《1989—1991日本紀事：派金宮的鋼珠、老虎機與『瓦盧一』的誘惑》

1989年11月參加了學校組織的見學（短期旅行觀光）活動回來後，找了工資高的在派金宮裡打工，每小時800日元。

但是得不償失，不僅要忍受賭場裡嗆人的煙味，嘈雜的視覺和聽覺環境，還受到了誘惑，下了班後也會去玩一會兒。坐在彈子機前不知不覺中時間就過去了。

先把500日元投入「投幣口」，下方的出珠口裡會滾出一些鋼珠。放進上盤裡，捻動開關把手，鋼珠就會沿著圓框內側左邊的弧線往上打。手勁兒用大了，這500日元的鋼珠，往上亂竄一會兒就打光了，沒打到點子上還都輸掉了。手上要悠著點，慢慢來，但是用力不足的話，鋼珠蹦得不高，也就會滑下去，浪費了。

在見學途中，聽第一次去派金宮一起玩兒的同學說，使的勁兒要恰到好處，將那鋼珠朝一個點打，下滑時遇到觸發口的機率就大，小的觸發口會滾出十顆左右的鋼珠。就接著玩兒，如果鋼珠滾進了下面中部的大觸發口的話，那就是贏了，開獎了。它會不斷地一開一合，吸進珠子吐出珠子，吸進的少吐出的多。

1989年的最後一晚我們說好是去參加J的一位私教學生家舉辦的派對的。結果我在派金宮裡忘了時間，回到家J已經去了。1990年的跨年時光是一個人度過的。

還有一次，是1991年12月7日回上海之前的頭兩天。我又去玩兒了，這次是玩老虎機，感覺玩老虎機比玩彈珠機自己更能控制。老虎機的玻璃窗裡有三個並列著滾動的輪子，上面有著不同的花樣和數字七。當輪子停下後，玻璃窗裡會有九個圖案，上中下各占一行，如果圖案花樣對齊了你就贏了，但是只有三個七對上了才是大額開獎。你摁按鈕時可以根據自己喜歡的圖案摁，比如數字七，以及小紅果櫻桃，還有BAR。一旦它們在頭一條出現的次數多了往往離開獎不遠了。當然了也不是你想讓這些「喜」性的圖案出來就出來的，有時候它們就是不出來，因為時間沒到。但是時間到了的時候，也就是走勢上升期，就比較容易摁出來。

每次投幣三枚鋼幣，當然了投放一枚或兩枚鋼幣也行，但機率小。投放一枚的屏幕中只有中間那一行圖案或字母對齊的才管用。如果三個七對齊了，但出現在上一行或下一行也沒用。好不容易三個七出現了，但失之交臂，會後悔。投放兩枚鋼幣的，數字或圖案對齊的有三橫道，都能贏。投入三枚鋼幣的，圖案與數字對角線對齊的也管用。但是如果自己覺得盈利週期沒到，就放一枚或兩枚鋼幣，跟機器耗時間也可以，一旦發覺有上升趨勢了，比如說，第一個輪子上的小紅果出現的次數多了，則馬上投放三枚鋼幣，錯過了週期就沒轍了。

那次我坐在一溜老虎機的第一台前，玩兒了很久，一次也沒開過獎。通過玻璃窗的縫隙往裡看，那滾輪下面一兩尺見方的空間裡堆滿了鋼幣。越是輸，越捨不得離開座位，擔心一旦離開了，別人上來一下子把我餵給老虎的「食物」都「吐」給他人了，這就虧大了。那天玩兒的人還真不少，往右邊看一溜人頭，但不知咋地，在我右側第四個位置上沒人久坐。一會兒來了一個，機子不久就開獎了，那人也沒接著玩，一般老玩家見機子開了都會盯著玩兒，不出幾把獎都不挪窩的。那天也就奇了怪了，只見那位置上來了一個，開獎了，走人了。又來了一個，開獎後又走了，眼見著第三個人，開獎又走了。我也輸得差不多了，想著去那個位置碰碰運氣吧，手裡就最後一把鋼幣了。當我剛剛坐下，不久就開獎了，接著玩，又開了，一連開了幾次。結果把我在第一台機器裡投放的鋼幣都吐給了我，還不止這些。好險！好險！差點兒就回不了上海了。

打這次之後我就決定不再去派金宮玩兒了。記得在派金宮裡打工的一位歐巴桑也跟我說過：「不要玩，不要玩，女人玩派金宮的都是『瓦盧一』人（悪い，不正經的壞女人）。」不僅會耽誤了自己，也會影響夫妻關係。

當時還聽說過一樁慘事——有位年輕媽媽把兩個孩子留在車裡，自己跑進去玩派金宮，等玩完出來，孩子在車裡已經斷氣了，興許是車廂裡空氣不流通，又興許是外頭太陽太毒、車裡悶得太熱。听完这样的新闻，心里更是发怵。这派金宫，我是彻底戒了。

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Chronicles of Japan (1989–1991): Pachinko Steel Balls, Slot Machines, and the Temptation of Being 'Warui'

After returning from a school-organized field trip (a short sightseeing tour) in November 1989, I found a high-paying part-time job at a pachinko parlor earning 800 yen per hour, though the loss ultimately outweighed the gain. Not only did I have to endure the choking cigarette smoke and the noisy visual and auditory environment of the gambling hall, but I also succumbed to temptation and would play for a while after getting off work. Sitting in front of the pinball machine, time slipped away without me noticing.

First, you insert 500 yen into the coin slot, and some steel balls roll out from the dispenser below. You place them into the upper tray, twist the control knob, and the steel balls shoot upward along the curved arc on the left inner side of the circular frame. If you use too much wrist strength, these 500 yen worth of steel balls will bounce wildly upward and run out in no time, losing everything without hitting the right spot. You have to take it easy with your hand and go slowly; however, if you don't use enough force, the balls won't bounce high enough and will simply slide down, wasted. During the field trip, a classmate who had gone to a pachinko parlor with me for the first time told me that the force applied must be just right, aiming the steel balls toward a single spot so they have a higher chance of hitting the trigger pockets as they slide down. A small trigger pocket will release about ten steel balls, allowing you to keep playing. If a steel ball rolls into the large trigger pocket in the lower center, you win—you hit the jackpot. It will continuously open and close, swallowing balls and spitting them out, taking in a few while pouring out many.

On the last night of 1989, we had agreed to attend a party hosted by one of J's private tutoring students. As it turned out, I lost track of time at the pachinko parlor, and by the time I got home, J had already left. I spent the New Year's Eve transition into 1990 all by myself.

There was another occasion, two days before I returned to Shanghai on December 7, 1991. I went to play again, and this time I played the slot machines, feeling that I had more control over a slot machine than a pachinko machine. Behind the glass window of the slot machine are three spinning reels side by side, featuring various patterns and the number seven. When the reels stop, nine symbols appear in the window, occupying the top, middle, and bottom rows. If the symbols align, you win, though only lining up three sevens yields a major jackpot. When pressing the stop buttons, you can aim for your favorite symbols, such as the number seven, the little red cherries, and the "bar." Once they start appearing frequently on the first line, a jackpot usually isn't far off. Of course, it's not as if these "auspicious" symbols will appear just because you want them to; sometimes they simply won't come out because the timing isn't right. Yet when the timing arrives—that is, during an upward trend—it becomes much easier to press and land them.

