追風箏的人：For you，a thousand times over

為你，千千萬萬遍。

這是一個人的承諾，像是天邊最明媚的一抹斜陽。在紛繁複雜的世事之中，沒有什麼可以稱做永恆，除了你，哈桑，那個追著風箏的男孩。

或許，情節與故事，宗教與衝突，抵不過一種人性的掙扎，抵不過一種靈與肉的救贖。

今天我們就來品讀一下這部經典之作《追風箏的人》。

That was a long time ago, but it"s wrong what they say about the past, I"ve learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out. Looking back now, I realize I have been peeking into that deserted alley for the last twenty-six years.

許多年過去了，人們說陳年舊事可以被埋葬，然而我終於明白這是錯的，因為往事會自行爬上來。回首前塵，我意識到在過去二十六年里，自己始終在窺視著那荒蕪的小徑。

After all, life is not a Hindi movie. Zendagi migzara, Afghans like to say: Life goes on, unmindful of beginning, end, kamyab, nah-kam, crisis or catharsis, moving forward like a slow, dusty caravan of kochis.I wouldn』t know how to answer that question. Despite the matter of last Sunday』s tiny miracle.

畢竟，生活並非印度電影。阿富汗人總喜歡說：生活總會繼續。他們不關心開始或結束、成功或失敗、危在旦夕或柳暗花明，只顧像游牧部落那樣風塵僕僕地緩慢前進。我不知道如何回答那個問題。儘管上個星期天出現了小小的奇蹟。

One time, when I was really little, I climbed a tree and ate these green, sour apples. My stomach swelled and became hard like a drum, it hurt a lot. Mother said that if I』d just waited for the apples to ripen, I wouldn』t have become sick. So now, whenever I really want something, I try to remember what she said about the apples.

有一次，我很小的時候，我爬上一棵樹，吃那些青青的酸蘋果。我的小腹變得又腫又硬，像鼓那樣，痛得厲害。媽媽說只要我等到蘋果熟透，就不會生病了。所以現在，無論我真正想要什麼，我都會想起她說過的關於蘋果的話。

Father says dreams always mean something.

爸爸說夢總是意味著某種東西。

With me as the glaring exception, my father molded the world around him to his liking. The problem, of course, was that Baba saw the world in black and white. And he got to decide what was black and what was white. You can"t love a person who lives that way without fearing him too. Maybe even hating him a little.

父親隨心所欲地打造他身邊的世界，除了我這個明顯的例外。當然，問題在於，爸爸眼裡的世界只有黑和白。至於什麼是黑，什麼是白，全然由他說了算。他就是這麼一個人，你若愛他，也必定會怕他，甚或對他有些恨意。

When you kill a man, you steal a life,「Baba said. "When you tell a lie, you steal someone"s right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. 」

「當你殺害一個人，你偷走一條性命，」爸爸說，「當你說謊，你偷走別人知道真相的權利。當你詐騙，你偷走公平的權利。」

But it rained the afternoon Baba took Ali and Hassan to the bus station. Thunderheads rolled in, painted the sky iron gray. Within minutes, sheets of rain were sweeping in, the steady hiss of falling water swelling in my ears.

但爸爸送阿里和哈桑去車站那天下午，天下雨了。雷轟電閃，天空灰沉沉的。頃刻之間，大雨傾盆而至，嘩嘩的雨聲在我耳邊回蕩。

Slithering beads of rain sluiced down my window. I saw Baba slam the trunk shut. Already drenched, he walked to the driver』s side. Leaned in and said something to Ali in the backseat, perhaps one last-ditch effort to change his mind. They talked that way awhile, Baba getting soaked, stooping, one arm on the roof of the car.

