殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(76)

THERE WOULD BE NO TRUCK, Karim told us after we’d spent a week in the rat-infested basement. The truck was beyond repair.
“There is another option,” Karim said, his voice rising amid the groans. His cousin owned a fuel truck and had smuggled people with it a couple of times. He was here in Jalalabad and could probably fit us all.
Everyone except an elderly couple decided to go.
We left that night, Baba and I, Kamal and his father, the others. Karim and his cousin, a square-faced balding man named Aziz, helped us get into the fuel tank. One by one, we mounted the idling truck’s rear deck, climbed the rear access ladder, and slid down into the tank. I remember Baba climbed halfway up the ladder, hopped back down and fished the snuffbox from his pocket. He emptied the box and picked up a handful of dirt from the middle of the unpaved road. He kissed the dirt. Poured it into the box. Stowed the box in his breast pocket, next to his heart.
PANIC.
You open your mouth. Open it so wide your jaws creak. You order your lungs to draw air, NOW, you need air, need it NOW But your airways ignore you. They collapse, tighten, squeeze, and suddenly you’re breathing through a drinking straw. Your mouth closes and your lips purse and all you can manage is a strangled croak. Your hands wriggle and shake. Somewhere a dam has cracked open and a flood of cold sweat spills, drenches your body. You want to scream. You would if you could. But you have to breathe to scream.
Panic.
The basement had been dark. The fuel tank was pitch-black. I looked right, left, up, down, waved my hands before my eyes, didn’t see so much as a hint of movement. I blinked, blinked again. Nothing at all. The air wasn’t right, it was too thick, almost solid. Air wasn’t supposed to be solid. I wanted to reach out with my hands, crush the air into little pieces, stuff them down my windpipe. And the stench of gasoline. My eyes stung from the fumes, like someone had peeled my lids back and rubbed a lemon on them. My nose caught fire with each breath. You could die in a place like this, I thought. A scream was Coming. Coming, coming...
And then a small miracle. Baba tugged at my sleeve and some thing glowed green in the dark. Light! Baba’s wristwatch. I kept my eyes glued to those fluorescent green hands. I was so afraid I’d lose them, I didn’t dare blink.
Slowly I became aware of my surroundings. I heard groans and muttered prayers. I heard a baby cry, its mother’s muted soothing. Someone retched. Someone else cursed the Shorawi. The truck bounced side to side, up and down. Heads banged against metal.
“Think of something good,” Baba said in my ear. “Something happy.”
Something good. Something happy. I let my mind wander. I let it come:

我們在地下室與老鼠做伴一個星期之後，卡林說沒有卡車了，卡車沒法修。
“還有另外的選擇，”卡林說，在一片哀嘆之中，他提高了聲音。他的堂兄有輛油罐車，曾經用它偷運過幾次旅客。他就在這裏，在賈拉拉巴特，也許可以裝下我們所有人。
除了一對老年夫妻，其他人都決定上路。
那晚我們離開，爸爸和我，卡莫和他的父親，還有其他人。卡林和他的堂兄阿吉茲，一個方臉禿頂的漢子，幫助我們進入油罐。汽車發動了，停在那裏，我們挨個爬上油罐車的後踏板，爬上後面那條梯子，滑進油罐。我記得爸爸爬到一半，從梯子一躍而下，從口袋裏掏出煙盒。他把盒子清空，從土路中央抓起一把灰泥。他親吻泥土，把它放進盒子，把盒子放進胸前的口袋，貼着他的心。
驚惶。
你張開嘴巴，張得大大的，連齶骨都咯咯作響。你下令自己的肺吸進空氣，如今，你需要空氣，現在就需要。但是你肺裏的氣道不聽使喚，它們坍塌，收緊，壓縮，突然之間，你只能用一根吸管呼吸。你的嘴巴閉上，嘴脣抿緊，你所能做的，只是發出一陣窒息的咳嗽。你雙手抽搐，晃動。身體裏似乎某個地方有座水壩決堤，冰冷的汗水洶涌而出，浸溼你的身體。你想哭喊。如果你能，一定喊出聲來。可是你必須吸氣才能哭喊。
驚惶。
地下室已經夠暗了，油罐更是不見天日。我右看，左看，上看，下看，伸手在眼前揮動，可是什麼也見不到。我眨眼，再眨眼，不見五指。空氣不對勁，它太厚重了，幾乎是固態的。空氣不應該是固態的。我很想伸出手，把空氣捏成碎片，把它們塞進我的氣管。還有汽油的味道，油氣刺痛我的眼睛，好像有人拉開我的眼皮，拿個檸檬在上面摩擦。每次呼吸都讓我的鼻子火辣辣的。我會死在這樣的地方，我想。尖叫就要來了，來了，來了……
接着出現了小小的神蹟。爸爸捲起我的衣袖，有個東西在黑暗中發出綠光。光芒!爸爸送的手錶。我的眼睛盯着那螢綠的指針。我害怕會失去它們，我不敢眨眼。
慢慢地，我對周邊的景況有所知覺。我聽到呻吟聲，還有禱告聲。我聽到一個嬰兒哭喊，母親在低聲安撫。有人作嘔，有人咒罵俄國佬。卡車左右搖晃，上下顛簸。大家的頭撞上金屬板。
“想着一些美好的事情，”爸爸在我耳邊說，“快樂的事情。”
美好的事情，快樂的事情。我放任自己思緒翻飛，浮現出來的是：