《徒勞的愛：文史樓的湖綠折疊傘與菜廣場的無聲眼淚》

1980年初夏的某個午後，我在中專班專用教室裡看書，靜悄悄的教室裡有七、八個人在自習。「吱嘎一聲」，前門被輕輕地推開了一條縫兒，門後面站著同班男生小W，他右手食指向上，朝我勾了勾，示意我出去一下。

在教室外的走廊上，他低聲問我：「想不要買折疊式雨傘？」
「想啊，哪裡可以買到？」我問。

那時市面上，只有直柄黑布雨傘，或是那種黃色的油布傘出售。還有一種杭州產的漂亮的油紙傘，一般人家都沒有。每逢下雨天，街頭巷尾望過去，都是一頂頂高低錯落的黑布傘或黃油布傘。在上海的黃梅天裡，淅淅瀝瀝的雨水特別多，尤其是氣象預報是下午的雨，早上出門時就得帶一把大雨傘，很不方便。黑布傘是鐵條骨架的，比油布傘輕巧一些；而油布傘比較厚重，用的是竹子骨架，通常都是大老爺們兒用的。要打開一把油布傘還真不太容易，它的骨架很緊，我們女孩子力氣小，常常要把傘頂在牆上或是地上，藉著反作用力使勁兒一推，才能打開它。

黑傘和油布傘

小W說：「那好，晚上八點，在文史樓前等我。」

晚上八點，我準時到，可小W還不見人影——他這個人，平時上課也一貫是愛遲到的。

文史樓 2016年畫

涼那是個爽的夏夜，文史樓這棟前門有四根古典立柱支撐的宏偉建築，莊重而氣派，在昏暗的街燈映襯下，顯得些許的神秘。我是讀理科的，從沒到這樓裡來過。終於，高個子的他出現在了街燈下，說是要帶我去個僻靜的地方。我好奇地跟著他上了樓，來到了三樓與四樓之間的樓梯轉角小平台上。

這棟大樓只有三層樓高，每兩段樓梯上一層樓。在第三層上，卻還有通往第四層的樓梯，其構造與式樣完全與下面幾層相同。初來乍到的人，還以為拾級而上就可以直達四樓。但當轉過兩段樓梯之間的轉角小平台後，才會發現，最上面那段樓梯的盡頭是一堵牆——也許牆上還有一扇通往屋頂的鐵門，日子久了，我不太記得清了。小W告訴我，這棟樓原本規劃是還要往上造的，可惜建到一半時資金出現短缺，工程便在三樓戛然而止了。猜想也是這樣，否則該怎麼解釋這段樓梯的用途呢？

印像中的場景2022年4月畫

小平台處的這方小小空間很溫馨，幽靜。不知是在何年何月，是誰搬了一張木製的雙人課桌和兩張木製靠背雙人椅上來。樓梯口下方的三樓走道裡映進來昏黃的燈光，北面牆上有一扇窗，月光透過外面婆娑的樹影，斑駁地瀉了進來。

我坐下，背對著樓梯走道，兩隻手肘撐在桌面上，手指交叉支著下巴問：「傘呢？」

小W坐在桌子的對面，聽到我的問話，不緊不慢地從包裡取出一個一尺來長，像粗棍子一樣的東西，外面還罩著一個漂亮的尼龍絲布套。我好奇地看著他將套子退下，解開纏繞在上面的小布條上的摁扣。握住一端抖了抖，摁住一個按鈕，「砰」地一下那傘就彈開了。

「砰」地一下那傘就彈開了

好新奇！從來沒碰過這樣漂亮輕巧的陽傘。我接過傘，走到窗前，藉著月光仔細看，湖綠底色，中心和邊緣有寬寬的白道兒，交接處鑲有淺棕色的小碎花，真的好美!

「你從哪裡弄到的？」我愛不釋手地問。
「我有個朋友剛從廣州過來，帶了好幾把，我一看到，就覺得你可能會喜歡。」他的微笑中，帶著些許少年的羞澀。
「多少錢？」
「九塊。」

我付了錢。這就算完事兒了，我也想不出什麼其他的話題。我這人不善交際，很少跟人說話。小時候母親不讓我跟鄰居小女孩札堆兒玩耍，導致我長大後拙嘴笨舌。這一瞬間的靜場，一時間還真讓我有些不知所措。

我們就這樣靜靜地站在窗前，誰也沒有開口。他站在我的右側，與我大約保持著兩個拳頭的距離。在月光與樓層裡反射上來的微光中，他那張帥氣的臉顯得些許蒼白。這份靜謐、這份朦朧、以及如此近距離地與他站在一起，讓我開始感到有點兒莫名的心慌，不知將會發生什麼，似乎又在隱隱期待著什麼。時間在這一刻彷彿被拉長了似的，每一分、每一秒的靜默，都像是一個世紀般的漫長，這方小小的，原本應該是溫馨的空間，漸漸開始令人感到窒息。

然而，什麼也沒發生。

記得上次他站得離我這麼近，還是1980年4月12日。我們班裡組織去無錫旅遊，順便參觀了江蘇宜興的張公洞和善卷洞。在善卷洞裡沿著石階而下的轉彎幽暗處，小W悄悄從後面跟下來。因為那拐彎處的幽暗，不知是有心還是無意，他的身體幾乎貼到我的後背。猛然被他的氣場裹著，我的心跳驟然提速，一陣眩暈感襲來，剎那間，確實傳遞了一種不動聲色的驚喜與溫柔。

1980年4月中旬 錫山

而此時此刻，在文史樓三樓那扇窗前，我終於鼓足了力氣打破沉默，說道：「已經很晚了，我得趕在九點半以前回家。」說完，我轉過身，彎下腰，收起了那把在地上撐開的花傘。晚回去的話母親會將門反鎖，不讓我進屋。

打那以後，他就經常找我出去「談談」，執意要我做他女朋友。他父親是我們學校的一位知名教授、系主任。心裡確實有些怕得罪他，因而每次我都坦白地推脫：「咱們就做好朋友吧，我心裡已經有人了。」

比我小一歲的他聽了很是氣餒。月光里街燈下，他的臉龐顯得愈發蒼白、憂傷。看在眼裡，我也無奈。一般來說，如果我覺得一個男人沒有發展成男朋友希望的，我都是委婉拒絕、絕不會單獨跟他出去的。可他每一次來找我，基本上都是在傍晚下班回家之前。我不會編瞎話，也實在找不出任何藉口推辭。眼看問題沒解決，我只能跟他去。

每次約會，我們都會先往市區方向騎上一段路，接著各自推著車，開始漫無目的地「壓馬路」。我們兩人的心情都十分低落。走啊，走啊走，天色漸漸黑了下來，肚子餓得咕咕叫，直走得筋疲力盡。我的內心煩躁不堪，胸口像是燃燒著一團快要爆炸的火焰，看到路邊住家的自來水龍頭，有要去喝生水，用涼水沖頭，或是對著夜空仰天長嘯的衝動。

儘管如此，他還是一次又一次地約我出去談談。小W人長得很帥，尤其是打乒乓時的動作十分瀟灑，但偏偏在感情上缺乏浪漫。而我是讀過許多「毒草」巨著的人，內心憧憬浪漫。可他除了反覆要求我做他的女朋友之外，似乎也說不出什麼。我們的約會，就是各自推著一輛自行車走著壓馬路。累了，就隨便停在某個地方說話，建築工地、露天小菜場，媽媽咪呀！就是沒有「花前月下」。

沉浸在书的海洋中

愛我的我不要，我要我愛的。上海話裡有一個字叫「作」。一般的事兒我從來不「作」，唯有在找對象這件事上，我相當的「作」。我的情人都痛苦地活在世界名著裡，掙扎在巴爾扎克、雨果、羅曼·羅蘭、司湯達、考琳·麥卡洛、夏洛蒂·勃朗特、伏尼契、簡·奧斯汀、狄更斯、茨威格、盧梭、托爾斯泰等大師的筆下。那種深沉、憂鬱、志向遠大卻又飽受折磨的靈魂，才令我深深著迷。年輕時就是這麼傻，好幻想，完全脫離實際。殊不知前面的路，最終還不是要圍著鍋碗瓢盆、柴米油鹽醬醋茶打轉？！

我媽早就給我下了結論，說我「心比天高，命比紙薄」注定是「小姐的身子奴才的命！」如今想來，母親真像個世外高人，過早地道破了這份「天機」。如果母親當年看破不說破就好了。

有一次，我們走到了好像是膠州路的露天菜市場。夜間空寂無人，他停下腳步，又要在這兒「談談」。馬路兩邊各有一排簡易攤位桌，鐵架子木板桌面，也有個別的包著白鐵皮。馬路邊殘留著白天賣菜留下的污漬，路面中央被月光照得一片灰白。空氣中還隱隱飄散著些許爛菜葉子的氣味，在這種場景中，人的心情更是低落。我坐在一個看起來還算乾淨的攤桌上，靠著一根鐵柱，他則默默地站在我前面。

至此，所有的車軲轆話早已經說盡。我們都試圖以沉默加上各自的「真誠」，去感化那個固執的對方。被這無解的話題折磨得疲憊至極，我又一次低頭閉眼裝睡。可當我重新睜開眼睛時，看到他就站在面前默默地流淚。那一剎那，一絲絲的惻隱之心不由得油然而生。但我深知我無法、也不能去安慰他，我絕不能給他任何容易產生誤解的信號。

有一次小W對我說：「我調查過了，你的那位心上人，是已經有女朋友的。」我無語，他怎麼知道我心裡裝的是哪一位？當時我心裡暗戀著的是一位78屆物理系的男生，全班就只有兩三個要好的女生知道。那位的形象與氣質，簡直與電視劇《潛伏》裡孫紅雷演的余則成活脫似像——當然，當年的他還要更年輕、儒雅、白靜一些。他總是穿著一身筆挺的淺灰色中山裝 (余則成穿的是深色)，一雙審時度勢的眼睛躲在鏡片後面，永遠那麼矜持、含蓄、藏而不露。

