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一个老外的胡同因缘:一条北京小巷的前世今生(中/英)

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发表于 2009-9-29 07:48:00 | 显示全部楼层 |阅读模式

一个美国人写中国。先做一下简单的作者介绍。

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姓名:何 伟 Peter Hessler
性别:男
出生日期:June 1969
出生地点:Pittsburgh, PA
国籍:USA

教育背景:
1984 - 1988 Hickman High School, Columbia, MO
1988 - 1992 Princeton University, Princeton, NJ
1992 - 1994 University of Oxford, UK

工作背景:
1996 - 1998 Peace Corps/涪陵师范高等专科学校英语系
1999 - 2000 Clipper, Beijing Bureau, The Wall Street Journal
2000 - 2001 Stringer, Beijing Office, Boston Globe
2001 - 2005 Beijing Correspondent, New Yorker

出版作品:
2007 《甲骨文:流离时空里的新生中国》,卢秋莹译,台北久周文化。
2006 Oracle Bones: A Journey Between China's Past and Present, HarperCollins.
2006 《消失中的江城: 一位西方作家在長江古城探索中國》,吳美真译,台北久周文化。
2001 River Town: Two Years on the Yangtze, Perennial.

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英文原文链接:http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2006/02/13/060213fa_fact_hessler?currentPage=all

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发表于 2009-9-29 08:28:00 | 显示全部楼层
挺好的文章,可惜现在燕都不做了。
 楼主| 发表于 2009-9-29 07:49:00 | 显示全部楼层
Hutong Karma 7 c6 ]3 u0 h+ o) y1 M

The many incarnations of a Beijing alleyway.

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by Peter Hessler


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February 13, 2006


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For the past five years, I’ve lived about a mile north of the Forbidden City, in an apartment building off a tiny alleyway in downtown Beijing. My alley, which has no official name, begins in the west, passes through three ninety-degree turns, and exits to the south. On a map, the shape is distinctive: it looks a little like a question mark, or perhaps half of a Buddhist swastika. The alley is also distinctive because it belongs to one of the few surviving sections of old Beijing. The capital, like most Chinese cities nowadays, has been changing fast—the biggest local map publisher updates its diagrams every three months, to keep pace with development. But the layout of my neighborhood has remained more or less the same for centuries. The first detailed map of Beijing was completed in 1750, under the reign of the great Qing emperor Qianlong, and on that document my alley follows the same route it does today. Xu Pingfang, a Beijing archeologist, has told me that my street may very well date to the fourteenth century, when many sections of the city were originally laid out, under the Yuan dynasty. The Yuan also left the word hutong, a Mongolian term that has come to mean “alley” in Chinese. Locals call my alley Little Ju’er, because it connects with the larger street known as Ju’er Hutong.


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I live in a modern three-story building, but it’s surrounded by the single-story homes of brick, wood, and tile that are characteristic of hutong. These structures stand behind walls of gray brick, and often a visitor to old Beijing is impressed by the sense of division: wall after wall, gray brick upon gray brick. But a hutong neighborhood is most distinguished by connections and movement. Dozens of households might share a single entrance, and although the old residences have running water, few people have private bathrooms, so public toilets play a major role in local life. In a hutong, much is communal, including the alley itself. Even in winter, residents bundle up and sit in the road, chatting with their neighbors. Street venders pass through regularly, because the hutong are too small for supermarkets.


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There are few cars. Some alleys, like the one I live on, are too narrow for automobile traffic, and the sounds of daily life are completely different from what one would expect in the heart of a city of fifteen million people. Usually I’m awake by dawn, and from my desk I hear residents chatting as they make their way to the public toilet next to my building, chamber pots in hand. By midmorning, the venders are out. They pedal through the alley on three-wheeled carts, each announcing his product with a trademark cry. The beer woman is the loudest, singing out again and again, “Maaaaiiiii piiiiijiuuuuuu!” At eight in the morning, it can be distracting—“Buuuuyyyy beeeeeeeeeer!”—but over the years I’ve learned to appreciate the music in the calls. The rice man’s refrain is higher-pitched; the vinegar dealer occupies the lower registers. The knife sharpener provides percussion—a steady click-clack of metal plates. The sounds are soothing, a reminder that even if I never left my doorway again life would be sustainable, albeit imbalanced. I would have cooking oil, soy sauce, and certain vegetables and fruit in season. In winter, I could buy strings of garlic. A vender of toilet paper would pedal through every day. There would be no shortage of coal. Occasionally, I could eat candied crab apple.


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I could even make some money from the freelance recyclers. On an average day, a recycler passes through every half hour, riding a flat-bed tricycle. They purchase cardboard, paper, Styrofoam, and broken appliances. They buy old books by the kilogram and dead televisions by the square inch. Appliances can be repaired or stripped for parts, and the paper and plastic are sold to recycling centers for the barest of profits: the margins of trash. Not long ago, I piled some useless possessions in the entryway of my apartment and invited each passing recycler inside to see what everything was worth. A stack of old magazines sold for sixty-two cents; a burned-out computer cord went for a nickel. Two broken lamps were seven cents, total. A worn-out pair of shoes: twelve cents. Two broken Palm Pilots: thirty-seven cents. I gave one man a marked-up manuscript of the book I’d been writing, and he pulled out a scale, weighed the pages, and paid me fifteen cents.


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One day in late April, I was sitting at my desk when I heard somebody call out, “Looonnnng haaaaiiiir! Looonnnng haaaaiiiir!” That was an unfamiliar refrain, so I went out into the alley, where a man had parked his cart. He had come from Henan Province, where he worked for a factory that produces wigs and hair extensions. When I asked about business, he reached inside a burlap sack and pulled out a long black ponytail. He said he’d just bought it from another hutong resident for ten dollars. He had come to Beijing because it was getting warm—haircut season—and he hoped to acquire a hundred pounds of good hair before returning to Henan. Most of it, he said, would eventually be exported to the United States or Japan.


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While we were talking, a woman hurried out of a neighboring house, carrying something in a purple silk handkerchief. Carefully, she unwrapped it: two thick strands.


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“They’re from my daughter,” she said, explaining that she’d saved them from the last haircut.


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Each ponytail was about eight inches long. The man picked up one and studied it closely, like a fisherman who knows the rules. He said, “These are too short.”


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Each ponytail was about eight inches long. The man picked up one and studied it closely, like a fisherman who knows the rules. He said, “These are too short.”

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“What do you mean?”

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“They’re no use to me,” he said. “They need to be longer than that.”


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The woman tried to bargain, but she didn’t have much leverage; finally she returned home, hair in hand. The man’s call echoed as he left the hutong: “Looonnnng haaaaiiiir! Looonnnng haaaaiiiir!”

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Not long after I moved into Little Ju’er, Beijing stepped up its campaign to host the 2008 Games, and traces of Olympic glory began to touch the hutong. In an effort to boost the athleticism and health of average Beijing residents, the government constructed hundreds of outdoor exercise stations. The painted steel equipment is well-intentioned but odd, as if the designer had caught a fleeting glimpse of a gym and then worked from memory. At the exercise stations, people can spin giant wheels with their hands, push big levers that offer no resistance, and swing on pendulums like children at a park. In the greater Beijing region, the stations are everywhere, even in tiny farming villages by the Great Wall. Out there, the equipment gives the peasants a new life-style option: after working a twelve-hour day on the walnut harvest, they can get in shape by spinning a big yellow wheel over and over.


