殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(84)

In Afghanistan, _yelda_ is the first night of the month of _Jadi_, the first night of winter, and the longest night of the year. As was the tradition, Hassan and I used to stay up late, our feet tucked under the kursi, while Ali tossed apple skin into the stove and told us ancient tales of sultans and thieves to pass that longest of nights. It was from Ali that I learned the lore of _yelda_, that bedeviled moths flung themselves at candle flames, and wolves climbed mountains looking for the sun. Ali swore that if you ate water melon the night of _yelda_, you wouldn’t get thirsty the coming summer.
When I was older, I read in my poetry books that _yelda_ was the starless night tormented lovers kept vigil, enduring the endless dark, waiting for the sun to rise and bring with it their loved one. After I met Soraya Taheri, every night of the week became a _yelda_ for me. And when Sunday mornings came, I rose from bed, Soraya Taheri’s brown-eyed face already in my head. In Baba’s bus, I counted the miles until I’d see her sitting barefoot, arranging cardboard boxes of yellowed encyclopedias, her heels white against the asphalt, silver bracelets jingling around her slender wrists. I’d think of the shadow her hair cast on the ground when it slid off her back and hung down like a velvet curtain. Soraya. Swap Meet Princess. The morning sun to my yelda.
I invented excuses to stroll down the aisle--which Baba acknowledged with a playful smirk--and pass the Taheris’ stand. I would wave at the general, perpetually dressed in his shiny overpressed gray suit, and he would wave back. Sometimes he’d get up from his director’s chair and we’d make small talk about my writing, the war, the day’s bargains. And I’d have to will my eyes not to peel away, not to wander to where Soraya sat reading a paperback. The general and I would say our good-byes and I’d try not to slouch as I walked away.
Sometimes she sat alone, the general off to some other row to socialize, and I would walk by, pretending not to know her, but dying to. Sometimes she was there with a portly middle-aged woman with pale skin and dyed red hair. I promised myself that I would talk to her before the summer was over, but schools reopened, the leaves reddened, yellowed, and fell, the rains of winter swept in and wakened Baba’s joints, baby leaves sprouted once more, and I still hadn’t had the heart, the dil, to even look her in the eye.
The spring quarter ended in late May 1985. I aced all of my general education classes, which was a minor miracle given how I’d sit in lectures and think of the soft hook of Soraya’s nose.
Then, one sweltering Sunday that summer, Baba and I were at the flea market, sitting at our booth, fanning our faces with news papers. Despite the sun bearing down like a branding iron, the market was crowded that day and sales had been strong--it was only 12:30 but we’d already made $160. I got up, stretched, and asked Baba if he wanted a Coke. He said he’d love one.
“Be careful, Amir,” he said as I began to walk. “Of what, Baba?”
“I am not an ahmaq, so don’t play stupid with me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Remember this,” Baba said, pointing at me, “The man is a Pashtun to the root. He has nang and namoos.” Nang. Namoos. Honor and pride. The tenets of Pashtun men. Especially when it came to the chastity of a wife. Or a daughter.
“I’m only going to get us drinks.”
“Just don’t embarrass me, that’s all I ask.”
“I won’t. God, Baba.”
Baba lit a cigarette and started fanning himself again.
I walked toward the concession booth initially, then turned left at the T-shirt stand--where, for $5, you could have the face of Jesus, Elvis, Jim Morrison, or all three, pressed on a white nylon T-shirt. Mariachi music played overhead, and I smelled pickles and grilled meat.
I spotted the Taheris’ gray van two rows from ours, next to a kiosk selling mango-on-a-stick. She was alone, reading. White ankle-length summer dress today. Open-toed sandals. Hair pulled back and crowned with a tulip-shaped bun. I meant to simply walk by again and I thought I had, except suddenly I was standing at the edge of the Taheris’ white tablecloth, staring at Soraya across curling irons and old neckties. She looked up.
“Salaam,” I said. “I’m sorry to be mozahem, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Salaam.”
“Is General Sahib here today?” I said. My ears were burning. I couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eye.
“He went that way,” she said. Pointed to her right. The bracelet slipped down to her elbow, silver against olive.
“Will you tell him I stopped by to pay my respects?” I said.
“I will.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Oh, and my name is Amir. In case you need to know. So you can tell him. That I stopped by. To... pay my respects.”
“Yes.”