Each play takes three metal coins; of course, inserting one or two coins also works, though the odds are smaller. With one coin, only an alignment of symbols or letters across the middle horizontal row counts. Even if three sevens line up, if they appear on the top or bottom row, it doesn't count. Seeing three sevens finally appear only to miss out on them by a hair makes you regretful. With two coins, aligning numbers or symbols across any of the three horizontal rows wins. With three coins, diagonal alignments of symbols and numbers also count. However, if you feel the payout cycle hasn't arrived yet, you can insert one or two coins just to stall for time with the machine. The moment you sense an upward trend—for example, when little red cherries start appearing more frequently on the first reel—you immediately put in three coins; if you miss the cycle, there's nothing you can do.

That day, I sat in front of the very first machine in a long row of slot machines and played for a long time without hitting a single jackpot. Peeking through the gap in the glass window, I saw the space of one or two square feet beneath the reels piled high with metal coins. The more I lost, the more reluctant I was to leave my seat, worried that the moment I walked away, someone else would step up and have the machine "spit out" all the "food" I had fed the tiger—that would be a huge loss. There were quite a few people playing that day; looking to my right, there was a whole row of heads, yet for some reason, nobody stayed long at the fourth seat to my right. Before long, someone came over, and the machine soon hit a jackpot, yet that person didn't keep playing—normally, seasoned players will stick to a machine once it pays out and won't budge until they hit a few jackpots. That day was truly strange: someone sat in that spot, hit a jackpot, and left. Another person came along, hit a jackpot, and left again; right before my eyes, a third person sat down, hit a jackpot, and walked away. Having nearly lost everything myself, I figured I might as well try my luck at that seat, holding just my very last handful of coins. Almost as soon as I sat down, it hit a jackpot. I kept playing, and it hit again—paying out several times in a row. In the end, it spit back all the coins I had fed into that first machine, and then some. How close! How close! I nearly didn't have enough money to fly back to Shanghai.

After that incident, I decided never to play at a pachinko parlor again. I remembered an obasan (middle-aged woman) who worked at the parlor had also told me: "Don't play, don't play—women who play pachinko are all warui (bad) people." Not only does it hold you back in life, but it also harms marital harmony.

I heard around that time: a mother had left her two young children locked inside her car while she went in to play pachinko. By the time she came out, the children had already stopped breathing—perhaps from the lack of fresh air, or perhaps from the stifling heat inside the car.  Hearing news like that sent a chill down my spine. From then on, I gave up pachinko for good.

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.

第四百四十七篇

《1991歲末紀事：萬聖節面具、紅娘姻緣與上海「圓台面」》

東海大學國際會館 Tokai University International House

轉眼間1991年的萬聖節來到了，學校的國際會館按慣例要舉行外籍教師與家屬的化妝舞會。那晚我還帶了幾個女生一起去的，我的這件無袖衣裙還是一個台灣女生主動借給我穿的，她還拿了一對長長的翡翠耳墜給我戴，說是跟這件裙子很好的搭配，眼罩倒是自己做的。J沒刻意打扮，只是戴了一個長鬍子的京劇大花臉面具，他當年在上海戲劇用品商店買了兩個面具，另外一個也是京劇臉譜，給了我的朋友戴。

這照片的最右邊的那個大紅臉面具就是。她，小Z，是我1985年7月參加學校工會組織的黃山旅遊時認識的。她當時在華師大留學生食堂裡工作，後來學校組織留學生舞會時她叫上了我。這才認識了J，有了這段姻緣。一路走來機緣巧合，一環套一環，缺一不可。

小Z在1990年也來了日本。在我92年離開日本後，她也認識了一位住在我曾經住過的同一棟樓裡的東海大學加拿大籍的外教，之後便嫁給了他，相夫教子去了加拿大。她是通过我另一位朋友認識她丈夫的。那另外的朋友是我1987年在上海長風公園早鍛鍊打太極拳時候認識的小L，小L努力上進、好學好強，每天獨自來公園打一套太極劍，那套拳打得真是十分的漂亮。後來我把她介紹給了我在日本的鄰居W，W曾是西點軍校畢業的，也去過中國教書，後來也在東海大學任教。小L到日本時我已經離開了，我將人生地不熟的她介紹給了小Z，然後小Z才認識了她的丈夫。這一圈兒是不是把您給繞暈了？如果您有興趣，點擊這裡可以看到我與J認識過程中的神奇「推力」與「巧合」。《青春斷代史，1986：膳食科的暗道、哈桑的大格子手帕與專家樓403室的序幕》

回頭再說1991年那晚的鬼節舞會，到了會館的大廳裡，那真是五花八門，這大個子把自己打扮成富士山，他女友F扮成騎著馬在沙漠中行走的阿拉伯人，F也是中國族裔但是在加拿大出生長大的不會說中文，她也在東海大學教英語。那馬是她自己用紙板箱做的。

還有男扮女裝的、扮大相撲的、扮開刀醫生的、扮自由女神的、扮一隻大公雞的、扮日本武士的，還有幾個小孩兒扮成了小鬼。這對母女好像是俄羅斯人，小姑娘頭戴花環扮成個公主，跟她漂亮的臉蛋兒很相襯。歡聲笑語中度過了我的第二個萬聖節化妝舞會。跟第一次萬聖節舞會相比那種新鮮感找不到了，畢竟缺乏文化背景，沒有參與感。

1991年12月7日回上海探望母親和家人。這才一年多沒見面，我的倆侄兒跟我就顯得生疏了許多，倆小侄女兒還算比較貼心的。我給小女孩買了一些首飾，給小男孩兒一人一個小遊戲機，那時從國外可以免稅帶幾件家用電器進去。彩電、冰箱、洗衣機等稱為四大件，隨身聽、電子琴、微型計算器、和手錶稱四小件。我大哥的大女兒就托我給她帶了一個錄像電視一體機。

回上海也沒什麼事兒，除了輪流去幾個哥哥家吃飯，就是去華師大校園轉轉。畢竟在那兒呆了十年呢，舊地重遊和老朋友聊聊天兒還是蠻開心的。發覺我比較懷舊，看到校園裡多了一些拔地而起的新樓，覺得太突兀了，破壞了校園過去和諧、舒展的美。有時候想想我都快成「九斤老太」了，什麼都是過去的好。

我還特意路過曹楊二中看看，從這個角度看母校的大門和教學樓的外貌基本沒變。遺憾的是沒進去，估計門房也不會讓陌生人進去的。

老Y1991年12月於華師大

我還請老Y和她兒子去上海一家高級賓館吃了生魚片，幾年後她才告訴我，那次生魚片吃得她娘兒倆鬧肚子。還是腸胃不習慣，我吃了就沒事兒，當年70年代我在杭州灣五四農場漁業隊工作時，就站在河邊兒吃過直接從河裡撈上來的活蝦生吃。出國前我，老C和老Y關係比較鐵，那時候我們還算年輕，卻特別喜歡「裝老」，於是乎便相互稱老。記得當年我說我們現在是「老皮咔哧眼兒啦」，其實那時我們都三十不到呢。老C聽了哈哈大笑，說：「老皮咔嚓！」她學不了老北京的土話。後來老C去了德國，我也去了日本，輾轉來了美國，只有老Y還留在師大。

這張照片是那次（1991年12月）回上海時在師大新圖書館前拍的，我明顯胖了許多。那時沒有健身減肥意識，記得有一天在日本的一家大商場裡，突然感覺我的大腿根被內褲褲腿口勒的不舒服，不得不到商場的盥洗室裡將兩個褲腿口給各扯開一個口子。後來才知道是發胖了，是出國後吃的營養比過去豐盛太多造成的。

