殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(64)

He tipped his drink to me and took a sip. He lit a cigarette, one of the unfiltered Pakistani cigarettes he and Baba were always smoking. “Did I ever tell you I was almost married once?”
“Really?” I said, smiling a little at the notion of Rahim Khan getting married. I’d always thought of him as Baba’s quiet alter ego, my writing mentor, my pal, the one who never forgot to bring me a souvenir, a saughat, when he returned from a trip abroad. But a husband? A father?
He nodded. “It’s true. I was eighteen. Her name was Homaira. She was a Hazara, the daughter of our neighbor’s servants. She was as beautiful as a pari, light brown hair, big hazel eyes... she had this laugh... I can still hear it sometimes.” He twirled his glass. “We used to meet secretly in my father’s apple orchards, always after midnight when everyone had gone to sleep. We’d walk under the trees and I’d hold her hand... Am I embarrassing you, Amir jan?”
“A little,” I said.
“It won’t kill you,” he said, taking another puff. “Anyway, we had this fantasy. We’d have a great, fancy wedding and invite family and friends from Kabul to Kandahar. I would build us a big house, white with a tiled patio and large windows. We would plant fruit trees in the garden and grow all sorts of flowers, have a lawn for our kids to play on. On Fridays, after _namaz_ at the mosque, everyone would get together at our house for lunch and we’d eat in the garden, under cherry trees, drink fresh water from the well. Then tea with candy as we watched our kids play with their cousins...”
He took a long gulp of his scotch. Coughed. “You should have seen the look on my father’s face when I told him. My mother actually fainted. My sisters splashed her face with water. They fanned her and looked at me as if I had slit her throat. My brother Jalal actually went to fetch his hunting rifle before my father stopped him.” Rahim Khan barked a bitter laughter. “It was Homaira and me against the world. And I’ll tell you this, Amir jan: In the end, the world always wins. That’s just the way of things.”
“So what happened?”
“That same day, my father put Homaira and her family on a lorry and sent them off to Hazarajat. I never saw her again.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Probably for the best, though,” Rahim Khan said, shrugging. “She would have suffered. My family would have never accepted her as an equal. You don’t order someone to polish your shoes one day and call them ‘sister’ the next.” He looked at me. “You know, you can tell me anything you want, Amir jan. Anytime.”
“I know,” I said uncertainly. He looked at me for a long time, like he was waiting, his black bottomless eyes hinting at an unspoken secret between us. For a moment, I almost did tell him. Almost told him everything, but then what would he think of me? He’d hate me, and rightfully.
“Here.” He handed me something. “I almost forgot. Happy birthday.” It was a brown leather-bound notebook. I traced my fingers along the gold-colored stitching on the borders. I smelled the leather. “For your stories,” he said. I was going to thank him when something exploded and bursts of fire lit up the sky.
“Fireworks!”
We hurried back to the house and found the guests all standing in the yard, looking up to the sky. Kids hooted and screamed with each crackle and whoosh. People cheered, burst into applause each time flares sizzled and exploded into bouquets of fire. Every few seconds, the backyard lit up in sudden flashes of red, green, and yellow.
In one of those brief bursts of light, I saw something I’ll never forget: Hassan serving drinks to Assef and Wali from a silver platter. The light winked out, a hiss and a crackle, then another flicker of orange light: Assef grinning, kneading Hassan in the chest with a knuckle.
Then, mercifully, darkness.

他朝我舉舉杯，喝了一口。他點起一根香菸，沒有過濾嘴的巴基斯坦香菸，他和爸爸總是抽這種。“我有沒有告訴過你我差點就結婚了?”
“真的嗎?”我說，想到拉辛汗也結婚，不由微微笑着。我一直當他是爸爸寡言的知交，我的寫作導師，我的朋友，當他是那個每次到國外旅行總不忘給我買點小禮物的人。但是丈夫?父親?
他點點頭:“真的。那年我十八歲。她的名字叫荷麥拉。她是哈扎拉人，我家鄰居僕人的女兒。她像仙女一樣好看，淡棕色的頭髮，褐色的大眼睛……她總是這樣笑……我有時還能聽到她的笑聲。”他晃晃酒杯，“我們經常在我父親的蘋果園裏幽會，總是在夜闌人靜的時候。我們在樹下聊天，我拉着她的手……我讓你不好意思了嗎，阿米爾?”
“有一點點。”我說。
“那對你無害的，”他說，又喝了一口。“不管怎樣，我們有着這樣的幻想。我們會有一個盛大的、夢幻般的婚禮，從坎大哈和喀布爾請親朋好友來參加。我會給我們蓋一座大房子，白色的，露臺鋪着瓷磚，窗戶很大。我們會在花園裏種果樹，還有各種各樣的花兒，有一個草坪，我們的孩子在上面玩耍。星期五，在清真寺做過禱告之後，每個人會到我們家裏吃午飯，我們在花園用膳，在櫻桃樹下，從井裏打水喝。然後我們喝着茶，吃着糖果，看着我們的孩子跟親戚的小孩玩……”
他喝了一大口烈酒，咳嗽。“可惜你看不到我把這件事告訴我爸爸時他臉上的表情。我媽媽完全昏厥了，我的姐妹用冷水撲打她的臉，她們對着她扇風，彷彿我用刀子割了她的喉嚨。要不是我爸爸及時阻止，我哥哥雅拉爾真的會去抓來他的獵槍。”拉辛汗說，帶着痛苦的笑聲，“我跟荷麥拉對抗着整個世界。並且我告訴你，親愛的阿米爾，到了最後，總是這個世界贏得勝利。就這麼回事。”
“後來怎樣呢?”
“就在那天，我爸爸將荷麥拉和她的家人趕上一輛貨車，送他們去哈扎拉賈特。我再也沒有見到過她。”
“真遺憾。”我說。
“不過這也許是最好的結果了，”拉辛汗說，聳聳肩。“她會受辱的。我的家人將永遠不會平等對待她。你不會下令讓某人替你擦鞋子，而當天晚些時候管她叫‘姐妹’。”他看着我，“你知道，你可以告訴我任何你想說的事情，親愛的阿米爾，任何時候。”
“我知道，”我惴惴地說。他久久看着我，似乎在等待；他黑色的眼睛深洞無底，隱藏着我們之間一個沒有說出的祕密。那一刻，我差點就告訴他了，差點把什麼都對他說，可是到時他會怎麼看待我?他會恨我，而且合情合理。
“給你，”他遞給我某件東西，“我差點忘記了，生日快樂。”那是個棕色的皮面筆記本。我伸出手指，摸索着它鑲着金線的邊緣，聞到皮革的味道。“給你寫故事用的。”他說。我剛要向他道謝，有些東西爆炸了，在天空中燃起火焰。
“煙花!”
我們匆忙趕回家，發現所有的賓客都站在院子裏，望着天空。每次爆裂和呼嘯升空的聲音，都會引來孩子們大聲尖叫。每次火焰嘶嘶作響，爆裂開來，變成花束，都會引起人們歡呼，拍掌稱好。每隔幾秒鐘，後院就會被突然爆發的火光點亮，有紅的、綠的、黃的。
在一次短暫的閃光中，我看到永世不會忘記的情景：哈桑端着銀盤，服侍阿塞夫和瓦里喝酒。那陣光芒消失了，又是一聲嘶嘶，一聲爆裂，接着是一道橙色的火光：阿塞夫獰笑着，用一根指節敲打着哈桑的胸膛。
然後，天可憐見，什麼都看不到了。