Chapter 6 series one

Listening to the Wind Tower - Remembering Uncle Feng Yidai one One night in early October 1976, around ten o'clock, I left the house, went downstairs, walked more than a hundred steps, turned left on the second floor of Building No. 1, and rang Room 121.Uncle Feng poked his head out first, and then stepped back to open the door. It turned out that he was shirtless.He waved the towel in his hand and said, "Come on." So I followed him to the kitchen.With his back to me, he drew water from the washbasin with a towel and wiped his upper body.At that time, most families in Beijing did not have the conditions to take a bath.Uncle Feng was 63 years old at the time. He was already fat, with sagging fat on his back, but he was still strong.He rubbed his back with a towel, leaving red marks.Just as he was taking a good bath, I suddenly said: "The Gang of Four has been arrested." I saw his body stiffen, and his back twitched.He turned around slowly, stared at me closely, and asked, "Really?" I nodded. "When?" "Just two days ago." He believed my words, threw the towel into the washbasin, and came to the living room with me.We don't talk much, and language doesn't seem to matter much.His mouth was open, thoughtful, but not a smile.

When I heard the news of Uncle Feng's death, my initial reaction was numb, like a frozen person slowly recovering from the fire of memory; the first thing I thought of was the scene thirty years ago, which was clear and vivid It seems that as long as I knock on that door again, everything can start again. Uncle Feng and I live in the same dormitory compound of the Democratic Party - No. 1 Sanbulao Hutong, which used to be the residence of Zheng He.Later, somehow, in Beijing dialect that swallowed jujubes, "Master Sanbao" evolved into "Sanbulao".The changes of our hospital are like a revolving stage of modern Chinese history, making people dizzy: when we first moved in, there were rockeries, which were later demolished and flattened, and a small blast furnace was built to make steel, and a canteen was built to eat big pot meals; during the Cultural Revolution, the ground was dug. Three feet, it became an air-raid shelter; the reform and opening up was filled again, and a new building was erected.

Uncle Feng and I should have met after 1973, that is, not long after he returned to Beijing with the Great Army.I followed the radio to learn English at that time, and through my father's introduction, I got to know this old man in the translation industry.There were no phones back then.The good thing about an age of scarcity is that human interaction is simple—no knocks, no red tape.Besides, the democratic parties have all stopped, and the translation publications have also closed down. Uncle Feng has become a big idler, useless; he is easy-going and likes to associate with young people.So I took advantage of the times to break into Uncle Feng's life.

To say that this "Tingfeng Building" is not high, only Zhang Zhang; not big, just one room and one living room.I have never entered the room, and what I am familiar with is only the hall, which has multiple functions such as receiving guests, reading, writing, dining, and growing flowers.As soon as I entered the door, I sat on the small sofa next to the door.A small bookshelf is placed horizontally, in order to separate the space and also create a visual obstacle for peepers.Uncle Feng often sits on the small sofa opposite, which is the owner's seat.This house faces north and faces the corner of the building. Presumably the northwest wind is raging in winter, making ghosts cry and wolves howling, so it is named "Tingfeng Building".If it is extended, I am afraid there is another meaning: to listen to the dangerous and unpredictable wind in the world.

Uncle Feng studied business administration, which is the most fashionable MBA nowadays.He met Zheng Anna when he was a sophomore at Hujiang University in Shanghai.At that time, the English drama club was performing Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream", and he immediately fell in love with Zheng Anna on the stage.They were married in 1938.He said: "Marrying an English prodigy, it would be strange not to engage in translation." When I saw Mama Zheng, she was already a kind and amiable little old lady.She was the one who opened the door almost every time and informed Uncle Feng in the living room.What is still fresh in my memory is that she was always wearing an apron and sleeves, busy, as if there were endless housework to do.She looks at people through reading glasses, and uses reading glasses plus a magnifying glass to read books and see the world.She suffered from acute glaucoma in the cadre school, but failed to receive timely treatment. As a result, she became blind in one eye and had weak vision in the other eye.I have always called her "Mother Feng".She was soft-spoken and breezy; she complained occasionally, but only with a sigh.She was recommended by Soong Ching Ling to Zhou Enlai and worked as an interpreter in the All-China Federation of Trade Unions.She is like a living dictionary. Uncle Feng always asks her when he encounters difficulties in translation.

