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廖康

#1  深井

深井

廖康


“你的眉毛呢?”我问尚德。初见他时,我觉得他脸上少了点什么,重逢的兴奋过去后,我才注意到他的眉毛几乎都掉光了。

“我们那儿水不好,人人都掉头发。我却掉眉毛,可能是因为我老揉眼睛,皱眉头吧!”他满不在乎地解释。我知道不管多累,他每天都学习到深夜。同屋二十几个小伙子,下工后不是打牌、就是聊天。他却看书、学英语,一任他们嘲笑,从不懈怠。

我们从小就是好友。两年前中学毕业,尚德分配到东北建设兵团,一直跟我通信。与他相比,我幸运多了,分到一所大学的校办厂。两年来,我在京城养得白胖,当年在干校挨饿的经历仿佛已是上辈子的事了。他却比以前更黑,更瘦了,但精神还好。那年代没有探亲假,除非有特殊原因,休想回京。他能回来是因为母亲去世了,父亲身体又不好,需要人照顾。那年林彪死了,文革的热潮早已退去。对待知识分子的政策开始松动、略为温和了。尚德的父亲是技术权威,单位领导同意把尚德办回北京,以便照顾他父亲,让他能够更好地为革命事业做贡献。

照料父亲之余,尚德似乎把每分钟都用在学习上。每次我去看他时,他都要和我讨论学习数学、几何、物理、历史、哲学、英语中的问题。其实,他比我知道的多多了,讨论往往变成听他讲授,让我获益不浅。那时候,多数年轻人都不再学习书本知识,反正没有用处,更不想被指责为白专。我们俩却一直在学,也不为什么,只是觉得有意思。也是由于我们的家庭影响吧,总觉得一天不学点什么就是浪费生命。

我在大学里工作,虽然是个工人,也可以使用那儿的图书馆,每次可以借五本书。那时市面上卖的书只有马、恩、列、斯、毛的著作和有关阐释。个人藏书多已在文革初期销毁散失或没收。所以我们俩拼命利用学校的图书馆,几乎每星期看五本。尚德读书快,善于分析评判,记得牢,总是催我借新书。一天,他要我给他借水文方面的书。我问他干嘛这么早就要分专业,他告诉我他有实用目的。

缺水是他们连队农场的主要问题。别说庄稼了,连人用水都限量。农场二百多号人,蓄水池经常是干的。唯一的一辆拖拉机尽用来到两百多里以外的嫩江运水了。兵团战士用最原始的工具垦荒,难怪每年收成都很低。他们打了十几次井,好不容易才在地下20多米撞上个泉眼。为了存足够的水,又接着往下挖了十几米。尚德好不容易才说服了指导员,没有继续挖。这下倒是有水了,可是这眼井水质不好,又这么深,不可能用完当天的水,水又苦又不新鲜。“是啊,这水是不大好喝,”指导员说道:“但它更能够锻炼我们的革命意志。”苦干了那么久,每天还得喝那“革命的甘泉!”拖拉机可以用来干一些农活儿了,每星期只用它拉一次河水,给那些病号和干部喝。那当然包括指导员了,他的革命意志已经足够坚强,用不着再锻炼了。

现在,远在千里之外,尚德还惦记着他的伙伴和那口得不偿失的深井。他说:“为学习而学习固然有趣,但学以致用更有意思。”

尚德并非书呆子,我们见面也不仅是讨论书本知识。我们也喜欢唱歌,讲故事和郊游。晚春的一个周末,我们带着各自的女友骑车去了长城。一路上,我们放开歌喉唱起文革前的老歌,包括《外国民歌200首》里的歌曲,感到一种偷吃禁果的愉悦。要是有人听出来,我们非挨批不可。可我们黎明就出发了;一出城,就见不到什么行人了。一首接一首,我们唱了个痛快,简直是乘着歌声的翅膀飞翔。这些歌儿可比毛主席语录歌和那些所谓的革命歌曲好听多了。我们觉得心灵解放了,自由了。不知不觉就到了长城的山脚下;一看表,我们已经骑了近六个小时。

那年头,长城还不是旅游点。我们在那儿玩了三个多小时,总共没看见十个人。但我们没有再唱歌,倒不是害怕,而是为长城和四周的景色陶醉了;静悄悄的,好象说什么都会亵渎那雄伟,那壮美……

想了好久,我突然说道:“我真不知道应该为长城高兴还是悲哀。据说这是在太空唯一能够用肉眼看到的建筑,是我们的骄傲,我们的力量,我们的智慧。可是那些皇帝也真蠢,下令搞这么庞大的工程。费那么多力气,有什么用?这简直是中国的马齐诺防线!还不如把人力和时间用来建立一支大军。进攻才是最好的防御。这长城是我们的耻辱,我们的虚弱,我们的愚蠢。”

我注意到我的女友满怀崇敬地望着我,心里洋洋得意。

“我不能苟同,”尚德温和地答道:“ 我们并不知道,两千年来,长城在抵御游牧民族的袭击中是否象近代抵御西方列强的枪炮一样没用。我想以前长城还是很有防御作用的。虽然它没有挡住忽必烈和满清的铁蹄,但总的来说,还是挺有效的吧?它挡住了匈奴和鞑靼,对吗?除此以外,我们又能有其它什么办法来保卫我们漫长的边境?而且,我不喜欢军事扩张。被人欺侮当然是耻辱,但侵略别人是更大的耻辱。”

我的女友现在是充满崇敬地望着他了。

“嗯,就象你说的,我们不知道长城到底起过多大作用,”我争辩道:“要想知道,就得查遍史书。但你最后说的那个观点倒是不用查,那不是阿Q精神吗?”

“对,早晚我要好好研究一下长城的作用。要说阿Q嘛,他那是自我安慰,跟别人没两样。他要逮着机会了,也照样欺负别人。可我相信非暴力。天下再也没有 ’打了你右脸,把左脸也转过去’ 更伟大的教诲了。”

“嗬,什么时候你开始信仰基督教了?你真相信有上帝?一个白胡子老头坐在九天之上?”

“那只是一些人的想象,他们把上帝人格化了。对我来说,上帝就是真、善、美,就是道,就是人们试图遵循的自然和社会法则。不管你叫他什么,他存在。我们想要认识他,也能够认识他。否则我们和其它动物还有什么差别?”

