殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(96)

“We are honored to welcome the son of a man such as yourself into our family,” he said. “Your reputation precedes you. I was your humble admirer in Kabul and remain so today. We are honored that your family and ours will be joined.
“Amirjan, as for you, I welcome you to my home as a son, as the husband of my daughter who is the noor of my eye. Your pain will be our pain, your joy our joy. I hope that you will come to see your Khala Jamila and me as a second set of parents, and I pray for your and our lovely Soraya jan’s happiness. You both have our blessings.”
Everyone applauded, and with that signal, heads turned toward the hallway. The moment I’d waited for.
Soraya appeared at the end. Dressed in a stunning winecolored traditional Afghan dress with long sleeves and gold trimmings. Baba’s hand took mine and tightened. Khanum Taheri burst into fresh tears. Slowly, Soraya caine to us, tailed by a procession of young female kissed my father’s hands. Sat beside me at last, her eyes applause swelled.
ACCORDING TO TRADITION, Soraya’s family would have thrown the engagement party the Shirini-khori---or “Eating of the Sweets” ceremony. Then an engagement period would have followed which would have lasted a few months. Then the wedding, which would be paid for by Baba.
We all agreed that Soraya and I would forgo the Shirini-khori. Everyone knew the reason, so no one had to actually say it: that Baba didn’t have months to live.
Soraya and I never went out alone together while preparations for the wedding proceeded--since we weren’t married yet, hadn’t even had a Shirini-khori, it was considered improper. So I had to make do with going over to the Taheris with Baba for dinner. Sit across from Soraya at the dinner table. Imagine what it would be like to feel her head on my chest, smell her hair. Kiss her. Make love to her.
Baba spent $35,000, nearly the balance of his life savings, on the awroussi, the wedding ceremony. He rented a large Afghan banquet hail in Fremont--the man who owned it knew him from Kabul and gave him a substantial discount. Baba paid for the ??chi las, our matching wedding bands, and for the diamond ring I picked out. He bought my tuxedo, and my traditional green suit for the nika--the swearing ceremony. For all the frenzied preparations that went into the wedding night--most of it, blessedly, by Khanum Taheri and her friends-- I remember only a handful of moments from it.
I remember our nika. We were seated around a table, Soraya and I dressed in green--the color of Islam, but also the color of spring and new beginnings. I wore a suit, Soraya (the only woman at the table) a veiled long-sleeved dress. Baba, General Taheri (in a tuxedo this time), and several of Soraya’s uncles were also present at the table. Soraya and I looked down, solemnly respectful, casting only sideway glances at each other. The mullah questioned the witnesses and read from the Koran. We said our oaths. Signed the certificates. One of Soraya’s uncles from Virginia, Sharif jan, Khanum Taheri’s brother, stood up and cleared his throat. Soraya had told me that he had lived in the U.S. for more than twenty years. He worked for the INS and had an American wife. He was also a poet. A small man with a birdlike face and fluffy hair, he read a lengthy poem dedicated to Soraya, jotted down on hotel stationery paper. “Wah wah, Sharifjan!” everyone exclaimed when he finished.
I remember walking toward the stage, now in my tuxedo, Soraya a veiled pan in white, our hands locked. Baba hobbled next to me, the general and his wife beside their daughter. A procession of uncles, aunts, and cousins followed as we made our way through the hail, parting a sea of applauding guests, blinking at flashing cameras. One of Soraya’s cousins, Sharif jan’s son, held a Koran over our heads as we inched along. The wedding song, ahesta boro, blared from the speakers, the same song the Russian soldier at the Mahipar checkpoint had sung the night Baba and I left Kabul:Make morning into a key and throw it into the well,Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly. Let the morning sun forget to rise in the east, Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly.
I remember sitting on the sofa, set on the stage like a throne, Soraya’s hand in mine, as three hundred or so faces looked on. We did Ayena Masshaf, where they gave us a mirror and threw a veil over our heads, so we’d be alone to gaze at each other’s reflection. Looking at Soraya’s smiling face in that mirror, in the momentary privacy of the veil, I whispered to her for the first time that I loved her. A blush, red like henna, bloomed on her cheeks.
I picture colorful platters of chopan kabob, sholeh-goshti, and wild-orange rice. I see Baba between us on the sofa, smiling. I remember sweat-drenched men dancing the traditional attan in a circle, bouncing, spinning faster and faster with the feverish tempo of the tabla, until all but a few dropped out of the ring with exhaustion. I remember wishing Rahim Khan were there. And I remember wondering if Hassan too had married. And if so, whose face he had seen in the mirror under the veil? Whose henna-painted hands had he held?

