The ticket office at Harbour Point is a wooden hut with one window facing the quay and one facing the water. Aksel has run it for six years. He knows the timetable by heart, the price of every crossing and the exact sound the cash drawer makes when it is closed properly. That is why the numbers bother him so much.
海港角的售票处是一间木头小屋，一扇窗朝着码头，一扇窗朝着海水。阿克塞尔在这里干了六年，他把时刻表背得滚瓜烂熟，记得每一趟航班的票价，也知道钱箱抽屉关严时发出的准确声响。所以，这些数字才让他那么心烦。
For three weeks, the last ferry of the evening, which leaves from berth four, has gone out with one more passenger than the tickets sold. The count at the gangway says thirty-seven. The till says thirty-six. And every morning, Aksel opens the cupboard where the spare ticket rolls are kept. One single ticket has been torn off the end of a roll, very cleanly, as if with a ruler.
整整三个星期，傍晚最后一班渡轮从四号泊位开出，船上总比卖出的票多一个乘客。登船口数出来是三十七人，钱箱里的票款只够三十六张。而且每天早上，阿克塞尔打开存放备用票卷的柜子，都会发现有一张票从票卷末端被撕走了，撕得干干净净，像是拿尺子比着撕的。
"It is not much money," Marit says on Tuesday, as she hangs her coat on the hook. She works the afternoon shift and keeps the books. "Seven pounds a night. Maybe a hundred and fifty so far."
“钱不多，”星期二，玛丽特一边把外套挂到挂钩上一边说。她上下午班，兼管账目。“每晚七英镑，到现在大概一百五十英镑。”
"It is not the money," Aksel says. "Only two people have keys to this hut. One of them is me. And I know I have not been selling tickets to myself."
“问题不在钱，”阿克塞尔说，“这间屋子的钥匙只有两个人有，其中一把在我手里。而我很清楚，我没有卖票给自己。”
"Then it is me?" Marit says, with a small laugh.
“那是我？”玛丽特带着一丝轻笑说。
"No. Which is exactly what bothers me." He rubs his forehead. "Somebody is getting in, taking one ticket and walking onto the ferry with a smile. And I cannot work out how."
“不是。这恰恰是让我心烦的地方。”他揉了揉额头，“有人进来，拿走一张票，笑眯眯地走上渡轮。我却想不通他是怎么做到的。”
Marit puts down her pen. She has a way of going very still when she is thinking, like a cat at a mouse hole.
玛丽特放下笔。她思考的时候会变得纹丝不动，像猫守在老鼠洞口。
"Then we stop guessing and we catch the footprints," she says. "We do not need to sit up all night. We need to see who walks in."
“那我们别再瞎猜了，去抓脚印，”她说，“不用整夜守着，只要看清是谁走进来的。”
They make their first plan that afternoon, between the departures. It is a simple plan. Marit buys a bag of white chalk dust from the hardware shop across the road. After the last crossing, she will spread a thin layer of it over the floor between the back door and the ticket cupboard. In the morning, whoever has been creeping around will have left a clear print of every step.
当天下午，趁着两班船之间的空档，他们定下了第一个计划。计划很简单：玛丽特去马路对面的五金店买一袋白色粉笔灰。末班船过后，她把一层薄薄的粉笔灰撒在后门和票柜之间的地面上。到了早上，不管是谁在屋里偷偷摸摸，每一步都会留下清楚的脚印。
At half past nine, with the quay empty and the boats rocking quietly at their ropes, Marit carries out the plan. She sprinkles the dust with a kitchen sieve, in a smooth, even carpet, from the back door to the cupboard and under the window. Aksel watches from the doorway with his arms folded.
九点半，码头上空无一人，小船在缆绳旁轻轻摇晃，玛丽特动手实施了计划。她用厨房的筛子，把粉笔灰撒得又平又匀，像铺了一层地毯，从后门铺到柜子，再铺到窗下。阿克塞尔抱着胳膊，站在门口看着。
"It looks like a freshly made bed," he says.
