《廣州紀事，1984～1985：主席台後的小屋、君山銀針、大轉盤驚魂與地槽裡的排線》

1984年下半年，我被所裡安排去搞一個多媒體語言實驗室，地點在電教樓底層西南角上。教室有待設計裝修，我就一個人先搬到了電教樓西邊的那棟樓裡。一層當時好像是同聲翻譯室，二層是個大會堂。會堂的主席台在東頭，主席台南側那間鋪有光潔木地板的小屋就臨時做了我的辦公室。

這草圖畫的是二樓小屋東側的露天樓梯、東窗和門洞。門洞裡有兩道雙開門通往大會堂，外側的門是包了鐵皮的木門，棕紅色，門上各安著一個大號鐵門閂，搭扣上各掛著一把大鐵鎖。兩道雙開門之間是過道。小屋在過道的北側，進小屋的門開在過道裡、小屋南牆的西側。進小屋至少要過兩道門，很隱蔽、很安全。學生們進出會堂不走這邊的樓梯，他們上了第一段露天樓梯後，走分叉去北邊的那段樓梯，從主席台北邊的一扇大門進出。大會堂的後方，西牆兩邊還有兩扇門，平時不常開。

小屋子裡面有兩張木製大長方桌，一張靠東窗，權作我的辦公桌；另外一張與之拼成ㄱ型靠著南牆，上面放著一台錄放機與一個21寸的監視器。屋裡還有兩個木製四門大文件櫃，兩把靠背轉椅，以及一套日本進口的立體聲音響設備。小屋北牆的西側與主席台之間還有一扇不能開關的、兩尺多寬一米來高的整塊玻璃窗。窗簾兒一擋，小天地裡很溫馨。一個人的辦公室，難得的清淨，有時呆得太晚了，就悄悄地在這裡迷糊一覺。

我去其他學校參觀了多媒體語言實驗室回來後，就開始著手設計了。教室天花板上吊四個21寸的閉路監視器，控制台放在教室後方的隔間裡，老師在裡面操縱控制台給學生上外語課。我參照其他學校多媒體實驗室裡從日本進口的桌子，畫了設計三視圖，由校辦公廠製作。教室南北兩側的大窗子都用暗紅色絨布窗簾擋住，起避光降噪音的作用。住在校園一村的一位同事從家裡搬來了一台縫紉機，我就用它給多媒體教室做了好多塊幾乎落地的大窗簾。教師上課時要在四個大監視器裡播放閉路電視，窗簾既擋住了室外光線，又起到了吸音作用。

這時，從日本進口的多媒體教學設備已經從廣州港口入關，所裡派一位研究生小Z和我一起去廣州驗收接貨。

具體在廣州什麼地方驗的貨，又怎麼將貨物運回了上海，我都想不起來了。我這個人懵懵懂懂的，只要是有人帶隊出差，我就是圖個假公濟私免費遊山玩水的樂子。除了去景點來勁兒，其他事就只跟著走就行。

之前，也許是生活貧瘠的原因，我沒有茶文化的薰陶。自小母親不讓我們喝茶，怕喝上了癮，說上癮的人啃茶磚都不行。除了在小說中讀到過一些片段，第一次聽真人說品茶，是在這次廣州之行。也許是在火車上，抑或是在旅店裡，小Z手捧著一杯清茶，邊品邊說，有一種茶在古代是貢品，如今也只有中央首長級別的才能享用，叫君山銀針。那茶葉每顆有三片嫩芽，泡在水中，顆顆直立浮上沉下，煞是有趣；不一會兒三片嫩芽微微開啟，中間含著一顆晶瑩剔透的水珠子。

我們在市區的大街上走馬觀花時，我建議去華南植物園。兩年前我跟所裡的教學攝製組去過一次，那裡熱帶、亞熱帶的迷人景色給我留下了深刻的印象。

華南植物園 1982年9月

果然我們去的那天，秋高氣爽，碩大一片園林彷彿就是為我倆存在的。走著走著，突然聽到小Z的讚嘆：「啊～這樣的美景，要是能和自己的愛人在一起該有多好啊！」轉頭一瞧，幾步之遙、身材魁梧的他正昂首挺胸，雙手插在後腰間，一雙大眼睛似乎看到了天際之外，陶醉中略帶些許的遺憾。

小Z三十五六歲的樣子，這次旅行他妻子給他帶了親手做的花生肉醬等菜餚。我們去旅館食堂，他都是打一碗白飯，拿回屋裡去吃的。他屋裡還住著四位從東北來出差的中年人，他們一開口說話就挺逗的，像是在說群口相聲。東北人的那種豪邁、灑脫、幽默中還帶有一種精明算計，都能體現出來。

不記得是在哪個花園的草坪上，看到了一個斜立著的大大的金屬架轉盤，大概有60度左右的傾斜，轉盤上大約有十來架雙人小飛機。當時在上海都沒見過的東西，就花錢乘坐一下。我們坐在一架小飛機裡，當其他的飛機裡也坐滿了人後，轉盤開始轉了起來，還加了速。那飛機隨著大轉盤轉動時，自身也左右搖晃。那個體驗令人終身難忘：往上升時，彷彿被人強摁著頭頂不讓上，但還非得上；往下降時，猶如一腳踏空墜入深淵，那種失重感，弄得心臟十分難受，上上下下還轉了好幾圈兒。坐在那裡身不由己，雙手緊抓著扶桿，只盼著快快結束，真真切切的是花錢買罪受。下飛機後感覺像一腳踏空了站都站不穩，踉蹌幾步我才打住，定了定神，卻看到他還在跌跌撞撞、東倒西歪，結果還吐了。

直到今天我都後悔，沒能伸手去扶他一把，只是站在邊上束手無策地看著他站立不穩、翻江倒海、非常難受的樣子。舊禮教束縛人吶。我離開上海後聽說小Z當了所長，再後來，又聽說他也出了國。

1985年暑假期間，我和所裡另外一位我們叫長腳的同事（也曾經是我們中專班的同學）一起，加班加點在教室的地槽裡排線、安裝、調試設備，接通四台吊在天花板的閉路電視機。每張桌子都有從日本進口的嵌入在桌面上的錄音機和一個數字選擇器，上面有五個數字按鍵，供回答選擇題時按。每個學生還有一副耳麥，老師可以對所有人通過耳麥講課，也可以單獨與某位學生交談，不會影響其他人。

