打错的电话
The wrong number: a Sunday phone call in Chinese
Name: ________________ Date: ________
我独自在上海工作，几乎每天都加班到深夜。周末除了点外卖，我很少跟别人说话，甚至觉得连自己的声音都有点儿陌生。一个星期天晚上八点，手机忽然响了，屏幕上是一个陌生的号码。
“喂，是阿明吗？”电话里是一位老奶奶的声音，听起来很亲切，“吃饭了没有？这几天降温了，你那边冷不冷？”
“奶奶，您打错电话了。”我礼貌地说。她愣了一下，连说了好几次“不好意思”，才把电话挂了。
没想到，下个星期天晚上八点，电话又准时响了。还是她，还是那几句话。我只好耐心地再解释一遍。第三个星期天，我刚要开口，她却抢先说：“我知道这个号码不对。可是……你能陪我聊几分钟吗？就几分钟。”我犹豫了一下，没有挂电话。
就这样，我们开始了每个星期天的电话。她告诉我，她姓陈，今年七十八岁，老伴儿去世了，儿子在国外工作，一年才回一次家。她总是关心我工作累不累，提醒我降温了要多穿衣服，还在电话里一步一步地教我怎么做红烧肉。我呢，就跟她说上海哪里开花了，地铁上遇到了什么有趣的人。渐渐地，我竟然开始期待星期天晚上八点。
有一个星期天，八点过了，手机一直没有动静。九点，还是没有。我坐立不安，终于第一次主动打了过去。电话响了很久，才有人接，是一个中年男人。
“你好，我是她儿子。我妈前几天突然住院了，不过别担心，手术很顺利，已经没事了。”他停了一会儿，又说，“其实，我就是阿明。我刚刚才发现，我妈的手机里，你的名字叫‘星期天’。”
我握着手机，半天说不出话来。
下一个星期天晚上八点，手机准时响了。我还没开口，电话里就传来了笑声：“星期天，吃饭了没有？”
Key words
| Word | Pinyin | Meaning |
|---|---|---|
| 周末 | zhōumò | weekend |
| 除了 | chúle | except; besides; apart from |
| 外卖 | wàimài | takeout; food delivery |
| 别人 | biéren | other people; others; someone else |
| 声音 | shēngyīn | sound; voice |
| 加班 | jiābān | to work overtime |
| 忽然 | hūrán | suddenly; all of a sudden |
| 响 | xiǎng | to sound; to ring; sound; noise |
| 礼貌 | lǐmào | courtesy; manners; polite; courteous |
| 挂 | guà | to hang; to put up |
| 准时 | zhǔnshí | on time; punctual |
| 只好 | zhíhǎo | to have no choice but to; to be forced to |
English (for the teacher)
I work alone in Shanghai and stay late at the office almost every night. At weekends, apart from ordering takeaway, I hardly talk to anyone; even my own voice sounds a bit strange to me. One Sunday at 8 pm my phone suddenly rang, and an unknown number came up on the screen.
“Hello, is that Aming?” It was an old woman’s voice, warm and kind: “Have you eaten? It’s turned cold these days; is it cold where you are?”
“Granny, you’ve got the wrong number.” I said it politely. She paused, said “Sorry” several times over, and only then hung up.
To my surprise, the next Sunday at 8 pm the phone rang again, right on time. Same woman, same few lines. I had no choice but to patiently explain again. The third Sunday, before I could say a word, she got in first: “I know this isn’t the right number. But… could you chat with me for a few minutes? Just a few minutes.” I hesitated, and didn’t hang up.
And so our Sunday calls began. She told me her surname was Chen, she was seventy-eight, her husband had died, and her son worked abroad and came home only once a year. She always asked whether work was wearing me out, reminded me to wrap up when it got cold, and talked me through making red-braised pork, step by step. As for me, I told her where the flowers were out in Shanghai and about the funny people I’d met on the metro. Little by little, to my own surprise, I started looking forward to Sunday at 8 pm.
Then one Sunday, eight o’clock came and went, and the phone stayed silent. Nine o’clock, still nothing. I couldn’t sit still, and for the first time I called her. It rang for a long time, and then a middle-aged man answered.
“Hello, I’m her son. Mum was suddenly taken into hospital a few days ago, but don’t worry, the operation went well and she’s fine now.” He paused for a moment and went on: “Actually, I’m Aming. I only just noticed that in Mum’s phone, your name is ‘Sunday’.”
I held the phone and couldn’t say anything for a long time.
The next Sunday at 8 pm, the phone rang right on time. Before I could speak, I heard laughter on the line: “Sunday, have you eaten?”