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*小染
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　　男人男人，怎么还没有睡去。　　我坐在窗口的位置看表。钟每个小时都敲一下，我看见钟摆像个明晃晃的听诊器一样伸过来，窃进我的心里。那个银亮的小镜子照着我俯视的脸。我的嘴唇，是这样的白。---------------]

小染(1)---------------
　　1）男人男人，怎么还没有睡去。
　　我坐在窗口的位置看表。钟每个小时都敲一下，我看见钟摆像个明晃晃的听诊器一样伸过来，窃进我的心里。那个银亮的小镜子照着我俯视的脸。我的嘴唇，是这样的白。
　　窗台上的有我养的水仙花。我每天照顾它们。花洒是一个透明印花的。长长的脖子长长的手臂，像个暗着脸的女子。我把她的肚子里灌满了水，我能听见这个女人的呻吟。很多很多的明媚的中午，我就扯着这个女子的胳膊来照顾我的花朵。
　　阳台有六棵水仙。我时常用一把剪刀，插进水仙花的根里。凿，凿。露出白色汁液，露出它们生鲜的血肉。我把剪刀缓缓地压下去，汁液慢慢渗出来，溅到我的手上。这把剪刀一定是非常好的铁，它这么冷。我一直握着它，可是它吸走了我的所有元气之后还是冰冷。最后我把切下来的小小鳞片状的根聚在一起。像马铃薯皮一样的亲切的，像小蚱蜢的翅膀一样轻巧。我把它们轻轻吹下去，然后把手并排伸出去，冬天的干燥阳光晒干了汁液，我有了一双植物香气的手。---------------
小染(2)---------------
　　2）冬天的时候，小染每天买六盆水仙花。把它们并排放在窗台上。她用一把亮晶晶的花剪弄死它们。她站在阳台上把植物香味的手指晾晾干。
　　然后她拿着花剪站在回转的风里，发愣。她看见男人在房间里。他穿驼色的开身毛衣，条绒的肥裤子。这个冬天他喜欢喝一种放了过多可可粉的摩卡咖啡。整个嘴巴都甜腻腻的。他有一个躺椅，多数时候他都在上面。看报纸抽烟，还有画画。他一直这么坐着。胡子长长了，他坐在躺椅上刮胡子。他把下巴弄破了，他坐在躺椅上止血。
　　有的时候女孩抱着水仙经过，男人对她说，你坐下。他的话总是能够像这个料峭冬天的第一场雪一样紧紧糊裹住女孩。小染把手紧紧地缩在毛衣袖子里，搬过一把凳子，坐下。她觉得很硬，但是她坐下，不动，然后男人开始作画。小染觉得自己是这样难堪的一个障碍物，在这个房间的中间，她看到时光从她的身上跨过去，又继续顺畅地向前流淌了。她是长在这个柔软冬天里的一个突兀的利器。
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小染(3)---------------
　　3）男人是画家。男人是父亲。男人是混蛋。
　　女人被他打走了。女人最后一次站在门边，她带着一些烂乎乎的伤口，定定眼睛看了小染一眼，头也不回地带上门。小染看见门像一个魔法盒子一样把过去这一季的风雪全部关上了。小染看见女人像缕风一样迅速去了远方。门上沾了女人的一根头发。小染走过去摘下了那根普通的黑色长发。冬天，非常冷。她随即把手和手上的那根头发深深地缩到了毛衣袖子里。
　　小染不记得着汹涌的战争有过多少次。她只是记得她搬了很多次家，每次都是摇摇晃晃的木头阁楼。每次战争她都在最深的房间里，可是楼梯墙壁还有天花板总是不停打颤。女人羔羊一样的哭声一圈一圈缠住小染的脖子打结。小染非常恐惧地贴着床头，用指甲剪把木漆一点一点刮下来。每次战斗完了，女人都没有一点力气地坐在屋子中央。小染经过她的时候她用很厌恶和仇恨的眼神看着小染。然后她开始咆哮地骂男人。像只被霸占了洞穴的母狼一样的吼叫。小染走去阳台，她看到花瓣都震落了一地，天，又开始下雨了。
　　那天又是很激烈的争执。小染隔着木头门的缝隙看见女人满脸是血。她想进去。她讨厌那女人的哭声，可是她得救她。她扣了门。男人给她开了门，然后用很快的速度把她推出门，又很快合上了门。锁上了。男人把小染拉到门边。门边有男人的一只黑色皮包和一把长柄的雨伞。男人不久前去远行了。男人一只手抓着小染，另一只手很快地打开皮包。在灰戚戚的微光里，小染看到他掏出一只布娃娃。那个娃娃，她可真好看。她穿一件小染一直想要的玫瑰色裙子，上面有凹凸的黑色印花。小染看见蕾丝花边软软地贴在娃娃的腿上，娃娃痒痒地笑了。男人说，你自己出去玩。说完男人就把娃娃塞在小染的怀里，拎着小染的衣领把她扔出了家门。锁上了。小染和娃娃在外面。雪人都冻僵了的鬼天气，小染在门口的雪地滑倒了又站起来好几次。
　　那一天是生日。特别应该用来认真许一个愿的生日。小染想，她是不是应该爱她的爸爸一点呢，他好过妈妈，记住了生日。小染听见房子里面有更汹涌的哭嚎声。可是她觉得自己冻僵了，她像那雪人一样被粘在这院子当中间了。娃娃，不如我们好好在这里过生日吧你说好吗。小染把雪聚在一起，她和娃娃坐在中央。小染看着娃娃，看到她的两只亚麻色的麻花辫子好好地编好，可是自己的头发，草一样地扎根在毛衣的领子里。小染叹了口气说，你多么好看啊，娃娃。
