殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(51)

Assef motioned with his hand, and the other two boys separated, forming a half circle, trapping Hassan in the alley.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Assef said. “I’m letting you keep the kite, Hazara. I’ll let you keep it so it will always remind you of what I’m about to do.”
Then he charged. Hassan hurled the rock. It struck Assef in the forehead. Assef yelped as he flung himself at Hassan, knocking him to the ground. Wall and Kamal followed.
I bit on my fist. Shut my eyes.
A MEMORY:
Did you know Hassan and you fed from the same breast? Did you know that, Amir agha? Sakina, her name was. She was a fair, blue-eyed Hazara woman from Bamiyan and she sang you old wedding songs. They say there is a brotherhood between people who’ve fed from the same breast. Did you know that?
A memory:
“A rupia each, children. Just one rupia each and I will part the curtain of truth.” The old man sits against a mud wall. His sightless eyes are like molten silver embedded in deep, twin craters. Hunched over his cane, the fortune-teller runs a gnarled hand across the surface of his deflated cheeks. Cups it before us. “Not much to ask for the truth, is it, a rupia each?” Hassan drops a coin in the leathery palm. I drop mine too. “In the name of Allah most beneficent, most merciful,” the old fortune-teller whispers. He takes Hassan’s hand first, strokes the palm with one hornlike fingernail, round and round, round and round. The finger then floats to Hassan’s face and makes a dry, scratchy sound as it slowly traces the curve of his cheeks, the outline of his ears. The calloused pads of his fingers brush against Hassan’s eyes. The hand stops there. Lingers. A shadow passes across the old man’s face. Hassan and I exchange a glance. The old man takes Hassan’s hand and puts the rupia back in Hassan’s palm. He turns to me. “How about you, young friend?” he says. On the other side of the wall, a rooster crows. The old man reaches for my hand and I withdraw it.
A dream:
I am lost in a snowstorm. The wind shrieks, blows stinging sheets of snow into my eyes. I stagger through layers of shifting white. I call for help but the wind drowns my cries. I fall and lie panting on the snow, lost in the white, the wind wailing in my ears. I watch the snow erase my fresh footprints. I’m a ghost now, I think, a ghost with no footprints. I cry out again, hope fading like my footprints. But this time, a muffled reply. I shield my eyes and manage to sit up. Out of the swaying curtains of snow, I catch a glimpse of movement, a flurry of color. A familiar shape materializes. A hand reaches out for me. I see deep, parallel gashes across the palm, blood dripping, staining the snow. I take the hand and suddenly the snow is gone. We’re standing in afield of apple green grass with soft wisps of clouds drifting above. I look up and see the clear sky is filled with kites, green, yellow, red, orange. They shimmer in the afternoon light.
A HAVOC OF SCRAP AND RUBBLE littered the alley. Worn bicycle tires, bottles with peeled labels, ripped up magazines, yellowed newspapers, all scattered amid a pile of bricks and slabs of cement. A rusted cast-iron stove with a gaping hole on its side tilted against a wall. But there were two things amid the garbage that I couldn’t stop looking at: One was the blue kite resting against the wall, close to the cast-iron stove; the other was Hassan’s brown corduroy pants thrown on a heap of eroded bricks.
“I don’t know,” Wali was saying. “My father says it’s sinful.” He sounded unsure, excited, scared, all at the same time. Hassan lay with his chest pinned to the ground. Kamal and Wali each gripped an arm, twisted and bent at the elbow so that Hassan’s hands were pressed to his back. Assef was standing over them, the heel of his snow boots crushing the back of Hassan’s neck.
“Your father won’t find out,” Assef said. “And there’s nothing sinful about teaching a lesson to a disrespectful donkey.”
“I don’t know,” Wali muttered.
“Suit yourself,” Assef said. He turned to Kamal. “What about you?”
“I... well...”
“It’s just a Hazara,” Assef said. But Kamal kept looking away.
“Fine,” Assef snapped. “All I want you weaklings to do is hold him down. Can you manage that?”
Wali and Kamal nodded. They looked relieved.
Assef knelt behind Hassan, put his hands on Hassan’s hips and lifted his bare buttocks. He kept one hand on Hassan’s back and undid his own belt buckle with his free hand. He unzipped his jeans. Dropped his underwear. He positioned himself behind Hassan. Hassan didn’t struggle. Didn’t even whimper. He moved his head slightly and I caught a glimpse of his face. Saw the resignation in it. It was a look I had seen before. It was the look of the lamb.

