博文
2009年10月25日星期日
两生
一、
绝食抗议的第五天，五月间北京的天气已是炙热。李新簇在广场上的人群里。这是一个二十出头的年轻人，身材瘦削，尖锐的下巴暗示着他的决心，而饥饿也没有抹去 他眼中灼热的对理想的追求。他看着眼前人影的晃动，发着楞。一疏神，他的孪生哥哥李响就不知道从哪里冒了出来，李新倒以为是饥饿导致的幻觉。直到李响走到 他身边蹲下来，那对眸子里流露出兄长的关心和担忧，他才知道哥哥真的来了。
“哥，你怎么来了？这么多人你怎么找到这儿的？”李新心里有一丝期待，心想着是否李响下了决心，加入到游行里来。
“我问路了。到这块你系里那几位同学又把我认成你了，把我给带过来。” 两兄弟从小就像是模子里刻出来的，除了李响额头顶上有一道伤疤。他七八岁的时候领着李新偷隔壁部队院子里的李子，被门房的老头撵跑，头磕在台阶上。十四岁 的时候，和李新挎着军挎背着水壶爬泰山，山上一个算命的说是“额角留疤，弱冠运转”。
他性格保守，心里多少还是相信这谶言，李新嘴一撇，“听他胡说八道呢。”由此可见李新性格跳脱，那也多是在女孩子面前才看得出来。两个人学习历来都是极好的，十八岁的时候双双进了北大。
今天李响一身整洁的衣服，虽不是新的，看起来也和广场上大多数学生不同。许多学生，尤其是外地进京的，从五月初来了这里就露宿在此，没有离开过。衣服也是寥 寥的几件换来换去，早就邋遢了。李响如果没有李新的几个同学带着，很可能走不到北大学生所聚成的团体最里面来。李响伸出手帮李新理理他额前的长发。他很多 天就没洗头了，一撮撮油腻的头发团在头顶。李新头偏了偏，微微躲开兄长的手，李响这样的举动让他心里有一丁点不舒服，就仿佛每时每刻兄长都在照顾着自己， 而自己连自己头发都打理不好似的。李响下一句话更让李新头疼，“妈很担心你。她叫我来劝你回去。”
李新垂下头，看看胸前套的标语衫，思索着母亲怎么能理解标语衫上所书的“自由，平等”二字。“哥，我不是给说过了，我是不会回去的。你给妈好好解释下吧。”
李响无奈地笑了笑，“那些理念妈是听不进去的。她担心你，就像她那时候担心咱爸那样。”两兄弟的父亲文革的时候因为给组织提意见被批斗死了，母亲把两个才两 岁的孩子拉扯到现在。李新想到了母亲，浮现出她坐在家中的苏式布沙发上，两手拘谨地放在膝盖上，身子略微扭转过去，侧耳听着楼道响声的样子。有那么一瞬 间，他心软了，想跟着哥哥回去，沿着楼梯上去，让楼道里回响起母亲所熟悉的小年轻的脚步声。若是那样，母亲脸上的忧愁和对小儿子的责备，可就像夏天里的冰 棒一样，须臾间就化成一种安下心来的幸福了。
可是李新如果这样走了，他的朋友，现在应当是叫做“战友”了，还有他的女朋友王婧，会怎样看他呢？学 生开始自发地停课走上街头的时候，他正收拾着东西准备回家。他被同学们所佩服的，就是一股敢想敢做、不到底不服输的劲头。从高三毕业那年在北大的三角池卖 磁带，到后来拉学生组织艺术沙龙，都是第一天有了主意，第二天就放手去做的大胆的事。王婧也是看上他这一点，才和他在一起的。他还记得大一时他推着用卖磁 带的钱买来的飞鸽自行车载着王婧在校园里惬意地走着，两人不时对视一下，他就不禁坠入到王婧眼睛深处那抹摄人的妩媚和对他的爱慕中去了。他到现在还微微惭 愧，是王婧首先来劝他去游行，而不是他劝王婧。王婧高亢的声音，“你做十二月党人，我就做十二月党人的妻子！”，让他记忆犹新。那一刻他哥哥李响沉默地收 拾行囊回家，而他和王婧撕下衣襟绑在头上，要去做一些只有真正的革命者才配去做的事。
李新还记得王婧对李响的评断，“他不是一个革命者！”那句话在王婧和李新一代学生的辞典里，就等同于说李响是个懦夫了。想到这里，李新又下定了决心，“哥，我真的不能回去。我要为我们民族的未来尽一份力。况且，王婧会怎么想我？”
李响在李新面前蹲累了，蹭到李新身边坐下，说，“说到王婧，她去哪了？”
李新向左挪了点，给李响让出一点位置，“她去王府井那边上厕所了。她受不了广场上的简易厕所。”
李响有点疑惑，“你们不是在绝食吗？”
李新心里猜到李响所指，心里不禁有点虚，避重就轻地回到，“她爱干净，她爱干净。”
李响也不再追问了。两人并肩坐着，沉默了半晌。李响又开口，“弟弟，我觉得你们这样做不对。”
李新心里容不下这样的说法，急切地说道，“你什么意思？”
“你们真的知道你们要什么吗？我总觉得这样闹不好啊。”李响把自己的担忧试探着说了出来。
“我们要。。。”李新开了个头，又沉默了。他们到底索求什么呢？民主，自由，普选权，反贪污，反官倒，反专制。。。这些他在北大校园里时常和同学以及年轻的教 授讨论的名词，经过这一个多月的密集的使用，变得十分的熟悉，而这种熟悉，又恍惚中透出陌生来。李新想起小时候黄昏的时候在家里练字的经历，每一个汉字， 当他写了上百遍之后，当夕阳渐下而晚灯未起，屋子里渐渐暗下去的时候，每一笔每一划都成了一种本能。可就在这样的时刻，他却突然不认识那个笔画的组合本身 了。这一刻李新思索着那些名词的含义，大脑却全然空白。他踌躇着，想要给他哥哥一个有力的答复，但同时又期待着，期待李响能说出点什么让他反驳。他们二人 也有因为一些学术或者生活上的事情而针锋相对地辩论，李响善与质问，而李新善于抓住对手的观点来反驳。
“李新啊，你还记得柏拉图关于知识的比喻吗？知识当是生来的，不然我们去学习知识，就好比去找一件我们不认识的古董一样，怎么能找的到呢？你们知道你们。。。”
“但是那样，也比什么都不做，什么都不追求要好。”李新把握到李响言中所指，锋利地回应道。
“你说的对，对的。我只怕，怕你们在追求的过程中，把那件古董打碎了，把我们所有人，所有的中国人，都划伤了。”李响的话如同一块花岗岩掷入到李新的心湖里，在李新身体里擂鼓般响了一下。
“不会的，不会的。”李新喃喃自语。但这连他也没有把握。他们一次次和政府的交锋，试探着政府的忍耐和底线。政府对他们的上书给予官僚式的答复，但是高层的幕 僚来了一波又一波，苦口婆心地劝他们回校上课，说是政府已经感受到了他们的诉求，应当为大局为重，平复这场风波。而外界的消息，尤其是他们所崇尚的欧美政 府和舆论界，又是一片赞誉。各样的消息让学生们无所适从，有人趁风声紧的时候走了，过两天又回来，有人一直坚守在广场，坚称要等到游行的目标实现才会离 开。但是，许许多多的人都如李新一样，对于这场运动最终的渴求是什么，并不清楚。但是这样的迷茫不是他们的过错，他们生在共和国十年浩劫的序幕前，而成熟 在十年浩劫刚刚尘埃落定后。民主自由平等于他们，的的确确是一种新才研习的陌生语言。可是，历史又能要求他们什么，像他哥这样裹足不前的人，又有什么资格 来要求他们持重从权，暗示他们书生乱国？书生，士子，年轻人，除了未经世事沉淀的一腔热血，又能倚靠什么？
“哥，你不要举那些 没有意义的例子了。我们这么多人，在这这么多天，” 李新觉得这样蜷着身子坐着实在没有气势，身子向前一倾，要站起来, “我们众志成城的意志，怎么能没有意义，怎么会乱，怎么会坏，怎么会伤害别人?!” 那时刻他嗓门逐渐大起来，气却在丹田里滞着上不来。他自己视野一抖，大脑就好象浮在水上的气球似地荡了几下，身子就歪倒下去。等他回复神志，已经斜倚在李 响的怀里了。
“弟弟啊，跟我回去吧。你这样身体要饿伤了。”李响再次恳求。
李新攥住李响的左手，一字一句地说道，“哥，我绝对不能走。饿久了就不饿了，身体没啥事。我要现在撤了，我一辈子抬不起头。”
李响相信弟弟的性格，沉默着望向天安门城楼的方向。
周遭突然人声鼎沸，李响回头，看到乌云密布，闷热的天气不知何时已经凉了下来，一阵阵潮湿的风刮过，扯着国旗猎猎做响，无论是城楼上安放的，还是广场上学生立的。夏天特有的骤雨就从南端一路下过来，带起一阵阵被淋到雨的惊叫。
李响腾出手来要把身上的外套脱下来给他们两人避一避雨。李新看着这雨的阵势，带点微微的恼怒阻止了李响，“算了，算了，哥。这么大的雨你又能避到什么时候，一起淋吧。”
等李响回去的时候，雨已经停了。李新安顿他，“家里的那只鹦鹉别忘了喂喂，不要让它饿着了，不好受。”
二、
那鹦鹉红头绿体，前胸一抹白色，金色的鸟嘴神气地勾着，总习惯往窗外开，带着一派鸿鹄之志燕雀安知的神采。李响在它面前杵了半天，见它一点都没有向他讨好乞食的打算，叹一口气，把笼门打开，换食换水。
这鹦鹉自然是李新弄回来的。可惜李新好耍而没有常性，时常是兴起了喂几巴小米逗弄一下，觉得无趣了就把它忘了。反而李响做事很有惯性，把喂食换水打扫鸟笼的 活给包了下来。他回家的时候顺手就把鸟也带回来了，现在这鸟在家里也待了近两个月，却似乎仍然不习惯家里的环境。李响常想着这鸟爱李新，可是已经是六月出 头了，李新还没有着过家门。
这中间时局动荡，人心惶惶，绝食结束了，戒严令又颁布，总书记来了广场一次，坊间又传闻他被一撸到 底，一系列惹得娘俩每日阶坐立不安。李响后来跑去广场几次，有时候见得着，有时候见不着，徒惹人担忧。到五月底六月初的时候，学联封路，军人也封路，去广 场的路也显得格外艰险。
门突然被擂得嗵嗵响，李响吓了一跳。这会是谁呢？母亲在里屋躺着，这时价也听见兮兮索索起身的声音。这敲门声真不知是福是祸啊？李新心理这样想着，就好似他不开门，接下来的变故就不会如惊涛骇浪般扑进他怀里似的。
“哥～～～哥～～～开门啊…”那是李新的声音！李响三步并作两步上前去把门开了，李新衣衫褴褛地站在门外，左肩上似乎还沾着血迹，李响只看到他神情一松，身子就软软地靠过来了，“哥，他们动手了。”那是李新听到的最后一句话。
三、
李响十八年之后终于在北京新建好的机场见到了他弟弟李新。他正拉着行李顺着人流往出口走呢，远远就看见一个一个发福的中年人朝他挥手。那人见他似乎没反应， 右手胳膊肘一台，接着强有力地向上一挥，似乎是常做这个领袖式的动作，一声高亢的“哥”就从嗓子里逼了出来。李响见状赶紧抬起手示意了一下，朝那个地方快 步走了过去。
然而裹在这人流里要走得快而自然不是件容易的事。人多啊，还是人多，这是李响一下飞机就有的感觉。这让在美国某大 学哲学系作教授的李响很有种陌生。李响早习惯了小镇上平静甚至耽于迟滞的生活节奏，现在混在一堆风风火火的旅客里面，迈步都略微失了节奏。李响看到李新知 道他走过来了，就退到簇拥在出口的接站人群外，一手叉腰一手看着手表，这个等待的姿势让李响再度觉得陌生。
“不一样了啊。”飞 机还有一两个小时就要降落的时候，李响钻进洗手间里，对着三寸见方的镜子，稍微拾掇了一下仪表。发际线渐渐退了，小时候额头顶上留下的那道疤也盖不住了。 鬓角自然白了，鱼尾纹也颇为明显。埋首书卷皓首穷经的十几年给他留下的亮色都沉在眼睛里。眸子晶亮，漾着一层不问世事的超脱。他不禁猜度起李新的模样来。
