Smile and Fall
Women hide in the kitchen and gossip
about their vain and frivolous new neighbor.
Her half-length portrait hangs behind the window
of a photo studio around the corner, it is 1973 or 1974,
her hands holding her chins, mouth corners lifted
lightly, as if to flaunt new curls or a flouting lace
on her collar, and with makeup on her cheeks,
rouged like ladies of old Shanghai in cheongsams—
whom I’ve seen on Grandmother’s rusty powder case
that holds her sewing chalks and tapes.
After school, I cannot help but slow down
my steps, feeling an inexplicable excitement,
like catching a glimpse of what is called a dirty scene.
In the thickening twilight, she looks straight ahead
on the sidewalk past the photo studio.
A thin veil covers her face. A skirt shows her knees,
which swings softly like an accordion on the lap
opening and closing slowly. It is summer,
1976. Her toes swirl in her sandals,
running over the hostility of a whole street.
When girls use hot fire tongs in secret
to curl the burnt ends of their braids,
she jumps onto the backseat of a bicycle
of a married man—after being stalked in a secluded park.
I imagine her spastic eyes popping out, her underskirt
wrinkling at the waist like a windswept pond.
In panic, her slender neck bends downward,
as if penetrated by a conspiring lead bullet.
One Wednesday afternoon, I wander around
and catch tanned teens jumping from a wooden barge
into the river and a few unemployed youngsters
hunting for condoms in air raid shelters that smell like piss.
I lie on the bank, gazing at the constant change of clouds
in the sky. I feel the first wave of faint pain,
as if I am abandoned, as if her fall
from grace is a sealed verdict
in a plain white frame that becomes
a petite altar. Against her neighbors’ poking tattles,
the fine curves around her lips have spun
into an abnormal blush of a TB patient.
She soon marries and then quickly divorces.
With a cold and calm look, she stoops to pick up
a tub filled with a mountain of laundry and kill chickens
in the kitchen. Her tousled short hair has risen
into an untamable flame.
Holding her elbows, she stands and smokes
in the window frame. Her frozen stare
resists any square look in her eyes through the photo.
It is 1978. Teresa Teng’s clear voice,
like an icepick, pierces through the bungalows
by the city walls, but not the ice on her face.
I see her looking straight ahead
past the sidewalk in front of the photo studio.
The portrait behind the window has been replaced
with something newer, someone else and younger.
I don’t recall her smile, except in the old portrait—
even it has now turned monotonous
and tacky, whose scarlet lips seem to have been dyed
in blood, but not hers. She lingers mutely at the window,
having squandered half a life for doomed glamour.
微笑与堕落
女人们躲在厨房窃窃私语
说新搬来的女邻居虚荣又轻浮。
她的半身像挂在街角照相馆的橱窗
在1973或1974年，托着腮
嘴角微微弯翘，似乎炫耀新烫的卷发
或衣领上一道冒犯的钩织花边。
她着了色的脸颊
绯红如旧上海的旗袍女郎——
我在老祖母生锈的粉盒上见过她们
里面搁着缝纫用的软尺和粉块。
放学经过时，我会不自觉
放慢脚步，感到一丝模糊的兴奋
像瞥见人们说的下流场面。
渐浓的暮霭里，她目不斜视
走过照相馆前的人行道。
薄纱巾遮脸，露膝的短裙轻摆
如同一架手风琴在胯上
缓慢拉开又合拢。那是夏天
1976年，她的脚趾在凉鞋里旋转
碾过一条街的敌意。
当女孩们偷偷用火钳在辫梢
缠出焦糊的小卷
她跳上一个有妇之夫的自行车后座
——被跟踪，在僻静的公园。
我想象她痉挛的双眼突然睁圆
衬裙在腰间皱得像狂风刮过的池塘。
惊惶中，她细长的脖颈弯垂下来
被一颗蓄谋的铅弹射穿。
一个星期三下午，我去那里游荡。
晒得黝黑的半大孩子们从木排
跳入河中，几个待业青年
在尿骚味的防空洞里寻觅避孕套。
我躺在岸边，看云在天上不停变幻。
第一次我感到模糊的痛苦
仿佛被遗弃，仿佛
她堕落的样貌是一份判决
封存在素白的相框里
那座小小的祭台。街坊的指戳下
她唇角微妙的弧线变成了
结核病人不正常的红晕。
她很快嫁给了某人，很快离了婚。
神情冷淡又平静，弯腰抱起堆成山的
洗衣盆，或在灶屋间杀鸡。
她蓬乱的短发竖起
如一簇不驯从的火焰。
托着肘，站在窗框里抽烟
凝滞的眼神似乎
透过照片，让人无法正视。
那是1978年，邓丽君清澈的嗓音
尖锥般，穿越城墙根下的平房
却无法凿开她脸上的坚冰。
我看见她目不斜视
再次走过照相馆前的人行道。
而橱窗已经换上了新的
更年轻的。别人的。除了在照片上
我不记得她有过笑容——
就连那张照片如今也变得单调
俗气，绯红的嘴唇仿佛被血浸染过
却不是她，当她沉默着
始终在窗前，为无用的美偿付了半生。
Capping Ceremony at the Convenience Store
1
Fire trucks shrill at the burning marketplace.
