殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(83)

“_Mashallah_,” General Taheri said. “Will you be writing about our country, history perhaps? Economics?”
“I write fiction,” I said, thinking of the dozen or so short stories I had written in the leather-bound notebook Rahim Khan had given me, wondering why I was suddenly embarrassed by them in this man’s presence.
“Ah, a storyteller,” the general said. “Well, people need stories to divert them at difficult times like this.” He put his hand on Baba’s shoulder and turned to me. “Speaking of stories, your father and I hunted pheasant together one summer day in Jalalabad,” he said. “It was a marvelous time. If I recall correctly, your father’s eye proved as keen in the hunt as it had in business.”
Baba kicked a wooden tennis racket on our tarpaulin spread with the toe of his boot. “Some business.”
General Taheri managed a simultaneously sad and polite smile, heaved a sigh, and gently patted Baba’s shoulder. “Zendagi migzara,” he said. Life goes on. He turned his eyes to me. “We Afghans are prone to a considerable degree of exaggeration, bachem, and I have heard many men foolishly labeled great. But your father has the distinction of belonging to the minority who truly deserves the label.” This little speech sounded to me the way his suit looked: often used and unnaturally shiny.
“You’re flattering me,” Baba said.
“I am not,” the general said, tilting his head sideways and pressing his hand to his chest to convey humility. “Boys and girls must know the legacy of their fathers.” He turned to me. “Do you appreciate your father, bachem? Do you really appreciate him?”
“Balay, General Sahib, I do,” I said, wishing he’d not call me “my child.”
“Then congratulations, you are already halfway to being a man,” he said with no trace of humor, no irony, the compliment of the casually arrogant.
“Padar jan, you forgot your tea.” A young woman’s voice. She was standing behind us, a slim-hipped beauty with velvety coal black hair, an open thermos and Styrofoam cup in her hand. I blinked, my heart quickening. She had thick black eyebrows that touched in the middle like the arched wings of a flying bird, and the gracefully hooked nose of a princess from old Persia--maybe that of Tahmineh, Rostam’s wife and Sohrab’s mother from the _Shahnamah_. Her eyes, walnut brown and shaded by fanned lashes, met mine. Held for a moment. Flew away.
“You are so kind, my dear,” General Taheri said. He took the cup from her. Before she turned to go, I saw she had a brown, sickle-shaped birthmark on the smooth skin just above her left jawline. She walked to a dull gray van two aisles away and put the thermos inside. Her hair spilled to one side when she kneeled amid boxes of old records and paperbacks.
“My daughter, Soraya jan,” General Taheri said. He took a deep breath like a man eager to change the subject and checked his gold pocket watch. “Well, time to go and set up.” He and Baba kissed on the cheek and he shook my hand with both of his. “Best of luck with the writing,” he said, looking me in the eye. His pale blue eyes revealed nothing of the thoughts behind them.
For the rest of that day, I fought the urge to look toward the gray van.
IT CAME TO ME on our way home. Taheri, I knew I’d heard that name before.
“Wasn’t there some story floating around about Taheri’s daughter?” I said to Baba, trying to sound casual.
“You know me,” Baba said, inching the bus along the queue exiting the flea market. “Talk turns to gossip and I walk away.”
“But there was, wasn’t there?” I said.
“Why do you ask?” He was looking at me coyly.
I shrugged and fought back a smile. “Just curious, Baba.”
“Really? Is that all?” he said, his eyes playful, lingering on mine. “Has she made an impression on you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Please, Baba.”

“安拉保佑。”塔赫裏將軍說，“你會寫我們國家的故事嗎，也許可以寫寫歷史?經濟?”
“我寫小說。”我說着想起了自己寫在拉辛汗送的皮面筆記本里面那十來個故事，奇怪自己爲什麼在這個人面前突然有些不自在。
“啊，講故事的。”將軍說，“很好，人們在如今這樣的艱苦歲月需要故事來分散注意力。”他把手伸在爸爸的肩膀上，轉向我。“說到故事，有一年夏天，你爸爸跟我到賈拉拉巴特去獵野雞，”他說，“那次真叫人稱奇。如果我沒記錯，你爸爸打獵跟他做生意一樣，都是一把好手。”
爸爸正在用鞋尖踢着擺在我們的帆布上一把木製網球拍。“有些生意而已。”
塔赫裏將軍露出一絲禮貌而哀傷的微笑，嘆了口氣，輕輕拍拍爸爸的肩膀。“生活總會繼續。”他把眼光投向我，“我們阿富汗人總是喜歡誇大其詞，孩子，我聽過無數人愚蠢地使用‘了不起’這個詞。但是，你的爸爸屬於少數幾個配得上這個形容詞的人。”這番短短的話在我聽來，跟他的衣服如出一轍：用的場合太多了，閃亮得有些造作。
“你在奉承我。”爸爸說。
“我沒有。”將軍說，他側過頭，把手放在胸前表示尊敬，“男孩和女孩得知道他們父親的優點。”他轉向我，“你崇敬你的爸爸嗎，我的孩子?你真的崇敬他嗎?”
“當然，將軍大人，我崇敬他。”我說，要是他別叫我“我的孩子”就好了。
“那麼，恭喜你，你已經快要長成一位男子漢了。”他說，口氣沒有半點幽默，沒有諷刺，只有不卑不亢的恭維。
“親愛的爸爸，你忘了你的茶。”一個年輕女子的聲音。她站在我們後面，是個身材苗條的美人，天鵝絨般的黑髮，手裏拿着一個打開的保溫杯和一個塑料杯。我眨眨眼，心跳加快。她的眉毛又黑又濃，中間連在一起，宛如飛翔的鳥兒張開的雙翅，筆挺的鼻子很優雅，活像古代波斯公主——也許像拓敏妮,《沙納瑪》書中羅斯坦的妻子，索拉博的媽媽。她那長長睫毛下面胡桃色的眼睛跟我對望了一會兒，移開了視線。
“你真乖，我親愛的。”塔赫裏將軍說，從她手裏接過杯子。在她轉身離去之前，我見到她光滑的皮膚上有個鐮狀的棕色胎記，就在左邊下巴上。她走過兩條通道，把保溫杯放在一輛貨車裏面。她跪在裝着唱片和平裝書的盒子中間，秀髮傾瀉在一旁。
“我的女兒，親愛的索拉雅。”塔赫裏將軍說。他深深吸了一口氣，看來想換個話題了，他掏出金懷錶，看了看時間。“好啦，到時間了，我得去整理整理。”他和爸爸相互親吻臉頰，用雙手跟我握別。“祝你寫作順利。”他盯着我的眼睛說，淺藍色的雙眼沒有透露出半點他心裏的想法。
在那天剩下的時間裏，我總忍不住望向那輛灰色的貨車。
在我們回家的路上，我想起來了。塔赫裏，我知道我以前聽過這個名字。
“是不是有過關於塔赫裏將軍女兒的流言蜚語啊?”我假裝漫不經心地問爸爸。
“你知道我的，”爸爸說，他開着巴士，在跳蚤市場出口長長的車隊中緩慢前進。“每當人們說三道四我都會走開。”
“可是有過，是嗎?”我說。
“你爲什麼要問呢?”他猶疑地看着我。
我聳聳肩，擠出微笑:“好奇而已，爸爸。”
“真的嗎?真是這樣嗎?”他說，眼光露出一絲狡獪，看着我的眼睛，“你該不是對她有意思了吧?”
我把眼光移開，“拜託，老爸。”