VeVe still sits at the table, writing. Calm now, she seems focused. I quietly sit opposite her.
It is Sunday. While others go to the market, or to the bathhouses, VeVe and I practice calligraphy. It has been a ritual since I was old enough to hold a brush. Why? We don’t know. Maybe because it is something we are both good at; because there’s no danger in writing; because it calms our nerves; because it is one of the few things we do together that feels like sharing, and through such sharing we feel connected and stronger.
Back when I was a small child, VeVe put a quail egg in my hand to teach me the correct way to hold the brush made with goat’s hair. If my grip was too tight, the egg would break, too loose, and it would slip out of my hand. Initially I practiced to please VeVe and to eat the egg after I finished writing. But by the time I was seven, I had grown to enjoy it. I won many calligraphy contests in primary school.
While I practice random characters, VeVe writes out the words in my grandfather’s herbal recipes, the ones she salvaged during Wenge, the Cultural Revolution. At that time, the Red Guards wanted to destroy my grandfather for being a “rightist,” so they ruined most of his recipes, and they tried to ruin his daughter—VeVe suffered terribly during those years.
幾天是周日。 別人都去逛商店或去洗澡堂洗澡， 我和微微卻在練毛筆字。為什麽呢？ 我們也說不清楚。 也許因為我們倆都會寫毛筆字；也許因為寫字沒有什麽危險；也許因為寫字會使我們鎮靜； 也許因為這樣坐在一
字時會感覺到少有的母女相連， 少有的一種堅強。
自從小時候，我剛剛能拿住毛筆，和微微周日早晨練書法就成了一個規律。最初，為了訓練我拿筆的正確姿勢，微微把一個鵪鶉蛋放在我手裏。毛筆是羊毛做的。如果我的手攥的太緊，鵪鶉蛋的殼就會破。太鬆，就會從我的手裏掉下去。起初我練字是為了吃那個鵪鶉蛋。到我七歲時，我才開始喜歡寫字。在學校的書法競賽裏我還贏過幾次呢。
我是記性練字的，想寫哪個字就寫哪個字。微微總是練姥爺中藥方裏的字。這些幸存的中藥方隻是老爺的一部分。那時候，有人要搗毀老爺，所以他們就想法奪走她的中藥方。甚至想發搗毀他的女兒。微微可是受了不少苦。
Now, her head inclines slightly; her wrist moves with ease and rhythm. She has tied back her hair with a handkerchief so it doesn’t get in the way, and also to keep her cool.
Even in the North, summer is hot. The floor fan in the corner, old and rusty, isn’t strong enough to cool the living room. In the limited space, our furniture is minimal. A small, wooden square table is set under the window with four unmatched chairs. Beside it is a sofa, so worn its original dragonfly print is nearly indistinguishable. A simple armoire in which VeVe and I store our clothes, unpainted, looks shabby on the opposite side of the room. The only decent piece of furniture—one that may catch people’s eye—is VeVe’s medicine cabinet, in which her herbs are stored in various drawers; she inherited it from my grandfather who was a traditional medicine doctor when alive. The heavy, red-wood cabinet stands against the wall, grave and awe-striking.
VeVe looks at me now and then, her eyes intense like a wolf’s. “What is it, Amei? You are writing too fast. Pay attention to your brushstrokes.”
“Nothing.” I squirm in my seat.
“If you let nothing bother you, it becomes something.”
“Well, actually there is something. And I’m scared,” I say, though she always tells me not to be scared of anything.
“What is there to be afraid of?” She lifts her head.
I pause my brush. “I have an English exam on Monday.”
“Already? You just started at this college,” she says. “But since when did my daughter let an exam scare her?”
“The teacher giving me the exam is a foreigner, VeVe.” I called her “VeVe” as a baby, and am stuck with it.
“A foreigner?” She lifts her head again, her eyebrows arching. “But foreigners hardly ever come to this city. Why all of a sudden?”
It’s true. I have never seen any foreigners in Hesin, our medium-sized city, except on T.V. in which foreign visitors are occasionally shown touring large metropolitans, such as Beijing or Shanghai.
“Which country is the foreigner from?” VeVe asks.
“America.”
“America?” she repeats, her eyes widening. Her voice sounds shaky. Her hand holding the ink stone pauses.
“Yes, America.”
“A woman?”
“A man.”
“What does he look like?”
“Like a foreigner—big nose, yellow head, long arms and legs.”
“Old or young?”
“I don’t know. Why are you asking these questions?”
