雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(55)

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。

成年后的阿米爾始終無法原諒自己當(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，讀來令人蕩氣回腸。

下面就跟小編一起來欣賞雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(55)的精彩內(nèi)容吧！

“There must have been a hundred kites in the sky that day?” Baba said. “Is that about right, Amir?”
“I guess so,” I mumbled.
“A hundred kites, Homayoun jan. No _laaf_. And the only one still flying at the end of the day was Amir’s. He has the last kite at home, a beautiful blue kite. Hassan and Amir ran it together.”
“Congratulations,” Kaka Homayoun said. His first wife, the one with the warts, clapped her hands. “Wah wah, Amir jan, we’re all so proud of you!” she said. The younger wife joined in. Then they were all clapping, yelping their praises, telling me how proud I’d made them all. Only Rahim Khan, sitting in the passenger seat next to Baba, was silent. He was looking at me in an odd way.
“Please pull over, Baba,” I said.
“What?”
“Getting sick,” I muttered, leaning across the seat, pressing against Kaka Homayoun’s daughters.
Fazilal/Karima’s face twisted. “Pull over, Kaka! His face is yellow! I don’t want him throwing up on my new dress!” she squealed.
Baba began to pull over, but I didn’t make it. A few minutes later, I was sitting on a rock on the side of the road as they aired out the van. Baba was smoking with Kaka Homayoun who was telling Fazila/Karima to stop crying; he’d buy her another dress in Jalalabad. I closed my eyes, turned my face to the sun. Little shapes formed behind my eyelids, like hands playing shadows on the wall. They twisted, merged, formed a single image: Hassan’s brown corduroy pants discarded on a pile of old bricks in the alley.
KAKA HOMAYOUN’S WHITE, two-story house in Jalalabad had a balcony overlooking a large, walled garden with apple and persimmon trees. There were hedges that, in the summer, the gardener shaped like animals, and a swimming pool with emeraldcolored tiles. I sat on the edge of the pool, empty save for a layer of slushy snow at the bottom, feet dangling in. Kaka Homayoun’s kids were playing hide-and-seek at the other end of the yard. The women were cooking and I could smell onions frying already, could hear the phht-phht of a pressure cooker, music, laughter. Baba, Rahim Khan, Kaka Homayoun, and Kaka Nader were sitting on the balcony, smoking. Kaka Homayoun was telling them he’d brought the projector along to show his slides of France. Ten years since he’d returned from Paris and he was still showing those stupid slides.
It shouldn’t have felt this way. Baba and I were finally friends. We’d gone to the zoo a few days before, seen Marjan the lion, and I had hurled a pebble at the bear when no one was watching. We’d gone to Dadkhoda’s Kabob House afterward, across from Cinema Park, had lamb kabob with freshly baked _naan_ from the tandoor. Baba told me stories of his travels to India and Russia, the people he had met, like the armless, legless couple in Bombay who’d been married forty-seven years and raised eleven children. That should have been fun, spending a day like that with Baba, hearing his stories. I finally had what I’d wanted all those years. Except now that I had it, I felt as empty as this unkempt pool I was dangling my legs into.
The wives and daughters served dinner--rice, kofta, and chicken _qurma_--at sundown. We dined the traditional way, sitting on cushions around the room, tablecloth spread on the floor, eating with our hands in groups of four or five from common platters. I wasn’t hungry but sat down to eat anyway with Baba, Kaka Faruq, and Kaka Homayoun’s two boys. Baba, who’d had a few scotches before dinner, was still ranting about the kite tournament, how I’d outlasted them all, how I’d come home with the last kite. His booming voice dominated the room. People raised their heads from their platters, called out their congratulations. Kaka Faruq patted my back with his clean hand. I felt like sticking a knife in my eye.

