《青春斷代史，1986：膳食科的暗道、哈桑的大格子手帕與專家樓403室的序幕》

這幅草圖是我記憶中留學生食堂的樣子。露天樓梯是在東牆外，對著一條南北走向、梧桐相夾的林蔭大道。林蔭道往北不遠就是學校當年的後門，從後門沿著這條林蔭道一直往南，到底就是物理樓了，大約三分之二處有個毛主席揮手的塑像。每天早晨和下午上下課前後，這條道上走著滿滿當當的學生。

食堂後面（北側）有兩扇朝東的大鐵柵欄門，大門上豎掛著一塊「閒人莫入」的牌子，裡面是學校河西部的膳食科、食堂職工宿舍和浴室。

每次外辦組織的留學生舞會，都有不少人聚集在樓梯口或站在路邊的樹蔭下聊天。一些沒有入場券的人也想進去，卻被攔在外面。當然了，人群中也會有幾個便衣，那時上海人稱便衣警察為「條領」，誰與外國人接觸都會被「關注」。

舞會當晚，小Z帶著我，趁別人不太注意時悄悄將掛著鐵鎖鏈子的兩扇柵欄門中間推開一條縫，我們側身擠了進來。相較於前面的明亮與熱鬧，後邊鐵門這兒就比較幽暗、清靜。我當時沒有刻意打扮，小Z也穿著食堂的工作服，沒人會注意我們，也不會聯想到從後面也可以進入舞場。我們繞到食堂小樓的後側，從專門供食堂工作人員進出的窄樓梯走了上去。我總共去了三次。

記得1984年夏天的一個傍晚，我從家裡回到學校，還沒進門就聽到節奏感強、低音轟鳴的音樂回蕩在悶熱的夜空中。後門的兩扇對開大鐵柵欄門緊關著，只有西側靠近門房的那扇鐵柵欄門中的小柵欄門敞開著。我下了自行車，將車提起來跨過小柵欄門的門檻兒，就看到十米開外的留學生食堂特別熱鬧，上下兩個房間燈火通明，不少人聚集在樓下，也有的正在上樓。路過時，我從窗前兩三層的人頭空隙中往裡看了一眼。那是我第一次看到外國人跳舞，以前只有在銀幕上看到過。餐廳裡幾乎擠滿了陶醉在喧囂迪斯科音樂中扭動著身子的人，給人一種有點兒烏煙瘴氣的感覺。

第一次真正參加舞會時，我到得比較晚，在二樓找了一個角落坐著，慢慢地用吸管喝著一瓶橘子水。餐廳不算大，略顯擁擠。人群中高矮胖瘦、各種膚色應有盡有。有的合著節拍扭動著身子，多數人則手持飲料站著與人交談。隱約感覺好像有一位留著黑色捲曲大胡子的白人，稍稍地往我這兒多看了兩眼。

第二次去，小Z依舊是在一排齊腰高的玻璃櫃檯後面忙著供應汽水等飲料，我則靜靜地坐在櫃檯裡面。

舞會將近結束時，有兩個中東人模樣的英俊青年男子從外面進來，一個相對消瘦點兒，一個相對飽滿些。他們來到櫃檯前跟小Z打過招呼，「瘦子」繼續隔著櫃檯跟小Z說話，「胖子」站在外側，一雙大眼睛從瘦子和小Z的中間，直勾勾地朝著我看過來，那專注的神情彷彿旁若無人。

小Z轉過頭來笑著跟我介紹，他們倆是從伊朗來的，總是同時出現、形影不離。他們在這裡讀一年漢語，畢業後將去醫學院深造。「胖子」的皮膚很白，刮乾淨的絡腮胡子泛著青光，精神飽滿，透露出一股貴族氣質。他隔著櫃檯對我說：「我叫哈桑，」並連著說了幾遍：「我要和你說話。」

舞會不久就結束了，他們等在外面。等小Z收工後，我們四個人就在校園裡散散步。我說：「到我辦公室去吧。」這樣不太顯眼，畢竟在那個年代，跟外國人在一起會給自己帶來不必要的負面影響。

