Essay
The Balcony at Half Past Seven
七点半的阳台
The balcony is two square metres, which is enough for a folding chair, three pots of geraniums, and a plate. I am out there by half past seven, still smelling of flour. The bread I bring home is the one loaf that did not look right to sell, and I eat it with butter and salt.
Below me the street does its morning. The woman opposite waters her plants at exactly this time every day and has never once looked up. A man in a suit waits for the tram with his bag between his feet. The schoolyard starts making noise at ten to eight.
The Other Half of the Day
I have lived here for four years and I know my neighbours' mornings better than I know their names. I know which door slams at seven-fifteen and which bicycle has a squeaking brake. This is not friendship and I am not lonely. It is more like watching a film with the sound turned down.
I am a guest in the daylight. I sit in it for an hour and then I go to bed.
In winter the fog sits on the roofs until noon and the balcony is useless, so I stand at the kitchen window instead with the coffee going cold. In summer I stay out until the noise gets too much, around eight, when the shops open and the deliveries start.
The geraniums were here before I was. The woman who had the flat before me left them and said they did not need much. She was right. I water them twice a week, badly, and they keep flowering out of what looks like spite.
Curtains
Then I go in, wash the plate, and pull the heavy curtains across. The room becomes evening. I have done this so often that my body has stopped protesting, and the sleep that comes at nine is honest sleep, not the thin kind you get at night when you are worried about tomorrow.
By the time I wake, the bread I made will have been sold and eaten and no one will think about it again. I find that restful rather than sad.
People assume the night shift must be dark in some way beyond the obvious. It is mostly very ordinary. The bread is the same, the balcony is the same, the geraniums keep flowering. Only the clock is arranged differently, and I have stopped thinking of that as an arrangement at all.
中文译文
阳台两平方米，够放一把折叠椅、三盆天竺葵和一只盘子。七点半我就坐在外面，身上还带着面粉味。带回家的那个面包是卖相不好、不能上架的那一只，我配黄油和盐吃掉它。
楼下这条街在进行它的早晨。对面那个女人每天正好这个时候浇花，从来没有抬过一次头。一个穿西装的男人把包夹在两脚之间等电车。八点差十分，学校操场开始吵起来。
一天的另外一半
我在这里住了四年，我熟悉邻居们的早晨胜过熟悉他们的名字。我知道哪扇门在七点一刻砰一声关上，哪辆自行车刹车会叫。这不是交情，我也不孤独。这更像是看一部关了声音的电影。
我是白天的客人。在里面坐一个小时，然后去睡觉。
冬天雾压在屋顶上，到中午也不散，阳台就没了用处，我改站在厨房窗前，咖啡放到凉。夏天我会在外面坐到吵得受不了为止，大约八点，店铺开门、送货开始的时候。
天竺葵比我来得早。之前住这套房子的女人把它们留下了，说它们不需要太多照料。她说得对。我一周浇两次水，浇得很马虎，它们照旧开花，像是赌气。
窗帘
然后我进屋，洗掉盘子，把厚窗帘拉上。房间变成了傍晚。这件事我做过太多次，身体已经不再抗议；九点来的睡眠是老实的睡眠，不是夜里担心明天的那种薄薄的睡。
等我醒来，我做的面包已经卖掉、吃掉，没有人会再想起它。我觉得这让人安心，而不觉得难过。
人们以为夜班总归是暗的。其实大部分时候它很平常。面包是一样的，阳台是一样的，天竺葵照旧开花。只是钟点换了摆法，而我早就不觉得那是一种摆法了。
