高行健作品集-第35部分

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　　The　old　buildings　on　both　sides　stand　flush　with　the　road　and　all　have　wooden　shopfronts。　The　downstairs　is　for　business　and　upstairs；　washing　hung　out　to　dry—nappies；　bras；　underpants　with　patched　crotches；　floral…print　bedspreads—like　flags　of　all　the　nations；　flap　in　the　noise　and　dust　of　the　traffic。　The　concrete　telegraph　poles　along　the　street　are　pasted　at　eye　level　with　all　sorts　of　posters。　One　for　curing　body　odour　catches　your　attention。　This　is　not　because　you’ve　got　body　odour　but　because　of　the　fancy　language　and　the　words　in　brackets　after　〃body　odour〃。　
　　Body　odour　（known　also　as　scent　of　the　immortals）　is　a　disgusting　condition　with　an　awful；　nauseating　smell。　It　often　affects　social　relationships　and　can　delay　life’s　major　event：　marriage。　It　disadvantages　young　men　and　women　at　job　interviews　or　when　they　try　to　enlist；　therefore　inflicting　much　suffering　and　anguish。　By　using　a　new　total　treatment；　we　can　instantly　eradicate　the　odour　with　a　rate　of　up　to　97。53％　sucomess。　For　joy　in　life　and　future　happiness；　we　welcome　you　to　come　and　rid　yourself　of　it　…　
　　After　that　you　come　to　a　stone　bridge：　no　body　odour　here　and　there’s　a　cool；　refreshing　breeze。　The　bridge　spanning　the　broad　river　has　a　bitumen　surface　but　the　carved　monkeys　on　the　worn　stone　posts　testify　to　its　long　history。　You　lean　on　the　concrete　railing　and　survey　the　township　alongside　the　bridge。　On　both　banks；　black　roof…tops　overlapping　like　fish…scales　stretch　endlessly　into　the　distance。　The　valley　opens　out　between　two　mountains　where　the　upper　areas　of　gold　paddy　fields　are　inlaid　with　clusters　of　green　bamboos。　The　river　is　blue　and　clear　as　it　leisurely　trickles　over　the　sandy　shores　but　close　to　the　granite　pylons　dividing　the　current　it　becomes　inky　green　and　deep。　Just　past　the　hump　of　the　bridge　the　rushing　water　churns　loudly　and　white　foam　surfaces　from　whirlpools。　The　ten…metre　high　stone　embankment　is　stained　with　water　levels：　the　new　greyish…yellow　lines　were　probably　left　by　the　recent　summer　floods。　Can　this　be　the　You　River？　And　does　it　flow　down　from　Lingshan？　
　　The　sun　is　about　to　set。　The　bright　orange　disc　is　infused　with　light　but　there’s　no　glare。　You　gaze　into　the　distance　at　the　hazy　layers　of　jagged　peaks　where　the　two　sides　of　the　valley　join。　This　ominous　black　image　nibbles　at　the　lower　edges　of　the　glowing　sun　which　seems　to　be　revolving。　The　sun　turns　a　dark　red；　gentler；　and　projects　brilliant　gold　reflections　onto　the　entire　bend　of　the　river：　the　dark　blue　of　the　water　fusing　with　the　dazzling　sunlight　throbs　and　pulsates。　As　the　red　disc　seats　itself　in　the　valley　it　becomes　serene；　awesomely　beautiful；　and　there　are　sounds。　You　hear　sounds；　elusive；　distinctly　reverberating　from　deep　in　your　heart　and　radiating　outwards　until　the　sun　seems　to　prop　itself　up　on　its　toes；　stumble；　then　sink　into　the　black　shadows　of　the　mountains；　scattering　glowing　colours　throughout　the　sky。　An　evening　wind　blows　noisily　by　your　ears　and　cars　drive　past；　as　usual　sounding　their　deafening　horns。　You　cross　the　bridge　and　see　there　a　new　stone　with　engraved　characters　painted　in　red：　〃Yongning　Bridge。　Built　in　the　third　year　of　the　Kaiyuan　reign　period　of　the　Song　Dynasty　and　repaired　in　1962。　This　stone　was　laid　in　1983。〃　It　no　doubt　marks　the　beginning　of　the　tourist　industry　here。　