到了禮堂邊的小屋，「瘦子」看到牆邊靠著一把吉他，就拿過來抱在懷裡，邊彈邊唱。深情款款、完全陶醉在彈唱中的他，慢慢地單腿跪了下來，在小Z坐著的帶扶手轉椅右側，揚著頭、深情地注視著她。歌聲舒緩悠揚，略帶著幾分憂鬱。他唱的應該是一首極其富有感染力的家鄉情歌。歌聲停了，餘音嫋嫋，回味無窮，大家一時間都不說話。

看看時間不早了，我說：「已經十一點半了，該回去了。」「胖子」哈桑連著說了幾遍：「什麼時候能再見到你？」我說：「那就下星期六吧。」

下星期六，原本說好了八點半在我辦公室見面的，可我因為有事耽擱了。當我好不容易趕到辦公室，發現門底下塞著一張字條，是小Z寫的：「請給哈桑打電話，我們在樓前的草坪上坐等了你半個多小時。」

我按照紙上的號碼給留學生樓撥通了電話，請門房的管理人員傳呼哈桑。砰、砰、砰，此時我的心跳幾乎到了嗓子眼兒。我不善於與人交往，平日裡幾乎沒有跟人打電話的習慣，也從不跟男生打電話，更不要說給外國留學生打了。

話說回來，那時候家用電話還遠未普及，只有級別高的幹部或教授家庭才會由官方或校方安裝電話。一般大眾得幾十戶甚至上百戶人家共用一個公共電話間。我家附近的一個電話間裡面擺著兩張桌子、幾條長板凳，桌子上有三四部電話，鈴聲此起彼伏。打電話的人說話都得簡單扼要，因為身邊還有不少人在排隊等著呢。兩個五六十歲的阿姨值班負責接電話、傳呼兼收費。她們接到電話，會在一張小紙片上寫下將要被傳呼者的姓名、地址和回電號碼，如果不用回電的話，還會加上簡單的信息。然後一個阿姨就拿著紙片跑到那被傳呼人的住家附近，扯開嗓門大喊：「某某某電話！」接到傳呼要付費三分錢，到電話間打一個電話是四分錢。我曾經也被這樣傳呼過一兩次，感覺非常不好受，那一聲喊叫，附近幾棟樓裡的人全都能聽得見。

當然，在我的辦公室裡是有電話的，就像早在農場時我辦公的會計室裡也有電話一樣，但打電話的習慣卻是一直沒有培養起來。

“Hello...” 電話裡傳來了他的聲音。
「哈桑你好！今晚非常對不起，有點事趕不回來，讓你們白等了。」我的歉意中帶著幾分膽怯，話也說得不夠利索。
「沒關係，我們什麼時候再見？」他的聲音中帶著靦腆。
「下星期六吧。」我不知道該怎樣回答他。
「現在好嗎？現在好嗎？我想現在見到你。」他好像沒聽到我的回答，一連追問了幾個「現在好嗎？」，靦腆中又帶著小小的執著。
「好吧。」他的漢語表達非常有限，電話裡也說不清楚，我只好答應了他。

大約十來分鐘後，他就來到了我的辦公室。不想給任何人抓到把柄，我把大門也完全敞開著，室內明亮的燈光穿過大窗子投射到濃濃的夜色之中。星期六的校園裡人很少，夜晚顯得格外寧靜。我站在靠窗拼成ㄱ型擺放著的兩張大長桌子內角，打開21寸的監視器，在錄放機裡放了一盤音樂歌舞的錄像帶，以此減少冷場的尷尬。因為他的漢語還不能流利表達，而那雙眼睛直勾勾的注視，實在令人有些心慌。

等我將音量調好，轉身準備坐下時，發覺如果我朝右轉身，就會直接轉到他的胸前——因為他就站在我的右側，離得相當近。結果，我硬生生來了一個270度的逆時針大旋轉，生生轉出了他的範圍。這一定讓他有些尷尬，但矜持的他並沒有表達出什麼不滿。我立刻將一把轉椅推給他，請他坐下，稍稍緩和了一下緊繃的氣氛。

