後來的一些日子裡，J常帶我騎車到處轉。他喜歡拍歷史建築和風土人情。他帶我去看了著名演員李默然主演的莎劇《李爾王》，看了上海芭蕾舞團的《天鵝湖》，聽了上海交響樂團演奏的西方古典音樂，以及上海民族樂團的民族音樂。長這麼大，現場觀看戲劇、舞劇和聽音樂會，對我來說還真是頭一回。這就像1982年秋天我參觀法國250週年繪畫展時的感覺一樣，內心相當震撼。那也是我第一次看畫展，是我遲到了的藝術啟蒙，感覺上自己的身心靈都得到了一個層次的提高。
至今，1986年8月2日在上海雜技場看演出的票根，還被我順手夾在字典裡保留了下來。看過這場雜技後不久，他就回美國了。這是我送他去虹橋機場時，他為我拍的一張照片。
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| 1986年8月6日虹橋機場送別 Seeing J off at Hongqiao Airport on August 6, 1986. |
回頭說說1986年6月15日那天，J帶我去了和平飯店。在裡面的禮品店裡，他給我買了一個葉子形狀的玉墜、一件綠色手工鉤織的真絲網眼衫、一件大紅真絲套頭衫、一件粗羊毛手工編織的棒針衫，以及一件淺灰色羽絨長大衣。那是J第一次給我買禮物。不好意思花他那麼多錢，買毛衣和羽絨大衣時我一再說：「不要買了，太多了。」可他好像就沒聽見一樣。儘管我心裡挺高興的，但同時真有些過意不去。跟他一起騎自行車去和平飯店的路上，我起初也不知道去那裡幹嘛，心裡猜想大概是他要帶我去各大賓館開開眼界。
以前交男朋友時，大多只是晚上壓個馬路，或在花前月下散個步，從沒下過館子，更沒有期待過什麼禮物。我從來不給我不喜歡的人有送禮物給我的機會。我媽常說：「吃人家的嘴軟，拿人家的手短。女孩子最忌諱的是懶、饞、貪、變。」
該來的總會來。6月18日，第一次也是唯一一次在403室的床上，在毯子下面他摸到我穿在身上自己做的棉布平腳短褲時，還幽了我一默：“Ah, you are still wearing your grandma's underwear.”（「啊，你還穿著你姥姥的短褲。」）這讓我頓時有些無地自容。是啊，都什麼年代了，他見過的西方或東方女人，估計早已穿上貼身性感、鏤空蕾絲的尼龍小短褲了。但當時我確實不知道世上還有這種「迷人的」內衣，也從沒關心過，一直都穿著自己做的大褲衩兒。
後來，專家樓門房的老阿姨跟我熟了，誇我坦蕩大方、有禮貌，說其他姑娘一進門就想往上溜，既不出示證件也不理人。有一次下樓後我跟她聊了幾句，她無意間透露說J的女朋友要來上海了。這事兒J之前跟我說過，他以前的女友要來中國過暑假，這是一年前他來中國時就約好了的。那天J下樓時，正好看到我跟門衛老阿姨聊天，臉上露出一絲狐疑。後來我跟他說了老阿姨說的話，J一下子警覺起來：“How did she know my girlfriend is coming? I’ve never told anyone. Could they be inspecting my mail?”（「她怎麼知道我的女友要來？我從來沒跟別人說過呀，莫非他們查看過我的信？」）
得知他有女朋友的事，我聽了倒也覺得很正常，畢竟那是來中國前就約好了的。至於他最終會選擇誰，那是他的事。我當時很固執地認為找對象應該是男追女，學歷高的追學歷低的，條件好的追差的。可我除了天性善良，其他什麼都沒有，所以我從來不主動。以前N兄也有女朋友，我也是後來才知道的。但我總覺得，如果愛情的獨木橋只能容一個人過去，搶先是可恥的。怪男方嗎？我其實也是有責任的，我被他的氣質舉止深深吸引了，無怨無悔地愛了，這就夠了。「兩情若是久長時，又豈在朝朝暮暮。」
J邀請我6月中旬一起去黃山旅遊。我事先跟他約法三章：一、我自己付自己的一切費用；二、他住他的豪華賓館，我住我的普通旅店；三、在公開場合不能有親密舉動，比如拉手。J聽了對我說：“I can’t wait to travel with you, I want to be with you.”（「我迫不及待地想和你一起去旅行，想和你在一起。」）
6月26日那天早上四點半，天剛濛濛亮，我們約好了在學校門前的69路汽車站見面，準備去上海長途汽車總站。然而，當我們興沖沖地來到總站的售票窗口時，卻被售票員冷冰冰地告知：他們不賣票給外賓。估計是怕萬一出了什麼事，他們承擔不起，而且當時長途汽車沒有涉外保險。無奈之下，我們又急匆匆地趕到上海北火車站，順利買到了火車票上了車，一顆懸著的心才總算落了定。
那天，我穿了一條自己做的黑色連衣裙，是用真絲雙縐面料做的，在領口和下擺處都鑲了大荷葉邊。那時自己真的不懂，出門旅遊本該穿著舒服方便的衣服，像我這樣穿著一條帶荷葉邊的真絲連衣裙去跋山涉水，實在有點不合時宜。
當我穿著這身黑色長裙走在火車車廂的過道上時，顯得高挑而飄逸。等我們找到一張雙人座位面對面坐下後，J略微出神地看著我，對我說的第一句話是：“You look like Anna today...”（「你今天的樣子，讓我聯想起安娜……」）
「對！安娜·卡列尼娜（Anna Karenina）。」沒等他說完，我就微笑著把話接了過來，「我當時做這條裙子時，心裡想的就是安娜。她在舞會上穿的就是一襲黑色天鵝絨長裙。當然了，我可沒有她那種閒雅和高貴的氣質。」
於是，我們便從托爾斯泰的《安娜·卡列尼娜》聊起，一路聊到了好幾部世界文學名著。不用多說，我也說不了幾句英語，但我哪怕只是提到小說的名稱，比如《日瓦戈醫生（Doctor Zhivago）》、《傲慢與偏見（Pride and Prejudice）》，或是書中主人公的名字，比如“Tess（苔絲）”、“Jean-Christophe（約翰·克里斯多夫）”、“Darcy（達西）”，他立馬就能心領神會，知道我說的是哪一部著作。我們用手比劃著，在紙上勾畫著，就這樣在嘈雜的車廂裡交談著。
那段時間我經常做有關J的夢，我把夢境用英文隨手記錄在紙上，他則坐在我身邊，極其認真地幫我修改裡面的語法錯誤。
這是我當時用破英語記下的一段夢：我夢見自己身處一個住了很多人的大房間裡，隔著窗子看見外面的J。我大聲喊著：“J! J!” 朝他揮手，但他根本聽不到也看不見。我很清楚他也是在找我，但是他的眼睛卻怎麼也跟我的對不上。後來他走遠了，我失去了他。過了很久很久，也許當我已經變成了一個老太婆時，才終於再次找到了他，我們都放聲大哭……
