殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(69)

“But I forgive him, Ali, didn’t you hear?” said Baba.
“Life here is impossible for us now, Agha sahib. We’re leaving.” Ali drew Hassan to him, curled his arm around his son’s shoulder. It was a protective gesture and I knew whom Ali was protecting him from. Ali glanced my way and in his cold, unforgiving look, I saw that Hassan had told him. He had told him everything, about what Assef and his friends had done to him, about the kite, about me. Strangely, I was glad that someone knew me for who I really was; I was tired of pretending.
“I don’t care about the money or the watch,” Baba said, his arms open, palms up. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this... what do you mean ‘impossible’?”
“I’m sorry, Agha sahib, but our bags are already packed. We have made our decision.”
Baba stood up, a sheen of grief across his face. “Ali, haven’t I provided well for you? Haven’t I been good to you and Hassan? You’re the brother I never had, Ali, you know that. Please don’t do this.”
“Don’t make this even more difficult than it already is, Agha sahib,” Ali said. His mouth twitched and, for a moment, I thought I saw a grimace. That was when I understood the depth of the pain I had caused, the blackness of the grief I had brought onto everyone, that not even Ali’s paralyzed face could mask his sorrow. I forced myself to look at Hassan, but his head was downcast, his shoulders slumped, his finger twirling a loose string on the hem of his shirt.
Baba was pleading now. “At least tell me why. I need to know!”
Ali didn’t tell Baba, just as he didn’t protest when Hassan confessed to the stealing. I’ll never really know why, but I could imagine the two of them in that dim little hut, weeping, Hassan pleading him not to give me away. But I couldn’t imagine the restraint it must have taken Ali to keep that promise.
“Will you drive us to the bus station?”
“I forbid you to do this!” Baba bellowed. “Do you hear me? I forbid you!”
“Respectfully, you can’t forbid me anything, Agha sahib,” Ali said. “We don’t work for you anymore.”
“Where will you go?” Baba asked. His voice was breaking.
“Hazarajat.”
“To your cousin?”
“Yes. Will you take us to the bus station, Agha sahib?”
Then I saw Baba do something I had never seen him do before: He cried. It scared me a little, seeing a grown man sob. Fathers weren’t supposed to cry. “Please,” Baba was saying, but Ali had already turned to the door, Hassan trailing him. I’ll never forget the way Baba said that, the pain in his plea, the fear.
IN KABUL, it rarely rained in the summer. Blue skies stood tall and far, the sun like a branding iron searing the back of your neck. Creeks where Hassan and I skipped stones all spring turned dry, and rickshaws stirred dust when they sputtered by. People went to mosques for their ten raka’ts of noontime prayer and then retreated to whatever shade they could find to nap in, waiting for the cool of early evening. Summer meant long school days sweating in tightly packed, poorly ventilated classrooms learning to recite ayats from the Koran, struggling with those tongue-twisting, exotic Arabic words. It meant catching flies in your palm while the mullah droned on and a hot breeze brought with it the smell of shit from the outhouse across the schoolyard, churning dust around the lone rickety basketball hoop.

“可是我原諒他了，阿里，你沒聽到嗎?”爸爸說。
“我們不可能在這裏過日子了，老爺。我們要走了。”阿里把哈桑拉到身旁，伸臂環住他兒子的肩膀。這是個保護的動作，我知道阿里對哈桑的保護是在抵禦什麼人的傷害。阿里朝我瞟來，帶着冷冷的、不可諒解的眼神，我明白哈桑告訴他了。他把一切都告訴他了，關於阿塞夫和他的朋友對他所做的事情，關於那隻風箏，關於我。奇怪的是，我很高興終於有人識破我的真面目，我裝得太累了。
“我不在乎那些錢或者那個手錶。”爸爸說，他手掌朝上，張開雙臂，“我不知道你爲什麼這樣做……你說‘不可能’是什麼意思?”
“很抱歉，老爺。可是我們的行李已經收拾好了，我們已經決定了。”
爸爸站起身來，悲傷的神情溢於言表:“阿里，我給你的還不夠多嗎?我對你和哈桑不好嗎?我沒有兄弟，你就是我的兄弟，阿里，你知道的。請別這樣做。”
“我們已經很爲難了，別讓事情變得更難，老爺。”阿里說。他嘴巴抽搐，我看見了他痛楚的表情，正是那個時候，我才明白自己引起的痛苦有多深，才明白我給大家帶來的悲傷有多濃，才明白甚至連阿里那張麻痹的臉也無法掩飾他的哀愁。我強迫自己看看哈桑，但他低着頭，肩膀鬆垮，手指纏繞着襯衫下襬一根鬆開的線。
現在爸爸哀求着:“告訴我爲什麼，我得知道!”
阿里沒有告訴爸爸，一如哈桑承認偷竊，沒有絲毫抗辯。我永遠不會知道那究竟是爲什麼，但我能夠想像，他們兩個在那間昏暗的斗室裏面，抹淚哭泣，哈桑求他別揭發我。但我想像不出，是什麼樣的自制力纔會讓阿里緘口不言。
“你可以送我們去汽車站嗎?”
“我不許你這麼做!”爸爸大喊，“你聽到了嗎?我不許你這麼做!”
“尊敬的老爺，你不能禁止我任何事情了，”阿里說，“我們不再爲你工作了。”
“你們要去哪兒?”爸爸問，他的聲音顫抖着。
“哈扎拉賈特。”
“去你表親家?”
“是的，你可以送我們去汽車站嗎，老爺?”
接着我看到爸爸做了我之前從未見過的事情：號啕大哭。見到大人哭泣，我被嚇了一跳。我從未想到爸爸也會哭。“求求你。”爸爸說。可是阿里已經走到門口，哈桑跟在他後面。我永遠不會忘記爸爸說出那話的神情，那哀求中透露的痛苦，還有恐懼。
喀布爾的夏天罕得下雨，天空一碧如洗，陽光像烙鐵般灼痛後頸。整個春天我和哈桑在溪流打水漂，到得夏天它們也乾涸了。黃包車嗒嗒走過，揚起陣陣灰塵。午間祈禱時分，人們到清真寺去行十次“晌禮”，跟着隨便找個蔭涼的地方躲進去，等待傍晚的涼意。夏天意味着漫長的學校生活，坐在密不透風的擁擠教室裏面，渾身大汗地學着背誦《可蘭經》的經文，和那些饒舌而奇怪的阿拉伯單詞作鬥爭；夏天意味着聽毛拉唸唸有詞，用手掌拍死蒼蠅；意味着一陣和風吹過，帶來操場那邊廁所的糞便氣味，在那形影相弔的歪斜籃球架旁邊吹起塵霧。