Copyright © Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press 2011

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Published by Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press

No. 19 Xisanhuan Beilu

Beijing, China 100089

http://www.fltrp.com

图书在版编目(CIP)数据

命若琴弦：汉英对照/史铁生著. —北京：外语教学与研究出版社，2011.12

（中国故事）

ISBN 978-7-5135-1570-2

I. (1)命…   II. (1)史…   III. (1)英语—汉语—对照读物 (2)短篇小说—中国—当代 (3)散文—中国—当代   IV. (1)H319.4:I

中国版本图书馆CIP数据核字 (2011) 第256248号

出版人：蔡剑峰

责任编辑：郝颖   王琳

封面设计：蔡曼

版式设计：高蕾

出版发行：外语教学与研究出版社

社址：北京市西三环北路19号 (100089)

网址：http://www.fltrp.com

版次：2011年12月第1版   2011年12月第1次印刷

书号：ISBN 978-7-5135-1570-2

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制售盗版必究  举报查实奖励

版权保护办公室举报电话：(010) 88817519

Multi-language Center for International Promotion of Chinese Language, Beijing Foreign Studies University

Chinese-English "China Stories"Series

北京外国语大学汉语国际推广多语种基地

中英对照“中国故事”丛书

Publisher's Note

"Once upon a time…”, such is the beginning of a story that may have accompanied many people through their childhood no matter what country they live in and what language they speak. When we grow up, we remain keen on one kind of stories or another. This is because stories always keep us at a fascinating distance: things that take place around us may drive home to us a timeless truth, while remote or illusory stories may as well be relevant to reality or reflect the problems of today.

However, if a story is linked with the name of a country, what can the listener expect from it?

The China Stories series is dedicated to those who are fond of stories and hope to know about China. The reason why we have chosen this way of storytelling is that while people nowadays may easily get to know a country by turning on the television, surfing the Internet or touching a cellphone screen, we believe stories make China look more vivid, serene and down-to-earth than media or political or economic commentators, historical archives or museums do.

Our stories or "storytellers" generally fall into two categories. Firstly, small works of big names in contemporary Chinese literature, such as The Love Story of a Young Monk by Wang Zengqi and Ah, xiangxue by Tie Ning; Secondly, Chinese tales told by writers from other lands from the "other" perspectives, like The Magic of the White Snake by the German freelancer Helmut Matt. The differences in settings, plots and the storytellers' personalities have added to the charisma of our stories. This China Stories series will maintain its openness by putting forth new stories, so as to present a rich, varied three-dimensional China to our readers. In this sense, this series is catered not only to foreign friends but also to Chinese-speaking natives so that they can observe this country from a fresh point of view.

Instead of lengthy narratives that may wear our readers down, the China Stories series is a collection of short stories and novellas that are meant for a pleasant reading experience, an experience that is made all the more delightful by our elaborately produced bilingual texts and beautiful illustrations.

Whether the storyteller or the listener comes from China or elsewhere, we believe that you can derive your own impression of China from these stories, and feel closer to it whether it was familiar or strange to you before you lay your hands on the China Stories series. So let's read China Stories, and get a taste of China from them.

Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press
August, 2011

出版说明

“很久很久以前……”，许多人的童年或许都伴随着这样开头的故事，无论她或他身处哪个国家，说着何种语言。当我们长大，依然热衷于各种故事。因为故事总是与人们保持一种远近适宜的奇妙距离：身边发生的故事有时能让人悟到恒久长远的道理，而遥远的甚至虚幻的故事又能使人联想到现实的处境，回应当下的问题。

而当故事与一个国家的名称联系在一起的时候，又会给听者一种怎样的期待？

《中国故事》系列丛书献给那些喜欢听故事并且希望了解中国的人们。之所以选择这种方式而不是别的——毕竟，现在想了解一个国家，打开电视，浏览互联网，或者触摸一下手机屏幕就可以做到——因为我们相信，比起新闻媒体、政经评论或者历史文献、博物馆陈列中的中国，也许故事所反映的那个中国来得更真切，更沉静，也更实在。

故事的来源，或者说“讲故事的人”大体有两类。一方面我们收集了现当代一些中国文学大家的小作品，例如汪曾祺的《受戒》，铁凝的《哦，香雪》；另一方面，来自中国以外的作者们基于“他者”的视角重述中国的传奇，例如德国赫尔穆特·马特先生的《白蛇传奇》。故事的背景和事件彼此不同，更因叙述者的个性特征而平添魅力，本系列还将不断推新以保持一种开放性。因此呈现给各位的这一套丛书应该是丰富和立体的，希望借此传达的中国形象也能更加真实、丰满。从这个意义上讲，丛书的目标读者应不仅仅限于海外的朋友，其实也包括以中文为母语的读者们，以便透过新鲜的角度来观察这个国家。

这里没有宏大的叙事，而是以中短篇小说的篇幅给读者绝不沉重的阅读体验。这种轻松感还将通过我们精心提供的双语文本和优美插图得到进一步的体会。

无论讲故事的人以及听故事的人是来自中国还是其他国家，我们都相信您能从故事中获得自己对于中国的印象，对这个已经熟悉或者还很陌生的国度，更多一点儿亲近——阅读中国的故事，品味故事中的中国。

外语教学与研究出版社
2011年8月

目录

- Strings of Life命若琴弦

- In the Temple of Earth我与地坛

Strings of Life
命若琴弦

Two blindmen walked single-file across the vast expanse of the mountain range, one old, the other young, their two blackened straw hats bobbing, the two of them darting forward as if they were drifting with the current of a restless river. It mattered little from where they came or where they were headed. Each of them carried a three-stringed banjo, and told stories to earn their livelihood.

The mountain stretched over several hundred kilometres in circumference, each peak stretching higher than the last; it was criss- crossed by gullies and ravines, and sparsely populated, so that one could walk a whole day and see only a single patch of open terrain dotted by villages. Passing by thickets of brush, at any time one might see pheasants spring up, or a rabbit or fox jump out, or other game. Hawks often circled above the valley floor. The sun beat down fiercely on the bleak, shadeless mountains.

"Keep hold of the banjo," the blind old man called out, and the sounds of his echo rang back from the facing mountain.

"Got it," the blind lad answered.

"Mind you don't let your sweat get on the banjo. If it gets wet we'll have to strum your ribs to make tonight's music? "

"It's right here in my hand."

莽莽苍苍的群山之中走着两个瞎子，一老一少，一前一后，两顶发了黑的草帽起伏躜动，匆匆忙忙，像是随着一条不安静的河水在漂流。无所谓从哪儿来，也无所谓到哪儿去，每人带一把三弦琴，说书为生。

方圆几百上千里的这片大山中，峰峦叠嶂，沟壑纵横，人烟稀疏，走一天才能见一片开阔地，有几个村落。荒草丛中随时会飞起一对山鸡，跳出一只野兔、狐狸，或者其他小野兽。山谷中常有鹞鹰盘旋。

寂静的群山没有一点阴影，太阳正热得凶。

“把三弦子抓在手里。”老瞎子喊，在山间震起回声。

“抓在手里呢。”小瞎子回答。

“操心身上的汗把三弦子弄湿了。弄湿了晚上弹你的肋条？”

“抓在手里呢。”

Senior and junior, both half-naked, each carried a stick to feel his way. Their coarse cloth coats tied up around their waists were soaked through with sweat and their steps stirred up a choking dust. It was peak season for storytelling —days were long, and after dinner the villagers all lounged outdoors; some of them even carried their bowls out to eat by the roadside or on the village common. The elder blindman was eager to get in as much story-telling as possible; during the heat of summer he had dragged the blind lad from village to village performing night after night. The old man grew more nervous and excited by the day. By his reckoning, the day he would play through his thousandth string might yet be this summer, and maybe it would happen right up ahead in Goat Valley.

The shadows lengthened as the day's blistering sun retreated from its attack on the earth. Cicadas everywhere relaxed and quieted their voluminous drone.

"Boy! Can't you walk any faster?" the old man called from ahead without slowing his pace. As the lad ran a few steps forward his satchel banged against his rump with a clatter and he failed to close the gap between him and the old man.

"The wild pigeons are all headed for their nests."

"What?" the lad again quickened his step.

"I said the pigeons have already returned to their nests, and you're still dragging."

老少二人都赤着上身，各自拎了一条木棍探路，缠在腰间的粗布小褂已经被汗水洇湿了一大片。䠀起来的黄土干得呛人。这正是说书的旺季。天长，村子里的人吃罢晚饭都不呆在家里；有的人晚饭也不在家里吃，捧上碗到路边去，或者到场院里。老瞎子想赶着多说书，整个热季领着小瞎子一个村子一个村子紧走，一晚上一晚上紧说。老瞎子一天比一天紧张、激动，心里算定：弹断一千根琴弦的日子就在这个夏天了，说不定就在前面的野羊坳。

暴躁了一整天的太阳这会儿正平静下来，光线开始变得深沉。远远近近的蝉鸣也舒缓了许多。

“小子！你不能走快点吗？”老瞎子在前面喊，不回头也不放慢脚步。

小瞎子紧跑几步，吊在屁股上的一只大挎包叮啷哐啷地响，离老瞎子仍有几丈远。

“野鸽子都往窝里飞啦。”

“什么？”小瞎子又紧走几步。

“我说野鸽子都回窝了，你还不快走！”

"Oh. "

"Are you playing with that electric box of mine again?"

"Oh no! The damn thing moved."

"Those headphones are going to break if you tinker with them like that."

"The damn thing moved."

The old man laughed darkly: how many days had this boy been born now? "I can even hear ants fighting," he boasted.

The lad was not going to argue; he quietly slipped the headphones inside his satchel and trailed the old man along the dull, endless road.

After a while the lad heard the sound of a badger gnawing away at some field grain. He growled out his best imitation of a dog's bark; the badger rolled, crawled, and ran to make its escape. Feeling cheered, the lad softly sang a few bars from a love song. Master wouldn't let him keep a dog because he feared it might fight with villagers' dogs and thus affect their business. A little later, the lad heard the slithering of a snake not far off. After leaning over and groping for stones on the ground, he chucked one toward the snake, sending a loud rustle through the sorghum leaves. The old man took pity and stopped to let him catch up.

“噢。”

“你又鼓捣我那电匣子呢。”

“噫—！鬼动来。”

“那耳机子快让你鼓捣坏了。”

“鬼动来！”

老瞎子暗笑：你小子才活了几天？“蚂蚁打架我也听得着。”老瞎子说。

小瞎子不争辩了，悄悄把耳机子塞到挎包里去，跟在师父身后闷闷地走路。无尽无休的无聊的路。

走了一阵子，小瞎子听见有只獾在地里啃庄稼，就使劲学狗叫，那只獾连滚带爬地逃走了，他觉得有点开心，轻声哼了几句小调儿，哥哥呀妹妹的。师父不让他养狗，怕受村子里的狗欺负，也怕欺负了别人家的狗，误了生意。又走了一会，小瞎子又听见不远处有条蛇在游动，弯腰摸了块石头砍过去，“哗啦啦”一阵高粱叶子响。老瞎子有点可怜他了，停下来等他。

"If it's not badgers, it's snakes," the lad hastened to explain, fearing his master would curse him.

"There's a field coming up, not too far." The old man passed a water jug to his apprentice.

"In our trade, a fellow walks his whole lifetime." Then he added, "Tired?" The lad didn't answer; he knew Master hated it when he said he was tired.

"My master never got his due. He played his whole life without going through a thousand strings."

Observing the old man was in a better mood, the lad asked, "What's a green lounge chair?"

"What? Oh, it's most likely a kind of chair, I suppose."

"What's a twisting corridor?"

"A corridor? What kind of corridor?"

"A twisting corridor."

"I don't know."

"They said it on the radio."

"All you like is listening to that toy. What good does it do you? The world is full of nice things, but what do they have to do with us?"

“除了獾就是蛇。”小瞎子赶忙说，担心师父骂他。

“有了庄稼地了，不远了。”老瞎子把一个水壶递给徒弟。

“干咱们这营生的，一辈子就是走，”老瞎子又说，“累不？”

小瞎子不回答，知道师父最讨厌他说累。

“我师父才冤呢。就是你师爷，才冤呢，东奔西走一辈子，到了没弹够一千根琴弦。”

小瞎子听出师父这会儿心绪好，就问：“什么是绿色的长乙（椅）?"

“什么？噢，八成是一把椅子吧。”

“曲折的油狼（游廊）呢？”

“油狼？什么油狼？”

“曲折的油狼。”

“不知道。”

“匣子里说的。”

“你就爱瞎听那些玩艺儿。听那些玩艺儿有什么用？天底下的好东西多啦，跟咱们有什么关系？”

"I've never heard you say just what does have something to do with us?" The lad drew out the word "does".

"The banjo! Your dad sent you with me so you could learn to play the banjo and tell stories."

The lad gurgled loudly as he drank from the bottle, and when they started off again he walked in front.

Shadows from the mountains spread across the valley. Gradually the terrain levelled off and opened up.

Drawing near the village the old man called the lad to stop by a spring in the shadows of the mountain. A trickle of water spurted from a crack in the rock face and dribbled down into a depression the size of a wash basin. On all sides the weeds flourished, but several metres away the thirsty, barren soil soaked up what little remained of the water flow.

"Come on over and wash the sweat off your back and face."

The lad brushed aside the weeds and squatted down by the pool of water —he was still trying to guess what "corridoor" might mean.

"Give your whole body a scrubbing. You must look like a little beggar."

“我就没听您说过，什么跟咱们有关系。”小瞎子把“有”字说得重。

“琴！三弦子！你爹让你跟了我来，是为让你弹好三弦子，学会说书。”

小瞎子故意把水喝得咕噜噜响。

再上路时小瞎子走在前头。

大山的阴影在沟谷里铺开来。地势也渐渐地平缓、开阔。

接近村子的时候，老瞎子喊住小瞎子，在背阴的山脚下找到一个小泉眼。细细的泉水从石缝里往外冒，淌下来，积成脸盆大的水洼，周围的野草长得茂盛，水流出去几十米便被干渴的土地吸干。

“过来洗洗吧，洗洗你那身臭汗味。”

小瞎子拨开野草在水洼边蹲下，心里还在猜想着“曲折的油狼”。

“把浑身都洗洗。你那样儿准像个小叫花子。”

"Are you anything more than an old beggar?" The lad giggled as he dipped his hands in the water. The old man, pulling his hands from the pool to splash water on his face, laughed, too. "But we're not beggars; we're artisans."

"It seems like we've been to this place before." The lad cupped his ear to listen to the sounds around him.

"But your mind's not on learning your craft. Your young heart is too full of wild ambitions. You never listen to what your elders tell you."

"I'm sure we've been here before."

"Don't interrupt! You still can't play the banjo worth a hoot. Our life is in these strings. That's what my master once told me."

Feeling the refreshing coolness of the spring, the lad began singing his tune about young lovers again. The old man barked at him, "Did you hear what I said?"

"Our lives are these strings; your master said so. I've heard it eight hundred times. And your master left you a medical prescription which you can't get until you've played through a thousand strings. And once you take the medicine you'll be able to see again. I've heard you say it a thousand times."

"You don't believe it?"

"Why should you have to go through a thousand strings before you can get the medicine?"

“那您不就是个老叫花子了？”小瞎子把手按在水里，嘻嘻地笑。

老瞎子也笑，双手掏起水往脸上泼。“可咱们不是叫花子，咱们有手艺。”

“这地方咱们好像来过。”小瞎子侧耳听着四周的动静。

“可你的心思总不在学艺上。你这小子心太野。老人的话你从来不着耳朵听。”

“咱们准是来过这儿。”

“别打岔！你那三弦子弹得还差着远呢。咱这命就在这几根琴弦上，我师父当年就这么跟我说。”

泉水清凉凉的。小瞎子又哥哥呀妹妹地哼起来。

老瞎子挺来气：“我说什么你听见了吗？”

“咱这命就在这几根琴弦上，您师父我师爷说的。我都听过八百遍了。您师父还给您留下一张药方，您得弹断一千根琴弦才能去抓那付药，吃了药您就能看见东西了。我听您说过一千遍了。”

“你不信？”

小瞎子不正面回答，说：“干吗非得弹断一千根琴弦才能去抓那付药呢？”

"That's what makes the medicine go down. You clever devil, you can't take medicine without it."

"What's so tough about getting a thousand broken strings?" The lad couldn't help but sneer.

"What are you laughing at? What is it that you think you know? It won't work unless you earnestly play through them, one at a time." The lad did not dare make a sound; he could sense his master's indignation. It always happened this way; the master could not tolerate any questioning of his beliefs.

The old man said nothing more, but he seemed distracted. With his hands resting on his kneecaps and his bonelike eyes facing the sky, he appeared to be ruminating on all those broken strings. Oh, longing for so many years, thought the man. Longing for fifty years! In fifty years how many mountains and miles had he tracked? How much exposure to the sun and cold had he suffered? How many indignities? Night after night he had played, ever mindful that it would not do unless he went through new strings one by one, playing with his whole heart. Now the goal of his hopes would soon come to pass, for he was certain to finish his thousand strings by summer's end. "How much more fortunate I am than my master," he declared. "Right until the very end he didn't have a chance to open his eyes and see even once."

"Hey! I know where we are," burst out the lad.

