雙語(yǔ)名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(80)

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(wú)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(lái)令人蕩氣回腸。

下面就跟小編一起來(lái)欣賞雙語(yǔ)名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(80)的精彩內(nèi)容吧！

“It’s not so bad now,” he said, meaning since he had become the day manager at the gas station. But I’d seen the way he winced and rubbed his wrists on damp days. The way sweat erupted on his forehead as he reached for his bottle of antacids after meals. “Besides, I didn’t bring us here for me, did I?”
I reached across the table and put my hand on his. My student hand, clean and soft, on his laborer’s hand, grubby and calloused. I thought of all the trucks, train sets, and bikes he’d bought me in Kabul. Now America. One last gift for Amir.
Just one month after we arrived in the U.S., Baba found a job off Washington Boulevard as an assistant at a gas station owned by an Afghan acquaintance--he’d started looking for work the same week we arrived. Six days a week, Baba pulled twelve-hour shifts pumping gas, running the register, changing oil, and washing windshields. I’d bring him lunch sometimes and find him looking for a pack of cigarettes on the shelves, a customer waiting on the other side of the oil-stained counter, Baba’s face drawn and pale under the bright fluorescent lights. The electronic bell over the door would ding-dong when I walked in, and Baba would look over his shoulder, wave, and smile, his eyes watering from fatigue.
The same day he was hired, Baba and I went to our eligibility officer in San Jose, Mrs. Dobbins. She was an overweight black woman with twinkling eyes and a dimpled smile. She’d told me once that she sang in church, and I believed her--she had a voice that made me think of warm milk and honey. Baba dropped the stack of food stamps on her desk. “Thank you but I don’t want,” Baba said. “I work always. In Afghanistan I work, in America I work. Thank you very much, Mrs. Dobbins, but I don’t like it free money.”
Mrs. Dobbins blinked. Picked up the food stamps, looked from me to Baba like we were pulling a prank, or “slipping her a trick” as Hassan used to say. “Fifteen years I been doin’ this job and nobody’s ever done this,” she said. And that was how Baba ended those humiliating food stamp moments at the cash register and alleviated one of his greatest fears: that an Afghan would see him buying food with charity money. Baba walked out of the welfare office like a man cured of a tumor. THAT SUMMER OF 1983, I graduated from high school at the age of twenty, by far the oldest senior tossing his mortarboard on the football field that day. I remember losing Baba in the swarm of families, flashing cameras, and blue gowns. I found him near the twenty-yard line, hands shoved in his pockets, camera dangling on his chest. He disappeared and reappeared behind the people moving between us: squealing blue-clad girls hugging, crying, boys high-fiving their fathers, each other. Baba’s beard was graying, his hair thinning at the temples, and hadn’t he been taller in Kabul? He was wearing his brown suit--his only suit, the same one he wore to Afghan weddings and funerals--and the red tie I had bought for his fiftieth birthday that year. Then he saw me and waved. Smiled. He motioned for me to wear my mortarboard, and took a picture of me with the school’s clock tower in the background. I smiled for him--in a way, this was his day more than mine. He walked to me, curled his arm around my neck, and gave my brow a single kiss. “I am moftakhir, Amir,” he said. Proud. His eyes gleamed when he said that and I liked being on the receiving end of that look.
He took me to an Afghan kabob house in Hayward that night and ordered far too much food. He told the owner that his son was going to college in the fall. I had debated him briefly about that just before graduation, and told him I wanted to get a job. Help out, save some money, maybe go to college the following year. But he had shot me one of his smoldering Baba looks, and the words had vaporized on my tongue.
After dinner, Baba took me to a bar across the street from the restaurant. The place was dim, and the acrid smell of beer I’d always disliked permeated the walls. Men in baseball caps and tank tops played pool, clouds of cigarette smoke hovering over the green tables, swirling in the fluorescent light. We drew looks, Baba in his brown suit and me in pleated slacks and sports jacket. We took a seat at the bar, next to an old man, his leathery face sickly in the blue glow of the Michelob sign overhead. Baba lit a cigarette and ordered us beers. “Tonight I am too much happy,” he announced to no one and everyone. “Tonight I drinking with my son. And one, please, for my friend,” he said, patting the old man on the back. The old fellow tipped his hat and smiled. He had no upper teeth.
