邮递员

邮递员

The Postman

十五天要找到一个名字,我只有一个想法:送来回信的人,一定在八点以前就在广场上。

Fifteen days to find a name, and one idea: whoever brought the answers had to be out on the square before eight.

所以十二月八日,星期二,我五点就起床了。

So on Tuesday the eighth of December I got up at five.

手机闹钟叫不醒我,以前就是这样,所以我还定了小时候那个旧闹钟,就是上面有两个铃的那个,我在书桌抽屉里找到的。它像火警一样响。对面的 Karim 用阿拉伯语喊了一句难听的话。我在黑暗中穿好衣服:两件毛衣,我的驼色大衣,我的蓝绿色围巾,还有一双我爸爸的旧靴子,它们太大了,可是很暖和。

My phone alarm didn’t wake me. I had slept through it, so I had set the old alarm clock from my childhood too, the one with two bells on top, which I found in my desk drawer. It rang like a fire alarm. Across the landing, Karim shouted something rude in Arabic. I got dressed in the dark: two jumpers, my camel coat, my teal scarf, and a pair of my father’s old boots, which were too big and very warm.

早上五点半的广场是另一个地方。天是蓝黑色的,一点声音也没有。雪在夜里停了,新雪平平整整、干干净净地盖在所有东西上:台阶、市场的小木屋、汽车的车顶。小木屋上的灯都关着。只有一扇窗亮着,是我爸爸店里的窗,因为面包车五点来,我爸爸总是在那里等它。

The square at half past five in the morning was a different place. It was dark and blue and completely quiet. The snow had stopped in the night, and the new snow lay smooth and clean over everything: the steps, the market huts, the roofs of the cars. The lights on the huts were off. Only one window was lit, the window of my father’s shop, because the bakery van comes at five, and my father is always there to meet it.

我坐在广场上头、教堂旁边的公交站亭里。从那里我几乎能看见每一扇门。我从店里拿了一杯咖啡,是纸杯的,我用两只手捧着它,笔记本放在膝盖上。我觉得自己像老电影里的侦探。我也觉得非常冷。

I sat in the bus shelter at the top of the square, by the church. From there I could see almost every door. I had a coffee in a paper cup from the shop, and my hands round it, and my notebook on my knee. I felt like a detective in an old film. I also felt very cold.

五点五十分,左边的一栋房子亮了灯。六点,教堂的钟响了一声。六点零五分,一个男人从教堂后面的街上走进了广场。

At ten to six, a light came on in a house on the left. At six, the church bell rang once. At five past six, a man walked into the square from the street behind the church.

他穿着一件红夹克,胸前斜挎着一个大包。是一个邮递员。他走得很快,步子很大,嘴里吹着什么。是一首圣诞歌,吹得不好。他走到左边的第一栋房子,从包里拿出一叠信,从信箱口塞了进去。然后是下一家。再下一家。

He was wearing a red jacket and carrying a big bag across his chest. A postman. He walked fast, with long steps, and he was whistling something. A Christmas song, badly. He went to the first house on the left, took a pile of letters out of his bag and pushed them through the letter box. Then the next house. Then the next.

我看着他送了六家。然后我站起来,踏着雪走过去迎他。

I watched him do six houses. Then I got up and walked across the snow to meet him.

我走到广场中间的时候,他看见我了。他不吹口哨了。他看着我,看着我的大靴子,看着我的咖啡,他的脸变了。大概一秒钟,就从友好变成了小心。

He saw me coming when I was halfway across the square. He stopped whistling. He looked at me, at my big boots, at my coffee, and his face changed. It went from friendly to careful in about one second.

“早。”他说。

“Morning,” he said.

“早上好,”我说,”您是邮递员。”

“Good morning,” I said. “You’re the postman.”

“看衣服就知道了,是吧?”他的声音很好听,很温暖,带着广场这一带的口音。他和我差不多大,也许大一点,短短的红头发,蓝眼睛,脸颊被冻得粉红。”您是 Leila Yousef。”

“The jacket gives it away, doesn’t it?” He had a nice voice, warm, with the accent of the square in it. He was about my age, a little older, with short red hair and blue eyes and cheeks that were pink from the cold. “And you’re Leila Yousef.”

我很吃惊。”您怎么知道?”

That surprised me. “How do you know?”