記得，那位曾在留學生食堂工作的小Z和另外一個上海過來的老朋友在1991年4月27日第一次來我日本的家做客，見面時就開玩笑地說：「啊呀呀～看看叫，儂搿啥都要快變成圓台面了。」不至於吧？！好朋友之間好開玩笑，怎麼誇張怎麼說。上海人關係比較鐵的朋友之間開玩笑喜歡把肥胖的臀部說成「圓台面」。這是我們那天吃飯的餐桌，在座的還有一位小男孩，是J在法國時認識的一位朋友的孩子正好來日本玩兒幾天。

以前每次跟J去吃意大利餐時我總喜歡點 Shrimp Fettuccine Alfredo (蝦仁奶油寬麵)，那濃郁滑順可口的奶酪奶油拌寬意大利麵條，味道好極了。後來聽J說那道菜好吃但很肥，吃了容易發胖，之後我就不敢再吃了。

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Chronicles of Late 1991: Halloween Masks, Matchmaking Fates, and a Shanghai 'Round Tabletop'

In the blink of an eye, Halloween 1991 arrived. As was the custom, the university’s International House hosted a costume party for foreign faculty and their families. I went that evening accompanied by a few female friends. A girl from Taiwan kindly lent me the sleeveless dress I wore, and she also gave me a pair of long jade earrings to wear, noting they would go well with the outfit. I made the eye mask myself. J didn’t go for an elaborate costume; he simply wore a Peking Opera painted-face mask with a long beard. He had bought two such masks at a theatrical supply shop in Shanghai years earlier, and my friend wore the other one—also a Peking Opera mask. That is the big red-faced mask on the far right in this photo. That friend was Xiao Z, whom I had met in July 1985 during a trip to Mount Huangshan organized by our school's labor union. Back then, she worked in the international student cafeteria at East China Normal University. Later, when the school organized a dance for international students, she invited me along—and that was how I met J, leading to our marriage. Looking back, it was a chain of remarkable coincidences, one link interlocking with another, not a single one dispensable.

Xiao Z also arrived in Japan in 1990. After I left in 1992, she met a Canadian instructor from Tokai University who happened to live in my old apartment building. They eventually married and moved to Canada to start a family. She met her husband through another friend of mine, Xiao L, whom I first met in 1987 during morning Tai Chi sessions at Changfeng Park in Shanghai. Xiao L was ambitious, eager to learn, and driven; she came to the park every day to practice a Tai Chi sword routine that was truly graceful. Later, I introduced Xiao L to my neighbor in Japan, W, a West Point graduate who had previously taught in China before joining Tokai University. By the time Xiao L arrived in Japan, I had already left, so I introduced her—a newcomer in a strange land—to Xiao Z. It was through this chain of introductions that Xiao Z eventually met her husband. Does this web of connections make your head spin? If you are curious, click here to read about the remarkable "nudges" and "coincidences" that brought J and me together.

Returning to that Halloween party in 1991: the scene inside the hall was a wild, eclectic mix. One tall guy had dressed himself up as Mount Fuji, while his girlfriend, F—who was of Chinese descent, born and raised in Canada, and didn’t speak any Chinese—came as an Arab riding a horse across the desert. She also taught English at Tokai University, and she had even fashioned the horse herself out of cardboard boxes. There were men in drag, people dressed as sumo wrestlers, surgeons, the Statue of Liberty, a giant rooster, and a Japanese samurai; a few children were even dressed as little ghosts. A mother and daughter, who appeared to be Russian, were also there. The little girl wore a floral wreath and looked just like a princess, a perfect match for her lovely face. Amidst the laughter and cheer, I spent my second Halloween costume party. Compared to the first one, however, the sense of novelty was gone—after all, I lacked the cultural background to truly feel a part of it.

On December 7, 1991, I returned to Shanghai to visit my mother and family. Although it had only been a little over a year since we last saw each other, my two nephews seemed noticeably more distant, while my two nieces were still quite affectionate. I bought some jewelry for the girls and a handheld game console for each of the boys. Back then, travelers were allowed to bring a few household appliances into the country duty-free. Color televisions, refrigerators, and washing machines were known as the "four major appliances," while portable cassette players, electronic keyboards, pocket calculators, and wristwatches were called the "four minor appliances." My eldest brother’s daughter asked me to bring her a TV-VCR combo unit.

There wasn’t much to do back in Shanghai; aside from taking turns having meals at my brothers’ homes, I spent my time wandering around the campus of East China Normal University. After all, I had spent ten years there, so it was truly a joy to revisit old haunts and chat with old friends. I realized I had become quite nostalgic—seeing new, towering buildings spring up felt jarring, disrupting the harmonious, open beauty the campus once possessed. Sometimes I think I’m turning into a bit of a "Madame Nine-Pounder" (a classic literary character known for always complaining that things were better in the past). I also made a point to pass by Caoyang No. 2 High School, my alma mater. From that vantage point, the school gate and the exterior of the academic buildings looked essentially unchanged. It’s a pity I couldn’t go inside, though in all likelihood, the gatekeeper wouldn’t have let a stranger in anyway.

I once treated Lao Y and her son to sashimi at a high-end hotel in Shanghai. Years later, she confessed that the meal had given them both an upset stomach—their digestive systems simply weren’t used to it. I, on the other hand, was completely fine. Back in the 1970s, when I worked on the fishing crew at Wusi Farm along Hangzhou Bay, I used to stand right by the water and eat live shrimp raw, straight out of the river. Before moving abroad, Lao C, Lao Y, and I were very close. We were still quite young then, yet we had a peculiar fondness for "acting old," so we took to calling each other "Lao" (Old). I remember joking once that we were all getting "old and crusty-eyed" (lao pi ka chi yan'er in Beijing slang)—even though we weren't even thirty yet! Lao C burst out laughing and tried to mimic me, mispronouncing it as "lao pi ka cha!" ("old and crackling!"), as she couldn't quite master the authentic Beijing accent. Later on, Lao C moved to Germany, and I went to Japan before eventually making my way to the United States; only Lao Y remained at East China Normal University.

This photograph was taken in front of the new library at East China Normal University during my trip back to Shanghai in December 1991. As you can see, I was noticeably heavier. Back then, I had no concept of working out or dieting. I recall one day, while browsing a large department store in Japan, suddenly feeling terribly uncomfortable because the leg openings of my underwear were cutting into my upper thighs. I had no choice but to duck into the restroom and tear a small slit into each leg opening. It wasn't until later that I realized I had actually gained weight—the inevitable result of a much richer, more nutritious diet after moving abroad.

I remember that on April 27, 1991, Little Z—who used to work in the cafeteria for international students—came to visit my home in Japan, accompanied by another old friend from Shanghai. The moment they saw me, she joked, "My goodness! Look at you—you’re practically turning into a 'round tabletop'!" Surely it wasn't that bad, was it?! Close friends love to tease each other, and the more exaggerated the remark, the better. Among particularly close Shanghainese friends, it’s common to jokingly refer to a plump backside as a "round tabletop." That was the very dining table we gathered around for our meal that day; also joining us was a young boy, the son of a friend J had met back in France, who happened to be visiting Japan for a few days.

In the past, whenever I went out for Italian food with J, I always loved ordering Shrimp Fettuccine Alfredo. Those wide pasta noodles tossed in a rich, smooth, delicious cheese and cream sauce tasted heavenly. Later on, when J told me that the dish was delicious but terribly fattening, I never dared to eat it again.

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.

