雙語名著·追風箏的人 The Kite Runner(164)

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，作者以溫暖細膩的筆法勾勒人性的本質與救贖，讀來令人蕩氣回腸。

下面就跟小編一起來欣賞雙語名著·追風箏的人 The Kite Runner(164)的精彩內容吧！

We climbed a few steps and entered a large, sparsely decorated house. We crossed the foyer--a large Afghan flag draped one of the walls--and the men took me upstairs to a room with twin mint green sofas and a big-screen TV in the far corner. A prayer rug showing a slightly oblong Mecca was nailed to one of the walls. The older of the two men motioned toward the sofa with the barrel of his weapon. I sat down. They left the room. I crossed my legs. Uncrossed them. Sat with my sweaty hands on my knees. Did that make me look nervous? I clasped them together, decided that was worse and just crossed my arms on my chest. Blood thudded in my temples. I felt utterly alone. Thoughts were flying around in my head, but I didn’t want to think at all, because a sober part of me knew that what I had managed to get myself into was insanity. I was thousands of miles from my wife, sitting in a room that felt like a holding cell, waiting for a man I had seen murder two people that same day. It was insanity. Worse yet, it was irresponsible. There was a very realistic chance that I was going to render Soraya a biwa, a widow, at the age of thirty-six. This isn’t you, Amir, part of me said. You’re gutless. It’s how you were made. And that’s not such a bad thing because your saving grace is that you’ve never lied to yourself about it. Not about that. Nothing wrong with cowardice as long as it comes with prudence. But when a coward stops remembering who he is... God help him.
There was a coffee table by the sofa. The base was X-shaped, walnut-sized brass balls studding the ring where the metallic legs crossed. I’d seen a table like that before. Where? And then it came to me: at the crowded tea shop in Peshawar, that night I’d gone for a walk. On the table sat a bowl of red grapes. I plucked one and tossed it in my mouth. I had to preoccupy myself with something, anything, to silence the voice in my head. The grape was sweet. I popped another one in, unaware that it would be the last bit of solid food I would eat for a long time. The door opened and the two armed men returned, between them the tall Talib in white, still wearing his dark John Lennon glasses, looking like some broad-shouldered, NewAge mystic guru.
He took a seat across from me and lowered his hands on the armrests. For a long time, he said nothing. Just sat there, watching me, one hand drumming the upholstery, the other twirling turquoise blue prayer beads. He wore a black vest over the white shirt now, and a gold watch. I saw a splotch of dried blood on his left sleeve. I found it morbidly fascinating that he hadn’t changed clothes after the executions earlier that day.Periodically, his free hand floated up and his thick fingers batted at something in the air. They made slow stroking motions, up and down, side to side, as if he were caressing an invisible pet. One of his sleeves retracted and I saw marks on his forearm--I’d seen those same tracks on homeless people living in grimy alleys in San Francisco.His skin was much paler than the other two men’s, almost sallow, and a crop of tiny sweat beads gleamed on his forehead just below the edge of his black turban. His beard, chest-length like the others, was lighter in color too.
“Salaam alaykum,” he said.
“Salaam.”

我們走上臺階，進入一座裝潢精美的大房子。我們穿過門廊——墻上掛著一面巨大的阿富汗國旗，那兩個男人帶我上樓，走進一間房子，里面擺放著一對翠綠色的沙發(fā)，一臺大屏幕電視擺在距離頗遠的屋角。墻上釘著繡有麥加地圖的禱告地毯。年紀較大那人用槍管指指沙發(fā)。我坐下。他們離開房間。我翹起腳，又放下。我坐在那兒，雙手冒著汗水，放在膝蓋上。這讓我看起來很緊張吧？我合起手掌，覺得這樣更糟糕，干脆橫抱在胸前。血液在我的太陽穴里面涌動。我感到深深的孤獨。思緒在我腦海翻飛，但我根本不想去思考，因為我體內清醒的那部分知道，我是發(fā)瘋了，才會讓自己陷進這一切。我遠離妻子幾千英里，坐在感覺像地牢的房間里面，等待一個兇手，我剛剛才親眼看到他殺死兩個人。這一定是瘋了。甚至更糟糕，這還很不負責任。非?？赡艿氖?，我即將讓年方三十六歲的索拉雅成為寡婦。這不是你，阿米爾。我體內有個聲音說，你懦弱，這是你的天性。這并非什么壞事，因為你從不強裝勇敢，這是你的優(yōu)點。只要三思而后行，懦弱并沒有錯。可是，當一個懦夫忘了自己是什么人……愿真主保佑他。
沙發(fā)前面擺著一張咖啡桌，底座是 X狀的，金屬桌腳交叉的地方，拴著一環(huán)胡桃大小的銅球。我之前見過這樣的桌子。在哪里？我突然想起來：在白沙瓦那間擁擠的茶館里面，那天傍晚我出去閑逛時走進去的那間。桌上擺著一盤紅色的葡萄，我摘下一個，丟進嘴里。我得找件事來想著，任何事情都行，這樣才能讓腦子里的聲音安靜下來。葡萄很甜，我又吃了一個，完全沒有想到在接下來很長一段時間里面，這是我吃下的最后一口固體食物。門打開，那兩個持槍的男人回來，他們中間是那個穿白色衣服的高個子塔利班，依然戴著約翰?列農式的墨鏡，看上去有點像某個神秘的新世紀巫師。
他坐在我對面，雙手放在沙發(fā)的扶手上。好長一段時間，他一語不發(fā)，只是坐在那兒，看著我，一手拍打著沙發(fā)套，一手捻著青綠色的念珠?，F(xiàn)在，他在白色的襯衣外面加了件黑色的背心，戴著金表。我看見他左袖有一小塊干涸的血跡。他沒換掉早些時候行刑的衣服，這對我來說竟然有些病態(tài)的魔力。他那沒拿念珠的手不時抬起，厚厚的手指在空氣中做拍打狀，慢慢地，上下左右拍打著，仿佛他在摸著一只隱形的寵物。他的袖子后縮，我見到他前臂上有吸毒的標記——同樣的標記，我也曾在舊金山那些生活在污穢小巷的流浪漢身上見過。他的皮膚比其他兩個自得多，白得近乎病態(tài)，他的前額，就在黑色頭巾邊緣之下，有顆汗珠滲出來。他的胡子跟其他人一樣，長到胸前，也是顏色較淺。
“你好?！彼f。
“你好。”