雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(54)

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。

成年后的阿米爾始終無法原諒自己當(dāng)年對哈桑的背叛。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心力，卻發(fā)現(xiàn)一個驚天謊言，兒時的噩夢再度重演，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，讀來令人蕩氣回腸。

下面就跟小編一起來欣賞雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(54)的精彩內(nèi)容吧！

THAT NIGHT I asked Baba if we could go to Jalalabad on Friday. He was rocking on the leather swivel chair behind his desk, reading a newspaper. He put it down, took off the reading glasses I disliked so much--Baba wasn’t old, not at all, and he had lots of years left to live, so why did he have to wear those stupid glasses?
“Why not!” he said. Lately, Baba agreed to everything I asked. Not only that, just two nights before, he’d asked me if I wanted to see _El Cid_ with Charlton Heston at Cinema Aryana. “Do you want to ask Hassan to come along to Jalalabad?”
Why did Baba have to spoil it like that? “He’s mazreez,” I said. Not feeling well.
“Really?” Baba stopped rocking in his chair. “What’s wrong with him?”
I gave a shrug and sank in the sofa by the fireplace. “He’s got a cold or something. Ali says he’s sleeping it off.”
“I haven’t seen much of Hassan the last few days,” Baba said. “That’s all it is, then, a cold?” I couldn’t help hating the way his brow furrowed with worry.
“Just a cold. So are we going Friday, Baba?”
“Yes, yes,” Baba said, pushing away from the desk. “Too bad about Hassan. I thought you might have had more fun if he came.”
“Well, the two of us can have fun together,” I said. Baba smiled. Winked. “Dress warm,” he said.
IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN just the two of us--that was the way, I wanted it--but by Wednesday night, Baba had managed to invite another two dozen people. He called his cousin Homayoun--he was actually Baba’s second cousin--and mentioned he was going to Jalalabad on Friday, and Homayoun, who had studied engineering in France and had a house in Jalalabad, said he’d love to have everyone over, he’d bring the kids, his two wives, and, while he was at it, cousin Shafiqa and her family were visiting from Herat, maybe she’d like to tag along, and since she was staying with cousin Nader in Kabul, his family would have to be invited as well even though Homayoun and Nader had a bit of a feud going, and if Nader was invited, surely his brother Faruq had to be asked too or his feelings would be hurt and he might not invite them to his daughter’s wedding next month and...
We filled three vans. I rode with Baba, Rahim Khan, Kaka Homayoun--Baba had taught me at a young age to call any older male Kaka, or Uncle, and any older female, Khala, or Aunt. Kaka Homayoun’s two wives rode with us too--the pinch-faced older one with the warts on her hands and the younger one who always smelled of perfume and danced with her eyes close--as did Kaka Homayoun’s twin girls. I sat in the back row, carsick and dizzy, sandwiched between the seven-year-old twins who kept reaching over my lap to slap at each other. The road to Jalalabad is a two-hour trek through mountain roads winding along a steep drop, and my stomach lurched with each hairpin turn. Everyone in the van was talking, talking loudly and at the same time, nearly shrieking, which is how Afghans talk. I asked one of the twins--Fazila or Karima, I could never tell which was which--if she’d trade her window seat with me so I could get fresh air on account of my car sickness. She stuck her tongue out and said no. I told her that was fine, but I couldn’t be held accountable for vomiting on her new dress. A minute later, I was leaning out the window. I watched the cratered road rise and fall, whirl its tail around the mountainside, counted the multicolored trucks packed with squatting men lumbering past. I tried closing my eyes, letting the wind slap at my cheeks, opened my mouth to swallow the clean air. I still didn’t feel better. A finger poked me in the side. It was Fazila/Karima.
“What?” I said.
“I was just telling everyone about the tournament,” Baba said from behind the wheel. Kaka Homayoun and his wives were smiling at me from the middle row of seats.

