雙語(yǔ)名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(61)

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。

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I TURNED THIRTEEN that summer of 1976, Afghanistan’s next to last summer of peace and anonymity. Things between Baba and me were already cooling off again. I think what started it was the stupid comment I’d made the day we were planting tulips, about getting new servants. I regretted saying it--I really did--but I think even if I hadn’t, our happy little interlude would have come to an end. Maybe not quite so soon, but it would have. By the end of the summer, the scraping of spoon and fork against the plate had replaced dinner table chatter and Baba had resumed retreating to his study after supper. And closing the door. I’d gone back to thumbing through H?fez and Khayyám, gnawing my nails down to the cuticles, writing stories. I kept the stories in a stack under my bed, keeping them just in case, though I doubted Baba would ever again ask me to read them to him.
Baba’s motto about throwing parties was this: Invite the whole world or it’s not a party. I remember scanning over the invitation list a week before my birthday party and not recognizing at least three-quarters of the four hundred--plus Kakas and Khalas who were going to bring me gifts and congratulate me for having lived to thirteen. Then I realized they weren’t really coming for me. It was my birthday, but I knew who the real star of the show was.
For days, the house was teeming with Baba’s hired help. There was Salahuddin the butcher, who showed up with a calf and two sheep in tow, refusing payment for any of the three. He slaughtered the animals himself in the yard by a poplar tree. “Blood is good for the tree,” I remember him saying as the grass around the poplar soaked red. Men I didn’t know climbed the oak trees with coils of small electric bulbs and meters of extension cords. Others set up dozens of tables in the yard, spread a tablecloth on each. The night before the big party Baba’s friend Del-Muhammad, who owned a kabob house in Shar-e-Nau, came to the house with his bags of spices. Like the butcher, Del-Muhammad--or Dello, as Baba called him--refused payment for his services. He said Baba had done enough for his family already. It was Rahim Khan who whispered to me, as Dello marinated the meat, that Baba had lent Dello the money to open his restaurant. Baba had refused repayment until Dello had shown up one day in our driveway in a Benzand insisted he wouldn’t leave until Baba took his money.
I guess in most ways, or at least in the ways in which parties are judged, my birthday bash was a huge success. I’d never seen the house so packed. Guests with drinks in hand were chatting in the hallways, smoking on the stairs, leaning against doorways. They sat where they found space, on kitchen counters, in the foyer, even under the stairwell. In the backyard, they mingled under the glow of blue, red, and green lights winking in the trees, their faces illuminated by the light of kerosene torches propped everywhere. Baba had had a stage built on the balcony that overlooked the garden and planted speakers throughout the yard. Ahmad Zahir was playing an accordion and singing on the stage over masses of dancing bodies.
I had to greet each of the guests personally--Baba made sure of that; no one was going to gossip the next day about how he’d raised a son with no manners. I kissed hundreds of cheeks, hugged total strangers, thanked them for their gifts. My face ached from the strain of my plastered smile.
I was standing with Baba in the yard near the bar when someone said, “Happy birthday, Amir.” It was Assef, with his parents. Assef’s father, Mahmood, was a short, lanky sort with dark skin and a narrow face. His mother, Tanya, was a small, nervous woman who smiled and blinked a lot. Assef was standing between the two of them now, grinning, looming over both, his arms resting on their shoulders. He led them toward us, like he had brought them here. Like he was the parent, and they his children. A wave of dizziness rushed through me. Baba thanked them for coming.
“I picked out your present myself,” Assef said. Tanya’s face twitched and her eyes flicked from Assef to me. She smiled, unconvincingly, and blinked. I wondered if Baba had noticed.
“Still playing soccer, Assef jan?” Baba said. He’d always wanted me to be friends with Assef.
Assef smiled. It was creepy how genuinely sweet he made it look. “Of course, Kaka jan.”
“Right wing, as I recall?”