　　小染记得门开的时候已经是夜晚。她很迟缓地站起来。身上的雪硬邦邦地滚下来，只有怀里的娃娃是热的。小染走路的时候看到自己的脚肿得很圆，鞋子胀破了。她摇摇摆摆地钻进房子里。她妈妈在门口，满脸是凝结了的血。女人仔细地看着小染。她忽然伸出一只血淋淋的手给了小染一个耳光。
　　她说：一个娃娃就把你收买了吗？
　　小染带着她肿胀的双脚像个不倒翁一样摇晃了好几圈才慢慢倒下了。她的鼻子磕在了门槛上。她很担心她的鼻子像那个雪人的鼻子一样脆生生地滚到地上。还好还好，只是流血而已。
　　小染仰着脸，一只手放在下巴的位置接住上面流下来血的。她看见女人回房间拿了个小的包，冲门而出。她看见女人在她的旁边经过，给了她一个轻蔑的眼神。这是最后一次，她和她亲爱的妈妈的目光交汇。然后女人像风一样迅速去了远方。小染走到门边摘下她妈妈的头发，她没有一个好好的盒子来装它，最后她把头发放进了娃娃裙子的口袋里。
　　以后的很多年里，一直是小染，娃娃还有男人一起过的。
　　男人从来没有和小染有过任何争执。因为小染一直很乖。小染在十几年里都很安静，和他一起搬家，做饭，养植物。男人是画家，他喜欢把小染定在一处画她。小染就安静地坐下来，任他画。
　　男人在作画的间隙会燃一根烟，缓缓地说，我爱你胜过我爱你的妈妈。你是多么安静啊。然后他忽然抱住小染，狠狠地说：你要一直在我身边。
　　小染想，我是不是应该感恩呢，对这世界上唯一一个在乎我的人。
　　这么多年，只有那年的生日，小染收到过礼物：那个娃娃，以及母亲的一根头发。---------------

小染(4)---------------
　　4）搬到这个小镇的时候男人对我说，他想画画小镇寒冷的冬天。可是事实上冬天到了这个男人就像动物一样眠去了。他躺在他的躺椅上不出门。
　　我在一个阁楼的二楼。我养六棵水仙。男人对我说，你可以养花，但不要很多，太香的味道会使我头痛。
　　城市东面是花市。我经过一个转弯路口就能到。
　　今天去买水仙的时候是个大雾的清晨。我买了两株盛开的。我一只手拿一株，手腕上的袋子里还有四块马铃薯似的块根。我紧一紧围巾，摇摇摆摆地向回走。水仙根部的水分溅在我的手上，清凉凉。使这个乏味的冬季稍稍有了一点生气。
　　一群男孩子走向我。他们好像是从四个方向一起走来的，他们用了不同的香水，每一种都是个性鲜明的独霸着空气。我感到有些窒息。他们有的抱着滑板，有的抽着烟，有的正吐出一块蘑菇形状的蓝莓口香糖。紫色头发黄色头发，像些旗帜一样飘扬在他们每个人的头上。大个头拉链的缤纷滑雪衫，鞋子松松垮垮不系鞋带。
　　我在水仙花的缝隙里看到他，最前面的男孩子。他火山一样烧着的头发，他酒红色外套，碎呢子皮的口袋里有几个硬币和打火机碰撞的当当地响。我看到他看着别处走过，我看到他和我擦肩，真地擦到了肩，还有我的花。花摇了摇，就从花盆里跳了出来，跳到了地上。花死在残碎的雪里，像昨天的茶叶一样迅速泼溅在一个门槛旁边。
　　一群哄笑。这群香水各异的邪恶男孩子。我把我的目光再次给了我心爱的花。我蹲下捡起它。可是我无可抱怨，因为这花在这个黄昏也一定会死在我的剪刀下。只是早到了一点，可是这死亡还算完整。我捡起它。那个男孩子也蹲下，帮我捡起花盆。我和他一起站起来。我感到他的香水是很宜人的花香。他冲我笑笑。我再次从那束水仙里看着这个男孩子，他很好看，像一个舶来的玩具水兵一样好看。站在雪里，站在我面前。
　　我想我得这样走过去了，我已经直立了一小会儿，可是没有接到他们的道歉，我想我还是这样走吧。可是我看到那个男孩子，他在看着我。他用一种非常认真的详细的目光看着我，像博士和他手里被研究的动物。我想着目光或者邪恶或者轻薄可是此刻你相信么你知道么我感到阳光普照。阳光拧着他的目光一同照耀我，让我忽然想在大舞台一样有了表演欲。我表露出一种令人心疼的可怜表情。
　　男孩，看着我，仍旧。我想问问他是不是也是个画家，因为这样的眼神我只在我的父亲那里见过。
　　男孩在我的左面，男孩在我的右面，男孩是我不倦的舞台。
　　他终于对我说话了。他唯一一次对我说话。他说，你，你的嘴唇太白了，不然你就是个美人了。
　　是轻薄的口气，但是我在无数次重温这句话的时候感到一种热忱的关爱。
　　身旁的男孩子全都笑了，像一出喜剧的尾声一样地喝彩。我站在舞台中央，狼狈不堪。
　　嗨嗨，知道这条街尽头的那个酒吧么？就是二楼有圆形舞池的那个，今天晚上我们在那里有Party，你也来吧。呃呃，记得，涂点唇膏吧，美人。男孩昂着他的头，抬着他的眼睛，对我这样说。身边的男孩子又笑了。他们习惯附和他，他是这舞台正中央的炫目的镁灯。
　　我和我的花还在原地站着。看他们走过去。我看到为首的男孩子收拾起他的目光，舞台所有的灯都灭了。我还站在那里。我的手上的水仙还在淌水，我下意识地咬住嘴唇，把它弄湿。
　　然后我很快地向家的方向跑去。
　　中途我忽然停留在一家亮堂堂的店子门口。店子门口飘着一排花花绿绿的小衣服。我伫立了一小会儿，买下了一条裙子。
　　是一件玫瑰紫色的长裙。我看到它飘摇在城市灰灰杏色的晨光里。有一层阳光均匀地洒在裙裾上，像一层细密的小鳞片一样织在这锦缎上面。它像一只大风筝一样嗖的一下飞上了我的天空。
　　我从来都不需要一条裙子。我不热爱这些花哨的东西。不热爱这些有着强烈女性界定的物件。
　　可是这一时刻，我那只拿着水仙的手，忍不住想去碰碰它。
