China Naming Network - Almanac query - Please tell me about Chen Chen’s article [please post the content directly, thank you.]

Please tell me about Chen Chen’s article [please post the content directly, thank you.]

<> Chen Chen’s masterpiece

In Hanoi, ghost guys often come over and ask me, Japanese?

Shake your head and they will ask again, Korean? Taiwanese? Hong Kong people?

No one seems to think that I am from mainland China. It seems that when ghosts see those teenagers carrying travel bags and walking under the scorching sun with their heads lowered, they will naturally think of independent Japanese children.

The hotel we stayed in was in a deep alley in the city center. In the alleys of Hanoi, sunshine fills every corner. Most of the alleys are filled with exquisite and slender French buildings. The magnificent roses climbed over the wall. Sometimes in the afternoon, it is so quiet that you can only hear the sound of water vapor evaporating from the leaves.

The hotel is owned by a Vietnamese woman. She likes to plant flowers on the balcony and carries a bucket upstairs to water the flowers in the morning and evening. So, I wake up with the fragrance every morning.

The small hotel has three floors. Most of the people on the floor I lived on were Japanese, and there were also a few British people who had studied in Guangzhou.

When I went out in the evening, I saw groups of Japanese children going to drink coffee while chatting in ragged Japanese. They looked at me holding the key alone and came over and said, Together? Shaking his head instinctively. Probably, I just want to go out for a walk alone.

I really envy them. Those Japanese kids.

Wear one size larger in pants and clothing. Use a SONY mobile phone that I have never seen before. Almost all have dyed hair yellow. Smile when you see people. I have also heard that Japanese high school students have the habit of traveling abroad. Although he is very young, he is used to traveling to different places.

In the hotel at night, take a shower and watch TV. There are very few TV stations in Vietnam. Most of them are American or Thai TV stations. Domestic TV series like "The Golden Family" are often seen. But oddly enough, the voice acting is always the same person's voice.

On the streets of Hanoi, most of the French-style buildings from when it was a colony have been preserved.

Ly Thai To St, not far from Hoan Kiem Lake. The streets are lined with tall trees, and the creamy-yellow French villas are hidden among the green leaves. Now these villas have become the locations of chambers of commerce, embassies, and offices of multinational companies in European and American countries, or have been converted into French-style bars, cafes, and galleries.

I go to an unnamed video store almost every day. All kinds of pirated CDs are sold there. There are popular CDs from Hong Kong and Taiwan, as well as Western jazz and rock. DVDs are mostly Hollywood blockbusters with English subtitles. There are also many Hong Kong films. I often see ghost guys choosing with great interest and talking in low voices. An American man from Seattle who loves Bruce Lee.

Every time I go there I gain something. Like the Icelandic band, Bill Evans' jazz in the sixties. These are hard to buy in Hangzhou.

Those pirated CDs are extremely cheap despite their rough packaging. When I couldn't sleep at night, I would take it apart and listen to it.

The bookstore places a large number of LP travel books in the most conspicuous position. Almost all are pirated copies. The price is usually $1 a copy. Most are about Southeast Asian countries and China. Later, in a coffee shop, I saw that Gui Lao was holding an LP, and most of them were pirated goods bought in Vietnam.

I often go to unknown galleries to see paintings. Most are abstract oil paintings. The cold-faced Vietnamese painter rarely talks to customers. Each painting carries a hefty price tag.

Like Little Hanoi Café. I often order a cup of coffee alone and sit there for a long time. Or talk to the ghost guys. There is a young Vietnamese waitress in the store who often hums a song softly when there are few customers.

Many ghost guys bring their laptops here and often warmly invite them to look at photos with them. There are 12 months in a year, 9 months working and 3 months traveling to different parts of the earth. They showed me the sunset they took at Angkor Wat. Saigon square.

A young and thin American girl came here alone because she likes Hanoi and has been here for two weeks.

Buy a variety of fruits to eat every day. pitaya. Rambutan. Milk fruit. pineapple. Wait, wait.

Hardly eat. When you are hungry, go buy fruit or go to the rice noodle stall on the street.

There are very few ghosts at the rice noodle stall. But the Vietnamese love it here. Even late at night, the rice noodle stall never closes. After a hard day's work, Vietnamese people sit on the street, drinking beer and eating rice noodles. Vietnamese rice noodles usually come with some fruit and lettuce. The boss would also play sad Vietnamese love songs on an old tape recorder.

I often hang out among those Vietnamese. Even if they know that I am Chinese, they rarely come to talk to me.

