雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(90)

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(chǎng)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(duì)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(mèng)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(90)的精彩內(nèi)容吧！

“Don’t you challenge me in public, Amir. Ever. Who do you think you are?”
THE RAIN General Taheri had spoken about at the flea market was a few weeks late, but when we stepped out of Dr. Amani’s office, passing cars sprayed grimy water onto the sidewalks. Baba lit a cigarette. He smoked all the way to the car and all the way home.
As he was slipping the key into the lobby door, I said, “I wish you’d give the chemo a chance, Baba.”
Baba pocketed the keys, pulled me out of the rain and under the building’s striped awning. He kneaded me on the chest with the hand holding the cigarette. “Bas! I’ve made my decision.”
“What about me, Baba? What am I supposed to do?” I said, my eyes welling up.
A look of disgust swept across his rain-soaked face. It was the same look he’d give me when, as a kid, I’d fall, scrape my knees, and cry. It was the crying that brought it on then, the crying that brought it on now. “You’re twenty-two years old, Amir! A grown man! You...” he opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, reconsidered. Above us, rain drummed on the canvas awning. “What’s going to happen to you, you say? All those years, that’s what I was trying to teach you, how to never have to ask that question.”
He opened the door. Turned back to me. “And one more thing. No one finds out about this, you hear me? No one. I don’t want anybody’s sympathy.” Then he disappeared into the dim lobby. He chain-smoked the rest of that day in front of the TV. I didn’t know what or whom he was defying. Me? Dr. Amani? Or maybe the God he had never believed in.
FOR A WHILE, even cancer couldn’t keep Baba from the flea market. We made our garage sale treks on Saturdays, Baba the driver and me the navigator, and set up our display on Sundays. Brass lamps. Baseball gloves. Ski jackets with broken zippers. Baba greeted acquaintances from the old country and I haggled with buyers over a dollar or two. Like any of it mattered. Like the day I would become an orphan wasn’t inching closer with each closing of shop.
Sometimes, General Taheri and his wife strolled by. The general, ever the diplomat, greeted me with a smile and his two-handed shake. But there was a new reticence to Khanum Taheri’s demeanor. A reticence broken only by her secret, droopy smiles and the furtive, apologetic looks she cast my way when the general’s attention was engaged elsewhere.
I remember that period as a time of many “firsts”: The first time I heard Baba moan in the bathroom. The first time I found blood on his pillow. In over three years running the gas station, Baba had never called in sick. Another first.
By Halloween of that year, Baba was getting so tired by mid-Saturday afternoon that he’d wait behind the wheel while I got out and bargained for junk. By Thanksgiving, he wore out before noon. When sleighs appeared on front lawns and fake snow on Douglas firs, Baba stayed home and I drove the VW bus alone up and down the peninsula.
Sometimes at the flea market, Afghan acquaintances made remarks about Baba’s weight loss. At first, they were complimentary. They even asked the secret to his diet. But the queries and compliments stopped when the weight loss didn’t. When the pounds kept shedding. And shedding. When his cheeks hollowed. And his temples melted. And his eyes receded in their sockets.
Then, one cool Sunday shortly after New Year’s Day, Baba was selling a lampshade to a stocky Filipino man while I rummaged in the VW for a blanket to cover his legs with.

“別在公眾場(chǎng)合跟我頂嘴，阿米爾，永遠(yuǎn)不要。你以為你是誰?”
塔赫里將軍在跳蚤市場(chǎng)提到的雨水姍姍來遲了幾個(gè)星期，但當(dāng)我們走出阿曼尼大夫的診室，過往的車輛令地面上的積水濺上人行道。爸爸點(diǎn)了根煙。我們回家的路上，他一直在車?yán)锍闊煛?br />就在他把鑰匙伸進(jìn)樓下大門的鎖眼時(shí)，我說:“我希望你能考慮一下化療，爸爸?！?br />爸爸將鑰匙放進(jìn)口袋，把我從雨中拉進(jìn)大樓破舊的雨棚之下，用拿著香煙的手戳戳我的胸膛:“住口!我已經(jīng)決定了?！?br />“那我呢，爸爸?我該怎么辦?”我說，淚如泉涌。
一抹厭惡的神色掠過他那張被雨水打濕的臉。在我小時(shí)候，每逢我摔倒，擦破膝蓋，放聲大哭，他也會(huì)給我這種臉色。當(dāng)時(shí)是因?yàn)榭奁屗麉拹?，現(xiàn)在也是因?yàn)榭奁撬豢??！澳愣q了，阿米爾!一個(gè)成年人!你……”他張開嘴巴，閉上，再次張開，重新思索。在我們頭頂，雨水敲打著帆布雨棚。“你會(huì)碰到什么事情，你說?這些年來，我一直試圖教你的，就是讓你永遠(yuǎn)別問這個(gè)問題?！?br />他打開門，轉(zhuǎn)身對(duì)著我?！斑€有，別讓人知道這件事情，聽到?jīng)]有?別讓人知道。我不需要任何人的憐憫?！比缓笏г诨璋档拇髲d里。那天剩下的時(shí)間里，他坐在電視機(jī)前，一根接一根抽煙。我不知道他藐視的是什么，或者是誰。我?阿曼尼大夫?或者也許是他從來都不相信的真主?
有那么一陣，即使是癌癥也沒能阻止爸爸到跳蚤市場(chǎng)去。我們星期六仍搜羅各處車庫賣場(chǎng)，爸爸當(dāng)司機(jī)，我指路，并且在星期天擺攤。銅燈。棒球手套。壞了拉鏈的滑雪夾克。爸爸跟在那個(gè)古老的國家就認(rèn)識(shí)的人互致問候，我和顧客為一兩塊錢討價(jià)還價(jià)。仿佛一切如常。仿佛我成為孤兒的日子并沒有隨著每次收攤漸漸逼近。
塔赫里將軍和他的太太有時(shí)會(huì)逛到我們這邊來。將軍仍是一派外交官風(fēng)范，臉帶微笑跟我打招呼，用雙手跟我握手。但是塔赫里太太的舉止顯得有些冷漠，但她會(huì)趁將軍不留神，偷偷低頭朝我微笑，投來一絲歉意的眼光。
我記得那段歲月出現(xiàn)了很多“第一次”：我第一次聽到爸爸在浴室里呻吟。第一次發(fā)現(xiàn)他的枕頭上有血。執(zhí)掌加油站三年以來，爸爸從未請(qǐng)過病假。又是一個(gè)第一次。
等到那年萬圣節(jié)，星期六的下午剛過一半，爸爸就顯得疲累不堪，我下車去收購那些廢品時(shí)，他留在車上等待。到了感恩節(jié)，還沒到中午他就吃不消了。待得雪橇在屋前草坪上出現(xiàn)，假雪灑在花旗松的枝椏上，爸爸呆在家里，而我獨(dú)自開著那輛大眾巴士，穿梭在半島地區(qū)。

在跳蚤市場(chǎng)，阿富汗人偶爾會(huì)對(duì)爸爸的消瘦議論紛紛。起初，他們阿諛奉承，問及爸爸飲食有何秘方?？墒窃儐柡头畛型Ｖ沽耍职值捏w重卻繼續(xù)下降。磅數(shù)不斷減少，再減少。他臉頰深陷，太陽穴松塌，眼睛深深凹進(jìn)眼眶。
接著，新年之后不久，在一個(gè)寒冷的星期天早晨，爸爸在賣燈罩給一個(gè)壯碩的菲律賓人，我在大眾巴士里面東翻西找，尋找一條毛毯蓋住他的腿。