Baba finished his beer in three gulps and ordered another. He had three before I forced myself to drink a quarter of mine. By then he had bought the old man a scotch and treated a foursome of pool players to a pitcher of Budweiser. Men shook his hand and clapped him on the back. They drank to him. Someone lit his cigarette. Baba loosened his tie and gave the old man a handful of quarters. He pointed to the jukebox. “Tell him to play his favorite songs,” he said to me. The old man nodded and gave Baba a salute. Soon, country music was blaring, and, just like that, Baba had started a party.
At one point, Baba stood, raised his beer, spilling it on the sawdust floor, and yelled, “Fuck the Russia!” The bar’s laughter, then its full-throated echo followed. Baba bought another round of pitchers for everyone.
When we left, everyone was sad to see him go. Kabul, Peshawar, Hayward. Same old Baba, I thought, smiling.
I drove us home in Baba’s old, ochre yellow Buick Century. Baba dozed off on the way, snoring like a jackhammer. I smelled tobacco on him and alcohol, sweet and pungent. But he sat up when I stopped the car and said in a hoarse voice, “Keep driving to the end of the block.”
“Why, Baba?”

“現(xiàn)在還好啦?！彼f(shuō)，他的意思是自升任加油站日班經(jīng)理之后。但在天氣潮濕的日子，我總能見(jiàn)到他忍痛揉著手腕。也見(jiàn)過(guò)他在飯后，頭冒冷汗去拿止痛藥瓶子的模樣。“再說(shuō)，我又不是為了自己才讓我們兩個(gè)來(lái)到這里的，你知道嗎?”
我把手伸過(guò)桌子，握住他的手。我的是學(xué)生哥兒的手，干凈柔軟；他的是勞動(dòng)者的手，骯臟且長(zhǎng)滿(mǎn)老繭。我想起在喀布爾時(shí)，他給我買(mǎi)的所有那些卡車(chē)、火車(chē)玩具，還有那些自行車(chē)。如今，美國(guó)是爸爸送給阿米爾的最后一件禮物。
我們到美國(guó)僅一個(gè)月之后，爸爸在華盛頓大道找到工作，在一個(gè)阿富汗熟人開(kāi)的加油站當(dāng)助理——他從我們到美國(guó)那天就開(kāi)始找工作了。每周六天，每天輪班十二小時(shí)，爸爸給汽車(chē)加油、收銀、換油、擦洗擋風(fēng)玻璃。有好幾次，我?guī)顼埥o他吃，發(fā)現(xiàn)他正在貨架上找香煙，油污斑斑的柜臺(tái)那端，有個(gè)顧客在等著，在明亮的熒光映襯下，爸爸的臉扭曲而蒼白。每次我走進(jìn)去，門(mén)上的電鈴會(huì)“叮咚叮咚”響，爸爸會(huì)抬起頭，招招手，露出微笑，他的雙眼因?yàn)槠＠鄱鳒I。