　　我想起它像我的娃娃身上的那条裙子。像极了。那条让我嫉妒了十几年的裙子。它像那个娃娃举起的一面胜利旗帜一样昭告，提醒着我的失败。是的，我从未有过这样媚艳馈赠。
　　买下它。我买下我的第一条裙子，像是雪耻一样骄傲地抓紧它。
　　然后我很快很快跑回家。
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小染(5)---------------
　　5）小染很快地打开家门，冲进画室。她手上的水仙和崭新的裙子被扔在了门边，然后她开始钻进那些颜料深处寻找。地上是成堆的颜料管子和罐子。有些已经干了，有些已经混合，是脏颜色了。她一支一支拿起来看，扔下，再捡起另外一支。男人听见了她的声音，在他的躺椅上问，你找什么呢？
　　小染没有回答，只是继续找，她开始放弃颜料管，向着那些很久都不用的大颜料罐子了。她的动作像一只松鼠一样敏捷，她的表情像部署一场战斗的将军一样严肃。
　　男人说，到底你在找什么？男人仍旧没有得到回答，他听见女孩子把罐子碰倒了，哐啷哐啷的响声。还有颜料汩汩地流淌出来的声音。
　　男人从他的躺椅上起来。冲到画室里，问，你在找什么？
　　红色颜料，红色颜料还有么？小染急急地问。
　　没有了。我很久不用那种亮颜色了，你忘记了吗，搬家的时候我叫你都扔掉了，现在没有了。画这里糟糕的冬天我根本用不到红色。男人缓缓地回答。
　　小染没有再说话，她只是停下手中徒劳的寻找，定定地站在原地，像个跳够了舞的发条娃娃一样迟钝地粘在了地面上。她喘着粗气，洒出来的颜料溅在了她的腿上，慢慢地滑落，给她的身体上着一层灰蒙蒙的青色。
　　男人问，你要红色颜料做什么？
　　没什么。小染回答，从男人的旁边穿过去，到厨房给男人煮他喜欢的咖啡。--------------

小染(6)---------------
　　6）我把咖啡递给男人，然后我端着新买的水仙上了阁楼。雾已经散去了，太阳又被张贴出来，像个逼着人们打起精神工作的公告。水仙被我放在了阳台上，我不知道它们什么时候会开。剪刀在我的手旁边，银晃晃的对我是个极大的诱惑，我忽然把剪刀插到水仙里，根里的汁液像那些颜料一样汩汩地冒出来。它们照例死亡了。我等不到傍晚了。
　　然后我逐渐安静下来。我把我的凳子搬去阳台，坐下。我回想起刚才的一场目光。我想起那个男孩的一场风雪一样漫长的凝望。我想起他烧着的头发荒荒地蔓延，他说话的时候两片薄薄的嘴唇翕合，像一只充满蛊惑性的蝴蝶。
　　我听见一群男孩的笑，他们配合性的，欣赏性的，赞许性地笑了。他们像天祭的时候一起袭击一个死人的苍鹰一样从别处的天空飞过来，覆盖了我，淹没了我。
　　我忽然微微颤了一下，希望我的挣扎有着优美的姿势。
　　我忽然想起了我的新裙子。它还躺在那只冰凉冰凉的袋子里。
　　我把它一分一寸从袋子里拉出来，像是拉着一个幸福的源头缓缓把它公诸于世。我把娃娃放在我的床边，让她看着我换衣服。
　　玫瑰骤然开遍我的全身。我感到有很多玫瑰刺嵌进我的皮肤里，这件衣服长在了我的身体里，再也再也不会和我分开了。
　　娃娃，娃娃，你看看我，我美吗。
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小染(7)---------------
　　7）小染在黄昏之前的阁楼里走来走去。时间是6点。男人吃过一只烧的鱼还有一碟碎的煮玉米。他通常会在吃饱之后渐渐睡去，直到8点多才缓缓醒来收看有关枪战的影片。他在那时候会格外激动，有时还会把身边的画笔磕在画板上砰砰作响。可是眼下他应该睡去了。
　　小染听到外面嘈杂的孩子的叫嚣声。她觉得他们都向着一个方向去了。她觉得有一块冰静的极地值得他们每一只企鹅皈依。她把切碎的水仙花瓣碾碎，揉在身上和颈子上。水仙的汁液慢慢地渗进去，游弋进她的血液。她听见它们分歧的声音，她听见它们融会的声音，是的，融会在一起，像一场目光一样融会在一起。
　　钟表又响，男人还是没有睡。他在翻看一本从前买的画册，他的眼镜不时从塌陷的鼻子上滑下来，他扶一扶，继续翻看，毫无睡意。
　　小染想彻底去到外面的空气里，她想跟随那些野蛮男孩子的步伐，她想再站在那个男孩面前，听着他轻薄她。可是男人必须睡觉，她才能顺利跳出这个木头盒子，把男人的鼾声和死去的水仙都抛在脑后，然后去赴一场约。
　　小染用牙齿咬住嘴唇，细碎的齿印像一串无色的铃兰花一样开在嘴唇上。然后小染下楼去了。她记起下面阳台上好像还有几块水仙花根，她就拿着剪刀下楼了。
　　小染把剪刀握在手中，把手缩在袖子里，穿一双已经脱毛的棉拖鞋，迅速跑下楼去。她径直向着那些水仙花根走去。
　　男人看到她，忽然说，你坐下。
　　什么？小染吓了一跳。
　　男人已经拿起了身边的画笔，示意小染坐下。他又缓缓地说，你今天穿了裙子。很不同。
　　小染愣了一下，终于明白男人是要做画了。她站住，把剪刀放在放画笔的木头桌子上，然后搬过一把凳子，坐下来。
　　她那一刻忽然觉得时间都停下了，她被固定在一个锈迹斑斑的齿轮上，她的整条玫瑰裙子就在这高高的齿轮上开败了。她把手紧紧地贴在裙子上，仿佛掬捧着最后的一枚花瓣。世界就要失去了所有的水分，她抬头看见男人干涸的眼角，正有一团浑浊的污物像一团云彩一样聚起来。
