雙語(yǔ)名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(85)

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。

下面就跟小編一起來(lái)欣賞雙語(yǔ)名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(85)的精彩內(nèi)容吧！

I shifted on my feet, cleared my throat. “I’ll go now. Sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Nay, you didn’t,” she said.
“Oh. Good.” I tipped my head and gave her a half smile. “I’ll go now.” Hadn’t I already said that? “Khoda h?fez.”
“Khoda h?fez.”
I began to walk. Stopped and turned. I said it before I had a chance to lose my nerve: “Can I ask what you’re reading?”
She blinked.
I held my breath. Suddenly, I felt the collective eyes of the flea market Afghans shift to us. I imagined a hush falling. Lips stop ping in midsentence. Heads turning. Eyes narrowing with keen interest.
What was this?
Up to that point, our encounter could have been interpreted as a respectful inquiry, one man asking for the whereabouts of another man. But I’d asked her a question and if she answered, we’d be... well, we’d be chatting. Me a mojarad, a single young man, and she an unwed young woman. One with a history, no less. This was teetering dangerously on the verge of gossip material, and the best kind of it. Poison tongues would flap. And she would bear the brunt of that poison, not me--I was fully aware of the Afghan double standard that favored my gender. Not Did you see him chatting with her? but Wooooy! Did you see how she wouldn’t let him go? What a lochak!
By Afghan standards, my question had been bold. With it, I had bared myself, and left little doubt as to my interest in her. But I was a man, and all I had risked was a bruised ego. Bruises healed. Reputations did not. Would she take my dare?
She turned the book so the cover faced me. Wuthering Heights. “Have you read it?” she said.
I nodded. I could feel the pulsating beat of my heart behind my eyes. “It’s a sad story.”
“Sad stories make good books,” she said.
“They do.”
“I heard you write.”
How did she know? I wondered if her father had told her, maybe she had asked him. I immediately dismissed both scenarios as absurd. Fathers and sons could talk freely about women. But no Afghan girl--no decent and mohtaram Afghan girl, at least--queried her father about a young man. And no father, especially a Pashtun with nang and namoos, would discuss a mojarad with his daughter, not unless the fellow in question was a khastegar, a suitor, who had done the honorable thing and sent his father to knock on the door.
Incredibly, I heard myself say, “Would you like to read one of my stories?”
“I would like that,” she said. I sensed an unease in her now, saw it in the way her eyes began to flick side to side. Maybe checking for the general. I wondered what he would say if he found me speaking for such an inappropriate length of time with his daughter.
“Maybe I’ll bring you one someday,” I said. I was about to say more when the woman I’d seen on occasion with Soraya came walking up the aisle. She was carrying a plastic bag full of fruit. When she saw us, her eyes bounced from Soraya to me and back. She smiled.
“Amir jan, good to see you,” she said, unloading the bag on the tablecloth. Her brow glistened with a sheen of sweat. Her red hair, coiffed like a helmet, glittered in the sunlight--I could see bits of her scalp where the hair had thinned. She had small green eyes buried in a cabbage-round face, capped teeth, and little fingers like sausages. A golden Allah rested on her chest, the chain burrowed under the skin tags and folds of her neck. “I am Jamila, Soraya jan’s mother.”
“Salaam, Khala jan,” I said, embarrassed, as I often was around Afghans, that she knew me and I had no idea who she was.
“How is your father?” she said.
“He’s well, thank you.”