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But nobody appreciates the exercise stations more than hutong residents. The machines are scattered throughout old parts of the city, tucked into narrow alleyways. At dawn and dusk, they are especially busy—older people meet in groups to chat and take a few rounds on the pendulum. On warm evenings, men sit idly on the machines, smoking cigarettes. The workout stations are perfect for the ultimate hutong sport: hanging around in the street with the neighbors.


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At the end of 2000, as part of a citywide pre-Olympic campaign to improve sanitation facilities, the government rebuilt the public toilet at the head of Ju’er Hutong. The change was so dramatic that it was as if a shaft of light had descended directly from Mt. Olympus to the alleyway, leaving a magnificent structure in its wake. The building had running water, infrared-automated flush toilets, and signs in Chinese, English, and Braille. Gray rooftop tiles recalled traditional hutong architecture. Rules were printed onto stainless steel. “Number 3: Each user is entitled to one free piece of common toilet paper (length 80 centimetres, width 10 centimetres).” A small room housed a married couple who served as full-time attendants. Realizing that no self-respecting Beijing resident would work in a public toilet, the government had imported dozens of couples from the interior, mostly from the poor province of Anhui. The husband cleaned the men’s room; the wife took care of the women’s.


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The couple in Ju’er Hutong brought their young son, who took his first steps in front of the public toilet. Such scenes occurred across the capital, and perhaps someday the kids will become the Beijing version of Midnight’s Children: a generation of toddlers reared in public toilets who, ten years after the Olympics, will come of age and bring hygienic glory to the Motherland. Meanwhile, Ju’er residents took full advantage of the well-kept public space that fronted the new toilet. Old Yang, the local bicycle repairman, stored his tools and extra bikes there, and in the fall cabbage venders slept on the strip of grass that bordered the bathroom. Wang Zhaoxin, who ran the cigarette shop next door, arranged some ripped-up couches around the toilet entrance. Someone else contributed a chessboard. Folding chairs appeared, along with a wooden cabinet stocked with beer glasses.


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After a while, there was so much furniture, and so many people there every night, that Wang Zhaoxin declared the formation of the “W. C. Julebu”: the W. C. Club. Membership was open to all, although there were disputes about who should be chairman or a member of the Politburo. As a foreigner, I joined at the level of a Young Pioneer. On weekend nights, the club hosted barbecues in front of the toilet. Wang Zhaoxin supplied cigarettes, beer, and grain alcohol, and Mr. Cao, a driver for the Xinhua news service, discussed what was happening in the papers. The coal-fired grill was attended to by a handicapped man named Chu. Because of his disability, Chu was licensed to drive a small motorized cart, which made it easy for him to transport skewers of mutton through the hutong. In the summer of 2002, when the Chinese men’s soccer team made history by playing in its first World Cup, the W. C. Club acquired a television, plugged it into the bathroom, and mercilessly mocked the national team as it failed to score a single goal throughout the tournament.


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      Wang Zhaoxin modestly refused the title of chairman, although he was the obvious choice: his entire life had been intertwined with the transformation of modern Beijing. His parents had moved to Ju’er Hutong in 1951, two years after the Communist revolution. Back then, Beijing’s early-fifteenth-century layout was still intact, and it was unique among major world capitals: an ancient city virtually untouched by modernity or war.


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Beijing had once been home to more than a thousand temples and monasteries, but nearly all of them were converted to other uses by the Communists. In Ju’er, the monks were kicked out of a lamasery called Yuan Tong Temple, and dozens of families moved in, including Wang Zhaoxin’s parents. Meanwhile, other members of the proletariat were encouraged to occupy the homes of the wealthy. Previously, such private hutong residences had been arranged around spacious open-air courtyards, but during the nineteen-fifties and sixties most of these became crowded with shanties and makeshift structures. The former compound of a single clan might become home to two dozen families, and the city’s population swelled with new arrivals. Over the next twenty years, the Communists tore down most of Beijing’s monumental gates, as well as its impressive city wall, which in some places was forty feet high. In 1966, when Wang Zhaoxin was a six-year-old elementary-school student, he participated in a volunteer children’s work brigade that helped demolish a section of the Ming-dynasty city wall not far from Ju’er. In 1969, during the Cultural Revolution, the nearby Anding Gate was torn down to make room for a subway station. By the time Mao died, in 1976, roughly a fifth of old Beijing had been destroyed.


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In 1987, Wang Zhaoxin’s younger brother accepted his first job, at a Beijing restaurant. Within months of starting work, the eighteen-year-old lost his right arm in a flour-mixing machine. Not long before that, Wang Zhaoxin had gone into retail, hoping to succeed in the new market economy; now he chose a product line in deference to his brother’s disability. Fruit and vegetables are too heavy, he reasoned, and a clothes merchant needs two arms to measure and fold goods. Cigarettes are light, so that’s what the Wang brothers stocked.


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During the nineteen-nineties and early two thousands, as the Wangs sold cigarettes in Ju’er Hutong, developers sold most of old Beijing. Few sections of the city were protected, in part because local government bureaus often profited from development. Whenever a hutong was doomed, its buildings were marked with a huge painted character surrounded by a circle, like the “A” of the anarchist’s graffiti:

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Chai: “Pull down, dismantle.” As developers ran rampant over the city, that character became a talisman—Beijing artists riffed on the shape, and residents cracked chai jokes. At the W. C. Club, Wang Zhaoxin used to say, “We live in Chai nar.” It sounded like the English word “China,” but it meant “Demolish where?”


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Like many Beijing people I knew, Wang Zhaoxin was practical, goodhumored, and unsentimental. His generosity was well known—the locals had nicknamed him Wang Laoshan, Good Old Wang. He always contributed more than his share to a W. C. Club barbecue, and he was always the last to leave. He used to say that it was only a matter of time before the government chai’d more buildings in our area, but he never dwelled on the future. More than four decades in Chai nar had taught him that nothing lasts forever.


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The W. C. Club was near the head of the hutong, which ends at Jiaodaokou South Street. That boulevard is busy with streetcars and buses; the nearest intersection is home to a massive new apartment complex, two supermarkets, and a McDonald’s. Jiaodaokou represents a border: by stepping onto the street, you enter the modern city.


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Every day, most working residents of the hutong cross that divide. They pass the bicycle-repair stand of Old Yang, who keeps his pumps and his toolbox next to the Olympic toilet. In a hutong, there’s no better network than one that combines bikes and bathrooms, and Old Yang knows everybody. Occasionally, he gives me messages from other people in the neighborhood; once he passed along the business card of a foreigner who had been trying to track me down. Another time, he told me that the local matchmaker had someone in mind for me.


