Literature Appreciation：命若琴弦/Strings of Life资料文件与下载

Strings of Life

Shi Tiesheng

      Two blindmen walked single - file across the vast expanse of the mountain range, oneold, the other young, their two blackened straw hats bobbing, the two of them dartingforward as if they were drifting with the current of a restless river. It mattered little from old, the other young, their two blackened straw hats bobbing, the two of them dartingforward as if they were drifting with the current of a restless river. It mattered little fromwhere they came or where they were headed. Each of them carried a three-stringed banjo,and told stories to earn their livelihood.

     The mountain stretched over several hundred kilometres in circumference, each peakstretching higher than the last; it was criss- crossed by gulies and ravines, and sparselypopulated, so that one could walk a whole day and see only a single patch of open terraindotted by vllges. Passing by thickets of brush, at any time one might see pheasants springup, or a rabbit or fox jump out, or other game. Hawks often circled above the valley floor.The sun beat down fiercely on the bleak, shadeless mountains.

     "Keep hold of the banjo," the blind old man called out, and the sounds of his echo rangback from the facing mountain.

      "Got it," the blind lad answered.

      "Mind you don't let your sweat get on the banjo. If it gets wet we'll have to strum yourribs to make tonight's music? "

       It's right here in my hand."

     Senior and junior, both half-naked, each carried a stick to feel his way. Their coarse clothcoats tied up around their waists were soaked through with sweat and their steps stirred upa choking dust. It was peak season for storytelling - -days were long, and after dinner thevillagers all lounged outdoors; some of them even carried their bowls out to eat by theroadside or on the village common. The elder blindman was eager to get in as much story-telling as possible; during the heat of summer he had dragged the blind lad from village tovillage performing night after night. The old man grew more nervous and excited by the day.By his reckoning, the day he would play through his thousandth string might yet be this summer, and maybe it would happen right up ahead in Goat Valley.

    The shadows lengthened as the day's blistering sun retreated from its attack on theearth. Cicadas everywhere relaxed and quieted their voluminous drone.

      "Boy! Can't you walk any faster?" the old man called from ahead without slowing hispace. As the lad ran a few steps forward his satchel banged against his rump with a clatterand he failed to close the gap between him and the old man.

       "The wild pigeons are all headed for their nests."

       "What?" the lad again quickened his step.

     "I said the pigeons have already returned to their nests, and you're still dragging."

       "Oh. .

       "Are you playing with that electric box of mine again?"

       "Oh no! The damn thing moved."

   "Those headphones are going to break if you tinker with them like that.""The damn thing moved."

      The old man laughed darkly: how many days had this boy been born now? "I can evenhear ants fighting," he boasted.

    The lad was not going to argue; he quietly slipped the headphones inside his satcheland trailed the old man along the dull, endless road.

    After a while the lad heard the sound of a badger gnawing away at some field grain. Hegrowled out his best imitation of a dog's bark; the badger rolled, crawled, and ran to makeits escape. Feeling cheered, the lad softly sang a few bars from a love song. Master wouldn'tlet him keep a dog because he feared it might fight with vllagers' dogs and thus affect theirbusiness. A little later, the lad heard the slithering of a snake not far off. After leaning over and groping for stones on the ground, he chucked one toward the snake, sending a loudrustle through the sorghum leaves. The old man took pity and stopped to let him catch up.

    "If it's not badgers, it's snakes," the lad hastened to explain, fearing his master wouldcurse him.

      "There's a field coming up, not too far." The old man passed a water jug to hisapprentice.

     "In our trade, a fellow walks his whole lifetime." Then he added, "Tired?" The lad didn'tanswer; he knew Master hated it when he said he was tired.

"My master never got his due. He played his whole life without going through athousand strings."

    Observing the old man was in a better mood, the lad asked, "What's a green loungechair?" .

     "What? Oh, it's most likely a kind of chair, 1 suppose.""What's a twisting corridor?"

      "A corridor? What kind of corridor?"

      "A twisting corridor."

      "I don't know."

      "They said it on the radio."

      "All you like is listening to that toy. What good does it do you? The world is full of nicethings, but what do they have to do with us?"

      "I've never heard you say just what does have something to do with us?" The lad drewout the word "does".