小W還說他去過我當初下鄉的五四農場漁業隊「調查」我。這令我有點吃驚，要知道，在那個年代，普通人是絕對不可能隨意跨單位去「外調」別人底細的，那必須得開具單位的官方介紹信。小W說，我們漁業隊的頭頭都對他誇我，說我人很好。這大費周章的「調查」，說明他是認真的，是誠心誠意地想娶我為妻。他甚至有一次對我提及，他的父親對我的印象也相當不錯。

羅曼·羅蘭曾說：「愛人的不被愛，被愛的不愛人，愛人而又被愛的遲早要分開。」

一九八一年一月，我們畢業了。我和小W都留了校，被分配在電教所工作。

一九八二年四月十日到十二日，所裡的年輕人去了一趟杭州。那時的遊人不多。我們圍著西湖轉了一圈兒，桃紅柳綠，景色宜人，真不愧是「上有天堂，下有蘇杭」。

1982年4月中旬 虎跑泉

傍晚，我們在蘇堤和白堤上漫步。晚風清涼，那種感覺甭提多美了。走到虎跑泉時，我拿著杯子在泉水中舀水喝。趁著別人不注意，小W順手取過我手中的杯子，一雙眼睛深情地瞄了我一眼，隨後按著我嘴唇剛接觸過的地方，就若無其事地著喝了起來，這小子，膽儿真夠大的。那次旅行，我們還去了富春江畔的鶴山。

四月下旬的某一個安靜的午後，我獨自在二樓編輯室裡看書。忽然，有人在我的辦公桌上「砰——」地一聲，重重地放了一摞書。

「給你的。」小W的聲音同時傳來。不知什麼時候，他竟然躡手躡腳地進來了，就站在我邊上。
「幹嗎呀，你嚇我一跳！」我抬起頭，同時條件反射、出於自我防衛般地照著他的左上臂就是一拳。平時的我，根本沒有往別人身上招呼拳頭的粗魯習慣。這一捶送過去，一看到是熟人，重拳在半空中瞬間變成了無力的鬆拳，輕輕落在他身上。
「嘿嘿～」他笑道：「這摞書是給你看的，六月份夜大入學考試，你趕快複習了去考。」
「考什麼？什麼夜大？」我驚訝地注視著他那張帥氣的臉。
「哈！你還不知道啊？人家小Z已經在夜大數學系讀了一年了。」

小W口中的小Z，家住師大一村，也是我們那屆中專班留校的，但不在我們這個部門工作。她是我在校內要好的閨蜜，可這件事我居然全被蒙在鼓裡，兩天前我還見過她呢。

「你也準備考嗎？」我問小W。他點點頭。
「啊呀！怎麼不早告訴我呢？」瞧著這麼高一摞數理化書籍，短短兩個月時間怎麼可能看完？！這下可把我給急壞了。
「別急，別急，這不還有兩個月呢。」他安慰我。
「有什麼專業？」
「甭管有什麼專業，考數學系！我爸說了，只有讀數學系才有前途。夜大分三、五年制，三年拿大專文憑，繼續讀滿五年拿本科。你聰明，你肯定能考進的！讀三年後，你就可以直接考我爸的研究生，然後咱們一起出國深造~~」
「什麼時候報名？怎麼報名？到那裡去報名？」那時的我根本沒想得像他那麼遠。望著他憧憬未來時那有些迷離的目光，我一連串地發問。
「我會通知你的。」他答道。

小Z的父母也都是我們本校的知名教授，他們消息向來相當靈通。

時光流轉，許多年後的二零一一年，當年的老同學重新聯繫上了，並在上海舉辦了畢業三十週年聚會，我沒有趕回上海參加，但與早已定居在加州的小Z第一次通了電話。沒想到，她在電話裡依然耿耿於懷地問了我一個藏在她心頭幾十年、一直想當面核實的問題。她問我，當年畢業我一個沒背景的人能夠順利留在電教所工作，是不是靠出賣了「色相」？

哈哈！瞧我這老閨蜜問的是什麼話！在華東師大「新村」裡長大的孩子，心思真的是很直白，單純得有些可愛。但如果反過來替她想想，倒也確實如此：我一個毫無背景與后台的外來丫頭，怎麼就留在了人人羨慕的電教所？而她的父母都是本校的資深教授，這後台是梆梆硬的，最後卻沒能留下來。

如果我當初知道自己有什麼「色相」可言，估計我骨子裡的自尊與教養也絕不允許我去利用它。更何況，我自小就對自己的長相缺乏自信。我的門牙有點突出。一九七〇年，我還在上中學的時候，上海著名的「十大賓館」在上海各中學進行選美式招聘。我校就送了我一個人去參選，結果在初選時遭到那幫穿「白大褂」的面試官們當眾羞辱：「啊呀！這女孩不笑多好看，可惜這兩顆門牙……」。再加上我長得高——中學同桌曾告訴我一米六才是女孩的標準身高，而我後來一路長到了一米七，我母親也曾揶揄我是「長了個接駱駝糞的個兒」。我那時也曾跟母親怯生生地抱怨過自己的高大，您猜怎麼著？她不屑地看了我一眼說：「趕緊的去廚房找把菜刀，把腳趾給剁了，再不成找把斧子，把腦袋也給砍了不就得了？切！」那時候的自己根本不知道人高腳自然就會大的道理，因而一直為自己的身高和腳上那雙穿38碼鞋的大腳丫子感到自卑。

面臨中專畢業分配時，沒有任何背景與後台的我，心裡著急。硬著頭皮，鼓足勇氣去了一趟從來不敢踏足的所長辦公室，至於具體要找誰，自己心裡都沒底，只覺得只要是負責人就行。

我戰戰兢兢地推開了辦公室的門，沒想到，所長，書記，副所長三位領導竟然都在屋裡。我當時毫無底氣，紅著臉，極其小聲地只說了一句話：「我想……我想留在學校裡，因為離家近。」說完，便慌忙低頭走開了。

後來，隨著在所裡工作，與當年的副所長M老師漸漸熟稔起來，聊起這段往事，他忍不住笑道，當年我那副膽怯、委屈又無助的模樣，瞬間讓他心裡產生了惻隱之心。他還說那年正是他去市郊國營農場招生的，在一大​​堆落榜生的資料裡，他一眼看到了我准考證上的照片，覺得這姑娘面相清正不錯，就把我挑選進了這三十人的名單。那年我的高考分數是290分，比300分的錄取線差了10分，底子應該還不太算差。現在想想，調侃一句，敢情還真是M老師在照片裡看到了我那不自知的「色相」，才在冥冥之中決定了我前半生的命運。據說，世上一切事情都是老天安排好的，任何安排，都是對你個人最好的安排。

那年六月，我們都參加了夜大的入學考試。我的數學考了85分，被夜大數學系錄取。而小W榜上沒名。

在還沒開學的某個夏日，說好了是中午一點在中山公園的大門口見面，但他過了一點二十分才到，大熱天的，滿耳朵都是知了令人煩躁的聒噪，再加上苦等一個遲遲未到的人，我的焦慮與煩躁情緒油然而生，見了面，我脫口而出的第一句話就是：「你要是想讓人尊敬你，你得先尊重別人。」

說這話時，我的語氣不如以往的委婉。那話無疑是傷了他的自尊心的，更何況他當時正處於落榜的失落中，心情肯定也極其糟糕。

也許是第二天，他拿了一盤磁帶上來交給我，讓我經常聽聽，說那是他喜歡的音樂。並提出要求：如果我在辦公室，就把窗子打開，如果不在，哪怕是上廁所也要把窗子關上。我們的大樓是L形相連的，我們的辦公室各在一側，互相看得到。放下磁帶出門後，向來優柔寡斷的他，這次竟然真的跟我分手了。

在此之前，我們之間其實從未有過任何「實質上」的身體接觸。記得有一回，他來到我辦公室，說要教我跳交誼舞，那時的我是真的一點都不會，而他的舞姿卻極為瀟灑。在小約翰·施特勞斯輕盈的《藍色多瑙河》、《春之聲》、《皇帝圓舞曲》等古典樂曲聲中，我們在辦公室裡學了個把小時的舞步。

跳到後來，我的頭有些微微發暈。此時天色漸暗，室內的環境顯得有些曖昧與朦朧。當他輕輕地貼近我、試圖吻過來時，我的身子本能地、緩緩地往後仰。他用手托著我的後腰，身體也跟著探過來，直到我的後背貼到了辦公桌面上，沒法再退了。看我老是往後躲，他也就沒再堅持。

在同一棟樓裡進進出出，低頭不見抬頭見，總是要相遇的。起先有一次，在二樓的樓梯上遇到他正迎面上樓，我禮節性地跟他點了點頭。然而，他的表情卻是前所未有的冷漠。

他那張原本還帶著些許稚氣、些許紅潤的俊俏臉龐，從那一天起，徹底變得憂鬱、蒼白，而他這個人，也愈加沉默寡言。

小W隨後繼續在夜大數學系旁聽，據說一年後如果成績跟上了就可以轉正。估計這其中也動用了某種特權。而我為了完全避免在課堂裡與他再相見的尷尬，我找到一位極有同情心、曾教過我們課且此時已升任校級領導的教授，問他是否能夠幫我從數學系轉到中文系去。

夜大校長答應了他，卻把我叫去辦公室訓斥了一頓。在那之前，我還真不知道文理科之間是絕對不能互相調轉的，得知自己給這位看起來令人尊敬、十分面善的女校長添了太大的麻煩，我紅著臉、低著頭，覺得十分對不住她。我那時頭腦簡單，不懂事，以為轉系這種事易如反掌，既沒去跟人打聽打聽學校的規章制度，也完全沒想到過要給幫我辦事兒的人送些禮物，表表心意。

