The Vestry

My father had asked me to leave N. alone.

我爸爸要我别再查 N 了。

On Sunday the sixth of December, Saint Nicholas’s day, the box in the church porch is opened. I had been there for it every year as a child. That year I was there forty minutes early, standing in the snow with a coffee from my father’s shop and my phone in my hand.

十二月六日,星期日,是圣尼古拉节。这一天,教堂门廊里的箱子会被打开。我小时候每年都来看。那一年我早到了四十分钟,站在雪里,手里拿着一杯爸爸店里的咖啡和我的手机。

The box hangs on the wall of the porch, by the big wooden door. It is dark wood, old, about the size of a small suitcase, with a slot at the top and a little lock at the front. Someone has painted “SAINT NICHOLAS” on it in gold, and someone else, much later, has painted it again, not quite in the same place. I photographed it from three sides. A woman with a pushchair looked at me as if I was a tourist.

箱子挂在门廊的墙上,在大木门旁边。它是深色的旧木头做的,大概有一个小行李箱那么大,上面有一个投信的口,前面有一把小锁。有人在上面用金色写了”SAINT NICHOLAS”,后来又有人重新写了一遍,位置不太一样。我从三个方向给它拍了照。一位推着婴儿车的女士看着我,好像我是游客。

By half past ten the porch was full. There were children in hats and children in boots and children on their parents’ shoulders. There were grandparents who had posted letters in the same box sixty years ago. In the window of a house across the square, I could see a silver candle holder with places for nine candles. Ruth Adler’s window. She had been my piano teacher for one terrible year, and every evening that week she lit one more candle for Hanukkah. I had forgotten that too.

十点半的时候,门廊里已经站满了人。有戴帽子的孩子,有穿靴子的孩子,还有坐在爸爸妈妈肩膀上的孩子。有些爷爷奶奶,六十年前也往这个箱子里寄过信。广场对面一栋房子的窗户里,我看见一个银色的烛台,能放九支蜡烛。那是 Ruth Adler 的窗户。她教过我一年钢琴,那一年很糟糕。那个星期,她每天晚上为光明节多点一支蜡烛。这件事我也忘了。

A little girl in a red coat stood next to me. She was holding an envelope with both hands, as if it might fly away.

一个穿红外套的小女孩站在我旁边。她用两只手拿着一个信封,好像它会飞走一样。

“Is that your letter?” I asked her.

“那是你的信吗?”我问她。

She nodded. “I’m going to post it now, before they open the box. It’s the last minute.”

她点点头。”我现在就要寄,在他们打开箱子以前。这是最后一分钟了。”

“What did you ask for?”

“你要了什么?”

She looked at me carefully. She was deciding if I could be trusted. Then she opened the envelope, which wasn’t closed, and held out the letter so I could read it.

她认真地看着我。她在想我能不能相信。然后她打开了信封,信封没有封口,她把信拿出来,让我可以读。

“Dear Saint Nicholas, I am Lily and I am seven. Please can my grandad stop forgetting my name. He forgets it on Sundays mostly. I don’t want a present, only that. Love from Lily. P.S. You can have a biscuit if you come.”

“亲爱的圣尼古拉,我是 Lily,我七岁。请让我的爷爷不要再忘记我的名字。他大多是星期天忘记。我不要礼物,只要这个。爱你的 Lily。又及:如果你来,你可以吃一块饼干。”

I read it twice. I didn’t know what to say. “That’s a very good letter,” I said at last.

我读了两遍。我不知道该说什么。”这是一封很好的信。”我最后说。

“I know,” said Lily, and she pushed through the crowd to the box and posted it.

“我知道。”Lily 说,然后她挤过人群走到箱子前,把信寄了。

At eleven o’clock the church door opened and Father Tom came out. I had not met him before. The old priest of my childhood had retired years ago. Father Tom was tall and broad, with a round face and a wide smile, and he wore a long grey coat over his black shirt. He was looking for something in his pockets, all of them, one after another.

十一点,教堂的门开了,Tom 神父走了出来。我以前没有见过他。我小时候的那位老神父,几年前就退休了。Tom 神父又高又壮,圆圆的脸,笑得很开心。他在黑衬衫外面穿着一件灰色的长外套。他在找东西,把所有的口袋一个一个地翻了过去。