殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(88)

“I know,” she said. “My mother told me.” Then her face red dened with a blush at what she had blurted, at the implication of her answer, that “Amir Conversations” took place between them when I wasn’t there. It took an enormous effort to stop myself from smiling.
“I brought you something.” I fished the roll of stapled pages from my back pocket. “As promised.” I handed her one of my short stories.
“Oh, you remembered,” she said, actually beaming. “Thank you!” I barely had time to register that she’d addressed me with “tu” for the first time and not the formal “shoma,” because suddenly her smile vanished. The color dropped from her face, and her eyes fixed on something behind me. I turned around. Came face-to-face with General Taheri.
“Amir jan. Our aspiring storyteller. What a pleasure,” he said. He was smiling thinly.
“Salaam, General Sahib,” I said through heavy lips.
He moved past me, toward the booth. “What a beautiful day it is, nay?” he said, thumb hooked in the breast pocket of his vest, the other hand extended toward Soraya. She gave him the pages.
“They say it will rain this week. Hard to believe, isn’t it?” He dropped the rolled pages in the garbage can. Turned to me and gently put a hand on my shoulder. We took a few steps together.
“You know, bachem, I have grown rather fond of you. You are a decent boy, I really believe that, but--” he sighed and waved a hand “--even decent boys need reminding sometimes. So it’s my duty to remind you that you are among peers in this flea market.” He stopped. His expressionless eyes bore into mine. “You see, everyone here is a storyteller.” He smiled, revealing perfectly even teeth. “Do pass my respects to your father, Amir jan.”
He dropped his hand. Smiled again.
“WHAT’S WRONG?” Baba said. He was taking an elderly woman’s money for a rocking horse.
“Nothing,” I said. I sat down on an old TV set. Then I told him anyway.
“Akh, Amir,” he sighed.
As it turned out, I didn’t get to brood too much over what had happened.
Because later that week, Baba caught a cold.
IT STARTED WITH A HACKING COUGH and the sniffles. He got over the sniffles, but the cough persisted. He’d hack into his handkerchief, stow it in his pocket. I kept after him to get it checked, but he’d wave me away. He hated doctors and hospitals. To my knowledge, the only time Baba had ever gone to a doctor was the time he’d caught malaria in India.
Then, two weeks later, I caught him coughing a wad of blood-stained phlegm into the toilet.
“How long have you been doing that?” I said.
“What’s for dinner?” he said.
“I’m taking you to the doctor.”
Even though Baba was a manager at the gas station, the owner hadn’t offered him health insurance, and Baba, in his recklessness, hadn’t insisted. So I took him to the county hospital in San Jose. The sallow, puffy-eyed doctor who saw us introduced himself as a second-year resident. “He looks younger than you and sicker than me,” Baba grumbled. The resident sent us down for a chest X-ray. When the nurse called us back in, the resident was filling out a form.
“Take this to the front desk,” he said, scribbling quickly.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A referral.” Scribble scribble.
“For what?”
“Pulmonary clinic.”
“What’s that?”
He gave me a quick glance. Pushed up his glasses. Began scribbling again. “He’s got a spot on his right lung. I want them to check it out.”
“A spot?” I said, the room suddenly too small.
“Cancer?” Baba added casually.
“Possible. It’s suspicious, anyway,” the doctor muttered.
“Can’t you tell us more?” I asked.
“Not really. Need a CAT scan first, then see the lung doctor.” He handed me the referral form. “You said your father smokes, right?”
“Yes.”

“我知道，”她說，“我媽媽跟我說過。”接着因爲這句話，她臉上泛起紅暈。她的答案暗示着，我不在的時候，她們曾經“談起阿米爾”。我費了好大勁才忍住讓自己不發笑。
“我給你帶了些東西，”我從後褲兜掏出一卷訂好的紙張，“實現諾言。”我遞給她一篇自己寫的小故事。
“哦，你還記得。”她說，笑逐顏開,“謝謝你!”我沒有時間體會她第一次用“你”而非用較正式的“您”稱呼我到底意味着什麼，因爲突然間她的笑容消失了，臉上的紅暈褪去，眼睛盯着我身後。我轉過身，跟塔赫裏將軍面對面站着。
“親愛的阿米爾，抱負遠大的說故事的人，很高興見到你。”他說，掛着淡淡的微笑。
“你好，將軍大人。”我囁嚅着說。
他從我身旁走過，邁向貨攤。“今天天氣很好，是嗎?”他說，拇指搭在他那間背心的上袋，另一隻手伸向索拉雅。她把紙卷給了他。
“他們說整個星期都會下雨呢。很難相信吧，是嗎?”他把那捲紙張丟進垃圾桶。轉向我，輕輕地把手放在我的肩膀上，我們並排走了幾步。
“你知道，我的孩子，我相當喜歡你。你是個有教養的孩子，我真的這麼認爲，但是……”他嘆了口氣，揮揮手，“……即使有教養的男孩有時也需要提醒。所以，我有責任提醒你，你是在跳蚤市場的衆目睽睽之下做事情。”他停住，他那不露喜怒的眸子直盯着我雙眼，“你知道，這裏每個人都會講故事。”他微笑，露出一口整整齊齊的牙齒,“替我向你爸爸問好，親愛的阿米爾。”
他把手放下，又露出微笑。
“怎麼回事?”爸爸說，接過一個老婦人買木馬的錢。
“沒事。”我說。我坐在一臺舊電視機上。不過還是告訴他了。
“唉，阿米爾。”他嘆氣。
結果，剛纔發生的事情沒有讓我煩惱太久。
因爲那個星期稍晚一些時候，爸爸感冒了。
開始只是有點咳嗽和流鼻涕。他的流鼻涕痊癒了，可是咳嗽還是沒好。他會咳在手帕上，把它藏在口袋裏。我不停地求他去檢查，但他會揮手叫我走開。他討厭大夫和醫院。就我所知，爸爸惟一去醫院那次，是在印度染上瘧疾。
然後，過了兩個星期，我撞見他正把一口帶血絲的痰咳到馬桶裏面去。
“你這樣多久了?”我說。
“晚飯吃什麼?”他說。
“我要帶你去看大夫。”
雖說爸爸已經是加油站的經理，那老闆沒有給他提供醫療保險，而爸爸滿不在乎，沒有堅持。於是我帶他去聖荷塞的縣立醫院。有個面帶菜色、雙眼浮腫的大夫接待了我們，自我介紹說是第二年的駐院醫師。“他看起來比你還年輕，但比我病得還重。”爸爸咕噥說。那駐院醫師讓我們下樓去做胸部X光掃描。護士喊我們進去的時候，醫師正在填一張表。
“把這張錶帶到前臺。”他說，匆匆寫着。
“那是什麼?”我問。
“轉診介紹。”他寫啊寫。
“幹嗎用?”
“給肺科。”
“那是什麼?”
他瞥了我一眼，推了推眼鏡，又開始寫起來。“他肺部的右邊有個黑點，我想讓他們複查一下。”
“黑點?”我說，房間突然之間變得太小了。
“癌症嗎?”爸爸若無其事地加上一句。
“也許是，總之很可疑。”醫生咕噥道。
“你可以多告訴我們一些嗎?”我問。
“沒辦法，需要先去做CAT掃描，然後去看肺科醫生。”他把轉診單遞給我。“你說過你爸爸吸菸，對吧?”
“是的。”