英文小说：A Shadow in Surfers Paradise (37) 天堂之影

洋八路

Part 4


Chapter 37          1/3




He was going home together with a Fudan University graduate, also from Sichuan.

Vivian came to the railway station to see him off, which was not really what he had desired or expected. Two days before, she asked about his departure time, and he had to tell her, feeling rather touched by her last minute of caring, in spite of the light and indifferent attitude he had long assumed towards her.

In the waiting hall, leaning against a wall corner for possible privacy, he couldn’t help but kiss her. How could he resist her innocent and wistful face that seemed to desire so much of him? How could he continue to pretend his coldness at the last moment in time prior to their indefinitely long if not permanent separation?

So in the midst of many unfamiliar faces, they held each other tight for nearly ten minutes. Then, in tears, she took out a gift from her pocket, a watch which looked much more modern and elegant than the one his father had given him.

Vivian seemed to him, now in more clarity, having two facets of personality: one in public, almost a complete stranger to him, another private, when with him alone, a true lover to him. How she had treated her other boyfriends he couldn’t have known. This confused him; he was unsure which one was truer than the other, unsure whether he should love her, hate her, completely leave her behind or retain a certain amount of her in his future.

And, ah, she gave him a watch! Did she want him to wear it all the time so that he wouldn’t be able to forget her?! It would be so cruel and mean if she really had such a purpose, considering that, after this day, she could not possibly come to him at any point of his life.  

At last she broke away from him, and walked towards the exit. With his mournful eyes looking at her back, he stood there perplexed, and on the edge of her vanishing from him, she turned her head and shaped her mouth for an ‘I Love You’ and was gone.  

Oh, she was really crying for him! Who on earth could understand her heart! But one thing was certain, now in his more mature mind, that she was not his enemy; at least she didn’t mean to become his enemy even if he had been badly hurt by her double-sided nature. In her there was something mysterious, that was beyond his comprehension.

What should he do with the watch in his palm? For a moment, he was compelled to put it on, to replace the one on his wrist. On its surface, there was still warmth of her hand, of her heart. It was as if, indeed, the bitterness of losing her forever could be lightened by the weight of her watch. Yes, I should put it on.

But as he fiddled with the chain of the watch to do the swapping, his friend called loudly to him to join the mass of passengers heading for the ticket inspection. Thinking to wear it later, he thrust it into his pocket.  

The people, as always, were everywhere, helping him to forget his past quickly. By the time he had his luggage and his nicely clothed guitar stored properly on the rack and then unhurriedly seated himself, his mindset was already occupied with a new excitement to do with his home.

Yes, four years he had been away from his village, and today he was heading back. The train was making a regular sound, like a heart always beating. To his pensive eyes the buildings, high and low, new and old, were only one way passing, freeing up space to receive the forthcoming, endless and perpetual.

They drank beer, and compared to the fresh and rough and ignorant village lad four years back, Bing was now a sophisticated young adult, philosophic and thoughtful, watching the dull passengers with somewhat distant and supercilious eyes. No more was he like those junior students in their drab clothes who had to roam about the train, their eyes shifty, bearing a soul laden with tons of anxiety.  

In a number of days, he would see his grandma, his father and mother, Ming and Dan, and his uncle, aunt, among many others who had shown him their greatest admiration at the time when his life-changing fortune struck. Oh, four years, he had not seen any of them, not even heard the voices of his grandma and his mother. How strange! How unreasonable it was that he could have lived a life independent of those at home whom he loved and should have dearly missed!

But it was okay; this was what a life seems to be. His love for them had merely been saved and stored up for a later release, and the time was coming.

The journey home was rather uneventful. The howling train was cutting the time into the bits and pieces of reminiscence to be chewed up by its young master. When the speaker announced the next station to be Mianyang, he looked around amazed, as if he had wished to stay much longer on the train before reaching his destination.

Sometime later, he said ‘bye, bye’ to his country fellow, collected his things and got off the train. On the station, he took out Vivian’s gift and weighted it again in his palm. Strange, he had not thought much of it during the long trip and, feeling it now, the urge to wear it was not there any more. ‘No, I don’t want to wear it and think of her all the time,’ he judged fairly, ‘it would be such a torture, a kind of absurdity. But what should I do with it?’ Throwing it away was obviously not an option, nor was giving it away to someone. After moments of hesitation, he opened his case, a new case of good quality he had purchased in Shanghai, and stored it in its inside-pouch.

Then he went for a pedicab to take him to the bus station, because he remembered he had taken a pedicab from a bus station to the railway station four years before, but then the pedicab driver told him the bus station was just on the other side of road. This confused him and made him wonder if he and his father might have been cheated by the pedicab driver taking them for an unnecessary ride. Well, if that had been the case, it had all passed, and no resentment should stir in today’s him.

Over the phone prior to his journey, his father had expressed his wish of coming to Mianyang to greet him, but Bing claimed he was ‘big’ enough to go to the County by himself. So, alone, hauling a sizable case storing quite an assortment of gifts bought in Shanghai, and with his guitar strapped over his shoulder that made him look artistically fashionable, he trudged to the bus station swarming with passengers, and from there, took a three-hour bus ride no less bumpy and buoyant than what was in his memory.

He couldn’t exactly describe how much different his father had become in the span of four years. The white streaks in his hair and the lines in his face had scarcely varied, or perhaps he had never had a correct mental image of his father. After all, his father did not labour like a farmer. His mother and grandma and others who would have frequented the harsh fields ought to have a greater contrast carved out by the fingers of time.

