XIE LINGJIE

Title: The Dual Faces of Justice and the Definition of Heroes

 

— A Discussion on the Creation of "Brigantine"

 

It has been more than four years since the completion of the work, yet everything seems to linger, difficult to forget, frequently recalled. "Brigantine" appears to be such a book: those who skim its surface cannot penetrate, and those who delve deep find it hard to emerge, or rather, not easy to emerge unscathed. My publishing editor, Jialian, is a case in point. Over the past few years, he has told me several times that in order to quickly extricate himself, to forget and return to his own life, he deliberately avoided contacting me as much as possible. I had no choice but to agree and conscientiously refrained from reaching out to him too. The editing and publishing of this book seemed to have a significant impact on him. During this period, he was admitted to the hospital, faced numerous obstacles in publishing during critical times, leading to repeated reviews of the manuscript. Similarly, he had to read and edit it over and over again. Obviously, besides myself, the characters in the book are most familiar to him. I don't know if this familiarity might create a hallucination of fiction blending with reality, but it clearly had an effect on him. He told me that sometimes while sitting by the window reading, he suddenly felt compelled to go downstairs, take a walk, and then return upstairs. His words made me worried and apologetic. When the book was published, shortly after, he also said to me, "Sometimes I feel like I am William, sometimes I feel like I am David, and sometimes I feel like I am Donny..." Jialian has been living alone in Guangzhou, voluntarily taking care of a non-relative elderly person for more than a decade. Strangely enough, I don't know if it's because of the similar pronunciation of our names or if I subconsciously projected the characters from the book onto him, but in the year of the book's publication, when I first met him in Guangzhou, my first words were directly "William." As the words left my mouth, I startled myself, and he shivered, looking up at me, saying, "I am not William; I don't want to be William." I was taken aback and apologized. Since then, we tacitly avoided discussing William and his various outcomes. I also made a mental note not to make the same mistake again in the future, but after some time apart, whether meeting in person or through voice messages on WeChat, the first name that slipped out was still "William." It's truly inexplicable.

"Brigantine" is the first full-length work through which I meet readers. I say this because before this 300,000-word piece, I wrote nearly a million words based on it, but "Brigantine" is the only one that was completed, where I poured my heart and soul into, overturning all my previous experiences. Due to the long process of "gene confusion and replacement," the birthing process was not easy, and it can be said to be a mentally exhausting difficult birth. However, precisely because of this, she captured my heart and obsession.

 

From February 2012 to February 2016, for a full four years, there was no WeChat, no Twitter. The information wave created by the internet had no impact on me. During that time, my world was an independent and closed space, characterized by clarity and purity. Seclusion or living on the fringes became the norm – waking up with the sunrise, and sometimes not exaggerating to say going to rest as the moon sets. It was like willingly imprisoning oneself, with the brain and heart constantly under the control of the plot and characters. Once the connection was lost, guilt, self-blame, and even fear set in. Discoveries and breakthroughs during the process brought both excitement and madness, while obstacles and stagnation led to a desperate and anxious state resembling doomsday. In successful moments, the tranquillity of reaching the mysterious abyss through a narrow gate and along a tunnel was cherished. Conversely, navigating through maze-like paths, ascending layer by layer around spiralling stairs, reaching the peak where the soul transcends, was intoxicating.

 

In the later stages, mental and physical resources were nearly completely depleted and shattered. The feeling was akin to a prisoner eagerly awaiting the end of their sentence for release from incarceration. However, even until a year before the October 2017 publication, the pressure and anxiety from the critical review period of publishing during extraordinary times were more intense than the later stages of creation.

 

Regarding the origin of "Brigantine" it has been detailed in the afterword "Did War Bring Peace?" Now, revisiting it may seem redundant, but it adds richness to the narrative, with some spontaneously added topics from several book club meetings held over the past few years.

 

For those familiar with modern history, at the end of April 1975, the era of Indochina came to a complete end, creating a large number of refugees. These refugees continuously flowed towards Europe, America, and various countries worldwide until the late 1980s. "Indochina refugees" and "boat people" became synonymous with them. The number of these refugees reached several million, not including the unfortunate ones buried at sea. Among them, 280,000 were sent back to China. The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees established artificial ports and farms in coastal cities and mountains in provinces such as Guangxi, Guangdong, Yunnan, Guizhou, and Fujian to settle them. My hometown, Beihai, dug an artificial port to accommodate around 8,000 refugees. They lived seemingly peacefully, seemingly disconnected from the nearby cities despite being so close. In the 1990s, the real estate market was booming. The town where they resided was along the route to the famous Beihai Silver Beach, yet the bustling urban development seemed unrelated to them. They shared the same facial features and skin colour as the locals, spoke almost the same accent of the language, but their clothing, appearance, and way of life were completely different.

​

In 1999, I quit my job at the bank, and in early 2000, I went to the Lu Xun Academy of Literature. During that time, returning from Beijing to Beihai, I was enamoured with Beijing, but there I was treated like a foreigner, unable to live there due to a lack of residency permit, and my child couldn't receive education in Beijing. For the sake of my child, I had no choice but to return. However, taking a step is like reaching the end of the world, and anyone who steps into that utopia is destined never to return home. During that time, I wandered in a daze of confusion and melancholy, and one day, I wandered to the port. It was the first time I encountered unfamiliar surprises amid the long period of decline and anxiety. As I walked south along Hongmian Street, I smelled a thick scent mixing with the mud, sea grass, and the fishy saltiness of fishing gear at the slope, and my heart inexplicably calmed down and lightened. Excitedly, I quickened my pace and soon saw the bay and the vast sea. The fishing boats docked in the harbour were crowded, chaotic yet orderly. Interestingly, the fishing boats were also homes, with dogs squatting below the masts guarding, ropes, wires, or ship cables hanging on both sides of the ship's surface, men's sweatshirts and pants, women and children's clothes, and dripping fishing nets haphazardly drying. By the side of the stove, flames flickered. Down from the high bow, the narrow passages were threaded with cargo boats calling out, and around the muddy tidal flats, abandoned wooden boats were scattered in the marsh, without decks, gaping towards the sky or lying upside down in the water puddles. This unfamiliar scene made me understand: there are stories here.

