《籬笆牆外與大山深處：1979年的迴響》

 一、飛來橫禍，少女的隱痛與高考失利

上海人常說「一二勿過三」，意思是倒霉事頂多兩件，第三件總該轉運了。可俗話也說：「屋漏偏逢連夜雨，船遲又遇打頭風」。繼77年和78年的兩次高考相繼落榜、結結實實挨了兩記悶棍之後，就在這短短的一年裡，老天居然把第三記悶棍，也給我砸了下來。那是真真切切的「澳門痛」——一種有苦說不出的痛。

那時，漁業隊的老房子已經分配給其他連隊使用，我們的老寢室裡住了四五個男生。我每次騎自行車出門，還是要經過那裡。老房子東邊有一條四五十米長的小彎道，兩旁灌木叢生，通往一條可以推車上到兩米多高夯土大堤的斜坡。途中，還要經過一個搭著兩塊木板、長滿野草的小幹溝。每次騎車經過這座木板小窄橋，都必須做到穩、準、快，否則就得乖乖的下車推過去。

年輕時的我比較愛逞能，上海話叫「投三投四」或「投五投六」。每次經過，我都喜歡冒險快速騎過去。前車軲轆過去了、後車軲轆一偏掉進溝裡的事，以前也發生過一次，好在幹溝不深，並沒傷著。

1978年秋日的某一天，我又一次騎車快速通過了小幹溝。正得意著拐彎呢，突然，後車轱轆咯噔地彈跳了一下。車子沒倒，我卻被猛地顛了一下。硬硬的牛皮車坐墊，生生地把我給硌著了。說時遲那時快！胯下正中間有拳頭大小的區域，像是被引爆了一顆炸彈，瞬間一股劇烈疼痛閃電般襲來。

「嗚哇——！」我差點兒沒哭出聲來。慌忙下了車，雙手摀著小腹蹲下身子，臉色煞白，淚水在眼眶裡打轉，大半天都緩不過勁兒來。原來，我的後車軲轆剛才壓過了一顆碎石塊兒。

剛才坐在我們老屋門前的一位高個子男生走了過來，看到我痛苦地蹲在地上，問我怎麼了、要不要幫忙。我說不出話來，只是強打笑顏，尷尬地、弱弱地朝他搖了搖頭。一想起剛才自己神神抖抖過窄木板橋的得意樣子,肯定被他看在了眼裡，心裡的羞愧甚至蓋過了疼痛。

我強忍著痛，推著車一步一步挪回宿舍。脫下褲子看，一灘鮮紅的血啊！心裡慌亂得不得了。第二天，褲子上還有點兒血跡。真是不如意之事接踵而來。

第二天，正好場部醫院婦產科的一位40歲左右的上海老知青W醫生陪人來隊裡買魚。聊天時，我跟她說了這件事，擔心地問她：「要緊伐？」她說，那就是處女膜破了，隨即問我：「要我忒儂看看伐？」比我懂事兒的室友D也在一旁勸：「對、對、對，讓W醫生檢查一下，開個證明。」

可我那時候根本不懂開證明幹嘛，給誰看，誰會查問。既然無大礙，少女的羞澀也讓我沒好意思讓W醫生給看看。W醫生說，騎車的姑娘很容易破處。

后来，也后悔过当初没让W医生给看看，那样的话就会有个诊断证明了，万一将来遇到什么麻烦的话，也能有个交代。可是世间是没后悔药賣的。六年後的那第一次，照樣疼，甚至有一種上海話裡「拆骨頭」般硬生生骨肉分離的痛楚，但確實沒有流一滴血。

二、山區療癒，時代齒輪下的家庭命運

兩次高考落榜，加之身體遭此意外，我情緒十分低落。但也正因如此，我迎來了人生中第一次出遠門的機會——去大山深處療癒。1979年初，我跟著六哥去江西，與在那裡的父母團聚一起過年。那時，六哥正在辦理頂替手續。等我爸正式退了休，他就可以在江西工作，不用再回到雲南西雙版納的深山老林裡，天還沒亮就去橡膠林割膠、喝那沒油水的「玻璃湯」了。

回想起來，我們一家的命運軌跡，早就在環環相扣的歷史齒輪中被悄悄注定了。父親是1914年在北京出生的，屬虎。1973年，他積極報名參加支援小三線建設，毅然離開上海去了七一二廠。後來母親也去了江西，跟爸爸團聚。按照常理，父親在1974年滿60歲就該退休了，也許他是廠裡老資格的八級工，技術過硬，國家需要他繼續發光發熱，做點「貢獻」，於是便繼續留任、晚退休了幾年。

直到1979年我進山時，65歲的父親依然在崗位上忙碌。而正是這寶貴的幾年延遲退休，才給六哥的命運留出了一線生機——如果父親按時退休了，此時六哥的「頂替」恐怕就完全沒影兒了。

六哥的命運在早年其實挺「慘」的。他小時候有幸進了人人羨慕的5年制「普陀區中心小學」，比那些只能讀6年制小學的同齡人早一年畢業。可誰能想到，命運竟然這樣折磨人，這寶貴的一年領先，卻偏偏讓他迎頭趕上了知識青年上山下鄉的一片紅，只能捲起鋪蓋去西雙版納割膠。

好在1978年國家出台了知青頂替政策，他才終於有機會離開雲南的深山，來到了江西這家國家級大廠。他於1979年底正式進入七一二廠，在車隊裡從修車幹起，後來開車。直到1986年，恰逢上海剛剛開放、極其缺乏成熟司機，加之夫妻分居兩地的困難，他才得以正式調回上海，在電視台開車。

我六嫂也曾是雲南建設兵團與六哥同一個連隊的，不過她先回了上海。這背後，或許也是得益於頂替政策，抑或是與1978年底那場震撼全國的雲南知青大返城運動爆發有關。

爸爸退休後與母親一同回到上海，在1982年左右前往北京居住了一年多。在那個物資匱乏、生活條件艱苦的年代，出一趟遠門是一件天大的事情，普通人根本沒有餘錢四處出遊。那是老倆口離開故土40多年後，這輩子頭一次、也是最後一次回北京看看。

三、初出遠門，火車與大山深處的震撼

再說79年去江西過年，那是我第一次出遠門，一切都是那樣的新鮮。最有感觸的是第一次目睹火車站裡那湧進湧出、擠上擠下的人群。恍惚間，我似乎看到了芸芸眾生急急投胎來世，又匆匆趕著離去，便生出一陣茫然與惆悵。

車廂裡比較擁擠。對面靠窗坐著一位長相英俊的男子，三十上下，而且很愛幹淨。水杯碗筷都用潔白柔軟的捲筒紙擦了又擦。在那個年月，我從未見過那種紙，後來才知道那是捲筒衛生紙，更沒見過洗完的碗筷用紙擦了又擦的講究男子。六哥在一旁調侃說，對坐的那個男的讓我不淡定了，看那男子的眼神都不對了。我心虛地犟嘴道：「哪能呢！」其實，面對心裡隱隱有感覺的男子，我哪裡敢正眼去看，流露出來的往往是加倍的矜持與清高。

在萍鄉車站下了火車，再乘長途車進山。在平原長大的我，爬過的只是上海長風公園裡那座26米高的人造「鐵臂山」。這一下闖入了滿目蔥蘢的山區，感覺除了驚嘆，還有心顫。有一個急轉彎是在懸崖峭壁上，我坐在外側靠窗，轉彎處窗下根本看不見路肩。我本能地緊閉雙眼，咬緊牙關才熬了過去。六哥因為在西雙版納大山裡工作，每次下了火車還要坐長途車顛簸四天四夜才能到達目的地，人早就皮實了。

汽車在大山深處穿行，偶爾能見到一些穿著黑衣服、滿身泥土的半大孩子，彎著腰背著高高的柴禾。看到車子路過會停下來，用茫然、空洞的目光看著車子駛過。那情景剎那間使人感到心酸或是悲憐。感覺我們生活在兩個不同的世界。我雖然沒有考上大學，心情低落，但跟他們比好太多了。

幾經周折，我們終於來到了坐落在棋盤山區的國營七一二廠。那個廠子是國家的重點工程，是上海五四二廠的小三線企業。曾屬於保密單位，連家屬都不知道他們的工作性質，不像現在，公司的招牌上可以直接大大方方地寫上「印鈔」二字。山裡的工人和職工家屬生活條件極好，開闊整潔大氣。山腳下，一條清澈的小溪緩缓缓流淌。放眼遠眺，群山環繞，雲卷雲舒，真是美極了的地方。

父母的家在半山坡上一棟三層樓的底層，兩房，沒廳，沒內廁，有小伙房。母親還養了幾隻下蛋的鸡。平時，老兩口經常登上後山鍛煉身體。有一天，他們帶我上了後山，我爬得氣喘吁吁，他倆卻「勝似閒庭信步」。可等到了下山，果然應了那句老話：上山容易下山難！山路很陡，往下看一眼，感覺人就會栽下去。我的雙腿發顫、心亂跳、頭發暈。

於是，爸爸走在前面擋住我的視線，牽著我的手，母親走在後面拽著我的衣服。我走在正中間，低著頭，一小步、一小步地往下蹭。直到終於蹭到了山下，我才長長地鬆了一口氣。

四、絕境逢生，風雪之夜的貴人相助

山區的清新與寧靜，讓我從高考失利的低落情緒中，慢慢恢復了過來。

大年初三那天，我意外接到了四哥從上海的來信，說華東師大給我寄了一份體檢通知。我的心狂跳了起來。那是教育局委託華師大舉辦的一期教輔人員培訓班，學期兩年，畢業後給予中專待遇，由市教育局統一分配至本市有關高校大專和新辦的各分校，從事實驗員教輔工作。哇！雖然只是個中專，距理想太遠，但好壞也算是跨入了夢寐以求的大學校園哪。

記得小時候去長風公園，過了金沙江路，到公園2號門的那段棗陽路平時很清靜。夏日炎炎的午後，路上人煙尤其稀少，走在路面發燙、有些發白的柏油馬路上，鞋底偶爾還會粘上點黑色的柏油。滿耳朵灌的是路東邊那條雜草叢生的小河兩岸傳出的、此起彼伏的各種小昆蟲的叫聲。樹上的知了也不厭其煩地叫著「熱死它、熱死它」。那條小河像是公園「西老河」的支流末端，河對岸一溜望不到頭的竹籬笆，後面是鬱鬱蔥蔥的樹木，參差的樹梢上，隱隱約約地露出高低錯落的樓頂。

這邊沒橋沒路，無法通往河對岸。這就加深了我對那片世界的好奇，那籬笆和綠林給好奇添上了神秘，令人覺得是那麼的遙不可及。每每路過那裡，我都會對籬笆裡面的世界產生遐想。不曾想，那片小時候心心念念、無限憧憬的地方，竟然就是華東師大的校園。

先別高興得太早，再往下一瞅，報到日期是1979年2月3日。牆上的掛曆清楚地寫著今天是大年初三，1月30日。只剩四天了！錯過就是自動放棄！我的心頓時涼了半截，外面大雪封山，交通斷絕，我怎麼可能趕得上去報到？！我爸媽去跟廠長說了這個緊急的狀況。善良、通情達理、體卹職工的廠長，立刻答應讓他的司機開著他的專用吉普車送我下山。我爸媽也坐在車裡，吉普車在冰天雪地的大山裡穿行，連夜送我到了萍鄉火车站，搭上了回上海的火車。

我沒見到過廠長，也不知道他姓什麼，一直心存感激的是一位善良的老廠長。結果2024年5月，時隔46年，我問了六哥，才知道廠長姓楊，叫楊福基，當時才40幾歲！那麼年輕就是一所保密級別極高的大廠的廠長了！真是一位年輕有為、敢於擔當、有能力有氣魄的少帥啊！

後來想想，如果沒有那位福建「大學生」老S的一兩次功課輔導，高考時可能就少了關鍵的幾分；如果沒有四哥及時把體檢通知信息千里迢迢寄到大山裡，如果沒有小三線楊廠長的吉普車連夜雪中送我下山，我可能就錯過了報到。人生路上的這幾個「轉折點」，每一個都閃爍著那個時代人與人之間最純粹的善意。他們每一個，都是我生命中的貴人。

五、夢迴廠址，對七一二廠的追憶與父親的夢境

十二年前上網查國營七一二廠，這個爸爸、媽媽和六哥曾經工作、生活過的地方。卻找到了這張一片廢墟的照片。這裡曾經是那麼的充滿生機，如今卻是人去樓空、一片荒涼。看得心裡好一陣惆悵。如今再看，這種潛在心底的隱痛再度復甦。一棟棟孤寂的樓房，一個個空洞的門窗，那緊緊扒著斷壁殘垣的遒勁枯藤，看了除了感傷，還是感傷。嘆歲月無情，世事無常。

