1990年1月底二月初我途經香港從廣州入關，回上海探望母親。奇怪這次回上海居然沒有一張照片。要不是護照上有出入境日期的戳，這次上海之行還真會落得無圖無真相了。
年輕時讀托爾斯泰的《安娜·卡列尼娜》很羨慕安娜的氣質，現在手頭寬裕了點兒，便在上海第一西比利亞皮貨商店買了一件貂皮大衣，那天是跟五哥一起去南京路買的。
那件大衣我只穿過一次，那是1991年1月，我們去銀座看歌舞伎演出。在日本天氣不冷，車裡都有暖氣，根本穿不了貂皮大衣。後來讀書打工穿那也不相襯。三是漸漸地有了保護動物的意識。那件大衣就一直被掛在壁櫥裡。用現代的語言就是我後來的生活是不斷地被降維的，所以也根本配不上穿貂皮大衣。越來越發覺我母親是個高人，她早早地透露了我是「小姐的身子奴才的命」，「心比天高命比紙薄」。
說到看歌舞伎演出，J常帶我去聽歌劇看戲劇。成長在特殊年代的我，藝術素養差文化底蘊不足，欣賞水平有限，就不太想去。有幾次他買給我的票子結果送給了同事，或他自己一個人去看的。現在想想我真是太不珍惜機會了，人家出錢看戲還不去。一般看完戲還會在外面用餐，J向來外食都講究環境幽雅和美食(gourmet food)。受西方古典文學藝術薰陶的同時享受美食，真是何樂而不為呢？！多年後等我再次有了白領工作後，還在波士頓專門花錢去聽歌劇賞析課，講師放錄像講解。課的中期和末期，由講師帶領學生去紐約大都會歌劇院看歌劇時，我卻因為飛機票、戲票、旅館費等花費太大而沒參加，只能一個人在家聽CD。
J在家裡也總是放著背景音樂，他喜歡古典音樂、爵士樂、和披頭士。這個我倒是不反感，改革開放後為了提高修養，我也聽了大量的古典音樂，當然只是在收音機裡聽的，和現場觀看表演的氛圍與感覺確實完全不一樣。
在認識J之前，我除了電影中的革命樣板戲、後來看的《雷雨》、《日出》劇本外，別的什麼戲劇都沒看過。1986年，是J第一次帶著我去劇院看上海芭蕾舞劇團的《天鵝湖》，去音樂廳聽由上海交響樂團演出的古典音樂會，上海民族樂團表演的民族音樂會，以及上海雜技團看雜技。中國首屆莎士比亞戲劇節在上海舉行那陣子，我跟他去看了由李默然演的莎劇《李爾王》。在日本跟他還看過《哈姆萊特》、《奧賽羅》、《羅密歐與朱麗葉》、《威尼斯商人》、《波西米亞人》、《蝴蝶夫人》。在紐約看了一場《蝴蝶君》。
其實，就算不懂唱詞、不了解劇情，只要親臨其境，也會被那恢宏的氣勢、精湛的表演、優美的歌喉、抒情的詠嘆而感染、感動的。莎翁的許多劇作我看過，1978年文革後首次公開發行世界文學名著時，我還在新華書店排隊、擠在櫃台前「搶購」過《莎士比亞全集》，所以觀看莎劇表演時好理解，不用猜，就能入戲。日本歌舞伎，我就是不知所云地看的。如果當時就有Google，情況就不一樣了，可以臨時抱佛腳上網事先做點兒功課，掌握一點基礎知識及文化背景再去看就不用擔心不感興趣了。
1990年二月初，回日本時途經廣州，住在我三哥原單位駐廣州辦事處的招待所，感覺安全些。那個招待所客房還算乾淨，但也是要到走廊盡頭去用盥洗室。
屋裡有四床位，當時只有我和一位30來歲的女生。她說我手上戴的一串銀首飾很漂亮，羨慕我能進出國境。那些銀首飾是J給我在泰國時候買的。當時我在泰國北部清邁騎大象時摔斷了腿，手術後住在醫院裡不能動，J每天出去轉轉，回來時都會帶點泰國風味小吃和一件銀首飾。那旅館同屋還主動跟我說她被一個香港男人包養著，平時就住在招待所裡等。估計那就是改革開放後最早期的二奶了。她是從上海來的，五官端正衣著並不妖艷，舉止也不風流做作。不知怎樣的經歷讓她選擇了做二奶這個不太體面同時又傷害了別人的角色的。我沒告訴她，我嫁的是老外，以免被她五十步笑百步。
1990年的萬聖節，在學校的國際會館舉行外籍教師與家屬的化妝舞會。J打扮成一個60年代熱愛和平的嬉皮士，在T恤上畫了一個象徵和平的符號。寫著「peace love」和「Off the pigs」，還拿硬板紙剪了一個和平符號掛在胸前，脖子上還掛了一串綠寶石項鍊。我是沒參加過這種舞會不知道要扮成啥，便找出曾經在我婚禮時穿過一次的黑真絲長裙戴了一個簡易的黑絨眼罩，坐在J的scooter後座上，轉小路去了會館，因為在日本不准scooter上帶人會被罰的。大家聚在會議室，各自打扮成一種形像，不同文化背景長大的我，是認不出來他們都扮的是啥。那天晚會結束時，主持人請歐洲來的醫學博士嘉賓推選一位舞會皇后，我居然榮幸地當選了。要求到前面亮相，我們二樓第一家的鄰居，過來合影蹭照。他是西點軍校畢業的，也去過中國教書，後來我幫他介紹了一位自立自強，努力上進的上海姑娘，太極劍打得很漂亮。
1990年聖誕節在家閒著沒事兒，J說出去轉轉。我們坐電車中途還倒了幾次車，大約四個小時後到了長野縣松本古城。假日期間遊人稀少，正是最佳時機。松本城有400多年的歷史，這樓叫天守閣，四周有護城河。雖然是冬季，河裡還能看到三兩隻水鴨和四五條紅鯉魚。呼嘯的冷風、空寂的遠山、參天的裸樹，使得灰沉沉空落落的古城愈顯肅殺淒涼。哪裡去了，曾經的主人？曾經的硝煙？人是最無情的，唯有夕陽長年累月不離不棄，一有機會就會光顧，給這孤寂的古城做個伴兒。耳畔似乎響起了那首淒美動人的歌：「長亭外，古道邊，芳草碧連天。晚風拂柳笛聲殘，夕陽山外山。」
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| 從門前的走廊看，中間的那個山頂就是大山Oyama From the corridor, the mountain peak visible in the distance is Mount Oyama. |
1990年12月26日從松本古城回來第二天的，我們去大山遠足。大山上有座建於公元前97年左右的神社叫阿夫利神社。在海拔1250米的山頂上是本社。在海拔約700米的山腰上是下社。到下社除了坐纜車還有兩條山路，一條比較陡峭叫男坂，另一條相對平緩一些叫女坂。以前來時沒注意走的是男坂，這次注意到路標了。J問是選男坂還是女坂，他喜歡挑戰性強的，可我膽怯了走了女坂。山腳下的參道自江戶時代就有了，兩邊有小商店小餐館，我買了一條用竹子也許是木頭做的按摩器。
