殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(90)

“Don’t you challenge me in public, Amir. Ever. Who do you think you are?”
THE RAIN General Taheri had spoken about at the flea market was a few weeks late, but when we stepped out of Dr. Amani’s office, passing cars sprayed grimy water onto the sidewalks. Baba lit a cigarette. He smoked all the way to the car and all the way home.
As he was slipping the key into the lobby door, I said, “I wish you’d give the chemo a chance, Baba.”
Baba pocketed the keys, pulled me out of the rain and under the building’s striped awning. He kneaded me on the chest with the hand holding the cigarette. “Bas! I’ve made my decision.”
“What about me, Baba? What am I supposed to do?” I said, my eyes welling up.
A look of disgust swept across his rain-soaked face. It was the same look he’d give me when, as a kid, I’d fall, scrape my knees, and cry. It was the crying that brought it on then, the crying that brought it on now. “You’re twenty-two years old, Amir! A grown man! You...” he opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, reconsidered. Above us, rain drummed on the canvas awning. “What’s going to happen to you, you say? All those years, that’s what I was trying to teach you, how to never have to ask that question.”
He opened the door. Turned back to me. “And one more thing. No one finds out about this, you hear me? No one. I don’t want anybody’s sympathy.” Then he disappeared into the dim lobby. He chain-smoked the rest of that day in front of the TV. I didn’t know what or whom he was defying. Me? Dr. Amani? Or maybe the God he had never believed in.
FOR A WHILE, even cancer couldn’t keep Baba from the flea market. We made our garage sale treks on Saturdays, Baba the driver and me the navigator, and set up our display on Sundays. Brass lamps. Baseball gloves. Ski jackets with broken zippers. Baba greeted acquaintances from the old country and I haggled with buyers over a dollar or two. Like any of it mattered. Like the day I would become an orphan wasn’t inching closer with each closing of shop.
Sometimes, General Taheri and his wife strolled by. The general, ever the diplomat, greeted me with a smile and his two-handed shake. But there was a new reticence to Khanum Taheri’s demeanor. A reticence broken only by her secret, droopy smiles and the furtive, apologetic looks she cast my way when the general’s attention was engaged elsewhere.
I remember that period as a time of many “firsts”: The first time I heard Baba moan in the bathroom. The first time I found blood on his pillow. In over three years running the gas station, Baba had never called in sick. Another first.
By Halloween of that year, Baba was getting so tired by mid-Saturday afternoon that he’d wait behind the wheel while I got out and bargained for junk. By Thanksgiving, he wore out before noon. When sleighs appeared on front lawns and fake snow on Douglas firs, Baba stayed home and I drove the VW bus alone up and down the peninsula.
Sometimes at the flea market, Afghan acquaintances made remarks about Baba’s weight loss. At first, they were complimentary. They even asked the secret to his diet. But the queries and compliments stopped when the weight loss didn’t. When the pounds kept shedding. And shedding. When his cheeks hollowed. And his temples melted. And his eyes receded in their sockets.
Then, one cool Sunday shortly after New Year’s Day, Baba was selling a lampshade to a stocky Filipino man while I rummaged in the VW for a blanket to cover his legs with.

“別在公衆場合跟我頂嘴，阿米爾，永遠不要。你以爲你是誰?”
塔赫裏將軍在跳蚤市場提到的雨水姍姍來遲了幾個星期，但當我們走出阿曼尼大夫的診室，過往的車輛令地面上的積水濺上人行道。爸爸點了根菸。我們回家的路上，他一直在車裏抽菸。
就在他把鑰匙伸進樓下大門的鎖眼時，我說:“我希望你能考慮一下化療，爸爸。”
爸爸將鑰匙放進口袋，把我從雨中拉進大樓破舊的雨棚之下，用拿着香菸的手戳戳我的胸膛:“住口!我已經決定了。”
“那我呢，爸爸?我該怎麼辦?”我說，淚如泉涌。
一抹厭惡的神色掠過他那張被雨水打溼的臉。在我小時候，每逢我摔倒，擦破膝蓋，放聲大哭，他也會給我這種臉色。當時是因爲哭泣讓他厭惡，現在也是因爲哭泣惹他不快。“你二十二歲了，阿米爾!一個成年人!你……”他張開嘴巴，閉上，再次張開，重新思索。在我們頭頂，雨水敲打着帆布雨棚。“你會碰到什麼事情，你說?這些年來，我一直試圖教你的，就是讓你永遠別問這個問題。”
他打開門，轉身對着我。“還有，別讓人知道這件事情，聽到沒有?別讓人知道。我不需要任何人的憐憫。”然後他消失在昏暗的大廳裏。那天剩下的時間裏，他坐在電視機前，一根接一根抽菸。我不知道他藐視的是什麼，或者是誰。我?阿曼尼大夫?或者也許是他從來都不相信的真主?
有那麼一陣，即使是癌症也沒能阻止爸爸到跳蚤市場去。我們星期六仍蒐羅各處車庫賣場，爸爸當司機，我指路，並且在星期天擺攤。銅燈。棒球手套。壞了拉鍊的滑雪夾克。爸爸跟在那個古老的國家就認識的人互致問候，我和顧客爲一兩塊錢討價還價。彷彿一切如常。彷彿我成爲孤兒的日子並沒有隨着每次收攤漸漸逼近。
塔赫裏將軍和他的太太有時會逛到我們這邊來。將軍仍是一派外交官風範，臉帶微笑跟我打招呼，用雙手跟我握手。但是塔赫裏太太的舉止顯得有些冷漠，但她會趁將軍不留神，偷偷低頭朝我微笑，投來一絲歉意的眼光。
我記得那段歲月出現了很多“第一次”：我第一次聽到爸爸在浴室裏呻吟。第一次發現他的枕頭上有血。執掌加油站三年以來，爸爸從未請過病假。又是一個第一次。
等到那年萬聖節，星期六的下午剛過一半，爸爸就顯得疲累不堪，我下車去收購那些廢品時，他留在車上等待。到了感恩節，還沒到中午他就吃不消了。待得雪橇在屋前草坪上出現，假雪灑在花旗鬆的枝椏上，爸爸呆在家裏，而我獨自開着那輛大衆巴士，穿梭在半島地區。

在跳蚤市場，阿富汗人偶爾會對爸爸的消瘦議論紛紛。起初，他們阿諛奉承，問及爸爸飲食有何祕方。可是詢問和奉承停止了，爸爸的體重卻繼續下降。磅數不斷減少，再減少。他臉頰深陷，太陽穴鬆塌，眼睛深深凹進眼眶。
接着，新年之後不久，在一個寒冷的星期天早晨，爸爸在賣燈罩給一個壯碩的菲律賓人，我在大衆巴士裏面東翻西找，尋找一條毛毯蓋住他的腿。