The Deskmate
I first saw her at the oral exam venue. In the first post-Cultural Revolution college entrance exam for the Class of '77, I had added optional English as a bonus subject and needed to take an oral test after passing the preliminary screening. My father accompanied me by bus from our county town to the oral exam site in W City. She appeared like a Lin Daiyu who had descended from heaven (she was actually a year older than me), and my eyes lit up. Rarely had I seen such a delicate young lady, shyly murmuring with her father as they made last-minute preparations. My father struck up a conversation, hoping to pick up some exam tips for me, and learned that her father was a university professor who happened to be a colleague of my father's old classmate. The girl's father said, "Keep up with the political climate — learn to express everyday political phrases in English, like Chairman Hua's 'Grasp the key link and run the country well.'"
I silently recited the newly-learned "Grasp the key link and run the country well," and thus stumbled into the oral exam room. The examiner, as it turned out, didn't ask anything political — just simple questions about my age and hometown, then had me read aloud a passage about Dr. Bethune. After reading, I was asked to retell it. Boldly, I managed three or five sentences:
Dr. Bai-qiu-en is an old friend of China and Chinese people. He is a communist party member in Canada. He came to China in 1939 to support our anti-Japanese war.
After leaving the exam room, I eagerly searched with my eyes for that girl, but alas, she had vanished like a fading fragrance on the wind, leaving not a trace behind.
Such is the way of the world — you encounter a stunning young girl by chance, are struck as if by a celestial being, and cannot let go for a long time. But the sea of humanity is vast, and you are in different places; there is no possibility of meeting again, only sighs of lament. I deeply envied that celestial girl for having a professor father to carefully nurture her, thinking that surely she would become the campus belle of the Beijing Foreign Studies University or Shanghai International Studies University the following year.
But sometimes life is stranger than fiction — she actually became my classmate, coming to our then-obscure teachers' college. When I saw her on campus during new student orientation, I literally couldn't believe my eyes. When I discovered she was in my class, I was overjoyed. Later, because I was the youngest in the class and she was the youngest among the seven girls, by what stroke of fortune I know not, we ended up as deskmates, sitting side by side for four years. Though we never brushed ears or temples together, her subtle fragrance would drift over, her soft breathing within earshot — a mere mortal like me had long lost all sense of where I was.
Unlike prestigious universities with their many electives, our school's curriculum was rigid — the entire class was always bound together, in the same classroom, taking the same courses, almost like a vocational school. This arrangement gave us fixed seats. I was very fortunate — my deskmate, the Seventh Fairy, sat in the first row with me, the Sixth Fairy behind me, and the Fifth Fairy next to me.
We were the first cohort after the Cultural Revolution, with diverse backgrounds and wide age gaps, yet all carried the old-fashioned habits of a bygone era. Apart from grinding away at our books, the class had absolutely no social life or entertainment. Boys and girls rarely even spoke to each other; everyone was a good student of the late Chairman Mao, consciously restraining themselves and observing propriety. Mind you, this was a group of people aged 18 to 30 in the prime of their youth, yet not a single couple formed in our class. Not until near graduation did a few older guys start looking for partners elsewhere, and even they didn't dare set their sights on the Seven Fairies. Only one bohemian talent from the Chinese Department seemed always trying to cozy up to her, calling her "my Little Rabbit Merry," but even he couldn't find an opening.
My secret admiration for the Seventh Fairy — so near at hand yet as distant as the horizon — accompanied my entire university life. My old notes, poetry manuscripts, along with the four lengthy novels I had written, were all unfortunately lost during my wandering relocations.
— Written on September 22, 2006
Postscript: The poetry manuscript "Ode to the Goddess" from those years was lost during a move, but it did not "turn to dust and vanish." I had printed a copy for my elder brother, and to my surprise, he has kept it to this day.
Ode to the Goddess
(October 1, 1980, Night)
On Self-Cultivation
Man is no plant or tree — how can he be without feeling?
Flesh-and-blood beings — who does not admire excellence?
The modest, gentle maiden — a gentleman's worthy courtship.
The graceful fairy maiden — our generation's dream companion.
