殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(168)

Sohrab raised his arms and turned slowly. He stood on tiptoes, spun gracefully, dipped to his knees, straightened, and spun again. His little hands swiveled at the wrists, his fingers snapped, and his head swung side to side like a pendulum. His feet pounded the floor, the bells jingling in perfect harmony with the beat of the tabla. He kept his eyes closed.
“_Mashallah_!” they cheered. “Shahbas! Bravo!” The two guards whistled and laughed. The Talib in white was tilting his head back and forth with the music, his mouth half-open in a leer. Sohrab danced in a circle, eyes closed, danced until the music stopped. The bells jingled one final time when he stomped his foot with the song’s last note. He froze in midspin.
“Bia, bia, my boy,” the Talib said, calling Sohrab to him. Sohrab went to him, head down, stood between his thighs. The Talib wrapped his arms around the boy. “How talented he is, nay, my Hazara boy!” he said. His hands slid down the child’s back, then up, felt under his armpits. One of the guards elbowed the other and snickered. The Talib told them to leave us alone.
“Yes, Agha sahib,” they said as they exited. The Talib spun the boy around so he faced me. He locked his arms around Sohrab’s belly, rested his chin on the boy’s shoulder. Sohrab looked down at his feet, but kept stealing shy, furtive glances at me. The man’s hand slid up and down the boy’s belly. Up and down, slowly, gently.
“I’ve been wondering,” the Talib said, his bloodshot eyes peering at me over Sohrab’s shoulder. “Whatever happened to old Babalu, anyway?”
The question hit me like a hammer between the eyes. I felt the color drain from my face. My legs went cold. Numb. He laughed. “What did you think? That you’d put on a fake beard and I wouldn’t recognize you? Here’s something I’ll bet you never knew about me: I never forget a face. Not ever.” He brushed his lips against Sohrab’s ear, kept his eye on me. “I heard your father died. Tsk-tsk. I always did want to take him on. Looks like I’ll have to settle for his weakling of a son.” Then he took off his sunglasses and locked his bloodshot blue eyes on mine.
I tried to take a breath and couldn’t. I tried to blink and couldn’t. The moment felt surreal--no, not surreal, absurd--it had knocked the breath out of me, brought the world around me to a standstill. My face was burning. What was the old saying about the bad penny? My past was like that, always turning up. His name rose from the deep and I didn’t want to say it, as if uttering it might conjure him. But he was already here, in the flesh, sitting less than ten feet from me, after all these years. His name escaped my lips: “Assef.”
“Ainir jan.”

索拉博擡起手臂，緩緩轉身。他踮起腳尖，優雅地旋轉，彎身觸碰膝蓋，挺直，再次旋轉。他的小手在手腕處轉動，打着響指，而他的頭像鐘擺那樣來回搖動。他的腳踩着地板，鈴鐺的響聲完美地和手鼓聲融合在一起。他始終閉着雙眼。
“真棒！”他們歡呼， “跳得好！太棒了！ ”兩個衛兵吹着口哨，哈哈大笑。穿白衣的塔利班身子隨着音樂前後晃動，嘴角掛着淫褻的笑容。索拉博繞着圓圈跳舞，閉着眼睛跳啊跳，直到音樂停止。他的腳隨最後一個音頓在地上，鈴鐺響了最後一次。他維持半轉的姿勢。
“好啊，好啊，我的男孩。”塔利班說，把索拉博喊過去。索拉博低頭走過去，站在他兩腿之間。那個塔利班伸臂抱住索拉博，“多麼有天分啊，不是嗎，我的哈扎拉男孩！”他說。他的手在孩子背後滑落，然後摸起，停在他的腋窩下面。一個衛兵用手肘撞了另外那個，偷偷發笑。塔利班讓他們退下。
“是，老爺。”他們說完退出去。塔利班扳過男孩的身子，讓他面對着我。他把手停在索拉博的小腹上，下巴抵着他的肩膀。索拉博低頭看着腳，但不停用羞澀的眼神偷偷看着我。那男人的手在男孩的小腹上下移動、上下撫摸，慢慢地，溫柔地。
“我一直在想，”塔利班說，他血紅的雙眼在索拉博肩膀上看着我，“那個老巴巴魯後來怎麼樣了？”
這個問題問得我眼冒金星。我覺得臉上冒出冷汗，雙腳漸漸變冷，變麻木。他哈哈大笑：“你想幹什麼呢？以爲掛上一副假鬍子我就認不出你來？我敢說，我身上有一點你從來不知道：我從來不會忘記人們的臉，從來不會。”他用嘴脣去擦索拉博的耳朵，眼睛看着我。“我聽說你父親死了，嘖嘖，我一直想跟他幹上一架，看來，我只好解決他這個沒用的兒子了。”說完他將太陽鏡摘下，血紅的眼睛逼視着我。
我想呼吸，但不能。我想眨眼，但不能。那一刻多麼虛幻——不，不是虛幻，是荒唐。它讓我無力呼吸，讓我身邊的世界停止轉動。我臉上發燒。那句關於爛錢的諺語[英語中有句俗語， “A bad Penny always tums up”，意思是壞人總是會回來 ]怎麼說來着？往事就是如此，總是會回來。他的名字從深處冒出來，我卻不願意提及，彷彿一說出來，他就會現身。但這許多年過去以後，他已經在這裏了，活生生的，坐在離我不到十英尺的地方。我脫口說出他的名字：“阿塞夫。”
“親愛的阿米爾。”