殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(55)

“There must have been a hundred kites in the sky that day?” Baba said. “Is that about right, Amir?”
“I guess so,” I mumbled.
“A hundred kites, Homayoun jan. No _laaf_. And the only one still flying at the end of the day was Amir’s. He has the last kite at home, a beautiful blue kite. Hassan and Amir ran it together.”
“Congratulations,” Kaka Homayoun said. His first wife, the one with the warts, clapped her hands. “Wah wah, Amir jan, we’re all so proud of you!” she said. The younger wife joined in. Then they were all clapping, yelping their praises, telling me how proud I’d made them all. Only Rahim Khan, sitting in the passenger seat next to Baba, was silent. He was looking at me in an odd way.
“Please pull over, Baba,” I said.
“What?”
“Getting sick,” I muttered, leaning across the seat, pressing against Kaka Homayoun’s daughters.
Fazilal/Karima’s face twisted. “Pull over, Kaka! His face is yellow! I don’t want him throwing up on my new dress!” she squealed.
Baba began to pull over, but I didn’t make it. A few minutes later, I was sitting on a rock on the side of the road as they aired out the van. Baba was smoking with Kaka Homayoun who was telling Fazila/Karima to stop crying; he’d buy her another dress in Jalalabad. I closed my eyes, turned my face to the sun. Little shapes formed behind my eyelids, like hands playing shadows on the wall. They twisted, merged, formed a single image: Hassan’s brown corduroy pants discarded on a pile of old bricks in the alley.
KAKA HOMAYOUN’S WHITE, two-story house in Jalalabad had a balcony overlooking a large, walled garden with apple and persimmon trees. There were hedges that, in the summer, the gardener shaped like animals, and a swimming pool with emeraldcolored tiles. I sat on the edge of the pool, empty save for a layer of slushy snow at the bottom, feet dangling in. Kaka Homayoun’s kids were playing hide-and-seek at the other end of the yard. The women were cooking and I could smell onions frying already, could hear the phht-phht of a pressure cooker, music, laughter. Baba, Rahim Khan, Kaka Homayoun, and Kaka Nader were sitting on the balcony, smoking. Kaka Homayoun was telling them he’d brought the projector along to show his slides of France. Ten years since he’d returned from Paris and he was still showing those stupid slides.
It shouldn’t have felt this way. Baba and I were finally friends. We’d gone to the zoo a few days before, seen Marjan the lion, and I had hurled a pebble at the bear when no one was watching. We’d gone to Dadkhoda’s Kabob House afterward, across from Cinema Park, had lamb kabob with freshly baked _naan_ from the tandoor. Baba told me stories of his travels to India and Russia, the people he had met, like the armless, legless couple in Bombay who’d been married forty-seven years and raised eleven children. That should have been fun, spending a day like that with Baba, hearing his stories. I finally had what I’d wanted all those years. Except now that I had it, I felt as empty as this unkempt pool I was dangling my legs into.
The wives and daughters served dinner--rice, kofta, and chicken _qurma_--at sundown. We dined the traditional way, sitting on cushions around the room, tablecloth spread on the floor, eating with our hands in groups of four or five from common platters. I wasn’t hungry but sat down to eat anyway with Baba, Kaka Faruq, and Kaka Homayoun’s two boys. Baba, who’d had a few scotches before dinner, was still ranting about the kite tournament, how I’d outlasted them all, how I’d come home with the last kite. His booming voice dominated the room. People raised their heads from their platters, called out their congratulations. Kaka Faruq patted my back with his clean hand. I felt like sticking a knife in my eye.

“那天天上一定有一百隻風箏吧?”爸爸說，“對嗎，阿米爾?”
