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树荫下的午后
树下，正午放慢了脚步。 阳光从叶缝里漏下来，碎成一地铜钱，没有人去捡。 树荫是一座凉快的岛，跟着太阳慢慢挪动。 我坐在岛的中央，书摊在膝上， 有一页，留给风去读。
蝉鸣像雨，不大，却把整个下午淋透。 它从头顶来，从荫的最浓处来， 把头顶的光影缝成一块粗布，旧而柔软。 我不赶它。 村里只剩这一种声音， 好像全世界都在解释同一个词。
墙边的旧自行车靠着打盹， 车筐里躺着两只西瓜，和去年的夏天。 狗在树荫最凉的地方睡熟了， 耳朵偶尔一动，像在梦里打拍子。 它尾巴一扫， 把一地碎光，扫到了院子另一头。
井里的西瓜沉在桶底，被凉水抱着。 祖母坐在门槛上剥绿豆， 剥着剥着，自己先睡着了， 一碗豆子扣在膝头，像一场小小的绿雪。 蝉鸣替她守着这个下午， 守得那么稳，连时间都绕着这棵树走。
书只翻过去几页。 字在纸上浮浮沉沉，我读到行末， 就悄悄溜走，去看田那边的云。 云很白，天很高， 路从田头出发，一直伸向远方， 拐一个弯，消失在光里。 我知道远方那边有镇子， 镇子那边，有我还没见过的海。
蝉鸣不停，像用嗓子量着下午的长短。 荫挪一寸，书挪一寸，我也挪一寸， 跟着影子散步。 光变成金色的时候， 母亲在门口喊我的名字， 我合上书，用手指夹住这一页， 把下午做了记号。
后来很多个下午，我都想起那片树荫。 蝉鸣没有停过，远方还在路的那头。 那年读的书，我早忘了名字， 只记得凉意落在肩上—— 整个夏天按着我的肩膀，轻轻的， 像怕我发觉，它正在过去。
Afternoon in the Tree Shade
Under the tree, noon has slowed its footsteps. Sunlight sifts through the gaps in the leaves, breaking into coins of light scattered on the ground that no one gathers. The tree shade is a cool island, drifting slowly with the sun. I sit at the center of the island, a book open on my knees, and one page left for the wind to read.
The cicada song is like rain, not heavy, yet it soaks the whole afternoon through. It comes from above my head, from the thickest part of the shade, stitching the light and shadow overhead into a piece of coarse cloth, old and soft. I do not drive it away. The village keeps only this one sound, as if the whole world were explaining one and the same word.
The old bicycle by the wall leans there asleep, its basket holding two watermelons and a summer from last year. The dog sleeps soundly in the coolest corner of the shade, its ears twitching now and then, as if beating time inside a dream. One sweep of its tail sends the scattered light rolling to the other end of the yard.
The watermelon in the well sits at the bottom of a bucket, held by the cold water. Grandmother sits on the doorstep shelling green beans, and halfway through she falls asleep first, a bowl of beans tipped over on her knees like a small green snowfall. The cicada song keeps watch over her afternoon, keeping watch so steadily that even time takes a detour around this tree.
The book has turned only a few pages. The words float on the paper, and when I reach the end of a line I slip away quietly to watch the clouds beyond the field. The clouds are white, the sky is high, and the road sets out from the edge of the field, stretching toward the distance, turning once, then vanishing into the light. I know there is a town beyond the distance, and beyond the town, a sea I have not yet seen.
The cicada song does not stop; it seems to measure the length of the afternoon with its voice. The shade moves an inch, the book moves an inch, and I move an inch too, taking a walk along with the shadow. When the light turns golden, mother calls my name from the doorway, and I close the book, holding the page with one finger, marking this afternoon.
In many afternoons since, I have remembered that patch of tree shade. The cicada song has never stopped, and the distance is still at the far end of the road. I have long forgotten the name of the book I was reading that year; I only remember the coolness settling on my shoulders, the whole summer resting its hand on my shoulder, gently, as if afraid I would notice it passing.
