CONTENTS

 
  THE SOUND OF A SHELL 螺音
   By Hsia Ching 夏菁
   Translated by C. W. WANG 王季文
 
  1001 NIGHTS 一千零一夜
   By Fei Ma (William MARR) 非馬
   Translated by John J. S. BALCOM 陶忘機
 
  HOMECOMING 歸來
   By CHEN I-chih 陳義芝
   Translated by Chris Wen-Chao LI 李文肇
 
  I LOST A POEM 我遺失了一首詩
   By CHOU Ying-Hsiu 周盈秀
   Translated by John J. S. BALCOM 陶忘機
 
  PASSION 激情
   By Hsiang Ming 向明
   Translated by John J. S. BALCOM 陶忘機
 
  WINTER IN BEIJING 北京冬日
   By Hsiang Ming 向明
   Translated by John J. S. BALCOM 陶忘機
 
  LISTENING TO THE SUNNY SIDE OF SICKNESS
聆聽病的晴朗

   By HSU Shui-fu 許水富
   Translated by John J. S. BALCOM 陶忘機
 
  OLD-STYLE FRIENDSHIP— in memory of Chiao Chiao 老式的友情──為橋橋逝世三周年
   By YAO Yni Ying 姚宜瑛
   Translated by Linda WONG 黃瑩達
 
  ENVY 愛慕
   By HAO Yu-hsiang 郝譽翔
   Translated by David and Ellen DETERDING
   戴德巍與陳艷玲
 
  FINGERTIPS ON ICE 指尖滑過冰塊
   By Yu-wen Cheng 宇文正
   Translated by Carlos G. TEE 鄭永康
 
 

A BLOW TO THE FACE 耳光
   By YUAN Chiung-chiung 袁瓊瓊
   Translated by Daniel J. BAUER 鮑端磊

 
  WENG MING-CHUAN’S BAMBOO CARVED TEA UTENSILS: A Marriage of Aesthetic Form and Intrinsic Poise
翁明川的竹雕茶具:外顯美形內蘊敬意

   By FU Chen 傅珍
   Translated by David van der Peet 范德培
 
  TEA UTENSILS AS TIMELESS ART— Weng Ming-chuan’s Groundbreaking Bamboo Carving 茶器小品變身傳世藝術:前無古人的翁明川竹雕創作
   By WU Te-liang 吳德亮
   Ttranslated by David van der Peet 范德培
 
  CHARACTERISTICS OF WENG MING-CHUAN’S BAMBOO-CARVING ART 翁明川竹雕藝術的特色
   By SU Chi-ming 蘇啟明
   Ttranslated by David van der Peet 范德培
 
  THE ART OF WENG MING-CHUAN’S BAMBOO CARVING 翁明川竹藝雅雕
   By WU Chian-hwa 吳千華
   Translated by David van der Peet 范德培
 
  NEWS & EVENTS 文化活動
   Compiled by Sarah Jen-hui HSIANG 項人慧
 
  NEW BOOKS BY OUR MEMBERS 會員新書
 
  NOTES ON AUTHORS AND TRANSLATORS
作者與譯者簡介
 
  APPENDIX : CHINESE ORIGINALS 附錄 :中文原著
 
  2008 INDEX
 
  CLEAR RADIANCE 清輝, 2005............................Cover
 
 

A DRUNKEN ODE TO LOVE 醉吟風月, 2005 OUTSHONE BY THE MOON 月明星淡, 2005
........................................................................Back Cover
   By WENG Ming-chuan 翁明川

 

Yu-wen Cheng 宇文正

FINGERTIPS ON ICE
指尖滑過冰塊*

translated by Carlos G. TEE 鄭永康


    It’s been eleven years since you left this world. As I enter middle age, you always remain 33 years old. Just like those memories of mine, you have been ice-bound, forever sealed in time.
    As I recall that phone call now, I can still feel the shock of the news. You started to convulse in the middle of the night, and you later lost consciousness. Leukemia leading to cerebral hemorrhage. After the operation, your little sister told me over the phone: “Brother is rather stable now but his linguistic nerve has been damaged. He won’t be able to speak again. . . .” I listened through the receiver, too stunned to fully comprehend her words.
    Those days, I voraciously read books on sensory psychology, scanning every line that explains the most basic cerebral activity. I read about “receptive aphasia,” which results from damage to the temporal and parietal lobes of the left part of the brain. In medical terms, that is the so-called Wernicke area, which lies close to the auditory projection area. As this was the spot where you were operated on, you will not be able to understand anything we say. After undergoing the operation, have you really lost your linguistic cognitive functions?
    You were never good at language. Yet the first thing you lost after that operation was your linguistic ability. How much memory can you recover? Will you still be able to play the erhu?