進了一家小餐館。這是飢腸轆轆地等食物上桌呢。大山好像是我家的後院，站門前就能看到山頂，但也得騎一個多小時的scooter到大山腳下。
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| 路上看到富士山 Saw Mount Fuji on the way |
1990年12月27日J開車做了一次短途旅行。行駛在山路上，下午就下起了大雪，雪越下越大，天色也漸漸暗了下來。到達白山一里野滑雪場時已是晚上9點，再過一個小時它就關門了，所以那裡只有幾個人。
在旅館裡安頓好後就去泡溫泉，這是我頭一回，也是到目前為止的唯一一次泡露天溫泉。先在浴室裡沖洗乾淨後，再到室外微微冒著熱氣的天然池子中。時間比較晚了水中只有一兩個人，茫茫夜空中飄落著片片雪花，飄然降落落在了髮梢肩膀和水中，周圍參差錯落的大岩石上積了一層白雪。岩石縫間的灌木與遠處的松林也披著銀裝。一不留神腳下遇到泉眼，咕嚕咕嚕那不斷冒出的泉水給人以正在被烹煮的錯覺。此處偏遠幽靜融於自然，不僅令人想起了柳宗元的小石潭記。只是大文豪的心情和處境使他感覺「淒神寒骨，悄愴幽邃」嘆曰「不可久居」。而我胸無大志、又無點墨，泡在溫泉水潭中神馳骨融樂不思蜀。面對美景感覺與大文學家、思想家大相徑庭。
出浴後渾身酥軟乏力，那種沉沉的搖搖欲墜的慵懶無力，如果有「侍兒扶起」果然好，但咱不在洗「華清池」那檔次。步履步履蹣跚，好不容易來到二樓大間休息室，找了塊空地兒，立馬跪倒如泥，像其他浴客那樣癱躺在榻榻米上。休息良久起來後，走到窗前，哇～窗前不遠處就是男子的露天溫泉區域，儘管雪中風景宜人但怎敢「久居」。下樓找到J，在旅館酒吧裡坐了一會兒，喝了一杯啤酒，居然花費比斯納庫（Snack Bar）裡的飲料還貴。
回來的路上到一家小飯館兒吃飯。熱情的飯店主人的兒子居然是當時很紅的大相撲大乃國康（Onokuni Yasushi），照片就貼在牆上。我們也跟老夫人一起拍了照片。
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Winter Chronicles of 1990: From Ginza Kabuki to the Snowy Night Hot Springs of Hakusan
Between late January and early February 1990, I traveled via Hong Kong and entered mainland China through Guangzhou to visit my mother in Shanghai. Strangely, not a single photograph was taken during this trip to Shanghai. If it weren't for the entry and exit stamps in my passport, this journey would truly have left no visual proof.
In my youth, reading Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, I deeply admired Anna’s elegant demeanor. Now that my finances were a bit more comfortable, I purchased a mink coat at the Shanghai First Siberia Fur Store. My fifth elder brother accompanied me to Nanjing Road that day to buy it. I only wore that coat once, in January 1991, when we went to Ginza to watch a Kabuki performance. The winter weather in Japan wasn't particularly cold, and since trains and cars were fully heated, a mink coat was utterly impractical. Later on, during my days of studying and working odd jobs, wearing it felt entirely out of place. Furthermore, I gradually developed an awareness of animal protection. Consequently, that coat has remained hanging in the closet ever since. To put it in modern terms, my life since then has undergone a continuous "downscaling," so I simply didn't belong in a mink coat anyway. I am increasingly realizing that my mother was a true sage; she saw through it early on when she told me I had "the desires of a lady but the life of a servant," and "expectations as high as the sky but a fate as thin as paper."
