殘忍而美麗的情誼:The Kite Runner 追風箏的人(86)
“You know, your grandfather, Ghazi Sahib, the judge? Now, his uncle and my grandfather were cousins,” she said. “So you see, we’re related.” She smiled a cap-toothed smile, and I noticed the right side of her mouth drooping a little. Her eyes moved between Soraya and me again.
I’d asked Baba once why General Taheri’s daughter hadn’t married yet. No suitors, Baba said. No suitable suitors, he amended. But he wouldn’t say more--Baba knew how lethal idle talk could prove to a young woman’s prospects of marrying well. Afghan men, especially those from reputable families, were fickle creatures. A whisper here, an insinuation there, and they fled like startled birds. So weddings had come and gone and no one had sung ahesta boro for Soraya, no one had painted her palms with henna, no one had held a Koran over her headdress, and it had been General Taheri who’d danced with her at every wedding.
And now, this woman, this mother, with her heartbreakingly eager, crooked smile and the barely veiled hope in her eyes. I cringed a little at the position of power I’d been granted, and all because I had won at the genetic lottery that had determined my sex.
I could never read the thoughts in the general’s eyes, but I knew this much about his wife: If I was going to have an adversary in this--whatever this was--it would not be her.
“Sit down, Amir jan,” she said. “Soraya, get him a chair, hachem. And wash one of those peaches. They’re sweet and fresh.”
“Nay, thank you,” I said. “I should get going. My father’s waiting.”
“Oh?” Khanum Taheri said, clearly impressed that I’d done the polite thing and declined the offer. “Then here, at least have this.” She threw a handful of kiwis and a few peaches into a paper bag and insisted I take them. “Carry my Salaam to your father. And come back to see us again.”
“I will. Thank you, Khala jan,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Soraya looking away.
“I THOUGHT YOU WERE GETTING COKES,” Baba said, taking the bag of peaches from me. He was looking at me in a simultaneously serious and playful way. I began to make some thing up, but he bit into a peach and waved his hand, “Don’t bother, Amir. Just remember what I said.”
THAT NIGHT IN BED, I thought of the way dappled sunlight had danced in Soraya’s eyes, and of the delicate hollows above her collarbone. I replayed our conversation over and over in my head. Had she said I heard you write or I heard you’re a writer? Which was it? I tossed in my sheets and stared at the ceiling, dismayed at the thought of six laborious, interminable nights of yelda until I saw her again.
“你認識你的爺爺伽茲老爺嗎?他是個法官。喏，他的叔叔跟我爺爺是表親。”她說，“所以你看，我們還是親戚呢。”她微笑着露出一口金牙，我注意到她右邊的嘴角有點下垂。她的眼睛又在我和索拉雅之間轉起來。
有一次，我問爸爸，爲什麼塔赫裏將軍的女兒還沒有嫁出去。“沒有追求者，”爸爸說，“沒有門當戶對的追求者。”他補充說。但他再也不說了——爸爸知道這種致命的閒言碎語會給少女未來的婚姻造成什麼樣的影響。阿富汗男人，尤其是出身名門望族的那些人，都是見風使舵的傢伙。這兒幾句閒話，那兒數聲詆譭，他們就會像驚鳥般落荒而逃。所以不斷有婚禮舉行，可是沒人給索拉雅唱“慢慢走”，沒有人在她手掌塗指甲花，沒有人把《可蘭經》擺放在她頭巾上，每個婚禮上，陪着她跳舞的，總是塔赫裏將軍。
而如今，這個婦女，這個母親，帶着令人心碎的渴望，討好微笑，對眼中的希望不加掩飾。我對自己所處的有利地位感到畏怯，而這全都因爲，我贏得了那場決定我性別的基因博彩。
我從來沒能看穿將軍的雙眸，但我從他妻子眼裏懂得的可就多了：如果我在這件事情上——不管這件事情是什麼——會遇到對手，那絕對不是她。
“請坐，親愛的阿米爾。”她說，“索拉雅，給他一張椅子，我的孩子。洗幾個桃子，它們又甜又多汁。”
“不用了，謝謝。”我說，“我得回去了，爸爸在等我。”
“哦?”塔赫裏太太說，顯然，她被我禮貌地婉拒她的得體舉止打動了。“那麼，給你，至少帶上這個。”她抓起一把獼猴桃，還有幾個桃子，放進紙袋，堅持要我收下。“替我問候你爸爸，常來看看我們。”
“我會的，謝謝你，親愛的阿姨。”我說，我用眼角的餘光看到索拉雅正望着別處。
“我還以爲你去買可樂了呢。”爸爸說，從我手裏接過那袋桃子。他看着我，神情既嚴肅，又戲謔。我開始找說詞，但他咬了一口桃子，揮揮手:“別費勁了，阿米爾。只要記得我說的就行。”
那天夜晚，躺在牀上，我想着閃爍的陽光在索拉雅眼裏舞動的樣子，想着她鎖骨上方那美麗的凹陷。我在腦裏一遍又一遍回放着我們的對話。她說的是“我聽說你是個作家”還是“我聽說你寫作”?是哪句呢?我捂緊被子，盯着天花板，痛苦地想起，要度過連續六個漫漫的雅爾達之夜，我才能再次見到她。