“看起来像刚铺好的床，”他说。
"Do not step on it," Marit says. "Not even by accident."
“别踩上去，”玛丽特说，“哪怕是不小心也不行。”
They lock up at ten, and they walk home in opposite directions, pleased with themselves.
十点锁门后，两人各自往相反的方向走回家，都对自己很满意。
The plan collapses at seven the next morning. Aksel unlocks the hut, switches on the lamp and stops in the doorway. The floor is clean. It is not merely clean; it is shining. A faint smell of lemon hangs in the air, and in the corner, a mop is leaning against the wall with a bucket underneath it.
第二天早上七点，计划落了空。阿克塞尔开了门，打开灯，却在门口呆住了。地板是干净的，不只是干净，简直在发亮。空气里飘着一丝淡淡的柠檬味，墙角靠着一把拖把，底下还放着一只水桶。
"No," he says out loud.
“不会吧，”他大声说。
Marit arrives at eight. She takes one look at the floor and puts her hand over her eyes.
玛丽特八点到。她看了一眼地板，抬手捂住了眼睛。
"The night cleaner," she says. "Nobody told her about the chalk. She comes at midnight, and she has done the whole building."
“是夜班清洁工，”她说，“没人告诉她粉笔灰的事。她半夜来，把整栋楼都打扫了一遍。”
"So every footprint is gone," Aksel says. "And the ticket?"
“这么说，所有的脚印都没了，”阿克塞尔说，“那票呢？”
He opens the cupboard. The roll has been torn again, as neatly as ever. Behind his back, Marit makes a small sound, somewhere between a groan and a laugh.
他打开柜子。票卷又被撕过了，一如既往地整齐。他身后的玛丽特发出一声小小的响动，介于呻吟和笑声之间。
"Whoever it is," she says, "they have a better schedule than we do."
“不管是谁，”她说，“他的日程安排都比我们的好。”
All morning they argue about what to do next. Aksel wants to fix a camera above the door. But the camera would cost more than the stolen tickets and would take a week to arrive. Marit wants to tell the harbour manager. But the manager will certainly say that it is nothing, and he will ask why two adults are losing sleep over a handful of paper.
整个上午，他们都在争论下一步怎么办。阿克塞尔想在门上方装一个摄像头，可摄像头比被偷的票还贵，而且要一个星期才能送到。玛丽特想告诉港务经理，可经理肯定会说这没什么，还会问两个大人为什么要为一把纸片失眠。
It is late in the afternoon when Aksel sees the bucket.
直到傍晚时分，阿克塞尔才看到那只桶。
It hangs on a hook beside the back door, an old fire bucket, painted white and stamped with the word SAND. It was retired years ago because the bottom has rusted through. There is a hole in it about the size of a coin. Aksel takes it down and turns it over. A trickle of dust runs out through the hole, as thin and steady as water from a tap.
它挂在后门旁边的钩子上，是一只旧的消防桶，漆成白色，上面印着“沙”字。因为桶底锈穿了，多年前它就退役了。桶上有个洞，差不多一枚硬币大。阿克塞尔把它取下来，翻过来看。一缕细沙从洞里漏出来，又细又稳，像水龙头里流出的水。
He stands there for a long time, watching the dust fall onto the floor, and an idea arrives in his head.
他站在那里，久久地看着沙子落在地板上，一个主意在脑子里浮现。
"Marit," he says. "What would happen if we used this?"
“玛丽特，”他说，“要是我们用这个会怎么样？”
"It has a hole in it," she says. "It is rubbish."
“它有个洞，”她说，“是废品。”
"Exactly. It is a hole that leaks slowly and evenly. I fill it and hang it on a string from the ceiling hook, right above the cupboard door. Then anyone who opens that door will knock it, and it will swing. A sand bucket that swings and leaks will draw a line on the floor." He draws an invisible circle in the air with his finger. "Not chalk. Real sand, heavy enough to hold a print. And this time nobody will be allowed to clean up after us."