 

One day, I noticed among the ferrywomen someone was missing an arm. Something inside me was intensely struck, and I decided to approach her and them. As the friendship deepened and interactions unfolded, I gradually discovered a window into the Vietnam War and the international refugee crisis. Consequently, topics about war and refugees began to swirl in my mind like clouds. Gradually, the immigrants began to talk about some veterans who had participated in the Vietnam War, and that's when I started interviewing them. Some had participated in the anti-American and aid-Vietnam campaigns, and some had been involved in both, making their stories thrilling. However, being fishermen by origin, their cultural knowledge was limited. Their narratives focused on their youth and actions on the front lines, providing little valuable content. As eyewitnesses, they seemed uninterested in the essence of war or the political struggles of the colonial territories. Despite having contributed to Vietnam's country and people for the sake of defending their homes, they became refugees due to their status, facing the possibility of repatriation with little concern.

 

One of them shared some interesting details. Due to the prolonged war, the eligible age group for conscription in Vietnam drastically decreased. The government had to expand the conscription age range, and he fell within that category. This led to fear in his family, and his parents came up with a plan to send him to a solitary cave on a remote island near Haiphong during high tide. The waves would seal the cave entrance, and he hid inside, catching fish and shrimp during high tide, and foraging for fruits and leaves at the top of the cliffs during low tide. These experiences were poignant and astonishing, making for excellent novel details, but he, too, did not provide the "core" of the novel.

 

Encountering American veteran K and his Chinese wife was entirely coincidental.

 

One day, I went to the Foreign Affairs Office to pick up documents, and the person in charge informed me that a woman had arrived, urgently requesting the divorce proceedings for her international marriage. The woman's household registration was in our city, but she lived in Guangzhou. She and her American husband, K, had travelled nearly ten hours by long-distance bus from Guangzhou. K had visited our city only twice before, once to marry his girlfriend and this time to divorce his wife. This incident created quite a sensation, with office staff and all the women waiting in line showing concern. It seemed as if they did not want the divorce proceedings of this international marriage to be successful and were doing everything they could to prevent it. The person in charge, who regularly dealt with immigration documents related to international marriages, was quite experienced and kind-hearted. She showed no signs of helping the Chinese wife with the procedures and privately told me to talk to the woman, attempting to prevent the divorce.

 

So, I met the woman standing near the office desk: her face was full of sorrow, exhaustion, and clear signs of tears and pregnancy. She had an urgent expression, hoping to quickly get the leader's seal to address her pressing matter. I approached her kindly, gained her trust, and took her to an empty hall outside the office. There, she detailed the crisis her marriage was facing: her husband (referred to as K) was a Vietnam War veteran suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder. He was on long-term medication but couldn't maintain basic daily life. Almost every night, or even whenever he closed his eyes, he would wake up drenched in sweat, screaming in nightmares, emotionally uncontrollable in fear. What terrified her the most was that, whenever K lost control, he would jump onto the window ledge, intending to jump from the 18th floor to end his life. Each time, she pretended to be calm in extreme terror, gently and wisely coaxing him back from the cliff-like window ledge. However, being only in her early thirties, dealing with such repetitions in extreme fear and begging her partner, who was twice her age, to stay, was an incredibly difficult task. She was pregnant with his child, and considering his long-term medication and lack of a profession in China, she had to have an abortion, just a week before our conversation. Clearly, she deeply loved K, admired his vision, knowledge, and reflective spirit. He was a romantic and affectionate man. Probably due to his lack of wealth and no job in China, relying on his wife to support the family, his beautiful dreams couldn't come true, leading him into hardship. Before, K had been married in the United States, with several children. His symptoms made it difficult for him to communicate with his wife and children. After the children grew up, he divorced his American wife. A few years ago, he came to China and married his girlfriend, starting a new life. However, due to language and cultural barriers, and perhaps age restrictions, he couldn't find a profession to support his family. Such a situation not only hindered him from realizing his dreams of rebuilding his life but also exacerbated his symptoms. Yet, once he returned to his family in the United States, he transformed into a new person, behaving as if he were a lover deeply in love. He frequently sent affectionate emails to his wife, even writing about their daily life. The trouble was that, as soon as he returned to China, the illness recurred. He loved going to Vietnam, a habit that began shortly after the war. It seemed to be the only way he found solace. Initially, he returned to those places with unbearable memories. Gradually, he discovered many people like him. Later, they spontaneously engaged in some relief work for the devastated Vietnam. Even if it meant just visiting the orphans born to American soldiers and Vietnamese women during the war...

 

Hearing this, a light of hope, which I had been anticipating but hadn't seen before, lit up in my heart. I said, "He is a good person." I said, "You are the only one who can help him. I have no right to stop you from divorcing him, but doing so is equivalent to pushing him off the window ledge directly." She looked at me, covered her face, and sobbed silently. I understood she was caught in a dilemma. I knew it was cruel and unfair for me, as an outsider who had not experienced her pain and conflict, to say those things. However, facing such a spiritual crisis, besides love, the most potent remedy, there were few other possibilities. She was the only straw for K dangling over the precipice. I shared my approach to handling similar situations, hoping it might prevent tragedy or at least make the outcome less regrettable. Clearly, she deeply loved K and believed that my words timely saved her and K's love and marriage. She thanked me, saying she wouldn't leave, and she would continue to be K's lifeline.

 

So, she took me out to find K. We searched everywhere, but he was nowhere to be found. She was getting nervous and finally spotted him in a corner near the door. K looked lost and bewildered, his face filled with confusion. When he heard his woman say in English, "I've decided not to leave," he took a deep breath and rushed towards her, embracing her tightly. He said just one thing: "I love her very much. I abandoned all my social connections in the United States to come to China and build a beautiful life with her. I never thought about divorcing her." Later, they urgently contacted the airline to cancel the booked tickets, only to realize how thorough their plans for separation were. While they were still in Guangzhou, they had booked a ticket for K to return to the United States. The plan was to quickly complete the procedures, and K would directly go to the airport to catch a flight back to the United States. Thus, the marriage that had flourished for several years came to an end.