我挪了挪腳，清清喉嚨，“我要走了，很抱歉打擾到你?！?br />“沒(méi)有，你沒(méi)有?！彼f(shuō)。
“哦，那就好。”我點(diǎn)點(diǎn)頭，給她一個(gè)勉強(qiáng)的微笑?！拔乙吡恕！焙孟裎乙呀?jīng)說(shuō)過(guò)了吧?“再見(jiàn)。”
“再見(jiàn)?！?br />我舉步離開(kāi)。停下，轉(zhuǎn)身。趁著勇氣還沒(méi)有消失，我趕忙說(shuō):“我可以知道你在看什么書(shū)嗎?”
她眨眨眼。
我屏住呼吸。剎那間，我覺(jué)得跳蚤市場(chǎng)里面所有的眼睛都朝我們看來(lái)。我猜想四周似乎突然寂靜下來(lái)，話說(shuō)到一半戛然而止。人們轉(zhuǎn)過(guò)頭，饒有興致地瞇起眼睛。
這是怎么回事?
直到那時(shí)，我們的邂逅可以解釋成禮節(jié)性的問(wèn)候，一個(gè)男人問(wèn)起另外一個(gè)男人。但我問(wèn)了她問(wèn)題，如果她回答，我們將會(huì)……這么說(shuō)吧，我們將會(huì)聊天。我，一個(gè)單身的青年男子，而她是個(gè)未婚的少女。她有過(guò)一段歷史，這就夠了。我們正徘徊在風(fēng)言風(fēng)語(yǔ)的危險(xiǎn)邊緣，毒舌會(huì)說(shuō)長(zhǎng)道短，而承受流言毒害的將會(huì)是她，不是我——我十分清楚阿富汗人的雙重標(biāo)準(zhǔn)，身為男性，我占盡便宜。不是“你沒(méi)見(jiàn)到他找她聊天嗎?”而是“哇，你沒(méi)看到她舍不得他離開(kāi)嗎?多么不知道廉恥啊!”
按照阿富汗人的標(biāo)準(zhǔn)，我的問(wèn)題很唐突。問(wèn)出這句話，意味著我無(wú)所遮掩，對(duì)她的興趣再也毋庸置疑。但我是個(gè)男人，我所冒的風(fēng)險(xiǎn)，頂多是尊嚴(yán)受傷罷了，受傷了會(huì)痊愈，可是名譽(yù)毀了不再有清白。她會(huì)接受我的挑戰(zhàn)嗎?
她翻過(guò)書(shū)，讓封面對(duì)著我。《呼嘯山莊》。“你看過(guò)嗎?”她說(shuō)。
我點(diǎn)點(diǎn)頭。我感到自己的心怦怦跳。“那是個(gè)悲傷的故事?！?br />“好書(shū)總是跟悲傷的故事有關(guān)。”她說(shuō)。
“確實(shí)這樣?！?br />“聽(tīng)說(shuō)你寫作?”
她怎么知道?我尋思是不是她父親說(shuō)的，也許她曾問(wèn)過(guò)他。我立即打消了這兩個(gè)荒謬的念頭。父親跟兒子可以隨心所欲地談?wù)搵D女。但不會(huì)有阿富汗女子——至少是有教養(yǎng)的阿富汗淑女——向她父親問(wèn)起青年男子。而且，沒(méi)有父親，特別是一個(gè)有名譽(yù)和尊嚴(yán)的普什圖男人，會(huì)跟自己的女兒談?wù)撐椿樯倌?，除非這個(gè)家伙是求愛(ài)者，已經(jīng)做足體面的禮節(jié)，請(qǐng)他父親前來(lái)提親。
難以置信的是，我聽(tīng)見(jiàn)自己說(shuō):“你愿意看看我寫的故事嗎?”
“我愿意?！彼f(shuō)。現(xiàn)在我從她的神情感覺(jué)她有些不安，她的眼睛開(kāi)始東瞟西看，也許是看看將軍來(lái)了沒(méi)有。我懷疑，要是讓他看到我跟她女兒交談了這么久，他會(huì)有什么反應(yīng)呢?
“也許改天我會(huì)帶給你，”我說(shuō)。我還想說(shuō)些什么，那個(gè)我曾見(jiàn)到跟索拉雅在一起的女人走進(jìn)過(guò)道。她提著塑料袋，里面裝滿水果。她看到我們，滴溜溜的眼珠看著我和索拉雅，微笑起來(lái)。
“親愛(ài)的阿米爾，見(jiàn)到你真高興?！彼f(shuō)，把袋子放在桌布上。她的額頭泛出絲絲汗珠，一頭紅發(fā)看上去像頭盔，在陽(yáng)光下閃閃發(fā)亮——在她頭發(fā)稀疏的地方露出點(diǎn)點(diǎn)頭皮。她有雙綠色的小眼睛，埋藏在那圓得像卷心菜的臉蛋上，牙齒鑲金，短短的手指活像香腸。她胸前掛著一尊金色的安拉，鏈子在她皮膚的褶皺和脖子的肥肉間忽隱忽現(xiàn)?！拔医醒琶桌?，親愛(ài)的索拉雅的媽媽。”
“你好，親愛(ài)的阿姨?！蔽艺f(shuō)，有些尷尬，我經(jīng)常身處阿富汗人之間，他們認(rèn)得我是什么人，我卻不知道對(duì)方姓甚名誰(shuí)。
“你爸爸還好嗎?”她說(shuō)。
“他很好，謝謝?！?