殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(136)

“I feel like a tourist in my own country,” I said, taking in a goatherd leading a half-dozen emaciated goats along the side of the road.
Farid snickered. Tossed his cigarette. “You still think of this place as your country?”
“I think a part of me always will,” I said, more defensively than I had intended.
“After twenty years of living in America,” he said, swerving the truck to avoid a pothole the size of a beach ball.
I nodded. “I grew up in Afghanistan.” Farid snickered again.
“Why do you do that?”
“Never mind,” he murmured.
“No, I want to know. Why do you do that?” In his rearview mirror, I saw something flash in his eyes. “You want to know?” he sneered. “Let me imagine, Agha sahib. You probably lived in a big two- or three-story house with a nice back yard that your gardener filled with flowers and fruit trees. All gated, of course. Your father drove an American car. You had servants, probably Hazaras. Your parents hired workers to decorate the house for the fancy mehmanis they threw, so their friends would come over to drink and boast about their travels to Europe or America. And I would bet my first son’s eyes that this is the first time you’ve ever worn a pakol.” He grinned at me, revealing a mouthful of prematurely rotting teeth. “Am I close?”
“Why are you saying these things?” I said.
“Because you wanted to know,” he spat. He pointed to an old man dressed in ragged clothes trudging down a dirt path, a large burlap pack filled with scrub grass tied to his back. “That’s the real Afghanistan, Agha sahib. That’s the Afghanistan I know. You? You’ve always been a tourist here, you just didn’t know it.”
Rahim Khan had warned me not to expect a warm welcome in Afghanistan from those who had stayed behind and fought the wars. “I’m sorry about your father,” I said. “I’m sorry about your daughters, and I’m sorry about your hand.”
“That means nothing to me,” he said. He shook his head. “Why are you coming back here anyway? Sell off your Baba’s land? Pocket the money and run back to your mother in America?”
“My mother died giving birth to me,” I said. He sighed and lit another cigarette. Said nothing.
“Pull over.”
“What?”

“我回到自己的國家，卻發現自己像個遊客。”我說。路邊有個牧人，領着幾隻乾瘦的山羊在趕路。
法裏德冷笑，扔掉菸蒂，“你還把這個地方當成國家？”
“我想有一部分的我永遠會這麼認爲。”我說，我的戒備之心出乎自己意料之外。
“在美國生活了二十年之後？”他說，打着方向盤，避開路上一個海灘球那麼大的洞。
我點點頭：“我在阿富汗長大。”法裏德又冷笑。
“你爲什麼這樣？”
“沒什麼。”
“不，我想知道。你幹嗎這樣？”藉着他那邊的觀後鏡，我見到他眼裏有神色閃動。“你想知道？”他嗤之以鼻，“我來想像一下，老爺。你也許生活在一座兩層或者三層的樓房，有個漂亮的後院，你的園丁給它種滿花草和果樹。當然，門都鎖上了。你父親開美國車。你有僕人，估計是哈扎拉人。你的父母請來工人，裝潢他們舉辦宴會的房間，好讓他們的朋友前來飲酒喝茶，吹噓他們在美國和歐洲的遊歷。而我敢拿我大兒子的眼睛打賭，這是你第一次戴氈帽。”他朝我咧嘴而笑，露出一口過早蛀蝕的牙齒，“我說的沒錯吧？”
“你爲什麼要說這些呢？”我說。
“因爲你想知道，”他回嘴說。他指着一個衣裳襤褸的老人，揹着裝滿柴草的麻袋，在泥土路上跋涉前進。“那纔是真正的阿富汗人，老爺，那纔是我認識的阿富汗人。你？在這裏，你一直無非是個過客而已，只是你自己不知道罷了。”
拉辛汗警告過我，在阿富汗，別指望那些留下來戰鬥的人會給我好臉色看。“我爲你父親感到難過，”我說，“我爲你女兒感到難過，我爲你的手感到難過。 ”
“那對我來說沒有意義。”他搖搖頭說，“爲什麼無論如何，你們總是要回到這裏呢？賣掉你們父親的土地？把錢放進口袋，跑回美國找你們的媽媽？”
“我媽媽在生我的時候死了。”我說。他嘆氣，又點一根菸，一語不發。
“停車。”
“什麼？”