殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(167)

“It should,” he said. He leaned back in the sofa. Crushed the cigarette. I thought about Soraya. It calmed me. I thought of her sickleshaped birthmark, the elegant curve of her neck, her luminous eyes. I thought of our wedding night, gazing at each other’s reflection in the mirror under the green veil, and how her cheeks blushed when I whispered that I loved her. I remembered the two of us dancing to an old Afghan song, round and round, everyone watching and clapping, the world a blur of flowers, dresses, tuxedos, and smiling faces.
The Talib was saying something.
“Pardon?”
“I said would you like to see him? Would you like to see my boy?” His upper lip curled up in a sneer when he said those last two words.“Yes.”The guard left the room. I heard the creak of a door swinging open. Heard the guard say something in Pashtu, in a hard voice. Then, footfalls, and the jingle of bells with each step. It reminded me of the Monkey Man Hassan and I used to chase down in Shar e-Nau. We used to pay him a rupia of our allowance for a dance. The bell around his monkey’s neck had made that same jingling sound.
Then the door opened and the guard walked in. He carried a stereo--a boom box--on his shoulder. Behind him, a boy dressed in a loose, sapphire blue pirhan-tumban followed.
The resemblance was breathtaking. Disorienting. Rahim Khan’s Polaroid hadn’t done justice to boy had his father’s round moon face, his pointy stub of a chin, his twisted, seashell ears, and the same slight frame. It was the Chinese doll face of my childhood, the face peering above fanned-out playing cards all those winter days, the face behind the mosquito net when we slept on the roof of my father’s house in the summer. His head was shaved, his eyes darkened with mascara, and his cheeks glowed with an unnatural red. When he stopped in the middle of the room, the bells strapped around his anklets stopped jingling. His eyes fell on me. Lingered. Then he looked away. Looked down at his naked of the guards pressed a button and Pashtu music filled the room. Tabla, harmonium, the whine of a dil-roba. I guessed music wasn’t sinful as long as it played to Taliban ears. The three men began to clap.
“Wah wah! _Mashallah_!” they cheered.

“那是應該的。”他說，回身靠着沙發，吸菸。我想起索拉雅。這讓我鎮定。我想起她鐮刀狀的胎記，脖子優雅的曲線，還有明亮的眼睛。我想起婚禮那夜，我們在綠色頭巾之下，看着彼此在鏡裏的容貌，對她說我愛她。我記得我們兩個在一首古老的阿富汗歌謠伴奏下翩翩起舞，轉了一圈又一圈，大家看着，鼓掌稱好，滿世界都是花朵、洋裝、燕尾服，還有笑臉。
塔利班在說話。
“什麼？”
“我問你是不是想見見他，見見我的男孩？”說到最後兩個字時，他上脣捲起，發出一聲冷笑。“是的。”衛兵離開房間。我聽見一扇搖晃的門打開的聲音，聽見衛兵聲音嚴厲，用普什圖語說了些什麼，然後是腳步聲，每一步都伴有鈴鐺的響聲。它讓我想起過去，我和哈桑經常在沙裏諾區追逐的那個耍猴人。我們常常從零用錢中給他一個盧比的硬幣，猴脖子上的鈴鐺就發出同樣的聲音。
然後門打開，衛兵走進來。他肩膀上扛着個立體聲放音機，他後面跟着個男孩，身穿寬鬆的天藍色棉袍。
相似得令人心碎、令人迷惑。拉辛汗的寶麗萊照片拍得並不像。那男孩有他父親那張滿月似的臉龐，翹起的下巴，扭曲的海貝般的耳朵，還有同樣瘦削的身形。它是那張我童年見到的中國娃娃臉，那張冬天時看着呈扇子狀展開的撲克牌的臉，那張我們夏天睡在爸爸房子的屋頂上時躲在蚊帳後面的臉。他剃着平頭，眼睛被睫毛膏塗黑，臉頰泛出不自然的紅色。他在房子中央停住，套在他腳踝上的鈴鐺也不再發出聲響。他眼光落在我身上，打量着，然後移開，看着他自己赤裸的雙足。有個衛兵按撳下按鈕，房間裏響起普什圖音樂。手鼓，手風琴，還有如泣如訴的雷布巴琴。我猜想，音樂只要傳進塔利班的耳朵，就不算是罪惡。那三個男人開始鼓掌。
“哇！哇！太棒了！”