同样的夢我還做過一次，情節幾乎完全相同，只是大房間變成了一節綠色火車的車廂。夢裡，J逆著擁擠的人流拼命擠過來，在外面往車廂裡張望，在找我。但我無論怎麼向他吶喊、揮手，他都看不見也聽不到。車窗上彷彿起了一層大霧，白茫茫一片，他只能轉身朝著另外一個個窗子走去，繼續尋找。直到我們都老了，再相遇、相擁痛哭。
看著我用笨拙的拼寫寫下的 “I lost you... after long long time... I am old woman”，J在紙上用筆心疼地寫道：“Really? When?”（真的嗎？是什麼時候？）我用筆在下面回答：“In all my dream.”（在我所有的夢裡。）J看著，在旁邊寫下了：“I understand.”（我懂了。）
另外一張碎紙片上則記錄著另一個夢，我的英語依然漏洞百出，我寫道：“Last night, I lost you two times... I found you so hardly. Once of that I already crazy when I found you after long long time.”（昨晚我兩次失去了你。在夢裡我哭得很傷心。雖然最後我很艱難地又找回了你兩次，但其中一次，當我在很久很久以後終於找到你時，我已經瘋了。）他幫我將 hardly 改成 with great difficulty。
看著我這一整夜在夢裡流下的淚水，J在那張記錄夢境的紙張背面，用他那穩健、流暢的鋼筆字，寫下了讓我一輩子也忘不掉的話：
「妳做了好多夢！而且全是噩夢——還都是關於我的！這真讓我傷心。請妳放心，一定要有信心！我愛妳，寶貝，一定要快樂起來！至於妳的那些夢——對於妳這樣一個年輕、漂亮的姑娘來說，憂傷一點都不適合妳。自信才更配妳。而且——妳笑起來的時候更漂亮！」
看著他寫下的字句，我暗自心潮澎湃，火車的傳送帶已經喀噠喀噠地將我們帶到了站。在什麼地方下的車我已經記不得了，因為我是個糊塗蟲，出門旅遊就是一個跟著走，圖的就是個誤打誤撞得到的新鮮驚艷感。如果事先把旅遊手冊都翻爛了、對目的地的看點了如指掌，那一定會降低視覺與感官的衝擊力。
下了火車，我們還要坐長途巴士才能抵達黃山。好在這裡買車票沒遇到問題，只是長途汽車還有一個多小時才出發。車站附近有一片湖，沒幾步路的距離。可就在這短短的路上，有兩個勾肩搭背的中國男青年走過我們身邊時，其中一個鄙夷地說：「賣肉的」，那明顯是在罵我。
那三個字像刀子一樣，聽得我心裡難受極了。來到湖邊，我用英文告訴J，剛剛那個男的罵我是 “sell meat”。英語裡也許根本沒有這種語意和用法，我當時也不知道他究竟搞懂了沒有。但他顯然敏銳地感覺到我的情緒受到了極大的打擊，他沒有多說什麼，只是溫柔地陪著我坐在岸邊的大岩石上。我們將腿雙雙伸進冰涼的湖水中，水花拍打著腳踝。
到了黃山，他住進了涉外的高級賓館，那昂貴的費用我是無論如何也付不起的。我堅持我的約法三章，在附近的一家普通小旅店安頓了下來。
辦好入住後，我獨自在旅館的溫泉泡了個澡。那是一間極其簡陋的浴室，裡面只有一個長方形的水泥池子，熱氣騰騰的，四周甚至連扇窗戶都沒有。那是我一生中第一次泡溫泉，感覺倒也沒啥特殊的。洗完澡安頓好後，我去涉外酒店與J見面，我們一起在附近的一條小溪邊散步。夕陽殘照，那裡地勢緩和、流水潺潺、空氣清新，一路上幾乎沒有遇到任何人，感覺好美好美。
在山上一處沒人的地方，我們還拍了一張合影。山霧彌漫，我們的頭髮梢都有些濕潤。這是我第一次與男人拍合影，心裡還有點不好意思，雖然摟住了J，但頭還是不敢貼過去，脖子梗著朝外側將頭扭開。並不是不喜歡他，只是那份本能的羞澀讓我實在靠不過去。
相較於一年前跟老C一起過鯽魚背時的天氣晴朗、險峻風景讓人膽戰心驚；這一次我和J過鯽魚背時，正趕上了漫天大霧。峭壁和深谷全被朦朧的白霧遮得嚴嚴實實，視覺上根本感受不到危險，反而讓人在攀登時多了一種騰雲駕霧、輕盈飄逸的喜悅。
在黃山的這幾天，所有遇到的遊人——不論是機關單位組織的還是自行旅遊的，對我們都顯得非常友好。山道上，我隱約聽到有人在背後議論：“這小翻譯挺厲害的，翻山越嶺很能吃苦。”
那時候大家拍照，總覺得必須「以人為主」，每張照片裡都必須有「我」，否則只拍風景就是浪費了膠卷。那時普通人收入微薄，拍照是一件極其奢侈的事，怎能平白浪費呢？所以一路上看著J對著那些空無一人的奇松怪石和風土人情按下快門，我心裡還直犯嘀咕，覺得這老外的膠卷全都白白浪費了。直到很多年後我才真正明白，那些沒有「我」在內的風景照片，才是真正彌足珍貴的歷史遺跡。有時為了尋找純粹的美，我甚至還需要用 Photoshop 等軟體去手動擦掉照片裡的那個「我」。
回上海的一路上我們都是乘坐長途汽車，期間沒有受到任何阻攔。確實路途遙遠，路況也極其糟糕，一路上我們陸陸續續看到有十一輛車翻倒在路邊的溝裡，觸目驚心。
途中車子在一個小鎮停下來，大家去小飯店吃午飯。我那時從沒跟男朋友下過館子，根本不知道怎麼買、該點幾個菜。那時候雖然窮，但出門在外場面還是要撐，不能丟面子，於是我就要了四菜一湯。結果J一臉納悶地問我，為什麼要買那麼多菜。那時候在上海的飯店裡幾乎是沒有吃不完打包帶走的，飯桌上吃剩下的就扔在原地，那才叫氣派；如果幾個人吃飯沒有一桌子菜，就會顯得寒酸、小氣。
還有一次回程途中，司機突然將車停在了路邊，估計是告訴大家附近沒有廁所，而下一站還要開很久。有些女乘客下了車，結伴去比較偏僻的草叢就地解決。而所有車上的男乘客，包括J，也都下了車，十多個人就在長途車靠車門的一側排成了一溜，背對著車窗站著集體撒尿。我當時就坐在靠窗的座位上，眼睛不由自主地瞄過去，竟發現那些中國男乘客在解決內急時，還往J那個方向偷偷地看。
當我們終於疲憊地回到上海，乘坐上了那種兩截的「巨龍公交車」。前後車廂之間，腳底下是一個大轉盤，兩側和頂部則是由可伸縮的厚油布、鐵條與彈簧連接而成的。車子拐彎時，轉盤會跟著轉動，整個巨龍車的中部也會根據拐彎的角度相應彎折。那個地方的兩側各有一張香蕉形狀的長椅，俗稱「香蕉座」，一排可坐三到四人，坐在那裡總覺得隨着車身晃來晃去的。
當時車廂裡站著的乘客還不算太多，我和J就坐在這中間晃來晃去的香蕉座上。J坐在靠車頭右側香蕉座的前端，我坐在左側的中間。這時，一位孕婦挺著大肚子從前門艱難地上了車。她兩手輪換著抓住椅背上的把手，異常艱難地走向相對空一點的前車廂後半部。然而，一路上兩旁的座位上坐滿了乘客，卻沒有一個人站起來讓座。我們之間相隔了三五個人，我剛準備站起身引起她的注意，卻見對面的J已經長身站了起來。他大方地走過去，用溫和的手勢招呼孕婦過來坐下。