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“College-educated, 1.63 metres tall,” he said curtly. Those were the only specs he knew. For Chinese women, 1.6 is a magic number—you often see that figure in job listings and dating ads. It’s about five feet three. I told Old Yang that I appreciated the tip but that I didn’t want to meet anybody right now.

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“Why not? You’re not married.”

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“Well, I’m not in a rush. In my country, people get married later.”

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When I started to walk away, he told me that he’d already given my phone number to the matchmaker.


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“Why did you do that?” I said. “You have to tell her that I’m not interested.”

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Old Yang is in his sixties, a tall, stern-faced man with a shaved head. When I tried to decline the invitation, his expression became even more serious than usual. He told me that it was too late: everything had already been arranged; he’d look bad if I didn’t go. That week, the matchmaker called me four times. She introduced herself as Peng Laoshi—Teacher Peng—and she had scheduled the date for Saturday afternoon. We met beyond the hutong’s boundary, at the entrance to the Jiaodaokou McDonald’s. My date was supposed to arrive in a few minutes, but there was something that Teacher Peng wanted to clarify first.


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“This is an underground meeting,” she said, after we had found seats in the upstairs section of the restaurant.

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“Why?”

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“It’s not official. We’re not allowed to work with foreigners.”

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“Why not?”

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“The government doesn’t want us to,” she said. “They’re afraid the foreigners will trick Chinese women.”


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There was a pause, from which the conversation could have proceeded in any number of interesting directions. But Teacher Peng seemed accustomed to filling awkward silences and she spoke fast. “Of course, I’m not worried about you,” she said, beaming. “Old Yang says you’re a good person.”


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Teacher Peng was in her mid-forties, and the skin around her eyes was crinkled from smiling so much—a rare characteristic in China. She wasn’t an actual teacher; that’s simply a title people use for matchmakers. In China, professional matchmakers still play a role in rural areas and small cities, but they’ve become less important in places like Beijing. Nevertheless, I occasionally see a sign advertising their services, especially in old neighborhoods. Teacher Peng kept a government-registered office in Ju’er.


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At McDonald’s, I asked Teacher Peng how much she charged, and she said the fee for meeting someone was usually two hundred yuan.

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“But it’s more to meet a foreigner,” she said. “Five hundred, one thousand, even two thousand.”

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I asked, as delicately as possible, how much today’s client would have to pay for me if things worked out.

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“One thousand.” It was a little more than a hundred and twenty dollars. Even if other foreigners were worth twice as much, there was some consolation in being double the minimum.

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“Does she have to pay anything just for meeting today?” I asked.

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“No. It’s only if you stay together.”

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“For marriage?”

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“No. For more dates.”

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“How many?”

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“That depends.”

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She wouldn’t give me a number, and I kept asking questions, trying to figure out how the system worked. Finally, she leaned forward and said, “Do you hope to get married quickly, or do you just want to spend time with a woman?”


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It was a hell of a first-date question for a single male in his thirties. What could I say? I didn’t want the bike repairman to lose face. “I really don’t know,” I stammered. “But I want to make sure that she’s not paying anything to meet me today.”


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Teacher Peng smiled again. “You don’t have to worry about that,” she said.

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When I first moved to the neighborhood, I regarded McDonald’s as an eyesore and a threat: a sign of the economic boom that had already destroyed most of old Beijing. Over time, though, hutong life gave me a new perspective on the franchise. For one thing, it’s not necessary to eat fast food in order to benefit from everything that McDonald’s has to offer. At the Jiaodaokou restaurant, it’s common for people to sit at tables without ordering anything. Invariably, many are reading; in the afternoon, schoolchildren do their homework. I’ve seen the managers of neighboring businesses sitting quietly, balancing their account books. And always, always, always somebody is sleeping. McDonald’s is the opposite of hutong life, in ways both good and bad: cool in summer, warm in winter, with private bathrooms.


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It’s also anonymous. Unlike Chinese restaurants, where waitresses hover, the staff at a fast-food joint leaves people alone. On a number of occasions, dissidents have asked me to meet them at a McDonald’s or a K.F.C., because it’s safe. When Teacher Peng told me that our meeting was “underground,” I realized why she had chosen the restaurant.


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Others apparently had the same idea. One couple sat near the window, leaning close and whispering. At another table, two well-dressed girls seemed to be waiting for their dates. Over Teacher Peng’s left shoulder, I kept an eye on a couple who appeared to be having some sort of crisis. The woman was about twenty-five; the man seemed older, in his forties. Their faces shone with the unnatural redness that comes to many Chinese who have been drinking. They sat in silence, glaring at each other. Nearby, the McDonald’s Playland? was deserted. Teacher Peng’s pager went off.


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“That’s her,” she said, and asked to borrow my cell phone.


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“I’m at McDonald’s,” she said into the phone. “The Italian is already here. Hurry up.”


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After Teacher Peng hung up, I tried to say something, but she spoke too fast. “She teaches music at a middle school,” she said. “She’s a very good person—I wouldn’t introduce you otherwise. Good. Listen. She’s twenty-four years old. She’s pretty and she’s 1.64 metres tall. She’s educated. She’s thin, though. I hope that’s not a problem—she’s not as voluptuous as the women in your Italy.”


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There was so much to process—for one thing, my date seemed to be growing taller—and before I could speak Teacher Peng continued: “Good. Listen. You have a good job and you speak Chinese.

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Also, you were a teacher before, so you have something in common.”

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Finally, she stopped. I said, “I’m not Italian.”

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“What?”

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“I’m American. I’m not Italian.”

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“Why did Old Yang tell me you’re Italian?”

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“I don’t know,” I said. “My grandmother is Italian. But I don’t think Old Yang knows that.”

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Now Teacher Peng looked completely confused.

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“America is an immigrant country,” I began, and then I decided to leave it at that.

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She recovered her poise. “That’s fine,” she said with a smile. “America is a good country. It’s fine that you come from America.”


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The woman arrived, wearing headphones. Japanese script decorated her stylish jacket, and she wore tight jeans. Her hair had been dyed a dark brown. Teacher Peng introduced us, crinkled her eyes one last time, and tactfully took her leave. Very slowly, one by one, the woman removed her headphones. She looked quite young. The CD player sat on the table between us.

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I said, “What are you listening to?”

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“Wang Fei”—a popular singer and actress.

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“Is it good?”

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“It’s O.K.”


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I asked her if she wanted anything from the restaurant, and she shook her head. I respected that—why spoil a date at McDonald’s by eating the food? She told me that she lived with her parents in a hutong near the Bell Tower; her school was nearby. She asked me if I was from the neighborhood.


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“I live in Ju’er Hutong.”

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“I didn’t know there were foreigners there,” she said. “How much is your rent?”

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This being China, I told her.

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“That’s a lot,” she said. “Why do you pay so much?”

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“I don’t know. I guess they can always charge foreigners more.”

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“You were a teacher, right?”

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I told her that I used to teach English in a small city in Sichuan Province.

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“That must have been boring,” she said. “Where do you work now?”

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I said that I was a writer who worked at home.

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“That sounds even more boring,” she said. “I’d go nuts if I had to work at home.”