有時候想想，其實那種老式的老師站在前面講課的教學方法也挺好，至少有表情交流。這一下子可好，老師躲在後面控制室（也就是我的新辦公室）裡，看不著學生的反應，真有點瞎著急呢。

多媒體教室 1986年10月21日

多媒體教室控制室 1986年10月21日

多媒體教室開始使用後，我也從那二樓的小間搬了下來。上課時老師坐在後面控制室裡，通過耳麥、電腦控制儀給學生上課，控制室與大教室之間有大玻璃窗監控，學生在前邊的大教室裡背對著老師聽課。進教室都要換拖鞋，大樓拐角處的過道裡有格子鞋架，但是往往學生們將脫下的鞋子亂丟在地上，下課後的拖鞋也不放回原處。漸漸的，本該無塵的教室就不那麼乾淨了。

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Memories of Guangzhou, 1984–1985: The Cabin Behind the Stage, Junshan Silver Needle Tea, the Amusement Wheel, and Wiring the Floor Channels

In the second half of 1984, my institute assigned me to establish a multimedia language laboratory, located at the southwestern corner of the ground floor of the Educational Technology Building. While the classroom was awaiting design and renovation, I moved ahead by myself into the adjacent building to the west. The ground floor then seemed to function as a simultaneous interpretation room, while the second floor was a grand assembly hall. The main stage of the auditorium sat at the eastern end, and that small room on the south side of the stage, paved with smooth, polished wooden floorboards, became my temporary office.

This sketch illustrates the open-air staircase, the eastern window, and the doorway on the eastern side of the second-floor small room. Inside the doorway, two sets of double doors led into the main auditorium. The outer set consisted of wooden doors clad in iron sheets, colored a brownish-red, each fitted with a large iron bolt and secured with a massive padlock. A corridor ran between the two sets of double doors. The small room was situated on the northern side of this corridor, with its entrance opening into the passage at the western end of the room's southern wall. Entering the small room required passing through at least two doors, making it highly secluded and secure. Students entering or exiting the auditorium did not utilize this staircase; after ascending the first flight of the open-air stairs, they would follow the fork leading north, entering and leaving through a grand door on the northern side of the stage. At the rear of the auditorium, two more doors lined the western wall, though they were rarely opened.

Inside the small room stood two large, rectangular wooden tables. One rested against the eastern window, serving as my desk; the other was joined to it in a Gamma (ㄱ) shape along the southern wall, holding a tape recorder and a 21-inch monitor. The room was also furnished with two large, four-door wooden filing cabinets, two swivel armchairs, and a set of stereo equipment imported from Japan. Between the western side of the room's northern wall and the main stage sat a solid pane of glass, about two feet wide and a meter high, which could not be opened. Once the scenes were drawn, this tiny realm became immensely cozy. An office entirely to myself provided a rare, exquisite tranquility; occasionally, when I stayed too late, I would quietly steal a brief slumber here.

After returning from visiting other schools to inspect their multimedia language laboratories, I commenced the design process. Four 21-inch closed-circuit monitors were to be suspended from the classroom ceiling, with the control console housed in a partitioned booth at the rear, inside of which the instructor would operate the console to conduct foreign language classes for the students. Referencing tables imported from Japan in the multimedia labs of other institutions, I drew up the design's three-view sketches, which were then fabricated by the university's workshop. The grand windows on both the northern and southern sides of the classroom were draped with dark red velvet curtains to block out light and reduce noise. A colleague living in the first campus village brought over a sewing machine from home, and I used it to sew all the curtains for the classroom, matching the length almost down to the floor. When instructors taught, they needed to broadcast closed-circuit television across the four large monitors; the curtains thus blocked the outdoor light while simultaneously acting as sound absorbers. 

By this time, the multimedia educational equipment imported from Japan had cleared customs at the port of Guangzhou. The institute dispatched a graduate student, Little Z, along with me to Guangzhou to inspect, accept, and retrieve the cargo.

As for the exact location in Guangzhou where we inspected the goods, or how we transported the cargo back to Shanghai, I cannot recall at all. I was rather oblivious about such matters; as long as someone led the team on a business trip, I merely viewed it as an opportunity to use public duty for private pleasure, enjoying a free tour of scenic mountains and rivers. Aside from growing enthusiastic about visiting sightseeing spots, I simply followed along for everything else.

Before this, perhaps due to a scarcity in daily life, I had never experienced the refinement of tea culture. From my childhood, my mother strictly forbade us from drinking tea, terrified that we would grow addicted to it—she used to say that once a person developed a habit, they wouldn't even be able to endure chewing on raw tea bricks. Aside from encountering fragments read in novels, my very first time listening to a real person lecture on tea appreciation occurred during this trip to Guangzhou. Perhaps it was on the train, or perhaps inside our lodging quarters—Little Z held a cup of clear tea in his hands, tasting it while explaining that a certain variety had been an imperial tribute in ancient times, and even today was reserved exclusively for officials of the central leadership level. It was called Junshan Silver Needle (Junshan Yinzhen). Each piece of tea consisted of three delicate tender buds; when steeped in water, every single stalk would stand upright, floating upward and sinking down in a thoroughly fascinating manner. After a brief moment, the three tender buds would gently open, cradling a crystal-clear, translucent droplet of water right in their center.

While we were casually browsing the streets of the city, I suggested visiting the South China Botanical Garden. Two years prior, I had visited it once with the institute's instructional filming crew, and its enchanting tropical and subtropical scenery had left a deep, lingering impression upon me.

Sure enough, on the day of our visit, the autumn air was crisp and refreshing, and that immense stretch of botanical garden felt as though it existed solely for the two of us. As we strolled along, I suddenly caught Little Z’s exclamation: "Ah~ such beautiful scenery! How wonderful it would be if I could be here with my beloved!" Turning my head to look, a few paces away, his brawny silhouette stood with his chest thrown out and his hands tucked into his lower back, his large eyes seemingly gazing beyond the horizon, completely intoxicated yet tinged with a slight, stray regret.

Little Z was around thirty-five or thirty-six years old. For this journey, his wife had packed dishes she had made with her own hands, including a peanut meat sauce. Whenever we went to the lodging's cafeteria, he would merely fetch a bowl of plain white rice and take it back to his room to eat. Sharing his quarters were four middle-aged men who had traveled from the Northeast on business. The moment they opened their mouths to speak, it was immensely amusing, sounding exactly like a multi-person comic dialogue (qunkou xiangsheng). The characteristic northern boldness, carefree nature, and humor—interwoven with a certain shrewd calculation—were fully manifested in their banter.

