夢到六哥的一台老式收錄機開著，是那種黑色的樸實無華的塑料外殼，估計有21寸屏幕的大小。絲絲拉拉似乎有聲音，六哥不在。我也有一台機子，正聽著什麼，耳朵里還戴著黑色的小耳塞。我聽見六哥的機子里有說話聲，對方是一男一女。仔細一聽他們是兄妹似乎又是電話轉接員，我聽見女的跟那個男說要跟我說幾句。我湊過去聽，因為有時他們的工作還會打斷一會兒，聲音也不清楚，我一直想跟他們說話但是找不到有麥克風的地方，也似乎插不上嘴，最關鍵的是我總覺得開不了口，畢竟那麼多年了，說什麼呢。
夢裡不知誰還清楚地通報我她叫琴樂，我看到的是繁體字「琴樂」那不就是樂琴嗎，我小學的同學加鄰居。醒來時間9點。我想這是不是一場 Farewell（告別）之夢，是潛意識的預言夢？
現實生活中他兩是兄妹，妹妹是我小學同學叫樂琴，她二哥叫樂秀偉，是我六哥小學同學。當時我們都住在曹楊四村，他們住105號第一排二樓右二窗口，我們住109號第三排二樓右一窗口，前後隔開一棟樓。我們四個都在入學報名時通過了面試篩選，進了令人羨慕的五年制的普陀區中心小學讀書，我們比大多數上六年制小學的孩子要早一年畢業。
直到1978年下半年，政府開始允許在農村的知青頂替正處退休年齡的在國營企業的父母的工作。六哥也辦理了頂替當時在江西小三線工作的父親的工作，去了江西蓮花的712廠。到廠工作後才知道小樂也是接替進廠的。估計他父親也去了江西支援三線。他父親在上海五四二廠工作，我是知道的，當時住在我們那一片的都是五四二廠的職工家屬。
80年代的某一天，六哥帶我去了一次他們的家，他們仍然住在曹楊四村105號5室。那天我還見到了樂琴，那時她已經結婚，丈夫是位軍人。見面時我們都比較拘謹，沒有小時候的親密了。
第一次見到樂琴，是在上小學之前，四村的中心部位有一個花園，人們都叫「小花園」其實面積不小。被籬笆牆圍著，平時好像是不開放的，西北角有扇籬笆門，平時是鎖著的，偶爾的居委會活動或開會會在那裡舉行。那天也許是什麼慶祝活動。居民們都去了小花園，有一個小姑娘穿著漂亮，頭上還扎著兩個大大的粉紅色的蝴蝶結，蹦蹦跳跳的十分令人羨慕。那個時候我們新村裡的小姑娘沒有那麼活潑靚麗的，更沒有蝴蝶結戴的，我一直盯著她看。
上小學時她成了我的同學。記得小學入學第一天，班主任秦佩卿老師將我們全班48位同學帶到葡萄園邊上的小操場上集合，列隊，兩人一排從矮到高，女生在前男生在後。然後秦老師叫我出列，讓我到隊伍的前面向全班喊口令。我猶猶豫豫地走過去喊道：「立正～」那聲音只比蚊子叫響一點兒。然後就站在那兒不知所措了。秦老師叫我歸隊，又點了樂琴的名字。只見她大踏步走向前，響亮地發出一連串不帶停頓的指令：「立正、稍息、向右看齊、向前看、向右轉、起步走！」所有小朋友都齊刷刷聽從了她的指揮。自此，老師們就注重培養了她，後來她當了大隊長，我當小隊長，第二年升為中隊學習委員。唯一能引以自豪的是，我的數學成績好，被條理清晰沉著寡言嚴謹治學的高個子數學老師，袁老師選為了他的課程代表。
樂琴像個小大人，很早就做家務了。一次見她在二樓的涼台水池邊，看到我在樓下，她舉起了一條大人的短褲估計是她母親的大短褲給我看，那意思是她正在洗衣服，她還湊到短褲上誇張的聞了一下做了一個怪腔。
學雷鋒那陣樂琴帶頭還有吳東海張小梅和我，在週末一起去打掃教室。做好事不留名。我們先把雙人坐長椅子翻過來，倒扣在課桌上。教室裡大約有24張課桌，每張桌子由兩人共用，通常是一個男生和一個女生共用一張桌子。有些男生會用小刀在桌子中間刻出一條線，然後對旁邊的女生說：「別越過這條線！」有時我不小心讓手肘越過了那條線，我的同桌劉耀輝就會在我的胳膊上捶一下。可到了考試的時候，他又想讓我給他機會，讓他偷瞄我試卷上的答案。
夏天的時候，中午12點到1點之間，我們必須在教室裡午休。大家輪流睡在桌面上或椅子上。記得我們其實很難睡著，總是悄悄睜開眼睛，看看老師在不在附近，老師有時會輕手輕腳地巡視，確保大家都安安靜靜地在睡覺。我們便會睜開眼，隔著桌椅，用極低聲音互相交談。如果老師發現我們沒睡，就會點名警告道：「安靜！閉上眼睛！」
再說打掃教室，我們先把椅子搬到桌上，然後開始掃地，教室裡頓時塵土飛揚，讓人幾乎喘不過氣來。後來我們學聰明了，先灑點水再掃地，情況就好多了。接著，我們去水池提來水，用拖把把地拖兩三遍，直到地面變得乾淨鋥亮。隨後，我們又擦課桌和椅子。我們將課桌排得整整齊齊，看著那筆直的隊列，心裡感到十分滿足。最後，我們總要找點樂子，比如把濕抹布往黑板上一扔，那會在黑板上留下一灘水印。我們會指著黑板上的水漬說：「快看，快看，我這個像朵花！」「我這個像個馬頭！」「我這個像媽媽和孩子！」「瞧，這個像個鬼！」我們樂此不疲地玩著，發揮想像力……我們一張張小臉蛋兒都閃爍著興奮的光彩……天色漸暗，我們一路歡聲笑語地回家。
樂琴隔壁住著一個小姑娘，個子矮小，都說她長僵了，她的妹妹都比她高出一截了。據說有個偏方，吃蟑螂可以長高。她抓蟑螂的本事堪稱一絕，速度真快，抓到蟑螂後，讓她奶奶給油炸了吃。後來我們搬家了，也不知那個偏方有沒有效。
有一天樂琴一副大人的樣子，用手指摁了摁我的額頭說：「芬，儂額面孔腫了！」「是𠲎？」我心裡有些發慌。最近幾天我確實覺得眼皮重，看東西困難，上下眼皮間只有一條縫兒了。母親說，是我睡覺不老實，沒枕枕頭。