她坐在小方桌的那邊，很專心。頭稍微傾斜著， 手節奏地動著。 她的頭發用一條手絹紮起來， 這樣頭發不礙事，她也涼快。
北方的夏天也很熱。牆角的落地扇都舊得生鏽了， 不夠涼快整個房間。在我們的小空間裏， 家具很少。我們練毛筆字的小木方桌在窗下，和四個不成套的椅子。方桌旁邊是一個沙發，很舊了。上麵的蜻蜓圖案已經看不清了。對麵放著我和微微放衣服的衣櫃。沒有上漆，顯得很簡陋。唯一像樣的，惹人注目的一件家具是微微的中藥櫥。她的中藥，各種各樣的，都放在小抽屜裏。中藥廚是從我的姥爺那裏繼承來的。姥爺活著的時候是一個中醫。這個紅木製作的中藥櫥顯得很重。在牆邊，好像又嚴肅又讓人敬畏的樣子。就像我心目中的老爺。
微微不時的抬頭看我。她的細長的眼睛就像一隻母狼的那樣狡辯。“怎麽了阿梅，”微微說， “你寫的太快了，注意你的筆畫。”
“沒事兒，” 我說。
“沒事兒你就這麽不安。真有事你會什麽樣啊，”她說。
“實際上也有點事，我有點兒害怕，”我說，盡管微微經常告訴我不要害怕。
微微抬起頭來。“有什麽害怕的？”微微邊問邊說把剛磨好的墨水倒進我的墨盒裏。
我停住筆。 “星期一我有英文考試。“
“已經有考試了？你剛剛上大學啊，” 她說，“不過我的女兒什麽時候讓考試嚇唬她？”
“你不知道，微微，給我考試的老師是一個外國人，” 我說。我小時候不知為什麽叫她“微微，” 就這樣叫下去了。
“外國人?” 微微又抬起頭來，她顯得有點警覺，眉毛上挑成了弓子形。“外國人很少到我們這兒來。為什麽突然來了個外國老師？”
是的，在我們的小城市裏，很少見到外國人。偶爾在電視上看到外國人在北京和上海的大城市裏。
“外國老師是從哪個國家來的？” 微微問。
“ 美國，”我說。
“美國？”微微的眼睛忽然變大，聲音也稍稍有一點變。手裏的磨石也停住了。
“是女的吧，” 她說。
“男的，” 我說。
她手裏的磨石放在桌上。“他叫什麽名字？”
“還不知道。”
“他長得什麽樣子。”
“外國人樣唄。大鼻子，黃頭發，長胳膊長腿。”
“很老吧。”
“不老。外國人的年齡很難看出來。你為什麽問這些問題呢，微微?”
She avoids my eyes and then gets up from the table. She paces aimlessly about the room before she walks slowly to the kitchen. Clearly something is troubling her, making her uneasy. Growing up, I have learned to read her emotions, no matter how hard she conceals them. And vice versa.
In a little while, VeVe returns from the kitchen. “Come here, Amei.” She sits on the sofa, motioning me over.
I walk over and sit beside her.
She turns to face me. “Look at me, Amei.”
I meet her eye, intense, focused, rife with meaning. There’s an ink smear on her cheek.
“Listen to me carefully,” she says, laying her hands on my shoulders. “Don’t ever get into the foreigner’s car.”
“I don’t know if he drives a car; people have seen him on a bicycle.”
“Don’t ever get on his bicycle.”
“Of course not. He is a teacher.”
“Promise me.”
It’s absurd that she makes me promise something that’s not going to happen anyway.
“I promise,” I say.
But her hands still clutch my shoulders, trembling. She continues to stare at me. There’s something in her eyes that I’ve never seen before. Something fiercer than she looks when we run out of coal paddies in winter, or when I cut myself with a kitchen knife.
“Don’t let him charm you,” she says, her wolf eyes dark. “Americans are crafty.”
I don’t know what she means, but I nod anyway. I know that she saw and knew many Westerners in her years in Shanghai before I was born. But her exaggerated reaction to my American teacher is startling.
“VeVe, that is not what I’m worried about.”
“What then?
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to understand his English when he questions me.”
“Ask him to slow down,” VeVe says, releasing my shoulders. “Keep in mind that your English is excellent—how many people your age can read English novels?”
It’s true. With the aid of an English-Chinese dictionary, I have been mining the pages in Charlotte Brontë’s masterpiece, the only English novel I own. It is through reading Jane Eyre that I have fallen in love with English. I like the musical rhythm of the words, so different from the single-syllable Chinese characters. But most of all, it’s the strong-willed, free-spirited Jane Eyre who draws me, and I read her story again and again. Sometimes I slip into her mind and hide there for comfort. I let my own loneliness and melancholia merge with hers, sharing her helplessness and insecurity about the world, in spite that our worlds are centuries apart.