I cannot recall inside which specific garden's lawn it was, but we spotted a massive metal wheel frame standing obliquely at an angle of roughly sixty degrees. Atop this rotating disk sat about a dozen two-passenger miniature airplanes. Since it was an attraction we had never encountered back in Shanghai, we spent some money to take a ride. The two of us sat inside one small airplane. Once the other planes were fully occupied, the grand wheel began to rotate, steadily gathering speed. As the airplanes moved along with the giant wheel's rotation, they tilted and swayed from side to side on their own. That experience remains entirely unforgettable for the rest of my days: as we surged upward, it felt as though an invisible hand were violently pressing down on the crown of my head, forbidding the ascent yet forcing us upward nonetheless; when we plunged downward, it felt exactly like stepping out into thin air and falling straight into an abyss. That sensation of weightlessness left my heart in intense, painful discomfort as we spun up and down for several revolutions. Sitting there completely helpless, my hands gripped the safety bars with absolute tightness, wishing for nothing but a swift conclusion—it was, in the truest sense, paying money to purchase pure suffering. Upon stepping off the airplane, I felt as if I had stepped into thin air, entirely unable to stand firmly. After stumbling for several paces, I finally managed to steady myself and catch my breath, only to see Little Z still staggering and swaying out of control, ultimately ending up vomiting.

To this very day, I carry a sense of regret for failing to stretch out my hand to support him; I merely stood by the side, completely helpless, watching him lose his balance, his stomach turning inside out in immense suffering. The old moral codes strictly shackled a person's behavior back then. After I departed from Shanghai, I heard that Little Z became the director of the institute, and later still, I learned that he too had traveled abroad.

During the summer vacation of 1985, along with another colleague from the institute whom we nicknamed "Long Legs" (who had also been a classmate of mine in our specialized secondary school program), I worked intense overtime hours laying cables, installing, and debugging equipment inside the classroom's floor channels. We connected the four closed-circuit television sets suspended from the ceiling. Each desk featured a tape recorder imported from Japan embedded into its surface, along with a digital selector boasting five numeric buttons meant for pressing when answering multiple-choice questions. Each student was also equipped with a headset; the instructor could lecture to everyone through the microphones or hold private conversations with an individual student without disrupting the rest of the class.

Sometimes I reflect that the old-fashioned teaching method, where the instructor stood directly at the front of the classroom, was actually quite wonderful—at least there was an exchange of facial expressions. Now, with this setup, the teacher was hidden away inside the rear control room (which doubled as my new office), entirely unable to glimpse the students' reactions, leaving one to fret in sheer blindness.

Once the multimedia classroom went into active service, I moved down from that small second-floor chamber. The control booth behind the multimedia lab became my new workspace. During lectures, the instructor sat inside this rear control booth, conducting lessons via headsets and computer control consoles. The booth was separated from the main lecture hall by a large monitoring glass window; the students sat in the grand classroom up front, listening to the lecture with their backs turned completely to the teacher. Everyone entering the classroom was required to change into slippers, and a gridded shoe rack sat in the corridor at the building's corner. Yet quite often, the students would carelessly discard their removed shoes all over the floor, and fail to return the slippers to their proper slots after class adjourned. Gradually, the classroom that was supposed to remain dust-free lost its pristine cleanliness.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

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

第三百七十六篇

《津門與京華記事，1984：不辭而別的爽約、廣東商人的「七烤鴨」與北京飯店的暴雨夜》

那時我被所裡分配去設計一個即將動工安裝的語言實驗室，一切從零開始。我搬出了音響編輯室，臨時搬到所裡的儀器修理組工作室，那組裡有三位技術員都是男的，一位年紀大點，兩個小青年。這間工作室與外語系的複印室對門兒。複印室提供拷貝錄音磁帶服務，當時私人很少有雙卡錄音機可以拷貝磁帶，外語系學生們可以來借用小型錄音機和外語磁帶，也可以自己拿磁帶來到複印室錄音，以提高外語口語及聽力能力。

老C是那裡的常客，經常來拷貝流行歌曲，跟那裡的兩位差不多年紀的女工作人員混得很熟，一來二去的也跟我認識了。老C性格開朗，是古籍所的中文打字員。

老式中文打字機 網圖

那時的中文打字機很笨重的，裡面排滿了密密麻麻大約2000多個站在一起的長方形小鉛塊，每個鉛塊的頂部刻有一個漢字。打字時要手握一個把手，那把手可以前後左右移動，帶動打字的字頭推來推去，找到對應的字，然後用力向下壓一下，那鉛塊就會往上一跳，字就能打在了紙上。這絕對是個技術活兒，得記住滿滿的鉛字排列位置。老C幹得還很麻利，噠、噠、噠的，我也只見過一次她的操作，也描述不準。

老C不僅性格開朗，也十分熱情，思想前衛開放。我當時因為跟男朋友分手後，在校園裡抬不起頭來。想起1982年10月在「法國250年繪畫展」上看過的那幅羅浮宮名畫——洛可可時期畫家格勒茲的《打破水壺的少女》，畫中隱喻著失去純真的徬徨，我便也將自己看作是那个「打破了水壺的女孩」，心情很低落，覺得沒有好男人會要我了。老C開導我說：「怕什麼，他們不要，有人要的。如果你是個『雛兒』，外國人還會不喜歡呢，沒經驗。」看我愁眉苦臉的，心裡對男朋友有怨恨，她說的一句話挺解氣的，雖然我們並不會真的去那麼做。她用上海話說：「尋人忒伊搿耳朶割脫。」（找人把他的耳朵割掉）。受到老C的影響，我也開始覺得，此處不留爺，自有留爺處了。

1984年4月由老C在長風公園拍攝

年輕時大家都喜歡自稱「老」，古籍所裡還有一位跟我們關係挺鐵的女辦公室職員，我們稱她為老Y。那時雖然我們的臉都是溜光溜光的沒有皺紋，但畢竟都快三十了，我說咱們都快「老皮坷眵眼兒了」，老C聽了哈哈大笑道：「老皮咔嚓！」她說不了北方土話。老C還比我小兩歲呢。

1984年7月下旬，暑假期間，老C問我願不願意去外地加班。願意啊！去外地加班還能順帶著遊山玩水，美差呢。但是老C怎麼會攬到這個活兒的呢？我們那時暑假裡經常加班，但都是所裡給的任務，哪怕是到外系加班也是單位之間的臨時借調。

