雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(82)

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(diǎn)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(82)的精彩內(nèi)容吧！

SOMETIMES, I GOT BEHIND the wheel of my Ford, rolled down the windows, and drove for hours, from the East Bay to the South Bay, up the Peninsula and back. I drove through the grids of cottonwood-lined streets in our Fremont neighborhood, where people who’d never shaken hands with kings lived in shabby, flat one-story houses with barred windows, where old cars like mine dripped oil on blacktop driveways. Pencil gray chain-link fences closed off the backyards in our neighborhood. Toys, bald tires, and beer bottles with peeling labels littered unkempt front lawns. I drove past tree-shaded parks that smelled like bark, past strip malls big enough to hold five simultaneous Buzkashi tournaments. I drove the Torino up the hills of Los Altos, idling past estates with picture windows and silver lions guarding the wrought-iron gates, homes with cherub fountains lining the manicured walkways and no Ford Torinos in the drive ways. Homes that made Baba’s house in Wazir Akbar Khan look like a servant’s hut.
I’d get up early some Saturday mornings and drive south on Highway 17, push the Ford up the winding road through the mountains to Santa Cruz. I would park by the old lighthouse and wait for sunrise, sit in my car and watch the fog rolling in from the sea. In Afghanistan, I had only seen the ocean at the cinema. Sitting in the dark next to Hassan, I had always wondered if it was true what I’d read, that sea air smelled like salt. I used to tell Hassan that someday we’d walk on a strip of seaweed-strewn beach, sink our feet in the sand, and watch the water recede from our toes. The first time I saw the Pacific, I almost cried. It was as vast and blue as the oceans on the movie screens of my childhood.
Sometimes in the early evening, I parked the car and walked up a freeway overpass. My face pressed against the fence, I’d try to count the blinking red taillights inching along, stretching as far as my eyestould see. BMWs. Saabs. Porsches. Cars I’d never seen in Kabul, where most people drove Russian Volgas, old Opels, or Iranian Paikans.
Almost two years had passed since we had arrived in the U.S., and I was still marveling at the size of this country, its vastness. Beyond every freeway lay another freeway, beyond every city another city hills beyond mountains and mountains beyond hills, and, beyond those, more cities and more people.
Long before the Roussi army marched into Afghanistan, long before villages were burned and schools destroyed, long before mines were planted like seeds of death and children buried in rock-piled graves, Kabul had become a city of ghosts for me. A city of harelipped ghosts.
America was different. America was a river, roaring along, unmindful of the past. I could wade into this river, let my sins drown to the bottom, let the waters carry me someplace far. Someplace with no ghosts, no memories, and no sins.
If for nothing else, for that, I embraced America.
THE FOLLOWING SUMMER, the summer of 1984--the summer I turned twenty-one--Baba sold his Buick and bought a dilapidated ’71 Volkswagen bus for $550 from an old Afghan acquaintance who’d been a high-school science teacher in Kabul. The neighbors’ heads turned the afternoon the bus sputtered up the street and farted its way across our lot. Baba killed the engine and let the bus roll silently into our designated spot. We sank in our seats, laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks, and, more important, until we were sure the neighbors weren’t watching anymore. The bus was a sad carcass of rusted metal, shattered windows replaced with black garbage bags, balding tires, and upholstery shredded down to the springs. But the old teacher had reassured Baba that the engine and transmission were sound and, on that account, the man hadn’t lied.
On Saturdays, Baba woke me up at dawn. As he dressed, I scanned the classifieds in the local papers and circled the garage sale ads. We mapped our route--Fremont, Union City, Newark, and Hayward first, then San Jose, Milpitas, Sunnyvale, and Campbell if time permitted. Baba drove the bus, sipping hot tea from the thermos, and I navigated. We stopped at garage sales and bought knickknacks that people no longer wanted. We haggled over old sewing machines, one-eyed Barbie dolls, wooden tennis rackets, guitars with missing strings, and old Electrolux vacuum cleaners. By midafternoon, we’d filled the back of the VW bus with used goods. Then early Sunday mornings, we drove to the San Jose flea market off Berryessa, rented a spot, and sold the junk for a small profit: a Chicago record that we’d bought for a quarter the day before might go for $1, or $4 for a set of five; a ramshackle Singer sewing machine purchased for $10 might, after some bargaining, bring in $25.
