追风筝的人阿塞夫结局 残忍而美丽的情谊:The Kite Runner 追风筝的人(38)

残忍而美丽的情谊:The Kite Runner 追风筝的人(38)  

Usually
each neighborhood held its own petition. But that year
the tournament was going to be held in my neighborhood
Wazir Akbar Khan
and several other districts--Karteh-Char
Karteh-Parwan
Mekro-Rayan
and Koteh-Sangi--had been invited. You could hardly go anywhere without hearing talk of the uping tournament. Word had it this was going to be the biggest tournament in enty-five years.
One night that winter
with the big contest only four days away
Baba and I sat in his study in overstuffed leather chairs by the glow of the fireplace. We were sipping tea
talking. Ali had served dinner earlier--potatoes and curried cauliflower over rice--and had retired for the night with Hassan. Baba was fattening his pipe and I was asking him to tell the story about the winter a pack of wolves had descended from the mountains in Herat and forced everyone to stay indoors for a week
when he lit a match and said
casually
"I think maybe you'll win the tournament this year. What do you think?"
I didn't know what to think. Or what to say. Was that what it would take? Had he just slipped me a key? I was a good kite fighter. Actually
a very good one. A few times
I'd even e close to winning the winter tournament--once
I'd made it to the final three. But ing close wasn't the same as winning
was it? Baba hadn't "e close". He had won because winners won and everyone else just went Home. Baba was used to winning
winning at everything he set his mind to. Didn't he have a right to expect the same from his son? And just imagine. If I did win...
我不知道该怎么想，或者该怎么说。我要是取胜了会怎么样呢?他只是交给我一把钥匙吗?我是斗风筝的好手，实际上，是非常出色的好手。好几次我差点赢得冬季巡回赛--有一次，我还进了前三名。但差点儿和赢得比赛是两回事，不是吗?爸爸从来不差点儿，他只是获胜，获胜者赢得比赛，其他人只能回家。爸爸总是胜利，赢得一切他想赢得的东西。难道他没有权利要求他的儿子也这样吗?想想吧，要是我赢得比赛……
Baba smoked his pipe and talked. I pretended to listen. But I couldn't listen
not really
because Baba's casual little ment had planted a seed in my head: the resolution that I would win that winter's tournament. I was going to win. There was no other viable option. I was going to win
and I was going to run that last kite. Then I'd bring it Home and show it to Baba. Show him once and for all that his son was worthy. Then maybe my life as a ghost in this house would finally be over. I let myself dream: I imagined conversation and laughter over dinner instead of silence broken only by the clinking of silverware and the occasional grunt. I envisioned us taking a Friday drive in Baba's car to Paghman
stopping on the way at Ghargha Lake for some fried trout and potatoes. We'd go to the zoo to see Marjan the lion
and maybe Baba wouldn't yawn and steal looks at his wrisatch all the time. Maybe Baba would even read one of my stories. I'd write him a hundred if I thought he'd read one. Maybe he'd call me Amir jan like Rahim Khan did. And maybe
just maybe
I would finally be pardoned for killing my mother.
Baba was telling me about the time he'd cut fourteen kites on the same day. I smiled
nodded
laughed at all the right places
but I hardly heard a word he said. I had a mission now. And I wasn't going to fail Baba. Not this time.