由《杏花圖》憶汪曾祺

2020年是一代文學(xué)大家汪曾祺誕辰100周年。

只是汪曾祺先生離開我們已有23年了，每當(dāng)想起他那親切溫和的音容笑貌，我就會心痛。這么好的一個老頭，無論文采還是為人，能與之媲美的人在我心目中真的不多。我恨老天，為什么讓這么一個難得的老頭，就這樣早早地離開了這個擁擠的世界？

認(rèn)識汪曾祺先生是在20世紀(jì)80年代初。那時我在中國作協(xié)文學(xué)講習(xí)所（今魯迅文學(xué)院）學(xué)習(xí)，其間受邀參加了《收獲》雜志和四川人民出版社聯(lián)合在峨眉山舉辦的筆會。

那次筆會參加者幾乎都是叱咤文壇的著名作家，而我當(dāng)時只有20來歲，剛剛在《收獲》發(fā)了一個中篇小說。我和另外一位也不怎么為人知的北京女作家韓藹麗，在大佬云集的筆會中顯然是最無足輕重的小卒。韓藹麗自嘲說，咱倆是“末席”。因?yàn)槭恰澳┫?，不被人注意，所以我們倆老溜邊，開小差，扯閑篇，倒也其樂融融。

可這位畢業(yè)于北大的才女“末席”，其實(shí)心高氣傲，看人閱文十分挑剔。那一群文壇大腕，韓藹麗看得上的似乎沒有幾個。聽說我喜歡汪曾祺的作品，她便一直和我聊汪曾祺其人其事，言談中，她一口一個“老汪頭”，喚這位在我心中有著仙風(fēng)道骨氣質(zhì)，讓我無比崇拜的作家，就像喚一個鄰家大爺似的。

那時我剛從杭州到京城上學(xué)不久，對皇城根的水深似海和天安門的高大巍峨，尚處于一種莫名的敬畏中，對深埋在京城四下里的大作家也像看天上的星星一樣，覺得遙不可及。沒想到身邊這個自稱“末席”的女作家，卻可以這樣直呼汪曾祺為“老汪頭”，大大咧咧地就把一個你崇拜的偶像抹去了光環(huán)，一下子讓你覺得自己和偶像仿佛對面而坐，親如家人。我不知天高地厚，立馬請求韓藹麗帶我去拜見汪曾祺先生，韓藹麗答應(yīng)得镚兒爽脆，就像答應(yīng)去她鄰居家串門。

一個多月后，韓藹麗約我去她家，吃她先生做的八寶鴨子，我抵擋不住誘惑，去了她家。韓藹麗拿出了汪曾祺先生的一本簽名本《晚翠文談》交予我，說這是老汪頭專門讓她帶給我的，并歡迎我到他家做客。我當(dāng)時真有點(diǎn)受寵若驚，當(dāng)然更多的是感動。這樣一位文壇大家，對一個連面都沒見過，只是崇拜他的晚輩，卻這樣鄭重地贈送自己的簽名著作，這份禮遇和厚愛，讓我誠惶誠恐又終身難忘。

世事難料。真正走進(jìn)汪曾祺先生府上，見到這位親切慈祥的老頭，是在幾年以后了。

那時的我，二度進(jìn)京求學(xué)，在首屆北大作家班的學(xué)習(xí)也已經(jīng)結(jié)束，回到浙江的《東海》雜志當(dāng)了綜合組組長，分管詩歌、散文、評論。

因?yàn)樵诰┏亲x書時結(jié)了婚，先生是北京人，我回杭州后便形成了夫妻分居兩地的局面。雜志社頭兒很仁義，說：袁敏，你只要能組到京城名家的稿件，組到一篇，就讓你回京一趟。我其時認(rèn)識京城名家并不多，只好向韓藹麗求救，說明情況，請她幫忙。我說，我第一個想組的，就是汪曾祺先生的稿子。韓藹麗當(dāng)即就在電話里大包大攬，說，沒問題，老頭人特好！只要告訴他，你這是給人搭鵲橋呢！他一準(zhǔn)答應(yīng)。

