双语名著·追风筝的人 The Kite Runner(71)

12岁的阿富汗富家少爷阿米尔与仆人哈桑情同手足。然而，在一场风筝比赛后，发生了一件悲惨不堪的事，阿米尔为自己的懦弱感到自责和痛苦，逼走了哈桑，不久，自己也跟随父亲逃往美国。

成年后的阿米尔始终无法原谅自己当年对哈桑的背叛。为了赎罪，阿米尔再度踏上暌违二十多年的故乡，希望能为不幸的好友尽最后一点心力，却发现一个惊天谎言，儿时的噩梦再度重演，阿米尔该如何抉择?

故事如此残忍而又美丽，作者以温暖细腻的笔法勾勒人性的本质与救赎，读来令人荡气回肠。

下面就跟小编一起来欣赏双语名著·追风筝的人 The Kite Runner(71)的精彩内容吧！

March 1981 A young woman sat across from us. She was dressed in an olive green dress with a black shawl wrapped tightly around her face against the night chill. She burst into prayer every time the truck jerked or stumbled into a pothole, her “Bismillah!” peaking with each of the truck’s shudders and jolts. Her husband, a burly man in baggy pants and sky blue turban, cradled an infant in one arm and thumbed prayer beads with his free hand. His lips moved in silent prayer. There were others, in all about a dozen, including Baba and me, sitting with our suitcases between our legs, cramped with these strangers in the tarpaulin-covered cab of an old Russian truck.
My innards had been roiling since we’d left Kabul just after two in the morning. Baba never said so, but I knew he saw my car sickness as yet another of my array of weakness--I saw it on his embarrassed face the couple of times my stomach had clenched so badly I had moaned. When the burly guy with the beads--the praying woman’s husband--asked if I was going to get sick, I said I might. Baba looked away. The man lifted his corner of the tarpaulin cover and rapped on the driver’s window, asked him to stop. But the driver, Karim, a scrawny dark-skinned man with hawk-boned features and a pencil-thin mustache, shook his head.
“We are too close to Kabul,” he shot back. “Tell him to have a strong stomach.”
Baba grumbled something under his breath. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, but suddenly I was salivating, the back of my throat tasting bile. I turned around, lifted the tarpaulin, and threw up over the side of the moving truck. Behind me, Baba was apologizing to the other passengers. As if car sickness was a crime. As if you weren’t supposed to get sick when you were eighteen. I threw up two more times before Karim agreed to stop, mostly so I wouldn’t stink up his vehicle, the instrument of his livelihood. Karim was a people smuggler--it was a pretty lucrative business then, driving people out of Shorawi-occupied Kabul to the relative safety of Pakistan. He was taking us to Jalalabad, about 170 kilometers southeast of Kabul, where his brother, Toor, who had a bigger truck with a second convoy of refugees, was waiting to drive us across the Khyber Pass and into Peshawar.
We were a few kilometers west of Mahipar Falls when Karim pulled to the side of the road. Mahipar--which means “Flying Fish”--was a high summit with a precipitous drop overlooking the hydro plant the Germans had built for Afghanistan back in 1967. Baba and I had driven over the summit countless times on our way to Jalalabad, the city of cypress trees and sugarcane fields where Afghans vacationed in the winter.
I hopped down the back of the truck and lurched to the dusty embankment on the side of the road. My mouth filled with saliva, a sign of the retching that was yet to come. I stumbled to the edge of the cliff overlooking the deep valley that was shrouded in dark ness. I stooped, hands on my kneecaps, and waited for the bile. Somewhere, a branch snapped, an owl hooted. The wind, soft and cold, clicked through tree branches and stirred the bushes that sprinkled the slope. And from below, the faint sound of water tumbling through the valley.
