殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(85)

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。”
“沒有，你沒有。”她說。
“哦，那就好。”我點點頭，給她一個勉強的微笑。“我要走了。”好像我已經說過了吧?“再見。”
“再見。”
我舉步離開。停下，轉身。趁着勇氣還沒有消失，我趕忙說:“我可以知道你在看什麼書嗎?”
她眨眨眼。
我屏住呼吸。剎那間，我覺得跳蚤市場裏面所有的眼睛都朝我們看來。我猜想四周似乎突然寂靜下來，話說到一半戛然而止。人們轉過頭，饒有興致地眯起眼睛。
這是怎麼回事?
直到那時，我們的邂逅可以解釋成禮節性的問候，一個男人問起另外一個男人。但我問了她問題，如果她回答，我們將會……這麼說吧，我們將會聊天。我，一個單身的青年男子，而她是個未婚的少女。她有過一段歷史，這就夠了。我們正徘徊在風言風語的危險邊緣，毒舌會說長道短，而承受流言毒害的將會是她，不是我——我十分清楚阿富汗人的雙重標準，身爲男性，我佔盡便宜。不是“你沒見到他找她聊天嗎?”而是“哇，你沒看到她捨不得他離開嗎?多麼不知道廉恥啊!”
按照阿富汗人的標準，我的問題很唐突。問出這句話，意味着我無所遮掩，對她的興趣再也毋庸置疑。但我是個男人，我所冒的風險，頂多是尊嚴受傷罷了，受傷了會痊癒，可是名譽毀了不再有清白。她會接受我的挑戰嗎?
她翻過書，讓封面對着我。《呼嘯山莊》。“你看過嗎?”她說。
我點點頭。我感到自己的心怦怦跳。“那是個悲傷的故事。”
“好書總是跟悲傷的故事有關。”她說。
“確實這樣。”
“聽說你寫作?”
她怎麼知道?我尋思是不是她父親說的，也許她曾問過他。我立即打消了這兩個荒謬的念頭。父親跟兒子可以隨心所欲地談論婦女。但不會有阿富汗女子——至少是有教養的阿富汗淑女——向她父親問起青年男子。而且，沒有父親，特別是一個有名譽和尊嚴的普什圖男人，會跟自己的女兒談論未婚少男，除非這個傢伙是求愛者，已經做足體面的禮節，請他父親前來提親。
難以置信的是，我聽見自己說:“你願意看看我寫的故事嗎?”
“我願意。”她說。現在我從她的神情感覺她有些不安，她的眼睛開始東瞟西看，也許是看看將軍來了沒有。我懷疑，要是讓他看到我跟她女兒交談了這麼久，他會有什麼反應呢?
“也許改天我會帶給你，”我說。我還想說些什麼，那個我曾見到跟索拉雅在一起的女人走進過道。她提着塑料袋，裏面裝滿水果。她看到我們，滴溜溜的眼珠看着我和索拉雅，微笑起來。
“親愛的阿米爾，見到你真高興。”她說，把袋子放在桌布上。她的額頭泛出絲絲汗珠，一頭紅髮看上去像頭盔，在陽光下閃閃發亮——在她頭髮稀疏的地方露出點點頭皮。她有雙綠色的小眼睛，埋藏在那圓得像捲心菜的臉蛋上，牙齒鑲金，短短的手指活像香腸。她胸前掛着一尊金色的安拉，鏈子在她皮膚的褶皺和脖子的肥肉間忽隱忽現。“我叫雅米拉，親愛的索拉雅的媽媽。”
“你好，親愛的阿姨。”我說，有些尷尬，我經常身處阿富汗人之間，他們認得我是什麼人，我卻不知道對方姓甚名誰。
“你爸爸還好嗎?”她說。
“他很好，謝謝。”