《青春斷代史，1986：老C的紫外套、H口袋裡的照片與那一聲「友誼地久天長」》

【這是發生在與J認識之前的事】

大約是1986年初，那位把去黃山名額讓給了我的孩子媽，給老C介紹了一位在金山工作的外籍專家H。他是德國西門子公司的高級工程師。

過了個把月，那位孩子媽過來問我：「芬儂想勿想出國？」當時我在學校的名聲因為小W的事搞得很狼狽。曾經有些想與我發展關係的男生，也基本上淡出了視野。「吾幫儂也介紹一個外籍專家好𠲎？」（我幫你也介紹一個外籍專家好嗎？）她說她有一個朋友是在金山工作外籍專家的翻譯，認識許多外國人。「好的。」我回答。「儂撥吾一張照片。」（你給我一張照片）於是，我給了她一張照片。

這照片是1984年老C幫我拍的。我穿在身上的這件紫外套，還是老C自己親手做的。老C的手很靈巧，做衣服、織毛衣，甚至能做一手好菜。那天我們在長風公園裡拍照，還是老習慣，發小、閨蜜們去拍照，都會互相換「行頭」，也就是互相換衣服穿著拍照。那時生活簡樸，一般人沒有幾件拿得出手的像樣衣服。那天老C還說我這個人比較老實呆板，便順手摘了一朵花，「插上、插上！」說著她就把花別在了我的頭髮上。「這就對了！」她說，「這樣就平添幾分吉普賽女郎風情。」

就這樣，我破天荒地有了這兩張頭上戴花的照片。但依我看，再怎麼捯飭都不行，我根本不具備吉普賽女郎那種獨特、發自內在的風韻。

幾天後的星期五下午，孩子媽找到我說：「明朝禮拜六夜到6點半，約好了辣辣國際飯店門口見面。」
「他叫什麼？」我問。
「H。」她回答。
「什麼？什麼？H？怎麼跟老C的那位叫一個名字？」
「是額，就是伊。吾額翻譯朋友把儂額照片拨了H，想讓伊幫忙尋個外國同事。結果H收了照片講，伊自家想要見儂。」
「怎麼可能？！我是絕對不會去的。你去跟翻譯朋友講一下，我絕對不去。」
「今朝已經晚了尋不到人額。儂曉得𠲎，週末了外國人才不會守在宿舍裡額，老早就呒沒影子了，尋不到額。儂只有自家去講，總伐可以叫人家白等啊。」

怎麼辦？當時我管的語言實驗室裡有個小老師正在給同學們上外語課，我跟他比較熟。課後我問他怎麼辦？他說：「你明天去跟H說清楚不就行了嗎。」我的英文很差，便跟他現學了幾句將要對H表達清楚的話。

其實我本該去找老C的，但是那樣一來，那位孩子媽就會遇到麻煩。當時就是這麼想的，自己去把事情解決了，這樣既瞞過了老C，又救了孩子媽。

如果不去，那就等於將H給晾在那兒了。那時的人們對外籍專家還是很尊敬的，不敢這樣做。該發生的總會發生，躲也躲不過。古希臘哲人曾說：「任何事情的發生都是有原因的，根本沒有什麼發生的事是意外，或不該發生的。」

星期六晚上6點半，我硬著頭皮如約來到國際飯店門口。高個子的H已經在入口轉門外的右側等著。那時候一般人進不了國際飯店的，老C以前帶我混進去過一次。

國際飯店 網圖

H很紳士地跟我握了手，帶我走進了轉門。在一樓大廳裡找了個地方坐下，問我要點什麼飲料。我說：「可樂，謝謝！」當坐定後，我便用簡單的英文對他說：「老C是我的朋友，我是不應該來見您的。但是誰都無法聯繫到您，怕您在這裡白等，所以我就來了。目的就是要跟您說清楚這些。請您將我的照片還給我吧。」

H的英語帶有濃重的德國口音，聽起來「甕聲甕氣」的。我的英文也爛，我們之間幾乎沒有溝通的可能。但是我要表達的意思都說清楚了，因為來之前我反覆練習過這幾句話。

說完，我站起來要走，H做了個手勢說：“No hurry, no hurry.”（不用急）。
我只好又坐下。我不能使他難堪，尤其是在大庭廣眾面前。我怕引起周圍的人和服務生的注意，自己也會丟面子，而且這種地方一定會有「條領（便衣）」。

不一會兒，H站起來帶我走出大門。我心裡一陣高興，心想終於可以回家了。大門外柔和的街燈裡，有些人站著說話，還有一兩個穿制服的門童。走到馬路邊，我跟H說：“Goodbye!”
他回答依然是：“No hurry, no hurry.”

我不可能像上次在大光明電影院看完電影那樣，一轉身就跑掉。那是1984年的某一天，我夜大同班同學「老阿爸」說要給我介紹個對象，約了在大光明電影院——也就在國際飯店隔壁見面。但我到了電影院，卻沒見到相親對象，只有「老阿爸」自己。他陪著看了電影，對相親的事隻字不提。電影看到一半，他還將手伸過來搭在我的椅子背上，令人感到無比的「搓氣、撒氣、膩心（討厭、惱火、噁心）」。我很氣憤，出了電影院，看見一輛16路電車過來，正好是我回家要乘坐的車，我撒丫子就跑去追車了，車站就在附近。沒說聲謝謝，也沒說聲再見，就這樣我把「老阿爸」孤零零地晾在了繁華的南京路上、國際飯店門口。

但H畢竟是個舉止有度的外籍專家，而且他沒有惹我生氣。在眾目睽睽之下，我還真不能把他也給晾在那兒。

H伸出了手，一輛計程車隨即開了過來，我們上了車，去了在外灘的國際海員俱樂部。

大廳裡燈光柔和，環境優雅。H喝啤酒，我還是可樂。坐了一會兒，音樂響起，H提出要跳個舞。是那種節奏緩慢的四步舞，基本上就在原地不怎麼挪動的舞。邊上有兩三對洋人互相摟著、臉貼著臉，慢悠悠地晃動，一副很陶醉的樣子。我沒跳過這種舞，跳舞的時候也沒跟H貼著。由於我們話語很少，幾乎呆坐著，顯得比較尷尬，我又提出該回去了。

H終於點了頭。在門外H攔了一輛計程車，我們都上了車，先送他去了一個什麼地方，好像不是回金山。然後他付給了司機足夠的車費，好像是40元外匯兌換券，讓司機將我送回學校。

事情是說清楚了，但是照片終究沒能要回來。

後來的故事是這樣的：1986年5月初的某一天，老C在H的口袋裡發現了我的那張照片。結果是，我再也沒能見到過老C。至於她是什麼時候與H結的婚，又何時去的德國，我一概不清楚。直到我到了日本之後，才輾轉從我們的好友老Y那裡得到了老C在德國的電話。

