《北京記事，1983：鏡子背面的白塔、景山的墓碑石階與潘家園消失的祖墳》

1983年8月所裡派我去北京出差，到一個文教單位拷貝一些電腦文件。當時沒有互聯網，拷貝文件都得人親自去一趟，嘿，我可沒有抱怨。那也是我第一次去北京，從6號到27號呆了20天左右。

時值暑假，正好我爸媽也在北京，他們已經在北京待了一年多。那是他們闊別家鄉近四十年後的回訪，爸爸是1942年來上海的。母親帶著哥哥和姐姐從北京出發在天津搭船，來上海跟父親團聚是1947年。

與老輩兒同輩兒的親戚們一一拜訪相認後，堂兄堂姐表姐們先後帶我去遊覽了北京的名勝古蹟，幾乎該去的都去了，尤其是在北海公園太液池前留個影，那可真的是圓了兒時的一個夢。

1983年夏

小時候，家裡的老式、硬木五桶櫃上放著媽媽的兩面形狀不一的小鏡子。我會長久地踮起腳尖兒、站在一隻小椅子上，兩手扒著櫃面邊緣，剛好能把下巴擱在上面。那高高的五桶櫃上面本身橫著一個大橢圓鏡子，我是照不著的，當然我也不是為了去照鏡子才扒高的。是那小鏡子背面的圖片深深地吸引著我幼小的心靈。有時我還要再做一下努力才能夠著鏡子，把它轉過身來。

長方形鏡子背面的圖片裡有個形狀奇異的白塔聳立在遠處藍天白雲下的山坡上，坡前荷花池裡，水粉色的荷花在綠葉的襯託下綻放著、花咕朵羞澀著，岸邊柳輕飄、在清風中婀娜著……每每都會把我吸引到畫面裡去。許多年後我才知道那是北京北海公園瓊華島白塔與荷花池。

橢圓鏡子背面的畫面是我至今也無法知道的地方，夕陽在一片靜謐的湖面上泛著鱗光，岸邊草地上有一個男子斜倚著一棵大樹，手持魚竿正在悠閒垂釣。他輪廓分明的側影，透著我尚不理解的魅力；卻能留給我一個期盼，盼著快快長大，去尋找那個迷人的地方，還有那個神祕男子。我伸出小手，下意識地、徒勞地撩了一下，多麼希望能把畫中人的臉撥轉過來看個清楚……

在故宮坑坑窪窪的石磚或青磚地上走，有一種與古人交流的感覺。彷彿在與宮裡的文臣、武將、宮女、太監、甚至皇上、娘娘擦肩而過。上景山時印象最深的是，上山的石階都是墓碑壘的，上面刻的字有的已經模糊。都是先考、先妣、年月日等字，有的日期很久遠了，立碑的人或許也早已不在人世。那些殘破的墓碑曾立何方？看著令人很傷感，不忍心踏在上面，盡量走在石階邊的泥土上。交織著崇禎皇帝自盡處給人帶來的世事滄桑感，使得那個下午的心情很沉重。

景山頂上 1983年夏
On the top of Jingshan Mountain

聽姑姑說1958年平墳運動時，所有墳墓被平掉，擴大耕地面積。石碑用來築橋、鋪路、修豬圈。那時政府貼告示讓墳主去認領。我們家在潘家園那兒有十八畝清代的家族祖墳，那裡安息了我們家族十三代人。歷經政治運動的家人不敢去認領。墳地被平，只留下了一通早年據說是順治皇上賜的王八駝碑，受文物保護，據說是不能拆、不能挪、不能毀的历史文物。我當時還沒有尋根問祖的興趣，聽過也就忘了，直到1988年8月，我三哥去北京時，姑姑帶他去掃墓，才有了幾張珍貴的墓碑照片。如今那墓碑早已不知去向。2022年9月，我大哥的閨女郵件中提到：「太爺爺一聲令下，全部去上墳的，我爸還要幫忙拎東西的，一直走到東城根。關於墳地，朝廷根據馬跑的距離劃分的，所以墳地很大。」

小男孩兒是我的姪子，上面的陰影是三哥拍照時不小心手指擋住了鏡頭
The young boy is my nephew.
The shadow at the top is brother’s finger accidentally blocking the lens.

姑姑家掛牆上的照片鏡框後面藏了一張六七寸大小慈禧太后的老照片，躲過了那麼多政治運動，那真是膽兒忒大了。

姑姑家四合院門前1983年夏 In front of my aunt's courtyard house

姑姑家在朝陽區的一個四合院內，夏天吃飯就在院裡擺個小桌兒，小涼風一吹，挺舒爽的。一天賣冰棍兒的吆喝著進了院兒，有幾個小孩兒圍著他。我問：「師傅有小豆冰棍兒嗎？」北方人說話挺逗，沒有就沒有吧，他還理直氣壯地回道：「哪家的小豆不生蟲？」

香山的清晨 1983年夏 Early Morning at Fragrant Hills

香山是我一個人去的，那天一大早趕了個頭班車到香山時，遊客幾乎沒有。那時候好像不收門票，這張黑白照片拍攝的技術不咋地，但是卻把清晨陽光的明媚與清新的空氣，淋漓盡致地記錄了下來。說是沒人，卻在一片小樹林裡見到了一對年輕人，男的伸直了腿，靠著大樹坐在地上，女的岔開腿跨坐在他身上互相緊摟著，她穿著長裙展開來遮擋住了關鍵部位。在公共場合這樣的親熱舉止，在那個年代算是相當前衛的了。那次我當時在北京朝陽醫院當護士長的堂姐還提起，她聽說上海外灘黃浦江的晚上，一對對的情侶在江邊防汛牆邊，挨得很近，卻旁若無人地相互「抱著啃」，哈哈，北方人說話太直，擁吻叫「抱著啃」。