孕婦感激地道了謝。那一瞬間，巨龍車廂裡坐著的所有中國乘客，面部的表情都變得極其複雜、尷尬而微妙。看著他們那些扭過去的臉，我心裡五味雜陳。記得1960年代學雷鋒那陣子，中國人的精神面貌還是那麼純樸善良，車上尊老愛幼、給孕婦讓座是司空見慣的平常事。可到了1986年，在這個看似大解凍的城市車廂裡，人性的冷漠與偽善，卻需要一個外國人，用最自然的教養來上一堂無聲的道德課。
1986年6月22日，J給我寫下了一封長信。看著他那穩健的字跡，字裡行間那種毫無防備的炙熱，徹底擊碎了我心中殘存的所有自卑與拘謹：
「……妳在便簽裡說的話讓我深深動容。我對妳的感覺，正如妳對我的感覺一樣——只是我更不情願去表達、去說出『愛』這個詞。在我的生命中，我曾愛過幾次，但自從離婚後，儘管我也曾對幾個女性迷戀過，卻再也沒有愛過。但與妳在一起，我正體驗著多年未曾有過的情感。妳對我而言是如此珍貴，妳讓我感到快樂。妳的心靈很美，作為一個女人，妳同樣美麗。妳是如此誠實而熱心，我渴望妳，我渴望能更好地了解妳，渴望與妳交流。我過去的人生經歷，曾讓我對愛情充滿了憤世嫉俗（cynical），但與妳在一起時，我完全沒有那種感覺。有時候我想，妳能帶給我最極致的幸福。我已經告訴過我對妳的看法，但這裡還有更多：我認為妳敏感、聰慧且真誠。妳在過去的生活中承受了太多的痛苦，而那些痛苦絕不是妳應得的。我深深地同情妳，並且，我無比愛惜妳那謙遜的表達方式：『我的愛總是一場徒勞的努力。』妳用這句話，徹底贏得了我的心（You won my heart with this sentence）。 我同樣愛妳的勤奮，愛妳喜歡中國詩歌。儘管我讀不懂，但當妳把那些中國詩展示給我看時，我真的感到無比幸福。妳寫給我的信太美妙了，向我展開了妳的心靈，我想為此謝謝妳，告訴妳它們對我有多麼重要的意義。我愛妳那黑色（或是棕色？）的眼睛，妳的黑髮，妳光滑的面龐和完美的鼻子（！），妳溫柔的聲音，妳甜美、優雅的舉止，還有妳那敏銳的微笑。簡而言之，我認為妳是這個世界幸運地向我展現的一件寶藏（a treasure that the world has luckily revealed to me）。 我想贏得妳的心和妳的信任……補言（P.S.）：昨天我們擁抱和親吻時，那感覺就像是一瓶香檳在我的心裡砰然拔出了軟木塞（it felt as if a bottle of champagne had been uncorked in my heart）。」
7月2日，在我的語言實驗室控制室裡，J把他小指上戴著的那枚嵌著綠寶石的戒指取了下來，極其誠摯地戴在了我左手的無名指上。他看著我的眼睛，真心誠意地對我說：「請記住我，等我，我一定會回來的。」
那枚戒指是他當年就讀威斯康星大學麥迪遜分校（UW-Madison）時的「兄弟會戒指（Fraternity ring）」，二十年來一直跟著他走南闖北、周遊世界，戒指上早已帶有了些許歲月磨損的痕跡。
如今，我把這幾件精緻的小掛件、織錦緞首飾盒，連同這枚綠寶石戒指，靜靜地擺放在一幅我自己畫的油畫上面拍了幾張照片，光影交織，歷史的實物在畫布上泛著溫潤的光，視覺效果還蠻不錯的。
在這個存放葉子玉墜兒的織錦緞小盒子內側，我用筆悄悄上記錄下了我們之間那串如同 Conveyor Belt（傳送帶）般轟然向前的宿命坐標：「1986年3月15日初（相識），6月6日吻，6月18日交，7月2日戒。」
在很長一段時間裡，我自己心裡總固執地以為這個速度太過「丟人」了，簡直像坐著火箭一樣。要知道，當年我為N兄柔腸寸斷，從1980年的驚鴻一瞥，一直苦苦等到1981年5月28日的初吻，這中間熬了一年多，卻連「交」的邊都沒沾過。而從小W1980年夏天在師大文史樓賣花傘給我，到1984年他終於打破了我的水壺，這中間更是足足花費了四年的等待功夫。可如今跟J的速度，實在是太快了，快得如果按照我母親那種老北京的正統觀念，恐怕又要被怒斥為「太不要臉了」。
在他即將離開上海、飛回美國的那一天，我也給了他一樣東西。那是一個長方形的黃色織錦緞小禮盒，大約兩寸半長、一寸半寬。盒子裡面，躺著一縷我親手剪下來的青絲，用一根黃色的絲帶精緻地打了一個吉祥結，牢牢系著。那時我並不知道J是否懂得中國古代女子「剪一縷青絲作為信物」的結髮習俗，我也拙嘴笨舌地沒跟他多作解釋。
巧的是，那時候一首美國經典老歌《老橡樹上的黃絲帶》（Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree）正伴隨著它那段感人至深的背景故事傳入中國。黃絲帶在那個年代，恰好傳遞著所有人期待親人平安歸家的強烈心願。我的黃絲帶系著東方的青絲，就這樣留在了他的行李箱底。
等信的日子真是度日如年，那種未知的煎熬，讓我不禁在心裡暗自自問：我是另一個「蝴蝶夫人」嗎？真的好難受。直到九月初的一個下午，辦公室的收發員在對面二樓的樓梯窗口大喊：「芬，妳有一封從美國來的信！」她一邊喊著，手裡一邊揚著一封帶有紅白藍三色相間花邊的航空信。我的心瞬間狂跳了起來，馬上上樓去取這封我等了好久好久、甚至一度擔心永遠不會來的信。我用顫抖的手拆開了信封：「親愛的芬，我的天使，妳好嗎？」看著他落筆的第一行字，我剎那間淚如雨下。
在這封他離開中國後寄給我的第一封信中，他寫道：
「親愛的芬，我的天使，妳好嗎？自從那個炎熱的日子在上海機場，看著穿著漂亮白連衣裙的妳向我揮手道別，至今其實才過去了短短的18天，但這段時間在感覺上卻像隔了好幾個月。我多麼想念妳，多麼想再見到妳，我親愛的朋友。我很抱歉沒有更早給妳寫信（順便提一句，我將在9月13日抵達日本），但直到現在我才擁有一點點時間與自由。請妳理解，我一直在不斷地想念著妳，常常覺得自己彷彿仍和妳一起呆在上海……」
「所以，芬，請千萬不要絕望，一定要保持耐心。我絕對不會背叛妳。我也希望妳今年能努力讀書，對未來、對我們的未來保持良好的心態。妳送給了我『幸福』這份珍貴的禮物，而我願意付出我的一切作為回報。我讀著妳寫給我的那些紙條——用妳那雖然昂貴卻極其好笑的『滑稽英語』——但我能無比清晰地聽到妳的聲音，那是我如此深愛的聲音。我愛妳那充滿了情感與焦慮的、甜美的心思。每當想起妳，我都帶著極致的幸福與希望。」
到了1986年8月30日，J已經回到了他位於紐約州的父母家中。那是一個地處紐約州著名景點「手指湖（Finger Lakes）」區域、盛產葡萄與葡萄酒的寧靜小鎮。