I remember trying to translate the first chapter of Somerset Maugham's "Human Chains".There is an English word egg-top, which refers to the part of the top when the British eat boiled eggs by knocking open the shell.I translated it as "egg head" and found it inexplicable, so I asked Uncle Feng to discuss it, and he also felt inexplicable.He said that many places in food culture cannot be translated.We discussed it, and still kept the inexplicable "egg head". To be honest, I pestered an old translator with such a simple question, it was purely an excuse.What fascinated me most about their house were the books that survived the Cultural Revolution, especially foreign literature.I have forgotten the titles of those books, but I only remember that there is a translation of Hemingway's "The Fifth Column" by Uncle Feng, which reproduces Hemingway's telegraphic style, and is undoubtedly a classic of modern Chinese translation.He himself was most satisfied with the translation of The Fifth Column.In an interview, he said: "You can't make a successful translation once, but you always change it again and again. When the book is published, you have to change it when it is republished. I translated Hemingway's play "The Fifth Column". Five or six times, and now I have to revise, but now I have no energy to change. Therefore, I was distressed, discouraged, and wanted to change my career, but translation is my hobby..."

Uncle Feng is a gentle person, always smiling and smoking a pipe, and the age spots on his face seem to emphasize the compromise with the years.At that time, I was young and vigorous, and I spoke freely, while he was hiding his strength from the fright of the Anti-Rightist Movement and the Cultural Revolution, but he graciously accepted my heresy, listened, but rarely intervened in my topics. It was I who brought the news of the downfall of the Gang of Four to Tingfenglou. Our relationship changed. I was no longer a literary youth pestering him with "eggheads." We became "accomplices"—because of sharing a secret , and the secret will change our lives respectively.That night, I guess Uncle Feng couldn't sleep all night. In order not to disturb Mama Feng, he sat alone in the dark for a long time.The situation is changing, and the ups and downs of most of my life are vivid in my mind.He originally planned to "be a man with his tail between his legs" and spend the rest of his life among the idlers in society.

two Occasionally, I read a short article by Uncle Feng, which moved me. It is undoubtedly important for understanding his inner world.This short article is due to the exclamation caused by the van Gogh painting being taken privately as his own in the auction, and it reminds me of a copy bought in Shanghai many years ago. He wrote: "During the ten years of turmoil, I was banished to a reform-through-labor farm in the Southern Wilderness. Every day I did labor beyond my power. I felt so gloomy that I was afraid. One day I pushed a dung truck and walked past a farmer's house. A thatched hut, with a few bright yellow sunflowers protruding from the fence against the blue sky. I suddenly thought of Van Gogh hanging on the dark green wall of his apartment in Shanghai. I recalled that the family I was so happy, my three-year-old daughter was learning to speak in an adult's voice, and then she realized that she didn't learn well, so she giggled, climbed up on the table and pointed to the book I was reading, and said that when I grow up, I will also Read this. But now there are only a few sunflowers calling out to me, my heart keeps sinking and floating, and I have nowhere to go. From now on, even if it takes a lot of walking to pick up dung every day, I would rather come here for a circle .I just wanted to catch a glimpse of those few sunflowers slowly turning grey-yellow and relive some of the old joy until one day the farmer stashed away the overripe fruit. I remember walking past this farmhouse that day At that time, the children in the fence were vying for the fruits of the harvest, screaming amid laughter; I also thought of my daughter who is far away in the north, how happy she would be if she was mixed in with the noise of these children! How would she feel if she saw her father, in rags, pushing a heavy dung cart? I walked back with tears in my eyes. I thought of the painting by Van Gogh again. Perhaps the loneliness of the world is far greater than I have tasted, otherwise why did he paint flowers that are about to decay? But he also dreams of joy, otherwise why did he use this dazzling yellow as the background?"

In my impression, Uncle Feng is a person who is not good at expressing his feelings.I didn't expect him to be so sentimental in this short essay, expressing the vicissitudes of life through a single painting.A reporter interviewed Uncle Feng a few years ago.According to his records, he finally asked: "Can you sum up your life in a few words?" Feng Yidai said solemnly: "Not a few words, but one word is enough—difficult." At the end, The old man burst into tears suddenly and kept sobbing. We might as well read a paragraph in this short article carefully: "After I was liberated, I went to Beijing to work, but I didn't bring this painting; I always felt that this picture was out of tune with the atmosphere around me at that time. Because I was liberated, the surrounding I no longer feel lonely, and everything is immersed in the joy of the festival. But once upon a time, I nostalgic for this painting again. It seems that people are like this bunch of sunflowers, even in the afterglow of the setting sun, they are desperately trying to catch them This gradually receding sunset." This kind of inner turning point reflects the complex relationship between intellectuals and revolution.