By that summer, Afghan families were working an entire section of the San Jose flea market. Afghan music played in the aisles of the Used Goods section. There was an unspoken code of behavior among Afghans at the flea market: You greeted the guy across the aisle, you invited him for a bite of potato bolani or a little qabuli, and you chatted. You offered tassali, condolences, for the death of a parent, congratulated the birth of children, and shook your head mournfully when the conversation turned to Afghanistan and the Roussis--which it inevitably did. But you avoided the topic of Saturday. Because it might turn out that the fellow across the isle was the guy you’d nearly blindsided at the freeway exit yesterday in order to beat him to a promising garage sale.
The only thing that flowed more than tea in those aisles was Afghan gossip. The flea market was where you sipped green tea with almond kolchas, and learned whose daughter had broken off an engagement and run off with her American boyfriend, who used to be Parchami--a communist--in Kabul, and who had bought a house with under-the-table money while still on welfare. Tea, Politics, and Scandal, the ingredients of an Afghan Sunday at the flea market.
I ran the stand sometimes as Baba sauntered down the aisle, hands respectfully pressed to his chest, greeting people he knew from Kabul: mechanics and tailors selling hand-me-down wool coats and scraped bicycle helmets, alongside former ambassadors, out-of-work surgeons, and university professors.
One early Sunday morning in July 1984, while Baba set up, I bought two cups of coffee from the concession stand and returned to find Baba talking to an older, distinguished-looking man. I put the cups on the rear bumper of the bus, next to the REAGAN/BUSH FOR ’84 sticker.
“Amir,” Baba said, motioning me over, “this is General Sahib, Mr. Iqbal Taheri. He was a decorated general in Kabul. He worked for the Ministry of Defense.”
Taheri. Why did the name sound familiar? The general laughed like a man used to attending formal parties where he’d laughed on cue at the minor jokes of important people. He had wispy silver-gray hair combed back from his smooth, tanned forehead, and tufts of white in his bushy eye brows. He smelled like cologne and wore an iron-gray three-piece suit, shiny from too many pressings; the gold chain of a pocket watch dangled from his vest.
“Such a lofty introduction,” he said, his voice deep and cultured. “_Salaam, bachem_.” Hello, my child.
“_Salaam_, General Sahib,” I said, shaking his hand. His thin hands belied a firm grip, as if steel hid beneath the moisturized skin.
“Amir is going to be a great writer,” Baba said. I did a double take at this. “He has finished his first year of college and earned A’s in all of his courses.”
“Junior college,” I corrected him.