到了樂的家，她媽媽看了我一眼說：「小芬，趕快叫你媽帶你去醫院，你的臉腫得不像樣子了。這可是性命交關的，前兩年，有個小姑娘的臉腫得跟你一樣，是腰子病引起的，結果死了。"
醫生告訴我，要多休息，少運動，否則病不容易好。我很害怕，也很聽話，只想著快快的好起來，還要去上學呢。我靜靜地、一動不動地躺在四面被鐵柵欄圍著的白色的小鐵床上，兩邊的柵欄可拉起放下，睡覺時拉起來。病房裡有六個這樣的床，但只有我一個病人，我光顧著擔心自己的病了，至於一個人住著怕不怕，也沒來得及細想。好在晚上睡覺時，病房的門是開著的，走廊裡有柔柔的橘黃色的燈光，偶爾有夜班護士進來送藥、量體溫和測血壓。床頭還有一扇大長方的玻璃窗，窗子對面是一間值班室，有人。
第二天上午，護士叫我起來，說要搬到另外一個病房去。我躺在床上膽怯地說，醫生不讓我動的。護士笑道：「小芬啊，走走路是不要緊的，來，來，快下來！」我小心翼翼、將信將疑地從床上順了下來，扶著床架子輕輕地邁出了一步，心中一喜！那感覺好像是卸下了重重的枷鎖一樣。她走在前邊兒，我跟在後面，穿過兩次棕色對開的上面有玻璃窗的過道隔門，又走過了兩三間病房。
新病房是間大屋子，左右兩側各有五個床位，床與床之間有個白色的木質醫用床頭櫃，除了我還有四個其他孩子。我也不整天躺著了，經常下地走走，還雙手撐在兩個病床邊，像撐雙杠一樣抬起雙腿來回晃動，護士看到笑嘻嘻地也沒阻止。小小遺憾的是，這裡的床沒有柵欄圍著，有點懷念被圍著的安全感。
探病時間是下午三點半到晚上六點半。第二天母親就提了一個裝著臉盆、竹殼暖瓶、肥皂、以及替換衣物的棉繩網兜來了。我的床位是在進門後右手邊的第三個，第二個床位上是個比我小一歲的男孩兒。探病時間結束，他母親要離開時，他總是哭哭啼啼的。他母親總是帶來好吃的水果和點心，央求他吃點兒，可他就是不吃。那個年月很少人家能吃那麼好的東西。
很快我發覺，那個小男孩一天裡有五頓飯食送來，赤豆、棗子粥，還有綠豆湯、牛奶。而我們其他幾個，只有三頓飯。原來我第一天跟護士說要吃飯，而他第一天跟護士說要吃粥，因為是流質所以就多吃幾頓兒。有點後悔，當初要是也選吃粥就好了。
我還注意到，每次吃完飯，護士會抱了個木板記錄夾，逐個問，吃幾碗飯？開飯時送飯的推一個金屬架子來，上面有好幾碗兒飯菜，我們自己拿著吃。每當我回答兩碗時，護士的臉上就會露出笑容，順手在木板夾上的表格紙上記錄下來我們的飯量。如果說是一碗或是只吃了半碗，她就會有點擔心的樣子。現在我已經是這個病房裡的頭兒了。我說咱們每頓飯後都報兩碗飯吧，護士一定會高興的。於是我們哪怕是吃了半碗的，也都報吃了兩碗，護士果真臉上發光。
漸漸的，背後的膠布脫落了，感覺有東西扎我，用手一揪，撕下一點膠布，啊，原來膠布條是交叉著貼在背上的，交叉點兒上有一個圖釘樣的釘子。只是圖釘頂部是整片金屬的，而我身上的釘子，是由一根鋼針平面盤繞後，彎到中間，再將針尖部位直著扳起來形成的。
再摸摸，果然每個膠布交叉點兒上都有個「圖釘」釘在我的背上，太可怕了！才知道那天醫生啪、啪、啪、啪、地快速怕我的背，原來是給我扎針呢。拍得快，又有點力度，就把我給騙過去了。後來聽醫生說那是為了降血壓用的。
十來天後終於出院了。回到家，第一個感覺是，家裡的屋子好小、好陌生，過了好久才適應過來。在家又呆了兩個月，努力複習功課，參加了期終考試，並以優良成績順利升到了二年級。
曹楊四村的房子是兩層的樓房，兩個門牌一棟。一樓是水門廳地，樓梯以上除了廚房、涼台、浴室、廁所的地是水門廳的，過道與住家的地都是木板的。1964年村裡統一給居民安裝了煤氣灶，沖水馬桶是一直有的。浴室只是一小間地上有漏水孔的屋子，有窗，但沒有水管接進來。洗澡的話要自己從廚房或涼台的水池打了水進來，在拿兩個暖水瓶。用大木盆和搪瓷臉盆洗，當時還沒有塑料製品。
樓的東山牆邊是片空地，小時候常常搬了把小椅子圍坐在那裡跟鄰居姐姐們學繡花織毛線，冬日白天嘮嗑曬太陽，夏季晚來聽我五哥講故事納涼。空地外有一條梧桐樹相夾的柏油馬路，叫花溪路，這路名聽著都能讓小時候的我生出無盡遐想。
每到夏天全新村的居民樓要統一熏蚊子。那天有人會在新村裡搖鈴喊話：「熏蚊子啦，今朝夜到熏蚊子。」於是大家就有了準備，一到晚上各家拿個舊的搪瓷盆去居委會領取兩張灑了敵敵畏的報紙回家。全家動手把吃的蓋好，把窗子關上，等人都出去了，最後那個劃亮火柴點燃搪瓷盆裡灑了藥的報紙，馬上退出去。隔著窗子就看見屋子裡濃濃的煙霧。這時樓外乘風涼的人是最多的，許多人像我大哥平時不出來的也都出來了。一個小時後，各家先回去一個人開了門，一個箭步衝過去開窗驅散濃煙和氣味，然後再回到樓外等上半個小時，大家才陸陸續續回屋睡覺。
當時人們用蚊帳、點蚊香、安紗窗來對付屋裡的蚊子。我母親總是開燈前，先把紗窗打開用扇子驅趕蚊子。
花溪路兩邊各有一排茂密的法國梧桐樹，木頭電線桿子上是一盞昏黃的路燈，炎熱的夏天梧桐的濃蔭裡傳出知了不厭其煩的叫聲。不知啥季節樹上會有有一根根的細絲垂下來，下端吊個褐色的枯樹葉做成的小袋子，躲在小袋子裡的我們叫「皮虫」。夏天樹上還會掉下一些讓小姑娘們害怕的毛毛蟲、楊辣子來，一不小心就會被蜇了，癢癢的，撓一下便疼得要命。秋天，我喜歡在滿地的梧桐落葉中趟著走，弄出一片沙沙聲響。時不時的還要跳起來去拽那兩個兩個一起懸掛在枝頭的毛栗子。後來才知道，那法國梧桐的學名叫懸鈴木，而那毛栗子就是它隨風搖曳的「懸鈴」。