還沒說上幾句話，就聽見有人走上樓來。一個一米八的帥小夥出現在敞開的門口，他是校辦工廠的一位工程師。我當時正在設計安裝的多媒體語言實驗室裡，有些項目是要跟他聯繫的，平時兩人的私下並沒有任何往來。他一邊說著:「路過，看到你的燈亮著就上來看看。」一邊大大方方地進了屋。打了招呼坐下後，他便興致勃勃地跟哈桑聊了起來。

不一會兒，哈桑起身告辭。當他下了樓，我即刻發現一方大格子手帕留在了桌子上。我抓起手帕追了出去，他還沒走多遠，正好走在樓前河邊那片林蔭幽靜的小路上。「哈桑！」我從後面叫住他。哈桑轉過身，迎著我走過來，臉上露出些許的喜悅。

「你的手帕忘在我的桌上了。」我把手帕遞給他。儘管濃蔭蔽光，但在幽暗朦朧中，還是看得出來他臉上那一抹稍稍的遺憾。道了一聲晚安，我就轉身離開了。

在師大校園 On the ECNU campus

後來聽小Z說，她那天因為牙疼也來晚了，她到時看到那哥兒兒正坐在草坪上等著呢，他們三個又等了很久才離開的。

後來，我又遇到過哈桑三次。

第一次是在回家的路上，騎車路過後門時，正好看到他從食堂裡出來。按平時的習慣，他應該是橫穿過馬路回宿舍，但看到我後，他故意繞了個道，不跟我打照面。第二次是在長風公園門口，我和當時夜大的幾個同學從公園裡出來，正好碰上瘦子與胖子哥倆也在公園門口的地攤旁。那時學校後面通往長風公園2號門的馬路已經很繁忙了，地攤一個接一個。看到我後，他倆一個轉身就不見了。當時我就跟這幾個同學說起了有關哈桑的事，「老阿姐」只比我大兩歲，成熟、睿智，哪怕只看到一個側影，便稱讚道：「那倆好英俊帥氣。」

第三次是個把月後的留學生舞會上，那是1986年3月15日。之所以記得這麼清楚，是因為那天我遇到了J。

那天，老阿姐也想去看看哈桑的傲慢和英姿。我們去得早，食堂裡還沒幾個人。果不其然，他倆出現了，進屋後高高興興地和該打招呼的人一一打了招呼。轉過身來看到了坐在一邊的我們，兩兄弟即刻就離開了，後來整整一晚上都沒再出現過。

第一次參加舞會時看到過的那位留著黑色捲曲大胡子的白人走了過來，自我介紹道：「我叫伊夫，法國人。你叫什麼名字？」我站起來回答：「我叫Fen，很高興見到你。」我們握手。為了避開擁擠的跳舞人群，我們走到櫃檯邊。

「你想喝點兒什麼？」
「可樂，謝謝！」
「你在學校做什麼？你是學生嗎？」
「我曾經是學生，現在留校工作了。」

和伊夫的對話剛剛開始，一位高個子、留著絡腮胡子的英俊男子走了進來。他戴著眼鏡，深棕色的頭髮，胡子不長卻修得很整潔，身著粗花呢休閒西裝，手裡拎著一個棕色的皮質單肩斜跨包，胳膊上還挽著一件墨綠色的長風衣。他看起來不像留學生，倒像個教授。伊夫跟他打了招呼，便轉過身來對我說：

「讓我來介紹一下，這是J，美國人，在外語系執教。」
「這是Fen。」伊夫又轉向J。
「你好！」
「你好！很高興見到你！」

我和J握手，注意到他的小手指上戴著一個戒指。在哪裡讀到過，單身的人會將戒指戴在小指上。打過招呼後，J走到裡面去了，還有好多人跟他打招呼。門口又有人不斷進來，跟伊夫打招呼說話。