　　小染好像听见楼下有人叫她。她觉得有一条铺着殷红地毯的道路就在她家门外缓缓铺展开。她觉得她应该走上去，走过去。她感到盛大的目光在源头等待他的玫瑰。小染想跳起来。飞出去。在这个黄昏的最后一片阳光里飞出这个阴森的洞穴。
---------------
小染(8)---------------
　　8）我仿佛看到我的娃娃在楼上的木板地上起舞。她的嘴唇非常红润。
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小染(9)---------------
　　9）男人画着画着慢慢停了下来。他用目光包裹起这个小巧的女孩子。他好像头一次这样宝贝她。他非常喜欢女孩的新裙子。新裙子使这女孩子看起来是个饱满而丰盛的女人。像她的母亲最初出现在他的生命里的样子。
　　笑笑，你笑笑。男人对女孩说，你从来都不笑，你现在笑笑吧。
　　男人这一刻非常宽容和温暖，他像个小孩一样地放肆。
　　小染看见窗外的男孩子们像一群白色鸽子一样地飞过去。她笑了一下。
　　男人非常开心。男人全无睡意。他已经停下了，只是这样看着女孩。
　　他忽然站起来，非常用力地把小染拉过去。他紧紧地抱着女孩。女孩像一只竖立着的木排一样被安放在男人身上。她支着两只手悬在空中。小染还带着刚刚那个表演式的微笑，她一点一点地委屈起来。
　　男孩还在说，你，你的嘴唇啊，太白了啊，不然，你，就是个美人了。
　　娃娃还在跳舞。她又转了7个圆圈，玫瑰裙子开出新的花朵。
　　一切都将于她错身而过。
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小染(10)---------------
　　10）男人紧紧抱着我。我的双手悬在空中。我的心和眼睛躲在新鲜的玫瑰裙子里去赴约。
　　我很口渴。我的嘴唇像失水的鱼一样掉下一片一片鳞片来。
　　一切都将于我错身而过。
　　钟表又敲了一下。钟摆是残酷的听诊器，敲打着我作为病人的脆弱心灵。
　　我强烈地感到，内心忽然跟随一个不远的地方发出的声音而热闹起来。
　　男人，男人，你怎么还不睡？
　　我的眼前明晃晃。
　　我的眼前明晃晃。
　　刀子被我这样轻松地从男人身后的小桌几上拿起来。我的手立刻紧紧握住它。我的手和刀子像两块分散的磁铁一样找到了彼此。它们立刻结在了一起。它们相亲相爱，它们狼狈为奸。我想我知道它们在筹划着什么，我想我明白什么将要发生。可是我来不及回来了，我的心在别处热闹。我在跳舞，像我的娃娃一样转着圆圈，溺死在一场目光里。
　　刀子摸索着，从男人身体正中进入。男人暂时没有动。他的嘴里发出一种能把网撕破的风声。我又压着刀柄向男人肥厚的背深刺了一下。然后把刀迅速抽出来。
　　这些对于我非常熟悉。我熟练得像从前对付每一块水仙花根一样。
　　男人没有发出怨恨的声音。我在思索是不是要帮助我的父亲止血。我把刀子扔下去，然后我用两只手摩挲着寻找男人的伤口。我感到有温泉流淌到了我的手心。我感到了它们比水仙汁液更加芬芳的香气。
　　男人还带着刚才那样宽容的笑容。他就倒下了。他把温泉掩在身后，像一块岩石一样砸下去。
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小染(11)---------------
　　11）小染看着男人。男人的画板上有一块温暖的颜色。小染觉得那可能是她的玫瑰裙子。无法可知。小染忽然调头，带着她红色的温泉的双手，跑上阁楼。
　　楼梯是这样长，扶手和地板上都流淌着目光。
　　小染从来没有跑得这样快。她喘着气停顿在她的梳妆台旁边。
　　她对着灰蒙蒙的镜子大口呼吸。她看着自己，从未这样清晰地看着自己。
　　嘴唇上结满了苍紫色的痂。
　　小染看着自己，看着自己。然后她缓缓地提起自己的手。
　　她对着镜子把手上的鲜血一点一点涂抹在嘴唇上。温热的血液贴合着嘴唇开出一朵殷红色的杜鹃花。小染想着男孩的话，看着镜子里红艳艳的嘴唇，满意地笑了。
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小染(12)---------------
　　12）我，对着镜子里的红色花朵笑了。

Xiaoran
阮宗光译
{Translator’s Note: This too is a fairy tale, with a macabre storyline, whose main function appears to be leading the reader towards the final picture: an oldish man lays dying, while a girl performs actions amounting to a final ritual, in this case, painting her lips with the man’s blood. Similar scenes appear in other stories of Zhang Yueran, an issue of psychological significance that can be subject to much debate.}

1.