當(dāng)天夜里，我問爸爸可不可以在星期五帶我去賈拉拉巴德 。他坐在辦公桌后面的皮轉(zhuǎn)椅上，看著報紙。他把報紙放下，摘下那副我很討厭的老花鏡。爸爸又不老，一點都不老，還有好多年可以活，可是他干嗎要戴那副愚蠢的眼鏡啊?
“當(dāng)然可以!”他說。最近，爸爸對我有求必應(yīng)。不止這些，兩個晚上之前，他還問我要不要去亞雅納電影院看查爾頓?赫斯頓主演的《萬世英雄》?！澳阆胱尮８ベZ拉拉巴德嗎?”
為什么爸爸總是如此掃興呢?“他不舒服?！蔽艺f。
“真的?”爸爸仍坐在椅子上，“他怎么啦?”
我聳聳肩，在火爐邊的沙發(fā)坐下來?！八赡芨忻傲嘶蛘呤裁窗伞０⒗镎f他每天總是在睡覺?！?br />“這幾天我很少見到哈桑?！卑职终f，“僅僅是這樣嗎?感冒?”看到他雙眉緊蹙，憂慮溢于言表，我十分不滿。
“只是感冒而已啦，我們星期五去，是嗎，爸爸?”
“是，是，”爸爸說，推著書桌站起來，“哈桑不能去，太糟糕了。我想他要是能去，你會更加開心的?！?br />“好吧，我們兩個也可以很開心啊?！蔽艺f。爸爸笑著，眨眨眼，“穿暖和些?！?br />本來就應(yīng)該只有我們兩個——我就希望這樣——但星期三那夜，爸爸設(shè)法邀請了另外二十來個人。他打電話給他堂弟霍瑪勇——實際上他是爸爸第二個堂弟——說星期五會到賈拉拉巴德去?；衄斢略诜▏M(jìn)修機械工程，如今在賈拉拉巴德有座房子，他說歡迎大家都去，他會帶上他的孩子和兩個老婆。還有，雪菲嘉表姐和家人從赫拉特到訪，目前還在，或許她也想一起去。而這次雪菲嘉來喀布爾住在表哥納德家，所以也得邀請他們一家，雖然霍瑪勇跟納德向來不和。倘使邀請了納德，自然也得請他的哥哥法拉克，要不就傷害到他的感情了，并且下個月他們的女兒結(jié)婚，可能會因此不邀請霍瑪勇……
我們坐滿了三輛旅行車。我跟爸爸、拉辛汗、霍瑪勇“卡卡”搭一輛車——小時候爸爸教我管男性長輩叫“卡卡”，也就是叔叔伯伯，管女性長輩叫“卡哈拉”，也就是姑姑阿姨?；衄斢率迨宓膬蓚€老婆也跟我們一起——較老那個滿臉皺紋，手上長著肉瘤；較年輕那個則渾身散發(fā)著香水的味道，跳舞的時候老閉著眼睛——還有霍瑪勇叔叔那對雙胞胎女兒。我坐在最后一排，暈車并且頭昏眼花，被那對雙胞胎夾在中間，她們不停地越過我的膝蓋，相互拍打。通往賈拉拉巴德的是條盤旋的山路，要兩個小時的顛簸才能走完，車每次急轉(zhuǎn)都會讓我的胃翻江倒海。車?yán)锩總€人都在說話，同時大聲說話，近乎叫喊，這是阿富汗人交談的方式。我問了雙胞胎中的一個——法茜拉或者卡麗瑪，我總是分不清她們誰是誰——問她愿不愿意讓我換到窗邊的位置去，因為我暈車，需要呼吸一點新鮮空氣。她伸了伸舌頭，說不。我告訴她無所謂，不過我也許會嘔吐，弄臟她的新衣服。隔了一會兒，我把頭伸出車窗外面。我看見路面坑坑洼洼，高低起伏，盤旋著消失在山那邊；數(shù)著從我們車邊經(jīng)過的貨車，它們五顏六色，載滿喧嘩的乘客，蹣跚前進(jìn)。我試圖合上雙眼，讓風(fēng)撲打我的臉頰；我張開嘴巴，大口大口吸著干凈的空氣，但仍沒有覺得好一些。有人用手指戳了我一下，是法茜拉或者卡麗瑪。
“干嗎?”我說。
“我剛把風(fēng)箏比賽的事情跟大家說了!”爸爸坐在駕駛座上說?；衄斢率迨搴退麅蓚€老婆坐在中間那排，朝我微笑。