However he did detect something queer in the manner of his father, who somehow appeared not as excited and happy as Bing had been imagining. Bing had expected to see his father’s sunny smiles, or even some happy tears, but what he perceived was an expression of poor quality, almost pretentiously assumed, evasive and uneasy. It was as if a shade of something was hidden beneath his complexion, but he didn’t pursue the thought. The coming back to this home, bringing a dream to its reality, satisfying the empty missing with the real touch, was so sweet and cheerful that certain clouds at his mind could be easily blown away by the blissful wind of reunion.

Some time later, around the table, as Bing sat eating the bowl of egg-noodle his father had made for him, his father told him his grandma had passed away.

‘What?’ Bing stopped eating. ‘When?’

‘Two years ago.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘We didn’t want it to affect your study.’

‘Why, study! Study! what study?!…’  Bing boomed in exasperation, in spite of himself. ‘I could have come back home, to see her for a last time.’

A thick and resentful silence filled the shop, shrouding a guilty father and a sulky-faced son. Then Bing roared again pursuing, ‘You should have told me when she was getting seriously sick, or when you guessed she was going to die!’
His father, sagging, kept his silence. Then, Bing, with an ‘Oh…’ began to cry; and the more he thought of his grandma, of the old days and memories, the more the tears climbed to his eyes. Her voice, her mottled hands, her groaning for toothaches and headaches, and his last sight of her thin body standing on the bridge, and her little hand waving in departure … were all embodied as palpable teardrops, tumbling out of the windows of his soul, falling to the bowl of half-finished noodles.

Quietly, his father was receiving audible and inaudible reproach from him.

In the afternoon, they took the earliest bus possible to the Town, where Ming and Dan, with a bicycle, either owned or borrowed Bing didn’t know, were there waiting for them.

His sister, now grown into a beautiful young woman, in her bright shirt and skirt, and with her healthy and ruddy complexion because of her regular exercise in the Police College, called him, ‘Ge...’ Then as if detecting her brother’s bitterness-stricken face, spoke no more but smiled an uneasy smile and joined Dan to busy herself fixing his luggage upon the bicycle.
The four of them walked to their Guzhai Village home. Bing, with his guitar on his back, walked most of the time quietly at a distance from the other three, who had to busily employ their time and minds around the bicycle to steady the precarious luggage loaded onto it.   

The greetings at home were conducted in a funeral-like air, for all the facial expressions seemed false, timid and grieving. His mother was evidently darker than the image kept in his mind. She was smiling meekly and carefully as if she had to be afraid of him.

He didn’t know whether it was his dark face affecting them, or they were just wearing an expression that had been prepared a long time before for the anticipated reunion that was destined to be faulty and partial due to the lack of his grandma. The fact that all the members seemed to be mourning her secretly, crying for her without tears, sharing the sorrow under a smiling mask, was melodramatically unbearable to the home-coming that should have been full of joy and glory.

Oh, if his grandma could only now come out to hold him, grasping his arms, dusting him with her old hands, crying in tears ‘Aiya-hah…’; if all the people he had loved and missed could only greet him laughingly, blue-skyed with the sunny happiness in their faces, without the shade and sadness dimming the eyes and hearts.     

No sooner had he stepped into the living room than Bing demanded to go to his grandma’s grave. The stone that had weighed down his heart since he was told of the old and sad piece of information, was so heavy that he couldn’t think of anywhere else but her grave, the place bearing her mortal existence, to alleviate his wretchedness.

But it was already late in the evening, the darkness was gathering fast; he was persuaded by his mother to go early next morning.

The evening was passed sombrely; the recounting of his story in Shanghai, and Ming’s story in Luzhou, was done in the manner like a mirthless classroom.

The next morning, he woke up to hear the crowing of roosters, the chirping of swallows, the booming of cows, and the bustling of people downstairs. All of a sudden, his heart seemed to fill with a flow of wakening joy, spreading rapidly to take control of him. The happy feeling of coming back home was so lifting, and the familiar sounds and fresh air were so intimate that any shadow that might have lurked in the corners of his mind was overpowered and dispersed. He got up and went straight out to the creaky wooden balcony.

What a picture was meeting his eyes!

The sun was in the sky, close to the hilltops. It was clear-shaped, shining in its cool brilliance and bathing in a pool of gold. The cloud, neither shaded nor grey, was rippling, tranquilly, on the back of the azure sky. Oh, there in the air, the swallows, the spirit of earth and the soul of fields, one and two and three, were roaring high, and gliding low at the level of land that was thickly blanketed in green or yellow by the rice crops. The gleaming water, the winding streams among the fields, reached him with a light so intense that he had to frequently blink his eyes.

He stood there long absorbing the view, so much elevated and buoyant, fancying himself in many a dream he had had in the confined bunk bed in Shanghai.

When some time later his sister called him, he knew he had a smile that must be very contagious, for he saw her face smiling, blooming like a miniature of the sun in the sky.

He looked at her, his eyes twinkling, as if he only saw her just then, until Ming turned a bit uneasy and flushed under his gaze.

‘Hey, why are you looking at me like that?’ she protested.

‘I thought you would wear your police uniform.’

‘Well, this is a holiday, we’re only required to wear it in school.’

‘Have you brought it home?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wear it,’ he said, ‘today, I will see it on you.’