有韓藹麗拍胸脯打包票，我便信心滿滿地赴京。此時我剛當(dāng)上媽媽不久，兒子才剛九個多月，還離不開我，便抱著黃口小兒坐上火車。

那天是韓藹麗陪我去汪曾祺家的。老汪頭家住蒲黃榆，是北京南城一座貼馬路邊的灰色板樓。人來車往，煙火氣彌漫，十分嘈雜喧囂，與我想象中清雅散淡的名士居所相去甚遠(yuǎn)。給我們開門的是汪曾祺先生的夫人施大姐，慈眉善目，氣質(zhì)優(yōu)雅。

沒想到汪曾祺這么一位蜚聲中外的大作家，卻住著一套擁擠的三居室。家中陳設(shè)簡樸，似乎看不到大作家居所里的那種文房四寶、字畫卷宗，入眼就是北京尋常人家慣常有的碼堆白菜土豆，桌上還擱著早餐后來不及收走的兩根油條，幾瓣流油的紅心咸鴨蛋，半碟花生米，一瓶王致和腐乳。

我略有點(diǎn)緊張的心一下子松弛下來。

這時，老汪頭從書房里走了出來，笑呵呵地說，是小猴來了嗎？那今天就是小猴拜見老猴啦！聽老汪頭說這話，我完全傻掉。兒子屬猴，但我沒想到老汪頭也屬猴。看來韓藹麗早就把我的一切告訴了老汪頭，老頭風(fēng)趣幽默地一番“老猴小猴”的調(diào)侃，完全消除了我初見大作家時的拘謹(jǐn)，我也很隨便地和老汪頭東拉西扯，把約稿的正事兒輕輕松松就說了。老頭一口答應(yīng)，讓我輕而易舉就完成了單位的差事。

中午，老汪頭留飯。我雖有些不好意思，但因早就聽說老汪頭是廚藝上佳的美食家，有此口福，哪肯推辭，便不客氣地留下了。老汪頭走進(jìn)廚房，三下五除二，不到一小時的時間，就像變戲法一樣燒出一桌飯菜。

印象最深刻的，就是早餐剩下的那兩根油條，被老頭塞了用荸薺、蝦皮和小油菜拌的肉餡，切段回鍋油炸，外焦里嫩，油條嘎嘣脆，肉餡口感有層次，有嚼頭，香極了。那幾瓣紅心咸鴨蛋剁碎了，配上切成小丁的黑醬瓜炒老豆腐，起鍋時撒了金黃的肉松和碧綠的香菜，色香味俱全。老汪頭化腐朽為神奇的高超廚藝讓我目瞪口呆。

可是，美味佳肴雖好，卻似乎沒有小猴可以吃的，九個多月的小兒，牙口尚未長全，醬瓜油條之類他根本嚼不了。老汪頭一拍腦袋，說：我怎么把小猴忘了！雞蛋羹，蒸雞蛋羹。幾分鐘后，一碗黃燦燦的雞蛋羹就蒸好了。老汪頭抱過我的兒子，堅(jiān)持要他來喂。沒想到還沒喂上兩口，小猴就稀里嘩啦一泡大尿，灑了老汪頭一身。我尷尬至極，一個勁地說對不起。老汪頭卻哈哈大笑，說：好！男子漢大丈夫，想尿就尿！我兒子在老汪頭懷里咧著嘴傻笑，全然不知自己犯下的不雅大錯。直到今天我都后悔，沒有拍下這幅喜樂的老猴懷抱小猴圖。