爸爸在我的夢中總共才出現過三、四次。

早在他出事前的十天，也就是1987年4月29日，我就做了一個極其反常而可怕的夢，夢見父親在公共浴室裡溺水。那是我這輩子頭一次夢見父母。幾天後，爸爸去廠裡領退休工資順便泡了個澡，回家的途中在公交車站出了意外，幾天后不幸去世。

第二次的夢境是一個秋夜，風很大，爸爸睡在一張公園椅上，周圍很空曠，覺得他很冷。後來爸爸就向遠方隱去了。我當時在讀雪城大學（SU），專業是計算機圖形學，正在學用電腦作畫，這便是我用Alice三維應用程序做的那張椅子。

第三次是2007年12月3日，看到爸爸在一棟廢墟樓的二層，靠牆坐著，很感悲涼。我問他是否要去我那裡。他問我，「你過得好嗎？」其實他也知道我過得不咋樣。

然後他就隱去了。是對這片曾經工作過的地方留戀而回訪嗎？這真是片夢魂繚繞的地方，我的夢他的魂。

第四次夢裡，是他有家了，房屋幹淨簡潔，爸爸的臉上還帶著笑容。

七一二廠在1983年10月21日搬遷去了南昌。有報道說，國營七一二廠舊址在2011年12月被蓮花縣定為縣級重點文物保護單位。慶幸啊，在故土之上，終於有那麼一片我去過的地方，也是父母及六哥曾經工作生活過的地方，會長期保留下去。

故國變化太大了，曾經走過、待過的地方大都已是面目全非，再也回不去、找不著了的。但幸好，那片大山深處的驚心動魄與純粹善意，已經永遠刻在了1979年大年初三的那個風雪之夜。

六、圓夢師大，十年韶華與歲月流轉

也是在1979年，命運用幾記「悶棍」將我「打」到了那排籬笆的另一邊，那片兒時心心念念、十分憧憬的地方。

入校後，我還特地繞到校園西側「老三館」後邊那片人跡罕至的綠林裡。我想去親自感受一下，去圓那個孩提時代就懷揣著的夢。只可惜當時那片林子稀稀疏疏的大概只有四、五排樹，但給了我空寂落鄉的陰森森的感覺，彷彿與世隔絕。我立刻「逃」了出來，也沒能親手去摸一摸後面斑駁的竹籬笆。發覺有點葉公好龍啊。

那時，小河的北端其實已經幹枯了，但籬笆還在。河西食堂旁邊的籬笆牆上有個大豁口，後來我在師大工作時，和同辦公室一位同事的女友——那個青春靚麗的嗲妹妹，還經常一起鑽過那個籬笆洞，橫穿過已經幹枯了的河床，抄近路去住師大二村的她男朋友家玩。

再後來，歲月流轉，路邊雨後春筍般出現了許多小商店和小飯店，那條陪伴了我童年遐想的小河，便徹底消失在了地圖上。

我在華師大讀書、工作，這一呆，就是整整十年。人生中最青春、最美麗的時光，就這樣飄然灑落在了這片曾經如此遙不可及、離開後卻又依然讓我魂縈夢繞的校園裡。

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Beyond the Bamboo Fence and Deep in the Mountains: Echoes of 1979

Part I: An Unexpected Disaster: A Maiden’s Hidden Pain and Exam Failure

Folks in Shanghai often say, "Misfortune never outlives a third turn," meaning bad luck peaks at two, and the third time should bring a change of fortune. Yet, as another old saying goes, "When the roof leaks, it rains non-stop; when the boat is delayed, it faces a headwind." Following my failures in the 1977 and 1978 college entrance exams—two solid, heavy blows to my life—heaven saw fit to hurl a third blow right at me within that single, short year. It was a deep, searing ache—the kind of pain you swallow in silence, unable to utter a single word.

By then, the old housing of the fishery team had been reassigned to other squads, and four or five young men had moved into our old dormitory. Every time I rode my bicycle out, I still had to pass by that place. To the east of the old house lay a winding path about forty to fifty meters long, flanked by overgrown bushes, leading up a slope to a two-meter-high rammed-earth levee. Along the way, I had to cross a small, weed-filled dry ditch bridged only by two wooden planks. Racing across this narrow wooden footbridge required absolute stability, precision, and speed; otherwise, you had to swallow your pride, get off, and push the bike. In my youth, I loved to show off—what we call "tou-san-tou-si" in Shanghai dialect. Every time I passed it, I took the risk and sped across. Once before, my front wheel made it over, but the back wheel slipped into the ditch. Luckily, the ditch wasn't deep, and I escaped unhurt.

One autumn day in 1978, I once again sped across that small dry ditch on my bike. Just as I was turning the corner, flushed with pride, the back wheel suddenly gave a sharp, violent jolt. The bicycle didn't topple, but I was thrown upward. The hard, stubborn leather of the bicycle seat slammed mercilessly against me. Before I could even register what happened, a fist-sized area right between my thighs felt as if a bomb had been detonated; a wave of excruciating pain struck like lightning. "Waaah—!" A cry nearly escaped my throat. I frantically scrambled off the bike, clutching my lower abdomen as I squatted on the ground, my face turning deathly pale. Tears welled up in my eyes, and it took an eternity just to catch my breath. As it turned out, my back wheel had just run over a rogue piece of crushed stone.

A tall boy who had been sitting outside our old housing walked over. Seeing me squatted on the ground in agony, he asked what was wrong and if I needed help. Unable to speak, I forced a tight smile, awkwardly and weakly shaking my head at him. The thought that he had undoubtedly seen me moments before, acting all high and mighty as I dashed across that narrow plank bridge, filled me with a shame that briefly eclipsed the physical torment. Nursing the pain, I pushed my bike and limped step by step back to my dormitory. When I took off my pants to look, there was a pool of bright red blood! My mind fell into an absolute panic. The next day, there were still faint bloodstains on my pants. Misfortunes were indeed tumbling down upon me one after another.

The following day, Dr. W—a Shanghai educated youth in her forties who worked in the OB-GYN department at the farm headquarters hospital—happened to accompany someone to our team to buy fish. During our chat, I related the incident to her and asked anxiously in Shanghai dialect, "Is it serious?" She replied that my hymen had likely ruptured, immediately asking, "Do you want me to take a look for you?" My roommate, D, who was far more mature than I was, urged from the sidelines, "Yes, yes, yes, let Dr. W examine you and write a medical note." But back then, I had no concept of what a medical note was for, who would look at it, or who would ever question me. Since there seemed to be no major danger, my maidenly shyness made me too embarrassed to let Dr. W examine me. Dr. W noted that it was quite common for girls who rode bicycles to rupture it. Later in life, I did regret not letting her check; had I done so, I would have had a diagnostic certificate—a way to account for myself just in case I ran into trouble down the road. But there is no medicine in this world to cure regret. Six years later, during my very first time, the pain was just as severe—carrying a wrenching, bone-deep ache of separation that felt like what we in Shanghai call 'chai-gu-tou' (having one's bones dismantled)—but true to that fateful autumn day, not a single drop of blood fell.

Part II: Mountain Healing: Family Destiny Under the Gears of Time

Crushed by two consecutive college exam failures and the trauma of my physical accident, my spirits hit rock bottom. Yet, it was precisely because of this dark valley that I welcomed the very first long-distance journey of my life—traveling deep into the mountains for healing. In early 1979, I accompanied my sixth older brother to Jiangxi to reunite with our parents for the Lunar New Year. At that time, he was processing the paperwork to take over our father's job position. Once our father officially retired, my brother could secure work in Jiangxi, freeing him from returning to the dense, primeval forests of Xishuangbanna, Yunnan. There, he would no longer have to tap rubber trees before dawn and survive on that nutrient-deficient, oil-free "glass soup."

Looking back, our family’s destiny had long been quietly predetermined by the interlocking gears of history. My father was born in Beijing in 1914, under the Year of the Tiger. In 1973, he eagerly volunteered to support the construction of the "Third Line" defense industries, resolutely leaving Shanghai for Factory 712 in Jiangxi. Later, my mother joined him there. By all standard rules, Father should have retired in 1974 upon turning sixty. However, as a veteran, highly skilled Grade-8 technician, the country needed him to keep shining his light and making "contributions." Thus, he remained on duty, delaying his retirement by several years. Even in 1979 when I entered the mountains, my 65-year-old father was still busy at his post. Yet, it was this precious handful of years of delayed retirement that threw a lifeline to my sixth brother’s fate. Had our father retired on schedule, my brother’s opportunity to take over his post would have completely vanished.

My sixth brother’s fate in his early years was quite tragic. As a child, he was fortunate enough to enter the highly envied five-year curriculum at Putuo District Central Primary School, graduating a year ahead of peers stuck in six-year schools. Who could have guessed that destiny would play such a cruel joke? That precious one-year head start caused him to crash headfirst into the peak of the Sent-down Youth movement, forcing him to pack his bags and head to Xishuangbanna to tap rubber. Fortunately, when the state introduced the job-takeover policy for educated youth in 1978, he finally seized the chance to leave the mountains of Yunnan for this major national factory in Jiangxi. He officially entered Factory 712 at the end of 1979, starting as a mechanic in the motor pool before becoming a driver. It wasn't until 1986—when a newly opening Shanghai faced a desperate shortage of experienced drivers, combined with the hardships of a married couple living apart—that he was officially transferred back to Shanghai to drive for the television station. My sister-in-law had also served in the same Yunnan Production and Construction Corps company as my brother, though she managed to return to Shanghai earlier. This breakthrough was perhaps a benefit of the job-takeover policy, or tied directly to the massive late-1978 protest movement of Yunnan youth demanding their return home.

After his eventual retirement, Father returned to Shanghai with my mother. Around 1982, they traveled to Beijing and resided there for over a year. In that era of severe scarcity and harsh living conditions, embarking on a long-distance journey was a momentous event; ordinary citizens simply had no spare money to travel for leisure. That trip marked the first time—and the very last time—the elderly couple returned to see Beijing since leaving their native soil more than forty years prior.

Part III: Leaving Home for the First Time: Trains and the Shock of the Deep Mountains

Traveling to Jiangxi for the Lunar New Year in 1979 marked my very first time leaving home, and everything felt incredibly fresh. What struck me most was witnessing, for the first time, the massive crowds flooding in and out, squeezing on and off the trains. In a trance, it felt as though I was watching the souls of all living beings rushing to be reincarnated into this world, only to leave again in a desperate hurry, which filled me with a sudden sense of detachment and melancholy. The carriage was quite crowded. Sitting across from me by the window was a handsome man in his early thirties who was fastidiously clean. He used a piece of bright white, soft rolled paper to repeatedly wipe his water cup and utensils. In those days, I had never seen that kind of paper before (only later did I learn it was roll toilet paper), let alone a gentleman so refined that he would wipe clean dishes over and over. My sixth brother teased me from the side, claiming the man across from us had made me lose my composure and that my gaze gave me away. Weakly defensive, I talked back, "No way!" In truth, whenever I felt a faint stir of emotion toward a man, I never dared to look him in the eye; instead, what surfaced was an exaggerated display of reserve and aloofness.

We disembarked at Pingxiang Station and boarded a long-distance bus to head into the mountains. Having grown up on the flat plains, the only "mountain" I had ever climbed was the 26-meter-high man-made "Tiebi Hill" in Shanghai's Changfeng Park. Plunging suddenly into this lush, sprawling mountain range brought not just awe, but a literal trembling of my heart. One sharp turn hugged a sheer cliff; sitting on the outer window seat, I looked down at the bend and could not see the road shoulder at all. I instinctively squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my teeth just to endure it. My sixth brother, hardened by his years in the mountains of Xishuangbanna—where he had to endure four days and four nights of bumpy bus rides after leaving the train—was entirely unfazed.

As the bus threaded through the deep valleys, we occasionally spotted local children, covered in dirt and dressed in dark clothes, bending low under the weight of towering bundles of firewood. When our bus passed, they would stop and watch us with blank, hollow stares. That sight instantly brought a pang of heartache and pity; it felt as though we lived in two entirely different worlds. Though I was depressed over failing the college exam, my life was a luxury compared to theirs. After many twists and turns, we finally arrived at the state-run Factory 712, nestled within the Qipan Mountains. The facility was a key national project, a "Third Line" sister enterprise of Shanghai's Factory 542. It used to be a highly classified unit—even the workers' families were kept in the dark about the nature of the work, unlike today, where the company signboard proudly and openly displays the word "Minting." The living conditions for the mountain workers and their families were excellent—the area was spacious, clean, and grand. At the foot of the mountain, a crystal-clear stream flowed gently. Looking into the distance, surrounded by peaks under shifting clouds, it was an incredibly beautiful place.

