Bjorn was the gardener at Hollin Lane Cemetery. He cut the grass and swept the paths. He watered the flowers by the gate.
比约恩是霍林巷公墓的园丁。他修剪草坪，打扫小路，给大门边的花浇水。
Every day at noon, he ate his lunch in the garden shed.
每天中午，他都在园丁棚里吃午饭。
The shed was small and warm. It had a bench, a window, and a shelf of tools. It smelled of grass and engine oil.
那间棚子又小又暖和，里面有一条长凳、一扇窗和一架放工具的架子。棚里有草和机油的味道。
On the window ledge sat a trumpet.
窗台上放着一支小号。
Bjorn bought it three weeks earlier at a market. It was cheap and scratched. He wanted to learn one song. It was a slow tune from his school days.
比约恩是三个星期前在集市上买下它的。它很便宜，上面还有划痕。他想学会一首曲子，那是他上学时听过的一首慢悠悠的调子。
But the trumpet had a problem. The second valve stuck. When Bjorn pressed it, it stayed down. The note came out flat and thin. It sounded like a goose with a cold.
可这支小号有个毛病：第二个活塞键会卡住。比约恩一按下去，它就不再弹起来。吹出来的音又扁又细，听起来像一只感冒了的鹅。
He tried to fix it. He tapped the valve with a spoon. He rubbed it with soap. He even blew into it for a full minute. Nothing worked.
他试着修好它。他用勺子敲了敲活塞键，用肥皂擦了擦，甚至对着它吹了整整一分钟。都没有用。
So every noon, Bjorn played the tune as far as he could. Near the end, the valve stuck. The note cracked. He stopped, shook his head, and went back to his rice.
于是每天中午，比约恩都尽自己所能把那首曲子吹下去。快到结尾的时候，活塞键就卡住了，音也破了。他停下来，摇摇头，回去吃他的米饭。
He thought nobody heard him. The cemetery was big, and the shed stood far from the office.
他以为没有人听见。公墓很大，棚子离办公室又远。
That spring, a new clerk named Jolene started work in the office. Her desk stood by the front gate. She was quiet, and she wore a green scarf. She said good morning to Bjorn and nothing more.
那年春天，一个叫乔琳的新职员来办公室上班。她的桌子就在前门边。她很安静，系着一条绿围巾。她对比约恩说一声早上好，就再没有别的话。
Bjorn liked the quiet. In the morning, he cut the grass along the old stone wall. A squirrel followed him from tree to tree.
比约恩喜欢这份安静。早上，他沿着古老的石墙修剪草坪。一只松鼠一棵树接一棵树地跟着他。
One Monday, Jolene walked down the long path toward the shed. Bjorn saw her through the window. He put the trumpet down fast.
一个星期一，乔琳沿着长长的小路朝棚子走来。比约恩从窗户里看见了她。他连忙把小号放下。
She stopped at the open door. "Bjorn, can I talk to you about the music?"
她在敞开的门口停住。“比约恩，我能和你谈谈那个音乐吗？”
"The music?" he said.
“音乐？”他说。
"At noon, every day." Jolene held her hands tight together. "I can't listen to it anymore."
“每天中午的那个。”乔琳把双手紧紧握在一起。“我再也听不下去了。”
Bjorn felt cold. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know it carried so far."
比约恩觉得浑身发凉。“对不起，”他说，“我不知道声音能传这么远。”
"It carries all the way to my desk."
“一直传到我的桌子那儿。”
"I understand. I will put it away."
“我明白了。我会把它收起来。”
Jolene opened her mouth. Then her phone rang. She looked at it and sighed. "I must take this. We can talk later." She hurried back up the path.
乔琳张开嘴。这时她的手机响了。她看了一眼，叹了口气。“我得接这个电话。我们以后再谈。”她匆匆沿着小路走回去了。
Bjorn sat alone with his rice. He was not hungry. He put the trumpet in its old case. He pushed the case under the bench.
比约恩独自坐着，面前是他的米饭。他一点也不饿。他把小号放回旧盒子里，把盒子推到长凳底下。
On Tuesday, the shed was silent at noon. On Wednesday, it was silent again. Bjorn ate fast and went back to the roses. The squirrel sat on the wall and looked at him. Even the squirrel seemed to ask a question.
星期二，棚子里中午一片寂静。星期三，又是一片寂静。比约恩匆匆吃完饭，回去照看玫瑰。松鼠蹲在墙头看着他。连松鼠似乎也在问一个问题。
At the front desk, Jolene noticed the quiet too. Noon felt wrong without the tune. She typed a letter and made three mistakes. She started again and made two more.