They talked and told jokes in euphemistic Vietnamese. Even if you can't understand their language, what you can feel is their peaceful life. Hanoi gives people the same feeling, full of vitality, and makes people feel unusually practical and tolerant.

On the way to see the water puppet show, I passed by St. Joseph Catholic Church. Just looking from the outside, not going inside. The church is tall and majestic, but the walls are mottled and moldy and peeling off.

It is evening and the sun is still strong. The fruit vendor was carrying a load and preparing to go home. Vietnamese children chased and played in front of the church. College students in national uniforms held books and talked and laughed in groups. The driver put a bouquet of white jasmine flowers on the brake of the tricycle. A family of three crowded on a motorcycle and drove home.

How I wish this kind of life was my own.

Before coming to Hanoi, I read "Island of Roses" by Annie Baby. She wrote in it that Hanoi is a Crazy City.

And I saw Hanoi. Hot. Forbearance. Quiet. And the roar of motorcycles that fills your ears in the morning is insignificant compared to the hustle and bustle of the city.

So, how should we describe Hanoi?

It is such a city.

You can casually walk aimlessly through the streets of this city wearing flip-flops.

You can have an iced coffee anytime. You can do nothing every day, just think. Walking around.

Wake up every day to the fragrance of flowers and the roar of motorcycles. Fall asleep in the humid and muggy air.

This is Hanoi in my eyes. Simple and pure.

The eternal winter:

1.

Knowing now, I have not forgotten what happened in those years.

Memory is like a fragment, trembling helplessly in life.

That damp and cold southern town. That dirty, lively river. Ships stranded on river banks unable to return. That hour of winter does not go. Also, that girl named Silly.

Oh no. She is not called Silly. Her name is Sasha.

2.

The southern town where I used to live was at the end of the Beijing-Hangzhou Canal.

It is a dirty river that collects all the bad things and past events of this small town, exuding the rancid smell of garbage all day long. The garbage on the shore swayed and slipped into the water. Various stalls and shops are lined up along the river bank. One after another, deep and obscure alleys spread from the river like blood vessels, and then clung tightly to this small town. The light gray clouds on the river are stained with a little dirt of the world. Large flocks of birds landing on old telegraph poles will suddenly take to the air due to the harsh and rapid sound of sirens.

I often feel that this is a river that is constantly breathing, and its vitality has been over-exploited and consumed.

It’s like huge particles occupying my eyes, and I can’t lift my hand to wipe them away.

When I was young, I often looked forward to the cargo ships coming from the north. The boatmen usually parked their boats along the canal and sold goods brought from the north. For weeks, even months. None of them leave, always inhabiting the ship. Those dilapidated and vicissitudes of ships seem to be their homes. Some people never even left and took root in this strange southern town.

Yes, I got to know a lot of kids from the north. They all took a boat to go south with their parents. They had nice northern accents. He spoke some northern dialect that I couldn't understand. Those northern boys have cheerful personalities and know many novel games that I have never played before. I often indulge in their adventure-like experiences. I have been wandering with my parents since I was a child. All the days and nights were spent on the boat. Their lives exude a sense of wandering. I don't know why, but I think it's a kind of bravery that I admire.

From their words, the strange north finally had a shallow outline in my mind. I know that the forest sea in the north is boundless. In the north, there is polenta that is very mushy. There is also a donkey that I have only heard of from fables.

They also said that there was heavy and silent snow in the north.

Every winter, universities cover the entire world. There are bright white patches everywhere that sting your eyes. You can find squirrel holes in the snow, where fluffy little squirrels huddle together. The snowman built by the door will not melt for weeks. They also said that there was a big lake in their hometown village. Every winter, red-crowned cranes fly to and roost by the lake. Villagers often take some corn kernels or sorghum to feed the red-crowned cranes.

I often listen to it with great fascination. Those wonderful experiences are beyond my imagination. What they call winter is, after all, different from that in the south. It usually doesn't snow in this southern town in winter. Even if it snowed, it was very small and scattered everywhere in the northwest wind. It is difficult to tell with the naked eye that those substances that resemble dandruff are actually snow. Even if the deposit is slightly larger, it will not accumulate. It seemed that they had melted as they landed on the ground.

In this small winter in the south, there is no grand and silent snow, only a thorough cold.

Just as winter was approaching that year, a cargo ship from the north stopped on this cold and dirty canal.

The girl on the boat is called Silly.

3.

Being silly is indeed silly.

I felt this way when I first saw her.

Her eyes were always blank and she always said something incomprehensible. Every day when I pass by the canal after school, I can see her sitting blankly on the old boat. The ship was packed with cargo. She was sitting inside the cargo. If she senses someone is looking at her, she smiles silly. I felt like she was one of those moldy goods.

