ALL POSTS, chinese, FAIRLY FLUENT, storytelling

银色的萨克斯管

我醒过来的时候,我还在朦胧中,过了一会儿我才注意到我周围的环境。房间比以前冷,以及布满灰尘的阳光透过灰色、厚厚的窗帘空隙,洒到翠绿色的墙纸。我忽然惊醒。这间卧室不是我的!恐慌把我刚才感觉的昏昏欲睡代替。我在哪里?再说,我怎么来的?我设法平复我咚咚的心。我慢慢地意识到,我能听到楼下传来隐约的声音。我决定了随着那个声音。

我暗暗的走到楼下。楼梯红木的栏杆精光发亮,摸着很凉。当我递到了楼梯低时,我吃惊得无语。我仿佛在2015年入睡,然后在一个40年代的房子醒过来了!女人穿着很长的裙子和衬衫,男人穿着坎肩和怀表,热闹地来来往往。孩子们跑来跑去,家里美味饭菜飘香。我看着自己,然后发现我也穿着一个很陈旧的连衣裙。我听到很高的笑声、碰杯的声音、甚至柔和的爵士音乐。我在恐怕和困惑中正要跑回楼上,这时一个小男孩发现了我。

他看起来十还是十一岁左右,有一张瓜子脸和一个高高的鼻子。他栗色的头发油亮光洁,以及一绺头发垂在前额上。我止步。他向我走了几步。

“你是谁?”他问我。

“我叫苏菲。你呢?” 然后,我也说:“我们在哪里?”

他杏眼向我投来明亮的目光,跟着他的嬉皮笑脸。“我叫道格拉斯!这是我的房子。英国、利物浦、博德街、52号。” 他说的是好像背诵一首诗的。我肯定从来没有认识了他,不过我感觉到他十分熟悉。那个地址也听起来很熟悉。我能问其他的问题以前,他抓了我的手,说:”跟我来!”

他把我拖进了一间壮丽的客厅,我们走进了一场似乎很热闹的聚会。在客厅的角里有一个穿着一个红色丝绸的连衣裙的女人,正在弹钢琴。站在她的旁边是一个很高的男人,他的浓眉一皱,吹着一个漂亮的银色萨克斯管。

听到了那悦耳的音乐,我马上不由自主的想起了我在爷爷的房子里。我们经常在一起一边听爵士音乐,一边爷爷告诉我他父亲,在利物浦最好的音乐家,的故事。突然,热烈的掌声把我拉回到房间里。我看着那个小男孩,慢慢的意识到我在哪里。他转向我,对我说:“他是我的爸爸!他在利物浦最好的音乐家。”

看到了在沙发上的在报纸里的日子证实我的思想:1946年11月30日。我并不知道我是怎么来的,但是我绝对有把握,这个小男孩是我的爷爷。

 我不知道我是怎么知道的,但是我认为当今晚睡觉时我会被传送回家,于是只有这一天,我想要尽可能地享受在这个地方花时间。

The Silver Saxophone

That night, I didn’t sleep at all. I had an unshakeable feeling that there was something in my mind that I couldn’t quite grasp. I tossed and turned on my bed until 3 o’clock in the morning, when I finally fell into a restless sleep.

When I awoke, my mind still shrouded in the haze of sleep, a few moments passed before I began to notice my surroundings. The room was colder than before, and dusty sunlight filtered through a gap between thick grey curtains, sprinkling onto the jade-green wallpaper. I suddenly jolted into consciousness. This wasn’t my room! Panic replaced my drowsy stupor. Where was I? What’s more, how did I get here? I tried in vain to calm my thudding heart. Something gradually dawned on me: I could hear soft voices coming from downstairs. I decided that following that sound was my only choice.

I tip-toed down the stairs. The deep-red mahogany wood of the banister shone, and was cool to the touch. When I reached the bottom, shock rendered me speechless. It seemed as if I had gone to sleep in 2015, and awoken in a home from the 1940s! Women wearing blouses and long skirts and men with waistcoats and pocket watches bustled to and fro. Children were running around everywhere, and the delicious smell of home-cooked food floated towards me. I looked down at myself, and it appeared that I was also wearing an old-fashioned frock. I could hear the high-pitched sound of tinkling laughter, the clinking of glasses and jazz music drifting in from a nearby room.  I was about to bolt back up the stairs in my panic and confusion, when I noticed a small boy surveying me from across the room.

He looked around eleven years old, had an oval face shaped like a sunflower seed, and a tall nose. His chestnut hair gleamed, a single lock of which fell down over his forehead. I stood stock still. He took a few steps towards me.

“Who are you?” He demanded.

“I’m Sophie. Who are you?” Then, I added: “And where are we?”

His large, almond eyes flashed towards me, and his face lit up with a cheeky smile. “I’m Douglas. And this is my house. 52 Bold street, Liverpool, England!” He spoke lyrically, as if reciting a poem. I had definitely never met him before, but he seemed strangely, achingly, familiar, as did the address. Before I could ask him any more questions, he grabbed my hand, mumbling: “Come with me!”

He dragged me into a richly decorated living room, and we seemed to enter a lively party. In the corner of the room, a woman in a red silk dress sat playing a piano. Stood beside her was a tall man, his dark brows furrowed, playing a beautiful silver saxophone. Hearing the mellow, sweet music, I immediately couldn’t help but be dragged back through my memories. I recalled sitting in my Granddad’s kitchen; we would often listen to jazz together, whilst he would tell me stories of his father, the best musician in Liverpool. Suddenly, the reverberating sound of enthusiastic applause pulled me back into the present. I looked at the boy, and slowly realised where I must be. He turned towards me and announced: “That’s my Dad! The best musician in Liverpool”.

Seeing the date on a newspaper, flung across the sofa next to me, confirmed my suspicions: 25th December, 1946. I had no idea how I got here, but I had absolutely no doubts: the little boy in front of me was my Grandad.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.