“那是药引子。机灵鬼儿，吃药得有药引子！”

“一千根断了的琴弦还不好弄？”小瞎子忍不住嗤嗤地笑。

“笑什么笑！你以为你懂得多少事？得真正是一根一根弹断了的才成。”

小瞎子不敢吱声了，听出师父又要动气。每回都是这样，师父容不得对这件事有怀疑。

老瞎子也没再作声，显得有些激动，双手搭在膝盖上，两颗骨头一样的眼珠对着苍天，像是一根一根地回忆着那些弹断的琴弦。盼了多少年了呀，老瞎子想，盼了五十年了！五十年中翻了多少架山，走了多少里路哇，挨了多少回晒，挨了多少回冻，心里受了多少委屈呀。一晚上一晚上地弹，心里总记着，得真正是一根一根尽心尽力地弹断的才成。现在快盼到了，绝出不了这个夏天了。老瞎子知道自己又没什么能要命的病，活过这个夏天一点不成问题。“我比我师父可运气多了，”他说，“我师父到了没能睁开眼睛看一回。”

“咳！我知道这地方是哪儿了！”小瞎子忽然喊起来。

That prompted the old man to pick up his banjo and give it a shake. A piece of paper scraped against the snakeskin soundboard; that paper in the belly of his banjo was the prescription.

"Master, isn't this Goat Hill?" asked the lad.

The old man made no reply; he could tell the lad was getting excited.

"Master, Goat Valley's just up ahead, isn't it?"

The old man bent his already hunched back still further and called, "Boy, come over here and swab my back."

"Master, is this Goat Valley or not?"

"Yes! What of it? Stop whining like a kitten."

The lad's heart thumped and he obediently scrubbed his master's back. The old man felt vigor in the boy's movements.

"What if it is Goat Valley? Don't you go sniffing around like a donkey again."

The lad timidly kept silent to conceal his elation.

"Now what are you thinking about? Don't think I don't know what's on your mind."

"What did I do?"

老瞎子这才动了动，抓起自己的琴来摇了摇，叠好的纸片碰在蛇皮上发出细微的响声，那张药方就在琴槽里。

“师父，这儿不是野羊岭吗？”小瞎子问。

老瞎子没搭理他，听出这小子又不安稳了。

“前头就是野羊坳，是不是，师父？”

“小子，过来给我擦擦背。”老瞎子说，把弓一样的脊背弯给他。

“是不是野羊坳，师父？”

“是！干什么？你别又闹猫似的。”

小瞎子的心扑通扑通跳，老老实实地给师父擦背。老瞎子觉出他擦得很有劲。

“野羊坳怎么了？你别又叫驴似的会闻味儿。”

小瞎子心虚，不吭声，不让自己显出兴奋。

“又想什么呢？别当我不知道你那点心思。”

“又怎么了，我？”

"What did you do? Didn't you go crazy enough last time we were here? That girl isn't worth a damn!" Maybe I shouldn't have brought him to Goat Valley again, the old man thought to himself. But this is a big village; year after year the business is good enough to tell stories for half a month. How he wished he could play through the last few strings all at once. Meanwhile, the lad's heart was palpitating with thoughts of the girl with the piercing voice.

"Listen to me a second; it won't hurt you," the old man said.

"That one's not dependable."

"What one?"

"Don't get smart with me. You know what I'm talking about."

"It's just that I've never heard you say what is dependable." The lad held back a laugh.

The old man paid him no mind and he again turned his bonelike eyes toward the sky. The sun appeared to him like a circle of blood. One of them was young, the other bony and thin, like the craggy, exposed rocks at the base of a mountain. The old blind man was aged seventy, the blind lad, seventeen. At the age of fourteen the lad's father had entrusted him to the care of the old man, with whom he was to learn the art of storytelling and thus have a means to support himself.

“怎么了你？上回你在这儿疯得不够？那妮子是什么好货！”老瞎子心想，也许不该再带他到野羊坳来。可是野羊坳是个大村子，年年在这儿生意都好，能说上半个多月。老瞎子恨不能立刻弹断最后几根琴弦。

小瞎子嘴上嘟嘟囔囔的，心却飘飘的，想着野羊坳里那个尖声细气的小妮子。

“听我一句话，不害你，”老瞎子说，“那号事靠不住。”

“什么事？”

“少跟我贫嘴。你明白我说的什么事。”

“我就没听您说过，什么事靠得住。”小瞎子又偷偷地笑。

老瞎子没理他，骨头一样的眼珠又对着苍天。那儿，太阳正变成一汪血。

两面脊背和山是一样的黄褐色。一座已经老了，嶙峋瘦骨像是山根下裸露的基石。另一座正年青。老瞎子七十岁，小瞎子才十七。

小瞎子十四岁上父亲把他送到老瞎子这儿来，为的是让他学说书，这辈子好有个本事，将来可以独自在世上活下去。

The old man had been storytelling for over fifty years, and everyone in this remote, desolate, mountain region knew him. Each day his hair grew greyer and his back more hunched. Month after month and year after year he carried his three-stringed banjo everywhere, stopping wherever lonely villagers were willing to pay for the entertainment of his banjo and stories.

His opening lines were often just so:

Ever since Pan Gu's division of heaven and earth,

The emperors have ruled through the ages.

When the Way prevailed, they ruled peacefully;

But when the Way was absent, they oppressed the peasants.

Lightly I pluck my three-stringed banjo, slowly I pause to tell a story;

I have three thousand seven hundred stories,

I wonder which one will stir your hearts tonight?

Thereupon the audience would call out their choices: "Dong Yong sells himself to bury his father" for the old; "Wu Erlang's Midnight Raid of Centipede Mountain" for the young; and tales of the industrious and courageous maiden Qin Xianglian for the girls. That was the moment which gave the old blind man greatest pleasure; when he would forget about the fatigue of his body and the loneliness in his heart, and, cool and composed, take a few sips of water while waiting for the noise of the crowd to build, then suddenly slam his fingers into the strings and bellow: "Today I'll sing no other ballad but 'The Prince Luo Cheng', [1] or I'll drink my tea and smoke my tobacco, then I'll sing the ballad of the woman whose tears felled the Great Wall. " [2]  The whole square would fall silent, and the old man would immerse himself in the spirit of the story. He knew a countless number of old tales. He even had an electric box, too; rumour had it that he had spent a great sum to buy it — from an outsider who lived well beyond the mountains — in order to learn new stories.

Actually, the mountain villagers cared little what stories he sang and told. They all praised his playing of the three-stringed banjo as being skillful, graceful, yet with a wonderful touch of uninhibited madness as if his music carried the spirit of the sun, the moon and the people of the earth. Blind since birth and thus aurally attuned, the old man could simulate the sound of nearly anything, including men and women, wind and rain, beast and fowl.

老瞎子说书已经说了五十多年。这一片偏僻荒凉的大山里的人们都知道他：头发一天天变白，背一天天变驼，年年月月背一把三弦琴满世界走，逢上有愿意出钱的地方就拨动琴弦唱一晚上，给寂寞的山村带来欢乐。开头常是这么几句：“自从盘古分天地，三皇五帝到如今，有道君王安天下，无道君王害黎民。轻轻弹响三弦琴，慢慢稍停把歌论，歌有三千七百本，不知哪本动人心。”于是听书的众人喊起来，老的要听董永卖身葬父，小的要听武二郎夜走蜈蚣岭，女人们想听秦香莲。这是老瞎子最知足的一刻，身上的疲劳和心里的孤寂全忘却，不慌不忙地喝几口水，待众人的吵嚷声鼎沸，便把琴弦一阵紧拨，唱道：“今日不把别人唱，单表公子小罗成。”或者：“茶也喝来烟也吸，唱一回哭倒长城的孟姜女。”满场立刻鸦雀无声，老瞎子也全心沉到自己所说的书中去。

他会的老书数不尽。他还有一个电匣子，据说是花了大价钱从一个山外人手里买来，为的是学些新词儿，编些新曲儿。其实山里人倒不太在乎他说什么唱什么。人人都称赞他那三弦子弹得讲究，轻轻曼曼的，飘飘洒洒的，疯癫狂放的，那里头有天上的日月，有地上的生灵。老瞎子的嗓子能学出世上所有的声音，男人、女人、刮风下雨，兽啼禽鸣。不知道他脑子里能呈现出什么景象，他一落生就瞎了眼睛，从没见过这个世界。

The blind lad had once seen the world, but only for his first three years, and so he hardly could have interpreted what he saw. He was little interested in playing the banjo and telling stories. The day his father brought him to live with the old blind man, despite his attempts to explain and plead with him, even deceive him, the lad had refused. But in the end his enchantment with that electric box enticed him to stay. He had clung to that box and let its sounds flow into his spirit, so much so that he failed to notice when his father departed.

This mysterious box fascinated him; its endless talk of unfamiliar places and alien affairs fired his imagination, and aroused his fuzzy memories of colours and shapes. For instance, the box had said the sea was a body of water, boundless as the blue sky. Having once seen both water in a pot and the blue sky, he could imagine the sea as a huge pot of water which stretched as wide as the sky. Or beautiful girls; the box had described them as flowers in bloom but he refused to believe it — flowers were what he had seen when his mother's coffin was carried far into the mountains. But he wanted to think about girls; more and more he wanted to think about girls, especially that girl with piercing voice at Goat Valley — thinking about her always set his heart aflame. But once the box had sung, "A girl's eyes are like the sun," then he had a suitable image in mind, an image of his mother approaching him, silhouetted against the brilliant red sunset. Like everyone else, the lad used his limited knowledge to make inferences about the limitless world. But there was always something the blind lad could not imagine, such as a "twisting corridor."

小瞎子可以算见过世界，但只有三年，那时还不懂事。他对说书和弹琴并无多少兴趣，父亲把他送来的时候费尽了唇舌，好说歹说连哄带骗，最后不如说是那个电匣子把他留住。他抱着电匣子听得入神，甚至没发觉父亲什么时候离去。

这只神奇的匣子永远令他着迷，遥远的地方和稀奇古怪的事物使他幻想不绝，凭着三年朦胧的记忆，补充着万物的色彩和形象，譬如海，匣子里说蓝天就像大海，他记得蓝天，于是想象出海；匣子里说海是无边无际的水，他记得锅里的水，于是想象出满天排开的水锅。再譬如漂亮的姑娘，匣子里说就像盛开的花朵，他实在不相信会是那样，母亲的灵柩被抬到远山上去的时候，路上正开遍着野花，他永远记得却永远不愿意去想。但他愿意想姑娘，越来越愿意想；尤其是野羊坳的那个尖声细气的小妮子，总让他心里荡起波澜。直到有一回匣子里唱道，“姑娘的眼睛就像太阳”，这下他才找到了一个贴切的形象，想起母亲在红透的夕阳中向他走来的样子，其实人人都是根据自己的所知猜测着无穷的未知，以自己的感情勾画出世界。每个人的世界就都
不同。

也总有一些东西小瞎子无从想象，譬如“曲折的油狼”。

That evening the lad had accompanied the old man in telling stories at Goat Valley. Again he had heard that young girl standing not far from him as she laughed in her distinctive voice when their story reached its climax:

Luo Cheng rode his horse back to engage them in battle,

Courageous Su Lie answered with his army.

Su Lie's broadsword darted and flashed like a glittering stream,

Luo Cheng's lance soared through the air like a thunderbolt.

They appeared as two dragons at sea competing for a treasure,

Or two tigers deep in the mountains battling for the pride.

They fought for seven days and seven nights,

And not a drop of tea touched Luo Cheng's lips.

On his banjo the old man played the sounds of the driving rain and howling wind as he sang each word and phrase in a sonorous, forceful voice. But the lad was so distracted that he played out of tune.

这天晚上，小瞎子跟着师父在野羊坳说书，又听见那小妮子站在离他不远处尖声细气地说笑。书正说到紧要处—

“罗成回马再交战，大胆苏烈又兴兵。苏烈大刀如流水，罗成长枪似腾云，好似海中龙吊宝，犹如深山虎争林。又战七日并七夜，罗成清茶无点唇……”老瞎子把琴弹得如雨骤风疾，字字句句唱得铿锵。小瞎子却心猿意马，手底下早乱了套数……

At the crest of Goat Hill, one kilometre from Goat Valley, was a small temple in which the master and his apprentice stayed. Some of the stone wall circling the temple had fallen in, leaving breaches; several rooms in the temple had severe warps in floors and walls and were pockmarked with holes both large and small. Only the large room at the centre could still keep out the wind and rain, presumably because in this room offerings were still made to the spirits. Three clay statues had long ago lost the decorous colourings of the mortal world and were thus left naked in their natural yellow earth tones, having returned to the simple and true, neither one distinguishable as clearly Buddhist or Taoist statues. In the courtyard and on the roofs and walls various weeds sprouted, so lush and flourishing that they supplied a strange vitality to the place. Each time the old man returned to Goat Valley he stayed here at no charge and without hassle. It was the lad's second time at the temple.

Having finished storytelling quite late, the two of them set to work soon after arriving at the temple; the old man found a place for their baggage in the main hall while the lad busied himself building a fire to boil water beneath the caves of an adjacent hall. The stove they had made last time they had stayed here only needed some minor repairs. Bent at the waist, buttocks high in the air, the lad blew on the tiny fire. The smoke sent up by moist grass and kindling choked him and he reeled around the courtyard coughing violently. The old man chided, "Don't you know how to do anything right?"

野羊岭上有一座小庙，离野羊坳村二里地，师徒二人就在这里住下。石头砌的院墙已经残断不全，几间小殿堂也歪斜欲倾百孔千疮，唯正中一间尚可遮蔽风雨，大约是因为这一间中毕竟还供奉着神灵。三尊泥像早脱尽了尘世的彩饰，还一身黄土本色返朴归真了，认不出是佛是道。院里院外、房顶墙头都长满荒藤野草，蓊蓊郁郁倒有生气。老瞎子每回到野羊坳说书都住这儿，不出房钱又不惹是非。小瞎子是第二次住在这儿。

散了书已经不早，老瞎子在正殿里安顿行李，小瞎子在侧殿的檐下生火烧水。去年砌下的灶稍加修整就可以用。小瞎子撅着屁股吹火，柴草不干，呛得他满院里转着圈咳嗽。

老瞎子在正殿里数叨他：“我看你能干好什么。”

"But the wood's wet!"

"I'm not talking about that, I'm talking about your banjo; what do you think of the way you played tonight?"

The lad refused to take the bait. Having caught his breath, he returned to kneel by the fire, and, puffing out his cheeks, blew a monstrous breath on the embers.

"If you don't want to ply this trade, then we can send for your father to take you home now. This cat-and-dog attitude won't do!"

Coughing as he jumped back from the fire, the lad ended up after a few confused hops at the other side of the courtyard, again gasping for breath and cursing.

"What's that you're saying?"

"I'm cursing this fire."

"Is that the way to blow on it?"

"How else should I blow?"

"How should you blow? Hmph!" The old man paused a moment, then said, "Blow as if this fire were the face of that girl of yours."

The lad again did not venture a reply, and instead knelt by the fire to blow, silently wondering about Lanxiu's appearance.

“柴湿嘛。”

“我没说这事。我说的是你的琴，今儿晚上的琴你弹成了什么？”

小瞎子不敢接这话茬儿，吸足了几口气又跪到灶火前去，鼓着腮帮子一通猛吹。“你要是不想干这行，就趁早给你爹捎信把你领回去。老这么闹猫闹狗的可不行，要闹回家闹去。”

小瞎子咳嗽着从灶火边跳开，几步蹿到院子另一头，呼嗤呼嗤大喘气，嘴里一边骂。

“说什么呢？”

“我骂这火。”

“有你那么吹火的？”

“那怎么吹？”

“怎么吹？哼，”老瞎子顿了顿，又说，“你就当这灶火是那妮子的脸！”

小瞎子又不敢搭腔了，跪到灶火前去再吹，心想：真的，不知道兰秀儿的脸什么样。那个尖声细气的小妮子叫兰秀儿。

"If the fire were that girl's face, I think you'd know how to blow without being shown." The lad began to laugh, and the more he laughed, the more he coughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Have you ever blown on a woman's face?"

The old man was struck dumb for an instant. The lad fell to the ground roaring with laughter. "Ah, to hell with it!" The old man cursed and laughed, then his expression changed and he said no more.

The flames inside the stove leapt up with a crackle. The lad went over to add wood but his mind was on Lanxiu. Just after they'd finished the storytelling, Lanxiu had squeezed over in front of him and softly said, "Hey! What was it you promised me last time?" With his master so near he dared not speak, but a moment later the force of the thronging crowd pushed Lanxiu up against him. "Eh? When I gave you that boiled egg for nothing?" She spoke louder this time. Meanwhile his master was busy chatting to some men, so he quickly said, "Shhh — I still remember." Lanxiu lowered her voice again, "You promised to let me hear the electric box, but you haven't yet."

"Shhh, I still remember."

“那要是妮子的脸，我看你不用教也会吹。”老瞎子说。

小瞎子笑起来，越笑越咳嗽。

“笑什么笑！”

“您吹过妮子脸？”

老瞎子一时语塞。小瞎子笑得坐在地上。“日他妈！”老瞎子骂道，笑笑，然后变了脸色，再不言语。

灶膛里腾地一声，火旺起来。小瞎子再去添柴，一心想着兰秀儿。才散了书的那会儿，兰秀儿挤到他跟前来小声说：“哎，上回你答应我什么来？”师父就在旁边，他没敢吭声。人群挤来挤去，一会儿又把兰秀儿挤到他身边。“噫，上回吃了人家的煮鸡蛋倒白吃了？”兰秀儿说，声音比上回大。这时候师父正忙着跟几个老汉拉话，他赶紧说：“嘘—，我记着呢。”兰秀儿又把声音压低：“你答应给我听电匣子你还没给我听。”“嘘—，我记着呢。”幸亏那会儿人声嘈杂。

No sound issued from the temple's main hall for a long while. Later the banjo sounded; the old man had just put on a new string. He should have been happy — after a single night at Goat Valley he had already gone through a string — but in fact the voice of his banjo sang out sad and strident.

The lad, having detected the mournful tone, called from the courtyard, "Master, the water's boiled."

No answer. The playing of the banjo sounded ever more strained.

The lad carried a basin of hot water into the room, placed it before the master, and forced a laugh, saying, "How come you're trying to play through a second string tonight?"

