The sign on the lift says, "Out of order. Back soon."
电梯上的告示写着：“故障，即将恢复。”
Three weeks is a long time for soon. Every morning, Malika reads the sign again. Every evening, it says the same thing. The lift stays dead, and the stairs stay long.
“即将”已经三个星期了，这可真够久的。每天早上，玛丽卡都会把告示再读一遍。每天傍晚，它写的还是同样的话。电梯一直是坏的，楼梯也一直那么长。
Malika lives on the ninth floor of a tall grey building. She is fifteen. Every day she climbs nine floors with her school bag. Her legs hurt, and her bag feels like a rock.
玛丽卡住在一栋灰色高楼的九楼。她十五岁。每天她都背着书包爬九层楼。她的腿又酸又疼，书包重得像一块石头。
On the stairs, people complain. They complain on the second floor and on the fifth floor. They complain to each other and to the walls. Nobody calls the building office. Everyone thinks that someone else does it.
楼梯上，人们都在抱怨。二楼的人抱怨，五楼的人也抱怨。他们互相抱怨，也对着墙壁抱怨。可是没有人给楼管办公室打电话。每个人都以为别人会去打。
Every evening at seven, Malika hears slow steps below. Then Omar climbs past her door. He is sixteen, and he lives on the eleventh floor. He carries a big steel pot with two handles. He holds it with a pair of thick yellow oven gloves. Steam comes out from under the lid. The smell of spiced rice fills the stairs.
每天傍晚七点，玛丽卡都会听见楼下传来缓慢的脚步声。接着，奥马尔从她家门前走上去。他十六岁，住在十一楼。他端着一口带两个把手的大钢锅，手上戴着一副厚厚的黄色烤箱手套。蒸汽从锅盖底下冒出来，香料米饭的味道飘满了楼梯间。
Malika stands in her doorway each evening. She tells herself it is for the smell. Omar always says, "Hello." Malika always says, "Hello," very quickly. Then he goes up, and she goes in.
每天傍晚，玛丽卡都站在门口。她对自己说，这是为了闻那股香味。奥马尔总是说：“你好。”玛丽卡总是飞快地回一句：“你好。”然后他继续往上走，她转身回屋。
The stairs smell of paint, dust, and other people's dinners. Each landing has a small window. Each window shows a bit more of the city. Malika knows every crack in the wall.
楼梯间里有油漆、灰尘和别人家晚饭的味道。每个楼层的平台上都有一扇小窗。每扇窗都比下一层的多露出一点城市的景色。玛丽卡认得墙上的每一道裂缝。
On Monday, Omar stops on her landing for a short rest. His face is shiny from the heat of the pot. He nods at her, and she nods back. That is all. On Tuesday, the same thing happens. On Wednesday, he nearly drops a glove, and she nearly speaks. "Nearly" is the best word for Malika this week.
星期一，奥马尔在她这层的平台上停下来歇了一会儿。热气把他的脸蒸得发亮。他朝她点点头，她也朝他点点头。就这样。星期二，又是一样。星期三，他差点掉了一只手套，而她差点开了口。“差点”是玛丽卡这个星期最恰当的词。
The neighbours talk about him. They do not talk to him.
邻居们议论他，却不跟他说话。
The man from the fifth floor speaks first. "Why does he carry hot food up eleven floors?"
五楼的男人先开了口。“他干吗要把热饭端上十一层楼？”
"And why the oven gloves?" says the woman from the fourth. "On the stairs? Like a cook in a film."
“还戴着烤箱手套？”四楼的女人说，“在楼梯上？像电影里的厨师似的。”
"Strange boy," says the man.
“怪孩子。”男人说。
They say it to each other, never to Omar. Malika hears every word. She has the same questions. They sit in her chest like small stones.
他们是说给彼此听的，从来不对奥马尔说。玛丽卡把每个字都听在耳里。她心里也有同样的疑问。那些疑问像小石子一样压在她的胸口。
At school, her friend notices. "You look odd today," she says.
在学校里，她的朋友看出了端倪。“你今天看起来怪怪的。”朋友说。
"There is a boy in my building," says Malika. "He carries a pot up the stairs. He wears oven gloves. Nobody knows why."
“我们楼里有个男生，”玛丽卡说，“他端着一口锅爬楼梯，还戴着烤箱手套。没人知道为什么。”
"So ask him."
“那就去问他呀。”
"What if he is rude?"
“要是他很没礼貌呢？”
"What if he is not?" says her friend. She eats a fruit and shrugs. "It is only a question, Malika. He will not hurt you."
