不要让那个美国人诱惑你 Girl at Dawn 黎明女 （3） （中英对照）

VeVe still sits at the table, writing. Calm now, she seems focused. I quietly sit opposite her.

It is Sunday. While others go to the market, or to the bathhouses, VeVe and I practice calligraphy. It has been a ritual since I was old enough to hold a brush. Why? We don’t know. Maybe because it is something we are both good at; because there’s no danger in writing; because it calms our nerves; because it is one of the few things we do together that feels like sharing, and through such sharing we feel connected and stronger.

Back when I was a small child, VeVe put a quail egg in my hand to teach me the correct way to hold the brush made with goat’s hair. If my grip was too tight, the egg would break, too loose, and it would slip out of my hand. Initially I practiced to please VeVe and to eat the egg after I finished writing. But by the time I was seven, I had grown to enjoy it. I won many calligraphy contests in primary school.

While I practice random characters, VeVe writes out the words in my grandfather’s herbal recipes, the ones she salvaged during Wenge, the Cultural Revolution. At that time, the Red Guards wanted to destroy my grandfather for being a “rightist,” so they ruined most of his recipes, and they tried to ruin his daughter—VeVe suffered terribly during those years.

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几天是周日。 别人都去逛商店或去洗澡堂洗澡， 我和微微却在练毛笔字。为什么呢？ 我们也说不清楚。 也许因为我们俩都会写毛笔字；也许因为写字没有什么危险；也许因为写字会使我们镇静； 也许因为这样坐在一

字时会感觉到少有的母女相连， 少有的一种坚强。

自从小时候，我刚刚能拿住毛笔，和微微周日早晨练书法就成了一个规律。最初，为了训练我拿笔的正确姿势，微微把一个鹌鹑蛋放在我手里。毛笔是羊毛做的。如果我的手攥的太紧，鹌鹑蛋的壳就会破。太松，就会从我的手里掉下去。起初我练字是为了吃那个鹌鹑蛋。到我七岁时，我才开始喜欢写字。在学校的书法竞赛里我还赢过几次呢。

我是记性练字的，想写哪个字就写哪个字。微微总是练姥爷中药方里的字。这些幸存的中药方只是老爷的一部分。那时候，有人要捣毁老爷，所以他们就想法夺走她的中药方。甚至想发捣毁他的女儿。微微可是受了不少苦。

Now, her head inclines slightly; her wrist moves with ease and rhythm. She has tied back her hair with a handkerchief so it doesn’t get in the way, and also to keep her cool.

Even in the North, summer is hot. The floor fan in the corner, old and rusty, isn’t strong enough to cool the living room. In the limited space, our furniture is minimal. A small, wooden square table is set under the window with four unmatched chairs. Beside it is a sofa, so worn its original dragonfly print is nearly indistinguishable. A simple armoire in which VeVe and I store our clothes, unpainted, looks shabby on the opposite side of the room. The only decent piece of furniture—one that may catch people’s eye—is VeVe’s medicine cabinet, in which her herbs are stored in various drawers; she inherited it from my grandfather who was a traditional medicine doctor when alive. The heavy, red-wood cabinet stands against the wall, grave and awe-striking.

VeVe looks at me now and then, her eyes intense like a wolf’s. “What is it, Amei? You are writing too fast. Pay attention to your brushstrokes.”

“Nothing.” I squirm in my seat.

“If you let nothing bother you, it becomes something.”

“Well, actually there is something. And I’m scared,” I say, though she always tells me not to be scared of anything.

“What is there to be afraid of?” She lifts her head.

I pause my brush. “I have an English exam on Monday.”

“Already? You just started at this college,” she says. “But since when did my daughter let an exam scare her?”

“The teacher giving me the exam is a foreigner, VeVe.” I called her “VeVe” as a baby, and am stuck with it.

“A foreigner?” She lifts her head again, her eyebrows arching. “But foreigners hardly ever come to this city. Why all of a sudden?”

It’s true. I have never seen any foreigners in Hesin, our medium-sized city, except on T.V. in which foreign visitors are occasionally shown touring large metropolitans, such as Beijing or Shanghai.

“Which country is the foreigner from?” VeVe asks.

“America.”

“America?” she repeats, her eyes widening. Her voice sounds shaky. Her hand holding the ink stone pauses.

“Yes, America.”

“A woman?”

“A man.”

“What does he look like?”

“Like a foreigner—big nose, yellow head, long arms and legs.”

“Old or young?”

“I don’t know. Why are you asking these questions?”