The weather scalding, the asphalt road melts
like the coir mat in the gymnasium.
He sprints on, and the whole street cries
out loud—Stop now! The dripping collar,
like a bridle, strangles his year of being sixteen.
The cobblestone road rolls off the bridge.
A terrible fire races up to the sunshade
of the convenience store. He feels his calves pulling.
He clutches the money he lifted from the drawer
until it sweats his palm, emitting a smell
of stale lime and some slight fishy sweetness in his throat.
2
Stealing a glance now and then, he sits on a domino stool.
His hand that holds the cigarette traces an impatient arc.
She turns around, one foam slipper teetering and tottering
on her raised toes, sending subtle tremors
from her ankle to the mysterious slit
of her bubblegum pajamas pants.
A drop of sweat drips from the tip of his itchy nose
to the glass counter, rippling out a cloud
of white paint used by clowns.
He spreads out the crumpled bills
and smooths them out. His unseemly filthy fingers
leave their prints on the confession statement.
3
Now her almond-shaped eyes slant mockingly,
like a magician finishing off a trick.
A trembling spectator, he stands
on tiptoe, peeking behind the counter into the hole
of her pants pocket: In the blaring laughter,
a fine patch of electrifying hair pokes through
the summer he holds his breath to break into.
He turns around, storms out of the convenience store,
and steals away with a hunched back. A limp hand hangs
as if suffering from an injury,
as if fish scales appear out of the blue.
And an increasingly intense fishy smell permeates the air.
烟杂店的成人礼
1
消防车在失火的市场尖叫。
天热得瘆人，融化的柏油路
软如体操房的棕垫。
他飞跑着，整条街的人
在大喊——快停下！湿嗒嗒的衣领
像马辔，勒紧他的十六岁。
卵石路从桥上滚落。
一团可怕的火窜上了烟杂店的
遮阳篷。他感到腿肚子发沉
从抽屉里偷拿的钱
在手心攥出了汗，散发出
陈旧的石灰味和嗓子眼的丝丝甜腥。
2
觑着眼，坐在骨牌凳上
夹烟的手划了个不耐烦的弧。
她转身，一只泡沫拖鞋在跷起的
脚趾上颠荡，把微妙的
颤动从脚踝引向泡泡纱睡裤
神秘的开衩。
一滴汗，从他发痒的鼻尖
滴落到玻璃柜台上，漾开一团
小丑的白油彩。
他把揉皱的钱摊开
捋平。难堪的手指又脏又黑，
在招供笔录上摁下了指纹。
3
现在，她的吊梢眼嘲弄似的
乜斜着，像魔术师变完了戏法。
而他是战栗的观众，
踮着脚，隔着柜台探进
她裤兜的破洞：刺耳的大笑里
一蓬带电的毛刺穿了
他憋足了劲想要闯入的夏天。
他转身，冲出烟杂店，
佝着背跑开。一只手无力地垂下，
仿佛受了伤，
又似乎突然长出了鱼鳞。
空气里，弥散着越来越重的腥味。
The Interpretation of Dreams
1
They are late on their way to the bungalow.
Her hands hesitate as the icy backseat
of the bicycle snorts like a branding iron.
The night gets colder, and the moon alone
seems to grow downy and splits on the pitted asphalt.
A freight railroad crawls in from the west,
cutting out a deserted corner of the outskirt,
like a fountain pen, already dried out,
crossing her letters, whose intervals lengthen further.
All semester, a foreboding omen torments him
between the Carpenters’ “Yesterday Once More”
and The Interpretation of Dreams,
until he flunks the finals and returns, his beard
untrimmed, his body crouching on an angry coal wagon.
Face brushing against his scruffy army coat,
she hears his heavy gasps and swears under breath.
His voice feels so unfamiliar and far like the summer
when stones were thrown at her window.
The bicycle, about to fall apart, clatters
like last year or the year before.
And she is after all a woman, young
and vain, facing the irresistible lure of warmth,
yielding in the end to many a paradoxical tear.
Mutely, they stop at the crossing.
He fiddles with the slowly leaking tires. Arms crossed
over her chest, she walks to the lowered railings.
The shrill alarm shivers in the air.
They stand still, as if unintentionally
delaying something, as if nothing has happened.
2
Briquets and clutter pile up in their borrowed winter studio.
He lights the stove with paper scraps while she fetches water
from the kitchenette. The dangling light bulb swings
in a plastic cover. They have never slept with each other
but seem to have lived together for years: one
smokes, the other scrubs—squatting
behind pulled curtains. Now she half-kneels,
patting the pillows and smoothing the wet, hard bedding.
Her head struggles in the static cling of a sweater
—the kind of grid that he has never crossed.
And he pauses, not because of the chilly, bitter taste
of the shōchū lingering on her chapped lips,
not because of her silence, innocence, and shudder.
Oh, terrible loyalty! As if to embrace her
is to betray her, and the summer was long gone.
Mockingly, the plank bed creaks.
She turns her face to the wall, as if anesthetized.
