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《悲喜边缘的旅馆》（Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet）是美国著名华裔作家杰米·福特（Jamie Ford）于2009年创作的第一本小说，也是获得最多好评的小说。
华裔男孩亨利·李（Henry Lee）和其日裔女孩山田圭子（Keiko）是雷尼尔学校仅有的两名非白人学生，于是他们很快结识并成为知心好友。但Henry的父亲反对他们交往，导致两人失去了联系。这个故事衬托出战争对个体命运，尤其是生活在异国他乡的移民的影响。面对历史大背景，个体是多么的无助无奈和卑微。Keiko一家对美国人和中国人并没有敌意，但因日本跟美国和中国交战，Henry的爸爸不惜用断绝父子关系来阻止两人的交往。小说的背景是1986年步入中年的Henry回忆他与Keiko之间那段难以忘怀的情感经历。
这篇节选里讲述了圭子与她的父母邀请亨利与他们共进午餐。在谈话时，圭子妈妈注意到了亨利的大红色别针——上面写着“我是中国人”。因珍珠港事件，在美国的日本人受到排挤，亨利爸爸一直要求亨利随时随地佩戴这枚别针以避免被别人误认为是日本人。作者通过在此章的开头和结尾都描写这个别针来强调二战时期对于中国人这个身份的认知。
Within a week， the evacuation（疏散，撤离）of Bainbridge Island was already old news—within a month it was almost forgotten， on the surface， anyway—everyone was doing their best to go about business as usual. Even Henry felt the restless calm as he and Keiko made plans for lunch on Saturday. She had surprised him by calling his home. Henry’s father had answered the phone. As soon as she spoke in English， he handed the receiver to Henry. His father didn’t ask who it was， just asked if it was a girl—knowing full well the answer.
I guess he just wanted to hear it from my lips， thought Henry. “Yes， it’s a girl” was all he offered. The words came out in meaningless English， but he nodded and explained， “She’s my friend.” His father looked confused， yet seemingly resigned to the fact that his son was practically in his teens. Back in China， the Old Country， marriages happened as early as thirteen or fourteen. Sometimes they were arranged at birth， but only for the very poor or the very rich.
His father would probably be more concerned if he knew the purpose of the call—to meet Keiko’s family. No， Henry realized， concerned was too gentle a word， his father would be livid（怒不可遏的）.
Henry， on the other hand， was less worried until he realized that lunch might qualify as a date—a thought that made his stomach churn（翻滾）and his palms sweat. He reassured himself that it was nothing fancy， just lunch with the Okabes（Keiko的父母）.
At school， things seemed abnormally normal—so restrained（受约束的）and peaceful that he and Keiko didn’t know what to think. The other children， and even the teachers， seemed unaware of the Japanese exodus（大批的离去）from Bainbridge Island. The day had come and gone in relative quiet. Almost like it never happened. Lost in the news of the war—that the U.S. and Filipino（菲律宾的）troops were losing at Bataan（巴丹半岛）and that a Japanese submarine had shelled（轰炸）an oil refinery（炼油厂）somewhere in California.
Henry’s father had become more adamant（固执的）than ever that Henry wear his button（圆形小徽章）. “On the outside—wear it on the outside， where everyone can see it！” his father demanded in Cantonese as Henry was heading out the door. Henry unzipped his coat and left it open so the button was plainly visible， slumping（耷拉着）his shoulders， awaiting his father’s stern approval. He had never seen his father so serious before. His parents even went one step further， each wearing an identical button. Some sort of collective effort， Henry reasoned. He understood his parents’ concern for his own wellbeing， but there was no way that they’d be mistaken for Japanese—because they rarely left Chinatown. And if they did， there were simply too many people to round up in Seattle. Thousands.
Henry and Keiko’s plan was to meet in front of the Panama Hotel. It had been built thirty year earlier by Sabro Ozasa—some architect that Henry’s father had mentioned once or twice. Japanese， but of some renown（名望）， according to Henry’s father anyway， who rarely acknowledged anything in Japanese community in a positive light. This being the rare exception.
