Chapter 39 Chapter Thirty-Eight

The 18 so-called "big inner masters" who were knocked off the roof by Sun Xiaoliu with his bare hands and flew into the tea garden disappeared like bubbles.This raid did not alarm our uncaring neighbors.Until nearly ten years later, when I read Wang Xunru's "Tiandihui: Medical Skills, Medicine and Medical Dao" for its weird and subtle relationship with the real world, and was severely reprimanded by my father—it can also be said Pointing out——After a while, I recalled that the reason why this sudden fight immediately "passed away" was actually due to the ups and downs of the "hum ha two talents".

These two talents, one named Shi Pingcai and the other named Kang Yongcai, were both disciples and grandchildren of Bai Taiguan who ranked seventh among the Eight Heroes in the north and south of the Yangtze River.It's just that Bai Taiguan recruited countless disciples to collect money, and his disciples and grandchildren had to accept disciples and grandchildren to make ends meet. Therefore, after three generations of disciples and grandchildren passed on, there would be situations where people from the same sect did not know each other.And because the inheritance is superfluous, the foundation is also shallow; you have a Mizong Fist, I have a Mizong Palm, one set of Mizong Technique, and the other set of Mizong Kung Fu, so in the book "Thunder of the Seven Seas" He once pointed out a series of short stories about fratricide in the same family: Among the thousands of descendants who claim to be the direct descendants of Bai Taiguan, there is only one sect that does not use the name of the Bai family as a promotion, and that is the "Piaohuamen". .

According to the explanation of the author Piaohua Lingzhu's discussion and narration, readers can understand: the reason why "Piaohuamen" refuses to regard the Bai family as their ancestors is the original inheritance history of this gate for more than 300 years. Before Bai Taiguan—on the contrary, Bai Taiguan used to study under Piaohua's school during his wandering years, and he didn't know whether he was successful or not. Later, he disappeared into the rest of the more complicated and weird plots. Purely from the perspective of novel creation: the role of Bai Taiguan in "Thunder in the Seven Seas" is superfluous and redundant; having it is not conducive to the advancement of the theme, and it is not harmful to the development of the plot. The author inserts pens and here , apart from explaining that Bai Taiguan was just plagiarizing the authentic Piaohuamen's original Mizong Walking Path Tianya, it seems to have no other effect at all.

If it hadn't been on July 13, 1981—a dusk to night when it was drizzling—my father reprimanded me, I would never have noticed Bai Taiguan's behavior in "Thunder in the Seven Seas". What is the meaning of the subsection, and even has any relationship with my real life. That day, my father pressed me about my relationship with Honglian, and his tone was surprisingly harsh: "Then what happened to Ouyang Kunlun's daughter?" I didn't answer right away, thinking about how to get by without lying.While hesitating, the old man seemed to have seen my tossing and turning thoughts, stood up from the cushion, and picked up the broom and dustpan that my mother threw on the ground, and swept them with each broom. A pile of shattered glass and tea leaves that had been shattered earlier.I watched him sweep the remaining water stains and brush marks on the terrazzo floor, and I immediately thought of standing on a low stool when I was a child and watching him lean over his desk to describe some patterns of the mountains and rivers of the ancient battlefield-the patterns were indeed very similar to the sweep marks of a broom , when he painted those ancient battlefields, he was only in his early forties, and his myopia was already over a thousand degrees, but he was meticulous and meticulous in painting.As soon as he was nearing completion, he would start talking to me: "What do you think this is?"

I would point to those criss-cross lines, no less than tens of millions of cumbersome lines, and say, "Hair." "What else?" My father smiled. "Broom to sweep the water." I said, actually I knew that was not the real answer, but such an answer would make him continue to laugh. Sure enough, he smiled, and asked again, "What else do you look like?" "Rotten pot noodles." "What else is it like?" "Yarn." This game can go on and on until I can no longer imagine a word, or a sentence.I never let him get that exact answer to his liking.He never told me that the answer is "contour line", "isothermal line", "geodesic line", "strike line", "front line", "supply line"... maybe after high school or college On a certain day, at a certain time, I inadvertently cast a quick glance at my father's desk where books, maps, measuring instruments, and celluloid slides were piled up, and I was shocked to realize that he actually lived a different life from the one I had. Familiar with a completely different life from the imaginary.It was a world full of numbers and boring nouns.Simply put, his job is to recount the many battles that have happened and ended.Since there must be winners and losers in wars, he can use various documents, relics and archaeological excavations to explain why the victorious side wins and why the defeated side loses.In other words: He knows the effect first, and then reconstructs the cause that produced that effect.For me in the rebellious period, this job could not be more absurd, because all the so-called evidences are presented under the circumstances that the conclusions have been preset.My father went out to work every day, and turned on the lamp to sit at his desk after get off work. After so many years, it turned out to be a reason to add icing on the cake and add insult to injury for things that already knew the success or failure.With such righteous indignation, I forgot in a blink of an eye the scene of me stepping on a low stool and talking nonsense with him in my childhood.