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Behind her, the drunk couple began arguing loudly. Suddenly the woman stood up, brandished a newspaper, and smacked the man on the head. Then she stormed out, right past Playland?. Without a word, the man folded his arms, lay his head down on the table, and went to sleep.


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A moment later, the music teacher asked, “Do you often go back to your Italy?”


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The following week, the matchmaker telephoned to see if there was any chance of a second meeting, but she wasn’t insistent. She impressed me as a sharp woman—sharp enough to recognize that my cluelessness might be exploited in better ways than dates at McDonald’s. The next time I ran into her in the hutong, she asked if I wanted to become an investor in a karaoke parlor. After that, I avoided walking past her office.


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When I asked Old Yang about the confusion, he shrugged and said that I once mentioned that my grandmother is Italian. I had no memory of the conversation, but I picked up a valuable hutong lesson: never underestimate how much the bike repairman knows.


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Good Old Wang was right about Chai nar. For years, he had predicted demolition, and, in September of 2005, when the government finally condemned his apartment building, he moved out without protest. He had already sold the cigarette shop, because the margins had fallen too low. And now there was no doubt who had been the true chairman, because the W. C. Club died as soon as he left the hutong.


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By then, three-quarters of old Beijing had been torn down. The remaining quarter consisted mostly of public parks and the Forbidden City. Over the years, there had been a number of protests and lawsuits about the destruction, but such disputes tended to be localized: people complained that government corruption reduced their compensation, and they didn’t like being relocated to suburbs that were too distant. But it was unusual to hear an average Beijinger express concern for what was happening to the city as a whole. Few spoke in terms of architectural preservation, perhaps because the Chinese concept of the past isn’t closely linked to buildings, as it is in the West. The Chinese rarely built with stone, instead replacing perishable materials periodically over the decades.


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The hutong essence had more to do with spirit than with structure, and this spirit often showed strongest when the neighborhood encountered some modern element: an Olympic toilet, a McDonald’s franchise. Pragmatism and resourcefulness were deeply ingrained in residents like Good Old Wang, whose environment had always been fluid. The fundamental character of hutong life helped prepare for its destruction.


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In 2005, the Beijing government finally issued a new plan to protect the scattered old neighborhoods that remained in the north and west of downtown, including Ju’er. These hutong wouldn’t be put on the market for developers to build whatever they wished, as they would have been in the past. The stated priority was to “preserve the style of the old city,” and the government established a ten-member advisory board to consult on major projects. The board’s members included architects, archeologists, and city planners, some of whom had publicly criticized the destruction. One board member told me that it was essentially too late, but that the new plan should at least preserve the basic layout of the few surviving hutong. Within that layout, however, gentrification was inevitable—the hutong had become so rare that they now had cachet in the new economy.


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The change had already begun in my neighborhood. In 2004, bars, cafés, and boutiques started moving into a quiet street that intersects Ju’er, where locals were happy to give up their homes for good prices. The businesses maintained the traditional architectural style, but they introduced a new sophistication to the Old City. Nowadays, if I’m restricted to my neighborhood I have access to Wi-Fi, folk handicrafts, and every type of mixed drink imaginable. There is a nail salon in the hutong. Somebody opened a tattoo parlor. The street venders and recyclers are still active, but they have been joined by troops of pedicab men who give “hutong tours.” Many of the tourists are Chinese.


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One recent weekend, Good Old Wang returned for a visit, and we walked through Ju’er. He showed me the place where he was born. “There’s where we lived,” he said, pointing at the modern compound of the Jin Ju Yuan Hotel. “That’s where the temple used to be. When my parents moved in, there was still one lama left.”


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We continued east, past an old red door that was suspended in the hutong’s wall, three feet above the street. “There used to be a staircase there,” he explained. “When I was a child, that was an embassy.”


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In the nineteenth century, the compound had belonged to a Manchu prince; in the nineteen-forties, Chiang Kai-shek used it as his Beijing office; after the revolution, it was taken over by Dong Biwu, a founder of the Chinese Communist Party. In the nineteensixties, it served as the Yugoslavian Embassy. Now that all of them were gone—Manchus, Nationalists, Revolutionaries, Yugoslavians—the compound was called, appropriately, the Friendship Guesthouse.


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That was hutong karma—sites passed through countless incarnations, and always the mighty were laid low. A couple of blocks away, the family home of Wan Rong, empress to the last monarch of the Qing dynasty, had been converted into a clinic for diabetics. In Ju’er, the beautiful Western-style mansion of Rong Lu, a powerful Qing military official, had served one incarnation as the Afghanistan Embassy before becoming what it is today: the Children’s Fun Publishing Co., Ltd. A huge portrait of Mickey Mouse hangs above the door.


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Good Old Wang passed the Olympic toilet (“It’s a lot less cluttered than when I was here,” he observed), and then we came to the nondescript three-story building where he had lived since 1969. It wasn’t a historic structure, which was why it had been approved for demolition. The electricity and the heat had been cut off; we walked upstairs into an abandoned hallway. “This was my room when I was first married,” he said, stopping at a door. “Nineteen eighty-seven.”


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His brother had lost his arm that year. We continued down the hall, to the apartment where Wang had lived most recently, with his wife, his daughter, his father, and his brother. The girl’s drawings still decorated the walls: a sketch of a horse, the English phrase “Merry Christmas.” “This is where the TV was,” he said. “That’s where my father slept. My brother slept there.”


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The family had dispersed; the father and brother now live in a hutong to the north; Good Old Wang, his wife, and their daughter are using the home of a relative who is out of town. As compensation for the condemned apartment, Good Old Wang was given a small section of a decrepit building near the Drum Tower. He hoped to fix it up in the spring.


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Outside, I asked him if it had been hard to leave the hutong after nearly half a century. He thought for a moment. “You know, lots of events happened while I lived here,” he said. “And maybe there were more sad events than happy events.”


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On the way out, we passed an ad for the Beijing Great Millennium Trading Co., Ltd. Later that day, returning home, I saw a line of pedicabs: Chinese tourists, bundled against the cold, cameras in hand as they cruised the ancient street.