Feng Yidai left Hong Kong for Chongqing in 1941, and was entrusted by Qiao Guanhua before leaving.After arriving in Chongqing, he helped the left-wing theater and film industry a lot, and funded those progressive cultural figures.In his twilight years, reporters asked about those past events in interviews. "Some things can't be said until death." He was silent for a long time, and then said: "What I do is what the party asks me to do, and some things in the party cannot be made public. If I do something wrong, my ability is limited. It is my responsibility, but it was all assigned by the Party in the beginning. I can only talk so far.” Huang Zongying asked him teasingly: “Maybe there must be some ventilation.” He said decisively: “Even my wife can’t Talk." Maybe people today think that this kind of thing is ridiculous, and more than half a century has passed, and even the materials of the National Archives Bureau have been declassified, so what kind of secret can there really be?I think what Uncle Feng was talking about was nothing but his commitment to the revolution in his youth: scholars die for those who know their friends.

According to Uncle Feng’s daughter Feng Tao’s recollection: “After the liberation in 1949, Zhou Enlai asked Hu Qiaomu to go to the south to recruit intellectuals to support the central government, and my father and our whole family went to Beijing. After my parents arrived in Beijing, they were so busy that they never saw each other. They... During that time, they should be in high spirits, because their ideals have been realized, and they hope to build such a country. Later, my father was transferred to a foreign language publishing house. It didn’t take long for the anti-rightist movement to start. My father is also a foreign language publishing house. The first to be labeled as a rightist." It is said that at the rectification meeting of the Beijing Civil League, everyone was eager to throw their hats out to avoid bad luck for themselves.And why did this rightist hat fall on his head?In my opinion, this is undoubtedly related to Uncle Feng's character.First of all, he was obliged to ask for his opinion; when it was his turn to distribute the hat, he couldn't shirk it, so he had to keep it for himself.This is logically consistent with what he said "some things can't be said until death". Uncle Feng and my father have known each other since Chongqing. They were both in the Central Trust Bureau. My father was just a small employee, and Uncle Feng was the deputy director of the mint of the Central Trust Bureau.The literary and art circles at that time called him "Second Brother Feng", but no one could tell where the title came from.It is said that he generously donated money, "opened a table of eight immortals to entertain the sixteen parties", and he "paid the bill" for all the treats in restaurants.It is reasonable to say that, with many poor literati, who made him print money? It is said that in his later years, Uncle Feng was bedridden, and Huang Zongying informed him of a manuscript fee he had just received. Uncle Feng asked the amount, then gestured with his thumb, and said, "Please." During the Cultural Revolution, in addition to the accusations of "U.S. Chiang Kai-shek spy" and "unrepentant rightist", Uncle Feng was also accused of being a "second-rate black general".Regarding the "Er Liu Tang", Uncle Feng later recalled: "After the fall of Hong Kong, a large number of progressive cultural people who retreated from Hong Kong gathered in Chongqing. First, I met Xia Yan, who lived at a friend's house in Huangjiaokou. Soon Mrs. Xia Yan also came. Tang Yu then Another three-bay house was built on the hillside, known as the 'Er Liu Tang'. Cultural people in Chongqing often come here to drink tea, meet friends, and discuss work." The "Er Liu Tang" that Guo Moruo jokingly called was nothing more than a salon where literati gathered.The same people who are reduced to the end of the world, their cups and cups are wrong, how much pride for a while!But just think about how many shadows are left on the wine in the glass by the things that are "not to be told until death".Since there is no big brother in the hall, the "Second Brother Feng" who has donated righteousness and money will naturally become the leader. In addition to the fact that "you can't talk about it until you die", what should you do if you catch up with the Cultural Revolution?He is bound to be tested by the logic of revolution with all its paradoxes.He recalled: "During the Cultural Revolution, I couldn't figure it out at first. Within a week, all the teeth were shaken. As a result of seeing a doctor, within ten days, all the upper and lower teeth were pulled out, and I became a 'toothless' person." A person must first see how he started, which almost determines his life.Uncle Feng was also a literary youth back then, and he actually wrote new poems.Speaking of the beginning of his literary career, he always mentioned Dai Wangshu. In February 1938, he met Dai Wangshu in the editorial office of Hong Kong's "Sing