“那要是他没有呢？”朋友说。她吃着一块水果，耸了耸肩。“只是一个问题而已，玛丽卡。他又不会伤害你。”
That night, Malika lies in bed and thinks about the question. It is easy to say in her head. In her mouth, the question is too big. It will not come out.
那天夜里，玛丽卡躺在床上，想着那个问题。在脑子里，它很容易说出口。可是到了嘴边，这个问题就变得太大了。它出不来。
On Thursday, Omar arrives at seven. His steps are slower than usual. He reaches the ninth floor. He puts the pot down on the top step and breathes hard. His oven gloves are wet with steam.
星期四，奥马尔七点准时到了。他的脚步比平时慢。他走到九楼，把锅放在最上面一级台阶上，大口喘着气。他的烤箱手套被蒸汽打湿了。
Malika is in her doorway. Her heart beats fast. She takes one step out.
玛丽卡站在门口。她的心跳得很快。她向外迈了一步。
"Can I ask you something?" she says.
“我能问你一件事吗？”她说。
Omar looks up. He seems surprised. "Yes?"
奥马尔抬起头。他看上去有些意外。“什么事？”
"Why do you carry a hot pot up the stairs? And why do you wear oven gloves?"
“你为什么要端着一口热锅爬楼梯？还有，你为什么要戴烤箱手套？”
For a second he says nothing. Then he laughs. It is a short, tired laugh, but a real one.
有那么一秒钟，他什么也没说。然后他笑了。那是一声短促而疲惫的笑，却是真心的。
"Three weeks," he says. "I pass this door every night, and nobody asks me anything. They only look."
“三个星期了，”他说，“我每天晚上都经过这扇门，没有人问过我什么。他们只是看。”
"I am sorry," says Malika.
“对不起。”玛丽卡说。
"No, it is good. Thank you." He wipes his forehead with his arm. "Our cooker broke on the same day as the lift. The building has a cooking room in the basement. Any family can use it. So I cook down there and carry dinner up."
“不，这样很好。谢谢你。”他用胳膊擦了擦额头，“我们家的灶台和电梯是同一天坏的。这栋楼的地下室有一间公用厨房，哪家都可以用。所以我就在下面做饭，再把晚饭端上来。”
"Eleven floors," says Malika.
“十一层楼啊。”玛丽卡说。
"Eleven floors. Twice, if I forget the spoons." He holds up his hands and wiggles his yellow fingers. "And the gloves? The handles of this pot are hot enough to cook an egg. These are the only things I have that can hold them."
“十一层楼。要是忘了拿勺子，就得跑两趟。”他举起双手，晃了晃黄色的手指，“至于手套嘛，这口锅的把手烫得能煎熟一个鸡蛋。我手边只有这个能握住它们。”
Malika laughs. She cannot stop herself. It is a loud laugh. It goes up and down the stairs.
玛丽卡笑了起来。她忍不住。那是一阵响亮的笑声，在楼梯间里上上下下地回荡。
"Nobody helped you?" she asks, when she can speak.
“没有人帮过你吗？”等能开口说话了，她问道。
"Nobody asked if I needed help." He shrugs. "And I did not ask them. It is hard to ask. Especially when everyone sees a strange boy with a pot."
“没有人问过我需不需要帮忙。”他耸了耸肩，“我也没有开口问过他们。开口求人很难。尤其是当大家看见的只是一个端着锅的怪男孩时。”
Malika thinks about her three weeks of staying silent in the doorway. She thinks about the small stones in her chest. They feel lighter now.
玛丽卡想起了自己这三个星期来一直站在门口沉默不语。她想起了胸口那些小石子。现在它们好像轻了一些。
"Two floors left," says Omar. He bends and takes the pot by its handles. The steam rises again. The warm smell of rice and spice fills the air. Malika's stomach makes a loud sound.
“还差两层。”奥马尔说。他弯下腰，握住锅的两个把手。蒸汽又升腾起来。米饭和香料温暖的气味弥漫在空气里。玛丽卡的肚子发出一声响亮的叫声。
Omar hears it. He smiles. He stops, and he takes one glove off his hand. Then he holds it out to her.
奥马尔听见了。他笑了笑。他停下来，从手上摘下一只手套，然后把它递给她。
"The pot has two handles," he says. "One glove each. Do you want the front handle or the back?"
“这口锅有两个把手，”他说，“一人一只手套。你要前面的把手，还是后面的？”