「芬，如果你想出國，如果你想找外籍丈夫，這是機會，快去找他交談。」老阿姐說著便暗暗使勁兒，將我往J那邊推。
「不，我不知道說什麼。」
「就跟他說，你想學英語。」

我雖然比較膽小，但確實是想找個英俊的外籍丈夫，因為聽說外國人注重兩個人合得來合不來，而不是斤斤計計較你過去是否與別人有過親密接觸。老阿姐繼續推我，幾乎都要碰到J了。

“Oh, Hi again!”（哦，又見著了！）J說。
“I... I want to... to study English, can you... you help me?”（我—我—我想學英語，不知道您—您能不能幫助我。）我紅著臉，鼓足了勇氣，語無倫次地說出這句話，聲音比蚊子叫大不了多少。
“What? What did you say?”（什麼？你剛剛說了什麼？）J沒有聽清我剛才的話。

我的臉更紅了，真是十分的尷尬。幸運的是，身邊正好有一個女孩是外語系的。J叫了她過來給我們做翻譯。那個姑娘很友善，從她那兒我一丁點兒也沒有感覺到被瞧不起。我的破英語以及主動跟外國人搭話，都是在那個年代被人看不起的因素，包括我自己以前也看不起這樣的姑娘，但是今天，我就是這樣的姑娘。

那外語系的女孩對我說：「J是我們系聘請的外籍專家，人很好的。他說他住在專家樓403室，每星期一到星期五的下午都有空，你可以去找他。」我謝謝了她和J，就告辭了。我不能再呆下去，本來就拙嘴笨舌，再加上一口破英語，實在無法再跟人交談。

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Chronicles of Youth, 1986: The Back Door of the Catering Department, Hassan's Plaid Handkerchief, and the Prelude to Room 403

This sketch illustrates the international student cafeteria exactly as it exists in my memory. The open-air staircase was located outside the eastern wall, facing a north-south avenue lined with lush plane trees. Not far to the north along this boulevard was the university's back gate; heading straight south from that gate along this shaded avenue would lead you directly to the Physics Building, with a statue of Chairman Mao waving his hand standing at roughly the two-thirds mark. Every single day, before and after morning and afternoon classes, this avenue was packed to the brim with students.

Behind the cafeteria building (on the northern side) stood two large, east-facing iron palisade gates. A sign reading "No Admittance to Unauthorized Persons" hung vertically upon the gates; inside lay the university's Hexi Catering Department, staff quarters, and communal baths.

Whenever the Foreign Affairs Office hosted a dance for international students, a small crowd would gather at the base of the staircase or stand chatting beneath the shade of the roadside trees. Several individuals without entrance tickets longed to go inside, only to be stopped firmly at the gates. Naturally, a few plainclothes officers—whom Shanghainese back then dubbed Tiao-ling—were always scattered among the crowd; anyone associating with foreigners would instantly be "noted."

On the night of the dance, Little Z led me over. Seizing a moment when everyone's attention was diverted, she quietly pushed open a gap between the two iron gates bound by an iron lock-chain, and the two of us squeezed through sideways. Compared to the bright, raucous atmosphere upfront, the area behind the iron gates was exceptionally dim and quiet. I had not dressed up intentionally, and Little Z was wearing her cafeteria work uniform; no one paid us any mind, nor would anyone ever suspect that the dance hall could be breached from the rear. Winding around to the back of the small cafeteria building, we ascended via a narrow staircase used exclusively by the kitchen staff. I attended a total of three times.

I remember an evening in the summer of 1984. Having just returned to campus from home, before I even stepped through the doors, a heavily driving rhythm with a thundering bass echoed through the stifling night air. The two grand iron gates at the back entrance were tightly shut, with only the small built-in wicket gate on the western side near the guardhouse standing open. I dismounted my bicycle, lifted it clear over the high threshold of the small gate, and instantly noticed the international student cafeteria was exceptionally boisterous. Both the upper and lower floors were ablaze with lights; a crowd had gathered downstairs, while others were heading up. As I passed by, I caught a glimpse inside through a gap in the two-to-three-deep layer of heads pressed against the window. That was the very first time in my life I had ever witnessed foreigners dancing—previously, I had only ever seen such things on a movie screen. The dining hall was packed near to bursting with bodies twisting and swaying, completely intoxicated by the loud disco music, carrying a slightly chaotic, smoke-filled air.

