Dafne has been working with Jens for five months, and she knows his habits by now. He drinks his tea cold. He answers her questions with a short nod, as if every one of them were a referee's decision. And he writes in the margins in thick red pen, always in capitals. Today, beside the title of chapter nine, he has written a single word: CUT.
达芙妮和延斯合作已经五个月了，她现在熟悉他的习惯。他喝茶总要等茶凉。他回答她的问题只用短短的一点头，仿佛每个问题都是裁判的一次判罚。他在页边批注用粗粗的红笔，字总是写得又大又重。今天，在第九章标题旁边，他写了一个字：删。
Chapter nine is called "The Winter Without a Win." It covers the season, forty years ago, when his youth team lost twelve matches in a row. Dafne has spent two weeks on it, working from a biscuit tin of old scoresheets that has never been shown to anyone. Each sheet is marked in his handwriting with the date, the score and the weather.
第九章叫“没有赢的冬天”。写的是四十年前的那个赛季，他带的青少年队连输了十二场比赛。达芙妮在这一章上花了两个星期，依据的是一个饼干铁盒里的旧记分表，那盒子从没给任何人看过。每张表上都有他亲手写的日期、比分和天气。
"Nobody wants to read about losing," Jens says, stirring his tea. "People buy a coach's book to read about the cups."
“没人想读输球的事，”延斯一边搅着茶一边说，“人们买教练的书，是想读那些奖杯。”
"People buy a coach's book to find out who he is," Dafne says. "May I tell you what I think?"
“人们买教练的书，是想知道他是个什么样的人，”达芙妮说，“我可以说说我的看法吗？”
He shrugs, which she has learned means yes.
他耸了耸肩，她已经学会了，这表示可以。
"The cup chapters are good, but they could have been written about anyone. If a stranger had won those games, the sentences would be the same. This is the only chapter where you sound like a man who is afraid." She turns the page toward him. "You wrote that you stood in the cold after the twelfth defeat and told the boys you were proud of them. And that you didn't know whether it was true."
“写奖杯的那几章不错，但它们写谁都可以。要是换个陌生人赢了那些比赛，句子也一模一样。只有这一章里，你听起来像一个害怕的人。”她把那一页转向他。“你写到，第十二场败仗之后，你站在寒风里，对男孩们说你为他们骄傲。而且你写，你不知道这是不是真心话。”
Jens looks out of the window. Outside, a neighbor's children are kicking a ball against a garage door, over and over, the sound as steady as a clock.
延斯望向窗外。外面，邻居家的孩子们正一遍又一遍地把球踢向车库门，那声音像时钟一样平稳。
"That's private," he says. "If I print it, the boys will read it. Some of them are grandfathers now."
“那是私事，”他说，“要是印出来，那些男孩会读到。有些人现在都当爷爷了。”
"They will read what you wrote," Dafne says. "They will also find out that somebody remembered what that winter was like for them. You remember the weather, Jens. Every match. Rain, sleet, wind from the east. You couldn't have kept such records if you hadn't cared."
“他们会读到你写的东西，”达芙妮说，“他们也会知道，有个人还记得那个冬天对他们意味着什么。你记得天气，延斯。每一场比赛。雨，雨夹雪，东风。要是你不在乎，是留不下这样的记录的。”
He is silent for a long time. Dafne had been expecting an argument, perhaps even a raised voice. She has prepared herself to lose this one, although she would hate to.
他沉默了很久。达芙妮本来预料会有一场争论，甚至可能是提高的嗓门。她已经做好了输掉这一仗的准备，虽然她很不想输。
"My wife used to say the same thing," he says at last. "She said I only kept the records of the games that hurt." He pulls the page toward him, uncaps the red pen and holds it above the paper.
“我妻子以前也这么说，”他终于开口，“她说我只记录那些让人心疼的比赛。”他把那一页拉到自己面前，拔开红笔的笔帽，把笔悬在纸上。
Dafne tries not to watch his hand. She looks at the window, at the children and their ball, at anything else.
达芙妮尽量不去看他的手。她看着窗户，看着孩子们和他们的球，看什么都行，就是不看他的手。
When she looks back, the word CUT has a line through it, thick and straight. Beneath it, in the same red capitals, Jens has written another word: KEEP.
等她转回头，那个“删”字已经被划了一道线，又粗又直。线的下面，用同样粗大的红字，延斯写了另一个字：留。
He slides the page across the table. "Fix the ending," he says. "It's far too kind to me."
他把那一页滑过桌面。“把结尾改一改，”他说，“对我太客气了。”