去圓明園那次也是我自己去的，下公交車時已經是下午四點多。沒見有指路牌，京城郊外比較荒涼沒什麼人，等了一會兒見一老人走過，便上前問路。他用手指了指說穿過這個村子順著那條小道還要走三四里路。

走吧，我對三四里路要走多久沒概念，既然來了，就得進去。一路上視野開闊，小道兩旁柳樹成蔭，荷塘成片，走了約莫半里路。身後傳來自行車鈴聲，靠邊讓道。一對中年夫婦各自騎著車過來。「姑娘去圓明園吧？」「是的。」「還遠著呢，上車吧，我們帶你去。」

我高興地跳上了那婦人騎的車。他們倆都是知識分子，一個是中科院的，一有空就去圓明園看書。好羨慕他們的雅趣。到了目的地，他們告訴我，他們六點鐘離開，可以再帶我出去，就找地兒看書去了。

林子裡佇立著的斷壁殘垣默默地傾訴著百年滄桑。兩個大石龜趴在地上昂著頭似乎有所不甘。遊人大概就十來個，其中四五個中學生模樣的男孩，讓我給他們拍集體照。得知他們也騎車，這就準備回去。看看天色將晚，擔心錯過末班車。我便問是否願意帶我出去，他們同意後，我找到那對夫婦，跟他們道別。坐在看上去年齡最小的男孩的車上，離開了圓明園。回到親戚家姑姑說我，一個人去圓明園膽兒太大了，說前幾天剛抓了一批流氓呢。聽得我有些後怕，那是83年嚴打，黑燈舞會、婚外性關係都有判死刑的，連開國元勳朱德的孫子都被槍斃了。

小女孩後來上了清華大學
The little girl later went to Tsinghua University

一個週末，我大大爺的二兒子有空帶著我和他閨女，去十三陵參觀了定陵。記得小時候看過1958年挖掘定陵的電影紀錄片《地下宮殿》。看得好緊張好興奮。當時小孩見面都要問：「看過《地下宮殿》了嗎？」大人們也紛紛議論，畢竟是中國第一個被考古學家打開的皇陵，第一部考古紀錄片，引起的轟動還不小。這次到了實地參觀也很興奮。那時對出土文物還不太有興趣，倒是周邊的風景令人流連忘返。可喜的是那天遊人不多，出來後我堂兄又帶我們去八達嶺爬了長城。那裡山勢險峻、陡峭壯觀，令人聯想到烽火戲諸侯、孟姜女哭長城等遙遠的故事與傳說。

登上北去的列車時，我帶了一摞十幾盒兒的餅乾糕點糖果等食品作為給第一次見面的親戚們的小禮物。我那時一個月的工資才42塊，沒錢買當時流行拿得出手的禮品，像人蔘、蜂皇漿、珍珠粉還有菸酒等。結果呢，那位護士長堂姐又發言了，說：「上海的東西就是包裝好看。」

回上海時他們在王府井買了一盒兒北京點心。那泥黃色簡易盒子跟皮鞋盒兒一樣。只是在蓋子上斜搭著一張粉紅色印了店名的薄紙，用粉紅色的尼龍繩拴著。那盒點心，份量確實很足，拎在手上沉甸甸的。而我那些盒子確實很輕，只有四兩半斤的量。不是我小氣，那時上海店裡就只有這樣裝潢漂亮的食品禮盒，還挺新潮的，價格也不便宜。

那次，我爸媽跟我一起回了上海。

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

Memories of Beijing, 1983: The White Pagoda on a Mirror, Tombstone Steps at Jingshan, and the Lost Family Graves of Panjiayuan

In August 1983, my institute sent me on a business trip to Beijing to copy some computer files at a cultural and educational institution. In those days before the internet, copying files required a personal trip—and hey, I certainly wasn't complaining. That was also my very first time visiting Beijing, and I stayed for about twenty days, from the 6th to the 27th.

It was summer vacation, and as it happened, my parents were also in Beijing, having already stayed there for over a year. It was their return visit after nearly forty years of separation from their hometown. My father had left for Shanghai in 1942. My mother, taking my older brother and sister, departed from Beijing and boarded a ship at Tianjin to reunite with my father in Shanghai in 1947.

After visiting and introducing myself to relatives of both the older and my own generations one by one, my paternal cousins and maternal cousins took turns taking me to sightsee the historical monuments and scenic spots of Beijing. We visited nearly everywhere we were supposed to go, but capturing a photograph in front of the Taiye Pond in Beihai Park truly fulfilled a dream from my childhood.

When I was little, two small mirrors of differing shapes belonging to my mother sat atop the old, hardwood five-drawer chest at home. For the longest time, I would stand on my tiptoe atop a small stool, gripping the edge of the chest surface with both hands, just managed to rest my chin upon it. A large oval mirror was built across that tall five-drawer chest itself, which I couldn't reach to look into—though, of course, looking into a mirror wasn't the reason I climbed up high. It was the images on the backs of those small mirrors that deeply captivated my young soul. Sometimes, I had to stretch a bit harder just to reach a mirror and turn it around.