轉系成功後，夜大的課基本上都是在文史樓裡上的。上大課時，我基本上是坐在教室的後方，平時也不與其他同學多接觸。一是性格偏內向，不苟言笑，那時在心理上刻意追求一種「喜怒不形於色」的境界。記得改革開放初期，上海電視台裡最早出現、也是僅有的、並且反複播放的廣告片是瑞士雷達表（Rado）。畫面上那些金髮碧眼的模特兒，慢慢轉動的頭部特寫鏡頭，個兒個兒的臉部表情，都是那種令人羨慕、望塵莫及的「冰美人」的神態。

二來，上夜大的都是走讀生，其他同學騎車或做公交車來上課，在路上都會有或多或少的接觸機會，而我因為留校工作，一直都在校園裡。那時我通常不與差不多年齡的男生講話，怕惹麻煩。對大齡、小齡、或已婚的男生卻不設妨——當然，不設防絕不等於主動搭訕。直到後來，我才漸漸跟班裡的三、四個男生和一位我們稱為「老阿姐」的女生比較熟悉，課間休息時能聚在一起說說話。

記得畢業那年，全班同學聚在文史樓前的大草坪上等待拍攝畢業集體照時，我們的班長對我說了一句話：「芬，辣辣早兩年，儂就像一隻孔雀一樣，進進出出，頭總是抬的老高搿。」這是我在夜大五年中，他唯一一次對我說過的話。

課堂上，有位著名教授上課極為生動，他那詼諧幽默的話語經常引起全班的哄堂大笑。可每當那時，我也能在表面上保持波瀾不驚。這反倒弄得他在課間放錄像資料時，特意走到我旁邊坐下。估計他心裡一定是在納悶：這小女子居然能夠對他的連珠妙語完全無動於衷？！這倒讓我想起以前在中專班、在數學館上高等數學課時，那位高大帥氣的數學老師也挺開朗幽默，有一次課間休息他也特意坐到了我身後，同學們都紛紛圍著他說笑，唯獨我坐著不動。我猜他那時一定也在納悶：這女生到底怎麼回事，居然不被他的幽默與帥氣所打動？

然而，這種刻意保持的疏離姿態，加上我對年長男性缺乏戒心，竟在我就讀中文系二年級時，無意間招致了一場令人窒息的糾葛。

班上有位男同學，四十開外，身材壯實偏高，略顯黝黑、厚實的臉上架著一副眼鏡兒，估計是班裡最年長的一位。這個人極其老練、老道，用上海話來說就是「老奎」（自大、得意、愛擺老資格）。課間休息時，常有不少同學圍著他，聽他談笑風生。平時他走進教室時，課堂裡幾乎已經坐滿了人，馬上就要開課。當他走在過道裡時，常常有同學熱情地招呼他坐過去，他每一次都會抬手瀟灑一揮作為回應，但腳步不停，總是一直走到我的座位旁，在我身邊坐下。

大約是在1984年，也就是在夜大的第二年。有一天，他突然對我說要給我介紹個男朋友，請我到大光明電影院去見個面。我想了想，去就去吧，自己那時確實也老大不小了，而心中深深地喜歡的那個人，也早已娶妻成家。

大光明電影院在國際飯店附近，在那個年代的上海，大名鼎鼎。它始建於1928年，是中國現存最古老的戲院之一，在歷史上享有「遠東第一影院」的美譽。

可當我準時抵達電影院門口時，卻只見到他一個人。他對介紹男朋友的事隻字不提，我一個女孩子家，自然也不好意思開口問。結果，這場電影完全是他自己一個人坐在我身邊看的。

至今我已經完全忘記那天放映的是什麼片子了，但那次是我有生以來頭一次、也是到目前為止最後一次在大光明電影院看電影。看到半中間時，他突然將左手臂搭在了我的座椅靠背上，我感到很不舒服。

好不容易熬到片子結束，出了電影院的大門，他指著馬路東側斜對面的一家飲食店，說要請我去坐坐。

雖然表面顯得很平靜，但我心裡已經很氣憤了。正好在此時，一輛16路電車開過來靠站，車站就在電影院西側。我沒跟他說句謝謝，也沒道聲再見。一轉身一溜小跑，跳上車就回家了。我那時確實欠缺涵養，只顧自己的心裡感受，沒給他一個解釋的機會，就把他尷尬地晾在了繁華的南京路上。

第二天上課，他坐到了我後面幾排的座位上，課間休息時，他沉著臉遞過來一張彩色三人全家福照片，向我展示了他和睦美滿的家庭。言下之意是我把他的「一片好意」給想歪了。

我雖然表面上還是顯得無動於衷，但心裡卻隱隱生出一絲後悔與動搖：萬一他是真心幫我呢？萬一那人臨時有急事不能來呢？萬一那人只是在電影院門口作為陌生人遠遠地看了看我呢？萬一…… 但無論怎麼想，我心裡還是窩著火，覺得是被他耍了，他還站著理兒。

他曾跟我說過，說我的外表長得不錯，但缺少內涵，要带带我。說他家每個週末都會有個文藝沙龍，有不少名流文人雅士相聚在一起品酒、喝咖啡、聽音樂，談理想、談哲學、談人生、談文學、談音樂、談藝術、談政治…… 並邀請我參加，豐富內在知識，提升人文修養。

我不置可否，也根本不會去。

自此，下課後他總是在停自行車的地方等我，不論我多磨蹭。磨蹭不是我的性格，只是拖時間，希望他能走掉。但無論怎樣的努力，他都在那兒，跺都躲不開。

他總是騎車送我一程，他應該是往市區方向去的，與我回家的方向截然相反。他就像一塊黏糊糊的牛皮糖一樣，甩都甩不掉。我很懊惱，沒人訴說，又實在沒法子。

接下來的一個星期天，我因為辦公室的環境比家裡好太多，平時沒事就喜歡待在所裡，那天我也照常在五樓辦公室度過週末。我鬱悶地站在朝南的窗前發愣。正好看到小W，剛剛過了一村與校園之間的那道鐵柵欄門，腳步不徐不疾地走過來。那時，我們已經有两年多不說話了。因為是星期天，路上、大樓裡都沒人，我用手敲敲窗玻璃，聲音傳了過去，他一抬頭，我便向他招招手。他就上來了，我對他說了被「老阿爸」死纏爛打騷擾的煩惱事兒。

到了星期一晚上十點多下課後，我從文史樓101教室的西窗子往外一看，夜幕中昏暗的路燈下，窗前的一棵大樹旁，已經沒有幾輛車了，可是那位「老阿爸」又在等了，有兩個男同學招呼他一起走，他們都是往市區方向去的。他卻大模大樣地點上了一支煙，揮一揮手，讓他們先走。那點煙的小火光反映在他的鏡片裡，看得我後脊背發涼，真不知道如何是好，不能在等了，人都走完了就更麻煩了。我背起書包走出教室。心情低落、垂头丧气地隨著走道裡的人流往外走。

忽然一個人逆人流走來，在我的右肩上一撞，正不懷好氣地呢，抬頭一看，一張帥氣的臉正笑瞇瞇地看著我呢。是小W！他是來救我的！一陣欣慰發自內心深處，像看見了救命稻草一般，我不由得一把抓住了他的胳膊，他就勢一夾，將我的手挽住。如釋重負的我感覺好像是輕盈地轉過身來，跟著他上了樓。

這是第二次跟他上樓，第一次是四年前，在這兒他賣了一把折疊傘給我。這天晚上，我對他的一切成見都放下了，覺得他是真心對我好的，而我過去對他未免也有點不公之處。心想他人還不錯的，就跟他好算了，別挑了我已經二十八歲了。記得十九歲時讀《警示通言》裡有这样一段：

二十去了廿一來，
不做私情也是呆。
有朝一日花容退，
雙手招郎郎不來。

當時覺得廿一歲還早著呢，就算將來花容退了，我也不會「招」的。

1983年6月於朝陽公園

Spring has come. Though it faltered time and again, it has finally arrived.

我們又開始交往，像戀人一樣交往，初嚐了禁果不久，在那年的七夕夜——一九八四年八月三日，星期五。我們在中山公園裡散步，月光如洗，路燈輝映，心裡裝的是滿滿的愉悅。小W居然不無感慨地說了一句話導致了我們最終分手。當時他拍著我挽著他手臂的手說：「唉～～如果能取兩個老婆就好了。」因為他是跟我在一起，我還慶幸地問，那一位是誰？他說出了名字。我知道此人是78級物理系的大美人，笑起來兩眼彎彎的很甜，父母是本校的資深教授。

當時我是這樣想的，七夕——這麼特殊的日子，他跟我在一起，說明他是喜歡我的。如果是在我拒絕他的那幾年裏他有了女朋友，我無可非議，自己不接受人家，難道還不許人家去找女朋友嗎？！

這次是我不知情中打亂了他們的平靜。他也沒一直瞞著我，我們第二次相處的時間不久他就說了那句話。當然再早一點兒說就更好，要是沒有肌膚之親前說就更好了，我也太大意了。當時我覺得我和小W的女朋友就像南宋詩人盧梅坡筆下的雪與梅： 「梅須遜雪三分白，雪卻輸梅一段香。」

A lingering fragment of youth:my handwritten copy of Lu Meipo’s poem,
preserved from those long-faded days.

