《蝴蝶釦》——一位民國少女的生活片段

漢留兒

  

赵文仪十五岁那年的秋天，嫂嫂说要带她去都邮街逛逛。

都邮街是重庆城顶热闹的去处。两边的铺子一家挨一家，招牌幌子从二楼垂下来，风一吹，哗啦啦地响，像满街都在拍巴掌。黄包车叮叮当当从石板路上碾过，车夫的吆喝声、小贩的叫卖声、留声机里咿咿呀呀的歌声，搅成一锅稠稠的粥。赵文仪跟在嫂嫂身后，手被嫂嫂牵着，眼睛却不够用了——这边橱窗里摆着玻璃丝袜，那边柜台上搁着胭脂香粉，还有一家铺子，玻璃柜里头的高跟鞋排成一溜，鞋跟细得像筷子，漆皮亮得能照见人影子。

“嫂嫂，我们这是去哪家？”她小声问。

嫂嫂回头笑了一下：“带你去开开眼界。你哥说了，幺妹儿大了，该置办两身体面衣裳了。我们先去洋行看看。”

洋行在都邮街中段，门面宽宽敞敞的，玻璃门擦得锃亮。一进去，凉飕飕的，空气里头飘着一股香喷喷的气味，说不清是香水还是皮革。柜台的伙计穿着齐整的竹布长衫，操一口带桂柳腔的官话*，笑眯眯地迎上来：“太太要看啥子？我们刚到一批美国丝袜，真正的好货色。”

嫂嫂拉着文仪走过去，从伙计手里接过一双丝袜，对着光看了看，又在手背上蹭了蹭：“嗯，滑溜溜的，是正经货。妹子，你来摸摸。”

文仪伸手去摸，那丝袜薄得几乎没有分量，触手冰凉，滑得像一汪水从指缝间漏下去。她的心忽然就跳快了，像揣了一只小兔子，在胸口嘭嘭地撞。

“洋袜子还有不得嘛？”嫂嫂问。

伙计又捧出几双来，肉色的、茶色的、烟灰色的，在柜台上摊开一片。嫂嫂挑来挑去，拣了两双肉色的，又扭头问文仪：“你自己看，喜不喜欢？”文仪点点头，脸上已经红了，红得像刚从灶膛里掏出来的炭。

付了钱，嫂嫂却不急着走，又拉着她走到旁边的鞋柜前头。

“那双，拿那双来看看。”嫂嫂指着橱窗里一双黑色的高跟皮鞋。

伙计把那鞋捧过来，文仪一看，心差点从嗓子眼里蹦出来——鞋头尖尖的，亮得能照见眉毛，鞋面上缀着一只小小的蝴蝶扣，银色的，亮闪闪的。最吓人的是那鞋跟，细细的，高高的，她估摸着怕有寸半，像一截竹筷子竖在那里。

“这……这咋个穿嘛？”她小声说，声音都在抖。

嫂嫂笑了：“咋个不能穿？你都十五了，又不是小娃儿了。来，坐这儿，试试。”嫂嫂把她按在绒面凳子上，亲手替她脱了那双布鞋，把那高跟皮鞋套上去。

大了一点点，嫂嫂让伙计塞了半截鞋垫，再穿，刚好。

“站起来走走看。”

文仪扶着嫂嫂的胳膊，颤巍巍地站起来。那一瞬间，整个人像被什么东西从地上顶起来似的，一下子高出了一截。鞋跟磕在洋行的水磨石地面上，“咯”的一声，脆生生的，像小时候过年摔的摔炮。她慌得赶紧抓住嫂嫂，嫂嫂却笑得更欢了：“莫怕莫怕，多走两步就惯了。”

她咬着嘴唇，试着迈了一步。“咯”，又一步，“咯”。两条腿绷得直直的，小腿肚子上的肉都收紧了，那感觉怪得很——像踩在高跷上，又像踩在云里头，整个人晃晃悠悠的，随时都要栽倒似的。可是嫂嫂的手稳稳地扶着她，伙计也在旁边笑：“小姐穿起好看得很，这腿形生得好，配这双鞋，啧啧啧。”

文仪低头看了一眼。青绸袍子的下摆刚好遮住膝盖，露出一截小腿，光溜溜的，还没穿丝袜。嫂嫂忽然想起来：“对了，新买的袜子，现在就穿上嘛。”说着，从纸袋里拆开一双肉色丝袜，递给她。