     "The banjo! Your dad sent you with me so you could learn to play the banjo and tellstories."

     The lad gurgled loudly as he drank from the bottle, and when they started off again hewalked in front.

    Shadows from the mountains spread across the valley. Gradually the terrain levelled offand opened up.

     Drawing near the village the old man called the lad to stop by a spring in the shadowsof the mountain. A trickle of water spurted from a crack in the rock face and dribbled downinto a depression the size of a wash basin. On all sides the weeds flourished, but severalmetres away the thirsty, barren soil soaked up what lttle remained of the water flow.

      "Come on over and wash the sweat off your back and face."

      The lad brushed aside the weeds and squatted down by the pool of water一he was stilltrying to guess what "corridoor" might mean.

      "Give your whole body a scrubbing. You must look like a lttle beggar.""

      "Are you anything more than an old beggar?" The lad giggled as he dipped his hands inthe water. The old man, pulling his hands from the pool to splash water on his face, laughed,too. "But we re not beggars; we' re artisans. "

      "It seems like we've been to this place before." The lad cupped his ear to listen to thesounds around him.

       "But your mind's not on learning your craft. Your young heart is too full of wildambitions. You never listen to what your elders tell you."

       "I'm sure we've been here before."

      "Don't interrupt! You still can't play the banjo worth a hoot. Our life is in these strings.That's what my master once told me."

     Feeling the refreshing coolness of the spring, the lad began singing his tune aboutyoung lovers again. The old man barked at him, "Did you hear what I said?"

     "Our lives are these strings; your master said so. I've heard it eight hundred times. Andyour master left you a medical prescription which you can't get until you've played througha thousand strings. And once you take the medicine you'll be able to see again. I've heardyou say it a thousand times.'

        "You don't believe it?"

      "Why should you have to go through a thousand strings before you can get themedicine?"

       "That's what makes the medicine go down. You clever devil, you can't take medicinewithout it."

    "What's so tough about getting a thousand broken strings?" The lad couldn't help butsneer.

       "What are you laughing at? What is it that you think you know? It won't work unless youearnestly play through them, one at a time." The lad did not dare make a sound; he couldsense his master's indignation. It always happened this way; the master could not tolerateany questioning of his beliefs.

      The old man said nothing more, but he seemed distracted. With his hands resting on hiskneecaps and his bonelike eyes facing the sky, he appeared to be ruminating on all those broken strings. Oh, longing for so many years, thought the man. Longing for fifty years! Infifty years how many mountains and miles had he tracked? How much exposure to the sunand cold had he suffered? How many indignities? Night after night he had played, evermindful that it would not do unless he went through new strings one by one, playing withhis whole heart. Now the goal of his hopes would soon come to pass, for he was certain tofinish his thousand strings by summer's end. "How much more fortunate | am than my master," he declared. " Right until the very end he didn't have a chance to open his eyes andsee even once.'

       "Hey! I know where we are," burst out the lad.

      That prompted the old man to pick up his banjo and give it a shake. A piece of paperscraped against the snakeskin soundboard; that paper in the belly of his banjo was theprescription.

       "Master, isn't this Goat Hill?" asked the lad.

       The old man made no reply; he could tell the lad was getting excited.

       "Master, Goat Valley's just up ahead, isn't it?"

      The old man bent his already hunched back still further and called, "Boy, come over hereand swab my back."

        "Master, is this Goat Valley or not?"

       "Yes! What of it? Stop whining like a kitten.'

     The lad's heart thumped and he obediently scrubbed his master's back. The old man feltvigor in the boy's movements.

    "What if it is Goat Valley? Don't you go sniffing around like a donkey again."The lad timidly kept silent to conceal his elation.

     "Now what are you thinking about? Don't think I don't know what's on your mind.""What did I do?"

     "What did you do? Didn't you go crazy enough last time we were here? That girl isn'tworth a damn!" Maybe I shouldn't have brought him to Goat Valley again, the old manthought to himself. But this is a big village; year after year the business is good enough totell stories for half a month. How he wished he could play through the last few strings all atonce. Meanwhile, the lad's heart was palpitating with thoughts of the girl with the piercingvoice.

      "Listen to me a second; it won't hurt you," the old man said."That one's not dependable."

       "What one?"

