雙語(yǔ)名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(60)

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，讀來令人蕩氣回腸。

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Hassan’s smile wilted. He looked older than I’d remembered. No, not older, old. Was that possible? Lines had etched into his tanned face and creases framed his eyes, his mouth. I might as well have taken a knife and carved those lines myself.
“What would you do?” I repeated.
The color fell from his face. Next to him, the stapled pages of the story I’d promised to read him fluttered in the breeze. I hurled the pomegranate at him. It struck him in the chest, exploded in a spray of red pulp. Hassan’s cry was pregnant with surprise and pain.
“Hit me back!” I snapped. Hassan looked from the stain on his chest to me.
“Get up! Hit me!” I said. Hassan did get up, but he just stood there, looking dazed like a man dragged into the ocean by a riptide when, just a moment ago, he was enjoying a nice stroll on the beach.
I hit him with another pomegranate, in the shoulder this time. The juice splattered his face. “Hit me back!” I spat. “Hit me back, goddamn you!” I wished he would. I wished he’d give me the punishment I craved, so maybe I’d finally sleep at night. Maybe then things could return to how they used to be between us. But Hassan did nothing as I pelted him again and again. “You’re a coward!” I said. “Nothing but a goddamn coward!”
I don’t know how many times I hit him. All I know is that, when I finally stopped, exhausted and panting, Hassan was smeared in red like he’d been shot by a firing squad. I fell to my knees, tired, spent, frustrated.
Then Hassan did pick up a pomegranate. He walked toward me. He opened it and crushed it against his own forehead. “There,” he croaked, red dripping down his face like blood. “Are you satisfied? Do you feel better?” He turned around and started down the hill.
I let the tears break free, rocked back and forth on my knees.“What am I going to do with you, Hassan? What am I going to do with you?” But by the time the tears dried up and I trudged down the hill, I knew the answer to that question.

哈桑的笑容枯萎了。他看起來比我記得的要大，不，不是大，是老。怎么會(huì)這樣呢?皺紋爬上他那張飽經(jīng)風(fēng)吹日曬的臉，爬過他的眼角，他的唇邊。也許那些皺紋，正是我親手拿刀刻出來的。
“你會(huì)怎么做呢?”我重復(fù)。
他臉無血色。我答應(yīng)要念給他聽的那本故事書在他腳下，書頁(yè)被微風(fēng)吹得劈啪響。我朝他扔了個(gè)石榴，打中他的胸膛，爆裂出紅色的果肉。哈桑又驚又痛，放聲大哭。
“還手啊!”我咆哮著。哈桑看看胸前的污漬，又看看我。
“起來!打我!”我說。哈桑站起來了，但他只是站在那兒，露出茫然失措的表情，好比一個(gè)男人，剛才還在海灘愉快地散步，此刻卻被浪花卷到大洋中間。
我又扔出一個(gè)石榴，這次打在他的肩膀上，果汁染上他的臉。“還手!”我大喊，“還手，你這個(gè)該死的家伙!”我希望他還擊。我希望他滿足我的愿望，好好懲罰我，這樣我晚上就能睡著了。也許到時(shí)事情就會(huì)回到我們以前那個(gè)樣子。但哈桑紋絲不動(dòng)，任由我一次又一次扔他?！澳闶莻€(gè)懦夫!”我說，“你什么都不是，只是個(gè)該死的懦夫!”
我不知道自己擊中他多少次。我所知道的是，當(dāng)我終于停下來，筋疲力盡，氣喘吁吁，哈桑渾身血紅，仿佛被一隊(duì)士兵射擊過那樣。我雙足跪倒，疲累不堪，垂頭喪氣。
然后哈桑撿起一個(gè)石榴。他朝我走來，將它掰開，在額頭上磨碎。“那么，”他哽咽著，紅色的石榴汁如同鮮血一樣從他臉上滴下來?！澳銤M意了吧?你覺得好受了嗎?”他轉(zhuǎn)過身，朝山下走去。
我任由淚水決堤，跪在地上，身體前后搖晃?！拔以撃媚阍趺崔k，哈桑?我該拿你怎么辦?”但等到淚痕風(fēng)干，我腳步沉重地走回家，我找到了答案。