‘No,’ she said, pursing her mouth, ‘Don’t you like what I am wearing now?’

‘No, I don’t like it. It is so ugly,’ he teased her, ‘a uniform is much better.’

She turned, and glared at him, her thick eyebrows becoming thicker, and then suddenly raised her hand, and hit straight on his arm, which was her old habit of hitting him whenever she was annoyed by him, ‘Don’t you dare say I am ugly…’

‘Oh…you still like to hit me, after all these years.’ Bing feigned a cry, clutching at his arm, ‘…help, help, a policewoman hitting an innocent man…’

‘Haha…’ Ming was laughing with a malicious joy. ‘You should have known I have been practising my punch everyday for the last two years. So, heihei, don’t bully your sister.’

‘Wooh, practise your punch,’ he returned, ‘why don’t we do  wrist wrestling, to see whose fist has more iron?’

Ming looked at him, hesitating as if to withdraw her words.

Bing said, ‘See, you are afraid...a policewoman…’

‘Okay, fine, let’s try,’ Ming said, in an affirmative tone like a policeman. ‘Let’s go down to the dinner table.’

So they went down, and sat around one corner of the table. Then Dan chimed in, showing a great interest in the sport.

‘I am the judge,’ he declared, grinning from ear to ear.

Laying their elbows on the table, clasped their hands, shifting and adjusting the position so as to best exert their force, they were ready to go.

Then, Bing suddenly loosened his hand from hers, said: ‘Let me have a closer look first at your finger.’

She shrank from him, ‘No, no…’

But he reached quick to grab her hand, in spite of her effort trying to hide the tip of her middle finger under other fingers.

‘Oh, it’s grown well enough, only a little bit of irregularity, no one would have noticed it,’ he said, as if he was a doctor giving a consolation to a patient. ‘It won’t affect your finding a good husband.’

She hit him again…

When they were back in a wresting position, Dan gave the order, ‘Go.’

To Bing’s dismay, he lost quickly, yet he complained honestly, ‘No, no, I am not ready yet. Ming was cheating. We should try again.’

But Ming, laughing all the louder, refused to do it a second time. Then he complained to Dan, who was not sure which side he should stand with. At last Bing asked his sister, in a near begging tone, ‘Ming, my dear sister, how can you let your brother lose face? Please, at least one more time, if I lose again, I will…’

‘You will what?’ she said, her eyes widening.

‘I will shout you a trip to Shanghai.’

‘When?’

Bing thought for a while, said, ‘During your holiday, not this holiday, after I get my first salary.’

‘Then what if I lose?’ she asked.

‘Well, if you lose, you don’t worry, I won’t ask you to do anything for me, so long as I have my man’s face back.’

But his sister seemed to have little interest in his offer.

‘Come on, please,’ Bing entreated, ‘a trip to Shanghai! The biggest city in China!’

Ming regarded him calmly for a second or two, before she proceeded, ‘Win or lose, you should afford me a trip to Shanghai, otherwise I won’t give you the opportunity. Because I have already beaten you,’ she said, and turned to Dan, ‘haven’t I, Dan?’

‘Yes, the first time, Ming won,’ Dan said, implying his agreement on Ming’s proposition.

Bing was cornered by the two, and eager to do it again, conceded, ‘Okay, I surrender, win or lose, I will take you to Shanghai.’

So, they got into position again. Learning from his failure of first time, Bing’s ears were on highest alert at Dan’s order, so Ming didn’t have much of the timing advantage, though she was still acting slightly faster than her bother.

When, he slowly and surely pushed down Ming’s hand, his happiness was enormous as if he should be proud of beating a girl in the game.

Then Dan challenged him. Dan, due to his hard field work after quitting high school some years before, had  much rougher skin, larger bones and hands. Bing’s fingers were rough too, due to his playing of the guitar, but that was only around his fingertips. They tried three times, all ended up with Bing’s undisputed loss.

Their laughter attracted a number of people into the dining hall, including his uncle and two women from the neighbourhood. His father came in, and after giving a reserved smile, muttered, ‘Hehe, wrist wresting,’ and went out.   

Ming told Bing his mother had gone out to the rice fields, spraying pesticide to kill the insects.


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洋八路

Chapter 37   2/3



Breakfast was served with porridge and fried peanuts and taros. Around the table, it was decided his mother and Ming and Dan would escort him to the grave of his grandma. His dad was going to prepare the food and home-made wine for the planned banquet, a village event celebrating Bing’s graduation. He was told that quite a number of relatives and close neighbourhood friends had been invited.  

So, with a bundle of incense sticks and two boxes of fireworks and a pot of wine and a cooked whole chicken, the group was ready for their journey to visit his grandma.

Then, Bing said to his sister, ‘Ming, you go change into your policewoman uniform. I reckon grandma would like to see that.’
Only hesitating for a second, she went quickly upstairs and in a couple of minutes returned, presenting herself with such a splendid figure that all the eyes around her were growing wider and brighter.

‘You look gorgeous!’ exclaimed Bing, among other admiring murmurs. ‘Is it the first time you have worn it at home?’

Very proud, with beautiful colour on her face, she replied, ‘Yes, the first time.’

‘I know you just want to show off at my coming back, don’t you?’

A lot of mirthful laughter suffused the air again, causing a quick rebuff from her, ‘If you have to tease me like that, I will go take it off.’

‘All right, all right, calm down, let’s go,’ he chuckled.