      "Don't get smart with me. You know what I'm talking about. "

     "It's just that I've never heard you say what is dependable." The lad held back a laugh.

    The old man paid him no mind and he again turned his bonelike eyes toward the sky.The sun appeared to him like a circle of blood. One of them was young, the other bony andthin, like the craggy, exposed rocks at the base of a mountain. The old blind man was agedseventy, the blind lad, seventeen. At the age of fourteen the lad's father had entrusted himto the care of the old man, with whom he was to learn the art of storytelling and thus have ameans to support himself.

       The old man had been storytelling for over fifty years, and everyone in this remote,desolate, mountain region knew him. Each day his hair grew greyer and his back morehunched. Month after month and year after year he carried his three-stringed banjo everywhere, stopping wherever lonely vllagers were willing to pay for the entertainment ofhis banjo and stories.

      His opening lines were often just so:

      Ever since Pan Gu's division of heaven and earth,

      The emperors have ruled through the ages.

      When the Way prevailed, they ruled peacefully;

      But when the Way was absent, they oppressed the peasants.

    Lightly | pluck my three-stringed banjo, slowly | pause to tell a story;I have three thousand seven hundred stories, I wonder which one will stir your hearts tonight?

     Thereupon the audience would call out their choices: "Dong Yong sells himself to buryhis father" for the old; "Wu Erlang's Midnight Raid of Centipede Mountain" for the young;and tales of the industrious and courageous maiden Qin Xianglian for the girls. That was themoment which gave the old blind man greatest pleasure; when he would forget about thefatigue of his body and the loneliness in his heart, and, cool and composed, take a few sipsof water while waiting for the noise of the crowd to build, then suddenly slam his fingersinto the strings and bellow: "Today I'll sing no other balla @ d but 'The Prince Luo Cheng',@ or I'll drink my tea and smoke my tobacco, then I'll sing the ballad of the woman whose t@ ears felled the Great Wall. " @ The whole square would fall silent, and the old man would immerse himself in the spirit of the story. He knew a countless number of old tales.He even had an electric box, too; rumour had it that he had spent a great sum to buyit -from an outsider who lived well beyond the mountains in order to learn new stories.

      Actually, the mountain villagers cared little what stories he sang and told. They allpraised his playing of the three-stringed banjo as being skillful, graceful, yet with a wonderful touch of uninhibited madness as if his music carried the spirit of the sun, themoon and the people of the earth. Blind since birth and thus aurally attuned, the old mancould simulate the sound of nearly anything, including men and women, wind and rain,beast and fowl.

      The blind lad had once seen the world, but only for his first three years, and so he hardlycould have interpreted what he saw. He was itte interested in playing the banjo and tellingstories. The day his father brought him to live with the old blind man, despite his attempts toexplain and plead with him, even deceive him, the lad had refused. But in the end his enchantment with that electric box enticed him to stay. He had clung to that box and let itssounds flow into his spirit, so much so that he failed to notice when his father departed.

      This mysterious box fascinated him; its endless talk of unfamiliar places and alien affairsfired his imagination, and aroused his fuzzy memories of colours and shapes. For instance,the box had said the sea was a body of water, boundless as the blue sky. Having once seenboth water in a pot and the blue sky, he could imagine the sea as a huge pot of water whichstretched as wide as the sky. Or beautiful girls; the box had described them as flowers inbloom but he refused to believe it - flowers were what he had seen when his mother's coffin was carried far into the mountains. But he wanted to think about girls; more and morehe wanted to think about girls, especially that girl with piercing voice at Goat Valley一thinking about her always set his heart aflame. But once the box had sung, "A gir's eyes arelike the sun," then he had a suitable image in mind, an image of his mother approaching him, silhouetted against the brilliant red sunset. Like everyone else, the lad used his limitedknowledge to make inferences about the limitless world. But there was always somethingthe blind lad could not imagine, such as a "twisting corridor."

      That evening the lad had accompanied theold man in tlling stories at Goat Valley. Again hehad heard that young girl standing not far fromhim as she laughed in her distinctive voice whentheir story reached its climax:

Luo Cheng rode his horse back to engagethem in battle,Courageous Su Lie answered with his army.

      Su Lie's broadsword darted and flashed like aglttering stream,Luo Cheng's lance soared through the air likea thunderbolt.

