Red
chiles in a tilted basket catch sunlight– we
walk past a pile of burning mulberry leaves into
Xidi village, enter a courtyard, notice an
inkstone, engraved with calligraphy, filled with
water and cassia petals, smell Ming dynasty
redwood panels. As a musician lifts a
small xun to his mouth and blows, I
see kiwis hanging
from branches above a moon doorway: a
grandmother, once the youngest concubine, propped
in a chair with bandages around her
knees, complains of incessant pain; someone
spits in the street. As a second musician
plucks strings on a zither, pomelos blacken
on branches; a woman peels chestnuts; two
men in a flat-bottomed boat gather duckweed
out of a river. The notes splash, silvery,
onto cobblestone, and my fingers suddenly
ache: during the Cultural Revolution, my
aunt’s husband leapt out of a third-story window;
at dawn I mistook the cries of birds
for rain. When the musicians pause, Yellow
Mountain pines sway near Bright Summit
Peak; a pig scuffles behind an enclosure; someone
blows his nose. Traces of the past are
wisps of mulberry smoke rising above roof
tiles; and before we too vanish, we hike to
where three trails converge: hundreds of
people are stopped ahead of us, hundreds come
up behind: we form a rivulet of people funneling
down through a chasm in the granite.
猪西天客栈 施加彰 红辣椒在捧起阳光的篮子里—— 我们趟过一堆烧焦的桑叶走进 西递村,一个院子,注意到 一方石砚,雕着书法,盛满水 和桂花瓣,有味道的明代 红木镶壁板。一位乐师把埙擎到 唇边吹起时,我看见猕猴桃 悬垂于月亮门上方的枝头: 一位曾为妙龄小妾的老祖母, 缩在椅子里,膝盖绑着 绷带,喃喃抱怨病痛; 街上有人啐痰,第二位乐师 拨动古琴的弦,枝头的柚子 更黑了;一位妇人剥开栗子皮; 两个男人在一只平底船上捞 河里的鸭草。音符银亮亮 朝铺路的鹅卵石泼水,我的 手指猝然疼痛。文革间 我姨夫跃出三楼上的 窗户;在清晨,我误把雨声 听成鸟鸣;当乐师暂停, 黄山松附在光明顶近旁 摇曳;一口猪在围栏后蹒跚; 有人擤鼻子。往昔之痕 是一小把桑叶,屋瓦上轻烟袅袅 飘起;在我们也消散前,我们 向三条小径汇合处跋涉:数百人 驻足我们之前,数百人尾随在后: 我们形成人的溪流,送葬 向下穿过花岗岩的洞穴
(杨炼 译) |
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