Man o man; why arent you asleep yet?
I sat at the window looking at the watch; the clock chimes every hour, and I see the clock arm stretching to me like a bright stethescope, sneaking into my heart. The silvery mirror was shining on the downcast face. My lips, so pale.
On the window sill are the stems of narcisscus. I look after them every day. The watering can is transparent, with printed flowers. Long neck, long arm, like to girl with an unhappy face. Every day I fill her belly with water; I can hear the girl's moans. During many many bright afternoons, I dragged the girl by the arm to look after my flowers.
I have six stems of narcisscus. I often take a pair of scissors to plunge into the roots of the narcisscus. Poking and poking, to reveal the white pulp, reveal its fresh flesh and blood. I would push the scissors down gradually, and the plant juice would slowly seep out, wetting my hand. This pair of scissors must be made of high quality steel; it feels so cold. I held onto it, but it remained cold after sucking out all my thermal energy. Finally I put the little scaly bits of the root together. They are intimate like potato skins, light like the wings of little grasshoppers. I lightly blow them away and stretch out my hands; the dehydrating winter sun dried out the plant juice. I have a pair of plant flavoured hands.
2
During the winter, Xiaoran buys six pots of narcisscus every day, putting them in a row on the window sill. She uses a shiny pair of plant scissors to kill them. She stands on the balcony drying her plant flavoured fingers in the sun.
Then she stands in the turning wind holding the scissors, absent minded. She could see the man inside the room.. He is wearing a camel coloured cardigan and oversized striped pants. In this winter he likes to drink a Mocca coffee with too much cocoa powder. His whole mouth is sticky sweet. He has a chaise lounge, and would recline on it most of the time, reading the papers, smoking, and painting. All the time he sits there. When his beard is overgrown, he would lie on the chaise lounge shaving. If he cuts his chin, he would sit on the chaise loung stemming the bleeding.
Sometimes when the girl passed next to him carrying her narcisscus plants, the man would tell her, sit down. His words could always wrap tightly around her like the first snow of a severe winter. Xiaoran would tightly shrink her arms into her sweater sleeves, pull over a stool, and sit down. She finds the stool very hard, but she sits, not moving; then the man would start to paint. Xiaoran feels she is such a clumsy obstacle, stuck in the middle fo the room. She could see time stepping over her body, and afterwards continuing to flow forward smoothly. She is a stuck out blade growing in this gentle winter.
3
The man is a painter; the man is her father; the man is a scum.
The woman was driven off by him. When she stood at the door for the last time, she was carrying some messy wounds, fixed a glance on Xiaoran, and closed the door without looking back again. Xiaoran saw the door, as it it was a magic box, closing on the season's storms. She saw the woman rushing to a distant place like a breeze of wind. One strand of the woman's hair got stuck to the door. Xiaoran went over and took down that strand of ordinary black hair. It was winter, and cold. She quickly slid that hair deeply into her sweater sleeves.
Xiaoran could not remember how many turbulent battles there have been. She only remembers she moved many times, each time to a shaky wooden attic. During each battle she hid in the furthest room, but the stairs, walls and ceiling kept trembling. The woman's yewe like cries bound many circles around Xiaoran's neck, making a knot. In much fright, Xiaoran leaned on the bedhead, scratching off the paint with a nail clip. After each battle, the woman sat in the middle of the room listlessly. When Xiaoran walked by her she looked at Xiaoran with disgust and hate in her eyes. Then she would roar at the man, like a she wolf whose den had been taken by force. Xiaoran went to the balcony; she saw flower petals that had been shaken to the ground; it was starting to rain again.