老C帶著我來到東樓後面的一個地下室裡，在那兒認識了一位心理學系的W教授，W教授的一個心理實驗室就在這安靜的地下室裡。正值炎熱的夏天，剛剛下了幾級單通道的水泥樓梯，就頓感涼爽。底下有幾間屋子，我們進的那間屋子裡鋪著地毯，乾淨、寬敞。

背景是勸業場大樓 1984年7月底～8月初

原來，就是否在上海建設高架鐵路事宜，來自於同濟大學、上海鐵道學院等相關單位的專家學者教授，組成的一個研究小組，要專程去京津兩地高架鐵路區域實地考察。他們需要兩個助手，挨家挨戶調查高架鐵路的噪音對他們的生活帶來的影響。於是W教授就叫了他認識的老C，再讓她找個搭檔。

具體是哪天出發的不記得了，剛到天津時是住在某個研究機構的招待所裡。專家們沿著高架鐵路地段，對噪音進行實地考察、監測、取樣。根據白天與夜間不同時段，以及遠近距離的不同範圍，找出噪音的分佈規律。

我和老C拿著事先準備好的、基於心理聲學原理而出的主觀評價調查表，走街串巷，一家家敲門拜訪。對不同職業、年齡、性別的居民，詢問有關高架火車噪音對他們生活帶來的影響。問他們噪音是否引起煩惱啊？影響睡眠嗎？對談話和思考有什麼程度的干擾等。我們則在表格裡的心情煩惱程度：「安靜」「比較安靜」「鬧」「很鬧」「不能容忍」，思考干擾程度：「無影響」「有時有些影響」「經常有影響」「嚴重影響」等處打勾記錄下他們的回答。

估計居民們以為有人來調查，會改善他們的生存條件，都很願意配合。對我們很熱情，令人有賓至如歸的感覺。我們了解到他們的身體狀況確實受到不同程度的影響，有不少人心臟不舒服，有人患高血壓等。

402號房的窗前 1984年7月29日

7月29日我們入住了地處天津最繁華地段、和平路濱江道十字路口、歷史悠久建於1928年的交通飯店。我和老C住402客房，窗對面是1931年開業的惠中飯店大樓。

老C將一盤磁帶放進錄音機裡，錄音機是我們帶去考察用的。老C按了播放鍵，頓時屋裡響起了節奏鮮明的迪斯科。合著節拍她就扭了起來，踏步轉身、扭腰送胯、聳肩轉肩、前躬後仰……跳得自信瀟灑。我似乎看傻了，她示意一起跳，我不會。她範了幾個簡單的動作，說，最主要是跟上節奏，順著音律，自然帶動，怎麼扭都行。試試吧，我也跟著擺動起來。

屋裡沒開燈，昏暗的街燈探進來一些。我們兩個人扭啊擺的，有點忘乎所以了。

咚！咚！咚！咚！有人敲門。老C過去開門，我按了錄音機的停止鍵，屋裡驟然靜了下來。

W教授一臉嚴肅地出現在門口，「㑚辣辣做啥？發瘋了啊？音量開了嘎響！注意點影響好𠲎！对过樓里廂額寧儕辣辣看㑚！」（你們倆在幹嘛？發瘋了啊？音量開得這麼響！注意點影響好吧！對面樓裡的人都在看你們呢！）

扭頭一看，對面惠中飯店大樓的窗口、陽台以及樓頂露台上都站滿了人，正在往我們屋裡看呢。啊～捅簍子了！

我們像是被大人責罵了的做錯了事的孩子，紅著臉低頭不語。好在那些隔窗遙望圍觀的人們，並沒有顯出絲毫的反感。多數只是好奇地靜靜地觀望。那時錄音機還是奢侈品，迪斯科舞也是剛傳入上海。多年後回過頭來想想，當時能住這種等級飯店的人是會有一定修養的，不會瞎起哄。

我們乖乖地安歇下來，躺在床上卻睡不著。樓下時有馬車路過，顛兒顛兒的馬蹄聲，伴著趕車的吆喝聲，在寧靜的夜晚分外清晰地傳上樓來。只有在電影裡見過馬車的我們，一骨碌爬起來，趴在窗口朝下看。幽暗的街燈下只有幾個人影在匆匆趕路，一兩輛自行車騎過，似乎都急於回家。奇怪才過10點，這麼繁華的地方都沒有人蕩馬路？上海灘可不是這樣的。我倆學著電影《青松嶺》裡車把式錢廣的口吻，朝著路過的運貨馬車喊「籲～～」「駕！」但是那些馬好像都不長耳朵，不聽我們的口令。

這時對面樓中，右側二樓的一個窗子裡，出現了兩個男青年的身影。他們伸直了手臂，熱情洋溢地向我倆揮動。想必早先他們也注意到了我們這裡的「瘋狂」。禮貌地揮手作答。他們做了個要給我們打電話的動作，老C伸出手指比劃了402的手勢。電話隨即就響了。這真是瘋了！

老C接了電話，說是他們約我們第二天一起吃個午飯聊聊。出門在外有點無拘無束了，向來不苟言笑的我，一反常態，這次非但沒有約束自己，反倒覺得些許的興奮，這真是史無前例的全新的感覺。

第二天上午我們到他們住的飯店。進門登錄時，看我要寫名字，老C在我耳邊輕聲提醒說：「不要用真名。」我還差點兒就寫了真名呢，不得不佩服她的謹慎。

他倆二三十歲，是從廣州來的商人，很陽光、很自信，根本沒有我所理解的商人應有的樣子。他們請我們在惠中飯店的中餐廳吃了一頓相當豐盛的午餐。

說真的，那是我頭一次吃到這樣昂貴的午餐，當然我不會顯得沒教養，時至於此，我已經練就了一副至少在表面上顯得寵辱不驚的自若神態。

聽說我們將在第二天下午去北京，巧了，他倆也正好明天下午要去北京的。說好了第二天上午帶我們一起去天津水上公園。

那天晚上，W教授告訴我們，鑑於我倆的不良行為，我們必須在第二天一大早前往北京。不知咋的，好像他們都知道了我倆的行蹤，似乎我們的每一步都被監視了。哦！我們該怎麼辦？我們得告訴那兩位，我們不能去公園了，我們不得不在早晨離開。老C試圖打電話，但酒店從晚上11點到第二天早上8點之間是沒有電話服務的。