大約是在1989年的農曆新年，我從日本的家給老C打了過去。電話裡，她的聲音還是那麼爽朗，互相問候，似乎我們之間根本沒有存在過什麼隔閡。我們間斷了兩年半的友誼，又這樣續了上。

後來老C告訴我，當時她母親得知我的照片在H的口袋裡這件事後，憤憤地說：「芬就是一顆定時炸彈，勿要看伊平時勿聲勿響。」

這是我在國內老C幫我拍的最後一張照片，那是在1985年秋天，那天是她二哥結婚的日子，我去吃喜酒。新房就在老C家的二樓，照片裡是他們新房的一隅。那個年代，新婚燕爾必備的新潮家具是玻璃櫥，裡面要放一些藝術品等名貴小擺件。這個玻璃櫥裡放著一尊站立著的送子觀音像、一尊坐在蓮花上的觀音、一個小銅質香爐、一個畫著徐悲鴻的馬的瓷盤，還有幾瓶洋酒、漂亮的咖啡用具、茶具以及車料花瓶等。我手裡拿著的一瓶雀巢咖啡，在當時也算得上是奢侈品了。我的背後，是她嫂子陪嫁的縫紉機和電視機。

那時我留著一頭「爆發式」的蓬鬆短髮，頂部蓬鬆、後腦勺和脖子處都剪得蠻短。不過拍照時這頭髮已經長出了不少，褪去了剛做出來時那股蓬鬆飽滿的張揚，反而多了一種妥帖、柔軟與不張揚的層次，看起來還挺拽。如今看來，穿著牛仔褲去吃喜酒未免顯得有點太隨便了，可那時我對什麼場合穿什麼衣服完全不懂，再則生活裡也沒有那麼多「場合」能去，更沒幾件行頭可翻。不過牛仔褲在當時正在流行，穿著它自己心裡覺得挺神氣的。

記得是在1985年深秋的一個下午，我和老C坐在電教所大樓背後、背風有陽光的拐角處，邊曬太陽邊唱歌。當唱到《友誼地久天長》時，我們都流了淚。

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

Chronicles of Youth, 1986: Old C's Purple Jacket, the Photograph in H's Pocket, and the Echoes of Auld Lang Syne

[This incident took place prior to my acquaintance with J.]

It was roughly early 1986. The publisher’s mother—the very children's mother who had gifted her Mount Huang travel slot to me—had introduced Old C to an foreign expert named H who worked in Jinshan. He was a senior engineer for the German corporation Siemens.

About a month later, that children's mother approached me and asked, "Fen, do you want to go abroad?" At that time, my reputation on campus had become incredibly tangled and awkward due to the fallout surrounding Little W. The young men who had previously shown interest in pursuing a relationship with me had largely faded from the horizon. "How about I introduce an foreign engineer to you as well?" she offered. She explained that she had a close friend working as a translator for the foreign experts in Jinshan and knew many foreigners. "Alright," I responded. "Give me a photograph of yourself." So, I handed her a print.

That photograph had been captured by Old C back in 1984. The purple jacket I wore in the frame was something Old C had painstakingly sewn with her own hands. Old C possessed exceptionally nimble fingers; she could craft clothing, knit sweaters, and even whip up a magnificent spread of dishes. On that day, we were taking snapshots in Changfeng Park. Following our usual custom when childhood friends and close girlfriends went out to take photos, we would constantly swap "outfits"—meaning we exchanged clothing to take turns posing. Life was intensely simple in those days, and the average person possessed barely a handful of decent garments that were fit for public display. On that afternoon, Old C remarked that I was far too honest and rigid a person, so she reached out, plucked a flower, and said, "Put it in, put it in!" As she spoke, she tucked the blossom directly into my hair. "There, that's it!" she declared. "Now you have a touch of Gypsy flair."

And so, for the first and only time in my life, these two photographs of me wearing a flower in my hair came to exist. Yet in my own estimation, no matter how much one tries to doll me up, it simply doesn't work; I completely lack that unique, intrinsic aura possessed by a true Gypsy woman.

A few days later, on a Friday afternoon, the children's mother tracked me down and said, "Tomorrow, Saturday night at six-thirty, an appointment has been made to meet right outside the entrance of the Park Hotel."
"What is his name?" I asked.
"H," she replied.
"What? What did you say? H? How can he share the exact same name as Old C's man?"
"Yes, it's him. My translator friend handed your photograph to H, hoping he could help find a foreign colleague for you. But upon receiving the print, H declared that he wanted to meet you himself."
"How is that even possible?! I am absolutely not going. Go tell your translator friend that I refuse to go under any circumstances."
"It's already too late today to catch anyone. You know how it is—once the weekend hits, foreigners never stay cooped up in their dorms; they vanish without a trace long before you can blink. You can't find them. You have to go explain it to him yourself; you can't just leave the man waiting in vain."

What was I to do? At that time, inside the language laboratory under my management, a young local instructor happened to be conducting a foreign language class for the students, and I was relatively well-acquainted with him. Once the class dispersed, I asked him for advice. He said, "Why don't you just go tomorrow and explain everything clearly to H?" My English was abysmal, so I frantically learned a few set phrases from him right then and there to express myself clearly to H.

In truth, I ought to have gone straight to Old C, but had I done so, that children's mother would have landed in immense trouble. That was precisely my calculation at the moment: I would go resolve the matter myself, thereby keeping Old C in the dark while saving the children's mother from consequences.

If I failed to show up, it would mean leaving H entirely stranded. In those days, the general public harbored an immense reverence toward foreign experts and simply didn't dare commit such an offense. What is destined to happen will happen, and there is no dodging it. As the ancient Greek philosopher once declared: "Everything happens for a reason, and absolutely nothing that occurs is an accident or something that shouldn't have been."

At six-thirty on Saturday evening, I nerved myself and arrived at the entrance of the Park Hotel as agreed. The towering H stood waiting right to the right side of the revolving entrance doors. In that era, ordinary citizens were strictly barred from entering the Park Hotel; Old C had snuck me inside exactly once before.

H shook my hand with complete gentlemanly poise and guided me through the revolving doors. Finding a spot to sit inside the first-floor lobby, he asked what beverage I cared to order. "A Coke, thank you," I replied. Once we settled into our seats, I utilized my primitive English to speak to him: "Old C is my close friend. I should not have come to meet you under any circumstances. However, as absolutely nobody could establish contact with you, and terrifyingly aware that you might be waiting here in vain, I came. My singular purpose is to clarify this matter to you. Please return my photograph to me."

H’s English carried a heavily dense German accent, sounding profoundly "muffled and guttural." My English was equally broken, leaving us with near-zero possibility of fluid communication. Nevertheless, I managed to voice exactly what I intended to express, as I had rehearsed those exact phrases repeatedly before arriving.