第四百四十六篇

《草木皆冰：1991年紐約上州的晶瑩與殘敗》

1991年3月4日清晨，在紐約J母親家二樓臥室裡，被窗邊的嗒嗒聲喚醒。從窗簾縫中看到有裹著冰的樹枝碰在窗玻璃上嗒嗒作響。打開窗簾，哇！屋簷下垂著一溜溜晶瑩剔透的冰柱子。樹枝上掛著一嘟嚕一嘟嚕的冰珠子，陽光在上面跳躍令人眩目。好一個潤瑩瑩水晶世界，光燦燦明玉乾坤。

昨夜寒潮過院林，裹得枝葉都是冰。（不好意思，此處有剽竊之嫌，而且生生的把詩變成了順口溜，有失敬意。）

早餐也不顧得吃，只喝了口熱咖啡，就跟著J急步跨入了光怪陸離的，童話般的水晶迷宮裡。

後院的大小植物都裹著晶瑩剔透的冰，小溪裡的水比平日大、也比平日渾濁、嘩嘩地奔向遠方。溪邊的野黑莓也裹著冰。林子裡的灌木叢一片白茫茫朦朦朧朧的，好超然脫俗。

開車出去看看。路旁的大樹枝桿都被重重的冰坨子墜得彎著腰，有的嘎嘎斷裂。電線也裹著冰條兒低垂著在風中蕩蕩悠悠。遠處的林子象點著無數盞華麗的水晶燈，在晨光中迷離閃爍。微風中樹梢相磕碰發出玲玲琅琅的聲響。路邊的葡萄架上也都是冰，地上的草也被厚厚的冰裹著，想起了一句成語：草木皆「冰」挺形象的。

這是兩家Mennonites或Amish人的房舍，一輛馬車也被厚厚的冰裹得嚴嚴實實的。猜想那拉車的馬，這會兒一定躲在馬廄里暗自慶幸今天不用出工了。

時隔不久日頭高照滴滴嗒嗒的冰開始融化，猶如曇花一現那迷人的水晶宮殿消失了……街頭路旁的樹木出現了殘敗之象……如今回憶起來，依舊令人惘然若失……剛剛還晶瑩剔透，美的不可方物，一轉眼就變成了殘花敗柳。

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

All Grass and Trees Sealed in Ice: The Radiance and Desolation of Upstate New York in 1991

Early in the morning on March 4, 1991, in the second-floor bedroom of J's mother's house in New York, I was awakened by a tapping sound by the window. Through the gap in the curtains, I saw ice-coated tree branches knocking against the window pane, making a distinct tapping noise. Opening the curtains—wow! Row after row of crystal-clear icicles hung beneath the eaves. Clusters upon clusters of ice beads clung to the branches, and the sunlight dancing upon them was dazzling to the eyes. What a glistening crystal world, a brilliant and radiant universe of pure jade.

The cold wave swept through the courtyard woods last night, enveloping every leaf and branch in solid ice. (Apologies, this line flirts with plagiarism, and I have crudely turned a poem into a simple jingle, meaning no disrespect).

Not even bothering to eat breakfast, I drank just a sip of hot coffee and hurriedly stepped out with J into a sparkling, bizarre, fairy-tale-like crystal maze.

The plants of all sizes in the backyard were enveloped in crystal-clear ice. The water in the creek was higher than usual and muddier than usual, rushing noisily toward the distance. The wild blackberries along the creek were also coated in ice. The thickets in the woods were a vast expanse of hazy, misty white, looking incredibly detached from the secular world and refined.

We drove out to take a look. Along the roadsides, the branches and trunks of the massive trees were all bent low, weighed down by heavy blocks of ice, and some were snapping with sharp cracking sounds. The power lines were also coated in strips of ice, drooping low and swaying back and forth in the wind. The distant woods looked as though countless magnificent crystal chandeliers had been lit, shimmering and blurring in the morning light. In the gentle breeze, the treetops nudged against one another, making a clear, melodious, tinkling clatter. The grape trellises along the road were covered in ice, and the grass on the ground was encased in thick ice; it reminded me of an idiom: "all grass and trees are ice" (a play on "all grass and trees are enemy soldiers"), which felt very fitting.

These were the dwellings of two Mennonite or Amish families, and a horse carriage was also sealed tight and wrapped securely in a thick layer of ice. I imagined that the horse that usually pulled the carriage must be hiding inside the stable at this very moment, secretly rejoicing that it didn't have to go out to work today.

Before long, the sun shone high, and the ice began to melt with a steady dripping and tapping sound. Like a night-blooming cereus that flourishes for only a brief moment, that enchanting crystal palace vanished... Signs of withered desolation began to appear among the trees along the streets and roadsides... Looking back on it now, it still leaves me with a lingering sense of loss... Just a moment ago, it was crystal clear and beautifully peerless, yet in the blink of an eye, it turned into broken blossoms and battered willows.

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.

第四百四十五篇

《1992平行的空間：一場與靈魂、麻醉和時空隧道的撞見》

1992年2月21日星期五在日本，因流產而需要做手術。整個手術過程中醫生自然是忙碌的，但我也沒閒著。手術後我立刻坐在病床上急急忙忙、歪歪扭扭、錯字百出地把剛剛的那段經歷寫下來。但凡來探望的人，都會聽到我繪聲繪色地講述這段離奇的經歷。他們都納悶兒，剛剛做過手術的我，怎麼還能有那麼好的精神、體力，沒有應有的傷感和憂鬱。

以下是我記錄在筆記本裡的經歷，筆記本裡錯字百出，比如「想知道」，我卻寫成了「想只到」，這個錯誤好像是用電腦打字輸入拼音時才容易犯的啊，我當時是手寫，怎麼會犯這樣的錯誤。

我整理過的文字如下：

上午11：00進手術室，大約一個小時左右出來。使用全身麻醉不是第一次了，但是今天感覺很奇怪。前兩次腿骨的手術，麻醉時全部失去感覺。

但今天，當護士說開始加入麻醉劑時，麻醉劑從左臂彎處吊著的輸液管進入，瞬時的感覺是有股強風但不感覺涼，從腦的左面衝入，將我推出我的軀體。

接著是，順著這股勁力「我」這個我只有靈魂與眼睛存在，以光的速度在一個深奧的洞裡暢遊起來。在剛開始飛的時候我還低頭看了看，確實沒見自己的身子、手、腳。什麼都沒有，但能看，也能感到速度，就以為眼睛還在，其實肉眼在手術台上呢。

洞裡是明亮的，圍壁彷彿是以天藍與白色的塑料做成的，凹凸有致。我忽上忽下地飛著，突然一落千丈進入了一個個「房間」（那時的房間與生活中的不一樣）我在這「房間」裡到處找尋，想知道我在哪兒。

但那個地方現在想起來好像是宇宙的空間。空曠，一無所有，只有我的幽靈四處遊蕩。遠遠的、遠遠的可以聽到有人說話的聲音，是超慢速度的變聲的說話聲音。這可能是醫生與護士的談話聲。而我一直在尋找，想弄清我在什麼地方。

突然，我找到了我的軀體。當時的感覺是那個只有精神的「我」突然找到我的身體躺在什麼地方。剎那間，我已在軀體內。整個軀體還沒有形象，像一團濃霧，在顫抖，只有幾秒鐘，這抖動的東西形成了整個的我。有手有腳。我感到我的呼吸，同時感到下身有東西被拉出的感覺，腰酸痛。

我聽到我在呻吟，感到醫生在從下身取出什麼東西。感到一下輕鬆許多。感到我在大喘氣。我聽到我在說話，「Jesus」這是我第一句話，接著說「すいません」（日語：對不起。因為我立刻意識到了剛剛的說法不太好。基督教信仰中，Jesus是上帝的兒子，直呼其名是不尊重的。當然有西方人遇到突發的令人不快的事時，會脫口而出「Jesus!」那等於說「Oh no!」 。我當時一醒過來便嘟囔了一句「Jesus!」，表達的也是那個意思：天哪！難受極了！）。在淺醒半昏之時我不時的睜開無力的眼睛想弄清我在什麼地方。恍惚中我看到的手術室的無影燈與屋頂。

手術很成功沒有出血，只有黃色的液體流出一點可能是藥物。

手術後12點多J與K來過，他們是趁搬家的間隙來的。問了結果就走了。F、K、N來探望，送了三枝紅玫瑰花。 F幾乎每天來探望，她自己還要去醫院檢查。

之後很長的一段時間裡，我一直有一種期盼，總希望能夠找到誰（當然我沒有去找過），心理醫生或科學家能給我的這段經歷一個滿意的解釋。

油畫

這是用電腦打亮過的明亮度更符合當時的情景
This image has been brightened using a computer;
the brightness matches the actual scene back then much better.

