英文小说：A Shadow in Surfers Paradise (38) 天堂之影

洋八路

Chapter 38      1/2



For a long minute, he looked up to the sky, half stunned by the marvellous display of sunlight, almost forgetting his own earthly existence, letting his grandma’s images teem his mind, until his mother reminded him of the time to go. They left the bananas at the graves but took the chicken, now carried by his mother, leading a file of which the order was unchanged.
Walking in the vastness of green and yellow rice fields, Bing noticed the rice flowers had withdrawn their miracle back into the shelter. Some crops were maturer with bigger and harder grains, bowing with a weight heavier than their limbs; some were young, the grain flat and thin, like half-fledged hungry babies; while others were even younger, grains unborn, stalks thick and bulging. ‘Those are the pregnant ones,’ said his mother.  

So, in an air full of young lives, rich in alluring sweetness, the team crossed the fields, leaping up and over the stiles, striding over the gaps and the puddles. Bing picked one rice stalk, cracked open the grain with his teeth, tasted its milky juice, so tender and sweet, and momentarily, he was thinking of the lips of Vivian…

The next two months were the busiest farming period. Bing, together with Ming and Dan, was working hard, fairly shedding his sweat and young energy. The golden rice was reaped and threshed; the grains were carried and then dried on the concrete ground or a bamboo-woven sheet. Then immediately afterwards the field must be ploughed and wrought for the second rice growing of the year.

In times of storm, which was quite frequent in the summer, he liked to take a shower in the pouring rain, allowing the water soak and cleanse his body. He also revisited the hills and drank the spring water in the valley, where he had once struggled in bringing a pine tree uphill. In recent years, the rice had become sufficient to feed the family and the chickens and the ducks and the pigs, so had been the taros and the special purplish sweet potatoes, now skinned by his mother with a sickle resembling a crescent moon.  Therefore, his appetite was well fulfilled, his bones and muscles trained and solidified as a young adult is supposed to be. And almost every day he was enjoying the spirit of rice-wine, with or without the pig-meat, but always with the peanuts, either steam-cooked or fried.

Occasionally, when the sun and rain both visited the village on the same day, they would go out picking the mushrooms that tended to flourish with the fast food of warmth and water. The type of fungus, named ‘chicken mushroom’ by the local farmers because of its textural similarity to the flesh of chicken, was very common in the village, usually growing from the thin layer of half-decayed hay on the ground. It looked like a plump, greyish mini-umbrella. Its cap was as large as a bowl, its stem as thick as an adult’s thumb, and its gills were so soft and exquisite that touching it you feel the subtlest breath of nature.

One of his many straying thoughts, while wandering in his home village, was that even the dirt in the toilet seemed to be less foul than the stagnant unmoving sludge in the cities. And, to know that human and other animals’ excretions were recycled, being used to grow those green, pretty-looking vegetables, and rice, and tasty fruit! And to know that the instance of very beauty indeed relies on the very dirt! How could one deny that the nature was not entirely teasing and ridiculing, in its ironic way, the sense of beauty that seems to particularly influence the brain of mankind as to the level of pleasure a person is to receive in his lifetime?   

After the season of field labour, he parted from his home again, to start a life deemed by many to be superior to the ones in the village. And this time, Ming didn’t cry, nor did his mother. For, as an English teacher in Jiaoda, he was easily and inexpensively reachable. The kind of mystery evoked from his previous Shanghai adventure ceased to be a source of apprehension. And of course, he was now fully grown, his heart and bones becoming harder, less prone to nerves and soft sentiments.


The campus of Jiaoda was itself a garden. It had hills, lakes, bridges, and bamboos; it had clear water, flowers, butterflies, and bigger and noisier birds, apart from the little sparrows. And the fact that it was situated right at the foot of famous Emei Mountain pronounced soundly its environment being favourable to habitation. There was only half an hour’s walking distance between the university and Baoguo Temple, which was the first of numerous similar ones on the Mountain.

In the university, he felt he had been graciously attended and to a great extent admired by his peer teachers, though he knew it was more due to the fact that he was a graduate of Shangwai, which in many people’s minds held the status as one of the first-class language institutes in the country.

But he was lonely.

The only solace in his pastime of meditation was that his middle school friend Kai was assigned after graduation to Sichuan University as a math teacher. He had seen him once in the village during his short stay at home, when Kai had said he had to hurry for the assignment. Kai’s once hopeful courtship with Lily, the girl with whom Kai seemed to have fallen in love during Bing’s Beijing trip, had ended fruitlessly, like many hopeless campus romances.

