Translated extracts from another text we studied in Chinese class, about the families separated for forty years after the Kuomintang fled to Taiwan in 1949. Both made me cry in class.
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乡音
于是我让哥哥就着录音机坐下，"给爸妈说段话吧！"哥哥两眼望着自己的脚，困难地思索着。我在一旁呆坐。是啊、他该说什么呢？问父母这四十年究竟是怎么回事？问老天那一列火车为什么走得那么不留余地？
回到台湾的家，行囊尚未解开，就赶忙将录音带从口袋中掏出——我从不可预测的历史学得，有些东西必须贴身携带，譬如兵荒马乱中秘书的孩子，譬如一张仅存的情人的照片，譬如一卷无可复制的带着乡音的录音带。
外面黑夜覆盖着田野，我们聚在温暖的灯下。
母亲捧着杯热茶，父亲盘腿坐在录音机前，没有人说话。
极慎重地，我按下键盘。
哥哥的声音起先犹疑，一会儿之后速度开始加快。
父亲沉着脸，异常地严肃。我偷觑着——他会哭吗？父亲是个感情冲动的人。
母亲呢？为了四十年前在衡山火车站的一念之差，她一直在自责，此刻，她在回想那一幕吗？
我用眼角余光窥看着两个老人，有点儿等待又有点儿害怕那眼泪夺眶而出的一刻。
"不对不对，"一言不发的父亲突然伸手关了录音机，转脸问我，"你拿错带子了？"
"没有呀，"我觉得莫名其妙，那分明是哥哥的声音。
"一定拿错了，"父亲斩钉截铁地，而且显然觉得懊恼，"不然我怎么会听不懂？像俄国话嘛："
我张口结舌地看着他，只是看着他。
他没有泪下，他没有大哭，他不曾崩溃，他他他——少小离家老大不回，四十年浪迹他乡，他已经听不懂自己儿子的乡音。
我看着父亲霜白的两鬓，觉得眼睛一阵热——唉呀，流泪的竟然是我。
Sounds of home
Then I had big brother sit down with the recorder. "Say something for Mom and Dad!" Big brother only stared at his feet, thinking hard. I sat next to him, doing nothing. Right... what could he say? Mom, Dad, how have you been these forty years? God, why did You let that train leave without even looking back once?
When I arrived back in Taiwan, I didn't even wait to unpack before fishing out the cassette from my pocket –– the unpredictability of history had taught me to keep certain things close to me, like a child in the midst of war and turmoil, like the treasured memories of a romance, like the sole copy of a cassette tape that contained the sounds of a long-lost home.
Outside, the night wrapped itself around the fields. We were surrounded by the warmth of the lamp.
Mother held a hot cup of tea and Father sat cross-legged in front of the cassette player. Nobody spoke.
Carefully, I pressed the button.
Big brother's voice started out calm and composed, but after a while he began to speak faster.
Father's face was heavy and serious. I watched him discreetly –– would he cry? Father was a very emotional man.
And Mother? For that one wrong decision made in a lapse of judgement at the Hengshan train station, she had been torturing herself for forty years. Was she replaying that moment in her mind?
I glanced at the old couple from the corner of my eye, waiting, both in expectation and fear, for the flood of tears to arrive.
"No, no!" My silent father suddenly turned off the cassette player. He turned to me and asked, "Is this the wrong tape?"
"No." I was confused. That was definitely my big brother's voice.
"It must be the wrong tape," Father concluded resolutely. He was clearly frustrated. "Otherwise, why can't I understand it? It sounds like Russian."
I stared at him. I was unable to utter a word. I only stared at him.
He didn't shed any tears, he didn't begin to cry, he didn't fall apart, he –– he –– he –– He'd left home as a youth and had grown old elsewhere. He'd spent forty years wandering around in a foreign land, and now could no longer understand his own son speaking their home dialect.
I looked at the snow-white hair on Father's temples, and felt a gush of warmth in my eyes –– aiya. In the end, I was the one crying.
老乡
邵伯伯来打麻将，总拎着瓶酒。进门见到四个五个流着鼻涕的小孩，从裤袋里总掏得出一巴掌黏兮兮、皱巴巴的廉价糖果。他边喝酒边打牌，酒喝多了就趴在牌桌上哭，放声地哭。邵伯伯的太太留在河北老家，没出得来。母亲赶鸡似地驱逐一堆看热闹的孩子；邵伯伯还有个女儿，走的时候才刚生呢！
有一天，邵伯伯把牌一推，头栽在桌上，人家以为他又犯了，没想到他死了。
Hometown
Whenever Uncle Shao came to play mahjong, he would always bring a bottle of alcohol. Encountering four or five snotty children upon entering our home, he would always fish around in his pockets and hand out some of those sticky, wrinkly cheap candies. He drank heavily while playing mahjong, and when he got drunk he would slump onto the table, wailing and crying. Uncle Shao had left his wife at home in Hebei. She hadn’t been able to come to Taiwan with him. Mother would hurry to drive us curious children away: Uncle Shao had also left behind a newborn daughter!
One day, Uncle Shao pushed away his tiles and planted himself face down onto the table. Everyone thought he was going to have another episode. Then we realised he was dead.
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