六十秒
Sixty Seconds: a Chinese short story
Name: ________________ Date: ________
沈禾在上海一家公司上班，几乎天天加班，常常熬到深夜。外婆住在湖南乡下，七十多岁了，去年才学会用微信。每天晚上八点，外婆都会准时发来一条语音，一说就是六十秒。沈禾猜，讲的无非是些家常：菜园里的辣椒红了，邻居家的狗生了一窝小狗，天气要变冷了。
可沈禾根本顾不上听。她总是在地铁上匆匆忙忙地按住那条语音，点一下，把它转成文字，扫一眼就算听过了。外婆说的是地道的湖南话，手机上显示的文字往往乱七八糟，十句里能猜出两三句就不错了。有一回，屏幕上写着：“隔壁家的鸭子会写字了。”沈禾在地铁上笑出了声，顺手回复了一句：“好的外婆，早点睡。”
就这样，一晃过了一个秋天。
一个冬天的晚上，八点整，外婆的语音又准时来了。沈禾照常把它转成文字，却愣住了。屏幕上的每一个字都清清楚楚：“禾禾，明天降温，出门多穿点。外婆在学普通话，说得不好，你别笑话。”她盯着这几行字，来来回回看了好几遍。
从那天起，外婆的普通话一天比一天清楚。有一次，她甚至说：“外婆今天学会了一个新词，叫‘加班’。你少加点班。”
春节，沈禾回了一趟外婆家。外婆的桌上摆着小学一年级的拼音课本，书页已经翻得卷了边。旁边坐着一个八岁左右的男孩，正一本正经地纠正外婆：“不对，是‘四’，不是‘十’。”外婆跟着念，念得有些吃力，却格外认真。念完，她笑着介绍：“这是隔壁家的伢子，刚会写字，现在是我的老师。”沈禾愣了一下，恍然大悟：原来会写字的鸭子就是他。
晚上，男孩偷偷告诉她：“奶奶说，你回她的消息，老是对不上。她问你过年回不回家，你说‘早点睡’。”
沈禾半天没有吭声。她想起了那一个个被她匆匆扫过的六十秒。
临走那天，她对外婆说：“外婆，以后您还是说湖南话吧。”外婆有些迟疑：“那你听得懂吗？”沈禾说：“我听。”
回到上海的那天晚上，八点，外婆的语音准时到了。沈禾戴上耳机，把音量调大，没有再把它转成文字。外婆说的又是地地道道的湖南方言，有好几句她没听懂。可是这六十秒，她从头听到了尾。
Key words
| Word | Pinyin | Meaning |
|---|---|---|
| 外婆 | wàipó | grandmother (mother's mother) |
| 语音 | yǔyīn | voice (message, input, assistant) |
| 红 | hóng | red |
| 显示 | xiǎnshì | to show; to display; to demonstrate |
| 屏幕 | píngmù | screen |
| 鸭子 | yāzi | duck |
| 拼音 | pīnyīn | pinyin (romanization of Chinese) |
| 翻 | fān | to turn over; to flip |
| 念 | niàn | to read aloud |
| 格外 | géwài | especially; exceptionally |
| 深夜 | shēnyè | late at night |
| 学会 | xuéhuì | to learn; to master |
English (for the teacher)
Shen He worked for a company in Shanghai; she did overtime almost every day, often staying up late into the night. Her grandmother lived in the Hunan countryside; she was over seventy and had only learned to use WeChat last year. Every evening at eight o'clock, her grandmother would send a voice message right on time, and each one ran a full sixty seconds. Shen He guessed it was nothing but small talk about home: the chillies in the vegetable patch had turned red, the neighbours' dog had had a litter of puppies, the weather was about to turn cold.
But Shen He simply had no time to listen. On the subway she always hurriedly pressed and held the message, tapped once to turn it into text, glanced at it and counted it as heard. Her grandmother spoke pure Hunan dialect, so the text that showed up on her phone was usually a jumble, and if she could make out two or three sentences out of ten she was doing well. Once, the screen said: “The neighbours' duck can write now.” Shen He laughed out loud on the subway and tossed off a reply: “OK Grandma, get to bed early.”
And so, in the blink of an eye, an autumn went by.
One winter evening, at eight sharp, her grandmother's voice message came on time again. Shen He turned it into text as usual, and froze. Every single word on the screen was perfectly clear: “Hehe, it's getting colder tomorrow, wear more when you go out. Grandma is learning Putonghua, I don't speak it well, don't laugh at me.” She stared at those few lines and read them over and over again.
From that day on, her grandmother's Putonghua grew clearer by the day. Once she even said: “Grandma learned a new word today: ‘overtime’. Do less overtime.”
At Spring Festival, Shen He made a trip back to her grandmother's house. On her grandmother's table lay a first-grade pinyin textbook, its pages already curled at the edges from turning. Beside it sat a boy of about eight, solemnly correcting her: “No, it's ‘sì’, four, not ‘shí’, ten.” Her grandmother repeated after him, with some effort but very seriously. When she had finished, she smiled and introduced him: “This is the neighbours' yazi, he's just learned to write, and now he's my teacher.” Shen He was stunned for a moment, and then it dawned on her: so he was the duck that could write.
That evening the boy secretly told her: “Granny says your replies to her messages never match what she says. She asked if you were coming home for New Year, and you said ‘get to bed early’.”
For a long while Shen He said nothing. She thought of all those sixty seconds she had only skimmed in a hurry.
On the day she left, she said to her grandmother: “Grandma, from now on just speak Hunan dialect.” Her grandmother hesitated a little: “But can you understand it?” Shen He said: “I'll listen.”
On the evening she got back to Shanghai, at eight o'clock, her grandmother's voice message arrived right on time. Shen He put on her earphones, turned the volume up, and didn't turn it into text this time. Her grandmother was speaking pure Hunan dialect again, and there were quite a few sentences she didn't understand. But these sixty seconds she listened to from beginning to end.