芒果街上的小屋別說英語

別說英語

　　瑪瑪西塔是街對面三樓正面公寓裡那個男人的大個兒媽媽。拉切爾說她的名字應該是瑪瑪索塔，我想這不重要。

　　那個男人攢錢把她接到了這裡。他攢呀攢呀，因為她一個人帶著小男娃在那個國家生活。他做兩份工。他早出晚歸。每一天。

　　後來有一天，瑪瑪西塔和小男娃坐一輛黃色出租車來了。出租車門像侍者的手臂一樣打開。邁出來一隻粉色小鞋，一隻兔子耳朵一樣柔嫩的腳。接著是肥肥的腳踝、扇動的臀、紫紅玫瑰和綠色香水。那個男人得在外面拉，出租車司機得在裡面推，推呀拉呀，推呀拉。出來了！

　　一瞬間她像花一樣打開了。龐大，大得驚人，卻看上去很美，從帽頂上的淺橙色羽毛到腳趾上的小玫瑰花苞。我簡直沒法把眼睛從她的小鞋上移開。

　　上去，上去，她抱著藍色毯子裡的小男娃走上了樓梯。男人拎著她的衣箱、紫色帽盒，十幾盒緞面高跟鞋。然後，我們就看不到她了。

　　有人說是因為她太胖，有人說是因為那三層樓梯，可我認為她不出來是因為害怕說英語，可能是這樣的，因為她只知道八個單詞。房東來的時候，她知道說：他不在；如果是別的人去，她就會說，「別說英語」，還有「見鬼」。我不知道她從哪裡學的這個，但我聽她說過一次，感到很驚訝。

　　我父親說他剛到這個國家的時候吃了三個月的火腿煎蛋。早餐、午餐和晚餐都是。火腿煎蛋。他就知道這個單詞。他再也不吃火腿煎蛋了。

　　不管是什麼原因，是因為她胖呢，或是不想爬樓，還是怕說英語呢，反正她都不會下來。她整天坐在窗邊收聽西班牙語廣播節目，唱各種關於她的國家的思鄉曲，聲音聽起來像只海鷗。

　　家。家。家是照片裡的一所房子，一所粉紅色的房子，粉紅得像一朵怵目光線下的蜀葵。男人把寓所的牆壁都漆成了粉紅色，可那是不一樣的，你知道。她依然在為她粉紅色的房子歎息。後來，我想，她哭了。是我我會的。

　　有時男人厭煩了。他嘶喊起來，整條街都能聽到。

　　唉。她說。她很傷心。

　　哦。他說。再也不喊了。

　　唉。什麼時候，什麼時候，什麼時候？她問。

　　唉。他娘的！我們是在家裡。這就是家。我人在這裡，我住在這裡。說英語。說英語。上帝！

　　唉！瑪瑪西塔，不屬這裡的人，時不時地發出一聲哭喊，歇斯底里的，高聲的，似乎他扯斷了她最後一絲維繫生命的線，一條通向那個國家惟一的出路。

　　後來，永遠地傷了她的心的是，那個小男娃，開始說話了，開始唱他在電視上聽到的百事可樂廣告歌。

　　別講英語。她對那個操著那種聽起來像馬口鐵的語言在唱歌的孩子說。別講英語，別講英語，然後淚如泉湧。別，別，別，她好像不能相信自己的耳朵。

　　Mamacita is the big mama of the man across the street, third-floor front. Rachel says her name ought to be Mamasota, but I think that's mean.

　　The man saved his mo her here. He saved and saved because she was aloh the baby boy in that try. He worked two jobs. He came home late and he left early. Every day.

　　Then one day Mamacita and the baby boy arrived in a yellow taxi. The taxi door opened like a waiter's arm. Out stepped a tiny pink shoe, a foot soft as a rabbit's ear, thehikle, a flutter of hips, fuchsia roses and green perfume. The man had to pull her, the taxicab driver had to push. Push, pull. Push, pull. Poof！

　　All at once she bloomed. Huge, enormous, beautiful to look at, from the salmon-piher oip of her hat down to the little rosebuds of her toes. I couldn't take my eyes off her tiny shoes.

　　Up, up, up the stairs she went with the baby boy in a blue blahe man carrying her suitcases, her lavender hatboxes, a dozen boxes of satin high heels. Then we didn't see her.

　　Somebody said because she's too fat, somebody because of the three flights of stairs, but I believe she doesn't e out because she is afraid to speak English, and maybe this is so since she only knows eight words. She knows to say：He not here for when the landlord es, No speak English if anybody else es, and Holy smokes. I don't know where she learhis, but I heard her say it oime and it surprised me.

　　My father says when he came to this try he ate hamandeggs for three months. Breakfast, lund dinner. Hamandeggs. That was the only word he knew. He does hamandeggs anymore.

　　Whatever her reasons, whether she is fat, or 't climb the stairs, or is afraid of English, she won't e down. She sits all day by the windolays the Spanish radio show and sings all the homesick songs about her try in a voice that sounds like a seagull.

　　Home. Home. Home is a house in a photograph, a pink house, pink as hollyhocks with lots of startled light. The man paints the walls of the apartment pink, but it's not the same, you know. She still sighs for her pink house, and then I think she cries. I would.

　　Sometimes the mas disgusted. He starts screaming and you hear it all the way dowreet.

　　Ay, she says, she is sad.

　　Oh, he says. Not again.

　　Cuándo, cuándo, cuándo? she asks.

　　Ay, caray! We are home. This is home. Here I am and here I stay. Speak English. Speak English. Christ！

　　Ay！Mamacita, who does not belong, every on a while lets out a cry, hysterical, high, as if he had torn the only skinny thread that kept her alive, the only road out to that try.

　　And then to break her heart forever, the baby boy, who has begun to talk, starts to sing the Pepsi ercial he heard on T. V.

　　No speak English, she says to the child who is singing in the language that sounds like tin. No speak English, no speak English, and bubbles into tears. No, no, no, as if she 't believe her ears.

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