 

That's roughly how things went that day. Afterward, due to visa processing, I visited K's family as promised. K's symptoms had somewhat alleviated, but the nightmares continued to haunt him. After I arrived in Europe, K's wife continued to stay in touch with me, providing a constant stream of information. Whether early morning, late evening, or Europe's midnight, she shared her experiences of dealing with K's symptoms, describing moments of miscalculation and exhaustion. I felt a heavy sense of concern and began reflecting on the rightness or wrongness of my actions that day. I asked myself: Was my advice right or wrong? Was my intention to help the woman, the marriage, or K directly? In this marriage, K, suffering from a severe condition, had become a burden to his wife. When she chose to abandon him due to the unbearable load, I appeared and, under the guise of love or humanity, awakened or persuaded her to stop the process. I believed her decision that day was not impulsive but made out of deep love. Now, facing the repeated challenges she endures, all because of my intervention, brings me anguish and self-blame. I blamed myself for being too meddlesome, advocating righteousness, and acting as a knight in shining armour. The situation of K and his wife was indeed disparate, with K suffering from a stubborn illness and lacking a source of income. He would undoubtedly become a burden to his wife. Yet, my friend was already his wife. However, when it comes down to the core of the matter, I remain firm in my belief that K should not be abandoned due to his mental condition. Both he and his wife are victims, and I played a role in stitching together two innocents. This led me to revisit the debates on justice in Plato's "The Republic" and the moral dilemmas discussed in Harvard professor Michael Sandel's course "Justice: What is the Right Thing to Do?" over the past few years. Faced with the dilemma between K and his wife, what is the just choice? It seems I am searching for reasons to justify the results of my actions motivated by righteousness. On the other hand, I am unmistakably trapped in self-blame. The girlfriend's messages flooded in. When she was sweet and confident, I felt I had done the right thing. When she was discouraged and desperate, I thought I had made a mistake. In short, my heart was uneasy.

 

Afterward, my perception inexplicably shifted toward post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). He provided me with information, consciously offering details whenever there were news or relevant information. Soon, he mentioned a channel in the Netherlands that reported a case of PTSD every time, and each case naturally involved a family. The showcased families were all mired in a quagmire. Over the years, the veterans, suffering from PTSD, were unable to communicate with their wives and children. They roared like enraged tigers or became as unyielding as stubborn rocks when agitated. The children, unaware of what had happened, saw their fathers as symbols, mere outsiders who roared, drank heavily, or remained silent. Some examples similar to K's or even more severe only deepened the despair within these families. One day, while driving, I heard a news report on the radio: an American father had been continuously searching for his son in Vietnam for over 40 years. His son was a soldier on the front lines in 1968, and to this day, he has not been found alive or dead. Such tragic news was not unfamiliar to me, and it seemed like we had all experienced it through generations. Soon, I conducted extensive online searches for related information. I found online cemeteries, online memorials, online adoption of unidentified graves, searches for missing soldiers, and more. All of these were related to my years of searching for information on the Vietnam War. Unexpectedly, these topics surged suddenly. At that time, Mr. and I often visited cemeteries in various European countries, local cemeteries, and World War I and II military cemeteries. There are two major American military cemeteries globally, one in the Philippines and one in Normandy. The ultimate care of Christian compassion is expressed to the fullest in funeral culture. Every time I saw those vast chessboard-like graveyards filled with white tombstones produced on assembly lines, my heart felt inexplicably complex: the handsome and innocent faces on the tombstones, along with the birth and death dates, made me lament. The brilliant roses or poppies in front of the tombstone filled me with admiration, poetry, and tenderness. However, the impartiality of the nameless graves, where one monument and one cross treat everyone equally, also brought comfort. The tombstone of the unknown is marked with the inscription:

 

God knows your name, you are his child! Or: God is with you, You are not lonely!

 

All these things, while bringing tears to my eyes, also provide a great source of comfort.

 

Relevant information continues to emerge. On my Facebook group for American veterans, which includes veterans from Vietnam, Iraq, Iran, and other battlefields, many of them suffer from varying degrees of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). For nearly half a century, some have been on a journey to return to the war zone, doing what they can to help the people there. For example, some donate the association's tourism income to Vietnam for reconstruction, rehabilitation, and education for war orphans. These are people who share similar experiences with K. In the United States of the 1960s, the call for "fight for freedom, for peace!" was loud, and the younger generation grew up with such slogans. When they reached the age to decide, they chose to "fight for freedom, for peace!" So, they enlisted, underwent "hellish training" as new recruits, and then went to the front lines with their units. After the French Vichy government's defeat in the Battle of Dien Bien Phu in 1954, Vietnam truly became a battleground for world empires. Under the pretext of ideology, with East and West confronting each other, spies were abundant in Saigon, engaging in covert struggles. Open confrontations and military deployments were rampant, and troops were stationed like swarms. Consequently, the war raged on, causing countless casualties. Survivors either suffered physical disabilities or mental disorders. Especially for American soldiers who returned from the front lines in the late 1960s, what they saw was no longer the scene of "fighting for freedom and peace" but the surging and boiling anti-war protests at Washington Square. These should be memories shared by K and them. With time and age, have they gained new insights into the justice of the war? Have they reflected on the political power behind the scenes and their own actions?

 

I have already started to focus on the analysis and redemption of post-war mental crises in my writing. In the early summer of 2010, after staying up for over a month, I completed the novella "Living Sculpture." Although it was finished, it did not meet my expectations, so I put it aside and started another one, and then another. Later, I began working on a long novel set in French Indochina called "Funeral in Indochina," and it progressed quite well. However, the one I have been eagerly anticipating has not arrived yet. What I am eagerly waiting for is nothing more than the spark that ignites the pulse, much like the flame that descends on the head when the Holy Spirit comes.

