不给乔纳斯

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“如果你这么做，就别再回这个家了。”这是我父亲在三月的一个星期二说的，说完他重重地关上了厨房的门，橱柜里的玻璃杯都被震得叮当作响。

“If you do this, you needn’t bother coming home.” That’s what my father said, on a Tuesday in March, and then he shut the kitchen door so hard that the glasses rattled in the cupboard.

我父亲叫罗尔夫·布兰特。他今年六十岁，在卡塞尔开了三十年公交车，平时话不多。自从我母亲两年前去世后，他更沉默了。我们住在我从小长大的那间小公寓里，晚上大多时候我们都坐在电视机前，一言不发。

My father’s name is Rolf Brandt. He is sixty years old, he has driven a bus in Kassel for thirty years, and he doesn’t say much. Since my mother died two years ago, he says even less. We live together in the small flat where I grew up, and most evenings we sit in front of the TV in silence.

那个星期二，我把那封信给他看了。我偷偷报名参加了电视烹饪节目《金平底锅》，结果被选中了。十二名业余厨师，在科隆待六周，最终获胜者能得到五万欧元，还能获得去里昂一所烹饪学校进修的名额。

That Tuesday I showed him the letter. I had secretly applied to “The Golden Pan”, a cooking show on TV, and they had accepted me. Twelve amateur cooks, six weeks in Cologne, and at the end fifty thousand euros and a place at a cooking school in Lyon.

“你在保险公司有一份不错的工作。”我父亲说，“你却想去电视上削土豆？”

“You’ve got a good job at the insurance company,” my father said. “And you want to peel potatoes on TV?”

“我想做饭，爸爸。像妈妈一样。”

“I want to cook, Dad. Like Mum.”

他的脸色一下子变得灰暗，我不明白为什么。我母亲每天都为我们做饭，大家都爱吃她做的菜：邻居、我的朋友，甚至是牧师。只有我父亲总是默默地吃，一句话也不说，好像吃饭对他来说只是给身体加燃料一样。

At that, his face went completely grey, and I didn’t understand why. My mother cooked for us every day, and everyone loved her food: the neighbours, my friends, even the priest. Only my father always ate in silence, without a word, as if food were just fuel for the body.

他关上门后，我走进房间，把床底下的箱子拿了出来。里面装着我母亲的食谱：一本厚厚的蓝色笔记本，上面沾着油渍，写满了她用圆润字体记录的食谱。葬礼后我把它从厨房拿了出来，以免父亲把它扔掉。

After he shut the door, I went to my room and pulled the box out from under my bed. Inside it lies my mother’s recipe book: a thick blue notebook with grease stains, full of recipes in her round handwriting. I took it from the kitchen after the funeral so that my father wouldn’t throw it away.

我像往常一样翻开了它。但那天晚上，我注意到了一些以前从未发现的东西。最后十页被粘在了一起，只在边缘小心地粘住。在第一页上，用红墨水写着： 不给乔纳斯。还不是时候。

I opened it, as I so often did. But that evening I noticed something I had never seen before. The last ten pages were glued together, very carefully, along the edges. And on the first of them, in red ink, it said: Not for Jonas. Not yet.