工具箱

工具箱

The Toolbox

星期二晚上八点半,我要站在圣器室里,告诉Diane Price一切都好。七点的时候,我在教堂里和Marco在一起,扶着一扇门。

At half past eight on Tuesday I had to stand in the vestry and tell Diane Price that everything was fine. At seven I was in the church with Marco, holding a door.

“向左,”他说。

“Left,” he said.

我向左移。这一次,我移对了。

I moved left. It was the right left, for once.

马厩现在立在祭坛前面,又高又真,有三面墙和一扇门。屋顶还在他的车里。九天以后,四十个孩子要站在它的周围。礼堂里,在一块白桌布下面,旧马槽是空的。只有两个人有礼堂的钥匙。我是其中一个。

The stable stood in front of the altar now, tall and real, with three walls and one door. The roof was still in his van. In nine days forty children must stand round it. Under a white tablecloth in the hall, the old crib stood empty. Only two people had keys to that hall. I was one of them.

一整天我都在想一件事。他的工具箱。他到哪儿都带着它,可是从来不在我面前打开,只有拿钉子的时候才开。七点的时候我有了一个办法,我讨厌这个办法。

All day I thought about one thing. His toolbox. He carries it everywhere, and he never opens it in front of me, only for nails. At seven I had a plan, and I hated it.

“您现在可以把屋顶搬进来吗?”我说。“趁雪还没有落上去。”

“Can you bring the roof in now?” I said. “Before the snow gets on it.”

“现在?它在车里没事。”

“Now? It’s fine in the van.”

“请您去吧。雪要下一整夜。这一边我来做完。”

“Please. It’s going to snow all night. I’ll finish this side.”

他看着我。然后他耸了耸肩,走了出去。车在广场的另一边。我想,十分钟。

He looked at me. Then he shrugged and went out. The van was on the far side of the square. Ten minutes, I thought.

他的工具箱放在地上,在我的脚旁边。那是一个很大的旧木箱,有把手,关着。

His toolbox stood on the floor, next to my feet. It was a big old wooden box with a handle, and it was closed.

我知道这不对。可是我还是做了。我跪下来,打开了盖子。

I knew it was wrong. I did it anyway. I knelt down and opened the lid.

锤子。锯子。铅笔。几盒钉子。在最下面,用一块软软的蓝布包着,有一个又小又硬的东西。我打开了布。

Hammers. A saw. Pencils. Boxes of nails. And at the bottom, wrapped in a soft blue cloth, something small and hard. I unwrapped it.

是马槽里的一个小天使。她的铁丝翅膀在灯下发亮。一只翅膀的下面是新的银色。有人在那里修过,修得非常小心。

It was a little angel from the crib. Her wire wings shone in the light. One wing was a new silver colour at the bottom. Somebody mended it there, very carefully.