話說七夕過後的第二天，我就讓小我六歲、像個忠實小跟班一樣的小兄弟小L去打聽一下情況。小L真去問了小W的女友，因為他們都是師大新村的，彼此都認識。

不一會兒，小L一臉氣憤地跑回來告訴我：「我問到了，她的男朋友確實就是小W。」「是過去談的？還是現在談的？」我問，如果是「過去式」，我心裡或許還能稍微好受那麼一點點。可小L搖了頭，他說不上來。

當時，我倆正站在電教所五樓樓梯上來的拐角大廳裡，正好所裡的X老師走了過來。小L一見到熟人，按捺不住心中的憤懣，對X老師說：「小W腳踏兩只船！」

X老師也是住在師大一村的，跟他們都很熟。她見我臉色難看、有些不高興，心裡便明白了七八分。低聲問我：「小W是不是欺負過你？」

在那個極其保守的年代，「欺負過」是含蓄的說法，真實含義是：「他跟你發生過關係嗎？」我的眼淚一下子控制不住流了下來。X老師支開了小L，關切地問我：「要不要我幫去醫院化驗一下尿液？」

生活在二零二六年的年輕人可能永遠無法想像，在那個年代，一個未婚女孩如果沒有單位的官方介紹信與證明，是根本不允許去醫院做測孕檢查的。X老師完全是出于好意。我當時的月經也確實沒來。我的生理週期從从来就沒準過，但沒做過那事便心安理得，一旦做過了，月經遲遲不來就難免有些心慌。

雖然後來我也沒讓X老師幫忙化驗，也並沒懷孕，但這場校園裡的「丑聞」還是就此傳開了。

風言風語傳開了

一時間，樓上樓下、校園裡搞得沸沸揚揚。說風涼話的、看熱鬧的、有正義感的、逢迎拍馬的、羨慕嫉妒忌恨的、多數都是不了解實情的，都紛紛出來，憑藉道聽途說，添油加醋，有說他是公子哥兒仗勢欺人，腳踏兩隻船。有說我，多數是說我，想高攀門第、主動示好勾引。

護著我的小L也一臉憤懣地對我說：「真正愛你的人，連你的一個手指頭都不敢隨便踫！小W這樣的人根本就不是個好人！」

那年月的筆記

我只覺得自己聲名掃地。小W通過關係，在風口浪尖上順利調轉到另外一所大學去了。那時候隨便轉個工作單位的情況幾乎沒有。那是一般人都是在一個單位幹到退休的鐵飯碗年代。他拍拍屁股走了，留下我一個人，在校園裡忍受別人的議論和白眼、忍受恥辱與歧視。

很快家裡也知道了，我因此受到了幾個哥哥的輪番說教。那畢竟是個「一失足成千古恨」、發生關係後若沒結婚就再難嫁人的保守年代。爸爸最終也知道了這件事，這次他沒有像我小時候那，樣犯了錯誤就讓我去母親那裡下跪求饒，省得挨打挨罵。而是心疼、惋惜、無奈地說:「別讓你媽知道。」我們都清楚，眼裡揉不進半點沙子的母親的第一個反應一定是將我趕出家門，斷絕母女關係，她的決定向來都是駟馬難追的。

得知妹妹受了委屈，大哥、三哥和六哥都去找了小W談話。大哥和三哥是從禮義廉恥的角度去「說合」。而六哥則直接警告小W：「你小子以後別再找我妹了，否則對你不客氣！」回過頭來，六哥又對我說：「你千萬別再去理他，別把這件事變成心理負擔進而影響了自己的前程。什麼年代了，不是處女照樣嫁得出去！但你自己真正要有骨氣，別再跟他藕斷絲連。」

可當時陷在絕望深處的我，悲哀地覺得自己這輩子算是毀了，再也不會有好男人要我了。

Like a fierce gale scattering withered leaves,
or a sudden downpour battering fragile blossoms

我當時的一位閨蜜安慰我：「怕什麼，他們不要，有人要的。外國人還不喜歡沒有經驗的『雛兒』呢！」

話雖如此，可在當年的我眼裡，內心深處其實一直是非常看不起那些在上海街頭跟外國人搭訕、套近乎的中國女子的，總覺得那是一件很丟臉的事。

那年月的筆記

人的顏色應該是：德、才、學、識、情、貌、體魄、喜怒哀樂、琴棋書畫。

戰勝懊悔：最浪費時間的莫過於懊悔。在懊悔的海洋裡打滾是嚴重的精神消耗。矯正的辦法很簡單：只要在你的字裡抹掉「要是」二字，改用「下次」二字即可。應該問自己說：「下次如果有機會我要……」

可命運偏偏又跟我開了一個天大的玩笑。

我過去一直是看不起那些跟外國人搭訕的女子的，不料後來自己也「搭」到了J，成了自己曾經看不起的那種女人，還結了婚、出了國。

其實我是滿族正黃旗人，我家在北京的祖墳上還曾立有一通氣宇軒昂、據說是皇上賜的螭首龜趺碑。倒退兩三百年，他們還不一定能攀上我這門親呢。歷史就是這樣折騰人，虎去狼來，風水輪流轉。過氣了的貴族，嘛也不是了。「舊時王謝堂前燕，飛入尋常百姓家。」

唉～人生如戏，一出接着一出，片刻不得歇息。

三哥在1988年8月跟我姑姑一起去掃墓時拍的

這通墓碑，曾經據說是不能拆、不能挪、不能毀的歷史文物。它一直默默地被當年的北京毛巾廠（或者是北京章光101生發廠）那凌亂的場地包圍著。這張照片是1988年8月，我三哥跟我姑姑去掃墓時拍的。到了2008年，據說馱龍碑所在地已被一棟居民樓所代替，地址是潘家園19號。非常令人遺憾的是，那曾經受文物保護的碑如今已不知了去向。

This stone stele was once said to be a protected historical relic—one that could never be dismantled, moved, or destroyed. For years, it stood in silence, surrounded by the cluttered grounds of what was then the Beijing Towel Factory (or perhaps the Beijing Zhangguang 101 Hair Regrowth Factory). This photograph was taken in August 1988, when my third older brother and my paternal aunt went to visit and photograph the grave. By 2008, it was said that the site of the turtle-borne stele had been replaced by a residential building at No. 19 Panjiayuan. Tragically, that monument, which was once under historical protection, has vanished without a trace.

**********************************

Futile Love: The Lake-Green Collapsible Umbrella of the Literature Building and Silent Tears in the Vegetable Market

One afternoon in the early summer of 1980, I was sitting with my books inside our track’s dedicated classroom. The room was dead silent, with only seven or eight classmates quietly engaging in self-study.

Suddenly, with a sharp creak, the front door was pushed open just a fraction of an inch. Standing behind the sliver of the doorframe was Xiao W, a male classmate from my track. Lifting his right index finger, he gave me a subtle, upward hook—a silent cue gesturing for me to step outside. 

Following him into the hallway, he asked me in a hushed tone, "Do you want to buy a collapsible umbrella?"
"I do! Where on earth can you get one?" I asked curiously.

In the local markets of that era, the only options available were standard, straight-handled black cloth umbrellas or those heavy, yellow oiled-cloth ones. As for the beautiful oiled-paper umbrellas manufactured in Hangzhou, very few ordinary households owned one. On rainy days, looking down any street or alley, all one could see was a sea of unevenly crowded black cloth or yellow oiled-cloth canopies. During Shanghai’s notorious Huangmei (Plum Rain) season, the drizzling precipitation was dreadfully relentless. Especially when the weather forecast predicted afternoon showers, one had to awkwardly carry a massive, cumbersome umbrella since morning—a massive inconvenience. Black cloth umbrellas featured iron ribs and were slightly lighter, whereas the oiled-cloth ones were dreadfully dense, structured with thick bamboo frames, and generally reserved for grown men. Opening an oiled-cloth umbrella was an exhausting feat; the bamboo frame was so notoriously rigid that we girls often had to prop the top of the umbrella flat against a wall or the floor, using our body weight to give a fierce shove just to force it open.

Xiao W offered a gentle smile. "Alright then. Meet me in front of the Literature and History Building at 8:00 PM tonight."

At precisely eight o'clock, I arrived at the designated spot. Xiao W, however, was nowhere to be found—but then, he had always been chronically late to lectures as well.

It was a cool, refreshing summer night. The Literature and History Building—a grand, imposing structure fronted by four massive classical columns—loomed with heavy solemnity. Under the dim glow of the streetlamps, it exuded a faint air of mystery. Being a science student, I had never once set foot inside its domain. Finally, his tall silhouette materialized beneath the streetlamps. Stepping up to me, he murmured that he wanted to take me somewhere secluded. Filled with curiosity, I followed him inside the building and up the flights of stairs, eventually arriving at a small landing nestled between the third and fourth floors.

From the outside, the building stood only three stories high, with every two flights of stairs marking a single floor. Yet, on the third floor, a staircase leading toward a theoretical fourth floor had been meticulously constructed, its design and craftsmanship identical to the levels below. A newcomer would easily assume that climbing these steps would lead straight to an upper floor. However, once you rounded the small landing between the two flights, you would be hit by a baffling sight: the absolute top of the staircase terminated squarely into a solid brick wall—perhaps there was a locked iron door leading to the roof built into it, but through the mist of decades, I cannot recall it clearly. Xiao W told me that the building was originally intended to rise higher, but construction halted halfway due to sudden budget cuts, leaving the architecture to terminate abruptly at the third floor. It made sense; otherwise, how else could one rationalize the existence of this redundant flight of stairs?

The tiny space on that landing felt incredibly cozy and secluded. Heaven knows in what year or by whose hands, a wooden double-school-desk and two wooden chairs with backrests had been hauled up there. From the stairwell landing below, the dim, amber light of the third-floor hallway reflected upward. A window opened on the north wall, allowing the stark moonlight to filter through the swaying silhouettes of the trees outside, scattering dynamic patterns across the floor.

Following his lead, I took a seat, my back turned toward the hallway below. Propping both elbows onto the wooden desktop, I interlaced my fingers to support my chin and looked up. "Where is the umbrella?"
Xiao W sat directly opposite me. Hearing my question, he unhurriedly retrieved an object about a foot long from his bag. It resembled a thick rod, encased in a beautiful nylon-silk sleeve. I watched with intense curiosity as he slipped the sleeve off, gripped one end, gave it a firm shake, and pressed a button—Thud! In a split second, the umbrella snapped open crisply in the air.

It was an absolute marvel to me! I had never laid hands on an umbrella so exquisitely lightweight and beautiful. Delighted, I took it from his hands and stepped closer to the window, examining it thoroughly beneath the moonlight. It was a beautiful lake-green canopy, patterned with broad white stripes running through the center and along the edges, with delicate, pale-brown floral prints meticulously detailing the borders where the colors met. It was truly breathtaking.

