雙語(yǔ)名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(83)

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(83)的精彩內(nèi)容吧！

“_Mashallah_,” General Taheri said. “Will you be writing about our country, history perhaps? Economics?”
“I write fiction,” I said, thinking of the dozen or so short stories I had written in the leather-bound notebook Rahim Khan had given me, wondering why I was suddenly embarrassed by them in this man’s presence.
“Ah, a storyteller,” the general said. “Well, people need stories to divert them at difficult times like this.” He put his hand on Baba’s shoulder and turned to me. “Speaking of stories, your father and I hunted pheasant together one summer day in Jalalabad,” he said. “It was a marvelous time. If I recall correctly, your father’s eye proved as keen in the hunt as it had in business.”
Baba kicked a wooden tennis racket on our tarpaulin spread with the toe of his boot. “Some business.”
General Taheri managed a simultaneously sad and polite smile, heaved a sigh, and gently patted Baba’s shoulder. “Zendagi migzara,” he said. Life goes on. He turned his eyes to me. “We Afghans are prone to a considerable degree of exaggeration, bachem, and I have heard many men foolishly labeled great. But your father has the distinction of belonging to the minority who truly deserves the label.” This little speech sounded to me the way his suit looked: often used and unnaturally shiny.
“You’re flattering me,” Baba said.
“I am not,” the general said, tilting his head sideways and pressing his hand to his chest to convey humility. “Boys and girls must know the legacy of their fathers.” He turned to me. “Do you appreciate your father, bachem? Do you really appreciate him?”
“Balay, General Sahib, I do,” I said, wishing he’d not call me “my child.”
“Then congratulations, you are already halfway to being a man,” he said with no trace of humor, no irony, the compliment of the casually arrogant.
“Padar jan, you forgot your tea.” A young woman’s voice. She was standing behind us, a slim-hipped beauty with velvety coal black hair, an open thermos and Styrofoam cup in her hand. I blinked, my heart quickening. She had thick black eyebrows that touched in the middle like the arched wings of a flying bird, and the gracefully hooked nose of a princess from old Persia--maybe that of Tahmineh, Rostam’s wife and Sohrab’s mother from the _Shahnamah_. Her eyes, walnut brown and shaded by fanned lashes, met mine. Held for a moment. Flew away.
“You are so kind, my dear,” General Taheri said. He took the cup from her. Before she turned to go, I saw she had a brown, sickle-shaped birthmark on the smooth skin just above her left jawline. She walked to a dull gray van two aisles away and put the thermos inside. Her hair spilled to one side when she kneeled amid boxes of old records and paperbacks.
“My daughter, Soraya jan,” General Taheri said. He took a deep breath like a man eager to change the subject and checked his gold pocket watch. “Well, time to go and set up.” He and Baba kissed on the cheek and he shook my hand with both of his. “Best of luck with the writing,” he said, looking me in the eye. His pale blue eyes revealed nothing of the thoughts behind them.
For the rest of that day, I fought the urge to look toward the gray van.
IT CAME TO ME on our way home. Taheri, I knew I’d heard that name before.
“Wasn’t there some story floating around about Taheri’s daughter?” I said to Baba, trying to sound casual.
“You know me,” Baba said, inching the bus along the queue exiting the flea market. “Talk turns to gossip and I walk away.”
“But there was, wasn’t there?” I said.
“Why do you ask?” He was looking at me coyly.
I shrugged and fought back a smile. “Just curious, Baba.”
“Really? Is that all?” he said, his eyes playful, lingering on mine. “Has she made an impression on you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Please, Baba.”