     They appeared as two dragons at seacompeting for a treasure,Or two tigers deep in the mountains battling for the pride.

      They fought for seven days and seven nights,

      And not a drop of tea touched Luo Cheng's lips.

     On his banjo the old man played the sounds of the driving rain and howling wind as hesang each word and phrase in a sonorous, forceful voice. But the lad was so distracted thathe played out of tune.

      At the crest of Goat Hill, one kilometre from Goat Valley, was a small temple in whichthe master and his prentice stayed. Some of the stone wall cicling the temple had fallenin, leaving breaches; several rooms in the temple had severe warps in fors and walls andwere pockmarked with holes both large and small. Only the large room at the centre couldstill keep out the wind and rain, presumably because in this room offrings were stil madeto the spirits. Three clay statues had long ago lost the decorous colourings of the mortalworld and were thus left naked in their natural yellow earth tones, having returned to thesimple and true, neither one ditiguishable as clearly Buddhist or Taoist statues. In thecourtyard and on the roofs and walls various weeds sprouted, so lush and fourising thatthey splied a strange vitality to the place. Each time the old man returned to Goat alleyhe stayed here at no charge and without hassle. It was the lad's second time at the temple.Having finished storeleling quite late, the two of them set to work soon after ariving atthe temple; the old man found a place for their baggage in the main hall while the lad busied himself building a fire to boil water beneath the caves of an adjacent hall. The stovethey had made last time they had stayed here only needed some minor repairs. Bent at thewaist, buttocks high in the air, the lad blew on the tiny fire. The smoke sent up by moistgrass and kindling choked him and he relede around the courtyard coughing vilently. Theold man chided, "Don't you know how to do anything right?"

      "But the wood's wet!"

     "I'm not talking about that, I'm talking about your banjo; what do you think of the wayyou played tonight?"

      The lad refused to take the bait. Having caught his breath, he returned to kneel by thefire, and, puffing out his cheeks, blew a monstrous breath on the embers.

      "If you don't want to ply this trade, then we can send for your father to take you homenow. This cat- and-dog attitude won't do!"

      Coughing as he jumped back from the fire, the lad ended up after a few confused hopsat the other side of the courtyard, again gasping for breath and cursing.

      "What's that you're saying?"

      "I'm cursing this fire."

      "Is that the way to blow on it?""How else should I blow?"

      "How should you blow? Hmph!" The old man paused a moment, then said, "Blow as ifthis fire were the face of that girl of yours."

      The lad again did not venture a reply, and instead knelt by the fire to blow, silentlywondering about Lanxiu's appearance.

      "If the fire were that girl's face, | think you'd know how to blow without being shown."The lad began to laugh, and the more he laughed, the more he coughed.

      "What's so funny?"

      "Have you ever blown on a woman's face?"

     The old man was struck dumb for an instant. The lad fell to the ground roaring with laughter. "Ah, to hell with it!" The old man cursed and laughed, then his expression changedand he said no more.

      The flames inside the stove leapt up with a crackle. The lad went over to add wood buthis mind was on Lanxiu. Just after they'd finished the stortelling, Lanxiu had squeezed overin front of him and softly said, "Hey! What was it you promised me last time?" With his master so near he dared not speak, but a moment later the force of the thronging crowdpushed Lanxiu up against him. "Eh? When | gave you that boiled egg for nothing?" She spoke louder this time. Meanwhile his master was busy chatting to some men, so he quicklysaid, "Shhh - - I still remember." Lanxiu lowered her voice again, "You promised to let mehear the electric box, but you haven't yet."

      "Shhh, I still remember."

     No sound issued from the temple's main hall for a long while. Later the banjo sounded;the old man had just put on a new string. He should have been happy一after a single nightat Goat Valley he had already gone through a string一but in fact the voice of his banjo sang out sad and strident.

      The lad, having detected the mournful tone, called from the courtyard, "Master, thewater's boiled."

         No answer. The playing of the banjo sounded ever more strained.

       The lad carried a basin of hot water into the room, placed it before the master, andforced a laugh, saying, "How come you're trying to play through a second string tonight?"