　　Two　food　stalls　stand　at　the　end　of　the　bridge。　In　the　one　on　the　left　you　eat　a　bowl　of　beancurd；　the　smooth　and　tasty　kind　with　all　the　right　ingredients。　Hawkers　used　to　sell　it　in　the　streets　and　lanes；　it　completely　disappeared　some　time　ago　but　has　now　revived　as　family　enterprises。　In　the　stall　on　the　right　you　eat　two　delicious　sesame…coated　shallot　pancakes；　straight　off　the　stove　and　piping…hot。　Then　at　one　of　the　stalls；　you　can’t　remember　which　one；　you　eat　a　bowl　of　sweet　yuanxiao　dumplings　broiled　in　rice　wine：　they　are　the　size　of　large　pearls。　Of　course；　you’re　not　as　academic　about　food　as　Mr　Ma　the　Second　who　toured　West　Lake　but　you　do　have　a　hefty　appetite。　You　savour　this　food　of　your　ancestors　and　listen　to　customers　chatting　with　the　proprietors。　They’re　mostly　locals　and　all　know　one　another。　You　try　using　the　mellifluous　local　acoment　to　be　friendly；　you　want　to　be　one　of　them。　You’ve　lived　in　the　city　for　a　long　time　and　need　to　feel　that　you　have　a　hometown。　You　want　a　hometown　so　that　you’ll　be　able　return　to　your　childhood　to　recollect　long　lost　memories。　
　　On　this　side　of　the　bridge　you　eventually　find　an　inn　on　an　old　cobblestone　street。　The　wooden　floors　have　been　mopped　and　it’s　clean　enough。　You　get　a　small　single　room　which　has　a　plank　bed　with　a　bamboo　mat　on　it。　The　cotton　blanket　is　a　suspicious　grey；　either　it　hasn’t　been　washed　properly　or　that’s　the　original　colour。　You　throw　aside　the　greasy　pillow　from　under　the　bamboo　mat　and　luckily　it’s　hot　so　you　can　do　without　the　bedding。　What　you　need　right　now　is　to　off…load　your　luggage　which　has　become　quite　heavy；　wash　off　the　dust　and　sweat；　strip；　and　stretch　yourself　out　on　the　bed。　There’s　shouting　and　yelling　next　door。　They’re　gambling　and　you　can　hear　them　picking　up　and　throwing　down　the　cards。　A　timber　partition　separates　you　and；　through　the　holes　poked　into　the　paper　covering　the　cracks；　you　make　out　the　blurred　figures　of　some　bare…chested　men。　You’re　not　so　tired　that　you　can　drop　off　to　sleep　just　like　that。　You　tap　on　the　wall　and　instantly　there’s　loud　shouting　next　door。　They’re　not　shouting　at　you　but　amongst　themselves：　there　are　always　winners　and　losers　and　the　loser　is　trying　to　get　out　of　paying。　They’re　openly　gambling　in　the　inn　despite　the　Public　Security　Office　notice　on　the　wall　prohibiting　gambling　and　prostitution：　you　decide　to　check　whether　the　law　has　any　effect。　You　put　on　some　clothes；　go　down　the　corridor　and　knock　on　the　half…closed　door。　Your　knocking　makes　no　difference；　they　keep　shouting　and　yelling　inside　and　nobody　takes　notice。　So　you　push　open　the　door　and　go　in。　The　four　men　sitting　around　the　bed　in　the　middle　of　the　room　all　turn　to　look　at　you。　But　it’s　you　and　not　they　who　gets　a　rude　shock。　The　men　all　have　bits　of　paper　stuck　on　their　faces；　on　the　forehead；　lips；　nose　and　cheeks；　and　they　look　ugly　and　ridiculous。　They　aren’t　laughing　and　are　glaring　at　you。　You’ve　butted　in　and　they’re　clearly　annoyed。　
