Chronological Anthology of Foreign Short Stories in the 20th Century: French Volume (Volume 1 and 2)

Author: Yu Zhongxian
Compiler:
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2002-03-01
Features: My loneliness was also rewarded: The most beautiful angel in the world came before me. One afternoon, someone rang the garden doorbell, and soon after, Ophelia entered and said to me, "Sir, a little girl has come." This was a little girl, "lonely, a lonely girl," as the London pop song goes. But Ophelia forgot to ask what she wanted. "Let her in, I'll ask what she wants." I watched this little insect hop-hop-hop through the garden, her long legs in black stockings, a white bib, a short skirt, and the ironed-out clothes fitting her thin body and slender arms, making her look like an ice cream cone or a bunch of flowers. Seeing her, I was more excited than seeing a general in feathered hat and sash appear in my garden. When she stood straight in front of me, in my living room filled with ugly furniture, I didn't know what to say. I deeply felt that I was a child who had lost favor, so I didn't dare to look directly at her. "What do you want, little girl?" She told me she had thrown the ball over the fence while playing and asked if I would be willing to help her look for it in the garden. I let her sit in my armchair, then happily ran into the garden: since the young man from Bristol, whom I had once taught French (with the help of Xavier de Maistre), left, this was the first time I had the opportunity to serve someone. The little girl, seeing she was alone, immediately blew a shiny, large bubble with her saliva, making it bigger and bigger, and hung it on her lips. A moment later, she swallowed half of it and then spat it out again, making it even brighter and more beautiful. But when I suddenly entered, she was startled and felt embarrassed, broke the bubble, and a drop of saliva, a drop of fragrant essence from her heart, fell onto the page I was writing on. "I didn't find it." "Life is on the other side!" he said confidently. "It's on the other side!" I said painfully. "But it's all solid cliffs and rocks, how can we climb them?" He lowered his head and smiled mischievously. "You have such a poor memory, didn't I tell you there was a path?" He walked to the right. After ten minutes, he pointed to an irregular crack disappearing into the darkness. "Look!" As he spoke, he had already squeezed into the narrow cave with a flashlight. Purple light streamed out from the still night. Due to the narrow path, we struggled and took a long time! The long journey, the arduous trek tired me and made me doubt. Finally, the crack widened. We found ourselves in a spacious cave. A faint light gradually merged with the flashlight's glow, becoming brighter enough to guide us. "We're almost there!" Daniel declared solemnly. The light became strong yet soft, with the orange-red hue of a sunset. But I still couldn't see anything and couldn't help but complain softly. Turning the convex part of the cave, I shouted: "The promised land is over there! How beautiful!" A round, large red sun, like a basin of charcoal, was reflected in the lake. Tall trees, thick reeds swayed gently in the evening breeze. I immediately realized I had entered a mysterious world: bizarre wild boars with purple manes ran at speeds to the shore. Hippos emerged from the lake, showing their huge nostrils or climbing to the shore, displaying their golden limbs and prominent eyes. "Coroteliolumus Valescens!" my companion shouted. But the noise echoed all around. Herds of horses ran along the willow trees, and I noticed they had the features of three-toed horses. Other animals were rushing in the same direction. Turning around, I saw a vast, unstoppable herd moving forward. My loneliness, this December snow, this threshold of another year, would no longer make me tremble as in the past, when, in the long nights, I accompanied my heartbeat, watching distant tremors. The drumbeat of the town hall was to give the sleeping village a morning song at the stroke of midnight on January 1st. The cold night, around 4 a.m., this drumbeat, in my small children's bed, I imagined it, summoned it, with a nervous anxiety, almost crying, teeth clenched tightly, stomach twitching. For me, this was the only drumbeat, not the twelve strokes of midnight, that announced the glorious opening and mysterious arrival of the new year. With the sound of the old village drum, the whole world, gasping for breath, stepped into the new year. It passed, invisible in the closed morning, leaving its alarm-like, unlucky little morning song on the wall, and behind it, a new, vibrant life began, moving toward the new twelve months. I broke free from the constraints and jumped off the bed to grab the candle. I rushed toward wishes, kisses, candies, and books with gold-trimmed covers. I opened the door to welcome the baker with hundreds of pounds of bread. Until noon, I remained solemn, with a commercial sense, handing out a loaf of bread and ten centimes to all the poor people, whether they were real or not, so that they would neither feel ashamed nor grateful. Winter morning, the red light shone in the dark, before sunrise, the air was dry, with not a single breeze. The garden had already taken shape in the dim morning, shrunk by the snow, and the pine trees bent under the snow, occasionally letting the heavy load slide down from their black arms—panic-stricken sparrows flapped their wings like fans, their restless games shifted to a layer of crystal-like white powder, finer and