The hotel was the most impressive building in Nihonmachi（日本街）， or the entire district for that matter. Standing as a sentinel（哨兵）between two district communities， it provided a comfortable home for people fresh off the boats（刚从国外回来的）， rooming by the week， or the month， or as long as it took to find a job， to save a little money， and to become an American. Henry wondered how many immigrants had rested their weary heads at the Panama Hotel， dreaming of a new life that began the day they stepped off the steamship from Canton（广州）or Okinawa（冲绳）， counting the days until they could send for their families. Days that usually turned to years.
Now the hotel stood as a run-down（破舊的）shell of its former glory. Immigrants， fishermen， and cannery（罐头厂）workers who weren’t allowed to bring their families with them from the Old Country used it as a permanent bachelor hotel.
Henry had always wanted to go down to the lower level. To see the two marble bathhouses， the sento（公共澡堂）， Keiko called them. They were supposedly the largest and most luxurious on the West Coast. But he was too scared.
Almost as scared as he was to tell his parent he was meeting Keiko. He’d hinted to his mother—in English no less—that he had a Japanese friend， and she had immediately shot him her stink-eye（白眼）， a look of shock so profound（深厚的）he immediately dropped the subject. Most Chinese parents were indifferent to the Japanese， or the Filipinos who were arriving daily， fleeing the war or seeking better fortunes in America. Some Chinese harbored（怀有）ill feelings， but most simply kept to themselves. His parents were different—they checked his shirt for an “I am Chinese” button every time he walked out the door. Father’s nationalistic（民族主义的）pride， his banner of protection， just kept swelling. When he walked Keiko home， a polite wave or an occasional “Hello” to her parents was about as far as Henry got. He had been certain his father would somehow find out， so he kept his visits to a minimum. Keiko， on the other hand， gushed（滔滔不绝地说）to her parents. About her friend Henry， his musical interests， and about wanting to meet for lunch today.
“Henry！” There she was， sitting on the front step waving. An early spring was showing signs of new life， and cherry blossoms were beginning to bloom—the streets， lined in pink and white flowers， finally smelled of something other than seaweed（海藻）， salty fish， and low tide.
“I can be Chinese too，” she teased him， pointing at Henry’s button. “Hou noi mou gin（广东话的“好久不见”）.” It meant “How are you today， beautiful？”—in Cantonese.
“Where did you learn that？”
Keiko smiled. “I looked it up at the library.”
“Oai deki te ureshii desu（日语的how are you today），” Henry returned.
For an awkward moment， they just looked at each other， beaming（開心地笑）， not knowing what to say， or in which language to say it. Then Keiko broke the silence. “My family is shopping in the market， we’ll meet them for lunch.”
They raced through the Japanese market to meet her parents. He let her win， a courteous（有礼貌的）gesture his father would have expected of him. And of course， Henry didn’t know where he was going anyway. He followed her to the lobby of a Japanese noodle shop—recently renamed the American Garden.
“Henry， so nice to see you again.” Mr. Okabe wore gray flannel（法兰绒）pants and a hat that made him look like Cary Grant（加里·格兰特，英国男演员）. Like Keiko， he spoke beautiful English.
The manager sat them at a round table near the window. Keiko sat across from Henry， while her mother found a booster seat（儿童垫高椅）for Keiko’s little brother. Henry guessed he must have been all of three or four. He was playing with his black lacquered（涂漆的）chopsticks， his mother scolding him gently， telling him it was bad luck.
“Thanks for walking Keiko home every day， Henry. We appreciate your being such a conscientious（认真的，尽责的）friend.”
Henry wasn’t exactly sure what conscientious meant， but as Mr. Okabe said it， he poured him a cup of tea， so he took it as a compliment. Henry took the tea with both hands， a sign of respect his mother had taught him， and offered to fill Mr. Okabe’s cup， but Keiko’s father had already begun pouring his own， using the marble lazy Susan（餐桌上的圆转盘）to work his way around the table. “Thank you for inviting me.” Henry wished he’d paid more attention in English class. Until he was twelve， he had been forbidden to speak English in his own home. His father had wanted him to grow up Chinese， the way he had done. Now everything was upside down. Yet the cadence（语音语调）of his words seemed to have more in common with that of the fishermen who came over from China than with the English Keiko and her family spoke so fluently.