姑娘们没兴趣了,她们去照相了。可我对这话题非常感兴趣。我父亲是基督徒,但他从来没有和我谈过基督教。当我在小学学到人是猴子变来时,颇为父亲“迷信”而惭愧。有一次,我甚至用极为幼稚的方法,企图向父亲说明没有什么上帝。我说:“爸,你带我到上帝那儿玩玩好吗?”父亲笑了笑,用永远不改的四川乡音答道:“宝气!天国不是好耍的。”但他没有解释为什么。长大后,我知道他是不想惹麻烦。虽然中国的宪法赋予人民宗教信仰的自由,但是在教堂外传教是非法的,惩罚很严厉,在文革中尤其严厉。可是,我已经偷偷地读了父亲的《圣经》,一直想跟人讨论讨论。这是我们第一次谈到基督教,不知不觉地深谈起来,直到姑娘们来拉我们去照相。

后来,我们下了长城,到附近的树林里野餐。我们正准备呢,尚德突然不见了。我们找啊、等啊、喊啊、他连个影儿都不见。正当我们真有点着急时,他又突然出现了。一手抱着干松树枝子,一手拎着一罐水和一网兜蘑菇。谁也没注意到他还带了这么大一个水罐,我们纳闷他从哪儿找来的水?他神秘地笑了笑说:“从你给我借的那本水文书里。”我知道他学以致用了。姑娘们不知道他说什么呢,也没多问。她们把罐子架在三块石头上,麻利地生了火。一会儿,水就咕嘟嘟地滚开了。煮香肠和炖蘑菇的气味真香!那是我吃过的最美的野餐。

吃完饭,我们一人讲了一个故事。我的故事是现编的,从我们身边发生的一起自杀案讲起,一直说到林彪之死,编得天花乱坠。最后尚德漫不经心地评论了一句:“我们的故事都是靠情节吸引人。可情节是最容易编的。谁要是能描述这片树林,就吸引听众,那才叫本事!”当时我还不以为然。八年后,我们的大学教授教了一学期,才让我们明白了其中的道理。

尚德浇灭火后,右手攥着个东西,一脸神秘的样子对他女友说:“把手给我。”

“干什么?” 她犹豫道。

“别问。把手给我!”

她满不情愿地伸出右手。尚德用左手牢牢地抓住她的手腕,突然,他的右手按上了她的手掌。她尖叫起来,好象疼得受不了。她拼命甩脱右手,喊道:“烫死了!你烫死我了!”

“我没有烫你,”尚德平静地说:“是你的心理作用。你看,就是一块烧过的碳,有点热而已。我也攥着它呢,怎么没烫着?”

“我不知道,”她呜咽着:“你今天怪神秘的。”

“神秘一天没啥了不起,”尚锝狡黠地笑了笑,说:“神秘一辈子才来劲儿呢!”

从那以后尚德没有再玩神秘,也没有研究长城,却让我帮他又借了几本水文方面的书。经常和尚德交往,日子过得飞快,转眼一年过去了。这可是至关重要的一年,尼克松访问了中国,用他的话说,开创了“新纪元”。林彪的余党被清算了, 中国开始和西方贸易往来,苏联成了中美交往中的一张王牌。但我和尚德没有十分关注这些变化,直到英国工业展览来到北京才引起我们注意。

对我们来说,这才是真东西。自从共产党掌权以来,这是第一次举行资本主义国家的工业展览。我们真想了解一切来自西方的东西。可是那工展票极难弄到,票根本不卖,只是发给各机关单位的有关人员和重要人物。那些有幸看了展览的人每天都在谈论它,好象刚从月球回来一样。听者问题无穷,对英国“受剥削受压迫”的工人们享用的机械设备羡慕不已,对那“老牌垂死的资本主义国家”先进的科技既吃惊又羡慕。人们还对那些印刷精美的产品介绍和说明书非常感兴趣。在以发明造纸而闻名的国度,谁都没见过那么好的纸,而且用那么好的纸印的东西竟然免费。简直不可思议!

尚德的父亲是“有关的科学家”,因而得到邀请去参加开幕式,几天后又额外获得两张票。我们高兴极了,可是尚德的女友也想去,我自然争不过,但也无法掩饰极大的失望。

“没关系!”他安慰我说:“我给你画张票。”

我转悲为喜。尚德学画快一年了,已经画得相当有水平。有一次他给我看了本西方油画影集,那年头这东西稀罕极了。我只注意到那些鲜活的裸体,心怦怦地跳个不停,脸肯定也红了。他向我指出达芬奇的蒙娜•莉萨没有眉毛,并猜想那一定是文艺复兴时期意大利的时尚,那贵妇人不大可能营养不良吧!那以后,我叫他尚德•莉萨叫了好一阵。他给我和我女友画过一张素描,至今那仍是我们最传神的一张画。

第二天,我到尚德家。他和女友都在等我,还有那张票。画得真好!要不是和真票仔细比较,我根本看不出来是假的。于是我们三人高高兴兴地骑车直奔北京展览馆。这展览馆是50年代苏联专家设计的,中苏友好那会儿叫苏联展览馆。如今大不列颠的米字旗在红星之下迎风招展。我听说一开始把人家的国旗挂倒了,英国使馆还提了照会。可我看着那国旗,觉得怎么也不可能挂倒了,翻过来,掉过去,都一样啊!

“票,票!”把门的语气严厉,好象要把一肚子无名火都撒到参观者身上。我很紧张,甚至有点想撤了。我这毕竟是第一次干犯法的事啊。但好奇心和冒险的欲望还是推着我往前走。尚德和他女友进去了,我有意地排在他们后面一点。把假票交给门卫时,我觉得手直哆嗦。门卫似乎犹豫了一下,我的心都跳到嗓子眼儿了,他把票扔进票箱,我的心也跟着放下了。我急忙进馆,找尚德,见他们就在前方,便径直走过去。

大错特错!参观者应该先到侧面台子那儿领取一塑料包介绍材料。我这异常行为立即引起馆内守卫人员的注意。

“你干什么的?”他拦住我问道:“急什么?有票吗?”

我蒙了,结结巴巴地答道:“我,我就是来参,参观。票,票给,给那位同志了。”

“是吗?那你慌什么?”他把我带回门口,打开票箱,假票认出来了。我被带到了公安局。

“你想干什么?”温和地问完例行问题后,警官突然吼道:“想搞破坏吗?”

“不是,我就是想看展览。”

“票谁画的?”他漫不经心地低声问道。

“我自己画的。”

“照谁的票画的?”