However, Kai was in Chengdu, the capital city of Sichuan Province. Though not far from Emei, it was unlikely Bing could often meet him during the school days. And, now that he had grown older and maturer, it seemed to be much harder to develop friendships in his new life as a teacher. Therefore, whenever he had some moments of leisure and reflection after classes, his university life in Shanghai often came back to him as rueful nostalgic memories. After all, his first sex and love as well as his losses, the kind of life experiences so fresh and passionate in one’s youth, were all expended over there.

Now his life turning to a new chapter, he found his passion, his rapture, and his insanity associated with the budding and sprouting of a young life was already gone. It was as if his disposition and potency as a man were shrouded with a sort of sombreness, as if his nerve sensitivity had wilted after his thriving years.  

Many elder teachers or the staff in administrative office were keen to match him with a wife. Some meaningful glances from either the female teachers, or even from some students were often detected by his cool or cold eyes. But the threshold of enthusiasm for him to advance in that direction had always been a distance too far. He had a strange despondency as if his life had been blighted and withered to a quarter of its size.

He did have one or two good acquaintances, with whom he could share a dining-table with beer and wine and shallow laughter, but it was not the type of friendship he would have wished, compared to what he had previously experienced with Kai, and Kang. He knew he might have become more or less a perfectionist in regard to love and friendship. But an immediate amendment to it was impossible. He was in winter, his soul was dormant in a cocoon.

His best companion was his guitar, though he had no more interest to perform at parties. Inviters then gave up on him after a number of futile entreaties. He played in his two-bed dormitory room, or sometimes in the hills outside the campus, where he could give breath to his imprisoned soul.



-- To Next Post--

洋八路

Chapter 38    2/2



One Saturday morning, he decided to climb a hill. He had often been intrigued by it when he took his evening walk in the Mirror Late Hill where his dormitory was built.

With four bottles of beer, a bag of peanuts, a can of sardines, all packed into a cloth-bag, and together with his guitar, he set off.

Rice fields covered with green stalks like the ones in his village cascaded down the lower part of the hill. Taking the small path uphill, he had soon left them behind, and followed a little track bordered with flourishing thickets. The track was narrow, the leaves protruding the road, brushing his guitar to make a sound queer and alien in the hill’s tranquillity. Birds were singing liquidly, and the melancholy three-toned calling of a cuckoo seemed to reach him from so far away that he felt he was entering a forest of a magnificent depth and breadth.

But the hill didn’t have many the tall trees and wilderness a forest ought to have. In fact, he found himself quickly arriving at the high point of the hill, which had very much confused him. Then he realised that his original target was supposed to be the top of the next higher hill across by a little valley. In his former perception, the two separate hills had been beheld as one, when the valley was invisible.

So, he took his steps down, through the valley, and climbed uphill again. Narrow as the track was, it was still able to guide his advance, although the leaves and twigs were now rubbing more forcefully at his arms and instrument. Then, sweating and panting, he had finally got to the summit of the hill he had thought to be his target, for the little track began to descend again. But, again, he was not at all convinced this was the one he had initially intended to reach, because, from where he stood, he saw another, even higher hill linked again by a valley.

He stood there perplexed: where was the vantage point he had wanted to go at the very beginning? Looking further up, now there were at least three more rolling hills, each of them appearing more majestic than the one under his feet.

Turning and looking around a number of times, he couldn’t work this out. He had thought he would be able to sit on the top of the hill, from where to overlook the other lower objects. Now it struck him clear that his original vision had been a mere illusion, and he had to determine his next move in this unexpected situation.   

Well, he wouldn’t mind sitting somewhere lower than his former object, so long as the grass and trees wouldn’t obscure the immediate vista. Even if he chose to make a spot where he was now standing, it would still be an acceptable reality under the new circumstances. Indeed, he could see, in the far west and amidst the hazy hue of sky, the strip of cloud girdling the Emei Mountain. Snow white, it was like a glimpse of a temple built in the white-clouded heaven as illustrated in some tales of the legend.     

However, feeling his reserve energy was still sufficient to make another climb, he decided to conquer the next hill but one, before he was ready to claim his final destination.

So he trudged upwards, and soon found the road more and more treacherous. The track was thinning, his own body becoming less and less distinguishable from the mess, until he was almost swallowed by the towering ferns and thickets, reminding him of his dismal experience ten years before, when he went with Dan cutting the tree on the side of a steep hill.
Now, it appeared to him, he was in no way able to reach the peak of the hill, putting him in a situation far worse than the lower yet clearer points of achievement. Even if he could in theory get to the point, the trees and dense undergrowth would smother his fancy imagination that had driven him to this far.