“That’s an interesting button you have on， Henry，”Keiko’s mother observed in a sweet， grandmotherly way.“Where did you get it？”
Reaching up， Henry covered it with his hand. He’d meant to take it off on the way over but had forgotten it in the race to the restaurant. “My father gave it to me； he said I’m supposed to wear it at all time—it’s embarrassing.”
“No， your father is right. He’s a very wise man，” Mr. Okabe said.
You wouldn’t think that if you met him.
“You shouldn’t be ashamed of who you are， never more than right now.”
Henry looked at Keiko， wondering what she thought about the conversation. She just smiled and kicked him under the table， obviously feeling more at home here than in the school cafeteria.
“It’s easy to be who you are here， but it’s harder at school，” said Henry. “At Rainier， I mean.” What am I saying？ It’s hard being who I am in my own house， with my own family， he thought.
Mr. Okabe sipped his tea， reminding Henry to sip his own. It was lighter， with a flavor more subtle（清淡的，淡雅的）and transparent than the black oolong teas his own father favored.
“I knew going to a Caucasian（白種人的）school was going to present certain challenges for Keiko，” Mr. Okabe said. “But we tell her， be who you are， no matter what. I warned her that they may never like her， some might even hate her， but eventually， they will respect her—as an American.”
Henry liked where the conversation was going， but he felt a little guilty too， wondering about his own family. Why hadn’t anyone ever explained it that way？ Instead he got a button and was forced to speak his American.
“There’s a free outdoor jazz concert on Jackson Street tonight—Oscar Holden will be playing，” Keiko’s mother said. “Why don’t you invite your family to join us？”
Henry looked at Keiko， who was smiling and raising her eyebrows. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d seen Oscar Holden only that one time with Keiko. He’d heard him a few times before that， but only by pressing his ear to the back-alley door of the Blacks Elks Club， where the legendary jazz pianist happened to be practicing. The offer was tempting. Especially since he’d seen so little of Sheldon now that he was subbing for（替代）Oscar’s usual sax man— “a once in a lifetime gig（尤指爵士或流行音乐的演奏会），” Sheldon had called it. Indeed. But， unlike Keiko’s parents， Henry’s didn’t care for colored music. In fact， they didn’t seem to listen to music at all anymore. Classical or modern. Black or white. The only thing they listened to on the radio these days was the news.
It was a kind offer from the Okabes， but one he’d have to decline. Henry could picture the scene like a ten-cent horror matinee（下午场演出）at the Atlas Theater—complete with Chinese subtitles. A dark tragedy springing to life as he explained that not only did he have a Japanese friend but her whole family wanted to take his to a jazz concert.
Before he could fake a polite answer to Mrs. Okabe， a half-empty bottle of shoyu（日语：酱油）began skipping around the table. Henry grabbed it and felt the ground tremble.
Through the rattling（咯咯作响的）window， he could see a large deuce-and-a-half（一种卡车）army truck belching（喷出）black diesel（柴油）fumes as it rumbled（轰鸣着缓慢行进）into the square. Its metal frame creaking and piercing the lumbering（笨拙的）thunder of its massive engine. Even before its gas brakes squealed（发出长而尖的叫声）， people on the street stayed to observe the truckload of soldiers who sat stoically（坚忍地）in the back of the massive rig（大型卡车）.
More trucks kept coming， one after another， unloading American soldiers and military police with rifles who began canvassing（彻底检查）the neighborhood， nailing small posters to doors， storefronts， and telephone poles. Merchants and customers alike poured out to see the commotion（骚动）. Henry and the Okabes stepped on to the sidewalk as soldiers walked past， handing out copies of the flyer（小传单）—“Public Proclamation 1”， which was written in English and Japanese.
Henry looked at the paper in Keiko’s hand. The bold type screamed： INSTRUCTIONS TO ALL PERSONS OF JAPANESE ANCESTRY. It was all about Japanese families being forced to evacuate（撤離）， for their own safety. They had only a few days and could bring next to nothing—only what they could carry. At the bottom， it was signed by the president of the United States and the secretary of war. The rest of the flyer was a mystery to Henry， but not to Keiko’s family. Her mother immediately began crying. Her father looked upset but remained calm. Keiko touched her heart with her finger and pointed to Henry. He touched his and felt the button his family wore. “I am Chinese.”
