by Tie Ning
香雪想快点跑过去，但腿为什么变得异常沉重？她站在枕木上，回头望着笔直的铁轨，铁轨在月亮的照耀下泛着清淡的光，它冷静地记载着香雪的路程。她忽然觉得心头一紧，不知怎么的就哭了起来。那是欢乐的泪水，满足的泪水。面对严峻而又温厚的大山，她心中升起一种从未有过的骄傲。她用手背抹净眼泪，拿下插在辫子里的那根草棍儿，然后举起铅笔盒，迎着对面的人群跑去。
山谷里突然爆发了姑娘们欢乐的呐喊。她们叫着香雪的名字，声音是那样奔放、热烈；她们笑着，笑得是那样不加掩饰、无所顾忌。古老的群山终于被感动得战栗了，它发出宽亮低沉的回音，和她们共同欢呼着。
哦，香雪！香雪！
Butterfly
Yang Biran is an editor, aged thirty or more. He is tall, large, fair-skinned, and wears a pair of glasses. The frame of his glasses is made of translucent plastic, which was quite popular in the 1960s. But these glasses don't make him look old-fashioned. On the contrary, he looks more like an innocent student with this pair of glasses on his nose. His looks tally with the nickname given him by the editorial department — Big Fatty Boy. He might also have been called Big Fatty, but he was not. Big Fatty and Big Fatty Boy suggest different things. The name Big Fatty sounds more or less aggressive and cynical; whereas Big Fatty Boy doesn't have such a derogatory connotation.
In everyday life, Yang Biran is like a child, willful, amiable and inscrutable. His teeth are always clean, his nails are well trimmed, and he is getting bald ahead of time. He perspires for no reason at all, even when he is outdoors in winter. He and his wife divorced during the winter season. She proposed the divorce without giving any specific reason except that they had different habits. For example, sometimes Yang Biran likes to walk at night. He often gets up at midnight, gets dressed and goes out. He usually walks in one or two streets for nearly two hours, sometimes more than two hours. Once he walked the whole night from east to west and then from west to east, across the whole city. At first his wife thought that he might be seeing another woman and she followed him. But she soon discovered that he was just taking a walk. She wondered if he might be sleep-walking, and asked him what he had done that night. He told her clearly that he walked from this street to that street and then turned to another street and finally went back home on the first street. Sleep-walkers usually don't have any memory of what they have done the night before. Yang Biran is no sleep-walker.
"Haven't you walked enough in the daytime by going to the editorial department from home and then coming back again?" his wife asked him.
"Do you call that walking?" Yang Biran retorted. "Could that be called walking?"
"What do you call it?" his wife asked.
"It's swimming," he answered. "It's swimming in a sea of people. As you move, raising your hands, stretching your arms, and kicking your feet, you touch other people. You simply swim ahead by pushing others. There're no roads at all. You're just walking on people."
"What do you see when you walk on the road at night?" his wife asked.
"I see road I walk on," replied Yang Biran. "Yes, I see road when I walk on it at night."
Yang Biran was very excited by what he was saying. He took the hand of his wife and told her, "It's only at night that you can see the road while you walk on it. At night you realize more clearly than at any other time that when you move your feet the road below receives them, goes along with you, gives you prominence and importance, and carries your weight no matter how heavy you are. When you stand, the road lies there, honest, kind, and silent, surging forward. At night there are no people on the road and you are under the boundless vault of heaven, with or without stars in the sky. You get the feeling that it's not you that must take a walk, it's the road that is enticing you to walk, which is a great favor the road grants you. While you walk along, you can smell the trees by the roadside. The smell coming out of the tree branches is like the smell coming out of the children's mouths, sweet and pleasant; and the smell coming out of tree trunks is like that coming from clean men, fresh with a sense of bitterness. You can see cats mating in the shrubs with happiness and pain. You can also occasionally hear a clear loud sneeze coming from an open window, from the room of someone who has not covered himself well and is catching a cold in his sleep. You recognize that your breathing is faithfully accompanying you .You're a healthy man, and you take a walk on the healthy road in the healthy night. You have no idea what that's like. It's a kind of... a kind of intimacy."