 楼主| 发表于 2009-9-29 07:50:00 | 显示全部楼层
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胡同因缘――一条北京小巷的前世今生
作者:何伟
原载《纽约客》杂志 | "中国来信"专栏 | 2006213
翻译:五福

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本译文经原作者授权发布,遵循共同创作约定-署名-非商业性使用-禁止演绎。

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  过去五年中,我一直住在紫禁城北边约一英里的地方,就在北京闹市区一条小巷的居民楼里。这条小巷没有正式的名字,它由西开始,经过三个90度的拐弯,出口向南。在地图上,小巷的形状很好找:它看起来就如同一个问号,或者佛教""字的半边。这条小巷很好找的另一个原因是,它位于北京所剩无几的老城区。跟今天大多数的中国城市一样,古都北京正急速变化着――最大的北京地图出版商每三个月要更新一次地图上的标识,否则完全跟不上城市的发展。然而我所在 的这片社区,却历经了几个世纪而能大致上保持原貌。第一张详尽的北京地图绘制完成于1750年,当时中国正处于伟大的清朝皇帝乾隆治下,在那份文献上,我所居住的这条小巷就保持着今天这样的走向。北京一位名叫徐平芳的考古学家曾经告诉过我,这条街道的历史可以远溯至14世纪的元朝,北京城的很多个街区都是在那个时代成形的。元朝还流传下了一个词――胡同,这个蒙古语中的词汇后来成了汉语,意思是"小巷"。本地人把我住的这条小巷叫做"小菊儿胡同",因为它与一条叫做"菊儿胡同"的稍大的街道相通。

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  我所住的居民楼是一幢三层楼的现代建筑,但是周围遍布着北京胡同所特有的砖 木结构的单层瓦房。这些房屋总是由青灰色的砖墙隔开,因此初见北京老城的人们会对这种分隔感留下印象:处处是墙,满眼青砖。然而胡同居民区的最显著特点正是连通与流动。十几户人家可能共用着一个进出通道,虽然这些老式民居都通自来水,但很少家庭有独用的卫生间,因而公共厕所在本地生活中占据着重要地位。在胡同里,很多的东西是共用的,这也包括胡同本身。哪怕是冬天,居民们也会穿戴暖和坐到路边,跟街坊们闲聊。沿街小贩不时经过,因为胡同太小,往往没有超市覆盖。

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  胡同里车辆很少。有些胡同,比如我住的这一条,宽度不足以车辆进出,于是这里日常听到的声音与你想象中身处 1500万人的大都市心脏地带所能听到的声音全然不同。通常,我天亮时就会醒来,从书桌这里能够听见居民们一边聊天一边走向我隔壁的公共厕所,手里端着夜壶。九、十点钟的时候,小贩们出来了。他们踩着三轮车在胡同中穿行,每个人都以招牌式的吆喝通告自己的产品。卖啤酒的女人嗓门最大,她一遍又一遍地唱着:"~~~"在上午八点,这个声音足可搅乱你的注意力,不过多年以来我已学会欣赏其中的韵味了。卖米的男人吆喝起来声调偏高,卖醋的小贩喜欢占据低音部。磨刀师傅带来的则是打击乐――金属片相互撞击发出不紧不慢的咔嗒咔嗒声。这些声音让人心安,告诉我即使从此不再踏出房门半步,生活也可以照样继续,只是不太平衡而已。我可以买到食用油和酱油,还能买到时令蔬菜和水果。冬天的时候,我能买到成串的大蒜。一个卖卫生纸的小贩每天都经过胡同。我也不会缺煤。时不时的,我还能吃到冰糖葫芦。

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  我甚至还可以从废品回收者那里挣到一点钱。在平时,每半个小时就有一个收废品的人骑着平板三轮车经过胡同。他们收购厚纸板、废纸、泡沫聚乙烯以及破旧电器。他们论斤买下旧书,按平方英寸收购坏掉的电视机。破旧电器可以修,或者拆成零件回收利用,纸和塑料则卖给回收站,赚取最最微薄的利润:废品的差价。不久前,我把一些没用的东西堆到门口的走道里,邀请每一位路过的废品回收者进来给它们估个价。一叠旧杂志卖了32美分;一根烧坏的电脑线值5美分。两盏坏掉的台灯,加在一起7美分。一双穿坏的鞋:12美分。两台坏掉的掌上电脑:37美分。我把自己在写的一本书的记满标记的手稿交给一个人,他掏出一杆秤称了称, 递给我15美分。

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  四月末的一天,我正坐在书桌前,突然听见有人喊道:"~~~!长~~~"这个调子是我所陌生的,于是我走下楼去,看见一名男子把他的三轮车停在胡同里。他来自河南省,所在的工厂专门生产假发和发帘。我问他生意怎样,他把手伸进一只粗麻袋,掏出一根又黑又长的马尾辫来。他说这是刚刚从另一个胡同居民那里收来的,花了10美元。他来北京是因为天气转暖了――正是理发的季节,他希望收足100磅的好头发之后再返回河南。他还说,这些头发大多数最后会出口到美国和日本。

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  正当我们谈话时,一位妇女从邻近的一所房子里匆匆走来,手上的一块紫色丝绸手帕里包着什么东西。她小心翼翼地揭开手帕:是两条粗辫子。

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  "这是我女儿的,"她解释说。她在女儿上次理发时把这两条辫子存了下来。

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  两条辫子每根大约8英寸长短。这名男子拿起一根来细细研究了一番,就如同经验老成的渔夫。他说:"它们太短了。"

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  "你是什么意思?"

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  "我要它们没用,"他说道。"得再长一些才行。"

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  这位妇女努力地想讨价还价一番,不过她实在没有讲价的筹码;最后她只好回屋去了,辫子仍然拿在手上。男子离  开胡同走远了,他的吆喝声回响起来:"~~~!长~~~"

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  我搬进小菊儿胡同后不久,北京开始加紧进行奥运会的准备工作,奥林匹亚的荣光开始影响到了胡同。为了促进体育健身和一般北京居民的健康水平,政府在 城市里建立了成百上千座户外健身设施。这些涂过漆的钢铁器械显然用心良苦,然而颇为古怪,仿佛是设计师在对健身房投以匆匆一瞥之后根据自己的记忆设计出来的。在这里,人们可以用手转动巨大的轮子,推举不提供任何阻力的硕大杠杆,还可以脚踩踏板荡来荡去,就像公园里的孩子。在整个大北京地区,这些设施无所不在,甚至出现在 长城脚下的小村庄。在那里这些器械让农民有了一种新的生活方式可供选择:在核桃收获的季节里,当他们干完12小时的农活之后,可以到这儿一圈圈地转动巨大的黄色轮子来保持体型。

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  不过,最善于利用这些健身设施的人当数胡同的居民。这些器械在老城区星罗棋布,见缝插针地深入狭窄巷弄。不论清晨还是傍晚,它们总是繁忙异常――成群的老年人在此聚会闲谈,一边在踏板上踩上几圈。在温暖的晚上,男人们悠闲地坐在器械上,抽着香烟。对于"终极胡同运动"――在街上跟 邻居们聊天――而言,这些健身设施堪称绝配。

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  2000年底,在一次全城范围内的迎奥运、改进卫生设施的活动中市政府重修了菊儿胡同口的公共厕所。这次变化简直天翻地覆,就好像一束圣光从奥林匹斯山巅直接照到了胡同里,留下一座极为庄严的建筑。这幢房子有自来水,有红外线自动感应马桶,还有以中文、英文和盲文写成的标示。灰色的屋瓦与传统的胡同建筑遥相呼应。公厕守则印制在不锈钢牌上。"第三:每位使用者可以免费领取一张卫生纸(长80厘米,宽10厘米)。" 一个小房间里住着一对已婚夫妇,他们是这里的全职管理员。市政府认识到没有哪个体面的北京居民愿意到公共厕所上班,于是他们从内陆地区引进了几十对夫妻,多数来自较贫困的省份安徽。丈夫打扫男厕,妻子负责女厕。