Preoccupied by thoughts of his past, the old man failed to hear him. The banjo sang out its troubled, restless tune as if it were telling of the wind and rain of each year in the wilderness, or of the countless brooks and rivulets winding throughout the mountains and valleys, or the hurried pit-a-pat of steps made by feet which knew no home. The lad grew slightly alarmed; it had been a long, long time since the master had been like this. Each time he would be racked with chest pains, general body aches, and it would be several months before he could get out of bed.

"Master, perhaps you should wash your feet first."

He continued playing.

正殿里好半天没有动静。之后，琴声响了，老瞎子又上好了一根新弦。他本来应该高兴的，来野羊坳头一晚上就又弹断了一根琴弦。可是那琴声却低沉、零乱。

小瞎子渐渐听出琴声不对，在院里喊：“水开了，师父。”

没有回答。琴声一阵紧似一阵了。

小瞎子端了一盆热水进来，放在师父跟前，故意嘻嘻笑着说：“您今晚还想弹断一根是怎么着？”

老瞎子没听见，这会儿他自己的往事都在心中，琴声烦躁不安，像是年年旷野里的风雨，像是日夜山谷中的流溪，像是奔奔忙忙不知所归的脚步声。小瞎子有点害怕了：师父很久不这样了，师父一这样就要犯病，头疼、心口疼、浑身疼，会几个月爬不起炕来。

“师父，您先洗脚吧。”

琴声不停。

"Master, you should wash your feet." The lad's voice trembled.

He continued playing.

"Master!"

Abruptly he stopped playing and heaved a sigh; the lad breathed a sigh of relief. As the old man washed his feet, he sat respectfully by his side.

"You go to bed," said the old man. "It's been a long day. "

"And you?"

"You go ahead; I want to let my feet soak — when a fellow gets old his ailments multiply." The old man spoke softly.

"I'll wait for you."

A breeze whisked leaves along the brick wall. In the distance two cats exchanged mournful cries in the night. From Goat Valley came the occasional sound of a dog's bark and subsequent crying of a child. The moon rose high and its white light shone through the lattices, beaming down on two blindmen and three clay deities.

"Why wait for me? It's late. Don't you worry; there's nothing wrong with me," said the old man.

"Did you hear me, lad?"

“师父，您该洗脚了。”小瞎子的声音发抖。

琴声不停。

“师父！”

琴声戛然而止，老瞎子叹了口气。小瞎子松了口气。

老瞎子洗脚，小瞎子乖乖地坐在他身边。

“睡去吧，”老瞎子说，“今儿个够累的了。”

“您呢？”

“你先睡，我得好好泡泡脚。人上了岁数毛病多。”老瞎子故意说得轻松。

“我等您一块儿睡。”

山深夜静。有了一点风，墙头的草叶子响。夜猫子在远处哀哀地叫。听得见野羊坳里偶尔有几声狗吠，又引得孩子哭。月亮升起来，白光透过残损的窗棂进了殿堂，照见两个瞎子和三尊神像。

“等我干吗？时候不早了。”

“你甭担心我，我怎么也不怎么。”老瞎子又说。

“听见没有，小子？”

The lad had already fallen asleep. As the old man gently pushed him into a better sleeping position, he mumbled a few words before nodding off again. As he pulled the lad's quilt over him, it was clear to the old man the lad's muscles were filling out more each day; the child had arrived at that age when he would think about those things: it was certain to be an awkward and frustrating period for him. And no one could suffer it for him.

The old man held the banjo to his chest again and, gently caressing the taut strings, forced himself to silently repeat: another string is broken, another string is broken. Shaking the belly of the banjo, he could hear the scraping sound of the paper brushing across the snakeskin soundboard; this alone could purge his mind of sorrows and frustrations: it was his lifelong hope.

小瞎子到底年轻，已经睡着。老瞎子推推他让他躺好，他嘴里咕囔了几句倒头睡去。老瞎子给他盖被时，从那身日渐发育的筋肉上觉出，这孩子到了要想那些事的年龄，非得有一段苦日子过不可了。唉，这事谁也替不了谁。

老瞎子再把琴抱在怀里，摩挲着根根绷紧的琴弦，心里使劲念叨：又断了一根了，又断了一根了。再摇摇琴槽，有轻微的纸和蛇皮的磨擦声。唯独这事能为他排忧解烦。一辈子的愿望。

The lad had a good dream and upon waking was startled to hear the rooster crowing. He dragged himself to his feet to listen. Master was sleeping peacefully. He felt for the large satchel, quietly drew out the electric box, and tiptoed from the room.

He walked for a while in the direction of Goat Valley before noticing something was not right: the crowing of the chickens had subsided, and Goat Valley was again quiet and devoid of the villagers' stirrings. Confused, he stopped a moment. Could it be only the cock's first crowing? He thought to switch on the electric box. It was quiet, too. He knew from experience that meant it must be the middle of the night. This electric box was like a clock; one could judge the time based on which program was playing.

Just as the lad returned to the temple, the old man awaked.

"What are you doing?"

"I went to take a piss."

All morning the master forced him to practice banjo. Not until after lunch did the lad have a chance to sneak out of the temple and head down to Goat Valley. The chickens had dozed off in the shade of trees, the pigs lay at the foot of the wall grunting in their sleep, and the sun beat down fiercely again: the village rested, peaceful and quiet.

小瞎子做了一个好梦，醒来吓了一跳，鸡已经叫了。他一骨碌爬起来听听，师父正睡得香，心说还好。他摸到那个大挎包，悄悄地掏出电匣子，蹑手蹑脚出了门。

往野羊坳方向走了一会儿，他才觉出不对头，鸡叫声渐渐停歇，野羊坳里还是静静的没有人声。他愣了一会儿，鸡才叫头遍吗？灵机一动扭开电匣子。电匣子里也是静悄悄。现在是半夜。他半夜里听过匣子，什么都没有。这匣子对他来说还是个表，只要扭开一听，便知道是几点钟，什么时候有什么节目都是一定的。

小瞎子回到庙里，老瞎子正翻身。

“干吗呢？”

“撒尿去了。”小瞎子说。

一上午，师父逼着他练琴。直到晌午饭后，小瞎子才瞅机会溜出庙来，溜进野羊坳。鸡也在树阴下打盹，猪也在墙根下说着梦话，太阳又热得凶，村子里很安静。

Stepping up on the millstone, the lad clutched the top of the wall in front of Lanxiu's home, and called, "Lanxiu — Lanxiu!"

From inside rolled the sound of a thunderous snore.

He hesitated a moment, then raised his voice slightly, "Lanxiu! Lanxiu!"

The dog began barking, the snoring stopped, and a sleepy, grouchy voice called out, "Who is it?"

The lad could not muster a reply and instead pulled his head back from above the wall. He heard the smack of lips inside the room and then a return of the snore.

He sighed, stepped down from the millstone, and sullenly headed back toward the temple. Suddenly he heard a gate creak open behind him, then the sound of dainty footsteps fast approaching.

"Guess who!" It was that piercing voice. She covered his eyes with the soft flesh of her hands — but that was hardly necessary. Not yet fifteen, Lanxiu was still naive.

"Lanxiu!"

"Did you bring the electric box?"

小瞎子踩着磨盘，扒着兰秀儿家的墙头轻声喊：“兰秀儿—兰秀儿—”

屋里传出雷似的鼾声。

他犹豫了片刻，把声音稍稍抬高：“兰秀儿—！兰秀儿—!"

狗叫起来。屋里的鼾声停了，一个闷声闷气的声音问：“谁呀？”

小瞎子不敢回答，把脑袋从墙头上缩下来。

屋里吧唧了一阵嘴，又响起鼾声。

他叹口气，从磨盘上下来，怏怏地往回走。忽听见身后嘎吱一声院门响，随即一阵细碎的脚步声向他跑来。

“猜是谁？”尖声细气。小瞎子的眼睛被一双柔软的小手捂上了。—这才多余呢。兰秀儿不到十五岁，认真说还是个孩子。

“兰秀儿！”

“电匣子拿来没？”

Pulling open the front of his jacket, the lad revealed the electric box hanging at his waist. "Shhh! Not here; let's find some place where there's no one around."

"Why?"

"Otherwise we'll draw a crowd."

"So?"

"Having too many listeners wastes the batteries."

The two of them threaded their way through the village and came to a spring at the rear of a small hill. The lad abruptly asked, "Have you ever seen a twisting corridor?"

"Huh?"

"A twisting corridor."

"A twisting corridor?"

"You know?"

"Do you know?"

"Sure. And a green lounge chair. It's a chair."

"Who doesn't know what a chair is ."

"Then how about a twisting corridor?"

小瞎子掀开衣襟，匣子挂在腰上。“嘘—，别在这儿，找个没人的地方听去。”

“咋啦？”

“回头招好些人。”

“咋啦？”

“那么多人听，费电。”

两个人东拐西弯，来到山背后那眼小泉边。小瞎子忽然想起件事，问兰秀儿：“你见过曲折的油狼吗？”

“啥？”

“曲折的油狼。”

“曲折的油狼？”

“知道吗？”

“你知道？”

“当然。还有绿色的长椅。就是一把椅子。”

“椅子谁不知道。”

“那曲折的油狼呢？”

Lanxiu shook her head, bemused. Only then did he carefully switch on the electric box, from which floated a sprightly melody about the gully. Here it was cool and free of disruptions.

"This one's called Higher, Step by Step," the lad announced, and he sang along. A little later came a tune called Song of the Drought, and he could sing along with that song, too. Bashful Lanxiu felt embarrassed.

"This song is called A Monk Longing for Women."

"You're kidding," Lanxiu laughingly pronounced.

"You don't believe me?"

"No, I don't."

"As you wish. Stranger things than that come out of this box." The lad dipped his foot in the cold spring water; after a moment's reflection, he asked, "Do you know what kiss means?"

"What does it mean?"

This time it was the lad's turn to laugh, which he gave in lieu of a reply. Lanxiu, sensing it was a bad word, blushed, and asked no further.

The music broadcast finished, and a female voice announced, "Next is a program discussing hygiene."

兰秀儿摇摇头，有点崇拜小瞎子了。小瞎子这才郑重其事地扭开电匣子，一支欢快的乐曲在山沟里飘荡。

这地方又凉快又没有人来打扰。

“这是《步步高》。”小瞎子说，跟着哼。

一会儿又换了支曲子，叫《旱天雷》，小瞎子还能跟着哼。兰秀儿觉得很惭愧。

“这曲子也叫《和尚思妻》。”

兰秀儿笑起来：“瞎骗人！”

“你不信？”

“不信。”

“爱信不信。这匣子里说的古怪事多啦。”小瞎子玩着凉凉的泉水，想了一会儿。“你知道什么叫接吻吗？”

“你说什么叫？”

这回轮到小瞎子笑，光笑不答。兰秀儿明白准不是好话，红着脸不再问。

音乐播完了，一个女人说：“现在是讲卫生节目。”

"Huh?" Lanxiu had not heard it clearly.

"A program about hygiene."

"What's that?"

"Hmm — do you have lice in your hair?"

"Hey! Don't touch me!"

The lad quickly drew back his hand, and hurriedly explained, "If you have lice, that means you don't pay attention to hygiene."

"No! Absolutely not!" Lanxiu scratched her head and felt something itchy. "Hey! Look what I found on you! "she said, holding his head. "Look at these big ones I caught."

At that moment they heard the old man calling from halfway up the hill: "Boy, why haven't you come back yet? It's time to make dinner, then after we finish eating, we have to go tell stories." He had been standing there listening for some time.

It was already dusk in Goat Valley. From the midst of the jumble of sounds — sheep, donkeys, dogs and children — one could see the smoke rising from the kitchen chimneys. Up on Goat Hill the small temple silently rested in the middle of the day's last faint glow of sunlight.

“啥？”兰秀儿没听清。

“讲卫生。”

“是什么？”

“嗯—，你头发上有虱子吗？”

“去—，别动！”

小瞎子赶忙缩回手来，赶忙解释：“要有就是不讲卫生。”

“我才没有。”兰秀儿抓抓头，觉得有些刺痒。“噫—，瞧你自个儿吧！”兰秀儿一把搬过小瞎子的头。“看我捉几个大的。”

这时候听见老瞎子在半山上喊：“小子，还不给我回来！该做饭了，吃罢饭还得去说书！”他已经站在那儿听了好一会儿了。

野羊坳里已经昏暗，羊叫、驴叫、狗叫、孩子们叫，处处起了炊烟。野羊岭上还有一线残阳，小庙正在那淡薄的光中，没有声响。

The lad was again bent over building a fire, rump protruding. The old man sat to the side washing the rice; he used his sense of hearing to pick out bits of sand and grit.

"The wood is dry today," said the lad.

"Uh-huh."

"Boiled millet again?"

"Uh-huh."

The lad was full of pep and eager to talk, but the master was still out of sorts — better to keep quiet and avoid trouble. Each of them silently went about the business of preparing their meal.

It was past nightfall when the lad put millet into a bowl and passed it to his master. "Go ahead," he spoke nervously, uncharacteristically diffident.

The old man finally spoke. "You listen to me for a minute, O.K.?"

"Uh-huh," came his garbled reply as he stuffed the food into his mouth.

"If you're not going to listen, I won't bother."

"Who said I wouldn't listen? I said 'Uh-huh'!”

"I have experience; I understand many things you don't."

小瞎子又撅着屁股烧火。老瞎子坐在一旁淘米，凭着听觉他能把米中的沙子捡出来。

“今天的柴挺干。”小瞎子说。

“嗯。”

“还是焖饭？”

“嗯。”

小瞎子这会儿精神百倍，很想找些话说，但是知道师父的气还没消，心说还是少找骂。

两个人默默地干着自己的事，又默默地一块儿把饭做熟。岭上也没了阳光。

小瞎子盛了一碗小米饭，先给师父：“您吃吧。”声音怯怯的，无比驯顺。

老瞎子终于开了腔：“小子，你听我一句行不？”

“嗯。”小瞎子往嘴里扒拉饭，回答得含糊。

“你要是不愿意听，我就不说。”

“谁说不愿意听了？我说‘嗯’!"

“我是过来人，总比你知道的多。”

The lad silently stuffed the food into his mouth.

"I've been through that before."

"Been through what?"

"You're getting smart with me again!" The old man flung his chopsticks onto the stovetop.

"Lanxiu just wanted to hear the electric box. We were just listening to the electric box together."

"And what else?"

"Nothing else."

"Nothing?"

"And I asked her if she'd ever seen a twisting corridor."

"That's not what I'm talking about!”小瞎子闷头扒拉饭。

“我经过那号事。”

“什么事？”

“又跟我贫嘴！”老瞎子把筷子往灶台上一摔。

“兰秀儿光是想听听电匣子。我们光是一块儿听电匣子来。”

“还有呢？”

“没有了。”

“没有了？”

“我还问她见没见过曲折的油狼。”

“我没问你这个！”

"And then — and then —” the lad fell short on pluck. "I don't know how but we were soon talking about lice..."

"And what else?"

"That's all. Really, that's all!"

The two of them continued their meal in silence. The old man had looked after his apprentice for several years and he knew the child would not lie: more than anything else, his honesty was beyond reproof.

"Listen to me for a minute; I guarantee it won't hurt you; keep your distance from that girl."

"Lanxiu is a good person."

"I know she is, but it's better if you keep a distance from her. Many years ago my master told me the same thing — and I didn't believe it either."

"Your master? Speaking about Lanxiu?"

"Not about Lanxiu. She wasn't even born then; neither of you had been born yet." The old man, long-faced, turned toward the dense sunset colour on the horizon, his bonelike eyes flitting uncontrollably. After a long while, the lad spoke: "Tonight you can probably play through another string." He wanted the master to feel happy.

“后来，后来，”小瞎子不那么气壮了，“不知怎么一下就说起了虱子……”

“还有呢？”

“没了。真没了！”

两个人又默默地吃饭。老瞎子带了这徒弟好几年，知道这孩子不会撒谎，这孩子最让人放心的地方就是诚实、厚道。

“听我一句话，保准对你没坏处。以后离那妮子远点儿。”

“兰秀儿人不坏。”

“我知道她不坏，可你离她远点儿好。早年你师爷这么跟我说，我也不信……”

“师爷？说兰秀儿？”

“什么兰秀儿，那会儿还没她呢。那会儿还没有你们呢……”老瞎子阴郁的脸又转向暮色浓重的天际，骨头一样白色的眼珠不住地转动，不知道在那儿他能“看”见什么。

许久，小瞎子说：“今儿晚上您多半又能弹断一根琴弦。”想让师父高兴些。

On this night the master and the apprentice again told stories in Goat Valley.

Last time we sang of Luo Cheng's death,

and his soul's journey to the netherworld.

Don't make a sound, don't make a fuss, gentle folk.

Remain orderly and listen while I sing the sequel.

Luo Cheng's spirit left its place in Hades,

and a whirlwind raised his body.

In a gusty rush comes the wind,

Chang'an lies not far before us.

The old man's banjo sounded sloppy, as did the lad's. The lad was enjoying the memory of feeling that pair of soft, gentle hands on his face, and of having his head brushed by Lanxiu. The old man was thinking of much more than that.

这天晚上师徒俩又在野羊坳说书。“上回唱到罗成死，三魂七魄赴幽冥，听歌君子莫嘈嚷，列位听我道下文。罗成阴魂出地府，一阵旋风就起身，旋风一阵来得快，长安不远面前存……”老瞎子的琴声也乱，小瞎子的琴声也乱。小瞎子回忆着那双柔软的小手捂在自己脸上的感觉，还有自己的头被兰秀儿搬过去时的滋味。老瞎子想起的事情更多……

That night the old man tossed and turned; so many things from the past cluttered his mind he had a steady din in his ears and unrest in his heart, and deep inside he felt as if something were about to burst. The old illness was attacking again, he thought. He at once felt dizziness, a strange pressure in his abdomen, and general discomfort throughout his body. He sat upright and mumbled to himself, "I can't fall sick again; if I fall sick then the chance to play through those strings this year will be lost." He touched his banjo again; if he could only strum a few bars, flowing with the whims and fancies of his heart, then the thoughts and anguish on his mind might subside. But the lad was sleeping peacefully.