在前台，乔琳也注意到了这份安静。没有那首曲子，中午感觉不对劲。她打一封信，错了三处。重新打，又错了两处。
By Thursday, she could not work at all. She took her lunch bag and walked down the path.
到了星期四，她完全没法工作了。她拿起午饭袋，沿着小路走了下去。
The shed door stood open. Bjorn sat on the bench and chewed slowly. The window ledge was empty.
棚子的门开着。比约恩坐在长凳上慢慢地嚼着东西。窗台是空的。
"Where is it?" Jolene asked.
“它在哪儿？”乔琳问。
"Where is what?"
“什么在哪儿？”
"The trumpet. Why did you stop?"
“小号。你为什么不吹了？”
Bjorn stared at her. "You asked me to stop."
比约恩瞪着她。“是你叫我别吹的。”
"I did not!" Jolene said. "I said I couldn't listen to it anymore. I meant I couldn't listen to half of it."
“我没有！”乔琳说，“我说的是我再也听不下去了。我的意思是，我没法只听一半。”
"Half of it?"
“一半？”
"The song stops before the end. Every day, in the same place. I want to know what comes next. It makes me crazy."
“那首曲子在结尾之前就停了。每天都在同一个地方。我想知道后面是什么。这快把我逼疯了。”
Bjorn laughed. He laughed so hard that he dropped his spoon. "The valve sticks," he said. "I can't get to the end."
比约恩大笑起来。他笑得那么厉害，连勺子都掉了。“活塞键卡住了，”他说，“我吹不到结尾。”
"Then let me see it."
“那让我看看。”
He pulled the case out from under the bench. He opened it and gave her the trumpet. Jolene turned it over in her hands. She pressed the second valve. It stayed down with a small click.
他把盒子从长凳下拉出来，打开，把小号递给她。乔琳把它翻来覆去地看。她按下第二个活塞键，它咔哒一声卡住了。
"It's dry," she said. "And it's dirty. My brother played the trumpet for ten years. I know this sound."
“它太干了，”她说，“而且很脏。我哥哥吹了十年小号。我知道这种声音。”
She dug into her coat pocket and took out a small bottle. "This is valve oil. I brought it on Monday. I wanted to give it to you. Then my phone rang."
她把手伸进外套口袋，掏出一个小瓶子。“这是活塞油。星期一我就带来了。我本来想给你的。后来电话响了。”
Bjorn looked at the bottle. Then he looked at her. "You carried it for four days?"
比约恩看看瓶子，又看看她。“你带着它四天了？”
"I forgot it was there. Then I saw your empty windowsill."
“我忘了它在口袋里。后来我看到你空着的窗台。”
Jolene sat on the bench beside him. She unscrewed the top of the valve and pulled it out. She wiped it with a cloth from the shelf. She put three drops of oil on it and slid it back. Then she pressed it with one finger. The valve went down and came up again, smooth and quick.
乔琳在他身旁的长凳上坐下。她拧开活塞键的盖子，把它抽出来，用架子上的一块布擦了擦。她在上面滴了三滴油，再把它推回去。然后她用一根手指按了按。活塞键下去了，又弹起来，顺滑而利落。
"Try now," she said.
“现在试试。”她说。
Bjorn took the trumpet. His hands were not steady. He lifted it to his lips and began.
比约恩接过小号。他的手不太稳。他把它举到唇边，吹了起来。
The first notes were soft. The slow tune rose and fell inside the little shed. Bjorn reached the place where the song always broke. His finger pressed the valve. The valve came back up. The note held. He kept going, all the way to the end.
起初的几个音很轻。那支慢悠悠的曲子在小棚子里起起落落。比约恩吹到了曲子总是中断的地方。他的手指按下活塞键，活塞键弹了回来。那个音稳住了。他一直吹下去，吹到了结尾。
When the last note faded, Jolene did not speak. She looked at the floor and smiled.
最后一个音渐渐消散时，乔琳没有说话。她看着地板，微微笑了。
"Again," she said at last.
“再来一遍。”她终于说。
Bjorn played it again. This time he played louder. The sound went out through the open door and across the grass. It passed the old wall and the long paths. It passed the clean white stones.
比约恩又吹了一遍。这一次他吹得更响。声音穿过敞开的门，越过草地，越过古老的石墙和长长的小路，越过一块块洁白的墓碑。
Outside, a bird landed on the gate. It sat there, quite still, until the last note was gone.
外面，一只鸟落在大门上。它静静地停在那里，直到最后一个音消失。
