饼干盒
The biscuit tin full of notes
Name: ________________ Date: ________
第二天晚上十二点，黄姐忽然来了。她夜里一般不来店里，今天手里还拿着一个文件袋。
我把那张“十二年”的纸条拿给她看。她盯着纸条看了很久，一句话也没说，然后带我走进后面的小办公室，从柜子最上面拿下一个旧饼干盒。
盒子里全是纸条，几百张，一张一张叠得整整齐齐，很多已经发黄了。字很大，一笔一画，跟我收到的一模一样。我随便拿起几张：有的提醒夜班别忘了锁后门，有的说今天的关东煮太咸，还有一张只写了两个字：辛苦。这么多年，黄姐一张也舍不得扔。
“十二年前，我就在这儿上夜班。那时候店里还不是这个名字，门也不会说话。”黄姐说，“那年我二十六岁，一个人来这个城市打工。工资少，房子小，给家里打电话，又不敢说实话。有一天晚上，我躲在收银台后面，偷偷哭了很久。三点从后门回来，就看见了第一张。”
她从盒子最下面拿出一张。纸已经软了，上面只有几个字：
“别哭了。谢谢你一直在。”
“后来老板不想干了，我借钱把店接了下来。”她笑了笑，“店名就是这么来的。”
我一直觉得这是个傻名字。现在再看，一点也不傻。
我又翻了翻，很多纸条上都有分数。有一张写着：“‘欢迎光临’说得太凶。六十分。”黄姐一把抢了过去，脸都红了：“那时候我脾气不好。”
她把盒子盖上，打开那个文件袋。里面是房东寄来的新合同。她的声音低了下来：“其实我今天来，是想告诉你：明年房租要涨一倍，斜对面还要开一家无人便利店。我算来算去，怎么算都撑不下去。十二月三十一号，‘一直在’就不在了。”
我想说点什么，却一句也想不出来。过了很久，我才问：“那写纸条的人呢？”
黄姐把盒子放回柜子上：“我找了十二年，都没找到。你还有一个月。”
Key words
| Word | Pinyin | Meaning |
|---|---|---|
| 张 | zhāng | surname Zhang |
| 忽然 | hūrán | suddenly; all of a sudden |
| 饼干 | bǐnggān | cookie; cracker; biscuit |
| 盒子 | hézi | box; case |
| 全 | quán | whole; all; entire; complete; completely; entirely |
| 提醒 | tíxǐng | to remind; to warn; to alert; reminder |
| 咸 | xián | salty |
| 打工 | dǎgōng | to work for someone; to have a job; to do odd jobs |
| 工资 | gōngzī | wages; salary; pay |
| 分数 | fēnshù | score; grade; mark |
| 脾气 | píqi | temper; temperament |
| 房东 | fángdōng | landlord; landlady |
English (for the teacher)
At midnight the next night, Sister Huang suddenly turned up. She hardly ever comes in at night, and today she was carrying a document folder too.
I showed her the “twelve years” note. She stared at it for a long time without a word, then took me into the little office at the back and lifted an old biscuit tin down from the top of the cupboard.
The tin was full of notes, hundreds of them, each one folded neatly, many already yellowed. Big characters, every stroke careful, exactly like the ones I’d been getting. I picked out a few at random: some reminded the night clerk not to forget to lock the back door, some said the oden was too salty today, and one just said: thank you for your hard work. In all those years, Sister Huang hadn’t been able to bring herself to throw a single one away.
“Twelve years ago, I worked nights here. Back then the shop had a different name, and the door didn’t talk.” Sister Huang said, “I was twenty-six that year and had come to this city alone to work. The pay was low, my room was tiny, and when I phoned home I didn’t dare tell them the truth. One night I hid behind the till and cried for a long time. When I came back from the back door at three, I saw the first one.”
She took one from the very bottom of the tin. The paper had gone soft, and there were only a few words on it:
“Stop crying. Thank you for always being here.”
“Later the owner wanted to give up, and I borrowed money to take the shop over.” She smiled. “That’s where the name comes from.”
I’d always thought it was a silly name. Looking at it now, it wasn’t silly at all.
I leafed through a few more; lots of the notes had marks on them. One said: “Your ‘welcome’ is too fierce. Sixty.” Sister Huang snatched it away, blushing: “I had a temper back then.”
She put the lid on the tin and opened the folder. Inside was a new contract from the landlord. Her voice dropped: “Actually, I came tonight to tell you: next year the rent is doubling, and an unstaffed convenience store is opening across the road. I’ve done the sums over and over, and however I do them, we can’t keep going. On the thirty-first of December, ‘Always Here’ won’t be here any more.”
I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t think of a thing. After a long time I asked: “And the person who writes the notes?”
Sister Huang put the tin back on the cupboard: “I’ve been looking for twelve years and never found them. You’ve got one month.”