His only recourse was to think about that medicine and the banjo strings: he still had a few strings to go, just the last few strings. Then he could go get that medicine, then he could see the world: the mountains he had climbed, the paths he had trodden, the sun whose warmth and blazing heat he had felt all those countless times, and the moon and stars — and what else? Suddenly he felt a great emptiness inside; had it all been just for this? What else was there? In his sleepy daze, the things he hoped for seemed much more than just these things.

The night breeze ambled about the mountain.

An owl hooted her sorrowful call.

夜里老瞎子翻来覆去睡不安稳，多少往事在他耳边喧嚣，在他心头动荡，身体里仿佛有什么东西要爆炸。坏了，要犯病，他想。头昏，胸口憋闷，浑身紧巴巴地难受。他坐起来，对自己叨咕：“可别犯病，一犯病今年就甭想弹够那些琴弦了。”他又摸到琴。要能叮叮当当随心所欲地疯弹一阵，心头的忧伤或许就能平息，耳边的往事或许就会消散。可是小瞎子正睡得香甜。

他只好再全力去想那张药方和琴弦：还剩下几根，还只剩最后几根了。那时就可以去抓药了，然后就能看见这个世界—他无数次爬过的山，无数次走过的路，无数次感到过她的温暖和炽热的太阳，无数次梦想着的蓝天、月亮和星星……还有呢？突然间心里一阵空，空得深重。就只为了这些？还有什么？他朦胧中所盼望的东西似乎比这要多得多……

夜风在山里游荡。

猫头鹰又在凄哀地叫。

But now he was old, and in any case he had just a few more years; what was lost was lost forever: that is what he seemed to have just realized. Seventy years of suffering and hardship, all for the purpose of getting one look at the world — was it worth it?

The lad laughed in his sleep, and dreamt aloud, saying, "It's a chair, Lanxiu."

The old man sat quietly. Sitting equally quietly were those three clay deities which were neither clearly Buddhist nor Taoist statues.

At the sound of the first cock crow the old man decided that at dawn he would leave Goat Valley with the boy. Lanxiu was a good person, but the prospects for these two was something the old blindman could "see" most clearly. At the second cock crow he began to gather their things.

But upon waking, the lad was found to be ill, having both a bad stomach and a fever. The old man had to set back the date of departure. For several days straight the old man busied himself building fires, washing rice, collecting firewood, or uprooting and boiling medicinal herbs, all the while consoling himself. "It's worth it; of course it's worth it." It seemed that repeating those words was his only hope of countering the enervation of despair. "I must have one look. What else was there? To quit now and die? And besides, I only have a few strings left to go." The old man regained his composure and went down each evening to tell stories in Goat Valley.

不过现在他老了，无论如何没几年活头了，失去的已经永远失去了，他像是刚刚意识到这一点。七十年中所受的全部辛苦就为了最后能看一眼世界，这值得吗？他问自己。

小瞎子在梦里笑，在梦里说：“那是一把椅子，兰秀儿……”

老瞎子静静地坐着。静静地坐着的还有那三尊分不清是佛是道的泥像。

鸡叫头遍的时候老瞎子决定，天一亮就带这孩子离开野羊坳。否则这孩子受不了，他自己也受不了。兰秀儿人不坏，可这事会怎么结局，老瞎子比谁都“看”得清楚。鸡叫二遍，老瞎子开始收拾行李。

可是一早起来小瞎子病了，肚子疼，随即又发烧。老瞎子只好把行期推迟。

一连好几天，老瞎子无论是烧火、淘米、捡柴，还是给小瞎子挖药、煎药，心里总在说：“值得，当然值得。”要是不这么反反复复对自己说，身上的力气似乎就全要垮掉。“我非要最后看一眼不可。”“要不怎么着？就这么死了去？”“再说就只剩下最后几根了。”后面三句都是理由。老瞎子又冷静下来，天天晚上还到野羊坳去说书。

This unexpectedly brought good fortune to the lad. Each evening after the master had descended the hill, Lanxiu would steal into the temple to hear the electric box. She would also bring hard-boiled eggs, on the condition that he let her manipulate the controls of the electric box. "Which way should I twist?"

"To the right."

"It won't twist."

"To the right, dummy — don't you know which way is right?"

The box crackled with static — it seemed to make all kinds of sounds — but regardless, the two of them loved to listen.

After a few days the old man had played through three more strings.

One night, he was down in Goat Valley alone, playing and singing:

Today we'll not sing of Luo Cheng's reincarnation,

But instead the Qin Prince Li Shimin.

Upon hearing of the death of his most loyal minister,

The Prince shed tears.

"Your death," he said, "is, for some, of no consequence, But for me it means I have no one worthy to be my general."

这一下小瞎子倒来了福气。每天晚上师父到岭下去了，兰秀儿就猫似的轻轻跳进庙里来听匣子。兰秀儿还带来熟的鸡蛋，条件是得让她亲手去扭那匣子的开关。“往哪边扭？”“往右。”“扭不动。”“往右，笨货，不知道哪边是右哇？”“咔哒”一下，无论是什么便响起来，无论是什么俩人都爱听。

又过了几天，老瞎子又弹断了三根琴弦。

这一晚，老瞎子在野羊坳里自弹自唱：“不表罗成投胎事，又唱秦王李世民。秦王一听双泪流，可怜爱卿丧残身，你死一身不打紧，缺少扶朝上将军……”

Meanwhile a lively scene was taking place inside the temple on Goat Mountain: the electric box was blaring the sounds of an embattled city — a youth crying, an adult shouting, rumbling of explosions, the call of trumpets. The moonlight beamed into the main hall, where the lad was reclined nibbling a hard-boiled egg, and Lanxiu was seated by his side. Both of them listened eagerly and occasionally laughed, sometimes not even knowing why.

"Where did your master get this electric box?"

"From someone outside the mountains."

"Have you ever been outside the mountains?"

"No. But I'll go someday; I'll take a ride on a train."

"A train?"

"You don't know what a train is either? Dummy!"

"Oh, I know, I know. It spouts puffs of smoke, right?"

After a while, Lanxiu said, "Maybe sometime I'll go outside the mountains." She spoke a little uneasily.

"Is that so?" The lad sat up erect. "Then you can find out what a twisting corridor is."

"Do you think all the people outside the mountains have electric boxes?"

野羊岭上的小庙里这时更热闹。电匣子的音量开得挺大，又是孩子哭，又是大人喊，轰隆隆地又响炮，嘀嘀哒哒地又吹号。月光照进正殿，小瞎子躺着啃鸡蛋，兰秀儿坐在他旁边。两个人都听得兴奋，时而大笑，时而稀里糊涂莫名其妙。

“这匣子你师父哪买来？”

“从一个山外头的人手里。”

“你们到山外头去过？”兰秀儿问。

“没。我早晚要去一回就是，坐坐火车。”

“火车？”

“火车你也不知道？笨货。”

“噢，知道知道，冒烟哩是不是？”

过了一会儿兰秀儿又说：“保不准我就得到山外头去。”语调有些恓惶。

“是吗？”小瞎子一挺坐起来：“那你到底瞧瞧曲折的油狼是什么。”

“你说是不是山外头的人都有电匣子？”

"Who knows. Did you hear me clearly? This twisting corridor is outside the mountains."

"Then I must get an electric box from them," Lanxiu mused to herself.

"You want one?" The lad chuckled, then laughed without restraint. "Why not get two, seeing as how you're so clever. Ha, do you know how many thousands of yuan this box cost? Even if you sold yourself, I doubt if you could buy one."

Lanxiu felt at once hurt and indignant. She grabbed the lad's ear, and twisting with force, cursed, "Go to hell blind boy."

The two of them began wrestling inside the temple. The three clay statues watched impassively. The two youths collided, their pubescent bodies became entangled, one pressed down on top of the other, then the reverse, and their curses changed to laughter.

Exhausted, they ceased struggling and lay sprawled together on the ground facing each other, hearts pounding, gasping for breath, neither of them willing to pull away from the other. Lanxiu's breath blew on the lad's face; he felt her allure, and recalling his master's words that day while he was building the fire, he blew on Lanxiu's face. Lanxiu did not shy away.

"Hey," the lad whispered, "you know what a kiss is?"

"What is it?" Lanxiu whispered back.

“谁知道。我说你听清楚没有？曲、折、的、油、狼，这东西就在山外头。”

“那我得跟他们要一个电匣子。”兰秀儿自言自语地想心事。

“要一个？”小瞎子笑了两声，然后屏住气，然后大笑：“你干吗不要两儿？你可真本事大。你知道这匣子几千块钱一个？把你卖了吧，怕也换不来。”

兰秀儿心里正委屈，一把揪住小瞎子的耳朵使劲拧，骂道：“好你个死瞎子。”

两个人在殿堂里扭打起来。三尊泥像袖手旁观帮不上忙。两个年青的正在发育的身体碰撞在一起，纠缠在一起，一个把一个压在身下，一会儿又颠倒过来，骂声变成笑声。匣子在一边唱。

打了好一阵子，两个人都累得住了手，心怦怦跳，面对面躺着喘气，不言声儿，谁却也不愿意再拉开距离。

兰秀儿呼出的气吹在小瞎子脸上，小瞎子感到了诱惑，并且想起那天吹火时师父说的话，就往兰秀儿脸上吹气。兰秀儿并不躲。

“嘿，”小瞎子小声说，“你知道接吻是什么了吗？”

“是什么？”兰秀儿的声音也小。

The lad whispered the answer in her ear. Lanxiu said nothing. Before the old man came back, they gave it a try — what delight!

On this very evening, the old man had unexpectedly played through the last two strings. He half-ran, half-crawled his way up the hill back to the temple. The lad, frightened, asked, "Master, what's wrong?"

The old man sat gasping for breath, unable to speak. The lad's heavy conscience struck terror in his heart: could it be that the master had found out about him and Lanxiu?

The old man finally believed it was true: it had all been worth it. A lifetime of suffering had been worth it. To see just once, to have only one glimpse: it was all worth it.

"Boy, tomorrow I'm going to get the medicine. "

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

"You broke another string?"

"Two. I broke two."

小瞎子对着兰秀儿的耳朵告诉她。兰秀儿不说话。老瞎子回来之前，他们试着亲了嘴儿，滋味真不坏……

就是这天晚上，老瞎子弹断了最后两根琴弦。两根弦一齐断了。他没料到。他几乎是连跑带爬地上了野羊岭，回到小庙里。

小瞎子吓了一跳：“怎么了，师父？”

老瞎子喘吁吁地坐在那儿，说不出话。

小瞎子有些犯嘀咕：莫非是他和兰秀儿干的事让师父知道了？

老瞎子这才相信：一切都是值得的。一辈子的辛苦都是值得的。能看一回，好好看一回，怎么都是值得的。

“小子，明天我就去抓药。”

“明天？”

“明天。”

“又断了一根了？”

“两根。两根都断了。”

The old man removed the strings from his banjo, rubbed them with his fingers, then bundled them together with the other nine hundred ninety eight strings.

"You're going tomorrow?"

"I'll get started at daybreak."

The lad's heart sank as the old man peeled the snakeskin away from the belly of his banjo.

"But I'm not healthy yet," the lad muttered in protest.

"Oh, I've thought about that. You stay here; I'll be back within ten days."

The lad was excited beyond all hope.

"Can you manage by yourself?"

"Yes!"

The old man had already forgotten about Lanxiu. "Food, drink, and firewood are all here. When you're well and back on your feet again you should practice storytelling on your own. All right?"

"All right," he affirmed, but somehow the lad felt as though he was forsaking his master.

老瞎子把那两根弦卸下来，放在手里揉搓了一会儿，然后把它们并到另外的九百九十八根中去，绑成一捆。

“明天就走？”

“天一亮就动身。”

小瞎子心里一阵发凉。老瞎子开始剥琴槽上的蛇皮。

“可我的病还没好利索。”小瞎子小声叨咕。

“噢，我想过了，你就先留在这儿，我用不了十天就回来。”

小瞎子喜出望外。

“你一个人行不？”

“行！”小瞎子紧忙说。

老瞎子早忘了兰秀儿的事。“吃的、喝的、烧的全有。你要是病好利索了，也该学着自个儿去说回书。行吗？”

“行。”小瞎子觉得有点对不住师父。

Having peeled back the snakeskin soundboard, the old man reached inside the belly of the banjo and pulled out a neatly folded slip of paper. Thinking back on when he had put this prescription inside the banjo — he was only twenty then — gave him the shivers.

The lad too, solemnly rubbed the prescription between his fingers.

"My master went his whole life without getting the justice due to him."

"How many strings did he play through?"

"He might have played through one thousand, but he only recorded eight hundred, or I'm sure he would have made it."

The old blindman set out before dawn. He said he would be gone at most ten days, but in fact it was winter when the old man returned to Goat Valley. On the horizon, the gloomy grey of the sky met the snow-covered whiteness of the mountain range. Without sound or spirit, the vast expanse rested silently before him. Against this scene, the bobbing of the old man's blackened straw hat appeared all the more pronounced as he hobbled up Goat Hill. As he walked through the courtyard the rustling of leaves startled a fox and sent it scampering away.

A villager told him the lad had left a few days earlier.

蛇皮剥开了，老瞎子从琴槽中取出一张叠得方方正正的纸条。他想起这药方放进琴槽时，自己才二十岁，便觉得浑身上下都好像冷。

小瞎子也把那药方放在手里摸了一会儿，也有了几分肃穆。

“你师爷一辈子才冤呢。”

“他弹断了多少根？”

“他本来能弹够一千根，可他记成了八百。要不然他能弹断一千根。”

天不亮老瞎子就上路了。他说最多十天就回来，谁也没想到他竟去了那么久。

老瞎子回到野羊坳时已经是冬天。

漫天大雪，灰暗的天空连接着白色的群山。没有声息，处处也没有生气，空旷而沉寂。所以老瞎子那顶发了黑的草帽就尤其躜动得显著。他蹒蹒跚跚地爬上野羊岭。庙院中衰草瑟瑟，蹿出一只狐狸，仓惶逃远。

村里人告诉他，小瞎子已经走了些日子。

"I told him to wait for me."

"I don't know why, but he's already left."

"Did he say where? Did he leave a message?"

"He said you don't need to worry about him."

"When did he leave?"

People said he left quite some time ago, the day Lanxiu was married to someone from outside the mountains. The old blindman understood.

The villagers begged the old man to stay in Goat Valley telling stories for the winter, for where could he go in the midst of this snow and ice? The old man pointed to his banjo, the neck of which, the people now saw, had no strings. The old man appeared thin and pallid; his breathing was short, his voice hoarse: he looked almost unfamiliar to the villagers. He said he had to find his apprentice.

“我告诉他我回来。”

“不知道他干吗就走了。”

“他没说去哪儿？留下什么话没？”

“他说让您甭找他。”

“什么时候走的？”

人们想了好久，都说是在兰秀儿嫁到山外去的那天。

老瞎子心里便一切全都明白。

众人劝老瞎子留下来，这么冰天雪地的上哪去？不如在野羊坳说一冬书。老瞎子指指他的琴，人们见琴柄上空荡荡已经没了琴弦。老瞎子面容也憔悴，呼吸也孱弱，嗓音也沙哑了，完全变了个人。他说得去找他的徒弟。

Were it not for his concern, the old man would not have returned to Goat Valley. The prescription he had safeguarded for fifty years turned out to be a blank slip of paper. At first disbelieving, he had asked countless numbers of literate and honest people to read it for him, and all had attested it was blank. The old man had sat for a short spell on the steps of the apothecary's shop, or at least it seemed only a short time. In fact, he had sat there several days and nights, his bone-like eyes turned to the sky, his face even taking on the same pallor. Some passers-by, presuming him insane, comforted and consoled him. The old man had laughed bitterly: why would he wait until the age of seventy to go crazy? He simply had no interest in playing the banjo again: the object which had breathed in him the will to live, to walk, and to sing, had suddenly vanished. The old man's heartstrings had snapped, and like an untightened string, could no longer produce a pleasant melody. He had sequestered himself in a small inn where each day he lay on his bed, neither strumming nor singing, feeling the flame of his body dying out. But when he had spent all his money, he suddenly remembered his apprentice, whom he knew was awaiting his return.

若不是还想着他的徒弟，老瞎子就回不到野羊坳。那张他保存了五十年的药方原来是一张无字的白纸。他不信，请了多少个识字而又诚实的人帮他看，人人都说那果真就是一张无字的白纸。老瞎子在药铺前的台阶上坐了一会儿，他以为是一会儿，其实已经几天几夜，骨头一样的眼珠在询问苍天，脸色也变成骨头一样地苍白。有人以为他是疯了，安慰他，劝他。老瞎子苦笑；七十岁了再疯还有什么意思？他只是再不想动弹，吸引着他活下去、走下去、唱下去的东西骤然间消失干净。就像一根不能拉紧的琴弦，再难弹出赏心悦耳的曲子。老瞎子的心弦断了。现在发现那目的原来是空的。老瞎子在一个小客店里住了很久，觉得身体里的一切都在熄灭。他整天躺在炕上，不弹也不唱，一天天迅速地衰老。直到花光了身上所有的钱，直到忽然想起了他的徒弟，他知道自己的死期将至，可那孩子在等他回去。

As he bobbed his way along, a tiny black spot in the universe, the old man reminisced on days gone by: he realized all the bustle, the zestful trekking across mountains, the banjo playing, even the anxieties and frustration were in fact a joy! Then he had had something to hold his heart strings taut, even if it was an illusion. The old man thought of his own master's final days. His master had sealed that prescription, which he himself had never used, inside the old man's banjo. "Don't give in; play a few more years and you'll open your eyes and see." He was only a child when he'd heard those words. His master had fallen silent a long while before saying, "Remember, a person's life is just like these banjo strings: when pulled taut, they can be played; if they can be played, that's enough." So it was. The point was to draw some enjoyment from the strings while they were stretched tight. But could he tell the lad that? The old man had been prepared to gird the lad with knowledge of the truth, but thoughts of the blank piece of paper emasculated his will.