文仪接过来，只觉得脸烧得厉害，像整条都邮街的人都挤在洋行门口看她似的。她躲到柜台后面，弯下腰，把那薄薄的丝袜往脚上拢——脚尖、脚背、脚踝、小腿，那冰凉滑腻的丝一寸一寸地爬上皮肤，像无数只细细的手指在轻轻抚着。她的手指在发抖，扣丝袜边的时候，扣了好几次才扣稳。

直起腰来，再低头一看——

耶誒呃~**

那丝袜把她的腿裹得匀匀称称的，肉色的底子上泛着一层淡淡的光，把小腿那弯弯的弧线衬得像画出来的。脚上那双黑漆皮鞋，蝴蝶扣在灯光里一闪一闪的，像是真有一只蝴蝶歇在鞋面上，翅膀轻轻翕动。

她忽然不晓得该把手往哪儿放了。

嫂嫂拉着她走到穿衣镜前头。镜子里头站着一个细高挑儿的女子，青绸袍子，肉色丝袜，黑漆高跟皮鞋，脸蛋红扑扑的，眼睛亮晶晶的，嘴唇微微张着，像是有话要说又说不出来。

“看看，这是哪个嘛？”嫂嫂在她耳边笑，“我们幺妹儿长成大姑娘了。”

文仪不敢看镜子里的自己，又忍不住偷偷看了一眼，又看了一眼。心跳得像擂鼓，脸上烫得能煎蛋，可是嘴角就是压不下来，像有根线在上头牵着，怎么都弯不下去。

出了洋行，嫂嫂牵着她的手，沿着都邮街往回走。

石板路坑坑洼洼的，高跟皮鞋踩在上头，咯噔咯噔，时深时浅。她走得小心翼翼的，像踩高跷的戏子，眼睛盯着脚下，生怕崴了脚。嫂嫂说：“抬起头来走嘛，老盯到地上做啥子？地上有金子？”

她抬起头来。

这一抬头，就看见街上有人在看她了。

对面走过来的两个女学生，盯着她的腿看了好几眼，交头接耳地笑。路边的黄包车夫，拉着空车经过，也歪着头瞥了一眼。还有一个穿中山装的年轻男人，和她擦肩而过，走出去好几步了，又回头望了一下。

她的脸红得更厉害了，心里头像有一锅水烧开了，咕嘟咕嘟地冒泡。那泡里头有慌，有羞，还有一点点——只有一点点——说不清道不明的得意。像儿时偷吃了藏在柜子里的冰糖，明知不该，可舌尖上那点甜，怎么都压不下去。

她不知不觉地把背脊挺得更直了些，步子也稳了些。咯噔，咯噔，咯噔，那声音从脚底升上来，顺着小腿、膝盖、腰杆，一直窜到头顶，像电流似的，酥酥麻麻的，让她整个人都轻飘飘的。

走完都邮街，转过督邮街口，再往坡上走，人就渐渐稀了。夕阳从西边山脊上斜过来，把她的影子拉得长长的，投在青石板上。她低头看影子——那影子细细的，高高的，两条腿笔直笔直的，脚底下两粒黑点，是高跟鞋的影子。

她忽然想起《圣经》里那句话：“你的脚在鞋中何其美好。”

当时觉得好笑，脚有啥子美好的？可是这会儿，看着地上那个长长的影子，她忽然就信了。

回到家里，那个咯噔咯噔的声音，一直留在她耳朵里，响了一整夜。

第二天早上，她刚在课桌前坐下来，就看见抽屉里塞着一个信封。

牛皮纸的，没贴邮票，没写名字，只在一角画了一朵小小的花，铅笔画的，线条细细的。

她心里咯噔一下，回头看了看教室，还没几个人。她偷偷把信封拆开，手指尖微微地抖。

里面是一张纸。

信纸是普通的毛边纸，对折了两折。展开来，是一幅画——铅笔画，线条算不上多好，可是很仔细，一笔一笔的，看得出画了很久。

画的是一道背影。

一个女子的背影，穿着青色的绸袍子，袍子的下摆刚好在膝盖弯那儿，露出一双小腿。那小腿画得极认真——线条从膝盖往下，收了收，到了小腿肚那儿又鼓出来一弯圆润的弧，再往下，细细地收到脚踝，脚踝下头是一双高跟皮鞋，鞋跟高高的，鞋面上画了一只小小的蝴蝶。