However, at the moment when the old man swept over and over with a broom, but couldn't clean up the tiny broken glass on the ground, I was suddenly brushed out by the broom, and dried up in a blink of an eye. The lines touched me a bit, and I thought of the very, very distant childhood, when this old man was in his prime, how carefully he maintained my imagination of language symbols—should that be my rhetorical enlightenment? I snatched it, took the broom and dustpan from his hand, and continued to sweep. The old man took two steps back. I swiped at his feet. He took another two steps. I stretched the broom further. , pretending to have accidentally brushed his toes, he laughed: "Hey—hey! Don't make trouble."

I also laughed, swept him again, and asked, taking advantage of the situation: "Why did you ask about me and Honglian?" Upon hearing this, my father's facial features, which had just been stretched out, suddenly tightened up again, and said, "Someone sent me a stack of photos—and a note saying that this woman is called Ouyang Honglian." "Why?" How about sending her a picture to you?" "It's not her photo, it's the photo of "you"." My father raised the frame of his glasses while speaking, and rubbed his nose and brows fiercely.

"Us? We haven't filmed before—" before I could say a few words, a chill ran down my back, and a hot spot at the base of my neck at the same time—since I joined the army in the autumn of the 1972 Republic of China Only then did Honglian return to my world, every time she came and went like a ghost; no one knew how she found me, and no one could tell me: after we enthusiastically feasted on each other's flesh, she returned Where did you go?The process couldn’t be simpler. Whether I’m in the training center, the National Defense Management Institute receiving sub-subject education, or the Army Communication and Electronics School where I have officially served as a literature and history instructor, I often go out of the camp or walk to the station on holidays. Lian appeared, and her first words were always: "Find a place to sleep with you, huh?"

As if under a spell, my eyes froze, my teeth chattered, every orifice in my body opened, and I greeted her body with joy.Let her take my arm and walk towards the ends of the earth. Whether it is Wuri, Jisui, Pingzhen—as long as it is visible near the camp and the nearest love hotel—there are traces of us fighting naked.In terms of certain details, I am becoming more and more proficient, and I am more and more able to perceive Guren's feelings and desires from the slight movements or reactions she makes; for example: the first time we met on the day I It was discovered that she had an extremely strong response to the touch of the skin along the spine. Once the fingertips were gently stroked, she couldn't stop trembling, and two curved porcelain whites were exposed under the slightly opened eyelids, as if once the trembling was hit, the black eyes would turn It was shaken to the top of the forehead.I tried out this way, and naturally made a fuss.After a few times, Honglian suddenly opened her eyelids, smiled softly, and said in a low voice: "There are too many."

"What's too much?" "If you don't experience it," she hugged my back tightly, turned over and lay flat, closed her eyes again, and still whispered: "No one will tell you." Should this be my first lesson in learning how men and women love each other?In a small room on the second floor of the "Wuri Hotel" on the side of the dusty road, soaked in the old air that has never circulated, and I can't tell whether it is musty or rotten, I fell into another year. After the previous impact and explosion, everything returned to the empty universe, revisiting the secret of how to enter the depths of another person's life.This time was completely different from the previous recklessness in the dormitory; Guren seemed to deliberately induce me to use a pair of visiting eyes to peek at the landscape that I thought was nothing but darkness.I also have to admit: it is a landscape that cannot be described, described or captured in any way at all.It exists only in those moments when two bodies are entangled and wrestling, appearing and disappearing through the senses that are not burning and forcing each other.It is precisely because many of the moments when we are trying to visit each other are actually lost vision, or lost hearing, smell, taste and touch, so it cannot be reproduced through any form of narrative-I only know that there was one time with Sun Xiaoliu sneaked into a disco ballroom in order to avoid being chased and killed, and was exposed to the light and shadow of the rotating light ball that flickered and flickered, and only then did he feel the feeling of fragmentation—time is not continuous but The world is never complete.Yes.

