雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(168)

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(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(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(168)的精彩內(nèi)容吧！

Sohrab raised his arms and turned slowly. He stood on tiptoes, spun gracefully, dipped to his knees, straightened, and spun again. His little hands swiveled at the wrists, his fingers snapped, and his head swung side to side like a pendulum. His feet pounded the floor, the bells jingling in perfect harmony with the beat of the tabla. He kept his eyes closed.
“_Mashallah_!” they cheered. “Shahbas! Bravo!” The two guards whistled and laughed. The Talib in white was tilting his head back and forth with the music, his mouth half-open in a leer. Sohrab danced in a circle, eyes closed, danced until the music stopped. The bells jingled one final time when he stomped his foot with the song’s last note. He froze in midspin.
“Bia, bia, my boy,” the Talib said, calling Sohrab to him. Sohrab went to him, head down, stood between his thighs. The Talib wrapped his arms around the boy. “How talented he is, nay, my Hazara boy!” he said. His hands slid down the child’s back, then up, felt under his armpits. One of the guards elbowed the other and snickered. The Talib told them to leave us alone.
“Yes, Agha sahib,” they said as they exited. The Talib spun the boy around so he faced me. He locked his arms around Sohrab’s belly, rested his chin on the boy’s shoulder. Sohrab looked down at his feet, but kept stealing shy, furtive glances at me. The man’s hand slid up and down the boy’s belly. Up and down, slowly, gently.
“I’ve been wondering,” the Talib said, his bloodshot eyes peering at me over Sohrab’s shoulder. “Whatever happened to old Babalu, anyway?”
The question hit me like a hammer between the eyes. I felt the color drain from my face. My legs went cold. Numb. He laughed. “What did you think? That you’d put on a fake beard and I wouldn’t recognize you? Here’s something I’ll bet you never knew about me: I never forget a face. Not ever.” He brushed his lips against Sohrab’s ear, kept his eye on me. “I heard your father died. Tsk-tsk. I always did want to take him on. Looks like I’ll have to settle for his weakling of a son.” Then he took off his sunglasses and locked his bloodshot blue eyes on mine.
I tried to take a breath and couldn’t. I tried to blink and couldn’t. The moment felt surreal--no, not surreal, absurd--it had knocked the breath out of me, brought the world around me to a standstill. My face was burning. What was the old saying about the bad penny? My past was like that, always turning up. His name rose from the deep and I didn’t want to say it, as if uttering it might conjure him. But he was already here, in the flesh, sitting less than ten feet from me, after all these years. His name escaped my lips: “Assef.”
“Ainir jan.”

索拉博抬起手臂，緩緩轉(zhuǎn)身。他踮起腳尖，優(yōu)雅地旋轉(zhuǎn)，彎身觸碰膝蓋，挺直，再次旋轉(zhuǎn)。他的小手在手腕處轉(zhuǎn)動，打著響指，而他的頭像鐘擺那樣來回?fù)u動。他的腳踩著地板，鈴鐺的響聲完美地和手鼓聲融合在一起。他始終閉著雙眼。
“真棒！”他們歡呼， “跳得好！太棒了！ ”兩個衛(wèi)兵吹著口哨，哈哈大笑。穿白衣的塔利班身子隨著音樂前后晃動，嘴角掛著淫褻的笑容。索拉博繞著圓圈跳舞，閉著眼睛跳啊跳，直到音樂停止。他的腳隨最后一個音頓在地上，鈴鐺響了最后一次。他維持半轉(zhuǎn)的姿勢。
“好啊，好啊，我的男孩?！彼嗾f，把索拉博喊過去。索拉博低頭走過去，站在他兩腿之間。那個塔利班伸臂抱住索拉博，“多么有天分啊，不是嗎，我的哈扎拉男孩！”他說。他的手在孩子背后滑落，然后摸起，停在他的腋窩下面。一個衛(wèi)兵用手肘撞了另外那個，偷偷發(fā)笑。塔利班讓他們退下。
“是，老爺。”他們說完退出去。塔利班扳過男孩的身子，讓他面對著我。他把手停在索拉博的小腹上，下巴抵著他的肩膀。索拉博低頭看著腳，但不停用羞澀的眼神偷偷看著我。那男人的手在男孩的小腹上下移動、上下?lián)崦?，慢慢地，溫柔地?br />“我一直在想，”塔利班說，他血紅的雙眼在索拉博肩膀上看著我，“那個老巴巴魯后來怎么樣了？”
這個問題問得我眼冒金星。我覺得臉上冒出冷汗，雙腳漸漸變冷，變麻木。他哈哈大笑：“你想干什么呢？以為掛上一副假胡子我就認(rèn)不出你來？我敢說，我身上有一點你從來不知道：我從來不會忘記人們的臉，從來不會。”他用嘴唇去擦索拉博的耳朵，眼睛看著我。“我聽說你父親死了，嘖嘖，我一直想跟他干上一架，看來，我只好解決他這個沒用的兒子了?！闭f完他將太陽鏡摘下，血紅的眼睛逼視著我。
我想呼吸，但不能。我想眨眼，但不能。那一刻多么虛幻——不，不是虛幻，是荒唐。它讓我無力呼吸，讓我身邊的世界停止轉(zhuǎn)動。我臉上發(fā)燒。那句關(guān)于爛錢的諺語[英語中有句俗語， “A bad Penny always tums up”，意思是壞人總是會回來 ]怎么說來著？往事就是如此，總是會回來。他的名字從深處冒出來，我卻不愿意提及，仿佛一說出來，他就會現(xiàn)身。但這許多年過去以后，他已經(jīng)在這里了，活生生的，坐在離我不到十英尺的地方。我脫口說出他的名字：“阿塞夫?！?br />“親愛的阿米爾?！?/p>