殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(148)

The old man smiled. “I’ll try to remember and that’s a promise. Come back and find me.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Thank you so much.” And I meant it. Now I knew my mother had liked almond cake with honey and hot tea, that she’d once used the word “profoundly,” that she’d fretted about her happiness. I had just learned more about my mother from this old man on the street than I ever did from Baba. Walking back to the truck, neither one of us commented about what most non-Afghans would have seen as an improbable coincidence, that a beggar on the street would happen to know my mother. Because we both knew that in Afghanistan, and particularly in Kabul, such absurdity was commonplace. Baba used to say, “Take two Afghans who’ve never met, put them in a room for ten minutes, and they’ll figure out how they’re related.”
We left the old man on the steps of that building. I meant to take him up on his offer, come back and see if he’d unearthed any more stories about my mother. But I never saw him again. WE FOUND THE NEW ORPHANAGE in the northern part of Karteh-Seh, along the banks of the dried-up Kabul River. It was a flat, barracks-style building with splintered walls and windows boarded with planks of wood. Farid had told me on the way there that Karteh-Seh had been one of the most war-ravaged neighborhoods in Kabul, and, as we stepped out of the truck, the evidence was overwhelming. The cratered streets were flanked by little more than ruins of shelled buildings and abandoned homes. We passed the rusted skeleton of an overturned car, a TV set with no screen half-buried in rubble, a wall with the words ZENDA BAD TAL IRAN! (Long live the Taliban!) sprayed in black. A short, thin, balding man with a shaggy gray beard opened the door. He wore a ragged tweed jacket, a skullcap, and a pair of eyeglasses with one chipped lens resting on the tip of his nose. Behind the glasses, tiny eyes like black peas flitted from me to Farid. “Salaam alaykum,” he said.
“Salaam alaykum,” I said. I showed him the Polaroid. “We’re searching for this boy.”
He gave the photo a cursory glance. “I am sorry. I have never seen him.”

老人微笑，“我會想想看。這是承諾，記得回來找我。”
“謝謝你。”我說，
“太謝謝你了。”我是說真的。現在我知道媽媽曾經喜歡塗了蜂蜜的杏仁蛋糕，還有熱紅茶，知道她用過“深深地”這個詞，知道她曾爲快樂煩惱過。我對媽媽的瞭解，從這個街頭老人身上得到的，甚至比從爸爸身上知道的還要多。露宿街頭的老乞丐恰好認識我媽媽，這在多數非阿富汗人眼裏，也許會是匪夷所思的巧合，但我們對此隻字不提，默默走回那輛汽車。因爲我們知道，在阿富汗，特別是在喀布爾，這樣的荒唐事情司空見慣。爸爸過去說過：“把兩個素昧平生的阿富汗人關在同一間屋子裏，不消十分鐘，他們就能找出他們之間的親戚關係。”
我們離開了坐在那座房子臺階上的老人。我原想帶他到他的辦公室去，看看他能否想起更多關於我媽媽的事情。但我再也沒有見到他我們發現新恤孤院在卡德察區北邊，緊鄰乾涸的喀布爾河河堤。那是一座平房，軍營式建築，牆上有裂縫，窗戶用木板封上。前去的途中，法裏德告訴我說，在喀布爾各個城區中，卡德察區受戰爭破壞最嚴重，而當我們下車，證據太明顯了。立在滿是彈坑的街道兩旁的，只有比廢墟好不了多少的破落建築，以及久無人煙的房子。我們走過一具鏽蝕的轎車殘骸，看到一臺半截埋在碎石堆裏面、沒有熒屏的電視機，一堵塗着黑色“塔利班萬歲”標語的牆壁。 應門的是個禿頂男人，矮矮瘦瘦，留着蓬鬆的灰白鬍子。他穿着舊斜紋呢夾克，戴着無邊便帽，眼鏡掛在鼻尖上，有塊鏡片已經碎裂。眼鏡後面，黑豆似的眼珠在我和法裏德身上掃來掃去。 “你好。”他說。
“你好，”我說，把寶麗萊照片給他看，“我們在找這個男孩。”
他匆匆瞥了一眼照片，“對不起，我從沒見過他。”