On that day there was another violent quarrel. Through the crack in the wooden door Xiaoran could see the woman's face covered in blood. She wanted to go in. She hated the woman's cry, but she had to go to the rescue. The man opened the door, and quickly pushed her out, quickly closing the door. Locked it. The man pulled Xiaoran to the side of the door. Next to the door there were his black suitcase and a long armed umbrella. The man was recently away on a long trip. Holding Xiaoran with one hand, the man's other hand quickly opened the suitcase. In the weak greyish light, Xiaoran saw him take out a cloth doll. The doll, it was very nice. She wore a rose coloured dress, the kind Xiaoran always wanted, with raised black flower prints. Xiaoran could see the fine lace softly limped against the doll's legs, and the doll was cutely smiling. He locked her and the doll outside. In weather nasty enough to freeze the snowman, Xiaoran slipped and fell, then stood up again, several times.
That day was her birthday; it ought to have been a day for making some serious wishes. Xiaoran thought, should she love her father a little. He was nicer than mom; he remembered her birthday. Xiaoran could hear even louder cries from inside the house. But she felt she was frozen, stuck in the middle of the yard like the snowman. Xiaoran looked at the doll, looked at her two-linen coloured pleats, but her own hair was just thrust into the sweater collar like a bundle of grass. Xiaoran sighed, you look so nice, doll.
Xiaoran remembers that when the door opened it was already evening. She stood up slowly. The snow on her body cracked and rolled down; only the doll in her bosom was warm. As Xiaoran walked she could see her feet swollen into two balls, stretching her shoes to the breaking point. She hobbled into the house. Her mother was standing at the door, face covered in congealed blood. The woman looked at Xiaoran closely. She suddenly stretched out a bloody palm and slapped Xiaoran.
She said, just a doll could buy you?
With her swollen feet, Xiaoran wabbbled a few times like swing doll before she slowly fell. Her nose knocked against the door frame, and she was afraid it might drop off like that of the snowman. Lucklily, it merely bled.
Xiaoran held up her face, with a hand on the chin to catch the blood flowing down. She saw the woman going back to the bedroom to take a small bag and rush out. She saw the woman passing next to her, giving her a look of contempt. It was the last time she and her dear mother exchanged looks. Then the woman went to a far off place, quick as a breeze. Xiaoran went to the doorframe to take down her mother's hair, but she did not have a nice box to put it in; at last she put the hair inside the doll's dress pocket.
For many years afterwards, Xiaoran, the doll and the man lived together..
The man did not have any quarrels with Xiaoran. Because Xiaoran was always obedient. For 10 plus years Xiaoran was always quiet, moving, cooking, raising plants with him. The man is a painter; he liked to put Xiaoran somewhere to paint her. Xiaoran would quietly sit there and let him paint.
Between periods of painting the man would light a cigarette, and slowly say, I love you more than I loved your mother. You are so quiet. Then he would suddenly embrace Xiaoran, saying fiercely, you will be with me all the time.
Xiaoran thought, should I be thankful? to the only person who cares about me.
So many years, only for that birthday, Xiaoran received a present, that doll and a strand of hair from her mother.
4
When I moved to this little town the man told me, he wanted to paint the cold winters of the town. But actually, when winter arrives the man goes into hibernation like one of those animals. He lies on his chaise lounge, not going out.
I live on the upper level of an attic. I grow six stems of narcisscus. The man says to me, you can have some flowers, but not too many; very strong fragrance gives me headache.
To the east of the city there is the flower market. I can get there just after passing that bend.
When I went to buy the narcisscus today it was a foggy morning. I got two stems in full bloom. Holding one plant in each hand, I also had four potato-like tubers in a bag hanging from the wrist. I tightened my scarf and wabbled my way back. Water from the narcisscus roots splashed on my hands, feeling cool, giving a little life to this dull winter.
A crowd of boys came towards me. They appeared as if from all four directions. They used different kinds of cologns, each charateristically monopolizing the air. I felt suffocated. Some of them held skateboards, some were smoking, one was spitting out a mushroom shaped blueberry gum. Purple hair; blond hair, waving on their heads like flags. Big bodied colourful zip-up ski jackets; loose unlaced shoes.
I could see him through the gaps between the flowers, the boy in front. He had hair like a lit up volcano. In the tweed pocket of his burgandy jacket, coins and a cigarette lighter jingled. I saw him pass by looking somewhere else; I saw him rub shoulder with me, actually rubbing shoulders, and my flower - it swayed, jumped out of the pot, jumped to the ground. The flower died in the broken snow, like yesday's tealeaves being quickly splashed next to a door frame.
Roaring laughter; the crowd of wicked boys with different cologns. I gave my attention to my loved flower again. I squat down to pick it up.. But I was not complaining, since in this evening the flower would have died under my scissors. Just a bit earlier, and a wholesome death. I picked it up. The boy also squatted down, helping me to pick up the pot. I and he stood up together. I felt that his cologn was like a pleasing smell of some flowers. He smiled at me. I once again looked at the boy between the narcisscus plants. He was goodlooking, like an imported toy sailor. Standing in the snow; standing before me.
I thought I ought to move on; I have been standing there for a bit of time, but did not get their apologies. I thought I'd better leave. But I could see that the boy, he was watching me. Looking at me with a very serious, detailed look, like a PhD at the animal he was researching. I thought looks could be wicked or insulting, but do you believe, do you know that at that moment I felt the sun shining all over, sunlight adhering to his stare, shiring on me together, giving me the desire to display on a big stage. I showed a wrenching, pitiful look.
