殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(57)

MY MEMORY OF THE REST of that winter of 1975 is pretty hazy. I remember I was fairly happy when Baba was home. We’d eat together, go to see a film, visit Kaka Homayou. or Kaka Faruq. Sometimes Rahim Khan came over and Baba let me sit in his study and sip tea with them. He’d even have me read him some of my stories. It was good and I even believed it would last. And Baba believed it too, I think. We both should have known better. For at least a few months after the kite tournament, Baba and I immersed ourselves in a sweet illusion, saw each other in a way that we never had before. We’d actually deceived ourselves into thinking that a toy made of tissue paper, glue, and bamboo could somehow close the chasm between us.
But when Baba was out--and he was out a lot--I closed myself in my room. I read a book every couple of days, wrote sto ries, learned to draw horses. I’d hear Hassan shuffling around the kitchen in the morning, hear the clinking of silverware, the whistle of the teapot. I’d wait to hear the door shut and only then I would walk down to eat. On my calendar, I circled the date of the first day of school and began a countdown.
To my dismay, Hassan kept trying to rekindle things between us. I remember the last time. I was in my room, reading an abbreviated Farsi translation of Ivanhoe, when he knocked on my door.
“What is it?”
“I’m going to the baker to buy _naan_,” he said from the other side. “I was wondering if you... if you wanted to come along.”
“I think I’m just going to read,” I said, rubbing my temples. Lately, every time Hassan was around, I was getting a headache.
“It’s a sunny day,” he said.
“I can see that.”
“Might be fun to go for a walk.”
“You go.”
“I wish you’d come along,” he said. Paused. Something thumped against the door, maybe his forehead. “I don’t know what I’ve done, Amir agha. I wish you’d tell me. I don’t know why we don’t play anymore.”
“You haven’t done anything, Hassan. Just go.”
“You can tell me, I’ll stop doing it.”
I buried my head in my lap, squeezed my temples with my knees, like a vice. “I’ll tell you what I want you to stop doing,” I said, eyes pressed shut.
“Anything.”

1975年冬天剩下的那些日子在我記憶裏面十分模糊。我記得每當爸爸在家，我就十分高興。我們會一起吃飯，一起看電影，一起拜訪霍瑪勇叔叔或者法拉克叔叔。有時拉辛汗來訪，爸爸也會讓我在書房裏喝茶。他甚至還讓我念些自己寫的故事給他聽。一切都很美好，我甚至相信這會永恆不變。爸爸也這麼想，我認爲。我們彼此更加了解。至少，在風箏大賽之後的幾個月裏，爸爸和我相互抱有甜蜜的幻想，以某種我們過去從未有過的方式相處。我們其實在欺騙自己，居然認爲一個用棉紙、膠水和竹子做的玩具，能彌合兩人之間的鴻溝。
可是，每當爸爸不在——他經常不在家——我便將自己鎖在房間裏面。我幾天就看完一本書，寫故事，學着畫馬匹。每天早晨，我會聽見哈桑在廚房忙上忙下，聽見銀器碰撞的叮噹聲，還有茶壺燒水的嘶嘶聲。我會等着，直到他把房門關上，我纔會下樓吃飯。我在日曆上圈出開學那天，開始倒數上課的日子。
讓我難堪的是，哈桑盡一切努力，想恢復我們的關係。我記得最後一次，我在自己的房間裏，看着法爾西語節譯本的《劫後英雄傳》［1］Ivanhoe，蘇格蘭作家瓦爾特?司各特（SirWalterScott，1771～1832）著，講述中世紀英格蘭的騎士故事。［1］，他來敲我的門。
“誰?”
“我要去烘焙房買饢餅，”他在門外說，“我來……問問要不要一起去。”
“我覺得我只想看書，”我說，用手揉揉太陽穴。後來，每次哈桑在我身邊，我就頭痛。
“今天陽光很好。”他說。
“我知道。”
“也許出去走走會很好玩。”
“你去吧。”
“我希望你也去。”他說。停了一會兒，不知道什麼東西又在撞着門，也許是他的額頭。“我不知道自己做錯了什麼，阿米爾少爺。你希望你告訴我。我不知道爲什麼我們不再一起玩了。”
“你沒有做錯任何事情，哈桑，你走開。”
“你可以告訴我，我會改的。”
我將頭埋在雙腿間，用膝蓋擠着太陽穴。“我會告訴你我希望你別做什麼。”我說，雙眼緊緊閉上。
“你說吧。”