"Where on earth did you get this?" I asked, utterly charmed.
"A friend of mine just came back from Guangzhou with a few of them. The second I saw it, I thought you might like it." His smile carried a touch of boyish shyness.
"How much?"
"Nine RMB."

I counted out the money and handed it over. The transaction was officially complete, yet I found myself entirely hollow of any further conversation. I was a person naturally devoid of social grace, rarely initiating talk with anyone. Since childhood, my mother had forbidden me from crowding around the neighborhood girls, leaving my adult self clumsily tight-lipped. This sudden silence left me thoroughly at a loss.

We stood there in absolute silence by the window, neither of us uttering a single word. He stood to my right, separated from me by a tiny distance of perhaps two fists. In the moonlight and the dim reflection rising from the hallways below, his handsome face appeared slightly pale. This stillness, this haze, and the intense proximity of standing side by side caused my heart to lapse into a sudden, inexplicable panic. I had no idea what might unfold next, yet deep down, a part of me seemed to be harboring a quiet anticipation. Time itself felt infinitely stretched; every single tick of the silence felt as agonizingly prolonged as a century. This tiny landing, which should have felt cozy, began to feel thoroughly suffocating.

Yet, in the end, absolutely nothing happened.

I remembered the last time he had stood so incredibly close to me—it was April 12, 1980. Our track had organized a trip to Wuxi, which included a visit to the Zhanggong and Shanjuan Caves in Yixing. While descending the stairs inside the pitch-black shadows of a sharp turn in Shanjuan Cave, Xiao W had quietly trailed down behind me. Due to the complete darkness of that corner, whether by accident or design, his body pressed directly against my back. Wrapped tightly within his immediate aura, my heart rate violently accelerated, and a sudden wave of dizziness hit me. In that split second, the air had undeniably transmitted an unspoken, serene tenderness and surprise.

But now, standing before the window of the third-floor landing in the Literature and History Building, I finally summoned every ounce of my strength to fracture the silence. "It’s getting quite late," I said. "I need to make sure I am home before 9:30." Turning around, I bent down and carefully collapsed the floral umbrella that had been resting open on the floor. If I returned late, my mother would lock the door from the inside and refuse to let me into the house.

From that day forward, he frequently sought me out to "talk," stubbornly insisting that I become his girlfriend. His father was a well-known professor and department head at our university. Truth be told, I was genuinely afraid of offending his family, so every time he cornered me, I could only proffer a blunt, honest refusal: "Let's just be good friends. My heart already belongs to someone else."

Being a year my junior, he would be utterly crestfallen by my words. Beneath the pale mixture of moonlight and streetlamps, his handsome face would appear increasingly pale and melancholy—a sight that left me feeling entirely helpless. Generally speaking, if I felt a man stood zero chance of becoming my boyfriend, I was a woman of strict principle; I would tactfully refuse and never go out with him alone. Yet every time he came to find me, it was invariably right before it was time to clock out and head home. I, who was naturally incapable of spinning falsehoods, could never conjure up a single excuse to decline. With the deadlock unresolved, I would find myself blankly trailing behind him out into the city.

Our dates always began with us riding our bicycles for a stretch toward the downtown area. Then, we would dismount and begin mindlessly push-walking our bikes along the streets. During those long walks, both of our spirits were dreadfully low. We walked on and on as the night slowly bled into darkness. Our stomachs growled with hunger, and our legs were marched to absolute exhaustion. Internally, a suffocating agitation consumed me; my chest felt as though a volatile flame were burning, on the absolute verge of exploding. Whenever my eyes caught a glimpse of a roadside residential outdoor water tap, a wild, manic impulse would surge within me—I desperately wanted to rush over and gulp down mouthfuls of raw water, douse my burning head under the freezing flow, or simply throw my face to the heavens and scream into the night.

Yet, despite this exhausting tension, he continued to ask me out to "talk" time after time. Xiao W was undeniably handsome, and his movements on the ping-pong table were exceptionally graceful and dashing, yet he was completely devoid of romance. I, on the other hand, was someone whose mind had been deeply steeped in forbidden classical literature, and my heart fiercely yearned for grand romance. Aside from his repetitive demands for me to be his girlfriend, he seemed entirely hollow of any words of courtship. Our rendezvous consisted strictly of tramping the endless streets, each pushing a bicycle. When we grew weary, we would simply halt wherever we happened to be—sometimes amidst the dust of a construction site, other times inside a completely deserted, skeletal open-air vegetable market. Heavens, there wasn't a solitary shred of poetry or moonlight in sight.

If they loved me, I didn't want them; I only wanted the ones I loved. In the Shanghai dialect, there is a specific word, "zuo"—meaning to be demanding, stubborn, or impossibly finicky. In everyday matters, I was never like that. But when it came to choosing a life partner, I was incredibly, unapologetically "zuo." All of my ideal lovers lived painfully within the pages of classical world literature, struggling under the sweeping pens of master authors like Balzac, Hugo, Romain Rolland, Stendhal, Colleen McCullough, Charlotte Brontë, Voynich, Jane Austen, Dickens, Zweig, Rousseau, and Tolstoy. It was those deep, melancholy, grandly ambitious, yet profoundly tortured souls that held an absolute fascination for me. I was so young, so incredibly foolish, and so hopelessly romantic back then, completely detached from reality. Little did I know that the road ahead would inevitably narrow down to the mundane, circular chore of dealing with pots, pans, firewood, rice, oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar, and tea.

My mother had long since reached a definitive verdict on my character: "Your heart is as high as the sky, but your fate is as thin as paper," she would tell me, decreeing that I possessed "the disposition of a lady, but the destiny of a servant." Looking back now, my mother was truly a detached sage, having seen through and voiced this celestial decree far too early. If only she had chosen to see through my nature without speaking it aloud.

Once, our aimless steps led us to an open-air market, which I recall was on Jiaozhou Road. Late at night, the market was hollow and entirely barren of people. He stopped his pace, deciding that this was the spot where we needed to "talk." Along both sides of the road stood rows of rudimentary vending tables—wooden surfaces resting on iron frames, a few wrapped in sheets of weathered galvanized iron. The edges of the road were stained with the grimy residue left behind by the daytime vegetable trade, while the dead center of the asphalt was washed in a dull, ashen gray beneath the moonlight. The air hung thick with the faint, rotting stench of discarded cabbage leaves. Enclosed within such a grim setting, my spirits plummeted to an absolute abyss. Unable to take another step, I sat down upon a relatively clean vending table, leaning my back flat against an iron pillar, while he stood silently before me.

By then, all our circular arguments had been entirely exhausted. We both attempted to use absolute silence, weaponized by our respective versions of "sincerity," to somehow convert the stubborn soul standing opposite us. Drilled to absolute exhaustion by this unanswerable deadlock, I lowered my head once more, closing my eyes to feign sleep. Yet, when I opened them again, I was startled to find him standing right in front of me, quietly weeping in the darkness. In that split second, a faint ache of paternal compassion involuntarily surged within my chest. Yet, I knew with absolute certainty that I could not—and must not—offer him any comfort. I could not afford to transmit a single signal that could be easily misinterpreted.

On another occasion, Xiao W suddenly said to me, "I did some digging. That crush of yours already has a girlfriend." I was instantly struck dumb. I was utterly bewildered by how he had managed to decipher my inner thoughts, let alone discover exactly who was occupying my mind. At the time, I was harboring a secret, unspoken infatuation with a male student from the Class of '78 in the Physics Department—a secret shared with only two or three close female friends in my class. His look and bearing bore an uncanny resemblance to Sun Honglei’s character Yu Zecheng in the television drama Lurk—though the man of those years was younger, more refined, and fairer of skin. He always wore a crisp, immaculate light-gray Zhongshan suit (unlike Yu Zecheng's dark ones), his calculating, searching eyes hidden behind spectacles: permanently restrained, subtle, and profoundly inscrutable.

Even more shocking was his admission that he had traveled all the way to my old state farm fishery squad to conduct an official "background check" on me. In those days, ordinary citizens could never simply cross institutional boundaries to dig into someone's profile on a whim; it strictly required an official, stamped letter of introduction from one's work unit. Xiao W told me that the heads of my fishery squad had nothing but praise for me, saying I was an excellent person. These two elaborate, state-sanctioned investigations proved that he was dead serious; he was approaching me with the genuine intention of making me his wife. He even mentioned once that his father held a highly favorable impression of me.

Romain Rolland once wrote: "The one who loves is unloved, the one who is loved does not love, and even those who love and are loved in return are destined to part sooner or later."

In January of 1981, we officially graduated. Both Xiao W and I were incredibly fortunate to be retained by the university, assigned to work side by side at the Institute of Educational Technology.

From April 10 to 12, 1982, the young staff members of our institute organized a trip to Hangzhou. In those days, scenic spots were not yet choked with the massive crowds of tourists seen today. We walked a full circle around the West Lake, surrounded by a lush tapestry of vibrant peach blossoms and weeping willows. It truly lived up to the ancient proverb: "Above there is heaven; below there are Suzhou and Hangzhou."

At dusk, we strolled along the Su and Bai Causeways. The evening breeze was cool and refreshing, bringing a sense of beauty that words could hardly capture. When we reached Hupao Spring (Tiger Spring), I used a cup to scoop up some fresh water to drink. Catching a moment when the others were looking away, Xiao W gently took the cup from my hand. Locking his intense, soulful eyes onto mine, he pressed his lips precisely against the exact spot where mine had just rested and, with practiced nonchalance, began to drink. That boy truly possessed a staggering amount of audacity. During that same excursion, we also traveled to Heshan along the banks of the Fuchun River.

One quiet afternoon in late April, I was lost in my books inside the second-floor editing suite. Suddenly, someone dropped a heavy stack of books onto my desk with a resounding Thud!