在那個靠著跨國書信橫跨大洋的年代，J在太平洋那頭，因為在成都丟了駕照不能開父親的汽車，只能每天踩著自行車在小鎮上轉悠，或者去乾淨的湖裡游泳，在客廳裡用VCR錄像帶看著《蘇菲的抉擇》和《殺戮戰場》。在第二封信裡，他開始一字一字、笨拙而深情地夾雜著他那歪歪扭扭的漢字，跨越海洋來呼喚我：
「我的芬，我記住你……妳沒有給我寫信——你不寄信我！！為什麼？我想念妳，每天都在想妳，想知道妳過得怎麼樣，為妳擔心，希望妳一切都好……
華東師範大學現在怎麼樣了？妳的宿舍房間終於弄好能住了嗎？或者妳只是在讀書？用中文寫詩？我祝妳今年非常愉快。如妳所見，我一直在堅持練習我的中文，不僅是為了和妳說話，也因為在日本會用到很多漢字。這樣我也能在日本找到一些中國的影子——太好了！但我卻在那裡找不到妳——唉！好在如果妳看地圖的話，上海離日本其實並不算遠……帶著幸福，我常回憶起這一切！那場雜技，還有妳在黃山頂上，嘴裡輕聲哼著《費加洛的婚禮》詠嘆調的樣子……
吻妳JP.S. 請寫信給我，寄到日本，可以嗎？看不到妳、無法跟妳說話，日子真的很難熬。那感覺，就彷彿妳已經從地球上徹底消失了一樣……
P.P.S. 要勇敢！（Have courage!）——1986年9月23日」
看著信裡他回憶起我在黃山上哼唱的《費加羅的婚禮》裡的詠嘆調《再不要去做情郎》：「忘掉那情切切甜蜜接吻，忘掉那軟綿綿美景良辰。從今后得不到她的親近，好朋友美少年納西塞斯……」我心裡就好笑。J大概以為我是一個多麼有西方文化修養的高雅女性，可他哪裡知道，我們那時候除了8個革命樣板戲，哪裡能聽到什麼歌劇？！
那是我當年在杭州灣奉賢縣國營五四農場漁業隊時，經常聽隊裡一位開機動船和拖拉機的小潘哼唱而聽會的！小潘是個老三屆知青，老三屆在文革開始前已經受過正統教育，或者說是受到過西方文化的薰陶。他性格開朗，最喜歡開快船。那隻破舊的木頭漁船硬是被他開出了快艇的氣勢，那輛手扶拖拉機更是被他開出了如今寶馬（BMW）的速度。結果，1975年8月13日那天，隊裡放假，小潘也是熱心，用拖拉機送我們回上海的知青去老場部長途汽車站，走路的話得走45分鐘呢。但是在快到目的地時的一個九十度的急轉彎處，他沒減速，坐在拖拉機後面的我直接被甩了出去，當場摔得失去知覺，得了一場輕微腦震盪。
他平時最愛得意洋洋地、帶有點顯擺地哼唱各種老歌，因為那時我們根本聽不到老歌，更何況是外國的情歌。像印尼民歌《星星索》：「星星索，星星索……嗚喂，風兒呀吹動我的船帆，船兒呀隨風蕩漾，送我到日夜思念的地方。嗚喂……風兒呀吹動我的船帆，姑娘呀我要和你見面，向你訴說心里的思念。當我還沒來到你的面前，你千萬要把我記在心間，要等待著我呀，要耐心等著我呀姑娘……」還有阿爾巴尼亞民歌《含苞欲放的花》：「你含苞欲放的花，一旦盛開更美麗，你含苞欲放的花，盛開更美麗，只有在我的花園裡，只有在我的花園裡，才能找到你，來吧快來吧，我的玫瑰花，你快過來呀……」這些歌曲畫面感很強，都能令人產生無限的遐想。
沒想到，這段帶著農場泥土味的歌聲，多年後竟然成了J眼裡最神祕、最高貴的遠東浪漫。
**********************************
Chronicles of Youth, 1986: The Emerald Fraternity Ring, A Lock of Hair, and J's "Champagne Letters"
In the days that followed, J frequently took me riding around the city on our bicycles. He possessed a great passion for photographing historical architecture and the local customs of the people. He took me to the theater to see King Lear, starring the renowned actor Li Moran; he took me to see Swan Lake performed by the Shanghai Ballet; and we listened to Western classical music performed by the Shanghai Symphony Orchestra, as well as traditional pieces by the Shanghai Chinese Orchestra. Having grown up in such a restrictive era, experiencing live theater, ballet, and classical concerts was an absolute first for my life. It mirrored the profound emotion I felt back in the autumn of 1982 when I visited the exhibition of French paintings spanning 250 years—which had been the very first art exhibition of my life. It was my severely delayed artistic enlightenment; it felt as though my body, mind, and soul had been elevated to an entirely new spiritual tier.
To this day, the ticket stub from our visit to the Shanghai Acrobatic Grounds on August 2, 1986, remains perfectly preserved, slipped casually between the pages of my dictionary. Shortly after we watched that acrobatic performance, he returned to the United States. This photograph was captured by him, turning to snap a frame of me when I accompanied him to Hongqiao Airport to say goodbye.