雨珠刷刷流下我的窗戶。我看見爸爸將行李廂的門摔上。他渾身濕透，走向駕駛座那邊，斜倚著身子，向后座的阿里說些什麼，也許是作最後的努力，以便讓他回心轉意。他們那樣交談了片刻，爸爸身上濕淋淋的，彎下腰，一隻手放在轎車的頂篷上。

But when he straightened, I saw in his slumping shoulders that the life I had known since I』d been born was over. Baba slid in. The headlights came on and cut twin funnels of light in the rain. If this were one of the Hindi movies Hassan and I used to watch, this was the part where I』d run outside, my bare feet splashing rainwater.

但當他站起身來，我從他松垮的肩膀看出，我與生俱來的那種熟悉的生活已經一去不返了。爸爸上車，車前燈亮起，在雨水中照出兩道燈光。如果這是哈桑跟我過去常看的印度電影，在這個時候，我應該跑出去，赤裸的雙腳濺起雨水。

I』d chase the car, screaming for it to stop. I』d pull Hassan out of the backseat and tell him I was sorry, so sorry, my tears mixing with rainwater. We』d hug in the downpour. But this was no Hindi movie. I was sorry, but I didn』t cry and I didn』t chase the car. I watched Baba』s car pull away from the curb, taking with it the person whose first spoken word had been my name. I caught one final blurry glimpse of Hassan slumped in the back seat before Baba turned left at the street corner where we』d played marbles so many times.

我應該追逐著轎車，高聲叫喊，讓它停下來。我應該把哈桑從后座拉出來，告訴他我很抱歉，非常抱歉，我的眼淚會跟雨水混在一起。我們會在如注大雨中擁抱。可這不是印度電影。我很抱歉，但我不會哭喊，不會追逐那輛轎車。我看著爸爸的轎車駛離路邊，帶走那個人，那個平生說出的第一個字是我名字的人。我最後一次模糊地瞥見哈桑，他癱坐在后座，接著爸爸轉過街角，那個我們曾無數次玩彈珠的地方。

There is a way to be good again. I looked up at those twin kites. I thought about Hassan. Thought about Baba. Ali. Kabul. I thought of the life I had lived until the winter of 1975 came and changed everything. And made me what I am today.

那兒有再次成為好人的路。我抬眼看看那比翼齊飛的風箏。我憶起哈桑。我緬懷爸爸。我想到阿里。我思念喀布爾。我想起曾經的生活，想起1975年那個改變了一切的冬天。那造就了今天的我。

It was only a smile, nothing more. It didn』t make everything all right. It didn』t make anything all right. Only a smile. A tiny thing. A leaf in the woods, shaking in the wake of a startled bird』s flight.

只是一個微笑，沒有別的了。它沒有讓所有事情恢復正常。它沒有讓任何事情恢復正常。只是一個微笑，一件小小的事情，像是樹林中的一片葉子，在驚鳥的飛起中晃動著。

But I』ll take it. With open arms. Because when spring comes, it melts the snow one flake at a time, and maybe I just witnessed the first flake melting.

但我會迎接它，張開雙臂。因為每逢春天到來，它總是每次融化一片雪花；而也許我剛剛看到的，正是第一片雪花的融化。

GIF

I ran. A grown man running with a swarm of screaming children. But I didn』t care. I ran with the wind blowing in my face, and a smile as wide as the Valley of Panjsher on my lips.

我追。一個成年人在一群尖叫的孩子中奔跑。但我不在乎。我追，風拂過我的臉龐，我唇上掛著一個像潘傑希爾峽谷那樣大大的微笑。

I ran.

我追。

作者:（美）卡勒德·胡賽尼（Khaled Hosseini），李繼宏譯

背叛與贖罪埋藏著某種人性刻度，在搖擺的意識中覺醒，在靈魂背後的悸動。人生如一條江河的奔騰，有糾纏與掙脫，亦有開始與結束。此時，風箏變為深刻的隱喻，那是飛揚，那是洒脫，那是自由，亦是爭奪與絕望。

阿米爾少爺握著風箏的細線奔跑，牽引著風箏在清風下浮動，染上了雲的顏色，彷彿聽到銀鈴的聲響，我確信那是我們應該追尋的，為你，千千萬萬遍（For you,a thousand times over）。

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