殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(79)

“Does he think I’m a thief?” Baba said, his voice rising. People had gathered outside. They were staring. “What kind of a country is this? No one trusts anybody!”
“I call police,” Mrs. Nguyen said, poking out her face. “You get out or I call police.”
“Please, Mrs. Nguyen, don’t call the police. I’ll take him home. Just don’t call the police, okay? Please?”
“Yes, you take him home. Good idea,” Mr. Nguyen said. His eyes, behind his wire-rimmed bifocals, never left Baba. I led Baba through the doors. He kicked a magazine on his way out. After I’d made him promise he wouldn’t go back in, I returned to the store and apologized to the Nguyens. Told them my father was going through a difficult time. I gave Mrs. Nguyen our telephone number and address, and told her to get an estimate for the damages. “Please call me as soon as you know. I’ll pay for everything, Mrs. Nguyen. I’m so sorry.” Mrs. Nguyen took the sheet of paper from me and nodded. I saw her hands were shaking more than usual, and that made me angry at Baba, his causing an old woman to shake like that.
“My father is still adjusting to life in America,” I said, by way of explanation.
I wanted to tell them that, in Kabul, we snapped a tree branch and used it as a credit card. Hassan and I would take the wooden stick to the bread maker. He’d carve notches on our stick with his knife, one notch for each loaf of _naan_ he’d pull for us from the tandoor’s roaring flames. At the end of the month, my father paid him for the number of notches on the stick. That was it. No questions. No ID.
But I didn’t tell them. I thanked Mr. Nguyen for not calling the cops. Took Baba home. He sulked and smoked on the balcony while I made rice with chicken neck stew. A year and a half since we’d stepped off the Boeing from Peshawar, and Baba was still adjusting.
We ate in silence that night. After two bites, Baba pushed away his plate.
I glanced at him across the table, his nails chipped and black with engine oil, his knuckles scraped, the smells of the gas station--dust, sweat, and gasoline--on his clothes. Baba was like the widower who remarries but can’t let go of his dead wife. He missed the sugarcane fields of Jalalabad and the gardens of Paghman. He missed people milling in and out of his house, missed walking down the bustling aisles of Shor Bazaar and greeting people who knew him and his father, knew his grandfather, people who shared ancestors with him, whose pasts intertwined with his.
For me, America was a place to bury my memories.
For Baba, a place to mourn his.
“Maybe we should go back to Peshawar,” I said, watching the ice float in my glass of water. We’d spent six months in Peshawar waiting for the INS to issue our visas. Our grimy one-bedroom apartment smelled like dirty socks and cat droppings, but we were surrounded by people we knew--at least people Baba knew. He’d invite the entire corridor of neighbors for dinner, most of them Afghans waiting for visas. Inevitably, someone would bring a set of tabla and someone else a harmonium. Tea would brew, and who ever had a passing singing voice would sing until the sun rose, the mosquitoes stopped buzzing, and clapping hands grew sore.
“You were happier there, Baba. It was more like home,” I said.
“Peshawar was good for me. Not good for you.”
“You work so hard here.”

“他以爲我是小偷嗎?”爸爸擡高了聲音說，外面圍滿了旁觀的人，“這是個什麼國家?沒有人相信任何人!”
“我叫警察。”阮太太說，她探出臉來，“你走開，要不我喊警察。”
“求求你，阮太太，別叫警察。我把他帶回家，請別叫警察，好不好?求求你。”
“好的，你帶他回家，好主意。”阮先生說。他戴着金絲眼鏡，眼睛一直望着爸爸。我隔着門去拉爸爸，他出來的時候踢飛一本雜誌。我說服他別再走進去，然後轉身到店裏向阮氏夫婦道歉，告訴他們爸爸處境艱難。我把家裏的電話和地址給了阮太太，告訴她估計一下損失了多少東西。“算好之後請打電話給我，我會賠償一切的，阮太太，我很抱歉。”阮太太從我手裏接過紙片，點點頭。我看到她的手比平時抖得更厲害，那讓我很生爸爸的氣，他把一個老太太嚇成這樣。
“我爸爸仍在適應美國的生活。”我解釋着說。
我想告訴他們，在喀布爾，我們折斷樹枝，拿它當信用卡。哈桑和我會拿着那根木頭到麪包店去。店主用刀在木頭上刻痕，劃下一道，表示他從火焰升騰的烤爐取給我們一個饢餅。每到月底，爸爸按照樹枝上的刻痕付錢給他。就是這樣。沒有問題，不用身份證。
但我沒告訴他們。我謝謝阮先生沒叫警察，帶爸爸回家。我燉雞脖子飯的時候，他在陽臺抽菸生悶氣。我們自白沙瓦踏上波音飛機，到如今已經一年半了，爸爸仍在適應期。
那晚我們默默吃飯。爸爸吃了兩口，把盤子推開。
我的眼光越過桌子，望着他，他的指甲開裂，被機油弄得髒兮兮的，他的手指刮傷了，衣服散發出加油站的味道——塵灰、汗水和汽油。爸爸像個再婚的鰥夫，可是總忍不住想起故去的妻子。他懷念賈拉拉巴特的甘蔗地，還有帕格曼的花園。他懷念那些在他屋裏進進出出的人們，懷念索爾市集擁擠的通道，他走在那裏，和他打招呼的人認得他，認得他的父親，認得他的祖父，那些跟他同一個祖宗的人們，他們的過去交織在一起。
對我來說，美國是個埋葬往事的地方。
對爸爸來說，這是個哀悼過去的地方。
“也許我們應該回到白沙瓦。”我說，盯着在玻璃杯裏面的水上浮動的冰塊。我們在那裏度過了半年的光陰，等待移民局核發簽證。我們那間滿是塵灰的房子散發出髒襪子和貓糞的氣味，但住在我們周圍的全是熟人——至少爸爸認得他們。他會邀請整條走廊的鄰居到家裏吃晚飯，他們中多數都是等待簽證的阿富汗人。當然，有人會帶來手鼓，也有人帶手風琴。茶泡好了，嗓子還可以的人會高歌一曲，直到太陽升起，直到蚊子不再嗡嗡叫，直到鼓掌的手都酸了。
“你在那邊更開心，爸爸，那兒更有家的感覺。”我說。
“白沙瓦對我來說是好地方，但對你來說不是。”
“你在這兒工作太辛苦了。”