“Remember this,” VeVe says. “Foreigners may look intimidating, but inside they are weak.” Her voice has lost its usual steadiness.
“And they smell,” I say, smiling.
“They stink,” VeVe says, smiles back. But her smile seems forced.
I pick up my calligraphy brush, take a deep breath, and try to write. VeVe’s words offer no comfort; they are outweighed by the troubled look on her face and fear in her eyes. The anxiety sits heavy in my stomach, as I anticipate going back to campus to face the American.
For a while, both VeVe and I are silent. Only the floor fan blows sluggishly, making a swooshing noise. VeVe and I try to focus. Now and then she fidgets with her paper, and I keep dropping ink on mine. I grow more restless. My face feels feverish. I can’t hold the calligraphy brush without shaking. My hands are so sweaty they wet the rice paper. My characters look sloppy, disheveled. On VeVe’s page, there’s only one character, and it is smeared black.
微微不回答，把手裏的磨石放下。 我覺得她問的問題很奇怪。我看看她，但是她把頭側過去，慢慢的站起來。在房間裏來回走了幾步，然後去了廚房。顯然，她很不自在，甚至有些不安。從小到大，我已經學會了揣摩她，不管她怎樣掩飾。反過來也是一樣。我害怕她那母狼般的黑裏透綠的眼睛。
一會兒微微從廚房回來。 “阿梅，你過來。”她坐在沙發上，示意讓我過去。
我過去坐在她身邊。她轉身對著我。 “阿梅，看著我。” 她的眼睛顯得很深，而且充滿了寓意，臉頰上摸了一點墨跡。
“認真聽好，” 她說，把手放在我肩膀上。“永遠不要坐那個外國人的車。”
“我不知道他是不是開車，我見過他騎自行車。”
“那就不要坐在他自行車上。”。
“當然不會。 他是老師啊。”
“那麽阿梅你向我許諾。”
很奇怪，微微讓我許諾這樣一件事，而且是一件不會發生的事。
“好吧，我許諾。”
微微的兩隻手仍然裹箍住我的肩膀。她繼續盯著我的臉。眼睛裏有一種我從沒看到過的東西。我熟悉冬天我們燒完了煤她的眼神是什麽樣，或者我用刀切了手，他的眼神又是怎麽樣。但是此刻她的眼神好像比前兩者更可怕一些。
“不能讓他誘惑你，：”微微說，“美國人很狡猾的。”
我不知道她什麽意思，但我還是點點頭。我知道，她過去在上海見過或認識過一些西方人。那時我還沒出生。但是她對我美國老師的誇張的反應，還是讓我有點吃驚。
“微微，誘惑不誘惑，我才不操心呢，”我說。
“那是什麽?” 她問。
“我害怕我聽不懂他的英語，”我說。
微微鬆開我的肩膀。“那就讓他說慢一點。記住，你的英語很出色，有幾個像你這樣年齡的人能讀英文小說？”
她說的倒也對。捧著厚厚一本英漢字典，我在讀沙洛特，布朗台的名著，簡愛。是我唯一擁有的一本英文小說。就是讀這本小說的時候，我愛上了英文。我喜歡英文字的音樂般的節奏。和我們單音的中國字太不一樣了。不過更吸引我的是簡愛的個性和自由精神。有些我喜歡的章節和段落，我讀了一遍又一遍。
“記住，” 微微又說，“外國人看上去挺可怕，但是他們內心很虛弱。” 我看得出她在強作鎮靜，她的聲音有點不穩。
“而且外國人身上還有味兒，” 我笑著說，想緩和氣氛。
“是啊，一股臭味兒，”微微也笑著看了我一眼，但她的笑有點勉強。
我深吸了一口氣，重新拿起毛筆。通常微微的話總是能安慰我，但這次，她嘴上的安慰抵不過她臉上和眼睛裏的表情。一想到我很快要回學校，麵對那個美國人，我的肚子裏就有沉沉的焦慮。
這一會兒微微和我都不說話了。隻聽見落地扇在懶懶的吹著。我們倆好像都很難集中精力。她不時的玩弄手下的宣紙，而我的毛筆也不時往紙上滴墨。我的臉覺得發燒般的熱， 拿筆的手有點抖， 手上的漢把紙也弄濕了。 寫出的字更是很趿拉。微微正危襟坐著，但是這麽久，她隻寫了一個字，還被她劃掉了。
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