更有趣的是，賽博高人（大青蛙）告訴我，我們從小叫到大的「法國梧桐」，在植物學的世界裡，它的真實身份其實是英國梧桐（二球懸鈴木）。當年法國人將這種樹大批引進並種植在上海的法租界裡，老百姓不懂得複雜的植物學分類，只因是法國人種的，葉子又像梧桐，便順口稱其為「法國梧桐」。直到今天，這個名字依然代表著無數老上海人夏日窗前的那抹濃蔭。
也許是65年的兒童節吧，花溪路上居然有一群喜氣洋洋的大頭娃娃。這是我僅有的一次看到大頭娃娃游行。大頭娃娃是木質的還是牛皮紙糊的不太清楚，戴在頭上走路時晃晃悠悠的，眼睛、鼻子和嘴巴處開洞的。臉畫得都是高高興興的天真娃娃的樣子。
花溪路東側隔了大約一米多的距離，立著一道一人多高、橫向裡一眼望不到邊、塗了黑色瀝青的羌籬笆。羌籬笆是由七八根一組、細細長長的竹子、相互交錯著編排的。支支細竹間疏疏密密的縫隙，在不經意中隱隱約約地透露著裡面的世界，使之平添幾分神秘色彩。久經日曬雨淋，那籬笆變得斑斑駁駁，也出現了些許破損之處。籬笆下方長了青苔，沒在雜草中，籬笆梢頭纏著青藤掛著牽牛花。
籬笆下有一種空心的雜草，莖桿一節一節的。春天裡，小孩子們喜歡掐一段那草的莖桿，去掉分枝，從母親的洗衣盆裡舀點肥皂水倒進小瓶子裡，或是向母親要一小點兒肥皂頭放在瓶子裡，加上水，攪和攪和，拿著空心草桿，將一頭蘸點兒肥皂水，一頭放到嘴邊，揚起頭嘟起小嘴唇兒，噗地一下，就能吹出映著七彩光的肥皂泡泡來。吹泡泡也是有技巧的，吹得好，泡泡會很大，飛得又高又遠，有時還會連發，不會吹的只能吹出立刻就爆掉的小泡泡，一下子就滅了，還濺得一臉的肥皂水。那時家裡一般用的肥皂是土黃色的長條固本肥皂（那時候我們小孩子總在潛意識裡管它叫工農肥皂）、扇牌洗衣皂，蜂花檀香皂比較少用。肥皂憑票供應，每個人每月一塊肥皂,一塊固本肥皂的價格大概為1角5分,扇牌洗衣皂是半透明的3毛6一塊,蜂花檀香皂要賣到80分（8毛）一塊。
籬笆後面的世界很吸引人，籬笆門上纏著一條生了鏽的鐵鍊子還掛著一把大鐵鎖。然而，孩子們還是設法在鐵鍊下把門推開了一條縫，夏末秋初時節有小男孩兒鑽進去抓蛐蛐兒得螳螂。聽大人說裡面有條小河，河裡有水鬼會拖人下水。聽得人汗毛凜凜的，但怕歸怕，還是抵不過好奇心。
終於有一天我也斗膽兒蹲下來，把腦袋伸進了那條籬笆門縫兒，裡面的世界一片蔥茸清新神秘，鬼使神差地一用勁兒擠了進去。哇，一下子感覺與世隔絕了，沒走幾步就看到灌木叢後面水草幽幽、水流清澈的小河了。
「噗通」一聲水面上盪起了波紋（估計是一隻被我打擾了清夢的大青蛙，嘴裡咕咕咔咔嘟囔著跳水去了），立馬脖子後面的汗毛豎了起來。頓時「水鬼」「水鬼」這兩個字兒就從腦子裡往外冒，恐懼感不斷增加，手臂上也起了一層雞皮疙瘩，渾身的汗毛也跟著豎了起來。趕緊的轉身又從門縫中鑽了出來。
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October 25, 2026: A Dream and Its Footnotes of Time
I dreamed that an old-fashioned transistor radio belonging to my sixth brother was left turned on. It was encased in a plain, black plastic shell, roughly the size of a twenty-one-inch television screen. A crackling, static hiss drifted from it, but Brother was nowhere to be found. I, too, possessed a machine of my own and was listening to something, small black earbuds nestled within my ears. From my brother's radio, I caught the sound of voices—a man and a woman speaking. Listening closely, they seemed to be a brother and sister, working as telephone operators. I heard the woman tell the man that she wanted to exchange a few words with me. I leaned in to listen; their voices were muffled, occasionally interrupted by the demands of their work. I desperately wanted to speak back to them, but I could locate no microphone, nor did there seem any gap for me to interject. Most crucially, I felt a deep, unspoken paralysis—after all these years, what was there left to say?