"This intimacy doesn't match that between us, does it?" his wife asked.
"It's not the same thing," replied Yang Biran.
"Since there still exists an intimacy between us, can you go to a karaoke party with me — since you love to move around at night?" his wife asked.
Yang Biran made it clear that he was unwilling to go, telling her, "I'd rather listen to the sneeze from a window along the street than go to a karaoke party."
"Singing karaoke can free a person up," said his wife, who was a primary school teacher and seldom got the chance to go to any recreational places.
"Karaoke is the last thing that can free one up, "he retorted. "It doesn't free up and, besides, it does others great harm, for others have to suffer from listening to it. As to letting oneself go, sneezing truly does that." His wife felt angry at what he was saying and regretted that she had not realized that Yang Biran would be so difficult to deal with before they got married.
On one occasion, during a snowy winter night, Yang Biran suddenly had a fantastic idea. He wanted his wife to sleep with him out in the snow. At that time he and his wife did not have an apartment of their own and they shared a small courtyard with Yang Biran's parents. Seeing how thick the snow was in the courtyard, his wife said, "Is there something wrong with you?"
"There's nothing wrong with me." he replied. "I just want to challenge the snowy ground with my body. Just imagine what will that be like! "Yang Biran held his wife in his arms as he said this, though his wife struggled to free herself from him. "Just imagine, we can sleep in the snow, embracing each other. The night is cold, we're warm, the air is fresh, the snow is soft and silent. The heaven and the earth belong to us. I want to have a child with you in the snow, a child by two brave people in the pure sweet world... "
His wife turned away from him and refused to listen any more.
Yang Biran sighed, put on his coat and glasses, wrapped himself up in a down-padded quilt, went into the courtyard, and lay resolutely on the snowy ground. He fell asleep and slept soundly. He was awakened later by his parents after it was already dawn and the snow had stopped. He took off his glasses, which were covered with snow, and looked at the unprecedented morning. The glare of the white snow dazzled his eyes and his temples throbbed.
His parents, watching him in surprise, asked him, "Are you okay?"
Yang Biran sat up on the snowy ground, then stood up and jumped a couple of times. Then he grinned and said, "I'm okay."As he spoke, he realized that his mouth and face were frozen numb. He grinned again and stretched out his hands to slap his face and thus relax the muscles. He became clear-headed immediately and felt extremely relaxed. His cheeks were rosy. He stood there in the courtyard, dumbstruck, feeling pleased in his heart and regretting the joy and happiness no one could share with him.
Within a week, Yang's wife divorced him.
Yang Biran's second wife was ten years older than him. Yang Biran loved her very much. For the first two years he blushed every time any of his colleagues in the editorial department mentioned her. On such occasions it seemed logical to think of his nickname, Big Fatty Boy. The female editors in the department envied this wife who was ten years older than Yang Biran, so they began to refer to her as the Lady Ten Years Older instead of by her own name. When she telephoned Yang Biran at the office, someone would la
ter ask, "Who called?" Another one would answer, "Lady Ten Years Older."
Yang Biran resented the mocking tone in which his colleagues talked about his wife, though he didn't tell them directly. Instead, he submitted the matter to the editors' meeting. "Why should some people do this?" he asked. "My wife has a name and a family name. What right has anyone to make up another name for her? It's true that she's ten years older than me, but that is something just between us, isn't it? If you're so interested in the age gap between us, use my wife's true name and start calling me Man Ten Years Younger. Call me that now! "Yang Biran was quite indignant when he said this, and his last sentence "Call me that now!" suggested his childish rage. His nose sweated as he talked and his glasses slipped time and again. He readjusted the glasses with his forefinger several times, but they still slipped. Finally, he took them off and held them in his hand. Yang Biran's eyes were bulging due to his wearing glasses for such a long time.
