Essay
The Harbour From the Rooftop
天台上的港湾
Sunday. The roof of the building where I rent two rooms is flat and has a low wall you can sit on if you are careful. My neighbour strings her washing between two pipes. There are three water tanks, a broken chair nobody has thrown away, and a view worth more than the rent.
From up there you see the whole of the bay. The breakwater, the coal pier, the container yard where I spend my weeks, the ferry coming back from Santo Antão with the evening light behind it. From this height the port looks slow and almost gentle. It does not look like a thing that wears a man out.
Learning a City Twice
I have lived in this town sixteen years. I learned it first from the ground, from the route between the gate and the second street and home. Only later did I learn it from the roof, and the two maps do not match. Down there it is noise and distance. Up here it is a shape you could almost hold in your hands.
A city is a different size depending on whether you carry it or look at it.
I bring the guitar up sometimes, but not often, because on the roof the songs come out wrong. Too open. The old morna wants a low ceiling and people breathing and a door that keeps closing. Up here it turns into something else, less about people and more about the sea, and I am not sure I have the right to sing it that way.
The neighbours come up around six: a man with a radio, two boys with a ball they will lose over the wall, an old woman who tells me I play too low on the strings and too late at night. She is correct on both counts. She used to sing herself, she says, before her voice went. She hums along with the radio and stops when she notices.
The Hour Before the Lights
The best ten minutes are after the sun goes but before the streetlights do. The water turns the color of a knife, the hill goes soft, and every window in town is lit for a second at exactly the same time. Somebody's kitchen, somebody's long late argument, somebody's daughter doing homework. You can see all of it and none of it at once.
Nothing up here needs carrying. That is why I come.
Then the mosquitoes arrive and I go down, and tomorrow at five forty I am standing with the coffee. The shoulder will complain for ten minutes and forget. The boxes will not care what kind of day I am having, which is, I have decided, a kind of kindness.
中文译文
星期天。我租的两间房在顶楼，屋顶是平的，有一道矮墙，小心一点可以坐上去。邻居在两根水管之间拉绳晾衣服。三个水箱，一把坏了谁也没扔的椅子，还有一个比房租值钱得多的视野。
从上面能看见整个港湾。防波堤、煤码头、我一周周泡在里面的集装箱堆场，还有从圣安东回来的渡轮，背后压着傍晚的光。这个高度上，港口显得慢，几乎温和。它看上去不像一件会把人磨旧的东西。
把一座城学两遍
我在这城里住了十六年。起先是从地面上学的，大门到第二条街再到家，就这条路。后来才从天台上学，两张地图对不上。底下是噪音和距离，上面是一块你几乎能捧在手里的形状。
一座城有多大，要看你是在背它，还是在看它。
偶尔我把吉他带上来，但不常带，因为在屋顶上歌会走样。太敞了。老的莫尔纳要低矮的天花板，要有人呼吸，要有一扇总在关上的门。在这里它变成另一样东西，离人远一点，离海近一点，我不确定自己有没有资格那样唱它。
六点前后邻居们陆续上来：一个带收音机的男人，两个男孩，球早晚会掉到墙外去，还有个老太太，说我弦按得太低、夜里弹得太晚。两条她都说对了。她说她从前也唱，嗓子坏掉之前。她跟着收音机哼，哼着哼着自己发觉了，就停下。
灯亮之前的那一个钟头
最好的十分钟，是太阳落下去、路灯还没亮的那一段。水面变成刀子的颜色，山丘软下来，全城的窗在同一秒钟亮了一下。谁家的厨房，谁家拖得很长的争吵，谁家的女儿在做功课。你一次全看见了，又什么都没看见。
这上面没有东西需要搬。所以我才来。
然后蚊子来了，我就下去。明天五点四十我还是端着那杯咖啡站着。肩膀会抱怨十分钟，然后忘掉。箱子不在乎我今天过得好不好——我想通了，这其实也是一种体贴。