“没照谁的。”

“撒谎!”他又吼道,往后瞟了一眼。两个警察上来,一人扇了我一耳光。

“我真地不知道是谁的票。我是照着拣来的废票画的。”

“你撒谎!我们每天都把废票烧了。”一个警察照着我肚子上就是一拳,疼得我弯下腰去,恶心得要吐,又吐不出来。

“说实话!”警官大吼。我要是知道蒙不了他们,早就说实话了。可羞辱让我一时语塞,什么也说不出来。

“好小子,跟我充好汉?”他讥笑道:“我还没见过什么好汉呢!你们还他妈的等什么?”

那两个警察抓住我的胳膊,拧到我背后,把我摁倒,跪在地上。一人抓住我头发,使我的头动弹不得,另一个用膝盖顶住我后脊梁,慢慢地撅起我的右臂。一股巨痛沿着脊椎传遍我全身,那折磨根本无法忍受,我觉得胳膊和脊梁要断了,我仿佛听见嘎叭叭的响声……我坦白了。

那天晚上,尚德被捕了。北京正在清查游手好闲份子和流窜犯。他被当作游手好闲份子押回了东北建设兵团。几乎与此同时,他的转调信寄来了。一年来的努力都白废了!碰了那么多钉子,遭了那么多白眼,受了那么多询问,开了那么多条子,好不容易办成了,人却给押回去了。一位父亲的企盼,一个青年的希望,顷刻间化为乌有。他父亲都快疯了,一会儿号啕大哭,一会儿骂儿子不争气。他的哭骂直刺我心,可我又不知道怎么安慰他。只是每天下班后都去他家看看能帮他做点什么。

不久,我便收到尚德的来信。他非但没有责备我,反倒来安慰我。他说这么个小案子怎么可能瞒得过公安局?就象一道四则运算题难不住我们一样。而且谁也受不了他们的折磨,别信《红岩》里写的,那是蒙小孩儿的,要不怎么一有人被捕,大家都赶紧逃跑,并立即切断和他的一切联系呢?他还说回到兵团挺高兴的,正好可以学以致用,探寻水井。他要我帮他在水文书里查这个,查那个。现在想起来,他可能并不需要那些资料,但是帮他查找资料确实减轻了我的内疚。

这样,我们一直保持着联系。他不断告诉我探井的进展;他最后一封信说已经确定了泉眼的位置,就要动手打井了。随后,恶讯传来,尚德死了。

那年盛夏,连里杀了头猪,改善伙食。大伙儿不想把肉一次吃光。先吃了一半,司务长用绳子拴上剩下的半扇猪,吊在那眼深井的水面上,让凉气镇着。过两天,吃了四分之一;再过两天,吃了八分之一。而最后八分之一,一不小心,掉下水了。捞了半天,也没捞上来。井太深了。

最后指导员说:“谁能捞上来,肉就归谁。”好几个人试了又试,都没捞上来。当天晚上,尚德的两个好友问他有没有办法,他才知道有这么回事。“有差不多20斤肉呢,够咱们这屋人饱餐一顿的!”他想了想说:“明天一早,跟我去捞,好歹得给它弄上来。要不这眼井就臭了。”

第二天,尚德照例四点半就起床了,念了一小时的英语,那俩哥们也起了,他们一道去捞肉。尚德的计划是怀抱块大石头,骑在辘轳的水桶上,让那俩哥们把他放下去。然后抱着石头潜到井底去找肉。也不知怎么搞的,那辘轳垮掉了,砸到他头上,把他砸晕了,淹死了。这是那两个朋友的正式报告。

兵团战士们想把他捞出来,但费尽了力气也没有成功。谁也不敢冒险下井。三天后,尚德漂起来了,这才捞出来。尸体检查了,发现他头上有个洞,但却是呛水致死。由于没人再会用那眼井的水。连里决定索性把他葬在井里。由于他是“为自己捞肉”事故死亡,尚德没有象一个月前病死的女青年那样算作“革命烈士”,一切相应的待遇都没有了。指导员当然没有提是他让人们捞猪肉的。但几乎所有人都来参加了尚德的葬礼。他同屋那二十来个五大三粗的小伙子一个个都哭成泪人了。

我也独自痛哭了。可没有见到尸体,下意识里,我无法接受这一悲惨结局。多年来,我经常梦见尚德,和以前一样,活得好好的,光秃秃的脸上带着狡黠的笑容……我会在梦中对他说:“你没死啊!跟我们玩神秘,是吧?还真把我蒙着了,你这小子!”说着,我会狠狠地拍他肩膀,却拍到了自己肚子上。醒来泪流满面,在黑暗中呜呜哭泣。我觉得自己是在一眼深井里,阴森森、冷嗖嗖的;惭愧和内疚简直要使我窒息。我意识到现实的残酷,尚德确实死了,再也回不来了。那空荡荡的感觉竟然如此难受,好象是剧烈的胃疼,但怎么用拳头顶着也没用。他父亲似乎没有这么痛苦;他真地疯了,把我当成尚德了。我忠实地扮演儿子的角色,直到八年后他去世为止。

粉碎“四人帮”后,文革正式结束了。那些建设兵团被先后遗弃,兵团战士纷纷回城。两年后,我听说尚德那两个朋友也回来了,便请他们到全聚德吃烤鸭。我定了个单间。一盘鸭肉,三瓶啤酒下肚后,我放下筷子,站起身来,坦诚地对他俩讲了我的内疚。他们对此真是毫无所知。说完,我请求他们告诉我尚德到底是怎么死的。他们面面相觑,我转身走出房间。一支烟后,我再进屋,只见他们俩眼泪汪汪的。

他们告诉我,尚德骑着水桶,让他们慢慢地放下去。然后抱着石头潜入井底,顺利地找到那块猪肉,抱着它浮了上来,一切都象他计划的那样。他又骑上水桶,他们俩摇辘轳,把他拉了上来。他们看见尚德成功地带着肉上来了,激动起来。俩人同时去拉他,虽然只是一瞬间,却铸成了大错。尚德掉落下去,但还抓着井绳,骑在水桶上。辘轳的把柄飞快地旋转,一人试图抓住它,被打开了。另一人拉了一把井绳,又是个致命的错误!他非但没有抓住井绳,还带动井绳晃了一下。他们听到咚的一声,然后才是噗通的落入水里的声音。井绳最后那一拉,才把辘轳拉断,扯进水井。他们承认没有勇气说出全部真相,可这些年来,他们也因负疚而白了头。说罢,他们俩摘下帽子,露出和我一样的满头白发。

“别责怪自己了,”我说:“是那眼深井……”我们失声痛哭,三个大男人,抱在一团哽咽。谁也没有再碰那烤鸭和啤酒。道别前,他们告诉我,他们照着尚德探定的方位打井,成功了。