The grave of his grandma was with those of his grandpa and great grandma. Bing had been there before, almost every year at the time of Spring Festival. Less than an hour’s walk, the grave was situated at the low brow of a hill to the west of their house.

His mother, with a cloth bag holding the incense and other things, was leading the way, followed by Bing, then Ming, and Dan the last. They filed as a little troop threading their way along the narrow ridge between the fields. Bing asked to take care of the bag, but his mother declined his offer, so his hands were free. His sister was carrying the chicken which was half-wrapped in a transparent plastic bag. Wasn’t it amusing that she, in a police uniform, should bear a chicken instead of a club or even a pistol?

But it seemed only Bing was entertaining the idea; the other three were walking quietly as if each of them had one or two thoughts of their own.   

In a while, he paused and turned to his sister, with a mysterious smile. ‘Ming, let me carry it.’

‘Why, it is fine.’

‘Are you sure?’ he said, ‘in your terrific dress?’  

Ming blinked her eyes, catching his hint. ‘Okay, then.’

But at this point of time, Dan, instantly took it from her, ‘Let me carry it.’

They went on, receiving many admiring and curious greetings either from the villagers they passed or from those working in the field. It was indeed a remarkable journey of the most esteemed family in the village.

The rice fields were marvellous, fresh and green and yellow. The little rice flowers were blooming.

‘Mum, I can’t remember how long the rice flower is open?’ Bing asked.

‘Only three hours during the day.’

‘Ah? Three hours? Exactly?’

‘Yes, always three hours, between 11am and 1pm.’ His mother was very certain.

‘Really? I thought they would stay open so long as there is sun,’ he said, while at the same time stooped to touch the stamen of a flower. The anther and filament were so fine and delicate that, for a moment, they brought to his mind the shape of a sperm illustrated in the book he had read in Shanghai.

His mother affirmed, ‘No, only three hours, no matter how long the sun is out.’

Bing was not fully convinced of what his mother said, but he chose to believe her. After all, his mother had been working in the rice field ever since, as a child, she was able to help.   

‘How many days does it flower?’

‘Seven days, while the grain is hardening.’

‘You can’t spray pesticide during their flowering, can you?’

‘No, that is why we always do it in early morning.’

‘Exactly seven days?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

Again he was not fully convinced. ‘But what if it’s raining?’

‘Raining? The rice won’t open its petals to bloom.’

‘Then the pollination can’t be done, can it?’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘when it keeps raining, which I have seen happening many times, the crop will be delayed for harvest, or even worse, they will turn bad and rotten, resulting in no harvest for the season.’

At this point, Dan joined in the conversation, ‘We had a bad year two years ago, flooding, the grains we collected were thin and hollow. Hadn’t we, aunt?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘that was when grandma died.’

The mention of his grandma seemed to immediately shadow their disposition which had been easy and even joyful thus far, rendered the team quieter and their footsteps thudding louder upon the soil.

At length, Bing asked, ‘Mum, tell me how grandma died.’

‘Well, she had been sick for quite some time. During her last two weeks, she had been frequently in and out of bed, complaining about pain in her heart, which was not a new problem to her, only troubling her more often.’

Bing said, ‘But I thought she suffered more from head-ache?’

‘Her head-ache had actually become better, less troublesome. I think she had benefited from the ginseng we bought for her. But then, her heart-ache…’

‘Had she seen any doctor?’

‘Only saw a Chinese traditional doctor, who gave her some herbs. The issue is she might stay in bed continually for two days, and get up feeling better, even doing a little work. Then she would fail  again.’

His mother paused, and without comments from the rest, she continued, ‘I cooked her some chicken stock, she would drink it and feel a little better. But one afternoon as I fed her a piece of chicken, she was just chewing it without swallowing. I let her eat and went away to do my washing. Half an hour later I came back to find her asleep, but her mouth was distended unusually. So I opened her mouth and saw the meat still stuck inside, and bit by bit I took it out of her mouth, and left her to stay in the bed.

‘She was still breathing, but I knew this time it was serious. I went to call your dad, and he came back home on the same day.
‘We made a quick bed in the dining room, and carried her down. We had a discussion about you, and Ming, about whether we should inform you both, but the answer was obvious. Even Ming might not possibly get home in time to see her, let alone you. So we decided to withhold the news.

‘For the next two days, she didn’t eat anything. We gave her some water, but she was only able to swallow a little. In her last moments, she kept mumbling a vague name, we knew she was calling you.’

They moved on. Among the sobs of Bing and his sister, their footsteps were sounding more like a series of sighs, one after another.

Then he heard a cuckoo calling in the near trees. That must be the messenger of his grandma, he thought.

After the pause, his mother said, ‘That is okay, don’t cry, we are going to see her. She is waiting for us. She will be happy.’ Then, as if a quick thought had just slipped into her mind, she added, ‘Did your dad tell you about the son she had lost? Before she married your grandpa?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘dad told me that she had four children before she came here, and one more in pregnancy, and, different from what you had told me earlier, all four children were actually sold by her husband, not stolen.’

‘No, not this one, she had found one of her lost children, soon after you left for Shanghai.’

‘What?’ he said, in utmost surprise, ‘you meant she had found one child?’

‘Yes, so your dad didn’t tell you,’ she said, ‘actually, it was the child finding her.’

‘How?’