In the caress of concentrated pleasure, time is not continuous and the world is never complete.I guess this is the fundamental reason why I can't remember any intimate handover experience with Guren.But this is something that bothers me very much.Whenever the time limit for returning to the camp is approaching, I know that all the previous things will disappear and disappear; no matter how much I meditate and recall under the mosquito net in the army dormitory, it is impossible to piece together the past. All of this that I have experienced strongly is one in a million. Finally, the moment I put on my military uniform, fastened my belt, put on my leggings, and put on my cap, I felt sore at the base of my nose, and snot spewed out suddenly.Honglian wrapped her arms around my waist from behind and coaxed a few times, but I didn't hear clearly, so I swallowed and said: "I don't remember you, I will forget you." "It's not that we don't see each other anymore, why are you crying like this?" I took off my cap and tried to wipe my tears with it, but nothing came out, but another pile of snot.I've never expressed attachment to anyone - most likely because I never experienced true loss or inadequacy growing up.However, this is obviously not happiness.In that heart-wrenching parting moment, I was like a plant planted upside down, unable to think, speak or breathe, the whole earth turned upside down, and then I vomited. It was a unique and singular experience.I found that it was a completely different kind of vomiting from drunkenness; at the moment when everything in the stomach and intestines was poured out, it seemed that there was no sense of disgust, but it seemed to be telling something worthy of entrustment secrets, or delivering a moving speech to a group of strangers.In short, when Guren wiped the filth on the carpet at the end of the bed with a bath towel and a whole roll of toilet paper, and I was panting on the edge of the toilet, I trembled, reminiscing about the ejaculation-like constriction remaining in my throat, almost Without even thinking about it, I flushed the swirling water at the bottom of the toilet and said to myself, "So that's what happened." Guren didn't hear and I won't tell her: what I'm talking about is love.That's what love is all about. For about a year and nine months since then, I have never doubted my relationship with Guren, nor have I ever doubted the timing of her unexpected appearance-more than a dozen times when I should have a holiday or a regular holiday, I Temporarily received orders, must go to the headquarters or even the Ministry of National Defense to participate in the planning of the military TV teaching activities such as "Juguang Week", "Military Discipline Education Month", "Security Education Month" and other meetings.And the reason why the superior unit would find me—according to my speculation at the time—is because I already have a small literary name and have a master's degree in Chinese; A person who can write novels should be able to write a few TV drama scripts that can promote military discipline and defense concepts, and even advocate "loyalty and integrity" military style.This kind of errand often comes as soon as it is said. At most, a phone order is given the night before, and a car has to be dispatched early the next morning.As far as I can remember, it was always on a Saturday or the day before it was my turn to take honors leave.In such a situation, I would naturally miss: What about Red Lotus?But coincidentally, when Honglian appeared in front of me again with a bright smile on a certain holiday after the mission, she would always say: "I happened to have something to do last weekend, so I couldn't come." Or: " I changed jobs a few days ago, and I was busy; fortunately, I didn’t come here to catch up.” However, Guren has hardly missed any vacation in my military career as long as I don't run into that kind of temporary assignment.For me at the time, it was an unimaginable state of happiness.From time to time, I would warn my comrades who served in the same camp and were always suffering from love in a tone that had experienced vicissitudes of life and was well-versed in the world.Among them are a captain, several instructors, and countless military students who are troubled by lovesickness and suspense.I told them: love is a trust based on freedom and trust, love is an exchange between two bodies that cannot be replaced by another, love is a mutual existence established through the visit of the body , love is a kind of spiritual enlightenment sublimated through the satisfaction of sexual desire, love is an aesthetic experience that must go through severe tests such as separation, longing, setbacks, and