雙語(yǔ)名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(214)

發(fā)布時(shí)間：2025-08-21 | 來(lái)源：互聯(lián)網(wǎng)轉(zhuǎn)載和整理

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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He sighed through his nose and closed his eyes. I wished I hadn’t said those last two words. “You know, I’ve done a lot of things I regret in my life,” I said, “and maybe none more than going back on the promise I made you. But that will never happen again, and I am so very profoundly sorry. I ask for your bakhshesh, your forgiveness. Can you do that? Can you forgive me? Can you believe me?” I dropped my voice. “Will you come with me?”
As I waited for his reply, my mind flashed back to a winter day from long ago, Hassan and I sitting on the snow beneath a leafless sour cherry tree. I had played a cruel game with Hassan that day, toyed with him, asked him if he would chew dirt to prove his loyalty to me. Now I was the one under the microscope, the one who had to prove my worthiness. I deserved this.
Sohrab rolled to his side, his back to me. He didn’t say anything for a long time. And then, just as I thought he might have drifted to sleep, he said with a croak, “I am so khasta.” So very tired. I sat by his bed until he fell asleep. Something was lost between Sohrab and me. Until my meeting with the lawyer, Omar Faisal, a light of hope had begun to enter Sohrab’s eyes like a timid guest. Now the light was gone, the guest had fled, and I wondered when it would dare return. I wondered how long before Sohrab smiled again. How long before he trusted me. If ever.
So I left the room and went looking for another hotel, unaware that almost a year would pass before I would hear Sohrab speak another word.
IN THE END, Sohrab never accepted my offer. Nor did he decline it. But he knew that when the bandages were removed and the hospital garments returned, he was just another homeless Hazara orphan. What choice did he have? Where could he go? So what I took as a yes from him was in actuality more of a quiet surrender, not so much an acceptance as an act of relinquishment by one too weary to decide, and far too tired to believe. What he yearned for was his old life. What he got was me and America. Not that it was such a bad fate, everything considered, but I couldn’t tell him that. Perspective was a luxury when your head was constantly buzzing with a swarm of demons.
And so it was that, about a week later, we crossed a strip of warm, black tarmac and I brought Hassan’s son from Afghanistan to America, lifting him from the certainty of turmoil and dropping him in a turmoil of uncertainty.
ONE DAY, maybe around 1983 or 1984, I was at a video store in Fremont. I was standing in the Westerns section when a guy next to me, sipping Coke from a 7-Eleven cup, pointed to _The Magnificent Seven_ and asked me if I had seen it. “Yes, thirteen times,” I said. “Charles Bronson dies in it, so do James Coburn and Robert Vaughn.” He gave me a pinch-faced look, as if I had just spat in his soda. “Thanks a lot, man,” he said, shaking his head and muttering something as he walked away. That was when I learned that, in America, you don’t reveal the ending of the movie, and if you do, you will be scorned and made to apologize profusely for having committed the sin of Spoiling the End.
In Afghanistan, the ending was all that mattered. When Hassan and I came home after watching a Hindi film at Cinema Zainab, what Ali, Rahim Khan, Baba, or the myriad of Baba’s friends--second and third cousins milling in and out of the house--wanted to know was this: Did the Girl in the film find happiness? Did the bacheh film, the Guy in the film, become katnyab and fulfill his dreams, or was he nah-kam, doomed to wallow in failure?Was there happiness at the end, they wanted to know.If someone were to ask me today whether the story of Hassan, Sohrab, and me ends with happiness, I wouldn’t know what to say.
Does anybody’s?