To trace back to June 15, 1986—on that afternoon, J escorted me to the Peace Hotel. Inside the hotel gift shop, he purchased several gifts for me: a leaf-shaped jade pendant, a green hand-crocheted silk mesh blouse, a vibrant red silk pullover sweater, a thick hand-knitted heavy wool cable sweater, and a light gray long down winter coat. That marked the very first time J had ever bought presents for me. Feeling intensely self-conscious about spending so much of his money, as he was picking out the heavy sweaters and the winter coat, I kept repeating, "Don't buy it, it's far too much." Yet he seemed entirely oblivious to my protests. Although a secret wave of joy rippled through my heart, I simultaneously felt an overwhelming sense of being ill at ease. On our bicycle commute over to the Peace Hotel, I originally had zero inkling as to why we were heading there, secretly guessing that he merely wished to bring me into the grand international hotels to broaden my horizons.
During my previous experiences with boyfriends, our encounters consisted strictly of roaming the city streets at night or strolling hand-in-hand beneath the moon and flowers. We had never once dined out at a proper restaurant, nor had I ever anticipated receiving a single gift. I have never, in my entire life, handed a man I didn't care for the slight opportunity to present a gift to me. My mother always maintained a strict household rule: "If you eat a person's food, your mouth grows soft; if you accept a person's goods, your hand grows short. The traits a young woman must guard against at all absolute costs are laziness, gluttony, greed, and infidelity."
What is destined to come will always arrive. On June 18, during our very first and only intimacy beneath the blankets on the bed in Room 403, his hand brushed against the cotton, flat-legged underwear that I had sewn with my own fingers. He instantly cracked a witty piece of American humor: "Ah, you are still wearing your grandma's underwear." I felt an immediate, scorching rush of mortification, wishing the floor would swallow me whole. Indeed, what era were we living in? The Western or Eastern women he had previously encountered had undoubtedly transitioned into sleek, seductive, open-work lace nylon panties long ago. Yet at that time, I genuinely had zero awareness that such "glamorous" lingerie even existed in the world; nor had I ever paid it a shred of attention, having spent my entire life wearing these homemade, oversized boxer shorts.
Later on, the elderly woman working the gatehouse at the Foreign Experts Building grew exceptionally familiar with me. She praised me warmly for being thoroughly transparent, poised, and well-mannered, remarking that other girls invariably attempted to slip upstairs the moment they entered, refusing to display their identification or even acknowledge her presence. Descending the stairs one afternoon, I paused to chat with her for a brief spell, and she casually let slip the piece of news that J's girlfriend was arriving in Shanghai. J had actually mentioned this matter to me beforehand; his former girlfriend was traveling to China to spend the summer holidays, an arrangement they had locked into a year prior when he first arrived in the country. On that specific afternoon, J descended the stairs right as I was engaged in conversation with the elderly gatekeeper, a flicker of deep suspicion crossing his features. When I subsequently relayed the gatekeeper's words to him, J instantly grew defensive and alert: "How did she know my girlfriend is coming? I’ve never told anyone. Could they be inspecting my mail?"
Upon hearing the news regarding his girlfriend, I found it entirely reasonable; after all, it was a commitment stamped long before he ever set foot in China. As for whom he would ultimately choose, that remained strictly his own affair. During that era, I held a fiercely stubborn conviction that courtship must strictly consist of the man pursuing the woman—the highly educated pursuing the less educated, the privileged pursuing the less fortunate. Yet aside from a naturally kind and pure heart, I possessed absolutely nothing to my name; consequently, I never once took the initiative. Previously, Brother Ni had also harbored a girlfriend, a fact I only unearthed long after the fact. Yet I always maintained a firm belief that if the narrow single-plank bridge of love could only accommodate a single soul to cross, forcing one's way to the front was an utterly disgraceful act. Was the man to blame? In truth, I bore my own share of responsibility; I was profoundly captivated by his striking aura and sophisticated manners, loving him fiercely with zero regrets and zero looking back. That was entirely enough for me. "If two hearts are bound for longevity across time, what need is there to cling to day-in, day-out presence?"
J extended an invitation for me to travel to Mount Huang with him in mid-June. Prior to our departure, I established a strict three-point treaty with him: first, I would personally finance every single ounce of my own expenses; second, he would reside inside his luxury international hotels while I stayed inside my standard, budget local lodgings; and third, absolutely zero intimate gestures—such as holding hands—would be permitted in public spaces. Upon hearing my terms, J declared, "I can’t wait to travel with you, I want to be with you."
At four-thirty on the morning of June 26, right as the very first haze of dawn broke, we met at the No. 69 bus station right in front of the campus gates, preparing to commute to the Shanghai Long-Distance Bus Terminal. However, when we arrived full of excitement at the main ticket windows, the clerk coldly informed us that they strictly refused to sell tickets to foreign guests. It was highly probable they were terrified of bearing consequences should an accident occur, as long-distance buses carried zero foreign-certified insurance back then. Left with zero recourse, we frantically rushed over to the Shanghai North Railway Station, successfully secured train tickets, boarded the carriage, and only then did our pounding, suspended hearts finally settle into place.
On that morning, I wore a black dress I had sewn myself, crafted from heavy silk crêpe de Chine, with grand, billowing ruffles adorning both the neckline and the hem. In those days, I was entirely ignorant of the fact that when traveling, one ought to dress in comfortable, utilitarian garments; wearing a ruffled silk dress to trek through mountains and wade through rivers was, in reality, spectacularly ill-suited for the occasion.
As I marched down the narrow aisle of the train carriage wrapped in this long black dress, I appeared strikingly tall and floating. Once we secured a double seat and sat facing one another, J looked across at me with an absolutely transfixed, distant expression. The very first words that tumbled from his lips were: "You look like Anna today..."
"Yes! Anna Karenina," I cut in with a soft smile before he could even finish his thought. "When I was cutting the fabric for this dress, it was Anna I was picturing in my mind. She wore a sweeping gown of black velvet to the grand ball. Though, of course, I possess absolutely none of her leisurely grace or high-born nobility."
And so, we commenced our dialogue from Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, tracing our way down a long line of world literary masterpieces. Needless to say, my broken English prevented me from uttering more than a few complete sentences, yet the moment I scrawled the titles of the novels onto our notepad—such as Doctor Zhivago or Pride and Prejudice—or mentioned the names of the protagonists like "Tess," "Jean-Christophe," or "Darcy," he instantly caught my drift, knowing precisely which masterpiece I was referencing.
We gestured with our hands, sketching outlines upon the paper, conversing in that exact manner amidst the roaring clatter of the train carriage.
During that period, I frequently experienced vivid dreams concerning J. I would casually record these dreamscapes upon sheets of paper using my broken English, and he would sit right beside me, meticulously correcting my grammatical errors with immense seriousness.