tribulations to achieve a positive result... In short, in general , the more I speak, the more profound, the more mysterious, the more abstract and mysterious I speak; often I forget it after I say it.However, the more my audience listened, the more interesting they became, the more fascinated they became, and the more they listened, the more they thought it was the truth of life, full of the wisdom of knowing and loving each other.Until I was about to be discharged from the army, there were actually a few pre-officers from the chief instructor's office who taught code and mathematics, who crowded into my dormitory every night to invite benefits until late at night.In the end, they jointly signed me and gave me a Parker gold pen, engraved on the body of the pen: "Benefit me well". If I could understand what was hidden behind the 100% beautiful love between Honglian and me at that time, this golden pen might not be enough to show my boastful achievements in love, but it can even be called it. A great irony. In such a long period of stable and continuous relationship or communication after enlisting in the army, I groped to get close to, understand, serve and enjoy Honglian's body, and gradually had a conversation with her between the messy pillows and quilts.Honglian's way of telling stories is different from Mrs. Peng and Sun Xiaoliu.Mrs. Peng told the story as if she had re-experienced her own life, and brought the listeners back to that historical scene.But at that scene, you could hardly see Mrs. Peng, nor could you hear her voice; even if she was involved in a certain event, she always hid like a ghost in a corner most suitable for observation.In spite of the exaggeration of her expressions and the inconsistency of her accents, the hearers only felt that they were real, but never led to doubt that she was in any imminent danger.When Sun Xiaoliu told a story, he was afraid of missing something at any time—a fearful anxiety—of course this anxiety would also be transmitted to the listeners—as if everything he experienced had a kind of great emotion. Uncertainty, it is imperative that all details pertaining to the matter be given; otherwise the whole matter will be deemed false and groundless, and will invite serious accusations or condemnations.Telling the story in this way, there is a kind of interest that is full of fibers and every detail, but it is difficult to understand what is the meaning of so many trivial stories he has piled up. Honglian is completely different. She always refuses to tell a complete story in a straight-forward manner, as if her life is formed by the continuous flickering and wandering of colorful lights flashing east and west in a large fog that can't be stretched out.You have to be like a child who is trying to figure out how to connect numbers in a puzzle picture book, putting together those sparkling little fragments bit by bit to barely outline the outline of a life. I became curious about this woman; I wanted to know about her past, about her life, about what she had been and where I was.I made my first visit under a bed sheet stamped "Wuri Grand Hotel": "You told me the story about your daddy growing an iron head." "Yeah." She brushed the ends of her hair around her ears, closed her eyes, and panted with the corners of her mouth slightly raised. "and after?" "Then the head was chopped off and fell into the Taiwan Strait." This is how Guren tells stories.Frankly speaking: at the moment she said "falling into the Taiwan Strait", the impression of a bloody human head falling into the blue and black water did appear in front of my eyes.However, it is too unreal and too strong; Guren's tone is too simple and ordinary, it doesn't seem like he is deliberately fabricating some shocking scenes. "How could this be?" I lifted the sheet and sat up like a prong with a compressed spring suddenly loosened from the back. Hong Lian frowned slightly, but still refused to calm down, thought for a while, and said: "Perhaps the knife is very sharp?" "Are you there? How old were you then?" Finally she opened her eyes and shook her head lightly, roughly meaning to say: "I'm not here." Then she stuck out her hand from under the pillow, stretched her five fingers to count a few times, thought for a while, and then used her index finger and thumb to Comparing the distance of eight or nine centimeters, he laughed in a low voice and said, "It's so big." "Don't be kidding me." "Really, it's so big. I'm still in my mother's womb." While speaking, Guren shook the sheet vigorously into the air, shaking it into a tent, covering us all under it, and then picked it up I rubbed my cheeks with the tip of my nose, and said: "I told you that I am much, much older