雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(84)

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(84)的精彩內(nèi)容吧！

In Afghanistan, _yelda_ is the first night of the month of _Jadi_, the first night of winter, and the longest night of the year. As was the tradition, Hassan and I used to stay up late, our feet tucked under the kursi, while Ali tossed apple skin into the stove and told us ancient tales of sultans and thieves to pass that longest of nights. It was from Ali that I learned the lore of _yelda_, that bedeviled moths flung themselves at candle flames, and wolves climbed mountains looking for the sun. Ali swore that if you ate water melon the night of _yelda_, you wouldn’t get thirsty the coming summer.
When I was older, I read in my poetry books that _yelda_ was the starless night tormented lovers kept vigil, enduring the endless dark, waiting for the sun to rise and bring with it their loved one. After I met Soraya Taheri, every night of the week became a _yelda_ for me. And when Sunday mornings came, I rose from bed, Soraya Taheri’s brown-eyed face already in my head. In Baba’s bus, I counted the miles until I’d see her sitting barefoot, arranging cardboard boxes of yellowed encyclopedias, her heels white against the asphalt, silver bracelets jingling around her slender wrists. I’d think of the shadow her hair cast on the ground when it slid off her back and hung down like a velvet curtain. Soraya. Swap Meet Princess. The morning sun to my yelda.
I invented excuses to stroll down the aisle--which Baba acknowledged with a playful smirk--and pass the Taheris’ stand. I would wave at the general, perpetually dressed in his shiny overpressed gray suit, and he would wave back. Sometimes he’d get up from his director’s chair and we’d make small talk about my writing, the war, the day’s bargains. And I’d have to will my eyes not to peel away, not to wander to where Soraya sat reading a paperback. The general and I would say our good-byes and I’d try not to slouch as I walked away.
Sometimes she sat alone, the general off to some other row to socialize, and I would walk by, pretending not to know her, but dying to. Sometimes she was there with a portly middle-aged woman with pale skin and dyed red hair. I promised myself that I would talk to her before the summer was over, but schools reopened, the leaves reddened, yellowed, and fell, the rains of winter swept in and wakened Baba’s joints, baby leaves sprouted once more, and I still hadn’t had the heart, the dil, to even look her in the eye.
The spring quarter ended in late May 1985. I aced all of my general education classes, which was a minor miracle given how I’d sit in lectures and think of the soft hook of Soraya’s nose.
Then, one sweltering Sunday that summer, Baba and I were at the flea market, sitting at our booth, fanning our faces with news papers. Despite the sun bearing down like a branding iron, the market was crowded that day and sales had been strong--it was only 12:30 but we’d already made $160. I got up, stretched, and asked Baba if he wanted a Coke. He said he’d love one.
“Be careful, Amir,” he said as I began to walk. “Of what, Baba?”
“I am not an ahmaq, so don’t play stupid with me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Remember this,” Baba said, pointing at me, “The man is a Pashtun to the root. He has nang and namoos.” Nang. Namoos. Honor and pride. The tenets of Pashtun men. Especially when it came to the chastity of a wife. Or a daughter.
“I’m only going to get us drinks.”
“Just don’t embarrass me, that’s all I ask.”
“I won’t. God, Baba.”
Baba lit a cigarette and started fanning himself again.
I walked toward the concession booth initially, then turned left at the T-shirt stand--where, for $5, you could have the face of Jesus, Elvis, Jim Morrison, or all three, pressed on a white nylon T-shirt. Mariachi music played overhead, and I smelled pickles and grilled meat.
I spotted the Taheris’ gray van two rows from ours, next to a kiosk selling mango-on-a-stick. She was alone, reading. White ankle-length summer dress today. Open-toed sandals. Hair pulled back and crowned with a tulip-shaped bun. I meant to simply walk by again and I thought I had, except suddenly I was standing at the edge of the Taheris’ white tablecloth, staring at Soraya across curling irons and old neckties. She looked up.
“Salaam,” I said. “I’m sorry to be mozahem, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Salaam.”
“Is General Sahib here today?” I said. My ears were burning. I couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eye.
“He went that way,” she said. Pointed to her right. The bracelet slipped down to her elbow, silver against olive.
“Will you tell him I stopped by to pay my respects?” I said.
“I will.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Oh, and my name is Amir. In case you need to know. So you can tell him. That I stopped by. To... pay my respects.”
“Yes.”