      Preoccupied by thoughts of his past, the old man failed to hear him. The banjo sang outits troubled, restless tune as if it were telling of the wind and rain of each year in the wilderness, or of the countless brooks and rivulets winding throughout the mountains andvalleys, or the hurried pit-a-pat of steps made by feet which knew no home. The lad grewslightly alarmed; it had been a long, long time since the master had been like this. Each timehe would be racked with chest pains, general body aches, and it would be several monthsbefore he could get out of bed.

        "Master, perhaps you should wash your feet first."

        He continued playing.

        "Master, you should wash your feet." The lad's voice trembled.

        He continued playing."Master!"

       Abruptly he stopped playing and heaved a sigh; the lad breathed a sigh of relief. As theold man washed his feet, he sat respectfully by his side.

      "You go to bed," said the old man. "It's been a long day. ""And you?"

      "You go ahead; I want to let my feet soak - when a fellow gets old his ailmentsmultiply." The old man spoke softly.

      "I'll wait for you."

    A breeze whisked leaves along the brick wall. In the distance two cats exchanged mournful cries in the night. From Goat Valley came the occasional sound of a dog's bark andsubsequent crying of a child. The moon rose high and its white light shone through the lattices, beaming down on two blindmen and three clay deities.

      "Why wait for me? It's late. Don't you worry; there's nothing wrong with me," said theold man.

      "Did you hear me, lad?"

      The lad had already fallen asleep. As the oldman gently pushed him into a better sleepingposition, he mumbled a few words beforenodding off again. As he pulled the lad's quiltover him, it was clear to the old man the lad'smuscles were flling out more each day; the childhad arrived at that age when he would think about those things: it was certain to be an awkward and frustrating period for him. And noone could suffer it for him.

      The old man held the banjo to his chest again and, gently caressing the taut strings,forced himself to silently repeat: another string is broken, another string is broken. Shaking the belly of the banjo, he could hear the scraping sound of the paper brushing across the snakeskin soundboard; this alone could purge his mind of sorrows and frustrations: it was his lifelong hope.

     The lad had a good dream and upon waking was startled to hear the rooster crowing.He dragged himself to his feet to listen. Master was sleeping peacefully. He felt for the largesatchel, quietly drew out the electric box, and tiptoed from the room.

     He walked for a while in the direction of Goat Valley before noticing something was notright: the crowing of the chickens had subsided, and Goat Valley was again quiet and devoidof the vllagers' stirrings. Confused, he stopped a moment. Could it be only the cock's firstcrowing? He thought to switch on the electric box. It was quiet, too. He knew from experience that meant it must be the middle of the night. This electric box was like a clock;one could judge the time based on which program was playing.

       Just as the lad returned to the temple, the old man awaked."What are you doing?"

       "I went to take a piss."

      All morning the master forced him to practice banjo. Not until after lunch did the ladhave a chance to sneak out of the temple and head down to Goat Valley. The chickens haddozed off in the shade of trees, the pigs lay at the foot of the wall grunting in their sleep,and the sun beat down fiercely again: the village rested, peaceful and quiet.

      Stepping up on the millstone, the lad clutched the top of the wall in front of Lanxiu'shome, and called, "Lanxiu一Lanxiu!"

       From inside rolled the sound of a thunderous snore.

       He hesitated a moment, then raised his voice slightly, "Lanxiu! Lanxiu!"

      The dog began barking, the snoring stopped, and a sleepy, grouchy voice called out,"Who is it?"

      The lad could not muster a reply and instead pulled his head back from above the wall.He heard the smack of lips inside the room and then a return of the snore.

      He sighed, stepped down from the millstone, and sullenly headed back toward thetemple. Suddenly he heard a gate creak open behind him, then the sound of daintyfootsteps fast approaching.

      "Guess who!." It was that piercing voice. She covered his eyes with the soft flesh of herhands一but that was hardly necessary. Not yet fifteen, Lanxiu was still naive.

      "Lanxiu!"

      "Did you bring the electric box?"

     Pulling open the front of his jacket, the lad revealed the electric box hanging at his waist." Shhh! Not here; let's find some place where there's no one around."

      "Why?"

      "Otherwise we'll draw a crowd.""So?"

      "Having too many listeners wastes the batteries."

    The two of them threaded their way through the village and came to a spring at the rearof a small hill. The lad abruptly asked, "Have you ever seen a twisting corridor?"

      "Huh?"

