩氣回腸。

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Upstairs was my bedroom, Baba's room, and his study, also known as "the smoking room", which perpetually smelled of tobacco and cinnamon. Baba and his friends reclined on black leather chairs there after Ali had served dinner. They stuffed their pipes—except Baba always called it "fattening the pipe"—and discussed their favorite three topics: politics, Business, soccer. Sometimes I asked Baba if I could sit with them, but Baba would stand in the doorway. "Go on, now," he'd say. "This is grown-ups time. Why don't you go read one of those books of yours?" He'd close the door, leave me to wonder why it was always grown-ups? time with him. I'd sit by the door, knees drawn to my chest. Sometimes I sat there for an hour, sometimes two, listening to their laughter, their chatter.

The living room downstairs had a curved wall with custombuilt cabinets. Inside sat framed family pictures: an old, grainy photo of my grandfather and King Nadir Shah taken in 1931, two years before the king's assassination; they are standing over a dead deer, dressed in knee-high boots, rifles slung over their shoulders. There was a picture of my parents' wedding night, Baba dashing in his black suit and my mother a smiling young princess in white. Here was Baba and his best friend and Business partner, Rahim Khan, standing outside our house, neither one smiling—I am a baby in that photograph and Baba is holding me, looking tired and grim. I'm in his arms, but it's Rahim Khan's pinky my fingers are curled around.

The curved wall led into the dining room, at the center of which was a mahogany table that could easily sit thirty guests—and, given my father's taste for extravagant parties, it did just that almost every week. On the other end of the dining room was a tall marble fireplace, always lit by the orange glow of a fire in the wintertime.

A large sliding glass door opened into a semicircular terrace that overlooked two acres of backyard and rows of cherry trees. Baba and Ali had planted a small vegetable garden along the eastern wall: tomatoes, mint, peppers, and a row of corn that never really took. Hassan and I used to call it "the Wall of Ailing Corn".

On the south end of the garden, in the shadows of a loquat tree, was the servants' Home, a modest little mud hut where Hassan lived with his father.

It was there, in that little shack, that Hassan was born in the winter of 1964, just one year after my mother died giving birth to me.

樓下的起居室有一面凹壁，擺著專門訂做的櫥柜。里面陳列著鑲框的家庭照片：有張模糊的老照片，是我祖父和納迪爾國(guó)王NadirShah（1883～1933，阿富汗國(guó)王，1929年登基，1933年11月8日被刺殺。）在1931年的合影，兩年后國(guó)王遇刺，他們穿著及膝的長(zhǎng)靴，肩膀上扛著來(lái)復(fù)槍，站在一頭死鹿前。有張是在我父母新婚之夜拍的，爸爸穿著黑色的套裝，朝氣蓬勃，臉帶微笑的媽媽穿著白色衣服，宛如公主。還有一張照片，爸爸和他最好的朋友和生意伙伴拉辛汗站在我們的房子外面，兩人都沒(méi)笑，我在照片中還是嬰孩，爸爸抱著我，看上去疲倦而嚴(yán)厲。我在爸爸懷里，手里卻抓著拉辛汗的小指頭。

凹壁可通往餐廳，餐廳正中擺著紅木餐桌，坐下三十人綽綽有余。由于爸爸熱情好客，確實(shí)幾乎每隔一周就有這么多人坐在這里用膳。餐廳的另一端有高大的大理石壁爐，每到冬天總有橙色的火焰在里面跳動(dòng)。

拉開(kāi)那扇玻璃大滑門，便可走上半圓形的露臺(tái)；下面是占地兩英畝的后院和成排的櫻桃樹(shù)。爸爸和阿里在東邊的圍墻下辟了個(gè)小菜園，種著西紅柿、薄荷和胡椒，還有一排從未結(jié)實(shí)的玉米。哈桑和我總是叫它“病玉米之墻”。

花園的南邊種著枇杷樹(shù)，樹(shù)陰之下便是仆人的住所了。那是一座簡(jiǎn)陋的泥屋，哈桑和他父親住在里面。

在我母親因?yàn)樯宜烙陔y產(chǎn)之后一年，也即1964年冬天，哈桑誕生在那個(gè)小小的窩棚里面。