我拿起了沈从文的《边城》，第一眼，就看到了那几个字：“潮水的印记”。
书页上的墨痕有些发旧，却像是一枚开关被突然打开。耳边在一瞬间，竟有些分不清那是扬子江河畔的拍岸声，还是车间里发出的轰鸣声。无数个遥远的日子携带者潮水的声音和湿气向我涌来，越描越清晰——那是属于我的潮水，那座陪伴我一起长大的钢铁厂，在记忆里轰然复活。
那是七八十年代的记忆。高耸入云的巨大烟囱，日夜不息地向天空吐着厚重的白烟；传送带上一根根被烧得通红、散发着刺眼热浪的钢材；还有那一锅一锅在车间深处沸腾、翻滚着的红色铁水。厂区的主干道上，一部接一部的大卡车与一辆辆自行车交错着。我小时候的生活，就彻底浸泡在这座由钢铁构建起来的热气腾腾的日子里。
那是一个自成一体、近乎乌托邦的世界。而我的童年，大多是在这个钢铁世界里等待父亲的时光里度过的。
每到下班的时候，厂区高音喇叭里总会准时播放起那首《咱们工人有力量》。工人们成群结队的，精神抖擞的，踏着那音乐的节奏，陆陆续续涌出大门。那铿锵有力的节奏和自行车的铃声交织在一起，像是一场盛大的交响曲。而我，总是守在大门口，等着父亲的出现。
父亲不是总能准时出现的。所以，无数个等父亲下班的晚上，我混在一群下了班的陌生大人堆里，在厂区那间昏暗的录像厅里看电影。屏幕上光影摇晃，多数时候我是看不懂的，看着看着就趴在椅背上睡着了。有时候等得实在不耐烦了，我就会自作主张地跑到烟雾缭绕的职工大澡堂子里去围堵父亲，一推开门，里面满是赤条条的、带着肥皂味的汉子，总会引起大人们一阵阵善意的揶揄和哄笑。
等肚子饿了，就会跑到厂里的大食堂。买上那一两个白白胖胖、香喷喷的馒头，还有一盆淋满了浓郁酱汁、个头硕大的红烧狮子头。
在那个被厂区包围的世界里，似乎所有人都认识我。尽管我并不认得他们。打菜的伯伯总会给我多盛两块红烧肉，路过的伯伯们总会亲切地和我打招呼，门卫的伯伯们也总是板起脸叮嘱我不许出厂子。只要我父亲一找我，总能轻而易举地找到。
后来，老厂拆了又翻，翻了又拆。老的建筑没有了，老的车间没有了，老的澡堂也没有了，连有些熟悉的人也彻底找不见了。这些曾在我生命中走过的客，可能大部分都已经不在人世了。就在年初的时候，那个厂里最有话语权的叔叔也离去了，留下了如潮水般的人群，一路长街送出去十里远。
但是，那条厂区的主干道还一直向前通着，那个雷打不动的下班歌声也还在高音喇叭里放着。路上重新涌动起来的，是年轻一代的钢铁人，他们踩着同样的节奏涌出大门，眉宇间依然那么雄赳赳、气昂昂的。
时代的潮水在慢慢褪去，但是工厂的潮水却没有消散。那座老去的工厂、高耸的烟囱，以及过去下班时如潮水般涌出的自行车流，终究都成了书页里那抹泛黄的印记。但我依然想念那个年代的纯真。那些在潮水深处被善意看顾过的日子，每每回想起来，依然滚烫如初。
The ink on the page had grown somewhat faded with age, yet it felt as if a switch had been abruptly thrown. For a split second, my ears could barely distinguish whether that was the slapping of waves against the banks of the Yangtze River, or the roaring din vibrating from the factory floor. Countless faraway days, carrying the sound and the heavy moisture of that torrent, came surging toward me, their outlines sharpening as they drew near—that was my torrent. That steel plant which accompanied me through my growing years had violently resurrected in my memory.
Those were memories of the 1970s and 80s. Colossal smokestacks, soaring high into the clouds, spat thick, heavy white smoke into the sky day and night. On the conveyor belts, bars of steel were heated to a glowing red, radiating stinging waves of heat. And deep within the workshops, vats of molten iron boiled and churned crimson. Along the plant's main thoroughfare, heavy-duty trucks crossed paths with lines of bicycles, one after another. My childhood existence was completely submerged in these steaming, hot days built entirely out of steel.
It was a self-contained world, a near-Utopia. And the vast majority of my childhood was spent inside this world of steel, passing the hours as I waited for my father.
Whenever the shift ended, the plant's high-pitched loudspeakers would punctuate the hour with the song We Workers Have the Strength. The workers emerged in groups, full of spirit, stepping to the rhythm of the music as they streamed out of the main gates. That clanging, powerful cadence interwoven with the crisp ringing of bicycle bells resembled a grand, sweeping symphony. And I would always keep watch at the main entrance, waiting for my father to appear.
