周日的海鲜饭

从她记事起，每个周日，伊内斯的祖父都会做海鲜饭。不是那种游客在海边便宜餐馆吃的，而是那种慢慢熬制的，有骨头、藏红花，还有好日子才有的兔肉。他总是在院子里用木柴生火，即使现在他已经八十三岁了。

Every Sunday for as long as she could remember, Inés's grandfather had made paella. Not the kind tourists ate in cheap restaurants by the beach, but the slow kind, with bones and saffron and rabbit on a good day. He made it on the patio over a wood fire he started himself, even now that he was eighty-three.

这个周日，伊内斯从马德里回来看他。他比上次见面时瘦了些，动作也更加小心。但当她走进院子时，他已经蹲在火边，用一根长铁棍调整木柴。

This Sunday Inés had come home from Madrid to see him. He was thinner than the last time. He moved more carefully. But when she walked into the patio, he was already crouched by the fire, adjusting the logs with a long iron stick.

“你又迟到了。”他没回头就说。他总是这样说，即使她早到了。

"You're late," he said, without turning around. He always said this even when she was early.

她在他旁边跪下，看着锅。米饭刚开始吸收汤汁。身后的厨房里弥漫着大蒜和迷迭香的香味。她的祖母在屋里某个地方，把盘子放在桌子上。

She knelt next to him and looked at the pan. The rice was just starting to absorb the broth. The kitchen behind them smelled like garlic and rosemary. Her grandmother was somewhere inside, banging plates onto the table.

他用棍子指着锅。“你看着这个。不要搅拌。搅拌海鲜饭的人不懂海鲜饭。”

He pointed at the pan with his stick. "You watch this one. Don't stir it. People who stir paella don't understand paella."

伊内斯一动不动地看了三十分钟。她看着米饭变色，看着锅底变得焦黄，看着祖父看着她。当他终于把锅从火上拿下来时，只是点了点头。她不需要他说任何其他的话。

Inés didn't move for thirty minutes. She watched the rice change color, watched the bottom of the pan catch and brown, watched her grandfather watch her. When he finally took the pan off the fire, he nodded once. She did not need him to say anything else.