Literary Translation | Literary Shanghai

Tom Veber – “Ratatouille” translated from the Slovene by Brynne Rebele-Henry

AUGUST 7th 2023

Tom Veber (born 1995 in Maribor) is an artist who works at the junction of theatre, music, visual arts, and literature. His poems have been published in Croatia, Hungary, Greece, France, Austria, Germany, Russia, and China. He has published two collections – The Breaking Point published in 2019 by Literarna Družba Maribor publishing house, and in Up to Here Reaches the Forest, published last year by ŠKUC – Lambda.

Ratatouille

(translated by Brynne Rebele-Henry)

After all the coincidental walks along the river Ljubljanica, the strategic ignoring at Tiffany’s* and the apple bobbing at the market, you finally asked me out on a date and then on another one. At first I didn’t really know what exactly I should think about you. You always seemed so unapproachable. Even when we were hugging tightly in the evenings waiting for the last bus, I always felt like you weren’t really with me. I wrote poetry, you wrote columns for Jana and Cosmopolitan, which I found extremely amusing, perhaps a little too much so in your opinion. And then you asked me out again that Friday. We went to Metelkova, it was raining and I wanted to dance, so we ended up at Tiffany’s again.

After a couple of hours I managed to get so professionally drunk that I successfully passed out in front of the club entrance. Your paternal instincts kicked in and you took me home, dragged me like a soaked puppy to the sofa, took off my shoes and gave me a drink of salt water. I vomited on your Persian carpet; you weren’t angry. When I finally came to my senses, I was struck by how similar you actually are to your own flat. The white plaster, the high ceilings, the chandelier and the frescoes by the arches. Lots of greenery and light, without mirrors, of course, you told me on our first date that you thought they were a big waste of space. Lots of books you’ve probably never read, beech wood and the smell of you at every turn, a peculiar mixture of patchouli and soft melancholy.

The first outlines of morning were coming through the window, but we still didn’t feel tired. You took me by the hand and led me to the kitchen, sat me down in a chair and asked me: ‘Lasagne or ratatouille?’ I smiled and jokingly poked you, “Oh, you can also cook? Ratatouille sounds great.” You could see in your shoulders that you don’t stand in the kitchen every day, and the initial confusion made you even more attractive. The sounds of stepping on tiles, lifting heavy pots and nervous sniffing echoed pleasantly through my intoxicated body. When you brought the knife down on the first onion, slicing into it raw and hard, I saw your animal side for the first time, the veins in your arms swelling so nobly that I wanted to paint and frame you.

The kitchen sizzled, the windows steamed up and my taste buds did too. You added courgettes, tomatoes and rosemary to the pot, poured two glasses of merlot and we were transported to Provence. With every breath I took, the apartment seemed more familiar and you more accessible. For the first time I saw you in a tracksuit and a white T-shirt that was getting more red stains with every second. Slowly, steam began to rise from the pot, filling the room with the smell of the familiar and the desire that we would be something more. You removed the hot pot from the fire and began to layer the vegetables on two plates with your bare hands, I didn’t mind you touching the food, I didn’t mind the streaky hair and the shallow columns anymore. I wanted to be with you, fully, with stains on your shirt, with the damp patches under armpits. You giggled like a little boy: ‘Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have something on my nose?’ You served me food and a smile full of lust, the sun rose from behind the horizon and filled the room with yellow desire.

* a gay club in Ljubljana.

RATATOUILLE

Po vseh naključnih sprehodih ob Ljubljanici, strateškemu ignoriranju v Tiffaniyu in obmetavanju z jabolki na tržnici si me končno povabil na zmenek in potem še na enega. Sprva nisem točno vedel, kaj bi se začel s teboj. Zmeraj si deloval tako nedostopen. Tudi, ko sva ob večerih tesno objeta čakala na zadnji avtobus, se mi je zmeraj zdelo, kot da nisi zares z mano. Jaz sem pisal poezijo, ti si pisal kolumne za Jano in Cosmopolitan, kar se mi je zdelo izjemno zabavno, po tvojem mnenju morda malo preveč. In potem si me tisti petek povabil spet ven. Šla sva na Metelkovo, deževalo je in jaz sem hotel plesat in tako sva spet pristala v Tiffaniyu.

Po nekaj urah se mi je uspelo tako profesionalno napiti, da sem uspešno zakomiral pred vhodom v klub. V tebi se je prebudil očetovski nagon in tako si me pripeljal k sebi domov, kot premočenega cucka si me zvlekel na kavč, mi sezul čevlje in mi dal piti slano vodo. Potem sem pobruhal tvojo perzijsko preprogo, nisi bil jezen. Ko sem se končno spravil k sebi, me je prešinilo, kako si pravzaprav podoben svojemu stanovanju. Bel omet, visoki stropi, lestenec in freske ob obokih. Veliko zelenja in svetlobe, seveda brez ogledal, že na prvem zmenku si mi razkril, da se ti zdijo velika potrata prostora. Veliko knjig, ki jih verjetno nisi nikoli prebral, bukov les in vonj po tebi na vsakem koraku, svojevrstna zmes pačulija in mehke melanholije.

Skozi okno so se risali prvi obrisi jutra, midva pa še zmeraj nisva bila zaspana. Prijel si me za roko in me popeljal v kuhinjo, me posedel za stol in me vprašal: » Lazanja ali ratatouille?« Nasmehnil sem se in te šaljivo podrezal » A kuhati tudi znaš? Ratatouille se sliši odlično.« Na ramenih se ti je videlo, da ne stojiš prav vsak dan v kuhinji, začetna raztresenost te je delala še bolj privlačnega. Zvoki stopicljanja po ploščicah, dvigovanja težkih loncev in živčno sopihanje so prijetno odzvanjali skozi moje opito telo. Ko si se spravil nad prvo čebulo, surovo in trdo si zarezal vanjo, sem prvič videl tvojo živalsko plat, tako plemenito so ti nabreknile žile po rokah, da bi te najraje naslikal in uokviril.

Zacvrčalo je po kuhinji, orosila so se okna in moje brbončice. V lonec si dodal še bučke, paradižnik in rožmarin, nalil še dva kozarca merlota in preselila sva se v Provanso. Stanovanje se mi je z vsakim vdihom zdelo bolj domače in ti vedno bolj dostopen. Prvič sem te videl v trenerki in beli majici, ki je z vsako sekundo dobivala več barvnih madežev. Iz lonca se je počasi začela dvigati sopara, prostor je napolnil vonj po poznanem in željo, da bi bila nekaj več. Vroč lonec si odstranil z ognja in začel z golimi rokami plastit zelenjavo na dva krožnika, ni me motilo, da si se dotikal hrane, niso me več motili štrenasti lasje in puhle kolumne. Hotel sem biti s tabo, v celoti, s packami na majici, z vlažnimi madeži pod pazduhami. Zahihital si se kot majhen fantek:« Ja kaj pa me tako gledaš, a imam kaj na nosu?« Postregel si mi s hrano in s poželjivim nasmehom, sonce je vstalo iz za obzorja in napolnilo prostor z rumenim hotenjem.

~

‘Lilac’ (1988) – Soon Ai Ling (translated by Pow Jun Kai)

DECEMBER 12th 2022

Pow Jun Kai is a cultural historian, producer and translator. His research interests lie in gender, media and technology in twentieth-century South East Asia. He is published in South East Asia Research, Transgender Studies Quarterly and Trans Asia Photography. His translation of Soon Ai Ling’s short stories are forthcoming in Chinese Literature and Thought Today and Quarterly Literary Review Singapore.

Lilac (1988) – Soon Ai Ling

If I were to see her again, I must keep her here!

The sun was setting as she walked me to the main road and sent me off. Orchard Road in Singapore was such a pretty street: multiple buildings with departmental stores; hotels interspersed among the thick shadows of tall trees; the purplish thin evening sky and its imminent darkness with a glimpse of sunlight. The street lights had yet to come on. Even though she had seen me getting onto the taxi she stood on the pavement and did not leave. The traffic light was on red and the vehicle was not moving. It was then when I noticed that she had on a turquoise belt hanging loosely on her waist over a goose yellow dress. She waved back at me sending me off with her gaze.

Her name is Lilac Yee. Her father is Yee Wenjue, a prolific master in jewelry design.

Ten years ago, my family used to run a jewelry business in Hong Kong. My father was addicted to gambling. We eventually went bankrupt and had to dismiss all of our employees. Yee Wenjue was then invited over to Singapore by Swee Heng Jewelry. As for my father, he became rather carefree–going for breakfast with a birdcage in hand, having a game of mahjong after lunch–all the while bragging about his glorious past.

I took over his brand and started all over again. Instead of real jewelry, I produced handmade jewelry. My brand name was Treasure Room.

Handmade jewelry relied on design and craftsmanship to attract customers. I therefore needed the best jewelry designers. I travelled from Hong Kong to Singapore this time around to find Yee Wenjue hoping that he would on account of our old ties lend me some support. But he declined. Obviously, why would he agree to making fake jewelry?

But I was not disappointed. I sat in his living room, staring blankly.

A while later, Yee became concerned and eventually brought out some designs, some of which piqued my interests.

These drawings were all imitations of the jewelry designs from each ancient Chinese dynasty, but they definitely did not belong to Yee’s personal style. He revealed, “these were created by Lilac. She was merely doing this for fun. She often liked to read books on ancient jewelry and so she drew these based on her own ideas. What do you think?”

“They look absolutely amazing. Where is she? I want to see her!”

After waiting for two whole hours, I finally got to meet her. She said, “Hello, Tang Shunzu.”

I proposed my ideas to her and immediately discussed her drawings with her. She stared at me with a smile in her eye and spoke without stopping, “The Dunhuang colors are most spectacular … Carving skills will definitely be popular once again and the images can be modelled after the antiquities … Transform the style of the hair pins and shape them into necklaces and bracelets … There must be a breakthrough in the cloisonné patterns. Look at this sample. We can attach stalks of lotus-like gardens on the golden cup using a series of colors: a red series, a purple series, or a blue series. Add a layer of colorful glaze and gold-plate the edges of the figures. The coloring must be done quickly and the craftsmanship must be meticulous … This is the headdress of an aristocratic woman from the Northern Zhou dynasty. I drew it out according to historical records. Don’t you think transforming it into a necklet would look great? … This earring belonged supposedly to Xie Ah Man, a court dancer from the Tang dynasty. We can just imitate it directly. What do you think?”

As I listened to her, I became perturbed. After idling for so many years, why did these inspirations appear only at this moment?

I told Lilac, “I want all of these pictures. I will sign a contract with you … I still have some decent master craftsmen in Hong Kong and they will definitely help me produce good results … I will definitely not rush through the job and seek quick success; I know art … I don’t have that much capital, but I have the budget to convert your designs into handmade jewelry… I have access to the markets in Japan and Europe and they are ordering the goods from me … These days, every girl is wearing accessories … How many people can afford to own branded jewelry? Except for the royalties or shipping tycoons, some of whom are also not wearing real ones … Our jewelry needs to have a prominent Oriental flavor. I want to make use of the jewelry advertising methods of the Western Europeans by recounting the history of jewelry in the East. It is akin to what you have told me. In the year 439 in the imperial courts of the Northern Zhou dynasty, there was a royalty with the surname Yu-Wen. His favorite concubine loved to wear this headwear that complemented her face in a classical and elegant manner, thereby becoming the court favorite her whole life … There will be a handmade jewelry exposition next year in Florence, Italy. I want to bring your jewelry designs to showcase.”

Later, she saw me off to the door and onto the car. I could not describe how she looked. As someone born with a silver spoon, I did not notice her ten years ago. She was still rather young as well. At our hasty meeting today, I also did not observe her closely. However, if I were to see her again, with or without make-up or in a dark corner, I would still recognize her. I am sure I can!

◊ ◊ ◊

When I brought the design portfolio back to the few master craftsmen in Hong Kong, especially Old Yu, they cried out aloud, “We have been imitating the foreigners these days. Why didn’t we turn around and look at our own national treasures? We are utterly useless. Useless! … What? These are designed by Old Yee’s daughter? The Yee family, their blood is thicker than ours! … The heavens cannot stop Treasure Room. I must produce all of these even if I were to grind until my eyes are both blind.”

The first batch of jewelry were manufactured. When the commercials were aired on television, they immediately became the rage in the market. The newspapers came to interview me. I knew the answers to some of their questions, but I did not reply. They probed, “these designs will sooner or later be copied by your competitors, how will you deal with it?” I flashed a smile without giving them an answer. I totally did not need to deal with this problem; experts can tell the difference.

“Your price is set in the range between the real and fake jewelry on the more expensive end. Will there be the possibility of a discount?” I had even wanted to increase the price instead.

“It is rumored that your designer is in Singapore. How do you send the design images to Hong Kong? Using a bodyguard?” Lilac used surface mail. Sometimes she only drew graphics on napkins that bear faint patterns.

“Where did your designer study? In addition to the ancient jewelry, does she know much about Chinese history? How old is your designer, more than half a century old?” God knows. She had only completed her secondary education and was 25 years old that year.

After receiving Lilac’s seventy-second blueprint, she stopped sending anything to me. I got very agitated. My father stared at me through the corners of his eyes and then walked away. I bore a certain hatred toward my father, toward Treasure Room, toward myself, feeling rather unhappy.

I wrote Lilac a few letters and finally received her reply. She had only written four words, “talent and devotion diminished”.

I showed the letter to my father, who was practicing calligraphy in the study room. Upon seeing it, he looked up and laughed out aloud. He then wrote another four words for me, “be satisfied and stop”.

I then became ashamed. What did I treat Lilac as? Damn it!

Father took out a few books from the bookshelf, including dramas, stories, legends and so on. I held up the dictionary and was surprised. My father said, “I see that many of Lilac’s drawings are derived from the texts of these dramas and stories written about the dressing of Madams and Misses … You shouldn’t underestimate this dictionary. Take a look at the entries on gold, silver, pearls and jades. Their explanations will be an eye-opener for you.”

Indeed, I flipped open the dictionary and checked the entry on “jade coin”: a beautiful, round piece of jade with wide sides and a small hole. I remembered Lilac had done a drawing in the form of a necklet. The pendant in the middle had broad sides and a small opening. With the lace passing smoothly through the aperture, the pendant was adorned with cloisonné patterns and Dunhuang vibrancy. It was round and big. When placed on the front of the neck and matched with a low-cut black dress, it appeared wild but pretty.

Then I checked the entry on “penannular jade ring”: like a ring but lacking; it is also a jade pendant, one with something lacking. I remembered Lilac had made a drawing, the style of which was the omission of a big slice. When Old Yu saw the picture, he took a while to grasp its meaning before creating a set of chain, bracelet, earrings and ring. Precisely because of the lack in one section, it appeared unique and novel.

I returned to my room and whispered to Lilac in the dark.

Comparing myself to my father, Yee Wenjue and even Lilac, I am the number one idiot.

Only then did I realize why Yee Wenjue, Old Yu and even Lilac had treated me so well. This was all because of my father. What virtue and capability do I have? Even the little accomplishments that I had were under the auspices of my father. Although he did not have anything left, his proud and upright demeanor as a jeweler remained. When I was young, I used to be oblivious to his career, thinking that it was outdated and short-lived. Therefore, I chose to study English literature. I did not care about him when he was on the decline. However he silently imbue me with the spirit rightful of a jewelry dynasty. No wonder he refused to pass the business on to others.

The next day, I approached Old Yu. I asked him a few questions because I was in Europe when my father sold the business. Old Yu said, “Yee Wenjue has been with your family for the longest time. You also know that he and your father are like brothers, one handling the designing and the other dealing with the marketing, creating a famous brand out of the Treasure Room at one time … When your father lost the business, Yee Wenjue was at his angriest. Your father kept on apologizing to him, but he ignored your father … It was inevitable since Yee Wenjue was sincere about Treasure Room. Your father was rather muddle-headed. Let me tell you, men cannot take a wrong step. Just one wrong step and everything will be ruined … When Yee Wenjue left Hong Kong that year, he didn’t inform anyone. He left without a word. That showed how angry he was.”

After that, I wrote to Lilac every day, telling her some of my trivial matters, telling her where I saw the inklings from her pictures.

Finally she replied and I heaved a sigh of relief!

When I brought along a batch of exquisite jewelry onto the plane toward Florence, I only thought about her on the way there. For this exhibition I dispatched some people to Europe to advertise the products two months beforehand. The orders were beginning to trickle in and everything had been organized accordingly. I also sent Lilac the air tickets, with which she would depart from Singapore. We had arranged to see each other in Florence. I told her that was Dante’s birthplace.

Lilac wanted me to recite a paragraph from the Divine Comedy at Dante’s former residence for her. She knew that I graduated from the English Faculty at Hong Kong University. I prepared a section but would not be narrating it in English. Instead I would be using Italian, something that she did not expect. A long time ago, I was awarded a scholarship by the Italian government to travel to Florence to research on Dante. I could recite it thoroughly even in my dreams; how difficult could it be?

It is now my turn to return the favor. Ah, my beloved Lilac! If I were to see her again, I must keep her here!

“Lilac” is reproduced with permission from Ren Ye Nu Ye by Soon Ai Ling, Copyright, 2007, Global Publishing Co. Pte Ltd.

~

Piyal Kariyawasam – ‘Second Time Round, the Silver Bullets Found his Heart’ (trans. Gaya Nagahawatta)

NOVEMBER 16TH 2020

Piyal Kariyawasam is a Sri Lankan writer, theatre activist, lecturer, and director of documentaries. Locally, he has won state awards for fiction and theatre. He has received international scholarships to U.S.A. and India. He represented Sri Lanka at the 1^st China-South Asia Literature Forum, China, and at international events in Bhutan and Azerbaijan. He has published 5 works of fiction, as well as producing many theatre and audio-visual pieces.

Second Time Round, the Silver Bullets Found his Heart

Before the sudden downpour, the surroundings turned unbearably hot. The usual mild wind twisted and twirled, creating a whirlwind and lashing about. The river of dark clouds that gathered in successive waves, drifting in from the north, spread over the western horizon. Under this stormy sky, in a front room in a disorderly housing complex, he sat at the window, distressed by conflicting thoughts that flitted through his mind. The phrase he was trying to translate was stuck half way, as the inherent absurdity of language wrestled against his thoughts.

Suddenly, a deafening thunderbolt had the entire housing scheme feeling airborne before the rattling settled. Keeping his pen aside, he hastened to the inner chamber, afraid his son would awake. But the little one was sound asleep, with his left thumb completely immersed in his mouth. The father retraced his steps to the front room, seating himself again on the low chair with the armrests, and pulling the wooden board used as a makeshift writing desk, towards himself.

Raindrops the size of silver-coloured lozenges–those one got a handful of for twenty-five cents in a distant childhood–now fell rapidly to the ground and scattered hither and thither. With the falling rain, the soil turned a dark coffee-brown within minutes. The silvery raindrops gathered like glistening shards of broken glass, and in the next instant, disappeared into the coffee-brown murky waters. As the rains continued uninterrupted, small streams formed as if the broken glass had melted. Although he tried to immerse himself in work, with his head bent over his temporary desk, his pen would not move across the blank sheet any more, marking the customary letters. Meanwhile, the characters in the dictionary became more and more illegible, dancing in front of his eyes like doodles of a black ballpoint pen. As his head felt heavy with the thick air that filled the lungs and the nape of his neck ached with the pressure of his bent head, he pressed against the head-rest of his chair and stretched himself.

His view framed by the open doorway brought fresh fear to his mind. It seemed as if the deluge on the outside would inundate his quarters too. Soon enough he realized it was an instant leap in thought occurring with the sudden change in position. Nevertheless, the exterior of his congested abode was being battered by the downpour, and the waters that gushed past on the main road was now a rivulet flowing speedily to the sea. In the next instant he heard the roar of–he believed–a motorboat speeding up the river, which the snaking road was now fast becoming. He steadied his spectacles with his forefinger and peered out, somewhat baffled. The rare sighting of an old C.T.B.[1] bus–a government-owned bus from two decades ago–rattling past in a fashion alien to the surroundings, met his view. As it disappeared from his range of vision, he reminded himself that he was just an ordinary citizen struggling with a mere translation, and focused his attention on the next sentence to be rephrased in Sinhala. A few words jumped out of the mass of text on the page.

Political – patronage – criminals – police

His spectacles seemed covered in a film of vapour that drifted in from the open doorway. Removing it, he wiped it on his faded sarong, tightened into a knot at his waist. As he peered at the text once again, he clearly saw the printed title:

Political patronage of criminals and police dilemmas

With a momentary exasperation about rephrasing this in Sinhala, he placed his pen on the blank paper and sat back in the chair, glancing at the pouring rain, outside.

When one tried to define a word in translation, not one simple word, but an essay or a thesis seemed to be required to fully explain it. Even then, such meanings were foregrounded by other associations, at points ambiguous. Again and again, what arose was nonsensical uselessness or irrational contradictions.

Musing that rational thought became a sickness in itself, he placed the sheaf of paper he had been working on, the dictionary, the original piece of writing, and the pen, and balancing them on the board, lifted and re-placed the entire array on the armrest, as he got up to go into the inner room.

His son had suddenly woken up and was seated on the bed. Without doubt, the child was still in his dream world. If he was fully awake, he would have definitely come out running and started his own blabber. The father’s first thought was correct. His son turned towards him with a vacant look in his eyes and said, ‘Superman drowned in the sea,’ before lying down again. The father watched him fall asleep once more, breathing deeply, pursuing superman on his descend further down into the depths of the sea. The timepiece on the low stool near the bed indicated twenty minutes past four. The outside world was overcast. The dark rain clouds covering the sky suggested premature onset of darkness.

Why was the little one still asleep? Was he sick?

Although he felt like getting on the bed and checking the child’s temperature, he remained silently standing for some minutes.

No, it’s because of the rain he was curled up like this… If it were fever, he would whimper, would be restless and wake up from time to time…

Thinking thus, the father re-entered the room used as the parlour, sitting room and library. Amidst the various books, magazines and dictionaries strewn about on the writing table, in apparent disarray, but possessing a neatness decipherable singularly to himself, he noted the thin notebook.

Those hundred-and-twenty pages comprised his personal journal. Although the tradition of maintaining written records of life experiences was a dying art, he had cultivated this habit from about five years ago, after reading The Master of Petersburg by South African writer J.M. Coetzee. That novel based on Dostoyevsky himself and his fictitious characters, had made him appreciate the thought of keeping daily or at least occasional records, even if he never attempted to write a full-blown novel. Therefore, for the past five years he had been documenting various incidents and experiences of his life in an impromptu manner, not adhering to a rigid daily routine. Sometimes these ad hoc notes from real life had developed into fables, short stories, or film scripts.

Well, well… do I become Henry James because of these scribbles of mine? Or else Virginia Woolf or Naipaul?

Sarcastic of his own attempts at documentation and fictionalization, he continued to put down thoughts and happenings from his own life and surroundings, shrouding them in absurdities when he felt like doing so. He felt he could claim ownership of those past moments in his life by writing such stories down with his own hand. Notebook in hand, he seated himself near the window, under the descending twilight, and turned a page at random.

2005 – 12 – 21

…I can’t remember exact dates and times. However the entire sky was a deep, brilliant blue. I would sit and recite stories to myself, sometimes in a high-pitched tone. In my imagination, there was always someone listening to these tales.

One day, thaththa[2] went to the paddy field early in the morning as usual, but didn’t return even at dusk. By nightfall our house was filled with village folk of all sorts, types and sizes. Watching the women-folk cry, I too shed tears. Crying continuously, I drifted into sleep. In the dead of night, I suddenly woke up. Thaththa was seated on my swing in the garden and was staring at me. Maybe realizing that I’d woken up, he started talking.

“Stop your mutterings of stories. Or else, they will cut off your tongue – give it to the dogs. To eat.”

With those words he swung backwards on the swing. He never swung back forward. It was dark under the mango tree. I had fallen asleep on the bench under it. Dogs – dogs that eat human tongues… I sprinted into the house without turning back. Thaththa was asleep in a box in the middle of the sitting room. Villagers who had arrived from evening were dozing off on palmyrah-leaf mats laid on the ground. That night, I lost my voice. The moment I think of reciting a tale, images of all manner of dogs gobbling up human tongues, dance before my eyes…

He turned to the last entry in the book, which he realized was dated over a month ago. These last entries seemed short, cheap attempts to imitate Eugene Ionesco, Ajith Thilakasena, Samuel Beckett or Harold Pinter, by removing the inherent logic of the piece, by force. Keeping aside the book, he realized that the surroundings were immersed in darkness. A person in their right mind would not be turning pages of a book in such fading light.

As he stood up to switch on the electric light, he noticed from the open window, how the city beyond looked unusually dark. Although he pressed the switch, no light came on. He went to the door and peered out. The rain had subsided and a thin vapour was rising from the tarred road. All the houses and buildings beyond were submerged in the darkness that continued to spread. The headlights of vehicles that passed by intermittently, blinded the eye.

Where were the candles? In the drawer of the writing table, or on the spice rack in the kitchen?

Candle in hand, he re-entered the inner room and checked the body temperature of his sleeping child. It seemed normal. Aroused by the father’s touch, his son turned over.

The father took the candle with him to the front room, and placed it on the middle of the table. The positioning allowed the light to also reach the inner room. Gathering the documents and books scattered on and around the low chair near the window, and placing them on the writing table, he sat at the chair accompanying it. With the light of the candle, he could now see the subtitle of the article he was translating.

“The Culture of Untruth and a Perilous Vacuum… Hmm… this into Sinhala…”

As he was deep in thought, a wild wind blew in from the open doorway, sending a shiver down his spine, scattering the disorderly photocopied paper all over the floor and threatening the candle flame, before subsiding. He got up to collect his things, also deciding to close the door. As he reached the entranceway, he noticed a sportsbike, which would zoom past with deafening sound under normal circumstances, pass through quite sluggishly. From its rather lethargic movement, he presumed that the motorcycle would come to a halt within a couple of yards, and the anonymous rider, surely light a cigarette.

Reordering the photocopies was not problematic. However, translating in the dim candlelight intensified the exhaustive nature of the task. After securing the photocopies with a paper-clip, he turned back to his personal notebook.

The final few pages contained various notes about daily occurrences and real-life incidents. Based largely on information published in daily newspapers, they were details that needed verification before putting them to any further use. As there was no appeal or investigative quality in them, he closed the book, laid it aside and looked again at the candle. With the door closed, it burnt with minimal motion. The rain had stopped entirely. Now, not only the sounds of vehicles from the road outside, but also the sounds from the distant roundabout, could be heard clearly.

It seemed as if someone had stepped on to the elongated concrete platform between the drain and the front door and was stamping his shoes free of mud and dirt. The next logical step should be a knock on the door. Instead, the light-bulb hanging from the roof suddenly burned bright, instantly eliminating the darkness that had prevailed throughout the evening. In parallel, the surrounding world bounced into motion, as if someone had breathed life into it.

Thinking how intense the darkness was earlier, he snuffed out the candle and entered the inner room, to switch on its light. The brilliance that suddenly spread across the room caused the little one to squint his eyes. He turned in his sleep, placing a hand across his eyes, but did not show any indication of waking up.

Approaching the table and opening the drawer, the father checked the time on his wristwatch, against the wall clock. Both clocks, in unison, displayed that an hour had passed by. An hour that was mixed with rain clouds amongst the rest of the transformations of an evening into night. Nothing had been translated. The attempts to translate only generated an illogical, hallucinatory, meaninglessness, creating a tension as if aroused from an inherent nervous disorder that had been submerged for some time.

Why was the child sleeping so long? Why did the motorbike go past the house so slowly? Did someone really come to the closed front door and withdraw? Among all this, was he not trying to translate, reports of war secrets accessible only to himself and a handful of other civilians? Were they not writings on state terrorism? Who can say that those who placed these documents in his hands would not become talkative about their whereabouts over a few drinks of whisky? If so, was not his death warrant, already issued? Couldn’t his death be orchestrated fairly easily, even through a simple road accident staged at an opportune time? Once dead, both enemies and friends will probably say… ‘But he did his job well.’

His entire body was bathed in perspiration. This time, someone certainly did step onto the concrete slab in front of the house. In the next moment, even before he could rise from the table, he heard a light kick, which flung open the door. The tall human figure looming in front of his eyes took out a pistol, very much like a toy, and released a few silver bullets. This action reduced the father into a sleeping posture with his head slumped over the table, where all his documents lay. Pulling the door firmly shut, the stranger departed, his task complete.

Although the bleeding did not make him dizzy or benumb him, he felt imprisoned in a huge empty space. When he finally lifted his head, he could see a circle of relatives surrounding him. Beyond them stood personalities he had never seen alive during his lifetime, but had got to know through diverse literary forms. Belonging to various periods of history, King Dhathusena, Subhas Chandra Bose, Christopher Marlowe, as well as those from more recent years such as Saadat Hasan Manto, Sarojini Naidu, Rosa Luxemburg. Each dressed in time-appropriate clothing and carrying travelling bags or pouches to match. Now gathered here as silent onlookers. Among those present, he finally recognized his own father. Clad in a chequered sarong and a cotton banyan, complete with a serpent-skin belt – a trademark of the mudalalis[3] of his time – he carried in his hand, another sarong wrapped in a cellophane bag. Approaching the son, the father said, ‘Lokka[4], it’s time to go…’

With his father’s own words, realization dawned on him that his body was not cooperating with the desires of his mind. The bitter truth of the uselessness of a body that cannot react to its owners commands brought a measure of heaviness to his heart, slowly drawing him into utter emptiness. As he drifted towards this void, the familiar utterance of ‘thaththa… thaththa…’ drew him back with concentrated and undivided attention. Instantly dragged into the material world and immediately earthbound, where his entire personal history was fashioned, he lifted his head and looked up.

His son who had awakened after a long and satisfying sleep had come looking for the father. As he turned to take his son on to his lap, a speeding motorbike braked to a stop, this time for certain, in front of the house. As the rider kicked open the front door, he calmly told his son, “Go to your bedroom, sonny, I’ll come soon”. Then he turned to face the rider, now stepping over the doorway.

[The above is a translation of Piyal Kariyawasam’s short story ‘Ridee unnda devaniva vedunida layata’ (given below in its original version) translated from Sinhala by Gaya Nagahawatta, and endorsed by the writer.]

[1] Ceylon Transport Board

[2] ‘Father’ in Sinhala

[3] ‘Local merchants’ in Sinhala

[4] ‘Elder (son)’ in Sinhala

රිදී උණ්ඩ දෙවැනිව වැදුණිද ලයට

– පියල් කාරියවසම්ගේ කතාවක්

අකල්වැස්ස වැටෙන්නට පෙර පරිසරය එකවර ගිනියම් වෙයි. කලාපයට ආවේනික මඳනල ඉක්මනින් සුළංකෝඩයකට පෙරළී කැරකෙන්නට වෙයි. උතුරුදිග අහසින් රැලි නැගී පෙරලී එන කළුවලාකුළු ගංගාව බස්නාහිර අහස වසා ගනී. ඒකී අහස හෙවනේ පිහිටි අවිධිමත් නිවාස පද්ධතියක ඇතුළු කාමරයක ඔහු වාඩි වී සිටින්නේ දැල් ජනේලයෙන් එපිට වෙන්වී පෙනෙන්නාවූ කළුඅහස දෙස යොමාගත් දෙනෙතින්, අනියත හැඟීම් මාලාවකින් තැවෙමිනි. පරිවර්තනය කරන්නට උත්සාහ කළ වැකිය එකම තැනක හිරවුනේ භාෂාවේ විකාර සහගත බව හවස්යාමයේම අරගල කරන්නට වූ සිතිවිලි සමඟ ඒකාංශ වෙමින් ඇලී ගැලෙන්නට වූ බැවිනි.

එකවරම මුළු නිවාස පේළියම ගුවන්ගතව යළිත් බිම හුන් සේ අකුණක් පුපුරා යයි. ඔහු වහාම පෑන පසෙක තබා, ඇතුල් කාමරයට දිවගියේ හවස් යාමයේ නින්දට වැටී සිටි පුතු පිපිරුම් හඬින් අවදිවී වැලපීම ආරම්භ කොට ඇතැයි හටගත් සිතිවිල්ලෙනි… එහෙත් පුතු වම් මහාපහටැඟිල්ල සම්පුර්ණයෙන්ම මුවේ රුවාගත් වනම සැපසේ නින්දට වැටී සිටී. ඔහු නැවත හැරී ඉදිරි ඉස්තෝප්පු කෑල්ලේ තබා ඇති ඇඳි පුටුවට විත් අසුන් ගත්තේය. එහි ඇන්ද මතට ලියන්නට භාවිත කරන්නාවූ ලෑල්ල ගෙන, පපුවත් කුසත් වෙන්වන ශරීර සීමාවට ඇද ගත්තේය. කුඩා කල සත විසිපහකට දෝතක් ලැබෙන රිදී පැහැති ලොසින්ජර ප්‍රමාණයේ වැසිබිංදු දැන් වේගයෙන් පොළොවට කඩා වැටී විසිරෙයි. නොපෙනී යයි. වැස්ස අල්ලා සිටින්නට වන හෙයින් විනාඩි ගණනක් පොළොවේ පස තද දුඹුරු කෝපි පැහැයට හැරෙයි. අනතුරුව බිම වැටෙනා වැහි බිංදු, නොපෙනී නොයයි. පොළෛාව තැනින් තැන වසාගත් ඉරිතැළුණු වීදුරු පදාස මෙන් එකතැන රැඳෙයි. තවත් දිග්ගැස්සී වැසි වැටෙන්නට වූ විටෙක එකී වීදුරු දියවී ගලා යන්නාක් මෙන් කුඩා දියපාරවල් හටගනී. ලෑල්ලට වාරු වී නමාගත් හිසින් මඳ වේලාවක් පෑන මෙහෙයවන්නට උත්සාහ කලද එය සුදු පැහැති කොලය මත ඉදිරියට පනිමින් වමින් දකුණට වචන මවමින් ගමන් කිරීම සිදු නොවෙයි. ශබ්දකෝෂයේ අක්ෂර වඩාත් අපැහැදිලි වන්නට වන අතර ඒවා කළු බෝල්පොයින්ට් පෑන් ඉරි මෙන් නලියන්නට වෙයි. ආමාශය අධිකතර අම්ලකාරවලින් පිරී ඇති විටෙක බමන්නාක් මෙන් හිස වඩාත් බර වී පිට බෙල්ල ඇදුම්කන්නට වූයෙන් ඔහු වහා හිසත් කයත් පුටුවේ පිටිඇන්දේ දිගා කළේය. එවිට පුටුවට කෙලින් විවෘත වී ඇති දොරපළුවෙන් එපිට ලෝකය සම්පූර්ණයෙන් ජලයෙන් යට වී ඇත්තාක් මෙන්ද තමාද ගිලෙමින් සිටින්නේය යන සිතිවිල්ලෙන් වෙවුලා ගියේය. එහෙත් ඒ ක්ෂණික ඉරියව් මාරුවකදී හටගත් භ්‍රමණ චිත්තාවේශයක් පමණක් වූයෙන් වහා වහලෙන් එපිට ලෝකය වේගයෙන් වැටෙන වැස්සකින් දෝවනය වෙමින් පවතින්නාවූ බවත්, මහ පාර ඔස්සේ ගලා යන්නාවූ ජලය ස්වාභාවික ජල මාර්ගයක් ඔස්සේ ගලන ජලපහරක් මෙන් වේගවත් වී ඇති බවත් වටහා ගත්තේය. තවත් මඳ වේලාවකින් මෙම දොලපාර ඔයක් තරම් මහත් වී ගැඹුරුවෙද්දී ඒ ඔස්සේ මෝටර්බෝට්ටුවක හඬ නැගීඑන්නේ යයි අනුමානය ඇති කරන්නාවූ දෙදරීමක් හටගත් හෙයින් ඔහු වම් දඹරැගිල්ලෙන් උපැස්යුවල නැහැය මැදින් නළලට තල්ලු කොට චකිතයකින් යුතුව බලා සිටියේය. අද කලාතුරකින් පමණක් දැකිය හැකි පැරණි පන්නයේ ලංගම බස්රථයක් එවර ජලමාර්ගය ඔස්සේ නොගැලපෙන ලීලාවකින් ඇදී ගියේය. එය පෙනී නොපෙනී ගිය පසු තමා යළිත් යම් පරිවර්තන කාර්යකට වෙහෙසෙමින් සිටින්නා වූ සරල මනුස්ස ස්වභාවයක් ඇත්තෙක් බව ඔහු තේරුම් ගනිමින් පරිවර්තනය කළ යුතු ඊළඟ වැකිය දෙස බැලුවේය. එවිට ලියවිල්ල මතුයේ පැහැදිලිව දැකගත හැකිවූයේ වචන කිහිපයකි.

Political – patronage – criminals – police

උපැස්යුවළ පැළඳි කල විවෘත දොරෙන් පාවීඑන්නාවූ ජල වාෂ්පයෙන් එය බොඳවී ඇත්තාක් මෙන් වූයෙන් ඔහු එය ගලවා කුසේ එල්ලී ඇති සරමෙන් පිස දමන්නාවූ අතර නැවත මාවත දෙස දෙනෙත් කුඩාකොට බැලුවේය. එවිට සම්පුර්ණ මුද්‍රිත වැකිය දැකගත හැකි වූයේය.

Political patronage of criminals and police dilemmas

කොහොමද මේක සිංහලෙන් කියන්නේයි සිතිවිල්ල සමඟ ඔහු නැවත පෑන කෙටුම්පත් කරන්නාවූ සුදුකොළය උඩ තබා පුටුවේ දිගා වූයේය. යළිත් එළිමහනේ වැටෙන වැස්ස දෙස බලා සිටින්නට වූයේය.

කල්පනා කරන්නාවූ විට සිංහලෙන් සංඛේතාර්ථයක් මතු කරගන්නට උත්සාහ කිරීමේදී එක් වචනයක් නොව නවකතාවක්, දීර්ඝ නිබන්ධනයක් ලිවීමට තරම් අර්ථ මතුවී ලියලන්නය පටන්ගනී. එකී අර්ථද පරස්පරතාවයන්ගෙන්, විතර්කයන්ගෙන්, ශංකිතභාවයන්ගෙන් වේලී පවතී. නැවත නැවතත් හටගන්නේ වියුක්ත නොපහන් බවයි, අසතුටයි, බාධාකාරී බවයි.

දැන් වචන පහම නොයෙක් වේශයෙන් ගැටෙන්නට පටන්ගනී. කැරකීවිත් පහර දෙන්නාවූ බඹර වලල්ලක් මෙන් සාංකාව දෙගුණ තෙගුණ කරන්නට වෙයි. තර්කය ව්‍යාධිගත මනුස්ස ආත්මයක් නිර්මාණය කරන්නේයයි සිතමින් ඔහු ලියන්නාවූ කොල කිහිපයත්, ශබ්දකෝෂයත්, පරිවර්තනයට ලද ඡායාස්ථිත පිටපත් ලිපියත්, පෑනත්, ලියන ලෑල්ල උඩම අතහැර සීරුවෙන් වැටෙන්නට නොදී සමබර කොට ඔසවා, පුටුඇන්ද මත සමබර කොට තබා ඇතුළු කාමරයට ඇදෙයි.

පුතු අවදි වී ඇඳ මත්තේම වාඩි වී හිස් බැල්මෙන් බලා සිටී. ඒකාන්තයෙන්ම දරුවා තවමත් ඇත්තේ සිහින ලෝකයේය. අවදිව සිටියා නම් ඔහු අනිවාර්යයෙන් සයනයෙන් පැන දිවවිත් කූජනය පටන්ගනී. ඔහුගේ සිතිවිල්ල නිවැරදි විය. හිස් බැල්මෙන් ඔහු දෙසට හිස හැරවූ දරුවා ‘සුපර්මෑන් මූදේ පතුළටම ගිලුණා…’ කියමින් නැවත ඇඳමත බෑවුණේය. ගැඹුරු ලෙස හුස්ම ගනිමින් නින්දට පිවිසුණේය. නැවත ගැඹුරු මුහුදු පතුලේ හුදෙකලාව ගිලීයමින් සිටින සුපර්මෑන් ලුහුබැඳීම ආරම්භ කලේය. සයනය අසල මිටිමේසයේ තැන්පත්ව ඇති ටයිම්පීස් ඔරලෝසුව පෙන්නා සිටින්නේ සම්මත වේලාව සවස හතරයි විස්ස බවයි. බැලූ බැල්මට වැහි අන්ධකාරයෙන් වැසී ඇති අවට ලෝකයේ ඇත්තේ දැන් දැන් රාත්‍රිය එළඹෙන්නාවූ බව කියාපාන්නවූ මන්දාලෝකයකි.

බට්ටා මෙච්චර වේලාවක් නිදාගන්නේ මොකද, උණවත් ගැනිලද?

ඇඳට ගොඩ වී දරුවා අල්ලා බැලීමට සිත්වුවද ඔහු නොසෙල්වී මඳ වේලාවක් බලා සිටියේය.

නෑ වැහි හීතලටයි ඔහොම ගුලිවෙලා නිදියන්නේ… උණ හෙම්බිරිස්සාවට නං… කෙඳිරි ගානවනේ, විටින්විට ඇඹරිලා අවදි වෙනවානේ… යි සිතමින් ඔහු එවර නැවත පුස්තකාලයටත්, ආලින්දයටත්, අමුත්තන්ගේ කාමරයටත්, යන සියල්ලටම භාවිත කරන්නාවූ කුටියට අවතීර්ණ වූයේය. එහි මේසය මත්තේ බැලූ බැල්මට අපිළිවෙල, තමාට පමණක් පිළිවෙළක් ඇති පොත්, වාර සඟරා, ශබ්දකෝෂ කිහිපයක් අතර හිරවී ඇති අභ්‍යාස පොත දුටුවේය.

එකී පිටු එකසිය විස්සේ අභ්‍යාස පොත ඔහුගේ පෞද්ගලික සටහන් පොතයි. ජීවිතයේ මුහුණ දෙන සුවිශේෂ සිද්ධි අවස්ථා සටහන් කර තබන්නාවූ ඉපැරණි දිනපොත් සංස්කෘතිය දැනට ලෝකයේම අභාවයට යමින් පවතින පිළිවෙතක් වන්නේ මුත් ඔහු මෙකී චර්යාවට එළඹියේ දැනට වසර පහකට පමණ පෙර අප්‍රිකාවේ වාසය කරන්නාවූ ඉංග්‍රීසි නවකතාකරුවෙකු වන ජේ. එම්. කොයිට්සිගේ මාස්ටර් ඔෆ් පීටර්ස්බර්ග් නවකතාව කියැවීමෙනි. දොස්තොව්ස්කිගේ සැබෑ ජීවිතයේ අවස්ථා සහ ඔහු අතින් නිර්මාණය වූ අග්‍රගන්‍ය ප්‍රබන්ධමය චරිත වටා ගෙතුනු එම නවකතාව කියැවීමෙන් පසු නවකතාවක් නොලිව්වාට අඩු ගණනේ දින සටහන් ටිකක් හෝ ලියා තැබීමෙන් නරකක් වන්නේ නැතැයි කල්පනා කළ ඔහු දැනට වසර පහක් තිස්සේ දිනපතා නොලීවද ඉඳහිට සටහන් තබයි. එමෙන්ම කල්යෑමේදී එකී සටහන් දින සටහන් පමණක් නොව උපමාකතා, කෙටි වස්තු බීජ, අත්භූත ප්‍රවෘත්ති, සිනමා තිරරචනයක දර්ශන කිහිපයක්, අතීත ස්මාරණ යනාදි වශයෙන් විවිධ ආකෘතිවලට පෙරළුණේය.