My parents' home was on the ground floor of a three-story building halfway up the slope—two bedrooms, no living room, no indoor toilet, but with a small kitchen. Mother even raised a few egg-laying hens. Normally, the elderly couple would hike up the back mountain for exercise. One day, they took me along; I ended up huffing and puffing while the two of them walked as casually as if they were strolling through a courtyard. But when it came time to head back down, the old saying proved all too true: It's easy to go up a mountain, but hard to come down. The trail was incredibly steep; one look downward made me feel as if I would plunge headfirst. My legs shook, my heart raced, and my head spun. So, Father walked in front to block my view while holding my hand, and Mother walked behind, gripping my clothes. Sandwiched safely in the middle, I kept my head down, shuffling downward one tiny, agonizing step at a time. It wasn't until we finally drifted back to the foot of the mountain that I let out a long, deep sigh of relief.

Part IV: Survival Against All Odds: A Noble Helping Hand on a Snowy Night

The crisp air and tranquility of the mountains gradually lifted me from the gloom of my exam failure. On the third day of the Lunar New Year, I unexpectedly received a letter from my fourth older brother in Shanghai, stating that East China Normal University (ECNU) had sent me a medical exam notice. My heart leaped into my throat! It was a two-year training program for educational support staff commissioned by the Bureau of Education. Wow! Although it was only a technical school degree—a far cry from my original dream—it still meant stepping onto a coveted university campus. I remembered my childhood trips to Changfeng Park. Passing Jinshajiang Road toward Gate 2, that section of Zaoyang Road was usually peaceful. On scorching summer afternoons, pedestrians were especially sparse, the asphalt road would turn white and hot, occasionally sticking to the soles of my shoes. My ears would be filled with the overlapping calls of various small insects echoing from both banks of the weed-choked stream east of the road. 

Across the weed-choked river ran an endless stretch of bamboo fencing, hiding lush trees and staggered rooftops. With no bridge or path to cross, that hidden world became an enchanting mystery, seemingly light-years away. I used to pass by and daydream about what lay beyond that fence. Never could I have imagined that this very place of my childhood yearning would turn out to be the ECNU campus.

But my joy was cut short. The deadline to report was February 3, 1979. The wall calendar clearly read January 30. Only four days left! Missing it meant automatic forfeiture! My heart instantly froze solid. Outside, heavy snow had blocked the mountains, completely severing all transportation. How could I possibly make it out in time? Desperate, my parents rushed to explain this critical emergency to the factory director. Kind, reasonable, and deeply empathetic to his workers, the director immediately agreed to have his driver take me down the mountain in his dedicated official Jeep. With my parents riding along, the Jeep fought its way through the frozen, snow-swept mountains, driving through the night to deliver me safely to the Pingxiang Railway Station, where I boarded a train bound for Shanghai.

I never actually met the director back then, nor did I know his name; I simply held a lifelong gratitude toward a kind "elderly" leader. Astonishingly, in May 2024—a staggering 46 years later—I asked my sixth brother and finally learned his identity: his name was Yang Fuji, and he was only in his early forties at the time! To hold the reigns of a highly classified national factory at such a young age—he was truly a brilliant, capable, and courageous "young commander" who wasn't afraid to take responsibility for his staff.

Looking back, if "the College Student" Old S hadn't tutored me on those few critical math problems, I might have fallen a few vital points shorter on the exam. If my fourth brother hadn't painstakingly forwarded that medical notice across thousands of miles into the mountains, or if Director Yang of the Third Line factory hadn't sent his Jeep to tear through the midnight snowstorms, I would have missed my chance forever. Every single turning point on my journey gleamed with the purest human kindness of that era. Every one of them was a guardian angel in my life.

Part V: Dreams of the Factory: Memories of Factory 712 and Father’s Ethereal Realm

Twelve years ago, I searched online for State-Owned Factory 712—the very place where my father, mother, and sixth older brother had once worked and lived. Instead, I stumbled upon a photograph of utter ruin. This place had once been so bursting with life, yet now it was abandoned, hollow, and desolate. A heavy wave of melancholy washed over my heart. Looking at it again today, that dormant ache buried deep inside me awakens once more. Row after row of lonely buildings, rows of hollow doors and windows, and those fierce, weathered vines clawing desperately onto the broken walls—there is nothing to feel but profound sorrow. I sigh at how ruthless time is, and how impermanent the world remains.

My father has only ever appeared in my dreams three or four times in total. Exactly ten days before his fatal accident, on April 29, 1987, I had an extremely unusual and terrifying premonition—I dreamed that my father was drowning in a public bathhouse. That was the first time in my entire life I had ever dreamed of my parents. A few days later, Father went to the factory to collect his pension and took a bath while there; on his way home, he met with a tragic accident at a bus station and passed away a few days later. The second dream occurred on a windy autumn night. Father was sleeping on a park bench in a vast, empty space, and I felt he was so bitterly cold. Afterward, he faded into the distance. At that time, I was studying Computer Graphics at Syracuse University (SU), learning how to create art with computers. That virtual bench I modeled using the Alice 3D application was a direct reflection of that dream.

The third dream came on December 3, 2007. I saw Father sitting against a wall on the second floor of a ruined building, looking incredibly sorrowful. I asked him if he wanted to come stay at my place. He simply asked me, "Are you doing well?" In truth, he already knew I was struggling through my own rough patches. Then, he vanished into thin air. Was he revisiting this old workplace out of lingering attachment? This truly is a place where dreams and spirits entwine—my dreams, his soul. In the fourth dream, however, he finally had a home of his own. The house was clean and simple, and a genuine smile graced my father's face.

Factory 712 relocated to Nanchang on October 21, 1983. Reports show that the original site of State-Owned Factory 712 was designated as a county-level key cultural relics protection unit by Lianhua County in December 2011. What a relief! On my native soil, there is finally a place I have personally been to—a place where my parents and sixth brother once worked and lived—that will be preserved for generations to come. My homeland has changed so drastically; most of the places I once walked and stayed have become unrecognizable, gone forever and impossible to find again. Yet, thankfully, the thrilling urgency and pure human kindness found deep within those mountains remain eternally etched into that snow-swept night of the third day of the Lunar New Year in 1979.

Part VI: Fulfilling the Dream at ECNU: Ten Golden Years and the Flow of Time

It was also in 1979 that destiny, using those heavy blows of misfortune, somehow "shoved" me to the other side of that very bamboo fence—the world I had yearned for and dreamed about since childhood. After entering the university, I made a special trip to that secluded grove behind the "Old Three Buildings" on the western edge of the campus. I wanted to experience it personally, to fulfill the dream I had harbored since I was a little girl. Unfortunately, that grove was quite sparse, containing perhaps only four or five rows of trees, and it gave me a desolate, eerie feeling of being completely isolated from the world. I turned and "escaped" immediately, never even touching the weathered bamboo fence behind it. I realized I was just like Lord Ye who professed a love for dragons but fled when a real one appeared.

By then, the northern end of the small river had already dried up, though the fence remained standing. There was a large gap in the bamboo wall near the Hexi Cafeteria. Later, when I was working at ECNU, a colleague's girlfriend—a beautiful, charming, and sweet Shanghai girl—and I would often squeeze through that hole in the fence. We would cross the dry riverbed as a shortcut to visit her boyfriend, who lived in the Second ECNU Village. As the years rolled on, small shops and restaurants mushroomed along the roadside like bamboo shoots after rain. The little river that had accompanied my childhood daydreams completely vanished from the map.

I studied and worked at East China Normal University, staying there for a full decade. The most youthful, most beautiful years of my life were thus gently scattered across this campus—a place that once seemed so utterly out of reach, yet continues to haunt my dreams long after leaving it.

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.

第三百五十六篇

《时代的齿轮：1978年的两记闷棍，与那些散落世间的奇妙重逢》

一、遲到的「真相」

2026年7月底上網查資料，才知道1977年的高考是各省自主命題，而1978年的是全國統一命題。78年全國高考作文是要考生把一篇長文縮寫成500至600字的短文。那篇文章的題目是《速度問題是一個政治問題》意在考察學生對核心觀點的提煉能力。題目材料以華國鋒等領導人講話為核心，強調經濟發展速度對國家政治穩定的重要性。文中引用毛澤東的建設方針；批判「四人幫」的錯誤路線。

二、自嘲與當下的AI

天哪！老實說 估計從考場出來的那一剎那，我就已經將語文考的是什麼徹徹底底地給忘到爪哇國去了。多麼枯燥的內容啊！我一向對政治不感興趣，又缺乏提煉、縮寫的能力，難怪會考的不及格！我只考了54分。

提煉核心觀點 總結內容綱要，這種能力是我至今的短板。現在做油管短視頻，我把故事記錄下來後，都要請 Gemini AI 幫我做個內容提要、簡介的。

三、中學的「陰影」

記得在中學時代，我們班48個學生分成四組，老師讓我當第四組的小組長。每次小組討論後，各組長都要站起來面對全班同學，簡明扼要地匯報小組的討論情況和結果，那是最令我難堪的事。

打小母親就不讓我與女孩子們扎堆兒，說那是嘰嘰喳喳 瘋瘋癲癲沒教養。所以我沒有練嘴皮子的機會，說話拙嘴笨舌，再加上我是第四個小組長，發言排在最後一個。輪到我時總是心裡慌亂，總覺得想說的，該說的都已經被前面幾個組長講完了。我的發言總是吭吭哧哧的，心裡好不願意當這個組長。根本沒體會到這正是余老師培養我提煉、總結能力的機會呢。

四、1977年的「拔苗助長」

扯遠了，再說我1977年高考落榜，是有心理準備的。從那年10月突然得到激動人心的恢復高考消息到冬季的高考，只有2個月的復習時間。對一個荒廢了四年多學業的我來說，拿起課本復習數理化知識，簡直就是無中生有，拔苗助長，太難了。

五、1978年，我唯一的出路

當時要想離開農場只有兩條出路：一「招工上調」，二復習再考。不說「招工上調」過程中還存在著一定的貓膩，就是論資排輩熬年頭，就令人覺得虛無縹緲。而繼續復習準備參加下一年的高考，才是我唯一的出路。1978年的高考是在7月份，好歹有半年多的時間復習。

六、新樓房與熱鬧的漁業隊

1977年還沒有「恢復高考」時，我們就搬進了新建的兩層的樓房。在老宿舍以西，大約100多米的地方。新樓的樓梯在樓東側是露天的，我們會計室是在二樓樓梯口第一間。D會計的臥室在邊上第二間，再後面是醫務室、織網間 會議室和娛樂室。娛樂室內有電視機和乒乓桌。我們女生宿舍還要往裡走。

那時候新場部已經建成一年多了，場部的一些機關人員，陸陸續續也都搬了過來。新場部與我們漁業隊就隔了一條夯土大堤，走路5分鐘都不用，就有不少人到處轉轉。當時，我們住的地方前不著村後不著店兒的，其他連隊都比較遠。場部的人就轉到我們漁業隊來了，買點魚改善改善伙食。熟悉後也會跟我這兒聊一會兒。

七、意外的「悄悄話」

我77年冬季高考落榜後，D會計看我整天復習功課挺努力的，便也看在眼裡記在心裡。一天午後，D會計面帶笑意走進辦公室，告訴我大學生正在隔壁D會計的寢室，叫我過去。大學生經常來我們這串門兒，熟門熟路的都是到會計室來聊天兒的，今天怎麼他會呆在D會計的寢室裡叫我過去？想起母親說的「好話不背人，背人沒好話」，我納悶兒著走到隔壁。

八、定格在陽光下的畫面

那個寢室有四張雙人床，D會計的床在北窗左側的下鋪。看到床上棉紗帳的帳門撩開著被兩側的帳鉤掛住。草編涼席上，大學生老S正架著兩條腿，仰躺斜靠在D會計的被垛上，一個小草帽遮住了臉。剎那間，彷彿看到在溫暖的陽光裡，一個悠閒的西方垂釣者翹著一條腿，用草帽遮著臉，興許嘴裡還咬著一根兒乾草，仰躺在河邊岸坡大樹下的草地上休憩。

九、溫暖的謎底與鏡頭前的僵硬

我有點束手無策，怎麼叫我過來他自己卻躺在這兒，還遮著臉。好在這尷尬的場面持續的時間不久。大學生自己一下子取下草帽，笑著坐了起來。也沒有什麼要緊的事兒，找我過去只是問了問我複習的情況。原來是D會計剛剛和他談過，請他幫我輔導功課。這就解釋了剛剛D會計為什麼面帶笑意地叫我過去。

老S三十出頭，是一位文革前的大學生。我們平時就叫他「大學生」，是場部的攝影師。1977年7月他還幫我拍過一些風景照呢。我跟他說要抓拍「給我拍得自然點啊」我說。過去曾有過牙齒不整齊，被當眾羞辱的經歷，造成我在鏡頭前不會笑，面部表情僵硬。結果這幾張拍的還算滿意。

十、福建的驕傲與思鄉情

大學生老S的妻子在家鄉，他總盼著有朝一日能調回福建去。他很為福建考生在歷年的高考中名列前茅而自豪。

十一、D會計的默默守護與那些隱藏的「學霸」

D會計比較嚴肅認真內向，心底很善良。估計是為了讓我更安心不受干擾地複習功課，平時都在隔壁的寢室裡。有人來聊天兒，就會坐在我對面的D會計的辦公桌前。但是我發覺，只要一有人來閒聊，D會計就會走過來開抽屜拿東西，敏感的人就比較尷尬，从此就不再來了。

