雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(59)

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(gè)驚天謊言，兒時(shí)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(59)的精彩內(nèi)容吧！

“Hassan’s not going anywhere,” Baba snapped. He dug a new hole with the trowel, striking the dirt harder than he had to. “He’s staying right here with us, where he belongs. This is his home and we’re his family. Don’t you ever ask me that question again!”
“I won’t, Baba. I’m sorry.”
We planted the rest of the tulips in silence.
I was relieved when school started that next week. Students with new notebooks and sharpened pencils in hand ambled about the courtyard, kicking up dust, chatting in groups, waiting for the class captains’ whistles. Baba drove down the dirt lane that led to the entrance. The school was an old two-story building with broken windows and dim, cobblestone hallways, patches of its original dull yellow paint still showing between sloughing chunks of plaster. Most of the boys walked to school, and Baba’s black Mustang drew more than one envious look. I should have been beaming with pride when he dropped me off--the old me would have--but all I could muster was a mild form of embarrassment. That and emptiness. Baba drove away without saying good-bye.
I bypassed the customary comparing of kite-fighting scars and stood in line. The bell rang and we marched to our assigned class, filed in in pairs. I sat in the back row. As the Farsi teacher handed out our textbooks, I prayed for a heavy load of homework.
School gave me an excuse to stay in my room for long hours. And, for a while, it took my mind off what had happened that winter, what I had let happen. For a few weeks, I preoccupied myself with gravity and momentum, atoms and cells, the Anglo-Afghan wars, instead of thinking about Hassan and what had happened to him. But, always, my mind returned to the alley. To Hassan’s brown corduroy pants lying on the bricks. To the droplets of blood staining the snow dark red, almost black.
One sluggish, hazy afternoon early that summer, I asked Hassan to go up the hill with me. Told him I wanted to read him a new story I’d written. He was hanging clothes to dry in the yard and I saw his eagerness in the harried way he finished the job.
We climbed the hill, making small talk. He asked about school, what I was learning, and I talked about my teachers, especially the mean math teacher who punished talkative students by sticking a metal rod between their fingers and then squeezing them together. Hassan winced at that, said he hoped I’d never have to experience it. I said I’d been lucky so far, knowing that luck had nothing to do with it. I had done my share of talking in class too. But my father was rich and everyone knew him, so I was spared the metal rod treatment.
We sat against the low cemetery wall under the shade thrown by the pomegranate tree. In another month or two, crops of scorched yellow weeds would blanket the hillside, but that year the spring showers had lasted longer than usual, nudging their way into early summer, and the grass was still green, peppered with tangles of wildflowers. Below us, Wazir Akbar Khan’s white walled, flat-topped houses gleamed in the sunshine, the laundry hanging on clotheslines in their yards stirred by the breeze to dance like butterflies.
We had picked a dozen pomegranates from the tree. I unfolded the story I’d brought along, turned to the first page, then put it down. I stood up and picked up an overripe pomegranate that had fallen to the ground.
“What would you do if I hit you with this?” I said, tossing the fruit up and down.

“哈桑哪兒都不去，”爸爸憤怒地說，他拿起鏟子，在地上又掘了一個(gè)坑，用比剛才更大的力氣將泥土鏟開，“他就在這兒陪著我們，他屬于這兒。這里是他的家，我們是他的家人。以后別再問我這樣的問題!”
“不會(huì)了，爸爸，對不起。”
他悶聲把剩下的郁金香都種完。
第二個(gè)星期，開學(xué)了，我如釋重負(fù)。學(xué)生分到了新的筆記本，手里拿著削尖的鉛筆，在操場上聚集在一起，踢起塵土，三五成群地交談，等待班長的哨聲。爸爸的車開上那條通向校門的土路。學(xué)校是座兩層的古舊建筑，窗戶漏風(fēng)，鵝卵石砌成的門廊光線陰暗，在剝落的泥灰之間，還可以看見它原來的土黃色油漆。多數(shù)男孩走路上課，爸爸黑色的野馬轎車引來的不僅僅是艷羨的眼光。本來他開車送我上學(xué)，我應(yīng)該覺得很驕傲——過去的我就是這樣——但如今我感到的只是有些尷尬，尷尬和空虛。爸爸連聲“再見”都沒說，就掉頭離開。
我沒有像過去那樣，跟人比較斗風(fēng)箏的傷痕，而是站到隊(duì)伍中去。鐘聲響起，我們魚貫進(jìn)入分配的教室，找座位坐好，我坐在教室后面。法爾西語老師分發(fā)課本的時(shí)候，我祈禱有做不完的作業(yè)。
上學(xué)給了我長時(shí)間待在房間里頭的借口。并且，確實(shí)有那么一陣，我忘記了冬天發(fā)生的那些事，那些我讓它們發(fā)生的事。接連幾個(gè)星期，我滿腦子重力和動(dòng)力，原子和細(xì)胞，英阿戰(zhàn)爭，不去想著哈桑，不去想他的遭遇?？墒?，我的思緒總是回到那條小巷。總是想到躺在磚頭上的哈桑的棕色燈芯絨褲，想到那些將雪地染成暗紅色、幾乎是黑色的血滴。
那年初夏，某個(gè)讓人昏昏欲睡的午后，我讓哈桑跟我一起去爬山。告訴他我要給他念一個(gè)剛寫的故事。他當(dāng)時(shí)在院子里晾衣服，他手忙腳亂把衣服晾好的樣子讓我看到他的期待。
我們爬上山，稍作交談。他問起學(xué)校的事情，問起我在學(xué)什么，我談起那些老師，尤其是那個(gè)嚴(yán)厲的數(shù)學(xué)老師，他懲罰那些多話的學(xué)生，將鐵棍放在他們的指縫間，然后用力捏他們的手指。哈桑嚇了一跳，說希望我永遠(yuǎn)不用被懲罰。我說我到目前為止都很幸運(yùn)，不過我知道那和運(yùn)氣沒什么關(guān)系。我也在課堂上講話，但我的爸爸很有錢，人人認(rèn)識他，所以我免受鐵棍的刑罰。
我們坐在墓園低矮的圍墻上，在石榴樹的樹影之下。再過一兩個(gè)月，成片的焦黃野草會(huì)鋪滿山坡，但那年春天雨水綿綿，比往年持續(xù)得久，到了初夏也還不停地下著，雜草依然是綠色的，星星點(diǎn)點(diǎn)的野花散落其間。在我們下面，瓦茲爾?阿克巴?汗區(qū)的房子平頂白墻，被陽光照得閃閃發(fā)亮；院子里的晾衣線掛滿衣物，在和風(fēng)的吹拂中如蝴蝶般翩翩起舞。
我們從樹上摘了十來個(gè)石榴。我打開帶來那本故事書，翻到第一頁，然后又把書放下。我站起身來，撿起一個(gè)熟透了的跌落在地面的石榴。
“要是我拿這個(gè)打你，你會(huì)怎么做啊?”我說，石榴在手里拋上拋下。