我的十三歲生日在1976年夏天。這是阿富汗最后一段平靜的和平歲月。我和爸爸的關(guān)系再度冷卻了。我想這都是因?yàn)樵谖覀兎N郁金香那天我所說的那句愚蠢的話，關(guān)于請(qǐng)新仆人的那句話。我后悔說了那句話——真的很后悔——但我認(rèn)為即使我沒說，我們這段短短的快樂插曲也會(huì)告終。也許不會(huì)這么快，但終究會(huì)結(jié)束。到夏天結(jié)束的時(shí)候，勺子和叉子碰撞盤子的聲音又取代了晚餐桌上的交談，爸爸開始在晚飯后回到書房去，并把門關(guān)上。我則回去翻看哈菲茲和迦亞謨的書，咬指甲咬到見皮，寫故事。我將故事放在床底的架子上，將它們保留起來，以備萬一爸爸會(huì)跟我要去看，雖然我懷疑他不會(huì)。
爸爸舉辦宴會(huì)的座右銘是：如果沒請(qǐng)來全世界的人，就不算是個(gè)宴會(huì)。我記得生日之前一個(gè)星期，我看著那份邀請(qǐng)名單，發(fā)現(xiàn)在近四百人中，至少有四分之三我并不認(rèn)識(shí)——包括那些將要送我生日禮物以祝賀我活過十三個(gè)年頭的叔伯姑姨。然后我意識(shí)到他們并非真的因我而來。那天是我的生日，但我知道誰才是宴會(huì)上的天皇巨星。
一連數(shù)天，屋子里擠滿了爸爸請(qǐng)來的幫手。有個(gè)叫薩拉胡丁的屠夫拖來一頭小牛和兩只綿羊，拒絕收下哪怕一分錢。他親自在院子里的白楊樹下宰了那些畜生?！坝醚獫补鄬?duì)樹有好處?！蔽矣浀悯r血染紅樹下的青草時(shí)，他這么說。有些我不認(rèn)識(shí)的男人爬上橡樹，掛上成串的燈泡和長(zhǎng)長(zhǎng)的電線。其他人在院子里擺出幾十張桌子，逐一披上桌布。盛宴開始之前一夜，爸爸的朋友德爾－穆罕默德帶來幾袋香料，他在沙里諾區(qū)開了一間燒烤店。跟屠夫一樣，德爾－穆罕默德——爸爸管他叫“德羅”——也拒絕收錢。他說爸爸已經(jīng)幫了他家里太多忙了。德羅在腌肉的時(shí)候，拉辛汗低聲告訴我，德羅開餐廳的錢是爸爸借給他的，并且沒有要他還錢。直到有一天，德羅開著奔馳轎車，來到我家門口，說要是爸爸不收錢他就不走，爸爸這才收下。
我想從各個(gè)方面來說，或者至少?gòu)脑u(píng)價(jià)宴會(huì)的標(biāo)準(zhǔn)來說，我的生日盛宴稱得上極為成功。我從來沒有見到屋子里有那么多人。來賓或是手拿酒杯，在門廊聊天，或是在臺(tái)階上吸煙，或是倚著門口。他們找到空位就坐下，廚房的柜臺(tái)上，門廊里面，甚至樓梯下面都坐滿了人。院子里，藍(lán)色的、紅色的、綠色的燈泡在樹上閃閃發(fā)光，人們?cè)诰奂谙旅?，四處點(diǎn)燃的煤油燈照亮他們的臉龐。爸爸把舞臺(tái)設(shè)在俯覽花園的陽(yáng)臺(tái)上，但揚(yáng)聲器布滿整個(gè)院子。艾哈邁德?查希爾彈著手風(fēng)琴，唱著歌，人們?cè)谖枧_(tái)下面跳舞。
我不得不逐一跟來賓打招呼——爸爸這么要求，他可不希望翌日有人亂嚼舌頭，說他養(yǎng)了個(gè)不懂禮貌的兒子。我親了幾百個(gè)臉頰，和所有的陌生人擁抱，感謝他們的禮物。我的臉因?yàn)榻┯驳奈⑿Χl(fā)痛。
我跟爸爸站在院子里的酒吧前面，這當(dāng)頭有人說:“生日快樂，阿米爾?！笔前⑷?，還有他的父母。阿塞夫的父親馬赫穆德是矮個(gè)子，又矮又瘦，皮膚黝黑，臉部狹小。他的媽媽譚雅是個(gè)小婦人，神經(jīng)兮兮，臉帶微笑，不停眨眼。如今阿塞夫就站在他們兩個(gè)之間，咧嘴笑著，居高臨下，雙手摟著他們的肩膀。他帶著他們走過來，好像拎著他們過來一樣，似乎他才是父親，他們是孩子。我感到一陣眩暈。爸爸對(duì)他們的蒞臨表示感謝。
“我親自給你挑選了禮物。”阿塞夫說。譚雅的臉抽動(dòng)，眼光從阿塞夫身上移到我身上。她微笑著，顯得有些勉強(qiáng)，眨著眼。我懷疑爸爸有沒有看到。
“還玩足球嗎，親愛的阿塞夫?”爸爸說，他一直希望我跟阿塞夫交朋友。
阿塞夫微笑，他甜蜜的笑容顯得純真無瑕，真叫人不寒而栗。“當(dāng)然，親愛的叔叔。”
“我記得你踢右路?”