The lane where I live is not far from the canal.

Every night, I can hear the noise coming from the old cargo ship, the sound of beer bottles breaking, the roar of men... I can even hear the sound of the cargo ship shaking violently. . The violent content of those sounds stung my ears. My father once told me that they were said to be from Hebei and helped people transport goods here. But bad luck, the ship broke and the cargo was flooded. The owner won't accept it. No money either. Only temporarily stuck here. I also heard people say that they did not plan to leave and planned to make a living in the south.

Every day, many old people gather in the northwest and southeast of the lane entrance to chat. Sometimes, you can hear them talking about Silly. They said that on that ship lived a female fool who was delirious. Her father often beats her mother. Sometimes, he even beat her.

I often hear some busybodies asking Silly, silly, does your father often beat your mother? And Silly always smiles like that every time, and then squats like a commodity. on board.

At noon that day, I was reading in the room. After a long time, I found Silu standing outside the window.

What are you standing there for? I asked her.

She always smiled and said nothing.

I'm a little curious. So I asked her again, what is your name?

She stood like this for a long time, as if she was thinking hard about something.

My name is Silly. She spoke in a very soft voice, and ran away after speaking. That was the first time I knew her name.

I watched her running figure. There was a red rope tied around her head, swaying in the wind. Later, I found that Shasha often came to my window. Always silent. Whenever I finished playing the tape, she left.

This time, she was not as calm as before. She pointed to the tape recorder on my desk. Suddenly, I understood. It turned out that she was here to listen to me playing the tape. So I inserted the tape into the recorder. The song played inside is Shubert's "Serenade". Shasha stood quietly like this again. After the music ended, she left again.

Later, she came often. Every time I come, it's always the same as before, just standing quietly. I stopped paying attention to her and just read my book.

That day she came again. As she left, though, she placed something on the windowsill.

I walked over and took a look, and it turned out to be a few wild hawthorns that were not yet ripe.

Later, when she came, she would occasionally bring something. Sometimes, it's a small apple. Sometimes, it's an orange, and some wild fruit whose name I don't know. Gradually, I actually started to yearn for her too.

One evening after school, when I went home, I saw a few boys throwing stones at each other. The boys held in their hands a handful of pebbles picked up from the river bank. They laughed and threw the pebbles at Silly Sha who was squatting on the bow of the boat. But Silly, just stood there with a silly smile. I couldn't stand it any longer, so I walked over and said to Shasha, "Go to the cabin quickly and don't let them bully you." She actually listened to my words, straightened her legs and got into the dark and damp cabin.

I can't help but feel a little pity in my heart. Ever since she appeared in this southern town, no one had been nice to her, only some old people who occasionally gave her something to eat. She always wore that gray top in the cold winter and never seemed to change it.

Their family is still like that, her father always beats her mother.

Perhaps out of that little bit of sympathy, I never bullied her. As time passed, Silly and I became familiar with each other. Gradually, she would also say something to me, but the words always didn't match the words at the beginning, and it took me a long time to understand.

She started taking me to some places. It was a hillside not far from the canal, and not far from the alley where my home was. But I rarely go to that hillside to play. Silly, however, walked through the deep bushes like a regular visitor. She often squats down suddenly and picks unknown things in the grass with her hands. He took a bite first and seemed to think it tasted good, then he picked a few and handed them to me.

After walking for about 10 minutes, through the lush bushes, you can see a small clearing, which is the top of the hillside. The vision also suddenly became clearer. I often stood in that open space with Shasha, not talking, just looking at the world at the bottom of the hillside. Shasha always squints his eyes, as if looking for something.

You can see the gasping river, like a gaping hole, gurgling with blood. There are still densely packed people, and the feeble sunshine in winter casts their humble shadows.

You can also see Silly's home - a dilapidated barge filled with moldy goods.

4.

There is an abandoned chemical factory in the south of the town.

In the past, I could often smell the pungent smell of chemicals surrounding the factory. Later, the town responded to the call for environmental protection, the chemical plant was closed, and the pungent smell disappeared. Everything in the workshop was emptied out and moved away, leaving only two empty houses standing among wildly growing grass. At night, it's like two big ships sailing alone.

This chemical plant also has some history, just look at the long chimney. The cement on the chimney has completely fallen off, revealing the red turning head. In the cracks between the bricks, you can often see dark green moss, which continuously breeds moist memories.

I often look up under the chimney. The top of the chimney turned into a tiny particle and gradually disappeared from my sight.

There are also narrow steps on the chimney, like a ladder that can lead to the sky. Children often climb up along the steps and climb to very high places, even to the top of the chimney.