有時，我會開著我的福特，搖下車窗，一連開幾個鐘頭，從東灣到南灣，前往半島區(qū)［1］東灣（EastBay）、南灣（SouthBay）和半島區(qū)（Penisula）均為舊金山城區(qū)。［1］，然后開回來。我會駛過弗里蒙特附近那些縱橫交錯、棋盤似的街道，這里的人們沒有和國王握過手，住在破舊的平房里面，窗戶破損；這里的舊車跟我的一樣，滴著油，停在柏油路上。我們附近那些院子都被鉛灰色的鐵絲柵欄圍起來，亂糟糟的草坪上到處扔著玩具、汽車內(nèi)胎、標(biāo)簽剝落的啤酒瓶子。我駛過散發(fā)著樹皮味道的林陰公園，駛過巨大的購物廣場，它們大得足可以同時舉辦五場馬上比武競賽。我開著這輛都靈，越過羅斯?阿托斯的山丘，滑行過一片住宅區(qū)，那兒的房子有景觀窗，銀色的獅子守護(hù)在鍛鐵大門之外，塑有天使雕像的噴泉在修葺完善的人行道排開，停車道上沒有福特都靈。這里的房子使我爸爸在喀布爾的房子看起來像仆人住的。
有時候，在星期六我會早起，朝南開上17號高速公路，沿著蜿蜒的山路前往圣克魯斯。我會在舊燈塔旁邊停車，等待太陽升起，坐在我的轎車?yán)锩妫粗F氣在海面翻滾。在阿富汗，我只在電影里面見過海洋。在黑暗中，挨哈桑坐著，我總是尋思，我在書上看到，說海水聞起來有鹽的味道，那是不是真的?我常常告訴哈桑，有朝一日，我們會沿著海藻叢生的海灘散步，讓我們的腳陷進(jìn)沙里，看著海水從我們的腳趾退去。第一次看到太平洋時，我差點(diǎn)哭起來。它那么大，那么藍(lán)，跟我孩提時在電影屏幕上看到的一模一樣。
有時候，夜幕初降，我會把車停好，爬上橫跨高速公路的天橋。我的臉壓著護(hù)欄，極目遠(yuǎn)望，數(shù)著那緩緩移動的閃閃發(fā)亮的汽車尾燈，寶馬，紳寶，保時捷，那些我在喀布爾從來沒見過的汽車，在那兒，人們開著俄國產(chǎn)的伏爾加，破舊的歐寶，或者伊朗出產(chǎn)的培康。
我們來到美國幾乎快兩年了，我仍為這個國家遼闊的幅員驚嘆不已。高速公路之外，還有高速公路，城市之外還有城市，山脈之外還有峰巒，峰巒之外還有山脈，而所有這些之外，還有更多的城市，更多的人群。
早在俄國佬的軍隊(duì)入侵阿富汗之前，早在鄉(xiāng)村被燒焚、學(xué)校被毀壞之前，早在地雷像死亡的種子那樣遍布、兒童被草草掩埋之前，對我來說，喀布爾就已成了一座鬼魂之城，一座兔唇的鬼魂縈繞之城。
美國就不同了。美國是河流，奔騰前進(jìn)，往事無人提起。我可以進(jìn)這條大川，讓自己的罪惡沉在最深處，讓流水把我?guī)h(yuǎn)方，帶往沒有鬼魂、沒有往事、沒有罪惡的遠(yuǎn)方。
就算不為別的，單單為了這個，我也會擁抱美國。
接下來那個夏天，也就是1984年夏天——那年夏天我滿21歲——爸爸賣掉他的別克，花了550美元，買了一輛破舊的1971年出廠的大眾巴士，車主是阿富汗的老熟人了，先前在喀布爾教高中的科學(xué)課程。那天下午，巴士轟鳴著駛進(jìn)街道，“突突”前往我們的停車場，鄰居都把頭轉(zhuǎn)過來。爸爸熄了火，讓巴士安靜地滑進(jìn)我們的停車位。我們坐在座椅上，哈哈大笑，直到眼淚從臉頰掉下來，還有，更重要的是，直到我們確信沒有任何鄰居在觀望，這才走出來。那輛巴士是一堆廢鐵的尸體，黑色的垃圾袋填補(bǔ)破裂的車窗，光禿禿的輪胎，彈簧從座椅下面露出來。但那位老教師一再向爸爸保證，引擎和變速器都沒有問題，實(shí)際上，那個家伙沒有說謊。
