教室被柑橘树浓密的枝叶遮蔽得十分昏暗。黑板刚刚用破布擦过,粉笔灰纷纷扬扬地弥散着,不断地冲进我们的肺中。这时老师还没有来。长满头癣的赛义德·玛赫姆德坐在我的前面。他把一根锯条熟练地插进桌缝,再用金属片拨动它,之后立刻把耳朵贴紧桌面,听那单调 The classroom was shaded by the dense foliage of citrus trees. The blackboard had just been rubbed with a rag, and the chalk ash was swirling up and rushing into our lungs. The teacher hasn’t come yet. The long-swimming Sayyid Mahmud sat in front of me. He skillfully inserts a saw blade into the table seam, pulls it with a metal blade, and immediately puts his ear against the table, listening to the monotony.