Love her, yearn for her — but never defile her.
Admire her, revere her — yet none know my heart!
None know my heart — my heart unseen.
Thinking of her, my heart breaks — tears fall like sleet.
Heart
Your heart, my heart — this heart, that heart.
I exhaust my heart's strength — seeking my soul's companion.
Those who have come from afar — are not the ones who know my heart.
The heart that knows is not distant — it resides in the Goddess.
Should the Goddess depart — perhaps my heart may rest.
Untitled
You climb the eastern peak — how could my west reach you?
Jade lost within the village — what is there but to grieve!
Learning without end — poetry without form.
People without constancy — hearts without wound!
Reverie
Night — already two o'clock,
Near and far, a few dreamlike eyes.
Some green, some yellow,
Flickering — flickering.
The dark-violet vault,
Its outlines faintly traced.
Bearing the cold air,
The spirit of night strokes my face.
All is silent —
Yet I detect a sound:
A buzzing, like bees —
— It is my winged reverie.
In my reverie, she —
Near yet distant.
Whispered words honeyed,
Dimpled smiles shallow.
Dream of the Earthquake
What — the earth trembles slightly,
Could it be an earthquake, visiting while people sleep?
I throw down my pen and leap out the window,
Suddenly remembering she's still inside.
Like black lightning,
I charge back in.
— Alas! She escapes safely,
Yet I suffer a fatal blow.
Thank God!
I die content.
My spirit seems to hear,
Her weeping for me.
Beneath the Nine Springs, I smile in peace:
One perfect goddess,
Is worth how many
Mere mortals like me? Amen!
The Hometown Girl
Through a university alumni network reunion, I reconnected with an old classmate working in Shanghai. This was my iron buddy, who back in the day had quietly won over a female classmate from the Mathematics Department, becoming one of the rare outstanding individuals in our class who successfully "abducted" a fellow university student. During the New Year, I called to wish him well; he had gone back to his hometown, and only his wife from the Math Department was home. As we chatted, my sister-in-law asked: "How is your young hometown girl doing now? Back then, we all thought you two would surely end up together."
I said, "I was close to this hometown girl for nearly two years and felt very comfortable with her, but we never really entered into a romance. I'm embarrassed to say we've lost contact for many years — I don't know where she is now. I once heard she was assigned to H City after graduation."
My sister-in-law sighed: "She was not destined for such fortune." I told her: "Perhaps I was the one without the fortune. She was truly a wonderful girl — so easy to be with, and she knew how to care for others." My sister-in-law concluded: "In the end, it comes down to fate not being enough." I asked: "Though we spent a lot of time together, we were never in a romantic relationship. You were in the Math Department Class of '77, and she was in the Chinese Department Class of '80 — how did you know about us?" She replied: "Our school wasn't that big, and all the girls' dorms were in one building — how could I not know? That hometown girl of yours would often come to our room and talk about you. I even heard about your trip to Zhenfeng Pagoda together. We all thought you two were a sure thing."
This was a plain yet poignant connection, drifting somewhere between love and friendship. No passionate whispers, no clinging devotion, no grand drama or wild swings — just quiet understanding, warmth, and genuine care for each other. To this day, I still don't understand why this relationship withered without cause. Perhaps, deep down, I believed love should shake the heavens, that it must be romantic — and so I lacked the appreciation and commitment for this calm, harmonious affection, letting it drift away like water.
The Hometown Girl was a classmate of my younger sister, not strikingly beautiful but pleasant to look at — the kind of girl who makes you feel comfortable and want to be near. She was probably the only true fellow-towns person I had at our school, coming from the same county seat. She had known I was at this school for a long time but was too shy to properly acknowledge me as a fellow-towns person. Later, she told me that every time she waited in the cafeteria line, she would see me holding a little notebook, reciting words to myself as if no one else existed. Back then, we often had to wait in long queues, and I suppose I was always using those moments to memorize vocabulary.
