殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(140)

“This Hazara boy.”
“Yes.”
“What does he mean to you?”
“His father meant a lot to me. He is the man in the photo. He’s dead now.”
Wahid blinked. “He was a friend of yours?”
My instinct was to say yes, as if, on some deep level, I too wanted to protect Baba’s secret. But there had been enough lies already. “He was my half-brother.” I swallowed. Added, “My illegitimate half brother.” I turned the teacup. Toyed with the handle.
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You’re not prying,” I said.“What will you do with him?”“Take him back to Peshawar. There are people there who will take care of him.”
Wahid handed the photo back and rested his thick hand on my shoulder. “You are an honorable man, Amir agha. A true Afghan.”I cringed inside.
“I am proud to have you in our home tonight,” Wahid said. I thanked him and chanced a glance over to Farid. He was looking down now, playing with the frayed edges of the straw mat.
A SHORT WHILE LATER, Maryam and her mother brought two steaming bowls of vegetable shorwa and two loaves of bread. “I’m sorry we can’t offer you meat,” Wahid said. “Only the Taliban can afford meat now.”
“This looks wonderful,” I said. It did too. I offered some to him, to the kids, but Wahid said the family had eaten before we arrived. Farid and I rolled up our sleeves, dipped our bread in the shorwa, and ate with our hands. As I ate, I noticed Wahid’s boys, all three thin with dirtcaked faces and short-cropped brown hair under their skullcaps, stealing furtive glances at my digital wristwatch. The youngest whispered something in his brother’s ear. The brother nodded, didn’t take his eyes off my watch. The oldest of the boys--I guessed his age at about twelve--rocked back and forth, his gaze glued to my wrist. After dinner, after I’d washed my hands with the water Maryam poured from a clay pot, I asked for Wahid’s permission to give his boys a hadia, a gift. He said no, but, when I insisted, he reluctantly agreed. I unsnapped the wristwatch and gave it to the youngest of the three boys. He muttered a sheepish “Tashakor.”
“It tells you the time in any city in the world,” I told him. The boys nodded politely, passing the watch between them, taking turns trying it on. But they lost interest and, soon, the watch sat abandoned on the straw mat.

“這個哈扎拉男孩？”
“是的。”
“他對你很重要嗎？”
“他的父親對我來說很重要，就是照片中那個男人，現在他死了。”
瓦希德眨眨眼：“他是你的朋友？”
我內心想說是，彷彿在心靈深處，我想保守爸爸的祕密。可是謊言已經足夠多了，“他是我同父異母的兄弟。”我壓制着情緒說，又加上一句，“我的私生弟弟。”我轉過茶杯，把弄着杯柄。
“我不是想要剌探你的隱私。”
“你沒有。”我說。“你會怎麼安置他呢？”“把他帶到白沙瓦，那兒有人會好好照料他。”

瓦希德把照片還給我，厚厚的手掌放在我肩膀上。“你是條讓人尊敬的漢子，阿米爾老爺。一個真正的阿富汗人。 ”我暗自汗顏。
“你今晚來我家做客，讓我很驕傲。”瓦希德說。我跟他客氣了幾句，偷眼看向法裏德。現在他低着頭，玩弄着草蓆殘破的邊緣。
隔了一會，瑪麗亞跟她媽媽端來兩碗熱氣騰騰的蔬菜湯，還有兩片面包。 “很抱歉，沒有肉。”瓦希德說，“現在只有塔利班才能吃上肉。”
“這看起來很棒。”我說，它確實很棒。我讓他跟小孩也吃些，但瓦希德說他們在我們來之前剛吃過。法裏德和我捲起衣袖，手抓麪包，浸在蔬菜湯裏面，吃了起來。吃的時候，我看着瓦希德的兒子，他們三個都很瘦，臉上髒兮兮的，棕色的頭髮剪得很短，戴着無邊草帽，不時偷偷看着我的電子手錶。最小那個在他哥哥耳邊說了些什麼，他哥哥點點頭，眼神一直沒離開我的手錶。最大那個男孩——我猜想他大概十二歲——搖晃着身體，眼光也落在我的手錶上。吃完之後，瑪麗亞端來一陶罐水，我洗過手，問瓦希德我能不能送點禮物給他兒子。他不許，但我執意要送，他勉強同意了。我把手錶脫下來，交給三個男孩中最小那個。他怯生生地說了句“謝謝”。
“它可以告訴你世界任何城市的時間。”我告訴他。孩子們禮貌地點點頭，將手錶傳來傳去，輪流試戴。但他們很快就不感興趣了，將手錶扔在草蓆上。