她坐在小方桌的那边，很专心。头稍微倾斜着， 手节奏地动着。 她的头发用一条手绢扎起来， 这样头发不碍事，她也凉快。

          北方的夏天也很热。墙角的落地扇都旧得生锈了， 不够凉快整个房间。在我们的小空间里， 家具很少。我们练毛笔字的小木方桌在窗下，和四个不成套的椅子。方桌旁边是一个沙发，很旧了。上面的蜻蜓图案已经看不清了。对面放着我和微微放衣服的衣柜。没有上漆，显得很简陋。唯一像样的，惹人注目的一件家具是微微的中药橱。她的中药，各种各样的，都放在小抽屉里。中药厨是从我的姥爷那里继承来的。姥爷活着的时候是一个中医。这个红木制作的中药橱显得很重。在墙边，好像又严肃又让人敬畏的样子。就像我心目中的老爷。

      微微不时的抬头看我。她的细长的眼睛就像一只母狼的那样狡辩。“怎么了阿梅，”微微说， “你写的太快了，注意你的笔画。”

“没事儿，” 我说。

“没事儿你就这么不安。真有事你会什么样啊，”她说。

“实际上也有点事，我有点儿害怕，”我说，尽管微微经常告诉我不要害怕。

      微微抬起头来。“有什么害怕的？”微微边问边说把刚磨好的墨水倒进我的墨盒里。

我停住笔。 “星期一我有英文考试。“

“已经有考试了？你刚刚上大学啊，” 她说，“不过我的女儿什么时候让考试吓唬她？”

“你不知道，微微，给我考试的老师是一个外国人，” 我说。我小时候不知为什么叫她“微微，” 就这样叫下去了。

“外国人?”  微微又抬起头来，她显得有点警觉，眉毛上挑成了弓子形。“外国人很少到我们这儿来。为什么突然来了个外国老师？”

          是的，在我们的小城市里，很少见到外国人。偶尔在电视上看到外国人在北京和上海的大城市里。

“外国老师是从哪个国家来的？”  微微问。

“ 美国，”我说。

“美国？”微微的眼睛忽然变大，声音也稍稍有一点变。手里的磨石也停住了。

“是女的吧，” 她说。

“男的，” 我说。

她手里的磨石放在桌上。“他叫什么名字？”

“还不知道。”

“他长得什么样子。”

“外国人样呗。大鼻子，黄头发，长胳膊长腿。”

“很老吧。”

“不老。外国人的年龄很难看出来。你为什么问这些问题呢，微微?”

She avoids my eyes and then gets up from the table. She paces aimlessly about the room before she walks slowly to the kitchen. Clearly something is troubling her, making her uneasy. Growing up, I have learned to read her emotions, no matter how hard she conceals them. And vice versa.

In a little while, VeVe returns from the kitchen. “Come here, Amei.” She sits on the sofa, motioning me over.

I walk over and sit beside her.

She turns to face me. “Look at me, Amei.”

I meet her eye, intense, focused, rife with meaning. There’s an ink smear on her cheek.

“Listen to me carefully,” she says, laying her hands on my shoulders. “Don’t ever get into the foreigner’s car.”

“I don’t know if he drives a car; people have seen him on a bicycle.”

“Don’t ever get on his bicycle.”

“Of course not. He is a teacher.”

“Promise me.”

It’s absurd that she makes me promise something that’s not going to happen anyway.

“I promise,” I say.

But her hands still clutch my shoulders, trembling. She continues to stare at me. There’s something in her eyes that I’ve never seen before. Something fiercer than she looks when we run out of coal paddies in winter, or when I cut myself with a kitchen knife.

“Don’t let him charm you,” she says, her wolf eyes dark. “Americans are crafty.”

I don’t know what she means, but I nod anyway. I know that she saw and knew many Westerners in her years in Shanghai before I was born. But her exaggerated reaction to my American teacher is startling.

“VeVe, that is not what I’m worried about.”

“What then?

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to understand his English when he questions me.”

“Ask him to slow down,” VeVe says, releasing my shoulders. “Keep in mind that your English is excellent—how many people your age can read English novels?”

It’s true. With the aid of an English-Chinese dictionary, I have been mining the pages in Charlotte Brontë’s masterpiece, the only English novel I own. It is through reading Jane Eyre that I have fallen in love with English. I like the musical rhythm of the words, so different from the single-syllable Chinese characters. But most of all, it’s the strong-willed, free-spirited Jane Eyre who draws me, and I read her story again and again. Sometimes I slip into her mind and hide there for comfort. I let my own loneliness and melancholia merge with hers, sharing her helplessness and insecurity about the world, in spite that our worlds are centuries apart.