正想着就走到了李新面前。他明显是中年发福了，脸上油光满面的，留着短发，粗看下一头黑发，然而许多头发发根处却是白的，原来是仔细地染过了。上身一条鳄鱼 牌的马球衫，扎在西裤里面，右手带了串菩提子的佛珠。李新响亮的一声，“哥，可想死我了！”还是唤醒了他潜藏已久的那种亲情。李响心头一热，伸手在李新肩 膀上重重地拍了一下。两人于是亲切地往外走。
出了到达厅，李新领着他到一辆奔驰前停下。李新刚把后备箱打开，他手机就响了，他 于是做手势让李响把行李放进去，自己跑到一侧接电话去了。李响把行李放好，拉开车门坐到副驾驶的位置上，看到精美的内设，不禁有点拘谨。他想起李新高三毕 业的那个暑假在三角池卖磁带，用挣来的钱买了辆飞鸽自行车，上大一的时候就骑车载着新交的女朋友在校园里晃啊晃的，让他心底里羡慕了半天。当然哥哥羡慕李 新总是挺没出息的，无论是当时还是现在，于是隔了二十年，他又把这种情绪压下去了。
李新打完电话上了车，说，“哥，对不起让你等了啊。刚市里面的来电话关于项目的事，所以跟他们讲了下。你一路上累了吧，我们先去宾馆把东西放下，然后去吃饭。”说着就启动了车子。
李 响问，“咱妈还成吧？”李新答道，“好着呢。她现在一个人住可想你了。你要不然先打个电话给她？”李响接过递过来的手机，翻到妈的电话打过去，刚响了一声 那边就接起来了，颤颤巍巍的一声“小响”，确实是老了。李响那一声“妈”就顿时梗在喉咙里，过几秒钟，掺着眼泪一起涌出来。
他李新一直在凝神开车，见到这样，伸手拍拍李响，“哥，没事了，回来就好。晚上就见面了。”伸手把电话接过来说，“妈，没事了啊，这回儿正要上高速呢，等回见面了聊哈。”
李响平复了情绪，看看高速路上的景色，说道，“北京这几年建设不错啊。”“就是赶上了，建设好，有工程就有钱赚，前几年准备奥运，从东到西主要干道修了个 遍。。。”手机铃声又把他李新的话打断了。他往屏幕上望了一眼，皱皱眉头接起来，“什么事啊，我跟你说没事你甭老打电话。。。什么？儿子要汇钱是吧，你找 张会计汇点过去，快点啊，别老面，过了这点银行就关门了。。。我今晚陪我哥不回来了。。。行了就这样吧！”他“啪”的一声把手机合上，转头对上李响的质 询。
“弟妹？”
“对啊。”
“就是大学的时候一直追你的那个？”李响回忆起那个容貌平常的女孩子，笑着问道。
“是啊。后来毕业的时候我们在一起的，她爸当时是市里面领导，毕业分配给帮了下忙。”他李新翻出一张大悲咒放到CD机里面，带着烟火气的梵乐声从环绕立体的车内音响里传出来。
“对了，那那个王婧呢，后来再见过么？”另一个女子的形象浮现在李响的脑海里。那一年的春天她羞涩地坐在李新的单车后座上，裙角飞扬，手里拿着一本雪莱诗选， 随着车轮的旋转缓慢地行过北大的校道。然而当初夏来到，这个京城开始异乎寻常地躁动时，她脸上的羞涩被一种背负着与年龄不相称的刚毅和神圣所代替了。王婧 来劝李新去游行，看到王婧眉宇间的英气衬着妩媚，他明白李新是不会跟他回家了。他卷起铺盖离开，背后响着王婧高亢的声音，“你做十二月党人，我就做十二月 党人的妻子！”李响这样沉思着，那个夏天的炙热隔着十九年的光阴，依然鲜活。
“王婧啊，她今在杭州做融资呢。妈的，上次杭州湾的项目叫她帮忙给凑点钱，你猜怎么着啊？她多要了我两个点！我给你说啊，这女人哪，”
这串话连珠炮一般从李新的嘴里跑出来，把李响听得一楞一楞的。还没等他回过神来，李新突然不出声了。他把车窗按下来，把头探出去狠狠吐了口痰，高速公路上的风“呼啦啦”地吹进来，瞬时把佛乐声淹没在喧嚣里了。
“贪起来比男人要狠得多！”李新坐回来，把窗户升上来的同时斩钉截铁地给王婧一类的女人下了个结论。李响曾有的感慨都被这句论断给憋回到肚子里去了，只能讪讪地笑着。
“哥，你别老说我啊，也聊聊你吗？嫂子和你是怎么认识的？”李新的话打破短暂的沉默。
“她是93年到美国留学的，后来一起在学校教书就认识了，她那时候想找个身份留下来。先说是假结婚的，久了也就慢慢地在一起了。”
“哟，有戏。你这次怎么不把嫂子和孩子都带回来看看，不会是嫌弃咱北京一破地儿了吧？”
“没有，我不是先回来探探路，怕万一入境的时候被挡下来么。”
“哥，这你就甭操心了。现在谁管那事啊，就算挡下来了你签个声明也就了了。你一美国公民人家还真不能把你怎么样，当年那事你又没掺和。。。”
李响发觉李新说话顺溜得很，怕是十几年商场上练出来的，自己一个教授猛然间根本就应对不上来。李响寻思着要找点别的话题，看到倒车镜上挂着的金刚杵，问道，“你信佛啦？”
“信啊。现如今这北京城里，有钱的，有权的，都信这个，有共同语言么。诺，雍和宫你知道吧？今年初一我赶去烧了第十八柱香，你猜多少钱，一百八十八万？不过还真值，今年做项目都特顺，菩萨保佑啊。”李新微微把头低了一下，遥向菩萨做了个恭敬的动作。
李响记忆里的李新不停地跳出来。那个穿着的确良白衬衫，头上扎着白头巾，爬到纪念碑底座上和人群一起沸腾的李新。李响还记得绝食第五天的时候他跑去广场看李 新。李新惨白着脸攥着他的手告诉他，“饿久了就不饿了，身体没啥事” 他那时精瘦而饱含着八十年代年轻人特有的激情。他那时只相信人的理性和世间的普适价值，而藐视满天神佛。
“我那里还有好几串佛珠呢，开过光的，到时候给你请过去。。。”李新的手机第三次响起来。李新看了下号码，把音箱音量调低，轻轻嗓子才接了电话。
“喂， 宝贝啊。。。当然想啦，想得人心肝都瘦了。。。今晚哪。。。今晚有空啊。。。刚正想跟你打电话叫你下午出来吃饭呢。。。我哥回来我给他接风。。。我亲哥 啊，就在美国哈佛大学做副校长的那个。。。那下午五点半老地方吧。。。哎对了，你把你那室友也叫上。。。哦好，到了给你电话啊。。。好。。。我也是。。。 嗯。。。”李新絮絮叨叨地把电话挂了，脸上第一次显出尴尬的神色来。
这神色确是李响极熟稔的。初二那年他李新偷了他的喇叭裤穿去和女朋友约会看电影，回家的路上和几个流氓掐架，新裤子被糟踏得一塌糊涂。他李新回来面对他时就是这种神色。李响心里暗暗觉得有点好笑，摇摇头没说什么。
那久违的尴尬也就短暂地停留了一瞬，李新的表情很快活泛了。“现在这些女大学生啊，白天学着物质决定意识，晚上就来实践物质决定意识。先说好啊，待会那个女学生，你要是看上了就私下里跟我说，回头嫂子那我给你打掩护，哈哈！”
然而李响没有笑。对女学生他是有心理障碍的，在美国当教授，如果和学生不清不白的，是极大的丑闻。教了十多年书，他连往这方面想也没想过。当初刚来的时候， 年少气血浮动，脱衣舞也偷偷跑去看过，那也只是过过眼瘾。那时候还想着国内的风气颇为保守，不想这些年过去，现在倒开放成这样了。
“对了，哥，你现在在美国大学到底是教啥的，给我讲讲，一会去见那两个学生，别让我说错了。”
“我主要教存在主义哲学。个人具体就是研究Sartre的存在主义哲学与。。。”
“Sa。。。啥？谁来着？”
“萨特啊，集中营里面写书的那个萨特啊，你忘了？”
李响颇为惊讶。刚上大一的时候流行起了哲学热，两个人去北图借了本《存在与虚无》，两个人轮着读了三天三夜，之后去食堂吃饭。看到碗里的米饭都要联系起“自 为的存在”。吃完那顿最为云里雾里的饭之后，两人梦游般走回宿舍，才发现书给拉在食堂了。最后因为那本书给图书馆赔了五块钱。两个人从此也成为存在主义的 坚定信徒。
正赶上车下了高速过第一个红绿灯要上二环，车停下来等红灯。李响看到一堆行人拥过马路，渐渐的人少了，一个中年妇女推着自行车边走边回头看，似乎丢了东西。
“嘿，二十年前的事还提它做啥，全是瞎闹。现在我才明白啥叫存在。”李新长鸣了声喇叭，那女人显然被吓了一跳，朝驾驶室看了一眼，被喇叭声催走了。
“看见没，就因为我在这，我鸣喇叭赶她走，我才存在，她才能感受到我的存在。你看边上那一溜蹲马路的民工，平常谁意识到他们的存在。”李新伸出戴着佛珠的右手 指指右边车窗外。李响已经失却了讲话的欲望。他觉得似乎已经有堵沉重的墙隔阂在十八年后的他和李新之间。这堵墙巧妙的回转在他们的谈话间，如魔咒一般让两 人的沟通根本无法进行。
李响后靠在椅背上，目光锁在窗外的景致上，沉默着。车上了二环，过了莲花池、复兴门，很快到了木樨地。 这个地方似乎有种奇异的媒介，潜藏在高楼广厦盛世灯火之下，随着李响回忆的逐渐清晰和具化，再度勾画出十八年前的那个举国同殇的夏夜。这时候李新貌似轻描 淡写地说道，＂哥，那个时候，谢谢你了啊。＂
李响愣了一瞬，“你什么意思呢？”他等着李新说清楚点。他自己自然记得李新的谢意 所指，那可不是一句“谢谢”能够打发的事情。那是李新在89年的6月5号所做的那个决定，那个替代弟弟逃走的决定。那也许是他这辈子所做过的做大胆的决 定，而李响觉得，因为如此，他理应知道自己的牺牲是否值得。
“哥，我知道，我真的知道…你是我这辈子唯一一个…我从来没有遇见 过像你一样，为我付出那么多的人。”李新直视前方，也许因为只有如此，他才能让自己心中柔软的一方净土展现出来。“但我，现在的我，实实在在补偿不了你 了。我已经不是从前了。我没有理想，但我有钱，可是…你又不需要钱？…你要吗？”
一腔极端复杂的感觉拥上心头，李响突然转头盯着李新, 在那个已经被真相钝化的答案上再掘了一铲, “如果让你再选一次，当年你愿意自己出去么？”
“我…愿意。出去就拿绿卡，上哈佛，赶上九十年代美国经济那么好，我混得一定比现在好。”李新沉默了一瞬，回应道。这个答案，让李响从此沉默了。(完)
初稿写于2008年5月1日于老槛。改于2008年9月14日于华盛顿。英文版2009年3月13日草译于洛杉矶回俄亥俄的班机上。第二稿写于2009年4月19日。第三稿补完于老槛2009年10月25日凌晨。
2009年5月15日星期五
2009年5月2日星期六
2007年十月到2009年三月的诗合集
最近学期要告一段落，也觉得自己的生命应当多些系统。于是在整理之前所零零碎碎写的诗作的时候凑成了这个合集。只觉得将好的坏的旧的新的往日的如今的一起并列，便端的是规整，又透出一种生命的黏稠来。记得小时候爬上书架看到苏童的那句话，“我知道少年血是粘稠而富有文学意味的,我知道少年血在混乱无序的年月里如何流淌. 凡是流淌的事物必有它的轨迹”。
我们的生活，早已过于不混乱，早已过于按部就班。基本上每个方向都已经有前人的探索，而所谓真正的新和奇，也是由我们，作为已知历史的产物，去实现。这原来是尼采的上帝死了的源头吧。我们耽于安乐，而我不禁疑问，那种流淌，那种努力留下自己痕迹的狰狞的欲望和愤怒，从何而来？而一切的评价，当历史不再起作用，所遗留下的唯一的光辉，是否就是痕迹，和努力留下痕迹的热诚。