The image on the back of the rectangular mirror featured a uniquely shaped white pagoda towering upon a hillside beneath blue skies and white clouds in the distance. Before the slope lay a lotus pond, where water-pink lotus blossoms bloomed against a backdrop of green leaves, their buds closed in shyness, while slender willows by the bank swayed gracefully in the clear breeze... Every single time, it would draw me deep into the picture. Many years later did I finally learn that it was the White Pagoda and lotus pond of Qionghua Island in Beijing's Beihai Park.

The scene on the back of the oval mirror featured a place I am still unable to identify to this day. The setting sun cast shimmering scales of light across a serene lake surface. On the grassy shore stood a man leaning obliquely against a grand tree, holding a fishing rod and angling in pure leisure. His sharply chiseled profile exuded a charm I did not yet understand, yet it left me with an expectation—hoping to grow up quickly to search for that enchanting place, and that mysterious man. I would stick out my tiny hand, subconsciously and fruitlessly trying to brush past it, wishing so desperately that I could turn the face of the man in the drawing around to see him clearly...

Walking across the uneven stone pavers or grey bricks of the Forbidden City brought a sensation of communing with the ancients—as if brushing shoulders with the civil officials, military generals, palace maids, eunuchs, and even the emperors and consorts of the palace. What left the deepest impression when climbing Jingshan was that the stone steps leading up the mountain were built entirely from stacked tombstones, the inscriptions carved upon them already blurred in some places. They all bore characters such as "Late Father," "Late Mother," along with months and years; some dates stretched very far back, and the people who originally erected those tablets had perhaps long since departed this world themselves. Where on earth had those broken tombstones once stood? Looking at them filled me with a deep sorrow; I simply couldn't bear to trample upon them, and tried my best to walk only on the bare soil flanking the stone steps. Interwoven with the profound sense of historical vicissitude at the very spot where the Chongzhen Emperor ended his own life, the weight of it left my spirit intensely heavy throughout that entire afternoon.

My aunt mentioned that during the grave-leveling movement of 1958, all tombs were flattened to expand cultivated land. The stone tablets were used to build bridges, pave roads, and construct pigsties. Back then, the government posted notices for grave owners to claim them. Our family possessed eighteen mu of ancestral Qing Dynasty graves over in Panjiayuan, where thirteen generations of our family rested. Having lived through various political movements, my family members did not dare go to claim them. The graveyard was leveled, leaving behind only a grand ancestral monument (a tong of stele) topped with twin dragons playing with a pearl and carried by a Bixi (a mythical dragon-headed tortoise-like creature), which was said to have been bestowed by the Shunzhi Emperor during the early years. It fell under cultural relic protection and was historical property that could not be dismantled, moved, or destroyed. I had no interest in tracing my ancestry back then, so I forgot about it after hearing it. It wasn't until August 1988, when my third older brother went to Beijing, that my aunt took him to visit the gravesite, yielding a few precious photographs of the tombstone. Today, that stone tablet has long vanished without a trace. In September 2022, my eldest brother’s daughter mentioned in an email: "Great-grandfather issued the command, and everyone went to visit the graves; my dad even had to help carry things, walking all the way to the eastern city wall. Regarding the graveyard, the court partitioned it based on the distance a horse could gallop, which is why the gravesite was immensely vast."

Hidden behind the photo frame hanging on my aunt's wall was a six-to-seven-inch old photograph of Empress Dowager Cixi. To have kept it safely hidden through so many political movements required immense, unbelievable boldness.

My aunt’s home was located within a courtyard house (siheyuan) in the Chaoyang District. In the summer, we would set up a small table in the courtyard to eat; when the cool, gentle breeze blew past, it felt incredibly refreshing. One day, a popsicle vendor entered the courtyard shouting his wares, and a few children gathered around him. I asked, "Master, do you have red bean (xiaodou) popsicles?" People from the North have a quite amusing way of speaking; instead of simply saying no, he replied with righteous indignation: "Whose red beans don't grow bugs?"

I went to Xiangshan (Fragrant Hills) entirely by myself. Arriving there very early on the first morning bus, tourists were practically nonexistent. In those days, it seemed no admission tickets were collected. Although the technical quality of this black-and-white photograph isn't anything grand, it vividly recorded the brightness of the morning sun and the freshness of the air to the absolute limit. Though it was said to be empty of people, I spotted a young couple inside a small grove of trees. The man lay on the ground with his legs stretched straight, leaning against a grand tree, while the woman sat straddled over him, the two of them hugging each other tightly. She wore a long skirt flared out to conceal the critical parts. Displaying such intimate behavior in a public space was considered exceptionally avant-garde for that era. My paternal cousin, who was working as a head nurse at Beijing Chaoyang Hospital at the time, even brought up a rumor she had heard—that along the flood-control wall of the Bund by the Huangpu River in Shanghai at night, couples stood pressed closely together, hugging and "gnawing on each other" (baozhe ken) as if nobody else existed. Haha, people from the North speak far too bluntly; they call hugging and kissing "gnawing on each other."

My trip to Yuanmingyuan (the Old Summer Palace) was also taken entirely on my own. When I stepped off the public bus, it was already past four in the afternoon. I saw no directional signs, and the outskirts of the capital were relatively desolate with few people around. After waiting a while, an elderly man walked past, so I stepped forward to ask for directions. Pointing with his finger, he mentioned that I had to walk through this village and follow that narrow path for another three or four li.