Seeing that his bulging eyes were moist, his colleagues had sympathy for him. Yet one still said, "Why should we call you Man Ten Years Younger? That sounds awkward! We would do better to call you Little Man Ten Years Old. "Yang Biran immediately corrected the colleague, saying that he was not ten but thirty-four years old. His very lack of humor was funny to the others and they were unable to keep from laughing.
Soon after that his colleagues stopped calling her wife Woman Ten Years Older in his presence. They just called her that when Yang Biran was not around. In their eyes Yang Biran was a nice, easy-going person and they had no reason to be hard on him.
In summer, the editorial department usually gave each editor ten bottles of beer. Yang Biran would always invite his colleagues to drink his share in the office. In addition to this, people often borrowed his bicycle and took little care of it. When they returned it, sometimes a bicycle tire was flat, sometimes spokes were broken. However, Yang Biran never complained about this. He would just take the bicycle to a repair shop on the street. Those who borrowed his bicycle would tell him they were sorry for breaking it and at the same time say to him, "In developed countries, people never have their bicycles repaired. They usually throw them away once they're broken. It's the same with TV sets, VCRs, sofas, washing machines and the like. Our country has not evolved to that stage yet."
Yang Biran would listen carefully, think about this statement carefully and then ask carefully, "Why do you conclude it's evolution? It might be degeneration. If something goes wrong in a person, do you throw him or her away? If something goes wrong with your brain, do you throw it away? If we're unable any more to make repairs, then the human race will one day find itself doomed."
At this moment those who said "throw them away" would most often say to Yang Biran, "Well, well, I won't argue with you. You may also throw away what I've just said. It doesn't need repair."
Yang Biran would then retort justly and forcefully, "But I've repaired it, for you've heard what I said."
Sometimes Yang Biran left no leeway for himself. Once a popular woman writer mailed a novelette to the editorial department and it was given to Yang Biran to edit. The novelette aimed to analyze the spiritual depression of metropolitan female intellectuals by way of twenty-first century astrology. Yang Biran sent her manuscript back and said to Sun, the colleague who sat opposite him, "I just can't put up with it. "Sun asked him the reason and Yang Biran replied, "That woman writer is nothing but a country girl. Why does she write about the spiritual depression of urban women?"
His colleague suggested, "She had some education even though she was born in the countryside."
Yang Biran said, "But she's still a country girl lightly soaked in some education."
Later, the woman writer learned about Yang Biran's comment about her and telephoned the editor-in-chief, saying she would never again send any manuscripts to this magazine. The editor-in-chief apologized for Yang Biran's remark and invited her to dinner. But this didn't work. The manuscript Yang Biran had returned was soon published in another magazine. The editor-in-chief docked Yang Biran's bonus for that month.
On another occasion, when the editorial department selected the model worker of the press, all but Yang Biran agreed that the director of the editorial department was the most qualified person for this honor. The reason for Yang's opposition was that he found the director never washed out his lunch-box. Yang Biran said he had kept an eye on the director's lunch-box for a long time and found that a dried noodle was stuck on it for as long as ten days. The director of the editorial department, of course, felt a bit embarrassed. But his colleague Sun said to Yang, "We are selecting the model worker for the press, not a hygiene model." Yang Biran said no more. Usually he would never give in when he was in the right. However, he was not good at arguing.
One summer morning, Yang Biran was riding his bicycle, heading for the press as usual. A girl riding in front of him attracted his attention. She must be a pretty girl with no make-up, Yang Biran guessed. The girl wore coffee colored shorts, a white cotton T-shirt, and a pair of black flat-bottom frosted leather sandals. Her straight short hair waved to and fro in the wind behind her light pink ears. Her long legs were strong. But there was one thing that spoiled the beauty of her back. On the white T-shirt, right in the center, was a butterfly pattern the size of a deep-fried twisted dough stick. This is a violation against beauty, Yang thought. He felt uncomfortable at the sight, and the butterfly pattern made him uneasy. His eyes fixed on it. He decided the designer of the T-shirt must be a blockhead. Did he intend to add some liveliness to the T-shirt by sewing such a large butterfly pattern onto the back of it?
