殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(217)

"While you’re busy knitting sweaters, my dear, I have to deal with the community’s perception of our family. People will ask. They will want to know why there is a Hazara boy living with our daughter. What do I tell them?”
Soraya dropped her spoon. Turned on her father. “You can tell them--”
“It’s okay, Soraya,” I said, taking her hand. “It’s okay. General Sahib is quite right. People will ask.”
“Amir--” she began.
“It’s all right.” I turned to the general. “You see, General Sahib, my father slept with his servant’s wife. She bore him a son named Hassan. Hassan is dead now. That boy sleeping on the couch is Hassan’s son. He’s my nephew. That’s what you tell people when they ask.”
They were all staring at me.
“And one more thing, General Sahib,” I said. “You will never again refer to him as ‘Hazara boy’ in my presence. He has a name and it’s Sohrab.”
No one said anything for the remainder of the meal.
IT WOULD BE ERRONEOUS to say Sohrab was quiet. Quiet is peace. Tranquillity. Quiet is turning down the VOLUME knob on nce is pushing the OFF button. Shutting it down. All of ab’s silence wasn’t the self-imposed silence of those with convictions, of protesters who seek to speak their cause by not speaking at all. It was the silence of one who has taken cover in a dark place, curled up all the edges and tucked them didn’t so much live with us as occupy space. And precious little of it. Sometimes, at the market, or in the park, I’d notice how other people hardly seemed to even see him, like he wasn’t there at all. I’d look up from a book and realize Sohrab had entered the room, had sat across from me, and I hadn’t noticed. He walked like he was afraid to leave behind footprints. He moved as if not to stir the air around him. Mostly, he slept.

Soon after the attacks, America bombed Afghanistan, the Northern Alliance moved in, and the Taliban scurried like rats into the caves.
Suddenly, people were standing in grocery store lines and talking about the cities of my childhood, Kandahar, Herat, Mazar-i-Sharif. When I was very little, Baba took Hassan and me to Kunduz. Hamid Karzai’s caracul hat and green chapan became famous.
Sohrab sleepwalked through it all.

“你在忙着編織毛衣的時候，親愛的，我不得不應付鄰居對我們家的看法。人們會有疑問。他們會想知道爲什麼有個哈扎拉男孩住在我女兒家。我怎麼跟他們說？”
索拉雅放下她的調羹，轉向她父親，“你可以告訴他們……”
“沒什麼，索拉雅。”我說，拉起她的手，“沒什麼，將軍說得沒錯，人們會有疑問。”
“阿米爾……”她說。
“沒關係，”我轉向將軍，“你知道嗎，將軍大人，我爸爸睡了他僕人的老婆。她給他生了個兒子，名字叫做哈桑。現在哈桑死掉了，睡在沙發上那個男孩是哈桑的兒子。他是我的侄兒。要是有人發問，你可以這樣告訴我。”
他們全都瞪着我。
“還有，將軍大人，”我說，“以後我在場的時候，請你永遠不要叫他‘哈扎拉男孩 ’。他有名字，他的名字叫索拉博。”
大家默默吃完那頓飯。
如果說索拉博很安靜是錯誤的。安靜是祥和，是平靜，是降下生命音量的旋鈕。沉默是把那個按鈕關掉，把它旋下，全部旋掉。索拉博的沉默既不是來自洞明世事之後的泰然自若，也並非由於他選擇了默默不語來秉持自己的信念和表達抗議，而是對生活曾有過的黑暗忍氣吞聲地照單全收。他身在曹營心在漢，人跟我們共同生活，而心跟我們一起的時候少得可憐。有時候，在市場或者公園裏面，我注意到人們彷彿甚至沒有看到他，似乎他根本並不存在。我曾經從書本擡頭，發現索拉博業已走進房間，坐在我對面，而我毫無察覺。他走路的樣子似乎害怕留下腳印，移動的時候似乎不想攪起周圍的空氣。多數時候，他選擇了睡覺。
美國轟炸了阿富汗，北方聯盟乘機而進，塔利班像老鼠逃回洞穴那樣四處亡命。
突然間，人們在雜貨店排隊等待收銀，談着我童年生活過的那些城市：坎大哈、赫拉特、馬紮裏沙里夫。阿富汗人的羊皮帽和綠色長袍變得衆所周知。
索拉博依然夢遊般地度過這段日子。