　　〃Oh；　you’re　playing　cards；〃　you　say；　putting　on　an　apologetic　look。　
　　They　go　on　with　their　game。　The　long　paper　cards　have　red　and　black　markings　like　mahjong；　there’s　a　Gate　of　Heaven　and　a　Prison　of　Hell。　The　winner　penalizes　the　loser　by　tearing　off　a　strip　of　newspaper　and　sticking　it　on　a　designated　spot。　Whether　this　is　a　prank；　a　way　of　letting　off　steam；　or　a　tally；　is　agreed　upon　by　the　gamblers　and　there　is　no　way　for　outsiders　to　know　what　it’s　all　about。　
　　You　beat　a　retreat；　go　back　to　your　room；　lie　down　again；　and　see　a　thick　mass　of　black　specks　around　the　light　globe。　Millions　of　mosquitoes　are　waiting　for　the　light　to　go　out　so　that　they　can　come　down　to　feast　on　your　blood。　You　quickly　let　down　the　mosquito　net　and　are　enclosed　in　a　narrow　conical　space；　at　the　top　of　which　is　a　bamboo　hoop。　It’s　been　a　long　time　since　you’ve　slept　under　a　hoop　like　this；　and　you’ve　long　since　passed　the　age　of　being　able　to　stare　at　the　hoop　to　lose　yourself　in　reverie。　Today；　you　can’t　know　what　traumas　tomorrow　will　bring。　You’ve　learnt　through　experience　everything　you　need　to　know。　What　else　are　you　looking　for？　When　a　man　gets　to　middle　age　shouldn’t　he　be　looking　for　a　peaceful　and　stable　existence；　find　a　not…too…demanding　sort　of　a　job；　stay　in　a　mediocre　position；　become　a　husband　and　a　father；　set　up　a　comfortable　home；　put　money　in　the　bank　and　add　to　it　every　month　so　there’ll　be　something　for　old　age　and　a　little　left　over　for　the　next　generation？　

　　Chapter　Two　

　　It　is　in　the　Qiang　region　halfway　up　Qionglai　Mountain；　in　the　border　areas　of　the　Qinghai…Tibetan　highlands　and　the　Sichuan　basin；　that　I　witness　a　vestige　of　early　human　civilization；　the　worship　of　fire。　Fire；　the　bringer　of　civilization；　has　been　worshipped　by　the　early　ancestors　of　humans　beings　everywhere。　It　is　sacred。　He　is　sitting　in　front　of　the　fire　drinking　liquor　from　a　bowl。　Before　each　sip　he　puts　a　finger　into　it　and　flicks　some　on　the　charcoals　which　splutter　noisily　and　send　out　blue　sparks。　It　is　only　then　that　I　perceive　that　I　too　am　real。　
　　〃That’s　for　the　God　of　the　Cooking　Stove；　it’s　thanks　to　him　that　we　can　eat　and　drink；〃　he　says。　
　　The　dancing　light　of　the　fire　shines　on　his　thin　cheeks；　the　high　bridge　of　his　nose；　and　his　cheekbones。　He　tells　me　he　is　of　the　Qiang　nationality　and　that　he’s　from　Gengda　village　down　the　mountain。　I　can’t　ask　straight　out　about　demons　and　spirits；　so　I　tell　him　I’m　here　to　do　some　research　on　the　folk…songs　of　the　mountain。　Do　traditional　song　masters　and　dancers　still　exist　here？　He　says　he’s　one　of　them。　The　men　and　women　all　used　to　form　a　circle　around　the　fire　and　dance　right　through　to　daybreak；　but　later　on　it　was　banned。　
　　〃Why？〃　I　know　quite　well　but　I　ask。　I’m　being　dishonest　again。　