අනේ… අනේ… මං ඉතිං මේවා ලිව්වා කියලා හෙන්රි ජේම්ස් වෙනවද? නැත්තං වර්ජිනියා වුල්ෆ්… නයිපොල් වගේ වෙනවද? කමක් නෑ බලමු…

ඔහු තමාටම සිනාසෙමින් දිගින් දිගටම සරල සංසිද්ධීන්ගේ සිට තාර්කිකත්වයෙන් වටහාගත නොහැකි විකාර සහගත සිතිවිලි පවා ලිවීම තුළ ස්වාත්මීකරණයට ලක්කර ගැනීමට වෙර දරමින් ලිව්වේය. සටහන් පොත සමඟ ඉස්තෝප්පුවට ඇදුණු ඔහු මන්දාරම් එළිය යට පුටුවේ බෑවී නිශ්චිතබවකින් තොරව පිටුවක් පෙරලා ගත්තේය.

2005/12/21

….ඒ කාලේ දිනවකවානු මට මතක නෑ. ඒත් ඒ කාලේ මුළු ලෝකෙම දීප්තිමත් අහස් නිල්ලකින් වැහිලා තිබුණා වගේ මට මතකයි. මං තනියම කතන්දර කිව්ව කාලයක් ඒක. කවුරුහරි ඒ කතා අහගෙන ඉන්නවා කියලා මට හිතුනා. මං උස් හඬකින් හද හදා කතන්දර කිව්වා.

දවසක් තාත්තා උදේම කුඹුරට ගියාට පස්සේ ආයෙත් රෑ වෙනකල්ම ගෙදරට ආවේ නෑ. ඒත් රෑ වෙනකොට ගෙදර ගමේ ගෑණු අයගෙන් මිනිස්සුන්ගෙන් පිරුණා. ගෑණු අය අඬනවා බලාගෙන උන්න මාත් ඇඬුවා. ඇඬිල්ලත් එක්ක මට නින්ද ගියා. රෑ මද්දැවේ එක පාරටම මට ඇහැරුණා. මෙන්න එනකොට තාත්තා මගේ ඔංචිල්ලාවේ වාඩිවෙලා මං දිහා බලාගෙන ඉන්නවා. මං ඇහැරිච්ච බව දැනගත්ත නිසාදෝ තාත්තා කතා කරනවා.

“ඔය කතා කියවිල්ල නවත්තපං. නැත්තං උන් උඹේ දිව කපලා, බල්ලන්ට කන්ඩ දායි…”

එහෙම කියලා එකපාරටම තනියම පිටිපස්සට පැද්දුනා. ආයෙත් ඉස්සරහට පැද්දිලා ආවේ නෑ. අඹ ගහ යට කළුවරයි. මං නින්දට වැටිලා තියෙන්නේ අඹ ගහයට බංකුවේ. බල්ලෝ… මිනිස් දිවවල් කන බල්ලෝ… මං එකපාරටම ගෙට දිව්වා. ගේ මැද්දේ පෙට්ටියක තාත්තා නිදි. වටේටම හැන්දෑවේ ආව මිනිස්සු තල් කොළ පැදුරු එලාගෙන නිදි. එදා ඉඳන් මං ගොළු උනා. කතන්දරයක් කියන්න හිතෙනකොටම මට මැවිලා පේන්නේ මිනිස් දිවවල් තළුමරණ බල්ලෝ…

සටහන් පොතේ අගපිටු පෙරලා බැලූ ඔහු දුටුවේ මාසයකින් පමණ කිසිඳු සටහනක් තබා නොමැති බවයි. එමෙන්ම ඉන් එපිට ලියැවී ඇති සමහරක් කෙටි සටහන් අයනෙස්කෝ, අජිත් තිලකසේන, බෙකට්, පින්ටර් අනුකරණය කරන්නට ගත් බාල උපක්‍රම මෙන් තර්කය වැරවෑයමින් ඉවත් කරන්නට ගත් උත්සාහයන් වූයේය. පොත වසා දමා අවට බැලූ ඔහු වටහාගත්තේ තමා දැඩි අන්ධකාරයකට කොටු වී ඇත්තාවූ බවයි. ප්‍රකෘති සිහිය ඇත්තෙක් මෙවැනි අන්ධකාරයකදී පොත් පිටු පෙරලන්නේ නැත.

විදුලිය දල්වා ගන්නට නැගී සිටියදී විවෘත එකම ජනේලයෙන් එපිට නගරයද සම්පූර්ණයෙන් අන්ධකාරයේ ගිලී ඇති සැටි ඔහු දුටුවේය. ජේනුව සන්ධි කළද ආලෝකය හට ගත්තේ නැත. ඔහු සෙමෙන් දොර අසලට ගොස් දෙපස බැලුවේය. වැස්ස තුරල් වී පැවැති අතර මාර්ගය තුනී දුම්වලාවකින් වැසී ඇත්තාක් මෙනි. අවට උස්-පහත් සියළු නිවාස සහ ගොඩනැගිලි අන්ධකාරයේ ගිලී ඇත්තේය. ඉඳහිට දෙපසට ගමන්ගන්නා වාහන ඉදිරි ලාම්පු මිනිස් ඇස ගිනිකන වට්ටවයි.

ඉටිපන්දම් ඇත්තේ කොහේද? ලියන මේසයේ ලාච්චුවේද…? කුළුබඩු දමන්නාවූ පෙට්ටියේද…?

දැල්වූ ඉටිපන්දම සමඟ නැවත ඔහු පුතු නින්දට වැටී සිටින්නාවූ ඇතුලු කාමරයට ගමන් කළේය. පෙරලී සිටි ඉරියව් වෙනස් වී ඇත්තේ මුත් පුතු ගැඹුරු හුස්ම හෙළමින් නිදයි. ඉටිපන්දම සමඟම සයනයට ගොඩවූ ඔහු දරුවාගේ ලැමට අතතබා බැලුවේය. ස්වාභාවික ශරීර උෂ්ණය ඉක්මවූ ස්වාභාවයක් දරුවා දරා සිටින්නේ නැත. කල්පනා කරද්දීම දරුවා ඔහුගේ ස්පර්ශයෙන් අවදිවූ ආකාරයක් දක්වා ඉරියව් වෙනස් කරගනිමින් සසල වූ අතර වම් ඇලයෙන් දකුණු ඇලයට හැරුණේය.

ඇඳෙන් බැසගත් ඔහු එවර ඉටිපන්දම ගෙන ගොස් මැද කාමරයේ මේසයේ හිටි සෙයියාවෙන් ඇලෙව්වේය. එවිට නටන ඉටිපන්දම් එළිය ඇතුල් කාමරයට වදී. ඉස්තෝප්පුවේ පුටුව වටා විසිරී ඇති ලියවිලි ගොන්න පොත්පත් තුරුලු කරගනිමින් මේසය මත තබා එයට පරිවාර අසුනේ අසුන් ගත්තේය. මෙවර ඉටිපන්දම් දැල්ල යට ආලෝකමත්ව පෙනෙන්නට වූයේ පරිවර්තනය කරමින් සිටි ලිපියේ අගට යෙදී ඇති අනු මාතෘකාවකි.

“The Culture of Untruth and a Perilous Vacuum… දාපංකෝ මේක සිංහලට…”

කල්පනාව තියුණු වෙද්දී ඉදිරිපස විවෘත දොරපළු අතරින් ගලා ආ තරමක් සැඬ සුලං රැල්ලක් හමාවිත් ගත හිරිවට්ටමින් නොනැවතී අපිළිවෙල ඡායා පිටපත් ගොන්න කාමරය පුරා සීසීකඩ වපුරවා ඉටිපන්දම් දැල්ලටද තර්ජනයක් පා සිඳීගියෙන් ඔහු නැගිට්ටේය. පිටු කිහිපය අහුලා ගන්නට පෙර දොර වසා දැමීමට ඉටාගනිමින් ඉදිරි දොර දෙසට ගමන් කළේ, දොර වසා දමන්නාවූ කෙටි කාලපරතරයේදී ඔහු එවර සාමාන්‍ය වේගයකදී දෙසවන් හිරි වට්ටමින් ගමන් ගන්නා ස්පෝට්ස් වර්ගයේ බයිසිකලයක් ඉතා සෙමෙන් ඇදී යනවා දුටුවේය. එය ගමන්ගත් වේගය අනුව ඉතාමත් නුදුරින් එය නවත්වා එහි ගමන්ගන්නා ඇත්තා සිගරට්ටුවක් දල්වා ගන්නවා ඇත්තේ යයි සිතමින් ආපසු හැරුණේය.

ඡායාරූප කොලගොන්න පිලිවෙලකට අනුව පෙළ ගැස්වීම අපහසු නොවීය. එහෙත් ඉටිපන්දම් ආලෝකයෙන් පරිවර්තනයේ යෙදීම අපුල කර්ක‍ෂ බව තවත් වැඩි කරයි. ඇමුණුම් කටු දෙකකින්ම ඡායාපිටපත් අමුණා තබා නැවත තමාගේම පෞද්ගලික සටහන් පොත ගෙන එහි තරමක් මෑත භාගයකට අයත් අග පිටු අතරින් කිහිපයක් ගෙන පෙරළාගෙන කියවන්නට වූයේය.

ඒ පිටුවල ලියා ඇතිතේ දිනපතා සිදුවන සාමාන්‍ය සිදුවීම් සහිත සටහන් කිහිපයකි. එදිනෙදා පුවත්පත්වල පල වෙන්නාවූ තොරතුරු පිළිබඳ ලියා ඇති ඒ සටහන් බොහෝමයක් තුළ ඇත්තේ අනාගතයේදී තහවුරු කරගත යුතු කරුණු ගොන්නකි. ඒවායේ කිසිඳු රසවත්භාවයක් හෝ විමර්ෂණාත්මක ගුණයක් නොමැති හෙයින් ඔහු පොත වසා තබා නැවත ඉටිපන්දම දෙස බැලුවේය. දොර වසා දැමූ හෙයින් එය නොසෙල් වී මන්ද චලිතයකින් යුතුව දැල්වෙයි. වැස්ස සම්පූර්ණයෙන් නතර වී ඇත. දැන් ගෙයි ඉදිරි මාර්ගයේ පමණක් නොව, ඈතින් දකුණුපසින් පිහිටා ඇති වටරවුමේ පවා කැරකෙන වාහන එන්ජින් හඬ පැහැදිලිව ඇසෙයි.

යමෙක් කානුවත්, ඉදිරිපස දොරපළුවත් අතර දික් අතට සවිකර ඇති කුඩා ක්‍රොන්ක්‍රීට් ලෑල්ලට ගොඩ වී බර අඩි ඇති හම් සපත්තු පිසදමන හඬක් ඇසෙයි. ඒ හඬට අනුව ඊළඟ ඇසිල්ලේ විය යුත්තේ දොරට මිටින් ඇණීමකි. එහෙත් ඒ වෙනුවට සිදුවූයේ දෙනෙත් නිලංකාර කරවමින් වහලයෙන් එල්ලී බිමට නැඹුරු වූ විදුලිබුබුල ආලෝකමත්ව අන්ධකාර කැබලිති පිලිස්සී අතුරුදහන් කිරීමයි. ඊට සමගාමීව අසල්වැසි ලෝකය එකවර මහා ජීවයක් ලද්දාක් මෙන් පණ ගැන්වෙයි.

ගතකළ අන්ධකාරය කොතරම් තියුණු බරසාර වූයේද යන්න කල්පනා කරමින් ඔහු එවර ඉටිපන්දම නිවා දමා ඇතුල් කාමරයට වැදී එහි විදුලිපහන දැල්වූයේය. එකවර පැතිරී කුටිය පුරවාලූ විදුලි ආලෝකයෙන් වැසී ඇති සිනිඳු දෙනෙත් පියන්, දැවුණාක් මෙන් වෙවුලා ගියද, නින්දේම හැරී එක් අතකින් දෙනෙත් මුවා කරගත් පුතු අවදිවූ බවක් නම් දැක්වුයේ නැත.

ලියන මේසයට බර වූ ඔහු ලාච්චුව විවෘත කර අත් ඔරලෝසුව ගෙන, බිත්තියේ එල්ලී ඇති ඔරලෝසුව සමඟ සංසන්දනය කර බැලුවේය. ගෙවී ඇත්තේ සාමාන්‍ය සරල පැයකි. සවස්යාමයකින් හැන්දෑවකට විපර්යාස්ථ වන සියළු උරුමයන් සමඟ වැහිඅඳුරද කැලතී ඇති පැයකි. ඔරලෝසු දෙකම පෙන්නා සිටින්නේ එකම වේලාවකි. පරිවර්තනය කළ කිසිම වැකියක් නොමැත. එහිලා ගත් උත්සහායෙන් උපන් හාස්‍යජනක, අතාර්කික, මායාමය, අර්ථ විරහිතභාවය ශරීරය අරක්ගෙන පැවති නිදන්ගත ස්නායු රෝගයක් අවදි කලාක් මෙන් ආතතිය වඩවයි.

පුතු මෙසා දීර්ඝ නින්දකට වැටී ඇත්තේ මන්ද? මෝටර්බයිසිකලය ගෙයි ඉදිරිපිටින් සෙමෙන් ගමන් කලේ මන්ද? යමෙක් සත්තකින් ගෙයි වැසුණු දොර ආසන්නයට විත් යළිත් පසු බැස්සේද? සියල්ල අතරේ තමා මෙතෙක් පරිවර්තනය කරන්නට උත්සාහ කළේ තමාත් තවත් සිවිල් පුරවැසියන් දෙතුන් දෙනෙකුත් අතර පමණක් ඇත්තාවූ යුධ රහස් පිළිබඳ වාර්තා නොවන්නේද? රාජ්‍ය ත්‍රස්තවාදය පිළිබඳ ලිපි ලේඛණ කිහිපයක් නොවේද? මේ ලේඛණ තමා අතට පත් කළ ඇත්තන්ට කොයි යම් මොහොතකදී දැනටමත් මේවා සිංහලට පෙරළෙමින් ඇති බව, විස්කි වීදුරු කිහිපයක් හමුවේ දොඩමළුව නොසිටී යයි කිව හැක්කේද? කුමණ්ත්‍රණයේදී බෲට්ස් හට පවා දිව්රුම් ලබාගත නොහැකි වූයේය. එසේනම් දැනටමත් තමාගේ මරණ වරෙන්තුව නිකුත් කොට නොමැත්තේද? කල්යල් බලා සුදුසුම මෙහොතකදී හට ගන්වන සරල රිය අනතුරක් වැන්නක් ඔස්සේ තමාගේ මරණය සිදුවිය නොහැකිද? මියගියාට පසු සතුරු මිතුරු දෙපාර්ශවයම… ‘But he did his job well’ යයි කියනු ඇත්තේය.

සර්වාංගයම දහඩියෙන් තෙමී පැවති හෙයින් ඔහු ලියන මේසයෙන් නැගිට්ටේය. එවිට දොර අසල කොන්ක්‍රීට් ලෑල්ලට යමෙක් නියත වශයෙන්ම ගොඩවූ පා හඬ ඇසුණි. අනතුරුව ඔහු දෙපා මාරු කරන්නටද පෙර සැහැල්ලු කෙටි පා පහරකින් දොර විවෘත වන හඬ ඇසුවේය. දොර අසල ජීවමාන වූ උස් මිනිස් ශරීරය, සෙල්ලම් පිස්තෝලයක් තරමේ කුඩා පිස්තෝලයක් සාක්කුවෙන් ගෙන, ගිනියම් රිදී උණ්ඩ කිහිපයක් මුදා හැරියේය. සිය ලේඛණ ගොඩගැසී ඇති මේසය මත්තේම හිස ගසාගෙන නින්දට වැටුණු ඉරියව්වකට ඔහු පත්කළ අමුත්තා, දොර තිබූ ආකාරයෙන්ම පිටතින් ඇද වසා දමා නික්මුණේය.

ලේ ගලායාම සමඟ හටගන්නා කෙටි ක්ලාන්තගතිය, හිරිවැටීම හට නොගත්තේ මුත්, මහා හිස් රික්තයක් තුල තමා සිරවී ඇති බව පමණක් ඔහුට දැනුනේය. ඒ ද කෙටි කාලපරාසයකට පමණි. හිස ඔසවා බැලූ ඔහු දුටුවේ තමා වටකොට සිටින්නාවූ ඥාති මිත්‍ර සමුහයකි. එකී පිරිසට එපිටින් වක්‍රකාරව කුඩා ඉඩක තෙරපී සිටින්නේ කිසිදිනෙක පියවි සිහියෙන් නොදුටු නොයෙක් පොතපතින් හදුනාගත් චරිත සමූහයකි. විවිධ යුගවලට අයත් ඔවුන් අතර ධාතුසේන රජු, සුබාෂ් චන්ද්‍ර බෝෂ්, ක්‍රිස්ටෝපර් මාලෝ පමණක් නොව මෑත යුගයට අයත් සදාත් හසන් මන්තෝ, සරෝජිනි නායිදු, රෝසා ලක්සම්බර්ග් පවා නිහඬව ඔහු දෙස බලා සිටී. තමතමන්ගේ තරාතිරමට අනුව සැරසී සිටින්නාවූ ඔවුන් විවිධ ආකාරයේ ගමන්මලු එල්ලාගෙන නිහඬව බලා සිටිති. අවසානයේ ඥාතිසමූහයා අතරින් ඔහු සිය පියා හඳුනාගත්තේය. කොටුසරමක් සහ මේස්බැනියමක් හැඳ ඉණට අලියා පටියක් බැඳ සිටින ඔහුගේ අතේ ඇත්තේ ඉටි කොලයකින් එතූ සරමක් පමණි. ඔහුට සමීප වූ පියා, කතා කලේය. “ලොක්කා යං දැන්, වේලාව හරි…”

එවිට තමාට නැගී සිටින්නට උවමනා බවත්, එහෙත් ශරීරය ඔහුට වලංගු නොවන බවත් තේරුම් ගත්තේය. එකී සිතිවිල්ල අනුව තමන්ට අවනත නොවන ශරීරයකින් පළක් නොමැත්තේය යන තැවීම හට ගත්තේය. තැවීමද ඉක්මවා හිස්බවක් කරා තමා ඇදී යන්නාවූ බව පසක් කොට ගත්තේය. එහෙත් එසේ ඇදී යන්නා වූ කළ… ‘තාත්තා… තාත්තා…’ යනුවෙන් නැගී ආ හඬක් ඔස්සේ ක්ෂණයකින් හිස්බව ඉක්මවා ඓන්ද්‍රීය ලෝකය අත්පත් කරගනිමින් දැඩි වේගයකින් සිය ඉතිහාසය දරා සිටි මහ පොළොව කරා යළිත් පැමිණෙමින් හිස ඔසවා බැලුවේය.

දීර්ඝ නින්දකින් පසු හුදෙකලාව ඇඳෙන් බැසගත් පුතු මේසය අසලට ඇදී විත් ඔහුගේ ආසනයේ වම්පස ඇන්දේ එල්ලී බලා සිටී. පුතු ඇකයට ගන්නට හැරෙද්දී වේගයෙන් පැමිණි ස්පෝට්ස් වර්ගයේ මෝටර් සයිකලය එවර නම් නියත වශයෙන්ම ගෙයි ඉදිරිපිට නතර වෙයි. කොන්ක්‍රීට් ලෑල්ල මත්තේ සිට ඔසවා ගැසූ පා පහරින් දොර ලෑලි දෙක එකවර ඇතුළට විවරවෙද්දී, ඔහු කලබලයකින් තොරව “ඔයා ආපහු ඇඳට දුවන්න. මං එන්නං ඉක්මණට” කියමින් පුතුට ඇතුල් කාමරය දක්වා, දොර පඩියට ගොඩවූ පුද්ගලයා දෙසට හැරුණේය

~

Three poems by Cao Yu – translated by Ed Allen

MAY 25th 2020

Cao Yu (1910-1996) was one of China’s most renowned modern playwrights, achieving literary immortality through 《雷雨》Thunderstorm (1934) and 《日出》Sunrise (1936). He continued to publish throughout the Sino-Japanese War, including a Chinese translation of Romeo and Juliet in 1943. In his later life he was known for writing the historical drama 《王昭君》Wang Zhaojun (1978), but his attempts at promoting various regional operas, and in particular his later poetry, are less discussed. This small poetic oeuvre is collected in Vol. 6 of Cao’s Collected Works. They strike a rare chord of agony and beauty and hope, and have been discussed recently by Cao’s disciple Tian Benxiang (1932-2019) in the context of a “soul ardently hoping for freedom” (渴望自由的灵魂) (Theatre Arts 2010.6; English translation forthcoming) that characterised his teacher. The current year marks the 110^th anniversary of Cao Yu’s birth, as well as significant anniversaries for other playwrights and institutional directors of the early modern theatre movement in China, inspiring more wide-ranging re-evaluations of these figures’ comprehensive work, ambitions, and ideas.

The original Chinese is presented here with permission from his daughter and memoirist Wan Fang, with gratitude.

Baby-Blue-Eyes

I don’t need you calling me pretty

I don’t like you saying I look good.

I’m just an everyday flower,

Rich heart, damp petals.

You praised me as a babe,

Lifted me to the sky.

My heart moved for you,

I was forthright.

Halfway you stomped me beneath you,

Saying I was base.

Finally I understood,

You’d turned your back.

I fear your flowery talk,

Fear more when you say I look good.

I’m a stupid girl,

Whom you won’t trick again.

23/12/1991 at Beijing Hospital

Note: Baby-Blue-Eyes is a small flower brought over from Brazil, where it is found everywhere; it has the fiercest vitality, its small flowers opening in every season.

玻璃翠

我不需要你说我美，

　　不稀罕你说我好看。

　　我只是一朵平常的花，

　　浓浓的花心，淡淡的瓣儿。

　　你夸我是个宝，

　　把我举上了天。

　　我为你真动了心，

　　我是个直心眼。

　　半道儿你把我踩在地下，

　　说我就是贱。

　　我才明白，

　　你是翻了脸。

　　我怕你花言巧语，

　　更怕你说我好看。

　　我是个傻姑娘，

　　不再受你的骗。

　　一九九一年十月二十三日于北京医院

附注：玻璃翠是由巴西带进来的一种极普通的小草花，生命力极强，一年四季开着小花。

~

Gone Old

You’re no longer young,

You’re no longer a flower;

Your face has deep folds,

White hair dying your entire temples.

You sorrowfully lock your brow-scar,

And at night toss and turn, unsleeping.

Just like me you can’t sleep,

You whisper and sigh, afraid of alarming me awake.

The old man on the sickbed,

Constantly on your mind.

I shake and you’re startled –

What nightmare shocked the heart so?

You are coruscating sunset,

I am cold ice on a borderless lake;

Its cold surface reflects your face,

Vivacious fish beneath the ice are deep passion.

We’re old, both.

The cracking dawn shines on the still surface.

You’re eternally unforgettable!

One day I’ll close my eyes.

We are both night’s fireflies,

Those shining stars are us.

18/12/1995, Beijing Hospital

老了

你再不年轻，

　　你再不像朵花；

　　你脸上有深深的皱纹，

　　白丝染遍你的耳鬓。

　　你愁锁着眉痕，

　　夜半你辗转不眠。

　　你和我一样睡不着，

　　你低声叹息，怕我惊醒。

　　病床上的老人，

　　时时在你心中。

　　我颤抖，你惊起来，

　　作了什么噩梦，这样心惊？

　　你是绚丽的晚霞，

　　我是无边湖上的寒冰；

　　寒冷的湖面反映着你的脸，

　　冰下活泼泼的鱼是深情。

　　我们老了，都老了。

　　残霞照着静静的湖冰。

　　永远忘不了你啊，

　　有一天我闭上眼睛。

　　我们是黑夜的萤火，

星星发亮的正是我们。

~

The Free Man

The thunder rumbles out the narrow valley, each wild prairie grass trembles,

I hear the wind roaring, dark clouds from the murky sky

press fiercely on my head.

Cloud stickiness distends,

That’s the dragon sticking out his long tongue, that’s his tail.

Like endless hooks hooking my eyes, heart, ears and my hands.

The earth spits fire,

My whole body burns.

The flood bursts, the downpour a pierced awl awling my back

But I roar high skywards: “Come! Torture me harder!”

The land trembles, towers, stones and cement collapse, buries my whole body.

The earth has stuffed my throat

I call high skywards: “Come, I’m not afraid, you won’t keep me down!

You’re no dragon, no match for a snake even, I won’t be bowled over!”

I’ve seen the sun, the round globe of fire rising from the horizon.

I am a human, a human not dead,

Beneath the sunlight was the earth, the free air warming me and all.

I stood,

Because I am the free man on whom the sun shines.

雷从峡谷里滚响，莽原的每一棵草在哆嗦，

我听见风吼，黑云从乌暗的天空

猛压在头顶。

从云里垂下来一些黏糊糊的，

那是龙吐出的长舌，那是龙的尾巴。

像无数的钩钩住我的眼睛、心、耳和我的手。

地上喷出火，

我的全身在燃烧。

洪水泛滥，暴雨像尖锥锥透我的背，

我向天高吼：“来！再狠狠地折磨我！”

大地颤抖，高楼、石头、水泥塌下来，掩埋了我全身。

土塞住了我的喉咙，

我向天高喊：“来吧，我不怕，你压不倒我！”

你不是龙，连一条蛇都不配，吓不倒我！’

我看见了太阳，圆圆的火球从地平线上升起。

我是人，不死的人，

阳光下有世界，自由的风吹暖我和一切。

我站起来了，

因为我是阳光照着的自由人。

~

Four more poems by Cao Yu – translated by Ed Allen

MAY 18th 2020

The original Chinese is presented here with permission from his daughter and memoirist Wan Fang, with gratitude.

Occasional Jottings While Ill

Emptily gazing through thin curtains,

A full room lingering rays the entire day

A sudden view of a bare branch, crows scatter

Leaving vacant the sole shadow by the window.

How can one sit arid and wait for composition,

Compose a thousand words with deeds already done?

The eighty-year-old recollects sunlight,

Bare branches still brazen with late fragrance.

25/12/1988, Beijing Hospital

病中偶记

一

一无所是望疏帘，

满室余晖镇日间。

忽见秃枝鸟鹊散，

空留只影对窗前。

二

岂能枯坐待文章，

落笔千言事已荒。

八旬老汉追白日，

秃枝犹敢晚来香。

一九八八年十二月二十五日于北京医院

~

Parting

White flowers

purple flowers

Don’t let tears flow by.

Wicker tray still last night’s wine

Let me (for you) another mouthful try–

No hanging heads, no soft hands to ply.

Rain patters, patters

The heart cries

White flowers

Purple flowers

No tears flow by

Let none flow by.

25/12/1988 before sleep at Beijing Hospital

别

白花花，

紫花花，

泪水莫要流。

竹盘还有昨夜的酒，

让我再给你喝一口，

莫低头，莫弄柔软的手手。

雨水淅沥，淅沥，

心上流淌着哀愁。

白花花，

紫花花，

泪水莫要流，

莫要流。

一九八八年十二月二十五日睡前于北京医院

~

If

If they all wore armor and spoke

How could my heart shine out?

If my heart likewise wore armor

How would the passionate dare come close?

I’d die a thousand times

rather my body keep

such a wary heart

my entire life

Occasional piece written when ill in 1988

如果

如果大家戴着盔甲说话，

我怎能亮出我的心。

如果我的心也戴着盔甲，

火热的人怎敢与我接近。

我愿死一万次，再不愿终身这样存有戒心。

一九八八年病中偶作

~

A Swath of Green Leaves

A swath of green leaves, are buried deep in earth

You’ll hear my joyful laugh

Ho-ho! Ho-ho!

A baby’s voice in tender sprouts giggling

I didn’t lie–

Such a joyful voice–

Could it not be heart-sung?

12/3/1989 at Beijing Hospital

一片绿叶

一片绿叶，在大地里深藏，

你会听见我的欢乐的笑声，

哗哗，哗哗。

婴儿的声音在嫩牙中笑，

我没有说谎，

多么愉快的声音，

难道这不是从心里头唱。

一九八九年十二月三日于北京医院

~

Four poems by Cao Yu – translated by Ed Allen

MAY 11th 2020

The original Chinese is presented here with permission from his daughter and memoirist Wan Fang, with gratitude.

A Nightmare When Sick

In the midst of sickness, halfway through the night, with nightmares following each-other, I woke with the sound of bells from a distant twilight in my ears. I thought of Millet’s L’angélus and on how simple and how serene is the prayer of the pious husband and wife in the fields. I borrowed those bell-sounds to write down the poem below:

The evening bells at the ancient temple pass weakly to my heart.

I pick up my bald brush, but I can’t, I have no strength; I can only pray.

It is the night with the moon shining with the howl of the green-eyed wolf.

It is the rattlesnake stamped beneath wet feet hissing, it is a man with no face licking all over me, it is him saying: “You have no tongue, no hands.”

I’d plead for one breath of air.

Winds from the underworld blow in the sky’s sunk dark clouds.

I cannot pray, how can I pray?

16/12/1988, Beijing Hospital

病中噩梦

病中夜半，噩梦一个连一个，醒来，耳边留着薄暮遥远的钟声。我想起法国画家millet的画《晚钟》，想起在田地里虔诚的农妇的祈祷是多么朴实，多么安详。我借用钟声写下了下面的诗。

古寺的晓钟幽幽传到我的心里。

我拿起我的秃笔，我不能，我没有力气；我只能祈祷。

是月夜闪着绿眼的狼哀嚎。

是脚下湿漉漉踩着响尾蛇咝叫，是没有脸的人把我乱舔，是他说：“你没有舌头，没有手。”

我恳求只要一口空气。

地狱的风吹来天空低沉的乌云。

我不能祈祷，我怎能祈祷。

一九八八年十二月十六日下午于北京医院

~

Two People

A moment of wind, the meeting in the dream,

A moment of rain, beginning to whisper,

A moment of cool, shying away before cruel frost hits,

A moment of cold, each parts themselves by snowy lanterns.

18/12/1988 twilight, Beijing Hospital

二人

一阵风，相会在梦中，

一阵雨，悄悄话儿起，

一阵凉，严霜未打先胆怯，

一阵冷，雪夜寒灯独自别。

一九八八年十二月十八日薄春于北京医院

~

Flower

Don’t you be afraid, flower,

I’d like to watch you,

Watch at you swerving in gentle wind,

And watch your silent tears in the spring rain.

No way I’ll pluck you like a brat,

I only want to think of you from afar.

I hope one day you’ll bear your fruit –

You started off as my rebirth, another me.

18/12/1988 before my afternoon nap, Beijing Hospital

花

花，你不要怕，

我想看你一看，

看你在微风里摇颤，

看你在春雨中无言的泪。

我决不像个顽童把你摘下，

我只想远远地把你思念。

希望有一天你结了果，

你原是我的再生，另一个我。

一九八八年十二月十八日午睡前于北京医院

~

Chrysanthemums

The winter chrysanthemums filling my view are this old friendship,

Origins in a silent place with sympathy for the heart of Heaven.

Its bitter taste in ordinary life will always be a companion,

I left new tender green shoots to recompense the sunlight.

I was a long time ill. Dean Chou Chunlin visited me again, and presented me with the winter chrysanthemums he had kept, with red and white and purple and yellow, and a solitary green chrysanthemum refracting among them, startled as a tender shoot, in reality a rare-breed, no common flower. I wrote to thank my friend and make a record of this.

18/12/1988 Afternoon

菊花

满眼冬菊故旧情，

由来静处体天心。

苦味平生长作伴，

捧来嫩绿报陽春。

久病，仇春霖校长再次探望，赠所藏朔冬之菊，红、白、紫、黄，独有绿菊，掩映其中，恍如嫩叶，实则异种，非常花也。书谢友人作记。

一九八八年十二月十八日下午

~

Lu Nei – “Herding Clouds on the Rooftop” (translated by Ed Allen)

MARCH 16th 2020

1. Li Momo left me a decade ago, came back ten years later, and I can’t remember the time between. She left a little girl and came back with thin wrinkles by her mouth. She dressed more proper, had changed all her old bad habits, and drove a BMW. When I asked how much money she had now, she said, “I’m set for the next ten years.”

I suffer amnesia so can’t remember many things, including how she left. After a week of meaningless sex (in a hotel, eating a lot of random food, going to the night theatre in spurts, to test stamina) she suddenly said she wanted to take me somewhere she’d been before – a place that would help restore my memory. I asked where. “The China Arts Academy at Fragrant Hills,” she said, “They’ve got this modern building complex.” I’d never been. “You’ll understand when you get there,” she said.

She told me a story about some boy, as we drove to Fragrant Hills. The boy came from out-of-province to take the academy exam, but ran over to the wrong place. It was clearly the academy at Fragrant Hills in Hangzhou, but he went to Ningbo’s Fragrant Hills. That’s a famous seafood town rich in such produce – East Ocean fish and shrimp and mollusk. He took the bus from out-of-province and smelt a sickening fleshy smell the instant he left the station. He mistook it for a stench over the whole town, but he was standing by seafood restaurant swill, as luck would have it. People from the interior really can’t adjust to that. He looked everywhere without finding the fabled ‘modern building complex.’ He saw only row on row of restaurants and a half-finished residence that was shudderingly ugly. It had to be the wrong city. He crouched by the road and threw up loudly.

“Marco Polo had similar misfortune,” said Momo. “Calvino talked about it in Invisible Cities. For an error arising from place names, consult A Wild Sheep Chase by Murakami, which touches on the incompatibility between literature and the real.”

“Would a seafood eater have gone to the wrong academy?”

“I guess not.”

“So it’s a one-way error?”

She drove and I sat next to her. We reached Hangzhou in the afternoon. She was slightly lost and I didn’t know the roads. The BMW ran over and back across the great bridge over the Qiantang River, and I saw the Six Harmonies Pagoda three times. It was a grey day, and a Level Seven typhoon was set to make landfall on the coast. First the waters were bright, then gradually they became gloomy and sunk. Something surged in the distance.

“Looks like we’ll have to stay the night by the river,” I said.

Momo parked the car, studied the map, and opened her cellphone. She did everything herself. I sat shotgun and watched the scenery.

“There are two academy campuses – one by West Lake, one on Fragrant Hills. People do often get to the wrong place, so could you call it a two-way error?”

I had no intention of carrying on arguing with her. She was the sort of person who grew stubborn and dug in intractably as soon as she started quarrelling. But I did still mumble: “Can’t call it an error. That’s too mundane.”

The car rolled on past mountains that were a full kingfisher blue, like a painting. We seemed to pass through a scenic district, and were stuck in a few minute’s traffic by a bridge archway with railway tracks overhead, the long train whistling past like quickly drawn curtains. The empty highway was further on up. Momo said it was the right way. In the gloomy weather, the dusk arrived near imperceptibly. The colors were the same, just the shade of grey changed. The academy appeared in my sight quite unexpectedly.

“Those are the famous buildings,” said Momo. “They twist and turn inside. Take a look. Don’t they look like the apartments from when we were small?”

As the car drove nearer, cut off by deep forests, an enormous tiled building stood up lazily from the smog. Two large birds just happened to be soaring over its rooftop. When I craned forward to look, I realized it was dusk. An unknown dust was flying through the air.

The car moved forward by the college wall, and odd buildings appeared endlessly in my sight. I couldn’t get a good view of them, but they moved and turned rapidly. I watched, slightly absently. There was something I’d been through, forgotten. The shred of an experience climbing inexplicably into my mind.

Momo held the steering-wheel. We turned, and a truck entered our side-view. I heard the crisp sound of braking, reaching me at the same time as a mighty rumble. The front of the truck crashed into the left side of the BMW’s rear, like someone shoving me. I had half a head leaning out the window at the time. After that, everything goes dark.

2. I’ve known Momo for thirty years now, and I’m thirty years old this year, like she is. We were childhood sweethearts who lived in the same courtyard when young and grew up together until the year we turned twenty. So before I was equipped with powers of memory, Momo was there by my side, which makes her practically something I was born with. In thirty years she’s the only female I’ve loved.

When we were young I led her coursing through the little alleys of our hometown, looking for something called a ‘plastron.’ At that time, when people had finished eating a tortoise, they left the whole shell to sun on the balcony, waiting for the medicinal herb collectors to come and buy. I can’t remember what specific illness it treated, only that Momo’s mother had a kidney deficiency, so she whacked together some old wives’ remedy that involved boiling a plastron to make soup. We looked for that damn thing everywhere. In those days, families hardly ate tortoises anymore, and you had to be even luckier to find someone selling stolen plastrons. As soon as I saw one, either stolen or sunning on a balcony, I would seize it and slip away, legging it with Momo. Sometimes the owner would chase me, but I was never caught in the maze of little alleys. I never lost Momo either.

I didn’t know the roads then. That happened later.

3. I woke up and found I was lying in bed. Li Momo, the BMW, and the dusk had vanished. This was obviously a bed in some motel. With the window open, a large wind brewed outside and blew onto me, all of it. I jumped up, completely headache, and felt my head fit to burst. My breathing was blocked, and my mouth was parched with thirst. I panicked, but luckily my clothes were draped on the chair. I put them on and took out the phone from my jeans pocket to check the time. It was 10 a.m. This was the day following the accident.

I rang Momo’s cellphone, which was switched off. I thought again, and dialed my elder sister’s number. I said I’d been in a car crash the day before, with Li Momo, but she’d disappeared now, and I was inexplicably in a motel. I was fully confident that she’d ask ‘You’re not injured, are you?’ but what she shouted down the line was: “What? You haven’t seen Li Momo for a decade!”

In the past I had a pinpoint awareness of the roads. My talent made an even better showing in the age of stealing plastrons. We went stealing from the southeast corner to the north of the city, from the small alleys to the workers’ new village, from the bureau compound to restaurants, brimming with the confidence that no-one could get us. But then I remember being trapped by a corner of the city wall one year. The household had probably laid out a feast for guests, and tables-full of guys ran out, the maze teeming with pursuers. We were stuck in a dead-end. Then, the moment I helped Momo up over the wall, I felt something clobber the back of my head. It was like electrical circuits suddenly ripped out, and afterwards I was road-blind, intermittently amnesiac, my mind like a crashing symbol that was dead silent after. Some of the time that I experienced was inscrutably deep, like a black hole. Some was like floating wood, silently displaying an element with itself, and some was like eyebrows – because it was right above my eyes – but I needed to be against the light to see a patch or two.

Momo flew up to the roof along the alley wall. She looked back calmly as a crowd surrounded me like well-railings. This meant she couldn’t see me, but I could see her. She stood frozen in space, and even had time to smooth down her clothes.

“How come you’re messing about with her again?” my elder sister asked.

Memory like floating wood… I recalled Li Momo saying that heavy strikes might return an amnesiac to normal. I’d tried it that way many times already: people hit me with steel poles, smashed me with beer bottles, or I tripped down stairwells, or throttled myself and crashed into doorframes – all to no effect.

Like now, even though I’d been in a car accident, I couldn’t remember whether my elder sister was married or not. When she’d stopped her endlessly questioning, I went and drank some tap water in the bathroom, and finally found the red writing written in lipstick on the mirror.

I’m hanging in the college opposite!

The mark of Li Momo’s hand; the color of her lips. Floating wood memories rolled over in the waters.

4. I left the motel opposite the academy, and saw the strange buildings again. They looked like squashed pagodas from afar. When I went in I noticed that the college was a bit too big for its boots, embracing an entire hill, those odd buildings laid out around it one by one and without end. I went around twice without finding Momo, or even a generic academy student.

I was held up on campus by a security guard in a tan uniform. I stuttered an explanation.

“Ah,” he said, at once. “You’re talking ’bout that girl. She came in first thing in the morning, but I don’t know where she’s got to now.”

He was a little kid just in his twenties, with unshaved hairs above his lip that he apparently couldn’t grow into a beard. It was left very long and hung down thinly, making him look slightly yobbish.

“The Level Seven typhoon’s coming,” he said. The wind was strong, trying its hardest to rip apart the thick, low-lying clouds, as trees rattled and shook. “Hurry and find your friend,” he said. “You’ll be trapped when the typhoon hits.”

“Can I get through the road ahead?”

“Neither way’s passable,” said the guard. “Central point here’s the hill, and every campus building’s built around it. But it’s U-shaped, like a horseshoe; not round. It doesn’t connect either side, but you don’t feel that. It just cuts you off, naturally. There’s a sports track at one end, and weeds and forest at the other. It’s a layout that pretty much guarantees you won’t lose your way. Once you’ve walked on in, you’ll know. There aren’t any extra choices on the main way.”

“What about the lesser way? I heard it winds back and forth.”

“Yeah…it’s fun.”

Not necessarily, I thought… I know there’s a Fragrant Mountain for eating seafood on the main way.

“The horseshoe layout’s a maze like a ticking clock. Its layout is more artistic than round. It’s hypnotic, walking around. My daily work is tick-tocking on the main way.”

“Do you hang about where it gets more intricate?”

“Guards in tan like me only have to walk around. The winding paths inside have maroon guards in charge, and they gave the corridors inside every building to guards in this milky white…”

“The hill?”

“Nobody’s in charge of the mountain.”

“How come I haven’t seen red or white guards?”

“It’s summer vacation, so they’ve split. There’s sealed-off strips on all the buildings. All they need’s our type: that’s enough.”

When he put it that way I remembered that he was a guard, where I’d straight-up seen him as a tour guide a moment before. We were facing a pond overgrown with wormwood, with several red damselflies flying over it. When you walked upwards by the pond you found a building where layered eaves took up the entire façade, the glassy steel rubbed to a sheen, reflecting a cinder-like sky. I turned my head to look over as a burst of wind scattered the damselflies. There were no people in any direction. It was a vacant group of buildings, some like accordions, some like smashed bottles, and some like giant thunder-dragons who had stuck out their necks to pry and were frozen by a curse.

“Li Momo!” I shouted to the building. I cried again, with some despair: “Li Momo! Where are you!?”

“What are you yelling for?” said the guard, “No one’s going to answer if you yell like that.”

5. …So we ended our plastron-stealing career then, and later on (I forget which day it was), Momo’s mum died. Her sickness had dragged on for a long time, and her entire body was like a water-drugged pig. With her death, Li Momo was freed as well. When the coffin left home, they made Momo climb the wall and stand on the eaves of her own house, calling the spirit back. By local custom, that was carried out by the son, but the Li family only had the one daughter. Logically, nobody should be climbing up to call the spirit, but someone voiced the harebrained idea that Momo should take to the roof. She called out for ages, and didn’t want to come down. ‘This is ridiculous!’ they said, ‘Li Momo’s calling her own spirit out, but she’s a woman. She shouldn’t be on the roof.’

I have a clear memory of that building, Li standing at a height, the white walls already turning black, with a few frightened little men drawn on them, each person with three stalks of hair, hands with five matchstick fingers held open, some people crying, some laughing. I forget who drew that. It wasn’t me.

She was walking the roofs the entire night, onto mine, where I heard tiles break as she stepped on them. My elder sister was driven out of her mind, and swore skywards from the room opposite mine: ‘Li Momo have you lost it?’ I had stuffed a dead mouse from a trap in her drawers. She was saying that all the Li girls had weird habits: Momo’s mother liked eating wall paste, which rotted her kidneys, and Momo’s fetish was roof-walking. Saying that, she pulled open the drawers and leapt in fright at the dead mouse, fleeing out of the door like a madwoman.