後來聽說其中一位聊天受阻的場部工作人員，1978年考進了復旦大學新聞系。還有一位也是後來不再來聊天的場部的播音員，聲音很有磁性，好像還是場部文藝宣傳隊的。當時他坐在會計室裡跟我說他們正在排演話劇《於無聲處》。後來查閱歷史資料才知道《於無聲處》的創作時間是1978年5月，首演時間是9月23日。那麼這位播音員與我聊天的日子應該是1978年9月以後的事了，高考也結束了的那段日子裡。

十二、重逢在華師大——這世界真小

奇怪的是，後來我在華師大工作後，有一次大禮堂有人做報告。具體是什麼報告記不清了，但是做報告的人就是那位播音員！還有，我們漁業隊的司務長，多年後居然穿著製服在師大門口當門衛。還有一位，我在紙袋廠工作時，在同一車間裡漂亮的女同事，比我大一屆，很清高的。我們之間幾乎沒有說過一話，當時我還是車間副主任呢。多年後居然看到她每天上下班路過我家窗前。據說她回上海後，嫁給了我的一位中學男同學的哥哥，就住在我們前排樓裡。

好玩兒吧？這個世界真小。

十三、錯過的遺憾，與驚艷時光的「五朵金花」

有時候世界雖小心卻太遠，那年月人都比較含蓄，遇到多年前的老同事、老朋友幾乎都不好意思上前打招呼。回頭想想就很遺憾。

蓉蓉是我在紙袋廠時的小姊妹，我去了漁業隊後，偶爾還會回工廠探望她，晚上，我就擠在她那張八人宿舍的單人床上，兩個人頭挨著頭說悄悄話。我也去過她在上海愚園路弄堂裡的家。後來也就是78年前後，子女頂替政策出台，她便頂替母親進了上海閥門廠，在那裡她被公認為廠裡的「五朵金花」之一。

十四、萬種嬌羞的軍裝女孩與大眼睛的「電影明星」

蓉蓉的美是嫻靜婉約的，有一次跟她走在場部附近的路上，那兒人多。注意到那些回頭看過來的目光，都是集中在她身上的。可蓉蓉面對這些目光，只是瞬間眼眸低垂，那飽含的萬種嬌羞，美極了。

她常穿著一件橄欖綠，四個口袋的軍官制服，她父親是上海警備區的高官。她也送了我一件她哥哥的草綠色士兵服，只有兩個口袋。當時年輕人以穿軍服為最高時尚，很難獲得。

那個時候上海電影製片廠的導演，常來農場挑演員。事實上，我們紙袋工廠的一位姓陳的女孩，後來成了電影明星。這裡也有個小插曲。故事是這樣的:一天有人說廠裡來了位「頂特勒」，就都過去看。果然她皮膚白皙，嘴唇紅潤，大眼靈動。

十五、吹不響的口哨與一輩子緣分的「小Z」

一天傍晚我和她還有幾個姑娘在馬路上散步。微風拂煦，大家嘰嘰喳喳好不熱鬧。不知誰先吹了個嘹亮的口哨，於是馬路上口哨聲此起彼伏。小陳能用口哨吹出花樣，我卻只會發「噓噓」聲音。於是她就教我怎麼捲舌頭、怎麼翹嘴唇、怎麼吹氣。可我就是拙嘴笨舌，怎麼也學不會。

歡笑中，我們回到了廠門口。這時 一個在食堂工作的72屆男生小Z，面目清秀一副書生相，很靦腆地走過來，說有事相求。說他將被子拆洗過，但不會縫，問我是否能幫他縫一下。人家都開口了，當然得幫啊。此時，小陳扭過頭來，睜著那雙漂亮的大眼睛，一骨碌往上轉了大半個圈兒，似乎是畫了個大問號。食堂的一間空屋子裡，被子已經鋪在蘆葦杆簾子上了，就等我給縫上。其實在此之前，我也只在食堂買飯的小窗口見過他。

十六、一尺高的打飯窗口，與三十年後的驚人消息

那時候食堂的牆面上就開著兩個一尺多高的小窗口。一到飯點兒，人們就排著兩條長隊等著買飯。那窗口開得低，每個人買飯時都得稍微低下頭，弓著腰，才能跟裡面的工作人員說清楚，今天想要買什麼菜 打幾兩飯。

就是這位在食堂工作的小Z，在1974年的下半年，突然給我打過一次電話，不過那次不是為了他自己，而是替他的一位朋友當傳話筒，約我見面。

任誰也不會想到，三十多年後的2011年，才聯繫到的老同學中，在上海高等教育局工作的老班長提到，他高教局裡的一位同事，聽說了我的名字後，便說他認識我。您猜怎麼著，這位竟然就是當年在食堂工作的小Z！他是在77年高考恢復前，就被保送回上海讀大學的。

十七、滅了的演員夢，與一轉眼的永遠

後來，上影廠的導演也看上了蓉蓉，可廠裡一個女領導一句「作風不正」，就滅了她的演員夢。當時追求她的男生很多，在領導眼中竟成了罪。據說後來有個資本家的後代娶了她，然後遠赴法國。此後很長一段時間裡，蓉蓉常出現在我的夢裡。

幾年後，在上海戲劇用品商店裡，隔著兩個玻璃櫃檯，我一眼看見了她和她母親，我們互相注視了幾秒。可那一刻，我終究沒有上前打招呼的勇氣。那時代的人太靦腆，一個轉身，錯過就是永遠。

十八、老S的「扭身絕技」，與再落榜的高考

思緒又飄遠了，咱回過頭來再聊那個1978年會計室。「大學生」幫我解答過幾道數理化方面的難題，但也沒有教我多少東西，倒是喜歡吹牛、聊天兒。結果，他來聊天兒時，D會計也開始過來開抽屜拿東西了。老S卻比較老資格，仗著與D會計熟，當D會計來開抽屜時，他只是將身子一扭，讓開，D會計離開後接著聊。

1977年的高考錄取率為4.8%，到了1978年，報名人數增長40萬人次，錄取率提高到6.59%。78年高考的錄取線是300分，我只考了290，又一次落榜。

十九、徐家匯到大堤，野花裡的純真抓拍

1978年7月侄女小Y，背著書包跟我一路乘94路車，換44路到徐家匯，換徐閔線到老閔行碼頭，搭渡船過黃浦江到奉賢縣的西渡，再坐西幹線長途汽車。四個多小時的車程到達五四農場的老場部終點站下車，又走了半個多小時，風塵僕僕地來到了隊裡。

D會計的兒子小WX，那幾天也跟著爸爸來隊裡玩兒。他在鏡頭前扭扭捏捏的很害羞。我說WX你去給小Y採些花來，他就在附近的野草叢中，採了些花兒跑過來送給小Y。我趕緊抓拍了這個鏡頭，很自然，很純真。

二十、隨塘河畔的逆光，與解禁的捲瀏海

我請「大學生」在隨塘河畔和夯土大堤上，給我們拍了一些照片。注意到78年的照片中我的瀏海是捲曲的。那年上海大街上，開始有燙長波浪的時髦女郎招搖過市了。我沒那個膽子，只能燙個瀏海卷個辯稍兒。文革中是沒有燙頭髮的，會被作為資產階級的生活作風遭批判的。

西邊的太陽快要下山了，我第一次拍攝逆光照。那時候拍照都以人為主，好像每張照片裡都要拍「我」，覺得光拍風景那是浪費膠卷兒。

二十一、紅燈下的神秘暗房－告別1978

大學生老S還帶我和小Y去了場部的暗房，他一個人工作的地方。第一次進暗房，紅燈光籠罩著神神秘秘，彷彿進入了另外一個世界。看老S沖洗照片十分有趣。他還給我的老照片上了色，有的是上棕色，好像是沖印的液體裡加了點顏色。還有幾張是他手工上的色。當開門走出暗房的一剎那，有些晃眼，還有些對那個神秘感的「世界」留戀。

很久以後，聽說「大學生」如願以償地調回了福建老家。

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

The Gears of Time: Two Heavy Blows in 1978, and the Magical Echoes of a Small World

I. The Delayed "Truth"

In late July 2026, while researching online, I finally learned that the 1977 college entrance exam was designed by individual provinces, while the 1978 exam was standardized nationwide. The 1978 essay section required candidates to summarize a long text into a 500-to-600-word essay. The topic was "The Question of Speed is a Political Question," aimed at testing our ability to extract core arguments. The material centered on speeches by political figures like Hua Guofeng, emphasizing how economic speed relates to political stability. The text cited Mao Zedong's development guidelines; it also criticized the erroneous line of the "Gang of Four."

II. Self-Mockery and My Present-Day AI Savior

Good heavens! To be honest, the moment I stepped out of that exam hall, I must have wiped that test completely from my memory. What a dry topic! I was never interested in politics and lacked the ability to summarize. No wonder I failed—I only scored 54. 

Summing up core ideas remains my weak spot to this day. Even now, when making YouTube shorts, I have to ask AI to help write my video summaries and descriptions after I draft my stories.

III. The Middle School "Shadow" 

I remember in middle school, our class of 48 was split into four groups, and the teacher made me the leader of Group 4. After every group discussion, each leader had to stand up and summarize our findings concisely to the whole class. It was the most agonizing thing for me.

Since childhood, my mother forbade me from mingling with groups of girls, calling it unmannered, noisy nonsense. So I never developed the gift of gab and was quite tongue-tied. Being the fourth leader, I always went last. By the time it was my turn, panic would set in, as everything worth saying had already been said. I would stutter through my speech, hating every moment of being a leader. I completely failed to realize that Teacher Yu was actually trying to cultivate my ability to summarize.

IV. 1977: Rushing Things Out of Nothing

Digressing a bit—I was fully prepared for my failure in the 1977 exam. From the thrilling announcement of the exam's resumption in October to the actual test that winter, we only had two short months to prepare. For someone like me, who had abandoned academic studies for over four years, picking up textbooks to review math, physics, and chemistry felt like trying to build something out of nothing. It was a rushed, impossible task.

V. 1978: My One and Only Way Out

At that time, there were only two ways to escape the farm: job placement allocation or studying to retake the exam. Job allocation was a dubious process full of favoritism, and waiting one's turn by seniority felt completely hopeless. Continuing my studies for the next year's exam was my only true way out. The 1978 exam was scheduled for July, which at least gave me more than half a year to prepare.

VI. The New Building and the Lively Fishery Team

In 1977, even before the college entrance exams were reinstated, we moved into a newly built two-story building, about 100 meters west of the old dorms. The eastern staircase was open-air, and our accounting office was the very first room at the top on the second floor. Accountant D’s bedroom was next door, followed by the clinic, net-weaving room, meeting room, and recreation room, which had a TV and a ping-pong table. Our female dormitory was further down the hall. 

By then, the new farm headquarters had been up for over a year, and office staff were moving in. Separated from our fishery team by just a rammed-earth levee—less than a 5-minute walk—people often strolled over. Living in the middle of nowhere, with other companies far away, headquarters staff naturally gravitated toward our team to buy fresh fish and improve their meals. Once we got to know each other, they would stop by to chat with me.

VII. An Unexpected Whisper

After I failed the winter exam in 1977, Accountant D noticed how hard I was studying every day and quietly took it to heart. One afternoon, Accountant D walked into the office with a knowing smile and told me "the College Student" was next door in his bedroom, asking for me. He was a regular visitor who usually hung out in the accounting office to chat. Why was he waiting in Accountant D's private bedroom today? Remembering my mother's old saying, "Honest words are not hidden from people, and hidden words are not honest," I walked next door, full of curiosity.

VIII. A Snapshot Frozen in the Warm Sunshine

The dorm room had four bunk beds, and Accountant D’s was the bottom bunk to the left of the north window. The cotton mosquito net was pulled open, hooked back on both sides. On the straw mat, the College Student, Old S, lay with his legs crossed, leaning back against Accountant D’s neatly stacked quilts, a small straw hat tilted over his face. In that instant, drenched in warm sunshine, he looked exactly like a relaxed Western angler—resting on the grassy bank under a massive tree, legs crossed, face covered by a straw hat, perhaps even chewing on a blade of grass.

IX. A Heartwarming Answer and Camera-Shy Stiffness

I stood there a bit helpless. Why call me over just to lie there with his face covered? Fortunately, the awkward moment didn't last long. He suddenly tossed the straw hat aside and sat up with a grin. It wasn't an emergency; he just wanted to ask about my studies. It turned out Accountant D had just spoken with him, asking him to tutor me. That explained Accountant D's mysterious smile.

Old S was in his early thirties, a pre-Cultural Revolution college graduate whom we simply called "the College Student." He was the farm's photographer and had taken some scenic photos of me in July 1977. I remember telling him to take candid shots: "Make me look natural," I said. Because I had been publicly humiliated as a child for having crooked teeth, I never knew how to smile for cameras and always froze up. Surprisingly, those photos turned out quite well.

