雙語(yǔ)名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(191)

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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“Father took me to the Blue Mosque,” Sohrab said. “I remember there were so many pigeons outside the masjid, and they weren’t afraid of people. They came right up to us. Sasa gave me little pieces of _naan_ and I fed the birds. Soon, there were pigeons cooing all around me. That was fun.”
“You must miss your parents very much,” I said. I wondered if he’d seen the Taliban drag his parents out into the street. I hoped he hadn’t.“Do you miss your parents?” he aked, resting his cheek on his knees, looking up at me.“Do I miss my parents? Well, I never met my mother. My father died a few years ago, and, yes, I do miss him. Sometimes a lot.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
I thought of Baba’s thick neck, his black eyes, his unruly brown hair. Sitting on his lap had been like sitting on a pair of tree trunks. “I remember what he looked like,” I said. “What he smelled like too.”
“I’m starting to forget their faces,” Sohrab said. “Is that bad?”
“No,” I said. “Time does that.” I thought of something. I looked in the front pocket of my coat. Found the Polaroid snap shot of Hassan and Sohrab. “Here,” I said.
He brought the photo to within an inch of his face, turned it so the light from the mosque fell on it. He looked at it for a long time. I thought he might cry, but he didn’t. He just held it in both hands, traced his thumb over its surface. I thought of a line I’d read somewhere, or maybe I’d heard someone say it: There are a lot of children in Afghanistan, but little childhood. He stretched his hand to give it back to me.
“Keep it,” I said. “It’s yours.”
“Thank you.” He looked at the photo again and stowed it in the pocket of his vest. A horse-drawn cart clip-clopped by in the parking lot. Little bells dangled from the horse’s neck and jingled with each step.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about mosques lately,” Sohrab said.
“You have? What about them?”

“爸爸帶我去藍(lán)色清真寺?！彼骼┱f(shuō)，“我記得那兒有很多鴿子，在那個(gè)回教堂外面，它們不怕人。它們朝我們走來(lái)，莎莎給我一小片馕，我喂那些鳥兒。很快，那些鴿子都圍在我身邊咯咯叫。真好玩?！?br />“你一定很想念你的父母?！蔽艺f(shuō)。我在想他有沒(méi)有看到塔利班將他的父母拖到街上。我希望他沒(méi)有?！澳阆肽钅愕母改竼?？”他問(wèn)，把臉頰放在膝蓋上，抬眼看著我。“我想念我的父母嗎？嗯，我從沒(méi)見(jiàn)過(guò)我的媽媽。我爸爸幾年前死了，是的，我想念他。有時(shí)很想?！?br />“你記得他長(zhǎng)什么樣子嗎？”
我想起爸爸粗壯的脖子，黑色的眼睛，那頭不羈的棕發(fā)，坐在他大腿上跟坐在樹干上一樣?！拔矣浀盟L(zhǎng)什么樣子，”我說(shuō)，“我還記得他身上的味道?！?br />“我開(kāi)始忘記他們的面孔，”索拉博說(shuō)，“這很糟嗎？”
“不，”我說(shuō)，“是時(shí)間讓你忘記的?！蔽蚁肫鹉承〇|西。我翻開(kāi)外套的前袋，找出那張哈桑和索拉博的寶麗萊合影，“給你?！?br />他將相片放在面前幾英寸的地方，轉(zhuǎn)了一下，以便讓清真寺的燈光照在上面。他久久看著它。我想他也許會(huì)哭，但他只是雙手拿著照片，拇指在它上面撫摸著。我想起一句不知道在什么地方看來(lái)的話，或者是從別人口里聽(tīng)來(lái)的：阿富汗有很多兒童，但沒(méi)有童年。他伸出手，把它遞給我。
“你留著吧，”我說(shuō)，“它是你的?！?br />“謝謝你?！彼挚戳丝凑掌?，把它放在背心的口袋里面。一輛馬車發(fā)著聲響駛進(jìn)停車場(chǎng)。馬脖子上掛著很多小鈴鐺，隨著馬步叮當(dāng)作響。
“我最近經(jīng)常想起清真寺?！彼骼┱f(shuō)。
“真的嗎？都想些什么呢？”