      "A twisting corridor."

      "A twisting corridor?"

      "You know?"

      "Do you know?"

      "Sure. And a green lounge chair. It's a chair."

      "Who doesn't know what a chair is "

      "Then how about a twisting corridor?"

     But now he was old, and in any case he had just a few more years; what was lost was lostforever: that is what he seemed to have just realized. Seventy years of suffering and hardship, all for the purpose of getting one look at the world - was it worth it?

     The lad laughed in his sleep, and dreamt aloud, saying, "It's a chair, Lanxiu."

     The old man sat quietly. Sitting equally quietly were those three clay deities which wereneither clearly Buddhist nor Taoist statues.

       At the sound of the first cock crow the old man decided that at dawn he would leaveGoat Valley with the boy. Lanxiu was a good person, but the prospects for these two wassomething the old blindman could "see" most clearly. At the second cock crow he began togather their things.

      But upon waking, the lad was found to be ill, having both a bad stomach and a fever.The old man had to set back the date of departure. For several days straight the old manbusied himself building fires, washing rice, collecting firewood, or uprooting and boilingmedicinal herbs, all the while consoling himself. "It's worth it; of course it's worth it." Itseemed that repeating those words was his only hope of countering the enervation ofdespair. "I must have one look. What else was there? To quit now and die? And besides, Ionly have a few strings left to go." The old man regained his composure and went downeach evening to tell stories in Goat Valley.

       This unexpectedly brought good fortune to the lad. Each evening after the master haddescended the hill, Lanxiu would steal into the temple to hear the electric box. She wouldalso bring hard-boiled eggs, on the condition that he let her manipulate the controls of theelectric box. "Which way should I twist?"

      "To the right."

      "It won't twist."

      "To the right, dummy - don't you know which way is right?"

      The box crackled with static一it seemed to make all kinds of sounds一but regardless,the two of them loved to listen.

      After a few days the old man had played through three more strings.

      One night, he was down in Goat Valley alone, playing and singing:

Today we'll not sing of Luo Cheng's reincarnation,But instead the Qin Prince Li Shimin.

      Upon hearing of the death of his most loyal minister,The Prince shed tears.

"Your death," he said, "is, for some, of no consequence, But for me it means I have noone worthy to be my general."

    Meanwhile a lively scene was taking place inside the temple on Goat Mountain: the electric box was blaring the sounds of an embattled city - a youth crying, an adult shouting,rumbling of explosions, the call of trumpets. The moonlight beamed into the main hall,where the lad was reclined nibbling a hard-boiled egg, and Lanxiu was seated by his side.Both of them listened eagerly and occasionally laughed, sometimes not even knowing why.

      "Where did your master get this electric box?"

      "From someone outside the mountains."

      "Have you ever been outside the mountains?"

      "No. But I'll go someday; I'll take a ride on a train.""A train?"

      "You don't know what a train is either? Dummy!"

      "Oh, I know, I know. It spouts puffs of smoke, right?"

    After a while, Lanxiu said, "Maybe sometime 1'll go outside the mountains." She spoke alittle uneasily.

      "Is that sa?" The lad sat up erect. "Then you can find out what a twisting corridor is."

      "Do you think all the people outside the mountains have electric boxes?"

      "Who knows. Did you hear me clearly? This twisting corridor is outside the mountains."

      "Then I must get an electric box from them," Lanxiu mused to herself.

      "You want one?" The lad chuckled, then laughed without restraint. "Why not get two,seeing as how you're so clever. Ha, do you know how many thousands of yuan this box cost?Even if you sold yourself, I doubt if you could buy one."

      Lanxiu felt at once hurt and indignant. She grabbed the lad's ear, and twisting withforce, cursed, "Go to hell blind boy."

      The two of them began wrestling inside the temple. The three clay statues watchedimpassively. The two youths collided, their pubescent bodies became entangled, one pressed down on top of the other, then the reverse, and their curses changed to laughter.

     Exhausted, they ceased struggling and lay sprawled together on the ground facing eachother, hearts pounding, gasping for breath, neither of them willing to pull away from theother. Lanxiu's breath blew on the lad's face; he felt her allure, and recalling his master'swords that day while he was building the fire, he blew on Lanxiu's face. Lanxiu did not shyaway.

