雙語(yǔ)名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(187)

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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“Nay, Amir agha, he can’t,” Farid said. He’d read the question in my words. “I’m sorry. I wish I--”
“That’s all right, Farid,” I said. I managed a tired smile. “You have mouths to feed.” A dog was standing next to the truck now, propped on its rear legs, paws on the truck’s door, tail wagging. Sohrab was petting the dog. “I guess he goes to Islamabad for now,” I said.
I SLEPT THROUGH almost the entire four-hour ride to Islamabad. I dreamed a lot, and most of it I only remember as a hodge podge of images, snippets of visual memory flashing in my head like cards in a Rolodex: Baba marinating lamb for my thirteenth birthday party. Soraya and I making love for the first time, the sun rising in the east, our ears still ringing from the wedding music, her henna-painted hands laced in mine. The time Baba had taken Hassan and me to a strawberry field in Jalalabad--the owner had told us we could eat as much as we wanted to as long as we bought at least four kilos--and how we’d both ended up with bellyaches. How dark, almost black, Hassan’s blood had looked on the snow, dropping from the seat of his pants. Blood is a powerful thing, bachem. Khala Jamila patting Soraya’s knee and saying, God knows best, maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Sleeping on the roof of my father’s house. Baba saying that the only sin that mattered was theft. When you tell a lie, you steal a man’s right to the truth. Rahim Khan on the phone, telling me there was a way to be good again. A way to be good again...
If Peshawar was the city that reminded me of what Kabul used to be, then Islamabad was the city Kabul could have become someday. The streets were wider than Peshawar’s, cleaner, and lined with rows of hibiscus and flame trees. The bazaars were more organized and not nearly as clogged with rickshaws and pedestrians. The architecture was more elegant too, more modern, and I saw parks where roses and jasmine bloomed in the shadows of trees.
Farid found a small hotel on a side street running along the foot of the Margalla Hills. We passed the famous Shah Faisal Mosque on the way there, reputedly the biggest mosque in the world, with its giant concrete girders and soaring minarets. Sohrab perked up at the sight of the mosque, leaned out of the window and looked at it until Farid turned a corner.
THE HOTEL ROOM was a vast improvement over the one in Kabul where Farid and I had stayed. The sheets were clean, the carpet vacuumed, and the bathroom spotless. There was shampoo, soap, razors for shaving, a bathtub, and towels that smelled like lemon. And no bloodstains on the walls. One other thing: a television set sat on the dresser across from the two single beds.
“Look!” I said to Sohrab. I turned it on manually--no remote--and turned the dial. I found a children’s show with two fluffy sheep puppets singing in Urdu. Sohrab sat on one of the beds and drew his knees to his chest. Images from the TV reflected in his green eyes as he watched, stone-faced, rocking back and forth. I remembered the time I’d promised Hassan I’d buy his family a color TV when we both grew up.
“I’ll get going, Amir agha,” Farid said.
“Stay the night,” I said. “It’s a long drive. Leave tomorrow.”
“Tashakor,” he said. “But I want to get back tonight. I miss my children.” On his way out of the room, he paused in the doorway. “Good-bye, Sohrab jan,” he said. He waited for a reply, but Sohrab paid him no attention. Just rocked back and forth, his face lit by the silver glow of the images flickering across the screen.
Outside, I gave him an envelope. When he tore it, his mouth opened.
“I didn’t know how to thank you,” I said. “You’ve done so much for me.”
“How much is in here?” Farid said, slightly dazed.
“A little over two thousand dollars.”

