殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(145)

“Snipers used to hide in them.”
A sadness came over me. Returning to Kabul was like running into an old, forgotten friend and seeing that life hadn’t been good to him, that he’d become homeless and destitute.
“My father built an orphanage in Shar-e-Kohna, the old city, south of here,” I said.
“I remember it,” Farid said. “It was destroyed a few years ago.”“Can you pull over?” I said. “I want to take a quick walk here.”Farid parked along the curb on a small backstreet next to a ramshackle, abandoned building with no door. “That used to be a pharmacy,” Farid muttered as we exited the truck. We walked back to Jadeh Maywand and turned right, heading west. “What’s that smell?” I said. Something was making my eyes water.“Diesel,” Farid replied. “The city’s generators are always going down, so electricity is unreliable, and people use diesel fuel.”“Diesel. Remember what this street smelled like in the old days?”Farid smiled. “Kabob.”“Lamb kabob,” I said.“Lamb,” Farid said, tasting the word in his mouth. “The only people in Kabul who get to eat lamb now are the Taliban.” He pulled on my sleeve. “Speaking of which...”
A vehicle was approaching us. “Beard Patrol,” Farid was the first time I saw the Taliban. I’d seen them on TV on the Internet, on the cover of magazines, and in newspapers. But here I was now, less than fifty feet from them, telling myself that the sudden taste in my mouth wasn’t unadulterated, naked fear. Telling myself my flesh hadn’t suddenly shrunk against my bones and my heart wasn’t battering. Here they came. In all their red Toyota pickup truck idled past us. A handful of sternfaced young men sat on their haunches in the cab, Kalashnikovs slung on their shoulders. They all wore beards and black turbans. One of them, a dark-skinned man in his early twenties with thick, knitted eyebrows twirled a whip in his hand and rhythmically swatted the side of the truck with it. His roaming eyes fell on me. Held my gaze. I’d never felt so naked in my entire life. Then the Talib spat tobacco-stained spittle and looked away. I found I could breathe again. The truck rolled down Jadeh Maywand, leaving in its trail a cloud of dust.
“What is the matter with you?” Farid hissed.
“What?”

“樹上經常躲着狙擊手。”
一陣悲哀向我襲來。重返喀布爾，猶如去拜訪一個多年未遇的老朋友，卻發現他潦倒悽戚，發現他無家可歸、身無分文。
“我爸爸過去在沙裏諾區蓋了個恤孤院，舊城那邊，就在這裏南面。”我說。
“我有印象，”法裏德說， “它在幾年前被毀了。”“你可以停車嗎？”我說，“我想在這裏走走，很快就好。”法裏德把車停在一條小巷，旁邊有座搖搖欲墜的房子，沒有門。“那過去是間藥房。”我們下車時法裏德咕噥着說。我們走上雅德梅灣，轉右，朝西走去。“什麼味道？”我說。某些東西薰得我眼淚直流。“柴油。”法裏德回答說，“這座城市的發電廠總是出毛病，用電得不到保證，人們燒柴油。”“柴油。你記得從前這條街道散發着什麼味道嗎？”法裏德笑着說：“烤肉。”“烤羊羔肉。”我說。“羊羔肉。”法裏德說，舔了舔嘴脣。“現在喀布爾城裏只有塔利班吃得上羊羔肉啦。”他拉拉我的衣袖，“說起……”
一輛汽車朝我們開來。“大鬍子巡邏隊。”法裏德低聲說。那是我第一次見到塔利班。我在電視上、互聯網上、雜誌封面上、報紙上見過他們。但如今我站在這裏，離他們不到五十英尺，告訴自己心裏突然涌起的並非純粹的赤裸裸的恐懼；告訴自己我的血肉沒有突然之間壓着我的骨頭，我的心跳沒有加速。他們來了，趾高氣揚。紅色的豐田皮卡慢慢駛過我們。幾個臉色嚴峻的青年人蹲在車斗上，肩膀扛着俄製步槍。他們全都留着大鬍子，穿着黑色長袍。有個皮膚黝黑的傢伙，看上去二十出頭，皺着一雙濃眉，手中揮舞着鞭子，有節奏地甩打車身一側。他溜轉的眼睛看見我，和我對望。終我一生，我從未覺得自己如此無遮無攔。接着那個塔利班吐了一口沾有菸絲的口水，眼睛移開。我發現自己又能呼吸了。皮卡沿雅德梅灣駛去，在車後捲起一陣塵霧。
“你怎麼回事？”法裏德噓聲說。
“什麼？”