殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(35)

One time, a bratty Hindi kid whose family had recently moved into the neighborhood told us that in his Hometown, kite fighting had strict rules and regulations. "You have to play in a boxed area and you have to stand at a right angle to the wind," he said proudly. "And you can't use aluminum to make your glass string."

有一次，有個多嘴的印度小孩，他家最近才搬到附近，告訴我們，在他的家鄉，鬥風箏必須嚴格遵守一些規則和規定。"你必須在指定的區域放風箏，並且你必須站在風向成直角的地方。"他驕傲地說，"還有，你不能用鋁來做玻璃線。"

Hassan and I looked at each other. Cracked up. The Hindi kid would soon learn what the British learned earlier in the century, and what the Russians would eventually learn by the late 1980s: that Afghans are an independent people. Afghans cherish custom but abhor rules. And so it was with kite fighting. The rules were simple: No rules. Fly your kite. Cut the opponents. Good luck.

哈桑和我對望了一眼。讓你吹吧。這個印度小孩很快會學到的，跟英國人在這個世紀之初以及俄國人在1980年代晚期學到的如出一轍：阿富汗人是獨立的民族。阿富汗人尊重風俗，但討厭規則，鬥風箏也是這樣。規則很簡單：放起你的風箏，割斷對手的線，祝你好運。

Except that wasn't all. The real fun began when a kite was cut. That was where the kite runners came in, those kids who chased the windblown kite drifting through the neighborhoods until it came spiraling down in a field, dropping in someone's yard, on a tree, or a rooftop. The chase got pretty fierce; hordes of kite runners swarmed the streets, shoved past each other like those people from Spain I'd read about once, the ones who ran from the bulls. One year a neighborhood kid climbed a pine tree for a kite. A branch snapped under his weight and he fell thirty feet. Broke his back and never walked again. But he fell with the kite still in his hands. And when a kite runner had his hands on a kite, no one could take it from him. That wasn't a rule. That was custom.

不僅如此，若有風箏被割斷，真正的樂趣就開始了。這時，該追風箏的人出動，那些孩子追逐那個在隨風飄揚的風箏，在臨近的街區奔走，直到它盤旋着跌落在田裏，或者掉進某家的院子裏，或掛在樹上，或停在屋頂上。追逐十分激烈：追風箏的人蜂擁着漫過大街小巷，相互推搡，像西班牙人那樣。我曾看過一本書，說起他們在鬥牛節時被公牛追趕的景象。有一年某個鄰居的小孩爬上松樹，去撿風箏，結果樹枝不堪重負，他從三十英尺高的地方跌下來，摔得再也無法行走，但他跌下來時手裏還抓着那隻風箏。如果追風箏的人手裏拿着風箏，沒有人能將它拿走。這不是規則，而是風俗。

For kite runners, the most coveted prize was the last fallen kite of a winter tournament. It was a trophy of honor, something to be displayed on a mantle for guests to admire. When the sky cleared of kites and only the final two remained, every kite runner readied himself for the chance to land this prize. He positioned himself at a spot that he thought would give him a head start. Tense muscles readied themselves to uncoil. Necks craned. Eyes crinkled. Fights broke out. And when the last kite was cut, all hell broke loose.

對追風箏的人來說，最大的獎勵是在冬天的比賽中撿到最後掉落的那隻風箏。那是無上的榮耀，人們會將其掛在壁爐架之下，供客人歡欣讚歎。每當滿天風箏消失得只剩下最後兩隻，每個追風箏的人都厲兵秣馬，準備摘取此項大獎。他們會朝向那個他們預計風箏跌落的地方，繃緊的肌肉蓄勢待發，脖子擡起，眼睛眯着，鬥志昂揚。當最後一隻風箏被割斷，立即一片騷動。

Over the years, I had seen a lot of guys run kites. But Hassan was by far the greatest kite runner I'd ever seen. It was downright eerie the way he always got to the spot the kite would land before the kite did, as if he had some sort of inner compass.

多年過去，我曾見到無數傢伙參與追風箏，但哈桑是我見過的人中最精此道的高手。十分奇怪的是，在風箏跌落之前，他總是等在那個它將要跌落的地方，似乎他體內有某種指南針。