6. The guard waved towards some high point. A girl was standing on the exposed passageway between the tall buildings. You couldn’t count the number of floors from the building’s front. It was fully encased in glass, like some top-grade commercial tower in the city, there in the group of huge tiled buildings of mixed concrete and wood, like a lady in a light veil facing a crowd of armored troops. The glass curtain became invisible when you went behind the building to what was, after all, another concrete-wood building that clambered continually to a Z-shaped staircase jutting outside, gloomy like an aboveground garage. I remembered the Zhejiang townships where the buildings had all been this type since a certain year – three-floor residences with mosaics glued to the street-facing front, the backs bare-naked with bruised red bricks. It was said that every Zhejiangese bought bricks and built an apartment once they had money, stacking the bricks in this half-mansion, half-hovel style. This high tower had the same style.

“That there’s the ugliest building in the province,” said the guard, pointing.

“You should say the saddest!” called the girl. She stood atop the third floor, half probing her body out, half looking haughtily down on us.

“Have you seen a thirty-plus year old woman?” the guard asked her.

The girl pointed towards the hill: “There.” She was talking about the other side of the U-shaped road.

“The typhoon’s about to start!” said the guard, “You’re not heading back?”

“When can you get me the key?”

“That’s tricky…” As a final act, he sighed.

The girl stuck out a middle finger, struck us with a low-brow hand gesture from on high, then disappeared.

We followed the horseshoe to the south part of the hill. The wind wrapped our clothes to us, and a swathe of sunflowers went face down on the ground by the foothills.

“She’s a sculpture student. Did you get a look at that building? The one with a roof that looks like a few tiles facing the sky, lightning rod slotted dead-center. That’s the college library. You can go up on the roof, although the entrance is blocked, and the leaders have the key. She’s always wanting to get the roof. I couldn’t tell you why. Begging me to sort her out with a key…”

“Didn’t look like she was begging.”

“I know. She’s ferocious.”

7. …Many years back Momo spent long periods on the roof, like Calvino’s Baron in the Trees. She would come down when she got tired and would go back to normal, going to class as normal, dating me as normal. One day I demanded that she take me up on the roof with her. As soon as I climbed up onto the wall, I slipped down.

“The doctor says your eye membrane’s broken,” she said. “You’ve got terrible balance. You’ll have to stay on the ground.”

“What’s so good on the roof?”

“It’s amazing! You just wait down there.”

8. “What did you think of her?” the young guard asked me.

“Who?”

“The girl just now.”

“Oh…” He had brought me back to my senses. I’d sunk too deep into my restricted memory. “The wind was strong just now, and the sun got in my eyes, so I didn’t see clearly. Seems you’re in love with her.”

He sheepishly plucked off his broad-rim hat and patted himself on the head. “I’m just a security-guard, right? Obviously I’d sort her out a key, so I suppose I had the chance.”

“Girls shouldn’t go up on roofs,” I said.

9. You have to understand that memory runs off when you suffer a brain hemorrhage. During the decade after Momo vanished I searched my memories with great effort on multiple occasions. I sorted everything out nice and neatly, laid out like the internal components of a building, which I walked past time and time again, artificially arranging everything unfamiliar, fading, or fictional into a chain of memory. But on a certain day the hemorrhage would wreak havoc and the building components would get bent out of shape, and I was cast out by a giant shove. Then I toppled over outside the building. It happened many times. I lost patience and hope. I’d rather just be an amnesiac.

The security-guard’s telecom rang.

“Meeting…” he said, “You can only go there by yourself. Here’s hoping you find ‘er. Good luck.”

“No problem,” I said. “I never worry about getting lost.”

We parted at the crossroads. He followed the main path on the horseshoe, off to the comms room, while I took a side road paved in black brick.

10. …The time of the house demolitions was truly hectic. A giant character for ‘demolition’ was pasted in red ink on the front door of every household, then in came the bulldozers, and up went the men and women onto the roofs, tiles flying down like hail. They made me guard seven steel gas canisters in the courtyard; I brought over a chair and read Critique of Pure Reason while I played with my lighter, firing it up with click after click.

“Who’s this guy?” asked the demolition company man.

“He’s an idiot,” a guy answered. “Someone knocked his head out of shape a few years back.”

“I’m a university student!” I yelled, but I still got a baton to the head. Momo thought it would knock me back to normal, but sadly I just rolled about on the ground, wailing as two demolition company workers dragged me from the courtyard. Only she was left when the rest had come down, running wild on the roof like a mad female assassin, screaming with joy. The demolition people looked on stupidly.

“The girl lost her spirit a few years back,” it was explained. “She’s the idiot’s girlfriend.” They propped me up and tied me to the bulldozer, calling out to Momo through a megaphone: “We’ll bulldoze him with the building if you don’t come down!”

“Dream on!” I laughed, “She won’t be coming down.” But that was when she sprang demurely from the wall.

One moment with the bulldozer, and the apartment wasn’t an apartment, just like my memories.

11. A mad wind spun through the buildings. Some were irregular hollowed-out cavities on cement walls, like freak animal spirits. Some corridors were like the mazes I used to run through, with the gradient of time passed and no more traces of when I was hunted down, nor were there plastrons in the countless window terraces high and low, which were emptied, like when I used to seize them. I searched several times without spotting any trace of Li Momo, although I did find a vending machine. I rolled in a coin to buy a coke, and drank it, thinking Just how did she leave me?

The girl from a moment ago was suddenly in front of my eyes. “Hey! I ran into your friend just now.”

“The security kid’s gone to a meeting.”

“The typhoon’s coming…” She walked over and sat next to me. After a moment, she asked, “You guys came to visit here?”

“My friend said the buildings here would help me restore memories,” I said, “but something went wrong right in the middle. Someone rear-ended the car, and she came here to hang out by herself and dumped me in the hotel.” Seeing her confusion, I added, “Oh, right! I forgot to tell you. I’m a historical amnesiac.”

“Sounds awesome! I had a teacher who was a sufferer, too stupid to recall anything. Later they sent him to a welfare institute. You know? A mental hospital.”

“I’m not that bad. I remember more than the average person, it’s just that the order’s all messed up, like someone’s wearing their shirt on the feet and trousers on their head. Your teacher, I suppose, was fully naked in that sense. They sent me to the welfare institute before. Things weren’t too bad. The nurses were a little icy, but they figured I wasn’t mental pretty quickly, so they let me out.”

“You seem very clear-minded to me.”

“Thank you. On the borders of chaos, clarity turns out to be the easiest thing to express.”

“I’ll take you to find your friend then. You’re sure to lose your way going around mindlessly here. Obviously the pretext here is it’s best she doesn’t get lost…” I almost added, ‘When she is lost, Li Momo will climb straight up on the roof.’ But I realised further roof-talk was inappropriate, considering what the young guard had just told me about her. I also supposed Momo had probably broken the rotten habit a decade on. I hadn’t seen her straddle any rooftops, at least in the week we were having sex.

The girl led me around the teaching building which looked more like a Japanese castle hemmed in with square cement blocks.

“What do you think of the architecture here?” she asked.

“Not bad,” I said. “At least, I haven’t seen any penis-esque architecture yet.”

“Penis?”

“Yeah, like a boner. Doesn’t matter where you go, the trademark building’s always something like a boner, tall and imposing, dominating all horizontal vision. Our eye muscles just aren’t that great at measuring it up. I’d say all architects are conflicted. In a way they worry about people becoming amnesiac, and in another way they’ve got to guard against people stealing their work too easily. But a boner building isn’t an imaginative approach.”

“At least there’s an order. How about using that to restore memory?”

“A boner-style order?”

“Wow…” she sighed. “You really can talk nonsense.”

She led me winding through a cloister, and amazingly we arrived at the rear of another building – a monstrously strange building.

“It’s summer,” said the girl, “so they’ve stuck up sealed-off signs at many places. But the road’s easier to take, otherwise it’d be even stranger here. Look at the bricks. They’re all old, shipped in from the country, at least a hundred tons of them stacked up here.”

“You and that little guard are the same,” I said. “You’d both make good guides.”

“Him!” he said. “He was an examinee for the academy, but some sinister force sent him running off to the Fragrant Hills town in Ningbo on the day of the exam. It was a huge amount of stress to get him a make-up exam, but he still didn’t pass. He’d used up all his cash, so he ended up settling down as a guard here.”

“So that’s the story.” I said. “It seems he’s in love with you.”

“He wrote plenty of love letters, like someone from the last century. The guy can’t even use a computer, and he’s road-blind. Ha! Ran off to Ningbo for the exam. To think a road-blind guy like that could be a security guard. It’s unbelievable.” She pointed to a building ahead of us, broad and wide like some massive curtain. “That’s the college library. All I want is for him to get me a key for the roof, then I can go up there before graduation. Is it sexy up there? They say it’s oozing with desire…”

“I didn’t notice that. It’s just a few tiles facing the sky.”

“In cross-section it’s like a chart of female orgasms – three climaxes, arced rising, then troughing…”

“That’s an outrageous explanation,” I said.

“I’ve been learning from you,” she said. “You’re the one who said ‘Boner-style Order.’”

“Fine,” was all I could say. “Let me ask you, what does it feel like up there?”

“When you stand on the roof in good weather, you see spots of clouds like a flock of sheep in the blue sky,” Momo had told me, a few years back. “I become a herder of clouds. The world below ceases to exist.” If that was the reason, then I couldn’t figure why she always had to run like hell, when sitting on the roof would do. “But that’s what all the cloud herders have to do,” she said. “Some clouds go astray, like the sheep.”

Too romantic for me. Better to be a conscientious amnesiac, I thought. Illusions could only get me residence in an asylum.

12. After the demolition, the maze of small alleys was laid out flat. A few large lingering trees stood proudly in the mess of bricks and tiles – cultural artefacts that needed to be conserved. The swathe of tiles discomfited us. We’d lost the roof and the road. But now there was clear passage in every direction.

“All thought vanishes on the roof,” she said. “Simple as that.”

13. The typhoon winds slapped us like giant waves. I have this memory of when the typhoons used to come – the flowerpots, the tiles, and the clothes flying about the sky, and sometimes entire windows whooshed out. Even Li Momo wouldn’t be up on the rooftops on days like that. I was seeing only a pure wind then, the bricks stacked tightly on the outer concrete wall, hundreds of wooden-frame outer windows fused together in one massive façade, like a seventeenth-century warship parting the air and cutting through waves. I remember those buildings so well, shuddering in the storm.

The young guard ran over to us, hand covering his hat.

“Hey, hey!” he called, “Your friend’s up on the roof!”

“What!? What are you saying?” asked the girl.

“She went up onto the library roof!”

I sprinted ahead of them. The girl griped behind me: “I thought you couldn’t get a key? How come she got on the roof?”

“It’s with our leader,” said the guard. “Maybe she’s got some special relationship with him. How could I know?”

“Hey! I want to go up too!”

“She’s locked the door from the inside!” said the guard. “She’s locked herself on the roof.”

“Li Momo!” I yelled, running like hell.

It began to rain, the slingshot in the clouds releasing pellet-sized raindrops onto my head. The building was larger than my eyes had measured it – like the husk of a movie-theater, as I found out when I arrived – and paved excessively with bricks, so people got the mistaken impression of a bungalow. It wasn’t, actually. It was quite tall. I couldn’t see anything when I stood and looked up at the eaves, just rainwater splashing down. I stepped back and continued to call her name.

“What are you shouting for?” Momo stood at a dip in the roof – the nadir of the orgasm, in the girl’s expression – looking haughtily down on me. She was the one shouting.

“I’ve already spent an afternoon running around here!”

“Did you remember anything?”

“I’ve been trying to remember how you left me.”

“The car crashed. We went to fix it, then had a lot to drink, and got a room. I got up early, you weren’t awake, so I slipped out. That’s it. I didn’t leave you.”

“I remember the crash knocked me out.”

“You just fainted for a minute, then woke up. You drank a lot, and sang a load of childhood songs when you were drunk…” She yelled: “Looks like your memory’s still not better.”

“I mean how you left me ten years ago!” My tears were mixing with the rain.

She didn’t reply. Instead, she stood slowly and walked to the center of the roof, looking as agile as all those years ago, and vanishing fast.

“Hey!” I shouted. “I’ve remembered. That time your mother was eating wall paste, the walls at your home were identical to here!” But it wasn’t coming back. I hadn’t been as alone as I was now, even a decade ago. When I couldn’t see her I grew frantic and wound around the building.

“We’ll have to go back to where we just were,” said the girl. “You can see the roof from there.”

So we ran back with the guard. The wind was about to flutter me away, like a kite. Standing firm and gazing from afar at the roof, all we saw was a tiny clump of a shadow standing on the W-shaped slope, lightly running up to the highest point. The black lightning-rod pointed skywards.

“Awesome,” said the girl.

“I’ll get you a key, guaranteed,” said the young guard, with emotion.

“She once said the clouds were like a flock of sheep,” I said, “and she wanted to herd clouds on the roof. But they don’t look too much like sheep today.”

“Like wild horses,” said the girl. “A pack of wild horses.”

The wild horses raced across the sky over the building, on whose highest point Li Momo was standing. My phone rang. It was her. I answered it. She spoke in my direction from there on the roof: “Take a good look! Do you see? Do you remember?”

“Just what are you trying to say!?” I called despairingly at the phone…

~

“站在屋顶上，天气好的日子里，云是一片一片的，像蓝天上的羊群。我就变成了一个牧云的人。”

壹

十年前，李茉沫离开了我，十年后她又回来了，但这中间相隔的时间，以及在这时间中发生的事，我已经记不太清了。她走的时候还是个小姑娘，回来时嘴角已经有了细细的皱纹，穿得也比以前称头，过去的恶习都改好了，开了一辆宝马。我问她现在有多少钱，她说，多得足以把十年的时间抵消掉。

我患有失忆症，很多事情都想不起来了，包括她是怎么离开我的。在没头没脑地做爱长达一周之后（住在宾馆里，吃了很多乱七八糟的菜，间或去看夜场电影，做了个体检），她忽然说要带我去一个地方，她以前去过，那里有助于我恢复记忆。我问她是哪里，她说：“象山的中国美院，那儿有一个现代建筑群—是建筑群哦。”我从来没去过那里，她说：“到那儿你就知道了。”

在去象山的路上，李茉沫给我讲了一个男孩的故事。男孩从外省来参加美院的考试，可是他跑错了地方，明明是杭州象山中国美院校区，他去了宁波的象山。宁波的象山镇是著名的海鲜镇，盛产东海里出产的各类鱼虾和软体动物，男孩是从外省坐车来的，他走下长途汽车的一瞬间闻到了令人作呕的腥味，令他误以为这座小镇被此气味笼罩其中，事实上只是他不巧站在了一个海鲜馆的泔水桶边上而已。内陆地区的人对这气味很不适应。他四下里张望，没看到传说中的现代建筑群，倒是一排排的饭馆，砌了一半的民宅，丑得让人心寒。这显然是一个错误的城镇，男孩蹲在路边大声地呕吐起来。

李茉沫说：“马可·波罗也有过类似的遭遇，在卡尔维诺所写的《没有名字的城市》里谈到过。至于同一地名产生的谬误，可以参看村上春树的《寻羊冒险记》，牵涉到文本和现实的不兼容性。”

“吃海鲜的人会跑错路去美院吗？”

“这不会吧？”

“所以是一种单向的谬误吧？”

李茉沫开车，我坐在她身边，到杭州时已经是下午。她有点迷路，而我是路盲，宝马在钱塘江的大桥上跑了好几个来回，三度看到六合塔。那是一个阴天，七号台风即将登陆沿海地区，江水起初是明亮的，渐渐变暗，渐渐消沉，有什么东西在远处涌动。我说“看来我们得在江边过夜了。”李茉沫停车，看地图，打手机。所有事情都是她一个人做的，我只是坐在副驾上抽烟看风景。

“中国美院有两个校区，一个在西湖边上，一个在象山。经常有人跑错地方，这可以算是双向的谬误吧？”

我无意于和她争论下去，她这个人一旦争论起来就固执得不能自拔，不过我还是嘀咕了一句：“这不能算谬误，太形而下了。”

车继续走，穿过一片山，四周苍翠如画，似乎是经过了景区，在一个头顶上过铁轨的桥洞之下还堵了几分钟，火车像急速拉上的窗帘，漫长地哗啦啦而过。再往前便是空荡荡的大道。李茉沫说这条路就对了。阴天的黄昏来得不是那么醒目，颜色如故，只是灰度的变化。美院的建筑不期然出现在眼前。李茉沫说：“这是很有名的建筑，里面绕来绕去的。你看，像不像我们小时候住的房子？”随着汽车驶近，隔着很深的树林，一尊巨大的瓦房在阴霾的天空之下缓缓站立起来，两只大鸟正从屋檐上滑翔而过。伸出头去看的时候意识到这是黄昏了，不知哪里来的尘土飞扬。

车沿着学校的围墙往前，不断有古里古怪的建筑出现在视野里，虽然看不真切，但它们在迅速移动、扭转。我看得有点失神，某种东西像曾经经历过的、遗忘的、残存的经验，说不清道不明地爬上心头。

李茉沫打方向盘，车转弯，有一辆卡车斜刺过来。我听见清脆的刹车声，这声音与强烈的震动同时到达。卡车一头撞在宝马尾部左侧，像是有人推了我一把，当时我的半个头颅都在车窗外，然后我就什么都不知道了。

贰

我和李茉沫认识已经三十年了，我今年三十岁，她也是。我们是青梅竹马，小时候住在一个院子里，后来一起长大直到二十岁那年。在我具备记忆力之前，李茉沫就已经出现在我身边，这近似于一种与生俱来的东西。三十年来我唯一爱过的女人就是李茉沫。

少年时代我带着李茉沫在故乡的小巷里穿行，寻找一种叫鳖壳的东西。那时人们吃过了王八就把整块的鳖壳放在窗台上晾干，等待收药材的人来买走它。至于它具体治什么病，我想不起来了，只记得李茉沫的妈妈肾亏，搞来一个偏方，用鳖壳煎汤喝。我们满世界寻找那玩意儿，很多年以前吃王八的人家屈指可数，可供偷盗的鳖壳更是可遇不可求。晒在窗台上的鳖壳被我们顺走，偷，或者是明抢，得手以后带着李茉沫撒腿狂奔，有时会招来失主的追杀，在迷宫般的小巷中我从来没有被追到过，也从来没有一次丢失了李茉沫。

那个时候我不是路盲，成为路盲是后来的事。

叁

我醒来时发现自己躺在床上，李茉沫消失了，宝马消失了，黄昏也消失了。这显然是旅馆的床，窗打开着，外面起了很大的风，全都吹在我身上。我赤裸裸地跳起来，觉得头疼，呼吸不畅，口渴。这让我感到惊惧，所幸衣服什么的都耷拉在椅背上。我穿上衣服，从裤兜里掏出手机对了一下时间，上午十点。这是发生车祸的第二天。

我打了李茉沫的手机，关机。再想了想，拨通了我姐姐的电话。我说我前一天出了车祸，和李茉沫在一起，不过目前李茉沫消失了，而我莫名其妙地躺在宾馆里。满以为我姐姐会问我伤着没有，但她在电话那头叫喊的是：“喂，你已经十年没有遇到过李茉沫啦！”

过去我对道路敏感极了，在偷鳖壳的年代我便表现出了这种天赋，我们从城南偷到城北，从小巷偷到职工新村，从机关大院偷到饭馆，自信满满，没有人能逮住我们。但是，我记得某一年被人堵在了墙角，那户人家大概是在摆宴请客，好几桌的人都跑了出来，迷宫中充斥着追捕者。我们被堵在了一个死胡同里，我把李茉沫送上墙头的一瞬间，后脑挨了一下。好像骤然拉下了电闸，那以后我就变成了路盲，而且间歇性地失忆，脑子里像敲锣一样，敲完之后便是一片死寂。我所经历过的时间，有些像黑洞般深不可测，有些像水中的浮木，静静地展现着其中的某一部分，还有一些像睫毛本身，近在眼前却只能凭借逆光才能看到一丝斑点。

李茉沫沿着墙头飞速跳上了屋顶。她平静地回头看，一群人像井栏一样围着我，所以她什么都看不到。不过，我却看到她了。她凌空而立，甚至还有工夫稍稍整理一下凌乱的衣裙。

我姐姐说：“你怎么又和李茉沫混在一起了呢？”

浮木般的记忆……我记得李茉沫说过，有些失忆症患者经过重击可能会恢复正常，这个办法我已经试过好几次，被人用钢管打过，用啤酒瓶砸过，从楼梯上摔下去，自己拧住脖子往门框上撞，都不怎么管用。

拿现在来说，尽管我出了车祸，还是想不起我姐姐到底结婚了没有。结束了她无休止的质问，我去厕所里喝了一点自来水，终于在镜子上发现了一串用唇膏写就的红字：我在对面学校里逛。这是李茉沫的笔迹以及李茉沫嘴唇的颜色。浮木般的记忆正在水中翻滚。

肆

我走出旅馆，马路对面就是中国美院，又看到古里古怪的房子，远看像一座被拍扁的塔。走进去才发现学校大得有点过分，环抱着整整一座山，怪房子一座连着一座，没完没了地绕山铺陈。我走了两个来回，不但没找到李茉沫，连一般的美院学生都没看到几个。

在校区里，穿焦黄色制服的保安把我拦住了。我结结巴巴向他解释了一通。他立刻说：“啊，你说的那个女的，她一早就进学校了，不过她现在在哪儿我就不知道了。”保安是个二十出头的小伙子，嘴唇上的汗毛看来一直不舍得让它变成胡子，留得很长，细细地耷拉着，样子有些菜。他说：“七号台风已经来了。”风很大，努力撕扯着厚重而低垂的云，地上的树木噼啪乱颤。保安说：“赶紧找到你的朋友吧，台风来了就走不掉了。”

“前面那条路通吗？”

“两头都不通。”保安说，“这里的中心位置是一座山，校区里所有的建筑都绕山而建。不过不是环形，而是U形，像一块马蹄铁。两头走不通，不过也不会特别感觉走不通，自然而然就被阻隔了。一头是操场，另一头是杂草和树林。这个格局基本上确保了你不会迷路，你走过以后就知道了，大方向上，不存在多余的选择。”

“小方向上呢？听说绕来绕去的。”

“那只不过是些游戏罢了。”

我想未必吧，大方向上我还知道有一个吃海鲜的象山呢。

保安说：“U形布局是一种钟摆式的迷宫，比圆形更艺术，走来走去会有催眠感。你知道吧，我每天的工作就是在大方向上做钟摆式的运动。”

“细节部分游戏着？”

“穿我这种焦黄色制服的保安，只需要沿着 U 形主干道走来走去就可以了；里面绕来绕去的道路，由穿绛红色制服的保安负责；每一幢楼内部的过道交给穿奶白色的保安。”

“山呢？”

“山不归任何人管。

“我怎么没看见穿红色和白色的保安呢？”

“暑假了，人都走光了，房子里都贴了封条。只需要我这种保安就可以了。”

这么一说我才想起他是保安，刚才简直把他当导游了。我们面对着一个长满蒿草的池塘，池塘上空有几只红色的豆娘飞过。沿着池塘往上走是一幢被层层屋檐占据了整个外立面的房子，玻璃窗像磨亮的钢铁，映着灰烬般的天空。我转头过去望，一阵劲风吹散了豆娘们。四下里无人，这是一片空荡荡的建筑群，有的房子像手风琴，有的像打碎的瓶子，有的像伸脖子探望的巨大的雷龙，都被咒语凝固了。

“李茉沫！”我对着房子们喊了一声，有点绝望，接着又喊，“李茉沫你在哪里？” 保安说：“你在乱喊什么？你这样乱喊也不会有回声的。”

伍

我们就此结束了偷鳖壳的生涯，后来忘记是哪一天，李茉沫的妈妈死了。她已经病了很久，浑身上下就像注水的猪肉。她一死，李茉沫也就解脱了。出殡的那天，他们让李茉沫爬上墙头，站在自家的屋顶上喊魂。当地的风俗是由儿子喊魂，李家只有一个女儿，按理说没有人可以上去喊魂，可是不知道谁出了馊主意让李茉沫上了屋顶。她喊了很久，却不肯再下来了。有人说胡闹啊，李茉沫把自己的魂也给喊丢了，女人怎么能上屋顶？那房子我记得很清楚，李茉沫站在高处，白墙早已发黑，上面画着很多毛骨悚然的小人，都长着三根头发，叉开五根火柴一样的手指，有些哭，有些笑。我忘记是谁画的了，反正不是我。

她整夜地在屋顶上走，走到我家屋顶上，听到瓦片被她踩裂的声音。我姐姐烦得要死，在隔壁仰天大骂，李茉沫你丢了魂啊？我在我姐姐的抽屉里塞了一只被夹死的耗子。我姐姐说他们李家的女人都有怪毛病，李茉沫的妈妈爱吃墙粉，把整个肾都吃烂了，而李茉沫的怪癖是在屋顶上走来走去。她说着拉开了抽屉，被死耗子吓得像一个疯女人那样狂奔出家门。

陆

保安向着高处挥手，有个女孩站在裸露于高楼之外的楼道上。这栋楼从正面数不清有几层，完全被玻璃包围了，类似城里的甲A级写字楼，在一组混凝土构建的巨大的瓦房之中，它像一个穿轻纱的妇女面对着一群甲士。走到高楼的背后，玻璃幕墙不见了，原来也是一座混凝土的建筑，不断攀升向上的 Z 形楼梯裸露在外，阴郁得活像一座地上车库。我想起有一年来浙江的小镇，那儿的建筑都是这个样子，三层楼的民宅，沿街的那面贴着马赛克，背面裸露着惨兮兮的红砖。听说浙江人都是挣一点钱就买几块砖头砌一点房子，砌出了一半是豪宅一半是贫民窟的风格。这座高楼也有这样的风格。保安指着它说：“全省最丑的房子就是它了。”

“应该说是最残酷的房子。”女孩说。她站在三楼，半个身子探出，居高临下看着我们。保安说：“看到一个三十多岁的女的吗？”女孩指着山说：“在那边。”说的是 U 形道路的另一侧。保安说：“快要起台风了，你还不回宿舍？”女孩说：“你什么时候能给我搞到钥匙？”

“难呐。”他最后叹息了一声。女孩伸出中指，高高地冲着我们做了个下流手势，然后便消失了。

我们沿着U形道路向着山南走去。风吹得衣服都贴在身上，很多向日葵倒伏在地面。向日葵成片地种在山脚下。

“她是个学雕塑的女生。你看见那个房子了吗？屋顶像几片朝天放着的瓦片那样的，中间还竖着一根避雷针的。那是学校的图书馆，那个屋顶是可以上去的，不过入口被锁住了，钥匙在领导那儿。她总想到屋顶上去，也不知道为什么。求着我给她搞钥匙。”

“她那个态度可不太像求着你的样子呐。”

“是啊，很凶恶。”

柒

很多年以前，李茉沫长时间地待在屋顶上，如同卡尔维诺所写的《树上的男爵》。不过她待腻了还是会下来，她下来以后就恢复了正常，正常地上学，正常地和我恋爱。有一天我要求她带我一起上屋顶，刚爬上墙头我就掉了下来。李茉沫说：“医生说你的膜迷路被敲坏了，平衡感很差。看来你只能待在地面了。”

“屋顶上有什么好的？”

“很特别哟。你就待在地上吧。”

捌

年轻的保安问我：“你觉得她怎么样？”

“谁？”

“刚才那个女生啊。”

“噢，”我被他打回了神，在有限的记忆中我已经沉溺得太深了。我说“刚才风很大，又是逆光，没看清。恐怕你是爱上她了吧？”

他羞赧地摘下大盖帽，拍了拍自己的头顶，说：“我只不过是个保安嘛。当然，假如有机会，我会替她搞到钥匙的。”

“女孩子是不能上屋顶的。”我说。

玖

你得明白，脑子里有了淤血，记忆就会跑丢。在李茉沫消失的十年间，我几度努力搜寻记忆，将它们整理得方方正正的，像一座建筑的内部结构那样排列起来，再一次次地走过它们，所有生疏的、淡忘的、虚构的，便人为地组成了一个记忆链。可是某一天淤血作祟，建筑内部扭曲变形，巨大的推力将我抛出，跌落在建筑之外，如此三番五次地，我便失去了耐心和希望，情愿做一个失忆人罢了。

保安腰间的对讲机响了。“集合了。”他说，“你只能自己去那边了，但愿你能找到她，祝你好运。”我说没问题，我从来不担心自己会走失。我们在岔路口分别，他沿着 U 形主干道向传达室走去，我踏上了铺满青砖的支路。

拾

拆房子那次真是热闹，每一户人家门口都用红笔刷一个巨大的“拆”字，后来推土机来了，男男女女都上了房顶，瓦片像冰雹一样飞落。他们让我看守着院子里的七个煤气钢瓶，我搬了把椅子过来，一边读《纯粹理性批判》，一边摆弄着手里的打火机，咔嚓咔嚓点亮它。拆迁公司的人问：“这个人是干吗的？”有人答道：“这是个白痴，前几年脑子被人打坏了。”我大声说：“我是大学生！”不过后脑还是挨了一棍。李茉沫以为这一棍子能把我敲成正常人，但是很可惜，我只是被打翻在地，大哭着被两个拆迁公司的职员拖出了院子。等到所有人都从屋顶上下来之后，唯独她还在高处飞奔，像一个疯狂的女刺客，发出快乐的尖叫声。拆迁公司的人都看呆了，有人解释道：“这个姑娘前几年丢了魂，她是白痴的女朋友。”拆迁公司的人把我架起来，绑在推土机上，用电喇叭向着李茉沫喊：“再不下来就把他一起推进房子里去。”我微笑着说：“别做梦了，她不会下来的。”但这次李茉沫却老老实实地从墙头上蹦了下来。

推土机只一下子，房子就不再是房子，如同我的记忆。

拾壹

狂风在建筑群中打转。有些房子被镂空了，不规则的洞呈现在混凝土外墙上，类似某种异物的阴魂。有些长廊像我曾经奔跑过的迷宫，带着时间的坡度而不再有追杀者的踪影，无数个高低不一的窗台上再也没有鳖壳了，空荡荡的犹如被我当年一扫而空。我找了几圈，未见李茉沫的踪影，倒是找到了一个自动贩售机，投币买了一听可乐，一边喝着一边想她到底是怎么离开我的呢？

刚才那个女孩忽然出现在我眼前，说：“嗨，我刚才遇到你的朋友了。”

我说：“保安小伙子集合去了。”

“台风要来了。”她走过来，坐在我身边，过了一会儿问我，“你们是来参观这里的吗？”

“我那个朋友说，这里的建筑，有助于我恢复记忆。”我说，“不过中间出了个差错，我们的汽车被人追尾了，然后她就一个人到这里来玩，把我撂在旅馆里。对啦，我忘记告诉你，我是一个历史性的失忆症患者。”

“听上去很酷啊，我以前有个老师也患上了失忆症，傻得什么都记不起来了，后来他们把他送到福利院去了。你知道福利院吧，就是精神病医院。”

“我还好，我记得起来的东西比正常人还多点，可是秩序被打乱了，就像一个人把衣服穿在了脚上，把裤子套在了头上。至于你的老师，我想他应该是赤裸裸的吧。以前他们也把我送到福利院，那儿条件不错，护士有点冷漠。不过她们很快搞清了我不是精神病，又把我放出来了。”

“我觉得你很清醒哎。”

“谢谢。在混乱的边缘，清醒反而是最容易体现出来的品质。”

“那我带你去找你的朋友吧，你在这儿胡转，一准会迷路的。当然，前提是她最好不要迷路。” 我差点就说，当李茉沫迷路的时候她会直接爬到屋顶上去。不过，考虑到刚才保安小伙子对我说的话，我就不宜对她再提起上屋顶的事情了。我想经过了十年时间，李茉沫大约也改掉了这个恶习，至少在和她做爱的一周时间内，我没再见到她爬上屋顶。女孩带着我绕进了一幢教学楼，不过它看起来更像是被正方形的水泥壳子限制住的蜘蛛巢城。她问我：“你觉得这里的建筑怎么样？”我说：“还好，反正到目前为止我还没有看到阴茎式的建筑。”

“阴茎？”

“就是八叼。不管你去哪个地方，标志性的建筑永远都是些像八叼一样的玩意儿，高大威猛，纵向地征服着视野，仅仅是因为人类的眼部肌肉不太擅长上下打量。我想所有的建筑师都很矛盾，一方面担心人们患有健忘症，一方面又得提防着人们过于轻易地获得他的作品。不过，八叼式的建筑实在是个没有想象力的办法。”

“至少有秩序，通过这个恢复记忆你觉得如何？”

“八叼式的秩序？”

“唉……”她叹了口气，“你真会胡扯。”

她带着我绕过一个回廊，莫名其妙地就来到了另一幢房子的背后，这房子诡异得很。女孩说，因为是暑假，很多地方都贴了封条，道路反而比较容易选择，否则会更诡异。“看这些砖，都是老砖，从乡下一车一车运上来的，最起码上百吨吧。现在它们又被重新砌在了这里。”

我说：“你和刚才那个保安小伙子一样，都很适合做导游。” “他啊，从前也是美院的考生，考试那天鬼使神差跑到宁波的象山镇去了，好不容易给他办了个补考，他又没考上。盘缠都用光了，最后干脆落脚在这儿做保安了。”

“原来如此！”我说，“他好像爱上你了。” “

写了很多情书，像个上世纪的人，连电脑都不会用的家伙，而且是个路盲，哈，考试跑到宁波去了。这样的路盲居然可以做保安，真是不可思议。”女孩指着前面一幢宽大如幕布的房子说，“那是学校的图书馆，我只想让他给我搞来屋顶上的钥匙，这样在毕业之前我就可以去屋顶了。这屋顶性感吗？他们说它充满了欲望。”

“没看出来，无非是像几片朝天放着的瓦片而已。”

“从剖面来看，它是女性性高潮的走势图，有三次高潮，弧形起伏……”

“这个解释太糟糕了。”我说。 “向你学习，八叼式的秩序是你自己说的。”

“好吧。”我也只能这样说了，“问问你，在屋顶上究竟是什么感觉呢？”

很多年以前，李茉沫告诉我：“站在屋顶上，天气好的日子里，云是一片一片的，像蓝天上的羊群。我就变成了一个牧云的人，下面的世界就不存在了。”倘若仅仅是因为这个原因，我想不明白，你安安静静地坐在屋顶上即可，何必疯狂地奔跑？李茉沫说：“牧人都是要奔跑的，有一些云像羊一样走散了。”这个说法太浪漫了，我想我还是老老实实做一个失忆症患者吧，幻觉只能使我住到精神病医院去。

拾贰

拆迁之后，那片迷宫式的小巷被推成了平地，剩下几棵百年大树还矗立在废砖乱瓦中，说它们是文物，必须予以保护。整片的瓦砾让人不安，既失去了屋顶也失去了道路，不过，这下它终于四通八达了。

女孩说：“在屋顶上，所有的思想都消失了，就这么简单。”

拾叁

台风如巨浪般劈向我们。我记得从前起台风的时候，花盆啦，瓦片啦，衣服啦，都在天上飞着，有时会有整片的窗户被吹出去。那样的日子里即使李茉沫也不会去屋顶上。而我此刻所看到的仅仅是单纯的风，砖都被紧紧地砌在混凝土外墙上，上百个合拢的木制外窗组成一个巨大的外立面，像十七世纪的军舰般劈风斩浪。我太记得那些在风雨中颤抖的建筑了。

年轻的保安捂着帽子向我们跑来。 “喂，喂，”他喊道，“你的朋友上屋顶啦！” 女孩说：“什么？你说什么？”

“她跑到图书馆的屋顶上去了！”

我率先向那儿跑去。女孩在身后大声抱怨：“你不是搞不到钥匙吗？人家怎么能上屋顶呢？”保安说：“钥匙在领导那儿，也许她和领导有什么特殊关系呢，我怎么知道？”女孩说：“嗨，我也要上去。”保安说：“她把铁门反锁啦，她把自己锁在了屋顶上。”

“李茉沫！”我在狂奔中大喊。开始下雨了，云中的弹弓将丸子大的雨滴射在我的头顶。那幢房子比我目测到的更为宽大，到了下面就知道了，它像一个电影院的外壳，由于过于地铺展，使人误以为它是一幢平房。其实不是，它相当高，从我这儿朝屋檐上看，除了雨滴刷刷降落之外什么都看不到。我向后退，继续大喊。

“喊什么啊！”李茉沫站在屋顶的低处，也就是女孩所说的女性性高潮的谷底，居高临下看着我。其实她也在喊。

“我已经在这儿转了整整一个下午了！”

“想起什么了吗？”

“我在想你是怎么离开我的。”

“车被撞了，我们去修车，在外面喝了很多酒，又开了房间。今天早上我看你还没醒，就自己过来遛。就这么回事，我不会离开你的。”

“我记得我是被车撞晕过去了。”

“不不，你只是晕过去了一小会儿，后来就醒了，你喝了很多酒，喝醉了还唱了很多小时候的歌。”李茉沫大声地说，“看来你的失忆症还是没好啊。”

“我是说你十年前怎么离开我的！”我在雨中大哭起来。

她不再回答我，缓缓地站起来，向屋顶中间走去，她就像很多年以前一样矫捷，并且迅速地消失了。我喊道：“嗨，我想起来啦，你妈妈吃墙粉那会儿，你家的墙壁就和这儿的一模一样呐！”可是她并没有回来。即使是过去的十年，我也没有像现在这样孤独。看不见她了，我只能干着急，绕着房子打转。

女孩说：“我们还得回到原来的地方，在那里可以看到屋顶上。”我们三个又跑回去，风从身后把我吹得快要像风筝一样飘起来。等到我们站定，眺望屋顶，只见一撮小小的人影正站在W形屋顶的坡度上，轻盈地向着最高处奔去。黑色的避雷针直指向天空。

女孩说：“真酷啊。”

年轻的保安深情地说：“我一定会替你把钥匙搞来的。”

我说：“她以前说过，天上的云就像羊群，她要在屋顶上牧云。不过今天的云不太像羊群。”

女孩说：“像野马。像一大群野马。”

野马正奔涌在建筑上空，李茉沫站在最高的地方。我的手机响了，是她打过来的。我按下了接听键。她在屋顶上对我说：“好好看着啊。看到了吗？想起来了吗？”

“你到底想告诉我什么啊！”我对着手机绝望地说。

~

Zhou Jianing – “There, there…” (translated by Ed Allen)

JANUARY 13th 2020

Zhou Jianing 周嘉宁 was born in Shanghai in 1982, and is the author of the full-length novels Barren City and In the Dense Groves, and the short story collections How I Ruined My Life, One Step At A Time and Essential Beauty. Zhou has translated works by Alice Munro, Flannery O’Connor, Joyce Carol Oates, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

(周嘉宁，1982年生于上海，作家，英语文学翻译。曾出版长篇小说《荒芜城》《密林中》，短篇小说集《我是如何一步步毁掉我的生活的》,《基本美》等。翻译Alice Munro, Flannery O’Connor, Joyce Carol Oates, F. Scott Fitzgerald等人作品)

There, there…

As soon as I turned through the airport luggage lobby door, I saw my younger cousin jogging over from the distance. He stood to attention before me like this was a rehearsal, plucked the sunglasses from the bridge of his nose and put his hands in his pockets.

“Well, hello!”

His hair had flushed out into a light blond. He wore grey-green contacts, and his face – once a pinkish white – had thinned to show sharp cheekbones. At a rough glance, he didn’t look Chinese, or really much like the young white guys in the area. Fortunately he didn’t make any note of my reservations, but instead shook his shoulders and held out a hand, taking the chance to haul up my suitcase and rucksack, then snatch my satchel and clamp it under his lower arm.

“Tired?” he asked hurriedly.

“I’m fine. The firm booked business class.”

“You’ve come at the right time. It rained all last week. Only stopped yesterday.” When he spoke he was already making big strides towards the exit, so I rushed to catch up. He was wearing a shoddy pair of skintight jeans, buckled leather shoes with pointed, stretched-out ends, and a black jacket with a glinting zipper. When he turned away, I saw the half-faded skull tattoo on the hood. He put on his shades the moment we left the arrivals hall, although it was gloomy and sunless outside. All his clothes were cheap goods he’d purchased from a wholesale market one time when he went back to China, but he never saw it as a problem. He actually delighted in his bum-like aesthetic.

“Did you lose weight?” I asked, forcing conversation en route to the carpark.

“Slimmed down just recently. First we agreed I’d take a trip home next month, then my mother said she didn’t want me to.”

“Oh…” I hesitated. Neither of us said another word.

The wind tipped people to one side of the open-air carpark in the gloomy weather. We walked for a while, then stopped before a decrepit Pick-up truck. Only a small part of the windshield was clean, and the open back was covered with a thick tarpaulin, to defend against the rain. There was a thick odor of fish and rotten vegetables. I was standing there, not knowing what to think, when I saw that my cousin had opened the door, and was nimbly placing the suitcase and bags inside. He slammed the door.

“It’s the restaurant’s loading car,” he explained. “I had a run down to the harbor this morning.”

“Oh…” I climbed in.

He looked for the parking ticket in a pile of receipts and leaflets. There was an ashtray packed full with cigarette butts. The CD-player started playing a song by Adele. As I rolled down the truck window, I couldn’t help but feel in my pocket for a cigarette, but then pulled my hand back.

“So where do you want to go?” he asked.

“You’re the boss.” I turned my head away and looked out of the window.

“The beach? Oh, no…” he paused, then added, “I’ve got an interview tomorrow, so I need to go to the city to buy an actual suit in the afternoon. We’ll go to the beach tomorrow, and I’ll take you to eat some fresh-hauled oysters.”

“I… already booked a plane ticket for tomorrow,” I muttered.

“Huh?” he said, disappointed. “But I asked three day’s break from the boss-lady.”

“I was always just going to be here for the meeting. Your mother…” The words stuck in my throat, so I had to switch tracks. “…. The family’s worried, so they helped out and brought you some good stuff. It’s all food.”

“The ocean’s at its most beautiful right now,” he said, like he hadn’t registered what I’d said, like he’d answered some other question.

We fell silent for a moment. We drove along the airport motorway for the whole journey, seeing no people – only enormous foreign-language billboards, and crowds of gulls circulating in the sky, emitting baby-like calls. It was strikingly bleak.

“What’s your interview for?” I asked him.

“A five-star hotel. The chefs in our restaurant were chatting, and mentioned that they were looking for helpers. I talked it over with the boss-lady – getting my work cut down by half. I didn’t say I wanted a whole other job. I just said I wanted to take English lessons.”

“Well, is there enough time to do two jobs?” I asked.

“There is, if I sleep a little less. What does sleep matter?”

We drove into a crowded tunnel. The truck budged forward a couple of feet, and we finally stopped. All around us were fumes, pumped out of the cars, and it became aggravatingly hot. Somewhat awkwardly, he told me that the air-con was broken. We could only roll down the windows. The temperature inside lurched upwards. Adele’s voice on the CD-player went hysterical, and I was close to choking. Even so, it remained very quiet outside. Nobody honked their horn. People reached their hands out of their cars and lit cigarettes.

My cousin was living temporarily at his boss’s house. I say temporarily, but really he’d been living there for two years. She wasn’t around now. My cousin took a sack of dogfood from the kitchen, then fetched a to-go plastic box from the back of the truck. It was packed with leftover braised chicken from the restaurant. He mixed the stuff together with fluid familiarity.

“Hardy!” he called. “Hardy!”