So off I walked, having absolutely no conceptual grasp of how long a walk of three or four li would take. Since I had come all this way, I had to go inside. The view along the way was wide and open; the narrow path was shaded by willow trees, and sheets of lotus ponds lined both sides. After I had walked about half a li, the ringing of a bicycle bell came from behind, so I stepped aside to yield the path. A middle-aged couple rode past, each on their own bicycle. "Heading to Yuanmingyuan, miss?" "Yes." "It’s still quite far. Hop on; we’ll take you there." Overjoyed, I hopped onto the bicycle ridden by the woman. Both of them were intellectuals, one working at the Chinese Academy of Sciences. Whenever they had free time, they would visit Yuanmingyuan to read books. I deeply envied their refined pastime. Upon reaching the destination, they told me they would be leaving at six o'clock and could carry me back out then; then, they went off to find a spot to read.

The broken walls and ruined columns standing inside the woods silently recounted a century of shifting fortunes. Two massive stone tortoises (bixi) crouched on the ground with their heads raised, appearing somewhat unreconciled to their fate. There were perhaps only about ten tourists in total, among whom were four or five boys who looked like middle school students; they asked me to take a group photo for them. Learning that they were also riding bicycles, they prepared to head back. Seeing the sky darkening and worrying that I might miss the final bus, I asked if they would be willing to carry me out. Upon their agreement, I found the intellectual couple to bid them goodbye. Sitting on the bicycle of the boy who appeared to be the youngest, I departed from Yuanmingyuan. When I returned to my relatives' home, my aunt scolded me, saying that going to Yuanmingyuan entirely alone was far too reckless, mentioning that a group of "hooligans" had just been arrested there a few days prior. Hearing this filled me with a sudden, lingering fear—that was during the "Strike Hard" (Yanda) campaign of 1983, where participation in underground dance parties or extramarital sexual relations could result in the death penalty, and even the grandson of Zhu De, a founding father of the nation, was executed by firing squad.

One weekend, the second son of my eldest paternal uncle found some free time to take me and his daughter to visit the Dingling Tomb at the Ming Tombs. I remembered watching the 1958 documentary film The Underground Palace (Dixia Gongdian) about the excavation of Dingling when I was a child. It had been so intense and thrilling to watch. Back then, whenever children met, they would invariably ask, "Have you seen The Underground Palace yet?" Adults discussed it fervently as well; after all, it was the very first imperial tomb opened by Chinese archaeologists and the first archaeological documentary, creating a massive sensation. Visiting the actual site this time was equally thrilling. I didn't have much interest in excavated cultural relics back then, but the surrounding scenery left us reluctant to leave. Fortunately, tourists were scarce that day. After emerging, my cousin took us to Badaling to climb the Great Wall. The mountain terrain there was perilous, steep, and magnificent, invoking far-off stories and legends such as the Zhou emperor lighting beacon fires to flatter his concubine, or Meng Jiangnü weeping over the Great Wall.

When boarding the train heading north to Beijing, I carried a stack of over ten boxes of biscuits, pastries, and candies as small gifts for the relatives I was meeting for the very first time. My monthly salary back then was only 42 yuan, so I lacked the money to purchase the popular, respectable gifts of the time, such as ginseng, royal jelly, pearl powder, or premium tobacco and alcohol. As a result, that head-nurse cousin spoke up again, saying, "Things from Shanghai just have attractive packaging."

When it was time to return to Shanghai, they purchased a box of Beijing pastries for me at Wangfujing. That earthy-yellow, simple box looked exactly like a shoebox. A thin slip of pink paper printed with the shop's name was merely draped askew across the lid, tied together with a pink nylon string. That box of pastries was indeed immensely heavy, weighing a ton in one's hand. Meanwhile, my boxes from Shanghai were indeed very light, each containing only about four to eight ounces of food. It wasn't that I was stingy; back then, shops in Shanghai only carried those beautifully decorated food gift boxes—they were quite trendy, and the prices weren't cheap either.

On that journey back, my father and mother returned to Shanghai along with me.

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.

第三百七十三篇

《普陀山的金沙、初夏的暴雨夜與荷花池畔的頂花帶刺黃瓜》

1983年7月21～24日暑假期間，學校工會組織教職員工赴普陀山福利旅遊，所裡輪到我去。納悶兒，我才工作了沒幾年怎麼就輪到我了呢？覺得很榮幸。多年後想想，雖然是公費福利旅遊，交通與住宿費都是報銷的，但是吃飯和玩兒還得自己掏腰包的。那時候人們生活都簡樸，尤其是有家室的人，都是省吃儉用，所以就輪到我這個「一人吃飽，全家不餓」沒牽掛的了。

關於那次之行是怎麼去的碼頭，是集體去的還是個人自己去十六鋪碼頭的，想不起來了，怎麼回來的也已經淡忘。我們所裡還有一位年輕女教師也一起去的。

乘船去普陀山時，要在船上過一夜，我們住的船艙很大，裡面有好幾排、背對背靠在一起的單人上下鋪鐵架床。午後休息，我躺在一張床的上鋪，身上搭著一塊薄絨毯，思緒在半睡半醒之間遊離，忽然一個人的說話聲將我的飄渺思緒拽回到了船艙裡來。靜聽了一會兒，覺得那人的話語中帶有些許的知識顯擺。忍了一小會兒，還是回過頭去看了看這位擾了我清淨的人。

他此時正站在我的床邊，周圍有六七個人或坐在相對著的下舖床沿兒上，或站在床與床之間並不寬敞的夾道中，說笑。這個年輕人有著棱角分明的臉龐，兩道清秀的濃眉，一雙靈動有神的大眼睛，透著書卷氣。