“Remember this,” VeVe says. “Foreigners may look intimidating, but inside they are weak.” Her voice has lost its usual steadiness.

“And they smell,” I say, smiling.

“They stink,” VeVe says, smiles back. But her smile seems forced.

I pick up my calligraphy brush, take a deep breath, and try to write. VeVe’s words offer no comfort; they are outweighed by the troubled look on her face and fear in her eyes. The anxiety sits heavy in my stomach, as I anticipate going back to campus to face the American.

For a while, both VeVe and I are silent. Only the floor fan blows sluggishly, making a swooshing noise. VeVe and I try to focus. Now and then she fidgets with her paper, and I keep dropping ink on mine. I grow more restless. My face feels feverish. I can’t hold the calligraphy brush without shaking. My hands are so sweaty they wet the rice paper. My characters look sloppy, disheveled. On VeVe’s page, there’s only one character, and it is smeared black.

微微不回答，把手里的磨石放下。 我觉得她问的问题很奇怪。我看看她，但是她把头侧过去，慢慢的站起来。在房间里来回走了几步，然后去了厨房。显然，她很不自在，甚至有些不安。从小到大，我已经学会了揣摩她，不管她怎样掩饰。反过来也是一样。我害怕她那母狼般的黑里透绿的眼睛。

          一会儿微微从厨房回来。 “阿梅，你过来。”她坐在沙发上，示意让我过去。

          我过去坐在她身边。她转身对着我。 “阿梅，看着我。” 她的眼睛显得很深，而且充满了寓意，脸颊上摸了一点墨迹。

          “认真听好，” 她说，把手放在我肩膀上。“永远不要坐那个外国人的车。”

“我不知道他是不是开车，我见过他骑自行车。”

“那就不要坐在他自行车上。”。

“当然不会。 他是老师啊。”

“那么阿梅你向我许诺。”

很奇怪，微微让我许诺这样一件事，而且是一件不会发生的事。

“好吧，我许诺。”

          微微的两只手仍然裹箍住我的肩膀。她继续盯着我的脸。眼睛里有一种我从没看到过的东西。我熟悉冬天我们烧完了煤她的眼神是什么样，或者我用刀切了手，他的眼神又是怎么样。但是此刻她的眼神好像比前两者更可怕一些。

          “不能让他诱惑你，：”微微说，“美国人很狡猾的。”

我不知道她什么意思，但我还是点点头。我知道，她过去在上海见过或认识过一些西方人。那时我还没出生。但是她对我美国老师的夸张的反应，还是让我有点吃惊。

“微微，诱惑不诱惑，我才不操心呢，”我说。

“那是什么?” 她问。

“我害怕我听不懂他的英语，”我说。

微微松开我的肩膀。“那就让他说慢一点。记住，你的英语很出色，有几个像你这样年龄的人能读英文小说？”

          她说的倒也对。捧着厚厚一本英汉字典，我在读沙洛特，布朗台的名著，简爱。是我唯一拥有的一本英文小说。就是读这本小说的时候，我爱上了英文。我喜欢英文字的音乐般的节奏。和我们单音的中国字太不一样了。不过更吸引我的是简爱的个性和自由精神。有些我喜欢的章节和段落，我读了一遍又一遍。

          “记住，” 微微又说，“外国人看上去挺可怕，但是他们内心很虚弱。” 我看得出她在强作镇静，她的声音有点不稳。

“而且外国人身上还有味儿，” 我笑着说，想缓和气氛。

“是啊，一股臭味儿，”微微也笑着看了我一眼，但她的笑有点勉强。

          我深吸了一口气，重新拿起毛笔。通常微微的话总是能安慰我，但这次，她嘴上的安慰抵不过她脸上和眼睛里的表情。一想到我很快要回学校，面对那个美国人，我的肚子里就有沉沉的焦虑。

          这一会儿微微和我都不说话了。只听见落地扇在懒懒的吹着。我们俩好像都很难集中精力。她不时的玩弄手下的宣纸，而我的毛笔也不时往纸上滴墨。我的脸觉得发烧般的热， 拿笔的手有点抖， 手上的汉把纸也弄湿了。 写出的字更是很趿拉。微微正危襟坐着，但是这么久，她只写了一个字，还被她划掉了。

 这本小说 可以在这里买到：https://www.amazon.com/s?k=girl+at+dawn&ref=nb_sb_noss_1