和昨天她穿的那双，一模一样。

她愣住了。

画上没有脸，没有名字，没有一句话。可是那双小腿，那件青绸袍子，那双高跟皮鞋——那是她。是昨天傍晚，走在都邮街上的她。

画的人一定跟在她身后走了很远，远到记住了她小腿的每一条弧线，远到能一笔一笔地描出那丝袜裹着的、薄薄的、亮亮的光泽。

赵文仪把画翻过来，背面是空白的。又翻回去，盯着那双小腿看。

脸烧起来了，从脸颊烧到耳根，从耳根烧到脖子，烧得她连呼吸都烫了。她想把画撕掉，手指捏着纸边，用力——可是那纸太韧了，捏了半天，只捏出一个皱巴巴的印子，撕不破。或者说，她根本没舍得使劲。

她把画重新折好，塞进信封里，信封又塞进书桌最里头的角落，用课本压住。

手还在抖。

心跳得太快了，快得像要把肋骨撞断。她趴在桌上，把脸埋进胳膊弯里，耳朵里嗡嗡的，什么都听不清。

可是脑子里清清楚楚的，是那幅画。

是那双小腿。是她的小腿。

修长的，秀美的，裹着薄薄的丝袜，踩在高蹬蹬皮鞋上，在都邮街的夕阳里，咯噔咯噔地走着。

她不知道是谁画的。

可那细细的铅笔线条，一笔一笔的，那么小心，那么认真，像画的人不敢惊动她，只敢远远地跟着，把这个背影偷偷地、牢牢地记在心里，再偷偷地、一笔一笔地搬到纸上。

她该害怕的。

可她没有。

她把脸埋在胳膊里，嘴角却悄悄地翘了起来。比昨天走在都邮街上，翘得还要高。

窗外，黄桷树又开始落叶了。

一片，两片，三片，飘飘摇摇的，像一封封没有署名的信，从天上寄下来，不知道要寄给谁。

【註解】

*桂柳腔的官话，是清末民国时期广东广西一带士绅与生意人与外省人交流时使用的方言，属于西南官话。早期革命党及国/民/党以其为演讲宣传和党内会议的通用语。

**耶誒呃~，这是典型的重庆方言，一转三叠，表示惊叹。

In the autumn of Chao Wen-i's fifteenth year, her sister-in-law said she would take her for a stroll down Tu-yu Street.

Tu-yu Street was the liveliest place in Chungking city. Shop fronted shop on either side; signs and banners hung down from the second-floor windows—when the wind blew they flapped and rustled, as if the whole street were clapping hands. Rickshaws ding-dinged over the flagstones, the coolies' shouts, the peddlers' cries, the gramophones' wheedling songs—all stirred together into a thick, thick porridge. Chao Wen-i followed behind her sister-in-law, her hand held fast, but her eyes could not take it all in—here in this window were glass stockings, there on that counter were rouges and face powders, and in one shop a row of high-heeled shoes stood behind glass, their heels slender as chopsticks, their patent leather shining bright enough to see one's own reflection.

"Saosao(sister-in-law), which shop are we going to?" she asked in a small voice.

Her sister-in-law turned and smiled: "I'm taking you to have your eyes opened. Your brother said, the little girl's grown up now, time to buy her a couple of decent outfits. First we'll have a look at the foreign firm."

The foreign firm stood midway down Tu-yu Street, its frontage wide and airy, its glass doors polished to a gleam. Inside, a cool draft met them, and in the air floated a sweetish scent—perfume or leather, it was hard to tell. The shop assistant, neat in his bamboo-cloth long gown, greeted them with a beaming smile, speaking a Mandarin tinged with the Kwe-Liu accent*: "What would the lady like to see? We've just received a shipment of American stockings, truly fine quality."

Her sister-in-law drew Wen-i to the counter, took a pair of stockings from the assistant, held them to the light, rubbed them against the back of her hand: "Mm, smooth as silk, the genuine article. Little sister, you feel them."

Wen-i reached out to touch. The stocking was so thin it scarcely weighed anything, cool to the fingers, slippery as a stream of water leaking through her grasp. Suddenly her heart began to beat faster, like a small rabbit trapped in her chest, thumping, thumping.

"Any other colours?" asked her sister-in-law.

The assistant brought out several more pairs—flesh-coloured, tea-coloured, smoke-grey—and spread them across the counter. Her sister-in-law picked and chose, finally selecting two pairs in flesh, then turned to Wen-i: "Look for yourself—do you like them?" Wen-i nodded, her face already red, red as a coal just pulled from the stove.