到了普陀山大家在吃晚飯時，開始有點熟悉起來。同行中有一位中年講師，開朗、幽默、浪漫，他建議大家一大清早趁著天還沒亮就去沙灘，在月光下聽濤，等看日出。我們這幾個，早早地起了床，洗漱完畢，在旅店門口匯合，跟著他摸黑去了沙灘。在茫茫夜色裡行走，浸潤在清新的空氣中、被夜的神秘所包圍，都能令我產生無名的興奮。

沙灘上，月色朦朧，星辰不顯，海面上不遠處的浪花翻滾處，泛著悠悠的光亮，空氣中彌漫著細小的水珠，深深地吸一口氣感覺舒爽。

不承想，夜晚沙灘是如此的涼，剛一坐下就打了個寒噤。但這小小的不適，瞬間就被忽略了。層層海浪帶著沉悶的轟鳴，一排排前赴後繼地向沙灘撲滾過來，彷彿瞬間就會將我們給淹沒，心中便生出些許莫名的恐懼。大自然的聲勢是如此的震撼，不敢閉目傾聽……我們坐在沙灘上，直到太陽從雲層裡出現。

前排右一就是那位講師

我和我所裡的同事

早飯後我們又回到沙灘上，太陽已經高高地掛在天上，曬得沙灘暖洋洋的甚至有些發燙。人們都三三兩兩地坐著、躺著、或者散步、踏浪，扎堆兒說笑；只見那個在船上說話帶有點知識顯擺的那位男生，一個人沿著蜿蜒的沙灘跑步。那時候我還沒健身的意識，覺得這個人有點清高孤傲。

花錢租了一條游泳衣，拿著個白的确良布遮陽帽搭在胸口上，躺在千步沙灘上曬太陽，好愜意。沙灘上人漸漸多了起來，嘩嘩的聲浪也不再令我膽顫，反而變得能令人安寧的催眠曲。閉上眼睛，什麼都不想想，忘卻今夕何夕，任本已飄渺的思緒發散到更廣袤無垠空間。

忽然覺得有些細沙落在腿上，睜開眼睛一看，剛剛還在跑步的那位，正跪在我身邊，雙手捧著溫軟細淨的金沙，嘻笑著撒在我身上。略感詫異，有些尷尬，但轉瞬間，就被那一臉的燦爛感染。哎呀～！原來他是一個開朗、不怕陌生的大男孩兒。不記得我們說了啥，只記得後來他幾乎把我給埋了起來，躺在暖暖的小沙丘裡面只露出個頭。有個陽光的大男孩兒在沙灘上做伴兒，是不是應該算逢甘雨，遇故知，花燭夜，題名時之後的人生第五大享受呢？！

上佛頂山時，聽說曾經有十分虔誠的信徒們，上一個台階兒磕一個頭，有的在半山腰一不小心就掉下了山崖，去了西天呢。聽了心裡有些難過。

社會上開始有披肩長發了

磐陀石由上下兩塊巨石相疊而成，中間的接觸面就只有那麼一點點，看著心慌。據說，磐陀石上那個「石」字多餘的一點，其實起到了平衡的作用。傳說明代萬曆年間，抗倭名將侯繼高在石上題寫「磐陀石」三字時，發現上方的巨石竟隨著他的筆勢左右晃動、搖搖欲墜。為了防止巨石跌落，他便在「石」字上特意多加了一點。說來也奇，這一筆落下，巨石便瞬間穩如泰山，成了流傳至今的一段佳話。當時有很多遊客都爬上去拍照，我們也上去留了個影。

上下兩塊石頭接觸面只有這麼一點

在街道路邊的攤位上有賣各種新鮮海產品的。也有的是一盤一盤地擺放在桌上的，遊客買了，讓攤主給燒了吃。那是我頭一次吃海蟶子，長圓扁薄淺色的貝殼，清爽喜人，裡面還會伸出兩條晶瑩剔透的腿兒來。

旅遊回來後，在師大一村的小餐飲店門口與大男孩兒小L不期而遇。那天是週末，我剛洗過的頭髮還沒乾透，披在肩上。那時長髮姑娘大都梳辮子，短一點兒也的都扎成兩把刷子，黑髮披肩也許剛剛開始，但還沒流行到我們學校裡來。

他的臨時辦公室就在附近，便邀我去坐坐。那辦公室在一長排簡易建築工棚中，門前的彈格路很窄。後面好像正在施工，估計就是荷花池畔在建的文科大樓。原來他是文科的在職研究生。

後來他告訴我，那天的披肩發讓他聯想到了《林海雪原》小說中的小白鴿白茹。書裡是這麼寫的：「她的兩手迅速地扯下小辮子上的扎帶，被辮帶扎得彎彎曲曲的滿頭黑髮，像小瀑布一樣披在她的肩上。她為什麼這樣呢？這是因為在洗襯衣的那天深夜，也許正是因為她拆開了小辮而換來了劍波向來沒有過的眼神看著她。」應該說那小白鴿是有心計的，而我那天的披肩髮只是濕髮等著被自然風吹乾。

知道我喜歡栽種花草植物，他得意地告訴我他培養的君子蘭如何如何，並邀我有空我去看看。

不久他搬到師大一村東南角上的一棟樓裡，那地方比較偏僻，與其他樓房相隔較遠。也是他與另外一個男同事的臨時辦公室，條件比工棚要好得多了。二樓開放式過道的第一間套房，前屋辦公，裡屋做他們兩人的寢室，寢室連著西陽台兒。陽台外有棵枝葉繁茂的大樹，給人以鬧中取靜的感覺，彷彿身居一片「曠野」之中。

