By Kate Chambers 魏聰/選注

I find the love letters exactly where I left them： in a folder in an old Hotmail account.1 Years ago， I named that folder “Home.”

I must have weeded those e-mails out of my main inbox on a not-very-busy morning in Harare， Zimbabwe， sitting in front of a clunky desktop computer in the thatched round cottage that was our first home together.2

“Home” is not a big folder. We got married six months after we met. Three of those months we spent mostly together： first in Zimbabwe， where he lived， and then in Paris， where I was working. That didnt leave much time for writing each other heartfelt missives of love and longing.3

And yet. Quickly I scroll through the subject lines.4 The door to my office is open. I can hear my husband clanking the lid down on a saucepan.5 “Plump Pigeons，”6 reads one of them—oh yes， I remember. “Correction to Clarity.” “Lots of PSes7.”

I used to buy phone cards to call my soon-to-be-husband in Harare every night after my editing shift8 at a French news agency was over. Id wait my turn in line outside the phone booths near the Sacré-Coeur，9 then tap +263 （the calling code for Zimbabwe）， and hold my breath for the connection.

I think I did most of the talking.

Those “PSes” were things he hadnt had a chance to say during five-minute， $15 conversations.

He calls now from the kitchen. “What do you put on the potatoes？”

I direct him to the turmeric10 and turn back to my laptop.

There it is， right at the bottom of the list， dated July 28， 2000. The first message he ever sent me. Id landed in Paris a day earlier， back from the reporting trip that my editor certainly hadnt intended to become a matchmaking mission.11

I skim through the message， grinning again at the way the man I would marry—whose precise writing I still love—poked fun at his “ponderous prose.”12

Now that I try to count those e-mails， my cursor13 slipping up and down， I see that there are more than 40 of them.

Each one was crafted thoughtfully， every single word weighed before he pressed Send.14 In contrast， my messages to him were news briefs， three- or four-paragraph replies banged out at the end of my shift.15

I did not have a computer in the tiny flat I rented， with its view that stretched out as far as the Tour Montparnasse16. I had to read his messages quickly， reviewing the passages Id managed to memorize on the metro17 ride home.

There is a wail18 from a bedroom. The wooden beads that our three-year-old daughter is threading have slipped off the string.19 “Mummy is busy，” I hear my husband say.

My mothers love letters are in the bottom of a low chest of drawers20 by her bed.

They are written on thick cream Basildon Bond paper in my fathers strong hand.21 Years ago， Mum must have decided to store them all in one place， just as I did. Hers are tied together， not in a virtual file but with a thin piece of ribbon.22

She keeps them near to the flat burgundy box that holds her jewelry from the 1960s： a glittery brooch， the broken-off buckle from a belt.23

My mother likes to be able to hold her letters. When I started to e-mail her from university， she said she preferred “l(fā)etters I can take out of my handbag.”

I think about her words now as I stare at my love letters， neatly stacked by date and time in an electronic cupboard.24 Would I prefer them to have been written on paper？

I dont think so. I might have mislaid them in a move or ruined them with water from a knocked-over cup.25 Online， they are as pristine26 as they were the day they were written.

Still， Im not taking any chances. I select each message in turn and press Forward27 to send it to another e-mail account. No harm in having backup28 copies.

I close my laptop and get up from the desk. The spinach29 is ready. All I need to do is to mix in a bit of cheese， some stock， and two eggs and then slide the whole thing under the broiler.30

Supper for four. Thats what my husbands prose， painstakingly tapped out in Times New Roman， has led to.31

“I found Dads love letters to me，” I announce a little later， serving spoon32 in hand.

My husband snorts33， secretly pleased. “Did you actually keep those things？”

Sam， age 11， looks up from editing photos of his puppy. Hes not yet at the age of drafting34 love letters. Nor is he far enough into teenagerhood35 to find the idea of his parents having a life before him totally uninteresting.

I look at him. At some point， he， too， will live and love online.

“One day Ill e-mail you a line or two so you can see it on your screen，” I say.

1. folder： 文件夾；account： 賬戶。

2. 我肯定是在一個還算清閑的早晨，在我們位于津巴布韋首都哈拉雷的第一個家，一個圓形的小茅草屋里，坐在一臺笨重的臺式電腦前，把這些郵件從我的主收件箱里移除了。weed out of： 把……清除出去；Harare： 哈拉雷，津巴布韋首都；Zimbabwe： 津巴布韋，非洲南部國家；clunky： 笨重的；thatched： 茅草覆蓋的。

3. missive： 信函，信件；longing： 渴望，熱望。

4. scroll through： 滾動，滾屏；subject line： 標題行。

5. clank： 使發(fā)出叮當聲；saucepan：（帶蓋，有一長柄或兩耳的）深煮鍋。

6. plump： 豐滿的，圓胖的；pigeon： 鴿子。

7. PS： Postscript，附錄，附言。

8. shift： 輪班。

9. phone booth： 電話亭；Sacré-Coeur： 圣心大教堂，位于法國巴黎。

10. turmeric： 姜黃根粉（用于制作咖喱粉等佐料和黃色染料）。

11. 就在收到第一封信件的前一天，我剛結束一個采訪回到了巴黎，我的主編一定沒想到這次采訪居然發(fā)揮了牽線搭橋的作用。matchmaking： 做媒，牽線搭橋。

12. 我瀏覽了那條信息，一想到我要嫁的那個人當時嘲笑自己行文冗長乏味的樣子，又不禁莞爾，到現(xiàn)在我還是愛他精準的筆觸。grin： 露齒而笑，咧嘴笑；poke fun at： 嘲笑，取笑；ponderous： 冗長乏味的； prose： 乏味的話（或文章）。

13. cursor： 光標。

14. craft： 精心制作，這里指遣詞造句很用心；weigh： 認真考慮，斟酌。

15. 相比之下，我的回信就像新聞簡訊，只有三四段，而且是在當班的最后一刻才匆匆寫就的。bang out： 匆匆寫出。

16. Tour Montparnasse： 蒙特帕斯大樓，高210米，位于巴黎。

17. metro： 地鐵。

18. wail： 慟哭，號啕大哭。

19. bead： 珠子；thread： 穿（針、線等）；slip off： 滑落，松脫； string： 線，細繩。

20. chest of drawers： 衣柜，五斗柜。

21. cream： 奶油色的，米色的； Basildom Bond： 是一種紙的牌子。

22. virtual： 虛擬的；ribbon： 絲帶。

23. flat： 扁平的；burgundy： 紫紅色； glittery： 閃閃發(fā)光的；brooch： 胸針，領針；buckle： 皮帶扣。

24. stack： 堆放；cupboard： 櫥柜，這里的electronic cupboard 指電腦里的文件夾。

25. 我有可能因搬家再也找不到這些信件， 也可能因不小心打翻一杯水而毀了它們。mislay： 忘記把……放在何處。

26. pristine： 原本的，未被損壞的。

27. Forward： （電子郵箱中的）轉發(fā)鍵。

28. backup： 備份的。

29. spinach： 菠菜。

30. stock：（湯等的）原汁，湯料；slide： 使滑動，這里指把原 料倒進……；broiler： 烘烤爐。

31. 這就是我丈夫單調乏味的、用心敲出的新羅馬字體情書所帶來的結果（如今我們已是四口之家）。painstakingly： 認真地，細心地。

32. serving spoon： 公用匙。

33. snort： 哼著鼻子說或表示。

34. draft： 起草，草擬。

35. teenagerhood： 青少年時期。