Having delivered my piece, I stood up to take my leave. H executed a gesture and said, "No hurry, no hurry."
I had no recourse but to sit back down. I could not bear to cause him public embarrassment, especially in front of a grand crowd. I was terrified of drawing the focus of the surrounding patrons and servers, which would cause me to lose face; furthermore, an establishment of this caliber was bound to be watched by Tiao-ling (plainclothes officers).

Shortly afterward, H rose and led me out the main doors. A wave of relief washed through my heart, thinking I could finally head home. Beneath the soft glow of the streetlamps outside, several groups stood conversing, flanked by one or two uniformed doormen. Walking over to the curbside, I said to H, "Goodbye!"
His response remained identical: "No hurry, no hurry."

I couldn't simply spin on my heel and sprint away as I had done previously at the Grand Theatre. That had occurred on a certain day in 1984. An old school classmate of mine, "Old A-Ba," had insisted on introducing me to a matchmaking prospect, arranging for us to meet at the Grand Theatre—which sat directly adjacent to the Park Hotel. Yet when I arrived at the theater, the prospect was nowhere to be seen; only Old A-Ba stood there alone. He accompanied me through the screening, uttering not a single syllable regarding the match. Halfway through the broadcast, he actually reached his arm out and rested his hand across the back of my seat, an action that felt thoroughly Cuo-qi, Sa-qi, Ni-xin (obnoxious, frustrating, and sickening in Shanghai dialect). Filled with hot indignation, I exited the theater and spotted a No. 16 trolley bus rolling down the street—the exact line I required to commute home. I scooped up my heels and ran like wild to chase the bus, as the station sat close by. Without offering a single word of thanks or bid farewell, I left Old A-Ba stranded entirely alone on the bustling Nanjing Road, right at the entrance of the Park Hotel.

Yet H was, after all, a highly well-mannered foreign expert, and he had done nothing to provoke my anger. Under the scrutinizing gaze of the crowd, I genuinely couldn't bring myself to leave him stranded in that manner.

H extended his hand, a taxicab pulled up instantly, and we boarded the vehicle, heading straight toward the International Seamen’s Club on the Bund.

The lights inside the grand hall were soft, enveloping the space in an elegant atmosphere. H drank beer while I stuck to my Coke. After we sat for a brief spell, the music swelled, and H invited me to dance. It was a slowly paced four-step dance, a style where bodies essentially remained anchored in place without moving much across the floor. Nearby, two or three foreign couples clung to one another, their faces pressed cheek-to-cheek, swaying languidly in absolute intoxication. I had never executed such a dance before, and throughout the movement, I kept my body firmly separated from H. Burdened by our near-total lack of conversation, sitting in dead silence grew increasingly awkward, so I once again asserted that it was time for me to return.

H finally nodded in consent. Stepping outside, he flagged down a taxicab, and we both boarded. The cab dropped him off first at a certain location—which didn't appear to be his quarters in Jinshan. Then, he handed the driver an ample sum of fare—roughly 40 yuan in Foreign Exchange Certificates—instructing him to deliver me safely back to campus.

The matter had been explained with absolute clarity, yet the photograph, in the end, was never recovered.

The rest of the saga unfolded as follows: on a certain day in early May 1986, Old C discovered my photograph buried deep inside H's pocket. As a catastrophic consequence, I never set eyes upon Old C ever again. As to when she ultimately wedded H, or the exact date she departed for Germany, I remained entirely oblivious. It wasn't until after I migrated to Japan that I managed to obtain Old C’s German telephone number, channeled through our mutual close friend, Old Y.

Around the Lunar New Year of 1989, I placed a long-distance call to Old C from my home in Japan. Her voice through the receiver carried that exact same bright, ringing clarity of old. We exchanged warm greetings, as though no rift had ever existed between us across the years; our friendship, which had suffered a two-and-a-half-year silence, snapped right back into place.

Later, Old C shared with me what her mother had bitterly remarked upon discovering my photograph inside H's pocket: "Fen is nothing short of a time bomb—never mind how quiet and hushed she behaves ordinarily."

This was the very last photograph Old C ever took of me in China. It was the autumn of 1985, on the day of her second older brother’s wedding, and I went to attend the banquet. The bridal chamber was located on the second floor of Old C’s family home, and the print captured a small corner of their newlywed nest. In that era, the ultimate piece of trendy furniture mandatory for newlyweds was a glass display cabinet, inside of which one had to showcase an assortment of art pieces and precious knick-knacks. This particular glass cabinet housed a standing statue of the Guanyin Bodhisattva Who Brings Children, another Guanyin seated upon a lotus, a small bronze incense burner, a decorative porcelain plate painted with Xu Beihong’s horses, several bottles of imported liquor, elegant coffee sets, tea sets, and hand-cut glassware vases. Even the jar of Nescafé instant coffee I clutched in my hand was considered quite a luxury item at the time. Positioned right behind my back were the sewing machine and television set that her sister-in-law had brought as part of her dowry.

Back then, I sported a short, voluminously blown-out "explosion" haircut—puffed up at the crown but tapered quite short around the back and at the nape of the neck. By the time the photo was taken, however, my hair had already grown out quite a bit; it had lost that aggressively puffed, rigid fullness of a fresh perm, settling instead into a softened, supple, and unpretentious texture, though it still looked quite proud and spirited. Looking at it today, wearing jeans to a wedding banquet seems terribly casual, but back then I possessed zero understanding of which clothes suited which occasions; furthermore, life simply didn't afford many "occasions" to attend, and I had barely any proper garments in my wardrobe to pick from anyway. Jeans happened to be the raging trend of the moment, and wearing them made me feel thoroughly dashing and smart.

I remember an afternoon in the deep autumn of 1985. Old C and I sat huddled against the back of the institute building, tucked within a sunny, windless corner, singing songs while basking in the warmth. When our voices rose to the strains of Auld Lang Syne, tears welled up and spilled from both our eyes.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

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

第三百八十一篇

《青春斷代史，1986：翻舊的漢英字典、咖啡館的豆腐花與控制室的冰涼脖子》

一星期後，老阿姐來到我辦公室。

「你跟那美國教授有進展嗎？」她問。
「沒有。我不敢去。」我答道。
「你真沒用！芬，你真沒用！」她恨鐵不成鋼地說。
「……」我無言以對。
「如果你不知道怎麼說，寫下來，寫下來總可以了吧？」
「那……寫點什麼呢？」
「就寫你對比較文學感興趣，但讀原著困難很大，希望得到他指導。」

一個星期又過去了，老阿姐在校園裡遇到我，那是1986年3月29日星期六下午一點左右。
「去過了嗎？」
「沒呢。」
「叫我怎麼說你，芬，你非要被推著、攆著、催著才動彈一下，否則你一事無成！」

