Selected Works of Zhang Chengzhi - 60th Century Literary Masters

Author: Zhang Chengzhi
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: He was stunned. In an instant, I had regained my reaction in Chinese. If it had been four hours earlier, or if it had been a year since then, I would have just as quickly and without hesitation shouted this in Japanese. He was surprised at himself. The young man had already disappeared, and he was still savoring his instantaneous reaction. The queue moved forward. It turned out that the people in the giant belly of the Boeing 747 earlier had mostly been Chinese returning from Japan. He rubbed his ears, wanting to restore his hearing before passing through customs. "Please show your passport!" he heard a faint buzzing voice. The sound was sharp and distant; he saw a girl in green uniform peering at him through the window. He judged it was speaking to him; he immediately handed over his passport. "Is this your passport?" the voice was faint, mixed with a buzzing noise. He swallowed hard—the ears suddenly returned to normal, and a huge roar surged into both ears. "Is this your passport?" He was very surprised. Of course, it's my passport. He curiously looked at the girl in the green uniform. He had already guessed that the unfamiliar green uniform with a yellow border and soft shoulder boards was that of the armed police—the uniform of the garrison troops. "Of course it's mine," he said. "What yours!" The girl pouted and tapped his passport with her fingernail. "Look, who does that look like!" She gave him a hard stare. "Hey, that's really something, it's exactly mine!" He suppressed the fire of anger or laughter in his stomach and said. He recalled the scene in Narita four hours earlier; he felt like playing a joke on this tough but cute girl. "Excuse me—come here!" A burly man in green uniform yelled at him. Behind him, another green-uniformed person had opened a door. "Please come with us!" the girl said sharply. Inside, three green-uniformed people studied his passport. He suddenly felt interested. He unbuttoned his shirt, combed his hair with his fingers, and cheerfully said to the girl, "Look, take a close look. Do you see—is it ugly or spirited?" The burly young man in green uniform laughed. "It's him, no doubt about it." He poked the girl. The girl blushed, snatched the passport back, glanced at it, and then handed it to him. "Hmph—let's go! Look at you!" He grabbed his luggage and finally exited customs, reaching the glass door. He strained his eyes, looking at the faces of countless people crowded outside the door. The faces on the other side didn't suit his taste; the faces on this side didn't either. He thought happily and freshly, opening his eyes wide to search among the faces. It was a funny coincidence, almost like a deep implication. But I'm back now; as soon as I find them, I'll go home. Irohito Kobayashi embarked on another long journey, empty-handed, without electricity, sound, or accompaniment. I'm off too. I've said I'm going to the grasslands, to Xinjiang, to the Islamic Mountains. Where are they? Where are my wife and daughter? This sea of faces made his eyes ache. Home—he suddenly stopped: his tanned wife, holding a sleeping child, stood before him, looking at him with excitement and shyness. His wife's hair was a bit messy, and her tanned face was a little haggard. In her arms, a strange little girl was sleeping soundly; one small hand tugged at her mother's collar, the other tightly gripped a fluffy teddy bear. They had been watching him for a long time.
The last memory was about a horse. People can endure hardship. But because of that horse, he understood: what people cannot endure is enjoyment. Yes, in true hardship, the allure of enjoyment is simply too great. Many years later, he still reflected silently on that incident alone. If he had noticed the horse's sweat at that time, if he had paid attention to the expression in the amber eyes of the white horse, perhaps the mistake could have been avoided. But he always heard a voice in his heart fiercely arguing: No, no! At that time, I just wanted to gallop; in my subconscious, I had already forgotten everything and just wanted to gallop, a reckless desire that included the life of this noble horse! Was that cruelty? Was that abuse? Was that a hidden sin? In fact, he only remembered it as a glorious enjoyment. In fact, it was a beautiful moment for him. The white horse died. It was during the days when he was bidding farewell to his horseback riding career. He had a desire for unrestrained indulgence that he had controlled for years but no longer wanted to. It was a late spring, the snow on the fields had melted, and the sun had dried the wet earth. The sound of hooves striking the ground had become crisp and hard like popping beans. It seemed he had had a purpose, the horse had seemed to have a direction when it ran out; but now he understood that it was an illusion, that his purpose at that time was to indulge himself. When the golden grass waves surged forward in the horse's wake, he was drunk; when the thunderous roar of the hooves became indistinguishable in its fury, he was drunk; when he imagined a white horse streaking across the sky like lightning, he was drunk; when he drank too much strong liquor and then let a white horse indulge in such a wild gallop, he was drunk. He was drunk, and the horse died. The white horse refused to eat for several days. When he bid farewell to it, it stood quietly. It was silent, gentle, and calm. He seemed to have comforted himself, deceived himself, hidden his inner panic and sense of guilt, and whispered softly to himself: It's standing, it's just resting, it'll eat soon, it'll recover soon. So he left. He went forward, never to return. Later, much later, he heard a rumor. A rider who didn't know him talked about a white horse; he said that the white horse, after its master left, didn't eat or drink, standing on the grassland until it died. Listening to this, he felt as if a burst of ice water had been poured into his heart. He listened silently, understanding everything. Later, he stood up and bid farewell. Until today, he still keeps silent about this matter. No one noticed anything unusual about him, no one knew his secret. Because this is the last memory, he thought it should be written here. For ten years, he had silently missed a white horse. He argued fiercely within himself, and the white horse in his mind became a principle and a judge. He didn't run to the grassland where the horse died; he didn't wail curses at himself for being a murderer. He just permanently and firmly kept in his heart a white horse; he felt that with every step he took, he heard the familiar sound of hooves, and he felt that his life...