Here is a dream I jotted down at the time in my fractured English: I dreamed I was inside a massive communal room where many people resided, and through the glass pane of a window, I spotted J standing outside. I called out to him fiercely: "J! J!" waving my hand toward him, but he could neither hear my voice nor see my gestures. I knew with absolute certainty that he was actively searching for me, yet his eyes simply failed to lock against mine. Eventually, he drifted away into the distance, and I lost him. After a long, long time—perhaps when I had already withered into an old woman—I finally discovered him once more, and we both broke down, crying bitterly...
I experienced the exact same dream a second time, the details nearly identical, except the grand room had transformed into a single carriage of a green railway train. In the dream, J was desperately forcing his way against a roaring, crowded current of passengers, peering through the glass from the outside, frantically hunting for me. Yet no matter how wildly I screamed his name or waved my arms, he remained completely blind and deaf to my presence. A heavy, dense mist seemed to have rolled across the train window, enveloping it in solid white; left with zero recourse, he turned away to proceed down to the next windows, continuing his search. It wasn't until we had both grown old that we finally crossed paths at the very end of time, falling into each other's arms and weeping in raw grief.
Gazing down at the phrases I had scrawled with my clumsy spelling—"I lost you... after long long time... I am old woman"—J took a pen and, moved by a deep ache in his heart, penned a note directly onto the paper: "Really? When?" I used my pen to respond underneath: "In all my dream." Watching my hand write, J scrawled along the margin: "I understand."
Another scrap of paper recorded an entirely separate dream, my English remaining riddled with errors. I had written: "Last night, I lost you two times... I found you so hardly. Once of that I already crazy when I found you after long long time." I was trying to convey that I had endured two bizarre dreams the previous night, losing him twice and weeping bitterly within the gloom. Although I managed to locate him twice with immense, grinding difficulty, on one of those occasions, when I finally tracked him down after an eternity had passed, I had already driven myself near mad with despair. He helped me change "hardly" to "with great difficulty."
Witnessing the torrent of tears I had shed through the night within my sleep, J turned that sheet of paper over. Upon the blank reverse side, utilizing his steady, fluid fountain-pen script, he penned lines that remain permanently burned into my soul:
"You dream a lot! And bad dreams too—and about me! That makes me sad. Please be reassured, feel sure/confident! (He deliberately drew a neat circle completely encompassing the exclamation mark.) I love you, baby, and be happy! But as for your dreams—for you, a young, pretty woman—sadness does not suit you. Self-confidence is better for you. Also—you are prettier when you smile!"
As I sat there, the ocean of his words churning through my heart, the train's conveyor belt had already rattled and clattered its way to our destination. Exactly where we dismounted has entirely slipped my mind, for I have always been a beautifully disorganized scatterbrain; when traveling, I simply follow along, chasing that raw shock of sudden, accidental wonder. Had I thoroughly memorized a travel brochure beforehand, possessing a perfect index of the landscape and its attractions, it would have undoubtedly diminished the fierce sensory impact of the actual vista.
Upon descending from the train, we required a long-distance bus to finally breach Mount Huang. Fortunately, securing bus tickets presented zero complications on this leg, though the vehicle wasn't scheduled to depart for over an hour. A lake sat a mere stone's throw from the station. Yet along that brief stretch of road, two young local men marching arm-in-arm strode past our shoulders; one of them deliberately said to me: "Mai-rou-de" (Meat-seller/Prostitute).
Those three words sliced through me like a razor, leaving my heart aching with an unbearable weight. Upon reaching the lakeside, I utilized my broken English to tell J that the man had just insulted me as a person who "sells meat." Such a semantic usage likely didn't even exist in the English language, and at that moment, I had zero inkling as to whether he grasped the absolute malice of the phrase. Yet he clearly sensed that my spirit had sustained a catastrophic blow; uttering not a single word, he merely sat beside me upon a grand boulder along the shore. We lowered our legs together into the icy-cold lake water, the ripples splashing softly against our ankles...
Upon our arrival at Mount Huang, he checked into his foreign-certified luxury hotel—the exorbitant cost of which was something I could not finance under any circumstances. Holding fast to my strict three-point treaty, I settled myself into a standard, budget local lodge nearby.
Once my lodgings were secured, I went to take a hot spring bath alone. It was a spectacular example of absolute primitiveness: a rectangular concrete pool tucked inside a cramped, windowless chamber sweltering with rising steam. That marked the very first hot spring bath of my entire existence, though the sensation struck me as nothing particularly extraordinary.
After washing up and settling in, I went over to the foreign-certified hotel to meet J, and we took a stroll together along a nearby running stream. Beneath the fading glow of the setting sun, the landscape was beautifully gentle, the water murmuring softly through the pristine, fresh air. We encountered almost no one along the way; it felt incredibly beautiful.
At a secluded spot up on the mountain, we also captured a photograph together. The mountain mist was heavy, leaving the tips of our hair slightly damp. It was the very first time in my life I had ever taken a photo arm-in-arm with a man, and a heavy wave of self-consciousness washed over me. Though my arms wrapped around J, I simply didn't dare lean my head against him; instead, I held my neck rigid, turning my face completely toward the outer edge. It wasn't that I lacked affection for him; it was merely that my systemic shyness kept me from collapsing into his embrace.
One years prior, when I had crossed the Herringbone Ridge alongside Old C, the weather had been blindingly clear, the perilous, sheer drop of the landscape leaving one trembling with fear. This time, however, as J and I crossed the ridge, we were engulfed by a towering, massive fog. The abysses and sheer cliffs were completely sealed beneath a heavy shroud of white mist; visually, all sense of danger vanished entirely, replaced instead by a weightless, floating joy, as if we were marching upon the clouds.
Throughout our days on Mount Huang, every single traveler we encountered—whether they arrived as part of an official state-run institutional tour or were rovers traveling on their own accord—displayed immense friendliness toward us. Along the mountain trails, I caught the faint murmur of voices whispering behind my back: "That young translator is quite formidable; she handles scaling peaks and clearing ridges without a single complaint."
In that era, when people captured photographs, their mindsets remained deeply traditional; they firmly believed that a print must be "centered around the person." Every single frame had to house "Me," otherwise a photo consisting strictly of landscape was viewed as a wasteful squandering of expensive film. Ordinary incomes were thin back then, and photography was an immense luxury; how could one dare squander it? Consequently, watching J constantly point his lens toward empty, exotic pines, bizarre boulders, and the raw scenery of local life, I harbored a quiet skepticism, thinking this foreigner was utterly wasting his rolls of film. It wasn't until many decades later that I truly comprehended the reality: those landscape photographs devoid of "Me" were the genuine, priceless historical artifacts of that era. Today, in my pursuit of pure aesthetic beauty, I even find myself utilizing software like Photoshop to manually erase that old "Me" from the frame.
On our journey back to Shanghai, we traveled entirely via long-distance buses, encountering zero interference along the roads. The distance was truly epic, the road conditions abysmal; peering through the window along the route, I counted a total of eleven vehicles, including trucks and others, lying overturned in the ditches by the roadside—a sobering, striking sight.