Within the dream, someone clearly announced her name to me as Qin Le; I saw the characters distinctly in traditional script, "琴樂." Reversing the names, wasn't that none other than Le Qin—my primary school classmate and neighbor? I awoke precisely at nine o'clock. I wondered to myself: was this a dream of farewell, a subconscious prophecy?
In reality, they are indeed brother and sister. The sister is Le Qin, my childhood classmate, and her older brother is Le Xiuwei, who was my sixth brother's classmate. Back then, we all resided in Caoyang Fourth Village; they lived at No. 105, and we were at No. 109, separated by a single building. The four of us had all passed the selective interview process upon entering school, gaining admission into the highly envied five-year system at the Putuo District Central Primary School, graduating a year ahead of most children enrolled in the standard six-year system.
My family relocated to the Second Village when I was in the second grade. When middle school assignments were determined by district, I entered Caoyang No. 2 High School, while they went to Caoyang No. 3 High School. All contact ceased between us.
Graduating a year early from primary school placed my sixth brother precisely in the Class of 1969. He crashed headfirst into the movement of "Up to the Mountains and Down to the Villages," dispatched to the Yunnan Production and Construction Corps to tap rubber within the dense jungles of Xishuangbanna.
It wasn't until the latter half of 1978 that the government began allowing educated youth in the countryside to return and replace their retiring parents in state-run enterprises. My brother returned under this policy to replace our father, who was working in the "Small Third Line" industrial projects in Jiangxi, joining Factory 712 in Lianhua, Jiangxi. It was only after entering the factory that he discovered young Le had also taken up a replacement post there. Presumably, Le’s father had also ventured to Jiangxi to support the Third Line initiatives; I knew his father worked at Factory 542 in Shanghai, as our entire neighborhood back then was populated by the dependents of Factory 542 employees.