An old dog popped out from somewhere, had a sniff, and lazily retreated. He had no interest in strangers. He didn’t even lift an eyelid. I went to have a closer look at him. All of his fur had fallen out, grown over with scabies. He was dribbling hot, putrid, sweaty blood.

“The boss-lady’s dog,” my cousin said. “He’s almost done for.”

He led me to his room.

“Looks like he’s in real pain,” I said.

“He’s gone blind in one eye. Needs ointment rubbed on it every day.”

“Hmm-hmm…” I murmured, unable to think of anything sympathetic to say.

My cousin lived in a garage on the side of the courtyard. It was split into two rooms, with dry goods and tools stacked in the outer room, and his things in the other. It was roomy enough.

“You can sleep in my bed tonight,” he said, taking a big clump of bedsheets and covers from the closet.

“Actually, I’ll be fine finding a hotel,” I said, with a slight hesitation.

“Don’t do that. I’ve talked it all over with the boss-lady already. She’ll help me get a foldable mattress from the store in the evening, and I’ll sleep outside.” As he spoke, he opened the fridge but saw that it was empty. “I’ll head out and get something to drink. Why don’t you have a rest?”

“I’m fine, and time’s really tight. I’ll go with you.”

So he waited while I changed my clothes, and we went out together. It was a Chinese district, so once you turned the corner onto main-street, you saw Chinese character placards everywhere you looked, small clusters of Chinese talking in a verity of dialects, standing outside the little shops, or chatting on street corners. A few times, people coming our way slowed down and said hi to my cousin, who was wearing his sunglasses and had both hands tucked into his pockets, displaying a cool self-assuredness that had been absent until now.

“Someone’s got a lovely girlfriend!” the boss-lady of a milk-tea stand called to my cousin.

“She’s a friend,” he answered, without expression, like reciting some passage from a book. I gave him a look.

“Oh. No…” he went on. “This is my big sister, on a business trip, out to see me.” His face went red and his words came out in a jumble.

“Take two milk-teas!” the boss-lady said, leaning out from the booth, already sealing the cups with the packaging machine. My cousin just stood there. Then they got chatting in Cantonese. I couldn’t understand, so was forced to be a spectator. A moment later he forced a cup of warm and steaming milk-tea into my hands.

“Without the boba!” he said.

“When did you learn Cantonese?” I asked, after we’d walked a little while.

“My boss-lady’s from Guangdong, and both the cooks came with her. Plenty of Cantonese and Fukienese around her. There’s another Chinese community a few stations away, but they’re all from the Northeast there. You couldn’t take the garlicky smell.”

“You know a lot of people,” I said.

“Er, no,” he shrugged and smiled.

Eventually we stopped at a Cantonese restaurant that had a dragon painted across the entrance. It wasn’t time for lunch, and it didn’t look ready for business inside. However, my cousin pushed the door open. “This is our restaurant. Sit down, and I’ll get them to make you something tasty.”

The floorboards were sticky. A girl sat on a barstool, doodling on her phone. She lifted her head lazily when she saw my cousin. They went straight into a hushed chat in Cantonese. The girl gave me a look, titled her head oddly to one side, and then reverted her gaze. I wasn’t sure if that counted as saying hi. She had covered her face with thick powder, which made her look a little tubby, as she was very young. They huddled close and giggled at something on their phones. She took his milk-tea, not drinking from it, but nibbling on the straw.

Soon after, my cousin went into the kitchen, gave some orders, and came out carrying a flask of tea on a tray. He sat down with me. That girl had vanished.

“Girlfriend?” I asked him quietly.

“Oh, no,” he said, making that same lackadaisical expression, and continuing: “Boss-lady’s daughter.”

“You must have a girlfriend though.”

“I’ll be working two jobs soon,” he said sternly. “Where would I have the time?”

“True.”

“And don’t talk nonsense with my mother when you get back. You know –” he paused abruptly, blowing on the piping-hot tea in the flask, but didn’t carry on. I didn’t push him.

The girl came out from the back and served up a variety of steaming dishes. She took a few trips back and forth, and soon the table was fully laid. Just as I was thinking about stopping her and saying it was too much, she brought another dish – a bowl of buttered fried prawns with black pepper. My weary stomach had traveled far, but all this oily food wasn’t bringing it back to life. Disgust rose up in me instead. I called the girl to sit down and eat with us, but she answered, in the thickest accent, that she was on a diet. Her tone with me contained a mannered iciness. I couldn’t read a single expression on her face. It was the exact opposite of a moment before.

I rallied my energies and took two bites of the food, but my cousin barely moved his chopsticks. Outside, the sun had shown its face, which made the inside of the restaurant seem darker and deeper. The table itself was greasy, and the venerated Guanyin in the corner was surrounded by permanently flickering electric candles. It was like we were back in the crumbling, narrow-laned second-tier city where the two of us had spent our childhood. The light was the same back then, and everything was greasy to the touch.

The restaurant needed the Pick-up in the afternoon, so my cousin and I took the train to the city center. He sprinted to the upper-deck out of habit, and picked a window seat at the back row. They were wider than the other seats. Without speaking, he put his feet up on the seat opposite, folded his arms, and went off into his thoughts, turned towards the window. Along the way we passed some older industrial areas where the brick walls on the riverside were fully pasted with graffiti. At times we passed through residential zones with spacious supermarkets and corner churches. Other times we passed the ocean, concealed at the back of buildings, its surface revealed in white glitters between the gaps.

“Have you traveled to many places?” he suddenly asked me.

“I have.”

“Do you like it here?”

We looked out of the window together.

“It’s not bad. It’s a wonderful thing for a city to have some ocean.”

“I don’t feel anything,” he said, pouting, “I can’t stand it here. I’m bored to death.”

“But don’t you have plenty of friends?”

“They’re all customers at the restaurant. What’s can to talk about?”

“Right.”

After a moment’s thought he carried on: “But this grand hotel’s right by the ocean, in a wealthy district.”

We alighted at Central Station, bang on midday break. There were busy, bustling people all over the streets. My cousin led me on a shortcut through a public park, where groups of people were sunbathing on the edges of the grass, drinking beer. The sky was clearer and brighter than before. I stopped by a chain coffee shop, and thought I’d buy a cup. I asked if he wanted to sit together and have one, but he said no. My spirits were soothed a little by the familiar warmth inside the coffee shop – the sugar-frosted donuts spread on the counter, and warm buzz of soft conversation all around. A smoke would have made things even better. I felt my way to a wrinkled cigarette in a side-compartment in my purse, but hesitated, then pulled my hand back out. My cousin was standing by the door with his back to me, hands still in pockets, one leg sticking sideways out the door, shoulders subtly raised. A short gust blew up outside. The hem of his jacket rustled, shaking straight up in the wind, and he looked uncomfortably cold.

I wanted to visit the biggest department store, but my cousin said his friend had recommended another place, which had year-round discounts. I tagged along as we ran circles around the counters in menswear. He had to make his purchases from the tie counter and then shirts, then trousers and then shoes, so it must have looked like chaos. We swung about between two floors like a pair of headless flies. He quickly lost his usual tolerance, betraying his anxiety and misery.

“Wearing a Western suit is totally dumb,” he suddenly declared

“I like a guy in a suit,” I shrugged.

“You talk like an old lady,” he said.

“Screw you.”

“It’s the truth! Only the elderly actually like Western suits.”

“You’re so naïve.”

In the end we got it all sorted at some practically anonymous store in some corner. We were exhausted. It turned into a rushed job. I waited for him by the changing-room entrance. At one point, he stuck his head out (half of his shirt-buttons fastened) and asked if I could switch it for a size up. The polite, dark-skinned assistant had been waiting on us from the other end of the counter all this time. She passed me the shirt then turned her head silently in another direction.

He took a long time to emerge from the changing-room, shoelaces untied, wearing that suit – yes – but maintaining the stoop he wore with his jacket. He had both hands in his pockets, which made the trousers pull tight over his thighs. He stood in front of the mirror, highly embarrassed, eyes flittering from side to side, unsure where to look.

“The trousers are a little tight,” he whispered to me.

“Yes. Want to swap for the next size up?” I asked.

“Yeah. They really are a little tight…” he mumbled, looking at me, and then the assistant. When she came over to us, I realized that my cousin’s face was red all over, like he was furious at something. He took a few steps back. Meanwhile the assistant had already come up to us with the same rigid and mannered smile, giving my cousin a vacant once over, and saying, in the heavily inflected English of the place: “No’ bad at all, sir.”

“Could you help us find a larger size?” I asked. “They’re a bit tight.” I looked at my cousin. His shoulders were raised in sheer vexation, and he still hadn’t taken his hands from his pockets. It truly felt that the blame for the wrong trousers was on me.

“Of course.” Patiently, the assistant turned, and went to collect the item from the stockroom, which left the two of us stood there like lemons. My cousin took advantage of the situation to loosen one shirt button and then a second. It gave him even less association with the clothing. The mall had turned on the central-heating some time earlier, so he took of his jacket and draped it over his arm, with sweat all over the back of his neck.

He sat down next to me. “I’m a complete moron, aren’t I”

“You’re not,” I said, trying my best to console him.

“Your English is perfect.”

“Thanks…” I murmured, a little put-out. I didn’t go on.

“If the interview’s in the English, I’m a goner.”

“Did they say it would be?”

“No. But a kid got taken on last year who couldn’t do anything.”

“Just see how it goes. You’ve never had bad luck.”

“Things would be great if I could speak English.”

“Didn’t you study at a language college?”

“That wasn’t a place for study,” he said. “Pissing about in Chinatown all day, the only language I could speak was Cantonese.”

I lifted my head and scanned the room. The assistant still wasn’t back, and I was worn out. Two guys pushed open the door to the fire-exit staircase next to us, popping out for a smoke, I guessed. I could practically here the clack-click of the lighters. At times like these, I really couldn’t think what else could be done apart from going for a cigarette.

We had nothing to do, once we’d left the mall, so we casually strolled the streets. My cousin’s mood had dropped to the depths of hell. He swore like a trooper, as if the bags in his hands were dismantling his confidence. But he calmed down again after we’d conquered a stretch of road, and went on ahead in large steps and silence. I knew he was weighed down by worries – but who isn’t?

After a long time thinking, he finally opened up:

“We’ll go somewhere nice.”

“Where?”

“A casino.”

“What?”

“A gambling hall. They’re really famous here.”

“But I can’t even play cards.”

“You’re so lame. Just see it as keeping me company.” He thought a while before adding: “I have to earn back the cash from buying these clothes just now.”

I didn’t fancy going – not at all – but I didn’t want to be a sop on his mood either. So I followed him, hopping onto a bus that was stopped at the terminal station.

“Do you… go there often?” I asked.

“There was a time I did. I was so bored, there were times I didn’t want to go back to that garage once I got off work at the restaurant.”

“You must get lucky breaks, by the sound of it.”

“It’s not bad most of the time. But when I’d just got here, I lost a half-year’s tuition.”

“What did you do?”

“Held it in for a week, then just couldn’t wait any more, so I called my family and lied to them.”

“Oh …”

We fell to silence again. After a while, he spoke:

“I’ve got a bit of money now. I want to buy an LV bag for my mother,” he stumbled on, trying to keep the topic rolling, like he’d made up his mind about something. “The boss-lady’s got a load of LV bags, and they look great.”

“Ok…” I nodded, and wouldn’t say anything else. I didn’t want to look at him either. I’d gone completely soft. I had to avert my gaze beyond the window. This is how cities look almost everywhere. Gigantic billboards, and all the hotel chains you know on sight. Only here there were pigeons everywhere, and a small stretch of ocean-front in the distance. Some people were playing beach volleyball.

We got off the bus with barely a word, and I followed him. A batch of tour buses were parked by the casino, and Chinese tourists were taking group photos by the entrance. In a low voice, my cousin pointed out which ones were the northeasterners, which ones were Fukienese, and which ones were the guys from Taiwan. But as we approached the entrance he stopped abruptly right next to a pair of bouncers, turned to me, and asked anxiously, “Did you bring your passport?”

“I didn’t!” I felt my pockets, and then my back, flustered. “It’s at yours.”

“Shit… You can’t get in without your passport.” He held his forehead in his hands, with a world’s-end expression.

“Um…” All I could do was look at him.

“Forget it. Forget it. Looks like our luck’s not so great today.” He was talking to himself, but comforting me as well. The suit bag was already wrinkled, and the string had snapped as well. What a fucked-up day, I thought inside myself – and it’s far from over.

Neither of us had any energy left for walking around. I saw a fish-and-chip shop by the side of the road, so I stopped and bought us two portions and two large cokes. The young lady asked, keenly, if we wanted a supersize upgrade for free, and I said great, but the result was that the two cokes were a forearm’s length, with rainbow straws. Holding onto the comical cups like we were at a festival, we wound round to the harbor behind the casino and sat down, overlooking a bunch of brand new buildings on the other shore. We had the ocean in front of us, but it wasn’t ocean-blue. Some parts were grey, and some were dark-green. Colossal boats passed slowly before us, noiselessly.

“You like this stuff?” he asked, chewing on a chip. Somehow his tone sounded like my dad’s.

“It’s alright. I’m used to junk food,” I said, the liquid in my coke cup dripping down my arm.

“I’ve never liked it.”

“Then what do you like?”

“The cold poached chicken my mother makes. Well, old boss-lady doesn’t cook half-bad either, but she’s always playing mahjong nowadays. She rarely cooks. And there’s nothing that special, actually, about the way the chefs in the restaurant cook. They throw in too much soy sauce, and too much starch.”

“Your boss-lady really likes you.”

“A lot of customers think I’m her son.”

“Well, you always were very likeable.”

“Her daughter says I look like – ” He said a name. I didn’t catch it.

“Who?” I asked.

He repeated the name, but it still didn’t register. He was forced to take out his phone, which had a display photo of a guy with his head lowered. Probably a Korean – some celebrity I didn’t know, but obviously my cousin’s idol, since he started playing me some music on his phone. It was raucous, with a monotone rhythm going on and on. My cousin shook his knees just a little, along with the tune, then turned it off.

“Have you never heard it?” he asked.

I shook my head.

When the music stopped, the silence became harder to bear.

“I’ve got to smoke…” I said awkwardly, and pulled out the wrinkled cigarette from my purse pocket. But I couldn’t feel my way to the lighter, and I didn’t know where to search. My cousin leaned in and looked right at me. Finally, he couldn’t hold it in, and roared with laughter.

I shoved him. “What’s so funny?”

“You should’ve said earlier! I’ve been holding out forever,” he said, taking out a pack of hard-filter 555s from his pocket. He used the moment to light mine as well. There was a strong wind, so we huddled together, getting close to the seed of the flame. The lighter called out in the wind – clack-click, clack-click. I breathed in a mouthful. My hands shook a little. Once I’d spat the mouthful out I finally felt a little calmer.

“Family not on your case?” he asked me.

“They don’t know,” I told him.

“The boss-lady’s daughter smokes as well, and her family are in the dark about it, too. Sometimes we take a walk outside after dinner, and chain-smoke a fair few. Then we wind round the park at the back and take a big lap, which scatters every trace of the smell. You need two laps once the winter comes,” he said, finishing a cigarette in huge mouthfuls and lighting up another.

“Your mother…” I stabbed out a cigarette at just the right time. There wasn’t a better chance than now.

“It’d be the end of her if she knew. And, as you know, the way the situation is now, I can’t hurt her.”

“What?” My heart was thumping.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing.”

Death-like silence returned.

“Your mother’s sick…” My throat had gone dry. If I missed this moment of silence I’d never get around to saying it.

“Moron! I knew that ages ago.”

“What did you know?” I asked, scared.

“That she’s sick,” he said. “I knew that ages ago. If she wasn’t, why did she force me not to come back? And then,” he carried on, not looking my way, “Then you come here on this special mission, to scout out my situation.”

“But…” I wanted to argue back, but no words came.

“Whatever I do, it’s wrong now – if I go back, and if I don’t go back… Fuck!”

“Yeah…” Right on the money, I thought.

“Is she going to die?” he asked, quite suddenly.

I shrugged. “I really don’t know. They say she’ll live many more years, if luck is on her side. But nobody can say for sure.”

“Does she know what she’s facing? Is she still hoping for a green card?” he asked, the suit bag slumped to one side at his feet. A trash-eating seagull was giving us the death-stare, eyeing our chips, which had long gone cold. We were sitting there motionless.

An enormous yacht was leaning against the harbor entrance far ahead. Now and then you could see people walking starboard.

“Look…” he said.

I followed the direction of his pointed finger to the forest of skyscrapers standing opposite. The sun had fallen back behind them by now, so we could catch the fake reflections between the glass. There were seagulls too – tiny ones, occasionally soaring across our line of sight, then gone in the blink of an eye.

“What is it?” I asked.

“That’s the big hotel I’m interviewing at tomorrow – there. That’s the rich district. They say the private beach there’s absolutely stunning, and the girls all sunbathe naked.”

“Where?”

“There,” he pointed, excitedly, half his body leaning forward. “There…”

Slightly confused, I began to pick apart the crowd of towers opposite – the enormous English lettering on the rooftops, the semi-transparent lounge bridges that ran between the buildings. Which one was he pointing at?

“Forget it,” he muttered, dropping his hand wearily.

“Is it that one?” I asked, determined to keep the topic away from his mother.

“Forget it. Don’t bother looking. There’s nothing there really,” he said with an odd earnestness.

“Right,” I drew myself in again, and nodded.

The seagull had been there around all this time, patiently walking around by our side, waiting.

“Another cigarette?” my cousin asked.

“Alright.”

So we each pulled one out. The wind was too strong. We pressed together, closely. The lighter kept up its sound, all in vain: clack-click, clack-click.

那儿，那儿

周嘉宁

才拐出机场行李大厅的门，就看到表弟从远处一路小跑过来。他像排练过一样在我面前站定，把墨镜从鼻梁上摘下来，双手插兜。“哟嗬。”他的头发漂成了浅金色，戴着灰绿色的隐形眼镜，面容原本就有一种粉白，现在因为更瘦削了而从面颊上呈现出两三笔有棱有角的线条。粗略的一眼，既不像是中国人，也不像当地的白人小青年。所幸他根本没有注意到我的拘谨，打完招呼便耸耸肩又把手伸出来，顺势揽过我的行李箱和双肩包，再把挎包也一把抓过去夹在胳膊底下。

“累吗？”他短促地问我。

“还行。公司订了公务舱。”

“你来的时间正好，上星期一直下雨，昨天才停。”他说着已经大步向出口迈去，我连忙跟上。他穿着条紧绷绷的破洞牛仔裤，一双鞋头又尖又长的搭扣皮鞋，一件黑色夹克衫，拉链闪闪发光。转过身去，背后印了个掉了一半色的骷髅。一走出接客大厅，他立刻戴上墨镜，其实天气阴沉沉的，也没有太阳。他的衣服都是之前回国时从批发市场买来的便宜货，但是他从没把这当回事，反而对自己糟糕低劣的审美有种沾沾自喜。

“你瘦了很多？”在去往停车场的路上我没话找话地问他。

“这段时间刚瘦下来的。本来说好下个月要回趟家，结果我妈不肯。”

“唔。”我犹豫了一会儿，我们俩都没有没再说话。

外面阴沉沉的，露天停车场的风把人刮得往一边倒去。我们走了一段路，停在辆破破烂烂的皮卡跟前。挡风玻璃上只有一小块地方是干净的，后面敞开的部分盖了块厚实的挡雨布，有股浓重的鱼腥味以及腐烂的菜叶子味。我还懵在原地，却见表弟已经打开后门，手脚利索地把箱子和包放上去，又砰得甩上车门。

“这是店里装货的车，早上我刚跑了一次码头。”他对我解释。

“唔。”我爬上车。他从座位旁的一堆票据和广告传单里找停车票，烟灰缸里塞满烟头，CD机里播放着阿黛尔的歌。我把车窗摇下来，不由去摸口袋里的烟，但手指又缩了回来。

“一会儿想去哪儿？”他说。

“听你的。”我把头扭向窗外。

“你想去海边吗？”他顿了顿又说，“不行，我明天有个面试，下午得去城里买套像样的西装。我们明天去海边吧，我带你去吃刚捞上来的生蚝！”

“我已经定好明天的机票了。”我小声说。

“哦？”他听起来有些失落，“我还跟老板娘请了三天假。”

“本来就是来墨尔本开会的，你妈妈……”我有些语塞，又改口说，“家里人惦记着帮你带了好些东西，都是吃的。”

“这会儿的海是最美的。”他像是没听到我的话，答非所问地说。

我们沉默了一会儿，这儿的冬天还没有来。我们始终开在机场高速上，看不见人，只有巨大陌生的广告牌，空中盘旋着很多海鸥，发出婴儿般的叫声，因此有种强烈的萧瑟感。

“你要去面试什么？”我问他。

“一个五星级的大酒店。我们餐馆的厨师闲聊的时候说起他们在招帮工。我跟现在的老板娘谈了谈把工作时间减半了，也没告诉她我想再做一份工，就说是要去上英文课。”

“打两份工时间够不够。”我问。

“睡得少些就够，睡觉算什么。”

这会儿我们开进了一条拥堵的隧道，车子挪动了几步终于停了下来。四周都是汽车排出的废气，变得非常燥热。他有些为难地说空调坏了。我们只好把车窗摇起来，而车厢里的温度在急剧升高，CD机里阿黛尔的声音都变得有些歇斯底里，我快要透不过气来。尽管如此，外面却很安静，没有人按喇叭，只有人把手伸到车窗外面，点起了烟。

表弟暂住在老板娘家里，说是暂住，其实也已经住了两年。这会儿老板娘不在，表弟从厨房里拿出一袋狗粮，又从车后座拿出一个打包的塑料盒，里面装着从店里带回来吃剩下的烧鸡。他手脚熟练地把这些东西混在一起。

“哈迪，哈迪。”一只老狗从不知哪里走出来，鼻子稍微嗅了嗅，就又懒洋洋地走了回去。它对生人毫无兴趣，眼睛都不抬一下。走近看，它的毛都秃了，长了疥疮，臭烘烘的往外淌着血水。

“老板娘的狗，快不行了。”他带我去他的房间。

“看起来很疼。”

“它的一只眼睛瞎了，每天都要涂药膏。”

“嗯。”我支支吾吾的，也说不出什么同情的话。

表弟住在院子旁的车库里，车库被隔成两间，外面一间堆着各种干货和工具，里面是他住的地方，算得上宽敞。

“晚上你就睡我的床。”他说着从衣橱里抱出一大摞被子和床单。

“其实我去附近找间酒店睡也行。”我有些犹豫地说。

“可别。我都已经跟老板娘说好了，晚上她会帮我从店里搬张折叠床回来。我睡在外面。”他说着想从冰箱里去取些饮料，可是冰箱是空的。“我去外面买些喝的回来，你可以先歇会儿。”

“没事，时间特别紧，我跟你四处走走。”我说。

于是他等我换了身衣服，我们一起走出门去。这儿是个华人社区，拐上大街以后到处都能看到中文标牌，操各种口音的中国人小簇小簇地站在铺子前面或者路口聊天。不时有迎面走过的人停下来与表弟打招呼，他始终戴着墨镜，双手擦在兜里，显出一股先前没有的潇洒自在劲儿。

“女朋友好靚。”一间奶茶铺的老板娘招呼他。

“是朋友。”他不动声色背书似地回答，我看了他一眼。

“哦，不是，是阿姐出差来看我。”他脸一红，语无伦次起来。

“带两杯茶走啊。”她大半个身体谈在外面，已经开始用塑封机给两杯奶茶封口，于是表弟只好站定下来。然后他们开始用广东话交谈起来，我听不懂，只好站在一边看着他们。不一会儿他把一杯暖烘烘的奶茶塞到我手里。

“没有放珍珠哦。”他说。

“什么时候学的广东话？”走开一段路以后我问他。

“我们老板娘是广东人，两个厨子也都是她带来的。这儿附近广东福建人多，隔开几站火车有另外一个华人社会，那儿都是东北人。你可受不了那股大蒜味儿。”

“你认识的人真多。”我说。

“小意思。”他朝我咧嘴笑笑。

我们继续往前走，在一间门口绘着龙的广东菜馆前停下来。这会儿还没有到午饭时间，里面也并不像是已经开始营业的样子，表弟一边推门进去一边说，“这是我们饭店，你坐一会儿，我叫他们给你做顿好吃的。”

地板踩上去黏糊糊的，有个女孩坐在高脚凳上玩手机，见到我表弟就懒洋洋地抬起头来，直接用广东话轻声交谈起来。女孩看了我一眼，脑袋往侧面歪了一歪，又收回目光，也不知道算不算是打招呼。她涂着很厚的粉，因为非常年轻而显得有些胖。这会儿他们对着手机嬉笑，俩人凑得很近，她把他的奶茶拿过去，也不喝，咬着吸管。

过了一会儿，表弟去厨房里吩咐了些什么，端了壶茶出来陪我坐下，那个女孩也不见了。

“女朋友？”我小声问他。

“不是。”他又摆出那副吊儿郎当的表情，继而说，“老板娘的女儿。”

“一定在交女朋友吧？”

“接下来要打两份工，哪有时间。”他严肃地说。

“嗯。”

“回去别跟我妈乱说，你知道……”他突然停下来，吹了吹杯子里的烫茶。于是我也没再说什么。很快女孩就从后面端出来各种热气腾腾的菜，来回几次，放满一桌。我正想要阻止表弟说菜实在太多了，就又端上来一盆用黑胡椒和黄油炒的龙虾。我长途飞行之后疲惫的胃并没有被这些油腻腻的食物唤醒知觉，却泛起恶心来。我招呼女孩一起坐下来吃，她用口音很重的普通话说她正在减肥。她在面对我的时候语气里有种彬彬有礼的冷漠，脸上看不出表情，与刚才完全不同。

我勉强打起精神来吃了两口，而表弟也几乎没有动筷子。外面出了会儿太阳，这儿却显得更加幽深。桌子也是油腻腻的，角落里敬着的观音旁边放着永不会熄灭的电子蜡烛。像是回到了我俩童年时一起待过的那个狭隘又破旧的二线城市，也是这样的光线，四处都是油腻腻的触觉。

下午店里要用车，我与表弟坐火车去市中心。他习惯性地跑到火车的上层，挑了最后一排靠窗的位置，比其他位置都宽敞，他把脚搁在对面的座位上，也没有说话，抱着胳膊，对着窗户外面发呆。一路经过些陈旧的工业区，河边的砖楼上涂满涂鸦、有时经过一些居民区，有开阔的超市，拐角的教堂。有时也经过海，藏在房屋的后面，在间隙里露出白晃晃的海面。

“你去过很多地方吧？”他突然问我。

“嗯。”

“你喜欢这儿吗？”他说，我们一起看看窗外。

“还行，城市里就有海真好啊。”我说。

“没感觉。”他撇撇嘴说，“我一点不喜欢这里，无聊得要命。”

“可是你有很多朋友，不是吗？”

“都是店里的客人，又有什么可聊的呢。”

“嗯。”

“不过那个大酒店在海边上，那儿是富人区。”他想了想说。

我们在中央车站下车，正是中午休息的时间，马路上到处都是匆匆忙忙的人。表弟带着我往公园里抄近路，草坪边上很多人在晒太阳，喝啤酒，天色与刚刚比起来更清澈明亮了些。我在一间连锁咖啡馆前停下来，想买杯咖啡。我问他要不要一起坐下来喝一杯，他说不要。咖啡馆里熟悉温暖的味道，柜台里盖着糖霜的面包圈以及周围低沉交谈的嗡嗡声让我的精神稍微缓过来一些。这会儿能抽根烟会更好些，我摸到钱包旁边一包皱巴巴的香烟，犹豫了一会儿，又把手缩了回去。表弟背对着站在门口等我，他还是双手插在口袋里，一条腿斜斜地伸在外面，肩膀微微耸起来。外面起了会儿风，他夹克衫的下摆被吹得簌簌直抖，显得缩手缩脚的。

我想去那间最大的百货公司，但是表弟说他朋友推荐给他另一间常年都在打折的。我陪着他在男装部的各个柜台间兜转，由于从领带到衬衫再到裤子和鞋子都需要购买，我们显得有些失序，没头苍蝇般地在两个楼层间打转，他很快就失去了平日的好耐心，露出焦躁和沮丧来。

“穿西装特别傻逼。”他突然说。

“我喜欢男人穿西装。”我反驳他。

“你说话像个老女人。”他说。

“去你的。”

“可不是嘛，上了年纪的人才喜欢西装。”

“幼稚。”

最后我们在角落里一间不知名的铺面配齐了所有的衣物，因为已经筋疲力尽了，所以就有些凑数，像是急着要完成任务。我在试衣间门口等他，过了一会儿他扣了一半的扣子探出半个身体来问我能不能帮他换大一号的。客客气气的黑人服务员始终在柜台的另一端等待着，递给我衬衫以后，又把脸沉默地扭向另一个方向。

他花了很长的时间从试衣间里走出来，鞋带松着，虽然穿着西装，身形却保持着穿夹克衫时的轻微佝偻，双手插在口袋里，显得裤子大腿处非常紧绷。他非常不好意思地站在镜子跟前，眼睛犹豫着不知道该往哪里看。

“裤子有些紧。”他轻声对我说。

“嗯。要不要也换大一号？”我问他。

“唔。真的有些紧。”他支吾地看看我，再看看服务员。服务员朝我们走过来，我才发现表弟满脸通红，像是在生气，几乎要往后退两步。而服务员已经走到了我们跟前，依旧是一副僵硬而礼貌的笑容，心不在焉地上下打量了一番以后，用当地口音浓重的英文说，“先生，真不错。”

“能帮他再换大一号嘛，有点儿绷。”我看看表弟，他气恼地耸耸肩，手依然没有从口袋拿出来，倒好像是要把裤子选错了号全怪在别人头上。

“当然。”服务员有耐心地转身去仓库里拿，剩下我俩僵硬地站在那儿。表弟顺势松开衬衫的扣子，一粒，两粒。这样一来，他显得跟这身衣服更没有关系。而商场里已经提前开起了暖气，他把西装脱下来耷拉在胳膊上，脖子后面全湿了。

“我特别傻逼吧。”他在我身边坐下。

“没有。”我想说句什么安慰的话。

“你英文真好。”他说。

“唔。”我支支吾吾的，有些尴尬。

“如果面试也用英文的话，我就完了。”

“他们怎么说的？”

“他们也不知道。但去年有个小子被录用了，他什么都不会。”

“看运气吧，你运气向来不错。”

“如果我能说好英文就好了。”

“不是念过语言学校吗？”

“那又不是念书的地方。成天在唐人街混着，只会说说广东话。”他说。我抬头四处张望，服务员久久都没有出现，而我觉得特别累。有两个人推开我们身边防火楼梯的门走出去，我想他们是去抽烟了，几乎都能够听到打火机的咔嗒声。这种时候，除了抽根烟，我实在不知道还能干嘛。

离开商场以后，因为无所事事，我们便在马路上随便走走。表弟的情绪一落千丈，他骂骂咧咧的，手里拎着的两三个纸袋像是在摧毁他的信心。但是走出一段路，他又平静下来，沉默不语地大步往前走。我知道他心事重重，可谁不是呢。

“我们去个好地方。”他思索了半天以后终于开口。

“哪里？”我问。

“卡西诺。”他说。

“什么？”

“赌场，这儿的赌场可有名了。”

“我连打牌都不会。”

“你真没劲，就当陪我去吧。”他想了想说，“我得把刚刚买衣服的钱都给挣回来。”我一点都不想去，可是也不想扫了他的兴致，于是就随他跳上了一辆停在枢纽站的巴士。

“你常去吗？”我问他。

“有段时间常常去，如果晚上饭店下班后不想回车库的话，会特别无聊。”

“看样子手气不错。”

“大部分时候还不错。不过刚来那会儿把语言学校半年的学费都输了。”

“那怎么办？”

“捱了一星期，捱不下去了。就打电话骗了家里人。”

“哦。哦。”我们说到这儿，又都停下来。

“我现在有点钱了，我想给我妈妈买个LV的包。”他磕磕绊绊着想把话题继续下去，像是下了个决心，“老板娘有好几个LV包，我觉得还挺好看的。”

“唔。”我点点头，不想再说话，也不想看到他。我软弱极了，只好把视线移向窗外。哪里的大城市都差不多是这样的，巨型的广告牌，各种眼熟的连锁商店。只不过这儿四处都是鸽子，我们远远地经过一小片海滩，有人在那儿打沙滩排球。

接着，我俩相对无言地下车，我继续跟着他往前走。赌场的门口停着好几辆旅游大巴，中国游客在门口合影留念。他小声指给我看哪些是东北人，哪些是福建人，哪些是台湾人。但是快要走到门口的时候，他突然在两个穿着制服的保镖前停下来，扭头急切地问我说，“你护照带在身上吧。”

“没有啊。”我慌张地摸摸口袋，又摸摸包，“放你家了。”

“太糟了。没有护照不让进的。”他用手捂住额头，一副天塌了的神情。

“呃。”我只好看着他。

“算了，算了。今天的运气看着也不像是会特别好。”他自言自语的，又反过来安慰我。他手上装着西装的纸袋已经皱了，还断了根绳子。我心想，这真是糟糕的一天，而且还远远没有结束。

我们都没有力气再继续走路了，我在路边看到有卖炸鱼和薯条的铺子就停下来买了两份，和两大杯冰可乐。小姑娘热情地问说要不要免费升级成大杯的，我说好，结果那两个可乐杯足有一小截手臂那么长，吸管是彩虹颜色的。我们像过节一样捧着滑稽的可乐杯，绕到赌场背后的码头旁边坐下，对岸有很多崭新的高楼。面前就是海，不过不是蓝色的，有些地方发灰，有些地方则是墨绿的。有些庞大的船缓慢地行驶在上面，无声无息。

“你觉得这玩意儿好吃吗？”他嚼着一根薯条问我，他说话的口吻竟然像我的爸爸。

“不错。我习惯垃圾食品了。”我说，可乐杯子上的水不断沿着我的胳膊往下淌。

“我从来没有喜欢过这些。”他说。

“那你喜欢什么？”

“我妈做的白斩鸡啊。其实老板娘做饭也不错，但她现在总是在打麻将，很少自己做了。店里那两个师傅倒是真做得不怎么样，放太多酱油，太多淀粉。”

“老板娘挺喜欢你的。”

“很多客人还以为我是她儿子。”

“不错。你一直讨人喜欢。”

“她女儿说我像……”他说了一个人名。

“谁？”我没听清。他又说了一遍，我还是没听清。于是他只好把手机拿出来，他的手机屏幕上是个男人低着头的照片。大概是韩国人，我从来没见过的明星，却显然是他的偶像，因为他立刻就打开了手机的一段音乐给我听。是一段非常吵闹的音乐，重复着一个单调的节奏。他随着音乐小幅度地晃动了一会儿膝盖，把音乐关掉了。

“你没有听过吗？”他问我。我摇摇头。这会儿没有了音乐以后，沉默变得更加叫人难以忍受。

“我得抽根烟。”我为难地说，终于从包里掏出那包皱巴巴的香烟来，却摸不到打火机，眼睛也不知道该看哪里好。而他侧过身体看着我，终于忍不住迸出一阵大笑。

“笑什么？”我推了他一把。

“早说啊。我忍半天了。” 他说着也从夹克衫的口袋里掏出一包硬壳的三五牌，又顺势为我点了火。风很大，我们挨着火苗凑在一起，打火机在风里咔嗒咔嗒地响。我抽了一口，手有些发抖，等到吐出一口烟，才觉得平静了些。

“家里人不管你？”他问我。

“他们不知道。”我告诉他。

“老板娘的女儿也抽烟，她家里人也不知道。有时候吃过晚饭我们一起在外面散个步，我们连着抽几根烟，然后绕着后面的草地走一大圈，才能把身上的烟味彻底散尽，到了天冷的时候，得走上两圈。”他说着，大口地抽完一根，又点了一根。

“你妈妈……”我恰灭一根烟头，没有比现在更好的时机了。”

“她如果知道会伤心死的，你知道，现在这种情况，我不能让她伤心。”

“什么？”我心里咯噔一下。

“没什么。”他耸耸肩膀，死一样的沉默又回来了。

“你妈妈生病了。”我喉咙发干，如果再错过这段沉默，我就永远也说不出来了。

“白痴，我早就知道了。”他说。

“你知道什么？”我吓了一跳。

“她生病了，我早就知道，不然她干嘛不让我回家去，还要你特意跑一次打探我的情况。”他继续说，也不看我。

“她…”我想要争辩两句。

“我现在回去或者不回去都是不对的。”他说，“操。”

“嗯。”我想他说得没错。

“她会死吗？”他突然问我。
我摇摇头，我真的不知道，他们说运气好的话能再活上几年，不过谁都说不准。

“她现在知道了吗，她还想要这儿的身份吗？”他说，脚边装着西装的袋子歪在一旁，一只吃垃圾的海鸟死死地盯着我们手中盛着薯条的盒子。我们一动不动地坐着，薯条和炸鱼都已经冷了。

远处的港口靠着一艘庞大的游轮，偶尔能在船舷上看到走动的人。

“你看那儿。”我顺着他手指的方向看过去，对面是林立的高楼，这会儿太阳落到了它们的背后，能看到玻璃间不真实的反光。也有海鸥，非常小，不时飞入视线，又转瞬消失。

“什么？”我问他。

“明天要去面试的大酒店，就在那儿。那儿是富人区，他们说那边的私人海滩特别美，女人在那儿晒太阳都不穿衣服。”

“哪儿？”

“那儿，那儿。”他奋力指着，半个身体倾在外面。我有些茫然地辨别着对面的楼群，楼顶巨大的英文字母，还有贯穿其间半透明的廊桥。但是他到底指着的是哪幢楼。

“算了。”过了一会儿，他累了，垂下手来。

“是那幢吗？”我不想停下来回到刚刚的话题里去。

“算了，别看了。”他认真地说，“那儿其实什么都没有。”

“嗯。”我也重新收拢起身体，点点头。那只海鸟始终没有离去，它在我们旁边耐心踱着步子，等待着。

“再来根烟？”他问我。

“好啊。”我说。

于是我们又各自掏出一根烟来，风太大了，我们紧紧挨着，打火机继续徒劳地发出咔嗒咔嗒声。

~

Zhou Jianing – “I sighed, gently” (translated by Ed Allen)

DECEMBER 9th 2019

I sighed, gently

《轻轻喘出一口气》

My mother was already out by the seashore when I woke up at midday. Before she left, she’d said, “You don’t need to join me.” She’d also poured me some hot water, sliced half an apple, and placed it on the side. Now, the part of the apple exposed to the air had yellowed.

My fierce morning migraine had now crouched behind a nerve. The time difference and the hot and cold weather had worn me down for the whole journey. I turned on the tap in the bathroom, and waited for the hot water to come glugging through the pipes. On the racks the hotel washcloth and towel were folded neatly, clean and stiff. My mother had brought her own washcloth, draped smoothly over the bars. The cloth was rough at the edges by now. There was an abruptness about it, and it was hard to avert your eyes. Not just that, but if you lifted up the hand-towel, you saw that she’d meticulously wrapped the bar with cling-film, like a replay of a zombie apocalypse, defending against any skin rotting with contact. I knew she’d brought mosquito repellent and alcohol swabs as well, stuffed into her luggage.

“You shouldn’t worry so much about everything,” I told her on the first evening, just out of the shower.

“You really can’t say for sure,” she said stubbornly. “Don’t you know that chain hotel staff clean the toilets with washcloths?”

“You believe too much of what you read in the newspapers. This isn’t some cheap chain hotel. Just look outside: that’s the ocean, right there.” I opened the blinds with the bedside remote. She went to the window, somewhat hesitantly. It was pitch black outside. You couldn’t see a thing.

“One time I was staying at a hostel, and I put on someone else’s slippers,” she said. “I got verrucas.”

“When was that? Two decades ago?”

“When I was just married. Twenty – no, thirty years ago. So what?”

“The world is changing.”

“It won’t be changing for the cleaner.”

“You think there’s too much bad in the world, that there’s danger everywhere.”

“Isn’t there? Why else would you have suffered heartbreak? I can see your heart’s broken all the way through.”

“What are you talking about? You shouldn’t watch that many soap operas.”

“I’m different from you. Look at my age. All I want is to enjoy this time in my life. You’re demanding I change something?”

“Nobody wants to change you,” I said, growing angry.

Now that she’d left the room, I could finally breathe out. My hair, washed with the hotel shampoo, was scrunched up and dripping. I opened a window, and there was the beach, far away. I could see people, dogs, islands – but I couldn’t hear anything. I wasn’t wearing clothes, which felt just right. I thought there’d be wind but there wasn’t. Still, surfers were racing across the ocean on their boards, welcoming the sudden rise of the waves, vanishing into the white foam.

I took a book with me to the hotel café. I’d wanted to read it on the plane, but in the end two ladies from Wenzhou, who ran general stores here, sat in the row behind me, and discussed the business of each Chinatown family and store. The constant up-and-down grind of their voices yanked at my nerves from the beginning of the flight to the end. Meanwhile, my mother slept by my side the whole way through, strapped tightly into her seatbelt with her eyes closed and her breath uneven. I fell into a confused sleep for half the journey, but the dryness and the din of the rumbling cabin grated on me. Luckily, I’m used to the frail emotions that come with insomnia. It’s nothing more than that immobility – bones, nerves, skin, and hair like weathered porcelain.

Now, two burly aproned ladies with their hands on their hips were leaning on the kitchen’s fire door in the restaurant to the side of me, squinting over coldly, then looking away. Since no other guests were about, I moved to the patio facing the ocean, so I could smoke as well. We were near the tropics here, and there was a huge temperature difference between morning and evening. The sun shone until it became a shaky and weighty delusion, but once covered by clouds, the ocean wind was migraine-inducing when it blew. People strolled on the beach in their sweaters. Some wore bikinis, playing stumbling games of beach volleyball in the sand.

A man pushing a cart stopped by my side, near the railing around the patio. He pointed to my cigarette packet, to ask if he could have one. I hesitated for a moment, but pulled out a smoke and handed it to him. He lit it with his own lighter. A strong wind was blowing, and he stood there clicking the lighter for a long time. Then, he leaned on the railing and took in a mouthful, satisfied. He wore a small purple sequined cap, and his face was gaunt. A long scar grinned from one corner of his mouth.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“China,” I said.

“Oh. Beijing?”

“No.”

I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

“I had a girlfriend from Beijing once,” he said, and then unexpectedly burst into song: “I loved a girl… She came from Beijing… She came from Beijing.”

“Right…”

“What are you here for?” he asked. “Travel?”

I nodded.

“With friends?” he pressed.

“No. With my mother. She’s down by the ocean. The sun’s too fierce for me.”

“That’s lovely, traveling with your mum,” he said, and gave a whistle. “How old are you? Twenty?”

“Heh.” I couldn’t help smiling. “That’s good to hear.”

“Isn’t it?” He smiled contentedly. “So you’re lonely?”

“No.”

He carried on as if I hadn’t spoken.

“My guitar broke, but I’ll sing a song for you now. All I can sing is Elvis. I’m old school.”

“Maybe another time.”

“Alright. Listen, I’ve got to go. Today’s a particularly unlucky day.” He pointed to the cart behind him. “You see? The plastic guitar box broke, but Paolo in the restaurant left a new one for me, so I’m off to get it.” With that, he stubbed out his cigarette, pushed the cart two steps forward, turned back, and added: “Word of warning – don’t eat the fish and chips from Paolo’s. It isn’t fresh…”

When my mother came back a little while later, two serving staff were laying the tables, setting out cutlery for dinner. I watched as she approached, coming up the beach in the tangerine cap she’d bought especially for this trip. It was wrinkled, and the style put years on her. She was carrying a bag of the same color, with a cloth instead of a leather loop, which she’d never stopped complaining about. She stomped her way across the sand, sunburned from nose to cheeks, panting, but apparently too satisfied to hold it back.

