雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(81)

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。

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“Just go.” He had me park at the south end of the street. He reached in his coat pocket and handed me a set of keys. “There,” he said, pointing to the car in front of us. It was an old model Ford, long and wide, a dark color I couldn’t discern in the moon light. “It needs painting, and I’ll have one of the guys at the station put in new shocks, but it runs.”
I took the keys, stunned. I looked from him to the car.
“You’ll need it to go to college,” he said.
I took his hand in mine. Squeezed it. My eyes were tearing over and I was glad for the shadows that hid our faces. “Thank you, Baba.”
We got out and sat inside the Ford. It was a Grand Torino. Navy blue, Baba said. I drove it around the block, testing the brakes, the radio, the turn signals. I parked it in the lot of our apartment building and shut off the engine. “Tashakor, Baba jan,” I said. I wanted to say more, tell him how touched I was by his act of kindness, how much I appreciated all that he had done for me, all that he was still doing. But I knew I’d embarrass him. “Tashakor,” I repeated instead.
He smiled and leaned back against the headrest, his forehead almost touching the ceiling. We didn’t say anything. Just sat in the dark, listened to the tink-tink of the engine cooling, the wail of a siren in the distance. Then Baba rolled his head toward me. “I wish Hassan had been with us today,” he said.
A pair of steel hands closed around my windpipe at the sound of Hassan’s name. I rolled down the window. Waited for the steel hands to loosen their grip.
I WOULD ENROLL in junior college classes in the fall, I told Baba the day after graduation. He was drinking cold black tea and chewing cardamom seeds, his personal trusted antidote for hang over headaches.
“I think I’ll major in English,” I said. I winced inside, waiting for his reply.
“English?”
“Creative writing.”
He considered this. Sipped his tea. “Stories, you mean. You’ll make up stories.” I looked down at my feet.
“They pay for that, making up stories?”
“If you’re good,” I said. “And if you get discovered.”
“How likely is that, getting discovered?”
“It happens,” I said.
He nodded. “And what will you do while you wait to get good and get discovered? How will you earn money? If you marry, how will you support your khanum?”
I couldn’t lift my eyes to meet his. “I’ll... find a job.”
“Oh,” he said. “Wah wah! So, if I understand, you’ll study several years to earn a degree, then you’ll get a chatti job like mine, one you could just as easily land today, on the small chance that your degree might someday help you get... discovered.” He took a deep breath and sipped his tea. Grunted something about medical school, law school, and “real work.”
My cheeks burned and guilt coursed through me, the guilt of indulging myself at the expense of his ulcer, his black fingernails and aching wrists. But I would stand my ground, I decided. I didn’t want to sacrifice for Baba anymore. The last time I had done that, I had damned myself.
Baba sighed and, this time, tossed a whole handful of car damom seeds in his mouth.

“只管開過去，”他讓我停在街道的南端。他把手伸進外衣的口袋，掏給我一串鑰匙，“那邊?！彼钢Ｔ谖覀兦懊娴囊惠v轎車。那是一輛舊款的福特，又長又寬，車身很暗，在月光下我辨認(rèn)不出是什么顏色?！八每酒幔視尲佑驼镜幕镉嫇Q上新的避震器，但它還能開?！?br />我看著鑰匙，驚呆了。我看看他，看看轎車。
“你上大學(xué)需要一輛車?！彼f。
我捧起他的手，緊緊握住。淚水從我眼里涌出來，我慶幸陰影籠罩了我們的面龐?！爸x謝你，爸爸。”
我們下車，坐進福特車。那是一輛“大都靈”?！昂＼娝{?！卑职终f。我繞著街區(qū)開，試試剎車、收音機、轉(zhuǎn)向燈。我把它停在我們那棟樓的停車場，熄了引擎?！爸x謝你，親愛的爸爸。”我說。我意猶未盡，想告訴他，他慈祥的行為讓我多么感動，我多么感激他過去和現(xiàn)在為我所做的一切。但我知道那會讓他不好意思,“謝謝?！蔽抑皇侵貜?fù)了一次。
他微微一笑，靠在頭枕上，他的前額幾乎碰到頂篷。我們什么也沒說，靜靜坐在黑暗中，聽著引擎冷卻的“嘀嘀”聲，遠處傳來一陣警笛的鳴叫。然后爸爸將頭轉(zhuǎn)向我,“要是哈桑今天跟我們在一起就好了?！?br />聽到哈桑的名字，我的脖子好像被一對鐵手掐住了。我把車窗搖下，等待那雙鐵手松開。
畢業(yè)典禮隔日，我告訴爸爸，秋天我就要去?？茖W(xué)校注冊了。他正在喝冷卻的紅茶，嚼著豆蔻子，他自己用來治頭痛的偏方。
“我想我會主修英文?！蔽艺f，內(nèi)心忐忑，等著他的回答。
“英文?”
“創(chuàng)作?！?br />他想了想，啜他的紅茶,“故事，你是說，你要寫故事?”我低頭看著自己的雙腳。
“寫故事能賺錢嗎?”
“如果你寫得好，”我說，“而且又被人發(fā)掘的話。”
“被人發(fā)掘?機會有多大?”
“有機會的。”我說。
他點點頭。“那你在寫得好和被人發(fā)掘之前準(zhǔn)備干什么呢?你怎么賺錢?要是結(jié)婚了，你怎么撐起自己的家庭?”
我不敢看著他的眼睛,“我會……找份工作?！?br />“哦!”他說，“哇!哇!這么說，如果我沒理解錯，你將會花好幾年，拿個學(xué)位，然后你會找一份像我這樣卑微的工作，一份你今天可以輕易找到的工作，就為渺茫的機會，等待你拿的學(xué)位也許某天會幫助你……被人發(fā)掘。”他深深呼吸，啜他的紅茶，咕噥地說著什么醫(yī)學(xué)院、法學(xué)院，還有“真正的工作”。
我臉上發(fā)燒，一陣罪惡感涌上心頭。我很負(fù)疚，我的放縱是他的潰瘍、黑指甲和酸痛的手腕換來的。但我會堅持自己的立場，我決定了。我不想再為爸爸犧牲了。這是最后一次了，我咒罵自己。
爸爸嘆氣，這一次，扔了一大把豆蔻子到嘴里。