华裔男孩亨利·李（Henry Lee）和其日裔女孩山田圭子（Keiko）是雷尼尔学校仅有的两名非白人学生，于是他们很快结识并成为知心好友。但Henry的父亲反对他们交往，导致两人失去了联系。这个故事衬托出战争对个体命运，尤其是生活在异国他乡的移民的影响。面对历史大背景，个体是多么的无助无奈和卑微。Keiko一家对美国人和中国人并没有敌意，但因日本跟美国和中国交战，Henry的爸爸不惜用断绝父子关系来阻止两人的交往。小说的背景是1986年步入中年的Henry回忆他与Keiko之间那段难以忘怀的情感经历。
这篇节选里讲述了圭子与她的父母邀请亨利与他们共进午餐。在谈话时，圭子妈妈注意到了亨利的大红色别针——上面写着“我是中国人”。因珍珠港事件，在美国的日本人受到排挤，亨利爸爸一直要求亨利随时随地佩戴这枚别针以避免被别人误认为是日本人。作者通过在此章的开头和结尾都描写这个别针来强调二战时期对于中国人这个身份的认知。
Within a week， the evacuation（疏散，撤离）of Bainbridge Island was already old news—within a month it was almost forgotten， on the surface， anyway—everyone was doing their best to go about business as usual. Even Henry felt the restless calm as he and Keiko made plans for lunch on Saturday. She had surprised him by calling his home. Henry’s father had answered the phone. As soon as she spoke in English， he handed the receiver to Henry. His father didn’t ask who it was， just asked if it was a girl—knowing full well the answer.
I guess he just wanted to hear it from my lips， thought Henry. “Yes， it’s a girl” was all he offered. The words came out in meaningless English， but he nodded and explained， “She’s my friend.” His father looked confused， yet seemingly resigned to the fact that his son was practically in his teens. Back in China， the Old Country， marriages happened as early as thirteen or fourteen. Sometimes they were arranged at birth， but only for the very poor or the very rich.
His father would probably be more concerned if he knew the purpose of the call—to meet Keiko’s family. No， Henry realized， concerned was too gentle a word， his father would be livid（怒不可遏的）.
Henry， on the other hand， was less worried until he realized that lunch might qualify as a date—a thought that made his stomach churn（翻滾）and his palms sweat. He reassured himself that it was nothing fancy， just lunch with the Okabes（Keiko的父母）.
At school， things seemed abnormally normal—so restrained（受约束的）and peaceful that he and Keiko didn’t know what to think. The other children， and even the teachers， seemed unaware of the Japanese exodus（大批的离去）from Bainbridge Island. The day had come and gone in relative quiet. Almost like it never happened. Lost in the news of the war—that the U.S. and Filipino（菲律宾的）troops were losing at Bataan（巴丹半岛）and that a Japanese submarine had shelled（轰炸）an oil refinery（炼油厂）somewhere in California.
Henry’s father had become more adamant（固执的）than ever that Henry wear his button（圆形小徽章）. “On the outside—wear it on the outside， where everyone can see it！” his father demanded in Cantonese as Henry was heading out the door. Henry unzipped his coat and left it open so the button was plainly visible， slumping（耷拉着）his shoulders， awaiting his father’s stern approval. He had never seen his father so serious before. His parents even went one step further， each wearing an identical button. Some sort of collective effort， Henry reasoned. He understood his parents’ concern for his own wellbeing， but there was no way that they’d be mistaken for Japanese—because they rarely left Chinatown. And if they did， there were simply too many people to round up in Seattle. Thousands.
Henry and Keiko’s plan was to meet in front of the Panama Hotel. It had been built thirty year earlier by Sabro Ozasa—some architect that Henry’s father had mentioned once or twice. Japanese， but of some renown（名望）， according to Henry’s father anyway， who rarely acknowledged anything in Japanese community in a positive light. This being the rare exception.