“Where did you go?” I asked her.

“For a walk on the beach.”

“For the whole afternoon?”

“Yeh. I walked across two bays, all the way beyond that reef.” She pointed it out enthusiastically. I looked, but saw nothing. “You should get out and walk around,” she went on. “Don’t always be thinking about him. Didn’t we come here so you could relax and forget what was hurting you?”

“I wasn’t thinking about him in the slightest,” I frowned. “But I am now…”

“Have you still got a headache? Such a shame. Today’s our last day, and you haven’t seen that bay.”

“Let’s just eat. I’m hungry again. Aren’t you?”

Cloaked in the warm evening sun, we walked along the beach. It wasn’t getting dark yet, so naturally it wasn’t dinner time. The little restaurants around us were cavernous when you looked inside – just a scattering of white guys sitting on outdoor chairs, drinking beers. I peered over at a restaurant with the name Paolo’s hanging from a placard, and for some reason I quickened my pace to get past it. Still, I couldn’t help turning to look at the sparkling golden fried fish and the bubbling Coca Cola embossed on the placard by the door, and a guy with a Mohican leaning to one side to make a phonecall.

In the end we found a Japanese restaurant and sat down. My mother was sick of the coarse and earthy food we’d been eating since we arrived, sick of the fried local cuisine and the overly fragrant Southeast Asian restaurants. We were like all tourists, sitting on a patio, shielded by trees, gazing meaninglessly at the people on the beach. The sunbathers rose one after the other, shuffling lazily.

Our food took an age to arrive. Finally my mother couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

“We should talk,” she said.

“We talk every day,” I said, as calmly as I could manage.

“But you’ve never told me the truth. You should have told me by now.”

“I’m not suffering as much as you imagine. I’ve already dealt with it.”

“So you’ve accepted it, just like that?” She eyed me suspiciously.

“It’s fine. He fell in love with someone else. It can happen to anyone.”

“What kind of talk is that? Have you fallen in love with someone else?” She was almost in my face now. “I’ve never heard of things like this. Never!” Her voice was loud but tremulous, as if she were close to tears. I didn’t know why she had to make such a show of suffering. In the end we turned away from each other and concentrated on the slowly dimming sky.

I didn’t say another word. When our food was served, I ate with my head lowered. With a pained expression, my mother took two bites of food and then pushed her bowl away. I didn’t look up. A fly hovered between us.

Suddenly she asked, “Did he beat you?”

“What?”

“Did he beat you?”

I pushed my bowl away too, both hands shaking. Then, I fished a handful of change out of my purse and placed it on the table.

My mother followed me out of the restaurant and onto the beach, where we walked in awkward single file. We passed Paolo’s again on the way back to the hotel. The neon sign was lit up now, and there was an alluring aroma of fried food. All of a sudden, the man in the purple sequined appeared. He was pushing his cart, practically stumbling with enthusiasm as he came towards me.

“Hey! I knew I’d see you again!” He smiled and opened his arms. There were two eye-piercing pink plastic boxes dangling from his trolley. “Paolo gave me a new box, and I got a Bruce harmonica in C as well!”

I nodded uncomfortably, not returning his smile. Then, I lowered my head and took two steps forward.

“Is this your mum?” he asked. “She’s just as pretty as you are! Hello!”

“Who’s he?” my mother asked me. “What’s he saying?” She crossed both her arms, eyeing the eccentric stranger cautiously. She drew in her shoulders, looked at me, and repeated the question, louder this time: “Who is he?”

“He’s a trash collector.”

“And what does he want?”

“Just to say good evening.”

“Make him leave!”

“He’s only trying to be friendly.”

“Make him leave. Now!” She held my arm in a death grip, gesturing to the man in a terrified motion of banishment.

“We have to go back to the hotel,” I told him.

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry…”

He stood where he was. He didn’t speak again.

Now, my mother moved with even more energy. I had sand in my shoes but managed to keep up with her. We came upon a group of youngsters emerging from a surf school opposite, wearing tight-strapped sharkskin and holding body-length surfboards. With the last rays of sunlight in the sky, the surfers sprinted past us, the guys at the front hardly able to wait to crash into the waves.

Back at the hotel, we changed into our swimming clothes, planning to go for a dip in the outdoor pool. We walked through a long corridor, where a series of tropical plants thrived in the black-lacquer air.

As we reached the pool, it started to rain. The downpour lowered the temperature by ten degrees at least, and the ocean wind was blowing in from all directions. My migraine began to reappear from behind those interlocked nerves. I had to pull my coat around me.

“Let’s go back,” I said. “It’s too cold.”

“Such a shame. It’s our last night.”

“We can have a drink at the bar instead,” I said.

“Do you drink a lot?” She looked at me, then at the pool outside, which was dancing with rain. We went back the same way we’d come, in total silence.

Finally I spoke:

“I don’t hate him at all. I just hope you can understand. You need to accept it.”

“I know. The world has changed. Customs are worse.”

“That’s not it. You don’t understand.”

“Nobody divorced in our time. People who weren’t dating could live together too. That was nothing. People need the patience for loneliness. They haven’t got it nowadays. He’ll figure it out one day. Where’s he going to go to find someone like you? That’s how it always is in the end, when people interact. He’ll work it out sometime.”

“Those are two different things.”

We’d arrived at the bar. My mother stopped and looked inside, then took a small step back.

“It’s full of foreigners,” she said.

“It’s cold, and my head’s starting to ache. I’ll sit for a while, have a glass of wine, then come straight up.”

My mother wasn’t happy. My persistence was obviously grating on her. “We’ve got to get to the airport before sunrise tomorrow…” she said.

In the end, she had no choice but to head over to the elevator.

I went into the bar and found a seat by the window. It was pitch black outside, but the ocean was right there.

The bar was so small that the seats knocked against each other. There weren’t many people in there. Sitting opposite me was an old fellow with a hot sandwich and a beer in front of him. He was on his third glass already, but he hadn’t touched the sandwich. His gaze was mostly fixed beyond the window , but he turned his head and smiled at me a few times.

I rushed to finish my glass of wine, and asked for another. The man pulled his chair over to mine, and spoke to across the table.

“Are you from China?” he asked.

“I am.”

“There aren’t many Chinese restaurants here. There’s Lee’s opposite. They do hotpot.”

“Well, that suits the weather this evening.”

“Right. Too cold! But it’ll get better tomorrow. You can go out on the sea. Have you done that yet?”

“Not yet. My mother gets seasick.”

“You’re on holiday with your mother?”

That’s not how she sees it, I thought, but nodded.

“I’ve got three kids,” the man said. “Two daughters working in the city, and a son, who’s divorced. He brought my granddaughter here for a vacation. They spend all day out at sea on the boat.”

“Where do you live?”

“I run a rental store across the road. We’ve got everything we should have, from boards to boats.”

“Do you fish?”

“Sure. Used to be a decent fisherman, but I’m tired of it now. I don’t go out on the boat anymore.”

“I see.”

“Let me take you for a meal tomorrow.”

“Oh, I –”

It’s our last night, I was thinking.

“What? Bring your mum along, or other family, if you have them here. You can tell me about your city. I had a pacemaker installed this year, so I can’t go anywhere. It pisses the hell out of me.” He swigged another mouthful of beer. I wasn’t sure if he was drunk.

He left me a phone number with a long country and area code at the front, and urged me to call tomorrow evening.

I picked up my room key and said my parting words, then went to the balcony to smoke my last cigarette of the day. The rain had stopped. The fragrance of plants had vanished from the air, and just the fishy smell of the ocean remained. The cold was fiercer. I pulled in my hands and feet and lit up. When I turned, I saw the old man sitting limply in the leather chair, eyes closed, as if he was already asleep.

“Don’t hold me so tightly! You’re yanking my clothes!” he cried into the wind.

“What?” I yelled as the wind fluttered the words right back at me.

“You’re yanking my clothes!” He turned back to look at me.

“Drive slower. They drive on the wrong side of the road here, and you’re always on both sides.”

“I’m only going sixty. Don’t argue!”

“But the wind’s so strong. My head’s killing me.”

“Why aren’t you wearing a helmet?”

“Um…”

“You never listen to a word I say. We should stop at the drugstore. Are you wearing sunscreen?” His voice has lowered, and he spoke kindly. He didn’t know the wind was scattering everything he said.

That was a decade ago. Us on a motorway on an island. There was a dazzling blue and gold Buddha ahead in the distance, and a crowd of irritating wasps. Things are fine now: I’ve forgotten even the name of the island. All memory trawls up are useless scraps. But anyway, I smoked my cigarette, and I sighed, gently.

轻轻喘出一口气

午睡醒来时，妈妈已经出门去海边了。“你不用陪我咯。”她出门前替我倒好了一杯水，旁边切开半只苹果，现在苹果暴露在空气里的部分已经发黄了。

早晨猛烈的头痛此刻蜷缩回某根神经后面，时差和忽冷忽热的天气在整个旅途中折磨着我。我打开浴室的莲蓬头，等待热水从嘎吱作响的管道里传过来。架子上酒店的毛巾和浴巾都整整齐齐地折叠在原处，干净而僵硬。而她随身带着的一块旧毛巾则蔫呼呼地耷拉在杠子上。这块毛巾已经毛了边，带着格格不入的突兀感，竟然叫人始终无法移开目光。还不止于此，如果把毛巾掀开，便会看到她细致地在杆子上裹了层保鲜膜，像是要重演生化危机，防止任何触碰带来的皮肤溃烂。我知道她带了防蚊药水，酒精棉花，却不知道她还塞了卷保鲜膜。

“你不用那么忧心忡忡的。”头一天晚上我从浴室出来以后对她说。

“这事儿你可说不准。”她非常固执，“你不知道那些连锁酒店的服务员用毛巾擦马桶么？”

“你太相信报纸了。这儿可不是那些便宜的连锁酒店，看看外面，窗户外面就能看到海。”我说着用床边的遥控开关打开窗帘。她有些犹豫地站到窗边，可其实外面黑乎乎的，什么都看不见。

“我有回住在招待所里穿了次别人的拖鞋，之后得了脚癣。”她啧啧说。

“那是什么时候的事情，二十年前？”

“我刚结婚那会儿，二十年，不对，三十年前。那又如何？”

“世界在变！”

“不会变得更干净。”

“你把世界想得太糟，到处都是危险。”

“可不是么？要不然你为什么会遇见这么糟心的事，我看你是伤透了心。”

“你又在胡说什么？你不应该看那么多电视剧。”

“我跟你不一样，我这把年纪了，只想乐呵着消磨时间。你还能要求我改变什么？”

“没人想要改变你。”我说着，都有些气恼起来。

这会儿她不在房间里，我才觉得松了口气。用酒店的洗发水洗过的头发纠成一团，不断往下淌水。我打开一扇窗户，远处就是沙滩，只看得到人，狗，海鸟，却悄无声息。我没有穿衣服，觉得正好。我以为会有风，其实没有，可是冲浪的人不断拿着冲浪板奔进大海，迎着浪突然站起来，又转瞬消失在白色的泡沫里。

我带着一本书来到酒店咖啡馆。书原本是想要在长途飞机上看的，结果后排座位坐着两个开杂货店的温州女人，自始自终都在谈论唐人街上各家各户的生意，细碎而高低不定的音调牵扯着我的神经。倒是妈妈在我身边始终睡着，她紧紧绑着安全带，眉头紧锁，发出短促而不均匀的呼吸声。我半途迷糊着睡过去一会儿，又被干燥和机舱隆隆的噪音折磨。而所幸我已经习惯失眠所带来的脆弱情绪，无非就是这样一动不动，骨头，神经，皮肤，毛发都有如风化的瓷器。

一旁的餐厅里，两个敦实的围着围兜的女服务生叉腰倚靠着厨房的防火门，冷冷地瞥过来一眼就又收回了目光。没有其他客人，于是我挪到露台上，对着海滩，还能抽上根烟。这里接近热带，早晚温差却很大。太阳把一切都照成白晃晃的幻觉，而一旦被乌云遮蔽，海风就吹得人头痛。海滩边有人穿着毛衣散步，也有人穿着比基尼，浑身泥泞地打沙滩排球。

有个推着手推车的流浪汉隔着露台的围栏，在我旁边驻足停下。指指我的烟盒，示意我能不能给他根烟。我犹豫片刻，抽了一根递给他。他用自己的打火机点烟，风很大，打火机啪嗒啪嗒响了好久。然后他靠着栏杆，满足地吸了一口。他戴着顶缀满亮片的紫色小帽，面色苍白，从嘴角处咧开一道长长的疤。

“你从哪儿来？”

“中国。”我说。

“哦，哦。北京？”

“不是。”我并没有在一种对话的情绪里。

“我曾经有个北京的女朋友。”他说着竟然唱起来，“我爱过一个女孩，她来自北京，她来自北京。”

“唔。”

“你来这儿做什么？旅行么？”他继续问。

“没错。”

“你的朋友呢？”

“我跟妈妈一起来的，她在海边。太阳太晒了。”

“跟妈妈一起出来旅行，那可真够受的。哟嗬。”他吹了声口哨，“你多大，二十？”

“诶？”我忍不住想笑。“你说话太动听了。”

“可不是吗？”他得意地笑笑，“你是那种郁郁寡欢的女孩吗？”

“我可不是。”

“我的琴坏了，不然我现在唱首歌个你听，我只会唱猫王。我是个老派人。”

“以后吧。”

“我得走了，今天是特别倒霉的一天。”他指指身后的推车，“看到没，塑料兜坏了。前面餐馆的保罗给我留了个新的，我这就去拿。”他说着把烟头掐灭，推着推车往前走了两步，又回头补充说，“还是给你提个醒，别去吃保罗店里的炸鱼和薯条，他用的鱼根本不新鲜！”

过了一会儿，妈妈回来了。两位服务员开始重新铺桌布，为晚餐摆放餐具。我看着她戴着一顶橘红色的帽子沿着海滩由远及近，那是她为了旅行特意买的。帽子皱巴巴的，让她的年纪看起来徒长了几岁。她还买了只同样色系的包，带子是帆布的而不是皮，之后她一直抱怨个不停。她现在踩着沙子一脚深一脚浅地走过来，从鼻子到脸颊都被晒得通红，气喘吁吁的，却仿佛有着乐不可支的满足感。

“你上哪儿去了？”我问她

“在海滩边走走。”

“整个下午？”

“是啊。我走过了两个海湾，一直走到那块礁石后面。”她奋力地指给我看，我顺着她指的方向看过去，什么都有看到。“你该出去走走，别总是想着他。我们出来不就是为了散散心，忘记糟心事么？”

“我根本没有想着他，但现在好了，现在我还真的想起来了！”

“你头还疼么？真可惜，今天是最后一天了，你没有看到那片海湾。”

“还是去吃饭吧。我又饿了，你呢？”

我们披着傍晚温柔的太阳沿着沙滩走，天没有暗，自然还没到晚餐时间，周围的小餐厅望进去都是黑洞洞的，只有些白人零散地坐在外面的椅子上喝啤酒。我瞥见一家招牌上挂着保罗字样的餐馆，不知怎么地就加快了步伐。却又忍不住回头看看，门口的招贴画上印着金灿灿的炸鱼和泡着气的可口可乐，有个梳着莫西干头的男人靠在旁边打电话。

最后我们找了间日本餐馆坐下，她在头一天就已经吃腻了这儿粗陋的食物，过度油炸的本地食物，或者是放太多香料的东南亚餐馆。我们像所有的游客一样，坐在被树叶遮蔽的露天座位里，无所事事地望着沙滩上的人。这会儿趴着晒太阳的人都陆续起身，懒洋洋地挪动着步子。

“我们应该谈谈。”她说。菜久久不上来，她终于无法忍受漫长的沉默。

“我们每天都在谈。”我尽量心平气和地说。

“你从来没有跟我说过真话。”她说，“你早该告诉我。”

“我没有你想象得那么难过，我已经全盘接受了。”

“你就这样接受呢？”她怀疑地看着我。

“这没什么，他爱上别人。谁都会爱上别人。”

“你这算什么话。你又爱上过谁。”她几乎要把脸都凑过来，“我从没有听说过这样的事情，从没有！”她说得很大声，可是声音颤抖着，收尾的时候变得扁扁的。我想她快要哭出来了，我也不明白为什么她要表现得那么难过。于是我们都只好扭过头去，望着外面渐渐暗下来的天色。

等菜端上来，我不再声响，闷头吃起来。她则一副为难的神色，吃了两口，就把碗往前一推。我没有抬头看她，一只苍蝇在我们之间盘旋。

“他打过你么？”她突然说。

“你在说什么？”

“他打过你么？”她又重复了一遍。

我把碗往前面一推，双手发抖地从钱包里摸出些零钱来一古脑儿地放在桌上。她跟在我身后走出餐馆。我们一前一后艰难地在沙滩上走。沿途返回酒店的时候，再次经过保罗餐馆，这会儿霓虹灯都亮起来了，从里面传来一股油炸的诱人气味。我还没有来得及躲开，就看到那顶缀着紫色亮片的小帽儿从里面钻出来。他推着手推车，热情地几乎跌忡着朝我走来。

“嘿，我就知道还会再遇见你。”他笑着朝我张开胳膊，手推车上挂着只刺眼的粉红色塑料盒。“保罗给了我一个新盒子，我还有了一只C调的布鲁斯口琴！”

我有些尴尬，点点头，没有笑，低头又往边上走了两步。

“这是你的妈妈么？你妈妈跟你一样漂亮。”他又冲着她说，“你好啊。”

“他是谁，他在说什么？”她双手绞在一起，警惕地看着这个古怪的陌生人，缩起肩膀，又看看我，重复着，声音变得尖利起来。“他是谁！”

“他是个捡垃圾的。”我说。

“他想要什么？”

“他说晚上好。”

“让他走开！”

“没关系，妈妈，他只是在打招呼。”

“你快点让他走开。”她死死拽住我的袖子，对他惊恐地做出驱赶的动作。

“我们得回酒店去了。”我对他说，“你知道…”

“当然，当然。”他站在原地，也没有再说什么。

现在她走得更快更奋力了，我的鞋里掉进很多沙子，紧紧地跟住她。从旁边一所冲浪学校里迎面走出一队年轻人，他们穿着紧绷绷的鲨鱼皮，手里拎着一人高的冲浪板。这会儿还有最后一丝天光，他们轻快地从我们身边奔跑过去，那些跑在前面的男孩已经迫不及待地冲进了海里。

回酒店后我们换了游泳衣打算去楼下露天泳池游个泳。经过长长的走廊，外面各种热带植物在黑漆漆的空气里繁茂地生长。突然下起了雨，等我们走到泳池边上，才发现雨水把气温带低了起码十度，海风从四面八方吹来，头痛仿佛又从错综的神经背后苏醒过来，我不由把外套拉拉紧。

“回去吧，太冷了。”我说。

“真可惜，这是最后一个晚上了。”她说。

“我们可以去酒吧喝一杯。”我故意说。

“你常常喝酒吗？”她看看我，又看看外面被雨水打得噼啪作响的泳池。我们沿着原路返回，有一段时间都没有再说话。

“我一点也不恨他。我不指望你能理解，所以你大概只能接受”我说。

“我知道。是世道变了，风气变得不好。”

“不是这样的，你不明白。”

“我们那会儿没有人离婚。不相爱的人也能生活在一起，这没什么。人得要耐得住孤独，现在的人都耐不住孤独了。其实他以后就知道了，到那儿找像你这样的人呢。人跟人的相处，最后都是一样的。他以后就知道了。”

“这是两回事。”

我们走到酒吧门口，她驻足往里看了看，立刻退后一小步。

“这儿都是外国人。”她说，看着我。

“太冷了，头又得开始疼了。我坐一会儿，喝杯酒，马上就上来。”

“明天天不亮我们就得去机场。”她有些不甘心，而争执显然也让她疲惫。她只好作罢往电梯走去。我就自个儿在靠着露台的窗户边找了个座位，虽然天已经黑成一片，但外面就是海。

酒吧很小，位置挨得紧紧的，人不多，对面一个老头面前放着一份热三明治和一杯啤酒。他已经喝到第三杯了，但是面前的三明治却动都没有动。大部分时间他都凝神望着窗外，有时候他转过头来，就会朝我笑一下。

我很快地喝完一杯葡萄酒，又再要了一杯。他把椅子往我这儿拉了拉，开始隔着桌子与我讲话。

“你从中国来？”他礼貌地问。

“没错。”

“这儿的中国餐馆很少，隔壁有间李记，里面有卖火锅。”

“倒是适合今晚的天气。”

“是啊，太冷了，但是明天会好起来。可以出海。你出过海了么？”

“没有，我妈妈晕船。”

“你陪妈妈出来度假？”

“算是。”我说。心想，她可不是这么想。

“我有三个孩子，两个女儿都在大城市工作，儿子离婚了，他带着我孙女来这儿度个假。他们整天都坐船漂在海上。”

“你住在这儿？”

“我在马路对面开了间租赁商店，从滑板到船，应有尽有。”

“你们从海上钓鱼么？”

“是啊，我过去是一把好手，但现在我厌倦海了，我再也不上船去了。”

“唔。”

“明天我该请你吃顿晚饭。”

“可是…”我想，这是最后一个晚上。

“可是什么呢，叫上你的妈妈，或者你还有其他家人么。你们可以聊聊你们的城市。我今年装了心脏起搏器，我再也去不了其他地方了，可是我对这儿也无比厌烦。”他又喝了口酒，我不是很确定他是不是已经醉了。

他给我留了个电话号码，前面有长长的国家号和区号，并且嘱咐我说明天傍晚可以给他电话。于是我拿起房卡告辞，走到外面露台上抽今晚的最后一根烟。外面的雨停了，空气里没有植物的香气，只有大海的腥臭味。冷得更厉害，我缩手缩脚地点烟，扭头看到老头儿孤独地瘫坐在皮椅子里，他闭着眼睛，像是已经睡着了。

“别抱我那么紧，你扯到我衣服了！”他迎着风说。

“什么！”我用力喊，却觉得语言被风带着往我们的反方向飘走。

“你扯到我的衣服了！”他扭过头来。

“你开得慢些。这儿的路都是反的，你总是在压线。”

“我只开了六十码。你别吵了！”

“可是风太大了，我的头都痛了。”

“你为什么不戴头盔呢。”

“唔。”

“你总是不听我的话……我们得在药店停一停……你涂防晒霜了吗？”他压低了声音，温柔地说，他不知道他的话完全被风吹散了。

这足足过去十年，我们在一个海岛的公路上。远处有座金碧辉煌的佛像，还有很多恼人的蜜蜂。现在可好，我连海岛的名字都想不起来了，记忆里捞出来的都是些没用的碎片。不过不管怎么说，现在我抽了口烟，轻轻喘出一口气。

Felix Rian Constantinescu – a translation of “Lucy Gray” by William Wordsworth

OCTOBER 7th 2019

Lucy Gray

Ades am auzit de Lucy Gray

Și când încrucișai pământul

‘Ntâmplă de-am văzut-o-n crăpat de zi

Copilul solitar.

Nici coleg nici tovarășă Lucy n-avea;

Viețuia pe-o bahnă uriașă,

Cel mai dulce lucru ce crescu vreodat’

Lângă o ușă de om!

Totuși poți iscodi faunul la joacă,

Iepurele pe smarald;

Dar dulcea fațăa Luciei Gray

N-om mai vedea vreodată.

‘La noapte va fi furtună,

La târg trebuie să mergi,

Și ia o lampă, copilă,să lumini

Mamei prin zăpadă.’

‘Aceasta, Tată, fac cu bucurie;

E abia amiază –

Orologiul abia a bătut două,

Și uite sus e Luna.’

La asta Tatăl luă vătraiul

Ș-izbi-ntr-un braț de lemne;

Se apucă iar la lucru, iar Lucy Luă

Lampa în mână.

Mai voioasă neagra ciută nu-i,

Cu izbituri a joacă

Picioarele-i împrăștie praful de zăpadă

Ce se înalță fum.

Potopul veni mult prea devreme

Merse în sus și-n jos

Și pe multe culmi Lucy urcă

Dar nu ajunse-n târg.

Pierduți Părinții în toată noaptea

Au chemat departe-n tot locul;

Dar nu a fost nici glas nici văz

Să le fie călăuză.

‘N crăpat de zi pe un deal stătură

Sus, sus, peste bahnă;

Ș-atunci văzură Podul de Lemn

La doi pași de ușă.

Și-acum spre casă merg plângând

‘În cer ne vom-ntâlni!’

Când în zăpadă Mama văzu

Urma piciorului lui Lucy.

Apoi în jos de muchea abruptă

Urmară micile urme;

Și prin ruptul păducel

Și lungul zid de pietre;

Apoi un camp deschis trecură,

Urmele erau aceleași;

Le-au izvodit, nicicând pierdut,

Până au dat de Pod.

Le-au urmat de pe țărmu-nzăpădit

Urmele, una câte una,

Până în mijlocul ghețușului,

Iar mai departe niciuna.

Totuși unii spun și azi

Ea-i un Copil trăind,

O poți vedea cumintea Lucy Gray

Pe Sălbăticia singuratică.

Peste noroi sau iarbă ea merge încet

Și niciodată nu privește în urmă;

Și cântă un cântec solitar

Ce flutură în vânt.

Lucy Gray

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,

And when I cross’d the Wild,

I chanc’d to see at break of day

The solitary Child.

No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

She dwelt on a wild Moor,

The sweetest Thing that ever grew

Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the Fawn at play,

The Hare upon the Green;

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.

“To-night will be a stormy night,

You to the Town must go,

And take a lantern, Child, to light

Your Mother thro’ the snow.”

“That, Father! will I gladly do;

‘Tis scarcely afternoon—

The Minster-clock has just struck two,

And yonder is the Moon.”

At this the Father rais’d his hook

And snapp’d a faggot-band;

He plied his work, and Lucy took

The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe,

With many a wanton stroke

Her feet disperse, the powd’ry snow

That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time,

She wander’d up and down,

And many a hill did Lucy climb

But never reach’d the Town.

The wretched Parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide;

But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood

That overlook’d the Moor;

And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood

A furlong from their door.

And now they homeward turn’d, and cry’d

“In Heaven we all shall meet!”

When in the snow the Mother spied

The print of Lucy’s feet.

Then downward from the steep hill’s edge

They track’d the footmarks small;

And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,

And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they cross’d,

The marks were still the same;

They track’d them on, nor ever lost,

And to the Bridge they came.

They follow’d from the snowy bank

The footmarks, one by one,

Into the middle of the plank,

And further there were none.

Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living Child,

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome Wild.

O’er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

~

Wu Lianqun – An Essay on Anton Gustav Matos, and a translation

塞语诗人马托什与他的一首诗

SEPTEMBER 16th 2019

头发的安慰

昨晚我注视着你。在梦里，悲哀地死去。

在命中注定的殿堂，在牧歌般的花朵里，

在一个高高的立处，在蜡烛哀伤的泪光中，

我将我的生命作为贡品，准备好给你。

我没有哭泣。我没有。我错愕而立

在那命定的殿堂，充满着死亡的美丽。

我疑惑那黑暗的眼睛是如此悲伤

在那里我曾有过美好生活的开始。

所有的，所有的都已死去；眼睛，呼吸和双臂，

在盲目的恐惧和激情的痛苦中

我绝望地地企图复活所有。

在无可逃脱的殿堂，我的思念变为灰色

只有你的头发仍然充满蓬勃生机，

对我宣告：淡定！死亡只是一个梦。

Utjeha kose

Gledao sam te sinoć. U snu. Tužnu. Mrtvu.
U dvorani kobnoj, u idili cvijeća,
Na visokom odru, u agoniji svijeća,
Gotov da ti predam život kao žrtvu.

Nisam plako. Nisam. Zapanjen sam stao
U dvorani kobnoj, punoj smrti krasne,
Sumnjajući da su tamne oči jasne
Odakle mi nekad bolji život sjao.

Sve baš, sve je mrtvo: oči, dah i ruke,
Sve što očajanjem htjedoh da oživim
U slijepoj stravi i u strasti muke,

U dvorani kobnoj, mislima u sivim.
Samo kosa tvoja još je bila živa,
Pa mi reče: Miruj! U smrti se sniva.

安敦·古斯塔夫·马托什（1873—1914，Anton Gustav Matos），克罗地亚诗人，短篇小说家，记者，散文家和游记作家。他被认为是克罗地亚现代主义文学的冠冕人物，开启了克罗地亚通向欧洲现代主义的潮流，是有史以来克罗地亚最伟大的文学人物之一。

生平：

马托什出生在塞尔米亚（Syrmia）地区的托瓦尔尼克（Tovarnik），即今天克罗地亚的乌克瓦尔—塞尔米亚区（Vukovar—Syrmia County）。他两岁时，随其父母迁往扎格勒布（Zagreb），在那里他上了小学和中学。他打算进维也纳军事兽医大学（the Military Veterinary College）学习，但失败了。1893年他被征兵，1894年做了逃兵，他从克罗地亚逃到沙巴克（Sabac），再逃到贝尔格莱德。

马托什在贝尔格莱德待了三年。他在此地的生活，用他自己的话说，是作为一个“大提琴演奏者，记者和码字的人”而活着。1898年1月马托什到维也纳和慕尼黑旅行，在日内瓦稍作停留，然后在1899年去了巴黎。他在巴黎待了五年。在巴黎期间，马托什写下了他最伟大的报道。1904年马托什回到贝尔格莱德。1905年、1906年、1907年他秘密访问了扎格勒布（因为他仍然还是一个逃兵）。

最后，在1908年，逃亡在外十三年之后，马托什被赦免。他最后定居扎格勒布，最终因喉癌死于此地。马托什写了二十四部作品，包括出版和未出版的：诗歌，短篇小说，报道，游记，评论和辩论。

著述：

马托什是克罗地亚现代主义流派的中心人物。克罗地亚现代主义流派是克罗地亚文学的巨变，深受欧洲影响。它快速地吸收现代的潮流和风尚，如象征主义、现代主义和印象主义，凭借法国从波德莱尔（Baudelaire）到马拉美（Mallarme）、巴雷斯（Barres）和胡伊斯曼（Huysmans）的文学遗产，唯美主义和艺术规范成为主要的价值标准。在此以前，民族和社会活动常常是价值的唯一量尺标杆，成为克罗地亚作家的一部分是作家们更广泛的使命。马托什之后，作家们不再被要求为了宣传目的而创作艺术（除了共产主义时期外）。

1892年马托什凭借短篇小说《良心的力量》（The Power of Conscience）进入克罗地亚文坛。这本小说的出版被认为是克罗地亚现代文学流派的开端。马托什写下了关于文学创作和在不同场景中的角色模范的主张。他在给朋友米兰·奥格里左维奇（Milan Ogrizovic）的一封信中如是说道：“作为一个短篇小说家，我对诗歌天才和前辈怀有最大的感情，比如梅里美的简洁精确和莫泊桑讽刺的自然感。”

小说：

马托什的短篇小说根据他的主题以及技巧、方式和风格常常被分为两组：

发生在扎格勒布和扎戈列当地环境中的真实的故事，以及取自现实生活中的人物。
怪诞的奇异故事，以及个人主义风格的人物。

这两组作品都有着强烈的抒情声调和爱的情节，它们并非截然分开而是并列存在的。同时，这种创作表明，马托什不仅作为一个故事讲述者的“发展进程”，而且也显示出他的“学习风格”。为了描画人物，他努力尝试使用不同的主题。

马托什在克罗地亚主题故事中的许多元素，如社会问题，充塞在他循环的奇幻之中。不过，这种奇幻的循环，主要是探讨神秘的爱、死亡和夜间状态与现象的主题。为此，马托什减少了情节。在深刻分析英雄人物的个人命运时，他去掉了表面和传闻的元素，以及难以置信的事件和奇异的人物。这些故事将心理动机推向了最前沿，而社会因素则成为次要的部分。因此，奇异故事放弃了地域和民族的特征，呈现出一种大都会式的共存性。

在游记文学方面，马托什是克罗地亚最伟大的创新者之一。在巴雷斯影响之下，马托什把这样的景观观念引进到克罗地亚文学之中：景观不仅是故事的一部分，也是一个独立的主体。他的景观不仅是外部的形象，而且是作者移动的活动设置。实际上，马托什描写景观的目的不仅仅是唤起情感，而是扩展联想，引导读者思考更广泛的不同问题。清晰的印象派技巧，使用景观引起情绪的激动，这种标记充溢在所有类型的主题中。这几乎是马托什所有散文作品的典型特征。他写了许多优秀的游记，景观是唯一的主题，最著名的是《在罗博拉周围》（Around Lobor）。

四、诗歌：

在写作和出版短篇小说、游记、评论和辩论充满马托什整个职业生涯的时候，他在后期开始严肃地写作和发表诗歌。1906年前后，他仅仅写了80首左右的诗歌作品。毫无疑问，他的伟大导师是波德莱尔，因为他从伟大的诗人那里获取了很多形式元素，并且好几次热情地写到波德莱尔。

马托什偏好十四行诗，他赋予诗歌的音乐性，词语的和谐，色彩和气味（联觉隐喻），一种非常精致的韵律，说唱语调的混合。这些构成了他诗歌风格的明显符号。

他早期的主要诗歌主题是爱和花，他把爱的抽象性和花的具体诗意符号融合起来。另一个反复的主题是死亡，挽歌的气息弥漫他的诗作，短暂经过的激烈情感，梦和现实的合流，用窒息的颜色和声音，爱的经历犹如痛苦的体验。他最好的关于爱的诗是《孤独的爱》（Lonely Love），《给孩子而不是给玩具》（To a Child Instead of a Toy）,《头发的安慰》（Comfort of Hair）。

五、评论：

马托什在文学批评、随笔和报刊文章方面留下了深刻的痕迹。在使用强烈的印象派方法的克罗地亚（Kranjcevic, Vidric, Domjanic, Kamov）作家和塞尔维亚作家（Sremac, Veselinovic, Pandurovic）的作品中，马托什常常声称在他的文章中表现了他的个人艺术信仰。因为他相信艺术意味着美，他把诗人表达的强度或者作家的个性风格作为文学价值的主要准则。因此，他认为文体之间没有差异：小说、诗歌和评论都是艺术，主要反映艺术家的个性特征和他们最原初的表达能力。当然，除了这样的一般标准，当他分析克罗地亚作家的时候，他永远也不会忽略民族的因素。

六、作品集：

1、诗歌：《诗选》（死后）。

2、短篇小说：《碎片》（1899年），《新碎片》（1900年），《困乏的故事》（1909年）。

3、随笔：《随笔》（1905年），《地平线和路》（1907年），《我们的人民和土地》（1910年）。

Mianyang Teachers College (绵阳师范学院)

~

Yu Yan Chen – “Child Labor, Liangshan” (a translation of 凉山童工 by Zheng Xiaoqing)

SEPTEMBER 9th 2019

Life is bewildering, and time has gradually gone

blind. A girl of fourteen suffers the fatigue

of our era on the assembly line among us.

Sometimes she yearns to return to rural Sichuan,

to chop wood, to cut grass, to pick wild berries and flowers.

In her timid eyes a desolation lingers, something I don’t

know how to express in words. I only know

“child labor,” or a paper-thin sigh.

Her eyes are capable of breaking hearts.

Why must the tiny bits of leftover sympathy

be ground up by the machinery of the assembly line?

Her slowness often triggers a flood of scolding

from our team leader, but she doesn’t cry.

Tears circle in her eyes, “I am an adult now.

I can’t cry,” she says earnestly.

How bewildering – all that’s left of childhood

is nostalgia. She talks of the things in the mountains –

the hillsides, the blue sea, the snakes and the cows.

Perhaps living is about carving out a path in the maze,

going back to basics. Sometimes her dark face

is full of contempt for her friend.

Pointing at a girl even thinner and weaker, she says –

“She is younger than me, but she has to sleep with men at night.”

凉山童工

郑小琼

生活只会茫然时代逐渐成为

盲人十四岁小女孩要跟我们

在流水线上领引时代带来的疲惫

有时她更想让自己返回四川乡下

砍柴割草摘野果子与野花

她瘦小的眼神浮出荒凉我不知道

该用怎样的句子来表达只知道

童工或者像薄纸样的叹息

她的眼神总能将柔软的心击碎

为什么仅有的点点同情

也被流水线的机器辗碎

她慢半拍的动作常常换来

组长的咒骂她的泪没有流下

在眼眶里转动 “我是大人了

不能流泪” 她一本正经地说

多么茫然啊童年只剩下

追忆她说起山中事物比如山坡

比如蔚蓝的海子比如蛇牛

也许生活就是要从茫然间找出一条路

返回到它的本身有时她黝黑的脸

会对她的同伴露出鄙视的神色

她指着另一个比她更瘦弱的女孩说

“她比我还小夜里要陪男人睡觉”

Li Juan – The Strange Bank at Kawutu (translated by Yu Yan Chen)

AUGUST 19th 2019

The Kawutu township government consists of a row of little red-roofed houses in the forest to the west of the village. There is nothing official or serious about it, since there are sparrows and wild pigeons all over the place. There is even a group of Gula chickens calling gula gula in the bushes right outside the window. The dudu sound of the woodpeckers comes from high in the trees, while crows take this opportunity to roam about with their hulala calls.

On the contrary, the Kawutu post office is an elegant house made of red bricks, complete with a bright yellow roof and a snow-white wooden fence. Unfortunately this lovely place has never opened its doors for business. Rumour has it that the postmaster bought a house in a more urban area and moved away with his family; since then he’s become a city man and has never returned to Kawutu, yet he is still somehow considered as the postmaster.

Aside from him, there is another staff member at the post office. He’s normally our bricklayer and handyman. From time to time (when he suddenly recalls his duty as a postman) he will deliver the mail from one house to the next. There was one occasion when he went to each household to ask if anyone would like to subscribe to magazines. We happily subscribed to two, but to this day we have yet to see any trace of them. However, you can still get stamps and envelopes from him – not in that fairytale-like red brick house, but in his own home. I went through nearly half the village one day, going through all its nooks and crannies, in order to find his abode. After I told him the purpose of my visit, he pulled up one corner of the felt blanket on his bed and searched inside with his hands for a while, eventually dragging out a stack of old newspapers in Kazakh. The government stamps and envelopes were stacked inside, along with crochet samples from his grandmother.

Though we all call it a bank, the Kawutu Bank is actually a small credit union. Located right across the road from my house, it is simpler than the government building and the post office. It’s a one-story house made of red brick with its eaves heavily covered in wild grass, and there is a small yard at the front surrounded by a short and tidy wooden fence. About a dozen tall willow and poplar trees have been planted in single file along it. The entrance archway is very short, with a copper sign hanging on the fence. A narrow gravel path leads straight to the front steps. There are a few roses scattered about, as well as a couple of tall sunflowers. A well can be found at one corner, its lip smooth and shiny, while a wooden shed at the other corner is filled with coal. Actually, it’s not much different from any other household in this area, if you were to tie up a dog inside the yard.

There are also ropes between several trees, which I assumed were used for laundry because the location has the best sunlight exposure. So after I washed my clothes I walked over and hung them on the ropes, resulting in several rows of brightly-coloured clothing drying in the sun. The garments that didn’t fit were draped haphazardly on branches. Just as I thought I’d found the perfect place, the head of the bank erupted in fury. He dragged down the bedsheet and crossed the streets, brandishing it. When he reached my house he let out a torrent of angry words. We couldn’t understand what he was trying to say, except that drying my laundry there was not allowed. This was surprising – if it wasn’t permitted, why did they put up the ropes?

Thinking back, it was rather funny that I tried to dry my underwear and a bedsheet patterned with red flowers and green leaves in front of a bank.

Given that it is such an unassuming bank, there is probably not much money available. Neither have I seen anyone who looks like a client going inside. On top of that, the few bank employees look drunk every day, and go around asking for credit at different shops. For example, Dawulie left his leather hat as collateral at our store last year, but hasn’t come back to reclaim it this winter. He’s probably in a bind: if he wants the hat, he’ll have to pay back his debts, but if he doesn’t get it back, how will he get through the winter? He’d need to spend money to buy a new one… In the end, he’ll have to spend money no matter what.

All the local children like to play in the bank yard without their trousers in summer, because a creek with lots of small fish passes through it. The trees inside grow especially well, and are perfect for climbing: the kind with lots of branches and trunks grown into curls within curls, with bulges big enough for a person to stand on while holding onto something else. As a result, they are always full of children. Whenever you call out in that direction, all the heads and eyes turn in unison. The one doing the shouting is usually the head of the bank, and the tree – that was laden with children one second ago – will drop them like fruits the next. Putong, putong. In the blink of an eye they all fall off, and leaves scatter all over the ground.

The bank is always quiet during the summer. It must be relaxing to work there; you don’t have to do much except guard the building. With all those trees, it must be cool and comfortable. My house is hot as an oven. Without a single tree around, it stands naked under the sun. Even sitting inside, our sweat drops like rain. I would go across every day to get water from the well, watching the sunflowers growing taller, their leaves becoming denser as they climb. It would have been lovely for us to live there; I love the creek, its clear water rimmed with yellow dandelions.

As soon as winter arrives, the bank employees tend not to come to work. They aren’t the only ones, though. The Kawutu business bureau, tax bureau, and town cooperatives all shut down. They’re so lucky. We often see knee-height snow inside the yard with one deep set of footprints in it. The staff who do occasionally go in (they really have no choice) use the same path, leaving behind the same set of footprints. These footprints are a fixed scene in front of the bank for the entire winter.

When the long winter finally ends after nearly six months, my mother prepares to follow the herdsmen north into the mountains. Of those doing business in our region, most will operate a roaming grocery shop with the sheep flocks. It is profitable to do business in the pasture, but we don’t have enough capital to buy merchandise to last the entire summer. With her mind set on that bank, my mother went for a loan one day.

How on earth was she able to get the loan? As far as I know, the bank only has one type – the agriculture loan given out before the spring planting – but she is neither a farmer nor a local resident; we’ve only been operating the store in Kawutu for over a year. Nonetheless, my mother was able to get it. Maybe it was because we were neighbours, and the fact that we couldn’t avoid seeing each other all the time made them embarrassed to say no.

Indeed, just because there are no customers for the entire year doesn’t mean that the bank isn’t full of noise and people on the two days when agricultural loan is accepting applications. Even before it opens in the morning, people are already waiting in line. Villagers from several hundreds of kilometres away come by (Kawutu township is very long: even though it’s only a few kilometres from east to west, it spans several hundred kilometres from north to south). The wooden fence surrounding the yard is obscured by horses, and the road outside has clumps of people engaging in heated discussions about the loan. Perhaps because this type of loan has only been around for two years, the locals see it as money distributed by the government for everyone to spend. Even if they don’t need the money, they want to get it just in case. At least that was what we gathered.

My mother asked, “Are you thinking about not returning the loan?”

Someone replied, “Why not? We will return it whenever we have the money.”

But that wasn’t the biggest surprise. The oddest thing was how my mother was able to get a loan.

She’d been standing in line for the entire morning. When lunch time came around I went to look for her. As I pushed through the crowd, I was shocked when I met a sea of heads.