2007年
过客
我只是个过客，
囊中羞涩裹着质地的粗糙；
我只是个过客，
步履蹒跚踩着鞋底的肮脏；
我只是个过客，
轰鸣声中听着秋风的瓦蓝；
我只是个过客，
绿草香中忘了树叶老年满庭院枯黄；
我只是个过客，
行囊里有磨破了边浸满汗水的地图册，
我只是个过客，
地图册上远方还不是家，家已经是远方。
过客一路上要带刀这我知道，
在上海广州芝加哥波士顿纽约的机场，
一把藏刀，
在安检的屏幕上，
并不慌张。
2007年10月12日写于Kenyon
荒原上的呼喊没有回音
你在井里
和石头结婚；
青苔是你的历史，
蝼蚁是你的英雄；
你饮光井中的水，
咽下湿沼；
子嗣奔跑于三尺见方，
你在消耗。
你饥饿，
你去吃荒原上的父母，
那对攥着你手前行的人；
他们老了，
匍匐在荒原上，五体投地，
被你捕获；
你想吃，
便已吃了，
便已饱了；
如露如电如是观，
盲井成了饿塔，
你成了孤独。
写于2007年11月28日于Kenyon SMA Building
翻腾的齐阁原
泥土是飞翔的，
越冬的马群离家，
母亲的乐师锁着，
荒芜的牧场。
你看那对岸的牧马人，
在水一方，
你忘却这方灯火，
便已忘记这河流
2007年12月04日 Kenyon
我叫幸福暖暖
我叫幸福暖暖，
蜿蜒出璀璨的花纹。
白骨龟裂，一腔丝竹的锦缎。
困倦于蓝田玉上。
候鸟的叫声箭镞般
攥上游离的肉身。
蛇状的弦瞬间绷紧，
绞碎愚鲁的灵魂。
逆水而上的夸父，
惊走南下的马群，
踢踏声迸碎渐融的新雪。
我叫幸福暖暖，
她却没有回音。
2007年12月10日于Kenyon
2008年
狮语时
狮子恒然铸就的对称，
让石头张口，舌头柔软，玉体横呈。
你奔跑中带肌肉的张力，
看羚羊被天使追赶。
上帝用他子嗣的血肉
祀你异教徒的纯洁。
PS:威廉。布莱克的 老虎。
2008-01-09
密沃基/纽约 一段难忘的日子吧
母亲田
乐师张紧的弦喑哑歌者的喉咙，
腥红舞鞋不停顿地黏合静谧，
无翼鸟的鸣叫在虚空中绽放。
流水撵上落英，
呼吸阻塞呼吸；
宁静摧毁宁静，
轰鸣闭合轰鸣。
白骨于坛上锋利地亲吻刀斧，
痛觉俯身在豁开的伤口上，
饮下子宫里源出的泉。
死亡死得如此贪婪，
威压四野众生匍匐。
猎人提起长矛，
在种满母亲的田中，
找一朵分娩的乳房，
是中，软玉温香。
Ps: 今早熬夜熬到四点很不爽，想家想睡觉。于是写了这首诗。
改到最后的版本，不全是我改的。
母亲田
乐手屠僇歌者的從容；
舞鞋黏合静谧的猩红；
满天缤纷，
无翼绽放于虚空。
流水撵上落英，
呼吸阻塞呼吸；
宁静摧毁宁静，
轰鸣闭合轰鸣。
白骨冰凉刀斧的亲吻，
痛觉缠绵在豁开的伤，
吮吸源出子宫的泉。
死亡死得如此贪婪，
哀鸣四野众生匍匐。
孩子攥紧长矛，
在种满母亲的田中，
找一朵分娩的乳房，
摩挲那软玉温香。
2008年1月23日于老槛
[古诗]忆夏(三个版本）
夏若青蒿人样好，
一言一笑尽销魂；
高楼晨露似有泪，
亭台归燕却无心。
放在现代诗歌里面，委屈下吧。。。
第一次写古体诗。查了下，应该勉强能算绝句。
希望大家努力挑错指教下呢 。。。学习中。。。
改完平仄和押韵之后的版本：
夏若青蒿人面好，
嬉言笑闹尽痴情；
雨惹秋风遮不住，
亭台归燕了无心。
上课又改了一版，这次是工于技巧失了真实了。
忆夏
夏若青蒿人面好，
嬉言笑闹尽秋晴；
梦醒高楼霜似泪，
春归亭台燕无心。
2008年2月4日
离人舟组诗—写在这个离人的节日
香象河
把婴儿的丧钟敲响
为理想洗礼，
南方在荆棘路上向南方匍匐，
模糊边界的虚空弥合母亲莲花开口，
一张一合，
一呼一吸，
命悬一线，什么时候你停止呼吸，
什么时候你停在呼吸的脚步上，
香象截河，半渡而溺。
灰思考
尼采借六芒星嘶吼，
南无本师圣耶路撒冷城！
欢喜玛丽亚的处子雪肤凝乳，
挂着麦加的挂毯，
罗素新雕灵魂一座，等着思考着黏土凝结着，
送入天地，炼一炉金刚乘，
茧出蝴蝶做二元的黄粱梦，
缘数列微积蹞步，
穷至千里，壮心已已，
我们灰色地思考，渣滓佩戴上意义，
大悲长哀，浩然当哭。
内凶卦
元始太初，
我们缘始太初，
我们在场，父母最初的一次交合，
拿父精母血种在十月的土壤；
我活着的那一刻，
父母的孩子降生的那一刹那，
父母“的”孩子死亡的那一倏忽，
“我”死在我生前；
那对抵死缠绵的人儿共浴他们的情欲，
子宫钻出热望本源高声叩首，
擎脐带写下离字
一点一横，轮回方圆。
胡杨樵
撕裂，
暴虐温躏胸膛的苍白，
心泵渴饮馨香体液一阵慷懒，
会阴督脉醒转劫前空响一片，
滚雷惊原上青锋饮血生寝皮死抱骨此仇不共天，
是男人的交合；
温柔红床薄纱帐暖烟销金兽摩挲褶皱烂石滩上，
是男女的厮杀；
稚童伸手索要，
无始劫来，天上地下，
所有蜜糖，
一滴一滴，
这样走到欲望的尽头去，
老童樵夫，
伐那棵枯木胡杨，
不老三千，不腐三万。
磐石海
光追逐光，
循依宪章，
国王不能给自己加冕，
且停一停我的亲吻，
舌头失去女子，
我失去善良；
刨去羽毛的狼，
婴鸟空鸣，苍鹰入海，
徘徊清影映月霜暖夏寒枯润两极颠倒，
缤纷璀璨云长天远秋冬对换人我无碍，
星斗乱离，磐石在意识之海中泳潮，
淹死，
这世界还活着，
物转星移，如一如一。
离人舟
所以小舟现在才为你做好，
离姓旅人，
粗糙迟钝做壳，
精进不退做桨，
肉身八苦做帆，
盲聋喑哑做舵，
你就去吧，
新年伊始，
但放离人舟入业海，
捧
一掬
滤去杂质
纯然天青的江河。
后记：
早上突有所感，再把以前一些琐碎的想法联系起来，尽管有考试和作业，还是写了出来。用了约莫一个小时，一气呵成，写得真他妈爽！我知道自己又上了一层！！！
大家，新年快乐！
2008年2月7日农历新年于老槛
墙纸
我把黑色的善良从墙上揭下来，
贴在脸上，
镜子里的皱纹对着我笑，
你忘了把眼睛挡住了。
一痕漆黑的白色
在我头顶盘恒数日，
他们走了，
把孩子留下了。
从眉骨凹陷的地方，
溢出来一朵幽兰，
回响在脑腔里，
声音空空的，
像一个私塾先生。
他教我认几个字，
恶是有心的，
邪长着牙齿，
怕的心生得狭窄，
善却生在嘴上。
心的弯钩好难写，
我练了好久，好久，
一直盯着心看，
看到我都不认识了，
先生催促着我说，
快写，
写好了，裱起来，
挂到墙上去。
2008年2月14日写于Kenyon
把刀敲响
把黑夜刻在刀刃上，
把太阳悬在刀柄上。
把刀的阴面取火割肉炙烤，
把刀的阳面跪拜长头祈祷，
把刀背留作盾牌。
把刀攥得紧紧的，
把手指长进木头里。
把雪夜涅没了，
把昙花的笑语浸入青铜海。
把最后一束光掐灭，
把藤蔓丛割开，
把刀敲响，
婴儿的哭声铿锵，
一把刀
把我生下来。
2008年2月20日于Kenyon
你们，睡了
你们轻轻的睡了，
芳香的泥土阖上你的眼眸，
如野草绿了那片冻原，
记得往天湖方向的路上，声声长头的跪姿所撼动的
土地，原来这样拾起倦怠，
拉着你们一同睡了。
你们睡着了像绵羊一样，
你们梦到绵羊长着梦的羽毛，
你们麦浪般起伏的呼吸流淌在梦里，
你们的梦里阳光满溢，
都沁着紧紧裹着你们的瓦砾。
普国同哀的摇篮曲，
会在每一个母亲的眼泪里响很久。
而且那曲子安静，
和你们端坐着认真听课时的神态
一样安静，
直到催你睡着的笛声传来。
2008年5月13日 于密沃基 汶川大地震后
出城记
一座好客的城堡锁住了我的好奇心，
一尊国王要出去，
去一片坚硬的土地，
梆！梆！
一声声震得脚板生疼。
约5月16日写于Appleton 松鼠处。松鼠正在床上睡觉。
九歌
我峰临万仞品尝百尺星辰凭娲石贯日月唱犁天歌
我颤抖在心尖种青草于勃朗峰凌一苇叶吟情思歌
我麻木慈悲赴忘生崖拾骸骨为稚嫩婴嫒孕摇篮歌
我泪水决堤于在铜铸魔鬼初恋的月牙湾吻离别歌
我擎雷云断人肢体遍九州造天葬坛由此降安详歌
我驰骋于银月光华的流质攥住宇内空响弃真实歌
我狰狞出微笑垒幸福成罪恶微言大义中见磐石歌
我锻打井中糜烂的铁斧抚摸尸腐的馨香赠迷乱歌
我顿首匍匐用世界的母音穷尽树的枝桠传 歌
由此是为九歌。
2008年05月31日
写于加州工作中
夏夏妮
夏夏妮是有魔法的词汇，
她的发音，让天和夜借海风黏合，
针脚细薄，就把黄昏淡漠。
让夏天的一瞬如海一般绵延的漫长，
白沙堆砌起你和夏夏妮坐着的形状，
小妮子化成黑暗的边缘
伺服在你的呼吸上，
滚烫成静谧，
静谧着滚烫。
就等着你呼吸的一个飘忽，
夏夏妮就要离开，
你只能留下她的漫长，
把有关她的词汇放回原野上。
后话：
想把夏天描写成一个飘忽的女子，琢磨不透的样子。
大家觉得呢。
2008年9月15日 于DC
记得那个lab晚上人很多。自己那个学期有两个月没有电脑，都是去lab。折磨。
老了
我曾经信马由缰，
如今我只想回家。
回家的路，对我，
不具有空间上的遥远，
只具有时间上的漫长。
2008年12月1日 写于DC 状态最低潮期
2009年
一些一句话的诗
作为一名婴儿，
我总是不能沉迷。
雪原把灯熄了，
她给你温暖的哲学。
那些爬着跑来的人们，
总是追不上灵魂。
无聊，
是无花果的勤勉。
我很不喜欢四这个数字，
因此这是第五首。
2009年1月29日于Kenyon
水手
这水手曾经走过每方大海，
用朗姆酒的骄傲，
饱满高挑的桅杆。
丰收在海的方言里，
唇音瓦蓝。
这水手每朵头发的每丝皱纹，
丑陋，阳光蜿蜒，
他倾听每条鱼的心事，
怀念一对对洋流的家乡。
蚌贝的花期，
濡出他的时节。
这水手没有他的船长，
他的罗盘，日志和返航，
和红舞鞋，和港口，
一样一样一样地不属于他，
这些词汇在蔚蓝里退潮，
抑或从未离岸登船。
这水手移动，
在每片帆影里，兴趣索然地，
以眺望的姿势，
把好奇心钉做船首像，
他四处乞讨，
讨要礁石，年龄，
和迷迭香。
岸上晕白的好时光，
一点闲帆，曳不动整船的香，
桅杆挂着他的荣耀，
他挂着降不下的远方。
2009年2月24日写于Kenyon
六首临屏快打
她
[2:18:27] alexzhao2016 说： 你的饮泣
[2:18:41] alexzhao2016 说： 横跨八百四千三百里的江河
[2:18:50] alexzhao2016 说： 把母亲的快乐
[2:18:58] alexzhao2016 说： 和父亲的烟
[2:19:12] alexzhao2016 说： 一同化作太平洋上的漂泊
[2:19:31] alexzhao2016 说： 包裹着自由的牧场
[2:19:43] alexzhao2016 说： 锁着水洗过的灵魂
[2:20:02] alexzhao2016 说： 你带着白羽之翼
[2:20:18] alexzhao2016 说： 主告诉你如何飞翔