1992年2月28日來到美國，開始長住。在1993年5月14日那一天，我試著將我的經歷體驗用油畫的形式表達出來。可是技巧不夠，沒有畫出一落千丈後那一間間，連在一起的不規則的「屋子」，其實是不同大小、深淺、自然相連的洞穴，以及那自然凹凸的洞壁。畫的是一雙帶著速度的我的眼睛，以光的速度，飛進一個深奧的洞，那是在一落千丈之前。如今想來當時的我是不是進入了「時空隧道」呢？

東海大學附屬醫院
Panoramic view of the hospital affiliated with Tunghai University

我在當時就讀的東海大學附屬醫院裡看病。婦人科醫師50多歲，他在給病人檢查時，是看不到病人的上半身和臉的。一間長方形大屋子的中間並排放置好幾個檢查床，床與床之間由一人多高淺藍色的布簾子隔著，床中間還橫掛著一塊簾子，形成H形狀。也就是說，這間大屋子當中橫向排列著五六個H布簾隔間。類似這個樣子：HHHHHH，這排H的一側靠走廊，另一側靠窗。兩頭的簾子一拉上就像個「日」字。

病人由護士領著從走廊一側進入H的小半間裡，換上護士遞過來的一件薄褂子，躺在檢查床上，腰腹部以下就被簾子隔到了另一邊，靜靜地等待。醫生帶著護士在靠窗的一側給病人挨個兒檢查。都檢查完了，換好衣服，病人才又一個個輪著被帶到大屋子頂頭醫生的辦公桌旁，坐聽醫生的講解，領取藥方。給我做手術的是個年輕的醫生。

在美國，去的基本上都是私人診所。我看過的婦科醫生中有男的也有女的。診所裡一般都有三四個檢查室。每個屋子裡就一個檢查床。病人換好褂子後在檢查床上等醫生。沒有簾子隔開醫生與病人，一般醫生檢查時還很友好、有的還很幽默地與病人交談、了解病情。一般男醫生給病人檢查時都帶著個女護士在邊上。

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

A Parallel Dimension in 1992: An Encounter with the Soul, Anesthesia, and a Time Tunnel

On Friday, February 21, 1992, while in Japan, I had to undergo surgery due to a miscarriage. During the entire procedure, the doctor was naturally busy, but I wasn't idle either. Immediately after the surgery, sitting on my hospital bed, I hurriedly and unsteadily scribbled down the experience I had just been through, my notes riddled with typos. Afterward, anyone who came to visit heard me recount this bizarre experience with great vividness. They were all astonished at how I could possess such excellent spirits and stamina right after surgery, lacking the sorrow and melancholy one would normally expect.

The following is the experience as recorded in my notebook. It was full of miswritten characters; for instance, instead of "wanting to know" (想知道), I wrote "wanting only to" (想只到). This kind of mistake seems like something easily made when typing with a Pinyin input system on a computer, yet I was writing by hand at the time. How could I have made such an error?

My refined transcript of the text reads as follows:

I entered the operating room at 11:00 AM and emerged about an hour later. This was not my first time undergoing general anesthesia, but the sensation today was very strange. During my previous two leg bone surgeries, the anesthesia caused me to lose all sensation entirely. Today, however, when the nurse announced they were administering the anesthetic, it entered through the IV line hooked into the crook of my left arm. Instantly, I felt a gust of strong wind—though it didn't feel cold—rushing into the left side of my brain, pushing me entirely out of my physical body.

Next, riding on this momentum, "I"—this version of me consisting only of a soul and eyes—began to roam freely at the speed of light through a deep, profound cave. When I first began to fly, I even looked down, and indeed, I could not see my own body, hands, or feet. There was nothing at all, but I could see, and I could feel the speed, so I assumed my eyes were still there; in reality, my physical eyes were lying on the operating table.

The inside of the cave was bright, and the surrounding walls seemed to be made of light-blue and white plastic, with natural contours and textures. I flew up and down, and then suddenly plummeted a thousand feet into one "room" after another (the rooms back then were different from those in daily life). I searched everywhere inside these "rooms," wanting to know where I was.

But looking back now, that place seemed like cosmic space. It was vast and completely empty, with nothing but my spirit wandering around. From far, far away, the sound of people talking could be heard—it was the sound of altered voices speaking at an ultra-slow speed. This was probably the conversation between the doctor and the nurses. Meanwhile, I kept searching, trying to figure out where on earth I was.

Suddenly, I found my physical body. The feeling at that moment was that the "I" who possessed only spirit suddenly located where my body was lying. In an instant, I was back inside my physical frame. The entire body did not have a defined shape yet; it was like a thick mist, trembling. For just a few seconds, this shaking thing solidified into the complete me. Hands and feet appeared. I felt my own breathing, and at the same time, I felt something being pulled out from my lower body; my waist was sore and aching.

I heard myself groaning and felt the doctor removing something from my lower body. I felt a wave of immense relief. I felt myself gasping for air. I heard myself speaking. "Jesus" was my very first word, and then I said, "Suimasen" (Japanese for "I'm sorry"). This was because I immediately realized that what I had just said wasn't very appropriate. In the Christian faith, Jesus is the Son of God, and addressing Him directly by name is disrespectful. Of course, when Westerners encounter sudden, unpleasant things, they will blurt out "Jesus!"—which is equivalent to saying "Oh no!" When I first woke up, I muttered "Jesus!" to express exactly that: Good heavens! This is agonizing! In a state of being half-awake and half-unconscious, I opened my weak eyes from time to time, trying to figure out where I was. Through the haze, I saw the shadowless operating lamps and the ceiling of the operating room.

The surgery was very successful with no bleeding; only a tiny amount of yellow fluid flowed out, which was probably medication.

After the surgery, around 12:00 PM, J and K dropped by. They came during a brief gap in their moving schedule. They asked about the result and left right away. F, K, and N came to visit and brought three red roses. F came to visit almost every day, even though she had to go to the hospital for her own checkups as well.

For a long time afterward, I always held a lingering hope, constantly wishing I could find someone (though of course, I never actually went looking)—a psychologist or a scientist—who could give me a satisfying explanation for this experience.

On February 28, 1992, I arrived in the United States to begin my long-term residency. On that day, May 14, 1993, I tried to express my experience and perception in the form of an oil painting. However, my technique was insufficient; I failed to paint those irregular "rooms" connected one after another after that thousand-foot plunge—which were actually caves of different sizes and depths, naturally connected, as well as the naturally contoured cave walls. What I painted was a pair of my own eyes carrying speed, flying at the speed of light into a deep, profound cave, right before that thousand-foot plunge. Looking back now, was I entering a "time tunnel" at that moment?