1984年初夏的一個黃昏，跟他去辦公室看那盆他精心培育、引以為豪的君子蘭。那棵君子蘭，確實長得豐盈潤澤，挺拔的葉片油亮油亮的，令人百看不厭。他不僅養了君子蘭，前前後後陽台兒上，大盆小盆地養了不少觀葉植物。

隨後我們坐在陽台上喝茶聊天兒。天色漸漸變暗，樹梢上、草叢中時有鳥語、蟲鳴傳來，令人感覺心情舒暢。不知不覺中夜幕降臨了，正打算離開時，天突然就下起了大雨。豆大的雨點兒，啪、啪、啪、啪、砸在樓外乾燥的泥地上，點點分明。頃刻間，雨水就潲了過來，打在了臉上、胳膊上。我們慌忙從凳子上跳起來，嘻笑著，端起茶杯，快步躲進寢室裡。只能等雨停了再走了。

可是，那雨越下越大，越下越大，沒有丁點兒的停歇之意。窗子大開著，風聲、雨聲交織著，帶來陣陣清涼。偶爾的電閃雷鳴，瞬間將幽暗的室內照得通明。在這樣的環境中與一個才思敏捷，博古通今，按現在的話說是精英才俊的朋友聊天兒，感覺真好。

這場初夏之夜持久的瓢潑大雨，營造了怎樣的一種氛圍啊，令人終身難忘。

1998年3月13日回國時去校園轉轉，特地繞到後面拍了上面這張鋼筆畫參照的照片。此時，他也已經去國他鄉求學深造，那套屋子是空關著，還是另有人住，不得而知。我沒上樓，只是佇立樓前體驗悵惘。

1985年8月的校園荷花池一隅

學校正門進來的大路南邊，曾經有一大片林子，林子西邊兒有片荷花池，池塘邊有參差錯落的山石，有幽靜蜿蜒的小徑，有枝蔓纏繞的紫藤架和供人讀書或休憩的石桌石墩。剛剛進校時，那片區域很大，尤其是後半邊的園林很自然，很幽靜，很野，不著斧鑿痕跡。每到開春兒，黃素馨一叢叢、一簇簇、一片片開滿了枝條，從高處倒掛下來，形成一道亮麗的黃花牆，給人帶來滿眼、滿腔的欣喜。我曾經常在那裡的石桌旁看書，做作業，尤其是週末，和暑假期間，校園裡人比較少，那真是個極其清淨美好的去處，在那兒一坐就是半天兒，都不想離開的。

記得有一次，大概是1984年的暑假，小L帶著他的女朋友拎著一袋剛從農家地裡買來的新摘黃瓜和番茄，來找我。說一定就在荷花池，一找一個準兒，果然沒錯。我們仨圍著石桌而坐，笑談瑣事，我順手拿起一根脆生生，鮮嫩嫩、頂花帶刺兒的黃瓜吃了起來；那真是城市人難得的美味。他們倆在工作、學習以及生活上都給過我諸多幫助。後來也去過他家玩，他有五個妹妹，個個兒捧著他，怪不得他跟女生不陌生。他們結婚那天我還做了伴娘。做伴娘應該能喝，能替她喝酒，但是我不用擔心，酒量小，新娘子是海量。

這兩張照片是1984年我與小L和他的女朋友一起去中山公園玩兒時拍的。

1996年2月2日上午11點，一封從上海寄出的信飛越重洋，落在了我當時讀書的美國雪城大學（SU）University Ave, Syracuse, NY 的住處。這是我出國後與他通的僅有的一兩封信之一，在此之前，只有他去日本留學時寄來過一封。在這封大概是我們最後的通信中，他寫到：「我們認識的時候，你風華正茂，我也躊躇滿志。」隨後是幾句帶著傷感的追問：「我們還有見面的機會嗎？能在什麼時候見面呢？人認識了，又離開了，倒不如不認識。此信你能收到嗎？下次來信，請……」信件的後半部分已隱沒在歲月的碎片中。好一個多愁善感的小L，再後來得知他在上海的一所知名大學當了教授，出書立說。

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

The Golden Sands of Putuo Mountain, a Summer Rainstorm, and Fresh Cucumbers by the Lotus Pond

During the summer vacation from July 21 to 24, 1983, the school labor union organized a welfare trip for the faculty and staff to Putuo Mountain. It was my institute's turn to send someone, and the slot fell to me. I was quite puzzled—I had only been working for a few years, so why did it fall to me? Yet, I felt deeply honored. Thinking back decades later, although it was a publicly funded welfare trip where transportation and lodging expenses were reimbursed, meals and recreation still had to come out of one's own pocket. In those days, people lived very simply, especially those with families who economized on everything. Thus, the opportunity naturally landed on me, a single person with "no attachments and no family to feed."

As for how we reached the pier for that trip—whether we went as a collective group or if individuals made their own way to the Shiliupu Pier—I can no longer recall. How we returned has also faded from my memory. Another young female teacher from our institute traveled along with us.

Taking the boat to Putuo Mountain required spending a night on board. The cabin we stayed in was immense, containing several rows of single upper-and-lower bunk beds with iron frames placed back-to-back. During the afternoon rest, I lay on the upper berth of one bed with a thin flannel blanket draped over me. My thoughts drifted in a state between sleeping and waking, when suddenly the sound of someone talking snapped my drifting mind right back into the cabin. Listening quietly for a moment, I felt that the person's words carried a slight hint of intellectual showmanship. Enduring it for a short while longer, I finally turned my head to look at this person who had disrupted my tranquility.