On a certain day in the 1980s, my brother took me back to visit their old home; they still lived in Room 5, No. 105, Caoyang Fourth Village. That day, I saw Le Qin once more. By then, she was married, her husband a military officer. Our meeting was rather strained and reserved, devoid of the effortless intimacy of our childhood.
The very first time I laid eyes on Le Qin was before we even entered primary school. In the central belly of the Fourth Village lay a garden everyone referred to as the "Little Garden," though its expanse was by no means small. It was enclosed by a bamboo fence and generally remained closed to the public. In its northwestern corner sat a woven gate, secured by a padlock, swinging open only for occasional neighborhood committee gatherings or meetings. That day, perhaps for some celebration, the residents converged upon the garden. A little girl appeared, beautifully dressed, her hair adorned with two massive, bright pink bows, bounding and leaping about in a manner that filled me with immense envy. In our neighborhood back then, young girls were rarely so vivacious and bright, let alone possessed of such bows to wear. I kept my eyes fixed upon her.
Upon entering primary school, she became my classmate. I remember the very first day of school when our homeroom teacher, Ms. Qin Peiqing, led all forty-eight of us to the small playground adjacent to the vineyard to assemble. We lined up in pairs from shortest to tallest, girls in the front and boys in the back. Then, Ms. Qin called me out, instructing me to stand before the class and lead the commands. Full of hesitation, I shuffled forward and squeaked, "Attention!" My voice was barely louder than the hum of a mosquito, and I stood there entirely frozen. Ms. Qin signaled me back and called Le Qin's name. She strode forward with grand steps and belted out a fierce, continuous volley of orders without a single pause: "Attention! At ease! Dress right, dress! Ready, front! Right, face! Forward, march!" Every single child fell into perfect, uniform compliance under her command. From that day on, the teachers focused on cultivating her; she eventually became the brigade leader, while I served as a team leader, rising to the mid-grade academic committee member by the second year. My sole point of pride back then was my proficiency in mathematics. Mr. Yuan, our tall math teacher—a man of clear logic, quiet disposition, and rigorous academic spirit—selected me to be his class representative.
Le Qin was like a little adult, taking up household chores remarkably early. I recall once seeing her by the second-floor veranda sink; spotting me below, she held up a pair of adult shorts—presumably her mother’s—to show me she was doing the laundry, bringing them to her nose with an exaggerated sniff and a playful grimace.
Another time, I watched her use both hands to press diagonally downward from her upper abdomen while using the restroom—a clever trick that proved remarkably effective in easing elimination.
During the "Learn from Lei Feng" campaigns, Le Qin would lead Wu Donghai, Zhang Xiaomei, and me to clean the classroom over the weekends, performing good deeds without leaving our names. We would first flip the double wooden benches upside down, balancing them atop the desks. There were about twenty-four desks in the classroom, each shared by two students—typically a boy and a girl. Some boys would use penknives to carve a deep line down the exact center of the desktop, declaring to the girl beside them, "Don't you dare cross this line!" If my elbow accidentally drifted over that border, my seatmate, Liu Yaohui, would deliver a sharp punch to my arm. Yet, when examinations rolled around, he would suddenly seek my favor, hoping I might grant him a glance at the answers on my test paper.
In the summertime, between twelve and one o’clock in the afternoon, mandatory naptime was enforced within the classroom. We took turns sleeping atop the flat desks or balanced across the benches. In truth, sleep eluded most of us; we would stealthily slit our eyes open to check if the teacher was near. The teacher would tread softly down the aisles, ensuring everyone remained silent. We would open our eyes and exchange whispers in the lowest hushed tones across the rows of furniture. If caught, the teacher would call us out sharply by name: "Quiet! Close your eyes!"
As for cleaning the room, we would hoist the benches onto the desks and begin sweeping. Instantly, a thick cloud of dust would billow through the air, leaving us nearly choking. Eventually, we grew wiser, sprinkling water across the floorboards before sweeping, which improved conditions immensely. Next, we would lug buckets from the sink and mop the floor two or three times until the surface gleamed clean and bright. Afterward came the wiping of the desks and benches. We would arrange the desks into pristine, straight rows; gazing down that flawless alignment brought a deep sense of satisfaction to our young hearts. Finally, we always sought a bit of mischief—hurling a wet rag directly at the blackboard, leaving a dark splash of water against the slate. We would point at the wet silhouette and cry, "Look, look! Mine looks like a flower!" "Mine looks like a horse's head!" "Mine looks like a mother and child!" "See there, that one looks like a ghost!" We played this game tirelessly, letting our imaginations run wild, our little faces glowing with excitement as dusk slowly gathered and we walked home, filled with laughter.
