雙語(yǔ)名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(120)

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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He nodded and dropped his head. “Agha sahib was like my second father... God give him peace.”
They piled their things in the center of a few worn rags and tied the corners together. We loaded the bundle into the Buick. Hassan stood in the threshold of the house and held the Koran as we all kissed it and passed under it. Then we left for Kabul. I remember as I was pulling away, Hassan turned to take a last look at their home. When we got to Kabul, I discovered that Hassan had no intention of moving into the house. “But all these rooms are empty, Hassan jan. No one is going to live in them,” I said.But he would not. He said it was a matter of ihtiram, a matter of respect. He and Farzana moved their things into the hut in the backyard, where he was born. I pleaded for them to move into one of the guest bedrooms upstairs, but Hassan would hear nothing of it. “What will Amir agha think?” he said to me. “What will he think when he comes back to Kabul after the war and finds that I have assumed his place in the house?” Then, in mourning for your father, Hassan wore black for the next forty days.I did not want them to, but the two of them did all the cooking, all the cleaning. Hassan tended to the flowers in the garden, soaked the roots, picked off yellowing leaves, and planted rosebushes. He painted the walls. In the house, he swept rooms no one had slept in for years, and cleaned bathrooms no one had bathed in. Like he was preparing the house for someone’s return. Do you remember the wall behind the row of corn your father had planted, Amir jan? What did you and Hassan call it, “the Wall of Ailing Corn”? A rocket destroyed a whole section of that wall in the middle of the night early that fall. Hassan rebuilt the wall with his own hands, brick by brick, until it stood’ whole again. I do not know what I would have done if he had not been there. Then late that fall, Farzana gave birth to a stillborn baby girl. Hassan kissed the baby’s lifeless face, and we buried her in the backyard, near the sweetbrier bushes. We covered the little mound with leaves from the poplar trees. I said a prayer for her. Farzana stayed in the hut all day and wailed--it is a heartbreaking sound, Amir jan, the wailing of a mother. I pray to Allah you never hear it.
Outside the walls of that house, there was a war raging. But the three of us, in your father’s house, we made our own little haven from it. My vision started going by the late 1980s, so I had Hassan read me your mother’s books. We would sit in the foyer, by the stove, and Hassan would read me from _Masnawi_ or _Khayyám_, as Farzana cooked in the kitchen. And every morning, Hassan placed a flower on the little mound by the sweetbrier bushes.
In early 1990, Farzana became pregnant again. It was that same year, in the middle of the summer, that a woman covered in a sky blue burqa knocked on the front gates one morning. When I walked up to the gates, she was swaying on her feet, like she was too weak to even stand. I asked her what she wanted, but she would not answer.
“Who are you?” I said. But she just collapsed right there in the driveway. I yelled for Hassan and he helped me carry her into the house, to the living room. We lay her on the sofa and took off her burqa. Beneath it, we found a toothless woman with stringy graying hair and sores on her arms. She looked like she had not eaten for days. But the worst of it by far was her face. Someone had taken a knife to it and... Amir jan, the slashes cut this way and that way. One of the cuts went from cheekbone to hairline and it had not spared her left eye on the way. It was grotesque. I patted her brow with a wet cloth and she opened her eyes. “Where is Hassan?” she whispered.
“I’m right here,” Hassan said. He took her hand and squeezed it.