 

One weekend's breakfast, I chatted with Rock about my current novels, Vietnam, the interviewed Vietnamese veterans, the K couple, and the activities of the American veterans association. Rock mentioned that his diving club has a Belgian veteran who participated in the Korean War. He is a diving instructor in the club and often talks about interesting stories from his military service. The club has a magazine, and Locke had interviewed him for a character column 15 years ago. He went downstairs to find the interview recording from 15 years ago for me. Since I don't understand Dutch, he translated a part for me: "... He said that joining the military was an accident. When facing the uncertain future after graduating from high school, he and his classmates went to a bar to gamble on drinks. He promised that if he won, he would go to college; if he lost, he would join the military." When Rock translated to this point, I suddenly felt enlightened. I continued to listen: "He did lose the bet, so to fulfil his promise, he had no choice but to join the military. He talked about the fresh and interesting life of a new recruit before heading to Korea. He particularly enjoyed recounting the experience of sailing from the East Coast of the Atlantic to the West Coast of the Pacific, passing through the North Sea, entering the Mediterranean, crossing the Suez Canal, and then sailing along the Arabian Sea, the Indian Ocean, and the Pacific Ocean to reach Korea. The journey by sea almost equalled circumnavigating the globe. Compared to Columbus's westward expedition to the Americas, the sea voyage to the Far East seemed to satisfy the heroic feelings of a long and arduous journey, exuding a strong romanticism. This kind of colour in the eyes of the veterans seems to be more likely to achieve the legendary pride of their youth after years of fermentation. This sentiment during his youth for this three-month sea voyage was extraordinary just after leaving school. Still, what I wanted to know more about is how he reflected on the years he had spent at the front line later, such as his return to daily life, especially in his old age, his choices at that time, his memories and reflections on the war, and so on.

 

Nothing！"Rock said,"

​

He said that every time Mr. Veteran enthusiastically recounted the legendary moments of sailing around the sea on a military ship at the club and was asked about the front line or post-war life, he would evade or fall into silence...

 

"I'm finally going to start writing a novel," I said.

 

In June 2012, the novella "A Moss-Covered Pocket Watch" was completed, 60,000 words. A few months later, after reading the manuscript, He Wei from the Li River Publishing House thought the subject matter was good and suggested digging deeper. Her timely and valuable advice came just in time, and I had been feeling lost since completing the draft. How could I dismiss something I had been eagerly anticipating with a single tubular structure and just a few tens of thousands of words? I decided to turn it into a full-length novel. To achieve the desired effect, I had to put everything aside and prepare for the unexpected. The overseas Chinese port in my hometown was evidently a lens, and no matter from which angle it radiated, it seemed to provide me with the "film of a black and white movie." As I delved deeper, global events unfolded like a fan: geographical discoveries, navigation, colonization, war, political manoeuvring, refugee waves, and more. All these made me wonder: what is the essence behind all this? History shows that human life is not only confined to geography but also controlled by political history, and literature and history have a natural intertextual relationship. Desk research is long and heavy, involving various literature searches, readings, and digestions: military history, colonial history, religious history, art history, maritime history, shipbuilding history, philosophy, archaeology, natural encyclopaedia, diamond cutting... The knowledge is vast, and creating is like creating my own dictionary. It's challenging, exciting, intense, exhausting, despairing, intoxicating, crazy, and all-encompassing...

 

By early 2014, the novel was almost complete, renamed "Brigantine". At the end of the year, I went to the UK, hoping to find traces of shipyards from the Age of Discovery and the "Mayflower," but with no results. I stayed in the old campus of Oxford University for a few days, wandering around Bodleian and Radcliffe, having new ideas, and decided to make structural adjustments and revisions again. The draft was completed in early February 2006. 300,000 words, four years in total. Nearly 30 chapters, most of which were revised no less than 20 to 30 times. Editing is much more difficult than writing, but it's more enjoyable. They say Gustave Flaubert had this problem.

 

The appearance of the novel is what I like: this "Brigantine" is a Gothic-style ship. Placed in William's courtyard, the rigging hanging the tattered canvas is still imposing, placed on the seabed, it looks like an ancient wood standing alone in the abyss rainforest, vines entwining, vegetation flourishing, ugly fish and anemones playing their roles, jellyfish gathering, octopuses and giant sharks in conflict, blue whales unable to find each other... What I particularly like is the three-act play "Song of the Blue Whale" in the book. This play, which debates justice based on marine life, took a long time and is the highlight of the entire book.

 

"Two-Masted Ship" has dual lines and tracks, like a journey of parallel navigation. The characters in the book, no matter which track they follow, seem to have the loneliness of crossing deep-sea tunnels or desolate paths. In a sense, they are like determined pilgrims, carrying a devout heart towards life and beliefs, ultimately achieving redemption. I feel gratified for their endings. I know that if I had more time, the work might be more perfect, but my physical strength couldn't handle it. Until later, I saw many homophonic typos, and I seemed to end the war hastily, but enough information, language, and characters are what I like. The novel details are intricate, filled with the atmosphere of history, ancient books, mazes, academia, and marine encyclopaedias, achieving the effect I anticipated. K, the Korean War veterans, and the veterans from California from many years ago provided imagination and outlines for my character shaping, but they are not William, David, let alone Adonis. I gave William, David, Adonis, and others the identity of humanists, such as writers and artists, because only in this way could they possibly "stand on the shoulders of giants" and have the insight into the world, holding the key to unravelling the mysteries. As for your question "What have you written?" there is no need to answer. But one thing needs to be said: this is not a traditional war reflection, if I were to make a metaphor, it could be said to be the blue diamond buried at the bottom of the Titanic, the blue "heart of the ocean," enveloping the mysterious and profound human affairs, the value of life, and hope. Each of its multiple-cut facets is a clear mirror.

 

Finally, let me talk about Europe. Some people say that the European continent is like a huge tomb, a tomb of humanity, a tomb of history, a tomb of art, and a tomb of war corpses. Compared to the new scenes of developing countries, the declining Europe seems to be full of the breath of tombs, with churches, libraries, and museums. It is indeed full of the atmosphere of tombs. Based on the Greek heritage, religious traditions, and the aristocratic spirit passed down from the Middle Ages, the West is a land fought for freedom, justice, and truth, and the price is naturally countless warriors full of a spirit of dedication, knights. However, every time I visit an open-air sculpture-like cemetery, seeing layers of radiating crosses like a Roman legion formation, each one is a life that was once full of passion, some of whom are called heroes. Just like heroes such as William. But William actually rejected and rejected this title because he saw the bias and limitations of the definition of heroes subjectively or politically. He believed that the concept of heroes belongs only to the victors or the warring countries. For the defeated countries, the so-called heroes are actually the self-legitimizing killers. William believes that the definition of heroes, like the duality of justice, is not absolute. And is war just a geographical battle stirred up by rulers marking borders? Is the regime caring for and protecting its citizens or monitoring, enslaving, and harming them? These are the questions raised by "Brigantine".