“我想應該有的。”我喃喃說。
“一百隻風箏，親愛的霍瑪勇，不是吹牛。那天最後一隻還在天上飛的風箏，是阿米爾放的。他還得到最後那隻風箏，把它帶回家，一隻漂亮的藍風箏。哈桑和阿米爾一起追回來的。”
“恭喜恭喜。”霍瑪勇叔叔說。他的第一個老婆，手上生瘤那個，拍起掌來:“哇，哇，親愛的阿米爾，我們都爲你感到驕傲!”年輕的老婆也加入了，然後他們全都鼓掌，歡喜讚歎，告訴我他們有多麼以我爲榮。只有拉辛汗，坐在副駕駛的位子上，緊鄰着爸爸，一言不發。他的眼神奇怪地看着我。
“請停一停，爸爸。”我說。
“幹嗎?”
“我暈車。”我喃喃說，倒在座位上，靠着霍瑪勇叔叔的女兒。
法茜拉或卡麗瑪臉色一變。“快停，叔叔!他臉色都黃了!我可不希望他弄髒我的新衣服!”她尖叫道。
爸爸開始剎車，但我沒能撐住。隔了幾分鐘，我坐在路邊的一塊石頭上，他們讓風吹散車裏的氣味。爸爸吸着煙，跟霍瑪勇叔叔在一起，他正在安慰法茜拉或者卡麗瑪，要她別哭泣，說到了賈拉拉巴德再給她另買一套新衣服。我合上雙眼，把臉對着太陽。眼瞼後面出現一小片陰影，好像用手在牆上玩影子那樣，它們扭曲着，混合着，變成一副畫面：哈桑的棕色燈芯絨褲子，扔在那條小巷的一堆舊磚頭上面。
霍瑪勇叔叔在賈拉拉巴德的白色房子樓高兩層，帶有陽臺，從上面可以看到一個大花園，有圍牆環繞，種着蘋果樹和柿子樹。那兒還植有樹籬，到了夏天，園丁會將其剪成動物形狀。此外還有個鋪着翡翠綠瓷磚的游泳池。游泳池沒有水，底部積着一層半融的雪，我坐在池邊，雙腳在池裏晃盪。霍瑪勇叔叔的孩子在院子的另外一端玩捉迷藏。婦女在廚房做飯，我聞到炒洋蔥的味道，聽到高壓鍋撲哧撲哧的聲音，還有音樂聲和笑聲。爸爸、拉辛汗、霍瑪勇叔叔、納德叔叔坐在陽臺上抽菸。霍瑪勇叔叔說他帶了投影機，可以放他在法國的幻燈片給大家看。他從巴黎回來已經十年了，還在炫耀那些愚蠢的幻燈片。
事情本來不應該是這樣的。爸爸和我終於變成朋友了，幾天前我們去了動物園，看那頭叫“瑪揚”的獅子，我趁沒人注意，還朝熊扔了一塊石頭。之後，我們去電影院公園對面那家“達克達”烤肉店吃飯，點了烤羊肉和從那個印度烤爐取下來的饢餅。爸爸跟我說他去印度和俄羅斯的故事，給我講他碰到的人，比如說他在孟買［1］Bombay，印度城市。［1］看到一對夫婦，沒手沒腳，結婚已經四十七年，還養了十一個孩子。跟爸爸這樣過上一天，聽他講故事，太有趣了。我終於得到了我多年來夢寐以求的東西。可是現在我得到了，卻覺得十分空虛，跟這個我在裏面搖晃雙腿的游泳池一樣。
黃昏的時候，諸位太太和女兒張羅着晚餐——米飯、饢餅肉丸，還有咖喱雞肉。我們按照傳統的方式用膳，在地面鋪上桌布，坐在遍佈房間的坐墊上，每四人或者五人共用一個大淺盤，用手抓着東西吃。我不餓，不過還是坐下了，跟爸爸、法拉克，還有霍瑪勇叔叔的兩個兒子一起。爸爸在晚飯前喝了一點烈酒，還在跟他們吹噓風箏比賽，活靈活現地描述我如何將其他人統統打敗，如何帶着最後那隻風箏回家。人們從大淺盤擡起頭來，紛紛向我道賀，法拉克叔叔用他那隻乾淨的手拍拍我的後背。我感覺好像有把刀子刺進眼睛。