殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(73)

“Baba, sit down please,” I said, tugging at his sleeve. “I think he really means to shoot you.”
Baba slapped my hand away. “Haven’t I taught you anything?” he snapped. He turned to the grinning soldier. “Tell him he’d better kill me good with that first shot. Because if I don’t go down, I’m tearing him to pieces, goddamn his father!”
The Russian soldier’s grin never faltered when he heard the translation. He clicked the safety on the gun. Pointed the barrel to Baba’s chest. Heart pounding in my throat, I buried my face in my hands.
The gun roared.
It’s done, then. I’m eighteen and alone. I have no one left in the world. Baba’s dead and now I have to bury him. Where do I bury him? Where do I go after that?
But the whirlwind of half thoughts spinning in my head came to a halt when I cracked my eyelids, found Baba still standing. I saw a second Russian officer with the others. It was from the muzzle of his upturned gun that smoke swirled. The soldier who had meant to shoot Baba had already holstered his weapon. He was shuffling his feet. I had never felt more like crying and laughing at the same time.
The second Russian officer, gray-haired and heavyset, spoke to us in broken Farsi. He apologized for his comrade’s behavior. “Russia sends them here to fight,” he said. “But they are just boys, and when they come here, they find the pleasure of drug.” He gave the younger officer the rueful look of a father exasperated with his misbehaving son. “This one is attached to drug now. I try to stop him...” He waved us off.
Moments later, we were pulling away. I heard a laugh and then the first soldier’s voice, slurry and off-key, singing the old wedding song.
WE RODE IN SILENCE for about fifteen minutes before the young woman’s husband suddenly stood and did something I’d seen many others do before him: He kissed Baba’s hand.

“爸爸，坐下吧，求求你，”我說，拉着他的衣袖，“他真的會朝你開槍。”
爸爸將我的手打開。“我什麼也沒教過你嗎?”他生氣地說，轉向那個一臉壞笑的士兵，“告訴他最好一槍就把我打死，因爲如果我沒有倒下，我會把他撕成碎片。操他媽的。”
聽完翻譯，俄國兵獰笑依然。他打開保險栓，將槍口對準爸爸的胸膛。我的心快要跳出喉嚨，用雙手把臉掩住。
槍聲響起。
完了，完了。我十八歲，孤身一人，在這世上舉目無親。爸爸死了，我得埋葬他。把他埋在哪裏呢?埋完之後我該去哪裏呢?
但我睜開眼睛，看到爸爸仍站着，腦裏這些盤旋的念頭停止了。我看見又一個俄國兵，還有其他人。他的槍口朝天，冒出一陣煙霧。那個要射殺爸爸的士兵已經把他的武器收好，立正敬禮。我從未像此刻一樣，又想笑又想哭。
第二個俄國軍官頭髮灰白，身材魁梧，用一口破法爾西語對我們說話。他爲他手下的所作所爲道歉，“俄國送他們來這裏戰鬥，”他說，“但他們只是孩子，一來到這裏，他們就迷上了毒品。”他恨恨地望着那個年輕的士兵，如同嚴父被兒子的行爲不端激怒。“這個傢伙現在藥性發作。我會試試阻止他……”他揮手讓我們離開。
頃刻之後，我們的車開走了。我聽到一聲大笑，跟着傳來第一個士兵的聲音，含混而走調地唱着那古老的婚禮歌謠。
我們在路上默默行進了十五分鐘，那年輕婦女的丈夫突然站起來，做了一件在他之前我曾見到很多人做過的事情：他親了爸爸的手。