Standing on the shoulder of the road, I thought of the way we’d left the house where I’d lived my entire life, as if we were going out for a bite: dishes smeared with kofta piled in the kitchen sink; laundry in the wicker basket in the foyer; beds unmade; Baba’s business suits hanging in the closet. Tapestries still hung on the walls of the living room and my mother’s books still crowded the shelves in Baba’s study. The signs of our elopement were subtle: My parents’ wedding picture was gone, as was the grainy photograph of my grandfather and King Nader Shah standing over the dead deer. A few items of clothing were missing from the closets. The leather-bound notebook Rahim Khan had given me five years earlier was gone.
In the morning, Jalaluddin--our seventh servant in five years--would probably think we’d gone out for a stroll or a drive. We hadn’t told him. You couldn’t trust anyone in Kabul any more--for a fee or under threat, people told on each other, neighbor on neighbor, child on parent, brother on brother, servant on master, friend on friend. I thought of the singer Ahmad Zahir, who had played the accordion at my thirteenth birthday. He had gone for a drive with some friends, and someone had later found his body on the side of the road, a bullet in the back of his head. The rafiqs, the comrades, were everywhere and they’d split Kabul into two groups: those who eavesdropped and those who didn’t. The tricky part was that no one knew who belonged to which. A casual remark to the tailor while getting fitted for a suit might land you in the dungeons of Poleh-charkhi. Complain about the curfew to the butcher and next thing you knew, you were behind bars staring at the muzzle end of a Kalashnikov. Even at the dinner table, in the privacy of their home, people had to speak in a calculated manner--the rafiqs were in the classrooms too; they’d taught children to spy on their parents, what to listen for, whom to tell.
What was I doing on this road in the middle of the night? I should have been in bed, under my blanket, a book with dog-eared pages at my side. This had to be a dream. Had to be. Tomorrow morning, I’d wake up, peek out the window: No grim-faced Russian soldiers patrolling the sidewalks, no tanks rolling up and down the streets of my city, their turrets swiveling like accusing fingers, no rubble, no curfews, no Russian Army Personnel Carriers weaving through the bazaars. Then, behind me, I heard Baba and Karim discussing the arrangement in Jalalabad over a smoke. Karim was reassuring Baba that his brother had a big truck of “excellent and first-class quality,” and that the trek to Peshawar would be very routine. “He could take you there with his eyes closed,” Karim said. I overheard him telling Baba how he and his brother knew the Russian and Afghan soldiers who worked the checkpoints, how they had set up a “mutually profitable” arrangement. This was no dream. As if on cue, a MiG suddenly screamed past overhead. Karim tossed his cigarette and produced a hand gun from his waist. Pointing it to the sky and making shooting gestures, he spat and cursed at the MiG.
I wondered where Hassan was. Then the inevitable. I vomited on a tangle of weeds, my retching and groaning drowned in the deafening roar of the MiG. WE PULLED UP to the checkpoint at Mahipar twenty minutes later. Our driver let the truck idle and hopped down to greet the approaching voices. Feet crushed gravel. Words were exchanged, brief and hushed. A flick of a lighter. “Spasseba.”
Another flick of the lighter. Someone laughed, a shrill cackling sound that made me jump. Baba’s hand clamped down on my thigh. The laughing man broke into song, a slurring, off-key rendition of an old Afghan wedding song, delivered with a thick Russian accent:
Ahesta boro, Mah-e-man, ahesta boro.(Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly.)