 

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 正义的两面，和英雄的定义

——《双桅船》创作谈

 

距离作品的截稿已4年多，然一切似乎都没曾离去，因为难以忘记，因为经常提起。《双桅船》似乎是这样一部书：浅尝者进不去，深入者出不来，或者说不容易出来。我的出版编辑加联是个例子。过去几年，他几次和我说：为了尽快走出来，忘记，以回到自己的生活，他尽可能地不联系我。我只好同意，并自觉地也不联系他。这部书的编辑出版，对他的影响似乎不小，期间他住进医院，非常时期出版的重重受阻，使得稿子被一次次地审阅，他也一样，得一次次地读、编，一遍又一遍。显然，书里的人物除了我，至为熟悉的就他了。我不知道，这种熟悉会不会产生以假乱真的幻觉，但显然对他造成了影响。他和我说过，有时坐在窗前看书，突然地就强迫自己必须马上下楼去，走上一圈再上楼。他的话让我忧虑加抱歉。书出自我手，详情我知，精神世界相当且感受力较深者，和剧中人物产生联系，这也正常。书出版后不久，他还和我这样说过：有时我觉得自己是威廉，有时又觉得是戴维，有时又像是多尼……加联在广州一直独自居住，在过去的十多年里义务照顾一个非亲非故的老人。莫名其妙的是，我不知道是因为他名字读音的相近，还是自己潜意识里把书中人物在他那里做了投射，书出版的当年，我第一次到广州见他，开口直接就是“威廉”。话出口自己一个激灵，他也一个哆嗦，抬头看我：我不是威廉，我不要做威廉。我心里一惊，说对不起。此后我们都心照不宣，对威廉这个人物种种及其结局禁口。我也在心里记得以后不再犯同样的错误，可相隔一段见面或微信语音，头一个称呼出来，依然是“威廉——”。真是莫名其妙。

《双桅船》是我第一部和读者见面的长篇，之所以这样说，是因为在这30万字之前，以此为范本的小说写了近百万字，《双桅船》是唯一成书的一部，倾尽我所有，颠覆以往所有经验。由于“基因的混淆和置换”过程漫长，使得娩出的过程不易，可说是个耗费心神的难产儿，然，恰又因此，她让我倾心痴迷。从2012年2月到2016年2月的整4年，没有微信，不上推特，网络缔造的浮世沙龙式信息浪潮对我毫无波及，那时我的世界可谓一个独立封闭的空间，说得上澄净甚至纯粹，深居简出或离群索居成为日常，日出而作，有时甚至月落而息也不夸张，犹如一个甘愿受囚禁者，大脑和心脏时刻被剧情和人物掌控，一旦失去联系即陷入愧疚自责甚至惶恐，进程中的发现和超越会让自己惊喜癫狂，一旦阻障出现停滞不前即陷入末日般的绝望焦灼；顺利时，循着窄门沿着隧道抵达神秘深渊的宁静让人眷恋，而绕着迷宫小径，越上旋梯层层攀升，于巅峰处临风羽化的灵魂出窍，更是令人心醉神迷。到了后期，精神和体力近乎完全被透支瓦解，那感觉和囚犯盼着期满出狱毫无二致。然其实，直到2017年10月出版前的一年，和出版审稿期间来自非常时期的高压和焦虑，比创作后期的焦灼更甚。

关于《双桅船》的来历，后记《战争带来和平了吗》已经说得详细了。今又重提，就有换汤不换药之嫌，倒也不矛盾，终归她来路只一条。过去几年的几场读书会，一些临时想到的话题在这里加了进来，反而更丰富些。

读近代史的人知道，1975年4月底，印度支那时代的彻底结束，造就了大批难民，这批难民直到80年代末期还源源不断地涌向欧美乃至世界各国，“印度支那难民”和“boatpeople”是他们的代名词。这批难民达几百万之多，还没包括葬入海底的不幸者，其中，被送回中国的有28万。联合国难民署为安置他们，在广西、广东、云南、贵州、福建等省的沿海城市和山地开设人工港口和农场，我家乡北海就挖了人工港，安置8000左右。他们随潮汛往来，生活看似平静，和咫尺之遥的城市近乎没来往。90年代起地产空前热闹，他们侨居的小镇就在去往名声显赫的北海银滩路边，可如火如荼的城市建设似乎和他们没任何关系。他们和本地人有着同样的五官肤色，讲几乎同样口音的语言，但衣着打扮、生活方式截然不同。1999年，我辞掉银行的工作，2000年初去了鲁迅文学院。期间从北京回到北海，本身迷恋北京但在北京我的待遇就像个外国人，因没有身份，不能居住，孩子不能在那北京受教育，为了孩子，我只好返回。然，一步即天涯，任何向往远方这个乌托邦的人，一旦迈出那一步就注定回不到故乡了。那段时间我就困兽般在茫然怅惘的情绪里游荡，有一天就荡到了港口。那是我在漫长的颓靡和焦灼里头一次撞入陌生的惊喜。当我沿着红棉街南下，在斜坡处嗅到一股混淆着淤泥海草和渔具腥咸的浓稠气息时，心里莫名平静并轻松起来。我激动着加快脚步，很快看见港湾和敞阔的大海。港口泊靠的渔船，拥挤、凌乱而又有序，有趣的是，渔船竟然也是居家，桅杆下半蹲着看家的狗，船面两边横着绳索、电线或船缆，男人的汗衫裤头、女人和孩子的衣服，水滴淅沥的渔网，毫无讲究地晾晒，一旁炉灶上火苗闪烁。高高的船头往下，是见缝插针地穿行于叫卖的杂货篷船，而环周的滩涂，沼泽里零落着废弃的木船，没了甲板，向天敞着大口或一线弧形倒扣在淤泥水洼里……这陌生的场景让我明白：这里有故事。