I went to see the doctor at Tokai University Affiliated Hospital, where I was studying at the time. The gynecologist was in his 50s. When he examined patients, he could not see the patient's upper body or face. In the middle of a large, rectangular room, several examination beds were placed side by side. The beds were separated from one another by light-blue cloth curtains that were slightly taller than a person. Another curtain hung horizontally across the middle of each bed, forming an H-shape. In other words, five or six H-shaped curtained compartments were arranged horizontally across this large room. It looked something like this: HHHHHH. One side of this row of H's faced the corridor, and the other side faced the window. Once the curtains at both ends were drawn, it looked like the character "日" (ri).

Led by a nurse, the patient would enter the smaller half of the H-compartment from the corridor side, change into a thin gown handed over by the nurse, and lie on the examination bed. From the waist and abdomen down, the patient would be separated to the other side by the curtain, waiting quietly. The doctor, bringing along a nurse, would examine the patients one by one from the side facing the window. Once all the examinations were completed and the patients had changed back into their clothes, they would be led one by one to the doctor's office desk at the far end of the large room to sit and listen to the doctor's explanation and receive their prescriptions. The doctor who performed my surgery was a young man.

In the United States, the places I visited were basically private clinics. Among the gynecologists I have seen, there were both men and women. A clinic typically has three or four examination rooms, with only one examination bed in each room. After changing into a gown, the patient waits for the doctor on the examination bed. There is no curtain separating the doctor from the patient. Generally, the doctors are very friendly during the examination, and some even converse with the patient humorously to understand the condition. Usually, when a male doctor examines a patient, he always brings a female nurse along to stand by his side.

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.

第四百四十四篇

《冰火交織的歲月：1990年的萬聖節皇后與古城遠足》

1990年1月底二月初我途經香港從廣州入關，回上海探望母親。奇怪這次回上海居然沒有一張照片。要不是護照上有出入境日期的戳，這次上海之行還真會落得無圖無真相了。

年輕時讀托爾斯泰的《安娜·卡列尼娜》很羨慕安娜的氣質，現在手頭寬裕了點兒，便在上海第一西比利亞皮貨商店買了一件貂皮大衣，那天是跟五哥一起去南京路買的。

那件大衣我只穿過一次，那是1991年1月，我們去銀座看歌舞伎演出。在日本天氣不冷，車裡都有暖氣，根本穿不了貂皮大衣。後來讀書打工穿那也不相襯。三是漸漸地有了保護動物的意識。那件大衣就一直被掛在壁櫥裡。用現代的語言就是我後來的生活是不斷地被降維的，所以也根本配不上穿貂皮大衣。越來越發覺我母親是個高人，她早早地透露了我是「小姐的身子奴才的命」，「心比天高命比紙薄」。

說到看歌舞伎演出，J常帶我去聽歌劇看戲劇。成長在特殊年代的我，藝術素養差文化底蘊不足，欣賞水平有限，就不太想去。有幾次他買給我的票子結果送給了同事，或他自己一個人去看的。現在想想我真是太不珍惜機會了，人家出錢看戲還不去。一般看完戲還會在外面用餐，J向來外食都講究環境幽雅和美食(gourmet food)。受西方古典文學藝術薰陶的同時享受美食，真是何樂而不為呢？！多年後等我再次有了白領工作後，還在波士頓專門花錢去聽歌劇賞析課，講師放錄像講解。課的中期和末期，由講師帶領學生去紐約大都會歌劇院看歌劇時，我卻因為飛機票、戲票、旅館費等花費太大而沒參加，只能一個人在家聽CD。

J在家裡也總是放著背景音樂，他喜歡古典音樂、爵士樂、和披頭士。這個我倒是不反感，改革開放後為了提高修養，我也聽了大量的古典音樂，當然只是在收音機裡聽的，和現場觀看表演的氛圍與感覺確實完全不一樣。

在認識J之前，我除了電影中的革命樣板戲、後來看的《雷雨》、《日出》劇本外，別的什麼戲劇都沒看過。1986年，是J第一次帶著我去劇院看上海芭蕾舞劇團的《天鵝湖》，去音樂廳聽由上海交響樂團演出的古典音樂會，上海民族樂團表演的民族音樂會，以及上海雜技團看雜技。中國首屆莎士比亞戲劇節在上海舉行那陣子，我跟他去看了由李默然演的莎劇《李爾王》。在日本跟他還看過《哈姆萊特》、《奧賽羅》、《羅密歐與朱麗葉》、《威尼斯商人》、《波西米亞人》、《蝴蝶夫人》。在紐約看了一場《蝴蝶君》。

其實，就算不懂唱詞、不了解劇情，只要親臨其境，也會被那恢宏的氣勢、精湛的表演、優美的歌喉、抒情的詠嘆而感染、感動的。莎翁的許多劇作我看過，1978年文革後首次公開發行世界文學名著時，我還在新華書店排隊、擠在櫃台前「搶購」過《莎士比亞全集》，所以觀看莎劇表演時好理解，不用猜，就能入戲。日本歌舞伎，我就是不知所云地看的。如果當時就有Google，情況就不一樣了，可以臨時抱佛腳上網事先做點兒功課，掌握一點基礎知識及文化背景再去看就不用擔心不感興趣了。

1990年二月初，回日本時途經廣州，住在我三哥原單位駐廣州辦事處的招待所，感覺安全些。那個招待所客房還算乾淨，但也是要到走廊盡頭去用盥洗室。

屋裡有四床位，當時只有我和一位30來歲的女生。她說我手上戴的一串銀首飾很漂亮，羨慕我能進出國境。那些銀首飾是J給我在泰國時候買的。當時我在泰國北部清邁騎大象時摔斷了腿，手術後住在醫院裡不能動，J每天出去轉轉，回來時都會帶點泰國風味小吃和一件銀首飾。那旅館同屋還主動跟我說她被一個香港男人包養著，平時就住在招待所裡等。估計那就是改革開放後最早期的二奶了。她是從上海來的，五官端正衣著並不妖艷，舉止也不風流做作。不知怎樣的經歷讓她選擇了做二奶這個不太體面同時又傷害了別人的角色的。我沒告訴她，我嫁的是老外，以免被她五十步笑百步。

1990年的萬聖節，在學校的國際會館舉行外籍教師與家屬的化妝舞會。J打扮成一個60年代熱愛和平的嬉皮士，在T恤上畫了一個象徵和平的符號。寫著「peace love」和「Off the pigs」，還拿硬板紙剪了一個和平符號掛在胸前，脖子上還掛了一串綠寶石項鍊。我是沒參加過這種舞會不知道要扮成啥，便找出曾經在我婚禮時穿過一次的黑真絲長裙戴了一個簡易的黑絨眼罩，坐在J的scooter後座上，轉小路去了會館，因為在日本不准scooter上帶人會被罰的。大家聚在會議室，各自打扮成一種形像，不同文化背景長大的我，是認不出來他們都扮的是啥。那天晚會結束時，主持人請歐洲來的醫學博士嘉賓推選一位舞會皇后，我居然榮幸地當選了。要求到前面亮相，我們二樓第一家的鄰居，過來合影蹭照。他是西點軍校畢業的，也去過中國教書，後來我幫他介紹了一位自立自強，努力上進的上海姑娘，太極劍打得很漂亮。

1990年聖誕節在家閒著沒事兒，J說出去轉轉。我們坐電車中途還倒了幾次車，大約四個小時後到了長野縣松本古城。假日期間遊人稀少，正是最佳時機。松本城有400多年的歷史，這樓叫天守閣，四周有護城河。雖然是冬季，河裡還能看到三兩隻水鴨和四五條紅鯉魚。呼嘯的冷風、空寂的遠山、參天的裸樹，使得灰沉沉空落落的古城愈顯肅殺淒涼。哪裡去了，曾經的主人？曾經的硝煙？人是最無情的，唯有夕陽長年累月不離不棄，一有機會就會光顧，給這孤寂的古城做個伴兒。耳畔似乎響起了那首淒美動人的歌：「長亭外，古道邊，芳草碧連天。晚風拂柳笛聲殘，夕陽山外山。」

從門前的走廊看，中間的那個山頂就是大山Oyama
From the corridor, the mountain peak visible in the distance is Mount Oyama.