X. Fujian’s Pride and Homesick Longings

Old S's wife was back in his hometown, and he was constantly hoping for the day he could transfer back to Fujian. He took immense pride in how Fujian students consistently ranked among the top performers in the national college entrance exams.

XI. Accountant D’s Silent Guard and the Hidden Top Scorers

Accountant D was serious, meticulous, and introverted, but possessed a deeply kind heart. To give me a quiet space to study without distraction, he usually stayed in the bedroom next door. Whenever visitors dropped by to chat, they would sit at his desk right across from me. But I noticed a pattern: the moment someone started chatting, Accountant D would walk in, opening drawers to rummage for things. Shrewder guests caught the hint, felt the awkwardness, and stopped coming. 

Later, I learned that one of those interrupted chatters actually got into the Journalism Department at Fudan University in 1978! Another regular who eventually stopped visiting was a farm radio announcer with a beautifully magnetic voice, who also seemed to be part of the propaganda troupe. I remember him sitting in the accounting office, telling me they were rehearsing the play In the Silent Place. Historical records show it was written in May 1978 and premiered on September 23. So, those chats must have happened after September 1978, during those lingering days after the college exams had already ended.

XII. Reuniting at ECNU: This World Is Truly Small

Strangely enough, years later when I was working at East China Normal University, there was a lecture in the grand auditorium. I can't recall the specific topic, but the guest speaker was none other than that very radio announcer! Even more surprising, the quartermaster from our fishery team ended up working as a uniformed security guard at the university gates years later. And then there was a beautiful, aloof female colleague from my days at the paper bag factory. She was a year ahead of me, and though I was the vice-director of the workshop back then, we barely spoke. Decades later, I realized she was walking past my apartment window every single day on her commute. It turned out that after returning to Shanghai, she married the older brother of one of my middle school classmates and lived in the building right in front of mine. 

Isn't it fascinating? This world is incredibly small.

XIII. Regrets of a Missed Hello, and the Breathtaking "Golden Blossom"

Yet, sometimes the world feels vast despite its smallness. Back then, people were reserved; bumping into an old colleague or friend after many years often felt too awkward to say hello. Looking back, I feel a deep sense of regret.

Rongrong was my close sister at the paper bag factory. Even after I moved to the fishery team, I would occasionally return to visit her. At night, we would squeeze together on a single bed in an eight-person dormitory, whispering our secrets head-to-head. I even visited her family home in the traditional lanes of Yuyuan Road in Shanghai. Around 1978, when the policy allowing children to replace their retiring parents took effect, she took her mother’s place at the Shanghai Valve Factory, where she was widely celebrated as one of the factory's "Five Golden Blossoms."

XIV. A Shy Girl in Uniform and the Big-Eyed Future Movie Star

Rongrong possessed a quiet, elegant beauty. Once, walking with her near the crowded farm headquarters, I noticed every turning head was locked entirely on her. Facing those stares, she would simply lower her eyes in a flash—a subtle gesture brimming with a thousand shades of shy grace that was utterly breathtaking.

She often wore an olive-green, four-pocket officer's uniform, as her father was a high-ranking official in the Shanghai Garrison Command. She even gifted me a two-pocket grass-green soldier’s uniform from her older brother. In those days, wearing military attire was the pinnacle of fashion and incredibly hard to come by.

Around that time, directors from the Shanghai Film Studio frequently visited the farm to scout for talent. In fact, a girl surnamed Chen from our paper bag factory actually went on to become a movie star. There is a sweet little interlude here: one day, rumors spread that a "stunning beauty" had arrived at the factory, and everyone rushed over to look. Sure enough, she had porcelain skin, rosy lips, and vibrant, expressive eyes.

XV. An Unblown Whistle and a Lifelong Bound with "Xiao Z"

One evening, she, along with a few other girls and myself, were strolling down the road. A gentle breeze blew as we chatted and giggled lively. Someone suddenly let out a piercing whistle, and soon, echoes of whistling filled the air. Miss Chen could whistle intricate melodies, while I could only manage a faint "shhh" sound. She patiently tried to teach me how to curl my tongue, shape my lips, and blow, but my clumsy tongue simply couldn't master it.

Amidst the laughter, we arrived back at the factory gates. That was when Xiao Z, a refined, scholarly looking boy from the Class of '72 who worked in the cafeteria, nervously approached me. He sheepishly explained that he had washed his heavy quilts but didn't know how to sew them back together, asking if I could help. Since he asked so sincerely, of course I agreed. At that moment, Miss Chen turned her head, her large, beautiful eyes rolling upward in a dramatic arc, practically sketching a giant question mark in the air. In an empty room in the cafeteria, the quilt was already laid out on a woven reed mat, waiting for my needle. Truthfully, before that evening, I had only ever seen him through the small service windows of the cafeteria.

XVI. A One-Foot-High Cafeteria Window, and a Stunning Echo 30 Years Later

Back then, the cafeteria wall had only two small service windows, barely a foot high. At mealtimes, people would form two long queues. Because the windows were built so low, everyone had to duck their heads and bend their waists just to tell the staff inside what dishes they wanted and how many ounces of rice to scoop.

It was this very Xiao Z from the cafeteria who, in the latter half of 1974, suddenly called me out of the blue. However, it wasn't for himself—he was acting as a messenger for a friend who wanted to arrange a meeting with me.

No one could have ever guessed that thirty years later, in 2011, when I reconnected with my old classmates, our former class monitor—who was working at the Shanghai Higher Education Bureau—mentioned a colleague of his. Upon hearing my name, that colleague instantly said he knew me. And guess what? It was none other than Xiao Z from the cafeteria! As it turned out, he had been recommended and sent back to Shanghai for university even before the college entrance exams were officially reinstated in 1977.

XVII. A Crushed Acting Dream, and a Turning Back That Meant Forever

Later, a director from the Shanghai Film Studio scouted Rongrong as well, but a female factory leader crushed her acting dreams with a single, harsh accusation of "improper lifestyle." Having many suitors back then was deemed a sin in the eyes of leadership. Rumor has it that she eventually married a descendant of a capitalist and left for France. For a long time afterward, Rongrong frequently appeared in my dreams.

Years later, inside the Shanghai Theatrical Supply Store, across two glass counters, our eyes met. I saw her and her mother, and we stared at each other for a few seconds. Yet, at that crucial moment, I lacked the courage to step forward and say hello. People of that era were simply too reserved. A single turn of the back, and a missed connection became forever.

XVIII. Old S’s "Dodging Technique" and Another Failed College Exam

My thoughts are drifting again—let us steer back to the accounting office of 1978. "The College Student" helped me solve a few tough math and physics problems, though he didn't actually teach me much; he mostly just loved to brag and chat. Consequently, whenever he came over to talk, Accountant D would start his routine of coming over to open drawers. But Old S was a veteran. Relying on his familiar relationship with Accountant D, whenever the drawers started rattling, he would simply twist his body out of the way, wait for Accountant D to leave, and keep right on talking.

The college exam acceptance rate in 1977 was a meager 4.8%. By 1978, applicants increased by 400,000, bumping the acceptance rate to 6.59%. The cutoff score that year was 300 points. I scored 290, falling short once again.

XIX. From Xujiahui to the Levee: Pure Innocence Framed in Wildflowers

In July 1978, my niece Xiao Y, carrying her backpack, traveled with me. We took the Route 94 bus, transferred to Route 44 to Xujiahui, caught the Xu-Min Line to the old Minhang Ferry, crossed the Huangpu River to Xidu in Fengxian County, and finally boarded the West Main Line long-distance bus. After a grueling four-hour journey, we reached the final stop at the old Wusi Farm headquarters, then walked for another half hour, arriving at the team covered in dust.

Accountant D’s son, Xiao WX, was visiting the team with his father during those days. He was terribly camera-shy and awkward. I told him, "WX, go pick some flowers for Xiao Y." He trotted off into the nearby wild grass, gathered a small bunch, and ran back to present them to her. I quickly captured that shot—so natural, so pure.

XX. Backlight by the Suitang River, and the Liberated Curled Bangs

I asked the College Student to take some photos of us along the Suitang River and the rammed-earth levee. Looking at those 1978 photos, I notice my bangs were curled. That was the year fashionable women with long, permed waves started appearing on the streets of Shanghai. Lacking that level of boldness, I only dared to curl my bangs and the tips of my braids. Perming hair had been strictly forbidden during the Cultural Revolution, condemned as a bourgeois lifestyle.

As the western sun began to dip below the horizon, I took my very first backlit photo. In those days, photography was strictly centered around people. It felt like "I" had to be in every frame, because capturing just the scenery seemed like a total waste of precious film.

XXI. The Mysterious Darkroom Under the Red Light: Farewell to 1978

Old S even took Xiao Y and me into the farm's darkroom, his solitary workspace. Stepping inside for the first time, enveloped in a mysterious red glow, felt like entering an entirely different world. Watching him develop photos was fascinating. He even hand-colored some of my old photographs—toning some in sepia, seemingly by adding dye to the developing fluids, while meticulously painting others by hand. The moment the door opened and we stepped back outside, the sudden light was blinding, leaving me with a lingering nostalgia for that mysterious world inside.

Long afterward, I heard that "the College Student" had finally granted his wish and transferred back to his hometown in Fujian.

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.

第三百五十五篇

《大括號外的「零次方」啟蒙，與我那三個在時光中避開的擁抱》

 一、 十二個班的選拔驕傲，與糞池邊上的「資產階級思想」

有一次，班裡就我一個人被年級裡調去參加年級的學農小組。我們年級有12個班，每班調一人參加。當時覺得被挑選出來，參加某項活動，那是自己比較優秀，心裡還真有點兒沾沾自喜。

我們在一位姓曹的老師帶領下，在校園裡以及周圍的村邊地頭，尋找識別辨認草藥。曹老師實地講解草藥的知識和功效。比如車前草是涼性的，人受外傷時，可以把新鮮的車前草弄成糊狀敷在傷口上，就能快速止血。等等，都是我第一次聽到的知识，覺得好新奇好开眼界。

我們在校園一隅種有兩壟青菜地。我們給菜地施肥，起先我們都不願接近糞池。挑糞時小心翼翼地走，怕糞水晃出來弄髒了鞋襪。結果越小心，這擔子越不聽使喚。當然怕髒怕臭都是「資產階級思想」。

二、駱老師挑起的艱難擔子，與食堂裡熱氣騰騰的大塊肥鹹肉

我的肩膀由於挑擔子，第一天就被磨破了皮，腫了起來，火辣辣的痛了一晚。第二天我就換個肩膀挑，結果雙肩都被搞得疼痛難忍。

一天年級組長駱群老師看到我弓著背，幾乎用背部扛著擔子，依裡歪斜步履艱難地樣子。便走過來幫我將糞桶挑到了地裡。駱老師個兒不高四十歲上下，一雙鹿一樣的大眼睛透著智慧和善良，很受學生們尊敬。他還告訴我要堅持不要放棄，要不怕吃苦才能磨練出鐵肩膀。一些日子下來嗅覺功能真是遲鈍了許多。「久在茅廁之地，不聞其臭。」真是的哎！哈哈。

肩膀也磨得結實了，挑擔時一步一顫的，還很像那麼回事兒。地裡的青菜秧子長成了綠油油的一片，很喜人。

不久後，我和另外一個女生被派去曹楊中學，學習「920」農藥的接種與培養。我們每天自己帶飯，到了學校先將飯盒送到他們的食堂裡，吃午飯時候去取。食堂會把許多飯盒兒摞一起，蒸得熱氣騰騰的。記得，我媽總是給我的飯盒裡，放一大塊兒肥瘦相間的鹹肉，沒有別的菜，但蒸出來的米飯很香很香，很好吃。如今人們的生活條件都好了，健康意識增強了，就都不碰肥肉了。但是在那個物資貧乏的年代，肥肉可確實是香！

三、錯過矩陣與數列的後悔，與政治考場上的耳畔私語

但也因為參加了學農小組，一個學期的文化課我們都沒上。余老師教的數列、矩陣、排列組合等課程，我都錯過了，只能靠自學，心裡有些後悔。不過，期末考試我還是取得了好成績。當然，這個好成績裡藏著兩位老師在不同的考堂上，給我的「小小提示」。

政治課考試時，有一道關於資本主義剩餘價值，也許是巴黎公社的考題，是我沒有學過的。那天考場裡靜悄悄的，政治課王老師在監考。她走過來看我愣在那道題上，便伏下身在我耳邊，將答案小聲地告訴了我。

