殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(77)

Friday afternoon in Paghman. An open field of grass speckled with mulberry trees in blossom. Hassan and I stand ankle-deep in untamed grass, I am tugging on the line, the spool spinning in Hassan’s calloused hands, our eyes turned up to the kite in the sky. Not a word passes between us, not because we have nothing to say, but because we don’t have to say anything--that’s how it is between people who are each other’s first meMories, people who have fed from the same breast. A breeze stirs the grass and Hassan lets the spool roll. The kite spins, dips, steadies. Our twin shadows dance on the rippling grass. From somewhere over the low brick wall at the other end of the field, we hear chatter and laughter and the chirping of a water fountain. And music, some thing old and familiar, I think it’s Ya Mowlah on rubab strings. Someone calls our names over the wall, says it’s time for tea and cake.
I didn’t remember what month that was, or what year even. I only knew the memory lived in me, a perfectly encapsulated morsel of a good past, a brushstroke of color on the gray, barren canvas that our lives had become.
THE REST OF THAT RIDE is scattered bits and pieces of memory that come and go, most of it sounds and smells: MiGs roaring past overhead; staccatos of gunfire; a donkey braying nearby; the jingling of bells and mewling of sheep; gravel crushed under the truck’s tires; a baby wailing in the dark; the stench of gasoline, vomit, and shit.
What I remember next is the blinding light of early morning as I climbed out of the fuel tank. I remember turning my face up to the sky, squinting, breathing like the world was running out of air. I lay on the side of the dirt road next to a rocky trench, looked up to the gray morning sky, thankful for air, thankful for light, thankful to be alive.
“We’re in Pakistan, Amir,” Baba said. He was standing over me. “Karim says he will call for a bus to take us to Peshawar.”
I rolled onto my chest, still lying on the cool dirt, and saw our suitcases on either side of Baba’s feet. Through the upside down V between his legs, I saw the truck idling on the side of the road, the other refugees climbing down the rear ladder. Beyond that, the dirt road unrolled through fields that were like leaden sheets under the gray sky and disappeared behind a line of bowl-shaped hills. Along the way, it passed a small village strung out atop a sun baked slope.
My eyes returned to our suitcases. They made me sad for Baba. After everything he’d built, planned, fought for, fretted over, dreamed of, this was the summation of his life: one disappointing son and two suitcases.
Someone was screaming. No, not screaming. Wailing. I saw the passengers huddled in a circle, heard their urgent voices. Someone said the word “fumes.” Someone else said it too. The wail turned into a throat-ripping screech.
Baba and I hurried to the pack of onlookers and pushed our way through them. Kamal’s father was sitting cross-legged in the center of the circle, rocking back and forth, kissing his son’s ashen face.
“He won’t breathe! My boy won’t breathe!” he was crying. Kamal’s lifeless body lay on his father’s lap. His right hand, uncurled and limp, bounced to the rhythm of his father’s sobs. “My boy! He won’t breathe! Allah, help him breathe!”
Baba knelt beside him and curled an arm around his shoulder. But Kamal’s father shoved him away and lunged for Karim who was standing nearby with his cousin. What happened next was too fast and too short to be called a scuffle. Karim uttered a surprised cry and backpedaled. I saw an arm swing, a leg kick. A moment later, Kamal’s father was standing with Karim’s gun in his hand.
“Don’t shoot me!” Karim cried.
But before any of us could say or do a thing, Kamal’s father shoved the barrel in his own mouth. I’ll never forget the echo of that blast. Or the flash of light and the spray of red.
I doubled over again and dry-heaved on the side of the road.