后來，我調(diào)到北京工作，隔一段時間就會帶著小猴去拜望老猴，每次都很開心。

1997年春末夏初，浙江湖州《南太湖》雜志的主編馬雪楓給我來電話，說雜志社要舉辦一個南太湖女作家筆會，想讓我替他們在京城邀請幾位大作家與會，最想邀請的就是汪曾祺先生。知道我和汪老熟，要我務(wù)必幫忙。和雪楓是多年老友，不好推辭，也很想借此機(jī)會陪老汪頭回江南故里走走，便一口答應(yīng)下來。

到老汪頭府上轉(zhuǎn)達(dá)《南太湖》的邀請時，才知道老頭剛從四川宜賓參加一個文學(xué)活動回來。宜賓是酒鄉(xiāng)，老頭又好酒，盡管老頭自知肝臟不好，醫(yī)囑不能喝酒，但到了酒鄉(xiāng)，哪還能自控節(jié)制？加上主辦方活動安排較緊，弄得人很疲憊。

聽我說明來意，老頭便推辭說身體吃不消，去不了。我看老頭臉色發(fā)黑，精神確實(shí)不佳，便不好再說什么，只得怏怏地起身，打算離開。老頭大約看出了我的失望，說，你那位朋友叫什么名字？我說，叫馬雪楓，下雪的雪，楓葉的楓。老頭說，袁敏你等一等，我給你和你的朋友各畫一幅畫吧。我聞言不由喜出望外，大有因禍得福之感。

老頭給我畫了一幅《杏花圖》，給我的那位老友畫了一幅《雪地紅楓》。我當(dāng)時心里還略略有點(diǎn)妒忌之意，覺得汪老將我朋友的名字寓意畫中，似乎更用心呢！我哪里會想到，老頭其實(shí)已經(jīng)走到生命的邊緣，他是用心血在給我們留下絕筆呢！

晚上回到家，便給老友打電話，告知她老汪頭身體不太好，筆會去不了了。朋友自然很失望，脫口說，你告訴汪曾祺先生，我們給他專門定制了一盒上好的手工湖筆呢！他一定喜歡的。我擱下老友電話，又給老汪頭打電話，告訴他朋友為他備下手工湖筆的事兒。老汪頭在電話那頭遲疑片刻，輕輕嘆了一口氣，說，那你明天來取我的身份證，給我訂機(jī)票吧。我心中一陣狂喜，慶幸事情出現(xiàn)轉(zhuǎn)機(jī)。

可我萬萬沒有想到，當(dāng)天夜里，老汪頭的女兒汪潮突然來電話，說她老爸突然便血不止，已送醫(yī)院搶救。我聽聞后心悸不已，暗暗祈禱老頭平安，希望不過是虛驚一場！我不相信剛才還讓我給他訂機(jī)票的老汪頭會有什么大事，會有突發(fā)的劫難！

然而，老天就是那么殘忍！老頭送進(jìn)醫(yī)院就再也沒有出來，就此倉促辭世，連話都沒有留下，讓愛他敬他的人心痛不已！

如今，老汪頭離開這個世界已經(jīng)很久，但每當(dāng)我看到自己珍藏的那幅《杏花圖》，心里仍然會涌上痛楚，內(nèi)疚像一只螞蟻，啃咬著自己的心。假如當(dāng)初我能不那么粗心，及時發(fā)現(xiàn)老汪頭身體已經(jīng)出現(xiàn)不適，我是無論如何也不會讓老頭再畫那兩張畫的呀！

《杏花圖》中那淡雅的芬芳多少年來始終沒有消散，一縷清幽總是穿越濁世污流拂過我的心頭，提醒我：名利身外物，做人才是真！

The year 2020 marks the 100 anniversary of the birth of Wang Zengqi （1920-1997）， an essayist， playwright， and gourmet. He passed away 23 years ago. Whenever I think of him， my heart anguishes. As a man of honesty and as a man of letters， he was perfect. Why did the heaven take him away so soon from this crowded world？

I met him in the early 1980s when I， as a young writer taking a writing course offered by China Writers Association， attended a workshop held at Emei Mountain at the invitation of Harvest， a quarterly literary journal， and Sichuan Peoples Publishing House.