‘He was sold to a family in Daxian, also in Sichuan province. After a year, he escaped from his new home, and turned to the streets, begging to survive. For a number of years he had been roaming the streets, carrying on his back a placard with the inscription about his orphanage. Then a childless couple picked him up. The new adopting parents treated him very well, like their own child, and when he reached marriageable age they got him married, and he had reared two children afterwards. He was very clever, working very hard, earning respect from the villagers, and was later elected as the cadre of the village. Approaching his middle-aged years, he was badly missing his mother. So he posted a personal advertisement in the Sichuan Daily, and then, well, he had eventually found her.’

‘But how, how could he find her, supposing he didn’t know where he came from?’ Bing interposed hastily.

‘Well, I don’t know how, but he had obviously managed to get the name of his mother, as well as Mianyang being the town he used to live in. But his success was still more from luck. There was a woman in our village who married and lived in Daxian, to exactly the same village as where he lived. Having read the ads, and realising he was looking for someone in Mianyang, and the name was also the same as your grandma’s, she passed the information to him. So, after a round of checking and verifying, it was confirmed he was indeed the third child of your grandma.

‘You know, when he, your newly-found uncle, together with his wife and his two children, paid their first visit to us, to see his mother after more than forty years’ separation, the scene was very touching, very tearful, even the most stone-hearted person would be moved.

‘On seeing his mother, still some metres away, he dropped himself and knelt on the ground, walking on his knees towards her. Your grandma stood there staring at him, numb and speechless, as if still unbelieving in the reunion, until he reached over to clutch at her trousers and then her hands, calling, incessantly, “mother”, “mother”, “mother”, as well as her maiden name, which must have been long memorized since his childhood.

‘Then your grandma, like just awakening from a dream, cried out, “Aiya-hah, Ar Long!...”’

Presently her narrative paused to give the team a time for emotional relief.

Then, Ming, in her husky voice, asked, ‘Mum, can we try to find out her other lost children?’

‘No, impossible, even your grandma, when she was still alive, couldn’t remember well enough the circumstances. Some of them were said to have been stolen or sold by his husband, or the elderly relatives in the village, who wouldn’t have any idea themselves where they had gone. If the woman in our village had not been in Daxian at the time, there would not have had any chance of your uncle finding his mother, no matter how many ads he may have placed in the newspaper.’

‘Did the new uncle attend the funeral of grandma?’ Bing asked.

‘Yes, he came, only himself,’ Dan said. ‘We waited for him for two days.’

Then a wordless interval fell into the travelling group. In another while, they had arrived at a little arched bridge, both sides of which had dug two water channels for irrigation. And after passing this bridge, their destination, a small piece of raised ground above the rice field, was within view.



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洋八路

洋八路 发表于 2014-5-12 22:37
Chapter 37   2/3

Chapter 37     3/3




His mother went straight to the front of one grave with tombstone, very much obscured by the tall messy grass.

‘Mum, I know this is grandpa’s.’ Bing asked.

‘Oh, no, no, this is the great grandma’s, mother of your grandpa.’

‘What? Where then is the grandpa’s, and grandma’s?’ he was a little confused, looking around without finding any other tombstone.

His mother pointed to a place about two meters further left, where a number of rubble stones lay, ‘There, grandma’s,’ then she turned, pointing to similar rubble stones to the right of great grandma’s, ‘That is your grandpa’s’

‘Really? Why don’t these two have any tombstones?’ he was surprised, looking at a stack of common stones on the slightly raised grassland, not believing his grandparents could have been so poorly buried.

‘It is a custom no tombstone is made until a couple of years later, when the remains can be collected and placed into a properly constructed grave with a tombstone. Your great grandma’s was only re-built many, many years later by your grandpa.’

‘But, how long should we wait to build it properly?’

‘It depends, chiefly on when a family can afford the cost of doing this.’

‘Is it expensive?’

His mother didn’t answer him, for she was employing herself plucking the grass around the brows and edges of great grandma’s grave. Ming and Dan also began the clearing task.

Bing went to his grandma’s, carefully pulling the grass around the stones in case the rubble be disturbed and roll down. But there was actually little point in doing the job, for, without any form of solid structure on the surface, the removal of some grass merely revealing the yellow soil underneath, which appeared even worse than otherwise. This was probably why his mother and Ming and Dan were expending their efforts on the middle one, where at least the shape of grave, fixed by some cracked cement, was visible after removing of the weeds from the corners.

Before long, they got the place cleared. His mother took out three red candles, tilted down the wicks to be ignited by a match, and then inserted a row of burned candles into the soil adhering to the foot of the tombstone. The flame of candles had a colour of orange, their wisps rising slowly and elegantly to the sky, which, as Bing noticed, had dimmed significantly by a spread of cloud that seemed to have come from nowhere to shade the sun.  

The bunch of incense was then taken out from the bag, to be kindled from the candle fire. Burning, it was divided by his mother into four smaller lots so that each of them had a fair share. Then, holding her share, she went forward to the tombstone, and after bowing three times, inserted one stick of incense into the vicinity of the candles. Her gesture was then copied one after another by Bing, Dan and Ming.

This done, with the rest of the incense sticks in their hands, they moved to Bing’s grandpa’s grave. His mother bowed three times, and then swiftly removed a clutch of grass around the stones so as to plant a stick of incense in the soil. The other three did the same ritual to contribute three more incense sticks to his grandpa. After this, they all moved to his grandma’s grave.

