上海弄堂（一）
The Shanghai lane (part 1)
Name: ________________ Date: ________
“上海。”外婆小声说，“你妈妈第一次跟我出门，就是去那里。”
说完这句话，她就把本子收了起来。小远等着她说下去，等了很久，只等到一句：“不早了，睡吧。”
那是十月。后来的两个多月，外婆再也没有说起上海。小远问过一次，她说：“到时候再说。”他又问了一次，她就去厨房洗碗了，水声很大。小远已经知道了，外婆不想说的事，问十次也没有用。
一月，寒假到了。
走的前一天晚上，外婆帮他收拾东西：两件毛衣，一条很厚的裤子，还有一大包她自己做的吃的。“上海、苏州、北京、哈尔滨，一个地方比一个地方冷。”她一边放一边说，“到了哈尔滨，别站在外面打电话，耳朵会冻掉的。”
包子一直坐在包旁边，谁也不让动。上次小远出门，它在车站门口等了好几天。它好像什么都记得。
最后，外婆把蓝色的本子放进包里，又拿出来，打开第十一页。一条很小的弄堂，两边是老房子，头上挂着很多衣服，一个小女孩站在中间。
“弄堂口有一家裁缝店。”外婆说，“四十年前就很老了。现在……不知道还在不在。”
“店里有什么？”
外婆想了想：“有一个做衣服很慢很慢的人。你去了就知道了。”
上海的冷，跟加拿大的冷不一样。
加拿大的冬天，冷在外面。风很大，雨很多，可是一进门，房间里热得可以只穿一件T恤。上海的冷，是在里面的。不下雪，也只有五六度，可是空气是湿的，冷从衣服里一点一点地进来，先是手和脚，最后好像进到了心里。到上海的第一个晚上，小远穿着毛衣睡觉，还是冷得醒了三次。他想起外婆的那些话，笑了：外婆只说哈尔滨冷，没说上海也冷。
第二天早上，太阳出来了。
外婆只记得那条路的名字。小远到了才发现，那条路上，有十几条弄堂。每一条都很窄，两个人走对面，一个人就要站到边上去。两边是老房子，黑色的门，门口放着自行车、小椅子，还有人种的花。
最让他吃惊的，是衣服。天一出太阳，家家都把衣服拿出来，挂在窗户外面：毛衣，被子，小孩的裤子，老人的大衣，什么颜色都有，从这边一直挂到那边。阳光从衣服中间下来，一块一块地落在地上。走在下面，衣服在头上轻轻地动，好像整条弄堂都在呼吸。
跟外婆的画一样。可是，每一条弄堂都跟外婆的画一样。
弄堂里的声音也很多。有人在门口刷牙，有人在洗菜，一个老奶奶站在窗户边上跟楼下的人说话，说得又快又响。小远听了半天，一个字也没听懂。后来他才知道，老奶奶说的不是普通话。他在小城住了半年，觉得自己的中文已经不错了，可是在这里，他好像又回到了七月，又变成了那个站在包子店门口说不出话的人。
Key words
| Word | Pinyin | Meaning |
|---|---|---|
| 句 | jù | classifier for phrases and lines of speech or verse |
| 收 | shōu | to receive; to accept |
| 久 | jiǔ | long (time) |
| 后来 | hòulái | afterwards; later |
| 用 | yòng | to use; use; usefulness |
| 地方 | dìfang | place |
| 放 | fàng | to put; to place |
| 耳朵 | ěrduo | ear |
| 一直 | yìzhí | always; all along; continuously |
| 最后 | zuìhòu | finally; in the end; last; final |
| 中间 | zhōngjiān | middle; center |
| 老 | lǎo | old; aged |
English (for the teacher)
“Shanghai.” Grandma said quietly, “The first time your mum went on a trip with me, that’s where we went.”
With that, she closed the notebook and put it away. Yuan waited for her to go on; he waited a long time, and all he got was: “It’s late. Off to bed.”
That was October. For the next two months and more, Grandma never mentioned Shanghai again. Yuan asked once, and she said, “We’ll talk about it when the time comes.” He asked again, and she went off to the kitchen to wash the dishes, with the water running loudly. Yuan knew by now: if Grandma didn’t want to talk about something, asking ten times got you nowhere.
January came, and the winter holidays.
The night before he left, Grandma helped him pack: two sweaters, a very thick pair of trousers, and a big bag of food she had made herself. “Shanghai, Suzhou, Beijing, Harbin: each one colder than the last.” She talked as she packed. “When you get to Harbin, don’t stand outside on the phone, or your ears will freeze off.”
Baozi sat by the bag the whole time and wouldn’t let anyone touch it. The last time Yuan went away, the dog had waited at the station door for days. It seemed to remember everything.
Last of all, Grandma put the blue notebook in the bag, then took it out again and opened it at page eleven. A very small lane, old houses on both sides, lots of washing hanging overhead, and a little girl standing in the middle.
“There’s a tailor’s shop at the mouth of the lane.” Grandma said. “It was already old forty years ago. Now… I don’t know if it’s still there.”
“What’s in the shop?”
Grandma thought for a moment. “A man who makes clothes very, very slowly. You’ll see when you get there.”
The cold in Shanghai was not like the cold in Canada.
In a Canadian winter, the cold stays outside. The wind is strong and it rains a lot, but once you’re indoors the room is so warm you can wear just a T-shirt. The cold in Shanghai is on the inside. It doesn’t snow, and it’s only five or six degrees, but the air is damp, and the cold creeps in through your clothes bit by bit, first your hands and feet, and in the end, it seems, into your heart. His first night in Shanghai, Yuan went to bed in his sweater and still woke up three times from the cold. He remembered Grandma’s words and laughed: she had only said Harbin was cold, not Shanghai.
The next morning, the sun came out.
All Grandma remembered was the name of the street. Only when he got there did Yuan find that the street had more than ten lanes off it. Each one was so narrow that when two people met, one had to stand aside. Old houses on both sides, black doors, bikes and little chairs by the doorsteps, and flowers people had planted.
What surprised him most was the washing. As soon as the sun came out, every family brought its clothes out and hung them outside the windows: sweaters, quilts, children’s trousers, old people’s coats, every colour there is, hung all the way from one side to the other. Sunlight came down between the clothes and fell on the ground in patches. Walking underneath, with the clothes moving gently overhead, it was as if the whole lane were breathing.
Just like Grandma’s drawing. But every lane was just like Grandma’s drawing.
The lanes were full of sounds too. Someone was brushing their teeth at the door, someone was washing vegetables, and an old woman stood at a window talking to someone downstairs, fast and loud. Yuan listened for a long time and didn’t understand a single word. Only later did he find out that she wasn’t speaking Mandarin. He had lived in the little town for half a year and thought his Chinese was pretty good now, but here it was as if he were back in July, the boy at the bun-shop door who couldn’t get a word out.