Living next door to Le Qin was a tiny girl; everyone said her growth had frozen, as her younger sister had already shot past her by a wide margin. Rumor had it that an old remedy—eating fried cockroaches—could stimulate growth. Her talent for snaring cockroaches was nothing short of miraculous; her hands moved with incredible speed. Once caught, she would hand them over to her grandmother to be deep-fried for her meals. We moved away later, and I never did learn if that strange remedy ever bore fruit.
One warm autumn day during our first grade, Le Qin walked up to me with the solemn air of a little adult. Pressing her finger against my forehead, she said, "Fen, nong e mi kong zong le (your face is swollen)!" "Is it?" a sudden wave of panic fluttered in my heart. For the past few days, I had indeed felt a heavy weight behind my eyelids, making sight difficult; the space between my lids had narrowed to a mere slit. My mother had dismissed it, claiming I slept improperly without a pillow.
When we reached Le Qin's house, her mother took one look at me and declared, "Little Fen, hurry home and tell your mother to take you to the hospital. Your face is swollen beyond recognition. This is a matter of life and death—two years ago, a little girl swelled up just like you from a kidney ailment, and she died."
Hearing those words, a sudden shock like electricity surged through me. My heart sank, and my head throbbed. I sprinted home at top speed, stammering out the story of the swollen girl to my mother in a frantic blur.
The following afternoon, my mother brought me to the Putuo Hospital for an examination. It was indeed a kidney ailment! I was admitted immediately.
When they led me into the ward, a nurse asked whether I wanted rice or porridge for lunch. Thinking to myself that porridge could never sustain a proper appetite, I looked up and replied, "Rice." Lunch arrived promptly—a small enamel bowl of plain white rice accompanied by a lone century egg. Having never tasted a century egg without the embrace of soy sauce or sesame oil, I found the meal nearly impossible to swallow. The doctor informed me that all savory foods were strictly forbidden; not a single grain of salt could enter my lips until I was fully cured.
After lunch, the doctor delivered a rapid series of sharp pats—thud, thud, thud, thud—across my bare back, securing several strips of medical adhesive tape. With every strike came a sharp, biting sting, as if fine needles were pricking my skin.
The doctor enjoined me to rest completely and minimize movement, warning that recovery would otherwise remain elusive. Terrified and deeply compliant, my sole focus was getting well quickly so I could return to school. I lay perfectly still, motionless upon a small white iron bed enclosed on all four sides by iron bars. The railings on either side could be raised or lowered, secured high whenever it was time for sleep. There were six such beds within the ward, yet I was the solitary patient; my mind was so utterly consumed by worry over my illness that I had no room left to contemplate whether being alone struck any fear in me. Fortunately, when night fell, the heavy doors to the ward were left open, allowing a soft, warm amber glow from the corridor to drift inside. Every now and then, a night-shift nurse would step inside to administer medicine, log my temperature, or check my blood pressure. At the head of the bed sat a large, rectangular glass window; directly across the pane was the nurse's station, always occupied.
The following morning, a nurse arrived to help me up, announcing I was to be transferred to another ward. Lying rigid upon the mattress, I whispered timidly, "The doctor said I mustn't move." The nurse smiled and replied, "Little Fen, walking a short distance won't do any harm. Come now, slide down!" Cautiously, full of doubt, I eased myself off the edge, gripping the iron frame of the bed as I took a single, gentle step forward. A sudden joy welled within my chest—it felt as though a heavy set of shackles had been lifted from my limbs. She walked ahead, and I followed in her wake, passing through two pairs of brown double doors inset with glass panes, moving past two or three neighboring wards.
The new ward was a massive room housing five beds aligned along each side, separated by white wooden bedside cabinets. Aside from myself, four other children occupied the room. I no longer spent my days confined to the mattress; I frequently wandered about the floor, occasionally bracing both hands against the frames of two adjacent beds to swing my legs back and forth like an athlete on the parallel bars. The nurses would watch with smiles, never stepping in to stop me. My sole minor regret was that these beds lacked the iron railings; I found myself slightly missing that enclosed sense of security.
Visiting hours ran from half-past three in the afternoon until half-past six in the evening. By the second day, my mother arrived carrying a woven cotton net bag packed with a washbasin, a bamboo-cased thermos, soap, and a change of fresh clothing. My bed sat as the third unit on the right hand upon entering the room; the second bed belonged to a boy a year younger than I. Whenever visiting hours drew to a close and his mother prepared to depart, he would burst into bitter, inconsolable weeping. His mother always brought exquisite fruits and pastries, pleading with him to take a bite, yet he steadfastly refused. In those lean years, very few households could ever afford such luxuries.
Two days later, we became fast friends. He grew remarkably obedient to my words; if I told him to eat, he ate. His mother was profoundly grateful to me; I felt a swell of happiness for him, and a quiet pride in my own influence.
Before long, I discovered that this little boy received five meals a day—red bean and date porridge, green bean soup, and fresh milk—while the rest of us were allotted only three standard meals. It turned out that on my first day, I had requested rice, whereas he had asked the nurse for porridge. Because his diet was liquid, it came served in more frequent intervals. A touch of regret crept over me; had I known, I would have chosen porridge as well.