他從鼻子嘆出氣，閉上眼睛。我要是沒(méi)有說(shuō)出最后三個(gè)字就好了?！澳阒绬幔疫@一輩子做過(guò)很多后悔的事情，”我說(shuō)，“也許最后悔的事情是對(duì)你出爾反爾。但那再也不會(huì)發(fā)生了，我感到非常非常對(duì)不起你。我乞求你的原諒。你能做到嗎？你能原諒我嗎？你能相信我嗎？”我降低聲音，“你會(huì)跟我一起走嗎？”
等待他回答的時(shí)候，我腦里一閃，思緒回到了很久以前的某個(gè)冬日，哈桑和我坐在一株酸櫻桃樹下的雪地上。那天我跟哈桑開了個(gè)殘酷的玩笑，取笑他，問(wèn)他愿不愿意吃泥巴證明對(duì)我的忠誠(chéng)。而如今，我是那個(gè)被考驗(yàn)的人，那個(gè)需要證明自己值得尊重的人。我罪有應(yīng)得。
索拉博翻過(guò)身，背朝我。很久很久，他一語(yǔ)不發(fā)。接著，就在我以為他也許昏昏睡去的時(shí)候，他嘶啞地說(shuō)：“我很累很累?！蔽易谒惭?，直到他睡去。我和索拉博之間有些東西不見了。直到和奧馬爾?費(fèi)薩爾律師碰面之前，一道希望的光芒曾像怯生生的客人那樣走進(jìn)索拉博的眼睛?，F(xiàn)在那光芒不見了，客人逃跑了，而我懷疑他是否有膽量回來(lái)。我尋思要再過(guò)多久才能見到索拉博的微笑，再過(guò)多久才會(huì)信任我，倘若他會(huì)的話。
于是我離開病房，走出去尋找別的旅館，根本沒(méi)有意識(shí)到我再次聽到索拉博說(shuō)話，已經(jīng)是一年之后的事情。
結(jié)局，索拉博從來(lái)沒(méi)有接受我的邀請(qǐng)。他也沒(méi)有拒絕。當(dāng)繃帶拆開，脫去病服，他只是又一個(gè)無(wú)家可歸的哈扎拉孤兒。他能有什么選擇呢？他能去哪兒呢？所以我當(dāng)他同意了，可是實(shí)際上，那更像是無(wú)言的屈服；與其說(shuō)是同意，毋寧說(shuō)是由于他心灰意懶、懷疑一切而來(lái)的任人擺布。他渴望的是他原來(lái)的生活，而他得到的是我和美國(guó)。從方方面面看來(lái)，這并不能說(shuō)是什么凄慘的命運(yùn)，可是我不能這么告訴他。倘使惡魔仍在你腦中徘徊縈繞，前程又從何談起呢？
于是就這樣，一個(gè)星期之后，穿過(guò)一片溫暖的黑色的停機(jī)坪，我把哈桑的兒子從阿富汗帶到美國(guó)，讓他飛離那業(yè)已過(guò)去的凄惻往事，降落在即將到來(lái)的未知生活之中。
某天，興許是1983年或 1984年，我在弗里蒙特一間賣錄像帶的商店。我站在西片區(qū)之前，身邊有個(gè)家伙拿著便利店的紙杯，邊喝可樂(lè)邊指著《七俠蕩寇志》，問(wèn)我有沒(méi)有看過(guò)?！翱催^(guò)，看了十三次。”我說(shuō)，“查爾斯?勃朗森在里面死了，詹姆斯‘科本和羅伯特?華恩也死了。”他狠狠盯了我一眼，好像我朝他的汽水吐口水一樣?！疤x謝你啦，老兄?！彼f(shuō)，搖頭咕噥著走開了。那時(shí)我才明白，在美國(guó)，你不能透露電影的結(jié)局，要不然你會(huì)被譴責(zé)，還得為糟蹋了結(jié)局的罪行致上萬(wàn)分歉意。
在阿富汗，結(jié)局才是最重要的。每逢哈桑和我在索拉博電影院看完印度片回家，阿里、拉辛汗、爸爸或者爸爸那些九流三教的朋友——各種遠(yuǎn)房親戚在那座房子進(jìn)進(jìn)出出——想知道的只有這些：電影里面那個(gè)姑娘找到幸福了嗎？電影里面那個(gè)家伙勝利地實(shí)現(xiàn)了他的夢(mèng)想嗎？還是失敗了，郁郁而終？他們想知道的是結(jié)局是不是幸福。如果今天有人問(wèn)起哈桑、索拉博和我的故事結(jié)局是否圓滿，我不知道該怎么說(shuō)。
有人能回答嗎？