第二天一大早我倆就坐上了一輛卡車，先離開了天津。專家學者教授們過後再去。在去北京的路上，卡車司機將車在一個路邊小吃攤兒停下來。我們都下了車在那裡買了早點。天津的早點也是頭一次看到，油鍋裡炸的一張大大的油餅，取出後放在砧板上按照客人的要求剁成大塊兒，然後秤分量出售，但挺好吃的。

沒有機會向那兩位解釋。想象中他們的失望，甚至於氣憤。在他們心裡我們不就成了倆「小人」了嗎？！一路上我倆的心情都不好，中途突然想起，那兩位下午也會來北京的。我們決定到火車站去等他們，無論如何也要向他們道個歉，解釋一下我們爽約了的原因。

下午，我們趕到了北京火車站，站在大門口，眼睛在熙熙攘攘的出站人流裡踅摸。幸運的是，沒多久，我們就看到了他們！我們兩個走過去跟他們打招呼，但他們卻一臉的不高興，不和我們說話，只顧往前走。顯然我們的不辭而別傷了他們，也損了我們在他們心中的形象。我們跟上他們，向他們道歉並做了解釋。看我們確實是一片誠心誠意，聽了解釋，弄清了事實原委，從而原諒了我們，消了氣。如此，我們大家都鬆了一口氣。他們去宣武門飯店的常租客房，我們回旅館。約了第二天一起去遊頤和園。

第二天上午，在北京的高架鐵路附近走街串巷。發覺我們走訪的人家相對來說，熱乎勁兒比天津人大大地降低了好幾度。他們不如天津人那樣直爽、熱情、好客。

下午工作結束後，我們在頤和園門口相聚，與他們一起遊園。路過昆明湖時，看到有個人在湖邊釣魚，那情景瞬間就與我小時候媽媽那面橢圓小鏡子背面的夢境和了拍，真是一場奇妙的 Déjà vu（既視感）！我興奮地過去與那位垂釣者商量，是否能借他的釣魚竿拍一張照片？他爽朗地同意了。於是我就有了這張頭上戴著垂釣者的草帽、手中拿著魚竿的照片。在湖邊的蘆葦叢中，我坐在那位垂釣者的折疊便攜式小凳子上。遺憾的是照片中的我明顯地是在擺拍，還笑嘻嘻的，沒有那面小鏡子中感人的 mysterious aura，但好歹也算是圓了孩提時代小鏡子後面的景色所帶給我的大夢。

他們獨特的廣東普通話口音真是很逗，一句學北方爺們兒的話：「這天氣，真他媽的熱！」聽著就是佶屈聱牙。他們說要請我們吃北京烤鴨，我們婉言謝絕了。他們說：「不到長城非好漢，不吃烤鴨真遺憾！」他們的「吃」字發音成「七」，「真」字發音成「金」，聽得我和老C都偷著樂得肚子痛。

頤和園 1984年7月底

在十七孔橋附近，還遇到一位北方內地來的小夥子，高高的個子挺陽光的，主動跟我們攀談，也和我們一起有說有笑地圍著昆明湖轉了一圈兒。將要分手時他說起自己是得了絕症的，單位給了假，工資照發出來轉轉。他看起來一點也不消沉，坦然面對的樣子，令人唏噓而又敬佩。

頤和園昆明湖畔小憩

這是我這輩子玩兒得最瘋的一次，居然跟陌生人一起吃飯、一起遊園。回上海後老C跟他們通過一封信，後來就沒再聯繫。

大約在1998年的閒暇日子裡，我用英語記錄了過往的人生故事，在這個故事的結尾是這樣寫的：現在老C已經遠走他鄉定居德國。有時我也想知道那兩個年輕人在哪裡。希望他們的生活美好、事業上取得更大的成功。他們是不是偶爾地也記起與我們的那段交往呢。42歲的我不再年輕，但每次回憶起這段清純又狂野的經歷時，不由得啞然失笑。

那次我們還在工作之餘去了北海公園、天壇、長城、故宮、十三陵等地。

從北京回來後我和老C都將一頭長髮剪了，燙了個爆炸式。當時算是很新潮的，街上還沒見幾個。後來想想，可能那兩個廣州青年留的就是這髮式。當時確實能令人感覺自信瀟灑。

What a night!

Old C and I were sitting in the lobby of the Beijing Hotel, drinking Coca-Cola. In China back then, only these grand international hotels housed fancy restaurants, bars, and cafeterias, which couldn't be found anywhere else. In those days, only foreigners or high-ranking government officials could afford to stay at a place like the Beijing Hotel. Average Chinese citizens were strictly forbidden from loitering inside; the doormen would stop almost any ordinary local at the entrance. If you didn’t carry a foreign passport, you didn't even have the right to catch a glimpse of the interior.

However, Old C possessed the exotic look of someone from Southeast Asia. She casually told the guard that I was her friend and that she was visiting from Malaysia. Amazingly, no one asked her to produce a passport.

Inside, foreigners were everywhere. Some were sitting and having drinks or coffee, while others read newspapers and chatted idly. Around 10:30 PM, I whispered, "It’s late. We should be getting back." 

(When we were in Shanghai, she took me to the Park Hotel and the Peace Hotel a few times. Back then, I dressed quite poorly and utterly lacked confidence; whenever we approached the entrance, I didn't even dare to look the doormen in the eye. They could tell at a single glance that I was a country bumpkin (tu bao zi), and they would stick out their hands to block me outside. Old C, however, was entirely poised and graceful, acting as though she walked in and out of those grand places all the time to experience the elegant atmosphere—including the live jazz band performances at the Peace Hotel. She carried a distinct aura of prestige, and the doormen never dared to disrespect her. Whenever I was stopped by the doorman. She would spread her hands, shrug, and ask the guards in Mandarin with a deliberately faked foreign accent, "Why won't you let my friend in?"

Even inside, we would only consume a single bottle of Coca-Cola; Old C had foreign friends, so she always had some Foreign Exchange Certificates (Waihuiquan) on hand. I was always the boring one, constantly telling her when it was getting late and time to go.)

So we stood up and began to leave. Soon, however, we realized that two African students were tailing us. It was pitch black outside, and I was growing intensely nervous. Luckily, our public bus pulled up just in time. We boarded as quickly as we could, but to our dismay, the two African students boarded right behind us. When we finally reached our stop, a torrential rain was pouring down, engulfing the streets in complete darkness. The two students stepped off at the exact same stop!