My father could not always show up on time. And so, for countless evenings spent waiting for him to clock off, I mingled with the crowds of unfamiliar adults who had just finished their shifts, watching movies in the dim light of the plant's video projection room. Flickering shadows danced across the screen; most of the time, I couldn't comprehend what was happening, and I would fall asleep face-down against the back of the chair. Sometimes, when my patience wore completely thin, I would take it upon myself to bolt into the smoke-filled workers' public bathhouse to corner my father. The moment I pushed the door open, the sight of all those naked men smelling of cheap soap would invariably trigger waves of good-natured teasing and roaring laughter from the adults.
When my stomach started growling, I would dash over to the grand cafeteria. I would purchase one or two plump, stark-white, highly aromatic steamed buns, along with a metal basin drenched in rich, dark gravy containing a massive braised lion’s-head meatball.
Within that world enclosed by the factory walls, it felt as though every single person knew me, even though I did not recognize them. The uncle ladling out the dishes would always scoop two extra chunks of braised pork belly into my bowl; uncles passing by would greet me with genuine warmth; and the gatekeeper uncles would invariably stiffen their faces to warn me that I was strictly forbidden from sneaking out of the plant. Whenever my father needed to look for me, he could locate me with absolute ease.
Later, the old plant was demolished and rebuilt, rebuilt and demolished again. The old structures vanished, the old workshops vanished, the old bathhouse vanished, and even some of those familiar faces were lost for good. Most of those passengers who once walked through my life have likely departed from this world. Right at the start of this year, that uncle who held the greatest authority and respect in the plant also passed away, leaving behind a torrent-like sea of people who lined the long streets to see him off for ten miles.
Yet, that main thoroughfare of the factory complex still stretches straight ahead, and that ironclad anthem marking the end of the shift still blares from the high-pitched loudspeakers. Surging onto the road once again is a younger generation of steelworkers. They step to the exact same rhythm as they stream out of the main gates, their bearings still unmistakably grand and full of pride.
The torrent of the era is slowly receding, but the torrent of the factory has not dissolved. That aging plant, the towering smokestacks, and the streams of bicycles that once poured out like a torrent when the shift ended have, in the end, settled into a yellowed imprint within the pages of a book. Yet, I still ache for the innocence of that era. Those days spent deep within the torrent, watched over with raw human kindness, remain as scalding hot as ever whenever they cross my mind.
书页上的墨痕有些发旧，却像是一枚开关被突然打开。耳边在一瞬间，竟有些分不清那是扬子江河畔的拍岸声，还是车间里发出的轰鸣声。无数个遥远的日子携带者潮水的声音和湿气向我涌来，越描越清晰——那是属于我的潮水，那座陪伴我一起长大的钢铁厂，在记忆里轰然复活。
那是七八十年代的记忆。高耸入云的巨大烟囱，日夜不息地向天空吐着厚重的白烟；传送带上一根根被烧得通红、散发着刺眼热浪的钢材；还有那一锅一锅在车间深处沸腾、翻滚着的红色铁水。厂区的主干道上，一部接一部的大卡车与一辆辆自行车交错着。我小时候的生活，就彻底浸泡在这座由钢铁构建起来的热气腾腾的日子里。
那是一个自成一体、近乎乌托邦的世界。而我的童年，大多是在这个钢铁世界里等待父亲的时光里度过的。
每到下班的时候，厂区高音喇叭里总会准时播放起那首《咱们工人有力量》。工人们成群结队的，精神抖擞的，踏着那音乐的节奏，陆陆续续涌出大门。那铿锵有力的节奏和自行车的铃声交织在一起，像是一场盛大的交响曲。而我，总是守在大门口，等着父亲的出现。
父亲不是总能准时出现的。所以，无数个等父亲下班的晚上，我混在一群下了班的陌生大人堆里，在厂区那间昏暗的录像厅里看电影。屏幕上光影摇晃，多数时候我是看不懂的，看着看着就趴在椅背上睡着了。有时候等得实在不耐烦了，我就会自作主张地跑到烟雾缭绕的职工大澡堂子里去围堵父亲，一推开门，里面满是赤条条的、带着肥皂味的汉子，总会引起大人们一阵阵善意的揶揄和哄笑。
等肚子饿了，就会跑到厂里的大食堂。买上那一两个白白胖胖、香喷喷的馒头，还有一盆淋满了浓郁酱汁、个头硕大的红烧狮子头。
在那个被厂区包围的世界里，似乎所有人都认识我。尽管我并不认得他们。打菜的伯伯总会给我多盛两块红烧肉，路过的伯伯们总会亲切地和我打招呼，门卫的伯伯们也总是板起脸叮嘱我不许出厂子。只要我父亲一找我，总能轻而易举地找到。
后来，老厂拆了又翻，翻了又拆。老的建筑没有了，老的车间没有了，老的澡堂也没有了，连有些熟悉的人也彻底找不见了。这些曾在我生命中走过的客，可能大部分都已经不在人世了。就在年初的时候，那个厂里最有话语权的叔叔也离去了，留下了如潮水般的人群，一路长街送出去十里远。
但是，那条厂区的主干道还一直向前通着，那个雷打不动的下班歌声也还在高音喇叭里放着。路上重新涌动起来的，是年轻一代的钢铁人，他们踩着同样的节奏涌出大门，眉宇间依然那么雄赳赳、气昂昂的。
时代的潮水在慢慢褪去，但是工厂的潮水却没有消散。那座老去的工厂、高耸的烟囱，以及过去下班时如潮水般涌出的自行车流，终究都成了书页里那抹泛黄的印记。但我依然想念那个年代的纯真。那些在潮水深处被善意看顾过的日子，每每回想起来，依然滚烫如初。
The Factory Torrent
I picked up Shen Congwen’s The Border Town, and at the very first glance, those characters arrested my eyes: “the imprint of the torrent.”The ink on the page had grown somewhat faded with age, yet it felt as if a switch had been abruptly thrown. For a split second, my ears could barely distinguish whether that was the slapping of waves against the banks of the Yangtze River, or the roaring din vibrating from the factory floor. Countless faraway days, carrying the sound and the heavy moisture of that torrent, came surging toward me, their outlines sharpening as they drew near—that was my torrent. That steel plant which accompanied me through my growing years had violently resurrected in my memory.