Tao Daily".Dai Wangshu said to him: "I have read all your manuscripts. Your prose is okay, and so is your translation. You should finish translating Hemingway's novel, but most of your poems are imitations and have no new ideas. Not from the classics, but from foreign countries, and from me. To be frank, you can't be a poet. But there is something poetic in your prose." three At the end of the 1970s, Tingfeng Building finally installed a telephone, which was a modern signal, a busy signal, a signal of openness and rejection.Since then, Uncle Feng has become a very busy person, with more and more social activities.I knocked on the door according to my old habit, but I often missed it, so I could only talk about family affairs with Feng's mother. "World Literature" is about to resume publication, which is tantamount to finding a flowerpot for a plant that is about to wilt.Uncle Feng was overjoyed, and solemnly announced that "World Literature" asked him to translate a novella by Maugham and publish it in the reissue issue.But after all, the skills are unfamiliar, and I am a little vague when I am proud.He finally came up with a brilliant idea and invited a group of literary youths to help out, including me.He read the first draft of the translation to us aloud, and asked everyone to express their opinions word by word, in order to make the translation smoother and more colloquial.For several weekends in a row, we gathered in Uncle Feng's small living room, laughing and laughing like a festival.We often blush over a certain word, and Feng's mother holds a magnifying glass and points it at the big dictionary to help him find the exact meaning.In the end, of course, Uncle Feng made the decision. He was smoking a pipe and looking at the ceiling, pondered for a long time, and finally said: "Let me think again." A great translator like Uncle Feng is walking on eggshells in his own territory.He often gets stuck on a word and struggles for days, and finally the epiphany is like a blessing, which makes him ecstatic.Looking at the mass-produced commercial literary translation products today, I can't help but feel angry. But Uncle Feng didn't forget me in his busy schedule. He introduced me to Yan Mingfu who was planning to establish the Encyclopedia Publishing House.I took the translation qualification examination and passed the examination, but in the end I still failed to transfer.Then he introduced me to the newly republished "New Observation" magazine. After a trial period, I became the editor of the literature and art group. One afternoon in late December 1978, I hurried to Tingfenglou, and Uncle Feng happened to be at home.I took out the cover of the forthcoming first issue of "Today" and asked him about the English translation of the word "today".His eyes were shining and he was puffing on his pipe so hard that his face could not be seen clearly for a moment.He disagreed with my translation of "today" into TODAY, thinking it was too general.He found an English-Chinese dictionary, discussed with Feng's mother, and suggested that I translate it into The Moment, which means at this moment and today.I didn't expect Uncle Feng to have a greater sense of urgency than us, and pay more attention to the turning point of history.So Uncle Feng's interpretation of time appeared on the cover of the inaugural issue of "Today": The Moment. I am reminded of the lines of the Swedish poet Tranströmer: "I am employed by a great memory." Memory is like a labyrinth, opening one door reveals another.To be honest, I've long since forgotten this important detail about naming "Today".One day when I was wandering the Internet, I came across a photo of Uncle Feng holding a pipe. It was shocking and reminded me of this moment in my life.Each of us lives in this moment, and the threshold of this moment is constantly moving.In the final analysis, the personal moment may be insignificant, but at a certain point, if you connect with the historical opportunity, a spark will flash like a short circuit.I went to the supermarket to buy vegetables yesterday, parked the car, put my feet on the ground, and then walked step by step, and suddenly thought of this scene 27 years ago: the moment.Yes, I really want to see Uncle Feng's expression in the smoke. Just at this moment, Uncle Feng and his friends are planning another magazine, "Dushu".It cannot be overstated that this magazine will have a profound impact on Chinese culture in the next few decades.Although "Reading" and "Today" took different paths, they came from the same historical turning point. Thinking back to the 1980s, it was really vigorous, like a brightly lit train passing by in the night, leaving passengers with a sense of dizziness if they lost something.In the early 1980s, I got married and moved out of Sanbulao Compound.Since then, the opportunities to meet Uncle Feng have become less and less, but he has always been involved in various whirlpools.Presumably it was the complicity of that night that he never said no and never complained afterwards. In October 1979, "New