每逢星期六，天一亮爸爸就喊我起來。他穿衣的時候，我瀏覽本地報(bào)紙的分類廣告欄，圈出車庫賣場的廣告。我們設(shè)定線路——先到弗里蒙特、尤寧城、紐瓦克和海沃德，接著是圣荷塞、米爾皮塔斯、桑尼維爾，如果時間許可，則再去坎貝爾。爸爸開著巴士，喝著保溫杯里面的熱紅茶，我負(fù)責(zé)引路。我們停在車庫賣場，買下那些原主不再需要的二手貨。我們搜羅舊縫紉機(jī)，獨(dú)眼的芭比娃娃，木制的網(wǎng)球拍，缺弦的吉他，還有舊伊萊克斯吸塵器。下午過了一半，我們的大眾巴士后面就會塞滿這些舊貨。然后，星期天清早，我們開車到圣荷塞巴利雅沙跳蚤市場，租個檔位，加點(diǎn)微薄的利潤把這些垃圾賣出去：我們前一天花二毛五分買來的芝加哥唱片也許可以賣到每盤一元，或者五盤四元；一臺花十元買來的破舊辛格牌縫紉機(jī)經(jīng)過一番討價還價，也許可以賣出二十五元。
到得那個夏天，阿富汗人已經(jīng)在圣荷塞跳蚤市場占據(jù)了一整個區(qū)域。二手貨區(qū)域的通道上播放著阿富汗音樂。在跳蚤市場的阿富汗人中間，有一套心照不宣的行為規(guī)范：你要跟通道對面的家伙打招呼，請他吃一塊土豆餅或一點(diǎn)什錦飯，你要跟他交談。要是他家死了父母，你就好言相勸；要是生了孩子你就道聲恭喜；當(dāng)話題不可避免地轉(zhuǎn)到阿富汗人和俄國佬，你就悲傷地?fù)u搖頭。但是你得避免說起星期六的事情，因?yàn)閷γ婺侨撕芸赡芫褪亲蛱煸诟咚俟烦隹诒荒愠嚀踝?、以致錯過一樁好買賣的家伙。
在那些通道里，惟一比茶更流行的是阿富汗人的流言。跳蚤市場是這樣的地方，你可以喝綠茶，吃杏仁餅，聽人說誰家的女兒背棄婚約，跟美國男友私奔去了；誰在喀布爾用黑錢買了座房子，卻還領(lǐng)救濟(jì)金。茶，政治，丑聞，這些都是跳蚤市場的阿富汗星期天必備的成分。
有時我會看管攤位，爸爸則沿著過道閑逛。他雙手莊重地放在胸前，跟那些在喀布爾認(rèn)識的熟人打招呼：機(jī)械師和裁縫兜售有擦痕的自行車頭盔和舊羊毛衫，過道兩邊是原來的外交官、找不到工作的外科醫(yī)生和大學(xué)教授。
1984年7月某個星期天清早，爸爸在清理攤位，我到販賣處買了兩杯咖啡，回來的時候，發(fā)現(xiàn)爸爸在跟一位上了年紀(jì)、相貌出眾的先生說話。我把杯子放在巴士后面的保險(xiǎn)杠上，緊鄰里根和布什競選1984年總統(tǒng)的宣傳畫。
“阿米爾，”爸爸說，示意我過去:“這是將軍大人，伊克伯?塔赫里先生，原來住在喀布爾，得過軍功勛章，在國防部上班?！?br />塔赫里。這個名字怎么如此熟悉? 將軍哈哈干笑，通常在宴會上，每當(dāng)重要人物說了不好笑的笑話，人們就會聽到這樣的笑聲。他一頭銀發(fā)整齊地梳向后面，露出平滑的黃銅色前額，濃密的眉毛中有撮撮白色。他身上聞起來有古龍水的香味，穿著鐵灰色的三排扣套裝，因?yàn)橄挫倭颂啻味褐凉猓承纳厦媛冻鲆桓鶓驯淼慕疰溩印?br />“這樣的介紹可不敢當(dāng)?！彼f，他的聲音低沉而有教養(yǎng)?！澳愫?，我的孩子。”
“你好，將軍大人?！蔽艺f，跟他握手。他的手貌似瘦弱，但握得很有力，好像那油亮的皮膚下面藏著鋼條。
“阿米爾將會成為一個了不起的作家。”爸爸說。我愣了一下才反應(yīng)過來。“他剛念完大學(xué)一年級，考試門門都得優(yōu)?！?br />“是專科學(xué)校?！蔽壹m正他。