在阿富汗，雅爾達(dá)是回歷中嘉帝月的第一夜，也是冬天的第一夜，一年之中最長的夜晚。按照風(fēng)俗，哈桑和我會熬到深夜，我們把腳藏在火爐桌下面，阿里將蘋果皮丟進(jìn)爐子，給我們講蘇丹和小偷的古老傳說，度過漫漫長夜。正是從阿里口中，我得知了雅爾達(dá)的故事，知道了飛蛾撲火是因為著魔，還知道狼群爬山是要尋找太陽。阿里發(fā)誓說，要是在雅爾達(dá)那夜吃到西瓜，翌年夏天就不會口渴。
稍大一些之后，我從詩書中讀到，雅爾達(dá)是星光黯淡的夜晚，戀人徹夜難眠，忍受著無邊黑暗，等待太陽升起，帶來他們的愛人。遇到索拉雅之后那個星期，對我來說，每個夜晚都是雅爾達(dá)。等到星期天早晨來臨，我從床上起來，索拉雅?塔赫里的臉龐和那雙棕色的明眸已然在我腦里。坐在爸爸的巴士里面，我暗暗數(shù)著路程，直到看見她赤足坐著，擺弄那些裝著發(fā)黃的百科全書的紙箱，她的腳踝在柏油路的映襯下分外白皙，柔美的手腕上有銀環(huán)叮當(dāng)作響。一頭秀發(fā)從她背后甩過，像天鵝絨幕布那樣垂下來，我望著她的頭發(fā)投射在地上的影子怔怔出神。索拉雅，我的交易會公主，我的雅爾達(dá)的朝陽。
我制造各種各樣的借口——爸爸顯然知道，但只露出戲謔的微笑——沿著那條過道走下去，經(jīng)過塔赫里的攤位。我會朝將軍招招手，而他，永遠(yuǎn)穿著那身熨得發(fā)亮的灰色套裝，會揮手應(yīng)答。有時他從那張導(dǎo)演椅站起來，我們會稍作交談，提及我的寫作、戰(zhàn)爭、當(dāng)天的交易。而我不得不管住自己的眼睛別偷看，別總是瞟向坐在那里讀一本平裝書的索拉雅。將軍和我會彼此告別，而我走開的時候，得強(qiáng)打精神，掩飾自己心中的失望。
有時將軍到其他過道去跟人攀交情，留她一人看守攤位，我會走過去，假裝不認(rèn)識她，可是心里想認(rèn)識她想得要死。有時陪著她的還有個矮胖的中年婦女，染紅發(fā)，膚色蒼白。我暗下決心，在夏天結(jié)束之前一定要跟她搭訕，但學(xué)校開學(xué)了，葉子變紅、變黃、掉落，冬天的雨水紛紛灑灑，折磨爸爸的手腕，樹枝上吐出新芽，而我依然沒有勇氣、沒有膽量，甚至不敢直望她的眼睛。
春季學(xué)期在1985年5月底結(jié)束。我所有的課程都得了優(yōu)，這可是個小小的神跡，因為我人在課堂，心里卻總是想著索拉雅柔美而筆挺的鼻子。
然后，某個悶熱的夏季星期天，爸爸跟我在跳蚤市場，坐在我們的攤位，用報紙往臉上扇風(fēng)。盡管陽光像烙鐵那樣火辣辣，那天市場人滿為患，銷售相當(dāng)可觀——才到12點半，我們已經(jīng)賺了160美元。我站起來，伸伸懶腰，問爸爸要不要來杯可口可樂。他說來一杯。
“當(dāng)心點，阿米爾?！蔽遗e步離開時他說。“當(dāng)心什么，爸爸?”
“我不是蠢貨，少跟我裝蒜?！?br />“我不知道你在說什么啊?！?br />“你要記住，”爸爸指著我說，“那家伙是個純正的普什圖人，他有名譽(yù)和尊嚴(yán)?！边@是普什圖人的信條，尤其是關(guān)系到妻子或者女兒的貞節(jié)時。
“我不過是去給我們買飲料?！?br />“別讓我難看，我就這點要求?！?br />“我不會的，天啦，爸爸?！?br />爸爸點了根煙，繼續(xù)扇著風(fēng)。
起初我朝販賣處走去，然后在賣襯衫的攤位左轉(zhuǎn)。在那兒，你只消花5塊錢，便可以在白色的尼龍襯衫上印上耶穌、貓王或者吉姆?莫里森的頭像，或者三個一起印。馬里亞奇［1］Mariachi，墨西哥傳統(tǒng)音樂樂團(tuán)，主要使用樂器有小號、曼陀鈴、吉他、豎琴以及小提琴等，所演唱歌曲風(fēng)格通常較為熱烈。［1］的音樂在頭頂回響，我聞到腌黃瓜和烤肉的味道。
我看見塔赫里灰色的貨車，和我們的車隔著兩排，緊挨著一個賣芒果串的小攤。她單身一人，在看書，今天穿著長及腳踝的白色夏裝，涼鞋露出腳趾，頭發(fā)朝后扎，梳成郁金香形狀的發(fā)髻。我打算跟以前一樣只是走過，我以為可以做到，可是突然之間，我發(fā)現(xiàn)自己站在塔赫里的白色桌布邊上，越過燙發(fā)用的鐵發(fā)夾和舊領(lǐng)帶，盯著索拉雅。她抬頭。
“你好，”我說，“打擾了，對不起。我不是故意打擾你的?！?br />“你好。”
“將軍大人今天不在嗎?”我說。我的耳朵發(fā)燒，無法正視她的明眸。
“他去那邊了。”她說，指著右邊，綠色鑲銀的手鐲從她的胳膊肘上滑落。
“你可不可以跟他說，我路過這里，問候他一下?！蔽艺f。
“可以?！?br />“謝謝你?！蔽艺f，“哦，我的名字叫阿米爾。這次你需要知道，才好跟他說。說我路過這里，向他……問好?！?br />“好的?！?