Observation" published an article written by Uncle Feng for the "Xingxing Art Exhibition Incident", which made a generous statement and upheld justice.In the precarious early spring of 1989, I rushed to Uncle Feng's house for an important matter.I remember his serious expression, instead of rejecting my request, he said, "Well done." I proudly raised my head and met his gaze.He nodded and smiled. Four I have been abroad for many years, and I often get news of Uncle Feng from my father. In 1993, I was saddened to learn of the news of Feng’s mother’s death. At the same time, I was also worried about Uncle Feng’s loneliness. Later, I heard that he and Huang Zongying had become partners, and my worries turned into joy. In the spring of 1996, when I was talking on the phone with my father, he told me to call Uncle Feng, saying that he had just recovered from a stroke and wanted to talk to me.After dialing the number, I was startled when I heard Uncle Feng's voice.His voice was old and trembling, intermittent.He asked about my situation overseas.Even if I have a thousand grievances, what can I say? "Fine," I said nah.Later, I called Uncle Feng two or three times, but I couldn't say anything, just greeting.The world is different, the situation is different; besides, jet lag disassembles the moment, what can we say? In the winter of 2001, I returned to Beijing because my father was seriously ill.I have been away from my hometown for 13 years. To be honest, I can’t even find my home.I will immediately ask Baojia to help me find out the whereabouts of Uncle Feng.She got in touch with Huang Zongying and said that Uncle Feng was in the hospital.It was a cold morning and the streets were covered with snow.Drive by Baojia, first go to Xiaoxitian to pick up Aunt Huang Zongying.I knew Aunt Huang many years ago. At that time, I was in a bad situation in Beijing. I had the intention to transfer to Haikou, where she was running a company.I remember we talked late at night outside the hotel where she was staying, and she finally sighed: "Your problem is too complicated, and I have no power or power to help you." It is far from what it was back then, and my legs and feet are inconvenient.Under our escort, we finally got into the car and drove to the China-Japan Friendship Hospital. The first thing that reminds me of all the wards is the ice cellar, and even the nurses' movements become slow, as if they are also preparing to enter hibernation together.When he saw Uncle Feng's lying flat posture, his heart sank. It was a posture that was at the mercy of others.It is said that he has had seven strokes and this is the eighth.What is the power that makes him go through life and death without fear?Aunt Huang stroked Uncle Feng's forehead and called affectionately: "Second brother, I'm here." Uncle Feng slowly opened his eyes, his eyes were dull, and gradually became a little angry, as if he had woken up from the cold winter.At this moment, he saw me and was taken aback for a moment.I leaned over the head of the bed and called out "Uncle Feng".He suddenly burst into tears like a child, which frightened me, and I hurried out of his sight for fear of causing another stroke.The people around comforted him one after another, but he couldn't stop crying, heart-piercing.His bare feet peeking out from under the sheets, so lonely and helpless. We stayed in the ward for a total of ten minutes before leaving.I know this is the farewell - this life.At the door, I gave him one last look back and prayed silently for him. Uncle Feng once said to Aunt Huang: "I want to revise my will and add: I will greet the beauty of Hei with a smile." Such a poetic will actually just shows that he is a hopeless romantic.And his knowledge of Hei can be traced back to his childhood.His mother died of puerperal fever just over a month after giving birth to him.He later said: "Blessed are those who have a mother, but sometimes they don't care about it and think they deserve it; but as a person whose mother died when he was young, maternal love is such a precious thing to him. He looks forward to having a mother's love." , but he couldn’t get it; his young heart was destined to be miserable since childhood.” Fives To be honest, I was not particularly sad to learn of Uncle Feng's death.He has lived, loved, believed in, lost, written, translated, and done several great things.Such a life is enough.I think of his helpless bare feet.They were made to walk on the earth, to be written by walking, to speak by writing, and to be heard by speaking.Yes, listen to the wind of the earth. If life and death can be crossed, I am now back to that night in October 1976.I came out of the house with a secret, a secret that was so pleasantly surprised that I was about to explode. I went down the stairs in the dark (the light bulbs in the building were all broken), and walked along the red brick road and the dark shadow of the building.There was no wind that night, and the moon was shining brightly.I walked to the end, picked up the steps, and knocked on the door of Tingfenglou in the dark.