[2:20:32] alexzhao2016 说： 梦里的呓语
[2:20:40] alexzhao2016 说： 已经真实如同虚构
[2:20:45] alexzhao2016 说： 你的表情
[2:21:18] alexzhao2016 说： 洁白如同最圆的祈祷
[2:21:29] alexzhao2016 说： 最方正的顺从
[2:22:01] alexzhao2016 说： 一串串珍珠化成清晨的第一次呼吸
[2:22:09] alexzhao2016 说： 你知道
[2:22:14] alexzhao2016 说： 你没有父亲
[2:22:44] alexzhao2016 说： 如同你没有本源的舞蹈
[2:23:00] alexzhao2016 说： 阿门是怎样的句子
[2:23:13] alexzhao2016 说： 从咸海的侧面
[2:23:24] alexzhao2016 说： 链接到胡同的巷口
[2:23:34] alexzhao2016 说： 总是有不同的旅人
[2:23:40] alexzhao2016 说： 告诉我同样的真实
Los Angeles
[2:40:58] alexzhao2016 说： 弯曲的棕榈
[2:41:08] alexzhao2016 说： 熟悉不了我的悲哀
[2:41:14] alexzhao2016 说： 阳光洗不去的
[2:41:20] alexzhao2016 说： 冰雪也撑不起来
[2:41:51] alexzhao2016 说： 一串一串玉龙明驹的马蹄
[2:42:07] alexzhao2016 说： 你已经忘了Santa Monica了吧
[2:42:09] alexzhao2016 说： 哈哈
[2:42:31] alexzhao2016 说： 你觉得香港台湾和La有什么样的不同
[2:42:50] alexzhao2016 说： 除了灵魂寄存的quarters你要付
[2:43:17] alexzhao2016 说： 明亮的疑问配上dressed up
[2:43:34] alexzhao2016 说：你知道周四是Lady's Night么？
[2:43:51] alexzhao2016 说： 那个蜿蜒在花朵下的房子
[2:43:58] alexzhao2016 说： 一层的蝼蚁
[2:44:04] alexzhao2016 说： 果然很容易快乐
[2:44:10] alexzhao2016 说： 除了天使
[2:44:20] alexzhao2016 说： 这里还剩下虚无.
迷迭香
[2:58:36] alexzhao2016 说： 一只晚年不败的香
[2:58:50] alexzhao2016 说： 没有人疑问谁去点燃
[2:58:58] alexzhao2016 说： 牡丹是破碎的
[2:59:11] alexzhao2016 说： 康乃馨天堂鸟君子兰
[2:59:33] alexzhao2016 说： 凌冽的名字垒起了困窘
[2:59:48] alexzhao2016 说： 同样你也倦怠了幸福
[3:00:02] alexzhao2016 说： 需要前提的爱
[3:00:11] alexzhao2016 说： 不是也是需要祭祀的救赎
[3:00:16] alexzhao2016 说： 除了牧师
[3:00:28] alexzhao2016 说： 谁需要这样的花朵
[3:00:39] alexzhao2016 说： 谁不爱他的梵高
男人
[3:06:55] alexzhao2016 说： 粉红色的男人融不进瓦蓝
[3:07:21] alexzhao2016 说： 天青色的男人数不清弥红
[3:08:25] alexzhao2016 说： 墨绿色的嫉妒不属于一种雄性的刚直
[3:08:41] alexzhao2016 说： 遗忘的画作舞步凌乱
[3:08:51] alexzhao2016 说： 背影猖狂
[3:09:11] alexzhao2016 说： 当世界只剩下一个男人和女人的
[3:09:15] alexzhao2016 说： 黄金时代
[3:09:26] alexzhao2016 说： 上帝想起那些青铜时代的
[3:09:37] alexzhao2016 说： 背叛的迷惘
[3:10:12] alexzhao2016 说： 改用深红色结尾的哑剧
[3:10:33] alexzhao2016 说： 没有棕色的性别
[3:11:23] alexzhao2016 说： 乱了臣纲，黄了秋月，洗了紫薇星显的踉跄
[3:11:47] alexzhao2016 说： 男人改了色谱
[3:11:58] alexzhao2016 说： 女人于是变盲
Gum
[3:18:07] alexzhao2016 说： 聚散离合的酮
[3:18:26] alexzhao2016 说： 影子舍不得的雨
[3:18:47] alexzhao2016 说： 一尾酋长的告别
[3:19:19] alexzhao2016 说： 他们是不盥洗的族群
[3:19:26] alexzhao2016 说： 你需要什么呢？
[3:19:54] alexzhao2016 说： 咬合肌所传递的爱情
[3:20:07] alexzhao2016 说： 除了食指不堪比拟
[3:20:31] alexzhao2016 说： 外婆 不曾试过的口香糖
[3:20:57] alexzhao2016 说： 蹙眉，成了座椅角落处的肮脏和遗忘
[3:21:40] alexzhao2016 说： 黏合不到一切的月下姻缘如同
[3:21:58] alexzhao2016 说： 山麓上并生的松树
[3:22:23] alexzhao2016 说： 我离故乡和归属
[3:22:55] alexzhao2016 说： 只是一盏袍泽的旧谊
[3:23:46] alexzhao2016 说： 苍老闲叙的家常，
[3:24:17] alexzhao2016 说： 反刍的口香糖
[3:24:25] alexzhao2016 说： 会否和岁月一样
[3:25:07] alexzhao2016 说： 趋向无味和敝帚自珍。
纠结
[3:32:18] alexzhao2016 说： 回音清凉 四野空旷 连藤蔓都是梳理清楚的
[3:32:23] alexzhao2016 说： 形状
[3:33:10] alexzhao2016 说： 庖丁点熟的生铁，智慧缠绵
[3:34:38] alexzhao2016 说： 未来的纯棉的清纯的交织的堆砌
[3:35:01] alexzhao2016 说： 你在那分岔的荒芜
[3:35:13] alexzhao2016 说： 却想处处横生枝节
[3:35:23] alexzhao2016 说： 想念台风的日子
[3:35:35] alexzhao2016 说： 想念朴素的扑簌，
[3:35:39] alexzhao2016 说： 粉末
[3:36:06] alexzhao2016 说： 从没有交集的命运身上飘落
[3:36:38] alexzhao2016 说： 一宅如墨的海潮
[3:36:57] alexzhao2016 说： 一滩未曾蒙面的亮白
[3:37:08] alexzhao2016 说： 纠结
[3:37:21] alexzhao2016 说： 原来是一种清凉的嗓音 回音
[3:37:30] alexzhao2016 说： 绵延不绝
2009年2月28日于Kenyon酒后草就。
一朵阳光滑过天际
一觚瓦罐
羔羊般仰首。
趁阳光连绵如蜜糖，
闪族语爬越平原，呼天盖地，
如野蕺菜扑面而来。
让
干裂的玉米
混合着牲血，腥甜。
一种疼痛剖开疼痛，
夯土战兢着幸福。
2009年3月24日写于Kenyon
Twins
"[This] story focuses on post-Tiananmen Square political life....The brothers' relationship, their love and antagonism, is subtly and finely drawn"-Professor McAdams, English Department of Kenyon College, in her nomination for Franklin Miller Award of Kenyon College, which is granted in April 2009.
On the fifth day of the hunger strike, the hot weather in middle May enveloped Beijing. Li Xin sat among the crowds on Tiananmen Square. At the age of twenty, he was tall and thin. His squared jaw implied resolution and his hunger failed to overshadow the heated pursuit reflected through his eyes. He idled, watching people passing by and suddenly caught sight of his twin brother who was born five minutes earlier than him, Li Xiang, coming. Li Xin first thought it was an illusion from days without food. Yet his brother, who looked very much like Li Xin, approached, stopped, and bent down to pat Li Xin on his shoulders, which made him realize that his brother was actually there.
“Brother, how did you find your way here?” Li Xin asked, wondering if Li Xiang had changed his mind and decided to join the effort.