      "Hey," the lad whispered, "you know what a kiss is?""What is it?" Lanxiu whispered back.

      The lad whispered the answer in her ear. Lanxiu said nothing. Before the old man cameback, they gave it a try一what delight!

     On this very evening, the old man had unexpectedly played through the last two strings.He half-ran, half-crawled his way up the hill back to the temple. The lad, frightened, asked,"Master, what's wrong?"

     The old man sat gasping for breath, unable to speak. The lad's heavy conscience struckterror in his heart: could it be that the master had found out about him and Lanxiu?

      The old man finally believed it was true: it had all been worth it. A lifetime of sufferinghad been worth it. To see just once, to have only one glimpse: it was all worth it.

      "Boy, tomorrow I'm going to get the medicine."Tomorrow?"

      "Tomorrow."

      "You broke another string?"

      "Two. | broke two."

    The old man removed the strings from his banjo, rubbed them with his fingers, then ,bundled them together with the other nine hundred ninety eight strings.

      "You're going tomorrow?""I'll get started at daybreak."

     The lad's heart sank as the old man peeled the snakeskin away from the belly of hisbanjo.

      "But I'm not healthy yet," the lad muttered in protest.

     "Oh, l've thought about that. You stay here; I'll be back within ten days."The lad was excited beyond all hope.

      "Can you manage by yourself?""Yes!"

    The old man had already forgotten about Lanxiu. "Food, drink, and firewood are all here.When you're well and back on your feet again you should practice storytelling on your own.All right?"

    "All right," he affirmed, but somehow the lad felt as though he was forsaking his master.

      Having peeled back the snakeskin soundboard, the old man reached inside the belly ofthe banjo and pulled out a neatly folded slip of paper. Thinking back on when he had putthis prescription inside the banjo一he was only twenty then一gave him the shivers.

        The lad too, solemnly rubbed the prescription between his fingers.

    "My master went his whole life without getting the justice due to him.""How many strings did he play through?"

      "He might have played through one thousand, but he only recorded eight hundred, orI'm sure he would have made it."

      The old blindman set out before dawn. He said he would be gone at most ten days, but in fact it was winter when the old man returned to Goat Valley. On the horizon, the gloomygrey of the sky met the snow-covered whiteness of the mountain range. Without sound orspirit, the vast expanse rested silently before him. Against this scene, the bobbing of the oldman's blackened straw hat appeared all the more pronounced as he hobbled up Goat Hill.As he walked through the courtyard the rustling of leaves startled a fox and sent it scampering away.

      A villager told him the lad had left a few days earlier.

      "I told him to wait for me."

      "I don't know why, but he's already left."

    "Did he say where? Did he leave a message?""He said vou don't need to worrv about him."

      "When did he leave?"

     People said he left quite some time ago, the day Lanxiu was married to someone fromoutside the mountains. The old blindman understood.

      The villagers begged the old man to stay in Goat Valley telling stories for the winter, forwhere could he go in the midst of this snow and ice? The old man pointed to his banjo, theneck of which, the people now saw, had no strings. The old man appeared thin and pallid;his breathing was short, his voice hoarse: he looked almost unfamiliar to the villagers. Hesaid he had to find his apprentice.

       Lanxiu shook her head, bemused. Only then did he carefully switch on the electric box,from which floated a sprightly melody about the gully. Here it was cool and free of disruptions.

      "This one's called Higher, Step by Step ," the lad announced, and he sang along. A littlelater came a tune called Song of the Drought , and he could sing along with that song, too.Bashful Lanxiu felt embarrassed.

      "This song is called A Monk Longing for Women .""You're kidding," Lanxiu laughingly pronounced."You don't believe me?"

      "No, I don't."

    "As you wish. Stranger things than that come out of this box." The lad dipped his foot inthe cold spring water; after a moment's reflection, he asked, "Do you know what kiss means?"

      "What does it mean?"

     This time it was the lad's turn to laugh, which he gave in lieu of a reply. Lanxiu, sensing itwas a bad word, blushed, and asked no further.

     The music broadcast finished, and a female voice announced, "Next is a programdiscussing hygiene."