我简直等不及去看那眼井!此时我已上了大学。一放暑假,我就乘火车,搭汽车,还走了两个多小时,才到了建设兵团尚德他们连队开垦的地方。农场虽然遗弃了,环绕那眼新井却自然形成了一个小小的村落。但谁也不知道这眼井的故事,只知道它是北京来的知识青年打的。村民们以为我是观测水文的,告诉我还有过一眼井,但是水质不好,埋了。他们带我找到那井址,我知道那就是尚德的坟墓了。这是一座什么坟啊!它非但没有突出来,反而有些下陷,石头井沿依稀可辨。

我良久站立在尚德的坟旁,回想他短暂的一生。才十九岁,他就死了!这位才华横溢的青年成就了什么?只有那眼甜水井而已!要是他能活过文革,他会有多大成就?谁也不知道。他的无限前程都被这眼深井的黑洞吞噬了。这眼井埋掉了,可文革那眼深井能埋掉吗?该埋掉吗?


写于1993年;译于2004年9月


2006-5-16 12:09
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余立蒙

#2  

>>>
晚春的一个周末,我们带着各自的女友骑车去了长城。
>>>

羡慕:  除了有书读, 还都有女友, 我那会子是日日面朝黄土背朝天!

>>>“我不能苟同,”尚德温和地答道:“ 我们并不知道,两千年来,长城在抵御游牧民族的袭击中是否象近代抵御西方列强的枪炮一样没用。我想以前长城还是很有防御作用的。虽然它没有挡住忽必烈和满清的铁蹄,但总的来说,还是挺有效的吧?它挡住了匈奴和鞑靼,对吗?除此以外,我们又能有其它什么办法来保卫我们漫长的边境?而且,我不喜欢军事扩张。被人欺侮当然是耻辱,但侵略别人是更大的耻辱。”
>>>

惋惜: 这不是"河殇"的主题嘛. 咳, 尚德要是活下来, 对中国会有较大贡献的.

>>>
他们承认没有勇气说出全部真相,可这些年来,他们也因负疚而白了头。说罢,他们俩摘下帽子,露出和我一样的满头白发。

“别责怪自己了,”我说:“是那眼深井……”我们失声痛哭,三个大男人,抱在一团哽咽。谁也没有再碰那烤鸭和啤酒。
>>>

同哭: 看到这里, 我的眼泪再也忍不住了...


2006-5-16 14:25
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tugan

#3  

==“我们的故事都是靠情节吸引人。可情节是最容易编的。谁要是能描述这片树林,
就吸引听众,那才叫本事!”==

原来应该这样写作。

原文是英文吗?这是纪实小说吗?佩服廖康写出自己“招供”的情节,那是需要勇
气的。

真是一篇深刻,感人肺腑的小说。


2006-5-16 17:54
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尚能饭

#4  

这是廖兄的一篇力作,又读了一遍,还是很受感动。

我原来那个研究所有三位老先生中年丧子,他们的悲痛我是很了解的。我想,尚德的父亲程老先生,一定是悲愤不已。唉,那年头,那时代,不堪回首。。。


2006-5-16 19:05
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pugongying

#5  

太悲惨的故事了!我读下去都感到很吃力,想你写这篇文章时也一定是很艰难的。
那个年代给多少人留下了恶梦。

我LG的哥哥,就是那个年代因为唱“井里的青蛙是从哪里来”等黄色歌曲,被街道的“革命大妈”发现,告发给警察,遭过警察的毒打。再加上他又比较胆小,精神上受了很大刺激。
77年虽说从农村考上了大学,但考的又不是理想的大学,大学2年后,因病退学。
他哥哥是学文科的,很有文学天赋,也爱写诗,歌唱的也很好,是标准的男中音。
你还好,比他可能大几岁,属于成人还可以处女朋友,他哥那时是学生,听说因有女朋友,也遭到了很多非难。太多的不顺,使他精神上崩溃了。
那年,我去他家在他情绪比较好的时候还给我唱了张敏敏的“走在乡间的小路上”。
我翻看他胡乱写的密密麻麻的笔记中写道,“我爸爸是革命的老干部,好干部,是大好人大好人,妈妈是辛勤的园丁,弟弟是非常优秀的大学老师,我们一家热爱党,坚决支持邓小平的改革开放路线,,,不要陷害我们”。从这里,我感到,对他来说最大的打击还是那个年代造成的。


2006-5-16 21:41
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adagio

#6  

Deeply moved ...



世界無窮願無盡, 海天寥廓立多時
2006-5-17 09:42
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廖康

#7  

诸位同悲,我感谢。快乐越分享越多,痛苦越分享越少。这是纪实小说,基本属实。尚兄甚至提到尚德之父。我放入小说类,因为还是有些杜撰,为的是艺术上的真实和方便。最初是用英文写的。那梦时不时就会做,写出此文后,就再也没有做过了。我刚去纽约参加了文革40周年纪念会,往事不堪回首,但更不该遗忘。


2006-5-17 10:34
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余立蒙

#8  

我一直相信文学的力量. 对文革的反思总结, 可以有多种形式. 文学形式是不可替代的. 这个意思在评廖兄写红宝书那篇小说就说过.

可无可能请廖兄得空把参会的见闻心得简介一下.


2006-5-17 10:54
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冷热

#9  

昨天什么日子?516四十周年,文革是一口“下陷”的井,“石头井沿依稀可辨”。

廖兄这篇给人一个激灵,极其自然,全然不见斧凿之痕!


2006-5-17 11:32
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廖康

#10  

会是上星期五到星期天,我被抓差做同声传译。星期五和一个哥们口译一整天,其实也没几个老外,监听的主要是注意音响效果,而非内容,让我们蒙混过关。星期六和星期日设备有问题,没法儿同传,省了我们事儿了,得以好好听内容。上午的发言范围小,学术性强些,还不错,提问回应也有意思。下午的在江月的图书馆的大礼堂举行,有的发言差点儿意思。江月规定的递条子提问的方式很好,避免了提问可能产生的混乱及一些人拿着麦克风不放,乘机显摆自己。

发言对文革起因,文革过程中一些不大为人所知的细节,文革与国际共运的关系,刘少奇的作用,林与周的作用和关系等有些暴露和启示。官方文革与人民文革说及评价、反思、忏悔都引起热烈争论。

晚上跟朋友们聊天很开心。昨晚江月拉住“潘司令”(上海工总司那位)海聊一通,讲些内幕,尤其是密谋抓四人帮一事,他有点儿新意。我闭嘴,还是留着让他写出来吧。他期待要卖10万册呢。但后来我听说他这三晚跟不同人讲的都是这个。

有空儿再详谈。


2006-5-17 13:26
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廖康

#11  

我也相信文学的力量,希望此文有助于记载那段历史。


2006-5-17 13:29
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简杨

#12  

能否把英文版贴在这里让大家看看?