The boy, looking at me, still. I wanted to ask him whether he was also a painter, because that kind of look I had only seen from my dad.
Boy on my left; boy on my right; boy on my timeless stage.
He at last spoke to me; the only thing he said to me. He said, you, your lips are too pale; otherwise you would be a beauty.
It was an insulting tone, but in my numerous recallings of the sentence I felt a warm concern.
The boys around were all laughing, cheering as if at the finish of a comedy. I was in the centre fo the stage, deeply embarrassed.
Heyhey; you know the pub at the end of the street? The second floor one with the round stage. Tonight we have a party there; why not come along. Er.. remember to put on lipsticks, pretty girl. The boy had his head high, eyes raised, saying this to me. The boys around laughed again. They are used to singing his chorus. He is the blinding halogen lights in the middle of the stage.
I and my flowers were standing at the same spot. Watching them go past. I saw the boy in the lead withdrawing his glance, turning off all the lights on the stage. I was still standing there. The narcisscus plants in my hands were still dripping water; subconsciously I bit my lips, wetting them.
Then I quickly ran in the direction of home.
Halfway I suddenly stopped at the door of a brighly lit shop. In the shopfront a row of colourful little dresses were swinging. I stopped for a little while, and bought a dress.
It was a rose purple long dress. I saw it swinging in the city's grey apricot morning light. A layer of sunlight evenly sprayed onto the skirt, like a cover of tight little scales on the silky cloth. Like a big kite, it swished to the sky above me.
I have not wanted a dress. I did not care for such fancy stuff. Did not love objects that strongly delmit the female sex.
But at that moment, my hand that was holding the narcisscus, could not help wanting to touch it.
It made me think of the dress on the doll; so much alike. That dress which made me envious for ten plus years. It was like a victory flag raised by the doll to announce, remind me of my failure. Right, I have never been given the same enticing gift.
I bought it. I bought my first dress, holding it proudly as if avenging my defeat.
Then I very very quickly ran home.
5.
Xiaoran quickly opened the door of her home, rushed into the studio. The narcisscus plants and the dress she held was cast at the side of the door; then she began to dig deeply into the set of coloured paint, searching. On the ground there were piles of paint tubes and tins. Some were already dry; some were mixed, changed into dirty colours. She took them up one by one, put one down, picked up another. The man heard the sound she made, and asked from his chaise lounge, what are you looking for.
Xiaoran did not reply, just continued looking; she started to give up on the paint tubes, and turned towards the large colour tins that had not been used for some time. Her movements were swift like those of a squerril; he expression was serious like a general planning a battle.
The man said, what are you looking for, really? The man still received no reply; he heard the girl knock down tins, making clunking sounds, and the sound of paint flowing out, drip, drip.
The man got up from his chaise lounge. Rushed into the studio, asked, what are you looking for.
Red paint; you have any red paint left? Xiaoran asked in a gush.
No. I have not used such bright colours for a long time.You forgot I asked you to throw them away when we moved? Now none. To paint the grim winter here I would not need any reds at all. The man answered slowly.
Xiaoran did not say anything more; she merely stopped the futile search she had in hand, standing there motionlessly. Like a wound up doll that has done enough dancing, dumbly stuck to the ground. She gave a heavy sigh, some splashed paint staining her leg, slowly slipping down, giving her body a covering of greyish green.
The man asked, what do you want red paint for?
Nothing, Xiaoran replied, slipping past the man, going to the kithcen to brew the coffee the man liked.
6
I gave the coffee to the man, then I carried the newly bought narcissus plants up the attic The fog has dispersed. The sun has been re-posted, like a public notice exhorting people to get energized for their work. The narcissus plants were put on the balcony. I do not know when they will bloom. The scissors are next to my hand, silvery and shiny, a great temptation to me; I suddenly thrust the scissors into the narcissus;; the juice in the roots dripped out like those paints. They died as before. I cannot wait for the evening.
Then I settle down bit by bit. I moved my stool to the balcony; sat down. I thought back to the looks received just now. I thought about that boy's stare, as longlasting as a storm.. I thought of his burning hair, spreading like bush plants, his thin lips opening and closing as he talked, like a tempting butterfly.
I heard a crowd of boys laughing, rehearsed, supportive laughters. Like the eagles that attack the dead body during a sky funeral, they envoloped me, submerged me.
I suddenly shivered a little; hopefully that my spasm had a nice posture.
I suddenly thoght of my new skirt; it was still lying in that cold bag.
I took it out of the bag a bit at a time, like pulling out the source of happiness to slowly reveal it to the world. I put the doll next to the bed, so it could watch me change clothes.
Roses suddenly bloomed all over my body;. I feel as if many thorns are pricking my skin. This dress grows onto my body, never to be separated from me again.
Doll o doll; look at me; am I pretty?
7
Xiaoran walked about in the pre-evening attic. The time was 6pm. The man had a meal of barbecued fish and a dish of boiled rolled corn. He would usually fall asleep after a full meal, waking up around 8pm to watch movies about gunfights. He would in such times be specially excited, sometimes even pounding his brushes on the easel making banging noises. But right now he ought to be falling asleep.