“I asked people along the way. Also your friends at the department thought I was you again, and brought me here.” Ever since birth, the two looked exactly the same, except for the scar on Li Xiang’s upper forehead. He received it at the age of seven from falling down the stairs, when he and Li Xin were chased by the old gatekeeper of the orchard nearby, where the cherries looked so delicious that the little twins sneaked in and picked as many as they could. When they were fourteen, they took a hiking trip to Mount Tai and a fortune-teller commented on his mark. “A scar on your forehead shall twist your destiny before you can wear an adult’s hat.” Overcautious and introverted as he was, Li Xiang feared it be true, while Li Xin sniffed, “Bro, that’s totally nonsense.” That marked another difference between the two: Li Xin was more confident and self-assertive. They were both bright young students and got into Peking University together at the age of eighteen.
Today Li Xiang’s outfit was very clean—not new, but nice enough to set him apart from the rest of the students on the Square. Many of them, especially those who came from other cities, had camped there ever since early May. They only had a handful of clothes to choose from, all of which smelled and had grown dirty. Had there been no one to lead him through the crowd, Li Xiang would not have made it to the group formed by students from Peking University.
Weeks of demonstrations had worn Li Xin out, making him look much sloppier than Li Xiang. Strands of hairs stuck to his forehead from weeks without showering. On seeing this, Li Xiang attempted to tidy up Li Xin’s hair. Li Xin moved his head to avoid the hand. What Li Xiang said bothered him even more: “Mom is worried about you very much. She asked me to bring you home.”
Li Xin dropped his head, looking down at his shirt, and wondered how his mother could ever understand the slogans on it, such as “Freedom” and “Equality.” “Bro, haven’t I told you that I won’t not go back? Try to explain to her what I’m doing again.”
Li Xiang smirked, “She wouldn’t take that as an answer. She worries about you, like she worried about dad then.” Their father was beaten to death during the Cultural Revolution, and the widow had made admirable efforts to bring up the twins who were then only two years old. Li Xin could even picture her sitting alone on the Soviet Union-style green-cloth-made sofa, hands on her knees, turning her body slightly just to hear the sound from the hallway, waiting for her sons to be back. For one moment, he wanted to go back with Li Xiang and walked up the stairs. She would recognize his footsteps and be relieved. Her smile when both of the twins were at home during weekends would reappear.
But if he walked away like this, what would his friends—now his “comrades”—and his girlfriend Wang Jing think of him? He was known among his peers for his determination and passion. His cassette business at Delta pond of Peking University during the summer before the college, and the Contemporary Art Club he organized were all ideas he came up with one day and put into practice the next.
It was because of this that Wang Jing had approached him. He remembered those short rides around the campus during the freshman year with the Fege bike he bought with the money made over the summer. Wang Jing sat on the back seat and chit-chatted with him. Their eyes met frequently as the talk flowed at its own pace, and her admiration for him was unhidden. A little ashamed, he felt that Wang Jing had persuaded him to go to the march and not the other way around. The furious promise Wang Jing made to Li Xin in her elegant voice, “Xin, may you be a Decembrist and I your wife!” was fresh in his mind. He stayed with her to take on some responsibilities that only real revolutionists were qualified for, while Li Xiang left for home.
“Your brother is not revolutionary,” Wang Jing had declared, meaning that Li Xiang was a coward. Recalling this, Li Xin made up his mind, “Brother, seriously, I cannot turn back. I have to do something for my country. Otherwise, what would Wang Jing think of me?”
Li Xiang got tired of standing. He moved in to sit with Li Xin, “Speaking of her, where is she at?”
Li Xin made some space for the two to stretch out their legs, “She went to Wangfujing to use the bathroom. She can’t stand the toilet on the Square.”
“Aren’t you guys in a hunger strike?” Li Xiang was confused.
Li Xin grasped what Li Xiang was referring to, but avoided the question. “She wants a clean toilet, a very clean one.”
Li Xiang let it go. They two sat shoulder by shoulder in a short period of silence before Li Xiang started talking again, “Xin, I don’t think whatever you are doing now is doing any good.”
“What do you mean?” Li Xin’s tone sharpened.
“I mean, do you really know what you want? I’m not saying that what you’re doing is wrong, I’m just saying that it seems no good to do it like this.”
“Well, we want…” Li Xin began than paused. What did they really want? Democracy? Freedom? General election and popular vote? Anti-corruption? And anti-official-rent-seeking? Those terms had been quoted and used frequently in discussions on campus. Now, after a month of blasting the government with such terms and preaching both to the nation and to his peers, Li Xin knew these terms as well as he knew the cuts and scars on his hands from wood-curving or sculpting at the Club. Yet, a weird feeling of alienation grew from the familiarity as he had experienced before with calligraphy. When he was a kid small enough to be forced to practice on some “hobbies” that he did not enjoy at all, he had to stay in every afternoon to finish three pages of handwriting practice. At the sunset when it was still too early to turn on the lights, the apartment filled with denser and denser darkness, and it required almost pure instinct to write every stroke. One of the scariest moment was when he found that he could no longer recognize the combinations of those strokes, be it a “Solemn (Zheng),” “Harmony (He),” or “Elegance (Ya).” His mind was empty then, and so was it now. He had trouble coming up with a rebuttal to his brother, as he had difficulty making sense out of these terms even to himself.
“Remember Plato’s metaphor about knowledge? We should be born with it, Because we aren't, we have to learn it just like to find an antique vase that we didn’t know what it looked like. How could we find it then? Similarly, do you know you…”
“Even so, it is far better than doing nothing and pursuing nothing.” It was a typical Li Xin reply.
“Yeah, you’re right,. But what I’m afraid of is that you break the vase reaching for it, and hurt everyone of us.”
“No!...no way… it’s not like that…” Li Xin cringed, muttering. For weeks he and his peers protested and sent messages to the government again and again. Their messages to the government were condemned as threats and thus never answered. However, some high-profile advisors to officials visited them to persuade them to cease the demonstration and go back to school. Students were assured that the government had felt their concern. But why was their call to remove the official mark of this movement as “a malicious revolt” ignored? The news from the west were all in favor of the students. In a flood of all this news, good and bad, some students left and returned, but some stayed, insisting that they would never move out of the Square unless all were solved. Even those who stayed, including him, had only a vague idea of what they were calling for. But that was not their fault. The language of democracy, freedom and equality was new and strange to them, but what else could they do? People like his brother did not dare to participate, how come they had the right to ask people like Li Xin to reconsider their decisions and hint that they would screw things up?
“Brother, stop giving me those metaphors that make no sense in real life. There are so many of us here for so many days,” Li Xin leaned forward to stand up, continuing, “We had our common will for a better future for the country; how can it mean nothing, how can it be bad and wrong, and how can we blow things up?” He tried to yell but had no strength because of his empty stomach. The world in his vision shivered and his mind felt like a fishing boat floating on the vast ocean under a storm, his favorite scene in the old man’s sail, on page 125 of the collection of Hemingway’s work. He collapsed.
When he woke up again, he was lying in Li Xiang’s embrace.
“Xin, please, for the sake of your life, go back with me. You are hurting yourself so bad,” Li Xiang begged.
Li Xin searched for Li Xiang’s left hand, held it tight, and made his resolution word by word. “Brother, I must not go under any circumstances. Once I go beyond the limits of my body, I don’t feel hungry anymore. My body is fine, but if I leave now, I will look down on myself for my whole life.” Li Xiang knew Li Xin all too well that he said nothing more. In silence, he stared at the Tiananmen, the Archaic building functioning both as a gate and a palace, behind which one ruler after another lived for centuries.
The crowd burst out in noise. Li Xiang looked around and saw the clouds filling the sky. The scorching, stringy humidity had cooled down. Blasts of cold watery winds blew through the Square. The national flags both on the Tiananmen and those on the Square, with its five golden stars on a red background standing for the sacrifice the pioneers had made, billowed in the wind of their own volition. A heavy shower spread from the south end of the Square to the north, stirring up the exclamations from the crowds.
Li Xiang took off his coat to shelter them from the rain. Judging that a coat could do nothing to keep them from getting wet, Li Xin shook up his brother’s attempt, “Stop, stop, forget about it, brother. Look at how heavy the rain is! How could we even avoid it? Just take it together.”
***
Eighteen years later, Li Xiang met with his younger brother Li Xin at the newly built Terminal 3 of Beijing International Airport. He was walking towards the exit, dragging his luggage, when he saw a man in his forties trying to get his attention. The man raised his right elbow high, and waved with enthusiasm. Li Xin yelled out, “Hello, brother!” Li Xiang waved back and picked up his paces.
It was difficult to walk fast amongst all the people. Li Xiang felt crowded the second he stepped on Chinese soil, the first time to be back since he fled for the United States through Hong Kong. Being in exile because of the Tiananmen Square protest, he had not applied for a re-entry visa to China until a year ago. To his surprise, the visa was granted after a three-month background check. Returning to his home country appeared strange to him after years of teaching philosophy in a small college. Fully accustomed and attached to the placid lifestyle at a college town, Li Xiang could not walk among the others hustling off to the exits. Li Xin stepped back and waited aside, looking at his watch with one hand resting on his waist, a pose unfamiliar to Li Xiang.
“Things have changed.” Earlier, two hours away from Beijing, Li Xiang had gone the lavatory to tidy himself up. His hairline had withdrawn from his forehead, so that his hair did not cover the scar anymore. Li Xiang had found some of his sideburns white, and wrinkles around his eyes, which made him look wise and solemn. Staring at himself in the squared mirror, he had wondered what his twin brother looked like after years.
Li Xiang drew up to Li Xin. Li Xin had a beer belly that he couldn't have hidden if he'd tried, which he hadn't. His short hair appeared black on first glance, but Li Xiang found the roots of many hairs white. Maybe Li Xin had it dyed at a salon. He wore a Crocodile polo shirt tucked into a pair of khaki pants. Dark brown Buddhist rosary beads on his right wrist complemented his Pierre Cardin shoes in color. Li Xin’s welcoming greeting, “Brother, I missed you so much!” resonated with the brotherhood hibernating inside Li Xiang’s heart for years. Li Xiang laughed and patted Li Xin’s shoulder.
Li Xin led Li Xiang to a dark-gray BMW 5 series in the parking lot and opened the trunk for him, when Li Xin’s phone rang. Li Xin stepped aside to answer the call and signaled to Li Xiang to put the luggage into the car. Li Xiang did so and sat in the passenger seat. He looked around admiring the fine finish the interior was equipped with, which made him feel more or less out of place. It reminded him of the summer after high school when Li Xin sold cassettes of Taiwanese pop music and bought a bicycle with all the money he made. He sometimes rode the bicycle around campus with his girlfriend on the back seat, which made Li Xiang feel jealous. Of course, it was not good to feel jealous of his brother, either twenty years ago or now, so he tried to push the thought from his mind.
Li Xin jumped into the driver seat and started the car, while he was speaking, “Brother, I’m sorry to keep you waiting. The municipal government just called me about a project, so it took a while. You must be tired after the trip. I have booked you a room in Ritz-Carlton in Xi Cheng District. Let’s check in there and we can go have dinner. You cool with the plan?”
“Yeah.” Li Xiang asked, “How is mom?”
“She’s fine. She misses you a lot though, because she lives by herself now. Why don’t you call her? She is expecting your call.”
Li Xiang took the phone Li Xin handed to him, selected the number from the contacts, and dialed it. It rang only once before it was answered.
Li Xiang heard an old hesitant voice, “Xiang?”. He was about to say “Mom” but his words got caught in his throat.
“Xiang, my son, it is so good to have you back. How are you doing? Did you have a good flight? Are you tired?” Mom was always talkative.