2006-5-17 13:30
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廖康

#13  

试了两次,都未成功,说太长。不懂。


2006-5-17 14:42
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简杨

#14  

是这样,如果字数超过一万,它就不让你一次上完。可以把文章截断,注明“待续,不要跟贴”,再紧接着贴下半部分。

顺便说句“一吻封喉”。我和国内的一位朋友聊天,说的也是出版和网络的关系。他说国内的情况是平面倒过来找网络,这个状况持续很久了。侨报这件事也是这样。可预支那笔稿费,周末去看达芬奇密码。


2006-5-17 14:45
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余立蒙

#15  

分成部分试试?


2006-5-17 14:46
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廖康

#16  

贴成了。


2006-5-17 16:12
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廖康

#17  The Deep Well

在此:

In response to a request, I am putting the English version here. As you can see, the beginning is somewhat different. The introduction was for American readers, but it's actually not necessary. It can be embedded in the story itself as I later altered in the Chinese translation.

The Deep Well

Kang Liao
       

        By the end of 1971, the frenzy of the Cultural Revolution had gone with the air-crash death of Lin Piao, the Chinese Macbeth, whose defeat in the power struggle with Mao, I never imagined at the time, would mark the beginning of China's policy toward the west as my best friend Shangde once casually mentioned.

        How could I know? At that time, I was only eighteen, an ordinary lathe operator working in a factory affiliated to Beijing University, where I could get some information about "who would be in and who would be out," for the university was then one of the two political barometers in Beijing, but I was not so interested in politics. I had just fallen in love with a pretty girl, and both of us had just become interested in learning English. We simply shut ourselves up in our own little world of love and learning.

        Then came Shangde, a childhood friend of mine whom I had not seen for over two years because he had been working on a state farm in the northeast of China. During those years, all the universities were closed. All we expected was to get a good job in the city, but we had absolutely no freedom to choose where to live or where to work. Everyone was assigned to work in a particular place and was supposed to be a "shining screw that stays forever where the party puts it on the revolutionary machine." Shangde was a year older than I; therefore, he was unfortunate. Somehow, during the first half of the Cultural Revolution, the high school students who graduated in odd numbered years were unlucky compared with those who graduated in even numbered years. Shangde graduated in 1969. He and all his classmates, like the graduates of 1967, were assigned to work on state farms or in the remote countryside. I graduated in 1970. Most of my classmates and I, like the graduates of 1968, were assigned to work in factories in or near Beijing. We considered ourselves very lucky because working in the country was much harder than in the city, and moreover, the farm workers could hardly make both ends meet while we factory workers were basically self-sufficient. If they wanted to come back to the city or to visit their parents, they had to provide enough reasons in order to get the permission. I remember how sincerely my mother and I thanked our great leader Chairman Mao for my good luck. When I saw Shangde again, I wondered whom he should thank.

        He was taller but thinner, weaker, and darker than before, and it took me quite a while to figure out what was missing from his face. It looked somewhat bare! Then, I realized that his eyebrows were almost all gone. He did not seem to care at all but casually explained that it might have to do with the poor food and bad water they had on the farm. "Most people lost their hair, but somehow," he joked, "my eyebrows abandoned me first, probably because I knitted them more often than I rubbed my hair on the pillow." I knew he was a knowledge seeker. No matter how exhausted he was after a day's work, he would still read deep into the night by a small lamp in a corner of the camp which was shared with twenty-three other young men, who did nothing after work but play cards, chat, and sleep.

        Shangde was permitted to come back to Beijing because his mother had passed away, and his father was sick and needed a nurse at home. This was a common reason for the child to have a break from the tiring and tedious physical labor---that is, if the parent could obtain a medical excuse. Many doctors even made a fortune out of such a social phenomenon. However, Shangde's father was really sick and was really needed at his job. He was the number one academic authority where he worked. By then even Mao had felt the loss and waste of the intellectuals, and so the party's policy about the intellectuals was just beginning to become milder. The administrators were trying to transfer Shangde to where his father worked so that he could take care of his father, who would, in turn, "make more and better contributions to the revolutionary cause."

        Whatever the cause was, Shangde was just happy to be back. Besides taking good care of his old father, he spent every minute on his studies. Whenever I visited him, he discussed problems in his studies of mathematics, geometry, physics, history, philosophy, and English with me. Actually, he knew more than I did, and I learned much from him in those discussions. In those years, most young people did not bother to learn any book-knowledge because it seemed useless. Shangde and I read books and did exercises with no purpose whatsoever; just for fun. It was also due to our family influence that we both felt that it would be a waste of our lives if we did not learn something new everyday.

        Working in Beijing University, I had access to the library there. Although I was allowed to borrow only five books at a time, it was a great privilege because people outside universities simply had no way to get books. Bookstores everywhere were selling very few books other than the works by Mao, Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Stalin. As for personal collections of books, most of them had been burned in the early years of the Cultural Revolution. Therefore, Shangde and I made full use of the library of Beijing University. One day, he asked me to borrow some books on hydrography for him. I wondered why he would want to specialize so early, and then he told me his practical purpose.

        Water shortage was a big problem on the farm where he had worked. People, not to mention the crops, could hardly get enough water from the rain. There were 240 young graduates living in the crowded camps and working with rather primitive tools on the vast wasteland. No wonder the output was always low; many youngsters had to walk two hours everyday just to get to where they worked. Their cisterns were more often than not completely dry. Their tractors were used more often to transport water from a river over two hundred miles away than to work the land. They had tried to dig a well dozens of times before they finally hit a wellhead twenty-five yards below the surface. In order for the well to hold a lot of water, they continued to dig fifteen yards deeper before Shangde persuaded them to stop. They had convenient drinking water now, but before long, it began to taste a little stale because the well was so deep that they could not use up the water in the well by the evening and get fresh water from the well in the morning. "Well, it's indeed a little stale," the party commissar said, "but stale water can strengthen our revolutionary willpower still more!" Thus, thanks to their hard work, they had to drink the "elixir of revolution" every day. Now, only one small tractor went to fetch fresh water from the river every other day for the constant turnover of sick farm workers and the party cadres including, of course, the commissar, whose revolutionary willpower was already so strong that it did not need to be strengthened any more.

