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。
**********************************
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
No comments:
Post a Comment