He was standing right by my bed at that moment. Around him, six or seven people were either sitting on the edge of the opposite lower berth or standing inside the narrow corridor between the beds, chatting and laughing. This young man possessed a sharply chiseled face, a pair of elegant, thick eyebrows, and large, spirited eyes that radiated a scholarly aura.

Once we arrived at Putuo Mountain, everyone began to grow slightly familiar with one another during dinner. Among our fellow travelers was a middle-aged lecturer who was cheerful, humorous, and romantic. He suggested that everyone head to the beach in the early hours before dawn to listen to the torrent under the moonlight and wait for the sunrise. The few of us woke up early, finished washing up, met at the entrance of the lodge, and followed him into the dark toward the beach. Walking through the vast cloak of night, enveloped in fresh air and surrounded by the mystery of the evening, filled me with an unnamable excitement.

On the beach, the moonlight was hazy and the stars were hidden. Not far out on the sea, where the white foam rolled, a faint, lingering luminescence gleamed. Tiny droplets of water permeated the air; taking a deep breath felt thoroughly refreshing.

Unexpectedly, the beach at night was freezing. The moment I sat down, a sharp shiver ran through me. Yet this minor discomfort was instantly forgotten. Cascading waves came rushing toward the shore one after another with a heavy, muffled roar, appearing as though they might submerge us at any second, which stirred a slight, inexplicable fear within my heart. The momentum of nature was so shattering that I did not dare close my eyes to listen...

We sat on the beach until the sun emerged from the clouds. After breakfast, we returned to the shore. By then, the sun hung high in the sky, baking the sand until it was warm, even hot to the touch. People sat or lay in groups of two or three, while others strolled, stepped through the surf, or gathered to chat and laugh. Meanwhile, the boy who had displayed that touch of intellectual showmanship on the boat was running all by himself along the winding shoreline. Back then, I had no concept of fitness, so I considered this person rather aloof and arrogant.

I spent money to rent a swimsuit, laid a white Dacron sun hat across my chest, and lay on the Qianbu Beach to sunbathe. It was incredibly pleasant. The beach gradually grew crowded, and the crashing roar of the waves no longer terrified me; instead, it transformed into a peaceful lullaby. Closing my eyes, I wanted to think of absolutely nothing, forgetting what day it was and letting my already drifting thoughts expand into a wider, boundless space.

Suddenly, I felt fine sand falling onto my legs. Opening my eyes, I saw the very young man who had just been running now kneeling beside me, scooping up the warm, soft, fine golden sand with both hands and playfully scattering it over my body. Surprised and slightly embarrassed at first, I was instantly infected by his bright, radiant smile. Ah~! As it turned out, he was a cheerful, outgoing big boy who wasn't afraid of strangers. I don't remember what we said, only that he ended up burying me almost entirely, leaving me lying inside a warm little sand dune with only my head exposed. Having a bright, sunny boy as a companion on the beach—shouldn't that be counted as the fifth greatest joy in life, coming right after a welcome rain after a long drought, meeting an old friend in a distant land, the wedding night, and passing the imperial examinations?!

While climbing Foding Mountain, I heard stories that deeply pious believers used to prostrate themselves at every single step. Some, through a slip of footing midway up the mountainside, fell straight off the cliff and departed for the Western Paradise. Hearing this brought a twinge of sadness to my heart.

The Pantuo Rock is formed by two massive boulders stacked one on top of the other, with only a tiny point of contact between them. Looking at it made one's heart skip a beat. It is said that the extra dot on the character "Shi" (石) inscribed on the rock actually serves a balancing function. Legend has it that during the Wanli era of the Ming Dynasty, when the famous anti-pirate general Hou Jigao inscribed the three characters "Pan Tuo Shi," he discovered that the upper boulder actually swayed left and right following the motion of his brush, appearing on the verge of falling. To prevent the massive rock from tumbling down, he deliberately added an extra dot to the character "Shi." Strangely enough, the moment this single stroke fell, the giant boulder instantly became as stable as Mount Tai, becoming a beautiful tale passed down to this day. Many tourists were climbing up to take photos back then, and we went up to capture a memory as well.

At the roadside stalls along the streets, various fresh seafood products were for sale. Some were displayed plate by plate on tables; tourists could purchase them and have the stall owners cook them on the spot. That was my very first time eating razor clams (haichengzi). The long, oval, flat, thin, light-colored shells looked clean and delightful, and two crystal-clear little legs would even extend outward from within.

After returning from the trip, I ran into the big boy, Little L, entirely by chance outside a small eatery in Shida No. 1 Village. It was the weekend, and my newly washed hair wasn't completely dry yet, hanging draped over my shoulders. In those days, most girls with long hair wore braids, or if it was shorter, tied it into two bunches like brushes. Letting black hair hang loosely over one's shoulders was perhaps just beginning, but it hadn't become popular at our university yet.

His temporary office happened to be nearby, so he invited me to sit for a moment. The office was located inside a long row of simple construction sheds, and the cobblestone road out front was very narrow. Behind it, some construction seemed to be underway, which I assume was the humanities building being erected beside the lotus pond. As it turned out, he was an in-service graduate student in the humanities.

Later, he told me that my loose hair that day reminded him of "Little White Pigeon" Bai Ru from the novel Tracks in the Snowy Forest. The book described it like this: "Her hands quickly tore off the ties from her braids, and her full head of black hair, crinkled from being bound by the ties, draped over her shoulders like a miniature waterfall. Why did she do this? It was because late that night while washing shirts, it was perhaps precisely because she undid her braids that she traded for a gaze from Jianbo that he had never displayed before." It should be said that the Little White Pigeon acted with deliberate intent, whereas my loose hair that day was simply wet hair waiting to be dried by the natural wind.