When you first pass through the front door you’re forced to descend a few steps to get to the bank interior proper, which consists of a tiny lobby with a red brick floor and colourfully-foiled ceiling, and a counter surrounded by a metal barricade. Of course, I could barely make out any of these, nor the green-painted wooden windowsills, because of the crowd packed into the barely ten-meter-square space, even though I was standing at the highest point at the top of the steps. However, I could see over the entire crowd, and I searched eagerly for my mother. I couldn’t identify the back of her head amid the chaos, and had to call out several times before she finally turned around. She was waving an envelope in mid-air, pushing onward through the wave of people, trying her best to leave the counter.

That was it. She was able to get a loan of 3,000 yuan. But we didn’t pay it back for a long time. It was embarrassing.

According to my mother, the head of the bank moved away, so she had no idea who to return the money to, and no one came to ask us about it. Besides, we moved several times ourselves since then.

In the summer of 2006, we finally paid it back. One of the bank employees went to a summer ranch to visit his relatives. He got lost on the way, and ended up at our house by accident.

喀吾图奇怪的银行

李娟

喀吾图的乡政府是村子西边树林里的一排红屋顶小房子。那里一点儿都不严肃，到处都是麻雀和野鸽子。还有一群呱啦鸡整天在政府办公室窗外的树丛中“呱嗒呱嗒”地东突西窜，啄木鸟不停地在高处“笃笃笃”啄着木头，乌鸦也“呼啦啦”到处乱飞。

喀吾图的邮政所则是一个较为精致的红砖房子，还有黄艳艳的木头屋顶和雪白的木头栅栏。可惜这么漂亮的邮政所从没见开门营业过。听说邮政所的所长很多年前在县城买了房子，举家搬走了，从此成为城里人，再也没回过喀吾图。但说起来仍然还是喀吾图邮政所的所长。真是奇怪。

除了所长，邮政所还有一个工作人员，但平时是村里的泥瓦匠，谁家有活干就去帮着打打零工。偶尔仿佛某天突然记起来了才挨家挨户送一次信。还有一次他挨家挨户上门征订杂志，我们就很高兴地订了两份，但是直到现在也没见着一本。不过在他那里还是能买上邮票和信封的，但却不是在邮政所那个童话般的红房子里，而是在他自己家里。那天我打听了半个村子才拐弯抹角找到他家，他把他家床上的毡子揭起一角，伸手进去摸了半天，终于摸出来一沓子哈文旧报纸。公家的邮票和信封就在里面夹着，居然和他老祖母的绣花毡的花样子放在一起。

喀吾图的银行其实只是个小信用社而已，但我们都称之为银行就在我家门口的马路对面。比起乡政府和邮政所，银行朴实了许多，也是红砖的平房，屋前的小院子围着整齐低矮的木头栅栏，沿着木头栅栏一溜儿栽着十来棵高大的柳树和杨树。院门低矮，栅栏边挂着信用社的小铜匾。一条碎石小路从院门直直地通向红房子台阶下，红房子屋檐上长满了深深的野草。院子里稀稀拉拉种着些月季花和两三棵向日葵；院子一角有一眼井，井台又滑又亮。另一个角落的小木棚里堆满了煤如果在院子里再拴一条狗的话，就和一般人家的院子没什么区别了。

院子里那几棵大树之间牵了好几根绳子，估计是用来晾衣服的，而那一片也正是坦阔向阳的地方。于是我洗了衣服就端一大盆过去，花花绿绿地晾了几大排。晾不下的就东一件西一件地高高搭在树枝上。我还以为自己找到了好地方，结果可把他们的行长给气坏了。他拽下我晾着的大床单，一路挥舞着穿过马路跑到我家来，啊啊呀呀，嚷嚷半天也没说清楚什么总之就是不能在那儿晾。

真是的，不让晾衣服的话，牵几根绳子在那儿干啥？

后来再想想，又有趣。我居然在银行门口晾内衣和红花绿叶的床单。

这个银行这么小，这么不起眼，里面也肯定没什么钱的。而且，我几乎从没见有人进去过。再而且，银行上班的那几个伙计每天都一副醉醺醺的样子，到处赊账。银行的达吾列在我们家商店抵押的那顶皮帽子从上个冬天一直放到了这个冬天都没有来赎呢。他一定很矛盾吧想要帽子的话，得还债；不赎吧，冬天得戴帽子呀，另外买帽子的话还是得花钱……反正怎么着都得花钱。

我们这里的小孩子到了夏天都喜欢光着屁股在银行院子里玩，因为经过银行院子的小水渠里有很多小鱼苗子游来游去。另外银行院子里的树也长得挺好，是那种最适合让人去爬的枝枝丫丫特别多，树干长得曲里拐弯，随便一个鼓出来的大树蔸上都能攀着站个人。于是，这些树上便总是人满为患，抬头冲那里喊一声，所有脑袋转过来，所有眼睛看过来一般来说，喊的人当然是银行行长。于是，这棵栖满了孩子的树在下一秒钟内，像掉果子一样，扑扑通通，转眼间就一个也没了。只剩一地的树叶。

一整个夏天，这个银行安安静静的。我想，在那里上班一定很惬意，大约什么也不用干，把房子守好就行了。而且那里树又多，肯定很凉快。而我们家店里热死了，周围一棵树也没有，光秃秃袒露在阳光下，坐在房间里挥汗如雨。我天天到银行院子里的那眼井里提水，看着向日葵一天一天高了，叶子越抽越密。唉，要是我们住在那里面就好了。我很喜欢院子里的那条小渠，水总是很清，水边长满开着黄花的蒲公英。

冬天的时候，银行的那几个职工几乎就不怎么上班了。不仅如此，喀吾图工商所的、地税所的、供销社的……统统都不上班。这些人真幸福呀。因此作为对街邻居，我们经常可以看到的情景是：银行院子里平整地铺着没膝厚的积雪。雪上深深地陷着一串脚印偶尔回单位办点事的职工进去时都只踩着同一串脚印聪明地(其实是毫无办法地)进去。因此整个冬天里银行门口就只有那一串脚印。

长达半年的冬天结束之后，我妈就开始做准备，要随牧民进山了。凡是我们这里做生意的人，夏天大都会开流动的商店跟着羊群走，夏牧场上做生意利润很高的。我们也想那样做，但要准备充分的商品的话，我们资金又不够。于是我妈把主意打到银行那里了，有一天她去贷款……

天啦，她是怎么把款贷到手的！要知道我们这个小银行的贷款只有一种，就是春耕前的农业贷款。可是她不但不是农民，连本地人都算不上我们才来喀吾图开店一年多时间，甚至连富蕴县人都算不上，虽然来到富蕴县快二十年了，但仍然没有当地户口……反正她后来就贷上了……

总不可能因为大家都是邻居，抬头不见低头见，不好意思不贷给我们吧？

对了，这家银行一年到头冷冷清清的，可是到了农业贷款发放那两天却热闹非凡。一大早还没上班，人们就在门口排队等待了。几百公里以外的老乡也赶来了(喀吾图乡地形狭长，东西不过几十公里，南北却长达好几百公里)，银行院子周围的木栅栏上系满了马。马路上也三三两两聚拢着人，热火朝天地谈论着有关贷款的话题。有趣的是，大概这种贷款在当地发放没两年的原因吧，当地人对“贷款”这一概念的认识模糊到居然以为那就是国家发给大家随便用的钱，哪怕家里明明不缺钱也要想法子贷回家放着。起码我们了解到的是这样的……

我妈问他们：“难道不想还了吗？”

那人就很奇怪地回答：“为什么不还？什么时候有了什么时候还嘛……”

这还不是最奇怪的，最奇怪的是我妈，她怎么贷上款的？

那天她去排了一上午的队，中午快吃饭时我去找她回家。穿过银行院子里热闹的人群，好容易挤进门去，一脚踏进去就傻眼了：黑压压一片人头……

银行屋里的情形是陷在地里半米深的，一进门就是台阶，所以我所站的门口位置是最高处。但居高临下扫视了半天，也认不出我妈究竟是哪个后脑勺。里面闹哄哄的，喊了好几嗓子，才看到她回过头来，高举着一个信封，努力地挤在人堆里，想要离开柜台。

那是我第一次瞧见银行内部的情形。很小很小，焊了铁栏杆的柜台外不过十几个平方的空地。红砖铺的地板，金色的锡纸彩带编成一面天花板绷在上方，木头窗台刷了绿漆。

就这样，钱贷到手了，虽然不过3000块钱，但是不好意思的是……好长时间都没有还。据我妈的说法是：那个银行的行长调走了，实在是不知道该还给谁……也从来没人找上门来提这事，而且后来我们又搬了好几次家。

2006年夏天，那笔钱到底还是还掉了。因为那个银行的一个工作人员到夏牧场走亲戚，在深山老林里迷了路，不小心竟撞进了我们家……

~

Li Juan – “The Pink Coach”

(translated by Yu Yan Chen)

MAY 13th 2019

Ever since the pink coach started its route, we never used the minivan to go to town anymore; the fare was 20 yuan per person, but it only costs 10 yuan for the pink coach. It used to be that additional fares were charged when your luggage was slightly bigger than usual, whereas now you could load freely. Most importantly, there was suddenly a proper schedule for the coach, unlike the minivan that always had to wait until it was full, delays be damned.

‘The pink coach’ was really just a used, medium-sized coach. The driver was on the chubby side, and happy as a hippo. Whenever he saw someone running toward the road from far away, making a long trail of footprints in the snow, he would ever so joyfully apply the brake and say, “Ah-ha! Ten more yuan is coming!”

All the children inside the coach would then shriek a collective “Whoa!” – as though commanding a horse to stop.

With six of my fellow passengers and I packed into the tiny space between the engine and the front row, we were already full to the brim. However, when the coach arrived at Wanahara Village, five more people and two sheep squeezed in. By then I could hardly move my arms, which gave me a strange urge to hop on top of the two sheep. Luckily, as more and more people got on, the unheated coach began to warm up, and the few men sitting in the back row began to drink alcohol, soon moving on to cheering and singing. About an hour later they got into a brawl and the driver threw every one of them out. Finally we were able to breathe properly.

Although there were very few villages dotted along the Black River, quite a number of passengers rode the pink coach to the Qiakuertu Township every day. The coach set out before five every morning, its lonely shadow crossing the dark villages one by one, honking on the way and waking up window lamps one at a time. While the honking still echoed in the previous village, the next village was already awake, and people stood by the roadside wrapped in layers, their luggage in a big pile on the snow.

Akehara was the last village to the west along this strip, which made it the first village on the daily route of the pink coach. As a result, I was always the first to get on. The inside of the vehicle felt empty and cold, thick with the warm air from my breath. The driver would greet me in a loud voice over the noisy engine, “How are you, young lady? How is everything?” Meanwhile, he would lift up a heavy sleeveless jacket made of sheepskin from the seat next to him and throw it to me. I would catch it and wrap it around my knees.

The night was still deep and the snow heavy. Before us the Gobi Desert stretched vast and expansive, with not a single tree in sight. I had no idea how the driver kept track of the road and the vehicle on pavement without once going astray, since it was the same colour as the ground.

As the sky lit up, the coach was already packed with people, yet it remained bitterly cold. Being inside the vehicle at minus 20 to 30 degree Celsius for a long period of time had taken a toll on me. Then suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw two chubby old people sitting on top of the engine cover in front of the first row, facing each other. How warm it must be! So I forced my way to the spot and planted myself in the gap between them, sitting on the luggage that was stuffed in by their feet. Feeling much more comfortable at last, I soon discovered – rather embarrassingly – that they were actually husband and wife.

This couple held hands all the way, but they had no place to put them, so they rested them on my knee. I also had no place to put my hand, so I placed it on the old man’s leg. Later on, the old man’s large hand held on to one of mine to warm it up, while mumbling something to his wife. Soon the old lady took my other hand to keep it warm. Along the way I shrank my hands back quite a few times, but the couple quickly took them again.

Despite the string of comings and goings, the coach seemed to remain full of passengers. Most of them were hitchhiking, in the process of walking from one village to another in the snow. When they saw the pink coach, they waved and hopped on. In fact, even if they hadn’t asked the coach to stop, the driver would have stopped in front of the pedestrians anyway. The passenger sitting by the door would then greet them in a loud voice, “You want a ride? Come quickly! It’s freezing!”

The number of passengers reached its peak on Sundays. They were mostly children of Han ethnicity from a village on the lower bank, going back to school in the county town, since there were no Mandarin-speaking schools nearby. They all waited by the roadsides of their villages. As soon as the coach came to a halt, a father would hop on first, fight his way through the crowd, put down the luggage, and clear enough space for his child to sit down. Then he would turn and call out loudly, “Son, come sit here,” followed by another reminder, “Son, did you bring your bread?”

Every time this happened, I always felt disappointed for the driver. He might have thought that this was a 20 yuan fare.

After the father had settled his son, he would squeeze through to the door once more and declare to the driver, “This is the money for my son’s ticket. He paid already, remember. My son is the one with the cap. Don’t forget, Master.”

“Okay.”

“The one at the back with the cap.”

“Got it.”

“Master, my son is wearing a cap. Don’t forget!”

“I know, I know!”

He was still worried, so he shouted into the pool of heads inside the coach, “Son, why don’t you jump up and let the Master see your cap?”

Unfortunately, at that precise moment, everyone was either busy getting on or off, and they were all frantically arranging their luggage. The boy tried to jump up several times, but we still had no chance of seeing his head.

“Okay, okay. No need to jump.”

“Master, my son paid already, and he is the one wearing the cap –”

“I’m about to set off. Those not leaving with us, hurry up and get off.”

“Son, I told you to show the Master your cap. Why don’t you listen?”

Then off we went again, the coach winding down the road from village to village, with passengers waiting by the roadside almost at every one of them. Some of them were taking the coach, but some just wanted to send a message, “Abudula from the fourth Brigade needs to go to the county town tomorrow. Could you pick him up along the way? His house is the second one from the east.”

Or, “Give Pahan this message: buy some celery if there is any money left. Tell him to come home as soon as he can.”

Or, “My Mom is sick. Could you get some medicine for her from the county town?”

Often there were several letters waiting to be picked up by the driver.

Although the coach was very crowded, there was a kind of order within. The first few rows were dedicated to the elderly, while the young people sat on the luggage that was heaped in the aisle. All the children sat on top of the engine cover, which was coated with a thick carpet, and leaned against each other. They might not have known one another, but the older children had the responsibility of looking out for the younger ones, even though the older ones could be just six or seven years old. I saw one of them pushing up the luggage for a three-year-old seated next to him, so that the younger one could sit firmly in his spot. Over and over, whenever the little boy took off his gloves, the older boy would pick them up and put them on him again.

There was a two year-old boy with rosy cheeks sitting across from me, staring at me quietly with his big blue eyes. For two to three hours he kept the same exact position, not moving at all, let alone crying or fussing about.

I said loudly, “Whose kid is this?”

No one answered. Only snores could be heard inside the vehicle.

I asked the boy, “Who is your daddy?”

He continued to look at me with his big blue eyes, not even blinking.

I wanted to touch his hand to see if he was cold, but as soon as I reached out, he quickly extended his arms and wanted me to hold him. A tender feeling enveloped me as he came over. He fell asleep as soon as he was comfortable, with his small, soft body leaning on my arms, his little head tilted to one side. I dared not move for the rest of the journey, afraid of disturbing the lonesome dream of the little person in my arms.

粉红色大车

李娟

(2007-04-13 15:24:40)

自从有了粉红色大车，我们去县城就再也不坐小面包车了。小面包车一个人要收二十块钱，粉红色大车只要十块钱。小车捎点大件东西还要另外收钱，大车随便装。最重要的是，大车发车总算有个准时了，不像小车，人满了才走，老担误事。

“粉红色大车”其实是一辆半旧的中巴车，司机胖乎乎、乐呵呵的，每当看到远处雪地上有人深一脚浅一脚地向公路跑来，就会快乐地踩一脚刹车：“哈呵！十块钱来了！”

车上所有的孩子则齐致地发出“嘟儿～～～”——勒马的命令声。

我和六十块钱挤在引擎和前排座之间那块地方，已经满满当当了。可是车到温都哈拉村，又塞进来了五十块钱和两只羊，这回挤得连胳膊都抽不出来了，真想让人骑到那两只羊身上去……好在人一多，没有暖气的车厢便暖和起来了。于后排座上的几个男人开始喝酒，快乐地碰杯啊，唱歌啊。一个小时后开始打架。司机便把他们统统哄了下去。这才轻松了不少。

虽然乌河这一带村庄稀廖，但每天搭粉红色大车去县城或者恰库儿特镇的人还真不少。每天早上不到五点钟车就出发了，孤独地穿过一个又一个漆黑的村庄，一路鸣着喇叭，催亮沿途一盏一盏的窗灯。当喇叭声还响在上面一个村子时，下面村子的人就开始准备了，穿得厚厚的站在大雪簇拥的公路旁，行李堆在脚边雪地上。

阿克哈拉是这一带最靠西边的村子，因此粉红色大车每天上路后总是第一个路过这里。我也总是第一个上车。车厢里空荡而冰冷，呵气浓重。司机在引擎的轰鸣声中大声打着招呼：“你好吗？身体可好？”一边从助手座上捞起一件沉重的羊皮坎肩扔给我，我连忙接住盖在膝盖上。

夜色深厚，风雪重重，戈壁滩坦阔浩荡，沿途没有一棵树。真不知司机是怎么辨别道路的，永远不会把汽车从积雪覆盖的路面开到同样是积雪覆盖的地基下面去。

天色渐渐亮起来时，车厢里已经坐满了人，但还是那么冷。长时间呆在零下二三十度的空气里，我已经冻得实在是受不了。突然看到第一排座位和座位前的引擎盖子上面对面地坐着两个胖胖的老人——那里一定很暖和！便不顾一切地挤过去，硬塞在他们两人中间的空隙里，这下子果然舒服多了。但是，不久后却尴尬地发现：他们两个原来是夫妻……

这两口子一路上一直互相握着手，但那两只握在一起的手没地方放，就搁在我的膝盖上……我的手也没地方放，就放在老头儿的腿上。后来老头儿的另一只大手就攥着我的手，替我暖着。老太太看到了也连忙替我暖另一只手。一路上我把手缩回去好几次，但立刻又给攥着了。也不知为什么，我的手总是那么凉……

车上的人越来越多，不停地有人上车下车。但大都是搭便车的――正顶着风雪从一个村子步行到另一个村子去，恰好遇到粉红色大车经过，就招手拦下。其实，就算是不拦，车到了人跟前也会停住，车门边坐的人拉开门大声招呼：“要坐车吗？快一点！”

周日坐车的人最多，大多是下游一个汉族村里返校上课的汉族孩子。一个个背着书包等在村口，车停下后，父亲先挤上车，左右突围，置好行李，拾掇出能坐下去的地方，然后回头大声招呼：“娃！这呐坐定！”又吼叫着叮嘱一句：“娃！带馍没有？”

每每这时，总会替司机失望一回。还以为这回上来的是二十块钱呢……

那父亲安顿好了孩子，挤回车门口，冲司机大喊：“这是俺娃哩车票钱，俺娃给过钱哩！俺娃戴了帽子，师傅别忘哩！”

“好。”

“就是最后边戴帽子那哩！”

“知道了。”

“师傅，俺娃戴着帽子，可记着哩！”

“知道了知道了！”

还不放心，又回头冲车厢里一片乱纷纷的脑袋大吼：“娃，你跳起来，让师傅看看你哩帽子！”

无奈此时大家都忙着上下车，手忙脚乱地整理行李，那孩子试着跳了几次，也没法让我们看到他的脑袋。

“好啦好啦，不用跳了……”

“师傅，俺娃是戴帽子哩，俺娃车钱给过哩……”

“要开车了，不走的就赶快下去！”

“娃，叫你把帽子给师傅看看，你咋不听？！”

“……”

车在一个又一个村子里蜿蜒着，几乎每一个路口都有人在等待。有的是坐车，有的则为了嘱咐一句：“明天四队的哈布都拉要去县城，路过时别忘了拉上他。他家房子在河边东面第二家。”

或者是：“给帕罕捎个口信，还有钱剩下的话就买些芹菜吧。另外让他早点回家。”

或者：“我妈妈病了，帮忙在县城买点药吧？”

或者有几封信拜托司机寄走。

车厢里虽然拥挤但秩序井然。老人们坐在前面几排，年轻人坐在过道里的行李堆上。而小孩子们全都一个靠一个挤在引擎盖子上――那里铺着厚厚的毡毯。虽然孩子们彼此间谁也不认识，可是年龄大的往往有照顾大家的义务。哪怕那个年龄大的也不过只有六七岁而已。他一路上不停地把身边一个三岁小孩背后的行李努力往上堆，好让那孩子坐得稳稳当当。每当哪个小孩把手套脱了扔掉，他都会不厌其烦地拾回来帮他重戴上。

还有一个两岁的小孩一直坐在我对面，绯红的脸蛋，蔚蓝色的大眼睛，静静地瞅着我。一连坐了两三个小时都保持着同一个姿势，动都不动一下，更别提哭闹了。

我大声说：“谁的孩子？”

没人回答。车厢里一片鼾声。

我又问那孩子：“爸爸是谁呢？”

他的蓝眼睛一眨都不眨地望着我。

我想摸摸他的手凉不凉，谁知刚伸出手，他便连忙展开双臂向我倾身过来，要让我抱。真让人心疼……这孩子身子小小软软的，刚一抱在怀里，小脑袋一歪，就靠着我的膊弯睡着了。一路上我动都不敢动弹一下，生怕惊忧了怀中小人安静而孤独的梦境。

~

William Zhang – translation of ‘Not Your Business’ by Shelly Bryant

SEPTEMBER 3rd 2018

与你无关

这与你无关，她说

那时我正在评论近旁

那对孵在茶室里的人

然后，她把话题岔开

转向刚刚驻足花床的蜻蜓

戴着透镜，足足六英寸厚

~

Not Your Business

it’s not your business, she said

when I commented on the pair

lounging nearby in the teahouse

then turned to the dragonfly

just settling in the flowerbed

with her lens, six inches long

~

William Zhang – translation of ‘Special Administrative District’ by Shelly Bryant

AUGUST 20th 2018

特别行政区

改名

易帜

契丹辽满洲

热河热河

日之丸

缓冲地带裁碎

被四邻三头兼并

不留痕迹

在今天我们看见的

地图上

Special Administrative District

names changing

changing hands

Khitan Liao Manchu

Rehe Jehol

Japan

a buffer zone shredded

absorbed by a neighborly trio

no trace left

on the maps we know

today

~

Zhi Hui Ho – translation of an essay by Lei Shurong

AUGUST 13th 2018

This piece is a translation of the essay《每个人心里都有个奥吉》by Lei Shurong, which was published at Alluvium across two posts on June 4th and June 11th 2018.

Everyone Knows Someone Like Auggie
by Lei Shurong

More than thirty years ago, in the little village where I grew up, there was a family who had a disabled son. He was never given a name: everyone just called him “the idiot”.

The idiot was not only intellectually challenged – his face was paralysed and he was lame too. His parents had neither the money for a doctor nor the kindness to treat him well, because he was an embarrassment and a nightmare to their whole family. They fed him on leftovers. They looked at him with frosty contempt. They forced him to sleep in the dog kennels. And at every turn, they flung abuse and curses at him. In that superstitious little mountain village, people believed that a disabled child was a reincarnation of an evil spirit – a bad omen. Fingers wagged and tongues spat poison, and everyone did everything they could to avoid him. However, he couldn’t understand what was happening, and so he was always smiling and giggling foolishly, mistaking all the abuse for kindness.

Mostly, the adults were busy leading their own lives, so they left him alone. But the village children didn’t.

He had nothing to do all day, so he liked wandering in the mountains. He would pick flowers and then scatter them, or he would chase birds and butterflies, calling aloud as he went. Perhaps the other children felt that he wasn’t worthy of happiness, because whenever they saw him they would immediately give chase and beat him up. His bad leg made escape impossible, so he was often punched and kicked until he was black and blue, and the mountain resounded with his sharp wails.

Such are some of the fiercest, most profoundly affecting of my memories: a group of village children surrounded by the flowers of a beautiful spring day; in the midst of a forest redolent with summer; in the golden-yellow paddy fields of autumn; on the pristine snows of winter – chasing viciously after a disabled boy, who couldn’t stop crying.

Anyone could bully the idiot. No one protected him, and no one gave him even a shred of care or concern. No one, that is, aside from the big dog. It was a massive animal – a rangy, yellow, fierce-looking thing, and it barked incessantly at outsiders. But the dog was the only one who never turned up its nose at him. On the contrary, it was the guardian angel by his side. And it was only because of the big dog that the other children’s savagery grew no worse.

I was afraid of both of them. I was afraid that the idiot would touch my clothes with his dirty hands. I was afraid of the long, slimy line of drool that trailed down from the corner of his mouth, which was always speaking gibberish. I was afraid that his deformed face would be contagious: that it would get into my dreams and turn them into nightmares. My heart seemed to be stuck in my throat every time I went by his house.

One day, when I was walking gingerly past his door, I heard a low, deep snarl, and then the big dog leapt out at me. I was terrified, screaming and crying. I ran a few steps and then fell. I squeezed my eyes shut in despair as I waited for its teeth to close on me.

But strangely, the dog did not bite me. Instead, it made a low crooning noise and plopped its backside down onto the ground beside me. I lifted my head to look, and there he was, caressing the dog’s head, his face wreathed in a foolish smile.

That was the first time I had come face to face with him, and it was the only time I actually saw him clearly. His head was misshapen and his features horribly lopsided, but his eyes were warm and gentle, like those of a newborn lamb.

He died before he turned ten.

His parents didn’t even bury him in the family plot in the graveyard. They scratched out a hole somewhere on the mountain slopes and dumped him into it. He was like a weed: not long in this world, living out his days and dying alone. The strange thing was, even after many years had gone by and the events and people of the village were dim, mostly-forgotten memories, I still kept a crystal-clear impression of his face, and his alone.

His story was a huge secret to me. I kept it buried in my heart and never spoke of it to anyone, until my son turned fourteen.

In October 2014, my son Tu Dou and I moved to Shanghai, to a tiny rental apartment. We were preparing for him to enter a high school affiliated with the Shanghai Conservatory of Music the following year, in the spring.

This was a weighty decision for my son. At fourteen, he had set his heart on becoming a pianist. That meant more than just giving up the school he liked, with its familiar teachers and students, and leaving his hometown and his comfortable, normal life. It signified a turn away from a broad, well-paved Roman road, and a turn onto a bitter, thorny, narrow path in pursuit of the arts. It was a lonely choice.

The apartment in Shanghai was old and cramped. Other than a grand piano, it had barely any furniture in it at all. That, added to the fact that we were strangers in an unfamiliar city, quite naturally left us feeling miserable and adrift. Luckily, I was offered a translation project at that point, which I accepted without hesitation. I also made a strict plan for myself: I would translate 1500 words of the book every day, come hell or high water, and I would finish it within three months. In my experience, adjusting to a new place was always a matter of having something to do. Once I had that, I would be able to adapt quickly to the new environment, and shake off the feeling of being lost and helpless.

It was only when I’d hastily turned to the first page of the book that I realised that the protagonist a disabled ten-year-old boy. His name was August, but everyone called him “Auggie”. The book’s title was Wonder.

From the very beginning, I made Tu Dou accompany me on my translation journey. I made him my first reader and called him my “assistant”. In this globalised era, the habits of little boys everywhere move largely in lockstep. In the book, Auggie is entering middle school; at the time, Tu Dou was about to graduate from it, so naturally they had a great deal in common. Thus, Tu Dou and I fell into a routine: every day, after I’d finished writing, he would automatically take my spot at the computer and read what I’d translated, checking for any common-sense errors or anything that sounded too much like something a grown-up would say. The latter was my request: Auggie was ten years old in the novel, and I wanted the translation to suit his age. I didn’t want it to sound outdated or grown-up, even though Auggie was a more mature ten-year-old than most. Tu Dou took this duty very seriously, and nitpicked his way through my work at every turn.

“You said that Auggie’s mum was ‘awful’ at fractions. You should say she ‘sucked’!”

“Auggie says, ‘Mr. Tushman’s the boss at my new school’. You could change that to ‘head’.”

“‘Only an idiot would choose leadership class’. You could try ‘only dorks take leadership’.”

Of course, my son was also deeply drawn in by Auggie’s story. On one hand, Auggie read Eragon, The Chronicles of Narnia, and The Hobbit; he played Dungeons and Dragons and was totally in love with Star Wars. Auggie was like any typical child in those respects. On the other hand, he’d had 27 surgeries since birth, over a short ten-year life. He never actually attended school. Because of his disfigurement, people gave him sidelong glances or tried to avoid him wherever he went; he was called ‘rat boy’, ‘freak’, ‘E.T.’, ‘gross-out’, ‘lizardface’, ‘mutant’, ‘diseased’. The sheer contrast was enough to tug at the heartstrings.

The translation made steady progress. And as I expected, our life in the new, strange city became easier and calmer, like a small stream converging with a far mightier river. Oddly enough, however, as the translation advanced, and as the story became more and more exciting, Tu Dou began to talk less and less about it. When we got to the chapter called “The Cheese Touch”, I realised that something was wrong. He sat in silence at the computer for a while, and then went to his piano without a word. That wasn’t normal. Typically, he would be talking my ear off about the details of the book: Darth Vader-something-something, padawan-etcetera-etcetera, Battleground-Mystic-is-this-and-that, and so on into infinity. In fact, when we got to the bit where Auggie talks about the “farting nurse” who was present at his birth, who “let out the biggest, loudest, smelliest fart in the history of farts”, Tu Dou had laughed about it for half a day. Over the next two days, as I got through translating the next two chapters, “Halloween Costumes” and “The Bleeding Scream”, Tu Dou remained silent. I checked for fever: nothing. I asked him if he was homesick: he shook his head. When I questioned him further, he finally lifted his head, and when he met my gaze there were tears in his eyes.

“Mummy, there was a boy like Auggie in our class too. Do you remember Q?” he burst into tears. “I was bad, mummy – I hate myself!”

Of course I remembered Q.

He was an elementary school classmate of Tu Dou’s, with a pair of big, timid eyes. He was skinny as a beansprout, and his actions and reactions were always a beat slower than the other children. Tu Dou once told me that Q couldn’t write, couldn’t count, and couldn’t do his homework. Whenever the teacher asked him about it, he couldn’t answer either. He could only scratch at his ears and cheeks while muttering, “It’s so itchy…” over and over. Tu Dou also told me that many of his other classmates disliked Q. They found him stupid, an idiot, a blockhead, and they refused to be friends with him. I also remembered having a long, serious talk with Tu Dou, telling him that everyone was like a tree in a forest, each with its own pace of growth: some tall, some short, some quick, some slow. I emphasised to him that being quick didn’t give him the right to look down on those who were slow, and that he should try his best to help them instead. I got him to promise me that he would be kind to Q, and not mock or bully him or look down on him. In truth, as I translated Wonder, both Q and the boy from my village had come to mind several times.

“I know I promised you I’d help Q, mummy, and I did – but I also made a mistake, like Jack Will, and I…”

In the novel, Jack Will was the only kid in class who treated Auggie decently. He was Auggie’s deskmate and good friend, and he became Auggie’s motivation for going to school at all. It was his protection that shielded Auggie from the hostile gazes and wagging tongues of others.

In contrast to Jack, though, there was Julian. The other kids ostracised Auggie simply because they were indifferent or thoughtless, avoiding or turning away from him. In contrast, Julian constantly thought of ways to use poisonous words and actions to hurt Auggie, and he actively plotted with others to isolate him even more.

On Halloween, due to a series of unfortunate events, Auggie didn’t wear the costume he’d planned to wear. He accidentally overheard a conversation between Julian and Jack. It turned out that Jack was so nice to Auggie not because he truly liked him, but because of an arrangement made by Principal Tushman. Jack even said to Julian, “I really think… if I looked like him, seriously, I think that I’d kill myself.” Auggie was seriously traumatised and hurt by this, and refused to go to school for a while.

So what was the bad thing that my Tu Dou had done? He told me that Q had an itchy skin condition called psoriasis, which was why he kept scratching himself. As a result, his skin was always rough and scaled all over, and it flaked off him like whole-body dandruff. That was why he couldn’t concentrate in class or finish his work. The whole class was terrified of touching him, for fear that he would infect them. It didn’t matter how much the teachers reassured the students that it wasn’t contagious. Everyone was petrified by the idea of having even the slightest contact with Q. Just like Auggie, Q had the “Cheese Touch”. He was an old moldy piece of cheese. No one wanted to sit next to him, no one wanted to partner him when playing ball, no one wanted to play games with him… They didn’t even touch the things he’d touched. When it was Q’s turn to hand out the workbooks for class, everyone refused to take them from him. Some people would grab them and rush to the window to let the sunlight “disinfect” them, and others would just toss the books onto the floor. My Tu Dou was no exception.

Q wanted to ingratiate himself with the others, so every day after lunch, he started helping them to collect their trays and plates. He was small and slow, so he often didn’t move quickly enough. As a result, some of the others would grab the plates and throw them at him, or they would hit him with their trays. Although Tu Dou never went that far, he did sit there complacently, waiting for Q to take his tray, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

This state of affairs persisted until they graduated elementary school. Six whole years.

Six years! To be honest, I was utterly shocked. All along, I’d thought I’d understood my son: my innocent, flawless son – clear and shining like a crystal. It never occurred to me that he had any secrets. And to think: for six years, he had hidden such a terrible thing in the depths of his heart… that the shadow was of such magnitude…

Meeting my stunned gaze, he continued, slightly defensive now, “If I’d told you, Mummy, you’d have made me be friends with Q, and then everyone else would’ve ignored me. They’d have been mean to me too, and then if I told you that, you’d have come to school and made them all apologise to me and that would’ve been just the worst. Like, super embarrassing.”

I sighed. The shadow lying on my heart grew greater.

In the end, I didn’t scold or blame Tu Dou for what had happened to Q. They were already three years out of elementary school, and had long since scattered to various middle schools. Even if I wanted Tu Dou to apologise to Q, we had no idea where he had gone. And besides – if we had found him, where would one even start? In any case, Tu Dou had clearly realised his own wrongdoing, and was already beating himself up about it. I figured it was enough that he would try and do better in the future.

In the meantime, the story kept progressing. I must say: Wonder was not only timely, it also covered everything that was essential and everything real. The author R. J. Palacio clearly had an excellent grasp of the psychology of little children: she understood the unique sensitivities and intricacies of their emotional landscapes, and she also knew the interpersonal web of middle school like the back of her hand. She wrote Auggie’s story in a polyphonic chorus of voices: Auggie himself narrates the first chapter, but the second chapter is turned over to his older sister Via. The third chapter is narrated by Summer – the only girl who is friends with Auggie, and the fourth chapter by Jack. The fifth chapter gives voice to Via’s boyfriend, Justin, and the seventh, Miranda – a mutual friend of Via and Auggie. The sixth and eighth chapters go back to Auggie’s point of view. Six children: each of them saw, described, and understood Auggie from their own point of view. In that way, the book brings out the different facets of Auggie’s life. It allows for a variety of analyses and understandings of what happened to him, and it helps the people and events to intersect and connect, forming a complete picture of middle school life. Almost any child, upon reading Wonder, can find a point of view that resonates.

Naturally, Tu Dou related most to Jack. In the novel, Jack is Auggie’s deskmate, friend, and protector, but he didn’t start out as a willing participant in those roles: Mr. Tushman intentionally arranges it. Jack’s relationship with Auggie starts out as a duty, but slowly evolves into real friendship. And when he unintentionally hurts Auggie’s feelings, and the two of them “break up” for a while, Jack comes to realise that he was wrong. Finally, in a later chapter, he hits Julian and thereby returns to his place as Auggie’s friend.

It was around that point in the book that Tu Dou pointed out to me that “Auggie doesn’t really exist in real life, Mummy.

“He’s born into a happy, middle-class family. His mum and dad and sister and grandma all love him lots. He’s strong and brave and clever and experienced. He’s good with his hands. He’s knowledgeable and good at writing, and he’s a nice, funny guy who has great character and learning ability. So it’s easier for other people not to care that he looks weird. Jack gets brave in the end, and knocks out one of Julian’s teeth when he’s protecting Auggie. But I think I’d do that too, because Julian’s horrible. He’s a big hypocrite and he’s a sneak and a snob. No one who’s really a good person would ever be friends with him.”

“And…?” I encouraged.

“Well, at first I thought I’d like to be like Jack, but then I thought – things aren’t really the same, so I don’t think I can. Q had a skin disease. He was a wimpy crybaby and he wasn’t good at anything at all. I just don’t think we could have been friends.

“Plus, I had a few good friends already. Some of them were Math Olympiad geniuses, some were champions for cross country, and some wrote amazing short stories. They were all cool and they were all honest, nice, happy people. I wouldn’t have not been friends with them.”

“That’s true,” I answered. “Fiction and real life don’t always match up. Auggie’s an ideal, Tu Dou. The author made him that way. He had a disability, but he wasn’t crippled. He looked abnormal, but in terms of who he was – his intelligence, behaviour, ability, and character – he wasn’t just a normal kid. He was better. And because of that, he didn’t have to go to a special needs school. He could go to a school with everyone else, even a well-known one like Beecher Prep.

“And that’s why we’re so drawn to this story. It’s about kid who doesn’t look normal wanting to enter a normal school. That creates a huge contrast. It drives the conflict. I guess Auggie isn’t just a medical marvel. He’s a literary marvel, a heroic figure. And people like reading about marvels.”

“Why would the author write him like that, though?”

“I guess she wanted to make people think. You know, if it’s this hard for someone amazing like Auggie to integrate into a normal school, what about all the other disabled kids? They probably have it worse than him. They might be in really bad circumstances or they might need special care. How bad must it be for them?

“Auggie’s a kind of dividing line,” I continued. “Above him are the ‘typical’ people, and below him are the people with special needs. We might say they’re disabled. And in reality, most of them lead lives that are more difficult than you or I can ever imagine. They might be missing arms or legs. They might be blind or deaf or dumb, and some might have intellectual or language disabilities. It might even be that one person has multiple problems.

“And these people are discriminated against from the day they’re born,” I went on, warming to the subject. “All their lives, ‘normal’ society will toss them aside. Those who are lucky will at least have their families to love and support them, so they won’t have to worry about being homeless or starving. Those who are even better off might get to go to a special needs school and learn the skills to be independent.

“But there are the unlucky ones who might have to struggle with poverty and be rejected not only by outsiders but by their own family. Like that boy in my village, the one I told you about.

“So what are we going to do, Tu Dou? Even if we can’t be friends with them, or they’re not our family, surely we shouldn’t treat them badly. It can’t be right to bully or mock or beat them, or stand by and ignore them as other people do that, no?”

“But there are lots of amazing disabled people,” Tu Dou said. “Like Stephen Hawking.”

“True. There are always disabled people who are miraculous geniuses, even among other geniuses. Their talent is so immense that it breaks through the restraints of their disabilities. And that’s when the whole world celebrates and respects them. They might even change the world, like Hawking, like the novelist Shi Tiesheng, like the blind pianist Tsujii Nobuyuki, like the Australian speaker Nick Vujicic…

“But without exception, they’ve all had to make tremendous sacrifices, and they were hugely loved by their parents. I think we could even say that the sheer size of their success is a sign of how much they suffered to get there.

“And besides,” I added, “They’re an absolutely tiny minority. They’re lucky. They’re God’s chosen few.”

“Mummy, you know that boy you told me about, in the village?” Tu Dou said. “Did you hit him?”

“No. I was afraid of him, though, so I never helped him and I never smiled at him, not even that day when he saved me from the dog. Not ever. And it’s one of the things that I regret most.”

“But if it’s not possible to be friends with them, then what should we do?”

“Actually, it’s probably enough to just overcome that feeling of fear. If you can choose not to be afraid, you might discover that it doesn’t matter if you can be friends with them,” I said. “You might not even need to help them. You just need to treat them normally. That’s the biggest kindness you can show them.”

We got to Part Five of Wonder. On Valentine’s Day, Auggie’s older sister Via invited her boyfriend Justin to meet the family. Justin used to get tics when he was nervous, especially when they were at restaurants. Justin’s voice narrates: “i guess we’re all pretending not to notice things tonight. the waiter. my tics. the way august crushes the tortilla chips on the table and spoons the crumbs into his mouth.”

Tu Dou said to me that if Justin had been at his school, people would have looked down on him too. Justin was a good musician, but he had tics and his parents were separated. There was a serious lack of love in his life. These were all weaknesses, and school was like a jungle: other kids could smell weakness on you. Only the fittest would survive.

Tu Dou’s words startled me. It had never struck me before, but it was true: in a hostile environment, any one of us might be the weaklings. We could all, at any moment, encounter discrimination or unfair treatment.

In other words, we could all be Auggies. The only difference was the degree.

Tu Dou nodded seriously. “Look at Jack,” he said. In the book, Jack is portrayed as a brave little boy, but he doesn’t like going to school and gets bad grades. He has an ordinary family background. After Jack chooses to be friends with Auggie, most of the kids in class turn on him. No one talks to him. They all pretend he doesn’t exist. At one point, Auggie tells him, sardonically, “Welcome to my world!”

Yes, I got where Tu Dou was coming from: every child in the book had an imperfect life. In fact, Palacio gave them all some kind of internal lack or external flaw. Auggie and Via’s friend Miranda, for instance, is very beautiful. She becomes popular at her high school, but has to pay the price of being a liar who’s cynical about the world. Summer is almost perfect – a sweet girl, but she’s biracial, and nursing the giant wound of her father’s passing. She and her mother only have each other to depend on. Via seems to be flawless as well, but her difficulties stem from having Auggie as a brother. Since she was young, she’s withstood countless people pointing and whispering at her. All of this, including their love for Auggie and the compassion they show to the weak, would make them targets for mistreatment in a nastier environment.

“Yeah, if you say it that way, I get it,” Tu Dou said. “Remember Z, the girl in my old class? She was always eating, so she was fat. She had bad grades, and she was weird. She always lorded it over Q. She used to order him around and scold him all the time. On the flip side, other people ordered her around and scolded her, because she was fat. Everyone liked to bully her. To them, she and Q were the same.”

“Think about it,” I said to Tu Dou. “Those who are bullied aren’t just the fat kids, right? There’re skinny people, or the ones who are especially tall or short, or those who come from poor or farming families. Then there are ugly kids, kids who come from single-parent families, kids who get bad grades in class… Introverts, kids from the countryside… Basically, anyone who’s different, right?”

“Yeah,” Tu Dou said. “Actually, people discriminated against me too. Remember the year I won first prize at the piano competition? When I got back to school, some of them laughed at me. They said I was a sissy, that I wasn’t a guy, that only girls liked to play the piano. At first I was really mad and got into a fight with them. But later I realised that they didn’t understand classical music at all. They were just jealous.”

“Oh, Tu Dou! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You can be kinda overprotective sometimes, Mummy.”

One day, Tu Dou came home and thrust an essay at me. It was the writer Mo Yan’s Nobel acceptance lecture, delivered on the 8^th of December 2012, at the Swedish Academy of Arts. The topic was “Storytellers”. Tu Dou had marked out two passages. The first:

When I was in the third grade, in the 1960s, the school took us to see an exhibit on suffering, and under the teacher’s direction, we were told to cry loudly. So that the teacher would see my expression of sorrow, I didn’t wipe away the tears on my cheeks. I saw several students surreptitiously rub spit on their faces, to counterfeit tears. I also remember seeing that among the sea of students – some really crying, some only pretend crying – there was one student, whose face was completely dry, who was completely silent, who didn’t have his hands covering his face. His eyes were wide open and staring at us, and they were filled with a kind of surprise, or perhaps it was confusion. After that, I reported the student to my teacher, and because of that, the school gave him a disciplinary warning. Many years later, when I expressed remorse at having told on him to my teacher, my teacher said that that day, more than ten of us had come to tell him of that incident. That student died several decades ago, but every time I think of him, I am still wracked by guilt.

