2022年上海（春考） Passage A

If a single word can describe our daily life during those first three years, it is “scrounge” (讨要). Every waking moment we were concentrating on how the hell we would be able to save up enough dough (面团;钱) to do whatever it was we had to do. Usually it was just break even. And there's nothing romantic about it, either. Remember the famous stanza in Omar Khayyam? You know, the book of verses underneath the bough, the loaf of bread, the jug of wine and so forth? Substitute Scott on Trusts for that book of verses and see how this poetic vision stacks up against my idyllic existence. Ah, paradise? No, bullshit. All I'd think about is how much that book was (could we get it secondhand?) and where, if anywhere, we might be able to charge that bread and wine. And then how we might ultimately scrounge up the dough to pay off our debts.

Life changes. Even the simplest decision must be scrutinized by the ever vigilant budget committee of your mind.

“Hey, Oliver, let's go see Becket tonight.”

“Listen, it's three bucks.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean a buck fifty for you and a buck fifty for me.”

“Does that mean yes or no?”

“Neither. It just means three bucks.”

Our honeymoon was spent on a yacht and with twenty-one children. That is, I sailed a thirty-six-foot Rhodes from seven in the morning till whenever my passengers had enough, and Jenny was a children's counselor. It was a place called the Pequod Boat Club in Dennis Port (not far from Hyannis), an establishment that included a large hotel, a marina and several dozen houses for rent. In one of the tinier bungalows, I have nailed an imaginary plaque (匾牌): “Oliver and Jenny slept here.” I think it's a tribute to us both that after a long day of being kind to our customers, for we were largely dependent on their tips for our income, Jenny and I were nonetheless kind to each other. I simply say “kind”, because I lack the vocabulary to describe what loving and being loved by Jennifer Cavilleri is like. Sorry, I mean Jennifer Barrett.

Before leaving for the Cape, we found a cheap apartment in North Cambridge. I called it North Cambridge, although the address was technically in the town of Somerville and the house was, as Jenny described it, “in the state of disrepair”. It had originally been a two-family structure, now converted into four apartments, overpriced even at its “cheap” rental. But what the hell can graduate students do? It's a seller's market.