二話不說，她拽住我的胳膊，一路往專家樓走去。
「他叫什麼名字來著？」
「我，我也說不上。」

「天與弗取，反受其咎；時至不行，反受其殃。」道理是懂得的，就是感覺張不開嘴，邁開不步。老阿姐把我拽出去的這一步，卻是我人生道路上最關鍵性的一步。平時跟老阿姐只是在課堂上相見，課間聊天，卻不曾在課後往來，只有這幾次，她卻頻頻出現。老阿姐的到來是偶然的嗎？我相信世上發生的某些事情，很可能有着人們琢磨不透的理由。

沒幾步路就到專家樓了，看我那近樓膽更怯的遲疑腳步，她用力推了我一下。
「我明天來聽消息！」她站在那兒，看着我朝大門走去才離開。

我硬著頭皮，緊張地邁上台階。對我來說，留學生樓和專家樓都是禁地，平時走都不敢朝那個方向走的，怕被人說閒話。現在我就在專家樓前，感到周遭有無數雙眼睛正盯着我看呢。儘管星期六下午校園裡人跡罕至，專家樓又地處相對安靜的一隅，邊上是個幼兒園，此時也沒有人。

心裡正想着怎樣跟門衛講要見誰。誰？如果門衛問的話，我還真不知道他叫J什麼呢！

正在忐忑猶豫間，一個人騎著車過來了。抬頭一看，正是他，那個我要找的人！只見他下車、放下撐腳、按下車鎖、拔出鑰匙，再從車前的鐵絲筐裡取出一個網兜，裡面裝著一瓶啤酒。

「Hi！你好！」我走過去，「你還認識我嗎？兩星期前我們在舞會上見過面。」我期期艾艾地說。
“Oh yes, Of course!” 他禮貌地回應道。雖然嘴上說著當然記得，但我心裡暗自猜測，他大概根本不記得我，只是出於西方人的社交禮貌，客套地應酬接待一下。

又是一個幸運的機緣巧合。設想一下，如果我被門衛問：「你找誰？你跟他預約了嗎？你們是什麼關係？」我是一個也回答不上來的，那真會是非常尷尬的。

跟著J進了樓，看到門衛，我大大方方地走過去，拿出了工作證給她看。得到允許後，我跟著J上了樓。

J的客廳裡有沙發、茶幾等，我選擇坐在一張方桌旁的椅子上，從文件夾拉鏈包裡取出那張有關比較文學的信箋遞給他。J很認真地看了起來。我緊張得紅著臉、雙目低垂，手指下意識地捲著桌布的邊角。

簡單的幾句問話，J就摸清了我的英語底子。他說我可以每星期二下午2點到3點來這裡學英語。沒什麼可繼續說的，我便起身告辭。

如約，每星期二一次，J很耐心地教我一個小時的課。那時候也不知道跟人學英語是要付學費的，當然J也從來沒提起過要收費。記得第一節課裡學到的一句話是 “This is an umbrella.” 他居然手裡還攥著一把黑布傘。

我至今還保存著一張那時落筆的碎紙片，上面是他寫下的最起步的單詞，有圖有真相。哈哈，可見我當時的英語有多爛！課本用的是《新概念英語》（New Concept English）。他是學校特地請來教研究生課程的外籍專家，擁有雙碩士學位，此時卻坐在這裡教我最基礎的語法，想想在一定程度上還真是委屈他了。 

時間過得飛快，5月底的一天，當J為我開了門，我走進去的時候，他跟我握了手。我覺得有點納悶兒，這是我們之間的第二次握手。

一個小時結束後我告辭下樓。平時只是在他的門口道別的，這次他卻跟了下來。
“Would you like to have coffee with me sometime?” 他說。

我沒有回答他的問話。因為我沒搞懂他的意思，我聽成了：我們經常一起喝咖啡？因為我以前只學到過 “sometimes” 這個單詞，它的意思是「有時、時候、時而、往往、經常」。我心裡琢磨著：我沒跟你一起喝過咖啡呀，怎麼就「時而」「經常」了呢？我沒有言語，接著下樓。他也跟著下了樓，到了大門口時我對他說：“Bye! Bye!” 便走出了大門。

回到我的辦公室（也就是語言實驗室的控制室），正好外語系的小老師在給學生們上課，下了課我問他：“Would you like to have coffee with me sometime?” 是什麼意思。他說那是人家美國人非正式地請你喝咖啡，這在西方人的交往中很平常的，具體意思是「你想和我一起喝咖啡嗎？」。sometime 與 sometimes 是兩個不同意義的單詞，下次碰到這樣的情況你應該回答：“Yes, I would love to go, thank you!”

再下個星期二，J對我說，他與學校簽的一年教書合同就要結束了，將要離開中國了。“Would you like to see a movie with me sometime?” 這次他用了同樣的句型問我是否願意跟他一起看場電影。這次我聽懂了。

第二天一早，J來到了我的辦公室，這是他第一次來到我的辦公室，不知道他是怎麼知道我在這兒的。當然，我們電教所與外語系是在同一棟大樓裡。只是外語系一般用東邊的門，或者是走正門（也就是北門），在六層的下方，頂上有個塔狀的衛星接收器。這棟樓大部分只有五層。

我辦公室在主樓右後侧那棟樓的底層

J給了我一張星期六的《黃土地》電影票，地點就在本校大禮堂。當時我心裡有一絲絲的奇怪，這美國人也真是的，第一次約女友看電影，怎麼不找家高級影院或劇場呢？學校大禮堂的座位是硬木長椅、窗子縫兒還漏光。猜想一般年輕人頭一次約會，怎麼也得去類似上海「大光明」那樣等級的電影院的。其實那都是我的一廂情願、異想天開。我之前的幾次徒勞的愛，從沒去過高檔劇院，連一頓飯一口水都沒在外吃過喝過，不照樣愛得「為伊消得人憔悴」嗎？！

10點鐘電影開場前我先入了座，當剛剛滅燈時，J進了場。放映之間他小聲問過我一些劇情，我說等我回去寫下來回答你。

看完電影後，我花了星期日一整天的功夫寫了觀後感，字裡行間表達著自己的知識面與思想境界。因為我那破英語連一句整話都說不了，那就只能寫。雖然也寫不利索，但藉助字典、堆砌詞彙，讓他去猜我說的是啥，那可是我唯一能夠博取他賞識的機會。

我搜腸刮肚，用所掌握的文學知識寫了一篇觀後感，從電影主題思想寫到表現手法、色彩基調、音響效果等等，着實花了不少功夫。我還特別分析了洞房中一隻滿是皺紋、粗糙黝黑的大手去揭新娘紅蓋頭，和新娘驚恐的面部表情這兩個特寫鏡頭細節，指出這是用了渲染烘托的手法來揭示新郎的又老又醜。同時聯想到一個經典的、也是用了烘托手法表現美的希臘神話故事：美得引起長達十年之久特洛伊戰爭的海倫（Helen）出現在特洛伊城頭，使鏖戰中的數萬阿開亞人和特洛伊人將士都為她的美貌震驚而放下武器休戰。海倫究竟是如何的美？毋須正面着墨。