"These are for you," Xiao W’s voice rang out simultaneously. Heaven knows when he had slipped into the room, but he had crept in on tiptoe and was now standing right alongside my shoulder.
"Good heavens, you scared the wits out of me!" I looked up, and out of pure physical reflex and self-defense, my hand shot forward, delivering a fist straight toward his left upper arm. Normally, I never harbored the rude habit of throwing punches at anyone; the moment my fist flew halfway and realized it was a familiar face, the momentum dissolved into a weak, harmless loose fist, tapping him lightly.

"Heheh," he grinned. "This stack of books is for you to study. The entrance exam for the Night University is coming up in June. Hurry up, review these, and go take it."
"An exam for what? What Night University?" I stared at his handsome face in absolute bewilderment.
"Ha! You mean you don't know? Our classmate Xiao Z has already been studying in the Night University’s Mathematics Department for a whole year."

The Xiao Z he mentioned was also retained from our technical diploma track, though she worked in a different department. She was my closest confidante on campus, yet I had been kept entirely in the dark about this—even though I had just run into her two days prior. "Are you planning to take it too?" I asked Xiao W. He nodded firmly.
"Good grief! Why on earth didn’t you tell me sooner?" Glancing at the towering stack of mathematics, physics, and chemistry textbooks, I panicked. How could anyone possibly digest all of this within a mere two months?!

"Don't worry, don't worry, we still have two months left," he offered reassuringly.
"What majors do they have?"
"Never mind the other majors, you're taking Mathematics! My father says that studying mathematics is the only path with a real future. The Night University offers a three-year associate track and a five-year bachelor's track. You are clever; you will absolutely get in! After graduating from the three-year track, you can test to become my father's graduate student, and then we can go abroad to pursue higher education together..."

"When is registration? How do we register? Where do we go to sign up?" At that moment, my mind couldn't possibly wander as far into the future as his did. Looking into his searching eyes as he romanticized our future, I could only throw out a barrage of practical questions.
"I will notify you when it’s time," he replied.
Xiao Z’s parents were both senior, well-known professors at our university. Living deep within the core faculty compounds, their family was always exceptionally well-informed.

Time slipped away, and decades later, in 2011, our old classmates re-established contact and organized a grand thirty-year reunion in Shanghai. Living abroad, I was unable to travel back to participate, but I spoke over the phone for the very first time with Xiao Z, who had long since settled in California. To my astonishment, she bluntly asked a question that she had apparently harbored in her heart for decades. She asked me if my coveted post-graduation assignment to our institute—a placement everyone envied—had been won because I "used my female charms."

Haha! What a preposterous question from my old best friend! Children raised entirely within the insular academic bubble of a university compound possess a mindset that is brutally direct, almost naively innocent. Yet, if I forced myself to look at it from her perspective, it made logical sense: I was an outsider with absolutely zero family background or influence, yet I secured a coveted spot at the institute. Meanwhile, both of her parents were senior professors with ironclad institutional backing, yet she was assigned elsewhere.

But had my younger self possessed any inkling of having "charms" to barter, the stubborn self-respect and strict upbringing I possessed would have fiercely forbidden me from utilizing them. In truth, I had spent my entire youth plagued by an intense lack of confidence regarding my appearance, largely due to my teeth. My front teeth were slightly protruding. In 1970, while I was still in secondary school, I was selected by the school to audition for the city-wide "Top Ten Shanghai Hotel Attendants" recruitment drive. During the initial screening, I was publicly humiliated by a panel of interviewers clad in white lab coats. "Ah, what a pity! This girl looks so beautiful when she doesn't smile, but those two front teeth of hers...". Furthermore, I was terribly self-conscious about my height. A high school desk-mate had once informed me that 1.6 meters was the absolute "standard" height for a girl, and as I rose to 1.7 meters. My mother even used to tease me, saying my height was 'only good for catching camel dung.' Once, I timidly complained to her about being so tall. And do you know what she did? She cast a disdainful glance at me and scoffed, 'Well, hurry along to the kitchen, find a cleaver, and chop off your toes! And if that doesn't do it, find an axe and hack off your head while you're at it! Tche!' Back then, I didn't even understand the simple logic that being tall naturally meant having larger feet, so I constantly felt insecure about my height and the big feet that wore size 38 shoes.

When graduation assignments neared, I was internally frantic. Possessing zero background or networks of influence, I steeled my resolve, summoned every ounce of courage I had, and marched straight toward the Director's administrative offices—a territory I had never dared step into before. I didn't even know exactly who I was looking for, only that it needed to be whoever was in charge.

Trembling with trepidation, I pushed open the heavy door to the main office. To my absolute horror, the Director, the Secretary, and the Vice Director were all seated inside together. Completely hollow of confidence, my face burning crimson, I managed to stammer out a single, fragile sentence: "I... I would like to stay and work at the university, because it is close to my home." The second the words left my lips, I buried my head low and fled the room in a panic.

Years later, as I worked at the institute and grew closer to the Vice Director, Professor M, he laughed uproariously when recalling that afternoon. He admitted that my sheer terror, vulnerability, and helpless demeanor that day had instantly struck a profound chord of paternal compassion within him. He further revealed that it was he who had traveled to the state farms in the suburbs to recruit students. Sifting through a heavy stack of rejected Gaokao profiles, his eyes had landed on the photograph attached to my examination permit. Finding my countenance clear and promising, he singled me out for the 30-person roster. My exam score was 290—a mere 10 points shy of the legendary 300-point regular university cutoff—so my academic foundation was entirely solid. Looking back now with a touch of irony, perhaps it was indeed Professor M who spotted a certain "charm" in that photograph, quietly altering the entire trajectory of my early life. They say that everything in this mortal world is meticulously orchestrated by the heavens, and that every unfolding arrangement is ultimately the absolute best outcome tailored for your soul.

That June, we both sat for the Night University entrance exams. When the results were published, I scored an 85 in Mathematics and was smoothly admitted into the program. His name, however, was nowhere to be found on the list.

On a sweltering summer day before the semester commenced, we had agreed to meet at the main gates of Zhongshan Park at 1:00 PM. He didn't materialize until 1:20 PM. In that intense heat, the air thick with the relentless, annoying buzzing of cicadas, combined with the frustration of waiting for someone who was dreadfully late, a wave of intense agitation surged within me. The moment we met, the very first words out of my mouth were, "If you want people to respect you, you must first respect others."

My tone completely lacked its usual tact; it must have deeply wounded his pride, especially compounded by the immense depression of having just failed his exam.

Perhaps the very next day, he brought a cassette tape up to my office, asking me to listen to the music inside frequently, saying it was his favorite. At the same time, he made a bizarre demand: whenever I was in the office, I had to keep the window wide open; if I wasn’t there—even if it was just to use the restroom—I had to close the window. Our buildings were connected in an L-shape; our offices sat on opposite sides, giving us a direct line of sight to one another if the windows were thrown open. After leaving the cassette tape and stepping out the door, he, a man traditionally defined by chronic indecisiveness, broke up with me for good with absolute finality.

Prior to that moment, we had never shared a solitary shred of "substantive" physical contact. I remember an instance when he came into my office, excitedly offering to teach me how to ballroom dance. I genuinely had no idea how to dance, but his movements were exceptionally graceful and dashing. Under the light, sweeping strains of Johann Strauss II's The Blue Danube, Voices of Spring, and the Emperor Waltz, we practiced our steps for about an hour inside the dimming office.

As we spun, my head grew slightly dizzy. The daylight was fading, leaving the room shrouded in a hazy, ambiguous twilight. The absolute second he pressed close, attempting to lean in for a kiss, my body acted on pure physical instinct. Slowly, desperately, I arched my torso backward away from him. He supported my lower back with his hand, his body pressing forward to close the gap, until my spine was pinned flat against the wooden surface of the desk, leaving me with absolutely nowhere left to retreat. Seeing how intensely I shrunk away from his touch, the warmth drained from his eyes, and he ceased to persist.

Moving in and out of the same building day after day, we were bound to cross paths. At first, during an encounter on the second-floor stairwell as he was walking up, I stopped formally and gave him a polite, formal nod. His expression, however, was chillingly cold.

His handsome face, which had once carried a touch of boyish innocence and a healthy flush, became brooding and pale from that day forward, and he grew increasingly tight-lipped and withdrawn.

Xiao W continued to attend the Night University as an unofficial auditing student in the Mathematics Department; rumor had it that if his academic performance kept pace after a year, his status would be formalized—an arrangement that undoubtedly relied on institutional privilege. Desperate to escape the sheer, unbearable awkwardness of facing him in the classroom every week, I swallowed my pride and approached a deeply sympathetic professor who had once taught us and had since risen to a university leadership role. I asked if he could orchestrate my transfer from the Mathematics Department to the Chinese Department.

The president of the Night University ultimately granted his request, but promptly summoned me to her office and gave me a severe scolding. Before that moment, I genuinely had no idea that transferring between the sciences and the humanities was strictly forbidden. Realizing I had caused an immense amount of trouble for this venerable, kind-faced female president, I stood there with a flushed face and a lowered head, feeling terribly guilty. I was so naive and ignorant back then, foolishly assuming that changing majors was as easy as turning over a palm. I hadn't bothered to look into the school regulations, nor did it ever cross my mind to offer a small gift to the person who had stuck their neck out to express my gratitude.

Following my successful transfer, my lectures at the Night University were conducted almost entirely within the Literature and History Building. During those massive classes, I intentionally sat at the very back of the classroom and strictly avoided contact with my peers. Partly, this was due to my naturally introverted temperament; I was tight-lipped, and at the time, I psychologically aspired to a state of absolute stoicism—never letting joy or anger show on my face. I remember that during the early days of China's reform and opening up, the earliest and only television commercial broadcast repeatedly on Shanghai TV was for Rado Swiss watches. The commercial featured blonde, blue-eyed Western models whose heads turned in slow-motion close-ups; every single one of their facial expressions exuded the enviable, unattainable aura of an "ice queen." Back then, I found that demeanor strikingly beautiful, and I consciously or unconsciously modeled myself after it in my daily life.