        Shangde suggested that they should make a wellhead protector and put stones into the well so that the water level might be raised and purified. But the ignorant commissar thought that he was either crazy or that he intended to destroy the hard-dug well.

        Now, more than a thousand miles away from the farm, Shangde was still concerned about the Pyrrhic victory of the deep well. He wanted to acquire enough knowledge of hydrography in order to help his friends locate the position for another well. "It's a great pleasure to seek knowledge for its own sake," he said, "but it's a greater pleasure to seek knowledge so as to be able to put it into practice."

        Shangde was by no means a bookworm, and our meetings were not merely discussions of book-knowledge. We were both fond of singing songs, telling stories, and doing outdoor activities. One weekend in late spring, he, his girl-friend, my girl-friend, and I pedalled our bikes all the way to the Great Wall. It took us six hours to get there, but we did not feel tired at all. We were singing the old songs that we had learned before the Cultural Revolution and all the foreign songs that we knew. Singing those songs, we experienced the joy of forbidden fruit because they were still regarded as politically incorrect. If we had been caught, we would surely have been criticized or even persecuted. However, since we set off at dawn, as soon as we rode out of the city, we saw almost nobody along the road. So we sang to our hearts' content, one song after another, as if we were flying on the wings of songs. They sounded so much more melodious and beautiful than the songs of Chairman Mao's quotations and those so-called revolutionary songs. We felt that our souls were freed, liberated, emancipated! Before we knew it, we had arrived at the foot of the mountain on which the Great Wall was built.

        Back then, the wall had not yet become a tourist attraction. We saw no more than ten other visitors that day, and yet, we did not sing on the wall, not that we were afraid, but that we were intoxicated by the magnificent scenes below and around us. We were all quiet and filled with admiration ...

        Suddenly, I said, "I don't know if I should be glad or sad for the Great Wall. On the one hand, it's the only human construction that people can see with the naked eye from the moon. It's our pride, our strength, our wisdom. On the other hand, it was so stupid of the emperors to order such a huge project constructed. So much labor! So little use! The Chinese Maginot line. We would be much better off if we had a strong army rather than the wall. We should be aggressive rather than defensive. It's our shame, our weakness, our stupidity."

        I noticed that my girl friend was watching me with admiration and I felt quite pleased with myself.

     "I'm afraid I can't agree with you," Shangde said gently, "because we don't really know if the wall was as useless against the attacks of the nomads for two millennia as it was against the guns of the imperialist armies for the last century. I should think the wall was very effective in the past. Although it did not stop Kublai Khan and the Manchus, it did prevent most invaders, such as the Huns and the Tartars. How else could we defend our long borders more effectively? Besides, I don't like the idea of military aggression. It's a shame to be invaded, but it's a bigger shame to invade others."

        My girl friend was now watching him with admiration. Deep inside, I felt that he was right, but I would not admit it before my girl.

        "Well, as you said we don't really know how effective the wall was," I argued, "We need to check all the history books if we want any convincing conclusions. What we don't need to check is your last point. It's rather like Ah Q's philosophy, isn't it?"    (A fictional figure by Lu Hsun, Ah Q is the typical Chinese who always consoles himself by thinking that he has been spiritually superior to the man who has physically humiliated him.)

        "Indeed, I shall conduct a study of the Great Wall and write a treatise one day." Shangde answered, "As for Ah Q, he's only trying to balance himself psychologically. Whenever he has a chance, he'd physically humiliate others, too. But I do believe in non-violence. I don't think there's any teaching greater than 'Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.'"

        "So you've turned into a Christian?" I asked, "Do you really believe in God? An old man with a white beard sitting above the ninth sky?"

        "Well, that's just some people's imagination or personification of God." He said, "For me, God is good, truth, beauty, or the Way, the logos, the natural as well as the social law that we human beings have been trying to recognize. Whatever you call it, it is there. We all have the desire and capacity to know it. Otherwise, we wouldn't be different from other animals."

        The girls had lost interest, and they went ahead to take pictures of each other and of us. I, however, found the topic fascinating. My father was a Christian, but he had never talked about Christianity to me. When I learned the theory of evolution in the primary school, I was rather ashamed of him for his being so "superstitious." Once I even tried in my innocent way to persuade him that there was no God. I asked him, "Dad, would you please take me to where God is and let me play with Him?" He smiled and said, "God is not a being to play with, child." But he never explained why. When I grew up, I understood that he did not want to cause any trouble. Although the constitution of China allowed the citizens the freedom of religious beliefs, to spread any religion outside a church or a temple was illegal, and its punishment was severe, especially during the Cultural Revolution. However, I had secretly read my father's bible and was longing to discuss it with somebody. This was actually the first time that we had touched on the topic, and naturally, we went deep into it until the girls urged us to take pictures with them.

        Then, we walked down the wall into the forest nearby and started our picnic. While we were taking out the food, Shangde was suddenly gone. We waited, shouted, and looked for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. Just when we were getting really anxious, he appeared before us as mysteriously as he disappeared. He was carrying a pot of water and some dry pine branches and needles. We did not know that he had a pot with him, and we wondered where he got the water. He smiled and winked mysteriously and said, "From the book on hydrography you lent me." I understood that he had put his newly learned knowledge into practice. The girls did not know what he meant and did not bother to ask. They just put the pot on three stones and made a fire. Soon, the water was bubbling. The sausages he brought and the mushrooms he had just gathered smelt so inviting! It was the most delicious picnic that I ever had.

        After the meal, each of us told a story. I made mine up, and they unanimously hailed it as the best. It opened with the mysterious death of a young man whom we all knew and closed with Lin Piao's air-crash after his conspiracy against Mao had been exposed. Finally, Shangde made a casual comment: "All of our stories depend on the plot, without which they wouldn't be attractive at all. But a real man of letters can simply describe this forest and hold your attention." Little did I understand at the time the truth in his words, of which a college professor tried a whole semester to convince my classmates nine years later.

        Shangde put out the fire and holding something in his right hand, he approached his girl-friend in a manner as if something mysterious and mischievous was imminent. His facial expression was serious. He commanded in a scary voice, "Give me your hand."

        "Why?" She hesitated.

        "Don't ask. Just give me your hand!"

        She reluctantly stretched out her right hand to him. His left hand grasped her wrist firmly, and suddenly, Shangde put his right palm onto hers. She screamed as if she was in great pain, and she shook off her hand and shouted, "Ouch, it's burning hot! You hurt me!"

