The Big Snow

At midnight on Friday I came back across the square and stopped outside my father’s shop, because through the window I could see him crying.

星期五半夜，我穿过广场回来，在我父亲的店外面停住了，因为我从窗户看见他在哭。

I had spent the evening at the market and then walked round half the city, with Simon Rourke’s card in my wallet and Hannah’s locked drawer in my head, so that I wouldn’t have to sit across a till from a father who now spoke to me only about milk. The lights in the shop were off except the one over the counter. My father was standing in the middle of the shop, between the bread and the newspapers, and my sister was standing with him, and he was holding her. Neither of them was saying anything. They were both crying, the way people do who haven’t done it for a long time.

那个晚上我先在市集上，然后在城里走了大半圈。钱包里是Simon Rourke的名片，脑子里是Hannah锁上的抽屉。这样我就不用坐在收银机对面，面对一个现在只和我谈牛奶的父亲。店里的灯都关了，只有柜台上面那一盏亮着。我父亲站在店中间，在面包和报纸之间，我妹妹和他站在一起，他抱着她。他们谁也没有说话。两个人都在哭，就像很久没有哭过的人那样。

I had never seen my father cry. Not even at my mother’s funeral.

我从来没见过我父亲哭。我母亲的葬礼上也没有。

I didn’t go in. Whatever they were saying to each other had taken ten years to say, and it was not mine. I walked round the square twice in the snow, past the dark huts, and when I came back the shop was dark too. I let myself in by the side door and went up to bed, and lay awake listening to the two of them talking quietly in the shop below me until two.

我没有进去。他们对彼此说的话，花了十年才说出口，那不是我的。我在雪里绕着广场走了两圈，经过一间间黑暗的木屋。我回来的时候，店里也黑了。我从侧门进去，上楼睡觉，躺着听他们两个人在楼下的店里轻声说话，一直听到两点。

The snow began in earnest at four, and didn’t stop.

雪从四点开始真正地下起来，一直没有停。

When I came down at seven, the square was white and silent and the snow on the counter of the nearest hut was as deep as my hand. The buses were late. Someone on the radio said the pond in the park had frozen hard enough to walk on, and that people shouldn’t. I took the long broom from the back of the shop and went straight to Mr Pike’s hut, because I had written it in my notebook and underlined it.

我七点下楼的时候，广场又白又安静，最近那间木屋柜台上的雪有我的手那么深。公共汽车都晚点了。广播里有人说公园的池塘冻得很硬，可以在上面走，但是大家不应该上去。我从店后面拿了长扫帚，直接去了Pike先生的木屋，因为我把它写在笔记本上，还画了线。

It took me forty minutes. I stood on a box at the back and pushed the snow off the flat old roof in long heavy sheets, while it went on falling on my head. By eight the roof was clear, and the brackets underneath looked exactly as they had on Wednesday.

我花了四十分钟。我站在后面的一个箱子上，把旧平屋顶上的雪一大片一大片地推下去，雪还一直落在我的头上。到八点，屋顶清干净了，下面的钢托架看起来和星期三一模一样。

By eleven, the roof was white again.

到十一点，屋顶又白了。

It was the last Saturday before Christmas, and the market was the busiest it had been. People came from all over the city, in boots and hats, because the snow made it beautiful. The carousel turned with snow on its little horses. Ruth’s choir sang on the church steps with snow on their hats. There were queues at every hut, and the longest was at Mr Pike’s, because his candles were the oldest thing in the market, and people like old things at Christmas.

这是圣诞节前的最后一个星期六，市集比以往任何时候都热闹。全城的人都来了，穿着靴子，戴着帽子，因为雪让这里变得很美。旋转木马转着，小木马上都是雪。Ruth的合唱团在教堂台阶上唱歌，帽子上也是雪。每间木屋前都排着队，最长的一队在Pike先生那里，因为他的蜡烛是市集上最老的东西，而人们在圣诞节喜欢老东西。