“Mom, it’s good, no worry, I’m in Beijing now, about to come home in a few hours. How about you? Have you eaten and slept well recently?” Li Xiang asked.
“Everything is fine. I couldn’t fall asleep last night knowing that you were on your way here. I thought about something, and though I wanted to tell you later, I can’t help but tell you now. I...I’m sorry, Xiang. I’m sorry that I preferred your brother to stay. I feel so...so guilty about it...I knew this was something we never really talked about, but I feel compelled to tell you this now. Xiang...mom is so...sorry.” She broke down and sobbed, which reminded Li Xiang of the time when he left Li Xin and their mother. Li Xin finally got home after the crackdown on June the 4th, 1988, with dirt, and scratches on his face and body and blood on his shirt. A sudden and severed fever struck him down and kept him in bed for days. Lan Kwan from Hong Kong, who introduced himself as Li Xin's friend from the protest, visited and offered Li Xiang and their mother to take Li Xin to US through Hong Kong as the government was hunting down the protestors. The escape could be dangerous and there was no guarantee. Li Xin was in a coma and too sick to even walk. Amazed by how much Li Xiang looked like Li Xin, Lan Kwan suggested that Li Xiang left with him and Li Xin could pretend to be the mother’s elder obedient son and stay with her. Hearing the suggestion, their mother sat there sobbing, while darting one or two looks at Li Xiang, Her pose was engrained in Li Xiang's mind. Motivated by a mixed feeling of bitter and self-sacrifice, Li Xiang left with Lan Kwan and had never returned until now.
These unpleasant memories entwined Li Xiang like snakes from Zeus hunted down Laocoon. He had no idea how to react. He muttered something like, “Mom, it’s OK, I never thought of it, it’s OK.” But he failed to calm her down and Li Xin could even hear their mother’s crying.
Li Xin reached his right arm to pat Li Xiang on his shoulder, “Brother, it’s okay. Mom was just too excited. It’s good to have you back. We will meet tonight.” He took the phone and said, “Mom, everything is fine, alright? Brother is with me and we will be at home in several hours. I’m about to get on the highway. Let’s talk when we meet tonight.” He hung up.
Li Xiang took a deep breath, sat back and looked outside the window, where cranes on the construction field caught his attention. “Wow, there are a lot of construction projects going on now.”
“Yes, the timing is quite right. Construction is surely a good business. Where there are projects, there are profits. Every single main road has been upgraded…for the Olympics” A ring interrupted his lecture. Li Xin looked at his phone screen and answered it impatiently.
“What on earth do you want this time? Didn’t I tell you not to bother me? What? Tang needs some money? Go find Accountant Zhang and wire some over. Hurry up! The bank will close soon. I need to show my brother around tonight so I won’t be home…Alright, that’s it.” He cut off the conversation even though apparently the other person had some more to ask.
“Your wife?”
“Yeah.” He sighed.
“The one who always went after you in college?” Li Xiang remembered a short-hair girl, Feng Miao, back in college and asked with a smile.
“Yes. I agreed to marry her after graduation. Her dad was an official at the city council and used his connections to get me a job.” Li Xin stuck out his right hand to find a CD of Buddhist Mantras. The rhythmic Buddhist blessings soon bounced around the car.
“And what happened with Wang Jing, have you ever seen her again?” Li Xiang recalled another girl. On many sunny spring days of the freshman year, she sat at the backseat of Li Xin’s bike with a collection of Shelley’s poetry in her hands. Her skirt waved along with the up and down of the road. And then the early summer came, and an expression of the sacred faith which inspired and burdened these young men to act for the sake of the country replaced the shy look on her face. Students started marching outside of the campus. One day when Li Xiang was about to pack up his stuff and head home, Wang Jing came to get Li Xin to do the demonstration with her. The beauty on Wang Jing’s face came from a pure passion for this nation’s future. Li Xiang knew then Li Xin would not go home with him. He left alone, always remembering her last line, “Xin, may you be a Decembrist and I your wife!” That hot summer pierced through the time and remained fresh in Li Xiang’s memory.
“Wang Jing, yeah, she is doing corporate financing in Hangzhou now. Damn it! Last time I asked her to raise some funds for the project at Hangzhou bay, and guess what? She asked me two percent more for commission! Let me tell you, those women… ”
This chunk of information flooded into Li Xiang’s ears much faster than he could pick it up. As soon as he figured out what was going on between his brother and Wang Jing, Li Xin broke it off. He lowered the window, stuck his head out and spat obnoxiously. The air on the highway flooded into the car. The loud noise dwarfed the Buddhist music sound.
“…Are so much greedier than men!” Li Xin sat back and made a final judgment on women of Wang Jing’s type. All those feelings of nostalgia about the old days were negated by this claim, and Li Xiang could do nothing but force a smile.
“Bro, don’t just ask about me. Tell me more about yourself. Remind me again how did you meet your wife?” Li Xin’s question broke the temporary silence.
“Lin Yi? She came to the US to study in 1993. And we got to know each other at school. Right then she wanted to get a status to stay. We were together first only to get her the greencard, but as time went by, the bond became real.”
“Interesting. Why didn’t you bring her and your kids back?”
“Nah, I came back first in case I faced any trouble with the customs.”
“Come on, bro. Don’t even worry about it. Nobody cares about that any more. Even if they stop you, you can just simply sign a form of disapproval to close the case. You are a US citizen; they pretty much can't touch you. And you didn’t participate anyway.”
Li Xiang found that after years of doing business, Li Xin became so eloquent with his speech that Li Xiang could not keep up. Searching for a new topic, he caught sight of the small golden Vajra hanging on the rearview mirror and asked, “You believe in Buddhism now?”
“I sure do. Nowadays in Beijing, people with money or power all believe in this. You heard about Yonghe Palace? On January the first, I went to burn the eighteenth incense of the year. Guess how much it cost? A hundred and eighty-eight grand! But it's worth it. All the projects I've been part of this year have gone so well. Bodhisattva does bless me.” Li Xin took his left hand off the wheel, closed both palms together and made a worship gesture.
Li Xiang could not stop thinking about the young Li Xin who wore a white shirt and a white headband, and who climbed up the base of the Memorial on the Square to wave a red flag. Who, when Li Xiang went to see him, fainted and fell into his embrace. Li Xin’s face had turned pale but he held Li Xiang’s hand tight. He spoke In a low and stern voice. “Once I go beyond the limits of my body, I don’t feel hungry anymore.” That was when Li Xin was thin but full of passion which only the youth of the 1980’s were entitled to. He used to only believe and value the rights men were born with, looking down on the gods and Buddha with contempt.
“I still have several Buddhist rosary beads blessed by monks. If you want, I can give some to you.” Li Xin’s cell rang for the third time. He glanced at the number, turned down the volume of the music, and cleared his throat before he spoke.
“Hey, sweetie…Of course I miss you so bad. Tonight? Yeah, I’m free. I was just about to call you to go out for dinner. My older brother just came back. My real brother, the assistant dean of Harvard University. So let’s meet at five, where I picked you up last time. Alright, I will call you when I get there…Yeah, me too…ehhh…hmmm…Bye.” Li Xin lowered his voice at the end of the conversation. After the call, for the first time he looked embarrassed.
Li Xiang was familiar with that look. In ninth grade, Li Xin wore a pair of Li Xiang’s new jeans to go to his first date without asking permission. On the way back he got into a fight with some boys and ruined the jeans. Li Xin had had the exact same look while explaining what had happened to his older brother. Thinking back to the middle school days, Li Xiang found it amusing, but he shook his head and said nothing.
Li Xin's embarrassment passed quickly and he started talking again, “Oh, bro, what are you exactly teaching at school? Tell me something about it, so I don't say something wrong about you when we meet her.”
“I teach Existentialism, and I personally do research on Sartre.”
“Sa…what? Who is that?”
“Sartre, the one who wrote books at prison camp. How could you forget about him?”
Li Xiang was surprised. Learning philosophy became very popular during their freshman year. They checked out L'Être et le néant from the library and read it together over the next two days. After finishing the reading, they went to have dinner. They were obsessed with the new way in which they perceived the world. Li Xin said something about how rice in a bowl could be interpreted as its existence—being in the dining bowl, which preceded its essence—being the food. A direct consequence of being a dinner philosopher was that they forgot the book at the hall. They had to pay the library five yuan, and they joked about how they had paid their dues to become Existentialists.
The car went off the highway and stopped at the traffic lights. Many people walked at a brisk pace across the road, while a woman pushing her bike lagged behind. She kept looking back as she was walking forward, as if she had lost something on the road.
“Hey, that was twenty years ago. We were simply fooling around back then. Speaking of being, I finally understand what it means to exist.” Li Xin blew the car horn to hurry the woman. She threw a frightened glance at Li Xin and scurried away.
“Did you see that? It is because I’m here, I toot my horn to drive her away, I therefore exist and she feels my existence. Look at those dudes hanging around the road shoulder. Who would notice them?” Li Xin stretched his arm to point at several men from the countryside who came to the city to make a living, mostly by working on the construction sites. The Buddhist rosary on his arm stuck in front of Li Xiang’s face, blocking his sight. Li Xiang lost the urge to continue the conversation as he felt an invisible wall separating him from Li Xin after eighteen years apart.
Li Xiang sat back, gazing out the window at what passed by. The car merged into the second ring road, passed the Lotus Pond and Fuxing Gate, and arrived at Muxidi Bridge. This was where the troops entered the city on June 4th. Li Xiang recalled the summer night when the entire nation drowned in the sadness. He saw beyond the modern skyscrapers the ashes of what had taken place in this now brand new business district. The gunshots, the people’s cries, the flames of the fire as it engulfed a bus and the marching troops all emerged from the shadows of his memory. At this moment, Li Xin said quietly, “Brother, thank you what you did for me.”
Li Xiang waited for Li Xin to elaborate. Even though he knew what that gratitude referred to, it wasn’t the sort of favor where he could simply say “you are welcome” in return. That was a decision he made in the night of June 5th of 1989, a single decision to put himself in exile in order to let his little brother stay with their mother. That was the boldest thing he had ever done. He felt he deserved to know more about the reality, about whether his sacrifice was worthwhile.
“Bro, I mean, you are the only one...I have never ever met people other than you, would make such a sacrifice for me. I mean, I know it, I know how much it meant to you.” Li Xin looked straight ahead, as if it were the only way he could let the genuine part of himself be exposed. “But I just couldn’t make up your loss, like you don’t really need money, I guess.”
Li Xiang’s heart twisted with those edgy feelings, jealousy, disappointment, sadness, weakness, and nostalgia, all in bits as small as the buckwheat skins inside the pillow he had at home in Beijing as a kid. At his last try, he turned his sight away from the window, stared at Li Xin, and dug deeper to uncover the answer that had been buried beneath the reality for so long. “If you had a choice, would you have fled yourself?”
“I...would. Once out, I would have gotten a green card and gone to Harvard. The economy was booming in 1990’s. I could have done much better than I’m doing now.” Li Xin holding the wheel tight with both hands, answered the question after a second of hesitation, yet without a glance at Li Xiang. That answer silenced Li Xiang for the rest of the drive.
2009年4月7日星期二
Peroe
A story about a village guard in middle ages in Italy who is to defend his village and his beloved.