Shame gushes out again—look, he grits his teeth
in a spell, his spastic face suddenly hideous,
yet not knowing how to blow off the steam.
Her hand hangs over the edge of the bed
as a wisp of cool wind steals through the window.
Love me, blame me! In her ears, the wind
dwindles and lets out a whistling sound
like a steam locomotive.
At this moment, he looks at her cropped hair,
the back of his head unbearably fragile like an eggshell.
She goes back behind the curtain to clean herself,
as if eager to squeeze out his seeds
from her body, not knowing that the same curse
has already burrowed into her deepest part,
the wordless contempt with a full set of teeth.
3
So, is this the sentence she deserves
in a flaky and prickly age? The future is so distant
like the bus stop she walks miles to reach.
His furrowed brows stretch and tighten in his dreams,
like a scarf knitted, then undone.
He dreams of her cry as if she should be crying.
She knows nothing good will become of her,
because she wavers, between the escape from boredom
and the full knowledge of the ultimate bitterness of living.
Her ears are buzzing in a vertigo
like a bicycle that falls apart on a bumpy ride.
She knocks on the lit snack shop and asks for a bowl
of boiling water and buries her face in the steam,
as if she sees herself lying on the hard, hurtful bed
of the small clinic and a cruel curette
churning in her womb with the pain
unforgettable for life. The first bus stops at the crossing
and a bell relentlessly tolls through the white fog.
She closes her eyes. Yes, everything is a passage.
Before living is just enduring,
Before intercourse becomes as commonplace
as drinking water, before the arrival of the old age,
she draws in her wings
like a ballerina on tiptoe, holding her breath
in the motionless moment. Not moving, she waits.
梦的解析
1
他们很晚才动身去那所平房。
她的手试探着，冰冷的自行车后座
如一块嗤响的烙铁。
夜更冷了，孤零零的月亮
长了毛似的，照着坑洼的沥青路。
一条货运铁路从西边爬来
切出城郊荒寂的一角
像干涸的墨水笔
划过她间隔越来越长的来信。
整个学期，那不祥的预感折磨着他
在卡朋特乐队的《昨日重现》
和《梦的解析》之间
直到他抛下期终考试回来
胡子拉碴，蜷缩在愤怒的煤车上。
她的脸不时挨蹭着他邋遢的军大衣
听见他喘气，小声咒骂什么。
他的声音陌生
遥远如朝她窗户扔石子的夏天。
快散架的自行车咔咔响着
仿佛去年，前年。
而她终究只是一个女人
年轻又虚荣，很难抗拒温暖的诱饵。
终究是软弱的，太多矛盾的泪。
他们在道口停下
谁也不说话。他摆弄慢跑气的车胎
她抱着肩，走到放下的栏杆前。
刺耳的警铃在空气中震颤。
他们站在原地，似乎下意识
拖延着什么，又仿佛什么都没发生。
2
借来的过冬房堆着煤块和杂物。
他用废纸生炉子，她去小厨房接水，
悬吊的灯泡在塑料盆里摇颤。
他们从未一起睡过
却像在一起生活了多年：一个
抽烟，另一个擦洗——蹲在拉起的
布帘后。现在她半跪着
拍松枕头，把湿而硬的被褥捋平。
她的头挣扎在毛衣的静电里
——他从未穿越的电网。
而他迟疑着，并非她煞白的嘴
残留烧酒冷冽的苦味。
并非她沉默，无辜，战栗。
哦，可怕的忠诚！仿佛拥抱她
就是背叛她，而夏天永逝。
木板床嘲弄地嘎吱响。
她把脸转向墙壁，如同被麻醉。
羞辱再次涌来——看，他中了诅咒
咬着牙，筋挛的脸突然变丑
却不知该拿什么撒气。
她的手垂在床边
一缕钻过窗缝的冷风。
爱我，骂我吧！在她耳边
瑟缩的风带着啸音
如蒸汽火车头。
现在，他看着她剪短的头发
后脑勺蛋壳般脆弱，忍无可忍。
她重新去布帘后擦洗
仿佛急于把他的种子从身体里
挤出去，却不知同样的诅咒
已经钻进了最深处
那沉默的，长了全副牙齿的恨意。
3
那么，这是她该受的惩罚吗
在动摇又多刺的年纪？未来那么远
像她步行几公里去公交站。
他紧蹙的眉头在梦里
舒展又皱起，像拆了又织的围巾。
他会梦见她哭泣，仿佛她应该哭泣。
她知道自己要不好了。
因为她总在犹豫，想要不乏味
又明知生活终究是苦的。
她的耳朵嗡嗡响，头晕得
像一辆颠簸中散了架的自行车。
她敲开亮灯的点心铺
要了碗开水，把脸埋在热气里
似乎看见自己躺在小诊所
硌人的硬床上，而一把野蛮的刮匙
在子宫里不停搅着，那疼痛
几乎是一生。早班车停在道口
刺耳的铃声在白雾里持续。
她闭上眼。是的，一切只是经过。
在活着就是忍受之前
在性交变得像白开水一样
平常之前，在变老之前
她收拢翅膀
像芭蕾演员踮起脚，屏息于
瞬间的静止。她一动不动，等着。