阿塞夫揮揮手，其他兩個男孩散開，形成半圓，將哈桑包圍在小巷裏面。
“我改變主意了，”阿塞夫說，“我不會拿走你的風箏，哈扎拉人。你會留着它，以便它可以一直提醒你我將要做的事情。”
然後他動手了，哈桑扔出石塊，擊中了阿塞夫的額頭。阿塞夫大叫着撲向哈桑，將他擊倒在地。瓦里和卡莫一擁而上。
我抓緊拳頭，合上雙眼。
一段記憶：
“你知道哈桑跟你喝着同一個胸脯的奶水長大嗎?你知道嗎，阿米爾少爺?薩吉娜，乳母的名字。她是個漂亮的哈扎拉女人，有雙藍眼睛，從巴米揚來，她給你們唱古老的婚禮歌謠。人們說同一個胸脯喂大的人就是兄弟。你知道嗎?”
一段記憶：
“每人一個盧比，孩子們。每人只要一個盧比，我就會替你們揭開命運的帷幕。”那個老人倚牆而坐，黯淡無光的雙眼像滑溜溜的銀子，鑲嵌在一雙深深的火山洞口中。算命先生彎腰拄着柺杖，從消瘦的臉頰下面伸出一隻嶙峋的手，在我們面前做成杯狀。“每人一個盧比就可知道命運，不貴吧?”哈桑放了個銅鈿在他粗糙的手掌上，我也放了一個。“以最仁慈、最悲憫的安拉之名。”那位老算命先生低聲說。他先是拿起哈桑的手，用一隻獸角般的指甲，在他掌心轉了又轉，轉了又轉。跟着那根手指飄向哈桑的臉龐，慢慢摸索着哈桑臉頰的曲線、耳朵的輪廓，發出乾燥的刮擦聲。他的手指生滿老繭，輕輕拂着哈桑的眼瞼。手停在那兒，遲疑不去。老人臉上掠過一抹陰影，哈桑和我對望了一眼。老人抓起哈桑手，把那個盧比還給他。“讓我看看你怎麼樣，小朋友?”他說。牆那邊傳來公雞的叫聲。老人伸手來拉我的手，我抽回來。
一個夢境：
我在暴風雪中迷失了方向。寒風凜冽，吹着雪花，刺痛了我的雙眼。我在白雪皚皚中跋涉。我高聲求救，但風淹沒了我的哭喊。我頹然跌倒，躺在雪地上喘息，茫然望着一片白茫茫，寒風在我耳邊呼嘯，我看見雪花抹去我剛踩下的腳印。我現在是個鬼魂，我想，一個沒有腳印的鬼魂。我又高聲呼喊，但希望隨着腳印消逝。這當頭，有人悶聲迴應。我把手架在眼睛上，掙扎着坐起來。透過風雪飛舞的簾幕，我看見人影搖擺，顏色晃動。一個熟悉的身影出現了。一隻手伸在我面前，我望見手掌上有深深的、平行的傷痕，鮮血淋漓，染紅了雪地。我抓住那隻手，瞬間雪停了。我們站在一片原野上，綠草如茵，天空中和風吹着白雲。我擡眼望去，但見萬里晴空，滿是風箏在飛舞，綠的、黃的、紅的、橙的。它們在午後的陽光中閃耀着光芒。
小巷堆滿了破銅爛鐵，廢棄的自行車輪胎、標籤剝落的玻璃瓶子、卷邊的雜誌、發黃的報紙，所有這些，散落在一堆磚頭和水泥板間。牆邊有個鏽蝕的鐵火爐，爐洞像血盆大口般張開。但在那些垃圾之間，有兩件東西讓我無法移開眼光：一件是藍風箏，倚在牆邊，緊鄰鐵爐；另一件是哈桑的棕色燈芯絨褲，丟在那堆碎磚塊上面。
“我不知道，”瓦里說，“我爸爸說那是犯罪。”他的聲音自始至終充滿了懷疑、興奮、害怕。哈桑趴在地上。卡莫和瓦里一人抓住他一隻手，將其從手肘扭轉，壓在哈桑背後。阿塞夫站在他們上方，用雪靴的後跟踩着哈桑的脖子後面。
“你爸爸不會發現。”阿塞夫說，“給這頭無禮的蠢驢一點教訓，跟犯罪有什麼關係?”
“我不知道。”瓦里咕噥着。
“隨便你。”阿塞夫說，他轉向卡莫,“你怎麼說呢?”
“我……好吧……”
“他只是個哈扎拉人。”阿塞夫說，但卡莫把眼睛望向別處。
“好吧，”阿塞夫不滿地說，“你們這些懦夫，幫我把他按住就好了。你們能做到嗎?”
瓦里和卡莫點點頭，看上去如釋重負。
阿塞夫在哈桑身後跪倒，雙手放在哈桑的臀部，把他光光的屁股擡起。他一手伸在哈桑背上，另外一隻手去解開自己的皮帶。他脫下牛仔褲，脫掉內褲。他在哈桑身後擺好位置。哈桑沒有反抗，甚至沒有呻吟。他稍稍轉過頭，我瞥見他的臉龐，那逆來順受的神情。之前我也見過這種神色，這種羔羊的神色。