Midway through the journey, the bus pulled into a small rural town, and the passengers dispersed into a local eatery for lunch. Having never dined out at a restaurant with a boyfriend before, I possessed zero understanding of how to order or how many dishes would suffice. Though wealth was thin in that era, the mandatory code of public face had to be maintained; one simply could not lose dignity. Consequently, I ordered a grand spread of four dishes and a soup. Upon seeing the table, J looked entirely baffled and asked why I had ordered so much food. In the Shanghai restaurants of that period, the concept of packing leftovers to take home was practically non-existent; leaving the remains scattered across the table was viewed as a display of grandeur and style. If a group gathered to dine without a table overflowing with food, it was instantly judged as miserly and stingy.
On another occasion during the return commute, the driver abruptly halted the vehicle along the curbside, presumably informing the passengers that no restrooms existed nearby and the next leg would require hours of driving. Several female passengers dismounted, heading toward the more secluded foliage to relieve themselves on the spot. Meanwhile, every male passenger on the bus—including J—also dismounted, forming a long line of a dozen or so men in a single file right beside the side of the bus where the door was, standing with their backs to the windows to urinate collectively. I happened to be sitting right by the glass, my eyes catching the scene, and I noticed the local Chinese men repeatedly stealing sideways glances in J's direction as they relieved themselves.
When we finally returned to Shanghai, utterly exhausted, we boarded one of those two-section "articulated dragon buses." Between the front and rear carriages, a massive rotating turntable sat directly beneath the passengers' feet, while the sides and roof were sealed by an accordian bellows crafted from flexible heavy canvas, iron bars, and tension springs. Whenever the bus executed a turn, the turntable would rotate, and the entire middle section of the dragon bus would bend and pivot according to the angle of the curve. Fixed along each side of this pivoting section was a banana-shaped bench—popularly known as the "banana seat"—which could easily accommodate three to four patrons, though sitting there always felt as if you were constantly swaying back and forth with the motion of the chassis.
At that hour, the carriage wasn't overly packed with standing passengers; J and I sat upon these swaying banana seats in the middle. J sat at the very forward edge of the right-hand bench near the cabin front, while I sat in the middle of the left-hand bench. Just then, a heavily pregnant woman boarded through the front doors, struggling to steady herself. Her belly protruding heavily, she braced her weight by gripping the handles atop the seat backs, moving with immense, visible difficulty toward the slightly emptier rear section of the front carriage. Yet along the entire line of benches sat young, robust passengers who firmly kept their seats, not a single soul rising to offer her a spot. A distance of three or four people separated us; right as I braced my weight to stand up and catch her attention, I witnessed J already rising to his full height. He walked over with complete poise, using a gentle, courtly gesture to invite the pregnant woman to take his seat.
The woman offered her deepest thanks as she sat down. In that split second, the facial expressions of every single Chinese passenger seated within that carriage grew immensely complex, awkward, and heavily strained. Looking at their averted faces, my heart filled with a chaotic mix of emotions. I remembered the 1960s, during the heights of the "Learn from Lei Feng" campaign, when the spirit of the people was so pure, kind, and nurturing; honoring the old and cherishing the young, yielding a seat to a pregnant woman was a completely common, daily sight. Yet by 1986, within this supposedly "liberated" urban carriage, the raw indifference and collective hypocrisy of our society required a foreign outsider to step forward and deliver a silent, powerful lesson in basic human decency.
On June 22, 1986, J penned a long letter to me. Gazing upon his steady, fluid fountain-pen script, the raw, unvarnished intensity burning between the lines completely shattered every lingering shred of self-consciousness and reserve frozen in my heart:
"...I was very touched by what you said in your note. I will answer your questions. I feel the same way about you that you feel about me—but I am more reluctant to express it, to say the word love.Several times in my life I have been in love—but not since my divorce although I have been infatuated with several women. With you I am feeling emotions I haven't felt in years. You are dear to me; you make me happy. You are beautiful in your heart; you are beautiful as a woman. You are honest and warm-hearted. I want you. I want to know you better and be able to communicate with you.My experiences in life have made me very cynical about love but I do not feel that way with you. Sometimes I think you could make me supremely happy.I have already told you what I think of you but here is more. I think you are sensitive and intelligent and sincere, that you have had much pain in your life and that this has not been deserved. I sympathize with you and like the modest way you express yourself: 'My love is always a futile effort.' You won my heart with this sentence. I also like your studiousness and the fact that you like Chinese poetry. I was very happy you showed me those Chinese poems though I could not understand them. Your letters to me have been wonderful and have revealed your mind to me. I want to thank you for them and tell you how much they mean to me.I love your black (brown?) eyes, your black hair, your smooth face and perfect nose (!) your soft voice and sweet, gentle manner, your alert smiles.In short, I think you are a treasure that the world has luckily revealed to me. I want to win your heart and your trust—though you say I have these...P.S. When we hugged and kissed yesterday, it felt as if a bottle of champagne had been uncorked in my heart."
On July 2, inside the sanctuary of my language laboratory control room, J slowly removed a ring adorned with an embedded emerald from his pinky finger, sliding it with immense, solemn sincerity onto the ring finger of my left hand. Locking his gaze against mine, he stated from the bottom of his heart: "Please remember me. Wait for me. I will come back."
That band was his fraternity ring from his days at the University of Wisconsin-Madison (UW-Madison). For twenty long years, it had accompanied him across continents and around the world, its surface shadowing with the subtle, beautiful abrasions of time.
Today, I placed these exquisite keepsakes—the embroidered silk gift boxes, the jade pendant, and that emerald fraternity ring—directly upon a canvas of an oil painting I had brushed myself, capturing a few photographs. The interplay of light and shadow turned out spectacularly well, casting a warm, historical aura over the physical artifacts.
Within the hidden inner lining of that brocade box which housed the leaf-shaped jade pendant, I utilized a pen to quietly scrawl down that succession of fateful coordinates that had rattled like a conveyor belt through my youth: "March 15, 1986: Met. June 6: Kissed. June 18: Intimacy. July 2: Ring."
For the longest time, I harbored a fiercely stubborn notion within my heart that the sheer velocity of our courtship was something "disgraceful," moving at the blinding speed of a roaring rocket. Consider this: during my separate chapter of agonizing pining for Brother N, it took over a year from that initial blinding glimpse in 1980 just to reach our first kiss on May 28, 1981—and we never once breached the threshold of intimacy. As for Little W, from the summer of 1980 when he sold me that floral umbrella in the Literature and History Building of the Normal University to 1984 when he finally shattered my water pitcher, it required a staggering four years of patient waiting. Yet with J, the timeline had surged forward with such ferocity that, under the strict traditional household rules of my northern mother, it would have undoubtedly drawn a fierce reprimand for being "utterly shameless."
