The pigeon landed on the balcony on a windy afternoon and refused to leave. It stood in the corner by the flowerpot, grey and thin, one wing held slightly out. Elif's uncle kept racing pigeons on the roof of his building two streets away, so she knew the look of a bird that had flown too far. She put down a saucer of water.
那是一只在一个刮风的下午落到阳台上的鸽子，它不肯离开。它站在花盆旁的角落里，灰灰的，很瘦，一只翅膀微微张开。埃利夫的舅舅在两街之外的楼顶养赛鸽，所以她知道一只飞得太远的鸟是什么样子。她放下一碟水，往后退开。
It drank for a long time. On its leg was a pale green band with numbers too small to read. Elif fetched her uncle, who climbed the stairs slowly, knelt, and held the bird with both hands the way you hold something borrowed. “Not one of mine,” he said. “But someone is missing her tonight. Get a box and some newspaper.”
它喝了很久。它腿上有一个淡绿色的环，上面的数字小得看不清。埃利夫叫来舅舅，舅舅慢慢爬上楼，跪下来，用双手捧起那只鸟，像捧着借来的东西。“不是我的，”他说，“但今晚一定有人在惦记她。找个盒子和一些报纸来。”
They made a bed in a shoebox and set it in the cool hallway. The pigeon ate, slept, and by morning looked insulted rather than ill. Elif read the band under the kitchen light: a number, and three letters. Her uncle wrote them down and telephoned the club. Then they waited. Elif drew the bird in her notebook, but the wing came out wrong.
他们用鞋盒做了一张床，放在凉爽的走廊里。鸽子吃了东西，睡了觉，到了早上，看上去不像生病，倒像是受了冒犯。埃利夫在厨房灯下读那个脚环：一个数字，还有三个字母。舅舅把它们抄下来，打电话给俱乐部。然后他们等着。埃利夫在笔记本上画那只鸟，可翅膀总是画不对。
The call came back before lunch. The bird belonged to a man in a town three valleys away, who had released forty pigeons at dawn and watched thirty-nine come home. He was not angry. He was relieved. He asked whether she had eaten, and whether her wing was warm, and he said he would drive over in the evening.
午饭前电话回了过来。这只鸽子属于三个山谷外一个镇上的人，他黎明时放出了四十只，看着三十九只回了家。他没有生气。他松了一口气。他问她吃了没有，翅膀暖不暖，还说晚上会开车过来，因为他不放心把一只鸟交给公交车。
The man arrived with a wicker basket and a bag of grain. He held the pigeon up to the light, felt her wing, and nodded. “She took the long way,” he said. “Maybe she followed a river. Maybe she stopped to rest. They do not tell us.” Elif asked if he would race her again. He said probably not. “Some birds you keep for the window.”
那人带着一个柳条篮和一袋谷物来了。他把鸽子举到光下，摸了摸翅膀，点点头。“她绕了远路，”他说，“也许是跟着一条河。也许是停下来休息。它们不会告诉我们。”埃利夫问他还会不会带她比赛。他说大概不会了。“有些鸟，是养在窗边看的。”
Before leaving, he let Elif hold the basket while he loaded his van. The pigeon moved inside it, light and warm, like a heart in a box. She watched the van turn the corner and stood on the balcony, listening to the rooftops. For a week she left water out, just in case. Nobody came, but she kept leaving it.
临走前，他让埃利夫扶着篮子，自己往车上装东西。鸽子在里面轻轻动着，又暖又轻，像一个装在盒子里的心跳。她看着面包车转过街角，在阳台上站了一会儿，听着屋顶上的声音。之后一个星期，她一直放着水，以防万一。没有谁再来，但她一直放着。