World Micro-fiction Classics: The Americas Volume

Author: Yun Qing Compiler/Nationality:
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2001-09-01
Features: At this point, Qiao reached into his pocket and pulled out eighteen yuan. "I sold a painting I drew to a person from Poria," he said. "He also ordered another one." "I'm so happy," Dilia said. "Thirty-three yuan! We've never had this much money to spend before. Tonight we'll have a big dinner." The next week, Qiao came home and placed the newly acquired eighteen yuan on the table. Half an hour later, Dilia returned, her right hand wrapped in a bandage. "What happened to your hand?" Qiao asked. Dilia smiled. "Oh, it's a funny story! When Clementina handed me a bowl of soup, some of it splashed onto my hand. She felt very sorry about it, and the old general also felt bad. But why are you looking at me like that, Qiao?" "What time did you burn your hand today, Dilia?" "I think it was around five o'clock. The iron— I mean, the soup—was prepared around five. Why do you ask?" "Dilia, come here, sit here," Qiao said, pulling her onto the sofa and sitting beside her. "What have you been doing every day, Dilia? Are you really giving private music lessons? Tell me the truth." She cried. "I couldn't find any students," she lamented. "So, I found a job at a laundromat—ironing shirts. This afternoon, a girl accidentally put an iron on my hand and burned me badly. But tell me, Qiao, how did you guess I wasn't giving private music lessons?" "It's simple," Qiao said. "I know everything about your bandage because I gave them to a little girl at the laundromat downstairs. She burned someone's hand with a hot iron. Do you understand? I also work in the power room at the laundromat where you work." "Then, what about your paintings? Did you sell them to the person from Poria?" "Forget it! Your general and Clementina are nothing but fabrications, so the person from Poria is lying too." Then, they both laughed. Translated by Liu Yanbing [USA] O. Henry and others
The car of the wealthy arrived as dusk fell. The girl in gray came to the quiet corner of the small park and sat on a bench, starting to read. Her face was delicate, but her gray dress was ordinary. She had come here at this time the day before, and the day before that as well. A young man knew this. Slowly, he approached her. Just then, the book slipped from the girl's hand onto the ground. The young man picked it up gracefully, offered it politely, and made a few casual remarks about the weather before standing quietly aside. The girl glanced at the young man's simple attire and his unremarkable, ordinary face. "If you'd like, you may sit down," she said in a deep, soft voice. "It's too dark to read now. I'd like to chat for a while." "You know what?" he said. "You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. I saw you yesterday." "Who you are doesn't matter," she said coldly. "You should remember that I am a lady." "I'm terribly sorry," the young man said. "It's all my fault. You know that—my meaning is, there are so many girls in the park, and you know that—of course, you don't know, but—" "Let's change the subject," he said. "Of course, I know. Tell me about these passing tourists. Where are they going? Why are they in such a hurry? Are they happy?" The young man wasn't quite sure what role he should play. "I came here to sit because I can be close to so many tourists. I'm talking to you because I want to find a kind-hearted person, someone who isn't obsessed with money, not just money, money, money! I can't stand the men around me. I don't like self-satisfaction, I don't care for pearls and jewels, and I have no interest in traveling." "I've always thought that," the young man said. "Money is a good thing." "When you have millions, you can go for rides, watch plays, dance, and attend banquets. But I'm tired of all that!" the girl replied. The young man watched the girl with interest. "I really enjoy studying and learning about the lives of the rich." "Sometimes," the girl continued, "I think if I were to fall in love, I'd want to love an ordinary young man—What is your profession?" "I'm just an ordinary person, but I hope I can make a name for myself in the world. What you just said is exactly that: you'd love an ordinary person?" "Of course!" she replied. "I work in a restaurant." The girl was taken aback. "You mean, a waiter?" "I'm the cashier at the restaurant. Did you see the neon sign with the words 'Restaurant' hanging there?" The girl looked at her watch, stood up, and asked, "Why aren't you at work?" "I'm working the night shift," the young man replied. "There's still an hour before I start! Can I see you again?" "I don't know, maybe. I have to leave right away. Well, I'm going to a banquet tonight, and there's also a concert. Did you see the white car at the entrance of the park when you came in?" "Yes, I did," the young man replied. "I always come in this car, and the driver is waiting for me. Goodbye!" "It's already dark now," the young man said. "There are too many bad people in this park. Would you like me to walk you to the car?" "You can stay on the bench for another ten minutes before leaving," the girl said. Then, she turned and walked toward the park entrance. The young man watched the girl's beautiful figure, then stood up and followed her. The girl reached the park entrance, glanced at the car, and walked toward it. She crossed the street and entered the restaurant with the dazzling neon sign that read "Restaurant." A red-haired girl at the cashier counter saw her and left her seat. The girl in gray took over her job. The young man put his hands in his pockets and walked slowly down the street. Then, he approached the car, got in, and said to the driver, "To the night club, Henry." Translated by Xu Jiujuo Liu Meng [USA] O. Henry
The Witch's Bread
Miss Martha's bakery was at the corner of the street, with three steps in front of the door and a bell that rang every time the door opened. Miss Martha was forty years old and had two false teeth in her mouth. She was kind-hearted and had two thousand dollars in the bank. Many people who were far less fortunate than Miss Martha were already married, but she remained single. One customer visited her little shop two or three times a week. Miss Martha began to take an interest in him. He was a middle-aged man, wearing glasses and neatly trimmed brown mustache. He had a strong German accent when he spoke English. He wore an old dress with several patches, though it wasn't well-maintained, it looked clean and tidy, and he was polite. Every time he came, he bought two stale loaves of bread—fresh bread cost five cents each, but stale bread cost two loaves for five cents—except for that. Once, Miss Martha noticed a reddish-brown stain on his finger. Based on this, she concluded that the gentleman was an artist struggling in poverty. He must live in a small attic, painting pictures, and Miss Martha's kind heart beat faster. To verify her guess about his profession, Miss Martha took an oil painting from her room. It was one she had bought at an auction. She hung it in a prominent place on a shelf behind the counter. It was a landscape of Venice. It depicted a magnificent palace, a noblewoman sitting in a gondola, idly splashing the water with her hands. No artist would overlook it.