Therefore, he was forced to make another compromise. At this moment, his desire was no more than finding a clear place to sit down, to halt his disappointing adventure. But how? Should he go uphill further, which might make his vision only worse and worse? If not, then the only sensible move was to retreat and descend to the previous clearer points.

But he was very much exhausted, he didn’t think he had the energy to pierce through the downward mess again.

After hesitating a while in his dilemma, he simply threw down his bag and guitar on the thick cushion of grass, which had been such a burden chafing and straining his journey. Then he began to tramp on the grass, in the same manner as the hero in the movie Red Sorghum had cleared the sorghums in order to make love with the heroine he had seized from a donkey’s back.

And before long, he had made a small circle for his secluded picnic.

Sitting down, he took one bottle of beer, prying it open with his teeth. Since he learnt the method of opening a beer from Kang, he had done it all the time. And as soon as the cap was lifted a crack, his face welcomed a rush of spilling foam. He moved the nozzle away to let the bubbling caused by the brisk shaking during his trip quiet down. Then he began to drink; the liquid was warm and frothy. He was thirsty, and the beer was the only liquid for relief. When he put the bottle down, half of it had already found its way into his system.

He took out the bag of peanuts and the can of sardines, placing them on the grass. Then with an exertion of near violence, he tore open the bag of peanuts. He didn’t think he was angry or frustrated with his failed adventure, nor had he any other ill emotion to affect him. All he had wanted was a quick intoxication that could be obtained as cheaply as he could. And in less than one minute, he finished the rest of his first bottle.

Now his feeling was wonderful. The rustling of the trees, the drawling whistles of the birds, and the shrilling of the cicadas were all so much fanciful.

Then he wanted to open the can of fish. There was a lid on the top of it, which he lifted it as carefully as he could. But it snapped off soon after he had begun, leaving no slit for further prying. Now, like a monkey who has to study a nut to find a way to crack it, he speculated a long time on the tin-container that looked to him so formidable and inaccessible, before he thought he could at least use a twig for the job.

However, the sticks he sought from the trees kept breaking, and the cover, stubborn and tight as it looked, refused to budge.

Getting more and more frustrated, his determination to open it was more and more severe. He tried to use his teeth in various possible ways, then gave up; he tried to use some thin and long stone as an aid, then gave up; he banged it against the bough of a tree hoping to make a crack, then gave up. In doing such a job, his gestures proved to be so pathetic and hopeless. Even a monkey might have already succeeded with the length of time and the level of talent he had been passionately expending.

In the end, he placed the can on the surface of a flat stone, and furiously hammered on its cover with another stone. The metal wall was a ghastly mess of denting and disfigurement, but thankfully revealing at last a little crack along the edge.
Now with the little hole of hope, he used a stick and a stone alternatively, slowly and patiently making progress, little by little. The stick was, in the process, breaking up and dirtying the fish in the can, but he couldn’t have cared less.

Then, growing more impatient with the hopeful but slow advancement, he whimsically tried his fingers to pull it open. The edge was sharp, so he used his shirt cuffs for a cushion. And doing so, he was making progress. Bit by bit, the hole was opening. The patience in his application was really second to none.  

With his coming triumph in his mind, he was encouraged to speed it up with more power, and then suddenly, the can lost its balance, tilting over, and the sharp edge cutting the back of his hand.

Only numbness he was feeling, but the bleeding was remarkable.

He put up the can to prevent the fish soup from leaking out, and inspected the closely. The cut, about two centimetres long, was lividly horrific, with the shining blood seeping out from it. But strangely enough he didn’t feel much pain but a tickling sensation. He checked inside his bag, and found nothing there usable to stop the flow. He then thought of using leaves for assistance, and gave it up; he thought of using his shirt, then gave up; he thought of using his right hand to press the wound, then gave up. Running out of ideas, he was watching the free flow of blood, which was behaving like the little rivulet of a spring.

In a while, the flow began to slow and congeal. Nature displayed its magic healing process.

Carefully he rested the hand on the ground, laying there motionless lest the process be disturbed, until he felt it safe to move the hand, which he did. Only then did he begin to feel the pain, so sharp that he could even feel in his ear the frantic throbbing along the wound. This was more than comparable to the pain he had felt on his chin in the fishing incident that had happened so many years before.   

But he didn’t cease his moments of indulgence. Using his good hand and his teeth, he opened his second beer; and using his good hand and his teeth, he cracked and ate the peanuts; and using his good hand and his teeth, he made two chopsticks from the twigs, and dug out fish from the blood-stained can for his consumption.