And the second passage:

I was born ugly, and so many people in the village would mock me blatantly. There were a few bullies at school who would even beat me up because of that. I returned home crying, and my mother said to me, “Son, you’re not ugly – you don’t lack a nose or eyes, you’ve got all four limbs, so how are you ugly? And besides, so long as you have a kind heart and do good things, even if you were ugly, you would become beautiful. And later, when I moved to the city, there were some ostensibly highly cultured people who would nonetheless mock my looks behind my back. Some even did it to my face. But I recalled my mother’s words, and that enabled me to apologise to them with a calm heart.

As a reply to those words, I let Tu Dou read Part Eight of the translation. The novel was coming to an end, and Auggie and his entire fifth-grade class go on a nature trip. His looks draw the attention of a bunch of mean seventh graders, and Jack steps forward to defend Auggie. Three other students – originally bullies themselves – also step forward to help Jack, so there’s a fight, in which Auggie gets hurt. This unfortunate event creates a massive stir at Beecher Prep, and it makes Jack and the kids who defend Auggie into heroes.

At the graduation ceremony, Auggie doesn’t just make it to the honor roll for his academic grades, he also receives the Henry Ward Beecher medal for his quiet strength and the way it’s an inspiration to everyone. Mr. Tushman uses the commencement speech to talk about kindness, and delivers stirring, thought-provoking words. He says:

“…we carry with us, as human beings, not just the capacity to be kind, but the very choice of kindness. Such a simple thing, kindness. Such a simple thing. A nice word of encouragement given when needed. An act of friendship. A passing smile.”

A while later, I was browsing online when I noticed that Tu Dou had updated his Qzone blog with a picture and some elaboration. It was a picture of a roly-poly bug that he’d found in the bathroom. Beneath it, he’d written:

I used to like cats, dogs, rabbits, goldfish, pandas, butterflies, parrots, and all the other nice-looking animals. I used to think that flies, centipedes, roly-polies and other such ugly bugs were gross. So I always killed them immediately, without any hesitation. But now I understand that even though there are higher and lower lifeforms, there aren’t any better or worse lifeforms. This little guy accidentally found his way to my house. He has his own reasons for living, so I don’t think I’m all that different from him.

When I was younger, I looked at Feng Zikai’s collection, “Protecting Life”, and I didn’t understand what he meant when he said that protecting all life is protecting one’s own heart, but now I get it. So I put this little guy into a tissue and brought him to a flowerbed outside.

At the end of Wonder, Palacio added a postscript acknowledging and thanking all her family members and colleagues. After that, she thanked an anonymous individual: “Last but not least, I would like to thank the little girl in front of the ice cream shop, and all the other ‘Auggies’ whose stories have inspired me to write this book.”

I realised that this was where Wonder had sprung from, and that there was probably a moving story behind it. I checked a few overseas websites, and lo and behold:

When she wrote Wonder, Palacio was an editor at a publishing house, with two “Tu Dous” of her own. One day when she was out with her children, they were waiting in line at the ice cream shop. Ahead of them in the queue was a little girl with a very serious facial deformity. Palacio’s three-year-old son noticed the girl and began to cry in fear. The writer was horribly embarrassed, knowing that her son’s cries were hurtful to the little girl and her family. She scooped the boy up and left. Just as they were leaving, she heard the little girl’s mother say to her own children, in the calmest and friendliest of tones, “Alright, kids. I think it’s time to go.”

This real-life incident was written into Jack’s narrative, although she changed the mother to a babysitter.

When she got home, Palacio regretted her actions. She felt that she shouldn’t have left on the spot, but instead tried to deal with her son’s tears some other way. For instance, she could have taken him to talk to the little girl, or something similar. She kept thinking: how many times a day does that little girl and her family have to face this kind of incident? And that evening, she heard the Natalie Merchant song Wonder. She’d heard it before, but it wasn’t until that moment that she truly understood the lyrics:

Doctors have come from distant cities, just to see me

Stand over my bed, disbelieving what they’re seeing

They say I must be one of the wonders

Of God’s own creation

And as far as they see, they can offer

No explanation

This song became both the title and the epigraph of the novel. Palacio had been touched twice in a single day. That very evening, struck by inspiration, she began to write the book.

I told Tu Dou about this. He murmured, “Huh. So everyone knows someone like Auggie.”

Three months went by very quickly. On New Year’s Day 2015, I wrapped up the translation of Wonder on time, and handed it to the publishers.

I solemnly thanked Tu Dou for being such a major part of my translation work. Throughout the entire process, we’d helped each other, and spoken and listened to each other as friends would. It had brought us safely through that terrible initial period of moving to a strange new city.

He said, “Mummy, look: Palacio’s a book editor, you’re a book editor too. She wrote Wonder for her sons and you translated Wonder for your son.

“Thank you, Mummy,” he said. “I kinda feel like you translated this for me.”

10.

That autumn, Tu Dou got into the music high school affiliated with the Shanghai Conservatory of Music, and began to pursue his dreams of becoming a pianist.

Not long after school started, he came home with a piece of news that gave me a massive shock.

It turned out that his elementary school classmates had made a chat group, and the thirty-odd students had trickled back together in the confines of virtual space. They all sent a recent photo of themselves to the group, and talked about their new schools, their new classes, their new friends. Everyone was making good progress and everyone had grown up. Everything seemed wonderful.

In the midst of the hubbub, Tu Dou had asked about Q. And then someone had added Q to the group.

What startled Tu Dou was this: what happened in elementary school began to happen all over again.

“Ewww…” someone said.

“Go away!” said someone else.

“What are you doing here, retard? Go back to wherever you came from!” The boy who said that used to be a good friend of Tu Dou’s.

“Freaks like you have no right to be here!”

“Oh my god. Idiots can also use QQ now?”

“We don’t want you here. Don’t give us your creepy skin disease!” This person was also a good friend of Tu Dou’s.

“You’re just a nightmare, you’re not a classmate of ours!”

……

Before Tu Dou’s eyes, the chat grew longer and more agitated, with exclamation points filling the screen. This was the truly contagious disease. Everyone scrabbled to kick Q out of the group, just like what had happened three or four years ago in school. But this time, Tu Dou decided to stand up for Q.

We graduated elementary school ages ago, guys! we should be more grown up!

But nooooo

we’re all still totally immature

like we’re still stupid kids

bullying other people all the time

Don’t u guys have any SYMPATHY? u think ur all so good, brave and caring and all that

@H.W. and @A. I don’t wanna be ur friend anymore! Im ashamed that we used to be friends at all!

If you don’t start learning and examining yourselves, you’ll never know what true bravery is, or what real compassion is!

Until one day someone BULLIES YOU TOO !!!

@Q. lets just leave this chat these guys arent worth it

they cant hurt you anymore

Tu Dou typed in a fit of fury.

“And then?” I asked.

“Everyone went silent. Q listened to me and left the group, and then I left the group too.”

“You feel a sense of loss, but yet very gratified; a bit lonely, and yet tragically heroic?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Tu Dou said. “It felt a bit like choosing to be a pianist. I felt both lonely and tragically heroic. Mummy, remember when I read Fu Lei’s Family Letters? I think I finally understand what he says to Fu Cong: first be a person, then an artist, and only then, a pianist.”

~

William Zhang – translation of ‘Bonsai’ by Shelly Bryant

AUGUST 6th 2018

盆景

微树盛开

映山红般多彩燃放

昨日

他们绚烂的交响

尚未奏起

一支短歌

再次沉寂

两天过后

他们的心声

当我说着那音色时

回响在夕阳中

反射到你眼里

~

Bonsai

tiny trees in robust bloom

azaleas’ varicolored blaze

yesterday

their prismatic symphony

had yet to sound

a short-lived song

silenced again

two days later

their voices

as I spoke of the hues

echoed in the setting sun

reflected in your eyes

~

William Zhang – translation of ‘Guerilla’ by Shelly Bryant

JULY 30th 2018

游击队员

为自我防卫

挖战壕垒土丘

把表面光滑打花

一道道防护措施

阻止敌意通过

满脸疤痕的家

我的防线

抗敌入侵

Guerrilla

in my defense

ditches dug, mounds erected

smooth surfaces made rough

safety measures

preventing passage of hostiles

the scarred face of home

my safeguard

against invasion

~

Eunice Lim Ying Ci – Translation of Liu Yong’s ‘The Most Difficult Performance to Give’

APRIL 23rd 2018

If this life is a performance, then surely this performance is a stage performance and not a cinematic one. For we are confronted not by the camera, but by the living audience. We act as we are meant to do, for there can be no editing. If we give a lousy performance, there is no way to take it back, because there are no additional takes for the taking. What makes life more difficult than any stage performance is the absence of a script. There is no telling what comes next and there will be no rehearsals. From the moment we are born, the curtain rises and we have entered the stage. And by the time the critics evaluate our performance and historians make their conclusions, we would have departed from this stage we call the world.

Life – what a profoundly difficult performance to give!

最难演的一场戏

著：刘墉

人生，这是一场多么难演的戏呀！

如果我们把人生形容成戏，那么这场戏就应当是指舞台剧，而非电影。因为我们面对的是活生生的观众，而非摄影机；我们是按部就班地演下来，而不能剪接；我们演坏了就再也无法收回，因为那不能喊NG。此外比舞台剧更难的是，我们没有剧本，所以不能预知下一刻的发展；更没有排演的机会，因为从生下来的那一刻，便步上了舞台。而当剧评家为这场戏下评语，历史家盖棺定论时，我们早已随着走下舞台而离开人世了。

人生，这是一场多么难演的戏呀！

* Reprinted with permission from SZY Studio

~

Eunice Lim Ying Ci – Translation of Liu Yong’s ‘Kaleidoscope’

APRIL 9th 2018

We are all familiar with the kaleidoscope. Our childhood days were spent looking through the mirror of the kaleidoscope at the countless, beautiful images. As we turn it continuously, the images change endlessly. But smash the kaleidoscope open, and you will find nothing but bits of coloured paper inside.

Our lives are no different.

As the wheel of life turns, many things are vibrant, and they interweave and transform. However, rend it apart and you will see that an assortment of some simple beings and some simple objects is all there really is.

万花筒*

著：刘墉

许多事情，看穿了，不过是一些简单的人、物而已！

我们小时候都玩过万花筒，透过那些镜子，能够看到数不尽的美丽画面，不停地转，也就不断地变化，其实打碎了，里面只不过是一些彩色的小纸片罢了！

我们的生活也是如此，随着生命的转动，许多事情都是那么多采多姿、交织幻化，其实看穿了，不过是一些简单的人、物而已!

* Reprinted with permission from SYZ Studio

~

Ruan Dacheng: Spring Lantern Riddles, or Ten Cases of Mistaken Identity (1633): Scenes 31, 32 & 36a

Translation and introduction by Alison Hardie

APRIL 2nd 2018

Ruan Dacheng (1587-1646) is one of the great late-Ming writers, but his importance as a poet has been undervalued, almost certainly as a result of his political notoriety, which still affects views of him today. However, his outstanding contributions to drama are generally recognised and he is considered one of the leading playwrights of the generation after Tang Xianzu.

Ruan was born into a prosperous official family in Anqing on the Yangtze (now in Anhui province). He studied poetry with his great-uncle, the distinguished poet Ruan Zihua. After obtaining his Presented Scholar (jinshi) degree in 1616, he embarked on an official career, which went well until 1624, when one of the political factions of the time, the Eastern Grove (Donglin), found him to be an obstacle to their plans to dominate the triennial appraisal of officials, whereby they hoped to get their own men into power in the government. Although Ruan had previously had some links with the Eastern Grove (his father-in-law was a leading member), he was unwilling to stand aside for their convenience, and appears to have solicited support from the chief eunuch of the emperor’s court, Wei Zhongxian, or at least he was later accused of having done so. This strategy worked in the short term, and Ruan received further promotion, but after the feeble Tianqi Emperor died and Wei Zhongxian lost power, Ruan was eventually dismissed from office.

On his return home to Anqing in about 1630, Ruan – already a prolific poet – took up the writing of drama in the chuanqi (as it was known in the Ming) or kunqu style of Chinese opera, to be performed by his family’s private theatrical troupe. The play from which extracts are translated here is the first of his plays to survive. It was published in 1633 by Ruan himself, under his own ‘Hall of Chanting What is in my Heart’ (Yonghuaitang) imprint, with illustrations by the commercial artist Zhang Xiu, a personal friend of Ruan.

The immensely complicated plot of this 40-scene play, Spring Lantern Riddles, or Ten Cases of Mistaken Identity (Shicuoren chundengmi ji), can be briefly summarised as follows: a young student, Yuwen Yan, and a young lady, Wei Yingniang (disguised as a man, ‘Mr Yin’), meet while solving riddles at the Lantern Festival and exchange poems. In darkness, each mistakenly boards the other’s boat; Yuwen Yan had been accompanying his father Yuwen Xingjian to an official position in Xiang county, while Yingniang was accompanying her father to the capital. Yingniang is adopted by Yan’s parents Mr and Mrs Yuwen, but Yingniang’s father Mr Wei has Yan thrown overboard; he is taken for a bandit and put in prison, where he is befriended by a perceptive jailer, Doulu Xun. The Yuwens are misled by the discovery of Yingniang’s maid’s body into thinking their son is dead. Meanwhile, their older son achieves success but his name has been accidentally changed from Yuwen Xi to Li Wenyi, and his parents also change their surname to Li; Yuwen Xi/Li Wenyi marries Yingniang’s sister. Yan, released from prison, discovers he is believed to be a spirit; he changes his name and accompanies his former jailer to the capital (this is the part translated here), where he comes first in the examinations and is betrothed to the Yuwens’ (now the Lis’) ‘daughter’. Once he meets his prospective father-in-law, actually his real father, all is gradually revealed; in a happy ending, Yan and Yingniang are finally united.

Even at the time, readers recognised that the misunderstandings and reversals of fortune suffered by the hero Yuwen Yan were an expression of Ruan’s feelings about his political misfortunes. As his friend the distinguished Shaoxing writer and official Wang Siren observed in his preface to the play: ‘The trend of the times was misdirected, and he met with opprobrium and aroused fear and opposition, so that right and wrong changed places.’ All four of Ruan’s surviving plays, in fact, are concerned with identity and the authentic self; these concepts were of great interest to late-Ming intellectuals in general, but had a particularly personal resonance for Ruan. But despite Ruan’s serious concern with authenticity and identity, this play in particular is full of humour. The misfortunes which beset the hero as a result of others’ misperceptions of his identity – is he a scholar, a bandit, a ghost, a spirit? – combine to form such a tangle that we think it will never be unravelled, and yet Ruan brings it all to a logical and successful conclusion. Along the way we encounter such humorous scenes as those translated here.

Scene 31: Disturbance in a Temple

Enter the Priest of Huangling Temple.

You have to believe that gods exist; you can’t trust that they don’t. So when someone has asked you a favour, you have to carry it out. When the Doctor of the Five Classics, Mr Li, was here recently, he handed his son’s clothes and a poem over to me, and enjoined me to display them on the Lantern Festival and the fifteenth of the last month of every year, in order to summon his son’s spirit. Now today is the fifteenth of the twelfth month. Acolytes, why don’t you bring out young Master Yuwen’s clothes and the poem and arrange them on the altar till I summon him.

Acolytes arrange clothes and poem. Priest bows.

Master Yuwen Yan, today is your birthday, come and partake of your feast.

Burns paper money.

The paper turns into white butterflies, without tears to dye them red like azaleas.

Exit.

Enter Yuwen Yan in travelling clothes with a pack and an umbrella.

Wind blowing loud,

Snow like a shroud.

The huntsman stays home;

The bird has flown.

I laugh at heaven’s lord,

This world is too absurd.

When snow has fallen on the Celestial Mountains, the wind from the sea is cold.

How many soldiers on campaign wipe their eyes to look around.

Alas, the human heart is more fickle than water.

Storms arise despite flat calm.

Since I left Brother Doulu’s house, it’s already the fifteenth of the twelfth month, and that’s my birthday: I’m twenty this year. My family are scattered, I’m all alone, and now I’ve run into this snowstorm: it’s absolutely perishing. Still, even though I’m cold and lonely, it’s a lot better than suffering in that dark dungeon. I can see Huangling Temple not far off ahead, and evening’s drawing in, so I’d better slip in there and look for the priest of the temple. After a few days’ rest and in better weather, I can hire a boat and head for Xiang township. Look,

This wretched snow freezes rivers and hills.

Sound of wind howling.

What a wind!

I’m blown along over the ground.

My umbrella spinning round.

Look,

A single spark of a lamp’s red glow.
There’s a rough fence

Shared by a shivering dog and an evening crow.

Here I am at Huangling Temple. The gate is half open, but there’s no-one around. It’s certainly not as lively as at the Lantern Festival.

Brushes snow off his clothes, puts down pack and umbrella, kneels before altar.

Oh Lord, I am Yuwen Yan, and I have come here again to gaze on your glory: I am truly reborn. Today is your follower’s birthday, I pray for your protection in the world beyond.

Gets up and looks around.

Today is the fifteenth of the twelfth month; people must be worshipping, but where has the priest got to?

Notices clothes.

What’s this? Well I never, it’s a suit of clothes. They look like mine.

Picks up clothes and examines them.

Goodness, they actually are mine! How bizarre! How did they get here?

A headscarf in Huayang style

Jacket and robe of red
This belt

I have tied myself; I know its value.
This are the clothes I took off that day on the government boat in the hope of slipping away unnoticed, but I was caught and my clothes seized, and I had no idea what happened to them.

On the boat I stripped, hoping to escape;

They swarmed around and snatched them all.

How dreadful to recall!
I know: after they threw me in the water, the people on the boat must have thought that clothes belonging to a dead man were unlucky and left them on the bank. Then the priest must have found them and brought them here for his own use. What a pity that

Water stains and muddy treads

Have blotted out the fine embroidered threads.
I’m absolutely freezing, and after all they’re my own clothes, I might as well put them on.

Puts on clothes, bows to altar.

If these aren’t my own clothes, they’re a precious gift from the gods.

Notices poem.

What’s this document on the altar-table? Let me open it and have a look. Well, here’s another strange thing: this is the poem I wrote myself and gave to that Mr Yin. How ever did it get here?

When we met in youth

Reciting verse amid the lantern-hung trees

How did the poem come to be an offering to the gods?
I suppose since Mr Yin was drunk the poem must have fallen out of his sleeve and been picked up by the priest. I dare say

His shirt sleeve let in the spring breeze;

His shirt sleeve let in the spring breeze.
I’ll just stow it away safely, and if I ever run into Mr Yin again anywhere I’ll ask him for the poem and see how he explains himself! I’ve been here quite a while now; how come nobody’s appeared? I’d better go in and call them.

An acolyte enters; they collide and fall over. The acolyte sees him and shrieks.

Acolyte:

Oh no! Burglars! He’s pinched Master Yuwen’s clothes and put them on! Reverend, hurry!

Yuwen Yan:

Where’s the priest? I’m Mr Yuwen.

Priest enters, sees him and is terrified.

Priest:

It’s not a burglar, it’s Master Yuwen’s ghost. Come on, everyone, come and chase him away.

Priests rush in, hit Yuwen with sticks and drive him away.

Quickly, lock the temple gate!

They lock gate.

Priest:

Fancy such a thing happening. Master Yuwen appeared, as large as life. It must be that because of the mystery over his death, his soul can’t rest, so he came and put the clothes on. What about the poem?

Looks for poem.

He’s taken that too.

Priests:

What a to-do

It gave us a grue

A ghost appearing and roaming free

Donning his clothes as living men do

And snatching away the poem too

Priest:

What shall I do? His parents entrusted the clothes and poem to me; if they ever come this way again and ask to see them, they’ll never believe me if I tell them what happened. They’ll just think I broke my promise and spent their money. Acolytes, can you go outside and have a look around under the plum trees?

Acolytes:

It’s blowing a gale out there, we can’t light a lantern. It’s just coming up to New Year; all the ghosts are on holiday. Our reverend has studied magic and can cast spells, and even he’s afraid to go outside. Let’s get out of here and not wait for him to pick on us.

Close the door and recite the Yellow Court scripture
…

Never mind whether the plum trees are here or there.

Pastiche of Tang poems:

To the clear music of the jade flute the cranes pirouette
As the wind blows through high heaven the gibbons sadly cry
It must be that the soul in spring is transformed into a swallow
Which, longing for home, returns to ascend the homeward-gazing terrace.

Scene 32: Name of Lu

Enter Yuwen Yan

Indeed:

When fortune fades, gold turns to tin;

When times are awry, ghosts torment men.

Why ever did the priest think I was a ghost? I know, he must have heard that I was thrown off the government boat into the river, and he doesn’t know that I didn’t drown, so I can’t blame him. I was just going to make him a bow; who’d have thought that all his acolytes would start beating me up without giving me a chance to speak. I got such a fright that all I could think of was running away. It must be because the bad aura around my supposed death hasn’t fully dispersed. Now it’s dark and the snowstorm is severe: where can I go for shelter? I’ll just have to knock on the temple gate and explain everything thoroughly so he won’t have any doubts about letting me stay.

Knocks.

Open up! Open up!

No response. Knocks again.

Voice within:

Master Yuwen, your death was mysterious and you have a wrong to be avenged, but it’s nothing to do with our temple. Don’t make a disturbance here. We’ll burn some paper money for you tomorrow.

Yuwen:

They really do believe I’m a ghost. It’s a waste of time knocking; the more I knock the less likely they are to open up. I’ll just have to take shelter under the eaves for the night and explain to them tomorrow. Surely they won’t still have any doubts in broad daylight! But the wind’s really strong, it’s absolutely freezing. This is awful!

Shivers. Enter two beggars.

The north wind doth blow

And we shall have snow

We’ve a stoup but no wine for our cup

We’re hungry and cold

But as we’ve been told

In Maiden’s Temple a feast’s coming up

First beggar:

Mate, it’s not called the Maiden’s Temple now; since Scholar Yuwen’s manifestation it’s been called Yuwen’s Temple.

Both beggars:

In Yuwen’s Temple a feast’s coming up

So there we will go

And the folks will soon know

We’re in need of a bite and a sup.

Exeunt beggars.

Yuwen (listening):

Look at those beggars trudging through the mud on the way to some temple or other. It must be a place that offers lodging, but I’m in such a mess, I didn’t like to ask. And now there are a lot more people coming from over there.

Enter Zou Nianba and his father carrying a banner, Xu Dengsi and his wife and child, with other villagers.

When gods command

We’re all at hand

To tell fortunes and draw lots

For peace and joy

We’ve made a date

To give thanks for kind fate

We’ve made a date

To give thanks for kind fate

Through snow, through hail

We’ll never fail

To give thanks and praise.

Brothers, we’re all going to Master Yuwen’s Temple to give thanks for blessings received. It’s time we were off.

Yuwen stops them.

Friends, there’s a snowstorm and it’s night-time, where are you all going?

Villagers:

You obviously don’t know that we’ve got Master Yuwen’s Shrine here. It’s really efficacious. Whether you draw lots or do automatic writing, it’s as though he’s speaking directly to you. Today’s the fifteenth, and we’ve all received blessings from the spirit, so we’re going to burn incense to him in gratitude.

Yuwen:

Since there’s really a shrine that’s so efficacious, would it be all right if I go along with you, friends, and ask for guidance on my future through automatic writing?

Villagers:

No problem at all, but you must be sincere. Now after a few twists and turns, here we are. Is there a Taoist priestess at home?

Lots and planchette are prepared. Two priestesses enter.

Nine dots of autumn mist in the black sky

Among green blossoms thoughts of return are never-ending

We always lament that the crane steed will not tarry

And ever regret that as we approach the clouds there is still more to say
Welcome, true believers. And who is this?

Villagers:

He’s a visitor in the area; he saw us on the way so he’s come to have his fortune told too, to find out about his future.

Yuwen and priestesses greet each other.

Zou Nianba:

Your reverence, when I got home that day, my father had been released from custody; the magistrate’s court didn’t give him any trouble at all, they only gave him a small fine. Now we’ve made an embroidered banner and brought it to hang in the shrine, and here’s a tael of silver for your reverence.

Priestess:

Thank you very much.

Xu Dengsi:

When I went home last time, I followed what the spirit told me and got my wife to fetch some water from the garden pond at midnight and give it to the child to drink, and sure enough he got better. Today I’ve come with my wife and child to dedicate him to the spirit. We’ve brought two bolts of white cloth: your reverence can use it to make slippers.

Priestess:

I’m a nun, I don’t bind my feet, so I don’t need all that cloth. But your offering is accepted. Everyone, when we strike the bell and drum, pay your respects and give thanks.

Villagers bow.

Clasping the lots

Grasping the slips

Obscurity comes clear

Truth is made manifest

Alarm turns to safety

Lawsuits turn out well

Zou and father:

We present our

Colourful banner

They bow.

Xu and wife:

As husband and wife

We give our child a new name

Villagers kneel, then stand up.

Priestess:

Believers, this shows your sincere faith. This is a very fine banner. Acolytes, hang it up.

Xu and wife:

Your reverence, please choose a religious name for our child.

Priestess, placing hands on child’s head:

What a sweet child. Let’s call him Purple Protection. The presiding spirit of our temple is the husband of Our Lady the Purple Maiden, so we’ll name him Purple Protection. [Addresses spirit.] Great Spirit, Lord Yu, protect and bless Purple Protection; let him grow to adulthood without trouble and live to be a hundred.

Xu and wife express thanks. Yuwen Yan (aside):

So the spirit is really this efficacious. I’d better use a few coins from the travelling expenses that Mr Doulu gave me, not to cast lots but to request a response in automatic writing, to find out about my future career.

Looks out money and turns round.

Your reverence, I am alone and in distress, with no fixed abode, but as I’m now fortunate enough to have reached this shrine, I must have some good karma from a previous life. I have a small amount of incense money here; I would be most grateful if you would act as a medium for the Purple Maiden. If her prophecy comes true, I will return and show my gratitude.

Priestess:

Your offering is accepted, but you know the way we do automatic writing here is very peculiar; it’s quite different from other temples. There, the priestesses act as mediums for Purple Maiden, but here I act as a medium for Purple Maiden’s husband. The first answer is written with a brush suspended by a string, but if you have further questions, you know the spirit was originally an intellectual, so he’s a bit lazy, and we have to hold the brush for him to write. I thought I’d better tell you in advance; I hope you don’t mind me speaking so frankly.

Yuwen:

He’s a great spirit, of course there’s no question of criticising him.

Priestess:

All right then, sir, you pray and make your wish silently, and I’ll offer up some spells for you to request the spirit to descend.

Yuwen kneels and prays. Priestess lays out paper below the brush. Music within. Priestess recites prayer, and burns paper with spell.

Priestess:

Normally he comes as soon as you pray to him. How strange that there’s no response this time. Perhaps this woman has brought some uncleanness into the temple.

Xu’s wife:

We came to give thanks today: I had a bath first. Of course I wouldn’t bring any uncleanness.

Priestess repeats the burning of the spell. The string holding the brush is burnt; the brush starts to write by itself. Villagers kneel in amazement. When the brush stops moving, Yuwen picks up the paper and reads:

You are a man of learning.

Yuwen nods.

Teaching among the foremost.
I’ve never taught at all, it’s my father who is the Education Supervisor.

Priestess:

Father and son are one flesh, it comes to the same thing.

Yuwen continues reading:

Enduring many sorrows

And countless hardships.

Yuwen weeps.

Indeed, indeed. That’s quite right.

From now on you will escape from your toils

Your fame and glory will gradually become manifest.
I should be so lucky!

You, young scholar,

Remember my words

Far off in the future

They will come true.

Yuwen bows to express gratitude.

That’s very clear advice, thank you for your guidance. But may I request you, great spirit, to sign your noble name, so that if I do indeed achieve distinction, I will be able to inscribe a suitable document to go with the banner which I will dedicate in gratitude.

Priestess:

Sir, I explained before that if you have a further question, the spirit will write through the medium of myself and my acolytes, otherwise he can’t be bothered.

Yuwen:

As you wish.

Priestess and acolytes hold the brush and write. Enter beggars asking for food. Yuwen watches as priestess writes.Yuwen reads:

A visitor from the Isles of the Blest

A spirit from the Cave Court

Well, obviously he’s a senior spirit.

I happened to fall asleep, drunk, at a banquet of peaches

The Queen Mother of the West was enraged

The Lord of the East had to calm her down

And so I was exiled to spend a time in the world of men

Yuwen:

How remarkable, so he was incarnated to spend time in the human world, but it seems that he ascended from the world to be a spirit again. May I ask your name?

Brush moves again. Yuwen reads:

Consort of the Purple Maiden

Yuwen Yan.

Surprised, Yuwen speaks aside:

What an extraordinary thing! Can he really have exactly the same name as me? It’s a bit suspicious. Let me inquire further.

Turns and speaks:

May I ask where you were born in the human world? What sort of family were you born to? And later, how did you meet your end? Kindly explain in detail.

Priestess:

Nobody’s ever asked more than one extra question, or two at the most.

Yuwen:

I have a good reason for asking, if you don’t mind holding the brush again.

Priestess:
If you annoy the spirit, he’ll lose his temper and start scribbling.

Brush moves wildly.

What did I tell you?

Yuwen takes paper and reads quickly, gives a start.

From Wushan county

A well-born student

On an official mission to Xiang township we moored here

Viewing the lanterns I returned to my boat as the moonlight grew dim

And boarded another family’s boat by mistake

Losing my footing

I fell on to the waterside

And so it was that I was paired with a water spirit

And manifested my power
Tut tut, I must really be possessed! Here I am, Yuwen Yan from Wushan county, as large as life, wasting my time bowing down to a miserable bit of stick.

Tears up paper, kicks planchette.

This witch and her cantrips

These ghosts and their antics

Try to cheat us and fleece us

I’m Yuwen Yan

Here in the flesh

Not some Maiden’s Consort

Wielding paper and pen

Priestess, indignantly:

Everybody, you see this disreputable trouble-maker vandalising our shrine without any reason. When our holy Lord Yuwen’s body was laid out in this temple, I myself agreed with his butler that I would arrange the coffin. And not long ago, the Doctor of the Five Classics, Mr Li, undertook the burial. The spirit has been dead to the world for over a year; he couldn’t just appear in the flesh again. If he won’t believe me, fetch lanterns and we’ll drag him round the side of the shrine to have a look at the grave.

They manhandle Yuwen.

Villagers:

He’s obviously a trouble-maker. We should never have brought him here to insult the shrine.

They drag Yuwen towards the grave.

Priestess:

Acolytes, brush the snow off the gravestone. Look, everybody!

They look. Priestess reads:

‘Here lies Yuwen Yan, scholar of the Tang dynasty, from Wushan county.’ And below is a line of smaller characters: ‘Erected by Doctor of the Five Classics Li Xingjian.’

Villagers:

You scoundrel, what do you say to that?

They hit him. Yuwen calls out:

Heavens, Heavens, what can I say? Can there be such injustice in heaven or on earth? Here I am alive and well, and someone else’s body has been buried here as me. And I don’t know who this Li Xingjian is who put up the gravestone. This rotten priestess is using spirits and wonders to swindle all these people, and now they’re all beating up the real, living Yuwen Yan. Oh God, what strange events!

Villagers:

The fellow must be a madman! The inscription on the gravestone is as clear as clear, and he still tries to deny it.

An impressive tomb

A gravestone with words inscribed

Who is this addlepate

Who claims he’s Yuwen Yan

And dares a spirit to impersonate?

Two beggars:

You’re spot on, everyone.

We came with one wish

But you’ve lost us our dish

We’ll take you to court

And you’ll eat what you ought!

Villagers leave, cursing Yuwen. Beggars drag him off. Enter Doulu Xun on horseback with attendants.

The mountain pass was frozen

My horse would not advance

In clearing rain, at cockcrow, early I ply my whip.
I have spent the night here at a lodging in Huangling Post Station. There has been a great fall of snow overnight, but luckily the weather has cleared this morning, so I must be on my way.

Sounds within of fighting and cries of ‘Yuwen Yan!’

Where do these shouts come from

And cries of ‘Yuwen Yan’?
Oh, in the distance I can see two beggars dragging a man along who looks like my old friend Yuwen Yan; what’s going on?

Beggars drag Yuwen Yan on stage.

Beggars:

Sir, yesterday evening he was telling lies, pretending to be a spirit, and he prevented us getting a meal.

Yuwen:

It was you who said I was a spirit; what do you mean I pretended to be one?

Doulu approaches and shouts at the beggars:

This man’s my friend: what do you miserable beggars mean by dragging him about?

Beats beggars and drives them off. Greets Yuwen.

Brother, what’s been going on here?

Yuwen:

Elder brother, don’t let’s talk about it, I might as well be dead!

Yuwen jumps into river. Doulu seizes hold of him.

Yuwen:

I deliver up my life to the Yellow Springs

Then I will have no more troubles

Doulu holds on and questions him. Yuwen, weeping, explains:

After I left you, I ran into a great snowstorm. Yesterday was my birthday, and I was planning to go to the Huangling Temple to look for the priest whom I originally met so that I could stay there for a few days; then once the weather had cleared I could hire a boat and travel to Xiang township to find my parents. But to my surprise, when I reached the temple, they all thought I was a ghost, beat me up and drove me out. I suppose they’d heard that the Cabinet Minister had thrown me off his boat and thought I’d drowned, so they were suspicious; I can’t really blame them. But imagine this: when I got to this shrine here, where there were a number of people giving thanks for their blessings, and having their fortunes told by lots or automatic writing, I used the travelling expenses which you so kindly gave me to pay the priestess to tell my fortune, and the hanging brush wrote a paper saying that I would gain fame and fortune.

Doulu:

That’s remarkable. I ought to go and have my fortune told too, to see how my mission will turn out.

Yuwen:

What happened next was really ridiculous. I asked the spirit for his name, so that if my fortune came true I could write a document to dedicate a banner in gratitude. And whose name do you think he wrote?

Doulu:

Whose?

Yuwen:

He wrote my own name!

Doulu:

He might just have the same name as you, you never know.

Yuwen:

It got even more ridiculous: when I asked in more detail about his place of origin and family, they were exactly the same as mine. So I got upset and kicked over the planchette, and then the priestess and the people called me a trouble-maker who’d vandalised their shrine. I was furious and got in an argument with them. It really was the most extraordinary thing.

Doulu:

If that wasn’t extraordinary, I don’t know what is!

Yuwen:

When the priestess heard me arguing my case, she had torches lit and she and the congregation took me round the side of the shrine. There was a big tomb there with a gravestone on top, and when the snow was swept off so we could read it, it actually said: ‘Here lies Yuwen Yan, scholar of the Tang dynasty, from Wushan county.’ And beside this was a line of smaller characters saying ‘Erected by Doctor of the Five Classics Li Xingjian’. When I saw this I was so angry I couldn’t utter a word to ask them to investigate. I don’t know whose body has been mistaken for mine, and I can’t think what induced this Doctor of the Five Classics Li Xingjian to come and bury it and put up a gravestone. Brother, have you ever heard of such a bizarre thing, past or present? Because of the rumpus after I kicked over that wretched planchette, those beggars, who were hoping to get in on the feast, didn’t manage to get any of the food and drink from the shrine, so they’ve been manhandling me all night, and this morning they were going to drag me off to court as a trouble-maker. If I hadn’t run into you, brother, I’d have been in trouble yet again. I can’t complain about them, though: it’s all because of my terrible bad luck, which has caused me so many problems. Now I’m too ashamed to face my parents; I might as well throw myself in the river and drown rather than go on suffering in this life.

I’m like the Liaohai crane

Returning alone

The city survives

But the people are gone

Doulu:

I can’t make head or tail of this. I would have liked to take you to the magistrate and explain everything, in order to clear up your case and put right all the terrible wrongs that people have done you. But it’s nearly the end of the year, and I’ve got to get to the capital. Brother, if you’re too ashamed to go to Xiang township, the coming year is one of the big examination years; why don’t you come with me to the capital and make a name for yourself, and then you can still go and see your parents?

Next year will be

A year of great competition

We should spur on to submit three prize-winning essays

Yuwen:

Even if you’re kind enough to take me with you, I haven’t got any place there where I could submit my documents, and there’s no-one to act as my sponsor. I’m such a poor unfortunate soul, they’re bound to inquire into my origins: not only will I not gain fame and fortune, I’ll most likely be accused of impersonation. What’s more, ‘Yu Jun’ is known as the name of a criminal, and now ‘Yuwen Yan’ is supposed to be a ghost: they’re both unlucky names. The only good end I can come to is death.

Doulu, considering:

I know! We’re already sworn brothers, so you just change your surname to Lu after my name Doulu. I’ve got documents here to be delivered to the capital with recommendations for promotion for people from Zhijiang county, so if you’re included in this patronage, there won’t be any question of an investigation. There’s nothing to stop you coming with me: don’t miss this opportunity!

Yuwen, thoughtfully:

That’s a good suggestion. If I go with you to the capital, even if I’m not successful in the exam, at least it’s a trip in your company. It’s all thanks to you that I’ve gained a new life; I’ll call myself Lu Gengsheng, Born-Again Lu.
The surname Lu comes from a man of authority
I’ll take on the personal name Born-Again

Doulu prays:

Heavenly Lord, Heavenly Lord, bless and preserve Born-Again Lu. Let his troubles be over and happiness come to him, and let him now gain first place in the examinations.

Let us go to Chang’an

Leave the old for the new

And take the first place

Yuwen:

I feel deep gratitude for

The benefactor from my former life

Who has saved me again from trouble and strife

Doulu:

Attendants, take the luggage off that packhorse and carry it yourselves, and saddle up the packhorse for Mr Lu to ride.

Attendants unload luggage, Yuwen mounts.

Yuwen:

I’ve suddenly remembered that lantern riddle, and now I’ve unintentionally found the answer. How strange! It said

A mule paired with a horse

But without its other half
Sure enough, my sworn brother has changed my surname to Lu [written the same as the character for ‘mule’ but without the ‘horse’ radical]. On this journey, surely

The criminal will become Mr Nobody

Offered up to the Imperial Park

Pastiche of Tang poems:

Before I could express gratitude for his kindness, we were divided like life from death
On a chance encounter I enquired about my future course
In cold weather and evening rain in uninhabited hills
I still have someone who is ready to sing for me a song of travel

Scene 36a: Watch this Space

Narrator:

Dear audience, in this scene, the thirty-seventh, we ought to show the Third Metropolitan Graduate Li Wenyi, on his way back to court after defeating Yeluohe, passing by Huangling Temple, where he happens to meet Doulu Xun who’s there on official business. At this time Li Wenyi intends to go to pay his respects at his brother Yuwen Yan’s tomb, but Doulu Xun explains the whole story of how in fact Yuwen Yan didn’t die, but changed his name to Born-Again Lu, and has become the top Metropolitan Graduate. He gives a letter from Yuwen Yan to Li Wenyi to open in person. When Li Wenyi sees it he is overjoyed and thanks Doulu Xun; he includes Doulu Xun’s name in his report on his victory and promotes him to Usher in the Court of State Ceremonial, and they travel to the capital together. This is another remarkable sequence of events. However, the gentleman responsible for writing the script hasn’t actually written it yet.

A voice within:

Why hasn’t he completed it yet?

Narrator, striking gong:

This play is really far too complicated; he’s afraid if he wrote the script for this scene he would get into trouble.

Voice within:

Trouble with who?

Narrator:

Trouble with Chaos. So he’s leaving this bit for now, and he’ll fill it in later on.

Voice within:

How much later on?

Narrator:

All in good time; just wait till the time when his parents have reached the venerable age of 100, and then he’ll complete the old songs and write some new ones. Now would the Doctor of the Five Classics please come on stage, in order for the top Metropolitan Graduate to be introduced as son-in-law and recognise his parents. Before I’ve even finished, here comes Li Xingjian!

[Exit]

~

Eunice Lim Ying Ci – Translation of Liu Yong’s ‘Coffeehouse’

MARCH 26th 2018

In the bustling city, we often stumble upon elegant coffeehouses with their warm lights and soothing music. We step in and the cacophony of the streets are left to the world beyond the thick glass doors. We can sink ourselves into comfortable chairs, enjoy the music, and sip our drinks. All is well with the world. Yet eventually, work demands our attention. Emerging from the open doors once again, we invite the clamorous world back in.

This is the image of modern day serenity.

Not a reclusive life in the idyllic mountains and forests, far from the madding crowd. But a search for serenity, time and again, between the narrow spaces of a tumultuous world.

咖啡室

著：刘墉

现代人的宁静就是在喧器与扰攘之间，寻找宁静。

在繁华的市区我们常可以见到幽雅的咖啡室，有着和谐的灯光与柔美的音乐，当我们跨入其中，街道上的喧闹就被摒出了厚厚的玻璃门外。这时我们可以坐在舒适的座椅上，一边啜着饮料，一面欣赏音乐，十分地惬意。但是当我们工作的时间到了，推开门，迎来的又是一片嘈杂的世界。

现代人的宁静就是如此，不是遁隐山林，离开人群，而是在喧器与扰攘之间，寻找宁静。

* Reprinted with permission from SYZ Studio

~

Eunice Lim Ying Ci

Translation of ‘Details and Conclusions’ by Liu Yong

MARCH 12th 2018

On the first day of medical school, a professor tells his class, “As a doctor, it is of utmost importance that you are courageous and meticulous.” Having said this, he sticks his finger into a urine sample on his desk, and puts the finger into his mouth. Then, he hands the urine sample over to the students and watches as they suppress their nausea and follow suit, taking turns to give the urine sample a taste.

Finally, he laughs and says, “Very well, all of you have demonstrated that you are courageous enough. But it’s a pity that none of you are meticulous enough. None of you noticed that I reached into the vial with my index finger, but the finger I subsequently placed into my mouth was my middle finger!”

A professor at law school tells a story during his class. Three hunting dogs chase a groundhog. The groundhog ducks into one end of a log, but what emerges from the other end is a rabbit. The rabbit dashes forward at lightning speed and jumps onto a tall tree. However, it loses its footing and falls onto the three hunting dogs that have been watching it from beneath the tree. The three dogs are knocked unconscious by the impact of the rabbit’s fall and so, the rabbit escapes unscathed.

When this story came to an end, many students wants answers to their questions. How could a rabbit climb a tree? How could a rabbit knock three hunting dogs unconscious at the same time?

“The questions you are asking are not too bad and demonstrate just how illogical this story has been”, the professor responds. “But the most important question has yet to be asked – where on earth did the groundhog go?”

A professor of art history is lecturing on the use of colours by ancient artists. By baking a shell, grinding it into a fine powder, and mixing it with glue, one is able to make white paint.

Later, the professor conducts an examination, and one of the questions was a true-or-false question.

“If you picked up a seashell by the beach, placed it in a furnace, baked it at five hundred degrees for thirty minutes, removed it from the furnace, ground it into powder, and then mixed the powder with glue, you will get black paint.”

Most of the students confidently circled ‘True’ before they had even finished reading the statement.

By paying attention to conclusions and neglecting the details, or by focusing on the details and ignoring the conclusions, people reveal a tendency to take for granted their methods of thinking when they are in a hurry and neglect to put in extra effort into verification. This is our common mistake!