被聘請(qǐng)那天，爸爸和我到圣荷塞［1］SanJose，美國(guó)加利福尼亞州城市。［1］去找我們的移民資格審核官杜賓斯太太。她是個(gè)很胖的黑人婦女，眼睛明亮，笑起來(lái)露出兩個(gè)酒窩。有一回她跟我說(shuō)她在教堂唱歌，我相信——她的聲音讓我想起熱牛奶和蜂蜜。爸爸將一疊食物券放在她的柜臺(tái)上?！爸x謝你，可是我不想要?！卑职终f(shuō)，“我一直有工作。在阿富汗，我有工作；在美國(guó)，我有工作。非常感謝，杜賓斯太太，可是我不喜歡接受施舍?！?br />杜賓斯太太眨眨眼，把食物券撿起來(lái)，看看我，又看看爸爸，好像我們?cè)陂_(kāi)她玩笑，或者像哈桑經(jīng)常說(shuō)的“耍她一下”?！拔腋蛇@行十五年了，從來(lái)沒(méi)人這么做過(guò)?！彼f(shuō)。就是這樣，爸爸結(jié)束了在收銀臺(tái)用食物券支付的屈辱日子，也消除了他最擔(dān)心的事情之一：被阿富汗人看到他用救濟(jì)金買(mǎi)食物。爸爸走出福利辦公室時(shí)，好像大病初愈。1983年那個(gè)夏天，我20歲，高中畢業(yè)。那天在足球場(chǎng)上擲帽子的人中，要數(shù)我最老了。我記得球場(chǎng)上滿(mǎn)是藍(lán)色袍子，學(xué)生的家人、閃光的鏡頭，把爸爸淹沒(méi)了。我在二十碼線附近找到他，雙手插袋，相機(jī)在胸前晃蕩。我們之間隔著一群人，一會(huì)兒把他擋住，一會(huì)兒他又出現(xiàn)。穿藍(lán)色衣服的女生尖叫著，相互擁抱，哭泣；男生和他們的父親拍掌慶賀。爸爸的胡子變灰了，鬢邊的頭發(fā)也減少了，還有，難道他在喀布爾更高?他穿著那身棕色西裝——他只有這么一套，穿著它參加阿富汗人的婚禮和葬禮——系著那年他五十歲生日時(shí)我送的紅色領(lǐng)帶。接著他看到我，揮揮手，微笑。他示意我戴上方帽子，以學(xué)校的鐘樓為背景，替我拍了張照片。我朝他微笑著——在某種意義上，那日子與其說(shuō)是我的，毋寧說(shuō)是他的。他朝我走來(lái)，伸手?jǐn)堊∥业牟弊樱H吻了我的額頭。“我很驕傲，阿米爾?！彼f(shuō)。他說(shuō)話(huà)的時(shí)候眼睛閃亮，那樣的眼光望著的是我，讓我很高興。
那晚，他帶我到海沃德［1］Hayward，美國(guó)加利福尼亞州城市，近弗里蒙特。［1］的阿富汗餐廳，點(diǎn)了太多的食物。他跟店主說(shuō)，他的兒子秋天就要上大學(xué)了。畢業(yè)之前，我就上大學(xué)的事情跟他稍稍爭(zhēng)論過(guò)，告訴他我想工作，補(bǔ)貼家用，存些錢(qián)，也許次年才上大學(xué)。但他恨鐵不成鋼地盯了我一眼，我只好閉嘴。
晚飯后，爸爸帶我去飯店對(duì)面的酒吧。那地方光線陰暗，墻壁上散發(fā)著我素來(lái)不喜歡的啤酒酸味。男人們頭戴棒球帽，身穿無(wú)袖上衣，玩著撞球，綠色的桌子上煙霧升騰，裊裊繞著熒光燈。爸爸穿著棕色西裝，我穿著打褶長(zhǎng)褲和運(yùn)動(dòng)外套，顯得格外引人注目。我們?cè)诎膳_(tái)找到位子，坐在一個(gè)老人身邊。老人頭上有個(gè)麥克羅啤酒的商標(biāo)，發(fā)出藍(lán)光，將他那張滄桑的臉照得病懨懨的。爸爸點(diǎn)了根香煙，給我們要了啤酒?！敖裢砦姨吲d了!”他自顧自地向每個(gè)人宣布，“今晚我?guī)业膬鹤觼?lái)喝酒。來(lái)，請(qǐng)給我的朋友來(lái)一杯。”他的手拍在那個(gè)老人背上。老頭抬抬帽子，露出微笑，他沒(méi)有上排的牙齒。
爸爸三口就喝完了他的啤酒，又要了一杯。我強(qiáng)迫自己，還沒(méi)喝完四分之一，他已經(jīng)干掉三杯了。他請(qǐng)那個(gè)老頭一杯蘇格蘭烈酒，還請(qǐng)那四個(gè)打撞球的家伙一大罐百威。人們同他握手，用力拍他的后背。他們向他敬酒，有人給他點(diǎn)煙。爸爸松了松領(lǐng)帶，給那個(gè)老人一把二毛五分的硬幣，指指電唱機(jī)。“告訴他，來(lái)幾首他最拿手的?！彼麑?duì)我說(shuō)。老人點(diǎn)點(diǎn)頭，向爸爸敬禮。不久就響起鄉(xiāng)村音樂(lè)，就像這樣，爸爸開(kāi)始宴會(huì)了。
酒到酣處，爸爸站起來(lái)，舉起酒杯，將它摔在遍地鋸屑的地板，高聲喊叫。“操他媽的俄國(guó)佬!”酒吧里爆發(fā)出一陣笑聲，大家高聲附和，爸爸又給每個(gè)人買(mǎi)啤酒。
我們離開(kāi)的時(shí)候，大家都舍不得他走?？Σ紶?，白沙瓦，海沃德。爸爸還是爸爸，我想，微笑著。
我開(kāi)著爸爸那輛土黃色的舊別克世紀(jì)轎車(chē)，駛回我們家。爸爸在路上睡著了，鼾聲如氣鉆。我在他身上聞到煙草的味道，還有酒精味，甜蜜而辛辣。但我在停車(chē)的時(shí)候，他醒過(guò)來(lái)，嘶啞的嗓音說(shuō):“繼續(xù)開(kāi)，到街道那邊去。”
“干嗎，爸爸?”