双语名著·追风筝的人 The Kite Runner(88)

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(88)的精彩内容吧！

“I know,” she said. “My mother told me.” Then her face red dened with a blush at what she had blurted, at the implication of her answer, that “Amir Conversations” took place between them when I wasn’t there. It took an enormous effort to stop myself from smiling.
“I brought you something.” I fished the roll of stapled pages from my back pocket. “As promised.” I handed her one of my short stories.
“Oh, you remembered,” she said, actually beaming. “Thank you!” I barely had time to register that she’d addressed me with “tu” for the first time and not the formal “shoma,” because suddenly her smile vanished. The color dropped from her face, and her eyes fixed on something behind me. I turned around. Came face-to-face with General Taheri.
“Amir jan. Our aspiring storyteller. What a pleasure,” he said. He was smiling thinly.
“Salaam, General Sahib,” I said through heavy lips.
He moved past me, toward the booth. “What a beautiful day it is, nay?” he said, thumb hooked in the breast pocket of his vest, the other hand extended toward Soraya. She gave him the pages.
“They say it will rain this week. Hard to believe, isn’t it?” He dropped the rolled pages in the garbage can. Turned to me and gently put a hand on my shoulder. We took a few steps together.
“You know, bachem, I have grown rather fond of you. You are a decent boy, I really believe that, but--” he sighed and waved a hand “--even decent boys need reminding sometimes. So it’s my duty to remind you that you are among peers in this flea market.” He stopped. His expressionless eyes bore into mine. “You see, everyone here is a storyteller.” He smiled, revealing perfectly even teeth. “Do pass my respects to your father, Amir jan.”
He dropped his hand. Smiled again.
“WHAT’S WRONG?” Baba said. He was taking an elderly woman’s money for a rocking horse.
“Nothing,” I said. I sat down on an old TV set. Then I told him anyway.
“Akh, Amir,” he sighed.
As it turned out, I didn’t get to brood too much over what had happened.
Because later that week, Baba caught a cold.
IT STARTED WITH A HACKING COUGH and the sniffles. He got over the sniffles, but the cough persisted. He’d hack into his handkerchief, stow it in his pocket. I kept after him to get it checked, but he’d wave me away. He hated doctors and hospitals. To my knowledge, the only time Baba had ever gone to a doctor was the time he’d caught malaria in India.
Then, two weeks later, I caught him coughing a wad of blood-stained phlegm into the toilet.
“How long have you been doing that?” I said.
“What’s for dinner?” he said.
“I’m taking you to the doctor.”
Even though Baba was a manager at the gas station, the owner hadn’t offered him health insurance, and Baba, in his recklessness, hadn’t insisted. So I took him to the county hospital in San Jose. The sallow, puffy-eyed doctor who saw us introduced himself as a second-year resident. “He looks younger than you and sicker than me,” Baba grumbled. The resident sent us down for a chest X-ray. When the nurse called us back in, the resident was filling out a form.
“Take this to the front desk,” he said, scribbling quickly.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A referral.” Scribble scribble.
“For what?”
“Pulmonary clinic.”
“What’s that?”
He gave me a quick glance. Pushed up his glasses. Began scribbling again. “He’s got a spot on his right lung. I want them to check it out.”
“A spot?” I said, the room suddenly too small.
“Cancer?” Baba added casually.
“Possible. It’s suspicious, anyway,” the doctor muttered.
“Can’t you tell us more?” I asked.
“Not really. Need a CAT scan first, then see the lung doctor.” He handed me the referral form. “You said your father smokes, right?”
“Yes.”

“我知道，”她说，“我妈妈跟我说过。”接着因为这句话，她脸上泛起红晕。她的答案暗示着，我不在的时候，她们曾经“谈起阿米尔”。我费了好大劲才忍住让自己不发笑。
“我给你带了些东西，”我从后裤兜掏出一卷订好的纸张，“实现诺言。”我递给她一篇自己写的小故事。
“哦，你还记得。”她说，笑逐颜开,“谢谢你!”我没有时间体会她第一次用“你”而非用较正式的“您”称呼我到底意味着什么，因为突然间她的笑容消失了，脸上的红晕褪去，眼睛盯着我身后。我转过身，跟塔赫里将军面对面站着。
“亲爱的阿米尔，抱负远大的说故事的人，很高兴见到你。”他说，挂着淡淡的微笑。
“你好，将军大人。”我嗫嚅着说。
他从我身旁走过，迈向货摊。“今天天气很好，是吗?”他说，拇指搭在他那间背心的上袋，另一只手伸向索拉雅。她把纸卷给了他。
“他们说整个星期都会下雨呢。很难相信吧，是吗?”他把那卷纸张丢进垃圾桶。转向我，轻轻地把手放在我的肩膀上，我们并排走了几步。
“你知道，我的孩子，我相当喜欢你。你是个有教养的孩子，我真的这么认为，但是……”他叹了口气，挥挥手，“……即使有教养的男孩有时也需要提醒。所以，我有责任提醒你，你是在跳蚤市场的众目睽睽之下做事情。”他停住，他那不露喜怒的眸子直盯着我双眼，“你知道，这里每个人都会讲故事。”他微笑，露出一口整整齐齐的牙齿,“替我向你爸爸问好，亲爱的阿米尔。”
他把手放下，又露出微笑。
“怎么回事?”爸爸说，接过一个老妇人买木马的钱。
“没事。”我说。我坐在一台旧电视机上。不过还是告诉他了。
“唉，阿米尔。”他叹气。
结果，刚才发生的事情没有让我烦恼太久。
因为那个星期稍晚一些时候，爸爸感冒了。
开始只是有点咳嗽和流鼻涕。他的流鼻涕痊愈了，可是咳嗽还是没好。他会咳在手帕上，把它藏在口袋里。我不停地求他去检查，但他会挥手叫我走开。他讨厌大夫和医院。就我所知，爸爸惟一去医院那次，是在印度染上疟疾。
然后，过了两个星期，我撞见他正把一口带血丝的痰咳到马桶里面去。
“你这样多久了?”我说。
“晚饭吃什么?”他说。
“我要带你去看大夫。”
虽说爸爸已经是加油站的经理，那老板没有给他提供医疗保险，而爸爸满不在乎，没有坚持。于是我带他去圣荷塞的县立医院。有个面带菜色、双眼浮肿的大夫接待了我们，自我介绍说是第二年的驻院医师。“他看起来比你还年轻，但比我病得还重。”爸爸咕哝说。那驻院医师让我们下楼去做胸部X光扫描。护士喊我们进去的时候，医师正在填一张表。
“把这张表带到前台。”他说，匆匆写着。
“那是什么?”我问。
“转诊介绍。”他写啊写。
“干吗用?”
“给肺科。”
“那是什么?”
他瞥了我一眼，推了推眼镜，又开始写起来。“他肺部的右边有个黑点，我想让他们复查一下。”
“黑点?”我说，房间突然之间变得太小了。
“癌症吗?”爸爸若无其事地加上一句。
“也许是，总之很可疑。”医生咕哝道。
“你可以多告诉我们一些吗?”我问。
“没办法，需要先去做CAT扫描，然后去看肺科医生。”他把转诊单递给我。“你说过你爸爸吸烟，对吧?”
“是的。”