细节与结论*

著：刘墉

注意结论，而忽略细节，或专注细节而忽略结论，这是人们常犯的错误啊。

有位医学院的教授，在上课的第一天对他的学生说：“当医生，最要紧的是胆大心细！” 说完，便将一只手指伸进桌上的一杯尿液里，再把手指放进自己的嘴中，接着便将那杯尿液递给学生。

看着每个学生都忍着呕，照样把探人尿杯的手指塞进嘴里，教授笑嘻嘻地说：“不错，你们每个人都够胆大，只可惜不够细心，没有注意到到我探人尿杯的是食指，放进嘴里的却是中指啊！

有位法学院的教授，上课时说了一个故事：有三只猎狗追一只土拨鼠，土拨鼠钻进一个树洞，居然从树洞的另一边跑出了一只兔子，兔子飞快地向前跑，并跳上一棵大树，却在树枝上没站稳，掉了下来，压晕了正仰头看的猎狗，兔子终于逃脱。

故事讲完，许多学生提出他们的疑问：

兔子为什么会爬树呢？

一只兔子怎么可能同时压晕三条猎狗呢!

“这些问题都不错，显示了故事的不合理。” 教授说，“可是，更重要的事情，你们却没问 – 土拨鼠到哪里去了？”

有位教美术史的教授，在谈到古代国画家使用的颜料是说：“将贝壳烧烤之后，磨成细粉，再以胶水调和，可以做成白色的颜料。”

接着，教授便举行考试，其中有一道是非题；如果你在海边捡到了贝壳，带回家放进烤箱，以五百度烤上三十分钟，再拿出来磨成细粉，以胶水调和，可以做成黑色颜料。

结果大部分学生都没有看完这个题目，便十分自信地答“是”。

注意结论，而忽略细节；或专注细节而忽略结论。匆匆忙忙地，以自己想当然的方法去思想，却忽略了查证的功夫，这是人们常犯的错误啊！

* Reprinted with permission from SYZ Studio

Yu Yan Chen

Translations of two poems by Zheng Xiaoqiong

FEBRUARY 5th 2018

Assembly Line

What flows on the assembly line is streams of people

from the east or the west, standing or sitting, in blue uniforms and white caps,

at workstations for their fingers, with names of A234, A967, and Q36 …

Some insert themselves to put on springs and screws.

They drift in and out of the constant flows of people and products.

Like fishes, they pull customer orders, profits and the GDP

day and night. While their youth, vision, and dream

push the prosperity of the industrial age forward.

Amid the factory noise, they carry a lonely existence.

Men and women flow into each other, but remain strangers.

They are constantly choked at the deep end. Only glues, screws,

nails, plastics, coughing lungs, and sickened bodies float on top.

The assembly line never stops tightening the valves of the city and the fate,

tightening the yellow switches, red threads and grey products, the fifth carton

loaded with plastic lamps and Christmas trees, youth on the work cards, Li Bai,

love that boils and cools. It might recite softly – oh, wanderlust!

Within its tiny confine, I catch a glimpse of the movable fate

and scribble down some poetry of industrial age in the southern city.

The Distance

Pain is wearing out the clothes flickering in the light

as the dimly lit train roars across the dark night.

Our doors are open, towards the unspeakable years,

while the river rushes to a deeper source of our origins.

Light drifts in from every direction like snow. You read the old news

and the new tales in the papers, those published, distant happiness.

All alone, I plow through the snow, on the road to resentment,

when a tree falls down diagonally near me.

This is the strange land, the end of the year, I am taking a stroll,

searching for my lines and tone on the go.

流水线

在流水线的流动中是流动的人

他们来自河东或者河西，她站着坐着，编号，蓝色的工衣

白色的工帽，手指头上工位，姓名是A234、A967、Q36……

或者是插中制的，装弹弓的，打螺丝的……

在流动的人与流动的产品中穿行着，

她们是鱼，不分昼夜的拉动着

老板的订单，利润，GDP，青春，眺望，美梦

拉动着工业时代的繁荣

流水的响声中，从此她们更为孤单的活着

她们，或者他们，相互流动，却彼此陌生

在水中，她们的生活不断呛水，剩下手中的镙丝，塑胶片

铁钉，胶水，咳嗽的肺，染上职业病的躯体，在打工的河流中

流动

流水线不断拧紧城市与命运的阀门，这些黄色的

开关，红色的线，灰色的产品，第五个纸箱

装着塑胶的灯、圣诞树、工卡上的青春、李白

发烫的变凉的爱情，或者低声地读着：啊，流浪！

在它小小的流动间，我看见流动的命运

在南方的城市低头写下工业时代的绝句或者乐府

~

距离

多少疼痛在磨损，移动在光线中的衣装

光线暗淡的火车长鸣在黑夜里

我们开着房门，向着莫名的岁月

河流正朝着我们的身世更深的地方奔涌

光像雪从各个方向吹来，你抬头看报纸里旧新闻

新故事，那些刊载的距离的幸福

我一个人在雪中经过，在通往恨与怨的路上

一棵树斜穿过，靠近我

这是异乡，这是岁末，我走着

在路上找着属于我的句子与语气

(Reprinted with permission from the author)

Yu Yan Chen – a translation of

“Twenty Centimeters to Spring” by Li Juan

JANUARY 29th 2018

Preface

Corners of Altay is a series of essays depicting Li Juan’s experiences in the Kazakh-speaking region of the Xinjiang Province in western China. In the 1990’, she and her mother, one of the few ethnic Han people living in the Gobi Desert, first operated a tailor shop, then a nomadic grocery store for their equally mobile customers. They would follow the herds in the summer, but they would fend off the winter by staying put in a temporary abode. This piece is about a pet rabbit as the season turns.

Twenty Centimeters to Spring

Li Juan

We spoke in broken Kazakh to do business with our customers, and although they only understood it vaguely, we would always achieve what we wanted. It didn’t matter that we didn’t speak their language, as long as we were able to find a way to be understood, everything would turn out all right. Otherwise, we would have to rely on imagination to guess what they wanted.

At first, I had no idea how to use imagination to help, and getting one small item sold would seem strenuous. I had to point at items from one end of the shelf to the other and from the bottom up to the top, while asking, “Is this the one? How about that? This one? That one?”

After much commotion, all the customer wanted was perhaps a box of matches worth ten cents.

As usual, my mother enjoyed handling matters based on her understanding. Although I felt she had misunderstood things on many levels, what she did based on those wrong impressions often ended up correct, so I can’t really complain much.

Now let’s talk about the snow rabbit.

It was a snowy winter’s night. Although it was late, we continued to toil away quietly while hovering around the stove. From time to time we would drift into a conversation about things that happened long ago. Suddenly the door was pushed open and someone came in with a thick cloud of freezing air and fog. We asked him what he wanted, but this gentle looking person couldn’t make himself understood after a long and convoluted explanation. We finally gave up on him and continued with our work. At last, he sank into deep thought and came up with a straightforward question, “Do you want a dzeren?”

“A dzeren?” We were surprised.

“Yes, a live dzeren.”

This time, we were even more surprised.

By then my mother and her apprentice Jianhua had begun to talk about where to keep the animal. Before I could respond, they had made up their mind that the coal shed would be the best place for it.

“What do we raise a dzeren for?” I asked.

“Who knows, let’s get it first.”

Having said that, my mother turned to that gentle looking person, “What’s your lowest offer?”

“Ten Yuan.”

We were taken by surprise for the third time, because ten Yuan would not be enough. Although dzeren literary means yellow sheep in Chinese, it is really a wild animal as beautiful as a deer, which makes it much bigger than a sheep.

I immediately joined their camp, “That’s right, after we buy the yellow sheep, I am going to ask for some feed from Ahan, because he hasn’t paid us for the flour since spring…”

Our excitement delighted the visitor too. In fact, he was almost proud of himself. Afraid that he might change his mind, my mother went to the counter immediately to get the money. She even added, “My good fellow, if you have more yellow sheep later on, please don’t forget to bring them to us again. We will want as many as possible. Don’t ever take them elsewhere. It would be a waste of time to do that, because besides us, no one else would want them…”

After paying him, all of us followed him outside for the yellow sheep.

A boy stood in the snow. His jacket bulged, and something was wrapped inside.

“Oh, a baby yellow sheep.”

The child gradually unbuttoned his jacket.

“Oh, the yellow sheep is white.”

…

This was what happened: in a snowy winter’s night, we bought a wild rabbit rather foolishly for ten Yuan. If it were other people, ten Yuan could have fetched at least three rabbits.

I started out this piece talking about misunderstandings, this was precisely the point.

Nevertheless, we had bought the rabbit and we were all enchanted by it, so there was no complaint. It was worthy of the ten Yuan we had spent! It was almost as big as a baby sheep, and therefore much bigger than the rabbits sold for three or four Yuan each. Besides, it was amazingly alive, unlike the ones sold to others, which were usually frozen solid.

It even had blue eyes. Whose rabbits have blue eyes anyway? (I learned much later that all of the wild rabbits have blue eyes. Only house rabbits have red eyes.) This species is also called the “snow rabbit,” as white as snow, so bright and shiny that if it were lying in the snow, there would be no way to spot it. However, I heard that as the weather gets warmer, the rabbit’s fur would gradually take on a muddy hue, which would blend in well with the Gobi Desert while running around.

With such a clever disguise, why did it still get caught? Perhaps it was still not strong enough. It was absolutely outrageous for people to set traps – we couldn’t help but curse that gentle looking person whenever we saw the scars on the rabbit’s hind legs, which were clamped by the trap.

We found a metal cage, put the rabbit in the corner of the coal shed, and checked on it many times a day. All it would do was stay still in the cage, forever chewing on half a frozen carrot. Grandma visited the rabbit most often. Sometimes she even stole the popcorn from the shelf to feed it. She would say to the rabbit, “Rabbit, it is such a pity that you are all alone…”

Whenever I overheard those words, I couldn’t help but feel sad. All of a sudden, I could also sense the plight of this poor rabbit, and Grandma’s situation wasn’t any better either… It was always so cold. All she could do was to put on layers and layers of clothing, which made her bulgy and bulky. She hardly went anywhere except to hover near the stove all day long. Ever since we had the rabbit, she started to make trips between our grocery store and the coal shed. With her hands holding onto the wall for support, she would walk gingerly back and forth on the same path as she moved about the icy ground. Sometimes she would cover her ears with her hands, sometimes she would hide her hands in her pockets.

How dreadful the winter was!

Yet, how lovely it was to be inside our house, so warm and cozy. Even though the coal shed was dark and dirty, but it beat being outside in the freezing cold. We were affectionate with the rabbit and fed it whatever we ate. Soon it grew fat and languid, with its deep blue eyes shinier than ever. If anyone dared to suggest stir-frying our pet rabbit and making it into different dishes, we would not hesitate to hate this person.

We loved this rabbit to bits, but we didn’t dare to let it roam freely. What if it escaped? Without any food, it would probably starve to death in the cold. Perhaps it would be captured by the villagers again. In our mind, it would have the best life in our house under our care.

We loved the rabbit so much that my mother would often stick her hands in through the openings of the metal cage to stroke it slowly. The creature would tremble slightly, burying its head deep between its two front paws, while the long ears drooped down flatly on the ground.

There was no way for it to hide from us, because there was nowhere to go. But we didn’t have any bad intentions, and how could we have made it understand?

As time passed, the weather gradually got warmer. Although it was still cold, the worst part of the winter was behind us. To our surprise, we noticed some muddy furs on the snow white rabbit! Apparently, it could detect the arrival of spring much more sharply than we did.

Then one day, we discovered that this depressed rabbit had escaped and we were sad and surprised at the same time.

But how did it escape? Where could it have gone? After all, there was snow everywhere in the village; there were people and dogs everywhere; where could this rabbit go to hunt for food?

We searched around in the vicinity of the yard, until it took us far away from the house, but there was not a single trace of the rabbit. For a long while we would search anxiously in the snow piled high on both sides of the road whenever we went out. We even put some cabbage in an obvious place in front of our house, hoping that the rabbit would find its way back. Days passed, and no one had the heart to clear it away even though it had turned frozen solid.

Meanwhile, the empty metal cage continued to occupy the same spot in the shed, as though it were waiting for the rabbit’s return – as though it would one day reappear inside the cage, just as mysteriously as its sudden disappearance.

Then the rabbit really did appear inside the cage again…

It was about a month after it went missing. We had taken off our thick jackets and walked about light-heartedly, awakened to the thoughts of accomplishing a plethora of things. We took down the felts and the plastics covering the windows, rolled up the heavy cotton curtains hanging on the doors, and stored them underneath the beds to be used next winter. We even cleaned up the coal shed and straightened the pieces that had fallen off.

Then we saw the rabbit again.

Let me point out that the metal cage remained by the foot of the wall in a dark corner all this time. One would have to stare at it for quite some time in order to see any movements. If it were a rabbit with snow white fur, you would be able to spot it right away. Yet, we had been going back and forth for several days, before we realized that there was something alive inside. Still, I wasn’t sure, for it could have been something dead. It was curled up in the far end of the cage. And when I looked at it some more, I was able to make out its form. “Isn’t that our rabbit?” What used to be a coat of thick and smooth fur was by then thin and scattered. It was wet and dirty, and I couldn’t even make out its face.

I am usually afraid of dead things, but I worked up the courage to touch the rabbit with my hands. Its body was a bag of bones and nearly given up. I had no idea whether it was still alive because there was no sign of the rabbit breathing. I grew even more scared, for I believed that a creature about to die can be scarier than a dead one. As death descends on it, its soul is probably at its most volatile and most vengeful. I ran away quickly and told my mother, and she rushed back to take a look.

“Wow, why did it come back? How did it come back?”

From afar, I watched as my mother carried that creature, our rabbit that went missing a month ago out of the cage. She fed it some warm water by wetting its mouth, enticing it to drink, after which she succeeded in getting the rabbit to take the leftover rice porridge we cooked that morning.

I wasn’t sure how she was able to revive that snow rabbit. I didn’t dare go through the process with her, because watching alone was scary enough. I have little tolerance for death, especially those dying around me. It makes me feel guilty.

Fortunately, our rabbit won the battle and survived. Then it got stronger than ever before. By May, its fur had changed completely into the muddy color fit for Gobi and it hopped around inside the yard, chasing after my Grandma for food.

Now, let’s go back and find out what happened exactly. Since the metal cage we used to cover it only had five sides (which meant that the bottom side was empty), and since it was close to the wall, the rabbit simply started digging a secret cave. It was a rabbit after all, an expert at digging holes. The dark shed was filled with loads of random things, but who would have known that there was actually a hole behind the cage? We’d always thought that the rabbit escaped through the biggest opening between the two metal bars!

The hole dug by the rabbit was rather narrow, about the width of one’s upper arm. I put my arm in but couldn’t reach the end, so I took a hook used to clear the stove, but even that failed to reach the end. Finally, I used a wire and made a more accurate measurement. It was over two meters long, heading east towards the front gate. If the rabbit had dug another 20 centimeters, it would have reached the outside world.

That was unimaginable! When we sat around our table having a warm meal, when we finished a day’s work and began to fall asleep, when we once again found delight in new and fun things, discovering happiness as a result, that rabbit was busy digging alone in the underground, enduring hunger and cold, digging bit by bit with the same movement – the movement towards spring. For an entire month, there was neither day nor night for it. I had no idea how many times the rabbit had to confront its own mortality during that month. It had probably realized the impossible nature of getting out alive, but it continued to sense the approaching spring, however dire the circumstances might be. For that month, it would sometimes slowly crawl back into the cage, looking for something to eat within its confine. But there was nothing, not even a drop of water, except for a layer of icy frost on the wall. So all it could do was to climb up the metal bar and chew on the cardboard box on top of the cage. We discovered much later that the bottom part of the box, wherever it could possibly be reached by the rabbit had been chewed off. It was also eating pieces of coal that had dropped inside the cage. In fact, when it was found, the rabbit’s face and teeth were pitch black. Yet, we remained ignorant about the whole thing. It was only at the brink of its death, that we discovered that the rabbit was there all along!

Everyone says that rabbits are timid. But as far as I know, they are brave animals. They face their death without fear, even when captured or trapped. When our rabbit escaped into the hole, despite the hunger and dire circumstances, it remained calm and collected in the face of death. When confronted with life’s many changes, it trembled and struggled perhaps not entirely out of fear, but because it didn’t understand what was going on. What does a rabbit really know then? In a way, all of the creatures of this world exist beyond our comprehension. They elude us, and the communication between us was nearly impossible. No wonder my Grandma would say, “Rabbit, Rabbit, you are such a pity…”

How lonely our lives can be even if the spring has already arrived. Our rabbit, on the other hand, is joyfully running inside the yard, its two front paws holding onto my Grandma’s shoes, chewing and biting them like a puppy, as though it had forgotten everything. Compared to us, it seems much more adept at leaving the bad memories behind, and therefore much more capable of experiencing the deeper joy of life.

离春天只有二十公分的雪兔

李娟

我们用模模糊糊的哈语和顾客做生意，他们也就模模糊糊地理解，反正最后生意总会做成的。不擅于对方语言没关系，擅于表达就可以了，若表达也不擅于，就一定得擅于想象。而我一开始连想象也不会，卖出去一样东西真是难上加难——你得给他从货架这头指到那头：“是这个吗？是这个吗？是这个吗？是这个吗？……”再从最下面一层货架指到最上面一层：“是这个吗？……”这样折腾到最后，对方要买的东西也许只是一毛钱一匣的火柴。

我妈总是喜欢按照自己的理解做事，虽然我总是觉得她在很多地方都理解错了，可是按照这种错误理解所做的事情，做到最后总能变成对的。我也就不好再多说些什么了。

然后说雪兔。

有一个冬天的雪夜，已经很晚了，我们围着火炉很安静地干活，偶尔说一些远远的事情。这时门开了，一个人挟着浓重的寒气和一股子雾进来了。我们问他干什么，这个看起来挺老实的人说了半天也说不清楚，于是我们也不理他了，继续干自己的活。他就一个人在那儿苦恼地想了半天，最后终于组织出了比较明确的表述：“你们要不要黄羊？”

“黄羊？”我们吃了一惊。

“对，活的黄羊。”

我们又吃了一惊。

我妈就立刻开始和建华她们讨论羊应该圈在什么地方。我还没反应过来，她们已经商量好养在煤棚里了。

“真是的，我们养黄羊干什么？”

“谁知道——先买回来再说。”

然后她转身问那个老实人：“最低多少钱卖？”

“十块钱。”

——我们吃了第三惊。黄羊名字里虽说有个“羊”字，其实是像鹿一样美丽的野生动物，体态比羊大多了。

我也立刻支持：“对，黄羊买回来后，我去到阿汗家要草料去——他家春天欠下的面粉钱一直没还……”

见我们一家人都高兴成这样，那个老实人也满意极了，甚至还有些骄傲的样子。我妈怕他反悔，马上去柜台取钱，一边还说：“以后再有了黄羊，还给我们拿来啊，多少我们都要，别人家都不要去……去也是白去，这种东西除了我们谁都不会要的。”

给了钱后我们全家都高高兴兴跟着他出去牵羊。

门口的雪地上站着个小孩子，怀里鼓鼓的，外套里裹着个东西。

“啊，是小黄羊呀。”

小孩把外套慢慢解开。

“啊，是白黄羊呀？”

……

事情就这样，那个冬天的雪夜，我们糊里糊涂用十块钱买回一只野兔子。要是别人家的话，十块钱最少也能买三只。

我前面铺垫了一大堆理解的误区之类的话，这里终于用上一点了。

不管怎么说，买都已经买回来了，我们还是挺喜欢我们这只兔子的，不愧是十块钱买回来的，比别人家那些三四块钱的可是大得多了，跟个羊羔似的。而且还是活的呢，太漂亮了，别人买回来的一般都已经冻得硬邦邦的了。

再而且，它还长着蓝色的眼睛呢！谁家的兔子是蓝眼睛？（但是不好意思的是，后来才知道所有的野兔子都是蓝眼睛的，白色家兔子才红眼睛……）这种兔子又叫雪兔，它的确是像雪一样白的，白得发亮。而且听说到天气暖和的时候，它的毛色还会渐渐变成灰土黄色的，这样，在戈壁滩上跑着的时候，就不那么扎眼了。

既然它的伪装这么高明，那为什么还会被抓住了呢？看来它还是弱的呀。那些下套子的家伙们实在太可恶了——无论什么时候，我们一看到兔子后爪上被夹过的惨重的伤痕就要骂那个老实人几句。

我们找了一个铁笼子，把它扣在煤棚的角落里，每天都跑去看它很多次，它总是安安静静地呆在那儿，永远都在慢慢地啃那半个给冻得硬硬了的胡萝卜头。我外婆跑得更勤，有时候还会把货架上卖的爆米花偷去拿给它吃，还悄悄地对它说：“兔子兔子，你一个人好可怜啊……”我在外面听见了，鼻子一酸，突然也觉得这兔子真的好可怜。又觉得外婆也好可怜……天气总是那么冷，她只好整天穿得厚厚的，鼓鼓囊囊的，紧紧偎在火炉边，哪也不敢去。自从兔子来了以后，她才在商店和煤房之间走动走动。经常可以看到她在去看兔子或从兔子那里回来的路上小心地扶墙走着，遍地冰雪。她有时候会捂着耳朵，有时候会袖着手。

冬天多么漫长……

但是我们家里多好啊，那么暖和，虽然是又黑又脏的煤棚，但总比呆在冰天雪地的外面舒服多了。而且我们一点儿也不亏待它，我们吃什么它也吃什么，很快就把它养得胖胖的，懒懒的，眼珠子越发亮了，幽蓝幽蓝的。要是这时有人说出“你们家兔子炒了够吃几顿几顿”这样的话，我们一定恨死他。

我们都太喜欢这只兔子了，但又不敢把它放出来让它自由自在地玩，要是它溜出去的话，外面那么冷，又没有吃的，它一定会饿死的。而且要是被村子里其他的人逮住了，就更不妙了，我们就相信只有我们家会好好地对它的。

我们真的喜欢这只兔子，我妈常常把手从铁笼子的铁丝缝里伸进去，慢慢地抚摸它柔顺乖巧的身子，它就轻轻地发抖，深深地把头埋下，埋在两条前爪中间，并把两只长耳朵平平地放了下来。

它没法躲，它哪儿也去不了。但是我们真的没有恶意啊，它怎样才能知道呢？

一天一天过去，天气也渐渐暖和一点了，虽然外面还是那么冷，但冬天最冷的时候已经永远地过去。我们也惊奇地注意到白白的雪兔身上，果真一天天、一根根地扎出了灰黄色的毛来——它比我们更先、更敏锐地感觉到了春天的来临。

就在这样一个时候，突然有一天，这只性格抑郁的兔子终于还是走掉了。我们全家人真是又失望又奇怪又难过。

它怎样跑掉的呢，它会跑到哪里去呢？村子里到处都是雪，到处都是人，它到哪里找吃的呢？

我们出去在院子周围细细地寻找，一直找到很远的地方。好长时间过去了，每天出门时，仍不忘在雪堆里四处瞧瞧。我们还在家门口显眼的地方放了块白菜，希望它看到后能够回家，后来，竟然一直都没人最先去把那块冻得邦硬的白菜收拾掉。

那个空空的铁笼子也一直空罩在原地，好像它还在等待有一天兔子会再回来，像它的突然消失一样，会突然从笼子里冒出来。

后来，它居然又重新在笼子里冒出来了……

那时候差不多已经过去一个月了吧，那时候我们都把老棉衣换下来了，一身轻松地干这干那的，窗户上蒙的毡子呀、塑料布呀什么的都扯下来了，棉门帘也收起来卷在床底下。我们还把煤房好好地拾掇了一下，把塌下来的煤堆重新码了码。

就在这时，我们又重新看到了兔子。

顺便说一下，煤房的那个铁笼子一直扣在暗处的角落里的，定睛看一会儿才能瞧清楚里面的动静，要是有兔子的话，它雪白的皮毛一定会非常扎眼，一下子就可以看到的。但是，我们过来过去好几天，才慢慢注意到里面似乎有个活物，甚至不知是不是什么死掉的东西，它一动不动蜷在铁笼子最里面，定睛仔细地看，这不是我们的兔子是什么！它浑身原本光洁厚实的皮毛已经给蹭得稀稀拉拉的，身上又潮又脏，眉目不清的。我害怕死掉的东西，但还是斗胆伸手进去摸了一下——一把骨头，只差没散开了。不知道还有没有气，看上去这身体也丝毫没有因呼吸而起伏的感觉。我更加害怕——比起死去的东西，我尤其最怕这种将死未死的，总觉得就在这样的时刻，它的灵魂最强烈，最仇恨似的。我飞奔地跑掉了，跑去商店找我妈，我妈也急急跑来看——

“呀，它怎么又回来了？它怎么回来的？……”

我远远地看着她小心地把那个东西——我们已经失踪了一个月的兔子弄出来，然后用温水触它的嘴，诱它喝下去，又想办法让它把早上剩下的稀饭吃下去。

至于他们具体怎么去救活这只雪兔的，我不清楚，我实在不忍心全程陪同到底，我在旁边看着都发毛。我实在不能忍受死亡。尤其是死在自己身边的东西，一定是有自己罪孽在里面……

不过好在后来，这兔子还是挣扎着活了过来，而且还比之前更壮实了一些，五月份时，它的皮毛完全换成土黄色的了，在院子里高高兴兴地跑来跑去，追着我外婆要吃的。

现在再来说到底是怎么回事——我们用来罩住那只兔子的铁笼子只有五面，也就是说下面是空的，而且又靠着墙根，于是兔子就开始在那里打洞——到底是兔子嘛，而煤房又暗，乱七八糟的堆满了破破烂烂的东西，谁知道铁笼子后面黑咕隆咚的地方还有一个洞呢？我们还一直以为兔子是从铁笼子最宽的那道栅栏处挤出去跑掉的呢。

那个洞很窄的，也就手臂粗吧，我就把手伸进去探了探，根本探不到头，又手持掏炉子的炉钩进去探了探，居然也探不到头！后来，他们用了更长的一截铁丝捅进去，才大概地估计出这个小隧道可能有两米多长，沿着隔墙一直向东延伸，已经打到大门口了，恐怕再有二十公分，就可以出去了……

我真的想象不到——当我们围着温暖的饭桌吃饭，当我们过完一天，开始进入梦乡，当我们又有了别的新鲜好玩的事情，并因此而欢乐、幸福……那只兔子，如何孤独地在黑暗冰冷的地下一点一点，忍着饥饿和寒冷，坚持重复一个动作——通往春天的动作……整整一个月，没有白天黑夜。我不知道在这一个月里，它一次又一次独自面对过多少的最后时刻……那时它已知生还是不可能了的，却在绝境中，在时间的安静和灵魂的安静中，感觉着春天一点一滴的来临……整整一个月……有时候它也会回到笼子里，回来看看这里有没有什么吃的，没有的话，就攀着栅栏，啃放在铁笼子上的纸箱子（后来我们才发现的，那个纸箱子的底面能被啃食到的地方全都没有了），嚼煤碴（被发现时，它的嘴脸和牙齿都黑黑的）……可是我们却什么也不知道……甚至当它已经奄奄一息了好几天后，我们才慢慢注意到。

都说兔子胆小，可我们所知道的是，兔子其实是勇敢的，它的生命里没有惊恐的内容。无论是沦陷，是被困，还是逃生，或者饥饿、绝境，直到奄奄一息，它始终那么平静淡然。它发抖，挣扎，不是因为害怕，而仅仅是因为它不能明白一些事情而已。但是兔子都知道些什么呢？万物皆在我们的想法之外，沟通绝无可能。怪不得外婆会说：“兔子兔子，你一个人好可怜哟……”

我们也生活得多孤独啊！虽然春天已经来了……当兔子满院子跑着撒欢，两只前爪抱着我外婆的鞋子像小狗一样又啃又拽——它好像什么都不记得了！它总是比我更轻易去抛弃不好的记忆，所以总是比我们更多地感觉着生命的喜悦。

(Reprinted with permission from the author)

~

Scott L. Satterfield – translation of ‘Bamboo Rill’ by Tang Shunzhi

NOVEMBER 20th 2017

竹溪记

予嘗遊於京师侯家富人之園，见其所蓄，自绝徼海外奇花石无所不见，而所不能致者

惟竹。吾江南人，斩竹而薪之；其为園，亦必购求海外奇花石，或万钱买一石，千钱

买一花，不自惜；然有竹据其间，或芟而去焉，曰【毋以是占我花石地】，而京师人苟可致一竹，辄不惜数千钱；然遇霜雪，又槁以死。以其难致而又多槁死，则人益贵之；而江南人甚或笑之，曰【京师人乃宝吾之所薪】！呜呼！奇花石诚为京师与江南人所贵；然穷其所生之地，则绝徼海外之人视之，吾意其亦无以甚异於竹之在江以南。而绝徼海外，或素不产竹之地，而使其人一旦见竹，吾意其必又有甚於京师人之宝之者，是将不胜笑也。语云【人去乡则益贱，物去乡则益贵】。以此言之，世之好醜，亦何常之有乎？

予舅光禄任君，治园於荆溪之上，徧植以竹，不植他木。竹间作一小楼，暇则与客唸啸其中；而间谓予曰【吾不能与有力者争花石之胜，独此取诸土之所有，可以不劳力而蓊然满园，亦足適也，因自谓竹溪主人，甥其为我记之】。

予以谓，君豈真不能与有力者争，而漫然取诸其土之所有者；无乃独有所深好於竹，而不欲以告人歟？昔人论竹，以为绝无聲色臭味可好，故其巧怪不如石，其妖豔绰约不如花，孑孑然有似乎偃蹇孤特之士，不可以谐於俗；是以自古以来，知好竹者绝少。且彼京师人亦豈能知而贵之，不过欲以此鬥富与奇花石等耳。故京师人之贵竹，与江南人之不贵竹，其为不知竹一也。君生长於纷华，而能不溺乎其中；裘马僮奴歌舞，凡诸富人所酣嗜，一切斥去；尤挺挺不妄与人交，凛然有偃蹇孤特之气，此其於竹必有自得焉；而举凡万物可喜可玩，固有不能间也歟！然则虽使竹非其土之所有，君犹将极其力以致之，而后快乎其心；君之力虽使能尽致奇花石，而其好固有不存也。嗟呼！竹固可以不出江南而取贵也哉

吾重有所感矣！

唐順之

Bamboo Rill

I have strolled in the gardens of the capital’s titled and wealthy, and seeing what is collected there – not one rare plant or stone from distant borders across the seas is lacking – only the bamboo cannot be had. We south of the Yangtze cut bamboo for kindling; for the garden we also purchase rare plants and stones from abroad, some spending countless sums for a rock, a fortune to buy a single flower, all without regret. Yet if there is bamboo standing in the midst some would hack it away saying, “This will not occupy my bed of flowers and stone“. But if in the capital people are able to obtain a single bamboo, then the sum of several thousands is not regretted, ever knowing that upon the first frost or snow it will wither and die. Men greatly prize the fragile and unobtainable, yet those from the south would even mock them saying, “So the people of the capital prize our firewood”. How sad! Rare plants and stones are indeed prized by those of the south and the capital, but were their place of origin plumbed and men from those distant borders across the seas look upon them, I believe they would think those less wondrous than the bamboo south of the Yangtze. And in faraway lands across the seas perhaps no place grows bamboo, so I believe those strangers upon suddenly seeing bamboo would invariably prize it more greatly than those living in the capital, and both would laugh without end. It is commonly said, “A man away from home is worthless, a thing away from home is precious”. In view of this, how can there be constancy among people’s likes and dislikes?

My uncle, a gentleman holding the Guanglu position, cultivates a garden on the banks of the Jing stream, everywhere planting bamboo and not other trees. Among the bamboo a small pavilion is set to pass moments of leisure with guests reciting verse and singing within. On occasion he spoke to me, “I can not strive with those of influence in the surpassing of plants and stone, yet only by gathering what is native to this place I need not labor and my garden flourishes thusly; I am complete. In this way I am styled Master of Bamboo Rill. Nephew, you should write down such words for me”.

I replied, “How in fact are you unable to compare with the influential by conveniently gathering what is native to the land? It is not that you alone have a deep affection for the bamboo, but rather are unwilling to pronounce so to others? Long ago men discussed the bamboo, considering that being void of pretty color and fragrance it was not liked; and as its wondrous strangeness is unequal to stone, and its guiling beauty and charming delicacy unequal to the flower, yet it stands forth as a gentleman of pride and independence, aloof from the vulgar. In this, from antiquity to the present, an absolute few have known how to appreciate the bamboo.

And those of the capital, how can they understand and value bamboo, merely wanting to use it as they would a rare plant or rock to vie in display of wealth? Thus as people from the capital prize it, and people south of the Yangtze denigrate it, their failure to understand the bamboo is one and the same. You sir, grew up surrounded by sumptuous circumstance and are able not to become dissolute in its midst; fine clothing, stables, squires, maidservants, singers and dancers, all those things many wealthy men greatly desire you deny; especially do you steadfastly refuse reckless intercourse with others. In manner stern, aloof and unique, for this do you take pleasure in the bamboo, and all those many things that men fancy and like cannot by nature stand among the bamboo! Even if bamboo were not native to this place, you sir would do utmost to gather it here and then take pleasure in it; you, sir, by might can gather together strange plants and stone yet your pleasure would not be found in their midst.

How sad! Before, the bamboo could not be taken from the south but taken now because is it prized. I have thoughts upon thoughts on this.

Tang Shunzhi (1507-1560)

~

Scott L. Satterfield – translation of “A Mean Abode” by Liu Yuxi

SEP 4th 2017

陋室铭

山不在高，有仙则名。水不在深，有龙则靈。斯是陋室，惟吾德馨。苔痕上階绿，草色入帘青。谈笑有鸿儒，往来无白丁。可以调素琴，阅金经。无丝竹之乱耳，无案牍之劳形。南阳诸葛庐，西蜀子云亭。孔子云，【何陋之有？】

刘禹锡

A Mean Abode

It is not how high the mountain, if there be spirits within fame follows. It is not how deep the water, if there be dragons within wonder follows. In this mean abode, only my self graces it. Traces of moss cover the steps green, grass shows green through the hung screen. The learned are here for talks and laughter, no unlettered folk come and go. I can play simple melodies, read the scriptures. No strings or flutes troubling the ear, no papers tiring body and soul. Here is as famous men of integrity passed simple lives in mean places far apart.*

So did Confucius ask, “ In what manner is this mean?”

Liu Yuxi (772–842)

*As Nanyang’s (Henan) Zhu Gelu and as distant Shu (Sichuan) in the West, Yangze’s pavilion.

~

Three poems by Ikuko Tanaka – translated by Miho Kinnas & Shelly Bryant

SEP 1st 2017

1. 雪の時間

深雪に埋めつくされた苅田は見知らぬ国の原

降り積んだ雪に記憶の風が

吹き寄せ吹きだまりができる

斜面ができる

さらに雪が降りさらに風が吹き

やがて像の耳がかたどられていった

いま　おさない象が群れからはぐれたのだ

はぐれた象のために

吹雪はひそかに胴体の輪郭を描いていった

さらに雪は降りさらに風は吹き

胴体のつづきに長い鼻の輪郭を描いていった

ああ　やっと

低い声で助けの信号を送りはじめたのだ

しかし　風は吹き荒れ雪を舞い上げ

やっと伸ばした鼻を消し去り

胴体を消し去り

耳のかたちひとつだけを残した

谷間の川面から吹き上げる風が

ほうほうと身をよじり

象とたわむれているのだ

だが　聞く耳ひとつあればいい

わたしは　ふと自分の耳に触ってみる

わたしの一番深いところでねむっている無数の耳

忘れている耳

はぐれたわたしの耳のために

吹雪はやがてわたしの耳をかたどり始める

そのように雪は降りつづき

そのように風は吹きつづけ

Snow Time

The bare paddy field buried in deep snow is an unknown field

The wind of memory blows over the piled snow

The snow drifts

The snow slides

Some more snow falls, some more wind blows

And the drift is shaped into an elephant ear

Now a young elephant has strayed from the herd

For the stray elephant

the snowstorm slowly begins to draw his body

Some more snow falls, some more wind blows

Following the body the snowstorm outlines the trunk

Ahh- finally

a distress signal is sent out in a low voice

But the wind roughens and blows up the snow

the painstakingly stretched trunk is erased

the body is erased

only one ear is left

The wind blows, ho ho, from the river surface

in the valley twisting

and playing with the elephant

You know, though, one ear to listen is enough

I now touch my own ears

A countless number of ears are asleep

in the deepest place

The forgotten ears

For my stray ears

the snow storm begins to mold my ear

Thus some more snow falls

Thus some more wind blows

~

2. カヤパの庭

今夜、鶏が鳴く前にあなたは三度わたしを知らないと言うだろう　マタイ二十六章

ゆうぐれの窓から

ぼんやりと椿の花を見続けると

心の底までのぞき込まれていると思う日がやってくる

赤い花の芯にとらえられ　つつぬけにのぞき込まれてしまう

誘われるままに樹の下をくぐり敷石を横にたどり裏口から

あの人が裁かれているというカヤパの中庭に入る

大祭司カヤパの庭にも椿の花がいっぱい咲いていて

わたしが葉と葉の間から見ていると

「何をいっているのかわからない」と一番弟子の男が否んだ

二千年前の炭火が赤く燃え　裏切るもの死刑を望むもの

しもべや女中が集まっていた

またしても「そんな人は知らない」恐れて誓う声がした

遠く波打つガリラヤの湖から一匹の魚が泳ぎ去った

わたしが赤い花をのぞくと　男の涙がこぼれそうだった

こんなところに誰がつまずく石を置いたのだろう

三度目の声がまたしても

「その人のことは何も知らない」と言うと

追い打ちをかけるように女中が

［この人はナザレ人イエスと一緒だった］と言った

それはわたしの声だった　わたしはそこにもいたのだ

静かなゆうぐれに包まれると椿の花がまっ赤に咲いて

ぼんやりしていると　鶏が鳴いて男は外に出て激しく泣く

いつのまにか二千年はあっけなく過ぎて

そのまま赤い花の形をして地面に落ちるものがある

罪も弱さもそのまま受け継いで

わたしはカヤパの庭を行ったり来たりしている

Caiaphas’ Courtyard

Verily I say unto thee, that this night, before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice　Matthews 26

Out of the window of twilight

I gaze blankly at the camellia blossoms

There comes a day the camellia sees

through to the bottom of my heart

Caught by the core of the red blossom

through and through I am seen

Being led I stoop under the branches

and step into Caiaphas’ courtyard from the back gate

where he is said to be judged

The high priest Caiaphas’ courtyard is also

filled with camellia blossoms

I watch from the space between the leaves

He denied, saying, I know not what thou sayest

Two thousand year old charcoal burns deep

who betrays and wants death

a crowd of servants and maids gathered

And again he denied with an oath, I do not know the man

A fish swims away from the far away heaving lake of Galilee

I look inside the burning

and see his tear about to overflow

Who left a stumbling stone, here?

For the third time I hear the voice, saying, I know not the man

Another maid said unto them that were there,

This fellow was also with Jesus of Nazareth

That was my voice;

I was there, too

Camellias, wrapped by the dusk, open their crimson petals

I am lost in thought; the cock crow, and the man goes outside,

cries out

Unnoticed, two thousand years have passed

Unchanged, something in the shape of a red flower

falls onto the ground passing on

Sins and weaknesses

I go to and from Caiaphas’ courtyard

~

3. オブジェ

かつて　父たちが植林し造林につとめた杉山に分け入っ

たことがある　天に垂直なその杉の木に絡みついたカズ

ラを切るのだ　きつく巻きついた紐状のものを力ずくで

引っ張る　細い毛根がびりびりと剥がれる　引きながら

解きながら木の周りをぐるぐる回る　解くと締めつけら

れた跡がケロイドのようだ

わたしは　解いたカズラを束ねて　一つの輪に編んで行

く　最初の輪につぎつぎ絡ませ　縄目を作り隙間を埋め

ながら　偶然にゆだねてオブジェを作る　壁掛けを作っ

ていく　隙間には野の花と杉の実とカモガヤの野を飾る

と　朝と夕を加え小鳥も加えることになって　ドライフ

ラワーの壁掛けとなる　やがて乾いてくるとピソンの川

もユフラテの川も流れはじめる　浅瀬の葦の間にきのう

誘われた聡い蛇のことばを置く　これがわたしの園であ

る　それを玄関に飾る　誰にも気づかれない　わたしだ

けのオブジェの中で　わたしは　いまだエバのままであ

り　出る時も入る時も　魂のありかをとわれつづけてい

るように思う

(Miho Kinnas’s translation of an essay by Akira Kisa, Where Bibliobattles Are was published in Asian Literary Journal Cha in June, 2017. More poems by Ikuko Tanaka in translation can be found at Poetry Kanto.)

~

Lian Hai Guang – Essay on Translating ‘Constellations’ by Todd Boss

MAY 26 2017

Todd Boss attends to how a poem happens. Hence, Motionpoems emphasise movement and kinaesthetic action. His work is also about facilitating meaningful encounters with art^[1]. “Constellations” is no exception.

An emphatic voice gives chase to an elusive and energetic star, but only manages to catch a glimpse of it. An apostrophe, short but forceful.

The poem attempts to capture a sublime encounter with a single gesture, somewhere between the impermanence of a shooting star and the constancy of a constellation. An encounter so elusive and fleeting, we can only gesticulate about with language.

To translate this poem on its terms is to appreciate its inherently performative nature—a mimesis demonstrating the temporal nature of an aesthetic encounter. Something that can only be performed, but not fixed, with words. Something impossible without an intimate reading.

An adequate translator is foremost an adequate reader. Reading is more than just understanding the signification of words, but also how they dance and contribute to a dynamic whole. Imagery, form, rhythm and rhyme. These are some of the poetic elements that require breaking down and reconstruction in the target language. Reconstruction because there is no natural or necessary equivalence between languages and their respective cultures. Translation is reading is rewriting.

The original has a lot of style. We have on page, a river of words gushing with too much force. A voice breaks the surface, now and then, when it can; the tone imploring, and desperate. Words are ejaculated, spat in passion. These exclamations are followed by long dashes of silence—as the voice succumbs to the drag of undercurrent emotions precariously balanced between ecstasy and hysteria. The lines of the poem look like an afterimage, a blur of motion. Just like an encounter with the ephemeral.

The river of words flows east, and arrives at a place where they can drop vertically down. In Chinese, words can cascade and fall. Much like stars. They are also complete and whole on their own, not just an assembly of letters. They now hang better in the sky; this being one of the low-hanging fruits. I hang the words up like stars, and build a constellation. Joining them dot-to-dot, I trace their intractable paths in this alternate linguistic universe, probing for my reclusive rocket.

Reclusive rocket. How does one ignore the sweet sounds of alliteration? I took the bait. More than just a falling star, I add the sense of a lone ranger travelling through endless space. Alone. Aloof. I allow some words to break out from the safety of the constellation, with one that ends up alone. Empty. Drawing nothing.

I ask myself if this is too much, but decide no. After all, Boss writes for the displaced^[2].

_____

^[1] Boss, T. (2016). Retrieved May 12, 2017, from https://toddbosspoet.com/about/

^[2] Boss, T. (2009). Retrieved May 12, 2017, from http://howapoemhappens.blogspot.sg/2009/10/todd-boss.html

~

Lian Hai Guang – Translation of ‘Constellations’ by Todd Boss

MAY 22 2017

Lian Hai Guang is currently a postgraduate at Nanyang Technological University’s (NTU) Masters of Translation and Interpretation (MTI) Program, located in Singapore. He can be reached at lianhaiguang@gmail.com.

– Todd Boss