殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(87)

IT WENT ON LIKE THAT for a few weeks. I’d wait until the general went for a stroll, then I’d walk past the Taheris’ stand. If Khanum Taheri was there, she’d offer me tea and a kolcha and we’d chat about Kabul in the old days, the people we knew, her arthritis. Undoubtedly, she had noticed that my appearances always coincided with her husband’s absences, but she never let on. “Oh you just missed your Kaka,” she’d say. I actually liked it when Khanum Taheri was there, and not just because of her amiable ways; Soraya was more relaxed, more talkative with her mother around. As if her presence legitimized whatever was happening between us--though certainly not to the same degree that the general’s would have. Khanum Taheri’s chaperoning made our meetings, if not gossip-proof, then less gossip-worthy, even if her borderline fawning on me clearly embarrassed Soraya.
One day, Soraya and I were alone at their booth, talking. She was telling me about school, how she too was working on her general education classes, at Ohlone Junior College in Fremont.
“What will you major in?”
“I want to be a teacher,” she said.
“Really? Why?”
“I’ve always wanted to. When we lived in Virginia, I became ESL certified and now I teach at the public library one night a week. My mother was a teacher too, she taught Farsi and history at Zarghoona High School for girls in Kabul.”
A potbellied man in a deerstalker hat offered three dollars for a five-dollar set of candlesticks and Soraya let him have it. She dropped the money in a little candy box by her feet. She looked at me shyly. “I want to tell you a story,” she said, “but I’m a little embarrassed about it.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s kind of silly.”
“Please tell me.”
She laughed. “Well, when I was in fourth grade in Kabul, my father hired a woman named Ziba to help around the house. She had a sister in Iran, in Mashad, and, since Ziba was illiterate, she’d ask me to write her sister letters once in a while. And when the sister replied, I’d read her letter to Ziba. One day, I asked her if she’d like to learn to read and write. She gave me this big smile, crinkling her eyes, and said she’d like that very much. So we’d sit at the kitchen table after I was done with my own schoolwork and I’d teach her Alef-beh. I remember looking up sometimes in the middle of homework and seeing Ziba in the kitchen, stirring meat in the pressure cooker, then sitting down with a pencil to do the alphabet homework I’d assigned to her the night before.
“Anyway, within a year, Ziba could read children’s books. We sat in the yard and she read me the tales of Dara and Sara--slowly but correctly. She started calling me Moalem Soraya, Teacher Soraya.” She laughed again. “I know it sounds childish, but the first time Ziba wrote her own letter, I knew there was nothing else I’d ever want to be but a teacher. I was so proud of her and I felt I’d done something really worthwhile, you know?”
“Yes,” I lied. I thought of how I had used my literacy to ridicule Hassan. How I had teased him about big words he didn’t know.
“My father wants me to go to law school, my mother’s always throwing hints about medical school, but I’m going to be a teacher. Doesn’t pay much here, but it’s what I want.”
“My mother was a teacher too,” I said.

好幾個星期都是如此這般。我等到將軍散步離開，然後走過塔赫裏的貨攤。如果塔赫裏太太在，她會請我喝茶、吃餅乾，我們會談起舊時在喀布爾的光景，那些我們認識的人，還有她的關節炎。她顯然注意到我總是在她丈夫離開的時候出現，但她從不揭穿。“哦，你家叔叔剛剛纔走開。”她會說。我真的喜歡塔赫裏太太在那兒，並且不僅是由於她和善的態度，還因爲有她母親在場，索拉雅會變得更放鬆、更健談。何況她在也讓我們之間的交往顯得正常——雖然不能跟塔赫裏將軍在場相提並論。有了塔赫裏太太的監護，我們的約會就算不能杜絕風言風語，至少也可以少招惹一些。不過她對我套近乎的態度明顯讓索拉雅覺得尷尬。
某天，索拉雅跟我單獨在他們的貨攤上交談。她正告訴我學校裏的事情，她如何努力學習她的通選課程，她在弗裏蒙特的“奧龍專科學校”就讀。
“你打算主修什麼呢?”
“我想當老師。”她說。
“真的嗎?爲什麼?”
“這是我一直夢想的。我們在弗吉尼亞生活的時候，我獲得了英語培訓證書，現在我每週有一個晚上到公共圖書館教書。我媽媽過去也是教師，她在喀布爾的高級中學教女生法爾西語和歷史。”
一個大腹便便的男人頭戴獵帽，出價3塊錢，想買一組5塊錢的燭架，索拉雅賣給他。她把錢丟進腳下那個小小的糖果罐，羞澀地望着我。“我想給您講個故事，”她說，“可是我有點難爲情。”
“講來聽聽。”
“它有點傻。”
“告訴我吧。”
她笑起來,“好吧，在喀布爾，我四年級的時候，我爸爸請了個打理家務的傭人，叫茲芭。她有個姐妹在伊朗的馬夏德。因爲茲芭不識字，每隔不久，她就會求我給她姐妹寫信。每當她姐妹回信，我會念給茲芭聽。有一天，我問她想不想讀書識字。她給我一個大大的微笑，雙眼放光，說她很想很想。所以，我完成自己的作業之後，我們就坐在廚房的桌子上，我教她認字母。我記得有時候，我作業做到一半，擡起頭，發現茲芭在廚房裏，攪攪高壓鍋裏面的牛肉，然後坐下，用鉛筆做我前一天夜裏給她佈置的字母表作業。”
“不管怎樣，不到一年，茲芭能讀兒童書了。我們坐在院子裏，她給我念達拉和沙拉的故事——念得很慢，不過全對。她開始管我叫‘索拉雅老師’。”她又笑起來，“我知道這聽起來很孩子氣，但當茲芭第一次自己寫信，我就知道自己除了教書，別的什麼都不想做。我爲她驕傲，覺得自己做了些真正有價值的事情。您說呢?”
“是的。”我說謊。我想起自己如何愚弄不識字的哈桑，如何用他不懂的晦澀字眼取笑他。
“我爸爸希望我去念法學院，我媽媽總是暗示我選擇醫學院。但我想要成爲教師。雖然在這裏收入不高，但那是我想要的。”
“我媽媽也是教師。”我說。