一粒盐

最后一个早晨，波莉飞到半岛的最尖端，那里是小城陆地的尽头。古老的海堤上立着一座白色的小灯塔，旁边是一座圆形的教堂，海浪一直涌到石头跟前。从岬角望去，这座城真的像一艘船：钟楼是桅杆，屋顶是货物，整艘船推进亚得里亚海，稳稳地守着航向。

On her last morning Polly flew out to the very tip of the peninsula, where the town runs out of land. A small white lighthouse stands there on the old sea wall beside a round church, and the waves come right up to the stone. From the point the town really did look like a ship, the bell tower its mast, the roofs its cargo, the whole thing pushed out into the Adriatic and holding its course.

渔船一条接一条地驶出小港，发动机在平静的水面上低声嗡鸣，每条船身后都拖着一道光。高处，塔上的钟敲响了整点，钟声滚过屋顶，越过海面远远传开。广场上，青铜小提琴家独自站在他的白石上，清晨的第一缕阳光先找到了他，然后才找到别的东西。

The fishing boats left the little harbour one by one, their engines a low murmur on the still water, each one trailing a line of light. Far above, the bell in the tower struck the hour and the sound rolled down over the roofs and out across the sea. In the square the bronze violinist stood alone on his white stone, and the first sun found him before it found anything else.

波莉的舌尖上仍留着一粒盐的味道，或者说她以为还留着，其实也是一回事。海水，阳光，木耙和耐心的双手，七百多年来始终是同一个配方，而用它换来的钱，建起了一座满是粉色和赭色房子的小城。用一种遇雨即化的东西来建一座城，是件奇怪的事。更奇怪的是，它竟然成功了。

Polly still had the taste of a single grain of salt on her tongue, or thought she did, which came to the same thing. Sea, sun, wooden rakes and patient hands, the same recipe for more than seven hundred years, and a town of pink and ochre houses raised on the proceeds. It is a strange thing to build a town out of something that dissolves in the rain. It is stranger still that it worked.

她贴着屋顶低低地绕半岛飞了一圈，飞过蕾丝般的阳台、狮子磨旧的爪子和温暖的白色广场，然后乘着晨风升上高空。身后，那艘石船越来越小，却纹丝不动。前方，大海开阔而闪亮，尝起来有一丝极淡极淡的咸味。

She circled the peninsula once, low over the roofs, past the lace balconies and the lion's worn paw and the warm white square, and then rose on the morning wind. Behind her the stone ship grew smaller and did not move. Ahead of her the sea was open and shining, and it tasted, very faintly, of salt.