四、被大括號遮蔽的整體視野，與余老師戳破的「零次方」神技

而在數學考試時，我被一道複雜的數學題給卡住了，無從下手的感覺讓我愣住了。余老師走過來，我低著頭漲紅了臉，稍稍讓開一點身子讓他看卷子，我用筆尖輕輕點點那道題，下意識地暗示了他，我被阻在了這道題上。余老師彎下身，用一隻手遮住嘴巴，悄悄提示道：「任何數的零……」哇！這才看清那道題的最外邊有個大括號，右上角還有個0。不等他「次方」二字出口，我迅速在等號右側劃了一個長長的1。那麼容易的一道題，居然讓我費了好多神！眼界太小了，注意力聚焦在大括號裡面，忽略了看整體！

五、小河水清悠悠的放歌，與余老師搶過菜筐的上海話揶揄

就快畢業了，我們去上海郊縣學農。余老師將我分配在廚房裡幹。這樣能天天跟兩位老師在一起，心裡有一種說不出的高興。

一天晌午，余老師叫我去洗菜。我拎起一大筐沉甸甸的青菜，來到村頭的小河邊。村裡的勞力和班裡其他的同學都到地裡幹活兒去了。滿目秋色加上耳畔的啾啾鳥鳴，令人心情舒暢。我把沒洗過的青菜，倒在大青石上。將每一棵青菜一瓣一瓣掰開，在水中涮洗。用手指輕輕抹去菜幫根部的泥沙。清清的河水在我手下蕩開了層層漣漪，白雲倒映在水波中溫柔嫵媚。我輕輕哼起了歌兒。不知不覺哼唱變成了放歌：「小河的水清悠悠，莊稼蓋滿了溝……」嘹亮歌聲在水面上散開。

不知過了多久，身後傳來余老師聲音：「芬，儂辣辣做啥？廚房裡還等勒嗨炒菜唻，儂倒好，辣辣此地唱歌。」

轉過頭來，看到他站在右後側河岸的斜坡上，但並沒有責怪我的樣子。也不知道他聽了多久，我的臉刷地一下紅了起來。

「平常聽儂講閒話，喉嚨粗粗搿，想勿到儂還會得唱歌。」話中隱隱帶著一絲絲善意的揶揄。說著，他走下來，將洗過沒洗過的青菜一並丟進筐裡，提起來連筐帶菜，一起浸到河水中，用力搖晃推搡幾下，拎出水面上下顛了顛，瀝了瀝水，拎著就往回走。

「哎，哎，余老師，迭個菜還呒沒掰開來汏過唻……」我略帶羞澀地小聲說。「油鑊子已經燒烊忒勒，像儂格恁汏法，汏到明早都汏勿好。」我羞愧地快步跟在後面上了斜坡。隱隱約約地遺憾著，沒能跟余老師一起在這迷人的河邊多洗一會兒菜。

六、寂營農舍間的第六感，與那段老擔心自己背影難看的漫長小路

有一天我正走在農舍間的一條小路上，農民和同學們都下地去了，村子裡很寂靜。突然覺得有點不自在，回頭一瞅，果然余老師在後面。都說女人的第六感很準，確實我後腦勺上像長著眼睛。本該跟余老師打聲招呼的，但是張不開口。他也沒走上來跟我說話，就這樣一前一後地走著。老擔心自己背影難看，太高了，太瘦了，或是衣服不合身兒，穿得「吊八斤」。啊呀，覺著這路好長。

七、狂風麥浪裡的恍惚駐足，與被余老師一語喚回的夢境海洋

一天下午，余老師帶著同學去海灘。據說那裡是當年淞滬會戰時，日軍登陸的地點之一。聽一位老農講述當年日軍登陸那天的情景時，余老師悄悄走過來，要我趕快回村去取一張，他忘了帶的地形圖，他要給同學講那場戰爭。我撒腿就往村裡跑。

途經一大片麥田。晴朗的天空中，刮著不覺冷的狂風。麥田，波浪般跌宕起伏，沙沙作響。在麥浪中徜徉、徘徊、踟躕、駐足、發愣……忘了為什麼來到這裡。在這無人之境，我把時間也給忘了。被迷在了這片攝魂捏魄的麥田裡。耳邊彷彿回盪著，郭蘭英的美妙歌聲：「麥浪滾滾閃金光……」

「芬，勒勒到處尋儂呢！」余老師的聲音霎那間將我從夢境拉了回來。扭頭一看，右後方七八米處，余老師正看著我呢。從臉上既看不出總算找到了的神情，也沒有責備我的樣子。

我恍恍惚惚，帶著些許的羞愧和遺憾，乖乖地跟著余老師往回走，離開了那片麥的海洋。要不是他找到我，估計天黑了我都找不著北。

八、井台邊美滋滋的半邊分擔，與金黃打穀場上的那首手鼓歌

夥房裡還有一個女生，幾年前學校進行夜間緊急集合演習時，被不明飛石打傷一隻眼，近乎失明，需要照顧。在夥房工作，不用下大田。一天下午，我們倆抬著一籮筐夠50人吃的米去井台淘洗。濕漉漉的米筐沉甸甸的，回夥房的路上，我倆弓腰駝背小步疾走，時不時還要停一停伸一伸腰。這時余老師從後面走來，二話不說接過了我手中的拎把，與那女生一起一口氣，抬著籮筐回了廚房。看著那女生累的樣子，我想余老師應該去幫她的。但我的心裡還是美滋滋的。

學農結束的那天下午，金黃的陽光灑滿了村頭。全班同學在打穀場上集合，準備返校。這時，余老師突然點了我的名，讓我出列給大家唱一首歌。在眾目睽睽之下，我登時紅了臉，心慌得不行，只能無比害羞地唱了一首關牧村的：《打起手鼓唱起歌》。那嘹亮的歌聲在打穀場上空飄蕩著，算是我為這段難忘的學農歲月，畫上的一個青澀而美麗的句點。

九、石泉路貨場的縫補組，與縫紉機旁那句「海綿吸水」的啟蒙之源

學農回來後，我們立刻又去石泉路貨場學工。那是上海鐵路樞紐的主要貨運站之一。余老師將我和另外兩個需要照顧的女生分配在縫縫組裡。一位是那隻眼受傷的女生，還有一位是小矮個兒。當時我認為在車間裡做車工鉗工什麼的挺神氣的，而在縫紉組裡拆拆洗洗，縫縫補補不體面。

余老師坐在我的座位上，腳踩著縫紉機踏板，忙活著頭也不抬，表情平靜地對我說：「幫儂分到搿搭，是想小姑娘應該學點針線。」其實，打小母親就培養我做女紅了。那個年代一般人的家庭是不買成衣穿的。都是母親一針一線縫出來的。女孩子也要自己學做衣服穿。我大哥1966年成家時，嫂子陪嫁了一台縫紉機。我就用那台縫紉機，做自己的衣服穿。

學工期間，余老師每天都會來縫紉組。只要看到他的身影從窗前走過，還沒進屋，我的心就開始噗噗亂跳。他一進來，組裡的幾位師傅和我們仨都不說話了。屋子裡就只有縫紉機「咔嗒咔嗒」的聲音。

余老師讓我坐在邊上歇著，替我幹起來。余老師總是邊幹活兒，邊小聲地跟我聊天兒。問我這本書看過沒？那個作家知道不？我總是羞愧地低頭搖頭。母親家教極嚴，從不許我看閒書。

余老師邊踩著縫紉機邊對我說：「趁著年輕你要像海綿吸水一樣大量汲取知識。要如飢似渴地博覽群書，不論古今中外的名著，還是詩歌散文。要有強烈的求知慾，不斷開拓自己的視野，豐富內心世界。」我聽得一愣一愣的，納悶兒余老師怎麼會叫我看這些「毒草」書呢？他又叮囑我：「做事要謹慎，不該做的事千萬不要做，『若要人不知除非己莫為』」

十、洗刷床單時的例假尷尬，與余老師無聲接過的那把刷子

一天我們在樓下洗刷值班人員的床單被褥。那天我剛好來了例假，弄髒了褲子。好在小矮個兒同學正好穿了兩條長褲。便借了一條給我穿。穿了那褲子，我的小腿兒部分就露在了外邊。我心裡暗暗企盼，余老師別來或者晚點兒來。結果他偏偏來了，他什麼也沒說，接過我手裡的刷子，便替我幹了起來。

十一、弄堂生產組的沉悶陰影，與高個子女孩「決不將就」的掃馬路抉擇

學工結束後，便迎來了決定命運的畢業分配。根據當時的分配原則，我留在上海的條件並不够「硬」，原因是我五個哥哥中，大哥和五哥在上海國營企業工作，三哥在貴州，六哥在雲南，四哥在上海郊區。按照當時的分配原則，我留在上海進國營企業的條件不夠硬。只能面臨進里弄生產組或是環衛所的命運。

小學時，學校組織我們參觀過五卅運動的遺址。那時看到工廠車間裡那些黑漆漆，交錯盤旋的舊管道，在我心裡留下了極大的陰影。那種沒來由的害怕，讓我那時便暗下決心：長大後絕不能在這種壓抑，沉悶的環境中工作。

十二、告別大都市的宏大轉折，與奔向廣闊天地的那條一望無際地平線

當余老師找我們逐個談話，詢問志向時，我鼓起勇氣對他說：「與其進里弄生產組或是去掃馬路，我情願去農村，農村有清新的空氣，有宜人的景色，還有一望無際的地平線。」

這一次，我告別了上海，奔向了廣闊的天地…

十三、華師大雕像下的遲到與耽擱，與「讓他等」的一句致命玩笑

後來我在華東師大讀書，校園裡遇到余老師，他那時已經被落實政策，調回師大當教授了。出國後，我給余老師寫過信。1998年回國度假時，約了3月13日中午12點，在「老三館」前的毛主席雕像下見面的。

在這之前我在電教所見老朋友。時間快到了，我隨口跟大夥兒說要出去見個朋友。我那位嬌俏可人、典型的「嗲妹妹」朋友立刻插話了。她是在華東師大教職員宿舍區長大的，脫口而出時帶著那種極具辨識度、別具一格的「華師大普通話」口音。她問：「是男的還是女的？」我回答「男的。」她說：「男噠？哎喲——讓他等！」

因為這一句玩笑和自己的耽擱，向來對不準時赴約很反感的我，那天遲到了。余老師還等在那裡，當看到我時，余老師伸出雙臂想要給我一個擁抱。按理說，我在國外生活了那麼多年，本該能坦然適應這種禮節的。可沒想到我這個「假洋鬼子」，在那一瞬間，扭開了身子。

十四、匯山碼頭與紐約大客廳：生命中那兩場在時光中僵在半空的擁抱

其實，這已經是我生命中第三次對著真摯的擁抱扭開身子了。第一次是在1987年1月，我的男朋友J離開中國後，第一次從日本坐「鑑真號」輪船回上海看我。我去匯山碼頭接他。在熙熙攘攘的會客大廳裡焦急地等了一個多小時，旅客們才陸續走下來。當他向我走來，伸出雙臂想要給我一個擁抱時，我卻下意識地扭開了身子。「你不愛我了嗎？」他僵在原地茫然地看著我。在那個保守的年代，我哪裡敢在大庭廣眾之下做出任何有礙觀瞻，招惹非議的舉動？更何況身邊站著的還是一個西方人。

第二次是在1988年的紐約。J的姑媽和姑父特地從大老遠開車來看望我們。一進門兒，身材高大的J的姑父就張開雙臂熱情洋溢地想要給我一個擁抱。雖然那時我已懂得這是西方人最基本的見面禮節。但我的身體就不聽使喚，怎麼也迎不上去。最後，我只是硬生生地伸出了右手去跟對方握。那一瞬間，J姑父的雙臂尷尬地僵在了半空中。多年後彼此熟絡了，他還笑著跟我提起那次「未遂的擁抱」，他說當時自己心裡納悶極了，又尷尬又羞愧，簡直不知如何是好。

十五、學校後門迎面撞見的凝固空氣，與看過世界後那抹終身遺憾的「這就是生活」

话题扯遠了，回過頭來說1998年。在華東師大的毛主席雕像下，我再一次扭開了身子。隨後，我跟著余老師去了他的辦公室。坐了沒幾分鐘，我便起身告辭。他說要請我吃午飯，我推辭說不用了。其實，那時電教所的一位男同事已經說好，要請我吃午飯。我們隨後在學校後門的一家飯店裡吃了飯。

可命運偏偏捉弄人，吃完飯，我們邊走邊聊，回到校園裡，迎面卻又碰到了余老師。那一刻的尷尬，彷彿將空氣都凝固了。

這麼多年過去，每每想起那個午後，我的心裡便滿是無法釋懷的後悔：第一，我不該遲到，讓那位曾在一片混沌中，為我開智的恩師，在冷風中苦苦等待。第二，我本應該在長大學成，看過世界之後，給余老師一個大大方方的充滿感激的擁抱。

可惜呀，C'est la vie 這，就是生活！

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The "Power of Zero" Beyond the Brackets, and the Three Evaded Embraces of My Life

Part I: The Pride of the Farming Cohort and the Scent of the Manure Pit

On one particular occasion, I was the singular student selected from our entire classroom to be dispatched to the grade-level "Learn from Farming" cohort. Our entire grade consisted of twelve classes, and exactly one individual was drafted from each class to participate. At the time, being singled out and selected for a specialized activity made me feel as though I was noticeably superior to my peers, and my heart was truly brimful of a tiny, self-satisfied smugness.