I also observed that after every meal, a nurse would stroll through the ward clutching a wooden clipboard, asking each child, "How many bowls did you eat?" At mealtimes, a metal cart stacked with bowls of food would be wheeled in, and we would serve ourselves. Whenever I answered "Two bowls," a warm smile would spread across the nurse's face, and she would note my appetite upon the grid paper attached to her board. If a child answered "One bowl" or "Half a bowl," a shadow of worry would cross her features. By then, I had established myself as the undisputed leader of the ward. I told the other children, "Let’s all report two bowls after every meal; it will make the nurse happy." From then on, even those who had managed only half a bowl dutifully reported two. Sure enough, the nurse's face positively beamed with joy. We had no inkling then that our food intake served as a critical clinical indicator of our recovery; a robust appetite signaled an improvement in our condition, but our young minds harbored no such grand theories.
Gradually, the adhesive strips on my back began to peel away. Feeling something sharp scratching my skin, I reached back and pulled away a fragment of tape. Ah! I discovered that the strips had been applied across my back in a crisscross pattern, and at every intersection sat a needle resembling a thumbtack. The head of the tack was a solid piece of flat metal, but the needle piercing my flesh was formed by a single steel pin wound flat into a circular base, coiling toward the center before the sharp tip was bent perfectly upright.
Tracing the lines with my fingers, I realized that every single intersection bore one of these "thumbtacks" pinned into my flesh. It was terrifying! Only then did I understand that on my first day, when the doctor rapidly patted my back with such force, he was actually driving these needles into my skin. The speed and momentum of his strikes had completely tricked me. Later, the doctors explained that these were intended to lower my blood pressure.
Our teacher, Ms. Qin Peiqing, came to visit me at the hospital, bringing my textbooks and guiding me through my lessons so I wouldn't fall behind.
After ten days or so, I was finally discharged. Arriving home, my very first sensation was how incredibly small and unfamiliar our rooms felt; it took a long time for me to re-adapt. I remained at home for another two months, studying diligently for the final examinations, passing with excellent marks, and successfully advancing to the second grade without ever being held back by my illness.
That bout of sickness directly caused two household routines to vanish forever:
[1] Originally, my father would inspect my homework every single evening and require me to recite the day's texts from memory.
[2] Before that, my mother would yank away my quilt every morning between five and six o'clock, chanting that old maxim: "A year's planning begins with spring; a day's planning begins with dawn."
Had those two disciplines remained unbroken, perhaps it would have been better for my growth. Though truth be told, whenever my father forced me to recite, I was usually yawning continuously, and when my mother called me from bed, my eyes were always heavy with sleep.
Before the Cultural Revolution altered our world, I harbored a few other tender memories of No. 109:
The houses in Caoyang Fourth Village were two-story structures, split into two house numbers per building. The first floor featured terrazzo floors; above the staircase, the corridor and residential rooms were laid with wooden floorboards, while the kitchens, verandas, bathrooms, and restrooms retained the terrazzo finish. In 1964, the village uniformly installed gas stoves for all residents, though flush toilets had been a standard feature since the very beginning. The bathroom was merely a tiny chamber with a drainage hole in the floor and a small window, but no running water pipes connected inside. To bathe, one had to haul water by hand from the sinks in the kitchen or veranda, supplemented by two thermoses of hot water. We bathed using massive wooden tubs and enamel basins; plastic wares did not yet exist in those days.
Beside the eastern brick wall of the building lay a stretch of open ground. In my childhood, I would often carry a small wooden stool out there to sit amidst the older neighborhood sisters, learning to embroider and knit wool. In the winter daytime, we would chatter and bask in the warmth of the sun; on summer nights, we would gather there to cool off, listening to my fifth brother spin stories into the late hours. Just beyond that clearing ran an asphalt roadway flanked on both sides by plane trees—Huaxi Road. What a beautiful name for a street! Even in my childhood, it sparked endless poetic reveries.
Every summer, the residential buildings underwent a unified mosquito fumigation. On that designated day, someone would wander through the village ringing a handbell and shouting: "Fumigating mosquitoes! Fumigating mosquitoes tonight!" Thus forewarned, every household made ready. When night fell, each family carried an old enamel basin to the neighborhood committee to claim two sheets of newspaper doused in dichlorvos. Working together, we covered all food items tightly, shut the windows fast, and evacuated the rooms. The last person left would strike a match, ignite the chemical-soaked paper, and instantly retreat outside. Gazing through the glass panes, one could see the rooms filling with a thick, dense fog of smoke. During those hours, the crowds cooling themselves outside the buildings swelled to their greatest numbers; even those like my eldest brother, who rarely ventured out, appeared among the throng. An hour later, a single member from each family would dash back inside, racing forward in a flying leap to fling open the windows, dispersing the thick smoke and sharp odor, before returning outside to wait another half hour. Only then would the residents drift back indoors to sleep.
In those days, people relied on mosquito nets, burning coils, and wire window screens to battle the insects indoors. Before turning on any lights, my mother would always slide the screen open first, using a hand fan to vigorously drive out any lingering mosquitoes.