他點(diǎn)點(diǎn)頭，把頭垂下。“老爺待我就像父親一樣……真主保佑他安息?！?br />他們把家當(dāng)放在幾塊破布中間，綁好那些布角。我們把那個(gè)包袱放在別克車(chē)?yán)铩９Ｕ驹陂T(mén)檻，舉起《可蘭經(jīng)》，我們都親了親它，從下面穿過(guò)。然后我們前往喀布爾。我記得我開(kāi)車(chē)離開(kāi)的時(shí)候，哈桑轉(zhuǎn)過(guò)頭，最后一次看了他們的家。到了喀布爾之后，我發(fā)現(xiàn)哈桑根本沒(méi)有搬進(jìn)屋子的意思。“可是所有這些房間都空著，親愛(ài)的哈桑，沒(méi)有人打算住進(jìn)來(lái)?！蔽艺f(shuō)。但他不聽(tīng)。他說(shuō)那關(guān)乎尊重。他和法莎娜把家當(dāng)搬進(jìn)后院那間破屋子，那個(gè)他出生的地方。我求他們搬進(jìn)樓頂?shù)目头?，但哈桑一點(diǎn)都沒(méi)聽(tīng)進(jìn)去?！鞍⒚谞柹贍敃?huì)怎么想呢？”他對(duì)我說(shuō)，“要是戰(zhàn)爭(zhēng)結(jié)束，有朝一日阿米爾少爺回來(lái)，發(fā)現(xiàn)我鳩占鵲巢，他會(huì)怎么想？”然后，為了悼念你的父親，哈桑穿了四十天黑衣服。我并不想要他們那么做，但他們兩個(gè)包辦了所有做飯洗衣的事情。哈桑悉心照料花園里的花兒，松土，摘掉枯萎的葉子，種植薔薇籬笆。他粉刷墻壁，把那些多年無(wú)人住過(guò)的房間抹干凈，把多年無(wú)人用過(guò)的浴室清洗整潔。好像他在打理房間，等待某人歸來(lái)。你記得你爸爸種植的那排玉米后面的那堵墻嗎，親愛(ài)的阿米爾？你和哈桑怎么稱呼它？“病玉米之墻”？那年初秋某個(gè)深夜，一枚火箭把那墻統(tǒng)統(tǒng)炸塌了。哈桑親手把它重新建好，壘起一塊塊磚頭，直到它完整如初。要不是有他在那兒，我真不知道該怎么辦。那年深秋，法莎娜生了個(gè)死產(chǎn)的女?huà)?。哈桑親吻那個(gè)嬰兒毫無(wú)生氣的臉，我們將她葬在后院，就在薔薇花叢旁邊，我們用白楊樹(shù)葉蓋住那個(gè)小墳堆。我替她禱告。法莎娜整天躲在小屋里面，凄厲地哭喊。母親的哀嚎。我求安拉，保佑你永遠(yuǎn)不會(huì)聽(tīng)到。
在那屋子的圍墻之外，戰(zhàn)爭(zhēng)如火如荼。但我們?nèi)齻€(gè)，在你爸爸的房子里，我們自己營(yíng)造了小小的天堂。自1980年代晚期開(kāi)始，我的視力就衰退了，所以我讓哈桑給我讀你媽媽的書(shū)。我們會(huì)坐在門(mén)廊，坐在火爐邊，法莎娜在廚房煮飯的時(shí)候，哈桑會(huì)給我念《瑪斯納維》或者《魯拜集》。每天早晨，哈?？倳?huì)在薔薇花叢那邊小小的墳堆上擺一朵鮮花。
1990年年初，法莎娜又懷孕了。也是在這一年，盛夏的時(shí)候，某天早晨，有個(gè)身披天藍(lán)色長(zhǎng)袍的女人敲響前門(mén)，她雙腳發(fā)抖，似乎孱弱得連站都站不穩(wěn)。我問(wèn)她想要什么，她沉默不語(yǔ)。
“你是誰(shuí)？”我說(shuō)。但她一語(yǔ)不發(fā)，就在那兒癱下，倒在車(chē)道上。我把哈桑喊出來(lái)，他幫我把她扶進(jìn)屋子，走進(jìn)客廳。我們讓她躺在沙發(fā)上，除下她的長(zhǎng)袍。長(zhǎng)袍之下是個(gè)牙齒掉光的婦女，蓬亂的灰白頭發(fā)，手臂上生著瘡。她看上去似乎很多天沒(méi)有吃東西了。但更糟糕的是她的臉。有人用刀在她臉上……親愛(ài)的阿米爾，到處都是刀痕，有一道從顴骨到發(fā)際線，她的左眼也沒(méi)有幸免。太丑怪了。我用一塊濕布拍拍她的額頭，她睜開(kāi)眼。“哈桑在哪里？”她細(xì)聲說(shuō)。
“我在這里?！惫Ｕf(shuō)，他拉起她的手，緊緊握住。她那只完好的眼打量著他。