殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(16)
成年後的阿米爾始終無法原諒自己當年對哈桑的背叛。爲了贖罪，阿米爾再度踏上暌違二十多年的故鄉，希望能爲不幸的好友盡最後一點心力，卻發現一個驚天謊言，兒時的噩夢再度重演，阿米爾該如何抉擇？小說如此殘忍而又美麗，作者以溫暖細膩的筆法勾勒人性的本質與救贖，讀來令人蕩氣迴腸
In 1933, the year Baba was born and the year Zahir Shah began his forty-year reign of Afghanistan, two brothers, young men from a wealthy and reputable family in Kabul, got behind the wheel of their father's Ford roadster. High on hashish and "mast" on French wine, they struck and killed a Hazara husband and wife on the road to Paghman. The police brought the somewhat contrite young men and the dead couple's five-year-old orphan boy before my grandfather, who was a highly regarded judge and a man of impeccable reputation. After hearing the brothers?account and their father's plea for mercy, my grandfather ordered the two young men to go to Kandahar at once and enlist in the army for one year--this despite the fact that their family had somehow managed to obtain them exemptions from the draft. Their father argued, but not too vehemently, and in the end, everyone agreed that the punishment had been perhaps harsh but fair. As for the orphan, my grandfather adopted him into his own household, and told the other servants to tutor him, but to be kind to him. That boy was Ali.
Ali and Baba grew up together as childhood playmates--at least until polio crippled Ali's leg--just like Hassan and I grew up a generation later. Baba was always telling us about the mischief he and Ali used to cause, and Ali would shake his head and say, "But, Agha sahib, tell them who was the architect of the mischief and who the poor laborer?"Baba would laugh and throw his arm around Ali.
But in none of his stories did Baba ever refer to Ali as his friend.
The curious thing was, I never thought of Hassan and me as friends either. Not in the usual sense, anyhow. Never mind that we taught each other to ride a bicycle with no hands, or to build a fully functional Homemade camera out of a cardboard box. Never mind that we spent entire winters flying kites, running kites. Never mind that to me, the face of Afghanistan is that of a boy with a thin-boned frame, a shaved head, and low-set ears, a boy with a Chinese doll face perpetually lit by a harelipped smile.
Never mind any of those things. Because history isn't easy to overcome. Neither is religion. In the end, I was a Pashtun and he was a Hazara, I was Sunni and he was Shi'a, and nothing was ever going to change that. Nothing.
But we were kids who had learned to crawl together, and no history, ethnicity, society, or religion was going to change that either. I spent most of the first twelve years of my life playing with Hassan. Sometimes, my entire childhood seems like one long lazy summer day with Hassan, chasing each other between tangles of trees in my father's yard, playing hide-and-seek, cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, insect torture--with our crowning achievement undeniably the time we plucked the stinger off a bee and tied a string around the poor thing to yank it back every time it took flight.
爸爸生於1933年，同年查希爾國王（MohammedZahirShah1914～，阿富汗前國王，1933～1973年在位）開始了他對阿富汗長達40載的統治。就在那年，一對來自喀布爾名門望族的年輕兄弟，開着他們父親的福特跑車一路狂飆。他們抽了大麻，喝了法國葡萄酒，醉意醺然，又有些亢奮，在去往帕格曼Paghman，阿富汗城市。的途中撞死了一對哈扎拉夫婦。警察逮到了這兩個略帶悔意的青年，連同罹難夫妻那個五歲的遺孤，帶到爺爺跟前。爺爺是位德高望重的法官，聽完那對兄弟辯說來龍去脈之後，爺爺不顧他們父親的哀求，判決那兩個年輕人立即到坎大哈去，充軍一年。此前他們家裏已經不知用了什麼手段，免去他們服役的義務。他們的父親有所申辯，然而不是太激烈，最終，人人都贊同這樣的判罰，認爲也許有些嚴厲，卻不失公正。至於那個孤兒，爺爺將他收養在自己家裏，讓僕人教導他，不過得對他和藹一些。那個孤兒就是阿里。
阿里和爸爸一起長大，他們小時候也是玩伴--至少直到小兒麻痹症令阿里腿患殘疾，就像一個世代之後哈桑和我共同長大那樣。爸爸總是跟我們說起他和阿里的惡作劇，阿里會搖搖頭，說:"可是，老爺，告訴他們誰是那些惡作劇的設計師，誰又是可憐的苦工。"爸爸會開懷大笑，伸手攬住阿里。
不過爸爸說起這些故事的時候，從來沒有提到阿里是他的朋友。
奇怪的是，我也從來沒有認爲我與哈桑是朋友。無論如何，不是一般意義上的朋友。雖然我們彼此學習如何在騎自行車的時候放開雙手，或是用硬紙箱製成功能齊備的相機。雖然我們整個冬天一起放風箏、追風箏。雖然於我而言，阿富汗人的面孔就是那個男孩的容貌：骨架瘦小，理着平頭，耳朵長得較低，那中國娃娃似的臉，那永遠燃着微笑的兔脣。
無關乎這些事情，因爲歷史不會輕易改變，宗教也是。最終，我是普什圖人，他是哈扎拉人，我是遜尼派，他是什葉派，這些沒有什麼能改變得了。沒有。
但我們是一起蹣跚學步的孩子，這點也沒有任何歷史、種族、社會或者宗教能改變得了。十二歲以前，我大部分時間都在跟哈桑玩耍。有時候回想起來，我的整個童年，似乎就是和哈桑一起度過的某個懶洋洋的悠長夏日，我們在爸爸院子裏那些交錯的樹木中彼此追逐，玩捉迷藏，玩警察與強盜，玩牛仔和印第安人，折磨昆蟲--我們拔掉蜜蜂的尖刺，在那可憐的東西身上系根繩子，每當它想展翅飛走，就把它拉回來，這帶給我們無與倫比的快樂。