He found the lad much as he had expected: exhausted and despondent, and in the lad's words, awaiting his death. The old man knew it wasn't faking sorrow. He pulled the defenseless lad back into a cave.

茫茫雪野，皑皑群山，天地之间躜动着一个黑点。走近时，老瞎子的身影弯得如一座桥。他去找他的徒弟。他知道那孩子目前的心情、处境。

他想自己先得振作起来，但是不行，前面明明没有了目标。

他一路走，便怀恋起过去的日子，才知道以往那些奔奔忙忙兴致勃勃地翻山、赶路、弹琴，乃至心焦、忧虑都是多么欢乐!那时有个东西把心弦扯紧，虽然那东西原是虚设。老瞎子想起他师父临终时的情景。他师父把那张自己没用上的药方封进他的琴槽。“您别死，再活几年，您就能睁眼看一回了。”说这话时他还是个孩子。他师父久久不言语，最后说：“记住，人的命就像这琴弦，拉紧了才能弹好，弹好了就够了。”……不错，那意思就是说：目的本来没有。老瞎子知道怎么对自己的徒弟说了。可是他又想：能把一切都告诉小瞎子吗？老瞎子又试着振作起来，可还是不行，总摆脱不掉那张无字的白纸……

在深山里，老瞎子找到了小瞎子。

小瞎子正跌倒在雪地里，一动不动，想那么等死。老瞎子懂得那绝不是装出来的悲哀。老瞎子把他拖进一个山洞，他已无力反抗。

The old man picked up a pile of firewood and made a fire.

The lad gradually began to cry, at which point the old man relaxed. Let him cry for all he is worth; if he can still cry, then he will at some time have cried enough.

Shadows grew long and the sky darkened while the lad cried; the old man waited silently. The firelight and the sobs startled and flushed a rabbit, a pheasant, a mountain goat, a fox and a sparrowhawk.

Finally the lad spoke, "Why are we blind?"

"Just because we're blind."

At length the lad spoke again. "I want to open my eyes and see; Master, even if only once, I want to open my eyes and see!"

The old man poked the fire.

This snow stopped. Against the ashen-coloured sky, the sun appeared, flashing like a small mirror. A hawk glided by in stable flight.

"Then play your banjo," said the old man, "play through the strings for all you're worth."

老瞎子捡了些柴，打起一堆火。

小瞎子渐渐有了哭声。老瞎子放了心，任他尽情尽意地哭。只要还能哭就还有救，只要还能哭就有哭够的时候。

小瞎子哭了几天几夜，老瞎子就那么一声不吭地守候着。火光和哭声惊动了野兔子、山鸡、野羊、狐狸和鹞鹰……

终于小瞎子说话了：“干吗咱们是瞎子！”

“就因为咱们是瞎子。”老瞎子回答。

终于小瞎子又说：“我想睁开眼看看，师父，我想睁开眼看看！哪怕就看一回。”

“你真那么想吗？”

“真想，真想—”

老瞎子把篝火拨得更旺些。

雪停了。铅灰色的天空中，太阳像一面闪光的小镜子。鹞鹰在平稳地滑翔。

“那就弹你的琴弦，”老瞎子说，“一根一根尽力地弹吧。”

"Master, did you get the medicine?" The lad sounded as if he had just awakened from a dream.

"Remember, the strings don't count unless you've played your best until they break."

"Can you see? Master, can you see now?"

The lad struggled to get up, and reached over to feel his master's eyes. The old man checked his hands.

"Remember, you must play through one thousand two hundred strings."

"One thousand two hundred?"

The old man thought: no matter how much he played, the lad could not play through twelve hundred strings. Let him forever feel the joyful release of playing taut banjo strings; he need never know that piece of paper was blank.

"It's one thousand two hundred. Give me your banjo. I'll seal the prescription inside."

“师父，您的药抓来了？”小瞎子如梦方醒。

“记住，得真正是弹断的才成。”

“您已经看见了吗？师父，您现在看得见了？”

小瞎子挣扎着起来，伸手去摸师父的眼窝。老瞎子把他的手抓住。

“记住，得弹断一千二百根。”

“一千二？”

“把你的琴给我，我把这药方给你封在琴槽里。”老瞎子现在才弄懂了他师父当年对他说的话—咱的命就在这琴弦上。

目的虽是虚设的，可非得有不行，不然琴弦怎么拉紧；拉不紧就弹不响。

“怎么是一千二，师父？”

“是一千二，我没弹够，我记成了一千。”老瞎子想：这孩子再怎么弹吧，还能弹断一千二百根？永远扯紧欢跳的琴弦，不必去看那张无字的白纸……

这地方偏僻荒凉，群山不断。荒草丛中随时会飞起一对山鸡，跳出一只野兔、狐狸，或者其他小野兽。山谷中鹞鹰在盘旋。

Let us return to the beginning: amid the misty haze of the mountain range walked two blindmen, one old the other young, one in front the other behind, their blackened straw hats bobbing, darting forward as if swept along by the current of a restless stream. It mattered little from where they came nor where they were headed, nor did it matter who they were…

Translated by Mark Wallace

现在让我们回到开始：

莽莽苍苍的群山之中走着两个瞎子，一老一少，一前一后，两顶发了黑的草帽起伏躜动，匆匆忙忙，像是随着一条不安静的河水在漂流。无所谓从哪儿来、到哪儿去，也无所谓谁是谁……

[1] Early Tang-period young general.

[2] A romantic folk tale about star-crossed lovers set during the Qin Dynasty (221—206 BC).

In the Temple of Earth
我与地坛

In several of my stories I described an ancient deserted garden which is, in fact, the Temple of Earth in northeast Beijing. Many years ago before tourism had really started, the Temple of Earth was as desolate and bleak as a piece of wasteland. Few people ever mentioned it.

My family has the good fortune to live near the Temple of Earth. More than four hundred years before my birth it was already there. Ever since my grandmother first came to Beijing with my father more than fifty years ago, we have lived near here — we moved a couple of times in all those years, each time getting closer and closer to it. I often feel it must be fate that planned my long liaison with the temple and that the temple has been waiting there specially for me through four hundred years of vicissitude.

It waited for my birth and then, when I was in the prime of youth, my legs suddenly became paralyzed. It was at that time that I began to haunt the temple. One afternoon, fifteen years ago, I rolled my wheel-chair into the temple for the first time. It seemed well prepared for the arrival of this heartbroken young man: Glaze and paint were peeling from the eaves of the once resplendent halls and doorways; sections of the high walls and carved marble balustrades had crumbled; the old cypress trees around the sacrificial altar were time-worn but hardy and weeds thrived and vines sprawled everywhere. The sun moved along its eternal track, becoming larger and redder. In the quietude I saw my own shadow.

一

我在好几篇小说中都提到过一座废弃的古园，实际上就是地坛。许多年前旅游业还没有开展，园子荒芜冷落得如同一片野地，很少被人记起。

地坛离我家很近。或者说我家离地坛很近。总之，只好认为这是缘分。地坛在我出生前四百多年就坐落在那儿了，而自从我的祖母年轻时带着我父亲来到北京，就一直住在离它不远的地方—五十多年间搬过几次家，可搬来搬去总是在它周围，而且是越搬离它越近了。我常觉得这中间有着宿命的味道：仿佛这古园就是为了等我，而历尽沧桑在那儿等待了四百多年。

它等待我出生，然后又等待我活到最狂妄的年龄上忽地残废了双腿。四百多年里，它一面剥蚀了古殿檐头浮夸的琉璃，淡褪了门壁上炫耀的朱红，坍圮了一段段高墙又散落了玉砌雕栏，祭坛四周的老柏树愈见苍幽，到处的野草荒藤也都茂盛得自在坦荡。这时候想必我是该来了。十五年前的一个下午，我摇着轮椅进入园中，它为一个失魂落魄的人把一切都准备好了。那时，太阳循着亘古不变的路途正越来越大，也越红。在满园弥漫的沉静光芒中，一个人更容易看到时间，并看见自己的身影。

Since then I have never left the Temple of Earth for too long. In one of my short stories I wrote, "God seems to have carefully prepared a place of peace in this crowded city."

In the first years of my disability I had neither job nor future. I suddenly felt that there was nothing left in me. So I frequented the Temple of Earth to escape the world around me. I wrote in the same story, "Finding no other place to go, I spent all day in the garden as if it were my place of work. When others left for work in the morning I would roll my wheel-chair into the park." "Nobody took care of the park. People would take short cuts through on their way to work and on their way home. For a while the park would become lively, but soon quietude reigned once again." "I would stop my wheel-chair in the long shadow of the walls. Sometimes I would fold down the back of the chair and lie there, reading or thinking. I would use a twig to shoo away the midges — they must have felt as confused as I as to why we had been brought into this world." "Bees hovered in the air; ants probed and scurried this way and that; ladybirds crawled and, when tired, opened their wings and flew into the sky; a cicada slough perched on the trunk of a tree, like a deserted house; dew drops gathered and accumulated on the grass and then suddenly shattered to the ground from the blade bent under their weight." The Temple of Earth might have been desolate but it was not dead.

自从那个下午我无意中进了这园子，就再没长久地离开过它。我一下子就理解了它的意图。正如我在一篇小说中所说的：“在人口密聚的城市里，有这样一个宁静的去处，像是上帝的苦心安排。”

两条腿残废后的最初几年，我找不到工作，找不到去路，忽然间几乎什么都找不到了，我就摇了轮椅总是到它那儿去，仅为着那儿是可以逃避一个世界的另一个世界。我在那篇小说中写道：“没处可去我便一天到晚耗在这园子里。跟上班下班一样，别人去上班我就摇了轮椅到这儿来。”“园子无人看管，上下班时间有些抄近路的人们从园中穿过，园子里活跃一阵，过后便沉寂下来。”“园墙在金晃晃的空气中斜切下一溜阴凉，我把轮椅开进去，把椅背放倒，坐着或是躺着，看书或者想事，撅一杈树枝左右拍打，驱赶那些和我一样不明白为什么要来这世上的小昆虫。”“蜂儿如一朵小雾稳稳地停在半空；蚂蚁摇头晃脑捋着触须，猛然间想透了什么，转身疾行而去；瓢虫爬得不耐烦了，累了祈祷一回便支开翅膀，忽悠一下升空了；树干上留着一只蝉蜕，寂寞如一间空屋；露水在草叶上滚动，聚集，压弯了草叶轰然坠地摔开万道金光。”“满园子都是草木竞相生长弄出的响动，窸窸窣窣窸窸窣窣片刻不息。”这都是真实的记录，园子荒芜但并不衰败。

Apart from a few halls and the sacrificial altar I cannot reach in my wheel-chair, I have rolled over every square metre of the temple's grassy areas and have stopped beneath every tree. I have been there in every season, in every kind of weather and at every hour of the day. Sometimes I stay just a while, sometimes until the light of the moon has illuminated everything.

I have spent hours in a corner of the temple musing on my birth as well as on death. It has taken me several years to understand that, from the moment one is born, it is meaningless to argue about the question of birth since one's existence has been determined by God; thus death needs not be pursued in haste for it is a day of release that will inevitably arrive. I felt soothed at this thought, as if I were a student who, working late into the night for the next day's final exams, suddenly realizes that a long holiday is awaiting him.

除去几座殿堂我无法进去，除去那座祭坛我不能上去而只能从各个角度张望它，地坛的每一棵树下我都去过，差不多它的每一米草地上都有过我的车轮印。无论是什么季节，什么天气，什么时间，我都在这园子里呆过。有时候呆一会儿就回家，有时候就呆到满地上都亮起月光。记不清都是在它的哪些角落里了，我一连几小时专心致志地想关于死的事，也以同样的耐心和方式想过我为什么要出生。这样想了好几年，最后事情终于弄明白了：一个人，出生了，这就不再是一个可以辩论的问题，而只是上帝交给他的一个事实；上帝在交给我们这件事实的时候，已经顺便保证了它的结果，所以死是一件不必急于求成的事，死是一个必然会降临的节日。这样想过之后我安心多了，眼前的一切不再那么可怕。比如你起早熬夜准备考试的时候，忽然想起有一个长长的假期在前面等待你，你会不会觉得轻松一点？并且庆幸并且感激这样的
安排？

But how can I keep going? This is something that cannot be solved easily. I may have to ponder this question as long as I live, like a life long monster or lover.

For fifteen years I have been rolling my wheel-chair into the old temple to peacefully meditate on my life and soul. For fifteen years unfettered human beings have been reshaping the temple's appearance; but fortunately there is still something that man can never change — the setting sun casting its golden sheen over the stone gate to the altar and illuminating this patch of earth drenched with history; twittering swallows winging swiftly through the air at the most lonely moment of the day; children's footprints on the snow in winter; the ancient cypress trees that stand forever oblivious of the vicissitudes of the human world; the aroma of the soil in different seasons, an aroma that cannot be described but only smelt. Smell brings back one's old memories.

剩下的就是怎样活的问题了。这却不是在某一个瞬间就能完全想透的，不是能够一次性解决的事，怕是活多久就要想它多久了，就像是伴你终生的魔鬼或恋人。所以，十五年了，我还是总得到那古园里去，去它的老树下或荒草边或颓墙旁，去默坐，去呆想，去推开耳边的嘈杂理一理纷乱的思绪，去窥看自己的心魂。十五年中，这古园的形体被不能理解它的人肆意雕琢，幸好有些东西是任谁也不能改变它的。譬如祭坛石门中的落日，寂静的光辉平铺的一刻，地上的每一个坎坷都被映照得灿烂；譬如在园中最为落寞的时间，一群雨燕便出来高歌，把天地都叫喊得苍凉；譬如冬天雪地上孩子的脚印，总让人猜想他们是谁，曾在哪儿做过些什么，然后又都到哪儿去了；譬如那些苍黑的古柏，你忧郁的时候它们镇静地站在那儿，你欣喜的时候它们依然镇静地站在那儿，它们没日没夜地站在那儿从你没有出生一直站到这个世界上又没了你的时候；譬如暴雨骤临园中，激起一阵阵灼烈而清纯的草木和泥土的气味，让人想起无数个夏天的事件；譬如秋风忽至，再有一场早霜，落叶或飘摇歌舞或坦然安卧，满园中播散着熨帖而微苦的味道。味道是最说不清楚的，味道不能写只能闻，要你身临其境去闻才能明了。味道甚至是难于记忆的，只有你又闻到它你才能记起它的全部情感和意蕴。所以我常常要到那园子里去。

Only recently did I realize that my frequenting the old temple must have been a big worry for my mother.

She was not one of those Chinese mothers who spoil their children without understanding them. She knew what I was going through, so she never stopped me from going. She knew it wasn't good for me to stay at home all day. Yet she was anxious to know what was on my mind.

Whenever I felt depressed I would rush out to the temple and when I returned I would be as silent as the grave. My mother knew she mustn't ask questions, so she always fought them back and she never knew the answers to them. She also knew I wouldn't want her to go with me, so she never asked. Each time before I left home she would help me into the wheel-chair, then, without a word watch me roll out of the courtyard. I never bothered to think what she was going through.

二

现在我才想到，当年我总是独自跑到地坛去，曾经给母亲出了一个怎样的难题。

她不是那种光会疼爱儿子而不懂得理解儿子的母亲。她知道我心里的苦闷，知道不该阻止我出去走走，知道我要是老呆在家里结果会更糟，但她又担心我一个人在那荒僻的园子里整天都想些什么。我那时脾气坏到极点，经常是发了疯一样地离开家，从那园子里回来又中了魔似的什么话都不说。母亲知道有些事不宜问，便犹犹豫豫地想问而终于不敢问，因为她自己心里也没有答案。她料想我不会愿意她跟我一同去，所以她从未这样要求过，她知道得给我一点独处的时间，得有这样一段过程。她只是不知道这过程得要多久和这过程的尽头究竟是什么。每次我要动身时，她便无言地帮我准备，帮助我上了轮椅车，看着我摇车拐出小院；这以后她会怎样，当年我不曾想过。

On one occasion I suddenly remembered something and came home again. I found my mother still standing there blankly, as if she hadn't moved after I left. When she realized that I was back, she murmured, "It'll do you good to have some exercise or read a book in the temple." Only many years later, after she had left me, did I come to realize that she had actually been praying for me and, at the same time, consoling herself. She must have kept telling herself, "I cannot stop him. He has his own future. If something happens to him there in the temple, I'll bear it."

All those years my mother must have been prepared for the worst. But she never said "think of me" and, in fact, I hardly ever did think about her. I was too young then. Fate had made an emotional wreck of me and I considered myself the most unfortunate person in the world. I never considered that she might feel even more bitter than I, as all mothers suffer more when the son suffers. Illness had deprived her only son of the use of his legs when he was only twenty. She knew that he had to seek happiness, not just simply survive. But who could guarantee her son's future?