than you; if you want to know anything else, just come here丨" We immediately had another round. It may be several months before we talk about the same topic again.Perhaps in the small attic of the rare Japanese-style wooden inn in Jisui, or in the homestay in Pingzhen named "Pingzhen Elegant Building" which also serves as a western pharmacy business.I forgot why—maybe there was a calendar with pictures of Ruikyu Falls on the wall, maybe the pictures on the calendar were not waterfalls but blue waves and boats; daydream dictates.Anyway, I asked her again: "Did your dad's head be chopped off?" She gave me a sideways look, with an expression of why all the fuss and trivial things are trivial, and nodded. "why?" Honglian pondered for a moment, then gave me an answer like a small light bulb in the mist, concise, dazzling, fleeting but unforgettable: "It should be because of gold? He helped the government run Too much gold came out; how could there be nothing wrong with so much?" I remember that I didn't pursue it further.The reason is simple: that brain that I don't really care about, and has nothing to do with me, is probably involved in a lot of inside stories that I can't bear.Or—I should be more honest—while longing for Guren's plump body, I don't dare to pry into any seductive secrets in it, lest if the secret is revealed, I will Lose her one more time. It can be said that with a kind of apprehension, I continued to maintain that kind of game relationship with Guren, who fully explored each other's body.However, on the other hand, I can realize my concealment and guard against her anytime and anywhere; for example, I never told her: In fact, I later heard more about the story of the "Iron Head Kunlun" from Mrs. Peng. Details, I also know that her father met a person who later became a senior adviser to the Presidential Office in that incident.This kind of concealment and guarding or fear is just an insignificant, playful wrestling between men and women, as if the one who holds a certain (albeit unimportant) secret has gained some spiritual and extremely abstract advantage.I even sometimes think this way: when I get old—I mean, when I’m so old that I no longer know what it’s like to have a hard dick—if I suddenly tell Honglian what I know about Ouyang Kunlun, So, what kind of expression will appear on her face? However, I don’t have to wait that long—at the age of thirty-five, I was shocked to realize that the secrets I held were actually insignificant, and when I thought I knew something more than Hongren, I had already become a secret. A small part of a secret held in someone else's hands - my father waved to me, meaning "don't sweep anymore".I put down the broom and dustpan and followed him into his room.As soon as the door was opened, the smell of cockroach eggs, mildew, mimeographed data paper that smelled of salted sour plum steamed after being soaked, and nanmu that was gnawed by moths into powder was greeted.I have not entered this door for many years, and I suddenly had the illusion that the inside was much smaller than before—I noticed this illusion later because there were more than several times the number of books and pictures stacked in the room. Records, scrolls and data folders; what surprised me most was the addition of a low table on the right side of the desk, with rollers on the bottom, and a computer that I had never touched and never thought of using was erected on the top of the table. "It's the 1990s." My father probably figured out my surprise from the dumbfounded look on the computer screen when I looked at it, so he said a little shyly.But what happened next was my turn to blush and feel guilty—my father took out a brown paper envelope from the gap between the computer mainframe and the short table and handed it over: "It was taken by an expert." For a while, it was difficult to tell whether my father's so-called "expert" was an expert in photography technology or an expert in surveillance and surveillance.Still, the photographs were excellent; each was developed to an eight-by-ten size, well-exposed and layered, and though all black-and-white negatives were shot, they were convincing because of the fine detail of the processing.As for the content of the filming-in a word: Guren and I are having sex. I don't need to describe how embarrassing it is to stand in front of my father and watch my goblin fight.I glanced hastily, fully understanding the feeling of embarrassment.On the contrary, my father seemed quite calm, and said in a calm manner: "A total of 18 photos have been sent, and they should be taken with that kind of high-precision special film——In my opinion, there are only aerial photos and the like. Only units can use that kind