Panic seized me, and I shouted, "Run!"—which instantly made Old C terrified as well. I told her not to head straight back to our lodging, but to duck into the narrow back alleys so we could lose them in the shadows.

We eventually ducked into a dark doorway, completely shielded by its gloom. Looking around, we saw no sign of the men who had been following us. This allowed us to breathe a small sigh of relief, though the rain continued to pelt down mercilessly.

On top of everything, the Coca-Cola I had drunk earlier began to take its toll. I needed to use a restroom desperately. My entire body began to twist and shiver from the unbearable internal pressure combined with the chill of the outdoor rain. I couldn't hold it for another second. I turned to Old C and said firmly, "I can't stand it anymore. I have to do it right here."

Fortunately, I was wearing a pair of loose, long shorts. By simply standing there, I could pull them aside and relieve myself right against the wall—standing upright like a man—without anyone noticing a thing. My shorts were already thoroughly soaked from the rain anyway, which made the act entirely unnoticeable.

Terrified that a passerby might appear and cause an embarrassing scene, Old C bravely stood directly in front of me to shield me from the street. My heart battered wildly against my ribs as the liquid from my body seemed to flow endlessly. The warm stream ran straight down the side of my long leg, mixing with the cool rain. I broke out in intense goosebumps from head to toe. Yet, I truly didn't care about anything else in that moment; it felt as though an immense, suffocating weight had been lifted from my soul. A wave of profound relief and deep relaxation washed over me, accompanied by a slight dizziness. I had to reach out and grip Old C's shoulder tightly to keep myself from tumbling down. She stood there, giggling softly in the dark...

"Shh... be quiet!" Just as I finished, the sound of footsteps echoed through the darkness. Please, no more danger, I prayed, our nerves tightening once more. It was incredibly late, and we had to remain motionless in the shadows for a long while, fearing that the two men were still searching for us, or worse, that we might run into a burglar breaking into a house, or something even more sinister. Our imaginations ran completely wild.

The footsteps drew closer and closer; someone was coming down the stairs of the building. We stood there in absolute silence, soaked to the bone in the rain. Relief flooded over us the moment a woman emerged from the gloom. Seeing us completely drenched, she kindly lent us her umbrella. We thanked her profusely and returned it to her the next morning.

"I'll write this down someday," I whispered to Old C that night. "I will," I said firmly.

Today is September 7, 1998. Finally, after fourteen long years, I have written it down. Yet I remember it all as vividly as though it happened only yesterday.

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

Memories of Tianjin and Beijing, 1984: A Broken Appointment, Cantonese Pastries, and a Torrential Night at the Beijing Hotel

At that time, I had been assigned by the institute to design a language laboratory that was about to undergo installation; everything started from scratch. I moved out of the audio editing room and temporarily relocated to the workspace of the institute's instrument repair team. There were three technicians in that unit, all men—one older gentleman and two young lads. This workshop sat directly opposite the foreign language department's duplicating room. The duplicating room provided a service for copying cassette tapes. In those days, private individuals rarely owned dual-deck tape recorders capable of copying tapes; students from the foreign language department would come to borrow small portable recorders and foreign language cassettes, or bring their own blank tapes to have them recorded in order to improve their oral and listening skills.

Old C was a regular there, frequently coming to copy pop songs, and had grown very familiar with the two female staff members of a similar age who worked there. Through these frequent encounters, she and I crossed paths. Old C possessed a vibrant, cheerful personality and worked as the Chinese typist for the Institute of Ancient Books. The Chinese typists of that era were immensely cumbersome machines, packed tightly with an absolute maze of about two thousand small, rectangular lead blocks standing shoulder-to-shoulder. The top of each lead block was carved with a single Chinese character. When typing, one had to grip a handle that could move forward, backward, left, and right, driving the typing head to slide around until finding the corresponding character. Then, with a firm downward press, the lead block would leap upward, striking the character onto the paper. It was a supreme technical skill; one had to memorize the entire layout of those lead characters. Old C operated it with incredible nimbleness—da-da-da, da-da-da—though I only witnessed her operating it once and cannot describe it with absolute precision.

Old C was not only cheerful but also exceptionally warm, harboring highly avant-garde and open-minded ideas. Having recently broken up with my boyfriend at the time, I felt too ashamed to lift my head on campus. My mind flashed back to October 1982, when I saw the famous Louvre masterpiece by the Rococo painter Jean-Baptiste Greuze, The Broken Pitcher, at the "250 Years of French Painting Exhibition." The painting was a well-known metaphor for the loss of innocence, and in my deep despondency, I looked at myself as that exact "girl with the broken pitcher," believing that no good man would ever want me again. Old C tried to enlighten me, saying, "What is there to fear? If they don't want you, someone else will. Besides, if you're an innocent 'virgin' (chu'er), do you really think foreigners wouldn't like that? Just because of a lack of experience?" Seeing my long, resentful face and knowing the bitterness I held toward my ex-boyfriend, she uttered a sentence that brought immense satisfaction, even though we would never dream of actually doing it. She said in Shanghainese: "Xun ning te yi ge ni du ge thah." ("Find someone to slice his ears clean off.") Influenced by Old C’s roaring spirit, I too began to feel that if this place wouldn't keep me, another place surely would.

When we were young, everyone loved to refer to themselves as "Old." Inside the Institute of Ancient Books, there was another female office clerk with whom we shared a very tight bond, whom we called Old Y. In those days, although our faces were completely smooth and devoid of a single wrinkle, we were, after all, verging on thirty. I remarked, "We are both about to become laopi kechi yan'er le" (an old-timer with crinkled, rheumy eyes). Hearing this, Old C burst into wild laughter, shouting, "An old leather crunch!" (laopi kacha). She simply couldn't master the northern slang. She was actually two years younger than me.

In late July 1984, during the summer vacation, Old C asked me if I would be willing to work overtime out of town. Of course I was! Working overtime in another city while being able to sightsee along the way—what a beautiful assignment. Yet, how did Old C manage to secure this gig in the first place? Back then, we often worked overtime during summer breaks, but those were invariably assignments handed down by our institute; even if we worked for another department, it was merely a temporary institutional loan between units.