The hotel was the most impressive building in Nihonmachi（日本街）， or the entire district for that matter. Standing as a sentinel（哨兵）between two district communities， it provided a comfortable home for people fresh off the boats（刚从国外回来的）， rooming by the week， or the month， or as long as it took to find a job， to save a little money， and to become an American. Henry wondered how many immigrants had rested their weary heads at the Panama Hotel， dreaming of a new life that began the day they stepped off the steamship from Canton（广州）or Okinawa（冲绳）， counting the days until they could send for their families. Days that usually turned to years.
Now the hotel stood as a run-down（破舊的）shell of its former glory. Immigrants， fishermen， and cannery（罐头厂）workers who weren’t allowed to bring their families with them from the Old Country used it as a permanent bachelor hotel.
Henry had always wanted to go down to the lower level. To see the two marble bathhouses， the sento（公共澡堂）， Keiko called them. They were supposedly the largest and most luxurious on the West Coast. But he was too scared.
Almost as scared as he was to tell his parent he was meeting Keiko. He’d hinted to his mother—in English no less—that he had a Japanese friend， and she had immediately shot him her stink-eye（白眼）， a look of shock so profound（深厚的）he immediately dropped the subject. Most Chinese parents were indifferent to the Japanese， or the Filipinos who were arriving daily， fleeing the war or seeking better fortunes in America. Some Chinese harbored（怀有）ill feelings， but most simply kept to themselves. His parents were different—they checked his shirt for an “I am Chinese” button every time he walked out the door. Father’s nationalistic（民族主义的）pride， his banner of protection， just kept swelling. When he walked Keiko home， a polite wave or an occasional “Hello” to her parents was about as far as Henry got. He had been certain his father would somehow find out， so he kept his visits to a minimum. Keiko， on the other hand， gushed（滔滔不绝地说）to her parents. About her friend Henry， his musical interests， and about wanting to meet for lunch today.
“Henry！” There she was， sitting on the front step waving. An early spring was showing signs of new life， and cherry blossoms were beginning to bloom—the streets， lined in pink and white flowers， finally smelled of something other than seaweed（海藻）， salty fish， and low tide.
“I can be Chinese too，” she teased him， pointing at Henry’s button. “Hou noi mou gin（广东话的“好久不见”）.” It meant “How are you today， beautiful？”—in Cantonese.
“Where did you learn that？”
Keiko smiled. “I looked it up at the library.”
“Oai deki te ureshii desu（日语的how are you today），” Henry returned.
For an awkward moment， they just looked at each other， beaming（開心地笑）， not knowing what to say， or in which language to say it. Then Keiko broke the silence. “My family is shopping in the market， we’ll meet them for lunch.”
They raced through the Japanese market to meet her parents. He let her win， a courteous（有礼貌的）gesture his father would have expected of him. And of course， Henry didn’t know where he was going anyway. He followed her to the lobby of a Japanese noodle shop—recently renamed the American Garden.
“Henry， so nice to see you again.” Mr. Okabe wore gray flannel（法兰绒）pants and a hat that made him look like Cary Grant（加里·格兰特，英国男演员）. Like Keiko， he spoke beautiful English.
The manager sat them at a round table near the window. Keiko sat across from Henry， while her mother found a booster seat（儿童垫高椅）for Keiko’s little brother. Henry guessed he must have been all of three or four. He was playing with his black lacquered（涂漆的）chopsticks， his mother scolding him gently， telling him it was bad luck.
“Thanks for walking Keiko home every day， Henry. We appreciate your being such a conscientious（认真的，尽责的）friend.”
Henry wasn’t exactly sure what conscientious meant， but as Mr. Okabe said it， he poured him a cup of tea， so he took it as a compliment. Henry took the tea with both hands， a sign of respect his mother had taught him， and offered to fill Mr. Okabe’s cup， but Keiko’s father had already begun pouring his own， using the marble lazy Susan（餐桌上的圆转盘）to work his way around the table. “Thank you for inviting me.” Henry wished he’d paid more attention in English class. Until he was twelve， he had been forbidden to speak English in his own home. His father had wanted him to grow up Chinese， the way he had done. Now everything was upside down. Yet the cadence（语音语调）of his words seemed to have more in common with that of the fishermen who came over from China than with the English Keiko and her family spoke so fluently.
