What Really Happened

Inside, the Second Chance was half packed and very cold. Books were stacked in boxes along one wall; the little table had been pushed against the stove. Michael lit the stove with a match and some newspaper, and for a few minutes neither of them said anything while the fire caught and the boat slowly began to warm up. Ana noticed that his hands shook while he did it.

在“Second Chance”号里面，东西收拾了一半，屋里很冷。墙边放着一箱箱的书，小桌子被推到了炉子旁边。Michael用一根火柴和一些报纸点燃了炉子。火生起来了，船里慢慢温和起来，这几分钟里他们谁也没有说话。Ana注意到他在生火的时候手在发抖。

He made two mugs of tea and sat down opposite her. He did not look at her. He looked at the small window, where the curtain still did not quite close, and at the dark canal beyond it. When he began to speak, his voice was flat and careful, as if he had practised the words many times but never said them aloud.

他泡了两大杯茶，在她对面坐了下来。他没有看她。他看着那扇小窗户，窗帘还是拉不严实，他也看着窗外漆黑的运河。他开口说话时，语调平淡而小心，好像把这些话练习过很多次，却从没大声说出来过一样。

“You have to understand what he was like after my mother died,” he said. “People think grief is crying. It isn’t, not with men like my father. He just went quiet. He stopped singing in the kitchen. He stopped going to the pub on Fridays. He worked, and he slept, and in between he sat at that old table and stared at the wall.”

“你得明白，我母亲死后他是什么样子的，”他说，“人们以为悲伤就是哭泣。但像我父亲这样的男人不是那样。他只是变得很沉默。他不再在厨房里唱歌了。他周五也不去酒吧了。他工作，睡觉，在这两件事之间，他就坐在那张旧桌子旁，盯着墙壁看。”

“About a year after the funeral, I came down early one morning and found a bottle of whisky in the flour cupboard. Behind the sacks, where nobody would look. I didn’t say anything. I thought it was just for the bad nights.” He turned his mug slowly round on the table, exactly the way his father did. “By the time Jess was born, there was a new bottle behind the flour every week.”

“葬礼后大约一年，有一天早上我很早下楼，在面粉柜里发现了一瓶威士忌。藏在麻袋后面，谁也不会往那里看的地方。我什么也没说。我以为只是在难熬的夜晚喝一点。”他把桌上的杯子慢慢转了一圈，动作和他父亲一模一样。“到了Jess出生的时候，面粉后面每周都会多出一瓶新酒。”

“He never drank in front of anyone. Never in the shop, never in the day. He drank alone, at night, at the kitchen table, between midnight and three, before he started the bread. Karen knew a little. Priya, I think, guessed. Nobody said a word. In a small town, you don’t. You just buy your bread and look the other way.”

“他从不在任何人面前喝酒。从不在店里喝，也从不在白天喝。他总是在夜里独自一人喝，坐在厨房的桌旁，在午夜到三点之间，在做面包之前喝。Karen知道一点。我觉得Priya猜到了。但谁也没说一句话。在小镇上，大家都是这样。你只管买你的面包，装作没看见。”

Ana thought of the store room, the bags of flour on the left, the burnt sign hidden behind them. She thought of the ring of keys, and the key for the flour cupboard among them. She did not interrupt.

Ana想到了储藏室，想到了左边的面粉袋，以及藏在后面的烧焦的招牌。她想到了那串钥匙，还有里面的面粉柜钥匙。她没有打断他。

“The night of the fire was in January. It was very cold. He had turned the oven on at about one, to heat it up for the first bread. He always did that. Then he sat down at the table with his bottle, as usual. And at some point he fell asleep with his head on his arms.”

“火灾发生的那晚是在一月份。天气非常冷。他在一点左右打开了烤箱，想预热烤箱来烤第一批面包。他平时总是这样。然后他就和往常一样，拿着酒瓶坐在桌旁。后来不知什么时候，他把头埋在手臂上睡着了。”

“There was a cloth hanging on the oven door. A thick cotton one, like the one you use for the trays. It must have slipped onto the hot metal. Next to the oven, on the old wooden shelves, we kept the paper bags. Hundreds of them, folded and stacked.” His mouth twisted. “Paper bags. Of all the things to burn.”

“烤箱门上挂着一块布。是一块厚棉布，就像你拿烤盘用的那种。它肯定是滑落到了滚烫的金属上。烤箱旁边的旧木架上，放着我们的纸袋。好几百个，叠好码在那里。”他撇了撇嘴。“纸袋啊。偏偏是这种最容易烧着的东西。”