1990年12月26日從松本古城回來第二天的，我們去大山遠足。大山上有座建於公元前97年左右的神社叫阿夫利神社。在海拔1250米的山頂上是本社。在海拔約700米的山腰上是下社。到下社除了坐纜車還有兩條山路，一條比較陡峭叫男坂，另一條相對平緩一些叫女坂。以前來時沒注意走的是男坂，這次注意到路標了。J問是選男坂還是女坂，他喜歡挑戰性強的，可我膽怯了走了女坂。山腳下的參道自江戶時代就有了，兩邊有小商店小餐館，我買了一條用竹子也許是木頭做的按摩器。

進了一家小餐館。這是飢腸轆轆地等食物上桌呢。大山好像是我家的後院，站門前就能看到山頂，但也得騎一個多小時的scooter到大山腳下。

路上看到富士山 Saw Mount Fuji on the way

1990年12月27日J開車做了一次短途旅行。行駛在山路上，下午就下起了大雪，雪越下越大，天色也漸漸暗了下來。到達白山一里野滑雪場時已是晚上9點，再過一個小時它就關門了，所以那裡只有幾個人。

在旅館裡安頓好後就去泡溫泉，這是我頭一回，也是到目前為止的唯一一次泡露天溫泉。先在浴室裡沖洗乾淨後，再到室外微微冒著熱氣的天然池子中。時間比較晚了水中只有一兩個人，茫茫夜空中飄落著片片雪花，飄然降落落在了髮梢肩膀和水中，周圍參差錯落的大岩石上積了一層白雪。岩石縫間的灌木與遠處的松林也披著銀裝。一不留神腳下遇到泉眼，咕嚕咕嚕那不斷冒出的泉水給人以正在被烹煮的錯覺。此處偏遠幽靜融於自然，不僅令人想起了柳宗元的小石潭記。只是大文豪的心情和處境使他感覺「淒神寒骨，悄愴幽邃」嘆曰「不可久居」。而我胸無大志、又無點墨，泡在溫泉水潭中神馳骨融樂不思蜀。面對美景感覺與大文學家、思想家大相徑庭。

出浴後渾身酥軟乏力，那種沉沉的搖搖欲墜的慵懶無力，如果有「侍兒扶起」果然好，但咱不在洗「華清池」那檔次。步履步履蹣跚，好不容易來到二樓大間休息室，找了塊空地兒，立馬跪倒如泥，像其他浴客那樣癱躺在榻榻米上。休息良久起來後，走到窗前，哇～窗前不遠處就是男子的露天溫泉區域，儘管雪中風景宜人但怎敢「久居」。下樓找到J，在旅館酒吧裡坐了一會兒，喝了一杯啤酒，居然花費比斯納庫（Snack Bar）裡的飲料還貴。

回來的路上到一家小飯館兒吃飯。熱情的飯店主人的兒子居然是當時很紅的大相撲大乃國康（Onokuni Yasushi），照片就貼在牆上。我們也跟老夫人一起拍了照片。

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Winter Chronicles of 1990: From Ginza Kabuki to the Snowy Night Hot Springs of Hakusan

Between late January and early February 1990, I traveled via Hong Kong and entered mainland China through Guangzhou to visit my mother in Shanghai. Strangely, not a single photograph was taken during this trip to Shanghai. If it weren't for the entry and exit stamps in my passport, this journey would truly have left no visual proof.

In my youth, reading Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, I deeply admired Anna’s elegant demeanor. Now that my finances were a bit more comfortable, I purchased a mink coat at the Shanghai First Siberia Fur Store. My fifth elder brother accompanied me to Nanjing Road that day to buy it. I only wore that coat once, in January 1991, when we went to Ginza to watch a Kabuki performance. The winter weather in Japan wasn't particularly cold, and since trains and cars were fully heated, a mink coat was utterly impractical. Later on, during my days of studying and working odd jobs, wearing it felt entirely out of place. Furthermore, I gradually developed an awareness of animal protection. Consequently, that coat has remained hanging in the closet ever since. To put it in modern terms, my life since then has undergone a continuous "downscaling," so I simply didn't belong in a mink coat anyway. I am increasingly realizing that my mother was a true sage; she saw through it early on when she told me I had "the desires of a lady but the life of a servant," and "expectations as high as the sky but a fate as thin as paper."

Speaking of going to Kabuki performances, J frequently took me to operas and plays. Having grown up during a unique era in China, my artistic background was quite sparse, my cultural foundation insufficient, and my appreciation limited, so I often didn't want to go. On several occasions, he bought tickets for me that ended up being given away to colleagues, or he went to watch the performances entirely by himself. Looking back now, I really didn't appreciate those opportunities—someone else was paying for the theater, and yet I refused to go. Generally, after watching a performance, we would dine out, and J always insisted on elegant environments and gourmet food for dining. Indulging in fine cuisine while being immersed in Western classical literature and art—why on earth did I refuse such pleasures? Years later, after I secured a white-collar job again, I specifically paid to take an opera appreciation course in Boston, where the instructor used video recordings to explain the pieces. Mid-way and at the end of the semester, when the instructor arranged to take the students to the Metropolitan Opera in New York to see live operas, I chose not to participate because the expenses for flights, theater tickets, and hotel rooms were too high. I could only sit at home alone and listen to CDs.

J also constantly played background music at home; he loved classical music, jazz, and the Beatles. I didn't mind this at all. After the Reform and Opening Up, in order to cultivate my own cultural refinement, I had listened to a vast amount of classical music—though, of course, only over the radio. The atmosphere and feeling of experiencing it live are indeed entirely different.

Before meeting J, my exposure to theater was limited entirely to the revolutionary model operas in movies, and later reading the scripts of Thunderstorm and Sunrise. I had never seen any other plays. In 1986, J took me to a theater for the very first time to see Swan Lake performed by the Shanghai Ballet Troupe. He also took me to the concert hall to hear classical music performed by the Shanghai Symphony Orchestra, traditional music by the Shanghai Chinese Orchestra, and acrobatic shows by the Shanghai Acrobatic Troupe. Around the time the inaugural China Shakespeare Festival was held in Shanghai, I went with him to see King Lear starring Li Meran. While living in Japan, I watched Hamlet, Othello, Romeo and Juliet, The Merchant of Venice, La Bohème, and Madama Butterfly with him. In New York, we also saw a performance of M. Butterfly.

In truth, even if one does not understand the lyrics or fully grasp the plot, simply being present in that environment allows one to be deeply moved and captivated by the grand scale, the exquisite performances, the beautiful vocals, and the lyrical arias. I had read many of Shakespeare's works; in 1978, when world literary masterpieces were officially published for the first time since the Cultural Revolution, I had lined up at the Xinhua Bookstore, squeezing against the counters to scramble for a copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare. Because of that, watching Shakespearean plays was easy for me to comprehend without guessing, allowing me to fully immerse myself in the performance. As for Japanese Kabuki, I watched it completely bewildered, with no idea what was being said. If Google had existed back then, things would have been quite different; I could have crammed beforehand by looking up information online to grasp a bit of the basic knowledge and cultural background, and then I wouldn't have found it uninteresting.

