六十秒
Sixty Seconds: a Chinese short story
Name: ________________ Date: ________
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.