雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(181)

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(diǎn)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。

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THERE WERE THREE OTHER PATIENTS in my room. Two older men, one with a cast on his leg, the other wheezing with asthma, and a young man of fifteen or sixteen who’d had appendix surgery. The old guy in the cast stared at us without blinking, his eyes switching from me to the Hazara boy sitting on a stool. My roommates’ families--old women in bright shalwar-kameezes, children, men wearing skullcaps--shuffled noisily in and out of the room. They brought with them pakoras, _naan_, sa,nosas, biryani. Sometimes people just wandered into the room, like the tall, bearded man who walked in just before Farid and Sohrab arrived. He wore a brown blanket wrapped around him. Aisha asked him something in Urdu. He paid her no attention and scanned the room with his eyes. I thought he looked at me a little longer than necessary. When the nurse spoke to him again, he just spun around and left.
“How are you?” I asked Sohrab. He shrugged, looked at his hands.
“Are you hungry? That lady there gave me a plate of biryani, but I can’t eat it,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say to him. “You want it?”He shook his head.“Do you want to talk?”He shook his head again.We sat there like that for a while, silent, me propped up in bed, two pillows behind my back, Sohrab on the three-legged stool next to the bed. I fell asleep at some point, and, when I woke up, daylight had dimmed a bit, the shadows had stretched, and Sohrab was still sitting next to me. He was still looking down at his hands.
THAT NIGHT, after Farid picked up Sohrab, I unfolded Rahim Khan’s letter. I had delayed reading it as long as possible. It read:
Amirjan, _Inshallah_, you have reached this letter safely. I pray that I have not put you in harm’s way and that Afghanistan has not been too unkind to you. You have been in my prayers since the day you left. You were right all those years to suspect that I knew. I did know. Hassan told me shortly after it happened. What you did was wrong, Amir jan, but do not forget that you were a boy when it happened. A troubled little boy. You were too hard on yourself then, and you still are--I saw it in your eyes in Peshawar. But I hope you will heed this: A man who has no conscience, no goodness, does not suffer. I hope your suffering comes to an end with this journey to Afghanistan.
Amir jan, I am ashamed for the lies we told you all those years. You were right to be angry in Peshawar. You had a right to know. So did Hassan. I know it doesn’t absolve anyone of anything, but the Kabul we lived in in those days was a strange world, one in which some things mattered more than the truth.

我的房間還有其他三個病人。兩個年紀(jì)較大，一個腳上澆著石膏，另外那個患有哮喘，還有個十五六歲的少年，剛割過闌尾炎。澆石膏那個老家伙目不轉(zhuǎn)睛地看著我們，他的眼睛來回看著我和那個坐在一張小矮凳上的哈扎拉男孩。我室友的家人——長罩衫光鮮的老太婆、孩子、戴無邊便帽的男子——喧鬧地在病房進(jìn)進(jìn)出出。他們帶來炸蔬菜餅、馕餅、土豆餅和印度煸飯。偶爾還有人只是走進(jìn)屋子，比如剛剛在法里德和索拉博來之前，有個高高的大胡子就進(jìn)來過，身上裹著棕色的毛毯。艾莎用烏爾都語問他話，他不理不睬，自顧用眼光掃射房間。我認(rèn)為他看著我的時間長得有點(diǎn)不對頭。那護(hù)士又跟他說話，他只是轉(zhuǎn)過身離開。
“你好嗎？”我問索拉博。他聳聳肩，看著自己的手。
“你餓嗎？那邊的太太給我一盤焗飯，但我吃不下?！蔽艺f。我不知道跟他說什么，“你想吃嗎？”他搖搖頭?！澳阆胝f話嗎？”他又搖搖頭。我們就那樣坐了一會，默不作聲，我倚在床上，背后墊著兩個枕頭；索拉博坐在床邊的三腳凳上。我不知不覺睡著了，醒來的時候，天色已經(jīng)有點(diǎn)昏暗，影子變長，而索拉博仍坐在我身邊。他仍在看著自己的雙手。
那晚，法里德把索拉博接走之后，我展開拉辛汗的信。我盡可能慢慢看，信上寫著：
親愛的阿米爾：安拉保佑，愿你毫發(fā)無損地看到這封信。我祈禱我沒讓你受到傷害，我祈禱阿富汗人對你不至于太過刻薄。自從你離開那天，我一直在為你祈禱。那些年來，你一直在懷疑我是否知道。我確實(shí)知道。事情發(fā)生之后不久，哈桑就告訴我了。你做錯了。親愛的阿米爾，但別忘記，事情發(fā)生的時候，你還只是個孩子，一個騷動不安的小男孩。當(dāng)時你對自己太過苛刻，現(xiàn)在你依然如此——在白沙瓦時。我從你的眼神看出來。但我希望你會意識到：沒有良心、沒有美德的人不會痛苦。我希望這次你到阿富汗去，能結(jié)束你的苦楚。
親愛的阿米爾，那些年來，我們一直瞞著你，我感到羞恥。你在白沙瓦大發(fā)雷霆并沒錯。你有權(quán)利知道，哈桑也是。我知道這于事無補(bǔ)，但那些年月，我們生活的喀布爾是個奇怪的世界，在那兒，有些事情比真相更加重要。