I was a bit of an oddball at school, and my young hometown girl looked up to me somewhat. In those days, I was writing novels with burning passion, and she became my earliest and most devoted reader. Under the cover of being fellow townspeople, our interactions from the very start were natural — not furtive and secretive like so many boys and girls of that era. When spring arrived, we would play frisbee on the grassy field in front of the dormitory, thoroughly enjoying ourselves without worry of gossip. When her birthday or mine came around, we would arrange to go out to Zhenfeng Pagoda by the river to explore; when tired, we'd go to a restaurant to toast each other, drinking a little wine, returning to campus with flushed cheeks. Only at the campus gate would we realize that walking back together, faces rosy and half-tipsy, might create a poor impression. So we would part ways there, each returning to our own dorms separately.
I remember one winter break — the ground was frozen, snow everywhere. We arranged to take the long-distance bus together from Anqing back home, a seven-to-eight-hour journey, bumping and swaying. I suffered terribly from motion sickness. During a midway rest stop, the Hometown Girl said to me: "Let's race — see who reaches that telephone pole first!" How could I let myself be outrun by her? I ran with all my might. She laughed playfully — she wasn't truly racing me, just trying to distract me from the nausea. Then we had a brief snowball fight. Back on the bus, I indeed felt much better. During holidays, when we returned from home bringing local specialties, we always shared them. She asked me to help her buy a brick-sized cassette recorder, and we often listened to Teresa Teng's tapes together, singing "The Moon Represents My Heart." Yet we never explicitly acknowledged a romantic relationship, never had intimate gestures. Still, we were happy to spend time in each other's company. Having a fellow-towns person of the opposite sex who cared for each other — a warmth suffused everything.
Days passed quietly like this, feeling full and content. Looking back on those two years, the closest physical contact we ever had was, I think, the occasional, half-intentional holding of hands. Then came graduation, and I took the exam to stay on at the university as a teacher. I passed the written test but was eliminated in the oral exam — they said my spoken English had an accent. Among the qualified candidates, I was the only one who received merely a "Pass" in the oral test, while the requirement for staying on was "Good" or above. I felt deeply wronged. When I asked her out, I couldn't hold back my tears. She was somewhat at a loss, silently accompanying me through that heartbreaking night.
Hometown Girl — are you well?
— Written on March 8, 2007
Postscript: Thanks to the Internet and the help of classmates, after 25 years of separation, I have finally reconnected with the Hometown Girl. I learned that she has achieved outstanding success in her career, and I am truly happy for her.
Li Wei:
Hello!
Having read "The Hometown Girl," I feel as if I've returned to our university days. The youth of bygone years, the striving spirit — all have come floating back before my eyes.
Knowing that you are doing well now, I am sincerely happy for you.
I will visit your blog often to read your beautiful essays.
I look forward to more of your writing.
— April 26, 2007
《朝华之十一: 青春恋曲》
同桌的她
第一次见到她是在口试的考场。文革以后第一届77级高考，我加试了英语，初选后需要口试。父亲陪我乘车从县城赶到W市的口试考场。她的出现有如天上掉下来的林妹妹（她其实长我一岁），让我眼睛一亮。很少见如此娇嫩的少女，羞答答地随着她父亲嘀嘀咕咕做临场前的最后准备。我父亲于是搭讪，想为我寻求一些应试技巧，得知这位父亲是大学教授，恰好跟我父亲的老同学是同事。女孩父亲说，要紧跟形势，学用英语说日常政治用语，比如华主席提出的"抓纲治国"：
Grasp the key link and run the country well
我默念着刚学到的"抓纲治国"，就这样糊里糊涂进了口试考场。考官倒没有问什么政治，只是简单问问年龄籍贯，然后让我朗读一段白求恩大夫的故事，念完后要求复述出来。我大胆复述了三五句：
Dr. Bai-qiu-en is an old friend of China and Chinese people. He is a communist party member in Canada. He came to China in 1939 to support our anti-Japanese war.
