双语名著·追风筝的人 The Kite Runner(168)

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(168)的精彩内容吧！

Sohrab raised his arms and turned slowly. He stood on tiptoes, spun gracefully, dipped to his knees, straightened, and spun again. His little hands swiveled at the wrists, his fingers snapped, and his head swung side to side like a pendulum. His feet pounded the floor, the bells jingling in perfect harmony with the beat of the tabla. He kept his eyes closed.
“_Mashallah_!” they cheered. “Shahbas! Bravo!” The two guards whistled and laughed. The Talib in white was tilting his head back and forth with the music, his mouth half-open in a leer. Sohrab danced in a circle, eyes closed, danced until the music stopped. The bells jingled one final time when he stomped his foot with the song’s last note. He froze in midspin.
“Bia, bia, my boy,” the Talib said, calling Sohrab to him. Sohrab went to him, head down, stood between his thighs. The Talib wrapped his arms around the boy. “How talented he is, nay, my Hazara boy!” he said. His hands slid down the child’s back, then up, felt under his armpits. One of the guards elbowed the other and snickered. The Talib told them to leave us alone.
“Yes, Agha sahib,” they said as they exited. The Talib spun the boy around so he faced me. He locked his arms around Sohrab’s belly, rested his chin on the boy’s shoulder. Sohrab looked down at his feet, but kept stealing shy, furtive glances at me. The man’s hand slid up and down the boy’s belly. Up and down, slowly, gently.
“I’ve been wondering,” the Talib said, his bloodshot eyes peering at me over Sohrab’s shoulder. “Whatever happened to old Babalu, anyway?”
The question hit me like a hammer between the eyes. I felt the color drain from my face. My legs went cold. Numb. He laughed. “What did you think? That you’d put on a fake beard and I wouldn’t recognize you? Here’s something I’ll bet you never knew about me: I never forget a face. Not ever.” He brushed his lips against Sohrab’s ear, kept his eye on me. “I heard your father died. Tsk-tsk. I always did want to take him on. Looks like I’ll have to settle for his weakling of a son.” Then he took off his sunglasses and locked his bloodshot blue eyes on mine.
I tried to take a breath and couldn’t. I tried to blink and couldn’t. The moment felt surreal--no, not surreal, absurd--it had knocked the breath out of me, brought the world around me to a standstill. My face was burning. What was the old saying about the bad penny? My past was like that, always turning up. His name rose from the deep and I didn’t want to say it, as if uttering it might conjure him. But he was already here, in the flesh, sitting less than ten feet from me, after all these years. His name escaped my lips: “Assef.”
“Ainir jan.”

索拉博抬起手臂，缓缓转身。他踮起脚尖，优雅地旋转，弯身触碰膝盖，挺直，再次旋转。他的小手在手腕处转动，打着响指，而他的头像钟摆那样来回摇动。他的脚踩着地板，铃铛的响声完美地和手鼓声融合在一起。他始终闭着双眼。
“真棒！”他们欢呼， “跳得好！太棒了！ ”两个卫兵吹着口哨，哈哈大笑。穿白衣的塔利班身子随着音乐前后晃动，嘴角挂着淫亵的笑容。索拉博绕着圆圈跳舞，闭着眼睛跳啊跳，直到音乐停止。他的脚随最后一个音顿在地上，铃铛响了最后一次。他维持半转的姿势。
“好啊，好啊，我的男孩。”塔利班说，把索拉博喊过去。索拉博低头走过去，站在他两腿之间。那个塔利班伸臂抱住索拉博，“多么有天分啊，不是吗，我的哈扎拉男孩！”他说。他的手在孩子背后滑落，然后摸起，停在他的腋窝下面。一个卫兵用手肘撞了另外那个，偷偷发笑。塔利班让他们退下。
“是，老爷。”他们说完退出去。塔利班扳过男孩的身子，让他面对着我。他把手停在索拉博的小腹上，下巴抵着他的肩膀。索拉博低头看着脚，但不停用羞涩的眼神偷偷看着我。那男人的手在男孩的小腹上下移动、上下抚摸，慢慢地，温柔地。
“我一直在想，”塔利班说，他血红的双眼在索拉博肩膀上看着我，“那个老巴巴鲁后来怎么样了？”
这个问题问得我眼冒金星。我觉得脸上冒出冷汗，双脚渐渐变冷，变麻木。他哈哈大笑：“你想干什么呢？以为挂上一副假胡子我就认不出你来？我敢说，我身上有一点你从来不知道：我从来不会忘记人们的脸，从来不会。”他用嘴唇去擦索拉博的耳朵，眼睛看着我。“我听说你父亲死了，啧啧，我一直想跟他干上一架，看来，我只好解决他这个没用的儿子了。”说完他将太阳镜摘下，血红的眼睛逼视着我。
我想呼吸，但不能。我想眨眼，但不能。那一刻多么虚幻——不，不是虚幻，是荒唐。它让我无力呼吸，让我身边的世界停止转动。我脸上发烧。那句关于烂钱的谚语[英语中有句俗语， “A bad Penny always tums up”，意思是坏人总是会回来 ]怎么说来着？往事就是如此，总是会回来。他的名字从深处冒出来，我却不愿意提及，仿佛一说出来，他就会现身。但这许多年过去以后，他已经在这里了，活生生的，坐在离我不到十英尺的地方。我脱口说出他的名字：“阿塞夫。”
“亲爱的阿米尔。”