1981年3月有个年轻的妇女坐在我们对面。她穿着一身橄榄绿服装，黑色的披肩将面部包得严严实实，以抵御深夜的寒意。每逢卡车急刹或颠簸过路面的凹陷，她就会出声祈祷，每次汽车的高低起伏总伴随着她的“奉安拉之名”。她的丈夫身材矮壮，穿着破旧的裤子、天蓝色的长袍，一手抱着婴儿，空出来的那只手用拇指转动着念珠。他嘴唇开合，默默祈祷。同行的还有其他人，总共十来个，包括爸爸跟我，行李箱放在我们两腿之间，盘膝坐在被帆布包起来的后斗上，跟这些陌生人挤在一起，搭乘这辆破旧的俄国卡车。
我们凌晨两点离开喀布尔，自那时起我的内脏就已经翻江倒海。虽然爸爸没有说什么，但我知道在他眼里，晕车是孱弱无能的表现——这可以从他的脸色看出来，有好几次，我的胃收缩得厉害，忍不住呻吟，他的表情很尴尬。那个拿着念珠的矮壮男人——在祈祷的那个妇女的丈夫——问我是不是要吐了，我说可能是。爸爸把头别开。那男人掀起帆布的一角，敲敲驾驶室的窗门，要求司机停下来。司机卡林是个黑瘦的汉子，一张老鹰般的脸上留着小胡子，他摇摇头。
“我们离喀布尔太近了。”他大喊，“让他撑住。”
爸爸低声咕哝了几句。我想告诉他我很抱歉，但刹那间我满嘴唾液，喉底尝到胆汁的苦味。我转过身，揭起帆布，在行进的卡车一边呕吐起来。在我身后，爸爸正向其他乘客赔不是，仿佛晕车是犯罪，仿佛人们到了十八岁就不应该晕车。我又吐了两次，卡林这才同意停车，大部分原因还是因为担心我弄脏他的车，他赖以谋生的工具。卡林是个蛇头，从被俄国人占领的喀布尔，将人们偷偷运到相对安全的巴基斯坦，这在当时可是日进斗金的生意。他把我们载往喀布尔西南170公里外的贾拉拉巴特，他的堂兄图尔在那边接应，负责再送逃难的人一程，他有一辆更大的卡车，会载着我们通过开伯尔隘口 。
卡林把车停在路旁，这时我们在玛希帕瀑布以西数公里的地方。玛希帕——它的意思是“飞翔的鱼儿”——是一处山峰，壁立千仞，俯览着下面1967年德国人为阿富汗援建的水电站。数不清有多少次，爸爸跟我路过那座山峰，前往贾拉拉巴特，那个遍地柏树和甘蔗的城市是阿富汗人过冬的胜地。
我从卡车后面跳下去，跌跌撞撞走到路边布满尘灰的护栏。我嘴里涨满了唾液，那是快要呕吐的征兆。我蹒跚着走近悬崖边，下面的深渊被黑暗吞噬了。我弯下腰，双手撑在膝盖上，做好呕吐的准备。在某个地方传来树枝劈啪作响的声音，还有猫头鹰的叫声。寒风微微拂动树枝，吹过山坡上的灌木丛。而下面，水流在山谷淌动，传来阵阵微弱的声音。
我站在路肩上，想起我们如何离开家园，那个我生活了一辈子的地方。仿佛我们只是外出下馆子：厨房的洗碗盆堆放着沾有肉丸夹饼残渣的盘子，盛满衣物的柳条篮子摆在门廊，被褥还没叠好，衣橱里挂着爸爸做生意穿的套装。起居室的墙上仍挂着壁毯，我妈妈的图书仍拥挤地占据着爸爸书房里的架子。我们出逃的迹象很微妙：我父母的结婚照不见了，爷爷跟纳达尔国王站在死鹿之前合影的那张老照片杳然无踪。衣橱里少了几件衣服。五年前拉辛汗送我的那本皮面笔记本也消失了。
早晨，贾拉鲁丁——五年来的第七个仆人——兴许会以为我们出去散步或者兜风。我们没有告诉他。在喀布尔，你再不能相信任何人——为了获得悬赏或者因为受到威胁，人们彼此告密：邻居告发邻居，儿童揭发父母，兄弟陷害兄弟，仆人背叛主人，朋友出卖朋友。我想起歌手艾哈迈德?查希尔，他在我13岁生日那天弹奏手风琴。他和几个朋友开车去兜风，随后有人在路边发现他的尸体，有颗子弹射中他的后脑。那些人无所不在，他们将喀布尔人分成两派：告密的和没有告密的。最麻烦的是，没有人知道谁属于哪一派。裁缝给你量身时，你几句无心快语可能会让你身处波勒卡其区的黑牢。对卖肉的老板抱怨几句宵禁，你的下场很可能是在牢栏之后望着俄制步枪的枪管。甚至在吃晚饭的桌子上，在自家的屋子里，人们说话也得深思熟虑——教室里面也有这样的人，他们教小孩监视父母，该监听些什么，该向谁告发。
我三更半夜在这路边干什么呢?我应当躺在床上，盖着毯子，身旁放着一本毛边的旧书。这肯定是一场梦，肯定是。明天早晨，我会醒来，朝窗外望出去：人行道上没有那些阴沉着脸的俄国士兵在巡逻；没有坦克在我的城市里面耀武扬威，它们的炮塔活像责难的手指那样转动；没有断壁残垣，没有宵禁，没有俄国军队的运兵车在市场上迂回前进。这时，我听到爸爸和卡林在我身后讨论到了贾拉拉巴特的安排，持续了一根烟的时间。卡林一再向爸爸保证，他的兄弟有辆“很棒的、质量一流的”大卡车，到白沙瓦去可谓轻车熟路。“他闭上眼也能把你们送到那儿。”卡林说。我听见他跟爸爸说，他和他的兄弟认识把守关卡的俄国和阿富汗士兵，他们建立了一种“互惠互利”的关系。这不是梦。一架“米格”战斗机突然从头顶呼啸而过，仿佛在提醒这一切都是真的。卡林扔掉手里的香烟，从腰间掏出一把手枪，指向天空，做出射击的姿势，他朝那架米格吐口水，高声咒骂。
我想知道哈桑在哪里。跟着，不可避免地，我对着杂草丛吐出来，我的呕吐声和呻吟声被米格震耳欲聋的轰鸣淹没了。过了二十分钟，我们停在玛希帕的检查站。司机没熄火，跳下车去问候走上前来的声音。鞋子踏上沙砾。短促的低声交谈。火机打火的声音。“谢谢。”有人用俄语说。
又一声打火的火机声。有人大笑，一阵令人毛骨悚然的劈啪声让我跳起来。爸爸伸手按住我的大腿。发笑的那个男人哼起歌来，带着厚厚的俄国口音，含糊走调地唱着一首古老的阿富汗婚礼歌谣：
慢慢走，我心爱的月亮，慢慢走。