While bowing, his mother said, ‘Mum, please open your eyes, to see your grandson Bing, who has just come back after graduating from university. Please now go peacefully, and give your blessing to him, for his happy future, please give your blessings to all your children.’ After a pause, she added, ‘Your granddaughter Ming today comes to see you in her beautiful uniform. And Dan has come to see you as well…’ Then she inserted all the rest incenses into the soil, which was already exposed a little by Bing’s previous work.

In Bing’s turn, while bowing, he said, ‘Grandma, Aiya-hah, I have come back home to see you.’ Then he heard Dan’s giggling a little, and then he realized he had unconsciously said his grandma’s habitual ‘Aiya-hah.’

It was indeed a little amusing.

Since childhood, he had come here many times, but never had he much idea about the place regarded as their family graveyard. Without his mother’s explanation, he would still have thought the middle grave his grandpa’s.

And to think that about one hundred years ago, his great grandma committed suicide by hanging herself in her pregnancy, almost dead with his grandpa in her tummy! Now both of them were gone, buried under the turf in front of him. Wasn’t a life such a little incident? How would anyone appreciate an idea that his life, and Ming’s and Dan’s, were only possible because of a pig?!

Now looking at the stones above his grandma’s grave, he found himself hardly able to express much of the sorrow and grief he thought he should have stored up plenty in his soul.

But really, what was this? Some dry grass and common stones, and some straggly grass roots. And looking closer, there were a couple of red-coloured ants crawling between the stone crevices. Indeed, there didn’t seem to be much here that could arouse his memories about his dear grandma. All that he could think of was perhaps her remains inside the coffin. ‘Is the coffin still retaining a shape after two years?’

In the meanwhile, his mother fetched out three bananas, laying them before three graves respectively, and then took out the chicken, put it onto a plate, and placed it in front of great grandma’s. This done, she proceeded to pour wine from the flagon into three cups.

‘Mum, why is the chicken only in front of great grandma?’ he asked.

‘Don’t worry, your grandpa and grandma will come to the middle to share it.’

‘Oh,’ Bing said, amused with the idea. He was about to question why the bananas should be placed in three places instead of one like the chicken, when he thought he could answer himself, that chicken was a type of more precious food, not as affordable as bananas.

Now, some gilt papers, regarded as the money for the life after death, were burned in front of the three graves. Bing was stirring the burned paper in front of his grandma’s grave, when he suddenly noticed a large green grasshopper jumping out from nowhere, scaring him not a little, for the grasshopper, since his childhood, was said to be a sort of embodiment of the ghost or spirit of dead people. He was inclined to persuade himself to regard it as the spirit of his grandma, and was almost preparing himself to catch it in his hand. But then the grasshopper was quickly jumping away, disappearing somewhere into the  grass, and remained unseen under his long gaze.      

Dan began to launch the fireworks. A big bundle of fireworks, like a long uncoiled snake, was put onto the ground. The sparks ran through the lead, to immediately break the silent, stagnant sky with an enormous sputtering sound. Nearby in the field, a flock of chickens were frightened, running to seek the immediate shelter in the bushes uphill. In a minute or two, the firework flame had reached its tail, and after giving its last clap, the writhing struggle was hushed at last. The thick silence in the shadowy air began to heal itself again, with the rhythmical resonance ebbing weaker and remoter. But the smoke, very dark and wavering, was smothering the low grass, lingering and hesitating, reluctant to leave for Heaven.

Then another type of firework, the two-sound blaster, one after another, was detonated by Dan, roaring up into the sky. However, each blaster was but creating a short wave, which was unable to stop the silence from returning, like a pool of water always regaining its serenity after a stone has broken its heart.

But the sun, now coming out of cloud, was beginning to shine. Its rays, slanting marvellously, trickling down from a cracked cloud canopy, was pouring like a giant waterfall, so wonderful and beautiful!

Then, all at once, he saw her face, his grandma’s, close to the sun, vigorous and brilliant, without a trace of misery, without a shade of sadness. She was smiling, her happy tears falling, each drop turning to the vapour, enchanting him, washing him, filling his void.

‘Oh, grandma, there you are,’ he said to her, ‘you are not in the ground to be gnawed by the insects but in heaven, in paradise!’

‘Oh, grandma, there you are,’ he said to her, ‘the sun is your company. From now on, the illness, the headaches, and the heartbreaks, all types of living woe and pain that had made you suffer, dare not go near you and hurt you. And whenever I lift my eyes to the sky, you are there looking at me, loving me, from heaven, from paradise…’



-- End of Chapter 37---

Gone

很细腻的描写。。像是回忆录。好奇问一下，一共多少章节呢？写得这么详尽入微，照这样写法，写到结婚背叛离婚。。再恋爱。。要成为鸿篇巨著了。。

洋八路

Gone 发表于 2014-5-13 00:16
很细腻的描写。。像是回忆录。好奇问一下，一共多少章节呢？写得这么详尽入微，照这样写法，写到结婚背叛离 ...

小说，情节虚构，是王斌的回忆录...

象gone with the wind, 冗长的，多少章呢？你能看到几章就是几章...

Gone

洋八路 发表于 2014-5-13 07:35
小说，情节虚构，是王斌的回忆录...

象gone with the wind, 冗长的，多少章呢？你能看到几章就是几章... ...

