芒果街上的小屋芒果街上的小屋

芒果街上的小屋

　　我們先前不住芒果街。先前我們住魯米斯的三樓。再先前我們住吉勒。吉勒往前是波琳娜，再前面，我就不記得了。我記得最清楚的是，搬了好多次家。似乎每搬一次，我們就多出一個人。搬到芒果街時，我們有了六個——媽媽、爸爸、卡洛斯、奇奇，妹妹蕾妮和我。

　　芒果街上的小屋是我們的，我們不用交房租給任何人，或者和樓下的人合用一個院子，或者小心翼翼別弄出太多的聲響，這裡也沒有拿掃帚猛敲天花板的房東。可就算這樣，它也不是我們原來以為自己可以得到的那樣的房子。

　　我們得趕緊搬出魯米斯的公寓。水管破了，房東不願來修理，因為房子太老。我們得快快離開。我們借用著鄰居的衛生間，用空的牛奶壺把水裝過來。這就是為什麼爸媽要找房子，這就是為什麼我們搬進了芒果街上的小屋，遠遠地，從城市的那一邊。

　　他們一直對我們說，有一天，我們會搬進一所房子，一所真正的大屋，永遠屬我們，那樣我們就不用每年搬家了。我們的房子會有自來水和好用的水管。裡面還有真正的樓梯，不是門廳臺階，而是像電視上的房子裡那樣的樓梯。我們會有一個地下室和至少三個衛生間，那樣洗澡的時候就不用告訴每個人。我們的房子會是白色的，四周有樹木，還有一個很大的院子，草兒生長著，沒有籬笆把它們圈起來。這是爸爸手握彩票時提到的房子，這是媽媽在給我們講的睡前故事裡幻想著的房子。

　　可是芒果街上的小屋全然不是他們講的那樣。它很小，是紅色的，門前一方窄臺階，窗戶小得讓你覺得它們像是在屏著呼吸。幾處牆磚蝕成了粉。前門那麼鼓，你要用力推才進得來。這裡沒有前院，只有四棵市政栽在路邊的小榆樹。屋後有個小車庫，是用來裝我們還沒買的小汽車的，還有個小院子，夾在兩邊的樓中間，越發顯得小了。我們的房子裡有樓梯，可那只是普通的門廳臺階，而且房子裡只有一個衛生間。每個人都要和別人合用一間臥房——媽媽和爸爸、卡洛斯和奇奇、我和蕾妮。

　　我們住在魯米斯時，有一回學校的嬤嬤經過那裡，看到我在房前玩。樓下的自助洗衣店被用木板封了起來，因為兩天前剛被洗劫過。為了不走掉生意，主人在木頭上塗抹了幾個字：「是的，我們在營業」。

　　「你住在哪裡呀？」她問。

　　那裡。我說，指了指三樓。

　　你住在那裡？

　　那裡。我不得不朝她指的地方看去——三層樓上，那裡牆皮斑駁，窗上橫著幾根木條，是爸爸釘上去的，那樣我們就不會掉出來。你住在那裡？她說話的樣子讓我覺得自己什麼都不是。那裡。我住在那裡。我點頭。

　　於是我明白，我得有一所房子。一所真正的大屋。一所可以指給別人看的房子。可這裡不是。芒果街上的小屋不是。目前就這樣，媽媽說。這是暫時的，爸爸說。可我知道事情是怎樣的。

　　【案：所附英文原著，偶爾有脫漏，兩個或兩個以上的詞串成一個非詞。】

　　We didn't always live on Mango Street. Before that we lived on Loomis on the third floor, and before that we lived on Keeler. Before Keeler it was Paulina, and before that I 't remember. But what I remember most is moving a lot. Each time it seemed there'd be one more of us. By the time we got to Mango Street we were six——Mama, Papa, Carlos, Kiki, my sister Nenny and me.

　　The house on Mango Street is ours, and we don't have to pay rent to anybody, or share the yard with the people downstairs, or be careful not to make too much noise, and there isn't a landlord banging on the ceiling with a broom. But even so, it's not the house we'd thought we'd get.

　　We had to leave the flat on Loomis quick. The water pipes broke and the landlord wouldn't fix them because the house was too old. We had to leave fast. We were using the washroom door and carrying water over in empty milk gallons. That's why Mama and Papa looked for a house, and that's why we moved into the house on Mango Street, far away, other side of town.

　　They always told us that one day we would move into a house, a real house that would be ours for always so we wouldn't have to move each year. And our house would have running water and pipes that worked. And I would have real stairs, not hallway stairs, but stairs inside like the houses on T. V. And we'd have a basement and at least three washrooms so wheook a bath we wouldn't have to tell everybody. Our house would be white with trees around it, a great big yard and grass growing without a fehis was the house Papa talked about when he held a lottery ticket and this was the house Mama dreamed up iories she told us before we went to bed.

　　But the house on Mango Street is not the way they told it at all. It's small and red with tight steps in front and windows so small you'd think they were holding their breath. Bricks are crumbling in places, and the front door is so swollen you have to push hard to get in. There is no front yard, only four little elms the city planted by the curb. Out back is a small garage for the car we don't ow and a small yard that looks smaller between buildings oher side. There are stairs in our house, but they're ordinary hallway stairs, and the house has only one washroom. Everybody has to share a bedroom——Mama and Papa, Carlos and Kiki, me and Nenny.

　　Once when we were living on Loomis, a nun from my school passed by and saw me playing out front. The laundromat downstairs had been boarded up because it had been robbed two days before and the owner had painted on the wood YES WE'RE OPEN so as not to lose business.

　　Where do you live? She asked.

　　There, I said pointing up to the third floor.

　　You live there?

　　There. I had to look to where she pointed—the third floor, the paint peeling, wooden bars Papa had nailed on the windows so we wouldn't fall out. You live there? The way she said it made me feel like nothing. There. I lived there. I nodded.

　　I knew then I had to have a house. A real house. One I could point to. But this isn't it. The house on Mango Street isn't it. For the time being, Mama says. Temporary, says Papa. But I know how those things go.

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