我的那本漢英字典，在這一天就被我翻舊了六七成，當然這話有些誇張。

星期一，我在外語系走廊裡等著，看他進了樓便走過去，在他進教室上課前遞給了他。第二天下午，在他的客廳裡，我們討論了我的那篇觀後感。J指出並更正了我錯誤的英語句子，那天他還煮了咖啡招待我，這是頭一次，說明我的努力沒白費。

在專家樓403室，J幫我拍的第一張照片

6月6日星期五，J提議去南京西路的上海咖啡館去坐坐，說他經常在那裡喝咖啡、看書、寫東西，一坐就是一個下午，好環境帶來好心情，思路隨之也通暢。當時上海好像還沒幾家咖啡館，上咖的知名度很高，但我是一家也沒去過。

我們騎自行車來到了上咖，J帶我上了二樓。這裡的服務生基本都認識他，他問我想喝點什麼。因為以前沒怎麼喝過咖啡，對那苦苦的味道還不太適應，便說我想要一客冰淇淋。J自己要了杯黑咖啡，給我要了一個冰淇淋聖代（ice cream sundaes）。服務員端上來一個漂亮的橢圓盤子，裡面有冰淇淋、巧克力、堅果、香蕉等水果，色彩鮮艷，很好吃。冰淇淋我吃過，但從沒吃過這樣花狸狐哨的冰淇淋。

類似 網圖

J邊喝咖啡邊看著一份報紙，我略微拘謹地吃著冰淇淋，看著窗外。陽光透過茂密的梧桐樹葉灑在樓下行人的身上，落在柏油路面上光影斑駁，時光有些許呆滯，這玻璃窗隔著的彷彿是兩個不同的世界。

J喝完咖啡，待我吃完水果冰淇淋，說要我跟他一起去上海賓館彎一下，買一份從海外空運到上海各涉外賓館的英語報紙。說實在的，我對上海各大賓館的地點只有個粗略的概念，但具體門朝哪兒開我是不知道的，他在上海認的路比我要多。

我們又騎車到了上海賓館。賓館底樓的大廳很大，裝潢布置很優雅，背景音樂輕柔，我尤其喜歡那些熱帶的闊葉植物，讓人不敢相信這是在中國。J買了份報紙，就坐在沙發上看報歇息。服務員端來了咖啡、奶、方糖等。我表面上繃著，心裡還是好奇的。抿了口咖啡，苦！便伸手取過方糖加了兩塊，又往杯子裡倒了點兒奶。看看小碟子裡還有幾牙鮮檸檬，便取來往奶咖裡擠了幾滴。隨即我發覺我的奶咖結了塊，成了豆腐花！

這下我的臉紅到了脖子。J寬慰地說沒關係、沒關係，叫來服務員再給我換一杯咖啡。想起這事就納悶兒，為什麼我們喝咖啡的桌子上會端來鮮檸檬。

時間過得很快，J抬手看了看表說：「啊，都快到晚飯時間了，走，咱們去隨便吃點什麼吧。」跟著他，我們又騎車到了也在南京西路上的靜安賓館。不像上海賓館是全新的，靜安賓館有歷史積澱，周遭環境優雅寧靜，大廳布置風格不同於上一家，但一樣的舒適典雅。我們上了二樓餐廳。

「冒昧地問一下，你幾歲了？」J問。
「29，你呢？」
「42。恕我唐突，據我所了解，中國的姑娘都在20幾歲就結婚了，那你怎麼……？」
「我有過一個男朋友，但他跟別人結了婚。」我慚愧地回答。我用破英語對他說，我的愛都是「徒勞」的。多年後他告訴我，當初我有幾點深深地觸動了他（touched him），我至今清晰地記住了兩點：一是第一天在403室，我坐在他的方桌旁，紅著臉、低著頭，手指下意識地捲動著桌布的邊角；二就是當他問我為何還未成家時，我嘴裡吐出的那個詞——「徒勞」。這兩個字，似乎瞬間激發了他內心深處最深沉的憐憫與愛惜。
“I am sorry!” 他不無同情地說。
「……」我沒言語。
「今晚我那兒有個派對（party），你能來嗎？」J轉移了話題。
「我不知道，有多少人參加？我不大擅長跟生人打交道。」
「噢，只是小小的派對，我的幾個學生而已。怎麼樣？來吧？」
「那……好吧。」
「你能在7點半來嗎？派對7點開始。」

7點半，我敲開他的門。屋裡大約有十幾個學生，男女各半，英語說得溜溜的。我有些不自然，接過一瓶J遞過來的橘子水喝。不一會兒，男生們都到另外的屋子裡去了，幾個女生也都跑到了陽台上。我不想打擾他們，更不想讓他們知道我幾乎不會說英語。大約只呆了5分鐘，我就告辭了。

回到我的辦辦公室，把絨布窗簾拉得嚴嚴實實，裡外關了兩道門。大門外側的鐵門閂上，上了把大鐵鎖。我從不屬於這個教室的側門進入樓內，這樣一般人就不會以為教室裡面會有人。我一個人在裡面看學英語的錄像帶，聲音調得很輕。

不久就聽見有人拍門，「砰、砰、砰！」我按了暫停鍵，悄悄側身出了第二道內門，從絨布窗簾的縫隙裡往外看——是J在拍門！擔心這動靜會引起校方保安或閒雜人的注意，我趕緊開了側門讓他進來。要是有人知道了我這兒地面教室後方的控制室裡黑燈瞎火地跟一個外國人呆在一起，就麻煩大了，輕則會被找去談話、訓話，重則會被拘留關押。

2016年，我從中專班老同學拍的照片看，語言實驗室的門口都安裝有監控攝像機。設想一下當時如果有攝像機，我的故事就不會順利發生進展；如果當年有互聯網，我也沒法找學英語的藉口跟J搭上話。時運這玩意兒，真不好說。古書上有一句話叫做：「運去黃金失色，時來鐵也生輝。」

我開亮了壁燈，又將一塊厚絨布遮在燈罩上面，只露出微弱的光。這樣別人就不會注意到我的這片小小的自由空間。

「你為什麼這麼快就離開了呢？你不高興了嗎？那些女孩都很年輕的。」顯然J誤解了我，以為我是因為他的女學生而不高興。
「不是的，」我結結巴巴地辯解道，「我……早早……地離……開，是……不想在……你的學生面前……出醜。我的……英……語太破了，多呆一分……鐘就會……露……餡了。」

「你一個人在這裡幹嘛呢，也不開燈？」
「我在學英語呢。」說著，我順手按了錄像機的播放鍵。

我們坐在靠牆的兩張椅子上，都不說話了。屏幕裡的英語教學我是一點兒也聽不進去了，這種昏暗，這種靜寂，緊張得我感覺時間都靜止了。

感覺他將手臂從後面繞過脖子，搭在了我的左側肩上。將我輕輕地摟過去的同時，他開始吻我的臉頰、眼睛。我扭著頭躲著、躲著，不敢去迎他那稜角分明、滾滾燙的唇，他的吻最終落在了我冰涼的脖子上。