Most participants at the workshop were well known writers whereas I was in my 20s with a novella just published in Harvest. Han Aili， a little known woman writer from Beijing， was just like me. We were both nobodies at the workshop and we became friends. A talented writer and graduate of Peking University and quite picky about writers and their writings， Han wasnt particularly impressed by some well known writers at the workshop. However， she admired Wang Zengqi and kept talking about him， referring him as “the old guy” as if Wang had been a dear grandpa living next door.

At that time， I was just a young writer taking a literature course was alone in Beijing with Hangzhou， my hometown， more than 1，000 kilometers away. Beijing as an ancient city struck awe in my heart. Writers in Beijing were like stars in the sky. I was astonished to learn that Wang Zengqi was just a “gentle and sweet old guy” in Hans chat with me. So I boldly asked Han to introduce me to Wang.

A month later， I visited Han at her home and I was entertained with a special duck dinner prepared by her husband. Han gave me an autographed copy by Wang Zengqi. Han said that Wang wanted Han to give the book to me and delivered Wangs message that I could visit him at my convenience. The autographed book and the invitation touched my heart.

When I finally met the “gentle and sweet old guy”， however， it was a number of years later. After the writing course ended， I came back to Beijing again to attend another writing course. I met someone there and got married. I returned to work at a literary journal in Hangzhou. My husband lived and worked in Beijing. The editor-in-chief said if I successfully solicited one contribution from a prominent writer based in Beijing for the journal， I could take a break and stay in Beijing for a period of time. I called Han Aili and explained the situation to her. I asked if she could ask Wang Zengqi to write something for my journal. She said okay. I took my nine-month-old son with me and went to Beijing by train.

Then Han Aili took me to the home of Wang Zengqi. Wang lived in an ordinary apartment building next to a noisy street in the south of Beijing. His wife answered the door. The three-room apartment looked rather shabby and crowded， unlike an elegant residence in my imagination. The “gentle and sweet old guy” stepped out of his studio， a big smile on his face， saying “The baby monkey came to see the old monkey today，” joked Wang， to my surprise and delight. It occurred to me that Han had already told Wang something about me. My son was born in the Year of Monkey. So had been Wang. The ice was broken. I felt relaxed. Wang gladly agreed to write something for the journal. My business was done. Then I was asked to stay for lunch. Wang prepared the lunch and especially cooked an egg dish for my son. I was convincingly impressed by the lunch. After all， Wang was a celebrated gourmet.

Then I transferred to work in Beijing and I regularly brought my young monkey to visit the “old monkey”. We were very happy.

In May 1997， Ma Xuefeng， editor-in-chief of ， a literary journal based in Huzhou， asked me if I could invite some Beijing-based writers to appear at a workshop for women writers in Huzhou. The writer they especially wanted to invite was Wang Zengqi. I visited the dear old man. Wang had just come back from a literary event in Sichuan where he had drunk wine. Wang looked tired and dark. After learning about my mission， he declined the invitation. I was disappointed. Seeing disappointment in my face， he offered to create two paintings， one for me and one for my friend Ma Xuefeng.

Back home， I called Ma Xuefeng and reported Wangs decline. Ma said they had ordered a special set of Huzhou brush pens for Wang and asked me to deliver the information. I called Wang. Wang paused for a while and then sighed. He asked me to pick up his identity card the next day and book a flight ticket for him. Wang changed his mind and I was happy that he agreed to attend the literary event. However， that night， Wangs daughter Wang Chao called me unexpectedly. His father was hospitalized after he found he had blood in the stool. I prayed for the dear old man. He didnt come back from the hospital.

Whenever I look at the painting Wang drew for me that day， I feel pain in my heart. If I had paid closer attention， I would have noticed Wang needed to see a doctor immediately and I wouldnt have let him draw two paintings.