如果像飘那样，也不觉得长，读得时候倒是觉得津津有味。。
这部小说第一部分我觉得写得非常好，有情有色，内心描写很出彩，时代感很强，让人阅读时充满期待。。
第二部分回头倒叙童年生活好像作者有意识加入了很多时代背景在里面，不动声色地揭示当时农村生活的贫困和落后，虽然是现实，不过读起来觉得平板了一些，也少了最开始行文的幽默。。
一家之言，信口胡说。继续期待，希望知道作者想表述什么，希望可以看到精彩之作。。

洋八路

Gone 发表于 2014-5-13 11:26
如果像飘那样，也不觉得长，读得时候倒是觉得津津有味。。
这部小说第一部分我觉得写得非常好，有情有色 ...

谢谢分享你的感觉。我自己每次看，都不满意。。现在前面部分又改了不少。。

那个飘，我看了三遍（英文的），我的感觉有时候也很冗长，尤其是描述那些背景（这些背景使得这本书产生价值），心理描述也很反复冗余。。当然幽默的对话和性格特征很吸引人。。呵呵，个人看法。

这部小说是‘很粗’的试验品。。地域涉及上海，北京，墨尔本，悉尼，成都，峨眉山，绵阳和主人公的老家。。儿童，初恋，失恋，结婚，偷情，诱惑，离婚，孤独，彷徨，厌世，父母兄弟姐妹子女情谊，也面对新生和死亡。。。希望可以通过主人公复杂多变的情绪和对世界或明或暗或高尚或低俗的感知加以说明。。

呵呵，‘眼高手低’，一直都在修改，希望你多提意见。。

blackswan

樓主的堅持更新不容易(雖然我真的不看英文小說)，看到樓主寫的這個大綱，還是支持一下

blackswan

其實我也看過英文的小說，比如說《鴻》，也整部看下去了，但是真心覺得還是中文魅力更大。樓主的中文很好，期待中文版了，那我就

洋八路

blackswan 发表于 2014-5-13 21:33
其實我也看過英文的小說，比如說《鴻》，也整部看下去了，但是真心覺得還是中文魅力更大。樓主的中文很好， ...

鸿这本书好厚的...

语言就是一个习惯，看是看文字后面的想象和人的情感...

我的中文不行，不是说说话这些，而是文学表达吃力，想象力够，词汇不够...说实话，我到现在都记不起看过任何一本中文小说...

到时候我应该可以找到一个能帮我翻译的人....呵呵，希望这样，如果实在不行，只好自己看中文了...

blackswan

洋八路 发表于 2014-5-13 22:04
鸿这本书好厚的...

语言就是一个习惯，看是看文字后面的想象和人的情感...

呵呵，有意思的觀點。我還是認為找人翻譯不能完全體會到你文字後面的想象和情感啦~

Gone

洋八路 发表于 2014-5-13 14:53
谢谢分享你的感觉。我自己每次看，都不满意。。现在前面部分又改了不少。。

那个飘，我看了三遍（英文的 ...

我想我已经读出了你的立意。。
一个人的命运就是一代人的命运。。其实在童年里你可以加入多一点小孩子的内心描写的。。小孩子的时候是感受不到贫穷和苦难的。他们眼里只有世界的新奇和美好。还有当时农村自然田园风光的和谐宁静美丽，这些都是贫穷无法遮蔽的美好的东西，也该是一个农村孩子内心深处深深扎着的自然之根。。像土地至之于郝思嘉，当然斌后来离开土地，不过我觉得那应当是他的本色之一。。
不知道你的整部小说的分量布局。觉得你写第一部时非常得心应手，从童年开始有点局促。。不懂瞎说了。。

albyn333

作者是华人吗, 读了开头，不错。

洋八路

Gone 发表于 2014-5-13 23:18
我想我已经读出了你的立意。。
一个人的命运就是一代人的命运。。其实在童年里你可以加入多一点小孩子的 ...

写大学以前的故事，零零碎碎，没有特别的连续情节，所以写的时候是有点‘勉强’，担心自己，尤其是现代读者不那么感兴趣。

不过，这部分是小说的‘根’，不写不完整，所以只好尽量写的‘有趣’一些。

从第一部分，时空直接后退到国内几十年以前，写作语调最好要变，因为基本是写两个人（成年的世故的他，和小孩天真没受污染的他）。。可能转换的不是很顺。。用两种英文语调可能产生‘杂音’，当然还有对文字本身的掌握度不够等等。。

农村的贫穷和落后，不是我特意要表述的。。人只是一种生存现象，是环境的人，是条件刺激的结果。。穷和落后是相对的。

感到欣慰你觉得第一部分‘顺’，有其他读者，包括我的编辑，却感觉第一部分‘繁琐’，太细，尤其是那个‘性描写’，说是太露骨，后来我自己看了也看不下去， 。。 当然现在已经修剪了一些。。也有些有农村经历的，却感觉儿童部分打鸟，钓鱼，扎泥鳅等这些好玩。。这些可能同我们每个人的背景和心态有关。。

小孩的时候只是觉得好玩，心理活动不会很多，不象大人，什么东西都想，都要，要有一个尊严和标准。。。

虞宅与美丽

洋八路 发表于 2014-5-14 10:22
写大学以前的故事，零零碎碎，没有特别的连续情节，所以写的时候是有点‘勉强’，担心自己，尤其是现代读 ...