看我老躲著，他也就沒再繼續。我不是不想繼續，只是我的本能太過羞澀。按說跟TT在一起才體驗到身心的愉悅與震撼，身體本能也應該有所迎合J的，但此時沒有，我在心理上太拘謹了。

1986年10月在華東師大校園

如今回頭想來，命運的安排著實奇妙得令人納悶兒。如果一直往前追究，能追到遠古。遠的不說，咱就說這近的：要是當初沒有在農場裡小醫生小Z的母親挑剔門第；沒有N兄挑了別人結婚的打擊；沒有小W最終與他人成婚、將我變成了絕望且抬不起頭的「打破水壺的女孩」；沒有老C隨後的「開導」；沒有出版社孩子媽送的黃山旅遊名額；沒有在那趟工會旅遊團裡認識在留學生食堂工作的小Z；沒有小情人TT在那個星期六帶著醋意與放不下的執意挽留，從而讓我注定在那個晚上遲到；沒有校辦廠工程師的突然出現，以及哈桑那因受傷而高傲退場的性格；要是沒有法國大胡子「衣服」那番短暫交流後的引薦，以及平時在課後毫無往來、此時卻拼命推搡催促我的老阿姐——這一切的隨機與偶然，竟然環環相扣，彷彿早就在冥冥之中被一隻看不見的手徹底安排好了。

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

Chronicles of Youth, 1986: A Well-Worn Dictionary, Coagulated Coffee, and a Cold Glance in the Control Room

A week later, Old A-Jie came into my office.

"Any progress with that American professor?" she asked.
"No. I don't dare go," I replied.
"You are truly useless! Fen, you are utterly useless!" she said, her voice dripping with frustrated exasperation.
"..." I was left speechless.
"If you don't know what to say, write it down. Surely you can manage to write it down?"
"Then... what should I write?"
"Just write that you are interested in comparative literature but find reading the original texts immensely difficult, and you hope to receive his guidance."

Another week passed. Old A-Jie ran into me on campus on Saturday afternoon, March 29, 1986, at around one o'clock.
"Have you gone yet?"
"Not yet."
"I don't even know what to say to you, Fen. You have to be pushed, dragged, and nagged just to budge a single inch. Otherwise, you will accomplish absolutely nothing in life!"

Without another word, she grabbed my arm and dragged me straight toward the Foreign Experts Building.
"What was his name again?"
"I... I can't really say."

"When Heaven offers a gift and you fail to take it, you invite misfortune; when the time arrives and you fail to act, you court disaster." I understood the ancient proverb perfectly well, yet I felt entirely unable to open my mouth or move my feet. Yet that single step Old A-Jie forced me to take turned out to be the most critical pivot of my entire life's journey. Ordinarily, she and I only interacted inside the classroom or during class breaks; we never associated after hours. Yet during these few critical moments, she appeared repeatedly. Was Old A-Jie's arrival a mere coincidence? I have come to believe that certain occurrences in this world happen for reasons far beyond human comprehension.

Within a few paces, we arrived at the Foreign Experts Building. Seeing my hesitant steps—the classic case of growing more timid the closer one gets to the destination—she gave me a violent shove.
"I'll be back tomorrow to hear the news!" She stood there, watching until I walked toward the entrance before finally departing.

Nerving myself, I tensely ascended the steps. To me, both the international student dormitory and the Foreign Experts Building were absolute forbidden zones; ordinarily, I didn't even dare to look in that direction for fear of drawing malicious gossip. Now, standing right before the building, I felt as though countless invisible eyes were boring into me. Even though the campus was nearly deserted on a Saturday afternoon and the building sat in a relatively tranquil corner adjacent to a kindergarten—which was entirely empty at the moment—the anxiety was overwhelming.

My mind raced, wondering how to explain to the guard whom I wished to see. Whom? If the guard asked, I realized with a jolt that I didn't even know J's full name!

Right as I stood frozen in anxious hesitation, someone bicycled over. I lifted my gaze, and there he was—the exact man I was searching for! I watched as he dismounted, kicked down the kickstand, pressed down the lock, pulled out the key, and retrieved a mesh bag from the wire basket out front. Inside the bag rested a single bottle of beer.

"Hi! Hello!" I walked over. "Do you still remember me? We met at the dance two weeks ago," I stammered, my voice trembling.
"Oh yes, of course!" he replied politely. Yet, despite his words, I secretly guessed that he had absolutely no real recollection of who I was; his warmth felt merely born of standard Western courtesy, a well-mannered reception for an unexpected visitor.

Yet it was another miraculous stroke of coincidence. Consider this: had I been interrogated by the guard with questions like, "Whom are you looking for? Do you have an appointment? What is your relationship?" I wouldn't have been able to answer a single one. It would have been an absolute agony of embarrassment.

Following J into the building, I walked past the guard with complete composure, producing my employee ID card for her inspection. Upon receiving clearance, I accompanied J upstairs.

J's living room was furnished with a sofa and a coffee table, but I chose to sit upon a chair beside a square dining table. Unzipping my portfolio bag, I handed him the letter concerning comparative literature. He began to read it with immense seriousness. I sat there in a tense flush, my eyes lowered to the floor, my fingers sub-consciously rolling and twisting the edge of the tablecloth.

With just a few brief questions, J easily Gauged the absolute bottom of my English foundation. He informed me that I could come by every Tuesday afternoon from two to three o'clock to study English. Having nothing further to say, I rose and took my leave.

As agreed, once every Tuesday, J patiently instructed me for a single hour. In those days, I had absolutely no concept that one was supposed to pay tuition for private language lessons; naturally, J never once raised the subject of fees. I remember a sentence from our very first lesson: "This is an umbrella." He was actually clutching a black cloth umbrella right in his hand as he said it. To this day, I still preserve a scrap of paper from that very first session, onto which he had written the absolute baseline elements of speech. The layout on the paper had "They" and "We" aligned on the left at the same level as "you are" on the right, which sat stacked vertically below "I am" and above "he, she is." Haha, it just goes to show how utterly abysmal my English was at the time! The textbook we utilized seemed to be New Concept English. He was a foreign expert specifically hired by the university to lecture postgraduate courses, holding dual master's degrees, yet here he was sitting down to drill me on the most elementary grammar; looking back, it really was quite a demotion for his academic credentials.

Time flew by with incredible speed. One day toward the end of May, when J opened the door and I stepped inside, he shook my hand. I felt slightly puzzled—this was only the second time we had ever shaken hands.

When the hour concluded, I said goodbye and headed downstairs. Ordinarily, we parted ways right at his doorway, but this time, he followed me out.
"Would you like to have coffee with me sometime?" he asked.

