第十章 - 追风筝的人 - 蜗牛双语阅读

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追风筝的人 | 第十章

3/17

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In the morning, Jalaluddin -- our seventh servant in five years -- would probably think we'd gone out for a stroll or a drive. We hadn't told him. You couldn't trust anyone in Kabul any more -- for a fee or under threat, people told on each other, neighbor on neighbor, child on parent, brother on brother, servant on master, friend on friend. I thought of the singer Ahmad Zahir, who had played the accordion at my thirteenth birthday. He had gone for a drive with some friends, and someone had later found his body on the side of the road, a bullet in the back of his head. The rafiqs, the comrades, were everywhere and they'd split Kabul into two groups: those who eavesdropped and those who didn't. The tricky part was that no one knew who belonged to which. A casual remark to the tailor while getting fitted for a suit might land you in the dungeons of Poleh-charkhi. Complain about the curfew to the butcher and next thing you knew, you were behind bars staring at the muzzle end of a Kalashnikov. Even at the dinner table, in the privacy of their Home, people had to speak in a calculated manner -- the rafiqs were in the classrooms too; they'd taught children to spy on their parents, what to listen for, whom to tell.

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追风筝的人 | 第十章

3/17

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