Knowing that I enjoyed cultivating flowers and plants, he proudly told me all about the Kaffir lily (junzilan) he was growing, inviting me to come take a look when I had time.

Not long after, he moved to a building in the southeast corner of Shida No. 1 Village. The location was quite secluded, separated far from the other residential structures. It served as a temporary office for him and another male colleague, and the conditions were far better than the construction sheds. Located as the first suite along a semi-open corridor on the second floor, the front room served as their office, while the inner room was their bedroom, which connected to a west-facing balcony. Outside the balcony stood a lush, thick tree, providing a sense of finding tranquility amidst the noise, making one feel as though they were living inside a peaceful "wilderness."

On a certain dusk in the early summer of 1984, I went with him to the office to see that Kaffir lily he had painstakingly cultivated and took such pride in. That Kaffir lily did indeed grow lush and vibrant; its erect leaves were glossy and shiny, a sight one could never tire of admiring. He hadn't just raised a Kaffir lily; across both the front and back balconies, he cultivated numerous foliage plants in large and small pots.

Afterward, we sat on the balcony drinking tea and chatting. The sky gradually darkened, and occasionally the chirping of birds and the humming of insects drifted over from the treetops and bushes, leaving us thoroughly relaxed. Before we knew it, night fell completely. Just as I was preparing to leave, a torrential rain suddenly broke out. Raindrops as large as beans struck the dry dirt outside the building with loud, distinct thwacks. In an instant, the rainwater began blowing inward, striking our faces and arms. We hurriedly jumped up from our stools, laughing as we picked up our teacups and quickly took refuge inside the bedroom. There was nothing to do but wait for the rain to stop before leaving.

Yet that rain only grew heavier and heavier, with absolutely no sign of letting up. The windows were wide open, and the sound of the wind interweaving with the downpour brought waves of cool air. An occasional flash of lightning and roar of thunder instantly illuminated the dim interior. In such an environment, chatting with a friend who was quick-witted, immensely knowledgeable, and—in modern terms—a true elite talent, felt incredibly wonderful.

What a unique atmosphere that lasting, torrential downpour on an early summer night created; it remains completely unforgettable for the rest of my days. When I returned to China on March 13, 1998, to stroll through the campus, I made a special detour to the back to take a photograph that serves as the reference for the pen-and-ink drawing above. By then, he had already departed for a foreign land to pursue advanced studies. Whether that suite of rooms stood empty or was occupied by someone else was impossible to know. I did not go upstairs; I merely stood before the building, experiencing a wave of melancholy.

South of the grand avenue leading inward from the school's main gate, there used to stretch a vast woods. To the west of the woods lay a lotus pond. Beside the pond sat scattered mountain rocks, quiet and winding paths, a wisteria trellis woven with climbing vines, and stone tables and stools meant for reading or resting. When I first entered the university, that area was immense; the back half of the garden, in particular, was very natural, serene, and wild, showing no traces of artificial carving. Every spring, winter jasmine (huangsuxin) would bloom across the branches in dense clusters, hanging downward from high perches to form a brilliant wall of yellow blossoms, bringing a deep, boundless delight to the eyes and heart. I used to sit frequently by the stone tables there to read and do my assignments, especially on weekends and during the summer vacations when the campus was sparse with people. It was a thoroughly quiet and beautiful sanctuary; sitting there for half a day, one never wanted to leave.

I remember one occasion, likely during the summer vacation of 1984, when Little L brought his girlfriend along to find me, carrying a bag of freshly picked cucumbers and tomatoes they had just bought from a farmer's field. He said they would definitely find me at the lotus pond—a single search and a guaranteed find—and indeed he was right. The three of us sat around the stone table, laughing and chatting about trivia. I casually picked up a crisp, fresh, tender cucumber still boasting its yellow blossom and tiny prickles and began to eat it; that was a rare delicacy for a city dweller. Both of them offered me an immense amount of help in my work, studies, and daily life. Later, I also went to visit his home. He had five younger sisters, and every single one of them completely doted on him—no wonder he wasn't awkward around girls at all. On their wedding day, I even served as the bridesmaid. Being a bridesmaid usually meant you were supposed to be a good drinker who could hold your liquor and drink on her behalf, but I had nothing to worry about; even though my alcohol tolerance was tiny, the bride herself could drink like a fish.

These two photographs were taken in 1984 when I went to Zhongshan Park with Little L and his girlfriend.

In a letter sent from Shanghai and postmarked 11:00 AM on February 2, 1996, which crossed the ocean to reach my student residence on University Ave in Syracuse, NY, while I was studying at Syracuse University (SU), he wrote: "When we first met, you were in the prime of your youth, and I was full of lofty ambitions." This was one of only one or two letters we ever exchanged after I moved abroad; before this, he had only written once while studying in Japan. In this letter, which would presumably be our very last correspondence, his sentences trailed into a series of sorrowful questions: "Will we ever have another chance to meet? When can we meet? To meet only to separate, it would have been better never to have met at all. Will you even receive this letter? Next time you write, please..." The remainder of the text has been lost to the fragments of time. What a deeply sentimental person Little L was. Later, I learned that he had become a professor at a well-known university in Shanghai, writing books and establishing his own school of thought.

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 spirit translation and text refinement.

第三百七十二篇