出考场后，赶紧拿眼睛去寻那个女孩，可惜早已香消影逝，随风而去，不留一丝芳踪。
世界上的事情常常是这样，在一个偶然场合，邂逅一妙龄女郎，惊为天人，久久不能释怀。可人海茫茫，又身处两地，绝无再见的可能，徒增感喟而已。非常羡慕这个天仙一样的女孩有个教授爸爸精心培养，心想来年北外或者上外的校花非她莫属了。
但是，生活也有比小说还巧的时候，她居然成为我的同窗，来到当时不入流的师范。新生入校的时候在校园见到她，简直不敢相信自己的眼睛。及至发现她原来是同班同学，大喜过望。再后来，因为我全班最小，她在班上七个女生中也最小，不知修得什么福分，居然同桌相邻。虽无耳鬓厮磨，却有幽香袭人，娇喘入闻，凡夫俗子的我早已不知身在何处了。
跟名校有很多选修课不同，我们这种学校课程很死板，全班同学总是绑在一起，在同一个教室，上同一组课，跟中专似的。这样的情形使得我们都有固定的座位。我很幸运，我和同桌的七仙女在第一排，六仙女在我身后，五仙女在我隔壁。
我们是文革后第一届，同学背景各异，年龄相差也大，但都免不了前朝遗少陋习。全班同学除了死读书外，根本没有社交和娱乐。男女生也极少谈话，个个是先帝毛主席的好学生，自觉克己复礼，非礼勿视。须知大家都是18-30岁正当年啊，班上居然没有一对谈恋爱的，直到临毕业才有几个年长的哥们开始四外寻找对象，也没敢打七仙女的主意。只有一个中文系的嬉皮才子似乎总想跟她套瓷，称她为 my Little Rabbit Merry，但也无从下手。
对近在咫尺远在天边的七仙女的暗恋伴随了我的大学生活。当年的笔记、诗稿，连同我写的四大本小说，都不幸在流浪搬迁途中丢失。
记于2006年九月二十二记
后记：当年的诗稿《女神赞》已在搬家途中丢失，但并没有"灰飞烟灭"。曾打印留给哥哥一份，没想到他居然保留至今。
女神赞
（一九八零年十月一日夜）
好修篇
人非草木, 安能无情? 血肉之体, 孰不慕英?
窈窕淑女, 君子好逑。娉婷仙姑, 吾侪梦俦。
爱之恋之, 莫之污兮。仰之敬之, 莫我知兮!
莫我知兮, 心弗见兮。念之肠断, 涕若霰兮。
心
尔心吾心, 此心彼心。竭心力兮, 寻吾知音。
迢迢迩来, 非吾知心。其心非远, 在彼女神。
____女神逝兮, 或可安心.
无题
尔东陟兮, 岂吾西及? 里亡玉兮, 惟可悲夫!
学无己兮, 诗无体兮。人无常兮, 心无伤兮!
耽想
夜, 己经两点,
远近几只梦的眼。
有绿色的, 有黄色的,
一闪、一闪。
乌青的穹隆,
轮廓略显。
挟着寒气,
夜神抚我脸。
万籁俱寂,
我却听出了音响:
嗡嗡嗡, 象蜜蜂,
___是我生双翼的耽想。
耽想中的她,
亲近又遥远.
细语蜜蜜,
笑窝浅浅。
望震
怎么, 大地颤微,
敢不是地震来临, 乘着人们熟睡?
我丢下诗笔跳出窗外,
蓦然记起她还在房内。
象黑色的闪电,
我猛冲进去.
__alas!她安然脱险,
我却遭了致命一击。
感谢上帝!
我满意地死去.
魂灵似乎正听到,
她在为我哭泣。
九泉之下我微笑安心:
一个完美的女神,
要抵得多少
我这样的凡人, Amem!