of film; you have encountered "specialized"." It was only then that I noticed that the 18 photos were not created in one place at a time.There is a very obvious difference in my appearance and posture in the photo.The one with a big bald head is near the right side of a window with a half-covered window, and the uncovered half is shining through, and you can roughly see that the road outside the window is filled with gray smoke and dust that never sets. , and "Wurida" are three signature characters in block letters.Secondly, under the one where I was sprinting on Honglian (taking the "missionary" posture)—that is, the position closer to the camera—there was a matchbox with the words "Pingzhen Yazhu" printed on the side.Except for these two, most of the others do not have clear geographical indications.However, my hair grows longer and longer in the photo, so it can be seen that it was taken after the mid-term of the military service and even in the years after I was discharged.Among them, in three or four photos, I have a fat belly, like a woman who is four or five months pregnant; they were obviously taken within a year and a half since the 1980s of the Republic of China.Guren, on the other hand, has not changed at all—except that her hair is either slightly longer or shorter, and it is almost impossible to recognize that the years that have spanned ten years have left any traces on her body. While looking at each photo carefully, the shame and embarrassment that suddenly bloomed gradually faded away.Rather, it can be said that under the encouragement of my father's indulgent eyes, almost jokingly—like brushing his toes with a broom—I took out one and shook it, saying: "If If someone showed me a picture like this of my son, I would go crazy." The old man nodded, as if he accepted my temptation.But he continued like this: "I originally wanted to burn it, but I felt that something was wrong-you must have provoked something, and then someone would use such abusive means to use my strength to rectify it. You boy." "Why did I send you the photo?" I blurted out and I was already thinking: If the object of the mail is the newspaper I work for, or a competitor in the same industry as the newspaper I work for, it is very likely that I will be asked to take the picture verbatim. The little reputation I had built up in the literary circle through hard work and hard work was ruined overnight - at least I will become a topic of gossip, a laughing stock that is swaying here and there, and a person who can no longer publish anything "serious" Meaningful Works" Joker. "Of course it's because of Ouyang Kunlun." My father said in a low voice: "The person who sent the photo not only knew about your relationship with Ouyang Honglian, but also wanted to test the relationship between me and Ouyang Kunlun—" "You know Ouyang Kunlun? Then, that iron head?" "You can say you know each other, or you can say you don't know each other." My father raised his hand again to support the glasses frame, and said in a tone that was almost as severe as when he scolded my mother before: "I'll ask you first, you have to be honest and careful. Answer me carefully—has someone ever told you not to go anywhere alone anyway?" His words do sound familiar at first glance, and not only that, even the words are exactly the same: "In any case, don't go anywhere alone."Yet such cautionary words are with us!There are at least tens of millions piled up in the ears of generations, and it is really difficult to sort them out in a short time.I was hesitating, but my father continued eagerly: "In the past few years, I think you have been very beautiful. You have been on the phone all day long, and you have more friends. This is very different from your situation before military service. You yourself Don't you know?" I didn't seem to be blaming what he said, but after careful consideration, I didn't necessarily appreciate my overwhelmed social life.So—with a bit of defensiveness—I muttered and replied: "It's nothing? You also know that when people invite a manuscript, they will always make a few phone calls; if they ask me to give a speech, they will also call A few phone calls. Those newspapers and magazines think of some topics to interview, but they still make a few phone calls. If you are willing to answer, don’t answer, or I will move out—” "It's not that big of a crime." My father sat down in a rattan armchair by the bed, spread his hands to signal that I should sit down too, then suddenly lowered his voice, and said, "Calm down, hold your temper, and think about it: from your I wrote my thesis in 1999 and became a soldier, until now, has there ever been a day when I lived alone?" His words became quieter and