Old C led me into a basement located behind the East Building, where I was introduced to Professor W from the Psychology Department. One of Professor W’s psychological laboratories was nestled inside this quiet basement. It was the dead of a scorching summer, yet after descending just a few steps of the single-lane concrete staircase, an instant wave of coolness washed over us. There were several rooms below; the one we entered was carpeted, clean, and spacious.

As it turned out, a research panel composed of experts, scholars, and professors from Tongji University, the Shanghai Institute of Railway Technology, and other relevant institutions had been formed to study whether elevated railways should be constructed in Shanghai. Their mission required a special fieldwork trip to the elevated railway zones in Beijing and Tianjin. They needed two assistants to conduct door-to-door surveys on how the noise from the elevated railways impacted residents' daily lives. Consequently, Professor W called upon Old C, whom he knew, and asked her to find a partner.

I cannot recall the exact date of our departure, but when we first arrived in Tianjin, we stayed at a guest house belonging to a certain research institution. The experts conducted fieldwork, monitoring, and sampling of the noise along the elevated railway sections. Based on different intervals during the day and night, as well as varying ranges of distance, they mapped out the distribution patterns of the noise.

Armed with subjective evaluation questionnaires prepared in advance based on the principles of psychoacoustics, Old C and I threaded through the streets and alleys, knocking on doors home by home. We surveyed residents of various occupations, ages, and genders regarding the impact of elevated train noise on their lives. We asked whether the noise caused annoyance, affected their sleep, or to what degree it interfered with conversation and thinking. We recorded their answers by ticking off the boxes on the forms—for emotional annoyance levels: "Quiet," "Relatively Quiet," "Noisy," "Very Noisy," "Unbearable"; and for thought interference levels: "No Impact," "Occasional Mild Impact," "Frequent Impact," "Severe Impact."

Presumably under the impression that someone coming to investigate would improve their living conditions, the residents were highly cooperative. They treated us with great warmth, making us feel thoroughly at home. We learned that their physical health was indeed affected to varying degrees; quite a few suffered from cardiac discomfort, and some had developed high blood pressure.

On July 29, we checked into the historic Traffic Hotel (Jiaotong Fandian), built in 1928 and located at the intersection of Heping Road and Binjiang Avenue, the most bustling commercial district in Tianjin. Old C and I stayed in Room 402; our window directly faced the grand building of the Huizhong Hotel, which had opened in 1931.

Old C popped a cassette tape into the tape recorder—the recorder was an item we had brought along for the fieldwork. The moment she pressed the play button, a disco track with a sharp, driving rhythm filled the room. Matching the beat, she began to twist and sway—stepping, turning, swinging her hips, rolling her shoulders, leaning forward and bending back... dancing with absolute confidence and style. I stood there practically mesmerized. She signaled for me to join in, but I didn't know how. She demonstrated a few simple movements, saying that the most important thing was to follow the rhythm, yield to the melody, and let the body move naturally—any way you twisted was fine. "Give it a try," she urged, and I began to sway along with her.

No lights were turned on in the room, save for a bit of dim street lighting filtering through the window. The two of us twisted and swayed, completely carried away.

Thud! Thwack! Thud! Thwack! Someone was knocking violently on the door. As Old C went to open it, I slapped the stop button on the recorder, and the room plunged into a sudden, dead silence.

Professor W appeared in the doorway, his face a mask of absolute severity. He barked at us in sharp Shanghainese: "Na la la zu sa? Fa fong le a? Yin liang kai le ga xiang! Zi yi dian ying xiang hao va! Dui gu lou li xiang e ning cai la la kan na!" ("What on earth are you two doing? Have you gone mad? Blasting the volume like that! Show some discretion, will you! The people in the building opposite are all staring at you!")

Turning our heads to look, the windows, balconies, and rooftop terrace of the grand Huizhong Hotel building opposite were absolutely packed with people, all peering straight into our room. Ah~ we had stirred up a hornets' nest!

Like children scolded by an adult for doing something wrong, our faces flushed crimson, and we lowered our heads in silence. Fortunately, those onlookers gazing from across the windows displayed not a single trace of resentment. Most merely watched quietly out of pure curiosity. In those days, a tape recorder was a luxury item, and disco dancing had only just trickled into Shanghai. Thinking back years later, the clientele capable of staying in a hotel of that caliber back then possessed a certain level of cultivation; they weren't the type to heckle or jeer.

We quietly settled down for the night, yet lying in bed, sleep eluded us. From down below on the street came the occasional passing of horse-drawn carts—the clop-clop, clop-clop of horse hooves accompanied by the driver’s shouting commands drifted up to our room with exceptional clarity through the silent night. Having only ever seen horse carts in movies, the two of us scrambled up all at once and leaned out the window to look down. Beneath the dim streetlamps, only a few scattered silhouettes hurried along, and a bicycle or two rode past, everyone appearing anxious to get home. It was strange that right after 10:00 PM, a district this bustling was entirely devoid of people strolling the pavements; the Shanghai Bund certainly wasn't like this. Emulating the tone of the cart driver Qian Guang from the movie Qingsong Ridge, the two of us shouted down at the passing cargo carts: "Yuuu~~!" "Jia!" Yet those horses acted as if they had no ears at all, completely ignoring our commands.

Just then, inside a window on the right side of the second floor in the building opposite, the silhouettes of two young men appeared. They stretched out their arms, waving toward the two of us with immense enthusiasm. No doubt they had noticed our earlier "madness" as well. We waved back politely in response. They made a gesture indicating they wanted to call us on the phone. Old C stuck out her fingers, flashing the digits for "402." The telephone rang immediately after. This was truly insane!

Old C picked up the receiver; they were inviting us to have lunch together the next day to chat. Being away from home brought a distinct sense of liberation. I, who was historically straight-laced and rarely cracked a smile, broke all personal precedents on this night; instead of restraining myself, I actually felt a ripple of excitement. It was an unprecedented, entirely brand-new sensation.

The next morning, we headed over to the hotel where they were staying. When we arrived at the front desk to check in and log our information, Old C saw that I was about to write down my real name. She leaned in close and whispered in my ear, "Don't use your real name." I had been a mere second away from writing it down; I couldn't help but admire her immense sharpness and caution.

They were in their twenties or thirties—merchants who had traveled up from Guangzhou. They were vibrant, sunny, and exuded a supreme confidence, carrying none of the shrewd traits I usually associated with businessmen. They treated us to an exceptionally lavish and expensive lunch at the Chinese restaurant inside the Huizhong Hotel.