Secondly, the vast majority of Night University students were commuters who traveled by bicycle or public bus, which naturally provided them with brief opportunities for social contact along the way. I, however, worked on campus and remained within its walls. In those days, I strictly avoided speaking to male classmates around my age to keep trouble at bay. However, I lowered my guard around older, younger, or married men—though lowering my guard certainly did not mean initiating small talk. It wasn't until much later that I grew relatively familiar with three or four male students and an older female classmate we affectionately called "Lao A-Jie," allowing us to gather and chat during class breaks.

I vividly remember the year we graduated, when the entire class gathered on the grand lawn in front of the Literature and History Building, waiting to take our collective graduation photograph. Our class monitor turned to me and said a single sentence: "Fen, a couple of years back, you were just like a peacock, moving in and out of rooms with your head held so incredibly high." That was the solitary sentence he ever uttered to me across those entire five years.

In the classroom, we had a famous professor whose lectures were remarkably vibrant; his witty, humorous banter frequently sent the entire room into roars of laughter. Yet even then, I maintained a perfectly unbothered exterior, maintaining my practiced ice-queen demeanor. This stoicism apparently intrigued him; whenever he played video reference materials during class breaks, he would come over and deliberately take a seat right next to me. I suspect he was silently wondering how on earth this young maiden managed to remain utterly unmoved by his endless stream of wit. It brought back memories of my technical diploma days, taking advanced mathematics inside the Math Hall. Our tall, handsome math instructor had also been exceptionally cheerful and humorous. Once, during a break, he deliberately sat directly behind me while a crowd of students gathered around him, laughing and joking. I suspect he, too, must have been utterly bewildered: What is the matter with this girl, remaining completely untouched by my humor and good looks?

Yet, this consciously guarded aloofness, combined with my lack of suspicion toward older men, inadvertently invited a suffocating entanglement during my second year in the Chinese Department.

There was a male student in our track who was in his early forties, heavily built and relatively tall. Behind his spectacles sat a weathered, slightly dark, and stern countenance; he was likely the most senior student in the room. He was exceptionally sophisticated, worldly, and what we in the Shanghai dialect call "Lao Kui"—meaning arrogant, self-satisfied, and fond of pulling rank based on seniority. During class breaks, a crowd of students would invariably swarm around him, listening to his animated banter. Usually, by the time he walked into the classroom, the seats were almost entirely filled, and the lecture was on the absolute verge of commencing. As he walked down the aisle, classmates would frequently call out, warmly inviting him to sit with them. Every single time, he would deliver a dashing wave of his hand as a refusal but keep his stride moving forward, walking straight to my row and taking the seat directly beside me.

Around 1984, during my second year at the Night University, he suddenly approached me, claiming he wanted to introduce me to a potential boyfriend and inviting me to meet up at the Grand Theatre. After weighing it over, I thought, Why not? I was indeed no longer getting any younger, and the man who occupied my every thought (N) had already married and built a family of his own.

The Grand Theatre was situated near the Park Hotel and held a legendary reputation in the Shanghai of that era. Initially constructed in 1928, it stands as one of China's oldest surviving theatres, historically commanding the title of the "First Cinema of the Far East."

Yet, when I arrived precisely on time at the cinema entrance, I found him entirely alone. He didn’t utter a single syllable regarding the introduction of a boyfriend, and I, out of maidenly propriety, was too embarrassed to press the matter. As it turned out, he was the only one who sat through the entire screening right next to me.

To this day, I have entirely forgotten what film was screened that afternoon, but that was the very first time in my life—and to this day, the absolute last time—I ever watched a movie inside the Grand Theatre, and the experience was utterly wretched. Midway through the screening, he inappropriately draped his left arm over the back of my seat, looming over my shoulders. A wave of intense repulsion and discomfort washed over my heart.

The absolute second the credits rolled and we stepped out of the cinema entrance, he pointed toward an eatery diagonally across the eastern side of the street, casually declaring that he wanted to treat me to a sit-down.

Although I maintained a deceptively calm exterior, my heart was already blazing with fury. Just then, a Route 16 trolleybus pulled up to the stop right on the western side of the cinema. Without offering a single word of thanks or uttering a goodbye, I turned on my heel and took off in a swift sprint, leaping onto the bus and heading straight home. I truly lacked a bit of social refinement back then; consumed entirely by my own intense discomfort, I didn't give him a single opening to explain, leaving him awkwardly stranded on the bustling, chaotic Nanjing Road.

The following day in class, he deliberately moved several rows behind me. During the break, he walked over with a stern face and handed me a color photo of his family of three, showing that he had a happy family. His unspoken implication was designed to humiliate me, hinting that my own thoughts were unpure and that I had completely misinterpreted his "pure intentions."

Though I maintained my practiced nonchalance on the surface, a quiet wave of second-guessing and regret rippled through my mind once I sat down: What if he genuinely meant to help me? What if the person he wanted to introduce had an emergency and couldn't make it? What if that person had merely stood at the cinema entrance as a stranger, looking at me from afar? What if... Yet no matter how I rationalized it, a fire smoldered in my chest. I recognized that I had been utterly toyed with, and to make matters worse, he had somehow claimed the moral high ground.

Following that incident, he even had the audacity to loftily inform me that while my physical appearance was decent, I "lacked inner depth" and that he needed to "guide and cultivate me." He bragged that his home hosted a literary salon every single weekend, where various cultural elites and intellectuals gathered to sip wine, drink coffee, listen to music, and discuss ideals, philosophy, life, literature, art, and politics. He loftily invited me to attend, claiming it would enrich my internal knowledge and elevate my humanistic cultivation.

His grand invitation left my stomach turning with revulsion. On the surface, I remained entirely noncommittal, but I absolutely, fundamentally never went.

From that day forward, whenever lectures concluded, he (Lao Aba) would invariably wait for me at the bicycle racks, no matter how long I intentionally dawdled inside the classroom. Dawdling was never in my nature; I was merely trying to kill time, harboring a desperate, futile hope that he might eventually grow tired and leave. Yet no matter how hard I tried, the moment I stepped out, he was always standing there like a fixture—impossible to avoid, impossible to escape.

He would aggressively insist on riding his bicycle alongside me to escort me for a stretch. His route home should have taken him toward the downtown district, a direction diametrically opposed to my own house, yet he clung to me like a piece of suffocating, sticky molasses that I simply could not shake off. I was plagued by an intense sense of frustration, with no one to confide in, and utterly powerless to stop him.

The following Sunday, since the environment in the office was far better than at home, I was spending my weekend inside the fifth-floor office as I usually did. Staring blankly out the south-facing window. Lost in thought, my eyes caught a glimpse of a figure in the distance below—it was Xiao W. He had just passed the iron-picket security gates connecting the main campus to the Shida Yicun faculty compound, walking toward the building at his usual unhurried pace. By that point, we had spent over two solid years shrouded in complete silence.

Since it was Sunday, the campus and the building were empty. I tapped on the window glass; the sound traveled, and when he lifted his head, I nodded and waved him up. He came upstairs, and I told him about the distress of being relentlessly harassed by "Lao Aba."

Following that talk, on Monday night after class let out past 10:00 PM, I intentionally delayed my departure. Peering through the western window of the Literature and History Building classroom, I scanned the dim clearing beneath the streetlamps. Near a massive tree, the bicycle racks were almost entirely empty. Yet, precisely as expected, "Lao Aba" was still lurking there. Two male classmates called out, inviting him to ride with them toward the city center, but he nonchalantly lit a cigarette and delivered a grandiose wave of his hand, telling them to go ahead without him.

The tiny, sharp spark of his lighter reflected coldly behind the lenses of his spectacles, sending a violent shiver down my spine. I was thoroughly at a loss, but I knew with absolute certainty that I could not remain inside the classroom any longer; once the building emptied entirely, being left alone with him would be infinitely more dangerous. Steeling my resolve, I slung my schoolbag over my shoulder and filed out into the hallway, shuffling dejectedly with the thinning crowd.

Just as I was at a loss, someone walked against the flow of the crowd and bumped into my right shoulder. Irritated, I looked up—only to lock eyes with a handsome face smiling at me. It was Xiao W! He had come to rescue me. A deep wave of relief washed over me from the bottom of my heart. Like catching a lifeline, I instinctively grasped his arm, and he naturally tucked my hand beneath his elbow, holding it secure. Feeling a weight lift from my chest, I turned and followed him straight up the stairs.

This marked the second time in my life I had ever ascended those specific stairs in the Literature and History Building with him. The first time had been that cool summer night four years prior, when he had magic-tricked that beautiful, lake-green Guangzhou collapsible umbrella into my hands. And on this night, standing once more before that familiar, secluded landing, every single ounce of my long-held prejudice and defensive armor completely dissolved into nothingness. I convinced myself that this man genuinely, truly cared for me, and looking back, I felt my past coldness toward him had perhaps been a bit uncalled for and harsh. Gazing at his handsome features, I thought to myself: He really is a decent guy after all. I might as well just be with him. Stop being so impossibly picky; I am already twenty-eight years old. 

I remember reading a passage from Stories to Caution the World (Jingshi Tongyan) when I was nineteen:

Twenty departs and twenty-one arrives,
To refrain from secret romance is to be a fool in stride.
Should the day come when fading beauty leaves you bare,
You may beckon with both hands, but no suitor will be there.

Back then, I thought twenty-one was still a lifetime away. I told myself that even if my beauty faded in the future, I would never stoop to 'beckon' like that.

Spring has come. Though it faltered time and again, it has finally arrived.

And so, we continued our romance as true lovers. Yet, mere days after we initially crossed that final line of intimacy, the night of the Qixi Festival arrived—Friday, August 3, 1984.