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  菊儿胡同的这一对夫妻还带着他们年幼的儿子,小男孩就在公共厕所前蹒跚学步。这种景象在首都其他地方也十分常见,也许未来的一天这些孩子将成为北京版的"午夜的孩子"(译注1): 整整一代在公共厕所里度过童年的儿童,奥运会过去10年后,他们长大成人,为祖国争得卫生事业的无上光荣。与此同时,菊儿胡同的居民们对新公厕门前有人值守的公共空间加以了充分利用。老杨,胡同里的修车师傅,把他的工具和多余的自行车存在那里。秋季时节,卖大白菜的小贩就睡在环绕公厕的草地上。王兆新,公厕隔壁香烟店的主人,在公厕入口附近放了几张破长椅。有人贡献了一个象棋盘。折叠椅也出现了,随后又出现了一个木制小厨柜,里面存放着啤酒杯。一段时间过后,这里的家具变得如此之多,每天晚上来这里的人也是如此之多,以致于王兆新宣布"WC俱乐部"正式成立。会员对所有人开放,不过由谁来担任主席――他们 称之为"政治局常委"――还有一些争议。作为一个外国人,我加入俱乐部的级别是"少先队员"。在周末的晚上,俱乐部会在公厕门前举行烧烤。王兆新提供香烟、啤酒和白酒,而曹先生,新华通讯社的一位司机,则与大伙讨论报上说的那些事情。炭火烤架由一位姓楚的残疾人打理,由于身有残疾,他持有驾驶一辆小三轮摩托的执照,因此可以很方便地穿梭在胡同里为大家运送羊肉串。2002年的夏天,中国男足首次打进世界杯,WC俱乐部弄来一台电视机插到公厕里的电源上,人们在此无情地嘲笑着中国队在整个赛程里粒球未进剃了光头。

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  王兆新很谦虚地拒绝了主席的称号,但是他显然是不二人选:他的一生都与北京的现代化转型紧密地联系在一起。1951年,共产党革命成功的两年后,他的父母搬进菊儿胡同。在那个时候,北京城依然完好地保留着15世纪初的规划布局,在世界各国的都市中别具一格:这是一座不曾被现代性或战争改变的古都。

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  北京城里曾经有一千多座庙宇和礼拜寺,但共产党掌权之后几乎所有这些庙宇都被移作他用。在菊儿胡同曾有一座叫做圆通寺的喇嘛庙,和尚们被赶走了,几十户人家搬了进来,其中就包括王兆新的父母。与此同时,新政权也鼓励其他无产阶级成员去占据富人们的宅院。过去,这些私有的胡同民居都带有轩敞的开放式庭院,但是在5060年代,大多数这类民居都挤满了棚屋和临时建筑。以前供一个家族居住的四合院可能变成了二十四户人家的住所,而整个城市也由于新流入的居民而人口激增。在接下去的二十年中,共产党拆掉了北京绝大多数的宏伟城门,以及她那极其壮观的古城墙。这座古城墙在有的部分高达40英尺。1966年,王兆新6岁时,他作为小学生参加过儿童团的义务劳动,帮助拆除距离菊儿胡同不远的一段明代城墙。1969年,时值文化大革命,为了修建地铁,菊儿胡同附近的安定门也被拆除。到了1976年毛泽东去世的时候,约五分之一 的老北京已经永远消失了。

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  1987年,王兆新的弟弟得到了人生的第一份工作――在一家北京的餐厅里上班。但是工作了没几个月,这位 18岁的小伙子就被面粉搅拌机卷断了右臂。这之前不久,王兆新刚刚开始做小生意,希望在新兴的市场经济里取得些成功。于是他根据弟弟的残疾病情来选择产品种类。水果和蔬菜太重,他琢磨,卖衣服又需要两只手来丈量和折叠。香烟很轻,于是王家两兄弟开始卖烟。

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  90年代和21世纪的头几 年,王家兄弟在菊儿胡同卖烟,开发商们在贩卖老北京。北京的老城区很少得到保护,部分原因是当地政府官员常常能从房地产开发中渔利。 每当又一条胡同面临灭绝,胡同的建筑物上都会标出一个巨大的带圈汉字,就好像无政府主义者的涂鸦中大写的字母"A"

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  拆:"摧垮,卸除。" 开发商在城市各处肆意圈地,这个字成了一种咒符――北京艺术家们玩味着这个字的外形,居民们则讲起关于""的笑话。在WC俱乐部,王兆新曾经说,"我们都住在'拆哪'" 听起来仿佛是英文单词"China",但是它的意思是"拆除哪儿?"

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  和我认识的很多北京人一样,王兆新是个讲求实际、有幽默感而且颇为果敢的人。他的慷慨是有名的――街坊们都昵称他作"王老善",意思是好老王。他总是拿出比 应有份额更多的东西贡献给WC俱乐部的烧烤晚会,而且总是最后一个离开。他曾说过,政府早晚有一天要拆到我们这片地区来,但是他从不多谈未来。在"拆哪" 生活了四十多年之后,生活已经告诉他没有什么能恒久流传。

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 楼主| 发表于 2009-9-29 07:50:00 | 显示全部楼层

【继续】

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  WC俱乐部靠近胡同口,正对着胡同口就是交道口南大街。在这条通衢大道上,各种车辆川流不息,最近的一个十字路口是一大片新建的住宅楼群、两家超市以及一家麦当劳。交道口象征着一个边界:一旦踏上大街,你就进入了现代的北京城。

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  每天,大多数要上班的胡同居民都要穿越这个边界。他们要经过老杨的修车铺,老杨的打气筒和工具箱就放在奥运公厕的隔壁。在胡同里,自行车加公厕的组合构成了最为便利的人际网络,老杨因此认识胡同里的每一个人。时不时,他还会替附近的人给我捎口信。有一次,他递给我一张一个到胡同里来找我的外国人的名片。还有 一次,他告诉我当地的一个媒人已经为我相中了一个对象。

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  "大学毕业,163"他简明扼要地说。这是他所知的全部。对于中国女性来说,16是一个神奇的数字――你常常能在招聘广告和征婚启事上看到这个数字,这个高度大约等于5英尺3英寸。我告诉老杨,我很感谢他的情报但是目前我还不想找个伴。

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  "干嘛不找?你还没结婚呢。"

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  "呃,我还不急。在我老家那边,人们结婚都比较晚。"

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  当我准备离开时,他告诉我他已经把我的手机号码发给那个介绍人了。

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  "你为什么要这么做?"我说。"你必须跟她说我没有兴趣。"

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  老杨六十出头,是个刮过脸、神情肃然的高个子男人。在我表示不能接受这番安排时,他的表情比平时更加严肃了。他告诉我现在已经太晚了,事情已经这么定下来了,要是我不去见面的话他会很丢面子。在那个礼拜,媒人给我打了四次电话,她称自己为彭老师,约我星期六下午见面。我们碰头的地方在边界以外,交道口的麦当劳门前。我的约会对象会在几分钟后过来,但彭老师想先把几件事情讲清楚。

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  我们在麦当劳餐厅的二楼落座后,彭老师说:"这次约会可要保密。"

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  "为什么?"

