殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(22)大綱

I read it to him in the living room by the marble fireplace. No playful straying from the words this time; this was about me! Hassan was the perfect audience in many ways, totally immersed in the tale, his face shifting with the changing tones in the story. When I read the last sentence, he made a muted clapping sound with his hands.

我在客廳裏的大理石壁爐前面念給他聽。這次可沒有開玩笑，不是照本宣科了，這次是我寫的故事!就很多方面而言，哈桑堪稱完美的聽衆。他全然沉浸在故事中，臉上的神情隨着故事的情節變化。我念完最後一句話，他鼓起掌來，不過沒發出聲音。

"Mashallah, Amir agha. Bravo!"He was beaming.

"我的天啦!阿米爾少爺，太棒了!"哈桑笑逐顏開。

"You liked it?"I said, getting my second taste--and how sweet it was--of a positive review.

"你喜歡它嗎?"我說。得到第二次稱讚，真是太甜蜜了。

"Some day, Inshallah, you will be a great writer,"Hassan said. "And people all over the world will read your stories."

"阿拉保佑，你肯定會成爲偉大的作家。"哈桑說，"全世界的人都讀你的故事。"

"You exaggerate, Hassan,"I said, loving him for it.

"你太誇張了，哈桑。"我說，不過很高興他這麼認爲。

"No. You will be great and famous,"he insisted. Then he paused, as if on the verge of adding something. He weighed his words and cleared his throat. "But will you permit me to ask a question about the story?"he said shyly.

"我沒有。你會很偉大、很出名。"他堅持自己的觀點。接着他停了一下，似乎還想說些什麼，他想了想，清清喉嚨，"可是，你能允許我問個關於這故事的問題嗎?"他羞澀地說。

"Of course."

"當然可以。"

"Well..."he started, broke off.

"那好……"他欲言又止。

"Tell me, Hassan,"I said. I smiled, though suddenly the insecure writer in me wasn't so sure he wanted to hear it.

"告訴我，哈桑。"我說。我臉帶微笑，雖然剎那間我這個作家心中惴惴，不知道是否想聽下去。

"Well,"he said, "if I may ask, why did the man kill his wife? In fact, why did he ever have to feel sad to shed tears? Couldn't he have just smelled an onion?"

"那好吧，"他說，"如果讓我來問，那男人幹嗎殺了自己的老婆呢?實際上，爲什麼他必須感到悲傷才能掉眼淚呢?他不可以只是聞聞洋蔥嗎?"

I was stunned. That particular point, so obvious it was utterly stupid, hadn't even occurred to me. I moved my lips soundlessly. It appeared that on the same night I had learned about one of writing's objectives, irony, I would also be introduced to one of its pitfalls: the Plot Hole. Taught by Hassan, of all people. Hassan who couldn't read and had never written a single word in his entire life. A voice, cold and dark, suddenly whispered in my ear, "What does he know, that illiterate Hazara? He'll never be anything but a cook. How dare he criticize you?"

我目瞪口呆。這個特別的問題，雖說它顯然太蠢了，但我從來沒有想到過，我無言地動動嘴脣。就在同一個夜晚，我學到了寫作的目標之一：諷刺；我還學到了寫作的陷阱之一：情節破綻。芸芸衆生中，惟獨哈桑教給我。這個目不識丁、不會寫字的哈桑。有個冰冷而陰暗的聲音在我耳邊響起：他懂得什麼，這個哈扎拉文盲?他一輩子只配在廚房裏打雜。他膽敢批評我?

"Well,"I began. But I never got to finish that sentence.

"很好……"我開口說，卻無法說完那句話。

Because suddenly Afghanistan changed forever.

因爲突然之間，阿富汗一切都變了。