残忍而美丽的情谊:The Kite Runner 追风筝的人(59)

“Hassan’s not going anywhere,” Baba snapped. He dug a new hole with the trowel, striking the dirt harder than he had to. “He’s staying right here with us, where he belongs. This is his home and we’re his family. Don’t you ever ask me that question again!”
“I won’t, Baba. I’m sorry.”
We planted the rest of the tulips in silence.
I was relieved when school started that next week. Students with new notebooks and sharpened pencils in hand ambled about the courtyard, kicking up dust, chatting in groups, waiting for the class captains’ whistles. Baba drove down the dirt lane that led to the entrance. The school was an old two-story building with broken windows and dim, cobblestone hallways, patches of its original dull yellow paint still showing between sloughing chunks of plaster. Most of the boys walked to school, and Baba’s black Mustang drew more than one envious look. I should have been beaming with pride when he dropped me off--the old me would have--but all I could muster was a mild form of embarrassment. That and emptiness. Baba drove away without saying good-bye.
I bypassed the customary comparing of kite-fighting scars and stood in line. The bell rang and we marched to our assigned class, filed in in pairs. I sat in the back row. As the Farsi teacher handed out our textbooks, I prayed for a heavy load of homework.
School gave me an excuse to stay in my room for long hours. And, for a while, it took my mind off what had happened that winter, what I had let happen. For a few weeks, I preoccupied myself with gravity and momentum, atoms and cells, the Anglo-Afghan wars, instead of thinking about Hassan and what had happened to him. But, always, my mind returned to the alley. To Hassan’s brown corduroy pants lying on the bricks. To the droplets of blood staining the snow dark red, almost black.
One sluggish, hazy afternoon early that summer, I asked Hassan to go up the hill with me. Told him I wanted to read him a new story I’d written. He was hanging clothes to dry in the yard and I saw his eagerness in the harried way he finished the job.
We climbed the hill, making small talk. He asked about school, what I was learning, and I talked about my teachers, especially the mean math teacher who punished talkative students by sticking a metal rod between their fingers and then squeezing them together. Hassan winced at that, said he hoped I’d never have to experience it. I said I’d been lucky so far, knowing that luck had nothing to do with it. I had done my share of talking in class too. But my father was rich and everyone knew him, so I was spared the metal rod treatment.
We sat against the low cemetery wall under the shade thrown by the pomegranate tree. In another month or two, crops of scorched yellow weeds would blanket the hillside, but that year the spring showers had lasted longer than usual, nudging their way into early summer, and the grass was still green, peppered with tangles of wildflowers. Below us, Wazir Akbar Khan’s white walled, flat-topped houses gleamed in the sunshine, the laundry hanging on clotheslines in their yards stirred by the breeze to dance like butterflies.
We had picked a dozen pomegranates from the tree. I unfolded the story I’d brought along, turned to the first page, then put it down. I stood up and picked up an overripe pomegranate that had fallen to the ground.
“What would you do if I hit you with this?” I said, tossing the fruit up and down.

“哈桑哪儿都不去，”爸爸愤怒地说，他拿起铲子，在地上又掘了一个坑，用比刚才更大的力气将泥土铲开，“他就在这儿陪着我们，他属于这儿。这里是他的家，我们是他的家人。以后别再问我这样的问题!”
“不会了，爸爸，对不起。”
他闷声把剩下的郁金香都种完。
第二个星期，开学了，我如释重负。学生分到了新的笔记本，手里拿着削尖的铅笔，在操场上聚集在一起，踢起尘土，三五成群地交谈，等待班长的哨声。爸爸的车开上那条通向校门的土路。学校是座两层的古旧建筑，窗户漏风，鹅卵石砌成的门廊光线阴暗，在剥落的泥灰之间，还可以看见它原来的土黄色油漆。多数男孩走路上课，爸爸黑色的野马轿车引来的不仅仅是艳羡的眼光。本来他开车送我上学，我应该觉得很骄傲——过去的我就是这样——但如今我感到的只是有些尴尬，尴尬和空虚。爸爸连声“再见”都没说，就掉头离开。
我没有像过去那样，跟人比较斗风筝的伤痕，而是站到队伍中去。钟声响起，我们鱼贯进入分配的教室，找座位坐好，我坐在教室后面。法尔西语老师分发课本的时候，我祈祷有做不完的作业。
上学给了我长时间待在房间里头的借口。并且，确实有那么一阵，我忘记了冬天发生的那些事，那些我让它们发生的事。接连几个星期，我满脑子重力和动力，原子和细胞，英阿战争，不去想着哈桑，不去想他的遭遇。可是，我的思绪总是回到那条小巷。总是想到躺在砖头上的哈桑的棕色灯芯绒裤，想到那些将雪地染成暗红色、几乎是黑色的血滴。
那年初夏，某个让人昏昏欲睡的午后，我让哈桑跟我一起去爬山。告诉他我要给他念一个刚写的故事。他当时在院子里晾衣服，他手忙脚乱把衣服晾好的样子让我看到他的期待。
我们爬上山，稍作交谈。他问起学校的事情，问起我在学什么，我谈起那些老师，尤其是那个严厉的数学老师，他惩罚那些多话的学生，将铁棍放在他们的指缝间，然后用力捏他们的手指。哈桑吓了一跳，说希望我永远不用被惩罚。我说我到目前为止都很幸运，不过我知道那和运气没什么关系。我也在课堂上讲话，但我的爸爸很有钱，人人认识他，所以我免受铁棍的刑罚。
我们坐在墓园低矮的围墙上，在石榴树的树影之下。再过一两个月，成片的焦黄野草会铺满山坡，但那年春天雨水绵绵，比往年持续得久，到了初夏也还不停地下着，杂草依然是绿色的，星星点点的野花散落其间。在我们下面，瓦兹尔?阿克巴?汗区的房子平顶白墙，被阳光照得闪闪发亮；院子里的晾衣线挂满衣物，在和风的吹拂中如蝴蝶般翩翩起舞。
我们从树上摘了十来个石榴。我打开带来那本故事书，翻到第一页，然后又把书放下。我站起身来，捡起一个熟透了的跌落在地面的石榴。
“要是我拿这个打你，你会怎么做啊?”我说，石榴在手里抛上抛下。