高行健作品集-第47章

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mongst　the　other　passengers　who　got　off　the　bus。　Of　course　you’re　not　that　sort　of　tourist；　it’s　just　what　you’re　wearing：　strong　sensible　sports　shoes　and　a　backpack　with　shoulder　straps；　no…one　else　is　dressed　like　you。　Of　course；　this　isn’t　one　of　the　tourist　spots　frequented　by　newlyweds　and　retirees。　Those　places　have　been　transformed　by　tourism；　coaches　are　parked　everywhere　and　tourist　maps　are　on　sale。　Tourist　hats；　tourist　T…shirts；　tourist　singlets　and　tourist　handkerchiefs　bearing　the　name　of　the　place　are　in　all　the　little　shops　and　stalls；　and　the　name　of　the　place　is　used　in　the　trade　names　of　all　the　〃foreign　exchange　currency　only〃　hotels　for　foreigners；　the　〃locals　with　references　only〃　hostels　and　sanatoriums；　and　of　course　the　small　private　hotels　competing　for　customers。　You　haven’t　come　to　enjoy　yourself　in　one　of　those　places　on　the　sunny　side　of　a　mountain　where　people　congregate　just　to　look　at　and　jostle　one　another；　and　to　add　to　the　litter　of　melon　rind；　fruit　peel；　soft　drink　bottles；　cans；　cartons；　sandwich　wrappings　and　cigarette　butts。　Sooner　or　later　this　place　will　also　boom　but　you’re　here　before　they　put　up　the　gaudy　pavilions　and　terraces；　before　the　reporters　come　with　their　cameras；　and　before　the　celebrities　come　to　put　up　plaques　with　their　calligraphy。　You　can’t　help　feeling　rather　pleased　with　yourself　yet　you’re　anxious。　There’s　no　sign　of　anything　here　for　tourists；　have　you　made　a　blunder？　You’re　only　going　by　the　map　on　the　cigarette　box　in　your　shirt　pocket；　what　if　the　expert　amateur　you　met　on　the　train　had　only　heard　about　the　place　on　his　travels？　How　do　you　know　he　wasn’t　just　making　it　all　up？　You　haven’t　ever　seen　the　place　mentioned　in　travel　acomounts　and　it’s　not　listed　in　the　most　up　to　date　travel　manuals。　Of　course；　it　isn’t　hard　to　find　places　like　Lingtai；　Lingqiu；　Lingyan　and　even　Lingshan　on　provincial　maps　and　you　know　very　well　that　in　the　histories　and　classics；　Lingshan　appears　in　works　dating　back　to　the　ancient　shamanistic　work　Classic　of　the　Mountains　and　Seas；　and　the　old　geographical　gazetteer　Annotated　Water　Classic。　It　was　also　at　Lingshan　that　Buddha　enlightened　the　Venerable　Mahakashyapa。　You’re　not　stupid；　so　just　use　your　brains；　first　find　this　place　Wuyizhen　on　the　cigarette　box；　for　this　is　how　you’ll　get　to　Lingshan。　
　　You　return　to　the　bus　station　and　go　into　the　waiting　room。　The　busiest　place　in　this　small　town　is　now　deserted。　The　ticket　window　and　the　parcel　window　are　boarded　up　from　the　inside　so　knocking　is　useless。　There’s　nowhere　to　ask　so　you　can　only　go　through　the　lists　of　stops　above　the　ticket　window：　Zhang　Village；　Sandy　Flat；　Cement　Factory；　Old　Hut；　Golden　Horse；　Good　Harvest；　Flood　Waters；　Dragon　Bay；　Peach　Blossom　Hollow　…　the　names　keep　getting　better；　but　the　place　you　want　isn’t　there。　This　is　just　a　small　town　but　there　are　several　routes　and　quite　a　few　buses　go　through。　The　busiest　route；　with　five　or　six　buses　a　day；　is　to　Cement　Factory　but　that’s　definitely　not　a　tourist　route。　The　route　with　the　fewest　buses；　one　a　day；　is　sure　to　go　to　the　furthest　destination：　it　turns　out　that　Wuyizhen　is　the　last　stop。　There’s　nothing　special　about　the　name；　it’s　just　like　any　other　place　name　and　there’s　nothing　magical　about　it。　Still；　you　seem　to　have　found　one　end　of　a　hopeless　tangle；　you　may　not　be　ecstatic　but　you’re　certainly　relieved。　You’ll　need　to　buy　a　ticket　in　the　morning　an　hour　before　departure　and　you　know　from　experience　that　with　mountain　buses　like　this；　which　run　once　a　day；　just　to　get　on　will　be　a　fight。　Unless　you’re　prepared　to　do　battle；　you’ll　just　have　to　get　into　the　queue　early。　
　　But；　right　now；　you’ve　got　lots　of　time；　although　your　backpack’s　a　nuisance。　As　you　amble　along　the　road　timber　trucks　go　by　noisily　sounding　their　horns。　In　the　town　the　noise　is　worse　still　as　trucks；　some　with　trailers；　blast　on　their　horns　and　conductors　hang　out　of　windows　loudly　banging　the　sides　of　the　buses　to　get　pedestrians　off　the　road。　
　　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