「芬女士：您好。收到妳的照片我非常高興。那時我簡直像個小孩，好年輕，其實那時我已經是47歲了，如今都70了。我不知道我有沒有記錯，好像妳的前夫那時看過我的《尋找男子漢》，還把劇本翻譯成了英文。是嗎？他好嗎？如果妳還與他有聯繫，請代我向他問好。我的孩子在美國，我明年回去紐約。再一次謝謝妳。新年到了，新年好！——沙葉新」
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| 1987年1月於專家樓403室 |
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| 1986年5月於專家樓403室 |
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Chronicles of Youth, 1987: The Jianzhen Ferry, "Buddha Jumps the Wall," and an Ear Sketched with Three Exclamation Marks
In the initial letters J dispatched to me from America, he wrote: "Please write me in Japan. Can you? It is difficult not seeing you or talking to you. It is as though you have disappeared from the earth... Have courage!"
Yet, in the end, I did not take the initiative to write to him first. For one, the traditional upbringing drilled into me since childhood dictated that the man must take the initiative while the woman remains reserved. Furthermore, I believed that his status was higher than mine; he was more highly educated, and he was wealthier. He possessed the freedom to travel wherever he pleased and do what he wanted, whereas I possessed nothing except a naturally kind and pure heart. Why should I take the initiative? I was no gold-digger, even if deep within my heart, I hoped my future partner would be stronger than me across various aspects. I reasoned that if I were the one occupying the superior position, I would take the initiative with someone I liked. Many might judge such a stance as foolish, yet I simply couldn't change my nature. Once, while we were walking alone together on Mount Huang, J inquired as to what sort of husband I sought. I answered using simple words: "Handsome and good heart." One, he must be handsome; two, he must be kind-hearted.
Later, he taught English at Tokai University, held a part-time lectureship at Waseda University, and served as an English-language editor for the Asahi Shimbun. There were two English editors back then, and it was said that through the hands of the other editor, Wei Jingsheng’s prison memoirs were turned over to The New York Times for publication.
Regarding his oral English instruction, J remarked in his mail that he owed a debt of gratitude to me; it was the practice sessions he had with me at East China Normal University that had furnished him with prior experience in teaching oral speech, since his official course load at ECNU did not include oral English courses.
During that period, J wrote with joy to share the news that his article concerning Mr. Sha Yexin and his play, Looking for a Real Man, had been published in a Madison journal. He frequently authored literary reviews for well-regarded magazines. While staying in Shanghai, he visited Mr. Cao Yu and Mr. Sha Yexin.
To this day, I still preserve those photographs: one is a photograph of J and Mr. Cao Yu casually seated on a sofa, with J sitting on Mr. Cao Yu's right, a portable cassette recorder and teacups sitting atop the coffee table in front of them. And the other two are front-view photographs he took of Mr. Sha Yexin on his balcony, leaning casually against the concrete railing with his left hand in his pants pocket. In December 2009, I saw Mr. Sha Yexin’s blog on the internet and forwarded these two vintage prints to him via email.
Mr. Sha Yexin dispatched a response:
"Ms. Fen: Greetings. I am very glad to receive your photographs. Back then, I looked like a child—so young—though in reality, I was already 47 years old at that time, and today I am 70. I am not certain if my memory plays tricks on me, but it seems your former husband read my play, Looking for a Real Man, back then, and even translated the script into English. Is that so? How is he? If you still maintain contact with him, please convey my regards. My children reside in the United States, and I shall return to New York next year. Thank you once more. The New Year is upon us; Happy New Year! —Sha Yexin"
Shifting the chronicle back to New Year's Day of 1987, J used his holiday break to travel from Japan to Shanghai to see me. I went to fetch him at the Huishan Wharf. On that morning, my sixth older brother operated a vehicle borrowed from his work unit—for in that era, private cars did not exist. J arrived aboard the Jianzhen ferry, a vessel bridging Shanghai and Osaka. The ferry berthing was punctual, yet passengers were forced to wait inside the cabins for an hour before being permitted to disembark.
When J walked into the waiting hall and I stepped forward, he attempted to embrace and kiss me. However, I turned away. J asked, "Don't you love me anymore?" Within Western culture, an embrace and kiss upon reunion is normal etiquette, but I could not do it in public. In the China of that era, nobody did that in public spaces; the public would view it as bad behavior.
We boarded my brother’s vehicle and departed the wharf, heading toward Nanjing East Road. I intended to treat J to a nice lunch. Yet when we arrived, we were told that the restaurant had already closed at two o'clock for its afternoon break. We tried another eatery, but it also did not accept customers past two o'clock. My brother and I were very hungry; ultimately, it was J who suggested, "Let's go to the Jing'an Hotel."
In those years, an establishment like the Jing'an Hotel was difficult for ordinary Chinese citizens to enter. Yet on that afternoon, because we walked alongside J, the male gatekeepers in their sharp uniforms did not stop our progress. The dining room offered all-day service, and we finally sat down.
Yet upon the conclusion of the meal, an awkward moment unfolded. When the server delivered the bill, he informed us that they did not accept RMB—they accepted only Foreign Exchange Certificates (FEC) or foreign currency. My brother and I did not have that kind of money.
"J, I am sorry... could you pay for this meal?" I asked shyly. It was I who wanted to treat him to his welcoming meal, and the bill was indeed expensive. Poor J—the moment he landed in Shanghai, he was immediately "swindled" by us.