　　〃It　was　the　Cultural　Revolution。　They　said　the　songs　were　dirty　so　we　changed　to　singing　Sayings　of　Mao　Zedong　songs　instead。〃　
　　〃And　what　about　after　that？〃　I　persist　in　asking。　This　is　becoming　a　habit。　
　　〃No…one　sings　those　anymore。　People　are　doing　the　dances　again　but　not　many　of　the　young　people　can　do　them；　I’m　teaching　the　dances　to　some　of　them。〃　
　　I　ask　him　for　a　demonstration。　Without　hesitation；　he　instantly　gets　to　his　feet　and　proceeds　to　dance　and　sing。　His　voice　is　low　and　rich；　he’s　got　a　good　voice。　I’m　sure　he’s　Qiang　even　if　the　police　in　charge　of　the　population　register　insist　that　he　isn’t。　They　think　anyone　claiming　to　be　Tibetan　or　Qiang　is　trying　to　evade　birth　restrictions　and　have　more　children。　
　　He　sings　song　after　song。　He　says　he’s　a　fun…loving　person；　I　believe　him。　When　he　finished　up　as　village　head；　he　went　back　to　being　one　of　the　mountain　people；　an　old　mountain　man　who　likes　good　fun；　unfortunately　he　is　past　the　age　for　romance。　
　　He　also　knows　incantations；　the　kind　hunters　use　when　they　go　into　the　mountains。　They　are　called　mountain　black…magic　or　hexes　and　he　has　no　qualms　about　using　them。　He　really　believes　they　can　drive　wild　animals　into　pits　or　get　them　to　step　into　snares。　They　aren’t　used　only　on　animals；　they’re　also　used　against　other　humans　beings　for　revenge。　A　victim　of　mountain　black…magic　won’t　be　able　to　find　his　way　out　of　the　mountains。　They　are　like　the　〃demon　walls〃　I　heard　about　as　a　child：　when　someone　has　been　travelling　for　some　time　at　night　in　the　mountains；　a　wall；　a　cliff　or　a　deep　river　appears　right　in　front　of　him；　so　that　he　can’t　go　any　further。　If　the　spell　isn’t　broken　the　person’s　feet　don’t　move　forward　and　even　if　he　keeps　walking；　he　stays　exactly　where　he　started　off。　Only　at　daybreak　does　he　discover　that　he　has　been　going　around　in　circles。　That’s　not　so　bad；　the　worst　is　when　a　person　is　led　into　a　blind…alley：　that　means　death。　
　　He　intones　strings　of　incantations。　It’s　not　slow　and　relaxed　like　when　he　is　singing；　but　just　nan…nan…na…na　to　a　quick　beat。　I　can’t　understand　it　at　all　but　I　can　feel　the　mystical　pull　of　the　words；　a　demonic　awesome　atmosphere　instantly　permeates　the　room；　the　inside　of　which　is　black　from　smoke。　The　glow　of　the　flames　licking　the　iron　pot　of　mutton　stew　make　his　eyes　glint。　This　is　all　starkly　real。　
　　While　you　search　for　the　route　to　Lingshan；　I　wander　along　the　Yangtze　River　looking　for　this　sort　of　reality。　I　had　just　gone　through　a　crisis　and　then；　on　top　of　that；　a　doctor　wrongly　diagnosed　me　with　lung　cancer。　Death　was　playing　a　joke　on　me　but　now　that　I’ve　escaped　the　demon　wall；　I　am　secretly　rejoicing。　Life　for　me　once　again　has　a　wonderful　freshness。　I　should　have　left　those　contaminated　surroundings　long　ago　and　returned　to　nature　to　look　for　this　authentic　life。　