“That’s an interesting button you have on， Henry，”Keiko’s mother observed in a sweet， grandmotherly way.“Where did you get it？”
Reaching up， Henry covered it with his hand. He’d meant to take it off on the way over but had forgotten it in the race to the restaurant. “My father gave it to me； he said I’m supposed to wear it at all time—it’s embarrassing.”
“No， your father is right. He’s a very wise man，” Mr. Okabe said.
You wouldn’t think that if you met him.
“You shouldn’t be ashamed of who you are， never more than right now.”
Henry looked at Keiko， wondering what she thought about the conversation. She just smiled and kicked him under the table， obviously feeling more at home here than in the school cafeteria.
“It’s easy to be who you are here， but it’s harder at school，” said Henry. “At Rainier， I mean.” What am I saying？ It’s hard being who I am in my own house， with my own family， he thought.
Mr. Okabe sipped his tea， reminding Henry to sip his own. It was lighter， with a flavor more subtle（清淡的，淡雅的）and transparent than the black oolong teas his own father favored.
“I knew going to a Caucasian（白種人的）school was going to present certain challenges for Keiko，” Mr. Okabe said. “But we tell her， be who you are， no matter what. I warned her that they may never like her， some might even hate her， but eventually， they will respect her—as an American.”
Henry liked where the conversation was going， but he felt a little guilty too， wondering about his own family. Why hadn’t anyone ever explained it that way？ Instead he got a button and was forced to speak his American.
“There’s a free outdoor jazz concert on Jackson Street tonight—Oscar Holden will be playing，” Keiko’s mother said. “Why don’t you invite your family to join us？”
Henry looked at Keiko， who was smiling and raising her eyebrows. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d seen Oscar Holden only that one time with Keiko. He’d heard him a few times before that， but only by pressing his ear to the back-alley door of the Blacks Elks Club， where the legendary jazz pianist happened to be practicing. The offer was tempting. Especially since he’d seen so little of Sheldon now that he was subbing for（替代）Oscar’s usual sax man— “a once in a lifetime gig（尤指爵士或流行音乐的演奏会），” Sheldon had called it. Indeed. But， unlike Keiko’s parents， Henry’s didn’t care for colored music. In fact， they didn’t seem to listen to music at all anymore. Classical or modern. Black or white. The only thing they listened to on the radio these days was the news.
It was a kind offer from the Okabes， but one he’d have to decline. Henry could picture the scene like a ten-cent horror matinee（下午场演出）at the Atlas Theater—complete with Chinese subtitles. A dark tragedy springing to life as he explained that not only did he have a Japanese friend but her whole family wanted to take his to a jazz concert.
Before he could fake a polite answer to Mrs. Okabe， a half-empty bottle of shoyu（日语：酱油）began skipping around the table. Henry grabbed it and felt the ground tremble.
Through the rattling（咯咯作响的）window， he could see a large deuce-and-a-half（一种卡车）army truck belching（喷出）black diesel（柴油）fumes as it rumbled（轰鸣着缓慢行进）into the square. Its metal frame creaking and piercing the lumbering（笨拙的）thunder of its massive engine. Even before its gas brakes squealed（发出长而尖的叫声）， people on the street stayed to observe the truckload of soldiers who sat stoically（坚忍地）in the back of the massive rig（大型卡车）.
More trucks kept coming， one after another， unloading American soldiers and military police with rifles who began canvassing（彻底检查）the neighborhood， nailing small posters to doors， storefronts， and telephone poles. Merchants and customers alike poured out to see the commotion（骚动）. Henry and the Okabes stepped on to the sidewalk as soldiers walked past， handing out copies of the flyer（小传单）—“Public Proclamation 1”， which was written in English and Japanese.
Henry looked at the paper in Keiko’s hand. The bold type screamed： INSTRUCTIONS TO ALL PERSONS OF JAPANESE ANCESTRY. It was all about Japanese families being forced to evacuate（撤離）， for their own safety. They had only a few days and could bring next to nothing—only what they could carry. At the bottom， it was signed by the president of the United States and the secretary of war. The rest of the flyer was a mystery to Henry， but not to Keiko’s family. Her mother immediately began crying. Her father looked upset but remained calm. Keiko touched her heart with her finger and pointed to Henry. He touched his and felt the button his family wore. “I am Chinese.”