by Shi Tiesheng
"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�
��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.