The Sleeper of San Gregorio

Morning Hands

晨之双手

At ten to seven the Via San Gregorio Armeno was still a lane like any other in Naples: wet paving, a delivery van idling in front of the baker's, and shutters going up one after another like eyelids. Only when the dealers from Japan and Munich sent their lists and the first coaches arrived, would the lane become again what it had been for centuries: one long workshop in which shepherds, sheep, pizza makers and popes made of clay stood on shelves and looked back at you.

六点五十分的Via San Gregorio Armeno，仍是那不勒斯一条寻常的小巷：潮湿的石板路，面包店前未熄火的货车，以及如眼睑般逐一拉起的卷帘门。唯有当来自日本和慕尼黑的客商发来清单，首批大巴驶入时，这条小巷才会重现数百年来的模样：一条绵延不绝的工坊街，货架上摆满陶制牧羊人、羔羊、比萨师傅与教皇，静静凝视着过客。

Concetta Esposito drank her coffee the way she had drunk it for two years: at the counter of Peppe's bar, both hands wrapped round the little cup as if she were cold. She was not cold. Her right hand trembled worst in the morning, a fine, even tremor that you could not see while the hand lay still and could not miss the moment it was asked to do something. The left hand held the right one steady. Peppe, who had known her for forty years, never filled the cup to the brim for that reason and never asked why.

Concetta Esposito喝着咖啡，两年来她始终如此：在Peppe酒吧的柜台前，双手捧着小杯，宛如畏寒。她其实不冷。清晨右手的颤抖最为剧烈，那是细微而规律的晃动，静止时不易察觉，一旦有所动作便无可遁形。左手紧紧稳住右手。相识四十载的Peppe从未把咖啡倒得过满，也从不多问一句。