“安拉保佑?！彼绽飳④娬f(shuō)，“你會(huì)寫(xiě)我們國(guó)家的故事嗎，也許可以寫(xiě)寫(xiě)歷史?經(jīng)濟(jì)?”
“我寫(xiě)小說(shuō)?！蔽艺f(shuō)著想起了自己寫(xiě)在拉辛汗送的皮面筆記本里面那十來(lái)個(gè)故事，奇怪自己為什么在這個(gè)人面前突然有些不自在。
“啊，講故事的?！睂④娬f(shuō)，“很好，人們?cè)谌缃襁@樣的艱苦歲月需要故事來(lái)分散注意力?！彼咽稚煸诎职值募绨蛏?，轉(zhuǎn)向我?！罢f(shuō)到故事，有一年夏天，你爸爸跟我到賈拉拉巴特去獵野雞，”他說(shuō)，“那次真叫人稱(chēng)奇。如果我沒(méi)記錯(cuò)，你爸爸打獵跟他做生意一樣，都是一把好手。”
爸爸正在用鞋尖踢著擺在我們的帆布上一把木制網(wǎng)球拍?！坝行┥舛选！?br />塔赫里將軍露出一絲禮貌而哀傷的微笑，嘆了口氣，輕輕拍拍爸爸的肩膀?！吧羁倳?huì)繼續(xù)?！彼蜒酃馔断蛭?，“我們阿富汗人總是喜歡夸大其詞，孩子，我聽(tīng)過(guò)無(wú)數(shù)人愚蠢地使用‘了不起’這個(gè)詞。但是，你的爸爸屬于少數(shù)幾個(gè)配得上這個(gè)形容詞的人?！边@番短短的話(huà)在我聽(tīng)來(lái)，跟他的衣服如出一轍：用的場(chǎng)合太多了，閃亮得有些造作。
“你在奉承我?！卑职终f(shuō)。
“我沒(méi)有。”將軍說(shuō)，他側(cè)過(guò)頭，把手放在胸前表示尊敬，“男孩和女孩得知道他們父親的優(yōu)點(diǎn)。”他轉(zhuǎn)向我，“你崇敬你的爸爸嗎，我的孩子?你真的崇敬他嗎?”
“當(dāng)然，將軍大人，我崇敬他?！蔽艺f(shuō)，要是他別叫我“我的孩子”就好了。
“那么，恭喜你，你已經(jīng)快要長(zhǎng)成一位男子漢了?！彼f(shuō)，口氣沒(méi)有半點(diǎn)幽默，沒(méi)有諷刺，只有不卑不亢的恭維。
“親愛(ài)的爸爸，你忘了你的茶?！币粋€(gè)年輕女子的聲音。她站在我們后面，是個(gè)身材苗條的美人，天鵝絨般的黑發(fā)，手里拿著一個(gè)打開(kāi)的保溫杯和一個(gè)塑料杯。我眨眨眼，心跳加快。她的眉毛又黑又濃，中間連在一起，宛如飛翔的鳥(niǎo)兒張開(kāi)的雙翅，筆挺的鼻子很優(yōu)雅，活像古代波斯公主——也許像拓敏妮,《沙納瑪》書(shū)中羅斯坦的妻子，索拉博的媽媽。她那長(zhǎng)長(zhǎng)睫毛下面胡桃色的眼睛跟我對(duì)望了一會(huì)兒，移開(kāi)了視線。
“你真乖，我親愛(ài)的?！彼绽飳④娬f(shuō)，從她手里接過(guò)杯子。在她轉(zhuǎn)身離去之前，我見(jiàn)到她光滑的皮膚上有個(gè)鐮狀的棕色胎記，就在左邊下巴上。她走過(guò)兩條通道，把保溫杯放在一輛貨車(chē)?yán)锩妗Ｋ蛟谘b著唱片和平裝書(shū)的盒子中間，秀發(fā)傾瀉在一旁。
“我的女兒，親愛(ài)的索拉雅?！彼绽飳④娬f(shuō)。他深深吸了一口氣，看來(lái)想換個(gè)話(huà)題了，他掏出金懷表，看了看時(shí)間?！昂美?，到時(shí)間了，我得去整理整理。”他和爸爸相互親吻臉頰，用雙手跟我握別?！白Ｄ銓?xiě)作順利?！彼⒅业难劬φf(shuō)，淺藍(lán)色的雙眼沒(méi)有透露出半點(diǎn)他心里的想法。
在那天剩下的時(shí)間里，我總?cè)滩蛔⊥蚰禽v灰色的貨車(chē)。
在我們回家的路上，我想起來(lái)了。塔赫里，我知道我以前聽(tīng)過(guò)這個(gè)名字。
“是不是有過(guò)關(guān)于塔赫里將軍女兒的流言蜚語(yǔ)啊?”我假裝漫不經(jīng)心地問(wèn)爸爸。
“你知道我的，”爸爸說(shuō)，他開(kāi)著巴士，在跳蚤市場(chǎng)出口長(zhǎng)長(zhǎng)的車(chē)隊(duì)中緩慢前進(jìn)?！懊慨?dāng)人們說(shuō)三道四我都會(huì)走開(kāi)?！?br />“可是有過(guò)，是嗎?”我說(shuō)。
“你為什么要問(wèn)呢?”他猶疑地看著我。
我聳聳肩，擠出微笑:“好奇而已，爸爸?！?br />“真的嗎?真是這樣嗎?”他說(shuō)，眼光露出一絲狡獪，看著我的眼睛，“你該不是對(duì)她有意思了吧?”
我把眼光移開(kāi)，“拜托，老爸?！?