Under the leadership of a teacher named Mr. Cao, we trekked through the corners of the campus and along the edges of the surrounding village fields, hunting down and identifying various wild medicinal herbs. Mr. Cao provided hands-on, practical lectures on the characteristics and healing properties of these plants. For instance, he explained that plantain herb (Cheqian Cao) possessed a "cool" medicinal nature; if a person sustained an external wound, fresh plantain could be crushed into a thick paste and slathered over the injury to rapidly staunch the bleeding. All of this represented knowledge that had never reached my ears before, and I found it incredibly novel, fascinating, and thoroughly eye-opening.

Over in a secluded corner of the campus, we cultivated two long ridges of green vegetable plots. When it came time to fertilize the fields, none of us were willing to draw anywhere near the raw manure pit at first. While carrying the shoulder yokes filled with waste, we walked with extreme, painstaking caution, utterly terrified that the liquid manure would slosh out and soil our clean shoes and socks. Yet, as fate would have it, the more carefully we trod, the more disobedient and uncontrollable the heavy yoke became. Of course, looking back, that sheer terror of dirt and stench was precisely what the era branded as "bourgeois ideology."

Part II: Iron Shoulders under the Heavy Yoke and the Steamed Salt Pork Lunchbox

Due to the grueling labor of carrying those heavy shoulder yokes, the skin on my shoulder was rubbed entirely raw on the very first day; it swelled up heavily, burning with a white-hot, stinging pain that kept me awake all night. The following morning, I desperately switched the yoke over to my other shoulder to carry the weight, and as a direct result, both of my shoulders quickly became locked in a state of near-unbearable agony.

One afternoon, the head of our academic grade unit, Mr. Luo Qun, spotted me marching with my spine heavily hunched over, practically utilizing my entire back to hoist the agonizing yoke as I reeled and stumbled along with tortuous difficulty. He immediately walked straight over, relieved me of the burden, and hoisted the manure buckets all the way into the fields himself. Mr. Luo was not a tall man, somewhere in his early forties, with a pair of large, magnificent eyes like a deer that radiated profound wisdom and genuine kindness; he held the absolute reverence and respect of all the students. He gently admonished me that I must endure and never give up—that only by refusing to fear hardships could one forge a pair of "iron shoulders." True to his word, after a few weeks slipped by, my olfactory senses grew remarkably dulled. As the old adage proclaims: "He who lingers long in a latrine ceases to notice its stench." How incredibly true that turned out to be! Haha. Eventually, the skin on my shoulders hardened and grew robust; whenever I carried the yoke, my stride took on a beautiful, rhythmic bounce that looked entirely authentic. Meanwhile, the green vegetable seedlings in our plots matured into a lush, shimmering expanse of vibrant emerald, which filled our hearts with immense delight.

Not long afterward, another girl and I were dispatched to Caoyang High School to study the inoculation and cultivation techniques of the "920" agricultural pesticide. Every day, we packed our own lunches, heading straight to their communal cafeteria upon arrival to deliver our tin lunchboxes, which we would retrieve when lunchtime rolled around. The cafeteria staff would stack scores of these metal boxes together in a massive array, steaming them until they were roaring and piping hot. I vividly remember that my mother would invariably pack a massive chunk of cured salt pork—perfectly layered with thick fat and lean meat—right into the center of my lunchbox. There wasn't a single secondary side dish to accompany it, yet the white rice steamed beneath that rich pork rendered it incredibly fragrant, savory, and spectacularly delicious. Nowadays, everyone’s living standards have risen so high and health consciousness has intensified to the point where nobody will touch fatty meat anymore. But in that era of extreme material scarcity, a piece of rich, fatty meat was an absolute, undisputed heaven of pure fragrance!

Part III: Groping in the Dark of Matrices and the Whispered Paris Commune Answer

Yet, precisely because I was drafted into this agricultural group, we missed out on an entire semester's worth of core academic classes. The vital lessons taught by Mr. Yu—including mathematical sequences, matrices, permutations, and combinations—passed me right by, leaving me with no choice but to awkwardly attempt self-study, which filled my heart with a quiet pang of deep regret. Nevertheless, when the final term examinations arrived, I still managed to secure excellent marks. Though in all honesty, wrapped inside those high scores were a pair of "tiny secret prompts" granted to me by two different teachers in separate examination rooms.

During the political ideology examination, there was a complex essay question concerning the capitalist theory of surplus value—or perhaps it dealt with the legacy of the Paris Commune—which belonged to the exact curriculum I had never been taught. That afternoon, the entire examination hall fell into a dead, heavy silence, with our politics teacher, Ms. Wang, presiding over the room as the proctor. Spotting me sitting completely frozen and staring blankly at that specific question, she quietly glided over, leaned her body down right against my ear, and softly whispered the entire standard answer straight to me.

Part IV: Blinded by the Giant Brackets and the Magic Power of Zero

Then, during the mathematics exam, I ran dead into a wall against an incredibly tortuous and complex problem; the total sensation of having absolutely no entry point to begin solving it left me utterly paralyzed. Seeing this, Mr. Yu stepped over to my desk. Keeping my head pinned down, my cheeks turning a burning crimson with embarrassment, I subtly shifted my frame slightly to the side so he could inspect my test paper, gently tapping the tip of my fountain pen against the equation to subconsciously signal to him exactly where I had been completely blocked.

Mr. Yu leaned his upper body down, cupping one hand completely over his mouth, and quietly dropped a whispered hint: "Any number raised to the zero..." Wow! It was like a lightning bolt struck my brain—only then did I finally see that the absolute outermost boundary of that massive equation was wrapped in a giant set of brackets, with a tiny number '0' perched quietly in the upper right-hand corner. Before the final word "power" could even escape his lips, my hand whipped across the page, drawing a magnificent, long number "1" right to the right of the equal sign. Such a hilariously simple problem had actually caused me to waste an immense mountain of mental energy! My vision had been entirely too narrow—my focus had been trapped entirely inside the intricate belly of the brackets, causing me to completely ignore the big picture of the whole composition!

Part V: Layered Ripples by the Stream and the Shanghai Satire

Graduation was looming on the horizon when we departed for the suburban counties of Shanghai for our formal "Learn from Farming" residency. Mr. Yu went out of his way to assign me to work inside the communal kitchen. Being able to cross paths and spend every single day alongside my two beloved teachers filled my heart with an indescribable, quiet surge of immense joy.

One afternoon, Mr. Yu instructed me to go wash the vegetables. Lifting a massive, heavy wicker basket densely packed with green bok choy, I wandered over to the little riverbank sitting at the edge of the village. The local village laborers and the rest of my classmates had long since departed to toil deep in the fields; the entire landscape was brimful of rich autumn colors, and the gentle chirping of birds ringing in my ears made my spirit feel exceptionally light and free. I tumbled the unwashed green vegetables onto a massive flat boulder by the water, plucking each stalk apart leaf by individual leaf, rinsing them gently through the current. With the pads of my fingers, I softly wiped away the lingering sand and silt clinging to the roots. The crystal-clear river water rippled outward in layered, elegant rings beneath my hands, while the reflections of fluffy white clouds danced softly and gracefully across the undulating surface. I began to hum a soft tune under my breath. Without my even realizing it, the soft humming swelled into a full, unbridled song: "The waters of the little river run clear and free, while the sprawling crops blanket the valley..." My resonant voice drifted and scattered beautifully across the open water.

I truly had no concept of how much time had slipped away when, out of nowhere, Mr. Yu's voice materialized directly from behind me in our native tongue: "Fen, what on earth are you doing out here? The kitchen crew is back there waiting desperately to throw these greens into the hot wok, yet here you are, having a grand old time singing your heart out by the water."

Whipping my head around, I spotted him standing on the grassy slope of the riverbank just to my back right. Yet, there wasn't a single shred of genuine rebuke written across his face. Having absolutely no inkling of just how long he had been standing there listening to me, a burning crimson flush instantly scalded my cheeks. "Normally when I hear you talk, your voice sounds rather gruff and heavy, so I never would have guessed you could actually carry a tune so beautifully," he remarked, his tone laced with a faint, good-natured trace of Shanghainese mockery. Before the words could even finish drifting, he stepped down the slope, scooped up the remaining washed and unwashed vegetables alike, threw them all pell-mell back into the wicker basket, and plunged the entire load directly into the river current. He gave the basket several violent, heavy shakes and thrusts through the water, hauled it clear of the surface, gave it a couple of sharp upward shakes to drain the excess water, and instantly turned on his heel to carry it back.

"Wait, wait, Mr. Yu! Those greens haven't even been plucked apart and scrubbed individually yet..." I squeaked out in a tiny, bashful whisper. "The oil in the wok has already completely melted and scorched away! If we washed things according to your meticulous methods, we wouldn't finish this meal until tomorrow morning," he countered. Consumed by a wave of sheepish embarrassment, I quickened my stride to follow directly behind him up the embankment, harboring a faint, lingering pang of deep regret that I hadn't been permitted to linger just a little bit longer alongside Mr. Yu, washing vegetables by that enchanting riverbank.

Part VI: The Sixth Sense on a Silent Trail and the Insecurity of the Back View

One afternoon, I was walking along a narrow, winding dirt path nestled between the rustic farm cottages. The local villagers and my classmates had all departed to toil deep in the fields, leaving the entire hamlet wrapped in a profound, heavy silence. Suddenly, a strange, prickling sensation of unease washed over me; whipping my head back to sneak a glance, sure enough, Mr. Yu was walking a short distance behind me. People always say a woman’s sixth sense is flawlessly accurate, and it truly felt as though I possessed a secret pair of eyes rooted in the back of my head. By all accounts of social grace, I absolutely should have offered a polite greeting to Mr. Yu, yet my mouth remained stubbornly locked, completely unable to utter a sound. He didn't quicken his pace to close the distance or converse with me either; we simply maintained that silent, synchronized formation, walking one directly behind the other. A frantic wave of worry began to consume my thoughts—I became intensely anxious that my back view looked horribly unappealing, that I was entirely too tall, too gaunt, or that my clothes looked comically ill-fitting and hung short like dangled rags (dia-bah-jin). Ah, heavens, it felt as though that short path stretched out into an absolute eternity.

Part VII: Lost in the Soul-Stirring Ocean of Wheat and the Abrupt Awakening

One afternoon, Mr. Yu led our class out toward the coastal beach. Word had it that this very shore was one of the historical landing sites utilized by the invading Japanese military during the Battle of Shanghai. As we stood listening to an elderly local farmer recount the vivid, harrowing scenes of the day the Japanese troops breached the coastline, Mr. Yu quietly glided over to my side. He requested that I bolt straight back to the village at once to retrieve a tactical topographical map he had accidentally left behind, which he required to lecture the class on the history of the battle. Without a single second of hesitation, I kicked up my heels and bolted back toward the village.

Along the way, my path sliced directly through a massive, sprawling expanse of wheat fields. Beneath a flawlessly clear, bright sky, a fierce, roaring gale swept across the landscape, yet the wind carried no chill. The vast sea of wheat surged and rolled in magnificent, crashing waves, rustling with a heavy, collective sigh. Trapped in the thrall of those green waves, I wandered, lingered, hesitated, came to a dead stop, and simply stared blankly into space... completely forgetting the entire purpose of why I had journeyed out there in the first place. In this absolute vacuum of human presence, I lost all comprehension of time itself. I was completely spellbound, my very consciousness seized and stolen away by the hypnotic rhythm of that soul-stirring ocean of wheat. Faintly, as if echoing from the deep chambers of my mind, the magnificent voice of Guo Lanyin began to drift: "The rolling waves of wheat shimmer with brilliant gold..."

"Fen! I've been searching all over creation for you!" Mr. Yu’s voice shattered the air, instantly ripping me out of my waking dream. Whipping my head around, I spotted him standing a mere seven or eight meters away to my rear right, his eyes fixed calmly upon me. Looking at his face, one could detect absolutely no trace of relief at finally tracking me down, nor was there a single shred of anger or reprimand written across his brow.

Thoroughly dazed and floating in a haze of mild shame and quiet regret, I followed directly behind Mr. Yu like a well-behaved child, charting our course back and leaving that vast, rolling ocean of wheat behind us. In all honesty, if he hadn't journeyed out to hunt me down, I suspect the dark cloak of night would have completely swallowed the fields before I ever figured out north from south.