During my first actual attendance at a dance, I arrived quite late, finding a corner on the second floor to sit quietly while sipping a bottle of orange soda through a straw. The dining hall wasn't massive, appearing slightly cramped. Every shape and size, every height and skin tone unimaginable was present among the crowd. Some swayed along to the rhythm; the vast majority stood holding drinks, engaged in conversation. I caught a faint impression that a white man with a thick, curly black beard was stealing a few extra glances in my direction.

On my second visit, Little Z remained occupied behind a row of waist-high glass counters, serving sodas and various beverages, while I sat quietly within the safety of the counter enclosure.

As the dance neared its conclusion, two handsome young Middle Eastern men entered from outside. One was relatively slender, while the other carried a sturdier build. They approached the counter to greet Little Z; the slender one continued chatting with her across the barrier, while the stockier one stood slightly outward, his large eyes staring straight through the gap between his friend and Little Z, locking onto me with an absolute, single-minded focus, as if nobody else existed in the room.

Turning her head with a smile, Little Z introduced them to me, explaining they were from Iran and were completely inseparable, always appearing together. They were studying Chinese here for a single year and would proceed to medical school for advanced studies upon graduation. The stockier one possessed exceptionally fair skin, his clean-shaven jaw shadowing with a faint blue tint; he was full of vitality, exuding an unmistakable aristocratic aura. Across the counter, he declared to me, "My name is Hassan," repeating the phrase several times: "I want to talk to you."

The dance concluded shortly afterward, and they waited for us outside. Once Little Z finished her shift, the four of us took a stroll together through the campus grounds. I suggested, "Let's head over to my office." It was less conspicuous that way; after all, during that era, being seen in the company of foreigners could easily bring unneeded negative repercussions upon oneself.

Upon entering the small room adjacent to the assembly hall, the slender one noticed a guitar leaning against the wall. He picked it up, cradled it in his arms, and began to strum and sing with immense tenderness. Completely carried away by his melody, he slowly dropped to one knee on the right side of the armchair where Little Z sat, lifting his head to gaze deeply into her eyes. His voice was smooth, floating, and touched with a stray melancholy; he was undoubtedly singing a profoundly moving love song from his homeland. When the music ceased, the lingering notes drifted through the air, leaving a profound silence where nobody uttered a word.

Noticing the lateness of the hour, I remarked, "It's already eleven-thirty. It's time to head back." Hassan repeated the question several times: "When can I see you again?" I replied, "Let's make it next Saturday."

On the following Saturday, we had agreed to meet at my office at eight-thirty, but I was delayed by an unexpected matter. By the time I frantically rushed back to the room, I found a note slipped beneath the door. It was from Little Z: "Please call Hassan. We sat waiting for you on the lawn out front for over half an hour."

Utilizing the number scrawled on the paper, I dialed the international student dormitory, requesting the guardhouse administrator to page Hassan. Thump, thump, thump—my heart battered wildly against my throat. I was entirely inept at social interactions; in my daily life, I had near-zero habit of placing phone calls, never spoke to local men on the phone, let alone making a call to a foreign exchange student.

To speak frankly, residential telephones were a extreme rarity in those days; only high-ranking cadres or esteemed professors enjoyed lines installed by official or university authorities. The general populace shared a single public telephone booth among dozens or even hundreds of households. The booth near my neighborhood housed two tables, a few long benches, and three or four telephones whose rings clashed incessantly. Anyone making a call had to remain incredibly brief and to the point, as a long line of neighbors stood waiting right beside them. Two neighborhood aunties in their fifties or sixties managed the booth, taking calls, paging residents, and collecting fees. Upon receiving an incoming call, they would scrawl the recipient's name, address, and return number onto a tiny slip of paper. Then, one auntie would sprint out toward the resident’s housing block, shouting at the top of her lungs: "Telephone for so-and-so!" Receiving a page cost three cents, while placing an outbound call from the booth cost four cents. I had been paged in that manner once or twice myself, and it was a thoroughly mortifying experience; that single shout could be heard by every living soul across several apartment blocks.