I offered no response to his question. I completely failed to grasp his meaning, parsing his words as: Do we frequently drink coffee together? This was because I had previously only memorized the word "sometimes," which translated to "at times, occasionally, or frequently." I pondered silently to myself: I have never once had coffee with you, so how can it be 'occasionally' or 'frequently'? I remained entirely mute and continued down the stairs. He followed me all the way to the main entrance, where I simply muttered, "Bye! Bye!" and walked out the door.

Upon returning to my office—the language lab control room—the young local instructor happened to be concluding a lecture for the students. Once the class dispersed, I asked him what the phrase "Would you like to have coffee with me sometime?" meant. He explained that it was a casual, informal American invitation to get coffee, an entirely common occurrence in Western social interactions. The literal meaning was, "Would you like to go out for coffee with me?" Sometime and sometimes were two entirely distinct vocabulary words with completely different meanings. He advised, "Next time you encounter such a situation, you should answer: 'Yes, I would love to go, thank you!'"

On the following Tuesday, J informed me that his one-year teaching contract with the university was drawing to a close, and he would soon be departing from China. "Would you like to see a movie with me sometime?" He utilized the exact same sentence structure to ask if I would be willing to catch a film with him. This time, I understood perfectly.

The next morning, J arrived at my office. It was the very first time he had ever stepped foot inside my workspace; I had no idea how he managed to discover I was tucked away down here. Of course, our Educational Technology Institute and the Foreign Language Department shared the exact same grand building. However, the Foreign Language Department generally utilized the eastern entrance or the main northern entrance beneath the six-story section, topped by a tower-like satellite dish. The vast majority of the building stood at only five stories high.

He handed me a ticket for a Saturday screening of the film Yellow Earth (Huang Tudi), to be held right inside the university's grand auditorium. At that moment, a tiny ripple of strangeness crossed my mind—this American was truly peculiar; for his very first movie date with a girl, why wouldn't he choose a high-class cinema or a grand theater? The seating inside the campus auditorium consisted of rigid wooden benches, and the window frames leaked cracks of outdoor light. I figured that when ordinary young people went on a first date, they would at least head to a premier cinema of the caliber of the local Grand Theatre (Da Guangming). In truth, that was merely my own self-absorbed, fanciful delusion. During those separate chapters of "futile love" in my youth, I had never once stepped inside a high-class theater, nor had I ever shared a single meal or a cup of water in public—yet hadn't I loved just as fiercely, pining away until I grew thin and haggard for his sake?

Before the ten o'clock screening commenced, I took my seat early; right as the house lights died, J entered the hall. During the broadcast, he quietly whispered a few questions regarding the plot, and I told him, "I will write it down for you after I return."

Once the movie concluded, I spent the entirety of Sunday sweating over my review, expressing the depth of my knowledge and the boundary of my intellectual worldview between the lines. Because my broken English prevented me from uttering a single complete spoken sentence, writing was my absolute only recourse. Though my writing was far from fluid, by leaning heavily upon a dictionary and stacking vocabulary words together, forcing him to guess my exact meaning, it remained my singular opportunity to win his admiration.

I racked my brains, utilizing every scrap of literary knowledge I possessed to craft that review. I covered everything from the film’s core themes to its cinematic techniques, color palettes, and acoustic effects, investing an immense amount of labor. I specifically analyzed two tight close-up shots inside the bridal chamber: a deeply wrinkled, rough, and swarthy hand lifting the bride’s red veil, contrasted against the absolute terror etched upon the bride's face. I pointed out that this was a deliberate use of atmospheric rendering to expose the groom's advanced age and ugliness. Simultaneously, I linked this to a classic Greek myth that utilized the exact same technique of indirect rendering to portray beauty: Helen, whose beauty sparked the ten-year Trojan War, appeared upon the ramparts of Troy, striking tens of thousands of warring Achaean and Trojan soldiers into such absolute awe that they laid down their weapons for a temporary truce. How beautiful was Helen in reality? There was zero need for direct description.

My Chinese-English dictionary was worn down by sixty to seventy percent on that single day—though, admittedly, that phrase carries a stroke of hyperbole.

On Monday, I waited patiently inside the corridor of the Foreign Language Department. Catching sight of him entering the building, I walked over and handed it to him right before he stepped into the classroom to lecture. The following afternoon, inside his living room, we discussed my review. J pointed out and corrected my fractured English sentences, and on that day, he brewed coffee to entertain me—for the very first time. It proved that my fierce efforts had not been in vain.

This photograph was captured by J right inside Room 403 of the Foreign Experts Building.

On Friday, June 6, J suggested that we go sit at the Shanghai Café on Nanjing West Road. He mentioned that he frequently drank coffee, read books, and wrote pieces there, often sitting for an entire afternoon; a beautiful environment brought a beautiful mood, causing his thoughts to flow with absolute fluidness. At that time, Shanghai housed barely a handful of cafés; the Shanghai Café enjoyed immense renown, yet I had never once stepped inside a single one.

We bicycled over to the café, and J led me up to the second floor. The servers here practically all recognized him. He asked what I would care to drink; having near-zero experience with coffee, my palate was entirely unaccustomed to its bitter taste, so I stated that I desired a portion of ice cream. J ordered a black coffee for himself and an ice cream sundae for me. The server presented a beautiful, oval dish packed with ice cream, chocolate, nuts, and slices of banana and various fruits. It was vividly colorful and incredibly delicious. I had consumed ice cream before, but I had never once eaten something so gaudily elaborate.

J sipped his coffee while scanning a newspaper, while I ate my ice cream with a touch of stiffness, gazing out the window. The sunlight filtered through the thick canopy of plane trees, casting dappled shards of light and shadow upon the pedestrians below and across the asphalt street. Time felt slightly stagnant, as if the glass pane separated two entirely different universes.

Once J finished his coffee and I concluded my fruit sundae, he requested that I accompany him to take a quick detour to the Shanghai Hotel to purchase an English newspaper flown into Shanghai’s foreign-certified hotels from overseas. To speak honestly, I possessed only a vague conceptual map of where Shanghai's major grand hotels were located, but as for which direction their main doors faced, I was entirely oblivious. He recognized far more streets in Shanghai than I did.

We bicycled over to the Shanghai Hotel. The lobby on the ground floor was immense, beautifully decorated and elegant, enveloped in soft background music. I took an exceptional liking to those tropical, broad-leafed plants; it left one entirely unable to believe that this was actually inside China. J purchased his newspaper and sat upon a sofa to read and rest. A server brought over coffee, cream, and sugar cubes. Though I kept my exterior rigidly composed, my heart brimmed with intense curiosity. I took a sip of the coffee—bitter! I reached out to add two sugar cubes and poured a splash of cream into the cup. Noticing a few fresh lemon wedges sitting upon a small saucer, I picked one up and squeezed a few drops directly into my milk-coffee. In an instant, I realized my coffee had curdled into solid chunks—it had transformed into a bowl of bean curd (doufu hua)!