在阿富汗，雅爾達是回曆中嘉帝月的第一夜，也是冬天的第一夜，一年之中最長的夜晚。按照風俗，哈桑和我會熬到深夜，我們把腳藏在火爐桌下面，阿里將蘋果皮丟進爐子，給我們講蘇丹和小偷的古老傳說，度過漫漫長夜。正是從阿里口中，我得知了雅爾達的故事，知道了飛蛾撲火是因爲着魔，還知道狼羣爬山是要尋找太陽。阿里發誓說，要是在雅爾達那夜吃到西瓜，翌年夏天就不會口渴。
稍大一些之後，我從詩書中讀到，雅爾達是星光黯淡的夜晚，戀人徹夜難眠，忍受着無邊黑暗，等待太陽升起，帶來他們的愛人。遇到索拉雅之後那個星期，對我來說，每個夜晚都是雅爾達。等到星期天早晨來臨，我從牀上起來，索拉雅?塔赫裏的臉龐和那雙棕色的明眸已然在我腦裏。坐在爸爸的巴士裏面，我暗暗數着路程，直到看見她赤足坐着，擺弄那些裝着發黃的百科全書的紙箱，她的腳踝在柏油路的映襯下分外白皙，柔美的手腕上有銀環叮噹作響。一頭秀髮從她背後甩過，像天鵝絨幕布那樣垂下來，我望着她的頭髮投射在地上的影子怔怔出神。索拉雅，我的交易會公主，我的雅爾達的朝陽。
我製造各種各樣的藉口——爸爸顯然知道，但只露出戲謔的微笑——沿着那條過道走下去，經過塔赫裏的攤位。我會朝將軍招招手，而他，永遠穿着那身熨得發亮的灰色套裝，會揮手應答。有時他從那張導演椅站起來，我們會稍作交談，提及我的寫作、戰爭、當天的交易。而我不得不管住自己的眼睛別偷看，別總是瞟向坐在那裏讀一本平裝書的索拉雅。將軍和我會彼此告別，而我走開的時候，得強打精神，掩飾自己心中的失望。
有時將軍到其他過道去跟人攀交情，留她一人看守攤位，我會走過去，假裝不認識她，可是心裏想認識她想得要死。有時陪着她的還有個矮胖的中年婦女，染紅髮，膚色蒼白。我暗下決心，在夏天結束之前一定要跟她搭訕，但學校開學了，葉子變紅、變黃、掉落，冬天的雨水紛紛灑灑，折磨爸爸的手腕，樹枝上吐出新芽，而我依然沒有勇氣、沒有膽量，甚至不敢直望她的眼睛。
春季學期在1985年5月底結束。我所有的課程都得了優，這可是個小小的神蹟，因爲我人在課堂，心裏卻總是想着索拉雅柔美而筆挺的鼻子。
然後，某個悶熱的夏季星期天，爸爸跟我在跳蚤市場，坐在我們的攤位，用報紙往臉上扇風。儘管陽光像烙鐵那樣火辣辣，那天市場人滿爲患，銷售相當可觀——纔到12點半，我們已經賺了160美元。我站起來，伸伸懶腰，問爸爸要不要來杯可口可樂。他說來一杯。
“當心點，阿米爾。”我舉步離開時他說。“當心什麼，爸爸?”
“我不是蠢貨，少跟我裝蒜。”
“我不知道你在說什麼啊。”
“你要記住，”爸爸指着我說，“那傢伙是個純正的普什圖人，他有名譽和尊嚴。”這是普什圖人的信條，尤其是關係到妻子或者女兒的貞節時。
“我不過是去給我們買飲料。”
“別讓我難看，我就這點要求。”
“我不會的，天啦，爸爸。”
爸爸點了根菸，繼續扇着風。
起初我朝販賣處走去，然後在賣襯衫的攤位左轉。在那兒，你只消花5塊錢，便可以在白色的尼龍襯衫上印上耶穌、貓王或者吉姆?莫里森的頭像，或者三個一起印。馬里亞奇［1］Mariachi，墨西哥傳統音樂樂團，主要使用樂器有小號、曼陀鈴、吉他、豎琴以及小提琴等，所演唱歌曲風格通常較爲熱烈。［1］的音樂在頭頂回響，我聞到醃黃瓜和烤肉的味道。
我看見塔赫裏灰色的貨車，和我們的車隔着兩排，緊挨着一個賣芒果串的小攤。她單身一人，在看書，今天穿着長及腳踝的白色夏裝，涼鞋露出腳趾，頭髮朝後扎，梳成鬱金香形狀的髮髻。我打算跟以前一樣只是走過，我以爲可以做到，可是突然之間，我發現自己站在塔赫裏的白色桌布邊上，越過燙髮用的鐵髮夾和舊領帶，盯着索拉雅。她擡頭。
“你好，”我說，“打擾了，對不起。我不是故意打擾你的。”
“你好。”
“將軍大人今天不在嗎?”我說。我的耳朵發燒，無法正視她的明眸。
“他去那邊了。”她說，指着右邊，綠色鑲銀的手鐲從她的胳膊肘上滑落。
“你可不可以跟他說，我路過這裏，問候他一下。”我說。
“可以。”
“謝謝你。”我說，“哦，我的名字叫阿米爾。這次你需要知道，纔好跟他說。說我路過這裏，向他……問好。”
“好的。”