Xiaoran could hear the yells of the noisy kids outside. She knew they were all going in the same direction. She felt there was a icy and peaceful spot at the poles worthy of every penguine converging there. She ground up the chopped narcissus petals, rubbing them on her body and neck. The juice of narcissus slowly soaked in, drifting into her blood. She could hear it disperse, she could hear it merge in; right, merging in, like a pair of glances
The clock chimed; the man was still not asleep. He was turning the pages of a picture collection bought some time ago; his spectables now and then slipped down his flat nose; he pushed it up, continuing to turn the pages, not at all sleepy.
Xiaoran deeply wished to go to the air outside; she wanted to follow the steps of those wild boys; she wanted to stand in front of that boy, listen to his teasing of her. But the man must sleep; only then could she jump out of the wooden box, leaving behind the man's snores and dead narcissus plants, to go on a date.
Xiaoran bit her lips with her teeth, the small toothmarks like at string of colourless convallanias on her lips. Then Xiaoran went downstairs. She remembered that on the balcony below there were some narcisscus tubers still; so she went down with her scissors.
Holding the scissors in hand, hand shrunk inside the sleeves, wearing a pair of cotton slippers with dropped off fur, she rushed downstairs, walking straight towards the narcissus tubers.
The man saw her, and suddenly said, sit down.
What? Xiaoran had a start.
The man had picked up the brush next to him and gestured Xiaoran to sit down. He slowly said, you are wearing a dress today; very different. Xiaoran was still for a moment, and then realized the man wanted to paint. She stood, put down the scissors on the wooden bench for brushes, then pulled over a chair and sat.
At that moment she felt time had stopped; she was fixed on a rusty wheel, her rose skirt wilting on this tall wheel. She placed her hands tightly against the dress, as if holding onto the last petal. The world was about to lose all its water; raising her head she saw at the corner of the man's dry eyes, a pile of muddy dirt was accumulating like a piece of cloud.
Xiaoran felt as if someone was calling her from downstairs. She felt a bright red carpetted road slowly stretched from outside her home. She felt she should step onto it, walking on. She felt grand stares are waiting for her at the end, for his roses. Xiaoran wanted to jump up, to fly out. Fly ouf of this dark cave in the evening's last ray of sunlight.
8
It is as if I see my doll dancing on the floor upstairs. Her lips are very red.
9
The man gradually slowed down his painting. He wrapped the petite girl with his look. It was as if he treasured her for the first time. He liked very much the girl's new dress. The new dress made the girl look like a full and fetile woman. Like her mother when she first appeared in his life.
Smile; why dont you smile. The man said to the girl. You never smile; now have a smile.
The man was for the moment tolerant and warm, like a child letting itself go.
Xiaoran could see the boys outside the window like a flock of white pigeons flying by. She smiled.
The man was very pleased. He felt no drowsiness. He had stopped, just watching the girl.
Suddenly he stood up, and forcefully pulled Xiaoran to him. He held the girl tightly. The girl was placed next to the man like a stood up raft. Her raised hands were suspended mid-air. Xiaoran was still holding the staged smile; she was feeling more aggrieved by the minute.
The boy was saying, you, your lips, too pale; otherwise, you would be a beauty.
The doll was still dancing; it had made 7 turns, the rose dress opening new flowers.
All this would be passing her by.
10
The man is embracing me tightly. My two hands are suspended mid air. My mind and eyes are hiding in the fresh rose dress to go on a date. I am thirsty. My lips are flaking off in little bits like a dehydrating fish.
All will be passing me by right next.
The clock chimed again. The clock arm is like a cruel stethescope, striking at the fragile psyche I have as a sick patient.
I feel strongly; the heart suddenly heating up with the sound coming from not far away.
Man o man; why arent you asleep yet?
Before my eyes, shining brightly
Before my eyes, shining brightly
The blades are so easily lifted from the little table behind the man. My hand quickly held onto it tightly. My hand and the blades, like two separated magnets, found each other. The immediately joined together. The love each other; they are in cahoots. I think I know what they are planning; I think I know what is about to happen. But I have no time to turn back. My heart is somewhere else, busy. I am dancing, turning circles like my doll, drowning in a pile of stares.
The blades searched, and entered in the centre of the man's body. For the moment the man did not move. From his mouth emerged winds that can tear up a net. I pressed the blades again, deeply into the man's fat and thick back. The I quickly pulled the blade out.
With this I am very familiar. I am well practicsed, like I used to do with narcissus roots.
The man did not make any protesting sounds. I was thinking whether to help my father stem the bleeding. I threw down the blade, then groped with my two hands to find his wound. I felt a warm font flowing onto my palm. I felt a fragrance stronger than that of narcissus juice.
The man still had the same tolerant smile. He laid down. He covered up the warm font behind him, dropping down like a stone.
11
Xiaoran looked at the man. On the man's easel there is a patch of warm colour. Xiaoran thought it might be her rose skirt, but who knows. Xiaoran suddenly turned, and rushed up the attic with her red, warm font hands.
The flight of stairs is so long; on the rail and the floor, starees drooled.
Xiaoran had never run so fast. Panting, she stopped next to her dressing table
She breathed, open mouthed, at the greyish mirror. She looked at herself. never before seeing herself so clearly.
Her lips were covered by dull purple scabs.
She looked at herself, at her self. Then she slowly raised her hands.
Facing the mirror, she wipe the blood on her hands drop by drop on the lips. Warm blood adhering to the lips, blooming into deep red rhodondendrons. Thinking of what the boy said. Xiaoran looked at the flaming red lips in the mirror, and smiled contentedly.
12
I, smiling at the red flower in the mirror.