老乡妹妹
大学同学联络网聚，我跟在上海工作的老同学联系上了。这是我的铁哥们儿，当年不声不响搞定了一位数学系的女同学，成为我班少有的两个成功"拐骗"了大学同学的出类拔萃人士。过年打电话拜年，他回老家了，只有数学系的太太在家，聊起来，嫂子问我：你的小老乡现在怎么样？当年我们以为你们应该也成一对了呢。
我说，我和这个老乡妹妹交往了近两年，感到很自在，但没有真正进入恋爱啊。很惭愧，已经失去联系很多年了，不知道她现在在哪里，以前听说她毕业分到H城了。
嫂子叹口气：她是没有福分。我告诉嫂子：可能是我没有福分吧。她人真地很好，让人很舒服，也懂得体贴人。嫂子最后说：说到底还是缘分不够。我问：我们虽然交往很多，但并没有恋爱关系。你是数学系77级，她是中文系80级，你怎么知道我们的关系呢？嫂子说：咱们学校不大，女生宿舍都在一个楼，怎么不知道？你那老乡妹妹还常到我们寝室来谈起你，你们一块到振风塔游玩的事，我也听她说了呢。我们都以为你们肯定能成。
这是一段平淡而又令人回味的交往，游于爱情与友情之间。没有卿卿我我，厮守缠绵，没有轰轰烈烈，大起大伏，有的只是默契温馨，和真心地相互关心体贴。我到现在也不明白，这种关系为什么无疾而终。也许骨子里就认为爱情应该惊天动地，追求浪漫，所以对平实和谐的感情，少了一份珍惜和执着，任其如水流去。
老乡妹妹是我妹妹的同级同学，算不上很漂亮，但受看，是让人舒服愿意接近的那种女孩子。她大概是我们学校唯一一个真正的老乡了，来自同一个县城。她早就知道我在这个学校，一直腼腆没好意思认我这个老乡。后来，她告诉我，她每次在食堂排队时，就看到我手里拿着一个小本本，旁若无人地念念有词。我们当年，常常需要排很长的队，我大概总是利用这个当口在背单词吧。
我在学校有点各别，小老乡对我有些仰视。我当年写小说写得热火朝天，她成为最早最忠实的一个读者。借着老乡的名义，我们一开始交往，就很自然，不象当年很多男生女生那样鬼鬼祟祟。春天来了，我们就在宿舍门前的操场绿地上玩飞碟，很是开心，也不怕人闲话。她的或我的生日到了，我们就约好出去，到江边振风塔上游玩，玩累了下餐馆互相祝福，也喝点葡萄酒，脸色红红地回到校园。到了校园门口，才意识到两人脸色潮红半醉微醺地一块儿回校，影响不好。这才分开，先后各自回自己的宿舍。
记得有一年寒假到了，冰天雪地。我们约好乘坐长途汽车一道从安庆回家，七八个小时车程晃晃荡荡，我晕车的厉害。老乡妹妹在中途停车时，跟我说，我们赛跑，看谁先到前面的电线杆谁赢。我哪好意思落在她后面，拼命跑起来。她嘻嘻哈哈，并不真地跟我比赛，只是想分散我的注意力。接着又打了一会儿雪仗，上车再行，果然感觉好多了。假期回校从家里带来特产，我们总是分享。她托我帮她买了一台砖式录音机，我们常常一起听邓丽君的盒带，唱月亮代表我的心，可就是从来没有挑明恋爱关系，也没有亲热举动，但还是愿意在一起消磨时光。有个异性老乡互相关爱，有一种温暖在弥漫。
日子就这样平平淡淡地过去，感觉很充实。交往两年，仔细想起来，好像最亲密的接触就是有意无意地拉拉手。直到我毕业参加留校考试，笔试通过，却在口试时候被刷下来了，说我英语口语带口音，在达标的候选人中是唯一一个口语得"及格"的，而留校人员口试必须"良"或以上。我感觉很委屈，约她出来时，忍不住哭了。她有点手足无措，默默陪我度过了那个伤心之夜。
老乡妹妹，你还好吗？
记于2007年三月八日
后记：感谢互联网和同学的帮助，在分别25年后终于联系上老乡妹妹。得知她事业有成出类拔萃，很替她高兴。
立委：
你好！
看过"老乡妹妹"一文，仿佛又回到了大学时代。曾经的青春年少、曾经的努力奋进又一一浮现在眼前。
知道你现在很好，由衷地为你高兴。
我会经常上你的博客，阅读你的美文。
期待你有更多的文章。
—— 2007年4月26日
From 朝华午拾. Original Chinese: 《朝华之十一: 青春恋曲》.