A furious flush rushed straight up to my neck. J warmly comforted me, saying it didn't matter at all, and paged the server to replace the cup. Thinking back on this incident today, I remain utterly puzzled as to why fresh lemon wedges were ever served alongside coffee at our table.

Time moved rapidly. J glanced down at his watch and remarked, "Ah, it's nearly dinner time. Come, let's grab a casual bite to eat." Following him, we bicycled over to the Jing'an Hotel, also located on Nanjing West Road. Unlike the completely modern Shanghai Hotel, the Jing'an Hotel possessed a deep historical accumulation, its surroundings elegant and serene. The lobby's decor style differed entirely from the previous establishment, yet it was equally comfortable, stately, and refined. We ascended to the second-floor dining room.

"If you don't mind my asking, how old are you?" J asked.
"Twenty-nine. And you?"
"Forty-two. Forgive my boldness, but from what I understand, Chinese girls typically marry in their early twenties. Why is it that you...?"
"I had a boyfriend before, but he married someone else," I replied with a sense of shame. In my fractured English, I managed to tell him that all of my past loves had been "futile." Years later, he told me that there were a few specific things about me that had deeply touched him back then, and to this day, I remember two of them clearly: first, on that very first day in Room 403, as I sat by his square table, flushing crimson with my head lowered, my fingers subconsciously rolling and twisting the edge of the tablecloth; and second, when he asked why I hadn't married yet, the exact word that tumbled from my lips—futile. That single word seemed to instantly evoke a profound sense of tenderness and protective reverence deep within his heart.

"I am sorry," he said with genuine sympathy.
"..." I offered no response.
"I'm hosting a small party at my place tonight. Would you like to come?" J pivoted the topic.
"I don't know. How many people will be there? I'm not terribly adept at dealing with strangers."
"Oh, it's just a tiny gathering, merely a few of my students. What do you say? Come along."
"Well... alright then."
"Can you make it at seven-thirty? The party commences at seven."

At seven-thirty, I knocked upon his door. Inside the room stood roughly a dozen students, evenly split between men and women, their English flowing with absolute fluidness. I felt exceptionally awkward, accepting a bottle of orange soda J handed me to sip. Shortly afterward, the young men migrated to another room, while several of the girls bounded out onto the balcony. Anxious not to disrupt them, and even more desperate to prevent them from discovering that I could barely utter a word of English, I took my leave after a mere five minutes.

Returning to my office, I drew the heavy velvet curtains completely shut, locking both the inner and outer doors. I threw the massive iron bolt on the exterior set of doors and snapped a giant padlock shut. I entered the building through a side door that did not belong to this classroom; that way, any ordinary passerby would assume the room was entirely vacant. I sat inside entirely alone, watching an English instructional videotape with the volume dialed down to a bare whisper.

Before long, a violent pounding rattled the door—thump, thump, thump! I slammed the pause button, quietly slinked past the second inner door, and peered out through a sliver in the velvet curtains. It was J pounding on the door! Terrified that the racket would draw the attention of university security or campus idlers, I frantically opened the side door to usher him inside. In that restrictive era, if anyone discovered me huddled in the pitch blackness with a foreigner inside this control booth partitioned at the back of the ground-floor classroom, it would mean immense, catastrophic trouble—ranging at least to being hauled in for interrogation and severe reprimand, or at worst, being detained and imprisoned.

Looking at photographs captured by an old technical school classmate in 2016, I noticed that surveillance cameras have since been installed right at the entrances of the language laboratories. Had such cameras existed back then, my story would have never proceeded smoothly. Furthermore, had the internet existed in those days, I would have possessed zero pretext of "studying English" to strike up a conversation with J. The rhythm of fortune is a truly mysterious thing. As the ancient text declares: "When fortune departs, pure gold loses its luster; when the hour arrives, dull iron radiates brilliance."

I switched on a wall lamp, throwing a thick piece of velvet cloth directly over the lampshade, allowing only a faint, dim glow to bleed out. In this manner, nobody outside would notice my tiny, secret realm of freedom.

"Why did you leave so suddenly? Were you unhappy? Those girls are all very young," J said. Clearly, he had entirely misread me, assuming I was slighted by the presence of his female students.
"No," I stammered, my words stumbling out in a fractured blur. "I... left... early... because... I didn't want... to look foolish... before your students. My... English... is far too broken. If I stayed... another minute... I would have completely... exposed... myself."

"What are you doing here entirely alone without even switching on the lights?"
"I'm studying English," I said, reaching out to press the play button on the VCR.

We sat down upon two chairs lining the wall, falling into absolute silence. I couldn't process a single syllable of the English lesson broadcasting from the screen; wrapped within that heavy gloom and profound stillness, the sheer tension left me feeling as though time itself had completely frozen solid.

I felt his arm reach around from behind my neck, resting gently upon my left shoulder. As he pulled me softly toward him, he began to press kisses against my cheek and my eyes. I twisted my head away, dodging and ducking, too terrified to lock against his sharply contoured, burning hot lips. In the end, his kiss fell flat against the surface of my icy-cold neck.

Seeing my relentless evasion, he ceased his advance. It wasn't that I truly wished to stop him; it was simply that my instinct was gripped by an overwhelming, systemic shyness. By all accounts, having finally experienced the profound bodily joy and soul-shaking awakening with TT, my physical instincts should have risen to welcome J's touch. Yet they did not—in that moment, my mind remained entirely bound within an absolute, suffocating reserve.

Looking back today, the clockwork of destiny strikes me as entirely wondrous and baffling. If I were to trace it all the way back, it could lead right into antiquity. But leaving the ancient past aside, let us simply speak of what lay close at hand:  had it not been for the cold rejection over family status by the mother of Little Z, the young doctor back at the state farm; had it not been for the crushing blow of Brother N choosing to marry someone else; had it not been for Xiao W ultimately wedding another, transforming me into that despondent "girl with the broken pitcher" who couldn't even lift her head; had it not been for Old C’s subsequent enlightenment, or the heaven-sent Mount Huang spot gifted by the publisher's mother; had it not been for meeting Little Z from the international cafeteria on that union tour group; had it not been for my young lover TT, who, gripped by a lingering devotion and a quiet jealousy over the date he knew I had, stubbornly begged me to stay that Saturday and sealed my fateful lateness; had it not been for the sudden interruption of the factory engineer, or Hassan's wounded pride that caused his aloof retreat from the scene; and had it not been for the brief encounter with the bearded Frenchman "Yves" (who jokingly introduced himself as "Clothes"because his name sounds identical to the Mandarin word for "clothes" yifu) before handing me to J, along with the relentless pushing of Old A-Jie—with whom I shared zero contact outside of class breaks—this entire torrent of random chance would have never locked together. Yet every separate link connected flawlessly, as though a grand, invisible hand had quietly arranged everything long before.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

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

第三百八十篇