单车上的夏日午后
那年暑假，我有一辆单车， 后座绑着一只帆布包，包里一本书，一瓶水。 我不去什么地方，我只是骑。 路两边的树把荫铺给我， 一段，一段，又一段， 像谁把凉意切成薄片，随我取用。
蝉鸣在树荫里等着我。 车一进去，它就响起来， 车一出来，它就停住， 好像它只给过路的人演奏。 我故意在荫里骑得慢， 让它以为我是来听曲的， 不是路过的。
正午的村庄很静，狗都躲在门影里。 只有我，和头顶的蝉，醒着。 阳光把田野晒得发白， 远处的路像一条亮带，铺向远方。 我望着它想：远方有多远？ 脚一踩，它就近一寸； 再想，它又退一寸。
路过村口的老槐，我停下来喝水。 树荫大得像一间屋子， 蝉在最高处唱，声音却落在最低的枝头， 砸在地上，碎成一片一片的响。 我蹲在荫里，看蚂蚁搬运一只飞蛾， 它们排着队，走得比我还认真。
再上路，风热起来了。 帆布包在背后一颠一颠， 书角敲着腰，像提醒我别忘了它。 其实我读得很慢，一个下午， 只够读二十页，加一段路，加一片蝉鸣。 可我觉得，那个下午我读到的东西， 比后来一个学期都多。
天边浮起灰蓝的云，远方在云下发起亮来。 我掉头往回骑，树荫换到路的另一边， 蝉鸣落在身后，越来越薄。 到家时，水壶还温，书页里夹着一片槐叶。 母亲问我去哪儿了，我说： 去远方转了一圈。 她笑，我也不解释。
多年以后，我去了真正的远方， 在地铁里听见孩子的笑声，忽然想起那条亮带一样的路。 树荫还在不在，我不知道， 蝉鸣每年夏天都准时回来。 而我终于明白： 那个下午，我其实哪儿也没去， 我只是把远方，骑进了心里。
A Summer Afternoon on a Bicycle
That summer I had a bicycle, a canvas bag tied to the rear seat, a book and a bottle of water inside. I was not going anywhere in particular. I was only riding. The trees on both sides of the road unrolled their shade for me, section after section after section, as if someone had sliced coolness into thin pieces for me to help myself.
The cicada song waited for me inside the shade. When I rode in, it began; when I rode out, it stopped, as if it played only for people passing by. I deliberately rode slowly inside the shade, so that it would think I had come to listen to the music, not just to pass through.
The village at noon was very quiet; even the dogs hid in the shadows of the doorways. Only I, and the cicadas overhead, were awake. The sun bleached the fields white, and the road in the distance lay like a bright ribbon stretching toward the faraway place. I looked at it and wondered: how far is far? One push of the pedal brings it an inch closer; one more thought of it, and it retreats an inch.
Passing the old locust tree at the village entrance, I stopped to drink water. Its shade was as large as a room, and the cicadas sang at the highest point, yet the sound fell onto the lowest branch and shattered on the ground into pieces of noise. I squatted in the shade and watched ants carrying a moth, marching in line, more serious than I had ever been.
Back on the road, the wind turned hot. The canvas bag bounced behind my back, the corner of the book tapping my waist, as if reminding me not to forget it. I had been reading slowly: one afternoon was only enough for twenty pages, plus one stretch of road, plus one patch of cicada song. Yet I feel that what I read in that afternoon was more than in a whole later term.
Gray-blue clouds rose at the edge of the sky, and the distance began to shine beneath them. I turned the handlebars and rode home, the shade switching to the other side of the road, the cicada song falling behind me, thinner and thinner. When I got home the water bottle was still warm, and a locust leaf was pressed between the pages. Mother asked where I had been, and I said: I took a ride out to the distance and back. She laughed, and I did not explain.
Years later I went to a real faraway place, and in a subway car I heard a child laugh and suddenly remembered that road like a bright ribbon. Whether the tree shade is still there, I do not know; the cicada song returns on time every summer. And I finally understand: that afternoon I actually went nowhere at all; I simply rode the distance into my heart.
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