雙語名著·追風箏的人 The Kite Runner(89)

12歲的阿富汗富家少爺阿米爾與仆人哈桑情同手足。然而，在一場風箏比賽后，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年對哈桑的背叛。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心力，卻發(fā)現(xiàn)一個驚天謊言，兒時的噩夢再度重演，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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He nodded. Looked from me to Baba and back again. “They’ll call you within two weeks.”
I wanted to ask him how I was supposed to live with that word, “suspicious,” for two whole weeks. How was I supposed eat, work, study? How could he send me home with that word?
I took the form and turned it in. That night, I waited until Baba fell asleep, and then folded a blanket. I used it as a prayer rug. Bowing my head to the ground, I recited half-forgotten verses from the Koran--verses the mullah had made us commit to memory in Kabul--and asked for kindness from a God I wasn’t sure existed. I envied the mullah now, envied his faith and certainty.
Two weeks passed and no one called. And when I called them, they told me they’d lost the referral. Was I sure I had turned it in? They said they would call in another three weeks. I raised hell and bargained the three weeks down to one for the CAT scan, two to see the doctor.
The visit with the pulmonologist, Dr. Schneider, was going well until Baba asked him where he was from. Dr. Schneider said Russia. Baba lost it.
“Excuse us, Doctor,” I said, pulling Baba aside. Dr. Schneider smiled and stood back, stethoscope still in hand.
“Baba, I read Dr. Schneider’s biography in the waiting room. He was born in Michigan. Michigan! He’s American, a lot more American than you and I will ever be.”
“I don’t care where he was born, he’s Roussi,” Baba said, grimacing like it was a dirty word. “His parents were Roussi, his grandparents were Roussi. I swear on your mother’s face I’ll break his arm if he tries to touch me.”
“Dr. Schneider’s parents fled from Shorawi, don’t you see? They escaped!”
But Baba would hear none of it. Sometimes I think the only thing he loved as much as his late wife was Afghanistan, his late country. I almost screamed with frustration. Instead, I sighed and turned to Dr. Schneider. “I’m sorry, Doctor. This isn’t going to work out.”
The next pulmonologist, Dr. Amani, was Iranian and Baba approved. Dr. Amani, a soft-spoken man with a crooked mustache and a mane of gray hair, told us he had reviewed the CAT scan results and that he would have to perform a procedure called a bronchoscopy to get a piece of the lung mass for pathology. He scheduled it for the following week. I thanked him as I helped Baba out of the office, thinking that now I had to live a whole week with this new word, “mass,” an even more ominous word than “suspicious.” I wished Soraya were there with me.
It turned out that, like Satan, cancer had many names. Baba’s was called “Oat Cell Carcinoma.” Advanced. Inoperable. Baba asked Dr. Amani for a prognosis. Dr. Amani bit his lip, used the word “grave.” “There is chemotherapy, of course,” he said. “But it would only be palliative.”
“What does that mean?” Baba asked.
Dr. Amani sighed. “It means it wouldn’t change the outcome, just prolong it.”
“That’s a clear answer, Dr. Amani. Thank you for that,” Baba said. “But no chemo-medication for me.” He had the same resolved look on his face as the day he’d dropped the stack of food stamps on Mrs. Dobbins’s desk.
“But Baba--”

他點點頭，眼光又看看我，看看爸爸，又收回來?！皟蓚€星期之內(nèi)，他們會給你打電話?！?br />我想質(zhì)問他，帶著“可疑”這個詞，我怎么撐過這兩個星期?我怎么能夠吃飯、工作、學習?他怎么可以用這個詞打發(fā)我回家?
我接過那張表格，交了上去。那晚，我等到爸爸入睡，然后疊起一條毛毯，把它當成禱告用的褥子。我把頭磕在地面，暗暗念誦那些記不太清楚的《可蘭經(jīng)》——在喀布爾的時候毛拉要求我們背誦的經(jīng)文——求求真主大發(fā)善心，雖則我不知道他是否存在。那時我很羨慕那個毛拉，羨慕他的信仰和堅定。
兩個星期過去了，我們沒有接到電話。我打電話過去，他們告訴我說找不到那張轉(zhuǎn)診單，問我究竟有沒有把它交上去。他們說再過三個星期，會打電話來。我勃然作色，經(jīng)過一番交涉，把三個星期改為一個星期內(nèi)做CAT，兩個星期內(nèi)看醫(yī)生。
接診的肺科醫(yī)師叫施內(nèi)德，開頭一切都好，直到爸爸問他從哪里來，他說俄國。爸爸當場翻臉。
“對不起，大夫?！蔽艺f，將爸爸拉到一旁。施內(nèi)德大夫微笑著站起來，手里還拿著聽診器。
“爸爸，我在候診室看過施內(nèi)德大夫的簡歷。他的出生地是密歇根，密歇根!他是美國人，遠比你和我更美國。”
“我不在乎他在哪兒出生，他是俄國佬?！卑职终f，做出扭曲的表情，仿佛那是個骯臟的字眼?！八母改甘嵌韲?，他的祖父母是俄國佬。我當著你媽媽的面發(fā)誓，要是他膽敢再碰我一下，我就扭斷他的手?！?br />“施內(nèi)德大夫的父母從俄國逃亡出來，你懂嗎?他們逃亡!”
但爸爸一點都沒聽進去。有時我認為，爸爸惟一像愛他妻子那樣深愛著的，是阿富汗，他的故國。我差點兒抓狂大叫，但我只是嘆口氣，轉(zhuǎn)向施內(nèi)德醫(yī)師?！皩Σ黄?，大夫，沒有辦法?！?br />第二個肺科醫(yī)師叫阿曼尼，是伊朗人，爸爸同意了。阿曼尼大夫聲音輕柔，留著彎曲的小胡子，一頭銀發(fā)。他告訴我們，他已經(jīng)看過CAT掃描的結(jié)果，接下來他要做的，是進行一項叫支氣管鏡檢查的程序，取下一片肺塊做病理學分析。他安排下個星期進行。我攙扶爸爸走出診室，向大夫道謝，心里想著如今我得帶著“肺塊”這個詞過一整個星期了，這個字眼甚至比“可疑”更不吉利。我希望索拉雅能在這兒陪著我。
就像魔鬼一樣，癌癥有各種不同的名字。爸爸患的叫“燕麥細胞惡性腫瘤”。已經(jīng)擴散。沒法開刀。爸爸問起病況，阿曼尼大夫咬咬嘴唇，用了“嚴重”這個詞?！爱斎唬梢宰龌?。”他說，“但那只是治標不治本?！?br />“那是什么意思?”爸爸問。
阿曼尼嘆氣說:“那就是說，它無法改變結(jié)果，只能延遲它的到來。”
“這個答案清楚多了，阿曼尼大夫，謝謝你。”爸爸說，“但請不要在我身上做化療?！彼冻鋈玑屩刎摰纳袂椋蝗缒翘煸诙刨e斯太太的柜臺上放下那疊食物券。
“可是，爸爸……”