Speaking of going to Kabuki performances, J frequently took me to operas and plays. Having grown up during a unique era in China, my artistic background was quite sparse, my cultural foundation insufficient, and my appreciation limited, so I often didn't want to go. On several occasions, he bought tickets for me that ended up being given away to colleagues, or he went to watch the performances entirely by himself. Looking back now, I really didn't appreciate those opportunities—someone else was paying for the theater, and yet I refused to go. Generally, after watching a performance, we would dine out, and J always insisted on elegant environments and gourmet food for dining. Indulging in fine cuisine while being immersed in Western classical literature and art—why on earth did I refuse such pleasures? Years later, after I secured a white-collar job again, I specifically paid to take an opera appreciation course in Boston, where the instructor used video recordings to explain the pieces. Mid-way and at the end of the semester, when the instructor arranged to take the students to the Metropolitan Opera in New York to see live operas, I chose not to participate because the expenses for flights, theater tickets, and hotel rooms were too high. I could only sit at home alone and listen to CDs.
J also constantly played background music at home; he loved classical music, jazz, and the Beatles. I didn't mind this at all. After the Reform and Opening Up, in order to cultivate my own cultural refinement, I had listened to a vast amount of classical music—though, of course, only over the radio. The atmosphere and feeling of experiencing it live are indeed entirely different.
Before meeting J, my exposure to theater was limited entirely to the revolutionary model operas in movies, and later reading the scripts of Thunderstorm and Sunrise. I had never seen any other plays. In 1986, J took me to a theater for the very first time to see Swan Lake performed by the Shanghai Ballet Troupe. He also took me to the concert hall to hear classical music performed by the Shanghai Symphony Orchestra, traditional music by the Shanghai Chinese Orchestra, and acrobatic shows by the Shanghai Acrobatic Troupe. Around the time the inaugural China Shakespeare Festival was held in Shanghai, I went with him to see King Lear starring Li Meran. While living in Japan, I watched Hamlet, Othello, Romeo and Juliet, The Merchant of Venice, La Bohème, and Madama Butterfly with him. In New York, we also saw a performance of M. Butterfly.