有一回我摇车出了小院，想起一件什么事又返身回来，看见母亲仍站在原地，还是送我走时的姿势，望着我拐出小院去的那处墙角，对我的回来竟一时没有反应。待她再次送我出门的时候，她说：“出去活动活动，去地坛看看书，我说这挺好。”许多年以后我才渐渐听出，母亲这话实际上是自我安慰，是暗自的祷告，是给我的提示，是恳求与嘱咐。只是在她猝然去世之后，我才有余暇设想。当我不在家里的那些漫长的时间，她是怎样心神不定坐卧难宁，兼着痛苦与惊恐与一个母亲最低限度的祈求。现在我可以断定，以她的聪慧和坚忍，在那些空落的白天后的黑夜，在那不眠的黑夜后的白天，她思来想去最后准是对自己说：“反正我不能不让他出去，未来的日子是他自己的，如果他真的在那园子里出了什么事，这苦难也只好我来承担。”在那段日子里—那是好几年前的一段日子，我想我一定使母亲作过了最坏的准备了，但她从来没有对我说过：“你为我想想。”事实上我也真的没为她想过。那时她的儿子还太年轻，还来不及为母亲想，他被命运击昏了头，一心以为自己是世上最不幸的一个，不知道儿子的不幸在母亲那儿总是要加倍的。她有一个长到二十岁上忽然截瘫了的儿子，这是她唯一的儿子；她情愿截瘫的是自己而不是儿子，可这事无法代替；她想，只要儿子能活下去哪怕自己去死呢也行，可她又确信一个人不能仅仅是活着，儿子得有一条路走向自己的幸福；而这条路呢，没有谁能保证她的儿子终于能找到。—这样一个母亲，注定是活得最苦的母亲。

Once when chatting with a friend, also a writer, I asked him what had made him take up writing. He pondered the question for a moment and said, "For my mother. I want her to feel proud of me." I was speechless with surprise. Though many things have spurred me on to become a writer, one of my most important motives was just that.

"It's not a very lofty reason, is it?" my friend said.

I shook my head and thinking that although it was certainly not to be held in contempt, it was surely a little naive.

"I really did use to dream of becoming famous quickly so that other people would be envious of my mother," my friend continued.

He was more honest than I, I thought, and luckier too, for his mother was still alive. His mother was luckier than my mother too, for my friend was healthy.

When my first story was published and the first time I received an award, the only thing I wished for was that my mother was still alive. All day long I wandered around the Temple of Earth. I couldn't understand why my mother hadn't lived two years longer. Why did she have to leave so suddenly before I had achieved some success? Had she come to the world only to worry for her son and not share his happiness? Later I was to write this in an article entitled The Silk Tree: "I sat in the quiet woods of the little park and closed my eyes. 'Why has God taken my mother so early?' I thought. After a long time I seemed to hear a reply, 'Her heart was too full of sorrow. God knew she could bear it no longer, so He called her back.' The thought consoled me a little. When I opened my eyes, I saw the wind blowing through the trees." The "little park" was the Temple of Earth.

有一次与一个作家朋友聊天，我问他学写作的最初动机是什么。他想了一会儿说：“为我母亲。为了让她骄傲。”我心里一惊，良久无言。回想自己最初写小说的动机，虽不似这位朋友的那般单纯，但如他一样的愿望我也有，且一经细想，发现这愿望也在全部动机中占了很大比重。这位朋友说：“我的动机太低俗了吧？”我光是摇头，心想低俗并不见得低俗，只怕是这愿望过于天真了。他又说：“我那时真就是想出名，出了名让别人羡慕我母亲。”我想，他比我坦率。我想，他又比我幸福，因为他的母亲还活着。而且我想，他的母亲也比我的母亲运气好，他的母亲没有一个双腿残废的儿子，否则事情就不这么简单。

在我的头一篇小说发表的时候，在我的小说第一次获奖的那些日子里，我真是多么希望我的母亲还活着。我便又不能在家里呆了，又整天整天独自跑到地坛去，心里是没头没尾的沉郁和哀怨，走遍整个园子却怎么也想不通：母亲为什么就不能再多活两年？为什么在她儿子就快要碰撞开一条路的时候，她却忽然熬不住了？莫非她来此世上只是为了替儿子担忧，却不该分享我的一点点快乐？她匆匆离我去时才只有四十九岁呀！有那么一会儿，我甚至对世界对上帝充满了仇恨和厌恶。后来我在一篇题为《合欢树》的文章中写道：“我坐在小公园安静的树林里，闭上眼睛，想，上帝为什么早早地召母亲回去呢？很久很久，迷迷糊糊的我听见了回答：‘她心里太苦了，上帝看她受不住了，就召她回去。’我似乎得了一点安慰，睁开眼睛，看见风正从树林里穿过。”小公园，指的也是地坛。

Only at such moments do past events appear before my eyes clear and intact and I understand more completely what a wonderful mother I once had. Maybe God was right.

As I roll my wheel-chair slowly through the Temple of Earth on a misty morning or at noontime under a scorching sun, I have only one thought in my mind: Mother is gone. I stop beside the old cypress tree, on the grass, beneath the crumbling walls in the afternoon when small insects hum all around or in the evening as birds return to their nests. In my heart I still murmur: But Mother is gone. I put the back of my chair down and lie there in a trance until sunset. Then I sit up and remain sitting in a daze until darkness shrouds the ancient altar and it begins to dawn on me that Mother can come to the temple to look for me no more.

只是到了这时候，纷纭的往事才在我眼前幻现得清晰，母亲的苦难与伟大才在我心中渗透得深彻。上帝的考虑，也许是对的。

摇着轮椅在园中慢慢走，又是雾罩的清晨，又是骄阳高悬的白昼，我只想着一件事：母亲已经不在了。在老柏树旁停下，在草地上在颓墙边停下，又是处处虫鸣的午后，又是鸟儿归巢的傍晚，我心里只默念着一句话：可是母亲已经不在了。把椅背放倒，躺下，似睡非睡挨到日没，坐起来，心神恍惚，呆呆地直坐到古祭坛上落满黑暗然后再渐渐浮起月光，心里才有点明白，母亲不能再来这园中找我了。

There were several times I stayed in the temple too long and my mother came to fetch me. But when she found me she would change her mind and wouldn't want to interrupt. She would turn around quietly and go home. Several times I saw her receding back; other times I would see her anxiously looking for me. Her eyesight was failing, so I would often see her first. When I knew she was looking in my direction, I would look away. After a while when I turned to look at her again I would see her receding back. Once I sat in a dense grove and saw her looking for me. I didn't know how long she had been looking for me but still I didn't call her. Instead I let her pass by without seeing me. She was walking in hasty paces. Only today do I realize how foolish I was to have been so stubborn and reserved with my mother. But it's all too late now.

It is understandable that a son will try to make his mother proud of him; as the idea of becoming a celebrity is not such an ignoble one.

After the excitement of my award had faded, I began to realize that a successful career in writing might not have been the one Mother would have planned for me. Month after month, year after year I still come to the temple, and I still wonder what she had felt about my future.

曾有过好多回，我在这园子里呆得太久了，母亲就来找我。她来找我又不想让我发觉，只要见我还好好地在这园子里，她就悄悄转身回去，我看见过几次她的背影。我也看见过几回她四处张望的情景，她视力不好，端着眼镜像在寻找海上的一条船，她没看见我时我已经看见她了，待我看见她也看见我了我就不去看她，过一会儿我再抬头看她就又看见她缓缓离去的背影。我单是无法知道有多少回她没有找到我。有一回我坐在矮树丛中，树丛很密，我看见她没有找到我；她一个人在园子里走，走过我的身旁，走过我经常呆的一些地方，步履茫然又急迫。我不知道她已经找了多久还要找多久，我不知道为什么我决意不喊她—但这绝不是小时候的捉迷藏，这也许是出于长大了的男孩子的倔强或羞涩？但这倔强只留给我痛悔，丝毫也没有骄傲。我真想告诫所有长大了的男孩子，千万不要跟母亲来这套倔强，羞涩就更不必，我已经懂了可我已经来不及了。

儿子想使母亲骄傲，这心情毕竟是太真实了，以致使“想出名”这一声名狼藉的念头也多少改变了一点形象。这是个复杂的问题，且不去管它了罢。随着小说获奖的激动逐日暗淡，我开始相信，至少有一点我是想错了：我用纸笔在报刊上碰撞开的一条路，并不就是母亲盼望我找到的那条路。年年月月我都到这园子里来，年年月月我都要想，母亲盼望我找到的那条路到底是什么。母亲生前没给我留下过什么隽永的誓言，或要我恪守的教诲，只是在她去世之后，她艰难的命运，坚忍的意志和毫不张扬的爱，随光阴流转，在我的印象中愈加鲜明深刻。

One October as I was reading in the temple I heard an old couple chatting as they strolled. "I never thought the temple was so big," the old man said to his wife. I put down my book. It must be difficult for Mother to find me in such a large place, I thought to myself. For the first time in many years I suddenly realized that it was not only the tracks of my wheel-chair that covered the Temple of Earth, but also my mother's footprints.

If the time in a day corresponds to the four seasons, then undoubtedly spring is morning, summer is noon, autumn is dawn, and winter is night. If musical instruments are matched with the four seasons, I surmise that spring should be the trumpet; summer the kettledrum; autumn the violoncello; and winter the horn or flute. What if the sounds in the park are associated with four seasons? Then spring should be the cooing of pigeons hovering above the sacrificial altar; summer should be the persistently tedious and shrill singing of cicadas and the rustling of poplar leaves poking fun at the cicadas' singing; autumn should be the chiming of wind-bells that hang under the eaves of the ancient temple; and winter should be the random sound of wood-peckers echoing in the open air. If the scenes and sights in this park are comparable to the four seasons, then spring is a path that now pales and now darkens and moistens, or poplar catkins dancing in clusters in a sky that shines at one moment and clouds at another; summer puts me in mind of so many stone benches glistening and scorching under the sun, or a shady or mossy stone stairway with fruit peels below it and half a newspaper page, crumpled from being seated on; autumn is a large bronze bell which, deserted in the northwest corner of the park, is as old as the park, with its inscriptions fading under thick layers of patina; and winter brings to mind the few old fluffy-feathered sparrows roaming a clearing in the woods. What are man's emotional responses to the four seasons? Spring is a season for man to be bedridden with disease, otherwise he is unlikely to discover the cruelty and desire of spring. Summer is a time for lovers to be jilted, otherwise they would let love down. With Autumn comes the time to buy potted flowers and bring them to one's long-separated home while opening the windows to let in the sunlight, strolling down the memory lane, and unhurriedly sorting out the mildewed odds and ends. Winter sees man reading by a heating stove and repeatedly making up his mind to write letters that never make it to the mailbox.

Forms of arts can also be employed to match the four seasons, so that spring is a landscape painting, summer a long novel, autumn a short song or poem, and winter a group of sculptures. What about using dreams as reflections of the four seasons? Spring is a cry from atop a tree. Summer is a drizzle falling amidst that cry. Autumn is a land moistened by the drizzle. Winter is a desolate tobacco-pipe lying on that cleansed land.

Because of this park, I often feel thankful to my fate.

Even now I can see clearly how I will miss it when someday I cannot but let go of it forever, how I will hanker after it because I miss it so, and how I will not be able to dream of it because I do not dare to miss it.

有一年，十月的风又翻动起安详的落叶，我在园中读书，听见两个散步的老人说：“没想到这园子有这么大。”我放下书，想，这么大一座园子，要在其中找到她的儿子，母亲走过了多少焦灼的路。多年来我头一次意识到，这园中不单是处处都有过我的车辙，有过我的车辙的地方也都有过母亲的脚印。

三

如果以一天中的时间来对应四季，当然春天是早晨，夏天是中午，秋天是黄昏，冬天是夜晚。如果以乐器来对应四季，我想春天应该是小号，夏天是定音鼓，秋天是大提琴，冬天是圆号和长笛。要是以这园子里的声响来对应四季呢？那么，春天是祭坛上空漂浮着的鸽子的哨音，夏天是冗长的蝉歌和杨树叶子哗啦啦的对蝉歌的取笑，秋天是古殿檐头的风铃响，冬天是啄木鸟随意而空旷的啄木声。以园中的景物对应四季，春天是一径时而苍白时而黑润的小路，时而明朗时而阴晦的天上摇荡着串串杨花；夏天是一条条耀眼而灼人的石凳，或阴凉而爬满了青苔的石阶，阶下有果皮，阶上有半张被坐皱的报纸；秋天是一座青铜的大钟，在园子的西北角上曾丢弃着一座很大的铜钟，铜钟与这园子一般年纪，浑身挂满绿锈，文字已不清晰；冬天，是林中空地上几只羽毛蓬松的老麻雀。以心绪对应四季呢？春天是卧病的季节，否则人们不易发觉春天的残忍与渴望；夏天，情人们应该在这个季节里失恋，不然就似乎对不起爱情；秋天是从外面买一棵盆花回家的时候，把花搁在阔别了的家中，并且打开窗户把阳光也放进屋里，慢慢回忆慢慢整理一些发过霉的东西；冬天伴着火炉和书，一遍遍坚定不死的决心，写一些并不发出的信。还可以用艺术形式对应四季，这样春天就是一幅画，夏天是一部长篇小说，秋天是一首短歌或诗，冬天是一群雕塑。以梦呢？以梦对应四季呢？春天是树尖上的呼喊，夏天是呼喊中的细雨，秋天是细雨中的土地，冬天是干净的土地上的一只孤零的烟斗。

因为这园子，我常感恩于自己的命运。

我甚至现在就能清楚地看见，一旦有一天我不得不长久地离开它，我会怎样想念它，我会怎样想念它并且梦见它，我会怎样因为不敢想念它而梦也梦不到它。

Who else has frequented the Temple of Earth over the past fifteen years? I remember the old couple.

Fifteen years ago, they were middle-aged and I still a young man. They would always come to the temple in the evening and I never knew from which direction they would appear. They would usually stroll round in an anti-clockwise direction. The man was tall, with long legs and broad shoulders and, looking straight ahead, would walk very erect. His wife would hold his arm, but she couldn't affect his upright posture. She was short and rather nondescript; somehow I had a feeling that she must have been born into a well-to-do family that had later declined. She looked like a feeble child holding her husband's arm and her eyes would look around fearfully. She would talk to him in a gentle voice and whenever someone walked close to them she would immediately stop. They reminded me of Jean Valjean and Cosette in Victor Hugo's Les Misérables. But of course you could tell at once that they were husband and wife. Their clothes were impeccable though old-fashioned.

Like me, they came to the temple whatever the weather and, unlike me, they always arrived at the same time each day. I would come into the temple at almost any time but they would only appear at dusk. If it was windy they would wear cream-coloured windbreakers and if it rained they would hold a black umbrella. In summer they wore white shirts and black or cream trousers; in winter they wore heavy black woollen coats. They must like those three colours, I thought. They would walk anticlockwise around the temple, then leave. When they passed me by it was only the man's footsteps I could hear. The woman seemed stuck to her husband and float forward. I'm sure they still remember me though we never tried to approach each other. Over fifteen years they witnessed how a crippled young man joined the ranks of the middle-aged just as I had seen how they, an enviable middle-aged couple, had become old and grey.

四

现在让我想想，十五年中坚持到这园子来的人都是谁呢？好像只剩了我和一对老人。

十五年前，这对老人还只能算是中年夫妇，我则货真价实还是个青年。他们总是在薄暮时分来园中散步，我不大弄得清他们是从哪边的园门进来，一般来说他们是逆时针绕这园子走。男人个子很高，肩宽腿长，走起路来目不斜视，胯以上直至脖颈挺直不动，他的妻子攀了他一条胳膊走，也不能使他的上身稍有松懈。女人个子却矮，也不算漂亮，我无端地相信她必出身于家道中衰的名门富族；她攀在丈夫胳臂上像个娇弱的孩子，她向四周观望似总含着恐惧，她轻声与丈夫谈话，见有人走近就立刻怯怯地收住话头。我有时因为他们而想起冉阿让与柯赛特，但这想法并不巩固，他们一望即知是老夫老妻。两个人的穿着都算得上考究，但由于时代的演进，他们的服饰又可以称为古朴了。他们和我一样，到这园子里来几乎是风雨无阻，不过他们比我守时。我什么时间都可能来，他们则一定是在暮色初临的时候。刮风时他们穿了米色风衣，下雨时他们打了黑色的雨伞，夏天他们的衬衫是白色的裤子是黑色的或米色的，冬天他们的呢子大衣又都是黑色的，想必他们只喜欢这三种颜色。他们逆时针绕这园子一周，然后离去。他们走过我身旁时只有男人的脚步响，女人像是贴在高大的丈夫身上跟着漂移。我相信他们一定对我有印象，但是我们没有说过话，我们互相都没有想要接近的表示。十五年中，他们或许注意到一个小伙子进入了中年，我则看着一对令人羡慕的中年情侣不觉中成了两个老人。

Then there was the chap who haunted the temple everyday to practise his singing. He practised for years, and then he was gone. About my age, he usually came in the morning and sang for half an hour, sometimes even a whole morning. I guess he had a job to attend to, too. We would often meet on a narrow path in the eastern part of the temple. I knew he practised singing under a high wall in the southeast. He probably thought that I was going to the woods in the northeast.

After I had stopped and lit a cigarette, I would hear him tentatively begin to train his voice. During the "cultural revolution"he would sing "White clouds floating in the blue, blue sky, under the white clouds horses saunter". After the "cultural revolution" he would sing the popular aria in The Cloth Seller. "Selling cloth, oh! Selling cloth, oh!" the young man would sing lustily. "I am lucky, I am lucky, I sing out of happiness…” Then he would repeat the whole piece again, with equal vigour. He had an excellent voice but the problem was his technique, for he often lost control over some of the key notes.

Sometimes I would encounter him again at noon in the eastern part of the temple. We would glance at each other and go our separate ways, he to the north and I to the south.

I felt we both wanted to get to know each other but somehow didn't know how to strike up a conversation. One day after we had nodded to each other, he finally said to me, "How do you do?" and I replied, "How do you do? Going home?" he said and I answered, "Yes. How about you?" "I'll be going home too," he said.

So we slowed our pace (I, my wheels) in order to talk a little more. But we still found nothing to say until we had passed each other. "Well, then, see you again," he said. "See you," I answered. Then we smiled at each other and parted.

We never saw each other again. His songs disappeared from the temple. I realized later that he had probably been saying good-bye to me. Maybe he had joined some arts troupe or song and dance ensemble. I wished him luck.