After paying, her sister-in-law was in no hurry to leave. She pulled Wen-i over to the shoe counter.

"That pair—let me see that pair." She pointed to a pair of black patent leather shoes in the window.

The assistant brought them over. Wen-i looked, and her heart nearly leaped out of her throat—the toes were sharp and pointed, gleaming so bright she could see her eyebrows in them, and on each vamp sat a tiny butterfly clasp, silver, glittering. But what frightened her most was the heel—so slender, so high, she reckoned it must be over an inch and a half, standing up like a piece of chopstick.

"H-how can anyone walk in these?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Her sister-in-law laughed: "Why can't you? You're fifteen, not a baby anymore. Come, sit here, try them on." She pressed Wen-i onto a velvet stool and herself bent to remove Wen-i's cloth shoes, then slipped the high heels onto her feet.

They were a little large; her sister-in-law had the assistant stuff in half an insole, and then they fit.

"Stand up and try walking."

Wen-i gripped her sister-in-law's arm and rose unsteadily. In that instant, she felt as if something had pushed her up from the ground—she was suddenly a head taller. The heels clicked against the terrazzo floor—kok—a crisp, brittle sound, like the poppers she had set off as a child at New Year's. She panicked and clutched her sister-in-law, who only laughed more merrily: "Don't be afraid, don't be afraid—after a few steps you'll be used to it."

She bit her lip and tried one step. Kok. Another step. Kok. Her legs were stretched taut, the muscles of her calves drawn tight. The feeling was strange—like walking on stilts, yet like walking on clouds; her whole body swayed and tottered, as if about to fall at any moment. But her sister-in-law's hand held her steady, and the assistant chimed in: "The young lady looks very fine in them—such a nice leg shape, with these shoes, tsk tsk tsk."

Wen-i glanced down. The hem of her blue silk gown just covered her knees, revealing a stretch of bare calf—she had not yet put on stockings. Her sister-in-law suddenly remembered: "Oh yes, the new stockings—put them on now." So saying, she took a pair of flesh-coloured silk stockings from the paper bag and handed them to Wen-i.

Wen-i took them, her face burning as if the whole of Tu-yu Street had crowded into the foreign firm to watch her. She retreated behind the counter, bent over, and drew the thin stockings up over her feet—toes, instep, ankle, calf. The cool, sleek silk climbed inch by inch up her skin, like countless fine fingers stroking her gently. Her fingers trembled; when she fastened the tops, she had to try several times before the clasps caught.

She straightened up and looked down again.

Yeh-ei-eh—**

The stockings wrapped her legs in a smooth, even sheen, a faint gloss on the flesh-coloured ground, making the curving arc of her calves look as if it had been drawn by a painter's brush. On her feet, the black patent shoes, their butterfly clasps twinkling in the lamplight, seemed like real butterflies alighted on the vamps, their wings softly fluttering.

Suddenly she did not know where to put her hands.

Her sister-in-law led her to a full-length mirror. In the glass stood a slender, tall young woman—blue silk gown, flesh-coloured stockings, black patent high heels, cheeks rosy, eyes sparkling, lips slightly parted as if she wanted to speak but could not find the words.

"Look, who is that?" her sister-in-law laughed in her ear. "Our little girl has grown into a young lady."

Wen-i dared not look at herself in the mirror, yet she could not help stealing a glance, and then another, and another. Her heart thundered like a drum, her face was hot enough to fry an egg, but the corners of her mouth would not come down—as if an invisible thread were pulling them up, refusing to let them turn.

When they left the foreign firm, her sister-in-law took her hand and walked back along Tu-yu Street.

The flagstones were bumpy and hollowed; the high heels clicked and clattered on them, now deep, now shallow. Wen-i walked with great care, like an actress on stilts, her eyes fixed on the ground for fear of turning an ankle. Her sister-in-law said, "Lift your head and walk—why are you staring at the ground? Is there gold down there?"

She lifted her head.

And when she lifted her head, she saw people looking at her.

Two schoolgirls coming from the opposite direction stared at her legs for several long moments, then whispered and giggled together. A rickshaw coolie pulling an empty cart turned his head for a glance. And a young man in a Sun Yat-sen jacket brushed past her, walked several paces, then looked back over his shoulder.