“像你這樣的男人的兒子成爲我們的家人，我們很榮幸。”他說，“你聲譽卓著，在喀布爾，我就是你謙卑的崇拜者，今天也是如此。你家和我家結成姻親，這讓我們覺得榮幸。”
“親愛的阿米爾，至於你，我歡迎你到我的家裏來，你是我們的女婿，是我掌上明珠的丈夫。今後我們休慼與共。我希望你能夠將親愛的雅米拉和我當成你的父母，我會爲你和親愛的索拉雅禱告，願你們幸福。我們祝福你們倆。 ”
每個人鼓起掌來，在掌聲中，人們把頭轉向走廊。那一刻我等待已久。索拉雅在那端出現。
她穿着酒紅色的傳統阿富汗服裝，長長的袖子，配着黃金鑲飾，真是驚豔奪目。爸爸緊緊抓着我的手。塔赫裏太太又哭了。索拉雅慢慢地向我們走來，身後跟着一羣年輕的女性親戚。她親了親爸爸的手。終於坐在我身邊，眼光低垂。掌聲響起。
根據傳統，索拉雅家裏會舉辦訂婚宴會，也就是所謂“食蜜”儀式。之後是訂婚期，一連持續幾個月。隨後是婚禮，所有費用將由爸爸支付。
我們全部人都同意索拉雅和我省略掉“食蜜”儀式。原因大家都知道，雖然沒人真的說出來：爸爸沒幾個月好活了。
在籌備婚禮期間，索拉雅和我從無獨處的機會——因爲我們還沒有結婚，甚至連訂婚都沒有，那於禮不合。所以我只好滿足於跟爸爸一起，到塔赫裏家用晚餐。晚餐桌上，索拉雅坐在我對面。我想像着她把頭放在我胸膛上，聞着她的秀髮，那該是什麼感覺呢？我想像着親吻她，跟她做愛。
爲了婚禮，爸爸花了三萬五千美元，那幾乎是他畢生的積蓄。他在弗裏蒙特租了個很大的阿富汗宴會廳，老闆是他在喀布爾的舊識，給了他優惠的折扣。爸爸請來了樂隊，給我挑選的鑽石戒指付款，給我買燕尾服，還有在誓約儀式要穿的傳統綠色套裝。在爲婚禮之夜所做的全部亂糟糟的準備一幸好多數由塔赫裏太太和她的朋友幫忙——中，我只記得屈指可數的幾件事。
我記得我們的誓約儀式。大家圍着一張桌子坐下，索拉雅和我穿着綠色的衣服——伊斯蘭的顏色，但也是春天和新起點的顏色。我穿着套裝，索拉雅（桌子上惟一的女子）蒙着面，穿長袖衣服。爸爸、塔赫裏將軍（這回他穿着燕尾服）還有索拉雅幾個叔伯舅舅也坐在桌子上。索拉雅和我低着頭，表情神聖而莊重，只能偷偷斜視對方。毛拉向證人提問，讀起《可蘭經》。我們發誓，在結婚證書上簽名。索拉雅的舅舅，塔赫裏太太的兄弟，來自弗吉尼亞，站起來，清清他的喉嚨。索拉雅曾告訴過我，他在美國生活已經超過二十年。他在移民局工作，娶了個美國老婆。他還是個詩人，個子矮小，鳥兒似的臉龐，頭髮蓬鬆。他念了一首獻給索拉雅的長詩，那是草草寫在酒店的信紙上。“哇！哇！親愛的沙利夫！ ”他一念完，每個人都歡呼起來。
我記得走向臺上的情景，當時我穿着燕尾服，索拉雅蒙着面，穿着白色禮服，我們挽着手。爸爸緊挨着我，將軍和他太太在他們的女兒那邊，身後跟着一羣親戚，我們走向宴會廳。兩旁是鼓掌喝彩的賓客，還有閃個不停的鏡頭。我和索拉雅並排站着，她的表弟，親愛的沙利夫的兒子，在我們頭上舉起《可蘭經》。揚聲器傳來婚禮歌謠，慢慢走，就是爸爸和我離開喀布爾那天晚上，瑪希帕檢查站那個俄國兵唱的那首。將清晨化成鑰匙，扔到水井去慢慢走，我心愛的月亮，慢慢走讓朝陽忘記從東方升起慢慢走，我心愛的月亮，慢慢走
我記得我們坐在沙發上，舞臺上那對沙發好像王位，索拉雅拉着我的手，大約三百位客人注視着我們。我們舉行另外的儀式。在那兒，人們拿給我們一面鏡子，在我們頭上覆上一條紗巾，留下我們兩個凝望彼此在鏡子中的容顏。看到鏡子中索拉雅笑靨如花，我第一次低聲對她說我愛她。一陣指甲花般的紅暈在她臉龐綻放。
我記得各色佳餚，有烤肉，燉肉飯，野橙子飯。我看見爸爸夾在我們兩個中間，坐在沙發上，面帶微笑。我記得渾身大汗的男人圍成一圈，跳着傳統舞蹈，他們跳躍着，在手鼓熱烈的節拍之下越轉越快，直到有人精疲力竭，退出那個圓圈。我記得我希望拉辛汗也在。並且，我還記得，我尋思哈桑是不是也結婚了。如果是的話，他蒙着頭巾，在鏡子中看到的那張臉是誰呢？他手裏握着那塗了指甲花的手是誰的？