30篇文章贯通考研词汇(原文)

UNIT 1

The Permit

I

think

the

building

must

have

been

used

as

a

farmer

’

s

winter

store

for

I

found

piles

of

forgotten

dried

chestnuts

and

grain

in

rotten

barrels.

I

tried

the

chestnuts

but

they

tasted

sour,

Paulo said he would bring me food, but that was three days ago.

Yesterday,

I

heard

a

car

engine

getting

closer,

and climbed

up

to

hide

in

the

beams

of

the

patched roof. But the men just looked in quickly through the worn-out windows and broken doors

before they left. I clung to the dusty wooden beam, feeling it would bend under my weight, and

tried to make no noise. My arms and legs grew numb, and then began to tremble. I longed to move,

but I waited until I heard the policemen drive off.

I know that they will return. When we began the final part of our journey, we were warned

that the police patrolled the land around here regularly. They are always searching for us, or others

like us; the coast of Morocco and the presidio of Ceuta are only ten miles away across the Straits.

That is how I got here: squeezed in with fifteen other men in a shallow boat meant for eight,

with the cold waves reaching over the sides and the night deep and black as a tomb. I had never

been more scared. I prayed all the way across, and thought about my family. I told myself, over

and over, that I was doing it for them. That trip took almost all of my money. All of the money I

had saved in Ecuador. The boatmen left us on a beach in the middle of the night. We lost sight of

them but we could still hear their small engine across the waves. Six of us started walking inland

but the others waited for the contacts, the friends of the boatmen, as they had been told.

We were lucky: we met Paulo. We found the town and

waited until the first bar opened; I

went in alone while the others hid in the orchard nearby. When I asked for a cup of coffee, the

young barman looked at me and nodded. He made the coffee, and then disappeared into the back

room. Cold and without strength, I wrapped my hands around the warm cup, not caring whether

the barman had called the police, not caring about the next moment, just about the present.

But the man had called Paulo, who came and helped us. Paulo was always smiling, always

happy. He was from Seville, a busy city of many people, and he knew many people. Paulo found

work for us. I made good money on the farms. I picked cabbages, beans, cucumbers and peas. I

picked

great

round

yellow

squashes

that

smelled

of

rich

perfume

when

you

broke

them.

The

farmers hired us by the day, and were content. The local people would never work for the wages

we were paid. But there were many farms, and many crops to be picked. We were welcomed.

I shared a small clean house in the town with seven other workers. We had journeyed from

Ecuador,

Colombia,

Venezuela,

even

Argentina.

Paulo

found

the

house

for

us

—

he

knew

the

landlord

and

arranged

a

good

price.

We

lived

well,

with

enough

food

and

sometimes

wine.

I

earned more in a week than I could in three months back home if there had been work to do there.

I sent most of the money that was left to my wife and parents, and wrote many letters to them.

Then the government changed the rules so that we needed work permits.

I queued with hundreds of other workers, waiting for the application forms. We sat on the

stone benches beneath the trees and read the forms. Some of the other workers were from small

villages and towns, and cannot read as well as I can, so I explained to them that the government

wanted our birth certificates, driving licenses, passports and many other documents. Many of the

workers

had

perhaps

one

or

two

of

these

documents,

but

most

had

none.

I

helped

the

others

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complete

the

forms

and

we

gave

them

to

the

clerk.

He

looked

at

our

documents,

stamped

the

forms

many

times

and

told

us

that

they

would

be

sent

to

Madrid,

and

our

permits

would

be

returned in two or three months if the forms were approved.

We had to wait. Even Paulo and his friends could not help us.

The first month was not too bad as most of the farmers continued to use us; their crops were

rich, waiting to be picked. Then some men from Madrid visited all of the farms, and maybe half of

the farmers stopped using us. The farmers told us that they were sorry, and we understood them.

So the second month was worse: only a few of the farmers would use us, and those that did

pay

very poor wages. We shared what we had, and ate once a day: rice, porridge, bread, cheap

food that would fill our stomachs. We began to stare at each other, and wonder which of us would

find work. There were fights in the morning, between different groups of workers, when the farm

s’

supervisors came to choose who would work that day. But still we had some hope.

We lost the house in the third month, as we had no money for rent. We were able to get some

food from the charity kitchens around the town, and the church, but we found always a long queue

and

very

little

food.

We

took

our

bags

and

blankets

and

slept

in

the

fields.

Then

the

weather

became cold and we slept where we could, huddle together, in old forgotten buildings and alleys.

Sometimes I dreamed of my family, and when I awoke, I wished the dream could continue.

The

people

of

the

town

stared

at

us

from

the

sides

of

their

eyes

as

they

passed

us.

They

clenched

their

hands

and

muttered,

and

some

of

them

spat

on

the

pavement.

A

few

of

us

were

attacked and beaten in the dark, and driven from the parks and streets. All of the time, the police

told us to move on, move on.

It is the end of the third month when it happened.

The farmers hired coaches and sent them into the town. From four o

’

clock in the morning we

waited in agitating silence, hands pushed deep into pockets, our hats pulled down tight against the

cold and the watching policemen.

By the time the coaches arrived, there were hundreds of workers waiting in the darkness. We

pressed forward as the doors opened. The supervisors stood on the bottom steps of the coaches

and asked,

“

Who has the permit?

”

The men with permits held them up and were allowed onto the coaches.

Some of the workers were from the countries in Europe and did not need

permits, so they

were allowed on when they showed their passports. I went from coach to coach until I saw a group

of

Chileans,

who

I

knew

have

no

permits,

climbing

aboard

awaiting

coach. The

leader

of

their

group spoke first with the supervisor and shook his hand, and then they were taken on. I stood

before the supervisor.

“

You have the permit?

”

he asked me. He was broad, stout and filled the doorway of the coach.

His fat neck spilt from the upturned collar of his leather jacket. His hair was shaven close to his

head. I explained to him that my application was rejected but I would try again.

“

Come back when you have a permit,

”

he told me. He frowned as he inhaled a smoke and

looked down the avenue to where the policemen watching the coaches. I explained to him that I

was a hard worker, that I had eaten only once in three days, that I was eager to work and send

money to my family.

He looked at the policemen, who had started walking along the pavement beside the coaches,

and glared at me and said,

“

Go to Madrid and tell them.

”

The Chileans were laughing and pointing at me through the coach windows.

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