Of course, a telephone sat right inside my campus office, just as a line had existed inside the accounting room back at the state farm, yet the habit of telephone conversation was something I had simply never cultivated.

"Hello..." his voice drifted through the receiver.
"Hello, Hassan. I am immensely sorry about tonight. Something came up and I couldn't make it back in time, leaving you waiting in vain." My apology was tinged with timidity, my speech far from smooth.
"It doesn't matter. When do we meet again?" his voice carried a distinct shyness.
"Next Saturday," I replied, at a loss for how else to answer.
"How about now? How about now? I want to see you now." He seemed entirely oblivious to my answer, pressing with a succession of "How about now?"—his shyness interwoven with a stubborn little persistence.
"Alright," I conceded. His command of Chinese was highly limited, and things couldn't be clarified over the phone anyway, so I simply gave in.

Roughly ten minutes later, he arrived at my office. Anxious not to hand anyone a single pretext for scandal, I left the main door completely wide open, allowing the brilliant indoor light to slice through the grand windows and pour out into the thick night. On a Saturday, the campus was nearly deserted, engulfing the night in a profound stillness. I stood within the inner crook of the two large long tables arranged in a Gamma (ㄱ) shape against the window. I switched on the 21-inch monitor and popped a musical variety tape into the VCR, desperately trying to diminish the awkwardness of a silent room; his Chinese was insufficient for fluid conversation, yet the unblinking focus of his eyes was genuinely unnerving.

Once I adjusted the volume, I turned around to sit down, only to realize that if I turned to my right, I would pivot directly into his chest—he was standing right beside my right side, incredibly close. In a flash of panic, I executed a sweeping 270-degree counter-clockwise spin, physically whirling myself clean out of his proximity. This undoubtedly left him slightly embarrassed, yet poised as he was, he displayed not a single trace of displeasure. I immediately rolled a swivel chair toward him, inviting him to sit, slightly easing the taut atmosphere.

Before we could exchange more than a few sentences, the sound of footsteps echoed up the stairs. A handsome, six-foot-tall young man appeared in the open doorway—he was an engineer from the university’s workshop. During the design and installation of the multimedia language lab, I had a few professional items to coordinate with him, though we possessed absolutely zero personal contact. Declaring smoothly, "I was just passing by, saw your light on, and decided to come up," he strolled right into the room with complete ease. After greeting us and taking a seat, he enthusiastically struck up a conversation with Hassan.

Shortly afterward, Hassan rose to take his leave. The moment he descended the stairs, I noticed a large plaid handkerchief left behind upon the table. Snatching the cloth, I bolted out after him. He hadn't traveled far, walking right along the secluded, shaded path flanked by the riverfront out front. "Hassan!" I called out from behind. Hassan halted, spun around, and walked back toward me, his face lighting up with a ripple of genuine joy.

"You forgot your handkerchief on my table," I said, handing it over. Though the thick foliage blocked out the light, within that dim, misty shadow, I could still discern a faint stroke of profound regret crossing his features. Offering a quiet goodnight, I turned and walked away.

Later, Little Z mentioned that she had also arrived late that night due to a severe toothache; when she finally arrived, she saw the two brothers sitting patiently upon the lawn. The three of them had waited a long while longer before finally departing.

Subsequently, I crossed paths with Hassan only three more times.

The first instance occurred on my commute home; as I bicycled past the back gate, I spotted him stepping out of the cafeteria. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have cut straight across the road to return to the dorms, but upon catching sight of me, he deliberately took a detour to avoid locking eyes. The second encounter happened at the entrance of Changfeng Park. I was exiting the park with a few classmates from my evening university courses when we bumped right into the two Iranian brothers standing near the roadside stalls. By then, the road leading past the campus back gate toward Changfeng Park's No. 2 Entrance had grown exceptionally busy, lined with one street vendor after another. The moment they spotted me, the two brothers spun around and vanished into thin air. Right then and there, I relayed the story of Hassan to my classmates; the "Old A-Jie" among us, who was a mere two years my senior—mature, worldly, and sharp—had caught only a passing silhouette, yet she declared instantly, "Those two are spectacularly handsome."