  * * *  

    I pushed the door of the hospital room open and saw your dad, sister and brother. You were sound asleep.
    They woke you up, saying it was time for physical therapy. They made me come near you and asked whether you recognized me or not.
    You shook your head readily. Almost immediately, my tears welled up and your little sister tapped my arm, saying: “Let him take a good look at you. It’s the first time he has seen you after the operation. He can’t even figure out who we are. But since we have been at his bedside all the time, he knows we are his family.”
    Little Sister prodded you to try by reminding you of my name. “She’s your best friend. Think hard.” I couldn’t stand it so I told them to stop forcing you to remember.
    I brought a cassette tape of your favorite music out of my bag.
    Confluence by Yu Hsun-fa. After the first few notes wafted in the air, your eyes brightened up. You began to hum with the music and your left hand moved about. Your little sister told me with a laugh: “See? Give him some music and he’d start to conduct!”
    I looked with amazement at your hands. They were those of a musical conductor! You started playing the nanhu since senior high school. Now, at a time when you have no full control of yourself, you appear to wield your hands with even greater ease.
    Then I whispered behind your ears: “That’s Yu Hsun-fa playing with the BCC Folk Music Ensemble, conducted by Peng Hsiu-wen himself. It’s better than the version by Tangshan.” But you appeared not to have understood what I said, still humming the tune with total concentration. You even tried to mimic the sound of water dropping silently with your lips. The music stopped, and very naturally, you said: “Great music!”
    I played Moon Hanging Up High, a tune you’ve always liked, and you resumed the humming and the waving of your hand. I heaved a sigh and told your folks: “His musical sense and memory for tunes are intact. Unbelievable!” Little Sister quipped: “Right! He should have pursued a career in music!” She said these words with a tone of great admiration.
    I found a tape of campus folk songs under the bed. How could you be still listening to this stuff? It was the Little Wooden Boat, a song I liked in senior high school and I used to sing the song for you quite often in the past. Joining the singer, Chen Ming-shao, I sang along the lyrics: “Little Boat, Little Boat! Through rainy days and sunshine, we went through our life. . . .”
    Suddenly, your brother interrupted my singing. “Your voice is quite similar to hers!” he commented. Jolted from my reverie, I noticed that you seemed to have been listening too, the way you did when I sang songs for you before, and as if you were trying to recall something. Tears started to roll down my cheeks once again and I couldn’t go on. At that instant, you seemed to have remembered my voice. Have you really forgotten all about how I looked, what type of a person I am, the little details of our courtship, the love between us, the quarrels, or the pain of separation? Is my voice the only thing you could remember?
    As I left the hospital that day, my mind was still ringing the tune of Little Wooden Boat. Then I realized that maybe what you still remember is the best part of me.

  * * *  

    On that day in June, I was again on my way to the National Taiwan University Hospital. Over the last six months, this familiar stretch of road became harder and harder for me to tread on. Events of the past, like accidentally having bumped on something, creating sounds or scattering images on the floor, were difficult to tidy up.
    On that day, they wanted you to look at me. Your eyes opened by reflex and all you could manage was a feeble grunt in your throat. Your little sister told me that because of the medication, you are not very lucid during daytime but at times you could recognize people at night.
    But in that afternoon you were scheduled to leave and return home to Houli. I could somehow guess what they wanted to convey. This was the last time I could see you. Eyes shut tight, you lay in bed with that emaciated body of yours. Despite the blanket covering, your whole body appeared shrunken. Your left hand attached to the IV drip was exposed, thin and dry like that of an old man. It was pockmarked with bruises and needle marks. Your lips were slightly parted, making your cheeks appear more shrunken. Not far from the pillow, the ECG screen showed faint and stable little waves. I stared at you and asked myself. Will this be my last impression of you?
    I never believed you would be so seriously ill,much less
succumb. Never.

  * * *  

    For some time, I went to visit you at the hospital almost on a weekly basis. In those days,...

From Lien-ho wen-hsueh 《聯合文學》 (UNITAS— A Literary Monthly), No. 272, June 2007: 134-140.


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