殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(112)

FIFTEEN
Three hours after my flight landed in Peshawar, I was sitting on shredded upholstery in the backseat of a smoke-filled taxicab. My driver, a chain-smoking, sweaty little man who introduced himself as Gholam, drove nonchalantly and recklessly, averting collisions by the thinnest of margins, all without so much as a pause in the incessant stream of words spewing from his mouth: terrible what is happening in your country, yar. Afghani people and Pakistani people they are like brothers, I tell you. Muslims have to help Muslims so...”
I tuned him out, switched to a polite nodding mode. I remembered Peshawar pretty well from the few months Baba and I had spent there in 1981. We were heading west now on Jamrud road, past the Cantonment and its lavish, high-walled homes. The bustle of the city blurring past me reminded me of a busier, more crowded version of the Kabul I knew, particularly of the KochehMorgha, or Chicken Bazaar, where Hassan and I used to buy chutney-dipped potatoes and cherry water. The streets were clogged with bicycle riders, milling pedestrians, and rickshaws popping blue smoke, all weaving through a maze of narrow lanes and alleys. Bearded vendors draped in thin blankets sold animalskin lampshades, carpets, embroidered shawls, and copper goods from rows of small, tightly jammed stalls. The city was bursting with sounds; the shouts of vendors rang in my ears mingled with the blare of Hindi music, the sputtering of rickshaws, and the jingling bells of horse-drawn carts. Rich scents, both pleasant and not so pleasant, drifte d to me through the passenger window, the spicy aroma of pakora and the nihari Baba had loved so much blended with the sting of diesel fumes, the stench of rot, garbage, and feces.
A little past the redbrick buildings of Peshawar University, we entered an area my garrulous driver referred to as “Afghan Town.” I saw sweetshops and carpet vendors, kabob stalls, kids with dirtcaked hands selling cigarettes, tiny restaurants--maps of Afghanistan painted on their windows--all interlaced with backstreet aid agencies. “Many of your brothers in this area, yar. They are opening businesses, but most of them are very poor.” He tsk’ed his tongue and sighed. “Anyway, we’re getting close now.”
I thought about the last time I had seen Rahim Khan, in 1981. He had come to say good-bye the night Baba and I had fled Kabul. I remember Baba and him embracing in the foyer, crying softly. When Baba and I arrived in the U.S., he and Rahim Khan kept in touch. They would speak four or five times a year and, sometimes, Baba would pass me the receiver. The last time I had spoken to Rahim Khan had been shortly after Baba’s death. The news had reached Kabul and he had called. We’d only spoken for a few minutes and lost the connection.
The driver pulled up to a narrow building at a busy corner where two winding streets intersected. I paid the driver, took my lone suitcase, and walked up to the intricately carved door. The building had wooden balconies with open shutters--from many of them, laundry was hanging to dry in the sun. I walked up the creaky stairs to the second floor, down a dim hallway to the last door on the right. Checked the address on the piece of stationery paper in my palm. Knocked.
Then, a thing made of skin and bones pretending to be Rahim Khan opened the door.

第十五章
我乘坐的航班在白沙瓦着陸三個小時之後，我坐在一輛瀰漫着煙味的的士破舊的後座上。汗津津的司機個子矮小，一根接一根抽着煙，自我介紹說他叫戈藍。他開起車來毫無顧忌，橫衝直撞，每每與其他車輛擦身而過，一路上滔滔不絕的話語片刻不停地從他口中涌出來：“……你的祖國發生的一切太恐怖了，真的。阿富汗人和巴基斯坦人就像兄弟，我告訴你，穆斯林必須幫助穆斯林，所以……”
我不搭腔，帶着禮貌點頭稱是。 1981年，爸爸和我在這裏住過幾個月，腦海裏依然認得白沙瓦。現在我們在雅姆魯德路往西開着，路過兵站，還有那些高牆聳立的豪宅。這喧囂的城市匆匆後退，讓我想起記憶中的喀布爾，比這裏更繁忙、更擁擠，特別是雞市，哈桑和我過去常常去那兒，買酸辣醬醃過的土豆和櫻桃水。街路上擠滿了自行車、摩肩接踵的行人，還有冒出嫋嫋藍煙的黃包車，所有這些，都在迷宮般的狹窄巷道穿來插去。擁擠的小攤排成一行行，留着鬍子的小販在地面擺開一張張薄薄的褥子，兜售獸皮燈罩、地毯、繡花披肩和銅器。這座城市喧鬧非凡，小販的叫賣聲、震耳欲聾的印度音樂聲、黃包車高喊讓路的叫聲、馬車的叮叮噹噹聲，全都混在一起，在我耳邊迴盪。還有各種各樣的味道，香的臭的，炸蔬菜的香辣味、爸爸最喜愛的燉肉味、柴油機的煙味，還有腐爛物、垃圾、糞便的臭味，紛紛飄進車窗，撲鼻而來。
駛過白沙瓦大學的紅磚房子之後不久，我們進入了一個區域，那個饒舌的司機稱之爲“阿富汗城”。我看到了糖鋪、售賣地毯的小販、烤肉攤，還有雙手髒兮兮的小孩在兜售香菸，窗戶上貼着阿富汗地圖的小餐館，廁身其中的是衆多救助機構。“這個地區有你很多同胞，真的。他們做生意，不過多數很窮。”他“嘖”了一聲，嘆了口氣， “反正，我們就快到了。”
我想起最後一次見到拉辛汗的情景，那是在1981年。我和爸爸逃離喀布爾那晚，他前來道別。我記得爸爸和他在門廊擁抱，輕聲哭泣。爸爸和我到了美國之後，他和拉辛汗保持聯繫。
他們每年會交談上那麼四五次，有時爸爸會把聽筒給我。最後一次和拉辛汗說話是在爸爸去世後不久。死訊傳到喀布爾，他打電話來。我們只說了幾分鐘，電話線就斷了。司機停在一座房子前，這房子位於兩條蜿蜒街道的繁忙交叉路口。我付了車錢，提起僅有的一個箱子，走進那雕刻精美的大門。這座建築有木板陽臺和敞開的窗戶，窗外多數晾着衣服。我踩上吱嘎作響的樓梯，登上二樓，轉右，走到那昏暗走廊最後一扇門。我看看手裏那張寫着地址的信紙，敲敲門。
然後，一具皮包骨的軀體僞裝成拉辛汗，把門打開。