The third encounter took place a month or two later at an international student dance on March 15, 1986. The date remains permanently burned into my memory because it was the exact day I encountered J.

On that night, Old A-Jie insisted on Tagging along to witness Hassan's fabled aloofness and striking presence. We arrived early, when the cafeteria housed barely a handful of souls. Sure enough, the two brothers appeared. Upon entering, they cheerfully exchanged greetings with everyone they knew down the line. Turning around, their eyes landed squarely upon us sitting off to the side; the two brothers instantly turned on their heels and departed, failing to reappear for the remainder of the entire night.

Just then, the white man with the thick, curly black beard whom I had noticed during my very first dance walked over. "My name is Yves," he introduced himself. "I'm French. What's your name?" I stood up to respond, "My name is Fen. It's a pleasure to meet you." We shook hands. To escape the suffocating crush of the dancing crowd, we stepped over to the counter's edge.

"Would you like something to drink?"
"A Coke, thank you."
"What do you do at the university? Are you a student?"
"I used to be a student, but now I stay on to work here."

Right as my conversation with Yves commenced, a tall, strikingly handsome man with a neatly trimmed beard stepped into the room. He wore eyeglasses, his deep brown hair perfectly styled, clad in a rough tweed casual blazer. In his hand, he carried a brown leather single-shoulder messenger bag, with a dark moss-green trench coat draped elegantly over his arm. He carried none of the traits of an international student; he looked, for all the world, like a professor. Yves greeted him warmly, then turned back to me.

"Let me introduce you. This is J, he's American, teaching in the Foreign Language Department." Yves then turned to J: "This is Fen."
"Hello."
"Hello. It's a pleasure to meet you."

I shook hands with J, noticing a ring adorning his pinky finger. I recalled reading somewhere that single individuals often wore a ring on their little finger. After exchanging greetings, J walked further into the room, where a multitude of people surged forward to greet him. Meanwhile, a steady stream of newcomers continued to pour through the entrance, calling out to Yves.

"Fen, if you want to go abroad, if you want to find a foreign husband, this is your golden opportunity. Hurry up, go over and talk to him," Old A-Jie whispered fiercely, applying physical force to shove me toward J.
"No, I don't know what to say."
"Just tell him you want to study English."

Though I was naturally timid, I did indeed harbor a secret desire to find a handsome foreign husband—largely because I had heard that foreigners placed their entire focus on whether two souls truly connected, rather than obsessing and accounting over whether a woman had shared a past intimacy with someone else. Old A-Jie kept up her relentless shoving, pushing me until I practically bumped right into J.

"Oh, hi again!" J said with a smile.
"I... I want to... to study English, can you... you help me?" My face burned a furious crimson; I gathered every ounce of my courage, stammering out a jumble of words whose volume was barely louder than the buzz of a mosquito.
"What? What did you say?" J asked, completely failing to catch my words.

My face flushed even redder, trapping me in an absolute agony of embarrassment. Fortunately, a young woman standing right beside us happened to be from the Foreign Language Department. J paged her over to act as our translator. That girl was exceptionally kind and warm; throughout the exchange, I didn't feel a single ounce of condescension radiating from her. In that restrictive era, my broken English and my initiative to approach a foreigner were the exact traits that drew public scorn—in truth, even I myself used to look down upon women who behaved in such a manner. Yet on this night, I was that exact woman.

The girl from the foreign language department turned to me and said, "J is a foreign expert hired by our department. He's a wonderful person. He says he resides in Room 403 of the Foreign Experts Building, and he's entirely free every Monday through Friday afternoon. You can go over to find him." I offered my deepest thanks to her and J, and immediately took my leave. I couldn't bear to remain a single second longer; I was naturally tongue-tied to begin with, and burdened with such broken English, further conversation was a utter impossibility.

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.

第三百七十九篇