To tell the truth, that was the first time in my life I had ever partaken in such a costly meal. Of course, I did not let my lack of experience show; by that point, I had already trained myself to maintain an exterior of absolute composure and quiet grace, regardless of the circumstances.

Upon hearing that we were scheduled to depart for Beijing the following afternoon, it turned out to be an incredible coincidence—they were also heading to Beijing that very same afternoon. Before parting, we agreed to meet the next morning so they could take us to visit the Tianjin Water Park.

However, that night, Professor W informed us that, in light of our "disreputable conduct" (the disco incident), we were ordered to depart for Beijing at the absolute crack of dawn. For some reason, it felt as though they knew our every movement; it was as if our every step was being closely monitored. Oh, what were we to do? We had to find a way to inform those two men that we could no longer visit the park and were forced to leave in the morning. Old C attempted to place a phone call, but the hotel provided absolutely no telephone service between 11:00 PM and 8:00 AM the next morning.

At the very crack of dawn, Old C and I boarded a cargo truck and departed Tianjin ahead of the rest. The experts, scholars, and professors followed later. On the road heading to Beijing, our driver pulled the truck over at a roadside food stall. We all climbed down to purchase breakfast. It was my very first time witnessing a Tianjin-style breakfast: a massive sheet of oil-dough was deep-fried inside a giant wok, lifted out onto a chopping board, chopped into large chunks according to the customer's request, and then sold strictly by weight. It tasted incredibly delicious. 

We had absolutely no opportunity to explain our sudden departure to those two men. I could only imagine their deep disappointment, or perhaps even their anger. In their minds, wouldn't the two of us simply appear as "untrustworthy people"?!

Both of our spirits were incredibly low throughout the journey. Midway through the drive, it suddenly occurred to us that those two men would also be arriving in Beijing that afternoon. We determined right then to head straight to the Beijing Railway Station to wait for them; no matter what, we had to offer our deepest apologies and explain the true reasons behind our broken appointment.

That afternoon, we rushed to the Beijing Railway Station. Standing by the main entrance, our eyes scanned frantically through the bustling torrent of people exiting the gates. Miraculously, it didn't take long before we spotted them! The two of us walked over to greet them, but their faces were masks of pure displeasure; they refused to speak to us and simply kept walking straight ahead. Evidently, our unannounced departure had deeply wounded them and tarnished our image in their hearts. We followed closely behind them, offering our profound apologies and explaining the whole situation. Seeing that our intentions were entirely genuine and sincere, and once they grasped the true sequence of facts after listening to our explanation, they completely forgave us and their anger dissipated. With that, everyone breathed a massive sigh of relief. They headed to their long-term rented suite at the Xuanwumen Hotel, while we returned to our lodging. We arranged to meet the next afternoon to tour the Summer Palace together.

The next morning, we walked through the narrow streets and alleys near the elevated railway lines in Beijing. I noticed that the local families we interviewed were significantly cooler—by several degrees—compared to the people in Tianjin. They lacked the directness, warmth, and hospitality of the Tianjin locals.

After our work concluded that afternoon, we met up with the two merchants at the entrance of the Summer Palace and toured the grounds together. As we walked past Kunming Lake, I spotted a man fishing by the shore. In that split second, the scene clicked into perfect alignment with the dreamscape from the back of my mother's old oval mirror from my childhood—it was an absolute, breathtaking moment of déjà vu! Full of excitement, I walked over to the angler and asked if I could borrow his fishing rod to take a photograph. He cheerfully agreed. And so, I captured that very picture: wearing the fisherman's straw hat upon my head and holding the rod in my hands. Nestled inside the reed beds by the lake, I sat atop that angler's folding portable stool. Regretfully, my posture in the photograph is rather noticeably staged and I am wearing a smile, completely lacking the poignant mood and haunting atmosphere from the back of that small childhood mirror. Yet, no matter how imperfect, it sufficed to fulfill the grand daydream that the hidden scenery of my childhood mirror had gifted me so long ago.

Their unique Cantonese-inflected Mandarin accents were incredibly amusing. Attempting to emulate the local northern men, they barked out: "Zhe tianqi, zhen ta ma de re!" ("This weather is damn well hot!")—though it sounded entirely strained and twisted on their tongues. They insisted on treating us to authentic Beijing roast duck, but we politely declined. They declared, "Bu dao Changcheng fei hao han, bu chi kaoya zhen yihan!" ("If you don't reach the Great Wall you aren't a true hero; if you don't eat roast duck it's a true tragedy!") Except, on their tongues, the word for "eat" (chi) sounded exactly like "seven" (qi), and "true" (zhen) sounded exactly like "gold" (jin). Listening to them, Old C and I had to secretly hold our stomachs to keep from bursting into wild laughter.

Near the Seventeen-Arch Bridge, we ran into a tall young man who had traveled from the northern interior. He possessed a very bright, sunny aura, took the initiative to chat with us, and joined our group as we wound around Kunming Lake, chatting and laughing cheerfully. Just as it was time to part ways, he casually mentioned that he had been diagnosed with a terminal illness; his work unit had granted him leave with full pay so he could travel around. He didn't appear a single bit despondent, carrying a serene and tranquil acceptance that left one deeply moved and full of admiration.

That trip remains the absolute wildest adventure of my entire life—actually sharing meals and touring scenic parks with complete strangers. After returning to Shanghai, Old C exchanged a single letter with them, but after that, we completely lost touch.

Around the idle days of 1998, I used English to record the stories of my past life, and at the conclusion of that narrative, I wrote: Now, Old C has traveled to a far-off land and settled permanently in Germany. Sometimes, I find myself wondering where those two young men are today. I hope their lives are beautiful and that their careers have met with grand success. Do they occasionally look back and remember that brief interlude with us? At forty-two, I am no longer young, but every single time I recall this pure yet wild experience, I cannot help but break into a quiet, involuntary smile.

During that trip, outside of our official duties, we also found time to visit Beihai Park, the Temple of Heaven, the Great Wall, the Forbidden City, and the Ming Tombs.

After returning to Shanghai from Beijing, both Old C and I cut off our long hair and got our hair permed into a wild, explosive style (an afro-disco perm). It was considered extremely trendy at the time; one barely saw a few on the streets. Thinking back later, it's highly probable that those two young merchants from Guangzhou sported that exact same hairstyle. At that time, it truly granted a person a profound sense of confidence and style.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

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

第三百七十五篇