曾有过一个热爱唱歌的小伙子，他也是每天都到这园中来，来唱歌，唱了好多年，后来不见了。他的年纪与我相仿，他多半是早晨来，唱半小时或整整唱一个上午，估计在另外的时间里他还得上班。我们经常在祭坛东侧的小路上相遇，我知道他是到东南角的高墙下去唱歌，他一定猜想我去东北角的树林里做什么。我找到我的地方，抽几口烟，便听见他谨慎地整理歌喉了。他反反复复唱那么几首歌。“文化大革命”没过去的时候，他唱“蓝蓝的天上白云飘，白云下面马儿跑……”我老也记不住这歌的名字。“文革”后，他唱《货郎与小姐》中那首最为流传的咏叹调。“卖布—卖布嘞，卖布—卖布嘞！”我记得这开头的一句他唱得很有声势，在早晨清澈的空气中，货郎跑遍园中的每一个角落去恭维小姐。“我交了好运气，我交了好运气，我为幸福唱歌曲……”然后他就一遍一遍地唱，不让货郎的激情稍减。依我听来，他的技术不算精到，在关键的地方常出差错，但他的嗓子是相当不坏的，而且唱一个上午也听不出一点疲惫。太阳也不疲惫，把大树的影子缩小成一团，把疏忽大意的蚯蚓晒干在小路上。将近中午，我们又在祭坛东侧相遇，他看一看我，我看一看他，他往北去，我往南去。日子久了，我感到我们都有结识的愿望；但似乎都不知如何开口，于是互相注视一下终又都移开目光擦身而过；这样的次数一多，便更不知如何开口了。终于有一天— 一个丝毫没有特点的日子，我们互相点了一下头，他说：“你好。”我说：“你好。”他说：“回去啦？”我说：“是，你呢？”他说：“我也该回去了。”我们都放慢脚步（其实我是放慢车速），想再多说几句，但仍然是不知从何说起，这样我们就都走过了对方，又都扭转身子面向对方。他说：“那就再见吧。”我说：“好，再见。”便互相笑笑各走各的路了。但是我们没有再见，那以后，园中再没了他的歌声，我才想到，那天他或许是有意与我道别的，也许他考上了哪家专业的文工团或歌舞团了吧？真希望他如他歌里所唱的那样，交了好
运气。

Then there was also the old drinker who always had a flask of wine dangling from his waist. He would often come to spend his afternoons in the temple. He would wander all over the park and always drink alone. He dressed casually and staggered as he walked. He would walk fifty or sixty metres, then stop and, placing one foot on a stone stool or mound of earth or a tree stump, he would have a good look around while undoing his flask from his waist. Then he would quickly take a great gulp and return the flask to his waist. He would think for a while and walk another fifty or sixty metres.

There was also a bird-catcher. At that time there were few visitors to the temple but many birds. This man would set up a net in the northwest corner of the temple. When the birds hit it, their feathers became entangled in the net and they would be unable to extract themselves. But the man was only interested in one rare kind of bird which he said he had often seen in the past. when he caught other birds he would always set them free. He said he hadn't seen this rare bird for quite a few years and he would wait a little longer and see whether he could catch one or not. So he waited for a few more years.

Then there was the woman engineer who passed south through the temple on her way to her work in the morning and walked home north in the evening. In fact I didn't know anything about her, but I liked to think that she was an engineer — an intellectual. Hardly anyone else could possess the same kind of simplistic grace. When she walked through the park, the woods seemed to become more tranquil and there seemed to be the sound of distant music, something like For Elise.

I never saw her lucky husband. I tried to form my own picture of him but couldn't. Later I realized that it was better if the man never appeared. Whenever I saw her walking homeward out of the north gate I would worry that she would end up in a kitchen. Or perhaps she possessed another kind of charm as she cooked, though For Elise certainly wouldn't come to mind again. Yet what would be an appropriate piece?

And my friend, a competent long-distance runner. Because of a "political slip of the tongue" during the "cultural revolution", he was imprisoned for several years and thus had his future ruined. After he was out he eventually found a job pulling a cart but still couldn't be treated equally. Disappointment made him take up running.

When he ran in the temple I would calculate the time for him. Everytime he finished a circuit he would wave to me and I would check my watch and mark the result in a notebook. He would run round the temple twenty times each time, which was about twenty thousand metres. He wished that one day he might gain his political liberation through his running achievements. He believed that newspaper reporters with their cameras and reports could help him achieve his goal.

The first time he took part in the annual Spring Festival Beijing race around the city, he came fifteenth. It gave him a huge boost to see the photos of the first ten athletes displayed in the glass cases in central Beijing's Chang'an Boulevard. The second year he won fourth place, but this time only the pictures of the first three athletes were exhibited. The third year he came seventh and the first six were shown. The fourth year he jumped to third place, but this time only the champion's photo was put in the case. He finally became champion in the fifth year, but the glass cases only displayed a "mass photo" of the annual race. He lost all hope.

During those years we often stayed in the temple till very late and vented our anger about the times. When we parted, we would tell each other not to commit suicide just yet, just live another year and see what might happen.

He is now too old to run. He participated in the race for the last time when he was thirty-eight. It was also the second time he won the championship. This time he broke the record. A coach said to him, "Oh, if only I had seen you ten years ago."He smiled a bitter smile but said nothing. That evening he found me in the temple and told me the story peacefully.

It's been a few years since I last saw him. Now he and his wife and children live in a faraway place.

还有一些人，我还能想起一些常到这园子里来的人。有一个老头，算得一个真正的饮者；他在腰间挂一个扁瓷瓶，瓶里当然装满了酒，常来这园中消磨午后的时光。他在园中四处游逛，如果你不注意你会以为园中有好几个这样的老头，等你看过了他卓尔不群的饮酒情状，你就会相信这是个独一无二的老头。他的衣着过分随便，走路的姿态也不慎重，走上五六十米路便选定一处地方，一只脚踏在石凳上或土埂上或树墩上，解下腰间的酒瓶，解酒瓶的当儿眯起眼睛把一百八十度视角内的景物细细看一遭，然后以迅雷不及掩耳之势倒一大口酒入肚，把酒瓶摇一摇再挂向腰间，平心静气地想一会儿什么，便走下一个五六十米去。还有一个捕鸟的汉子，那岁月园中人少，鸟却多，他在西北角的树丛中拉一张网，鸟撞在上面，羽毛戗在网眼里便不能自拔。他单等一种过去很多而现在非常罕见的鸟，其他的鸟撞在网上他就把它们摘下来放掉，他说已经有好多年没等到那种罕见的鸟了，他说他再等一年看看到底还有没有那种鸟，结果他又等了好多年。早晨和傍晚，在这园子里可以看见一个中年女工程师，早晨她从北向南穿过这园子去上班，傍晚她从南向北穿过这园子回家，事实上我并不了解她的职业或者学历，但我以为她必是学理工的知识分子，别样的人很难有她那般的素朴并优雅。当她在园子穿行的时刻，四周的树林也仿佛更加幽静，清淡的日光中竟似有悠远的琴声，比如说是那曲《献给艾丽丝》才好。我没有见过她的丈夫，没有见过那个幸运的男人是什么样子，我想象过却想象不出，后来忽然懂了想象不出才好，那个男人最好不要出现。她走出北门回家去，我竟有点担心，担心她会落入厨房，不过，也许她在厨房里劳作的情景更有另外的美吧，当然不能再是《献给艾丽丝》，是个什么曲子呢？还有一个人，是我的朋友，他是个最有天赋的长跑家，但他被埋没了。他因为在“文革”中出言不慎而坐了几年牢，出来后好不容易找了个拉板车的工作，样样待遇都不能与别人平等，苦闷极了便练习长跑。那时他总来这园子里跑，我用手表为他计时，他每跑一圈向我招一下手，我就记下一个时间。每次他要环绕这园子跑二十圈，大约两万米。他盼望以他的长跑成绩来获得政治上真正的解放，他以为记者的镜头和文字可以帮他做到这一点。第一年他在春节环城赛上跑了第十五名，他看见前十名的照片都挂在了长安街的新闻橱窗里，于是有了信心。第二年他跑了第四名，可是新闻橱窗里只挂了前三名的照片，他没灰心。第三年他跑了第七名，橱窗里挂前六名的照片，他有点怨自己。第四年他跑了第三名，橱窗里却只挂了第一名的照片。第五年他跑了第一名—他几乎绝望了，橱窗里只有一幅环城赛群众场面的照片。那些年我们俩常一起在这园子里呆到天黑，开怀痛骂，骂完沉默着回家，分手时再互相叮嘱：先别去死，再试着活一活看。现在他已经不跑了，年岁太大了，跑不了那么快了。最后一次参加环城赛，他以三十八岁之龄又得了第一名并破了纪录，有一位专业队的教练对他说：“我要是十年前发现你就好了。”他苦笑一下什么也没说，只在傍晚又来这园中找到我，把这事平静地向我叙说一遍。不见他已有好几年了，现在他和妻子和儿子住在很远的地方。

These people have long been replaced by a stream of new visitors. After fifteen years, only the old couple and I still frequent the old temple. For some time I saw only the old man strolling into the temple in the evening, his pace slower. I was concerned, fearing that something might have happened to the old lady. Fortunately, after a whole winter, she appeared again, and the old couple still walk anti-clockwise round the temple. Her hair is greyer than before but she still clings to her husband's arm like a young girl.

Neither have I forgotten the pretty but unlucky little girl.

I saw her one afternoon fifteen years ago when I first came into the temple. She was probably only three then and was kneeling on the west side of the Hall of Abstinence collecting the little "lanterns" that had dropped from the goldenrain trees nearby. When spring comes countless small yellow flowers blossom on these trees and when the petals fall little three-leafed lanterns will appear. They turn from green to yellow, and then fall to the ground. Even adults can't help picking up the lovely, delicate little fruit.

She kept babbling to herself in a sweet voice. I wonder how such a small child could come to the temple by herself and asked her where she lived. She pointed randomly and called for her brother. A boy of seven or eight came out from amongst the weeds under the old wall and looked at me. Finding nothing suspicious he said to his sister, "I'm here," before bending down again to continue to look for insects. He caught mantises, grasshoppers, cicadas and dragonflies to please her.

Over two to three years I often saw them playing together under the big goldenrain trees. Then they stopped coming to the temple and I didn't see them again. I thought they must have gone to school. Even the little girl was old enough to go. It was natural that they wouldn't have as much time to play in the temple as before. I had forgotten them almost completely when one day, years later, I saw them again in the temple. It was then that I realized the little girl was retarded.

这些人现在都不到园子里来了，园子里差不多完全换了一批新人。十五年前的旧人，现在就剩我和那对老夫老妻了。有那么一段时间，这老夫老妻中的一个也忽然不来，薄暮时分唯男人独自来散步，步态也明显迟缓了许多，我悬心了很久，怕是那女人出了什么事。幸好过了一个冬天那女人又来了，两个人仍是逆时针绕着园子走，一长一短两个身影恰似钟表的两支指针；女人的头发白了许多，但依旧攀着丈夫的胳膊走得像个孩子。“攀”这个字用得不恰当了，或许可以用“搀”吧，不知有没有兼具这两个意思的字。

五

我也没有忘记一个孩子— 一个漂亮而不幸的小姑娘。十五年前的那个下午，我第一次到这园子里来就看见了她，那时她大约三岁，蹲在斋宫西边的小路上捡树上掉落的“小灯笼”。那儿有几棵大栾树，春天开一簇簇细小而稠密的黄花，花落了便结出无数如同三片叶子合抱的小灯笼，小灯笼先是绿色，继而转白，再变黄，成熟了掉落得满地都是。小灯笼精巧得令人爱惜，成年人也不免捡了一个还要捡一个。小姑娘咿咿呀呀地跟自己说着话，一边捡小灯笼；她的嗓音很好，不是她那个年龄所常有的那般尖细，而是很圆润甚或是厚重，也许是因为那个下午园子里太安静了。我奇怪这么小的孩子怎么一个人跑来这园子里？我问她住在哪儿？她随手指一下，就喊她的哥哥，沿墙根一带的茂草之中便站起一个七八岁的男孩，朝我望望，看我不像坏人便对他的妹妹说“我在这儿呢”，又伏下身去，他在捉什么虫子。他捉到螳螂、蚂蚱、知了和蜻蜓，来取悦他的妹妹。有那么两三年，我经常在那几棵大栾树下见到他们，兄妹俩总是在一起玩，玩得和睦融洽，都渐渐长大了些。之后有很多年没见到他们。我想他们都在学校里吧，小姑娘也到了上学的年龄，必是告别了孩提时光，没有很多机会来这儿玩了。这事很正常，没理由太搁在心上，若不是有一年我又在园中见到他们，肯定就会慢慢把他们忘记。

It was a cloudless Sunday morning. I rolled my wheel-chair to the goldenrain trees. It was the season when their little lanterns were covering the ground. I had been having great difficulties in ending a story, so I had come here wondering whether I should drop the story altogether. Just as I stopped my wheel-chair, I saw, not far off, several youngsters teasing a young girl. They were trying to frighten her by making horrible faces and, when she tried to escape from them, chased her and stopped her from getting away. The girl hid herself behind the trees holding up the hem of her skirt, not realizing that her legs were thus exposed.

I could tell from her reactions that she was retarded and hurried over to help. A young man rushed over from the distance on his bike. The bullies ran away. The young man stopped his bike beside the girl and panting, angrily looked at the vanishing brutes. It was then that I recognized them. I let out a sad, silent cry.

The young girl loosened her hands and countless little lanterns dropped to her feet. She was still a pretty young girl, but there was no light in her eyes. She stared in a daze in the direction the bullies had run. With her limited intelligence, there was no way she could understand the world around her. The young man helped her onto the back seat of his bike and quietly rode home.

那是个礼拜日的上午。那是个晴朗而令人心碎的上午，时隔多年，我竟发现那个漂亮的小姑娘原来是个弱智的孩子。我摇着车到那几棵大栾树下去，恰又是遍地落满了小灯笼的季节；当时我正为一篇小说的结尾所苦，既不知为什么要给它那样一个结尾，又不知何以忽然不想让它有那样一个结尾，于是从家里跑出来，想依靠着园中的镇静，看看是否应该把那篇小说放弃。我刚刚把车停下，就见前面不远处有几个人在戏耍一个少女，做出怪样子来吓她，又喊又笑地追逐她拦截她，少女在几棵大树间惊惶地东跑西躲，却不松手揪卷在怀里的裙裾，两条腿袒露着也似毫无察觉。我看出少女的智力是有些缺陷，却还没看出她是谁。我正要驱车上前为少女解围，就见远处飞快地骑车来了个小伙子，于是那几个戏耍少女的家伙望风而逃。小伙子把自行车支在少女近旁，怒目望着那几个四散逃窜的家伙，一声不吭喘着粗气，脸色如暴雨前的天空一样一会儿比一会儿苍白。这时我认出了他们，小伙子和少女就是当年那对小兄妹。我几乎是在心里惊叫了一声，或者是哀号。世上的事常常使上帝的居心变得可疑。小伙子向他的妹妹走去。少女松开了手，裙裾随之垂落了下来，很多很多她捡的小灯笼便洒落了一地，铺散在她脚下。她仍然算得漂亮，但双眸迟滞没有光彩。她呆呆地望着那群跑散的家伙，望着极目之处的空寂，凭她的智力绝不可能把这个世界想明白吧？大树下，破碎的阳光星星点点，风把遍地的小灯笼吹得滚动，仿佛喑哑地响着无数小铃铛。哥哥把妹妹扶上自行车后座，带着她无言地回家去了。

Since God had bestowed on her both beauty and retardation, all she could do was to return home quietly.

However, who can truly understand the world?

One may blame God for bringing so much suffering to the human world; one may also gain a sense of pride and nobility by devoting oneself to eliminating the cause of these sufferings. But if one thinks twice, one falls into a maze: For if there is no suffering in the world, is it possible for the world to exist? If stupidity is extinguished, where is the virtue of intelligence? Without ugliness can there be beauty? Good without evil? Health without illness and disability?

I often dream of the day when all forms of disability disappear from the earth. But will disease replace disability and its victims suffer similar misfortunes? And if it were possible to eradicate disease from the face of the earth as well, would, for example, ugliness take its place? What will happen if we rid the world of ugliness, stupidity and evil, or unpleasant people and deeds, and everyone is equally healthy, good-looking, intelligent and honest? I fear, then, the curtains will have to fall on all human dramas. A world without disparities would be like a pool of stagnant water — a barren desert devoid of all meaning.

Disparity is an eternal necessity. Suffering must be endured, for it is an essential part of all human drama. We exist, therefore we suffer. God's plan is, after all, right.

无言是对的。要是上帝把漂亮和弱智这两样东西都给了这个小姑娘，就只有无言和回家去是对的。

谁又能把这世界想个明白呢？世上的很多事是不堪说的。你可以抱怨上帝何以要降诸多苦难给这人间，你也可以为消灭种种苦难而奋斗，并为此享有崇高与骄傲，但只要你再多想一步你就会坠入深深的迷茫了：假如世界上没有了苦难，世界还能够存在么？要是没有愚钝，机智还有什么光荣呢？要是没了丑陋，漂亮又怎么维系自己的幸运？要是没有了恶劣和卑下，善良与高尚又将如何界定自己又如何成为美德呢？要是没有了残疾，健全会否因其司空见惯而变得腻烦和乏味呢？我常梦想着在人间彻底消灭残疾，但可以相信，那时将由患病者代替残疾人去承担同样的苦难。如果能够把疾病也全数消灭，那么这份苦难又将由（比如说）相貌丑陋的人去承担了。就算我们连丑陋，连愚昧和卑鄙和一切我们所不喜欢的事物和行为，也都可以统统消灭掉，所有的人都一样健康、漂亮、聪慧、高尚，结果会怎样呢？怕是人间的剧目就全要收场了，一个失去差别的世界将是一潭死水，是一块没有感觉没有肥力的沙漠。

看来差别永远是要有的。看来就只好接受苦难—人类的全部剧目需要它，存在的本身需要它。看来上帝又一次对了。

Then there is the most disheartening question of all: Who is to play the roles of the sufferer and who the receivers of happiness and self-respect? Only chance decides.