        "No, I didn't." Shangde said calmly, "You hurt yourself with your mind. You see, it's only some embers. A little warm, that's all. I've been holding them all the time. Why don't I feel them burning hot as you did?"

        "I don't know," she whined.

        "You should," he said, "It's psychology."

          "You're being mysterious today," she countered.

        "It's nothing to be mysterious for only a day," he said, "but it would be wonderful if one could be mysterious all his life."

        Shangde did not play mysterious after that, nor did he conduct a study of the Great Wall. He was more concerned about the well and borrowed more books on hydrography through me.

        Between the dates with my girl and the discussions with Shangde, time flew. A year passed. It was a momentous one in which President Nixon came to China and started, as he put it, a "new era." The remaining confederates of Lin Piao were purged, China began to do business with the West. Soviet Union became the trump card that China and the United States played in dealing with each other. Nevertheless, Shangde and I paid little attention to these changes until the day when the British industrial exhibition came to Beijing.

        For us, this was the real thing. Ever since the Communist Party attained power, not a single exhibition from any capitalist country was held in China. We longed to learn everything about the West, and Shangde also wanted to learn more about digging a well. But the tickets for the exhibition were extremely difficult to obtain. They were not sold to the public, but rather, given to "persons of concern and consequence" in factories, universities, hospitals, research institutes, and the government organizations. Those who had the luck to see the exhibition were talking about it everyday as if they had just come back from Mars. The listeners had endless questions about those wonderful machines and equipment that the "oppressed and exploited" British workers were enjoying. Everyone had an inexhaustible interest in the advanced science and technology that the "old and declining imperialist country" was developing. People were also surprised to get those beautiful brochures, descriptions, and introductions, all given to them free of charge, and all printed on paper of a quality seldom found in the country that invented paper almost two thousand years ago.

        Shangde's father, as a "concerned scientist," was invited to the opening ceremony of the exhibition, and a few days later, was given two extra tickets. We were overjoyed, but Shangde's girl friend also wanted to go very much. Of course, I understood that she had the priority, and yet, I could not manage to hide my disappointment.

        "Don't despair!" he said to me, "I'll draw a ticket for you."

        My sadness turned into hope again, for Shangde was fond of painting and had been learning to draw. Once he showed me a collection of the masterpieces of Western painting, which was a rare survival of the xenophobia of the Cultural Revolution. He pointed out that Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa has no eyebrows and speculated whether that was the fashion in Renaissance Italy. I then called him jokingly Shangde Lisa for months until his brows sprouted out again. He was not a great painter yet, but he could already paint quite realistically. In fact, he had drawn sketches of both my girl friend and me, and they are our best sketches. After he promised me that, I rested assured.

     The next day, I went to his home. His girl friend and he were waiting for me, and so was the ticket. What a similarity! Even though I knew it was drawn, I could not tell the difference without comparing it with the printed ticket. So happily the three of us went to the exhibition with the mixed excitement of both adventure and curiosity. The exhibition hall was designed by Soviet experts in the mid-50s when China was a member of the socialist bloc. Now the British national flag was fluttering below the red star. The story went that at first the flag was hung upside down, and the British Embassy even presented a note of protest. Looking at the flag, I was unable to see how it could possibly be hung upside down. It seemed to be the same either way.

        "Ticket, ticket." The guard's voice was solemn and demanding as if the embarrassment of the communist diplomats had turned into a mixture of serious precaution and nameless indignation that was being vented upon the visitors. I was rather nervous, and for a minute, I even wanted to withdraw. After all, this was the first time I had done anything illegal. But I was pushed on by curiosity as well as adventurousness. Shangde and his girl friend went in. I deliberately lagged behind several other visitors. When I gave my fake ticket to the guard, my hand was slightly trembling. He seemed to hesitate for a second and take another glance at the ticket, but he dropped it into the box. My heart that had been up in my throat dropped down. I went in and looked around. I saw Shangde and his girl. I walked toward them hurriedly.

        A big mistake! The visitor should go to get the packet of brochures and introductions first. My irregular action and flurried manners immediately caught the attention of the guards who were patrolling around inside the hall.

        "What're you doing?" Two of them stopped me and questioned, "Why are you in such a hurry? Did you have a ticket?"

        I was stunned and stuttered, "I...I'm just vi...visiting. I ga...gave my ti...ticket to that co...comrade."

        "Let's see." They took me back to the gate. ... The ticket-box was opened, the fake ticket was recognized, and I was taken to the police station.

        "What's your intention?" The officer asked me after the routine questions, "To destroy the exhibition?"

        "No, I just wanted to see it."

        "Who drew the ticket?"

        "I did."

        "After whose ticket did you draw it?"

        "Nobody's."

        "You liar!" He roared. Two policemen came up and slapped me in the face.

        "I really don't know whose ticket it was. It's a used one I picked up outside the exhibition hall."

        "You liar! We burn all the used tickets everyday." The two men hit me in the stomach. I doubled up and felt a terrible pain and nausea.

        "Tell the truth!" The officer shouted. I would have, had I known it was impossible to fool them, but humiliation choked me. I remained silent.

        "Well, you liar," he jeered, "You want to play tough? I'd like to see just how tough you can be. What're you waiting for?" He ordered the two policemen rhetorically.

        They grabbed my arms, twisted them behind my back, and forced me to kneel on the floor. One of the men held my head steady by the hair. The other pressed his knee hard against my spine and slowly lifted my left arm. The torture was unbearable. The pain was indescribable. I felt as if my arm and spine were going to break. I remember hearing them crack. ... I confessed.

        That evening, Shangde was arrested. Beijing was purging idlers and criminals. He was treated as an idler and sent back to the farm when the commissar there had just sent out his work transfer. All went in vain: a year's efforts to go through the red-tape, a father's hope, and a young man's expectations. When his father received the transfer, he almost went mad, now crying over it, then cursing his unworthy son. His crying and cursing stabbed my conscience constantly, but I did not know what to say to soothe him. I just went to his home everyday after work to do whatever I could for him.

        Soon, I began to receive letters from Shangde, who showed me complete understanding and even comforted me saying that nobody could fool the police in such a case, just as nobody could puzzle us with a simple math question, and nobody could stand the notorious tortures in the police station, about which he had heard so much from so many people. He also said that he was actually happy to be back on the farm because he could really work on the project, namely, to locate the spot for another well. He asked me to check this and that in the books on hydrography. In retrospect, I wonder whether or not he really needed the information, but at the time, his requirement did ease my guilt considerably.