It was all delicious and sensational. The beer bottle was emptying fast, and the moment of intoxication seemed to be the best he had ever felt. It was a pity he couldn’t play his guitar, otherwise his vehement outburst would be just phenomenal.
For the next hour or two, gazing at his wounded hand, feeling an absolute part of nature, he let his musing go far and fanciful, self-ridiculed, and melancholy.

True, he had lost some blood, but that was nothing. Women, as he knew, lost quite an amount of blood every month, and they were still very healthy, and more beautiful than men. The key to life, it seems, is that the faster the blood-cycling and the higher the rate of metabolic progression, the fresher and healthier a body becomes.

Then, suddenly, he was feeling a fit of excitement. Whether it was due to the thought of women, or the red blood, or the throbbing pain, or a combination of them all, he didn’t know. But in his present mind, the figure of Fang, the Chongqing girl with whom he had made his virgin love, and whose blood had once stained him, and who seemed to have effaced from his memory even since, came to visit him. Oh, what conduct against the trunk of the Wuton tree! What a struggle had it used to be! Where is she now? Well, of course, she is still in school, she is one year his junior. And then a moment later, Vivian was coming to him. But Vivian was not a virgin when he did it with her on the train, or was she? Oh, no, it couldn’t be, then to whom had Vivian given herself first?...

In his intoxication, he dazed like an old man recalling his terrific old times.

Thinking of them, he felt his penis, which was very much constrained by his sitting posture, was carried away and worked up tirelessly at its station. So he straightened his legs, rising to his feet in order to grant more room to the nastiest part of a man. However, with more room given to it, it seemed to more earnestly, more happily arouse itself, until it had claimed a good fighting and threatening stance.

But without a woman, there was only one way to humble it. So using his good hand, he pushed down his pants, then using his good hand again, he worked to serve it, marvelling at its jerking head that looked so angry and rebellious.

At its peak, behind his closed eyes an image of Vivian’s face flared, and worse, her image with that man.

Then he took some leaves to clean up, of which process seemed to slow its retreat.

Then he resumed his picnic, consuming his great solitary loss, for how long he was rather oblivious. But he had finished all the four bottles, all the fish inside the can, and all the peanuts in the bag.

He lay on his back and slept.

His return trip took him less than an hour. He went to his room first, putting away the guitar, disposing of the collected rubbish, before heading to the Medical Centre of the university.
 
 


--End of Chapter 38--

blackswan

我是真的很想拜讀，可惜讀得慢，我這人又沒有耐心。感覺對不住樓主

雄鹰展翅

八路最近都是写洋文的

所以名符其实的洋八路

Gone

上坟用的物品还可以带回来吃吗？从老家回学校那段感觉过渡得有点平。。
见血的那段反应。。很奇特。。

洋八路

Gone 发表于 2014-5-15 23:06
上坟用的物品还可以带回来吃吗？从老家回学校那段感觉过渡得有点平。。
见血的那段反应。。很奇特。。 ...

一整只鸡啊，我想应该可以吃吧，不可能浪费。。在家里祭拜神的那种也可以吃？

老家学校平，因为不觉得什么大离别的事情。。

上山这段，编辑同我意见不一样，他觉得繁琐，不过我坚持我的意见。。因为这个含义是人生之路，大都越走越窄，越走越烦，最初理想和幻觉美好，最后现实残酷无奈。。进入一个trap，左右不是。。

最后的那个，很难写，要‘不下流’，要自然，还要有‘美感’。。灵肉和美丑即相互排斥，又可以统一，这是人性。。

至于效果如何，俺不知道。。。

Gone

洋八路 发表于 2014-5-16 09:46
一整只鸡啊，我想应该可以吃吧，不可能浪费。。在家里祭拜神的那种也可以吃？

老家学校平，因为不觉得什 ...

我们的风俗是上坟的物品不带回来的。祭祀的印象里是另一回事。。大概各地的习俗不一样。。
我觉得老家和学校分开，学校开始可以重新开一章的，毕竟那是人生崭新的一页。无关离别。。个人感觉。。
上山是可以细写的，我赞同你的意见。。
最后那里。。很难有美感吧。。呵呵，我觉得。。不过的确不好写。。作者的心态再放自然一些，再原生一些。。只有你觉得那是美，才会写出美。。对我来说，读到那里只有讶异的感觉。。
只是我的感觉而已。。乱弹了。。

洋八路

Gone 发表于 2014-5-16 11:52
我们的风俗是上坟的物品不带回来的。祭祀的印象里是另一回事。。大概各地的习俗不一样。。
我觉得老家和 ...

不知道不同性别的读者感觉如何...可能会有很大差距...而且要从头看到尾，我知道辛苦的，因为有太多的references...