Yang thought the butterfly was a nuisance, hanging there pale and wan, a clumsy, thick-skinned and hard to shake off object. It was an anomaly that didn't match the freshness of the girl. The makings of the butterfly were much thicker and heavier than the material of the T-shirt, a fact that did not conform to the basic principles of good clothes design. The butterfly and the shirt were completely out of proportion. It was nothing but a rascal clinging to the back of the girl, Yang decided. His thoughts wandered until he became furious at the sight. The word furious is actually not strong enough to express the irritation he felt at the butterfly. He decided it must be a malignant tumor clinging to the girl, and this caused Yang Biran to feel some pain. He held these thoughts until the girl was out of sight.
The following morning Yang Biran again met the girl on his way to his office. She was riding in front of him wearing the same white T-shirt with the butterfly pattern, as if she was challenging him. Yang Biran followed her closely, his eyes fixed on the object. It seemed that the butterfly had grown larger overnight, looking silly and at the same time experienced and astute. Yang Biran could see that the butterfly now covered the back of the girl, crushing down on her so hard that she almost became breathless, hunchbacked, her backbone at the breaking point. The girl seemed almost drowned in the two white wings of the butterfly. She almost became shapeless, as if something was going to happen.
Yang Biran rode faster and almost caught up with the girl. In his heart he murmured, please remove the butterfly on your back. He felt ashamed for her. How he wished he could tell her that that T-shirt was not good on her! How he wished he could tell her that she looked funny in that T-shirt. He imagined that the girl might answer back, sarcastically, it has nothing to do with you if I look funny or not. Yes, it doesn't have anything to do with me, Yang Biran thought to himself. But that doesn't justify the fact that it makes you look ridiculous. "Please remove the butterfly on your back!" he wanted to shout. He sped up on his bicycle until he was almost beside the girl when she suddenly turned at a crossroads and the butterfly disappeared out of sight.
On the third morning, Yang Biran was awakened by the thought, "Please remove the butterfly on your back!" He realized that it was his heart that said this and woke him up, and he very much hoped that he would again see the girl with the butterfly on her back, as he had
the last two days, and that the butterfly would be gone.
He got on his bicycle and started for work. In the familiar street with the familiar train of bicycles, he noticed the fat, peculiar butterfly without any effort. He felt a sudden pain in his back as if he had been pecked by an eagle. How could the girt, he wondered, wear the same T-shirt for three days? How could a girl like such a nightmare dress? This was a sign of her abandoning herself to decadence. At that moment the butterfly was slowly and steadily growing larger and larger in Yang's eyes. He began to feel that the girl was not riding with a huge butterfly on her back, but that an ugly butterfly was flying with a girl in its mouth.
Yang Biran pedaled forcefully and overtook many other bicycle riders. He was finally side by side with the girl. She stopped, at last, at a crossroads because the traffic light was red and sat on the bicycle with one foot on the ground and the other on the pedal looking contented, natural and unrestrained. Yang Biran did the same. He was so close to the girl that he could catch hold of the butterfly on her back quite easily. Now at last he could carry out his plan. He could say to the girl, "Please remove the butterfly on your back," but he acted before he spoke. With one hand holding the handlebar, he stretched out the other and caught hold of the butterfly which seemed to be trembling. The girl screamed...
Yang Biran was kept in the house of detention for seven days until the editor-in-chief bailed him out. The whole editorial department knew that one morning at a crossroads Yang had taken liberties with a girl in the public. He had even caught hold of the girl's dress. The whole editorial department knew that when the police came to the spot, surrounded by onlookers, Yang Biran was still forcefully holding onto the girl's dress. With her back stiff, the girl did not dare to move.