In early February 1990, on my way back to Japan, I traveled via Guangzhou and stayed at the guesthouse of my third brother's former work unit stationed in Guangzhou, which felt safer. The guest rooms in that facility were reasonably clean, though one still had to walk to the far end of the corridor to use the communal restroom. Each room contained four beds, and at the time, it was occupied only by myself and a woman in her early 30s. She remarked that the string of silver jewelry on my wrist was very beautiful, expressing envy that I could freely cross international borders. Those silver pieces had been bought for me by J during his time in Thailand. Back then, I had broken my leg while riding an elephant in Chiang Mai in northern Thailand. Following surgery, I lay immobilized in the hospital. J went out exploring every day, and whenever he returned, he brought back local Thai delicacies and a piece of silver jewelry. My roommate in that guesthouse casually confided in me that she was being kept by a man from Hong Kong, and usually just stayed at the guesthouse waiting for him. I imagine she was among the earliest examples of a "second wife" (mistress) following the Reform and Opening Up. She hailed from Shanghai, possessed regular features, dressed modestly rather than flamboyantly, and conducted herself without any loose or artificial behavior. I wondered what kind of life experiences had led her to choose the role of a mistress—a position that lacked dignity and caused harm to others. I didn't tell her that I was married to a foreigner, to avoid being a case of the pot calling the kettle black.

For Halloween in 1990, the university's International House held a costume party for foreign faculty and their families. J dressed as a peace-loving hippie from the 1960s, drawing a peace symbol on his T-shirt alongside the words "peace, love," and "Off the pigs." He also cut a peace sign out of cardboard to hang on his chest and wore a string of emerald-green beads around his neck. Having never attended such a party, I had no idea what to dress up as, so I unearthed a long, black silk dress that I had worn only once at my wedding and paired it with a simple black velvet eye mask. I sat on the back of J's scooter as we navigated back alleys to reach the hall, because carrying passengers on a scooter was strictly forbidden in Japan and carried heavy fines. Everyone gathered in the meeting room, each dressed in a unique persona; having grown up in a completely different cultural background, I couldn't recognize what most of them were supposed to be. Yet, at the end of the evening, when the guest presenter—a medical doctor from Europe—was asked to crown a "Party Queen," I was unexpectedly and honorably chosen. When I was called to the front to make an appearance, our neighbor from the first apartment on the second floor came over to join the photo. He was a West Point graduate who had also taught in China. Later on, I introduced him to a self-reliant, hardworking Shanghai girl who performed the Tai Chi sword beautifully.

Finding ourselves with nothing to do at home on Christmas Day in 1990, J suggested we head out for a stroll. We took the train, transferring several times along the way, and arrived at the historic Matsumoto Castle in Nagano Prefecture about four hours later. Tourism was sparse during the holiday period, making it the perfect time to visit. Matsumoto Castle boasts over 400 years of history; its main tower is called the Keep (Tenshukaku), surrounded by a moat. Despite it being winter, one could still spot two or three wild ducks and four or five red carp swimming in the water. The howling cold wind, the desolate distant mountains, and the towering bare trees made the gray, vacant ancient castle appear all the more bleak and sorrowful. Where had they gone—the former masters? The smoke of past battles? Human beings are the most heartless creatures; only the setting sun remains faithful year after year, seizing every opportunity to visit and keep company with this lonely fortress. In my ears, the hauntingly beautiful melody seemed to echo: "Outside the long pavilion, beside the ancient road, green grass touches the sky... The evening breeze brushes the willows as the flute residue fades, the setting sun lies beyond the mountains."

On December 26, 1990, the day after returning from Matsumoto Castle, we went hiking at Mount Ōyama. Perched on the mountain is a shrine founded around 97 BC called Oyama Afuri Shrine. The main shrine sits at the summit at an elevation of 1,250 meters, while the lower shrine (Shimosha) is located halfway up the mountain at about 700 meters. To reach the lower shrine, besides taking the cable car, there are two mountain trails: a steeper, more rugged path called Otokozaka (Men’s Path) and a relatively gentler one called Onnazaka (Women’s Path). On previous visits, I hadn't paid attention and had taken Otokozaka, but this time I noticed the signs. J asked whether I preferred Otokozaka or Onnazaka; he favored the greater challenge, but I lost my nerve and opted for Onnazaka. The approach path at the base of the mountain had been there since the Edo period, lined on both sides with small shops and eateries. I purchased a massage tool crafted from bamboo—or perhaps wood—and stepped into a small restaurant. There I sat, ravenously hungry, waiting for the food to be served. Mount Ōyama felt almost like our own backyard; standing at our front door, we could see the summit, though it still required over an hour's ride on the scooter to reach the base of the mountain.

On December 27, 1990, J took us on a short road trip. As we drove along the mountain roads, a heavy snow began to fall in the afternoon. The snowfall grew thicker and thicker, and the sky steadily darkened. By the time we reached the Hakusan Ichirino Ski Resort, it was already 9:00 PM, with only an hour left before closing time, so only a few people were around.

After settling into our inn, we went to soak in the hot springs. This was my very first time—and remains my only time to this day—bathing in an outdoor hot spring (rotenburo). After washing thoroughly in the indoor shower area, I stepped outside into the natural pool gently shrouded in steam. Because it was quite late, only one or two other people were in the water. Flakes of snow drifted lazily down from the vast night sky, landing softly on my hair, shoulders, and into the water. The surrounding jagged, scattered boulders were capped with a layer of white snow. The shrubs nestled in the rock crevices and the distant pine forests were likewise cloaked in silver. Unwittingly, my feet brushed against a geothermal vent, and the bubbling, continuously rising spring water gave the distinct illusion of being cooked alive. This remote, quiet spot dissolved entirely into nature, instantly bringing to mind Liu Zongyuan’s classic essay, An Account of the Small Stone Pond. Yet, the great master's somber mood and circumstances had made him feel "chilled to the bone and pierced by a quiet, profound melancholy," prompting him to lament that "one cannot tarry here for long." In contrast, possessing neither grand ambitions nor deep literary intellect, I soaked in the hot spring pool until my spirit soared and my bones dissolved, utterly ecstatic and forgetful of home. Confronted with the same beauty, my feelings diverged completely from those of the great writer and thinker.

Emerging from the bath, my entire body felt completely limp and exhausted—that heavy, teetering, delicious languor. If only I had "maids to help me rise," it would have been splendid indeed, but I was hardly in the league of bathing at the imperial Huaqing Palace. Tottering unsteadily, I finally made my way to the large rest area on the second floor, found an empty spot, and immediately collapsed like mud, sprawling across the tatami mats just like the other bathers. After resting for a long while, I got up and walked over to the window. Low and behold, just a short distance from the window lay the men's outdoor hot spring area! Even though the snowy scenery was delightful, how on earth could I dare to "tarry there for long"? I headed downstairs, found J, and we sat for a while in the inn's bar, sharing a glass of beer—which, to my surprise, cost even more than a drink at a snack bar.

On our way back, we stopped to eat at a small restaurant. The enthusiastic owner’s son turned out to be none other than Onokuni Yasushi, the highly celebrated Grand Champion (Yokozuna) sumo wrestler of that era, whose photographs were proudly displayed all over the walls. We even took a photograph together with the elderly matriarch of the establishment.

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.

第四百四十三篇