But I have never climbed. Because my father once told me, never climb that chimney. Because I heard that a child climbed up the chimney and fell to his death. When I was young and timid, I felt that was a deep curse.

In the evening of that day, Shasha and I went to the abandoned chemical plant.

She pointed to the chimney and motioned for me to climb up. I immediately remembered the advice my father had given me, not to climb up. He stood there looking at her timidly. Unexpectedly, she climbed up very skillfully. It was obviously not the first time she had climbed up. She climbed to the top of the chimney. I stood below and yelled up in panic, telling Shasha to climb down quickly. But Shasha sat on a small pedal and didn't seem to hear my shout.

It wasn’t until she did it for a long time that she climbed down skillfully.

She told me that she liked to climb the chimney at night. At night, the stars would come out and talk to her.

I was a little surprised, I didn’t expect her to say this at all. The first time I asked her, Silly, why does your father always hit your mother?

Her expression suddenly became serious. She seemed to have been thinking for a long time, and then she said to me, Dad always said that Mom’s face looked like a dead person’s face. Her father would slap her mother hard every time. If he was drunk, he would raise his leg and kick her mother hard in the face. And her mother would shrink into a ball every time, not even daring to express her anger. Every time her father beat her mother, he would always say, "Hit your dead face to death, beat your dead face to death."

Silly, when she told me all this, I really didn’t think of a person with mental problems. She was so calm and composed.

That year, winter in this small town came earlier than before. It was only early November, and the sycamore trees began to drop their leaves one after another. The narrow streets were filled with yellow and dry leaves, like dead and rotting butterflies. I also put on a thick coat. But Silly, he still had the same gray top, but there were one or two very worn vests inside. I asked her, silly, are you cold?

She still smiled like that and said nothing.

Shasha and I still often go to the abandoned chemical plant. He still likes to climb the chimney of the chemical plant alone very late at night to talk to the stars. I will still play music to her, and it will still be Schubert's "Serenade". She would still tell me a lot about their family, but every time it was her father who beat her mother.

5.

After the final exam, when I went home happily with my transcript. A group of friends gathered around me and said, that female idiot fell to death in the chemical factory! Let’s go take a look! Someone fell to death!

I looked at them in panic, and then ran quickly in the direction of the chemical plant. I seemed to hear echoes coming from far, far away. One after another, the light is as bright as my eardrums. That's what Silly is calling.

That was her calling me.

Under the chimney, there was no fool, but there was a pool of solidified blood. An old man who lived next to the chemical plant came over and told me that she had been carried away by her father. She fell down and died while climbing the chimney. You kids, be careful not to climb chimneys in the future. The companions dispersed in disappointment because they did not see her dead appearance.

But I still stood motionless. Just like Silly once stood motionless in front of my window. The blood on the ground seemed to be the red rope on Silly's head, swaying in front of my eyes.

Death can take away life, but it cannot take away the evidence of the existence of the soul.

Until the end, I still didn’t see Silly. All I know is that her father did not cremate her body, but found a place to bury her. Where she is buried, I don't know.

That night, I had a dream. I dreamed of a train. I saw Shasha inside the train. She still smiled and said nothing as before. Suddenly, the whistle sounded and the train slowly started to move. So, I ran wildly after the train. However, the train suddenly disappeared on the tracks, as if it had sailed to another world. The dirty fish glitz of this world is cut off from it.

On the day after Silly’s death, it snowed in this southern town.

I remember someone said that snow is the greeting brought to the world by people in the sky. But I felt that the sudden heavy snowfall was clearly silly tears.

The snow was so heavy that it was scary. In that small town, except for the river, almost all other places were covered by the mighty heavy snow. But people still couldn't suppress their surprise. This southern town has not had snow for several years. I heard the old people at the entrance of the alley kept talking about how there could be such heavy snow. I had never seen such heavy snow before.

When people look at this long-lost heavy snow with joy, they may have forgotten that just yesterday, the girl who lived on the cold ship disappeared from this world. Or maybe, they never wanted to remember that such a girl appeared in this world.

But I will remember.

6.

After the heavy snow, the dilapidated barge and the two northerners disappeared into this southern town without any warning. No one knows where they went, and no one knows if they are still in this world.

Later, someone said that the silly father was actually mentally ill. Others said that her mother killed her father and stabbed her father more than ten times. What's more, she said that her mother chopped off her father's

hand.

Maybe these things are true.

Perhaps this is just people’s idle speculation.

And when a long time passes, no one will mention it again.

It’s just that a long, long time has passed.

Someone told me that, in fact, her name is not Shasha, her name is Shasha.