《灵山》节选（英文版）（2/2）
《高行健文集》作者：高行健文集 2017-01-10 13:20
es 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 accent
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.
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 accent
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.