殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(104)

“Successful,” Soraya hissed. “At least I’m not like him, sitting around while other people fight the Shorawi, waiting for when the dust settles so he can move in and reclaim his posh little government position. Teaching may not pay much, but it’s what I want to do! It’s what I love, and it’s a whole lot better than collecting welfare, by the way.”
Khala Jamila bit her tongue. “If he ever hears you saying that, he will never speak to you again.”
“Don’t worry,” Soraya snapped, tossing her napkin on the plate. “I won’t bruise his precious ego.”
IN THE SUMMER of 1988, about six months before the Soviets withdrew from Afghanistan, I finished my first novel, a father-son story set in Kabul, written mostly with the typewriter the general had given me. I sent query letters to a dozen agencies and was stunned one August day when I opened our mailbox and found a request from a New York agency for the completed manuscript. I mailed it the next day. Soraya kissed the carefully wrapped manuscript and Khala Jamila insisted we pass it under the Koran. She told me that she was going to do nazr for me, a vow to have a sheep slaughtered and the meat given to the poor if my book was accepted.
“Please, no nazn, Khala jan,” I said, kissing her face. “Just do _zakat_, give the money to someone in need, okay? No sheep killing.”
Six weeks later, a man named Martin Greenwalt called from New York and offered to represent me. I only told Soraya about it. “But just because I have an agent doesn’t mean I’ll get published. If Martin sells the novel, then we’ll celebrate.”
A month later, Martin called and informed me I was going to be a published novelist. When I told Soraya, she screamed.
We had a celebration dinner with Soraya’s parents that night. Khala Jamila made kofta--meatballs and white rice--and white ferni. The general, a sheen of moisture in his eyes, said that he was proud of me. After General Taheri and his wife left, Soraya and I celebrated with an expensive bottle of Merlot I had bought on the way home--the general did not approve of women drinking alcohol, and Soraya didn’t drink in his presence.
“I am so proud of you,” she said, raising her glass to mine. “Kaka would have been proud too.”
“I know,” I said, thinking of Baba, wishing he could have seen me.

“出人頭地，”索拉雅不屑地說，“至少我不喜歡他，當人們跟俄國佬幹仗，他只是坐在那兒，乾等塵埃落地，他就可以趁機而入，去要回他那個一點也不高貴的官職。教書也許清貧，但那是我想做的！那是我所喜愛的，順便說一下，它比領救濟金好得太多了。 ”
雅米拉阿姨欲說還休：“要是他聽到你這麼說，以後再也不會跟你搭腔了。”
“別擔心，”索拉雅不耐煩地說，將紙巾丟在盤子裏，“我不會傷害他那寶貝的尊嚴。”
1988年夏季，俄國人從阿富汗撤軍之前約莫半年，我完成第一部小說，講述父與子的故事，背景設在喀布爾，大部分是用將軍送的打字機寫出來的。我給十幾家出版機構寄去徵詢信。 8月某天，我打開信箱，看到有個紐約的出版機構來函索取完整的書稿，我高興得呆住了。次日我把書稿寄出。索拉雅親了那包紮妥當的書稿，雅米拉阿姨堅持讓我們將它從《可蘭經》下穿過。她說要是我書稿被接受，她就會替我感謝真主，宰一頭羊，把肉分給窮人。
“拜託，別宰羊，親愛的阿姨。”我說，親了親她的臉頰。“只要把錢分給有需要的人就好了，別殺羊。”
隔了六個星期，有個叫馬丁?格林瓦特的傢伙從紐約給我打電話，許諾當我的出版代表。我只告訴了索拉雅：“僅僅有了代理機構，並不意味着我的書能夠出版。如果馬丁把小說賣掉，我們到時再慶祝不遲。”
一個月後，馬丁來電話，說我就要成爲一名有作品出版的小說家。我告訴索拉雅，她尖叫起來。
那天晚上，我們做了豐盛的晚飯，請來索拉雅的父母，以示慶祝。雅米拉阿姨做了瓤飯糰——米飯包着肉丸——和杏仁布丁。將軍眼裏泛着淚花，說他爲我感到驕傲。塔赫裏將軍和他妻子離開之後，我拿出一瓶回家路上買的昂貴幹紅葡萄酒，索拉雅和我舉杯相慶。將軍不贊同女人喝酒，他在的時候索拉雅滴酒不沾。
“你讓我感到很驕傲，”她說，舉杯和我碰了一下，“叔叔也一定會爲你驕傲。”
“我知道。”我說，想起爸爸，希望他地下有靈。