Fate does not speak justice.

Then where is Noah's Ark for the unfortunate sufferers?

If knowledge and wisdom lead some to the Ark, can the rest discover the way there too?

I believe it is ugliness that sets off beauty, just as stupidity serves as a contrast to intelligence, cowardice to heroism and the unenlightened masses to Buddha.

If the temple has a guardian spirit, it must have seen me sitting here all these years. Three questions, basically, have kept haunting me: Shall I take my own life? Why should I remain alive? And why do I write?

I've said earlier that death is something that doesn't need to be pursued in haste, for sooner or later one will meet it. Just try to live on. It is this crucial point that has kept me going. Why not give it another try? Possibly because I didn't want to give up just like that. Life is too precious. Seeing as I'd lost the use of my legs, there was nothing more I could lose. It can't hurt to try. I might even discover something during the process. So I became more relaxed, more free.

But why do I bother to write? Writing is still a profession that wins people's respect, everybody knows that. As a disabled man sitting all day long in a wheel-chair in an old temple, I wish some day I may attract the attention of others and gain an entry to their hearts. If I die then it will not be so worthless. That is what I thought in the beginning.

于是就有一个最令人绝望的结论等在这里：由谁去充任那些苦难的角色？又由谁去体现这世间的幸福、骄傲和快乐？只好听凭偶然，是没有道理好讲的。

就命运而言，休论公道。

那么，一切不幸命运的救赎之路在哪里呢？

设若智慧或悟性可以引领我们去找到救赎之路，难道所有的人都能够获得这样的智慧和悟性吗？

我常以为是丑女造就了美人。我常以为是愚氓举出了智者。我常以为是懦夫衬照了英雄。我常以为是众生度化了佛祖。

六

设若有一位园神，他一定早已注意到了，这么多年我在这园里坐着，有时候是轻松快乐的，有时候是沉郁苦闷的，有时候优哉游哉，有时候恓惶落寞，有时候平静而且自信，有时候又软弱，又迷茫。其实总共只有三个问题交替着来骚扰我，来陪伴我。第一个是要不要去死？第二个是为什么活？第三个，我干吗要写作？

现在让我看看，它们迄今都是怎样编织在一起的吧。

你说，你看穿了死是一件无需乎着急去做的事，是一件无论怎样耽搁也不会错过的事，便决定活下去试试？是的，至少这是很关键的因素。为什么要活下去试试呢？好像仅仅是因为不甘心，机会难得，不试白不试，腿反正是完了，一切仿佛都要完了，但死神很守信用，试一试不会额外再有什么损失。说不定倒有额外的好处呢，是不是？我说过，这一来我轻松多了，自由多了。为什么要写作呢？作家是两个被人看重的字，这谁都知道。为了让那个躲在园子深处坐轮椅的人，有朝一日在别人眼里也稍微有点光彩，在众人眼里也能有个位置，哪怕那时再去死呢，也就多少说得过去了。开始的时候就是这样想，这不用保密，这些现在不用保密了。

I took a pad and a pen, hid myself in a secluded corner of the temple and secretly began to write. Not far away the young singer kept singing. If someone passed by, I would close my pad and stick the pen between my teeth — I was afraid of being made fun of if my writing didn't get me anywhere. I spared no efforts to save my vanity.

I finally finished my first story and got it published. People said it wasn't bad, some even said they never thought I had it in me to write so well. To this, I would say to myself: There are many more things about me that wouldn't occur to you. I was so excited that I didn't sleep a wink that night.

I wanted to tell the young singer my good news, but in the end I only told my friend, the runner. He felt excited too, and said: Good, I'll devote myself to running and you to writing.

我带着本子和笔，到园中找一个最不为人打扰的角落，偷偷地写。那个爱唱歌的小伙子在不远的地方一直唱。要是有人走过来，我就把本子合上把笔叼在嘴里。我怕写不成反落得尴尬。我很要面子。可是你写成了，而且发表了。人家说我写的还不坏，他们甚至说：真没想到你写得这么好。我心说你们没想到的事还多着呢。我确实有整整一宿高兴得没合眼。我很想让那个唱歌的小伙子知道，因为他的歌也毕竟是唱得不错。我告诉我的长跑家朋友的时候，那个中年女工程师正优雅地在园中穿行；长跑家很激动，他说好吧，我玩命跑，你玩命写。

From then on I felt like one possessed and spent all day thinking about what and whom I could write about in my next story. In fact, I would think about writing wherever I went. I looked for inspiration among the people. If only there could have been some sort of fiction potion which I could try on every person I met to see if there was a story behind him. At that time I just lived for writing.

Then I had several other stories published and fame began to tap on my door. But again I became frustrated, for I suddenly felt I was living like a hostage in a conspiracy who might be shot any time. I was worried that some day I might use up all my themes and creativity, then I was again finished — why would a cripple, confined mostly to a chair in an old temple, always have something to write about? Even a healthy writer who travels all over may run out of inspiration.

Again I thought of dying. I thought, maybe I should stop there — it would not be too bad an ending. It was just too exhausting living like your own hostage when there was no guarantee that tomorrow you would still find things to write about. I lived because I was thinking about writing, but if I was not cut out to be a writer after all, wasn't I foolish to keep on struggling?

Despite this, I still searched my brain for fragments of inspiration and managed to squeeze out the last drops of water from a drying towel. The feeling of mentally depleting oneself was far more agonizing than complete self-destruction. It would be better if I had died or had never been born, I thought. If only this world had never existed.

I didn't take my own life, however. Instead I decided to carry on living. I wanted to live.

Man's real name is desire. Sometimes I am honestly not afraid of death. I say "sometimes". But "not afraid of death" is different from "wanting to die". There are people who, on occasions, have no fear of death, but nobody is born that way. Sometimes I'm afraid of living, but that doesn't mean I don't want to live. I live because I want to gain something — love and a sense of worth. Shouldn't I be entitled to these? Nobody said no. But why do I constantly live in fear and feel like a hostage?

Later I came to understand that I was wrong. You don't live to write, you write to live. That day I said to a friend again that maybe it was better to die after all. My friend said: Don't die, you've still got something to write; there're still many things that only you could write about. Then I suddenly realized that I had to keep writing for as long as I wanted to live.

The best revenge a hostage can take against his captors is to kill himself. I'll need to kill myself so that I need not enter the writing market and join in the rush for subjects to write about.

But I keep on writing. One has to find a sound excuse for one's existence. To be or not to be is not a question that may be solved before death.

这一来你中了魔了，整天都在想哪一件事可以写，哪一个人可以让你写成小说。是中了魔了，我走到哪儿想到哪儿，在人山人海里只寻找小说，要是有一种小说试剂就好了，见人就滴两滴看他是不是一篇小说，要是有一种小说显影液就好了，把它泼满全世界看看都是哪儿有小说，中了魔了，那时我完全是为了写作活着。结果你又发表了几篇，并且出了一点小名，可这时你越来越感到恐慌。我忽然觉得自己活得像个人质，刚刚有点像个人了却又过了头，像个人质，被一个什么阴谋抓了来当人质，不定哪天被处决，不定哪天就完蛋。你担心要不了多久你就会文思枯竭，那样你就又完了。凭什么我总能写出小说来呢？凭什么那些适合作小说的生活素材就总能送到一个截瘫者跟前来呢？人家满世界跑都有枯竭的危险，而我坐在这园子里凭什么可以一篇接一篇地写呢？你又想到死了。我想见好就收吧。当一名人质实在是太累了太紧张了，太朝不保夕了。我为写作而活下来，要是写作到底不是我应该干的事，我想我再活下去是不是太冒傻气了？你这么想着你却还在绞尽脑汁地想写。我好歹又拧出点水来，从一条快要晒干的毛巾上。恐慌日甚一日，随时可能完蛋的感觉比完蛋本身可怕多了，所谓不怕贼偷就怕贼惦记，我想人不如死了好，不如不出生的好，不如压根儿没有这个世界的好。可你并没有去死。我又想到那是一件不必着急的事。可是不必着急的事并不证明是一件必要拖延的事呀？你总是决定活下来，这说明什么？是的，我还是想活。人为什么活着？因为人想活着，说到底是这么回事，人真正的名字叫作：欲望。可我不怕死，有时候我真的不怕死。有时候，—说对了。不怕死和想去死是两回事，有时候不怕死的人是有的，一生下来就不怕死的人是没有的。我有时候倒是怕活。可是怕活不等于不想活呀！可我为什么还想活呢？因为你还想得到点什么，你觉得你还是可以得到点什么的，比如说爱情，比如说价值感之类，人真正的名字叫欲望。这不对吗？我不该得到点什么吗？没说不该。可我为什么活得恐慌，就像个人质？后来你明白了，你明白你错了，活着不是为了写作，而写作是为了活着。你明白了这一点是在一个挺滑稽的时刻。那天你又说你不如死了好，你的一个朋友劝你：你不能死，你还得写呢，还有好多好作品等着你去写呢。这时候你忽然明白了，你说：只是因为我活着，我才不得不写作。或者说只是因为你还想活下去，你才不得不写作。是的，这样说过之后我竟然不那么恐慌了。就像你看穿了死之后所得的那份轻松？一个人质报复一场阴谋的最有效的办法是把自己杀死。我看出我得先把我杀死在市场上，那样我就不用参加抢购题材的风潮了。你还写吗？还写。你真的不得不写吗？人都忍不住要为生存找一些牢靠的理由。你不担心你会枯竭了？我不知道，不过我想，活着的问题在死前是完不了的。

This thought liberates me, although I know the most effective way to get rid of fear is to first rid oneself of human desire.

I seem to hear the Temple God say: A good actor can't help feeling like a hostage; a good audience can always see through the conspiracy. Only a bad actor thinks he has no connection with the drama and an unlucky audience is the one that sits too close to the stage.

I sit in the temple all year round and listen to the Temple God. "My son, it is your fate and your fortune to be this way," I seem to hear.

这下好了，您不再恐慌了不再是个人质了，您自由了。算了吧你，我怎么可能自由呢？别忘了人真正的名字是：欲望。所以您得知道，消灭恐慌的最有效的办法就是消灭欲望。可是我还知道，消灭人性的最有效的办法也是消灭欲望。那么，是消灭欲望同时也消灭恐慌呢？还是保留欲望同时也保留人性？

我在这园子里坐着，我听见园神告诉我：每一个有激情的演员都难免是一个人质。每一个懂得欣赏的观众都巧妙地粉碎了一场阴谋。每一个乏味的演员都是因为他老以为这戏剧与自己无关。每一个倒霉的观众都是因为他总是坐得离舞台太近了。

我在这园子里坐着，园神成年累月地对我说：孩子，这不是别的，这是你的罪孽和福祉。

If there's something I did not say, you, the Temple of Earth, don't say I have forgotten it. Nothing has ever slipped from my memory. It's only that some things are meant to be collected – I can neither talk about them nor miss them, yet I cannot forget them. They cannot be verbalized. They cannot be changed into language; if they can, they are no longer themselves. They are a foggy morsel of sweet warmth and solitude, or a morsel of mature hope and despair. There are merely two domains for them: heart or grave. Take stamps for an example. Some of them are for posting letters, while others are merely meant to be put aside.

Rolling my wheel-chair in the park, I had the lingering feeling that I had come out to the world to enjoy myself for too long. One day, when I was sorting out my old photo album, I saw a photo I had taken in this park more than a decade ago. On the wheel-chair sits a young man. Behind him is an old cypress tree, and further away, an ancient sacrificial altar. Thus I went to the park to look for that tree. With the clue provided by the photo, I found it quickly. And I was sure it was the same tree that appeared in the photo, judging from the shapes of its trunk and branches. Unfortunately, it was dead – it was tangled up by a bowl-thick wisteria. One day, I came across an old lady in the park. "Hey. You still live here, don't you?" she said, adding, "How's your mother?" "Who are you?", I asked, puzzling. "You don't know me, but I know who you are," she answered. "When your mother came here to look for you the other day, she asked me whether I had seen a boy on a wheel-chair...." Her remarks jolted me to my senses all of a sudden. Indeed, I had been to the world, alone, for fun for too long. I was reading by myself under a road lamp close by the sacrificial altar one night. Suddenly came the strains of a suona horn from inside the pitch-dark altar. All around under the sky were towering old trees and the vast, empty premises of the altar. I could not see the instrumentalist playing, but his lilting tunes were reverberating in the starry night, which were by turns mournful, joyful, sweet and touching, and desolate, but I surmise none of these adjectives were enough to do his melody justice. In my sober mind I could tell that the music, having been played for an eternity, was resonant then and now, and would remain so in the future.

七

要是有些事我没说，地坛，你别以为是我忘了，我什么也没忘，但是有些事只适合收藏。不能说，也不能想，却又不能忘。它们不能变成语言，它们无法变成语言，一旦变成语言就不再是它们了。它们是一片朦胧的温馨与寂寥，是一片成熟的希望与绝望，它们的领地只有两处：心与坟墓。比如说邮票，有些是用于寄信的，有些仅仅是为了收藏。

如今我摇着车在这园子里慢慢走，常常有一种感觉，觉得我一个人跑出来已经玩得太久了。有一天我整理我的旧相册，看见一张十几年前我在这园子里照的照片—那个年轻人坐在轮椅上，背后是一棵老柏树，再远处就是那座古祭坛。我便到园子里去找那棵树。我按着照片上的背景找很快就找到了它，按着照片上它枝干的形状找，肯定那就是它。但是它已经死了，而且在它身上缠绕着一条碗口粗的藤萝。有一天我在这园子里碰见一个老太太，她说：“哟，你还在这儿哪？”她问我：“你母亲还好吗？”“您是谁？”“你不记得我，我可记得你。有一回你母亲来这儿找你，她问我您看没看见一个摇轮椅的孩子？……”我忽然觉得，我一个人跑到这世界上来玩真是玩得太久了。有一天夜晚，我独自坐在祭坛边的路灯下看书，忽然从那漆黑的祭坛里传出一阵阵唢呐声；四周都是参天古树，方形祭坛占地几百平方米空旷坦荡独对苍天，我看不见那个吹唢呐的人，唯唢呐声在星光寥寥的夜空里低吟高唱，时而悲怆时而欢快，时而缠绵时而苍凉，或许这几个词都不足以形容它，我清清醒醒地听出它响在过去，响在现在，响在未来，回旋飘转亘古不散。

It was inevitable that someday, I would hear someone yelling to ask me to return to where I used to be. When that day comes, you can imagine what a child will do. He has played to exhaustion, yet he hasn't enjoyed himself to his heart's content. He has a wealth of novel ideas and cannot wait until tomorrow to live them out. You may also conjure up the image of an old man, moving toward his eternal resting place willingly and without the slightest trace of hesitation. Or you may think of a couple in love, who say to each other time and again, "I will not leave you for even a single second", yet they know perfectly well that they are running out of time. "We have not much time left," they tell each other repeatedly. "I don't want to be separated from you for even a second, but, alas, it's too late."

必有一天，我会听见喊我回去。

那时您可以想象一个孩子，他玩累了可他还没玩够呢，心里好些新奇的念头甚至等不及到明天。也可以想象是一个老人，无可质疑地走向他的安息地，走得任劳任怨。还可以想象一对热恋中的情人，互相一次次说“我一刻也不想离开你”，又互相一次次说“时间已经不早了”，时间不早了可我一刻也不想离开你，一刻也不想离开你可时间毕竟是不早了。

I can't say whether I want to return or not. I can't say for certain whether I feel like it or whether I don't care. I can't say whether I am that child, that old man, or one of that love-struck couple. It is likely that I am the three of them all at once. I came to this world as a boy who, driven by too many of childish ideas, cried and shouted for permission. But once he came and saw the world, he fell head over heels in love, whereas in a lover's perspective, time fleets no matter how long it is. Thus he became aware that ever step was taking was leading him back to where he came from. The funeral horn is heard the moment the morning glories come out.

Yet the sun remains itself, setting and rising at any point of time. It starts climbing up the mountain ablaze in its morning glory the moment it puts out its fire and goes down. When the day comes, I will walk down the mountain on my crutch with a peaceful frame of mind. Someday in some dale, a boy will come up leaping and jiving in joy, with a toy in his arms.

Of course, that boy can't be me.

But can he not be me?

The universe, driven by an endless desire, hones and re-hones a song-and-dance number into an eternal one. Whatever earthly name that desire may have, it may as well not to be taken into account.

Translated by Shi Junbao, Fan Haixiang

我说不好我想不想回去。我说不好是想还是不想，还是无所谓。我说不好我是像那个孩子，还是像那个老人，还是像一个热恋中的情人。很可能是这样：我同时是他们三个。我来的时候是个孩子，他有那么多孩子气的念头所以才哭着喊着闹着要来，他一来一见到这个世界便立刻成了不要命的情人，而对一个情人来说，不管多么漫长的时光也是稍纵即逝，那时他便明白，每一步每一步，其实一步步都是走在回去的路上。当牵牛花初开的时节，葬礼的号角就已吹响。

但是太阳，它每时每刻都是夕阳也都是旭日。当它熄灭着走下山去收尽苍凉残照之际，正是它在另一面燃烧着爬上山巅布散烈烈朝辉之时。那一天，我也将沉静着走下山去，扶着我的拐杖。有一天，在某一处山洼里，势必会跑上来一个欢蹦的孩子，抱着他的玩具。

当然，那不是我。

但是，那不是我吗？

宇宙以其不息的欲望将一个歌舞炼为永恒。这欲望有怎样一个人间的姓名，大可忽略不计。