上周，加拿大“环球邮报”（The Globe and Mail）网站上发表的一篇个人文章广为传播，该文章讲述了一名来自中国的老太太坚持为生病的加拿大邻居做饭的事情。Quartzs 网站本周转载了这篇文章，并发表了评论。文章表示，该故事之所以如此受人关注是因为它虽然是一件简单的事，但传递的是人性的友善，而且此事还有一个值得关注的政治背景是，有一些批评人士指责 中国投资者的资金推升了当地的房价。
The piece, which appeared in the Globe and Mail, was written by Angie Morris, an 81-year-old woman who grew up in wartime Britain and now lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. She describes a daily ritual that has developed between her and her neighbor, a 68-year-old Chinese woman who lives next door and is caring for her young grandson while her daughter spends the summer in Shanghai. It begins:
这则故事的作者是 81 岁的安吉?莫里斯，她成长于战时的英国，现居住在温哥华。莫里斯描述了她与其邻居 —— 一名 68 岁中国老太太的日常生活，这位中国老太太女儿人在上海，她前来加拿大照顾外孙。文章开头写道：
“我家门铃在上午11点响了。门口站着一位中国老太太，她很瘦小，她一手牵着一个小男孩，另一只手拿着纸质购物袋。小男孩正害怕地往后缩，因为我的黄色拉 布拉多正试图热情地迎接他。我认识这位太太，她不是第一次到访。她是男孩的祖母，她的女儿去年十月买下了隔壁的这所大房子。”
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文章中写道，中国太太 (莫里斯称其“温”) 一直定期给莫里斯送饭菜：汤、米饭、蔬菜、肉或虾，还有煎饼。温的女儿曾告诉她，莫里斯即将接受心脏手术，所以 她决定为邻居做饭，即使她与邻居无法沟通。温只会说中文，莫里斯的中文仅限于“你好”。最终，她们通过iPad，让温的女儿充当翻译，两人才能简单交流。
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有一次，莫里斯站在温的门前，打算将空的盘子和热水瓶还给她，这件事让温非常惊慌，她马上牵着莫里斯的手将其护送回家。莫里斯写道：
“她觉得我特别虚弱不能做这些，尽管我试图让她改变这一看法，她还是坚持将我送回家。我非常担心，因为我比她高，如果我摔倒了，她也会被我拉到地上。”文 章写道。“这就是我们，来自不同国家、有着不同人生经历的两位祖母，我们谁都不会说对方国家的语言，但是这不影响我们交流。我家的门铃每天准时响起，温会 抱着熟悉的牛皮纸袋，给我一个大大的微笑。”
这篇文章在加拿大的社交媒体上大受欢迎，她们的友谊变成了人们之间能够相互感知的更广泛联系的象征。一位评论者说：“在这个世界上，大多数人只想好好生 活。我来自老爱尔兰，我很清楚人们之间的冲突……但问题是，大部分人天性本善，他们只希望后代们平平安安，在像加拿大这样能提供安全感的国家长大。”
报道称，由于大批中国人买房推升了加拿大温哥华等城市的房价，这使得一些读者对文章中提及的豪华房屋非常敏感。莫里斯的文章并没有讨论中国的资金或者加拿 大的移民规则，但温所住的“大房子”所凸显的温哥华房地产市场的变化，这种变化曾引发这个城市的冲突和怨恨情绪。不过，报道指出，就像莫里斯这篇文章点明的那样，人与人之间真正的联系可以战胜任何政治纷争。
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"Morris's story makes clear, real human connection can trump almost any politics."
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英文原文
My doorbell rings at 11 a.m. On the step, I find an elderly Chinese lady; she is small and slight, and she’s holding the hand of a little boy. In her other hand, she holds a paper carrier bag. The boy shrinks back as my yellow Labrador tries enthusiastically to greet him.
I know this lady. It is by no means her first visit. She is the little boy’s grandmother, and her daughter bought the house next door last October. It is one of several large, heritage-style houses that have replaced smaller, older homes in my block over the past couple of years – part of the madness that has gripped the Vancouver housing market.
At first, the house seemed to tower over my small, yellow, 1920s bungalow, but I have become used to it over the two or three years since it was built.
My visitor’s daughter, Nicole (who speaks fluent English), is currently in Shanghai, but her parents are in the house for the summer with the little boy. Nicole has apparently told her mother that I am having heart surgery shortly, and the result is that her mother has decided I need to be supplied with meals.
I know what is inside the paper carrier bag – a Thermos with hot soup and a stainless-steel container with a meal of rice, vegetables and either chicken, meat or shrimp, sometimes with a kind of pancake. This has become an almost-daily occurrence. It is the ultimate home-delivery service.
Communication between my benefactor and me is somewhat handicapped by the fact that she doesn’t speak English and all I can say in Mandarin is hello. Once, she brought an iPad as well as the food. She pointed to the screen, which displayed a message from her daughter telling me that her mother wanted to know if the food was all right and was anxious to know that it wasn’t too salty for me. I am not used to iPads and was unable to find the keypad, so the lady indicated I should go with her to her house. Once there, she handed the iPad to her husband and almost immediately I found myself looking at Nicole in Shanghai and discussing her mother’s cooking and the fact I have to be careful about my salt intake.
“Your mother just can’t be bringing me meals like this all the time,” I protested. “I can hardly reciprocate by cooking something from my native land, like roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.”
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“Oh, no,” Nicole said. “She doesn’t like Western food. Don’t worry about it; she has to cook for the three of them anyway, and she wants to do it.”
“Can you at least tell me her name?” I asked.
Nicole replied that I would never be able to pronounce her mother’s first name, so it would be fine to use her surname. I’ll call her Wing for the purposes of this tale.
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At first, I would wash and return the empty containers next door, but Wing was obviously concerned to find me at her front door. I think she believes I am too fragile to be making this effort, so despite my attempts to dispel this notion, she insisted on holding me firmly by the arm and escorting me right to my own front door. I was quite concerned about this because I tend to tower over her, and if I were to fall I think I would bring her down with me.
Wing has now had her daughter tell me by e-mail that I should leave the empty dishes on the arm of my wooden lawn chair on the front porch. Wing tried originally to suggest this to me with the help of gestures, but I was unable to understand.
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Once, I delayed returning the containers, but even without the Thermos Wing was undaunted and arrived at my door moving slowly and carefully carrying an open bowl of hot soup. Another morning, when the doorbell rang, I grabbed Wing’s dishes from the kitchen counter and found myself in the process of offering them to a rather puzzled delivery man from Greyhound Canada.
Recently, one of my grandchildren kicked a ball around with the small grandson (who is 3) in our front yard, while the grandmothers looked on and gave the ball a little kick whenever it came our way. He does not speak English either, but judging by the smile that played around the corners of his mouth, he enjoyed the game.
The tenant in my basement suite is a university student who apparently speaks Mandarin quite well, so with her help and that of a friend of Nicole, I have found out that Wing is 68 – 13 years younger than I am – and that she lived through the Cultural Revolution, forced to work in the fields instead of going to university. For my part, I was raised in wartime Britain.
So here we are, two grandmothers a world away from where we were raised, neither of us able to speak the other’s language but communicating one way or another (with some help from technology). The doorbell keeps ringing and there is the familiar brown paper carrier bag, handed smilingly to me by Wing.
I was able to have translated to her my comment that there is no way I can allow her to go back to China next month. She seemed very amused. I am working on some more Mandarin words – it’s the least I can do after such a display of kindness.
“Thank you” is, of course, the first one. Somehow, it seems inadequate.
Angie Morris lives in Vancouver.
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