某天，看到摆渡的女人当中有人缺失了手臂，心里被什么强烈地撞了一下，我决定走近她，和他们。随着交情深入和接触面的展开，逐渐发现一个通向越南战场和国际难民潮的窗口，由此，关于战争和难民的话题开始云团般萦绕脑海。逐渐地，侨民和我说起一些曾经参加越战的老兵，于是我开始了对他们的采访。当中，有的参加过抗美援越战役，有的抗美抗法都参加了，可以说惊心动魄。然，渔民出身的他们文化不高，他们讲述自己少年的记忆，在前线的作为等，有价值的东西不多，作为亲历者，对战争的本质、殖民地的政治角逐等话题，似乎也不关注，而曾经自己为保家卫国为越南的国家和人民作了贡献，但转眼间因了身份而成为难民、和家人一起面临被遣返的待遇，竟也没太多想法。倒有一位说起一些有趣的细节。因漫长的战争使得越南适龄男性骤减，政府不得不把征兵的年龄放宽，他正好属于那个范围，这使得家里处于恐惧之中。父母于是想出躲避的招，把他送到海防下龙湾的孤山岩洞，他藏匿在洞里，涨潮时，海浪将洞口封闭，他躲在水声淅沥的洞里，退潮时他出洞捕捉鱼虾或到悬崖山顶找野果或树叶果腹……这些经历足够心酸，惊人，于小说细节也是精彩的，但小说的“核”，他同样没给出。

遇到美国老兵K和他的中国妻子纯属意外。

那天，我到外事办拿文件，负责人说来了个女人，要求加急办理一个涉外婚姻的离婚手续。女方户口在我们城市，但生活在广州，她携美国先生K从广州坐了近十个小时的长途大巴来到。K只来过两次我们城市，前一次是和他女友来办理结婚，这一次是和妻子来办理离婚。这显然成为一件十分轰动的事，办公人员和所有排队办事的女人都在对这件事给予关切，似乎都不希望这桩国际婚姻的离婚手续办理获得成功，并想尽一己之力阻止。负责人日常办理的移民文件中，相当部分与国际婚姻有关，算半个月老，她心地极好，没有要为那个中国妻子办理手续的迹象，私下透露让我去和对方聊，尽可能阻止事情的发生。

于是，我见到了站在办公桌旁的女人：她满脸悲愁憔悴，脸上有明显的泪痕和妊娠斑，表情急切，希望尽快获得领导的盖章以解燃眉之急。我以友善走近她并获得信任，于是，她随我到办公室外面无人的大厅。在那里，她和我详细说了她婚姻面临的危机：她先生(在此同样以K称呼）是个越战老兵，患有严重的战后综合症，长期服药，却无法维持基本的日常生活，他几乎每天夜里、甚至只要闭上眼睛，就会在噩梦的哭喊惊叫中大汗淋漓地醒来，在惊惧中情绪失控，最让她惶恐的是，K一旦失控就跃上窗台，要从18楼的高空跳下以作了结。每一次，她都在极度的惊骇中故作镇静、以温柔和智慧把他从悬崖般的窗台上诱哄回来，然而，她才30出头，如此日复一日的重复，于临界的惊恐中绞尽脑汁去恳求年长一倍的爱人留下，这是多么艰辛的事。她怀了他的孩子，考虑到他长期服药还有他在中国没有职业，她不得不打掉，就在一周前。明显地，她很爱K，她欣赏他的视野学识和他的反思精神，他是个浪漫多情的男人。大概是因为他并不富有，在中国没有工作靠着妻子赚钱养家使得他美好的梦想无法实现而陷入困苦。之前K在美国有过婚姻，有几个孩子，他患有的症状使得他和妻子、孩子难以交流，孩子长大后，他和美国的妻子离婚，几年前到中国来和他的恋人结婚，开始新的生活。然而，由于语言和文化的障碍也许还有年龄的限制，他无法拥有一个养家的职业，那样的处境不仅不能实现他重建人生的美好意愿，反而加重他的症状。然，一旦他回到美国亲人身边，又焕然一新了，那时他天真浪漫得就像热恋中的情人，频频地给妻子地传来情意绵绵的邮件，甚至关于他们的生活日记。麻烦的是，只要他返回中国，病魔就会重来。他爱去越南，这种习惯从他在战后不久开始。似乎那是他唯一获得慰藉的途径。最初他是为了那些不堪的记忆重返旧地，逐渐地他发现有不少和他那样的人，后来，他们自发地为满目疮痍的越南做些力所能及的善后工作，哪怕去看看战争期间美国大兵和越南女人生下的孤儿……

听到这里，我心里亮起既往一直期待却不曾出现的亮光。我说：他是个很好的人呢。我说：你是唯一可以救助他的人了，我没有权利阻止你和他离婚，但是这样做等于直接把他从窗台上推下去。她看看我，捂住脸失声抽泣。我理解她处于一个绝境里的两难。我明白自己作为一个不曾经受她痛苦和矛盾的旁人说出那些话对她的残忍和不公平，但面临这样的精神性危机，除了爱情这个最具神力的药，别的几乎难以成为可能，她是k悬于断崖时那根唯一的稻草了。我说出自己对待同类事情的处理方式，也许那样会阻止悲剧的发生，或者起码发生的方式不至于太令人遗憾。显然，她在心里深爱着K，认为我的话及时地挽救了她和K的爱情和婚姻，她感谢我，说她不离了，她会继续做K的那根稻草。

于是，她带我出去找K。四处寻不到，她有点紧张，终于在门口的角落里见到了他。K正失魂落魄，满脸怅惘茫然。听到他女人用英文说了那句“我决定不离了”，他深呼口气，向着她奔过来，一把把她搂在怀里……他只说了一句：我很爱她，我抛弃美国一生的社会关系到中国来，就为了和她建设一个美好的生活，我从没想过要和她离婚。稍后，他们紧急地联系航空公司以取消预订的机票，才得知他们计划的这场分道扬镳那么彻底：还在广州时他们就预订了K返回美国的机票，打算加急办理完手续，K即直接到机场乘航班返回美国，他们相遇相爱几年的婚姻就此画上句号……