      Were it not for his concern, the old man would not have returned to Goat Valley. Theprescription he had safeguarded for fifty years turned out to be a blank slip of paper. At firstdisbelieving, he had asked countless numbers of literate and honest people to read it forhim, and all had attested it was blank. The old man had sat for a short spell on the steps ofthe apothecary's shop, or at least it seemed only a short time. In fact, he had sat there several days and nights, his bone-like eyes turned to the sky, his face even taking on the same pallor. Some passers-by, presuming him insane, comforted and consoled him. The oldman had laughed bitterly: why would he wait until the age of seventy to go crazy? He simplyhad no interest in playing the banjo again: the object which had breathed in him the will tolive, to walk, and to sing, had suddenly vanished. The old man's heartstrings had snapped,and like an untightened string, could no longer produce a pleasant melody. He had sequestered himself in a small inn where each day he lay on his bed, neither strumming norsinging, feeling the flame of his body dying out. But when he had spent all his money, hesuddenly remembered his apprentice, whom he knew was awaiting his return.

        As he bobbed his way along, a tiny black spot in the universe, the old man reminiscedon days gone by: he realized all the bustle, the zestful trekking across mountains, the banjoplaying, even the anxieties and frustration were in fact a joy! Then he had had something tohold his heart strings taut, even if it was an ilusion. The old man thought of his own master'sfinal days. His master had sealed that prescription, which he himself had never used, insidethe old man's banjo. "Don't give in; play a few more years and you'll open your eyes andsee." He was only a child when he'd heard those words. His master had fallen silent a longwhile before saying, "Remember, a person's life is just like these banjo strings: when pulled taut, they can be played; if they can be played, that's enough." So it was. The point was todraw some enjoyment from the strings while they were stretched tight. But could he tell thelad that? The old man had been prepared to gird the lad with knowledge of the truth, butthoughts of the blank piece of paper emasculated his will.

      He found the lad much as he had expected: exhausted and despondent, and in the lad'swords, awaiting his death. The old man knew it wasn't faking sorrow. He pulled the defenseless lad back into a cave.

      "Huh?" Lanxiu had not heard it clearly.

      "A program about hygiene."

      "What's that?"

      "Hmm一do you have lice in your hair?"

      "Hey! Don't touch me!"

      The lad quickly drew back his hand, and hurriedly explained, "If you have lice, thatmeans you don't pay attention to hygiene."

     "No! Absolutely not!" Lanxiu scratched her head and felt something itchy.        "Hey! Lookwhat I found on you! "she said, holding his head. "Look at these big ones I caught."

     At that moment they heard the old man alling from halfway up the hll: "Boy, why

      The old man picked up a pile of firewood and made a fire.

      The lad gradually began to cry, at which point the old man relaxed. Let him cry for all heis worth; if he can still cry, then he will at some time have cried enough.

      Shadows grew long and the sky darkened while the lad cried; the old man waited silently. The firelight and the sobs startled and flushed a rabbit, a pheasant, a mountain goat,a fox and a sparrowhawk.

       Finally the lad spoke, "Why are we blind?""Just because we're blind."

At length the lad spoke again. "I want to open my eyes and see; Master, even if onlyonce, I want to open my eyes and see!"

       The old man poked the fire.

     This snow stopped. Against the ashen-coloured sky, the sun appeared, flashing like asmall mirror. A hawk glided by in stable flight.

      "Then play your banjo," said the old man, "play through the strings for all you're worth."

     "Master, did you get the medicine?" The lad sounded as if he had just awakened from adream.

     "Remember, the strings don't count unless you've played your best until they break."

      "Can you see? Master, can you see now?'

      The lad struggled to get up, and reached over to feel his master's eyes. The old manchecked his hands.

   "Remember, you must play through one thousand two hundred strings.""One thousand two hundred?"

      The old man thought: no matter how much he played, the lad could not play throughtwelve hundred strings. Let him forever feel the joyful release of playing taut banjo strings;he need never know that piece of paper was blank.

"It's one thousand two hundred. Give me your banjo. I'll seal the prescription inside."

       Let us return to the beginning: amid the misty haze of the mountain range walked twoblindmen, one old the other young, one in front the other behind, their blackened straw hatsbobbing, darting forward as if swept along by the current of a restless stream. It matteredlttle from where they came nor where they were headed, nor did it matter who they were..

----Translated by Mark Wallace :