I had pre-arranged for him to reside inside Room 403 of the Foreign Experts Building, which cost roughly sixty to seventy RMB per night back then. Today, I still hold the second photograph J ever snapped of me inside that building. In the frame, the heavy, hand-knitted wool cable sweater I wear was one of those first gifts he purchased for me at the Peace Hotel. I possess only two photographs captured inside the Foreign Experts Building across my entire life—and both were taken inside Room 403.
Placing these two prints side-by-side reveals an interesting variation in color tones. In this photo, the background wall covering appears light blue, blending harmoniously with my gray sweater, and the faux-leather armchair presents a brownish-red hue. In contrast, the print from a year prior shows the wall covering taking on a muted, grass-green shade, while the armchair shifts toward a brownish-yellow. It is quite peculiar how the identical wall covering and the exact same armchair seemed to automatically adjust their color tones against different colored clothing. This was likely due to the specific time of day and the quality of light when the shutters snapped. His camera back then was a Nikon, and I remember a UV filter was attached to the front of the lens.
The weather in Shanghai during those days was gray and rainy; J caught a cold almost the moment he landed. We bicycled around the city, traversing the busy Huating Road clothing market and strolling through Changfeng Park. The black, heavy corduroy short coat I wore was something J had specially purchased for me in Japan. The finger-long conical buttons were crafted from genuine ox horn.
Changfeng Park housed a playground slide that bridged across a small channel of the river. J climbed the ladder, while I took the long way around to the opposite shore. Standing at the summit of the slide, J captured a downward-angle photograph of me standing on the far bank. Witnessing his childlike joy, he let go of his grip and came sliding down from the heights.
Yet the slide of that era was not designed with a proper buffer at the bottom. As a consequence, J hit the baseline of the slide and landed hard on his tailbone! It was a real agonizing ache. Watching him look miserable, I felt a bit amused—when an old man decides to act like a youth, he must exercise caution.
On January 4, J looked across at me and said: "Maybe we should get married."
Hearing those words, I did not know how to respond. He utilized the word "Maybe," rather than a statement like "Let's get married" or "Marry me"—had he spoken thus, I likely could have offered an answer. Of course, I was glad, but I felt something was still wanting; there lacked a bit of passion. The romance in classical literature had always been my yearning. I dreamed of a love filled with passion, yet I did not know how to achieve it, let alone how to articulate my inner thoughts. I was too guarded and reserved, so my emotional boiling point was high. Perhaps because J couldn't read past my distant exterior, he resorted to a tentative "maybe" to test my thoughts; or perhaps the damp chill of those few days coupled with his cold had affected our spirits. I remained tense in J's presence, worried that I was too shallow and afraid of being looked down upon by him. Yet one reality was absolute: my English was poor, and communication between us was difficult.
I invited J to my parents' home to meet my family and have a meal together. Xiao Z, who worked inside the international students' dining hall, came to assist us and made a table of delicious dishes. I remember a simple yet delicious dish: fried vermicelli threads with black sesame seeds scattered on top, called "Ants Climbing a Tree." Growing up, I had never heard such a name.
On January 6, I invited J to dinner at the Minjiang Restaurant located on Jiaozhou Road. For this specific feast, I had pre-ordered their flagship dish—'Buddha Jumps the Wall'—a full three days in advance. Later, I realized that this world is not as simple as people imagine, and that the title was, in truth, deeply irreverent toward the Buddha. Buddhism dictates an existence entirely devoid of attachment or desire; how could a Buddha possibly break his vows and leap across a wall simply because of a worldly aroma? The primary components consisted of deep-sea delicacies and quail eggs.
On that afternoon as J and I rode our bicycles through Nanjing East Road, we met a large, bearded Frenchman named Yves and his girlfriend. That very bearded Yves was the Frenchman who, several months prior on March 15 at that international student mixer, had spoken a few words to me and subsequently introduced J to me the moment J stepped onto the floor.
I had J invite them along to share our feast. And so, the four of us sat down to dinner at the Minjiang Restaurant. I ordered four extra dishes to the spread, and everyone dined in high spirits. The meal cost me 85.45 yuan—a sum that exceeded my entire monthly salary at the time.
At six o'clock the following morning, January 7, my sixth older brother drove J to Hongqiao Airport.
On January 18, 1987, J called to say everything was fine; he had returned to New York after leaving Shanghai. I started reading American history and intensifying my English studies. I truly experienced the urgency and regret of last-minute cramming.
At 4:15 on the afternoon of March 14, J placed another long-distance call from Japan. I remained unable to carry on any sort of deep dialogue with him. Truly, one only laments the scarcity of books when it is time to deploy their knowledge; my English progress was too slow. Two days later, on March 16, he called once more, reporting that he was arriving in Shanghai immediately. At 7:15 on the evening of March 19, J called to relay his flight number: 3503, scheduled to touch down at Hongqiao Airport at 5:30 the following afternoon.
On March 20, I went to the airport and fetched him. This time, I failed to secure his Room 403 on the fourth floor; perhaps someone was already staying there, so he lodged in a room on the first floor. On March 21, I accompanied J to the civil aviation office to purchase his return ticket, and by March 24, J departed Shanghai once more.
During those few brief days, we shared a meal at a small restaurant behind the East China Normal University campus, joined by several graduate students from the English department whom he had previously taught. Watching J and his students chatting and laughing animatedly in fluent English—while I sat stiffly to the side, merely smiling—left me feeling deeply uncomfortable and out of place.
In my notebook on January 21st, I wrote: "Must study English with all my might. If I fail, do not get married!"
Alongside the ink, I drew a sketch of an ear, punctuated by three exclamation marks: "!!!"
Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.
第三百八十三篇
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