The bandits were coming. Peroe, the only village guard of Albino, had been gazing at north for a long while. An ache started inside his neck, so he lowered his head and rolled his neck. The back of his neck made a “ka-ka” sound as he stretched it. He wrapped his sweaty left palm around the bow and pulled the bowstring back with two of his fingers. He didn’t draw back the string until his right elbow touched his ear, like what his teacher, Levitate, taught him. Instead, he released it half way in order that he may hear the sound of the bowstring swinging through the air. The sound broke the silence of the empty valley. There was nobody there except for him. About this time, the sun was right above his head, and the shadows shrank to their very minimum. He was waiting for the bandits to come, so he could shoot arrows at them. If they came close, he would pull out his sword and take an ox guard ready for some contacts. They could come at any time: before sunset, the next day, or not at all. But before they appeared at the end of the Piz Bernina pass, his watch for a plundering was a continuous series of anxiety and minor disappointments. However, he kept waiting.
There was a poor harvest this year in the north, as a result of half a year of droughts. It snowed right after October and a famine was expected. During famines, some bandits, who were normally tame peasants living off the mountains in a good year, would climb over Piz Bernina and loot around the area near Milan. Everybody in the village would be waiting, or more ironically, expecting the terror of the bandits’ blades to drive away their fear for the uncertainty of their future. “When will they come?” The same questions were asked by peasant children to their parents, then peasants to their landowners, then everyone to the priest Father Sarleno, and then Father Sarleno to God. Each time, the question was asked in a more serious and terrific voice. God might not answer Father Sarleno’s question, so he approached Peroe. Father Sarleno was an ugly man. It might be blasphemy to call an old priest ugly, but what else could one who saw Sarleno say if his face was deformed by several severe cuts of swords and hatchets? The tortures that were piled on Father Sarleno’s face made it look like a rotten apple dropped to the dusty ground after someone took a big bite out of it. This old man was about to raise some money to make an offering, which upset Peroe. The village paid him to be a village guard, so wouldn’t fighting against bandits be one of his obligations?
Peroe’s father Lucas, was a merchant from Venice who fell in love with his mother Bianca during his short stay at Albino. Lucas then extended his stay to a whole winter period before leaving for the north the next spring. However, he did not make it back. Bianca died while giving birth to their son and left the child for the whole village to take care of. Peroe went to learn archery and swordsmanship at the age of ten. He returned after mastering both in seven years. His teacher Levitate used to be a bowman in the mercenary in south Italy until he hurt his left knee at a shameful retreat. With a leaping leg, Levitate could not teach Peroe any beautiful moves. What Peroe learned was all basic, simple and lethal. He did not try them on the battle field as he found the battles meaningless. One day the mercenary would join with Duke of Milan and fight against the French, but the other day they would be hired by the French to point their weapons at the Italian. He could not find justice on either side, so he decided to go back to Albino with a guilt wish that he could practice these skills at some point.
Father Sarleno asked whether he wanted to farm when he came back. The church owned an abandoned farmland lot which nobody had farmed for long time, because it was too far from the well. Had he decided to become a peasant, it would only take a few years of persistent efforts before he was affluent enough to marry a wife and breed some children. Peroe pondered upon Sarleno’s offer for a moment, staring at the sword that stood against the wall of the shelter Father Sarleno found for him. The cross-guard of the sword pointed up like a bull angled his horns at Peroe. Peroe was afraid that after several years of ranch work, he would forget how to swing a sword and draw a bow like a real warrior. He figured that it was too early for him, his sword and bow to rest in peace.
“Then you could be a village guard,” Sarleno suggested. Peroe took little pay and patrolled at night to protect against thieves stealing cattle. Kids and young guys often tried to convince him to show some splendid moves, like Zornhau—the Strike of Wrath, swinging his sword to cut his enemy’s sword in the middle with a thunderous crash God often used to extinct His disobedient. Peroe, though, was never persuaded. He still remembered Levitate’s teaching, “do not mistake what earns you life with what earns applauses.” Levitate enforced this rule by hitting the back of Peroe’s knees with the flat of the sword, whenever Peroe was focusing more about how to throw a pretty strike rather than a solid one. Even more, Peroe never practiced in the village during the day-time either. Every night, after he had patrolled around the village twenty times and it was not long before the sunrise, he walked two miles towards Piz Biernna. The path led to a highland where the Piz Bernina pass started. A two-story tower was built there to give merchants a place to lodge before they headed up or came down the mountain. Three hundred steps away from this tower, the wide path narrowed into a one-man wide rugged path, which rose in height quickly and led into the woods.
From the highland, the view of Albino was rarely impeded. Peroe saw several rows of houses that stretched in all directions from the church in the center of the village. The bright moonlight casted a distorted shadow of a Holy cross on top of the church on the village ground, which looked more like an “X” rather than a “+”. Squares of farmlands after harvest scattered around the village. The main road which brought in the merchants from far away passed through the farmlands.
Peroe enjoyed the night scene of the village when he practiced swordsmanship and archery. He countered his imaged enemy with either Zwerchau-the Cross Strike or Middlehal—the Middle Cut. The point of the sword circled nicely, as Levitate commented before, just like drawing a circle with a quill pen on a diagonal plane that stood between him and his enemy. The sword swished through the air. It sounded louder and louder to Peroe as he indulged himself more and more into a cycling loop of moves: striking, pull-back, defending and resuming at guard. He was dripping with sweat before the day was dawning and it was time for him to go back.
As time passed, some young folks in the village began to modestly mock at Peroe’s self-perceived title as a swordsman. When he wandered around the village during the day, someone would often come up to him, bowed and said in a teasing manner, “Good day, Signore!” Peroe always blushed at the greeting. He darted a look at the girls gathered by the well on the village ground to do laundry, hoping that Veronica, the daughter of Leonardo, who was a landowner in the village, was not there. He begged quietly, “Stop it, please. Anteno, we grew up together. Why would you make fun of me like this?” The guy, who sometimes was Anteno and sometimes Conforti, laughed out and left asking, “Peroe, next time when you are about to fight against a thief, please let us know…”
Old folks in the village were more forgiving and never out-rightly questioned Peroe. He was, after all, a fine young man, and was absolutely capable of scaring away the thieves and ghosts at night.
Peroe was not happy about these suspicions, and knew that a perfect performance would solve all the questions and maybe gain him more attention from Veronica. Girls, including Veronica, were obsessed with Chivalric Romance. However, they always mistook those escorts coming along with the merchants lodging at the inn for knights. Peroe knew the difference between escorts and knights. Knights fought for justice and pride, while escorts and mercenary fought for money. He wanted a chance to show everyone the difference and the bandits were coming.
Peroe argued to persuade Father Sarleno. “Father Sarleno, all I need are, all the arrows in the village so that I can shoot, a shield so that I can defense, a flint and some oil-soaked straws so that I can start a fire to delay them and signal to the village. These are all the remedies I ask for to not postpone a fight to its very disadvantages to us. And then, let’s take an appeal to Heaven!” Peroe acted as if he were Cicero preaching in front of Senatus about the necessity of a war and he was amazed by his eloquence out of a longing for a just battle. However, it was the last sentence that really convinced Sarleno, who figured that Peroe volunteering to fight might be God’s will.
The words were quickly spread around. Many villagers came to greet Peroe, including Anteno and Conforti. He expected this. What he didn’t expect was an encounter with Veronica during a hot noon when the sun set high in the sky and the heat kept every other villager stay in. Peroe sat under an Olive tree, drowsing. Veronica suddenly tapped him on his shoulder from the side. He awoke with a happy surprise and yet did not know what to say.
“So, I heard that you are to fight against the bandits.” Veronica said as she sat down by him, with her knees bent up.
“Ye…yes, I just wanted to do something right for our village,” he replied.
“It was very brave of you.” Veronica said, turning her head to him and resting it on her knees. Her eyes were shining like water waves from a barrel bouncing around, reflecting the sunshine in small, broken bits.
Peroe was distracted by her eyes. “Oh, no…no…I mean yes, hmmm… I’m just doing my job.”
“So you are really good at bows? And swords?” Veronica’s voice was carrying a curiosity.
“Yes, I am. I can shoot a sparrow’s left eye from fifty steps away.” Peroe figured out a way to describe to Veronica how good he is.
“I wouldn’t want to see that. So who did you learn it from?”
“My teacher, Levitate. He fought for Duke of Florence before…” Peroe then went on to tell her the seven years he spent with Levitate. The story of how Levitate saved him, who was a ten-year-old boy, from a group of muggers amazed Veronica. Of course Peroe left out some details, like Levitate shoot all five muggers in the eyes. Also, the first thing Levitate asked Peroe to do after the battle was to recollect these arrows from the corpses, because he left the army and became a hunter and arrows were too expensive to be squandered. The time went by fast when Peroe recounted the good time he had with his tough but father-like feather. He sometimes paused and looked at the distance, thinking about the world outside the village and recalling the anxiety he felt when he went through all of those. One thing he felt happy about was that even when they were not talking, the moment of silence appeared comfortable to him, and probably same to her. That level of intimacy was something he could only dreamed of before. However, a destined question eventually came.
“So where is he now?” Veronica asked.
The nostalgia look on Peroe’s face faded and he knitted his eyebrows as a sign of sadness and seriousness. “He died, out of…black plague. I burned his body…I’m clean…I mean, I’m here alive.” He feared that this would scare Veronica away like a rabbit ran away hearing the hunters’ footsteps. But she didn’t react anything differently than before. She thought for a second and said, “ I think you should get baptized. God’s blessings could remove any devil curses. I’m getting baptized in a month, do you want to do it with me?”
“Yes,” Peroe answered hesitantly, but said the second half of the answer in mind: but only if I survive.
Veronica continued as if she could read his mind, “Peroe, I think you are settled in God’s hands. We all are. I know people made fun of you before because they couldn’t handle the truth that you are both their fellowman and a swordman, one who we used to know only in a distance. I trust that you have the strengths to protect us. I trust you. we all trust you.”
Peroe, for the first time, stared at her with gratitude, for her precise understanding. He found that she was not only pretty but also smart and perceptive. She could understand him and give him confidence like watering the lands.
“I have to go now. My sisters might be up now and I need to take care of them. My father doesn’t want me out that much. But he wants me to go to the inn more often. How ironic is that? He thinks a wealthy husband is all I need to have a happy life. I don’t know. I’m not that mature.” Peroe thought it was best for him to say nothing, as he was not that close to Leonardo to comment on this.
“Anyway, Peroe,” Before she got up, she leaned towards Peroe and kissed Peroe on his cheek, just like a sparrow landed on the ground for a short land and flew away. “Buona fortuna, Peroe.” Veronica ran away. Peroe was left there idling, ruminating every word of the conversation. Leonardo had always wanted his daughter to marry a Venetian merchant, so that her husband could take Veronica to big cities and enjoy a wealthy life. Being honest, Leonardo was nice to peasants, but was not nice enough to agree to marry his daughter to anyone of them. A village guard with no land to live off of would have a even smaller chance, but what if he defeated the bandits and saved the village?
The scorching heat in the valley reminded him of that noon when he talked with Veronica. Thinking of her, his heart bounced faster. His thought went beyond the near future and the coming attack. He could marry her. Also, if she demanded, he would move to Venice—even become an escort to offer her a happy life. This sort of day-dreaming pulled the trigger of ambition inside his body, and another voice of him had to jump in and say, “Stop it, Peroe. You have to focus on how to win the battle first. Forget about all other good things at this moment, for the sake of getting a chance to embrace them later on.”
