雙語(yǔ)名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(173)

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(guó)。

成年后的阿米爾始終無(wú)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(lái)令人蕩氣回腸。

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“When it’s all done, only one of us will walk out of this room alive,” Assef said. “If it’s him, then he’s earned his freedom and you let him pass, do you understand?”
The older guard shifted on his feet. “But Agha sahib--”
“If it’s him, you let him pass!” Assef screamed. The two men flinched but nodded again. They turned to go. One of them reached for Sohrab.
“Let him stay,” Assef said. He grinned. “Let him watch. Lessons are good things for boys.”The guards left. Assef put down his prayer beads. Reached in the breast pocket of his black vest. What he fished out of that pocket didn’t surprise me one bit: stainless-steel brass knuckles.
HE HAS GEL IN HIS HAIR and a Clark Gable mustache above his thick lips. The gel has soaked through the green paper surgical cap, made a dark stain the shape of Africa. I remember that about him. That, and the gold Allah chain around his dark neck. He is peering down at me, speaking rapidly in a language I don’t understand, Urdu, I think. My eyes keep going to his Adam’s apple bob bing up and down, up and down, and I want to ask him how old he is anyway--he looks far too young, like an actor from some foreign soap opera--but all I can mutter is, I think I gave him a good fight. I think I gave him a good fight.
I DON’T KNOW if I gave Assef a good fight. I don’t think I did. How could I have? That was the first time I’d fought anyone. I had never so much as thrown a punch in my entire life.
My memory of the fight with Assef is amazingly vivid in stretches: I remember Assef turning on the music before slipping on his brass knuckles. The prayer rug, the one with the oblong, woven Mecca, came loose from the wall at one point and landed on my head; the dust from it made me sneeze. I remember Assef shoving grapes in my face, his snarl all spit-shining teeth, his bloodshot eyes rolling. His turban fell at some point, let loose curls of shoulder-length blond hair.
And the end, of course. That, I still see with perfect clarity. I always will.

“完了之后，我們只有一個(gè)能活著走出這間房子，”阿塞夫說(shuō)，“如果是他，那么他就贏得自由，你們放他走，明白了嗎？”
年紀(jì)較大的衛(wèi)兵不安地說(shuō)：“可是老爺……”
“如果他走出去，你們放他走！”阿塞夫大叫。那兩個(gè)衛(wèi)兵嚇得連連點(diǎn)頭。他們轉(zhuǎn)身離開(kāi)，有個(gè)去拉索拉博。
“讓他留下，”阿塞夫說(shuō)，獰笑著，“讓他看看。學(xué)點(diǎn)教訓(xùn)對(duì)孩子有好處?！毙l(wèi)兵離開(kāi)。阿塞夫放下念珠，把手伸進(jìn)黑色背心的上袋。他掏出來(lái)的東西，我早就料到了：不銹鋼拳套。
那人的頭發(fā)涂著睹喱水，厚厚的嘴唇上面留著克拉克?蓋博那樣的小胡子。睹喱水浸透了綠色的手術(shù)紙帽，弄出非洲地圖似的污跡。我記得他黑色的脖子上的金項(xiàng)鏈，掛著安拉的神像。他俯視著我，連珠炮似的說(shuō)出一種我聽(tīng)不懂的語(yǔ)言，烏爾都語(yǔ) [Urdu，巴基斯坦官方語(yǔ)言]，我想。我的眼睛盯在他的喉結(jié)，看著它上上下下，我想問(wèn)他究竟多大年紀(jì)——他看上去太年輕，像外國(guó)肥皂劇里面某個(gè)演員。但我說(shuō)出口的只是，我要狠狠揍他一頓，我要狠狠揍他一頓。
我不知道自己有沒(méi)有狠狠揍阿塞夫一頓。我想沒(méi)有吧，怎么可能呢？那是我第一次跟人打架。我長(zhǎng)這么大了，還沒(méi)朝人揮過(guò)一拳呢。
在我記憶中，跟阿塞夫打架的情景栩栩如生，真叫人吃驚：我記得阿塞夫在戴上拳套之前打開(kāi)了音樂(lè)。在某個(gè)時(shí)刻，長(zhǎng)方形的禱告毛毯，織著麥加地圖那張，從墻上松落，掉在我頭上，它上面的泥土弄得我打噴嚏。我記得阿塞夫抓起葡萄磨著我的臉，他咬牙切齒，滾動(dòng)著血紅的眼睛。在某個(gè)時(shí)刻，阿塞夫的頭巾脫落，露出幾縷長(zhǎng)及肩膀的金色頭發(fā)。
還有結(jié)局，當(dāng)然。結(jié)局我看得一清二楚。我想我會(huì)永遠(yuǎn)記得。