Those were memories of the 1970s and 80s. Colossal smokestacks, soaring high into the clouds, spat thick, heavy white smoke into the sky day and night. On the conveyor belts, bars of steel were heated to a glowing red, radiating stinging waves of heat. And deep within the workshops, vats of molten iron boiled and churned crimson. Along the plant's main thoroughfare, heavy-duty trucks crossed paths with lines of bicycles, one after another. My childhood existence was completely submerged in these steaming, hot days built entirely out of steel.
It was a self-contained world, a near-Utopia. And the vast majority of my childhood was spent inside this world of steel, passing the hours as I waited for my father.
Whenever the shift ended, the plant's high-pitched loudspeakers would punctuate the hour with the song We Workers Have the Strength. The workers emerged in groups, full of spirit, stepping to the rhythm of the music as they streamed out of the main gates. That clanging, powerful cadence interwoven with the crisp ringing of bicycle bells resembled a grand, sweeping symphony. And I would always keep watch at the main entrance, waiting for my father to appear.
My father could not always show up on time. And so, for countless evenings spent waiting for him to clock off, I mingled with the crowds of unfamiliar adults who had just finished their shifts, watching movies in the dim light of the plant's video projection room. Flickering shadows danced across the screen; most of the time, I couldn't comprehend what was happening, and I would fall asleep face-down against the back of the chair. Sometimes, when my patience wore completely thin, I would take it upon myself to bolt into the smoke-filled workers' public bathhouse to corner my father. The moment I pushed the door open, the sight of all those naked men smelling of cheap soap would invariably trigger waves of good-natured teasing and roaring laughter from the adults.
When my stomach started growling, I would dash over to the grand cafeteria. I would purchase one or two plump, stark-white, highly aromatic steamed buns, along with a metal basin drenched in rich, dark gravy containing a massive braised lion’s-head meatball.
Within that world enclosed by the factory walls, it felt as though every single person knew me, even though I did not recognize them. The uncle ladling out the dishes would always scoop two extra chunks of braised pork belly into my bowl; uncles passing by would greet me with genuine warmth; and the gatekeeper uncles would invariably stiffen their faces to warn me that I was strictly forbidden from sneaking out of the plant. Whenever my father needed to look for me, he could locate me with absolute ease.
Later, the old plant was demolished and rebuilt, rebuilt and demolished again. The old structures vanished, the old workshops vanished, the old bathhouse vanished, and even some of those familiar faces were lost for good. Most of those passengers who once walked through my life have likely departed from this world. Right at the start of this year, that uncle who held the greatest authority and respect in the plant also passed away, leaving behind a torrent-like sea of people who lined the long streets to see him off for ten miles.
Yet, that main thoroughfare of the factory complex still stretches straight ahead, and that ironclad anthem marking the end of the shift still blares from the high-pitched loudspeakers. Surging onto the road once again is a younger generation of steelworkers. They step to the exact same rhythm as they stream out of the main gates, their bearings still unmistakably grand and full of pride.
The torrent of the era is slowly receding, but the torrent of the factory has not dissolved. That aging plant, the towering smokestacks, and the streams of bicycles that once poured out like a torrent when the shift ended have, in the end, settled into a yellowed imprint within the pages of a book. Yet, I still ache for the innocence of that era. Those days spent deep within the torrent, watched over with raw human kindness, remain as scalding hot as ever whenever they cross my mind.