那天详情大概如此。之后我因为办理签证，应约拜访过K一家。K的症状有所减轻，但噩梦依然循环反复。我到了欧洲后，K的妻子的一直保持和我的联系，信息源源不断，不管早晚还是欧洲的半夜，她诉说自己面临K症状时的失策和疲惫，我忧虑重重，并开始反思自己那天行为的对错，我问自己：你当初的劝说是对还是错？你的出发点是帮助那位女士，还是帮助一个婚姻或者直接就是帮助K？在这桩婚姻里，患有重症的K显然成了妻子的负担，他妻子因不堪负荷而选择放弃时，是我出现并以情爱或人道的名义唤醒或说说服了她，使得她终止了事情的发生，我相信那天她的决定并非一时冲动而是因为深爱所以剪不断。现在，她的承受也许再次到了极限，而往后她承受所有这些极限的重复，都是因为那天我这个外力导致的。这个终极性的答案让我苦恼自责。我责怪自己好作主张、把管闲事当仗义行侠的品性，K一家的情况实在是悬殊的，身患顽症又无生活来源的K，着实会成为他妻子的枷锁……而他的妻子已经是我朋友了，不过，回到事情的本身，我依然坚定一个“不该”：K不该因为自己的精神顽疾受到抛弃，而他和妻子相爱是事实，退一万步说，哪怕居于人道，K的妻子也不该抛下他不管。那是说，他们双方都是无辜者，把两个无辜者缝合一起的我，在当中扮演了什么角色呢？这让我再一次返回《理想国》里柏拉图和他学生关于正义的论辩，还有过去几年我常在网易听的哈佛大学米歇尔教授的公开课《justice: what is the right thing to do》，当中种种处于绝境的两难事件，都存在艰难选择的问题，这个选择的依据就是正义究竟是绝对论还是相对论的判断。那么，面对K夫妇之间的两难，哪种选择才是正义的呢？我似乎是在给自己曾经因为仗义而导致的结果寻找理由，而另一极，我又明显地陷入了自责。女友信息频至，她甜蜜自信时，我觉得自己做对了，她沮丧绝望时，我觉得自己做错了。总之心里忐忑。

此后，我的触觉莫名就偏向了战后综合征，先生知我专注点，有意识地给我提供信息，一旦新闻或者哪有相关信息，会及时告诉我。不久，他说荷兰有个频道，每次报道一个战后综合症案例，每个案例自然是一个家庭。被展示的家庭无不陷入泥沼，常年里，老兵因患有综合症无法和妻儿交流，暴躁时如怒虎，冷酷时如坚石。孩子不知发生了什么，他们的父亲似乎仅是个符号，一个咆哮酗酒或沉默寡言的外人。当中一些和K同样或近似的例子，更使得家庭绝望。某天，开车在外，电台在整点时刻播放新闻：一美国的父亲在过去的40余年里持续不断地前往越南寻找他儿子的下落。他儿子是68年在越南前线的士兵，至今活不见人死不见尸……何等的噩耗，这样的噩耗其实我并不陌生，甚至我们也都一代代地似乎都经历了。很快我在网上大肆搜索相关信息，发现有网上墓地、网上祭奠、网上无名墓地认领、失踪士兵寻找等等，这些都是过去多年我做越战信息搜索的相关，居然突然地汹涌而至。那个时期，恰恰，先生和我拜访欧洲各国墓地，常住居民墓地和一、二战公墓。全球有两大美军战地公墓，一在菲律宾，一在诺曼底。基督教悲悯的终极关怀在丧葬文化里体现得极致，每次，当我看到那巨形棋盘般的墓场遍布流水线生产的白花花的墓碑，莫名苍茫的心总那么复杂：墓碑照上英俊纯真的脸和下方的生卒日期使得我悲叹，碑前灿烂的玫瑰或罂粟花让我心生崇敬、诗意和温柔，而神一碑一架的不偏颇、一视同仁，又让人欣慰。无名者的墓碑，说明碑下埋葬的是无名尸、一段残缺的肢体或几片于硝烟中焚成碎片的衣物，碑上写：

God knows your name, you are his child! 或者：God is with you! You are not lonely!

凡此种种，让我心里淌泪的同时，又倍感慰藉。

 

相关信息还在出现。我脸书上的美国老兵协会群，成员含括越南、伊拉克、伊朗等战役的老兵，当中不少人或轻或重都怀有战后综合症。近半个世纪里，部分人一直走在重返战地的路上，力所能及地为战地的人们做点什么，比如把协会在旅游投入上获得的收入捐献给越南，为重建、为战争孤儿的康复和教育效力。这些是和K有着相同经历的人。60年代的美国，“fight for freedom, for peace！”呼声极高，年轻一代在就在那样的口号中成长，到了年龄，“for freedom, for peace！”他们决定“fight！”。于是，应征入伍，在新兵连接受“魔鬼训练”，而后随战队到前线。法国维希政府于1954年奠边府战役失败撤出后的越南，其实才真正成为世界帝国角逐之地，以意识形态为名，东西对垒，谍都赛贡间谍云集，各方暗里拉锯，公开角力，驻兵如麻。由此，战争如火如荼，死伤无数，幸存者，要么身体残疾，要么精神残疾。尤其美国的士兵，60年代末期从前线返回的他们，看到的已不再是先前一片“为自由和平而战”的场面，而是华盛顿广场反战人潮的汹涌沸腾……这些，应该是K和他们共同的记忆。随着时间和年纪，他们是否对战争的正义性也有了新的认识，并对背后主宰的政权和自己曾经的行为有了反思？

 

我已经开始以战后精神危机的分析和救赎作为方向开始创作，在2010年初夏天连续熬夜月余写下中篇《活体雕塑》，可以说是成稿了，但达不到预期，放下，于是再写一个，又写一个。后来开始一个以法属印度支那为背景的长篇《印度支那的葬礼》，进行得还算如意。可是，依然明确心仪的那一部还没到来，而那翘首以待的东西，无非就是燃亮脉冲的那点火花，宛如圣灵降临头顶的那束火苗  。

