The first knock comes at 2:40 in the morning, three slow raps against something wooden, and Davide is awake before the third. He lies still in the narrow bed, listening to the sea breathe against the rocks, and tells himself it was part of a dream.
第一次敲击声在凌晨2点40分响起，三下缓慢的敲击，敲在什么木头上，不等第三下落下，达维德已经醒了。他一动不动地躺在窄窄的床上，听着海水在礁石上起伏呼吸，对自己说，这只是梦的一部分。
He is house-sitting a cottage built against the foot of a lighthouse on a remote headland. The owners are visiting their daughter for a month, and their list of instructions covers the boiler, the bins and a cat that bites. It adds, at the bottom, that the wind on the headland "has opinions," and leaves it at that.
他在替人看守一间紧贴灯塔脚下的小屋，位于一个偏僻的岬角上。屋主夫妇要去女儿家住一个月，留下的须知单上写了锅炉、垃圾桶和一只会咬人的猫。末尾还加了一句，说岬角上的风“有自己的想法”，就没有下文了。
On the second night it happens again, at 2:40 exactly. He checks his phone to be sure. Three raps, then a pause, then two more. He gets up and walks through the whole cottage with a flashlight, tries the front door and looks out at the empty path. Nobody is there. Only the beam from the lighthouse sweeps across the grass, turning slowly, in no hurry.
第二天夜里，又发生了，还是2点40分整。他看了手机确认。三下敲击，停一停，又两下。他起身，拿着手电筒走遍整间小屋，试了试前门，朝空荡荡的小路望出去。没有人。只有灯塔的光束扫过草地，缓缓转动，不慌不忙。
By the third day, he has made a list. A person: unlikely, since the nearest road is a mile away. A pipe: the boiler is silent at that hour. The cat: but the cat sleeps on his coat every night, and looks offended at the suggestion.
到第三天，他列了一张清单。有人：不太可能，最近的公路在一英里外。管道：那个钟点锅炉是安静的。猫：可猫每晚都睡在他的外套上，对这种怀疑一脸受了冒犯的样子。
"Perhaps it's the tide," he says aloud, to the cat. In a place this close to the water, he reasons, the sea must be able to move things. He finds a tide table pinned beside the fridge and compares the times. It makes no sense. The tide shifts by almost an hour each day, and the knocking never moves.
“也许是潮水，”他对猫大声说。他推想，在离水这么近的地方，海一定能推动什么东西。他在冰箱旁找到钉着的一张潮汐表，对了对时间。完全对不上。潮汐每天要推迟将近一个小时，而敲击声从不移动。
That evening he buys flour at the village shop and sprinkles it across the doorstep, feeling ridiculous, like a detective in an old film. In the morning the flour is smooth as snow. Nothing has walked through it.
那天傍晚，他在村里的小店买了面粉，撒在门阶上，觉得自己荒唐得像老电影里的侦探。早晨，面粉平整得像雪。没有任何东西从上面走过。
On the fifth night, he doesn't try to sleep. He sits in the dark kitchen with his coat on and a mug of tea gone cold, watching the clock on the stove. At 2:38, the air changes. A draft presses against his neck, a cool breath coming in off the water, and the curtains lean inward.
第五个夜晚，他没有尝试入睡。他穿着外套坐在黑暗的厨房里，面前一杯放凉了的茶，眼睛盯着炉子上的钟。2点38分，空气变了。一股穿堂风吹在他的后颈上，是从水面上吹来的一口凉气，窗帘向里倾斜。
At 2:40, the knock comes. This time he can tell it is coming from above him. He climbs the stairs two at a time and finds the answer in the spare room. A wooden shutter, half open, its hook rusted away years ago, is tapping against the window frame. Each time the wind swells, it knocks. When the wind drops, it waits.
2点40分，敲击声来了。这一次他听得出，它是从头顶上传来的。他两级并一级地冲上楼梯，在空房间里找到了答案。一扇木百叶窗半开着，钩子早在多年前就锈掉了，正拍打着窗框。每当风势增强，它就敲一下；风一落，它就等着。
Davide almost laughs. He stands there with the flashlight, watching the shutter perform its tiny drumroll, and understands. The breeze swings round every night when the land cools below the sea, always at about the same hour. Nothing has been haunting the place. He has simply never been awake for it before.
达维德差点笑出来。他举着手电筒站在那里，看着百叶窗表演它小小的鼓点，终于明白了。每天夜里，陆地降温到比海面更冷的时候，微风就会转向，总是在差不多同一个钟点。并没有什么东西在作祟。只是他以前从来没有醒着遇上过。
In the morning, he finds a hook and a screw in a kitchen drawer, and a screwdriver under the stairs. He fixes the shutter in ten minutes. It closes with a tidy click.
早晨，他在厨房抽屉里找到一个钩子和一颗螺丝，又在楼梯下找到一把螺丝刀。他花了十分钟修好了百叶窗。它合上时发出一声干净利落的咔嗒。
That night the cottage is perfectly quiet. He sleeps well, and the next night as well. By the end of the week, however, he wakes at 2:40 anyway. The cat, disappointed, watches him from the foot of the bed.
那天夜里，小屋安静得出奇。他睡得很好，第二夜也是。可是到那一周快结束时，他还是在2点40分醒了过来。猫失望地在床脚望着他。
Davide lies there, counting, as if the sea might do it for him. Then he gets up, climbs the stairs and unhooks the shutter, just a little, just enough. He goes back to bed and waits for the first knock.
达维德躺在那里数着，仿佛海会替他数似的。然后他起身，爬上楼梯，把百叶窗的钩子摘开了，只开一点点，刚刚够用。他回到床上，等待第一下敲击。