quieter, but he hit me hard; it was like bumping into a piece of hard and thick transparent glass while walking, and slammed his forehead into a starry sky, and the fragments inside The son floated east and west, and there was a golden light in front of his eyes.I touched my forehead, blinked, and actually laughed, and replied, "It's true." "Oh?" My father leaned back in the chair. "No no! Wait—" I suddenly remembered: "I was alone just now! I went to the Youth Park to read a book alone. Huh? No! Not alone; I ran into a daredevil in the public toilet; that guy Said he was my loyal reader, and even peed on my pants!" "What if he's not a daredevil?" "Who would do such a thing on purpose?" "Who has such dirty things on their pants, why don't they go home and change and wash them?" "I'm reading a book—" I defended, but at that moment, I vaguely understood what my father meant: the guy in the park toilet was neither a daredevil nor a loyal reader of me—that was a willful wimp Let me go, so that I can go home and change my pants. My father showed a look of sudden realization, nodded repeatedly, and said: "So, this time, there is indeed "someone" by your side. It seems that it is not unreasonable for your little life to survive to this day. At this point, he took off his glasses, and wiped his face vigorously with the other hand until his cheeks and nose were red and red, and he didn't know whether he was looking at me or beside me with his black eyes that couldn't get together. opened the door of the room, sighed and said, "Go and bring your books in." "I don't want to fool you, Dad! If you make me burn them, I won't come in again after I leave this house." I said almost gritting my teeth. "Don't be angry with me." My father put on his glasses again, pondered for a while, and said as if he had made a very difficult decision: "It doesn't matter at all whether you have a fever or not; but you are already thirty. There are quite a few people, if you are still like a stumbling doll, walking around with your life all day long, what will be the end?" I didn't answer his question, opened the door, rushed into the living room in three steps and two steps, picked up the book bag that was placed beside the long coffee table, and suddenly had a flash of thought: Of course I can carry this bag of books on my back and unlock the door , rush out, and just find it anywhere in the world to hang out for a while.In retrospect, the reason why I had this idea at that time might have something to do with my father's words, "There is indeed "someone" by your side all the time." Perhaps in the depths of my consciousness, I was doing my best to resist such an idea. In a word-can I really never go back to a long, long time ago, when I was alone in a dormitory with no trace, reading and living like a mouse?Have I completely lost the right to be alone since I don't know when?Am I used to being a part of a society where I have to be in contact with everyone, such as the newspaper office, the classroom, and even the literary world?Am I simply a person who is reluctant and inseparable (including those so-called loyal readers) from strangers, and eager to communicate with them, but who disdains to admit it and pretends to be a hypocrite? The moment I picked up the bag of books, I made a too paranoid extension of the sentence "There is always someone around me"; Review the past, and re-experience a state that Zhang Dachun, who was neither a well-known writer nor a media darling, was ignorantly pursuing—a state of wandering back and forth between this book and that book day and night, looking forward and looking freely. ? In fact, I have already turned the lock on the door, and I am about to take a step out—if I just walk away like this, maybe I will never have the courage to turn back to face my father, and maybe I will never have the opportunity to learn from him why I "" There's always someone around", maybe I'll never go to work at a newspaper, never go back to school to teach, never publish shit, never... to the extreme of some elusive detail, maybe I just disappear.However, that step failed to be taken - my mother called me from behind.I turned around and saw her lying on her stomach, stroking the ground where the glass was broken just now with her palm. "Going out again?" she said. "What are you doing?" I called out, rushing forward to pull her up. "The glass shards are too thin. If you don't try this way, you won't be able to clean them no matter how you sweep them." My mother said, raising one palm, and there were indeed a few pieces of shards sticking to the mound of the finger. Dust in a dustpan.She refused to let me pull it up, but instead grabbed my sleeve and said in a low voice: "Your