“那天天上一定有一百只風(fēng)箏吧?”爸爸說，“對(duì)嗎，阿米爾?”
“我想應(yīng)該有的。”我喃喃說。
“一百只風(fēng)箏，親愛的霍瑪勇，不是吹牛。那天最后一只還在天上飛的風(fēng)箏，是阿米爾放的。他還得到最后那只風(fēng)箏，把它帶回家，一只漂亮的藍(lán)風(fēng)箏。哈桑和阿米爾一起追回來的?！?br />“恭喜恭喜?！被衄斢率迨逭f。他的第一個(gè)老婆，手上生瘤那個(gè)，拍起掌來:“哇，哇，親愛的阿米爾，我們都為你感到驕傲!”年輕的老婆也加入了，然后他們?nèi)脊恼?，歡喜贊嘆，告訴我他們有多么以我為榮。只有拉辛汗，坐在副駕駛的位子上，緊鄰著爸爸，一言不發(fā)。他的眼神奇怪地看著我。
“請(qǐng)停一停，爸爸。”我說。
“干嗎?”
“我暈車?！蔽亦f，倒在座位上，靠著霍瑪勇叔叔的女兒。
法茜拉或卡麗瑪臉色一變?！翱焱＃迨?他臉色都黃了!我可不希望他弄臟我的新衣服!”她尖叫道。
爸爸開始剎車，但我沒能撐住。隔了幾分鐘，我坐在路邊的一塊石頭上，他們讓風(fēng)吹散車?yán)锏臍馕?。爸爸吸著煙，跟霍瑪勇叔叔在一起，他正在安慰法茜拉或者卡麗瑪，要她別哭泣，說到了賈拉拉巴德再給她另買一套新衣服。我合上雙眼，把臉對(duì)著太陽。眼瞼后面出現(xiàn)一小片陰影，好像用手在墻上玩影子那樣，它們扭曲著，混合著，變成一副畫面：哈桑的棕色燈芯絨褲子，扔在那條小巷的一堆舊磚頭上面。
霍瑪勇叔叔在賈拉拉巴德的白色房子樓高兩層，帶有陽臺(tái)，從上面可以看到一個(gè)大花園，有圍墻環(huán)繞，種著蘋果樹和柿子樹。那兒還植有樹籬，到了夏天，園丁會(huì)將其剪成動(dòng)物形狀。此外還有個(gè)鋪著翡翠綠瓷磚的游泳池。游泳池沒有水，底部積著一層半融的雪，我坐在池邊，雙腳在池里晃蕩?；衄斢率迨宓暮⒆釉谠鹤拥牧硗庖欢送孀矫圆?。婦女在廚房做飯，我聞到炒洋蔥的味道，聽到高壓鍋撲哧撲哧的聲音，還有音樂聲和笑聲。爸爸、拉辛汗、霍瑪勇叔叔、納德叔叔坐在陽臺(tái)上抽煙?；衄斢率迨逭f他帶了投影機(jī)，可以放他在法國的幻燈片給大家看。他從巴黎回來已經(jīng)十年了，還在炫耀那些愚蠢的幻燈片。
事情本來不應(yīng)該是這樣的。爸爸和我終于變成朋友了，幾天前我們?nèi)チ藙?dòng)物園，看那頭叫“瑪揚(yáng)”的獅子，我趁沒人注意，還朝熊扔了一塊石頭。之后，我們?nèi)ル娪霸汗珗@對(duì)面那家“達(dá)克達(dá)”烤肉店吃飯，點(diǎn)了烤羊肉和從那個(gè)印度烤爐取下來的馕餅。爸爸跟我說他去印度和俄羅斯的故事，給我講他碰到的人，比如說他在孟買［1］Bombay，印度城市。［1］看到一對(duì)夫婦，沒手沒腳，結(jié)婚已經(jīng)四十七年，還養(yǎng)了十一個(gè)孩子。跟爸爸這樣過上一天，聽他講故事，太有趣了。我終于得到了我多年來夢(mèng)寐以求的東西?？墒乾F(xiàn)在我得到了，卻覺得十分空虛，跟這個(gè)我在里面搖晃雙腿的游泳池一樣。
黃昏的時(shí)候，諸位太太和女兒張羅著晚餐——米飯、馕餅肉丸，還有咖喱雞肉。我們按照傳統(tǒng)的方式用膳，在地面鋪上桌布，坐在遍布房間的坐墊上，每四人或者五人共用一個(gè)大淺盤，用手抓著東西吃。我不餓，不過還是坐下了，跟爸爸、法拉克，還有霍瑪勇叔叔的兩個(gè)兒子一起。爸爸在晚飯前喝了一點(diǎn)烈酒，還在跟他們吹噓風(fēng)箏比賽，活靈活現(xiàn)地描述我如何將其他人統(tǒng)統(tǒng)打敗，如何帶著最后那只風(fēng)箏回家。人們從大淺盤抬起頭來，紛紛向我道賀，法拉克叔叔用他那只干凈的手拍拍我的后背。我感覺好像有把刀子刺進(jìn)眼睛。