星期五下午，在帕格曼。一片開闊的草地，上面有繁花滿枝頭的桑椹樹。哈桑和我坐在淺及腳踝的野草上，我拉着線，卷軸在哈桑長滿老繭的手裏滾動，我們的眼睛望着天空中的風箏。我們默默無聲，但並非因爲我們無話可說，而是因爲我們之間無需交談——那些自出世就認識、喝着同樣奶水長大的人就是這樣。和風拂過草叢，哈桑放着線。風箏旋轉，降下，又穩定了。我們的影子雙雙，在波動的草叢上跳舞。草地那端，越過那低矮的磚牆，某個地方傳來談話聲、笑聲，和泉水的潺潺聲。還有音樂，古老而熟悉的曲調，我想那是雷巴布琴［1］Rubab，阿富汗民族樂器。［1］演奏的《莫拉曲》。牆那邊有人喊我們的名字，說到時間喝茶吃點心了。
我不記得那是何年何月的事情。我只知道記憶與我同在，將美好的往事完美地濃縮起來，如同一筆濃墨重彩，塗抹在我們那已經變得灰白單調的生活畫布上。
剩下的路程只在腦海裏留下零零碎碎、時隱時現的記憶，多數跟聲音和味道有關：米格戰鬥機在頭頂轟鳴；斷斷續續的槍聲；旁邊有驢子昂昂叫；一陣鈴鐺的聲音和羊羣的咩咩叫；車輪壓上沙礫的響聲；黑暗中嬰孩的哭嚎；汽油、嘔吐物和糞便的臭味。
接下來我還記得的，是爬出油罐之後清早耀眼的光線。我記得自己擡臉向天，眯着眼睛，大口呼吸，彷彿世間的空氣即將用完。我躺在泥土路一邊，下面是怪石嶙峋的坑壕，我望着清晨灰濛濛的天空，爲空氣感恩，爲光芒感恩，爲仍活着感恩。
“我們在巴基斯坦，阿米爾。”爸爸說，他站在我身邊，“卡林說他會喚來巴士，把我們送到白沙瓦。”
我翻過身，仍趴在冰冷的泥土上，看到爸爸腳下兩邊放着我們的行李箱。從他雙腿間的三角形望去，我看到油罐車停在路邊，其他逃難的人正從後面的梯子下來。更遠處，大地在灰濛的天空下宛如鉛板，土路伸延而去，消失在一排碗狀的山丘之後。有座小小的村落沿着馬路，懸掛在向陽的山坡上。
我把眼光轉回我們的行李箱，它們讓我替爸爸感到難過。在他打造、謀劃、奮鬥、煩惱、夢想了一切之後，他的生命只剩下這麼點東西：一個不爭氣的兒子和兩個手提箱。
有人在哭喊。不，不是哭喊，是哀嚎。我看到旅客圍成一團，聽到他們焦急的聲音。有人說了一個字:“油氣。”有人也說了。哀嚎變成撕心裂肺的慘叫。
爸爸跟我匆忙走到那堆圍觀者身邊，推開他們，走上前去。卡莫的父親盤腿坐在圍觀的人羣中間，身體前後搖晃，親吻着他兒子死灰的臉。
“他沒氣了!我的兒子沒氣了!”他哭喊着。卡莫毫無生氣的身體躺在他父親的膝蓋上，他的右手軟軟垂着，隨着他父親的哭泣來回抖動。“我的孩子!他沒氣了!安拉，幫幫他，讓他活過來!”
爸爸在他身邊跪下，伸手攬住他的肩膀。但卡莫的父親把他推開，衝向跟他堂兄站在旁邊的卡林。接着發生的事情太快、太短，甚至不能稱之爲扭打。卡林吃驚地大叫，朝後退去。我看見一隻手揮舞，一隻腳踢出。過了一會兒，卡莫的父親手裏拿着卡林的手槍站着。
“別殺我!”卡林哭喊。
但我們所有人還來不及說什麼或者做什麼，卡莫的父親將槍口伸進自己的嘴裏。我永遠不會忘記那聲迴盪的槍響，不會忘記那一道閃光和濺出的血紅。
我又彎下腰，在路邊乾嘔。