The Language She Lost

As a child, Cecilia had made herself a rule. At school she spoke only the language of her classmates, and at home she answered her parents in the same one, whatever they said. Her mother and father spoke their own language in the kitchen, softly, as if it were a secret they were embarrassed to keep. Cecilia, who was nine, had decided she wanted no part of it.

小时候，塞西莉亚给自己定过一条规矩。在学校，她只说同学们说的那种语言；在家里，不管父母说什么，她都用同一种语言回答。她的父亲和母亲在厨房里用他们自己的语言低声交谈，仿佛那是一个他们不好意思保守的秘密。当时九岁的塞西莉亚已经下定决心，不想沾它的边。

Twenty years later, she could still understand most of it. That had been her private compromise: she listened, but she never replied. The words had settled in her like furniture in a dark room, and she moved around them without touching anything.

二十年后，她仍然能听懂其中的大部分。那是她私下的折中办法：她听，但从不回应。那些词语像家具一样沉积在她心里，好比一间昏暗屋子里的家具，她在其间走动，却从不碰任何一件。

Then her grandmother came to stay for the summer. The old woman knew only a handful of words of the local language. Nobody had arranged for an interpreter, because everyone had assumed that Cecilia would manage.

后来，她的外婆来家里住一个夏天。这位老人只会几个当地语言的单词。没有人安排翻译，因为大家都以为塞西莉亚应付得来。

On the second evening, Cecilia tried to ask her grandmother how the journey had been. The sentence collapsed after three words. She knew how to say "eat", "come here" and "put your shoes on". That was the vocabulary of being a child, and she had almost nothing for being a grown woman.

第二天晚上，塞西莉亚想问外婆旅途怎么样。这句话说了三个词就垮了。她会说“吃饭”“过来”和“把鞋穿上”。那是做孩子时用的词汇，而对于做一个成年女人，她几乎什么都说不出来。

Her grandmother waited, hands folded in her lap, and then said something slow and simple. Cecilia caught every word: Say it like a little girl, then. I don't mind.

外婆双手交叠放在膝上，等了一会儿，然后说了一句缓慢而简单的话。塞西莉亚每个字都听懂了：那就像小女孩那样说吧。我不介意。

So they began. Cecilia wrote the words she wanted on sticky notes and pressed them to the doorframe, the kettle and the bathroom mirror. Her grandmother crossed out the wrong ones with a pencil and wrote the right ones beneath, in handwriting that leaned to the right. By the end of June, the kitchen looked as if it had been wallpapered with yellow squares.

于是她们开始了。塞西莉亚把想说的词写在便利贴上，贴在门框、水壶和浴室镜子上。外婆用铅笔把错的划掉，在下面写上对的，字迹向右倾斜。到六月底，厨房看上去像是糊了一层黄色方块的墙纸。

It was humbling. If she could go back to that nine-year-old, she thought, she would not argue with her. She would only ask her to wait. Her grandmother corrected her mistakes only when they changed the meaning. Otherwise she let the sentence stand, lopsided but alive.

这让人谦卑。她想，要是能回到那个九岁的自己身边，她不会跟她争辩，只会请她再等一等。外婆只有在错误改变了意思时才会纠正。除此之外，她就让那句话保持原样，歪歪斜斜，却是活的。

In July, Cecilia asked the question she had been carrying for years. Why had her parents never forced her? Her grandmother answered slowly that they had pushed for a year. Then they had stopped, because they were tired and afraid of losing her entirely. "Better a silent daughter than a daughter who is gone," she said.

七月，塞西莉亚问出了她心里藏了多年的问题。为什么父母从来没有逼过她？外婆缓缓回答说，他们逼过一年。后来就不逼了，因为他们累了，也怕彻底失去她。“宁可有一个沉默的女儿，也不要一个离开了的女儿。”她说。

Cecilia hadn't known that. She should have asked years earlier, although until this summer she would not have had the words to do it.

塞西莉亚以前不知道这些。她本该早几年就去问的，不过在这个夏天之前，她还没有能问出口的词汇。

At the end of August, they stood together at the airport. Her grandmother said goodbye in the old language, in a long speech with a gap in the middle for Cecilia to fill. Cecilia filled it. The grammar was crooked and the pronunciation was worse, but the sentence reached its end.

八月底，她们一起站在机场。外婆用那门古老的语言道别，说了一长段话，中间留了一个空，等着塞西莉亚来填。塞西莉亚填上了。语法是歪的，发音更糟，但这句话说到了结尾。

Her grandmother touched the side of her face. She did not correct a single word.

外婆摸了摸她的脸颊。她一个字也没有纠正。

On the first Sunday of September, Cecilia sat in the kitchen beneath the last of the yellow notes and dialed the long number. When her grandmother answered, she said hello in her parents' language. Then she kept talking.

九月的第一个星期天，塞西莉亚坐在厨房里，头顶是最后几张黄色便利贴，拨通了那串长长的号码。外婆接起电话时，她用父母的语言说了一声你好。然后她继续说了下去。