brighter than the rainbow mist of the water columns. Oh, all the winters of my childhood, a winter had just returned to me! In this oval mirror held by a leisurely hand, I sought my former face, not my face as a young woman, not this young woman whose youth was about to fade. Still immersed in my dream, I was astonished at the changes in myself. In my dream, I had aged. On this face, I could vividly redraw the fresh child's face, tanned by the sun, red from the cold, cheeks full, chin narrow, eyebrows moving, ready to frown, a slight mischief in the corner of the mouth, short lips revealing intelligence. Unfortunately, it was only for a moment. The revived colors, that lovely fur, scattered and drifted. The faint watermarks on the small mirror only left my image, just like me, exactly like me, with light fingernail marks finely carved on my eyelids and lips, between stubborn brows. An image that neither smiled nor frowned, whispering to me alone: "You should be old. Don't cry, don't pray with clasped hands, don't resist yourself: You should be old." Repeat these words, not as a desperate cry, but as a call for a necessary departure. Look at yourself, look at your eyelids, your lips, lift your curly hair on your temples: You have already begun to leave your life, don't forget, you should be old!" "You leave slowly, slowly, don't cry; don't forget anything! Take your health, your joy, your charm, a little kindness and justice, that will make your life less bitter: Don't forget! Dress up and go, go gently, on the irresistible road, don't stop. It's useless even if you try—since you should be old! Walk your path, only lie down when death approaches. When you lie down, lying on that dizzying uneven silk, if at that time, you haven't dropped your curly hair one by one behind you, dropped your teeth one by one behind you, thrown away your worn-out hands and feet one by one behind you, if in your last moment of life, the eternal dust hasn't stolen the light from your eyes— if until the end of your life, the loving hand that guided you is still in your hand, then you can lie down smiling, sleep happily, sleep luckily. For three months, he has been living in this hall decorated with fine wood panels in silver and gold. It was once a drawing room of a princely mansion. People were accustomed to seeing his young, handsome face on the pillow of his fifth bed, though tightly wrapped in a thin cloth bandage, covering his eyes. One night, he was carried to this beautiful temporary hospital in Paris. The frail man had a high fever, wearing tattered, blood-stained clothes, wrapped in dirty, blood-stained clothes on his head. But today, he was clean and neatly bandaged, his body recovering, and a smile had returned to his face. Among these beautiful female nurses, he felt quite at home. Although he was a country boy, certain innate elegance and aristocratic habits forever prevented him from being like ordinary people. Moreover, he paid great attention to his appearance. In the morning, after the barber shaved his beard, he would always touch his cheeks to see if they were clean, and then stylishly comb his small golden mustache: all to avoid the nurses' disapproval. Although he had never seen them yet due to the bandages, he could imagine they must be charming. And now, he could immediately guess who they were. Even before they spoke, just by smelling their perfume or touching their soft fingers, he could tell. One of them, a certain Madame Pola, had become his "flirtation target." In fact, this Madame Pola had a French aristocratic surname. Someone had told him the meaning of "flirting target," which was still a new term for him. So, these kind jokes were just to make everyone happy. The head nurse had been working hard to bring a healthy and cheerful atmosphere to the hall, beneficial for the patients' recovery. One day, he was allowed to get out of bed, sit in a chair, and even go to the garden, holding the arm of the female nurse he liked, smelling her soft, fragrant scent. He felt that her voice was the most intoxicating among all the others. Thus, he thought life was so wonderful, he looked forward to the happy moment when he could escape, to live again in nature, in the sunlight. The holiday from his injuries happened to be in May or June, coinciding with the time when the roses in his small garden in his hometown of Vendée were in full bloom. If he were disfigured, it would be terrible! No, it wouldn't, the female nurse had already comforted him especially for this. How much he wanted to go back and see! That Sunday, he would go to the grand mass with his mother, dressed in fine clothes. People would turn to see the beautiful golden embroidery on his sleeve and the war cross he wore on his chest! Now, every afternoon, he could stroll in the sunlight of April, supported by his girlfriend. He didn't notice that his girlfriend's hair was already white, and she charmed him more and more like a fairy. But this bandage was always in the way! When would he be able to lift it, even for a second, at least to vaguely see a strand of spring sunlight! "Ah, this, I don't allow it," she said in the tone of an older sister who was about to get angry, "It's too early, otherwise you'll ruin everything. Just endure for another two weeks. Swear to me that from now on, you won't cause trouble, otherwise, I won't come anymore." She spoke to him in the "you" form, which was commonly used in temporary hospitals during the war and might sound a bit childish, but to those injured young men, it was often a very affectionate address.