三个萝卜
The taxi driver’s three radishes
Name: ________________ Date: ________
第二天晚上，我盯着自动门练了一百遍“欢迎光临”，还是比它慢。
两点，一辆出租车停在门口，下来一个大个子，声音比门还大：“小伙子，新来的？我姓白，白天的白，可我只在夜里开车。老样子，三个萝卜，多加汤！”
我还没反应过来，他已经自己打开了关东煮的盖子，一边选萝卜，一边给我讲课：“关东煮里，最重要的就是萝卜。肉丸子谁都会做，萝卜就不一样了，得慢慢煮，煮到一咬，汤就从里面流出来，那才是好萝卜。”
白师傅夜里开出租车，一开就是二十年。车很旧，却擦得很亮。他话特别多，说凌晨两点以后，城里只剩三种人：开车的人，看病的人，还有睡不着的人。
“你是哪种？”
“睡不着的。”
“那咱们差不多。”他哈哈大笑，“我是开车的里面睡不着的。”
他说，夜里的客人比白天有意思：有人上车就哭，有人上车就唱歌，还有一个人上车说“你随便开吧”，结果绕着城转了一圈，最后又回到了上车的地方。
奇怪的是，他认认真真地挑了三个萝卜，自己却一个也不吃，打包就走。
那天我好奇，走到窗前看了一眼。出租车开到医院门口停下，一个穿蓝色工作服的女人从里面走出来，坐进了车里。白师傅打开盒子，把萝卜一个一个递给她，自己在旁边看着，笑得像个孩子。
那个女人吃得很慢，好像每一口都很费劲。白师傅一直等她吃完，才把车开走。开走以前，他朝马路对面闪了两下车灯，也不知道在跟谁打招呼。
三点，我卸完货回来，收银台上又有一张纸条：
“萝卜要早点放，两点才够软。他太太牙不好。”
我拿着纸条，觉得后背有点凉。白师傅的太太，我也是刚才第一次看见。写纸条的人怎么会知道？好像有人一直在看着这条街。
Key words
| Word | Pinyin | Meaning |
|---|---|---|
| 停 | tíng | to stop; to halt |
| 小伙子 | xiáohuǒzi | young man; lad |
| 汤 | tāng | soup; broth |
| 流 | liú | to flow; current; stream |
| 师傅 | shīfu | (polite) form of address for a driver or tradesman |
| 擦 | cā | to wipe; to rub |
| 亮 | liàng | bright; shiny; to shine; to light up |
| 剩 | shèng | to remain; to be left over |
| 结果 | jiéguǒ | as a result; in the end; result; outcome |
| 城 | chéng | city; town |
| 窗 | chuāng | window |
| 盒子 | hézi | box; case |
English (for the teacher)
The next night I stared at the automatic door and practised “welcome” a hundred times, and I was still slower than it.
At two, a taxi pulled up outside and a big man got out, louder than the door: “New here, young man? The name’s Bai, as in daytime, but I only drive nights. The usual: three radishes, extra soup!”
Before I could react, he’d opened the lid of the oden pot himself and was choosing radishes while he gave me a lecture: “In oden, the radish is what matters most. Anyone can make meatballs, but radish is different: you have to cook it slowly, until one bite makes the soup run out of it. That’s a good radish.”
Master Bai drives a taxi at night, and has done for twenty years. His car is old, but polished till it shines. He talks a lot, and he says that after two in the morning there are only three kinds of people left in the city: people who drive, people who are ill, and people who can’t sleep.
“Which kind are you?”
“Can’t sleep.”
“Then we’re about the same.” He roared with laughter. “I’m the kind who drives and can’t sleep.”
He said night passengers are more interesting than daytime ones: some start crying as soon as they get in, some start singing, and one man got in and said “just drive”, so they did a whole lap of the city and ended up right back where he’d got in.
The strange thing was, he picked his three radishes with great care, but didn’t eat a single one; he just took them away.
That night I was curious and went to the window to look. The taxi pulled up at the hospital entrance, and a woman in a blue work uniform came out and got into the car. Master Bai opened the box and passed her the radishes one by one, watching her and smiling like a child.
The woman ate very slowly, as if every mouthful was hard work. Master Bai waited until she’d finished before he drove off. Before he went, he flashed his headlights twice across the road, though I couldn’t tell who he was saying hello to.
At three I came back from unloading, and there was another note on the counter:
“Put the radishes in earlier, or they won’t be soft enough by two. His wife has bad teeth.”
Holding the note, I felt a chill down my back. I’d only just seen Master Bai’s wife for the first time myself. How could the person writing these notes know? It was as if someone was watching this street the whole time.