Part VIII: The Heavy Rice Basket at the Well and a Golden Sunset Finale

Working alongside us in the kitchen crew was another girl who required special consideration; several years prior, during a midnight emergency mobilization drill at school, a stray, airborne rock had struck her in the eye, leaving her virtually blind in that socket. Working inside the kitchen allowed her to avoid the brutal labor of the open fields. One afternoon, the two of us were tasked with hoisting a massive wicker basket packed with enough raw rice to feed fifty people, heading over to the village well-platform to wash it. Once soaked, the wet basket grew incredibly, soddened heavy. On the journey back to the kitchen, our spines were heavily hunched as we took rapid, tiny, frantic steps, constantly forced to come to a dead stop just to stretch out our aching backs. Right at that moment, Mr. Yu materialized from behind us. Without uttering a single word, he reached down, snatched the heavy handle straight out of my hand, and synchronized his stride with the other girl, hauling the massive load all the way back into the kitchen in one single, uninterrupted breath. Looking back at how thoroughly exhausted that poor girl had been, my rational mind knew that Mr. Yu had simply stepped in to relieve her burden. Yet, inside the secret chambers of my heart, a beautifully smug, sweet surge of pure delight washed through me anyway.

On the final afternoon of our farming residency, a brilliant, molten golden sunshine completely blanketed the entrance of the village. The entire class had gathered on the sweeping threshing floor, organizing our gear to return to school. Right at that moment, Mr. Yu suddenly called my name out loud, commanding me to step out of the formation and perform a song for everyone. Standing there beneath the collective, burning glare of a crowd of onlookers, my face instantly turned an intense crimson, and my pulse raced into an absolute panic. Left with absolutely no choice, overcome with bashful shyness, I sang Guan Mucun's iconic anthem: "Beat the Hand-Drum and Sing a Song." That resonant, clear melody soared and drifted high into the open air above the threshing ground—serving as a beautifully raw, green, and exquisitely elegant exclamation point to draw the curtain on those unforgettable farming days.

Part VIIII: The Rhythmic Clicks of Shiquan Road and the Manifesto of the Sponge

The exact moment we returned from our farming residency, we were immediately dispatched to the Shiquan Road Cargo Yard to undergo our practical labor training in industry. That facility stood as one of the primary, massive freight hubs for the entire Shanghai railway network. Mr. Yu chose to assign me, along with two other girls who required lighter duties, to the mending and sewing brigade. One was the poor girl who had sustained that blinding eye injury during the night drill, while the other was a remarkably petite classmate. At that time, my youthful vanity made me look at the factory floor with intense longing; I believed that operating heavy lathes or working as a bench mechanic looked incredibly grand and proud, whereas washing, ripping seams, and darning clothes inside a sewing brigade felt utterly unglamorous and beneath one's dignity.

One day, Mr. Yu sat down directly in my seat, his feet pumping the treadle pedal of the sewing machine. Working away without so much as lifting his head, his face entirely calm and serene, he remarked to me softly in our tongue: "I assigned you to this sector because I believe a young girl ought to master the art of needlework." In truth, from the time I was a little girl, my mother had already strictly trained me in the domestic arts of embroidery and sewing. In that era, common working-class families never purchased ready-made garments from retail shops; everything we wore was crafted by our mothers, stitch by careful stitch. Young girls were fully expected to learn how to tailor their own clothes to wear. When my eldest brother married in 1966, my sister-in-law brought a sewing machine along as part of her bridal dowry. It was upon that very machine that I taught myself to stitch and assemble my own garments.

Throughout the duration of our industrial training, Mr. Yu made a point of visiting the sewing room every single day. The mere glimpse of his shadow gliding past the exterior windowpane—even before his foot could cross the threshold into the room—was enough to send my pulse into a frantic, wild fluttering. The second he stepped inside, the local factory masters and the three of us girls would instantly lapse into a dense, heavy silence. The entire room would be swallowed by nothing but the mechanical, hypnotic click-clack, click-clack of the sewing machines.

Mr. Yu would frequently command me to sit to the side and rest, stepping in to finish the labor in my stead. As his fingers worked the cloth, he would invariably engage me in quiet, whispered conversations, asking: "Have you read this particular volume? Are you familiar with that specific author?" Overcome with a deep, sheepish embarrassment, I would keep my head pinned low, shaking it in silent denial. My mother enforced a terrifyingly strict household discipline; she absolutely never permitted me to lay eyes on any "leisure books" or outside literature.

As his feet pumped the sewing machine treadle, Mr. Yu looked at me and delivered words that would stay with me for a lifetime: "While you are still in the prime of your youth, you must absorb knowledge the way a sponge absorbs water. You must devour books with a ravenous, unquenchable thirst, reading broadly across everything—whether they be classical masterpieces from China or the West, or volumes of poetry and prose. You must foster a fierce, burning desire for knowledge, constantly broadening your horizons and enriching the inner landscape of your spirit." I sat there completely stunned and listening in absolute bewilderment, wondering to myself how on earth a revered teacher like Mr. Yu could encourage me to read those heavily condemned "poisonous weeds." He then added a grave piece of caution: "Be exceptionally prudent in everything you do; never, ever touch things that ought not to be done. For as the old text warns: 'If you wish for others to remain ignorant of your deeds, nothing compares to not committing them in the first place.'"

Part X: The Borrowed Short Trousers and the Silent Brush by the Tub

One morning, we were stationed downstairs, scrubbing the sheets and bedding utilize by the overnight duty staff. As fate would have it, my menstrual period arrived that very day, accidentally staining my trousers. Miraculously, my petite classmate happened to be wearing two pairs of long pants layered over each other that morning, and she generously unbuckled one pair to lend to me. Yet, when I pulled those trousers onto my towering frame, the hems rode way up, leaving my entire lower calves completely exposed to the open air. In the secret chambers of my heart, I kept desperately praying that Mr. Yu would either skip his visit entirely or arrive exceptionally late that day. Naturally, cosmic irony dictated that he materialized right on cue. He didn't utter a single syllable about my appearance; he simply reached down, took the heavy scrub brush straight out of my hands, and silently finished the grueling scrubbing in my place.

Part XI: The Dark Shadow of the Factory Pipes and the Unbending Choice

The moment our industrial labor training drew to a close, we were brought face-to-face with the monumental graduation job allocation—the ultimate turning point that would dictate the entire trajectory of our lives.

The credentials for me to remain in Shanghai were not considered "rock-solid" under the strict policies of the era. The underlying reason lay within the geographical distribution of my five older brothers: my eldest brother and fifth older brother were employed at state-owned enterprises within urban Shanghai, my third older brother had been sent to Guizhou, my sixth older brother was out in Yunnan, and my fourth older brother was stationed in the Shanghai suburbs. According to the rigid allocation doctrines of that time, because of this family configuration, my criteria to remain in the city and secure a placement within a state-run enterprise simply did not carry enough weight.

Consequently, I was left facing a grim destiny: either being funneled into a cramped neighborhood production workshop or assigned to the sanitation bureau.

Back during my elementary school days, the school had organized a formal field trip to visit the historical site of the May Thirtieth Movement. Standing inside those sprawling factory floors, staring up at those pitch-black, twisting, and menacingly tangled networks of ancient industrial pipes had seared a massive, terrifying shadow deep into my childhood psyche. That unprovoked, primal dread led me to forge a fierce, secret vow right then and there: When I grow up, I will absolutely never permit myself to work inside such a suffocating, depressing, and soul-crushing environment.

Part XII: Bidding Farewell to Shanghai for the Boundless Horizon

When Mr. Yu summoned us one by one for our private consultations to inquire about our future ambitions, I gathered every ounce of courage in my soul and looked him dead in the eye: "Rather than being buried alive inside a neighborhood workshop or spent my youth sweeping the city asphalt, I would infinitely prefer to go to the countryside. The countryside possesses pristine, clean air, beautifully enchanting landscapes, and a magnificent, boundless horizon that stretches out forever into eternity."

And so, with that unbending choice, I bade my final farewell to the city of Shanghai, and rushed headlong out into the vast, limitless world...

Part XIII: The Tardy Arrival at East China Normal University and the Unintended Blunder

Later on, during my years pursuing studies at East China Normal University (ECNU), I crossed paths with Mr. Yu once again on campus. By that time, the state’s political rehabilitation policies had been fully implemented, and he had been successfully reinstated and transferred back to the university to serve as a proper professor. Following my departure to live abroad, I kept in touch by writing letters to him. In the spring of 1998, while returning to China for a vacation, we arranged a formal reunion. We set the date for noon on March 13, 1998, agreeing to converge right beneath the massive statue of Chairman Mao erected in front of the "Old Three Buildings."

Prior to our meeting, I had stopped by the Audiovisual Education Center to visit some old friends. As the hands of the clock drew close to our appointed hour, I casually remarked to the crew that I needed to head out to meet a friend. A delightfully coquetish female friend of mine—a classic dia-mei-mei (嗲妹妹)—instantly chimed in. Raised inside the university faculty housing compound, she blurted out in that highly distinct, eccentric "ECNU Mandarin" accent: "Is it a man or a woman?" When I responded that it was a man, she threw her head back and scoffed: "A man? Oh, please—let him wait!"

Influenced by that casual jest and my own subsequent dawdling, I ended up arriving late that afternoon—a fact that filled me with immense self-reproach, as I had spent my entire life harboring a profound loathing for unpunctuality. Yet, true to his word, Mr. Yu was still standing there, patiently waiting beneath the monument. The precise instant his eyes caught sight of me, he spread his arms wide apart, moving forward to offer me a warm embrace. By all rational metrics of logic, having lived in Western societies for so many years, I absolutely should have been completely acclimated to such standard social etiquette. Yet, completely beyond my own expectation, the deeply ingrained instinct of this "imitation foreigner" took over; in that split-second of contact, I sub-consciously twisted my entire torso completely away from him.

Part X IV: The Anatomy of a Mismatched Gesture and the Stiffened Embraces of Yore

In truth, that fleeting movement marked the absolute third time in my life journey that I had sub-consciously recoiled and twisted my frame away from a genuine, heartfelt embrace. The very first instance materialized in January of 1987. My boyfriend, J, had departed China, and was making his very first return voyage back to Shanghai from Japan aboard the Jianzhen ocean liner just to see me. I journeyed out to the Huishan Wharf to receive him. After pacing anxiously inside the packed, chaotic reception hall for over an hour, the passengers finally began to stream down the gangway. The moment he marched toward me, extending his arms wide to sweep me into a hug, my physical frame sub-consciously dodged and twisted away. "Don't you love me anymore?" he murmured, freezing entirely in his tracks, staring at me with a gaze brimful of utter bewilderment. In that deeply conservative era, how could a young woman ever possess the sheer audacity to display any form of public affection that might offend social decorum or invite ruthless gossip? To make matters worse, a Westerner was standing right beside us in the crowd.

The second instance unfolded in New York in 1988. J’s aunt and uncle had driven a massive distance specifically to visit us. The very instant they crossed our threshold, J’s uncle—a remarkably tall, large-framed man—spread his arms wide with burning enthusiasm, moving in to greet me with a hug. Although by that point in my life, my rational intellect fully comprehended that this represented the most fundamental, standard greeting etiquette in the West, my physical body simply refused to obey the command. I couldn't bring myself to step forward into the gesture. In the end, I merely extended my right hand with absolute, rigid stiffness to offer a formal handshake. In that split second, my uncle-in-law’s arms were left hanging awkwardly, frozen in mid-air. Many years later, once we had grown deeply close and familiar, he would still laughingly bring up that "attempted hug," recounting how thoroughly baffled, embarrassed, and sheepish he had felt at that moment, completely at a loss for what to do with his limbs.

Part X V: The Frozen Air of the Trail and the Enduring Remorse of C'est la Vie

To pull our drifting thoughts back to the spring of 1998—there, beneath the towering statue of Chairman Mao at East China Normal University, I had once again twisted my body away. Afterward, I accompanied Mr. Yu back up to his office. Yet, after sitting there for a mere handful of minutes, I rose to take my leave. He warmly offered to treat me to a proper lunch, but I declined, making an excuse that it wasn't necessary. The uncomfortable truth was, a male colleague from the Audiovisual Education Center had already secured an agreement to buy me lunch that day. Shortly after, the two of us sat down to dine inside a restaurant located right outside the university’s rear gates.

Yet, destiny possesses a truly magnificent flair for playing cruel practical jokes. After finishing our meal, we walked and chatted all the way back onto the campus grounds, where we suddenly ran straight into Mr. Yu coming from the opposite direction. The sheer weight of the awkwardness in that singular split second was so immense it felt as though the very air around us had instantly frozen solid.

So many decades have bled away since that day, yet every single time that particular afternoon drifts back into my thoughts, my heart is consumed by a lingering, unresolvable wave of profound remorse. First, I should have never been late, forcing that beloved mentor—the man who had slashed through my muddled chaos to ignite the spark of intellect within my soul—to stand waiting bitterly in the biting cold wind. Second, having finally grown up, completed my education, and traveled to see the wide expanse of the world, I absolutely should have granted Mr. Yu a magnificent, unreserved, and deeply dignified embrace brimful of infinite gratitude.But alas... C'est la vie. Such is the nature of life itself.

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.

第三百五十四篇