old man is not quite right lately. He sighs and sighs at every turn. I don't know if it's a dream or something. He keeps screaming at night. Don't talk to me." He cares; when a person is old, all kinds of problems will come." At this moment, I gave up the idea of ​​walking away, nodded to her, picked up the book bag, and walked back to my father's room.The old man was still sitting in the rattan armchair with his face up, staring blankly at the chandelier on the ceiling, and said, "Close the door." I did as he told me, and I fastened the lock, and asked in a rambling voice, "Mom said you haven't been sleeping well lately." He adjusted his glasses, turned his mouth involuntarily, and said, "After you listen to me, see if you can sleep soundly?/Where did you read that "Thunder in Seven Seas"?" I didn't expect him to ask such a question. I scratched my head and scratched my head for a long time, but still didn't have a clue, so I had to open the book bag, and took out "Thunder in the Seven Seas", turned on the lamp, and flipped through it randomly.Frankly speaking: when I was looking through, I just felt as if I was trapped in those nightmares about exams that often haunted me.有好几个剎那，我很想告诉家父：算我压根儿没读过这本书好了，你想说什么就直截了当地说好了。 但是，老人什么也没说，他十分有耐性地等着，十指在胸前一下又一下地叉搭，即使偶尔咳嗽一下，也像是置身于病房或图书馆里一般努力地节制着音量。不知过了多久，我总算找着了当年匆匆浏览之下所历经的那个极限—— 这整个过程像一名迷失于险峰雾林之间的漫游者——在搜寻、穿越过既芜杂零乱且模糊缥缈的记忆之时，猛地从我眼前闪过两张忽隐忽显，半生半熟的脸孔。其情状有如你翻箱倒箧遍寻某一则资料或某一篇文章而不得，无可如何之际，却在你全然意想不到的书页间飘落下一份你以为早已遗失的笔记、一纸你声明作废多时的证件一样。那是两个人的脸；一张泛着紫气的同字脸和一张不时会撮起口唇、发出呼呼怪笑之声的圆脸。紫色同字脸的那人跟我说了句话：“可惜你读了那么些书，都读了个七零八碎儿。”圆脸的则露出不以为然的表情回嘴道：“有朝一日人家把这些零碎儿掺合起来，汇入一鼎而烹之；自凡是火候到了，未必不能大快吾等朵颐呢！” 这没头没脑的往来言语转瞬即逝，颇像是清晨起床的片刻间残留在枕边《我上的梦境遗痕，待我正要岔开思路，往复拨寻，却又杳然消灭了踪影。在那一刻，我祇当是因为答不出家父的追问而一时情急，从意识底层浮涌出从前在学期间挨老师们教训的无数个情景之一。不意这一岔念，倏忽闪炽，稍后才解开了家父原本想要探究的另一个问题。 不过，我必须先回到《七海惊雷》—— 我把拼凑出来的阅读印象比对著书中原文，好容易找到当年停顿的地方，说的是一个双腿畸残的拾荒人于穷途末路之际忽有奇遇，得着了一个传衍了数百年之久的古本故事，拾荒人觉得那故事固然荒诞不经，但是颇有异趣，便逐字逐句地读了下去。岂料一旦入迷，非但茶饭不思，寝息亦废，且正因为字斟句酌、钻深究细的缘故，竟至神魂驰荡，心魄动摇。看在外人眼里，这拾荒人镇日里喃喃嚼语、唔唔咒念，竟尔疯癫痴狂了。殊不知这古本故事的页里行间隐隐然藏着个奇门遁甲秘术的机关；拾荒人读之诵之，居然练成了一套排诡阵、设迷局、兴道法、布幻象的本领。 当年我就是在看到这一节上打住的。我指了指《七海惊雷》第五百零二页的一个段落，同时也想起初读此书当下的情景——我随手合上它，放回壁间书架的原位，走到另一个标示着“宗教民俗”类别的书架前，抽出一本叫《奇门遁甲术概要》的书。 “为什么没读完就不读了？”家父觑瞇着双眼，似乎是以一种纯属好奇而非训诘的口吻问道：“这本书有六百多页呢。” “反正是一部破武侠；本来就读到哪儿算哪儿。”我说：“而且我又搞不懂奇门遁甲是个什么东西，大概就这样放过了罢？” 家父点了一下头，又垂下脸、沉思了好半天，才像是鼓足了勇气一般说道：“这样罢——你先仔细看完它再说。” 一时之间我仍不免有些胡涂——才多么大一会儿之前不是还要我把这一袋书“通通烧了”的吗？这一下怎么又来个“仔细看完”了呢？ 然而彼时的我如蒙大赦，无暇细究个中因果，遂抓起《七海惊雷》，从第五百零二页那中断之处读了下去。 且说那双腿畸残的拾荒人姓裘，单名一个攸字。在前五百页书中祇偶尔出现过三数次，读者仅仅知道：这裘攸曾经进过学、中过秀才、也娶了一房妻氏，并育有一子。倒是那孩子是此书主角之一；此子生来桀骜不驯，在年纪还很小的时候便给个和尙模样的人拐带离家，一去不返，可是在日后竟练成了绝世的武艺。日久天长，这裘氏子便以云游僧的身分行走江湖，法号“轮空”。轮空虽然到处行侠仗义、济弱扶倾，却始终不曾与闻自己的身世，更不知道他的母亲已经因为哀恸过遽而染病亡故了。至于那裘攸先遭失子之祸、复陷丧妻之悲，顿时勘破功名、无心举业，才沦落成一个拾荒人。 《七海惊雷》全书直写到第五百零二页上——也就是裘攸不期然而练就一身奇门遁甲的方术之际——才冒出另一个主人翁。是时在市井坊巷之间，无论三教九流，几无一人肯以青眼睐裘攸者。倒是有个远从京师流浪千里而来的孤儿看他着实可怜，遂礼事之、敬奉之。裘攸深受感动，便将一套本领尽数传给了这孤儿，还给他起了个名字，叫“跨儿”。为什么叫这么怪的名儿呢？书中还有闲言说解，乃是裘攸这秀才毕竟抹不净读书人的底子，取名用上了典故。原来这“跨”乃“跨灶” 之意。《海客日谈》云：“马前蹄上有两空处，名“灶门”。马之良者，后蹄印地之痕反在前蹄印地之前，故名“跨灶”。”引伸说来，即是后者超越前者的意思。在裘攸心目之中，自然是期许这跨儿的奇门遁甲之术能超越裘攸本人；至于是不是隐含着“后儿超越前儿”的意思，则飘花令主并没有明说。 或许是浪掷在闲说某名某物来历掌故之类的笔墨太多、也太琐碎，致使《七海惊雷》最后的六分之一看起来非但没把前文之中所设下的伏线：一呼应完妥，飘花令主反而变本加厉，花了将近三、四十页的篇幅去重述早在四、五百页之前就已经交代过的一段无关宏旨的背景；也就是在全书中根本无足轻重的一个小派——飘花门——如何拥有三百多年的传承历史、如何于江南北八侠中排名第七的白泰官之前即已独步武林、如何精拣愼择良材美质的子弟谆谆而教……飘花令主特为显示白泰官一系子弟皆属歪瓜劣枣之辈而不惜以整整四页的篇幅抄录了一份谐称“白邪谱”的名录，刊印出两千多个名字。坦白说：我认为那是作者为了骗稿费而混使的卑劣伎俩，是以一眼扫掠之下，便将那四页尽快翻了过去。 接着，飘花令主像是蓄意撒开控缰驭辔的双手以便纵马狂驰一般地写出了另一段有头没尾的故事。 在这个故事里，自幼离家、寄踪八表的僧侠“轮空”再度登场，为了替嵩山少林寺护送一批名为《武经》的秘笈到福建少林寺去，一路之上，历经了不少艰难险阻，斩杀了许多盗匪强徒，最后终于达成任务。但是，就在轮空将《武经》运抵南少林、贮入藏经阁之际，居然凭空冒出来雨个早就伏匿于寺中、寂寂无闻的洒扫老僧——材平和材庸；这两个老僧手起掌落，立时便将轮空给格毙了。最令人沮丧的是：整部《七海惊雷》到这里居然就结束了。 这样虎头蛇尾也就罢了，整个阅读过程更极其别扭，因为在高阳给我的这个本子上到处是他随手注记的一些小考据——高阳的行草自成一体，且善书者不择笔，忽而红墨水钢笔连下数行、忽而又是蓝色油墨圚珠笔岔写几百字，之后居然连毛笔的蝇头小楷也绵延一气，乃至原先排印的明体铅字常为之掩翳难明。有些夹注字句依稀可辨，不外是引伸、旁证小说所述内容的一些来历出处，有些我连他写的是什么字也认不得，于是干脆通通跳过。至于《七海惊雷》的原文——坦白说——在深受现代小说结构形式洗礼的我看来，这样松散骈漫、挟沙跑马的写作方法迹近乎对小说这一体制的侮蔑。我在读到“全书完”三字之际，忿忿然随手将《七海惊雷》向桌脚边的垃圾桶一扔，不意却瞥见封底上的一行小字，正是高阳所写的那句：“唯浅妄之人方能以此书为武侠之作”。我忍不住再将它从垃圾桶里抽出来，捧在手中，又读了一遍——唯浅妄之人方能以此书为武侠之作—— 家父似乎并没有读到这一行字，但是他迸出口的话却几乎同高阳的题字按语是一模一样的：“你看不出门道来，自然会以为它祇是一部破武侠了。” “如果这里面有什么影射！” “不是如果，”家父使劲儿一扶眼镜框，道：“它本来就是一部影射。飘花令主是什么人？我不知道。可是他写了些什么，我却猜得出几分。你方才跳了几页没仔细读，应该是那“白邪谱”的名录罢？” 我点点头，顺手翻回那四页有如联考榜单一般密密麻麻的名录。这时我也才发现丄尚阳在这四页里居然没有半个字的夹注、眉批。乍想起来，应该也是不耐这无聊名姓的摆布，是以和我一样，匆匆放过了。然而，另外一个念头这时猛里闪出来挤了我一把：倘若此书并非小说，而这份名录或可能并非虚构出来的；也正由于它是一份实有其人的名录，高阳才未曾像在别处那样随文附注、垦掘奥义——是这样的么？ “你先认一认，在这些个名字里，有你认得的没有？要是怕费事，倒是可以“卷帘”而上，从最末一个名字往回认，认一个、想一个，想清楚了就圈起来，不可马虎。” “为什么不顺着来？我不怕费事，谁说我怕费事？”我扯嗓子抗了两声，其实心是虚的——我猜家父恐怕早就看出来我这做不得学问的懒散习性，可教他这么一说，却偏要跟他逞强，执意要从第一个名字往下读。 “那都是些前清雍正朝时代的洪门棍痞，你怎么会认得？别犟！倒着来罢。”家父的语气仍旧平淡温和，但是十分坚定：“等你认出什么、想起什么来，也许就明白那飘花令主的意思了。” 白昼至此隐退，窗外的天色已经全然暗下了，我并没有注意到家父是在什么时候悄然扭亮了日光灯，甚至还打开了计算机，双手便捷如熟练的钢琴家一样敲击着我完全陌生的键盘，黑底白字的荧光幕闪炽良久——照理说我应该十分惊诧于老人居然能如此熟练地操控这种先进的科技工具，然而我什么也没来得及表示——我竟毫不自觉地跌进“白邪谱”名录所展示的机栝之中。