Yet on the morning he prepared to depart Shanghai and fly back to America, I handed him an unyielding token of my own existence. It was a rectangular gift box wrapped in yellow silk brocade, roughly two and a half inches long and an inch and a half wide. Bound meticulously within a bright yellow silk ribbon tied into an auspicious knot rested a single lock of my dark hair. At that moment, I had zero inkling as to whether he grasped the ancient Chinese custom of a woman presenting a lock of her hair (Qing-si) as a sacred token of devotion; tongue-tied as always, I offered no grand explanation.
Coincidentally, during that exact era, the American classic melody “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree” was filtering into China alongside its deeply moving background narrative. In those years, a yellow ribbon carried the universal, potent longing of a populace praying for a loved one's safe return. Tied to a strand of eastern hair, my yellow ribbon settled quietly into the dark bottom of his suitcase.
The days spent waiting for his mail crawled by as though a single year passed in a day; engulfed by the agony of the unknown, I couldn't help but ask myself silently: Am I to be another Madame Butterfly? The weight in my heart was truly unbearable. Until one afternoon in early September, the mail clerk of our institute building called out from the staircase window on the second floor opposite me: "Fen, you have a letter from America!" As she shouted, she waved an airmail envelope trimmed with its distinct, alternating stripes of red, white, and blue. My heart immediately commenced a wild, symphonic hammering against my throat. I bolted up the stairs to retrieve this parchment that I had awaited for an eternity—a parchment I had terrifyingly feared might never arrive. With trembling fingers, I tore open the seal: "Darling Fen, how are you, my angel?" Gazing at those very first lines, a sudden torrent of tears rushed from my eyes, and I wept bitterly.
In the very first trans-Atlantic letter he dispatched to me upon breaching American soil, he wrote:
Darling Fen,
How are you, my angel? It has been only 18 days since I last saw you on that hot day at the Shanghai airport waving goodbye to me—you in your pretty white dress—but it (the time) seems like several months. How I miss you and how I would like to see you again, my dear friend. I must apologize for not writing you sooner (by the way I arrive in Japan the 13th September) but until now I have not had any time or freedom. Please understand, I have been thinking of you constantly and often I feel I am there in Shanghai with you...”
"So please, Fen, do not despair and be patient. I will not betray you. I also want you to study hard this year and have a good attitude about the future, about our future. You gave me the gift of happiness and I want to give everything in return.I read the papers you wrote to me—in your expensive but funny English—and I can hear your voice clearly, your voice which I love so much. And I love your sweet thoughts full of emotion and anxiety. I think of you with the greatest happiness and hope."
By August 30, 1986, J had returned to his parents' residence in Penn Yan, New York—a tranquil town nestled deep within the celebrated Finger Lakes region, famed for its rolling vineyards and abundant wine production.
In that bygone era when across-the-ocean communication relied entirely upon the slow journey of international mail, J sat on the opposite side of the Pacific Ocean. Having lost his driver's license during a stint in Chengdu, he couldn't operate either of his father's automobiles; instead, he bicycled around the clean streets for physical exercise, swam in the pristine waters of Keuka Lake, and rented four-dollar VCR tapes to watch Sophie's Choice and The Killing Fields in his living room.
Across the thin, white sheets of international stationery, he began to painstakingly scrawl out his clumsy, heavily fractured Mandarin characters, attempting to bridge the massive ocean to reach me:
"Wo de Fen, wo ji zhu ni... You don't write me—ni bu ji xin wo!! Wei shen me? I miss you, think of you every day, wonder how you are, worry about you, hope you are well...How are things at Hua dong shi fan da xue? Is your dormitory room finally ready for you to live in? ... Or are you just du shu? Writing poetry in Chinese? I wish you much yu kuai this year. As you can see, I keep practicing my Chinese not only to talk to you but also because in Japan many of the han zi are used. So I'll find something of China in Japan—good! But I won't find you—alas! Fortunately, Shanghai isn't so far as you can see on any map...Remembered with happiness! The zaji and you humming 'Non piu andrai' on Huang Shan."
kisses,
J.
ps. Please write me in Japan. Can you? It is difficult not seeing you or talking to you It is as though you have disappeared from the earth...
p.p.s Have courage!
September.23.1986.”
Reading his memory of me humming that aria, "Non più andrai" (No More Will You Go, Amorous Butterfly), from Mozart’s opera The Marriage of Figaro along the trails of Mount Huang—"Forget those tender, sweet kisses; forget those soft, beautiful days and nights. From now on you will not receive her closeness, my good friend, the beautiful youth Narcissus"—a quiet burst of amusement rippled through my heart. J undoubtedly imagined me as a highly sophisticated Eastern woman possessing immense Western cultural cultivation. How could he have known that in our world back then, aside from the Eight Revolutionary Model Operas, we had absolutely nowhere to ever hear Western opera?!
In truth, I had memorized that piece purely from listening to Little Pan, a youth who operated our motorized fishing boat and hand-tractor back in my fishing crew at the State-Run Wu-Si Farm in Fengxian County along Hangzhou Bay! Little Pan was an educated youth from the "old-three-sessions"—a generation that had already received a proper education or had been touched by Western culture before the Cultural Revolution commenced. He was wonderfully cheerful and hopelessly addicted to speed. He operated our dilapidated wooden fishing vessel with the roaring grandeur of a modern speedboat, and drove that clumsy hand-tractor with the velocity of a roaring BMW. As a consequence, on August 13, 1985, our crew was given a holiday, and the warm-hearted Little Pan offered to use his tractor to drive those of us Shanghainese educated youth back to the old farm headquarters' long-distance bus station—a commute that otherwise required a 45-minute walk. Yet at a sharp 90-degree bend right before reaching our destination, he failed to decelerate. I, sitting in the back of the tractor's trailer, was violently hurled clean out of the vehicle! I struck the ground, knocked completely unconscious and sustaining a mild concussion.
He spent his days humming various old translated classics with immense pride, carrying a slight touch of showing off, purely because back then, we had absolutely zero access to old songs, let alone foreign love songs. Songs like the Indonesian folksong Sing Sing So: "Sing-sing-so, sing-sing-so... Ooo-wei, the wind blows against my sails, the boat sways gently along the current, delivering me to that place I pine for day and night. Ooo-wei... the wind blows against my sails, oh girl, I want to meet you and pour out the longing inside my heart. Before I have even arrived before your presence, you must keep me anchored deep within your heart; you must wait for me, you must wait for me patiently, oh girl." He would also blast the Albanian folksong The Budding Flower That Has Yet to Bloom: "Your budding flower that has yet to bloom blooms even more beautifully when it opens; your budding flower that has yet to bloom blooms even more beautifully when it opens. Only inside my garden, only inside my garden can you ever be found; come, oh come quickly, my beautiful rose flower, you must come over quickly..." Those songs possessed such vivid imagery that they effortlessly swept one into endless reveries.
Who could have guessed that this singing, laced with the raw mud of the state farm, would decades later transform into the most mysterious, high-born Far Eastern romance in J's eyes.
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.
第三百八十二篇