In truth, even if one does not understand the lyrics or fully grasp the plot, simply being present in that environment allows one to be deeply moved and captivated by the grand scale, the exquisite performances, the beautiful vocals, and the lyrical arias. I had read many of Shakespeare's works; in 1978, when world literary masterpieces were officially published for the first time since the Cultural Revolution, I had lined up at the Xinhua Bookstore, squeezing against the counters to scramble for a copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare. Because of that, watching Shakespearean plays was easy for me to comprehend without guessing, allowing me to fully immerse myself in the performance. As for Japanese Kabuki, I watched it completely bewildered, with no idea what was being said. If Google had existed back then, things would have been quite different; I could have crammed beforehand by looking up information online to grasp a bit of the basic knowledge and cultural background, and then I wouldn't have found it uninteresting.
In early February 1990, on my way back to Japan, I traveled via Guangzhou and stayed at the guesthouse of my third brother's former work unit stationed in Guangzhou, which felt safer. The guest rooms in that facility were reasonably clean, though one still had to walk to the far end of the corridor to use the communal restroom. Each room contained four beds, and at the time, it was occupied only by myself and a woman in her early 30s. She remarked that the string of silver jewelry on my wrist was very beautiful, expressing envy that I could freely cross international borders. Those silver pieces had been bought for me by J during his time in Thailand. Back then, I had broken my leg while riding an elephant in Chiang Mai in northern Thailand. Following surgery, I lay immobilized in the hospital. J went out exploring every day, and whenever he returned, he brought back local Thai delicacies and a piece of silver jewelry. My roommate in that guesthouse casually confided in me that she was being kept by a man from Hong Kong, and usually just stayed at the guesthouse waiting for him. I imagine she was among the earliest examples of a "second wife" (mistress) following the Reform and Opening Up. She hailed from Shanghai, possessed regular features, dressed modestly rather than flamboyantly, and conducted herself without any loose or artificial behavior. I wondered what kind of life experiences had led her to choose the role of a mistress—a position that lacked dignity and caused harm to others. I didn't tell her that I was married to a foreigner, to avoid being a case of the pot calling the kettle black.
For Halloween in 1990, the university's International House held a costume party for foreign faculty and their families. J dressed as a peace-loving hippie from the 1960s, drawing a peace symbol on his T-shirt alongside the words "peace, love," and "Off the pigs." He also cut a peace sign out of cardboard to hang on his chest and wore a string of emerald-green beads around his neck. Having never attended such a party, I had no idea what to dress up as, so I unearthed a long, black silk dress that I had worn only once at my wedding and paired it with a simple black velvet eye mask. I sat on the back of J's scooter as we navigated back alleys to reach the hall, because carrying passengers on a scooter was strictly forbidden in Japan and carried heavy fines. Everyone gathered in the meeting room, each dressed in a unique persona; having grown up in a completely different cultural background, I couldn't recognize what most of them were supposed to be. Yet, at the end of the evening, when the guest presenter—a medical doctor from Europe—was asked to crown a "Party Queen," I was unexpectedly and honorably chosen. When I was called to the front to make an appearance, our neighbor from the first apartment on the second floor came over to join the photo. He was a West Point graduate who had also taught in China. Later on, I introduced him to a self-reliant, hardworking Shanghai girl who performed the Tai Chi sword beautifully.
Finding ourselves with nothing to do at home on Christmas Day in 1990, J suggested we head out for a stroll. We took the train, transferring several times along the way, and arrived at the historic Matsumoto Castle in Nagano Prefecture about four hours later. Tourism was sparse during the holiday period, making it the perfect time to visit. Matsumoto Castle boasts over 400 years of history; its main tower is called the Keep (Tenshukaku), surrounded by a moat. Despite it being winter, one could still spot two or three wild ducks and four or five red carp swimming in the water. The howling cold wind, the desolate distant mountains, and the towering bare trees made the gray, vacant ancient castle appear all the more bleak and sorrowful. Where had they gone—the former masters? The smoke of past battles? Human beings are the most heartless creatures; only the setting sun remains faithful year after year, seizing every opportunity to visit and keep company with this lonely fortress. In my ears, the hauntingly beautiful melody seemed to echo: "Outside the long pavilion, beside the ancient road, green grass touches the sky... The evening breeze brushes the willows as the flute residue fades, the setting sun lies beyond the mountains."
