Essay
The Radio Only Finds One Station
收音机只收得到一个台
There is a radio on the shelf above the vice, a heavy old thing with a cloth speaker and a dial that glows amber when it feels like it. My father bought it before I was born. It works about half the time. In the evening it finds one station and holds it, and that is enough for me.
The music is not what I would choose. Most of it is old songs with too much violin, and the announcer talks for a long time about things I cannot check. But I leave it on. A shop with no sound in it makes people nervous. They walk in and they think something is wrong.
A quiet room is a room where somebody is listening for a fault.
When customers wait, they sit on the bench by the door and drink tea whether they want it or not. I have heard more of their lives than they intend to give. A man will tell you about his brother's wedding while his wheel bearing is being pressed. I do not ask. It comes out anyway, the way water finds a low place.
The Hour After Closing
When the last car is gone I do not leave immediately. I sweep, I put the tools back in the same order, I check the bolts in the coffee tin that is not for coffee. Then I sit and finish whatever is in the glass and let the radio run. It is the only hour of the day that belongs to nobody. I am not lonely in it. I am just quiet.
My mother thinks I should have a family by now. She says it in a certain voice on Fridays, and I say yes, and we drink tea, and the subject closes itself. It is not that I have decided against it. It is that the days are already full, and I have never been a man who does two things at once.
Some nights the radio loses the station and goes to a hiss. I could fix it. I know exactly which joint is loose. I leave it. The hiss is honest — it is what an empty frequency sounds like, and I have always preferred a sound I can name to a silence I cannot.
中文译文
台钳上方的架子上有一台收音机，沉，旧，喇叭蒙着布，指针想起来才亮一下琥珀色。是我父亲买的，比我出生还早。它大约有一半时间是好的。傍晚它能抓住一个台，一直抓着，对我来说够了。
那些歌不是我会挑的。多半是老曲子，小提琴太多，播音员长时间讲一些我没法核对的事。可我让它响着。一间没有声音的铺子会让人发慌。人走进来，会以为哪里出了毛病。
屋子太安静，反倒像是有人在屏息听哪里出了故障。
客人等的时候坐在门边那条长凳上喝茶，喝不喝都有一杯。我听过的人生，比他们打算说出来的要多。有人一边等轮毂轴承压进去，一边讲他哥哥的婚礼。我不问，它自己流出来，像水找低处。
打烊后的那一个钟头
最后一辆车走了，我也不马上离开。扫地，工具按原来的顺序放回去，把那个不装咖啡的咖啡罐里的螺丝查一遍。然后坐下，把杯子里剩的喝完，让收音机响着。这是一天里唯一不属于任何人的一个钟头。我在里面不觉得孤单，只是安静。
我母亲觉得我该有家室了。星期五她用某种语气提这件事，我说嗯，我们喝茶，话题自己合上。不是我打定主意不要。是日子已经排得满满的，而我从不是能同时做两件事的人。
有些夜里收音机丢了台，只剩沙沙声。我能修，我知道是哪个焊点松了。我不修。那沙沙声老实——空频道就是这声音；能叫得出名字的响动，我向来比叫不出名字的安静更愿意要。