“是的，阿米爾老爺，他不能?！狈ɡ锏抡f(shuō)，他聽(tīng)出我言下之意，“我很抱歉，我希望我…”
“沒(méi)關(guān)系的，法里德。”我說(shuō)，設(shè)法擠出一個(gè)疲憊的微笑，“你還得養(yǎng)家糊口。”現(xiàn)在有條狗站在汽車旁邊，用后腿支撐著身子，前爪搭在車門(mén)上，搖著尾巴?！拔蚁胨F(xiàn)在應(yīng)該到伊斯蘭堡去?！蔽艺f(shuō)。
到伊斯蘭堡要四個(gè)小時(shí)，我?guī)缀跻宦匪^(guò)去。我夢(mèng)到很多東西，而我所記得的，只有大雜燴似的景象，栩栩如生的記憶碎片如同旋轉(zhuǎn)架上的名片，不斷在我腦里閃過(guò)。爸爸為我十三歲生日腌制羊肉。索拉雅和我初嘗云雨，太陽(yáng)從東邊升起，我們耳里仍有婚禮音樂(lè)的裊裊余音，她涂了指甲花的手和我十指相扣。爸爸帶我和哈桑到賈拉拉巴特的草莓地——主人告訴我們，只要買(mǎi)四公斤，我們就可隨意大吃，最后我們兩個(gè)撐得肚子發(fā)痛。哈桑的血從臀部的褲子滴下來(lái)，滴在雪地上，看上去那么暗，幾乎是黑色的。血緣是最重要的，我的孩子。雅米拉阿姨拍拍索拉雅的膝蓋說(shuō)，只有真主最清楚，也許事情不是這樣的。睡在爸爸房子的屋頂上。爸爸說(shuō)惟一的罪行是盜竊。當(dāng)你說(shuō)謊，你偷走了人們知道真相的權(quán)利。拉辛汗在電話里，告訴我那兒有條再次成為好人的路。一條再次成為好人的路……
如果說(shuō)白沙瓦讓我回憶起喀布爾過(guò)去的光景，那么，伊斯蘭堡就是喀布爾將來(lái)可能成為的城市。街道比白沙瓦的要寬，也更整潔，種著成排的木槿和鳳凰樹(shù)。市集更有秩序，而且也沒(méi)有那么多行人和黃包車擋道。屋宇也更美觀，更摩登，我還見(jiàn)到一些公園，林陰之下有薔薇和茉莉盛開(kāi)。
法里德在一條通往瑪加拉山的巷道找了個(gè)小旅館。前去的路上，我們經(jīng)過(guò)著名的費(fèi)薩爾清真寺，世界上最大的清真寺，香ｗωｗ奇Qìsuu書(shū)com網(wǎng)火甚旺，聳立著巨大的水泥柱和直插云霄的尖塔?？吹角逭嫠?，索拉博神色一振，趴在車窗上，一直看著它，直到法里德開(kāi)車拐了個(gè)彎。
旅館的房間比我和法里德在喀布爾住過(guò)那間好得太多了。被褥很干凈，地毯用吸塵器吸過(guò)，衛(wèi)生間沒(méi)有污跡，里面有洗發(fā)水、香皂、刮胡刀、浴缸，有散發(fā)著檸檬香味的毛巾。墻上沒(méi)有血跡。還有，兩張單人床前面的柜子上擺著個(gè)電視機(jī)。
“看！ ”我對(duì)索拉博說(shuō)。我用手將它打開(kāi)——沒(méi)有遙控器，轉(zhuǎn)動(dòng)旋鈕。我調(diào)到一個(gè)兒童節(jié)目，兩只毛茸茸的卡通綿羊唱著烏爾都語(yǔ)歌曲。索拉博坐在床上，膝蓋抵著胸膛。他看得入迷，綠眼珠反射出電視機(jī)里面的影像，前后晃動(dòng)身子。我想起有一次，我承諾哈桑，在我們長(zhǎng)大之后，要給他家里買(mǎi)臺(tái)彩電。
“我要走了，阿米爾老爺?！狈ɡ锏抡f(shuō)。
“留下過(guò)夜吧，”我說(shuō)，“路途遙遠(yuǎn)。明天再走?！?br />“謝謝你?！彼f(shuō)，“但我想今晚就回去。我想念我的孩子?！彼叱龇块g，在門(mén)口停下來(lái)?！霸僖?jiàn)，親愛(ài)的索拉博?！彼f(shuō)。他等著回應(yīng)，但索拉博沒(méi)理他，自顧搖著身子，屏幕上閃動(dòng)的圖像在他臉上投下銀光。
在門(mén)外，我給他一個(gè)信封。打開(kāi)之后，他張大了口。
“真不知道該怎么謝謝你?！蔽艺f(shuō)，“你幫了我這么多。”
“這里面有多少錢(qián)？”法里德有點(diǎn)手足無(wú)措。
“將近兩干美元?！?