     So we kept in touch. He was telling me every progress that he had made. His last letter told me that he had finally located the spot which he and two friends of his there firmly believed to have a wellhead. Then, the horrible news came. Shangde was dead.

     It was the hot summer of 1974. The farm killed a big pig, which was a rare treat for the poorly fed youths. They did not want to eat up the pork all at once. To refrigerate it, they tied half of it on a rope and put it down in the deep well just above the water. Then they ate a quarter. Then an eighth. Then, the last eighth accidentally fell into the well. They tried every means but simply could not get it out. The well was too deep.

        Finally, the commissar said, "Whoever can get the pork can have it." Several people tried again but had no success. When Shangde's two friends asked him if he had any idea, he did not even know about the whole business, for he was too much buried in making the concrete steps to carry out his project. They told him, "It's about twenty-five pounds of pork, Shangde! Our camp would have a banquet if you could get it out." He thought a while and said, "The pork will spoil the water. Tomorrow, I'll get it out somehow."

        The next morning, he got up at 4:30 as usual and studied his English. An hour later, the two friends awoke and went with him to the well. His plan was to let him down the well by the wooden winch. He would carry a huge stone, with which he would dive to the bottom of the well to get the pork. Somehow, the winch collapsed and probably hit him. He was knocked out and drowned. This was what the two friends reported, officially.

        People on the farm tried to fish him out, but they failed. Nobody dared to take any risk. Three days later, Shangde floated up and was finally pulled out. The corpse was examined, and his neck was found broken. Since nobody would ever drink the water from the well, they buried him within its dark confines. Because he died in "getting the pork for himself," and the commissar never mentioned it was he who had encouraged the farm workers to retrieve, Shangde was not considered or treated as a "revolutionary martyr" like the girl who had died of malaria on the farm a month before, but almost everybody attended his funeral. His camp-mates, who used to mock him as a bookworm, cried like mad.

        So did I, but then my subconscious simply could not accept the tragic fact. For years I often dreamed of him, alive as before, with no eyebrows, but a mysterious smile, on his face smile. I would say to him, "So you didn't die after all. You're playing mysterious with all of us. What a joke, Shangde!" I would then slap him on the shoulder, only to wake up and find it was my own stomach that I had slapped. Lying awake in the darkness, I felt as if I were in a deep well, shuddering with cold, drowning with shame and guilt. I would then come to the cruel realization that Shangde was already dead, that he could never come back to life again. It was such an aching void! His father, I would like to believe, never felt the same. He had gone mad and took me for Shangde. I faithfully played the role until his death eight years ago.

        After the downfall of the "Gang of Four" in 1976, the Cultural Revolution was officially declared to have come to an end. The state farms in the northeast of China were gradually abandoned, and the young farm workers were coming back to the cities. Two years later, I discovered that the two friends of Shangde's on the farm had also come back. I invited them to have dinner with me at Quanjude, the best restaurant for the famous roast Beijing duck. I reserved a private room for just the three of us. After a plate of duck and a few bottles of beer, I put down the chopsticks. Sincerely I told them about my guilt, of which they had known absolutely nothing. Then, I beseeched them to tell me what really happened to cause Shangde's death. They looked at each other in silence. I left the room to give them time for consideration. Two cigarettes later, I came back and found them in tears.

        They told me that Shangde straddled the bucket that was connected to the wooden winch, and they let him down into the well all right. Then, he dived with the stone only once and got the rope that tied the pork. Everything went well just as he had planned. He straddled the bucket again, and they were winding the winch to pull him up. They were overjoyed to see him coming up with the pork. Then, they both tried to grab him. It was only a split second, but it was a momentous mistake. He was falling down with the bucket, the winch was spinning rapidly. One of them tried to grab the handle but was knocked away. The other tried to grasp the rope. Another fatal mistake! Not only did he fail to hold the rope, but he also caused Shangde to sway and probably to knock his head on the wall of the well. They both had heard a noise before Shangde splashed into the water. It was the final pull that destroyed the winch, which was then dragged into the well. They admitted that they were too cowardly to tell the whole truth, but they suffered from their guilt all these years. I understood them perfectly, for they had gray hairs on their young heads just as I did.

        "Don't blame yourselves." I said, "It's the deep well..." Then, we all burst into tears, and wept, and sobbed ... Nobody touched the beer or the roast duck again. Before they said good-by to me, however, they told me that they did dig another well on the spot that Shangde had located. It was a complete success.

        I could hardly wait to see the well. By now I had become a college student. As soon as the summer vacation began, I took the train and the bus and then walked about two hours to get to where the farm used to be. Although it was deserted, the local people were forming a tiny village around the new well, which was not too deep but had plenty of fresh water. None of the villagers knew any stories about the well except that it was dug by the students from Beijing. They took me for a hydrographic surveyor and told me that there had been another well, which was buried because the water was bad. They showed me where it was. I knew that it was Shangde's grave. What an unusual grave it was! Instead of sticking out, it was somewhat sunken. The stone mouth of the well could be clearly seen.

        I stood by Shangde's grave for a long time, recollecting his short life. He died when he was only nineteen! What had such a brilliant young man accomplished? Nothing especially noteworthy but that well over there. What would he have been able to accomplish, had he survived the Cultural Revolution? Nobody could ever know. His boundless prospects were all sucked into the black hole of this deep well. The well is now buried, but can the deep well of the Cultural Revolution be buried like this? Should it?

1993


2010-7-18 19:36
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山豆凡

#18  

上述故事的可扩充性很强。


2010-7-18 19:40
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山豆凡

#19  

Shangde 是个好孩子...大家都是好孩子...
因为这篇故事产生的联想: 时代把当时的人们都放回了子宫...分享同一根鲜红的脐带, 子宫很窄,拥挤的人们无法舒展,有的会窒息,有的会适应生存并努力去改变环境,还有的,会用那一根脐带去勒死其他的人。
而所有的人,其实都是好孩子。

他可能真地没有死。去补建长江三峡大坝了,一样那么乖,一样是个好孩子。


2010-7-18 19:45
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Xiaoman

#20  

真是悲剧。

看完了中文部分,觉得尚得死得很冤。顶上来做一个记号,晚上再读英语部分。我读过“大地”英语版,
对廖老师的“赛珍珠--横跨太平洋的文化桥梁”很感兴趣,不知道哪里卖得到?谢谢!

明天我先去附近图书馆查一查,看有没有。


2016-5-29 09:33
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Xiaoman

#21  

besides 好像无需s.


2016-5-30 12:42
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Xiaoman

#22  

oh that is right


2016-5-30 12:54
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