雙語(yǔ)名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(97)

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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“Nothing,” Soraya said, smiling.
“Liar.” I lifted Baba’s blanket. “What’s this?” I said, though as soon as I picked up the leather-bound book, I knew. I traced my fingers along the gold-stitched borders. I remembered the fire works the night Rahim Khan had given it to me, the night of my thirteenth birthday, flares sizzling and exploding into bouquets of red, green, and yellow.
“I can’t believe you can write like this,” Soraya said.
Baba dragged his head off the pillow. “I put her up to it. I hope you don’t mind.”I gave the notebook back to Soraya and left the room. Baba hated it when I cried.
A MONTH AFTER THE WEDDING, the Taheris, Sharif, his wife Suzy, and several of Soraya’s aunts came over to our apartment for dinner. Soraya made sabzi challow--white rice with spinach and lamb. After dinner, we all had green tea and played cards in groups of four. Soraya and I played with Sharif and Suzy on the coffee table, next to the couch where Baba lay under a wool blanket. He watched me joking with Sharif, watched Soraya and me lacing our fingers together, watched me push back a loose curl of her hair. I could see his internal smile, as wide as the skies of Kabul on nights when the poplars shivered and the sound of crickets swelled in the gardens.

As words from the Koran reverberated through the room, I thought of the old story of Baba wrestling a black bear in Baluchistan. Baba had wrestled bears his whole life. Losing his young wife. Raising a son by himself. Leaving his beloved homeland, his watan. Poverty. Indignity. In the end, a bear had come that he couldn’t best. But even then, he had lost on his own terms.
After each round of prayers, groups of mourners lined up and greeted me on their way out. Dutifully, I shook their hands. Many of them I barely knew I smiled politely, thanked them for their wishes, listened to whatever they had to say about Baba.
“...helped me build the house in Taimani...“ bless him...
“...no one else to turn to and he lent me...”
“...found me a job... barely knew me...”
“...like a brother to me...”
Listening to them, I realized how much of who I was, what I was, had been defined by Baba and the marks he had left on people’s lives. My whole life, I had been “Baba’s son.” Now he was gone.

Baba couldn’t show me the way anymore; I’d have to find it on my own.The thought of it terrified me.Earlier, at the gravesite in the small Muslim section of the cemetery, I had watched them lower Baba into the hole. The ??mul Iah and another man got into an argument over which was the correct ayat of the Koran to recite at the gravesite. It might have turned ugly had General Taheri not intervened. The mullah chose an ayat and recited it, casting the other fellow nasty glances. I watched them toss the first shovelful of dirt into the grave. Then I left. Walked to the other side of the cemetery. Sat in the shade of a red maple.

“沒(méi)什么?！彼骼盼⑿φf(shuō)。
“騙人?！蔽蚁破鸢职值拿骸！斑@是什么？”我說(shuō)，雖然我剛一拿起那本皮面的筆記本，心里就知道了。我的手指撫摸著那挑金線的邊緣。我記得拉辛汗把它送給我那夜，我 13歲生日那夜，煙花嘶嘶升空，綻放出朵朵的火焰，紅的，綠的，黃的。
“我簡(jiǎn)直無(wú)法相信你會(huì)寫這些東西。”索拉雅說(shuō)。

爸爸艱難地從枕上抬起頭：“是我給她的，希望你別介意?！蔽野压P記本交回給索拉雅，走出房間。爸爸不喜歡見(jiàn)到我哭泣。
婚禮之后一個(gè)月，塔赫里夫婦、沙利夫和他的妻子蘇絲，還有索拉雅幾個(gè)阿姨到我們家吃晚飯。索拉雅用白米飯、菠菜和羊肉招待客人。晚飯后，大家都喝著綠茶，四人一組打撲克牌。索拉雅和我在咖啡桌上跟沙利夫兩口子對(duì)壘，旁邊就是沙發(fā)，爸爸躺在上面，蓋著毛毯。他看著我和沙利夫開玩笑，看著索拉雅和我勾指頭，看著我?guī)退悠鹨唤z滑落的秀發(fā)。我能見(jiàn)到他發(fā)自內(nèi)心的微笑，遼闊如同喀布爾的夜空，那些白楊樹沙沙響、蟋蟀在花園啾啾叫的夜晚。
《可蘭經(jīng)》的經(jīng)文在屋子里回蕩，我想起爸爸在俾路支赤手空拳和黑熊搏斗那個(gè)古老的傳說(shuō)。爸爸畢生都在和熊搏斗。痛失正值芳年的妻子；獨(dú)自把兒子撫養(yǎng)成人；離開他深愛(ài)的家園，他的祖國(guó)；遭受貧窮、屈辱。而到了最后，終于來(lái)了一只他無(wú)法打敗的熊。但即便這樣，他也絕不妥協(xié)。
每輪禱告過(guò)后，成群的哀悼者排著隊(duì)，他們?cè)谕顺龅臅r(shí)候安慰我。我盡人子之責(zé)，和他們握手。他們之中大多數(shù)人我素未晤面。我不失禮節(jié)地微笑，感謝他們的祝愿，傾聽(tīng)他們提到爸爸時(shí)的言語(yǔ)。
“……幫我在泰曼尼蓋了房子……”“……保佑他……”
“……我走投無(wú)路，他借錢給我……”
“……他與我一面之緣，幫我找到工作……”
“……他就像我的兄弟……”

聽(tīng)到這些，我才明白自己的生活、身上的秉性有多少是來(lái)自爸爸，才知道他在人們的生命中留下的烙印。終我一生，我是“爸爸的兒子 ”。如今他走了。

爸爸再也不會(huì)替我引路了，我得自己走。想到這個(gè)，我不由害怕。早些時(shí)候，在公共墓地那塊小小的穆斯林墓區(qū)，我看著他們將爸爸放到墓穴里面。毛拉和另外一個(gè)男人開始爭(zhēng)論，在下葬的時(shí)候究竟該引用哪段《可蘭經(jīng)》經(jīng)文才算正確。若非塔赫里將軍插手，他們一定鬧得不可開交。毛拉選了一段經(jīng)文，將其頌讀出來(lái)，鄙夷地望著那個(gè)人。我看著他們將第一鏟泥土丟進(jìn)爸爸墓穴，然后走開。我走到墓園的另一邊，坐在一株紅楓樹的陰影下面。