That evening, we strolled through the grounds of Zhongshan Park. The moonlight was as pristine as washed silver, casting a beautiful glow alongside the streetlamps through the swaying canopy of the trees. My heart was completely overflowing with sweetness and the intoxicating joy of new love. Yet, as we walked, his hand gently patting mine where it rested against his sleeve, he suddenly sighed, uttering a sentence with a profound sense of melancholy. It was a sentence that would instantly shatter our fragile dream into absolute dust, serving as the ultimate detonation for our final breakup.

He looked down and murmured softly, "Ah... if only a man could marry two wives."

Because he was holding me so tenderly in that exact moment, I actually harbored a naive flash of security and amusement. Half-joking, I asked him, "And who would the other one be?"

Without a shred of hesitation, he quietly pronounced a name. I knew exactly who it was—a young beauty from the Physics Department's Class of '78, whose crescent-shaped eyes would always radiate an incredibly sweet charm whenever she smiled. Her parents were senior professors in our university, and their family resided right inside the Shida Yicun compound.

That was my thinking at the time: Qixi—such a special day—and he was spending it with me; surely that meant he liked me. If he had acquired a girlfriend during the years I was turning him down, I would have had no grounds for complaint; after all, I had rejected him—could I really begrudge him finding someone else?

In the grand scheme of this entanglement, the fault lay with me for unwittingly disrupting their established peace. And to his credit, he had been relatively transparent; we had only been back together for a very brief period before he actively chose to say this out loud, rather than weaving an endless web of deception.

Yet, a quiet, aching voice inside my mind couldn't help but wonder: If only he had possessed the courage to lay his cards flat on the table a little sooner; if only he had spoken this truth before we crossed that final line of physical intimacy, it would have been infinitely better.

But in the end, I had simply been far too careless. At that time, I felt that Xiao W’s girlfriend and I were just like the snow and the plum blossoms from the pen of the Southern Song poet Lu Meipo: 'The plum must yield to snow three-tenths of its white, yet snow loses to plum a breath of fragrance.'

The morning immediately following the Qixi Festival, my mind was in absolute turmoil. I approached Xiao L—a male colleague six years my junior who had always functioned as my loyal, tag-along sidekick—and asked him to do some quiet digging. Xiao L immediately went to question Xiao W's rumored girlfriend; because they were all faculty children who had grown up together inside the Shida Yicun compound, everyone knew one another intimately.

Before long, Xiao L came bounding back, his face burning with fury. "I found out," he fumed. "Her boyfriend is indeed Xiao W."
"But... was that in the past, or are they still dating right now?" I pressed frantically. Within my heart, a pathetic, fragile sliver of hope still lingered; if it was merely a past relationship, the agony might be slightly more bearable. But Xiao L merely shook his head; he couldn't say for sure.

At that exact moment, the two of us were standing in the vast corridor landing just outside the fifth-floor stairs of the Institute. Teacher X happened to walk by from her office. Seeing a familiar face, Xiao L couldn't suppress his indignation and blurted out to her, "Xiao W is a scoundrel! He is playing both sides!"

Teacher X was also a long-time resident of the faculty compound and knew all their families well. The second her eyes caught my deathly pale, wretched countenance, she understood everything. Pulling me aside into a quiet corner, her tone deeply veiled yet profoundly maternal, she whispered, "Did Xiao W... bully you?"

In that heavily conservative era, "bullying" was a hushed, institutional euphemism used on university campuses. Its true, raw meaning was: Did he sleep with you?

Hearing those words, the protective armor I had been desperately fighting to maintain shattered instantly. Tears broke through my defenses, streaming uncontrollably down my face. Seeing my reaction, Teacher X let out a heavy sigh of sympathy, turned around, and manufactured an excuse to dismiss the furious Xiao L.

Holding my hands tightly, she looked at me with deep concern. "Do you want me to find a way to take you to the hospital for a urine pregnancy test?"

Young people living in the year 2026 can likely never comprehend the rigid reality of that era: back then, an unmarried young woman was strictly forbidden from obtaining a pregnancy test at a local hospital without an official, stamped letter of introduction from her employment unit. Teacher X was acting purely out of maternal compassion. And in truth, my period was indeed heavily late. My cycle had never been regular in my entire life; but before crossing that final line, a late period brought no fear because my conscience was entirely clear. Once you had actually committed the act, however, a late period brought a cold, suffocating panic to a young woman's soul.

Although I ultimately declined Teacher X’s offer and it was later proven that I wasn't pregnant. However, the "scandal" spread across the campus at an astonishing speed.

In an instant, all manner of characters took to the stage. Those who relished speaking in toxic cynicism, those who stood by to watch the spectacle, those who loftily claimed the moral high ground to condemn us, those who sought to flatter the Director's household by taking his side, and those who had always harbored a quiet envy and hatred toward me—they all surfaced. The vast majority of them possessed zero knowledge of the actual facts; they merely relied on hearsay to add fuel to the fire. Some pointed fingers at Xiao W, calling him a privileged playboy who used his father's academic stature to play both sides. But the vast majority of the venom was directed at me. The rumors viciously claimed that I was a social climber from a background of zero consequence, who had actively seduced the professor’s son out of vanity.

Xiao L, remaining fiercely protective of me, growled with indignation, "Fen, a man who truly loves you wouldn't dare to touch a single one of your fingers! A guy like Xiao W isn't a good person at all!"

"Where has spring fled? It leaves a lonely path with no tracks to trace. If anyone knows where spring has gone, call it back to come and dwell with us." —Huang Tingjian, "Qing Ping Yue"

During those weeks, the entire ECNU campus was smoldering with gossip. I felt thoroughly ruined, my reputation reduced to absolute ash. Meanwhile, Xiao W swiftly utilized his father's powerful connections to orchestrate an immediate transfer to another prominent university. In an era defining the "iron rice bowl"—where regular citizens were expected to remain at a single assigned post until retirement and the concept of "job-hopping" simply did not exist—he patted the dust off his trousers and vanished. I was left entirely alone, stranded inside that cold campus, forced to endure the daily whispers and sideways glances of passersby, quietly digesting the bitter taste of shame and discrimination.

The storm eventually grew wings and crashed into my family home. Returning to the house, I was subjected to a relentless gauntlet of lectures from my older brothers. It was, after all, a rigid era that preached "a single misstep brings eternal regret," where sleeping with a man outside of marriage meant you would likely never find a respectable husband for the rest of your life.

My father eventually found out as well. This time, however, he didn’t react as he had during my childhood missteps, when he would always make me to kneel before my mother to beg for mercy and escape a physical beating. Instead, as he looked at me, his eyes overflowed with pure heartache, regret, and profound helplessness. He simply offered a quiet instruction: "Whatever you do, do not let your mother know about this."

We all understood with absolute clarity that my mother, a woman who could never tolerate a single grain of sand in her eye, would have reacted with blinding fury—flinging me out of the house and severing our maternal bonds permanently. And once her old-world mind was made up, there was no turning back.

Learning that their baby sister had been so thoroughly wronged and humiliated, my eldest brother, third brother, and sixth brother marched straight to confront Xiao W in person. My eldest and third brothers maintained their composure, attempting to reason with him through the traditional frameworks of ethics, honor, and public justice. But my sixth brother had zero patience for high-minded lectures. He thrust his finger straight into Xiao W's face and snarled, "Don't you ever dare come looking for my sister again, or I won't be polite with you!"

Turning back to me, my sixth brother held my gaze, engraving his words into my mind syllable by syllable: "Fen, you must never, under any circumstances, involve yourself with him again. Do not let this become a psychological burden that ruins your future! What century do you think we are living in? A woman can absolutely still get married even if she isn't a virgin! But you must have real backbone now, and from this day forward, you must cut all ties with him completely."

In that black-and-white era, my sixth brother's words were a blinding bolt of light tearing through the dark clouds.

Yet, stranded in the depths of despair at the time, surrounded by the campus whispers, my inner world remained entirely barren. I hollowly believed that my life was broken beyond repair, and that no decent, respectable man would ever want to marry me.

Like leaves blown down by a strong wind, or flowers battered by a sudden rain.

Seeing my dejected state, a close girlfriend of mine offered a hilariously blunt piece of comfort: "What on earth are you afraid of? If men here don't want you, there's a whole world out there. Let me tell you, if you aren't appreciated within China, once you go abroad in the future, foreigners don't even like innocent 'virgins' who lack experience anyway! They prefer women who know how the world works!"

Despite her comforting words, the reality was that my younger self had always harbored a fierce disdain for Chinese women who lingered on the streets of Shanghai trying to strike up conversations with foreign men; it always felt like an act devoid of any dignity.

A person’s true colors should consist of: virtue, talent, learning, discernment, emotion, appearance, physical constitution, joys and sorrows, and the arts (music, chess, calligraphy, and painting).Conquering Regret: Nothing wastes time more than regret. Wallowing in an ocean of regret is a severe drain on the spirit. The remedy is simple: just wipe the words 'if only' from your vocabulary and replace them with 'next time.' One should ask oneself: 'Next time, if given the chance, I will...'

Yet destiny was preparing to play the ultimate, grand joke on my soul.

Who could have predicted that a few years later, it would be this exact woman—this fiercely independent, rational, and intensely proud woman—who would somehow cross paths and weave her destiny with my husband, J? In the end, I became the exact kind of woman I had looked down upon: falling in love with a foreigner, marrying him, packing my bags to turn my back on that country entirely, crossing the vast ocean, and establishing a life abroad.

In truth, I am a descendant of the Manchu Plain Yellow Banner. Upon our ancestral graves in Beijing, there once stood an imposing, majestic stone stele with a dragon head and tortoise base, said to be a royal gift bestowed by the Emperor himself. Had we gone back two or three hundred years, their families might not have even been able to climb high enough to claim kinship with mine. But history has a way of tossing people about; tigers depart and wolves arrive, and the wheel of fortune never stops turning. A nobility past its prime is absolutely nothing at all. 'Swallows that once nested in the halls of the Wang and Xie elites, now fly into the homes of ordinary commoners.'

Ah... life truly is like a grand play, unfolding act after relentless act, without a solitary moment to rest.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第三百六十四篇