+ گذشته، از نظر دستوری، بن ماضی مصدر گذشتن ـه به علاوه «ه» نشانه صفت مفعولی. چیزی که ازش گذشته می شه. یا شایدم چیزی که باید ازش بگذریم؟
خب! من زده به سرم ( هم در مورد جمله بالا و هم در مورد متن بعد! ) و تصمیم گرفتم این تیکه رو به زبان نامادری (!) انگلیسی بنویسم!
غلط گرامری و املایی و اینام زیاد داره احتمالا، راحت باشین و بهم تذکر بدین:)
I was going through the pile of articles on my desk, when I heard someone knocking on the door. Three taps, with a pause in the middle. Polite and courteous, I guessed.
My room was one of the second-floor offices that had a perfect view of the Empire State’s green area, through a window which took the place of one of the walls completely. The other wall, the wall next to my seat, was covered with bookshelves. I inherited those shelves from a very old chemistry professor who stayed here before I moved in.
I turned my head up from the essays and said, “Come in.”
Door opened, and a boy, nearly my age, walked into the room. His attitude caught my eyes at first. He walked firmly, with his hands by his side. As I guessed, courteous indeed. He was really well-dressed, well-behaved, and a lot of other adjectives starting with well.
He walked straight to me and hold out his hand. "Brooklyn Wales." He said, with a rich British accent.
"London Green. Please take a seat." I answered.
He took the nearest seat to my desk. "So, Mr. Wales," I suggested, "What can I do for..."
"It's Brooklyn, Or Brook. whether suits you the best." He interrupted, “And for the things you can do, well…” He pulled a stock of papers out of his bag. While he was looking for a special paper, I had enough time to take a good look at him. He, or better, Brooklyn, had very black short hair, blue eyes and a pale face. A rather handsome person, he was.
“Here we go,” He said, and put a single piece of paper on my desk, “First things first. I’m coming from London. I’m here because I was told I can get some kind of answer for my problems.”
I smiled and picked up the paper he gave me. “There are no questions I can see, on this paper.” It was a summary about an essay, which was supposedly his.
“Yes, there’s not. Just trying to get you to know what I do.”
“And what I can figure out from this, is that what you do and what I do have nothing to do with each other.” I answered.
He leaned forward. “Maybe, but maybe you could help me,” He said with a tempting smile, “If you have time to listen?”
As it turned out, Brooklyn Wales was a particle physics Ph.D. student who studied in Cambridge. Although we had contrast majors, we had the same interests and ideas.
He was bold enough to go after the biggest question of physics for his doctoral dissertation, and he clearly needed help. We talked for hours about his essay, his problems and ideas.
The one thing I haven’t talked to him about, was my own idea.
Two Days Later
“Danny! Danny! Over here!” Harvey’s loud and clear voice woke me up from my over-dinner nap. I opened my eyes to the kitchen of Plaza Hotel. I, along with the other maids of the hotel, was sitting on a large table to eat our dinner. It wasn’t The Place of Honor1, of course, we just preferred to be here in case a guest decided to eat in his room. I spent the last day completely working, and I was SUPER-tired, hence the interrupted nap which was just mentioned.
I got up from my seat to walk to Harvey, through all the anxious cooks and chefs. He was waiting for me, standing beside a big serving table. “Get this to room 713,” He said, “and design a proper dining table in the back room.”
Typical Harvey. He didn’t waste time for small talk, so I didn’t waste mine for answering.
I slid the table out of the kitchen to the lift. Room 713 was one of the luxury three-roomed penthouse apartments on the last floor. I did this a lot of times before. The job was clearing out one of the rooms- in this case, the back room- and set the dining table in it. It usually was for a group who didn’t want to talk in the restaurant, but this time, the amount of food was too little for a group. But of course, it still was enough to feed all my neighborhood for a meal.
A sound declared I was on the last floor, so I took the table out of the lift, and to the last room of the corridor.
There we go. I knocked on the door three times. For unknown reasons, I didn’t like ringing.
“Yes?” a deep voice from inside answered.
“Room Service!” I shouted, and waited for him to open the door.
When he did, I wished he never would have.
Brooklyn Wales. The same guy who showed up at my office two days ago.
He was standing there, looking like I just woke him up, and staring at me like he’s seen a ghost.
I took in a deep breath. My inner maid won over the proud scientist. “Hi.” I said.
“H…Hi.” He repeated, and didn’t move an inch from my way.
“Can I come in?” I asked, with a VERY fake smile. “Yes. Yes. Of course.” He seemed like he has finally found himself. He opened the door a little wider and gestured me to come in.
I really wanted to go back to the elevator and cry, but I had a job to be done.
I pushed the table in his room, i.e. the palace which seemed like it has just experienced an earthquake. It needed perfect calculations to get the big table to the back room without crushing any of his belongings. I could feel his heavy stare at my back, but I had to ignore it. Focus on your job, London. Your job.
The back room, fortunately, was very empty, except for a jacket, and a bag. Both he had when he came to me that day. Damn it Danny! You have a job to do! I picked them up and put them on the other table of the room, the working table. On that, I could have seen the papers he brought me two days ago, they had my own handwriting on them. He clearly read them, and reread them again. He circled the important parts, and took notes with a careful handwriting.
Wow. Good for me.
I let them go and started preparing the dining table. It took me exactly 13 minutes and 43 seconds. I counted, because I had nothing else to do to distract my mind from the situation I was caught up in. I held back my tears for 14 minutes, before I finally could have walked out of that hell.
Before I got out, my inner maid spoke again, “Good night!”
And I closed the door behind my back.
1- the place of honor یه میزه، نزدیک محل کار سرآشپز، که مهمونای مخصوص رو اونجا می شونن و از غذای دست اول بهشون میدن. کلا افتخار بزرگیه که از طرف سرآشپز دعوت بشی اونجا.