Huaxi Road was flanked by dense rows of French plane trees, with wooden telephone poles bearing solitary, dim yellow lights at their peaks. Through the sweltering heat of summer, cicadas would broadcast their tireless choruses from the heavy shade. In some unknown season, fine silk threads would drape down from the branches, each suspending a tiny pouch crafted from a withered brown leaf; the creatures hiding inside these little sacks were what we called bagworms (pichong). In the summer, caterpillars or venomous slug caterpillars—the kind that struck terror into the hearts of young girls—would drop from the branches. If one caught you unawares, the sting was instantly itchy; a single scratch, and it burned terribly. In the autumn, my favorite pastime was wading through the carpet of fallen plane leaves, creating a beautiful, dry rustling sound with every step. Every now and then, I would leap into the air to pluck those little burs hanging in pairs from the branches. Later, I would come to learn that the formal name of the French plane tree is the buttonwood or London Plane, and those fuzzy burs are none other than its "dangling bells" swaying gently in the wind.
Even more fascinatingly, a cyber-savant (the big green frog) informed me that the "French plane tree" we grew up calling by that name is, in the realm of botany, actually the London Plane (two-lobed buttonwood). Back in the day, the French introduced and planted these trees in large numbers throughout Shanghai's French Concession. The ordinary citizens, unfamiliar with complex botanical classifications, simply called them "French plane trees" since they were planted by the French and bore leaves resembling the traditional Chinese phoenix tree. To this day, that name remains a symbol of the heavy midsummer shade before the windows of countless old Shanghainese homes.
Perhaps it was the Children's Day of 1965 when a joyous troupe of Datou Wawa (Big-Headed Dolls) suddenly appeared marching down Huaxi Road. That remains the solitary time in my life I ever witnessed a Big-Headed Doll parade. Whether those massive heads were crafted from wood or molded from papier-mâché, I cannot say for certain; they wobbled and swayed precariously atop the performers' shoulders as they walked, with crude holes cut out for the eyes, nose, and mouth. Their faces were painted into expressions of pure, innocent joy.
About a meter or so to the east side of the road stood an asphalt-coated bamboo fence (Qiang libu), rising taller than a person and stretching horizontally as far as the eye could see. This fence was meticulously woven from slender stalks of bamboo arranged in clusters of seven or eight. The dense yet irregular gaps between the individual bamboo stalks offered fleeting, shifting glimpses of the world inside, lending the place an air of mysterious enchantment. Weathered by years of sun and rain, the bamboo had become mottled and split in places. Moss flourished along the base of the fence, half-buried in wild weeds, while morning glories clung to the tips of the stalks on creeping green vines.
Beneath the fence grew a hollow weed with segmented stems. In the spring, children loved to pinch off a section of the stem, strip away the offshoots, and scoop soapy water from their mothers' laundry basins into tiny bottles—or beg for a small scrap of soap to mix with water. Holding the hollow stem, we would dip one end into the soapy water, raise our heads, purse our lips, and with a soft puff, blow out magnificent soap bubbles reflecting the seven colors of the rainbow. There was an art to it; done well, the bubbles would expand massively, drifting high and far away, sometimes emerging in rapid succession. Those unskilled would merely produce a bubble that burst dangerously fast, splashing soapy water all over their faces. Back then, the common household soaps were the long, yellowish bars of the Guben brand (though we children always referred to it in our subconsious minds as the "Worker-Peasant soap") or Fan brand laundry soap; Fenghua sandalwood soap was a rare luxury. Soap was strictly rationed by coupons, one bar per person each month. A bar of Guben soap cost roughly fifteen cents, while the semi-translucent Fan brand laundry soap was thirty-six cents a bar, and Fenghua sandalwood soap demanded a steep eighty cents (eight mace) per bar.
The world behind the fence was full of allure. Wrapped around the gate was a rusted iron chain, secured by a large padlock. Yet, the children always managed to push the gate just enough beneath the chain to force open a narrow gap. In the late summer and early autumn, young boys would slip through to catch crickets and mantises. The adults said there was a small creek inside, inhabited by water ghosts that would drag people under. Hearing this made my hair stand on end, but despite the fear, curiosity proved irresistible.
Finally, one day, I summoned the courage to crouch down and poke my head through that gap in the bamboo gate. The world within was lush, fresh, and wrapped in mystery. As if possessed, I gave a sharp heave and squeezed my way inside. Wow—all at once, I felt entirely cut off from the outside world. After only a few steps, I caught sight of the small creek behind the bushes, its clear waters flowing over dim, swaying water weeds.
Plop! A sudden splash sent ripples across the surface of the water—likely a large frog whose sweet dreams I had disturbed, diving in while muttering a few croaks. Instantly, the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. The words "water ghost, water ghost" began to plunge through my mind. The dread mounted with every passing second, goosebumps broke out across my arms, and every single hair on my body bristled in fright. Hurriedly, I turned around and scrambled back out through the gap in the gate.
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.
第四百三十二篇