编辑和你背景近似吗？

洋八路

虞宅与美丽 发表于 2014-5-14 17:46
编辑和你背景近似吗？

编辑是澳洲的一个老外。。可是我写的时候，读者对象主要还是中国人，需要介绍了解澳洲的生活环境，比如，那个红绿灯，盲人的响铃，对他们是很正常，写这些好像‘唠叨’了一点。。

洋八路

虞宅与美丽 发表于 2014-5-14 19:38
如果读者对象是中国人，为什么用英文写呢？

呵呵，这个问题好难回答。。

首先，我写这个主要还是自己尝试一下，从兴趣好玩的角度。。如果中文文学好的话（是指找到了用于文学表达的属于自己的声音，要靠大量阅读和生活悟性才可以练成，而我学工的，基本没看过一本中文小说，我没有那种声音)，自然就会用中文来写了（如果想写）。

其次，觉得中国人学英文从小学到大，都是学院试的，为了学而学，学的非常幸苦，功利性为主，没有真正欣赏、喜欢或者‘享受’英文，读的太少。。为什么读的少呢？因为国外的作品，不是写自己身边的故事，场景和文化不对，仍然'味如嚼醋'，离‘享受’有很大的距离。。虽然说文学是无边界的，但如果作品里的是身边的人，同自己背景想通的人，会更有‘共振’的可能性。而且，从词汇和阅读能力来看，太多的中国人都可以看得懂，但能亲切感觉一本英文作品不容易，原因还是人物无法贴近我们的生活。

当然，我写这个是一个天大的挑战。。看过一些中国人第二语言的英文小说，比如，鸿，mao's dance.....这些都是以'故事‘性为主，是要tell一个故事，回忆录一样的，是因为这个故事本身有意思（而且是对老外有意思），而不是从文字，文学的角度来写的。。平常的生活没有大故事，必须从心理，想象，智慧幽默人生对话这些，来提供愉悦和思想启迪。。

需要达到这样的目的，是幸苦的，这也是我需要反复阅读反复强化和训练那种’微弱的声音‘的原因。。。因为不是母语，这种声音时强时弱，不是很稳定。我第一稿两年前就写好了，是现在篇幅的三分之一，同现在的版本一比，差老远了。。这一版基本就是重新写的，初稿用了6个月时间，从去年二月份到去年8月写完，然后改到现在。。

最后一点就是，虽然写的时候想着读者对象是中国人，但最后的读者或许更多的是外国人，因为他们也很难真正了解中国人的生活。。这种作品，如果合格的话，可以让他们有一个直接的窗口，而不是通过中间媒介。

以上都只是’愿望‘，现在读书的人本来就少了，书店都关门了。。不过至少我自己因为写这个，大量阅读，英文提高，工作环境里’自信‘好多。。因为你一旦了解了他们的’根源‘，他们就不是有距离的人了。

呵呵，不知道我说明白没有。。

Gone

洋八路 发表于 2014-5-14 21:11
呵呵，这个问题好难回答。。

首先，我写这个主要还是自己尝试一下，从兴趣好玩的角度。。如果中文文学好 ...

赞一个！很好的想法，也是很好的尝试。希望发得快一点。。呵呵，贪心了。。

虞宅与美丽

洋八路 发表于 2014-5-14 21:11
呵呵，这个问题好难回答。。

首先，我写这个主要还是自己尝试一下，从兴趣好玩的角度。。如果中文文学好 ...

谢谢楼主这么认真地答复。其实问过就觉得问得唐突，所以就删了。一个人用非母语写作的心态大致是有一些纠结在里边的。

窃以为心目中的阅读对象单纯点儿挺好，可以保证行文的流畅和风格的统一；至于后来的效果是有心栽花的繁荣，还是无心插柳的茂盛，都有无限可能呐。

albyn333

The discriptive scene is quite good, I like the discription which can let me visulise the scene. Keep up.

虞宅与美丽

Gone 发表于 2014-5-13 23:18
我想我已经读出了你的立意。。
一个人的命运就是一代人的命运。。其实在童年里你可以加入多一点小孩子的 ...

你的回复让我想到下面这段话：

＂为什么那么多作家都在谈他们的童年？那是因为他们没有别的生活：其他的日子，他们都用来写作了。童年是他们心无旁骛地经历的唯一时光。＂

Gone

虞宅与美丽 发表于 2014-5-15 20:22
你的回复让我想到下面这段话：

＂为什么那么多作家都在谈他们的童年？那是因为他们没有别的生活：其他的 ...

呵呵，这个说法很有意思。。

blackswan

虞宅与美丽 发表于 2014-5-15 20:22
你的回复让我想到下面这段话：

＂为什么那么多作家都在谈他们的童年？那是因为他们没有别的生活：其他的 ...

看完虞版在吉他帖關於技巧和經歷的回復，再看看這個作家的童年的意見，覺得可以有共通的地方呵呵。
其實我覺得寫字和演奏一樣，需要的不止是文字的功力，更需要經歷和體驗。所以如果他們只有童年，那後來的作品是不是不會好看?
但我又在糾結一個問題，他們難不成需要真的去體驗各種生活，才能寫得如此深刻和透徹?似乎也不太可能吧？
所以不知道是不是也是一樣的，天賦，技巧，體驗，經歷，缺一不可。
一點點想法，不知道對不對？

虞宅与美丽

blackswan 发表于 2014-5-16 10:58
看完虞版在吉他帖關於技巧和經歷的回復，再看看這個作家的童年的意見，覺得可以有共通的地方呵呵。
其實 ...

其实我觉得那句话不一定是夸奖呐

blackswan

虞宅与美丽 发表于 2014-5-16 12:23
其实我觉得那句话不一定是夸奖呐

我也沒有覺得是:p