On December 26, 1990, the day after returning from Matsumoto Castle, we went hiking at Mount Ōyama. Perched on the mountain is a shrine founded around 97 BC called Oyama Afuri Shrine. The main shrine sits at the summit at an elevation of 1,250 meters, while the lower shrine (Shimosha) is located halfway up the mountain at about 700 meters. To reach the lower shrine, besides taking the cable car, there are two mountain trails: a steeper, more rugged path called Otokozaka (Men’s Path) and a relatively gentler one called Onnazaka (Women’s Path). On previous visits, I hadn't paid attention and had taken Otokozaka, but this time I noticed the signs. J asked whether I preferred Otokozaka or Onnazaka; he favored the greater challenge, but I lost my nerve and opted for Onnazaka. The approach path at the base of the mountain had been there since the Edo period, lined on both sides with small shops and eateries. I purchased a massage tool crafted from bamboo—or perhaps wood—and stepped into a small restaurant. There I sat, ravenously hungry, waiting for the food to be served. Mount Ōyama felt almost like our own backyard; standing at our front door, we could see the summit, though it still required over an hour's ride on the scooter to reach the base of the mountain.
On December 27, 1990, J took us on a short road trip. As we drove along the mountain roads, a heavy snow began to fall in the afternoon. The snowfall grew thicker and thicker, and the sky steadily darkened. By the time we reached the Hakusan Ichirino Ski Resort, it was already 9:00 PM, with only an hour left before closing time, so only a few people were around.
After settling into our inn, we went to soak in the hot springs. This was my very first time—and remains my only time to this day—bathing in an outdoor hot spring (rotenburo). After washing thoroughly in the indoor shower area, I stepped outside into the natural pool gently shrouded in steam. Because it was quite late, only one or two other people were in the water. Flakes of snow drifted lazily down from the vast night sky, landing softly on my hair, shoulders, and into the water. The surrounding jagged, scattered boulders were capped with a layer of white snow. The shrubs nestled in the rock crevices and the distant pine forests were likewise cloaked in silver. Unwittingly, my feet brushed against a geothermal vent, and the bubbling, continuously rising spring water gave the distinct illusion of being cooked alive. This remote, quiet spot dissolved entirely into nature, instantly bringing to mind Liu Zongyuan’s classic essay, An Account of the Small Stone Pond. Yet, the great master's somber mood and circumstances had made him feel "chilled to the bone and pierced by a quiet, profound melancholy," prompting him to lament that "one cannot tarry here for long." In contrast, possessing neither grand ambitions nor deep literary intellect, I soaked in the hot spring pool until my spirit soared and my bones dissolved, utterly ecstatic and forgetful of home. Confronted with the same beauty, my feelings diverged completely from those of the great writer and thinker.
Emerging from the bath, my entire body felt completely limp and exhausted—that heavy, teetering, delicious languor. If only I had "maids to help me rise," it would have been splendid indeed, but I was hardly in the league of bathing at the imperial Huaqing Palace. Tottering unsteadily, I finally made my way to the large rest area on the second floor, found an empty spot, and immediately collapsed like mud, sprawling across the tatami mats just like the other bathers. After resting for a long while, I got up and walked over to the window. Low and behold, just a short distance from the window lay the men's outdoor hot spring area! Even though the snowy scenery was delightful, how on earth could I dare to "tarry there for long"? I headed downstairs, found J, and we sat for a while in the inn's bar, sharing a glass of beer—which, to my surprise, cost even more than a drink at a snack bar.
On our way back, we stopped to eat at a small restaurant. The enthusiastic owner’s son turned out to be none other than Onokuni Yasushi, the highly celebrated Grand Champion (Yokozuna) sumo wrestler of that era, whose photographs were proudly displayed all over the walls. We even took a photograph together with the elderly matriarch of the establishment.
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.
第四百四十三篇
