雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(33)

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(33)的精彩內(nèi)容吧！

Winter.
冬天。

Here is what I do on the first day of snowfall every year: I step out of the house early in the morning, still in my pajamas, hugging my arms against the chill. I find the driveway, my father's car, the walls, the trees, the rooftops, and the hills buried under a foot of snow. I smile. The sky is seamless and blue, the snow so white my eyes burn. I shovel a handful of the fresh snow into my mouth, lis ten to the muffled stillness broken only by the cawing of crows. I walk down the front steps, barefoot, and call for Hassan to come out and see.
每年下雪的第一天，我都會這樣度過：一大清早我穿著睡衣，走到屋子外面，雙臂環(huán)抱抵御嚴(yán)寒。我發(fā)現(xiàn)車道、爸爸的轎車、圍墻、樹木、屋頂還有山丘，統(tǒng)統(tǒng)覆蓋著一英尺厚的積雪。我微笑。天空一碧如洗，萬里無云。白晃晃的雪花刺痛我的眼睛。我捧起一把新雪，塞進嘴里，四周靜謐無聲，只有幾聲烏鴉的啼叫傳進耳里。我赤足走下前門的臺階，把哈桑叫出來看看。

Winter was every kid's favorite season in Kabul, at least those whose fathers could afford to buy a good iron stove. The reason was simple: They shut down school for the icy season. Winter to me was the end of long division and naming the capital of Bulgaria, and the start of three months of playing cards by the stove with Hassan, free Russian movies on Tuesday mornings at Cinema Park, sweet turnip "qurma" over rice for lunch after a morning of building snowmen.
冬天是喀布爾每個孩子最喜歡的季節(jié)，至少那些家里買得起一個溫暖鐵爐的孩子是這樣的。理由很簡單：每當(dāng)天寒地凍，學(xué)校就停課了。于我而言，冬天意味著那些復(fù)雜的除法題目的結(jié)束，也不用去背保加利亞的首都，可以開始一連三個月坐在火爐邊跟哈桑玩撲克，星期二早晨去電影院公園看免費的俄羅斯影片，早上堆個雪人之后，午餐吃一頓甜蕪青拌飯。

And kites, of course. Flying kites. And running them.
當(dāng)然還有風(fēng)箏。放風(fēng)箏。追風(fēng)箏。

For a few unfortunate kids, winter did not spell the end of the school year. There were the so-called voluntary winter courses. No kid I knew ever volunteered to go to these classes; parents, of course, did the volunteering for them. Fortunately for me, Baba was not one of them. I remember one kid, Ahmad, who lived across the street from us. His father was some kind of doctor, I think. Ahmad had epilepsy and always wore a wool vest and thick blackrimmed glasses--he was one of Assef's regular victims. Every morning, I watched from my bedroom window as their Hazara servant shoveled snow from the driveway, cleared the way for the black Opel. I made a point of watching Ahmad and his father get into the car, Ahmad in his wool vest and winter coat, his schoolbag filled with books and pencils. I waited until they pulled away, turned the corner, then I slipped back into bed in my flannel pajamas. I pulled the blanket to my chin and watched the snowcapped hills in the north through the window. Watched them until I drifted back to sleep.
對于某些可憐的孩子來說，冬天并不代表學(xué)期的結(jié)束，還有種叫自愿冬季課程的東西。據(jù)我所知，沒有學(xué)生自愿去參加那些課程，當(dāng)然是父母自愿送他們?nèi)ァＰ疫\的是，爸爸不是這樣的家長。我記得有個叫艾哈邁德的家伙，住的地方跟我家隔街相望。他的父親可能是個什么醫(yī)生，我想。艾哈邁德患有癲癇，總是穿著羊毛內(nèi)衣，戴一副黑框眼鏡--阿塞夫經(jīng)常欺負(fù)他。每天早晨，我從臥室的窗戶看出去，他們家的哈扎拉傭人把車道上的雪鏟開，為那輛黑色的歐寶清道。我看著艾哈邁德和他的父親上車，艾哈邁德穿著羊毛內(nèi)衣和冬天的外套，背著個塞滿課本和鉛筆的書包。我穿著法蘭絨睡衣，看他們揚長而去，轉(zhuǎn)過街道的拐角，然后鉆回我的床上去。我將毛毯拉到脖子上，透過窗戶，望著北邊白雪皚皚的山頭。望著它們，直到再次入睡。

I loved wintertime in Kabul. I loved it for the soft pattering of snow against my window at night, for the way fresh snow crunched under my black rubber boots, for the warmth of the cast-iron stove as the wind screeched through the yards, the streets. But mostly because, as the trees froze and ice sheathed the roads, the chill between Baba and me thawed a little. And the reason for that was the kites. Baba and I lived in the same house, but in different spheres of existence. Kites were the one paper thin slice of intersection between those spheres.
我喜歡喀布爾的冬天。我喜歡夜里滿天飛雪輕輕敲打我的窗戶，我喜歡新霽的積雪在我的黑色膠靴下吱嘎作響，我喜歡感受鐵爐的溫暖，聽寒風(fēng)呼嘯著吹過街道、吹過院子。但更重要的是，每逢林木蕭瑟，冰雪封路，爸爸和我之間的寒意會稍微好轉(zhuǎn)。那是因為風(fēng)箏。爸爸和我生活在同一個屋頂之下，但我們生活在各自的區(qū)域，風(fēng)箏是我們之間薄如紙的交集。