“就是因为这样。这个洞漏得又慢又匀。我把它装满，用一根绳子吊在天花板的钩子上，正对着柜门。这样，谁一开那扇门，就会碰到它，它就会摆动。一只一边摆一边漏沙的桶，会在地板上画出一条线。”他用手指在空中画了一个看不见的圈，“不用粉笔灰，用真正的沙子，重得足以留下脚印。而且这一次，谁也不许在我们之后去打扫。”
"She will mop it at midnight," Marit says.
“她半夜会来拖地的，”玛丽特说。
"Not if we ask her to skip the hut tonight," Aksel says. "We tell her the floor is being treated."
“只要我们请她今晚别打扫这间小屋就行，”阿克塞尔说，“就说地板正在做处理。”
Marit thinks about it. Then she smiles slowly.
玛丽特想了想，然后慢慢笑了。
"It is a terrible plan," she says. "Let us do it."
“这是个糟糕透顶的计划，”她说，“那就干吧。”
That evening they fill the bucket to the brim with sand from the old bin on the quay. Aksel climbs onto a chair and ties the handle to the ceiling hook with a length of fishing line. Then he sets the bucket swaying, just enough to test it. Sand spills in a pale curve across the floorboards and stops when the swinging stops. Marit ties the other end of the line to the cupboard door, so that the first person to open it will set the bucket moving.
当天傍晚，他们从码头边的旧垃圾箱里舀了沙子，把桶装得满满的。阿克塞尔爬上椅子，用一段钓鱼线把桶的提手系在天花板的钩子上。然后他让桶轻轻晃了晃，试了一下。沙子在地板上洒出一道浅色的弧线，桶一停，沙就不再漏。玛丽特把线的另一头系在柜门上，这样第一个打开柜门的人就会让桶晃起来。
They lock up at ten again, and this time Marit has a word with the night cleaner, who agrees to skip the hut. Then they go home.
十点，他们又一次锁了门，这回玛丽特跟夜班清洁工打了招呼，她答应不打扫那间小屋。然后他们回了家。
At seven the next morning, Aksel unlocks the door very slowly.
第二天早上七点，阿克塞尔极其缓慢地打开了门。
The bucket hangs motionless from the ceiling, almost empty. A broad arc of sand lies on the floor beneath it. In the middle of the arc, as clear as a signature, there is a footprint.
桶一动不动地挂在天花板上，几乎空了。它下方的地板上，铺着一道宽宽的沙弧。弧线正中间，清楚得如同签名，有一个脚印。
Marit comes in behind him and kneels down.
玛丽特跟在他身后进来，跪了下去。
"It is bare," she says. "A bare foot. And it is wet."
“是光脚，”她说，“光着的脚，而且是湿的。”
There is a second print beside it, and then a third. The line of prints leads across the floorboards, from the window that faces the water, to the cupboard, and back again. Aksel follows them with his eyes to the windowsill. The glass is shut and locked from the inside. Under it, on the wooden ledge, lies a thin trail of seaweed.
旁边还有第二个脚印，然后是第三个。脚印连成一行，穿过地板，从朝海的那扇窗通向柜子，又折了回去。阿克塞尔目光循着它们看到窗台。玻璃关着，从里面锁上了。窗台下的木头台面上，躺着一小条海草。
"That window has not been opened for years," he says.
“那扇窗好几年都没打开过了，”他说。
"Then they did not need to open it," Marit says quietly.
“那他们就不需要打开，”玛丽特轻声说。
She bends lower over the last print, the one nearest the sill, and she goes quiet. Beside the print of the large foot, half hidden under the edge of the sand, there is another. It is much smaller. It is the print of a child's foot, and it is pointing in the opposite direction, towards the sea.
她朝最后一个脚印，也就是离窗台最近的那一个，俯得更低了，然后安静下来。在那个大脚印旁边，半掩在沙子的边缘底下，还有另一个脚印。它小得多，是一个孩子的脚印，朝着相反的方向，朝着大海。