A man riding a horse appeared at the turning of the mountain path. He was holding a sword. Then another two footmen, each holding spears. Then more people without horses appeared—some holding bows, some holding axes. They were all in rugged clothes. “The bandits are here?!” Peroe exclaimed. All the blood seemed to rush Peroe’s head as he fainted for a breathe or two. He took a deep breath and started counting the people and devising the action plan. There were eight people coming from three hundred steps away. His bow could reach two hundred steps and he could shoot three or four rounds before they came close. He would shoot at the man with the sword first, then the two men with bows. He would leave those with axes till later. But he had to kill the spearmen before they could reach him. Oh! He had to start the fire now to let the smoke rise. An arrow would slow them down to earn enough time. He picked up an arrow and the bow, and then pointed the bow down to attach the nock of the arrow to the bowstring with his index- and middle-fingers. He fully drew back the bowstring until the nock’s feather touched his right cheek, where Veronica kissed. He targeted at the horseman in the front, recalling Levitate’s words, “relax, take a deeper breath, be very confident about yourself…” “…because you know you are doing a right thing and God is always with you.” He repeated the teaching in his mind and released the fingers of his string hand.
After the village was rebuilt, Peroe’s tomb was placed by the two-story tower on the highland. A poem was engraved on his tombstone. A bard traveled by and sang this poem in every village of South Italy until every kid knew it. Anteno and Conforti left to join the army Duke of Florence called for defense against the French. Veronica fulfilled her father’s will and married a merchant from Venice. They led a very happy life.
“His yew bow
With silver string and oak arrow,
Poured down the Wrath of God
Upon those wicked and savage.
His steel sword,
Went after the throats of those
Who were damned to pillage and burn,
And established justice with the righteousness of Lord.
After the thunders and bolts,
The mandate of Heaven came down
And called upon him to serve the Almighty in his eternity.”
2009年3月9日星期一
你让我一路向北
你用手机铃声把我叫醒，你让送我的朋友去启动车子，我们要在七点半出发，因为早上去城区的路会拥堵。你又放上一些云朵在天上，往空气中喷一些水汽，让这个周一显得荫凉一些。我们路上很顺利，临到市内的转弯处却拥堵了，然而我还是感谢你的，因为我没有误我的火车，一路向北的火车。
我在上“海岸星光”号的最后一节车厢前向左看了一下，带着金边的乌云盘桓在天使之城，这是你为我准备的离别景致，我相信了。我上车了，座椅是一种蓝，我说是一种，因为随后我会看到许多其他的蓝。我没有想起初恋，我穿着帆布鞋，牛仔裤和粉红色的衬衫，我喜欢这样缓慢而有秩序的旅行，除了独自的这一点之外，我喜欢这样的旅行，但是我没有想起初恋。有一些旅行是比意料中要快乐的，有寥几是能重复地比意料中要快乐的，我开始把现在正在经历的这次，如同初恋一样的旅行，划入值得记忆的记忆。在不久以前，在我没有意识到你在我生命中的指点之前，我尝试自己计划过，自己计划自己的幸福，你告诉我那样会失败的，也的确如是。
你让我在多次的旅行中培养了可贵的品质，我会在座椅规律的摇摆和起伏中困倦而睡着。这次也一样。火车经过的城区总是丑陋的，轨道如同解剖刀一样顺着一些痛苦的角度把城市剖开，让乘客掩目而过。你理解我的，你让有些丑无法消失，但你让它们可以被避免。所以当我醒来，已经是一块块乱石嶙峋的山峦，绿草从石缝中伸展出来。你把这辆列车环绕着一些别墅群的后院开过，让我们都看到那些后院和游泳池，我们仿佛能比较一汪汪不同的蓝，直到进入隧道。
我随后便在一时睡一时醒中渡过，直到你把海放在我的窗外。我突然起身了，我害怕你会让我就这样一失神就跌下去了呢，那轨桥架得很高，我仿佛漂浮在岸上。我看到海，空旷，没有一点帆，那是太平洋。你让第一个命名者航行了三十三天而没有遇到风暴和恐惧，于是你让它在人间有了这样安乐的名字，太平洋。我看到砂地，砂地上有苔藓地衣蕨类的植物，绿色中夹杂着深红和土黄，这土地就爬到岸边去了，沿着蓝白色躺下来。那些蓝色啊，我除了海蓝色还有别的词汇吗，这说法徒然讨巧，我已沉默经年。
为什么这片海会这样五光十色的蓝呢？你把礁石点缀在浅滩上，创造出一种混杂了墨绿的幽蓝。当你清空澄澈的海水底下的波纹，那就是纯然的淡蓝，当你让波间带缩小，指引一道浪撞碎在另一道浪上，你就把海的Latte做好了。当我的目光放远，远来的光滤过层层叠叠的海水，那就是海身体的颜色了，许多诗人复述过的意象，海蓝，以惊天颜。纵然你自己也为这种美感到惊奇和欣喜，就像幼年的我总会半夜爬起来再看一眼我画的画，你再添上一道蓝色的分别，分离海和天的间隔。海鸟，你让它们飞翔起来，海岸穹曲，我看到有两朵冲浪伞在海上猎猎做响，一面是红白色的，而另一面，也是你属意的蓝和亮白。这便是我所看到的唯一两个在海上的人了。天际线上，隐约可见几塔钻井平台的影子，我惶恐，我们是否已经走得太远，走在了你的计划之外了呢？你用一种静默对我说无妨，我堪不破。
我也愿意去看地面，体察你是怎样把大地缝合起来的。我看到一道道伤痕，鼓囊囊的土坡沿着伤痕的边缘交错着，我努力去看是否那伤痕里有淡水被带到海里洗蓝，可是车窗的角度总是不对。这是沙漠吧，从落基山流下的雪水更有可能搁浅在半路上。但是向右看，有沃野千里，不见干涸。你总是给我们种植奇迹，又昭示我们去收割。不是因为我父亲，我不知道谶原来也是个幸运的词。那么你在果壳中给我筹划好的世界，又藏在哪颗核桃里呢？我祷告，我觉知，我想做一个买瓜的主妇，在一颗颗瓜外壁上轻轻敲，然后倾听—那朵属于我的蓝色藏在哪朵瓜里面呢？
四点五十六分，你让我的手机响起来。你派人送来这样的讯息，告诉我你为我准备的丰盛的计划中难解的一面。但是我在尝试理解，我也在感激，因为我对你说的话获得了你的回应，你挥舞着一对海鸥的翅膀向我致意。你借给我你的灵来武装我的柔软，让我生命中的云淡风轻构筑在你的计划上。我知道我总不能完完全全理解你的话，就像七岁的我不能理解故乡的外婆总把爸妈寄来好吃的藏在衣橱的深处，一天只吝啬地给我和弟弟一丁点。我不理解你怎样挥洒出那样窒人心魄的蓝，我不理解你怎样为这片蓝取一个恰如其分的名字，我不理解你怎样让我一路向北，正如一只记不清自己年龄的软体动物，你怎样让她明了旅行的意义呢？你把怀抱敞开，当时间还不是时间的时候苍老就点缀了那臂膊，你时刻准备着和我对话，从我婴儿咿呀的稚语中你努力把握到我的热望，那是多么艰难的一抹蓝色啊。你知道我原来想去北方，你知道你原来想让我想去北方，于是你指向那个方向，让我一路向北，并且预置一线蓝团绕我的足迹。
2009年1月30日星期五
A Still Life
A story influenced by Jack London’s “A Piece of Steak”
Every time James fights in the squared ring, he feels like dying. Something concrete starts filling up his lungs and rises up to his throat, while his heart is hitting his ribcage like those barbarians who beat drums before a combat. The thing usurps all the space in his throat against oxygen that he breathes in hard. The death approaches him in flesh, not as a still life but a creature, which hibernates inside his body most of the time. Once he starts fighting, it leaps out through his arteries, dancing and whispering, “I’m gonna get you here, James.” For every single breath, to disguise such a fierce battle inside, James needs to rob some air back with the gigantic nostrils on his stocky nose, which is ornamented by scars, cuts, and scratches, which are called Boxers’ Bling-bling. At the same time, he clenches his jaw muscle to bluff his enemy on how tough he is. The lack of oxygen reddens his eyes and usually works pretty well to intimidate whoever is facing him.
Tonight’s fight is longer than normal, but it’s still close to an end. It is the tenth round, and it might take one or two decisive blows to take his enemy, Alonso, down. James excels at right hooks, but Alonso has been keeping his chin low and his forehead leaning at James, which makes it hard for James to give him a chin punch. Alonso’s fists are well positioned, and he makes no unnecessary moves, unlike rookies. James needs to make him reposition then; he needs to show some weakness to invite Alonso in. That could be very dangerous, because Alonso’s blows are swift and strong enough to make real what James fakes.
James tries to balance his focus between the fight inside and the one outside. His throat is burning as if melted iron were flowing through it. James wants to pick up a knife and cut open his throat to let some breeze blow in and cool down the scorching heat. But he has to knock out Alonso first. James starts moving. He plans to throw a right punch, miss it, and pull back a few steps. The key is to lower his left defensive arm so as to leave an opening for a swing or a straight from Alonso. Alonso is too smart to miss this opportunity. And he doesn’t.
Alonso’s punch lands on James’ left eye socket, and James feels how his left eye is squished into his skull at that instant, and how the force shoots through James’ head. His eyesight is shadowed, but he cuts in his right arm between his face and Alonso’s, only a twinkling of an eye before Alonso’s left moves to block the uppercut. James sees his right fist fly towards Alonso’s chin slowly. Every quarter of a second, his mind sees a picture of his right fist en route. These pictures are shuffled in with some other scenes that he sees through his temporarily blind left eye.
He first sees vast inky darkness. Some parts of the darkness turn dark purple. These isolated parts become fluid and start flashing. And then they begin to connect and form amorphous figures. These figures reach to the back of his head and resonate with the pain James has inside. The pain wriggles around his throat and his lungs like white ants. To make things even worse, he has been deprived from oxygen for so long that a twinge irritates his noses and his stomach twitches. He is suffocating. The death comes up against him and looks straight into his half-shut left eye, sneering. And all he can do now is to hope that his arm can swing faster.
Boom! Alonso’s head bounces back and forth, as the blow, with the full swing of James’ arm, the explosive momentum of James’ body, and the agony of James’ simultaneous struggle, strikes at the soft part behind Alonso’s lower jaw. Alonso reels back and lands.
Now the fight stops and James can slow down his moves. He waits aside, resumes his breathes and enjoys the moment when he is regaining the advantage over the death. The referee counts the seconds into Alonso’s ear. After ten seconds, the referee stands up and raises James’ hand up in the air. James wins. For a moment, he wants to cry for his survival of both battles.
James then follows his seconds through a crowd of fans, who welcome their hero with slaps on the back and cheap flatteries despite his seconds’ attempt to hold them back. The fans disgust James. They have no idea what kind of a fight he is going through. They have no idea about his agony! None! He keeps walking cheerlessly, staring at the red “Fighters and Staff Only” sign over the door to the locker room. Selman, the secretary of the club comes close, rests his left hand on James’s right shoulder, and speaks into James’s right ear, “Nicely done, James. Bill wants to know when you are up for the next fight. We have one scheduled in two weeks, and we’re gonna double our bids on you, which means...”
“Let’s figure this out tomorrow. I need to get my inhaler now and you get the fuck out of my way!”
All of a sudden, James runs out of his fighting discipline. The death is running away from the battlefield, but throws him one or two malicious glances. A mixed feeling of weakness and comfort rises from James’ stomach, as he breathes more easily. The feeling that he is still alive softens his thighs and knees. He just wants to sit on the ground and relax alone.
Selman says nothing and starts to walk away. James pulls him back, “Remind me again how much my kid can get if I die in the next fight.” Selman does some calculations in his mind. “Three hundred grand if you’re winning or tied at that point.” Three hundred thousand dollars, James tells himself, it’s worth another deadly battle.
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