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  "不能公开。我们不可以给外国人介绍对象。"

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  "为什么不可以?"

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  "政府不准,"她说。"他们怕外国人骗中国女孩。"

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  谈话到此出现了短暂的停顿,本来这次谈话可能由此朝很多有趣的方向之一发展下去,但是彭老师似乎很善于衔接这种尴尬的沉默,她很快地说道:"当然咯,对你我是很放心的,"她喜气洋洋地说道。"老杨说你是个好人。"

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  彭老师年纪约四十五六,她眼角有十分明显的笑纹――这在中国是比较少见的。她并不真的是位教师,这只是人们对媒人的一种称呼而已。在中国,职业媒人依然活跃在农村地区和小城市,但是在北京这类大城市里,她们的作用已经变得不像过去那么重要。尽管如此,我还是偶尔能看到她们的广告,尤其是在老城区。彭老师在菊儿胡同里开着一间有执照的婚姻介绍所。

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  在麦当劳里,我问彭老师她怎么收费,她说跟对方见面的费用一般是200元。

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  "但是跟外国人见面收费更高些,"她说。"最少500,也有1000的,甚至2000元也有。"

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  我尽可能巧妙地问她,要是事情成功的话,为了见我今天这位客户需要付给她多少钱。

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  "1000块。"这相当于120美元多一点。尽管还有外国人的身价比这个数字还要翻番,但是知道自己是最低标准的两倍这一点还是让人颇觉欣慰的。

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  "如果仅仅只是今天见个面,她也需要付钱吗?"我问道。

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  "不,除非你们俩继续在一起。"

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  "你是说结婚?"

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  "不,继续约会。"

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  "继续约会多少次你会收费?"

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  "要看情况而定。"

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  她不肯告诉我一个明确的数字,而我则不停地提问,想弄明白整个过程是怎样运作的。最后,她凑过身来对我说:"你是想尽快结婚,还是只想找个女友打发时间?"

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  这个问题可实在够直接的,对于一个三十几岁单身男性的初次约会来说尤其如此。我该怎么回答呢?我不想让修车的老杨没面子。

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  "我真的不知道,"我有点结巴地说。"但是我要确定她不会单单为了今天来见我而付钱。"

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  彭老师又一次地笑了。"这个你用不着担心。"

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  在我初来乍到的时候,麦当劳是我的眼中钉――一种潜在的威胁:它代表着让老北京消失殆尽的商业势力的扩张。然而,随着时间的推移,胡同生活让我对这家连锁店产生了新的认识。其一就是,在麦当劳你不必吃这儿的快餐就能享受到店里的一切便利。在交道口的这家麦当劳餐厅,人们常常坐在桌前做各种各样的事情,就是不点餐。很多人在看书看报,下午放学的孩子在店里做作业,我还见过附近公司里的经理们安静地坐在这里盘点账目,而总有很多很多很多时候,你会看到有人伏在桌 上睡得正香。不论从好的方面还是从不好的方面看来,麦当劳都与胡同生活截然相反:这里夏天凉爽,冬天温暖,带有独用卫生间。

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  此外它还具有匿名性。这里与中餐厅不同,服务生不会桌前桌后地围着你转。快餐店的服务生从不过问顾客的私事。有好几次,我所采访的持不同政见者都要求在麦当劳或者肯德基餐厅与我见面,因为那里更安全。

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  其他人显然也有此想法。一对情侣坐在窗边,互相依偎着窃窃私语。另一张桌前,两个衣着华丽的女孩像是在等待各自的男友。越过彭老师的左肩,我能看见似乎正经历某种危机的一对儿。女孩25岁左右,男子看上去老得多,约莫有40多岁。他们的脸上有着不自然的红晕,那是喝过酒的中国人脸上所常有的。他们俩就这么静 静地坐着,看着对方。在他们旁边,麦当劳儿童乐园里空无一人。这时彭老师的传呼机响了。

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  "是她。"彭老师说道,并要求借用我的手机回电。

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  "我在麦当劳了,"她冲着电话说。"那个意大利人已经来了,你赶紧过来吧。"

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  彭老师挂断电话后,我本想说些什么,可是彭老师的语速实在太快了。"她在中学里当音乐老师,"彭老师飞快地说,"她人很好的――不然我也不会介绍你们俩认识了。好,听着,她今年24,长得很好看,而且身高有164,大学毕业。就是她稍微有点儿瘦,不像你们意大利的女人那么丰满――我想这不会成问题吧。"

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  要处理的信息实在太多――至少有一样,我的约会对象看来又长高了点儿――不等我开口,彭老师接着说:"好,听着,你有份不错的工作,而且你会讲中文。此外,你还当过老师,这样你俩就有共同语言了。"

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终于,她停了下来。我说:"我不是意大利人。"

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  "什么?"

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  "我是美国人。我不是意大利人。"

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  "那老杨干吗说你是意大利人?"

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  "我不知道,"我说。"我奶奶是意大利人,但是我觉得老杨应该不知道这个。"

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  彭老师完全被弄糊涂了。

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  "美国是个移民国家,"我开始解释,随即决定还是就此闭嘴为好。

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  彭老师很快恢复了镇定。"没问题,"她说,又一次露出了微笑。"美国是个好国家。你是美国人,这没问题。"

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  那位女士来了。她戴着耳机,时髦的夹克上装饰着日文字符,还穿着紧身牛仔裤。她的头发染成了深褐色。彭老师为我们作了介绍,眼角最后一次绽放出笑纹,随后便很老练地告辞了。这位女士慢慢地,一个一个地摘下随身听耳机。  她看上去相当年轻,CD机摆在我们两人中间。

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  我说:"你在听什么?"

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  "王菲。"――一位女流行歌手和演员。

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  "好听吗?"

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  "不错。"

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  我问她想不想吃点东西,她摇了摇头。我尊重这个决定――毕竟,为什么要让快餐破坏这么一次麦当劳里的约会呢?她告诉我她跟父母一起住在鼓楼一带,她所任教的学校就在附近。她问我是不是住在这一片。

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  "我住在菊儿胡同。"

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  "我不知道原来有外国人住在那儿,"她说。"你每个月房租多少?"

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  这就是中国,于是我告诉了她。

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  "你被宰了,"她说。"你为什么出这么多钱?"

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  "我也不知道。我想他们总能多收外国人钱吧。"

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  "你当过老师,是吗?"

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  我告诉她我曾经在四川省的一个小城市里教过英语。

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  "那一定很无聊吧,"她说。"现在你在哪儿工作?"

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  我告诉她我是个作家,就在家里工作。

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  "那更无聊了,"她说。"要是我得在家工作,非疯了不可。"

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  在她身后,那醉酒的一对开始大声争吵起来。女孩突然站起身来,挥起一份报纸扇了男子一耳光,然后愤然离开,经过儿童乐园走下楼去。男子一声不响地在桌上环抱双臂,低下头去趴在桌上开始睡觉。过了一会儿,那位音乐老师问我:"你经常回你的意大利吗?"