　　In　those　contaminated　surroundings　I　was　taught　that　life　was　the　source　of　literature；　that　literature　had　to　be　faithful　to　life；　faithful　to　real　life。　My　mistake　was　that　I　had　alienated　myself　from　life　and　ended　up　turning　my　back　on　real　life。　However；　real　life　is　not　the　same　as　manifestations　of　life。　Real　life；　or　in　other　words　the　basic　substance　of　life；　should　be　the　former　and　not　the　latter。　I　had　gone　against　real　life　because　I　was　simply　stringing　together　life’s　manifestations；　so　of　course　I　wasn’t　able　to　acomurately　portray　life　and　in　the　end　only　sucomeeded　in　distorting　reality。　
　　I　don’t　know　whether　I’m　now　on　the　right　track　but　in　any　case　I’ve　extricated　myself　from　the　bustling　literary　world　and　also　escaped　from　my　smoke…filled　room。　The　books　piled　everywhere　in　that　room　were　oppressive　and　stifling。　They　expounded　all　sorts　of　truths；　historical　truths　to　truths　on　how　to　be　human。　I　couldn’t　see　the　point　of　so　many　truths　but　still　got　enmeshed　in　the　net　of　those　truths　and　was　struggling　hopelessly；　like　an　insect　caught　in　a　spider’s　web。　Fortunately；　the　doctor　who　gave　the　wrong　diagnosis　saved　my　life。　He　was　quite　frank　and　got　me　to　compare　the　two　chest　X…rays　taken　on　two　separate　ocomasions：　a　blurry　shadow　on　the　left　lobe　of　the　lung　had　spread　along　the　second　rib　to　the　wall　of　the　windpipe。　It　wouldn’t　help　even　to　have　the　whole　of　the　left　lobe　removed。　The　outcome　was　obvious。　My　father　had　died　of　lung　cancer。　He　died　within　three　months　of　it　being　discovered　and　it　was　this　doctor　who　had　correctly　diagnosed　it。　I　had　faith　in　his　medical　expertise　and　he　had　faith　in　science。　The　chest　X…rays　taken　at　two　different　hospitals　were　identical；　there　was　no　possibility　of　a　technical　mistake。　He　also　wrote　an　authorization　for　a　sectional　X…ray；　the　appointment　was　in　half　a　month’s　time。　This　was　nothing　to　get　worried　about；　it　was　just　to　determine　the　extent　of　the　tumour。　My　father　had　this　done　before　he　died。　The　outcome　would　be　the　same　whether　or　not　I　had　the　X…ray；　it　was　nothing　special。　That　I　in　fact　would　slip　through　the　fingers　of　Death　can　only　be　put　down　to　good　luck。　I　believe　in　science　but　I　also　believe　in　fate。　
　　I　once　saw　a　four…inch　length　of　wood　which　had　been　collected　in　the　Qiang　region　by　an　anthropologist　during　the　1930s。　It　was　a　carved　statue　of　a　person　doing　a　handstand。　The　head　had　ink　markings　for　the　eyes；　nose　and　mouth；　and　the　word　〃longevity〃　was　written　on　the　body。　It　was　called　〃Wuchang　Upside　Down〃　and　there　was　something　oddly　mischievous　about　it。　I　ask　the　retired　village　head　whether　such　talismans　are　still　around。　He　tells　me　these　are　called　〃old　root〃。　This　wooden　idol　has　to　acomompany　the　newborn　from　birth　to　death。　At　death　it　acomompanies　the　corpse　from　the　house　and　after　the　burial　it　is　placed　in　the　wilderness　to　allow　the　spirit　to　return　to　nature。　I　ask　him　if　he　can　get　me　one　so　that　I　can　carry　it　on　me。　He　laughs　and　says　these　are　what　hunters　tuck　into　their　shirts　to　ward　off　evil　spirits；　they　wouldn’t　be　of　any　use　to　someone　like　me。　
　　〃Is　there　an　old　hunter　who　knows　about　this　sort　of　magic　and　can　take　me　hunting　with　him？〃　I　ask。　
　　〃Grandpa　Stone　would　be　the　best；〃　he　says　after　thinking　about　it。