Her blush deepened; inside her heart a pot of water seemed to have come to a boil—glug, glug, glug—bubbling over. In those bubbles there was panic, there was shame, and there was a tiny, tiny bit—just a tiny bit—of an indefinable pride. Like the time she had stolen a piece of rock sugar hidden in the cupboard as a child: she knew she should not, but the sweet taste on her tongue—that sweetness she could not suppress.

Without realising it, she straightened her spine a little more, steadied her steps a little more. Kok, kok, kok—the sound rose from her soles, up through her calves, her knees, her waist, all the way to the crown of her head, like an electric current, tingling and numbing, making her feel light as air.

When they reached the end of Tu-yu Street, turned the corner, and started up the slope, the crowds gradually thinned. The setting sun slanted over the western ridge, pulling her shadow long and thin across the blue flagstones. She looked down at the shadow—slim, tall, legs perfectly straight, and at the feet two tiny black dots—the shadows of the high heels.

Suddenly she remembered that line from the Bible: How beautiful are thy feet with shoes.

She had once thought it funny—what could be beautiful about feet? But now, looking at that long shadow on the ground, she believed it.

Back home, bed. But the kok kok kok sound stayed in her ears, ringing all through the night.

The next morning, just as she sat down at her school desk, she noticed an envelope tucked into the drawer.

Buff-coloured paper, no stamp, no name—only in one corner a small flower drawn in pencil, fine, delicate lines.

Her heart gave a kok. She looked around the classroom; there were only a few people. She opened the envelope secretly, her fingertips faintly trembling.

Inside was a sheet of paper.

The paper was common mao-pien paper, folded twice. She unfolded it—a pencil drawing, the lines not particularly accomplished, but very careful, stroke by stroke, as if drawn for a long, long time.

It was a back view.

A girl's back, wearing a blue silk gown whose hem fell just to the bend of the knee, revealing a pair of calves. The calves were drawn with the utmost care—the lines descending from the knee, narrowing, then swelling out again at the calf into a round, soft curve, then tapering finely to the ankle, and below the ankles a pair of high-heeled shoes, heels high, and on each vamp a small butterfly.

Exactly like the pair she had worn the day before.

She stared, stunned.

There was no face, no name, not a single word. But those calves, that blue silk gown, those high-heeled shoes—it was she. It was her walking on Tu-yu Street in the evening dusk.

The drawer must have followed behind her for a long way—long enough to memorise every curve of her calves, long enough to trace, stroke by stroke, that thin, gleaming gloss of the stockings over her legs.

Chao Wen-i turned the paper over. The back was blank. She turned it back and stared at those calves.

Her face was on fire—from her cheeks to her ears, from her ears to her neck, until even her breath burned. She thought of tearing the drawing up. She pinched the edge of the paper between her fingers and pulled—but the paper was too tough; after pinching and tugging, she only managed to raise a wrinkled crease. It would not tear. Or rather—she had never really had the heart to tear it.

She folded the drawing again, slipped it back into the envelope, pushed the envelope into the deepest corner of her desk, and weighed it down with her textbook.

Her hands were still trembling.

Her heart was beating too fast, so fast it seemed about to crack her ribs. She laid her head on the desk and buried her face in the crook of her arm. Her ears buzzed; she could not hear a thing.

But in her mind, the drawing was perfectly clear.

Those calves. Her calves.

Long, slender, beautiful, wrapped in thin silk stockings, stepping in high-heeled patent shoes, walking through the sunset of Tu-yu Street, kok kok kok.

She did not know who had drawn it.

But those fine pencil lines, stroke by stroke—so careful, so earnest—as if the artist dared not disturb her, could only follow at a distance, stealing this silhouette into his heart, keeping it safe, then stealing it again, stroke by stroke, onto the paper.

She ought to be frightened.

But she was not.

With her face still buried in her arm, the corners of her mouth curled up—higher than they had curled the day before on Tu-yu Street.

Outside the window, the huang-chüeh trees were shedding their leaves again.

One leaf, two leaves, three leaves—drifting, swaying, like letters without a sender's name, posted from the sky, addressed to no one in particular.

===

Footnotes:

*The Kwei-Liu Mandarin was a dialect of Southwestern Mandarin used by merchants and educated gentry from Kwangtung and Kwangsi provinces when communicating with outsiders during the late Ch'ing and early Republican period. It served as a lingua franca for speeches and party meetings among early revolutionaries and the Kuomintang.

**Yeh-ei-eh—a typical Chungking exclamation of surprise, sliding through three tones.