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  在接下去的一周,媒人彭老师又打来电话看是否有可能安排第二次约会,不过她并不很坚持。她给我的印象是一个十分精明的女人――精明到足以看出我的稀里糊涂能够被更好地加以利用,而不仅限于促成更多麦当劳里的约会。我第二次在胡同里遇见她时,她问我想不想投资经营一个卡拉OK小店。自那以后,我每次都尽量绕过她的婚介所。

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  后来我问起老杨关于意大利人的误会,他耸了耸肩说我有次曾提起我的奶奶是意大利人。我完全不记得那次对话,不过,这事给我的胡同生活上了宝贵的一课:绝不要低估了修车师傅的见闻。

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  好老王对于"拆哪"的看法是正确的。这么多年来,他一直预言拆迁的到来,终于,20059月,政府将他的住宅楼纳入拆迁范围。他顺从地搬走了。香烟店已经转让了,因为赚不到什么钱。谁是真正的俱乐部主席现在已不言而喻,因为自从他搬走之后,WC俱乐部就散了伙。

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  在那时,四分之三的老北京城已经拆光了。剩下的四分之一主要是几个公园和紫禁城。这些年来发生过一些关于拆迁的抗议和诉讼,不过这些争端往往只是局部现象:人们抱怨腐败的政府官员截留拆迁补偿款,以及不愿搬到远离市区的郊外去住。一般很少听到普通的北京居民对城市所发生的整体变化表示关注。很少有人说起建筑保护,这可能是因为中国文化中"过去"的概念并不像西方那样与建筑紧密相关。中国人建造房屋时极少用到石料,而是每几十年更换一下屋中易朽的材料。

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  胡同的精髓更多地存在于它的精神而不是结构之中,每当社区与一些现代元素相遇时――一座奥运公厕,一家麦当劳等等――这种精神往往表现得最为显著。实用主义 和机智变通早已深深地根植于好老王这样的胡同居民身上,因为他们的环境常常是流动不居的。胡同生活的根本特点已为它自己的消亡做好了准备。

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  2005年,北京市政府终于发布了一条新计划来保护分散在北部和西部城区的老式民居,其中也包括菊儿胡同。这些胡同将不再像过去那样上市任由开发商随意摆布。该计划声称首要任务是要"保护旧城的生活方式",政府还成立了一个十人组成的顾问委员会,以就重大保护项目向它咨询。这个委员会的成员包括建筑师、考古学家和城市规划师,其中有些人曾经公开批评过北京的旧城区拆迁。一位委员告诉我,基本上一切已为时已晚,但是这个新计划至少可以保护一下目前仅存的胡同的基本布局。但是即使在这种布局之下,旧城区的中产阶级化也无可避免――胡同已是如此稀有,它们已经在新经济的浪潮中占有了一席之地。

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  在我所住的胡同里,变化已经开始了。2004年,酒吧、咖啡馆和流行小店开始进入与菊儿胡同交叉的一条安静的街道,那里的居民乐于把旧居换个好价钱。这些店铺依然保持了传统的建筑风格,但是它们给老城区带来了新的复杂感觉。如今,假如我足不出胡同,我可以享受到Wi-Fi网络,各种手工艺品,还能喝到每一种你想像得出的混合饮料。胡同里开了一家美甲沙龙。还有人开了一间纹身坊。走街串巷的小贩和废品回收者依然活跃,不过在他们之外胡同里又出现了"三轮车的士"的大军 ――他们专做"胡同游"。很多游客是中国人。

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  最近的一个周末,好老王回到胡同来看看。我们把菊儿胡同转了一遍。他指给我看他出生的地方。"我们以前就住在那里,"他说,手指着金菊园宾馆那现代感十足的院子。"那就是圆通寺原来所在的位置。我父母搬进去的时候,庙里还住着一个喇嘛。"

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  我们继续向东,经过一扇嵌在胡同墙上的悬空的老木门,离地面有三英尺高。"这儿以前是有楼梯的,"他解释说,"我小的时候,这儿是个使馆。"

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  19 世纪时,这个院子属于一位满族亲王;20世纪40年代,蒋介石将它作为自己在北京的办公室;革命过后,这个院子换了新主人――董必武,共产党的一位创始 人;到了60年代,它成了南斯拉夫大使馆。如今,所有这些人都不见了――满族人,国民党,革命家,南斯拉夫人――院子有了一个恰如其分的新名字,友谊旅社。

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  这就是胡同因缘――诸多屋宇历经生生世世,权贵终化黔首。几个街区之外,清朝最后一位君主的皇后婉容的家族居第变成了一家糖尿病诊所。在菊儿胡同里,晚清权倾一时的军事将领荣禄那美丽的西式官邸,在一度成为阿富汗使馆之后,而今换上新颜:童趣出版有限公司。一幅巨大的米老鼠像高悬在大门上。

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  好老王经过奥运公厕("这儿不像我在的时候那么乱了,"他评论说),然后我们来到一幢没有特点的三层楼房前,这就是他1969年之后一直居住的地方。这幢楼不是历史建筑,所以政府批准了它的拆迁。水和电已经切断了,我们走上楼去,走进一个空无一人的走廊。"当初我结婚时就是在这个 房间,"他在一扇门前停下说道。"1987年。"那一年他的弟弟失去了一条胳膊。我们顺着走廊继续前行,来到他刚搬离的那套他和他妻子、女儿、父亲和弟弟 一起住过的房子。小女孩的画仍然贴在墙上:一幅马的素描,边上有一句英文的"圣诞快乐""这里原来放着电视机,"他说。"我父亲睡在那里。我弟弟睡这儿。"

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  这一家人已经分开了,他父亲和他弟弟现在住在北边的一条胡同里;好老王跟他的妻子和女儿现在借住在一个人在外地的亲戚家里。作为拆迁补偿,好老王在鼓楼附近的一幢老房子里分到了一角。他打算开春后把它装修好。

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出来后,我问他在胡同里住了近半个世纪之后,离开这里是否感到难过。他想了一会儿说道:"你知道,我住在这里期间发生了很多事。也许伤心事比喜事更多些。"

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  在出来的路上,我们经过一幅广告,北京盛大千禧贸易有限公司。那天晚些时候,在我回家的路上,一长串三轮的士经过我的身边。中国游客们在寒风中穿得暖暖和和的,手拿相机,沿着古老的胡同渐行渐远。

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(文完)

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译注1:《午夜的孩子》系英籍印裔作家萨尔曼?拉什迪的名作,讲述了1947815日印度独立日的午夜零时降生、具有特异功能的孩子的故事,1981年获布克文学奖。fficeffice" />

发表于 2009-10-15 18:26:00 | 显示全部楼层
 a long composition
 楼主| 发表于 2009-11-23 13:27:00 | 显示全部楼层
QUOTE:
以下是引用寒水道人在2009-11-22 16:55:00的发言:
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这老长,这洋人话痨吧

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还有写书的呢。呵呵。

发表于 2009-11-22 16:55:00 | 显示全部楼层

这老长,这洋人话痨吧

发表于 2009-12-9 20:29:00 | 显示全部楼层
I wish he could be a contributor to Sino-US culture communication.
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