雙語(yǔ)名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(70)

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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But it rained the afternoon Baba took Ali and Hassan to the bus station. Thunderheads rolled in, painted the sky iron gray. Within minutes, sheets of rain were sweeping in, the steady hiss of falling water swelling in my ears.
Baba had offered to drive them to Bamiyan himself, but Ali refused. Through the blurry, rain-soaked window of my bedroom, I watched Ali haul the lone suitcase carrying all of their belongings to Baba’s car idling outside the gates. Hassan lugged his mattress, rolled tightly and tied with a rope, on his back. He’d left all of his toys behind in the empty shack--I discovered them the next day, piled in a corner just like the birthday presents in my room.
Slithering beads of rain sluiced down my window. I saw Baba slam the trunk shut. Already drenched, he walked to the driver’s side. Leaned in and said something to Ali in the backseat, perhaps one last-ditch effort to change his mind. They talked that way awhile, Baba getting soaked, stooping, one arm on the roof of the car. But when he straightened, I saw in his slumping shoulders that the life I had known since I’d been born was over. Baba slid in. The headlights came on and cut twin funnels of light in the rain. If this were one of the Hindi movies Hassan and I used to watch, this was the part where I’d run outside, my bare feet splashing rainwater. I’d chase the car, screaming for it to stop. I’d pull Hassan out of the backseat and tell him I was sorry, so sorry, my tears mixing with rainwater. We’d hug in the downpour. But this was no Hindi movie. I was sorry, but I didn’t cry and I didn’t chase the car. I watched Baba’s car pull away from the curb, taking with it the person whose first spoken word had been my name. I caught one final blurry glimpse of Hassan slumped in the back seat before Baba turned left at the street corner where we’d played marbles so many times.
I stepped back and all I saw was rain through windowpanes that looked like melting silver.

但爸爸送阿里和哈桑去車站那天下午，天下雨了。雷轟電閃，天空灰沉沉的。頃刻之間，大雨傾盆而至，嘩嘩的雨聲在我耳邊回蕩。
爸爸本來(lái)要親自送他們到巴米揚(yáng)，但阿里拒絕了。透過(guò)我的臥房那扇被雨水濕透的模糊窗戶，我看見(jiàn)阿里拖著個(gè)孤零零的箱子，里面裝著他們?nèi)鄙砑?，走向爸爸停在大門外的轎車。哈桑的毯子緊緊卷起來(lái)，用繩子系住，背在他身后。他把所有的玩具都留在那間四壁蕭然的斗室了，隔天我發(fā)現(xiàn)它們堆在屋角，如同我房間里面的生日禮物。
雨珠刷刷流下我的窗戶。我看見(jiàn)爸爸將行李廂的門摔上。他渾身濕透，走向駕駛座那邊，斜倚著身子，向后座的阿里說(shuō)些什么，也許是作最后的努力，以便讓他回心轉(zhuǎn)意。他們那樣交談了片刻，爸爸身上濕淋淋的，彎下腰，一只手放在轎車的頂篷上。但當(dāng)他站起身來(lái)，我從他松垮的肩膀看出，我與生俱來(lái)的那種熟悉的生活已經(jīng)一去不返了。爸爸上車，車前燈亮起，在雨水中照出兩道燈光。如果這是哈桑跟我過(guò)去?？吹挠《入娪?，在這個(gè)時(shí)候，我應(yīng)該跑出去，赤裸的雙腳濺起雨水。我應(yīng)該追逐著轎車，高聲叫喊，讓它停下來(lái)。我應(yīng)該把哈桑從后座拉出來(lái)，告訴他我很抱歉，非常抱歉，我的眼淚會(huì)跟雨水混在一起。我們會(huì)在如注大雨中擁抱?？蛇@不是印度電影。我很抱歉，但我不會(huì)哭喊，不會(huì)追逐那輛轎車。我看著爸爸的轎車駛離路邊，帶走那個(gè)人，那個(gè)平生說(shuō)出的第一個(gè)字是我名字的人。我最后一次模糊地瞥見(jiàn)哈桑，他癱坐在后座，接著爸爸轉(zhuǎn)過(guò)街角，那個(gè)我們?cè)鵁o(wú)數(shù)次玩彈珠的地方。
我退后，眼里只見(jiàn)到玻璃窗外的雨水，看上去好像熔化的白銀。