某周末的早餐，又和洛克聊手头的小说，聊越南、曾经采访的越南老兵、K夫妇和美国老兵协会所为等。洛克说俱乐部（他和朋友合办的属CMAS名下机构的潜水俱乐部）有个曾经去韩国参战的比利时老兵，是俱乐部潜水教练，常和他们说起去当兵的趣事。俱乐部有个期刊，洛克15年前曾为杂志的人物专栏采访过他，说着，他就下地下室找到15年前的采访录音。我不会荷兰文，他听一段给我翻译一段：……他说他去当兵是个意外，是面临高中毕业面时前景茫然于是和同学们去酒吧赌酒，并承诺，赢了就去上大学，输了就去当兵……洛克翻译到这里时，我心里一亮，如获天机。继续往下听：他的酒果然赌输了，为兑现承诺，只好去当兵。他说起从比利时前往韩国之前新鲜有趣的新兵训练生活，他尤其乐于讲述的是，当年和战友一起乘军舰西出北海、入地中海、出苏伊士河而后，沿阿拉伯海、印度洋及太平洋前往韩国的经历，从大西洋东岸前往太平洋西岸的韩国，海路几乎相当于环海航行一圈，和当年哥伦布西征美洲相比，海航远东的征途似乎更能满足远航长征的英雄情怀，极具浪漫主义色彩。这种色彩经过岁月的发酵，在老兵这里似乎更有可能成就他青年时代的传奇——那简直成了他毕生最具色彩的骄傲岁月。他于青年时期的这种情感我完全理解，那段长达三个月的海上航行，于刚出校门的他意义非凡，但我更想知道的是，他后来如何反刍曾经在前线的岁月，比如，回归日常生活尤其中老年后，他对自己曾经的抉择，对亲历战争的回忆和反观，等等。

Nothing！洛克说。

他说每次老兵先生在俱乐部津津乐道他乘军舰环海航行的传奇时刻被问起前线或战后生活时，他即顾左右而言之或陷入沉默……

我终于要开始写小说了……我说。

2012年6月，中篇《一枚长满老苔的怀表》完成，6万字。几月后，漓江出版社的何伟读完稿子，认为题材很好，建议深挖。她的建议及时而珍贵，我自己截稿后其实也一直失落，这样“终于盼到”的东西怎么可以一个单一的管状结构、区区几万字就打发了呢。决定改为长篇。为达到预期的效果，只好把手头的一切放下，并为临时的到来准备所有。家乡的侨港显然是一面透镜，不管辐射到哪个角度，似乎都能为我提供“黑白电影的胶片”，随着深入，世界性的事件呈扇面展开：地理大发现、航海、殖民、战争、政治博弈、难民潮等等，这些会让我想：这一切背后的本质是什么？历史表明的事实是，人类的生活不仅局限于地理，更受控于政史，而文学和历史有着天然的互文关系。案头的研究是漫长和繁重的，各种文献的搜寻、阅读和消化：战争史、殖民史、宗教史、艺术史、航海史、造船史、哲学、考古、自然百科、钻石切割……知识浩繁，创作有如自造词典，艰辛，激动，焦灼，疲惫，绝望，迷醉，疯狂，无所不具……

到了2014年初，小说几乎成稿，易名《双桅船》。年底到英国，想找航海时代的船厂和“五月花号”的踪迹，没有结果。在牛津大学老校区住了几天，到博德利和拉德克里夫转悠，又有想法，决定再作结构调整和修改，2006年2月初截稿。30万字，整4年。近30章书，大部分的章节改了不下20到30遍，改比写要难得多，但更享受。据说，福楼拜是这个毛病的典型。

小说成稿的样子是我喜欢的样子：这艘“双桅船”是一艘哥特风格的船。搁在威廉家的庭院里，尽管索具荡吊帆布褴褛同样威风凛凛，置于海底，又似深渊雨林里独自成林的古木，藤蔓缠绵植被繁茂，丑鱼和海葵在这里扮演角色，水母成群出没，章鱼巨鲨彼此为敌，蓝鲸无从寻……我偏爱的，显然是书中的三幕剧《蓝鲸之歌》。这部以海洋生物就正义展开辩论的话剧，耗时较长，是整书的点睛之处。

《双桅船》双线双轨，如并航之旅。书中人物，不管沿着哪条轨道行进，似乎都有独自越过深海隧道或荒漠小径的孤独。在某种意义上，他们彷如坚定的朝圣者，怀着对生活和信念的虔诚，最终获得救赎，殊途同归，我为他们的结局感到欣慰。我知道，如果花更多的时间，作品也许会更加完美，可是体力实在吃不消，直到后来看到不少谐音的错别字时更草草收兵之嫌，不过，足够大的信息量、语言和人物是我喜欢的，小说细节纷繁，充满历史、古籍、图书、迷宫、学术和海洋百科的气息，一个我预期的效果。多年前的K、韩战老兵以及加利福尼亚的老兵们，都为我的人物塑造提供了想像和轮廓刻画，但他们都不是威廉、戴维，更不是阿朵尼斯。我在给威廉、戴维、阿朵尼斯等赋予了作家、艺术家等人文主义者的身份，使得他们阅历非凡学识渊博，因为只有那样，他们才有可能“立于巨人的肩膀之上”，对世事洞明并掌握打开迷局的密钥。至于你问我“你写了什么”，就不必回答了。但有一点需要说：这不是被传统认为的战争反思录，若打个比喻，她可以说是泰坦尼克号那颗沉埋海底的蓝钻，这颗蓝色的“海洋之心”，包裹着迷离深邃的人事、生命的价值和希望，而她多棱的切面，每一面，都是明澄澄的镜子。   

 

最后想说说欧洲。有人说，欧洲大陆就像个巨大的坟墓，人文的坟墓，历史的坟墓，艺术的坟墓，战争尸体堆积的坟墓。相对发展中国家的崭新景象，走向没落的欧洲，教堂、图书馆和博物馆，似乎确实充满坟墓的气息。基于希腊传承、宗教传统和中世纪传下的贵族精神，西方是一片为自由、正义和真理而战的土地，代价自然是无数具有担当精神的战士，骑士。然，当我每次造访那露天雕塑塑博物馆般的墓场，看到呈罗马兵团布阵般层层放射蔓延的十字架，当中的每一个，便是曾经充满热血的生命，他们有的被称为英雄。就像威廉那样的英雄。但威廉其实是拒绝和排斥这个称谓的，因为他从主观的或政治的角度看到了英雄这个定义的偏颇和局限性。他认为，英雄这个概念只属于对于胜者或征战国而言，对于战败国，所谓的英雄其实就是自我合法化的杀戮者。威廉认为，英雄的定义，和正义的两面性同理，非绝对论。而战争，只是立疆划界的统治者掀起的地理之战吗？政权于它的国民是眷顾、护佑，还是监控、奴役和残害？这些，都是《双桅船》提出的疑问。