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.
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.
~
(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)
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。
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It is fundamentally human to disregard our own mortality, to believe – especially through our younger years – that we’re indestructible, even immortal. Yet Death is undeniable; it casts its shadow across every aspect of our daily lives whether or not we dare to look. After all, all things must come to an end.