A Golden Ring金戒指

“我试一下这个可以吗？”，戒指滑出玻璃橱柜，扣入我食指。落下一口气，几乎是自言自语地问，“买吗？”，黑框镜红唇的导购员抓住我眼神回看道，“买！”。于是付钱，她小心裁出紫色缎带尾锋，紫罗兰纸盒上升起一只蝴蝶。进出Liberty前后五分钟，我踏出门前已拆散盒子，食指戴着金戒，钻石荧光闪烁，振翅欲飞。

手张开，蜷起来，都拍照发给S，他说，“下次就是我给你买了呢”。心脏悬停，人被钉在牛津街的黄昏里，下不去地铁，望向人群时，心又霎时痛快。半年前一个人在Liberty的珠宝柜台徘徊，看见它，像突然看见了自己。未抛光的金戒，碎钻石连成一竖，划过素圈压成一个小小的十字架。人如果撞见了更好的自己，会想哭，像破碎碰着了圆满，羞愧喜悦一并涌起，欢呼里低下头。我念它，偶尔会想起它在玻璃柜中，它更尊贵，它不慌张，它端然自得，相形之下是我，地铁里日夜奔袭，在脏污的方格绒布上搁下一具疲惫肉体，到站时从地底提身迎向地面，凉风浇脸，以马内利。

伦敦恐袭第二天清晨，HB祝我“伦敦大桥永不塌”，句子入眼时我便渴望起坚固，金城汤池般的坚固。前夜六月三日，从意大利餐厅撤回家，BBC突发新闻红色条带冲出屏幕，我站住，打开收音机，指针拨到东南西北都是恐袭，主持人重复时间地点信息，热线电话断断续续，电波停滞余下白噪音的空隙里我发现自己没再那么怕死，日常生活即刻被抛入战争，匮乏隆重告别与痛下决心的战争，无从怕起，不如背一句书，生死有命。但白凛凛砍刀迎面冲下而肉身必将破碎的屠宰里，想有个更坚硬的我可扛过砍刀，固若伦敦大桥，金城汤池。

是，想要一颗金子。我翻检衣柜时看出这两年从商铺领回了多少金属光泽，银白色薄衫，深绿色细闪百褶半裙，黑色长袍缀足亮片。走在街上瞥见一袭黑裙腰间横亘一幅金色腰带时，目醉神迷，七色光晃晃眼，女主角的脸庞从黑色渊薮中跃出来。闯进百货店，眼神扫过层层叠叠衣衫裙裤鞋履箱包，骤然急停，按住心惊，耐下心来与那爱物细细讲解，“你认出我了吗？你是我啊。”指尖触碰POS机黑色软键时我都心怀感激，伟大设计师造出一个幻想中的完美之我，赐我良机在世间扮演，允我借它身心神魄赚一时得意。便把这些魂器一一拎回家，日日消磨里一起老掉。一次，在慈善店密不透气的衣山衣海里撞见一条黑底上布满姜黄色空心圆圈的细细滑滑真丝裙，黄光灯下猜想她前生故事，试穿时摸到侧面一个窟窿，心凉了一截，想起喝醉时自己吐出的污秽留到白衣白裤上，斑斑点点红酒渍。人无完人，迟早把衣衫也拖进泥沙俱下的时时刻刻。这时便想要一枚指环，贵金属抵得住每日尘埃和我的常常惊惧，眼中无光时为我明目，心神难安时照旧圆满无缺无憾。这天清晨，恐袭之后，多少人下定决心要抢在开战前照心愿单洗劫自己？我走入Liberty时猜想今天营业额会不会翻一翻。

或许是翻了，但生活没因此翻面，爆炸也好火海也罢，能趁一隙逃生便继续无聊且忍耐。生活无聊，爱也是。走路时拇指肚挨住食指指根，轻轻摩挲戒指粗糙边缘，抵住、确认、压紧它，我觉出指上的肉填不尽骨头和戒指间的余地。不后悔，倒感激这空荡牵住心，这仅我知晓仅关乎我的紧张，投入每日大小烦恼事里如一颗浮标，指我泅水方向。五年前法鼓山结缘春联，红纸黑墨，“得心自在”，是，所求不过如此。这几年体呼吸观身形向达摩叩首，当下姿势配合，但怀疑未减甚至越发困惑，努力到今不过是渐渐分辨清一个茫然无措频频发问的自我。挣扎吗？怎能不？却也认了。我必得扑入世间冲撞无辜者才能得一清晰轮廓。

真危险，一个热爱金子的恐怖分子，贪生怕死又野心巨大到要认清自我，如一涡流未免牵连身旁人。戒指也是无辜者，幸好它慈悲漠然到坚固。它观我惶惑而不作声色，只偶尔化作金箍，在我闭眼嗜睡不闻不想时切切念着，醒一霎吧，看看我。

Machine translation (AI) of the Chinese original, not yet reviewed by the author. Please cite the original.

“Could I try this one on?” The ring slid out of the glass case and clasped my index finger. I let out a breath and asked, almost to myself, “Should I get it?” The sales assistant, black-rimmed glasses and red lips, caught my eye and answered, “Get it!” So I paid. She carefully trimmed the tails of the purple satin ribbon, and a butterfly rose from the violet box. In and out of Liberty in five minutes; before I even stepped through the door I had torn the box apart, the gold ring on my index finger, its diamonds glinting as if about to take wing.

Hand open, hand curled – I photographed both and sent them to S. He said, “Next time I’ll be the one buying you one.” My heart stopped mid-beat; I was pinned to the Oxford Street dusk, unable to go down into the Tube, and when I looked out at the crowd my heart suddenly felt wonderfully light. Six months earlier, lingering alone at Liberty’s jewellery counter, I had seen it, and it was like suddenly seeing myself. An unpolished gold ring, a vertical line of tiny diamonds cutting across the plain band to make a little cross. When you run into a better version of yourself, you want to cry – like brokenness meeting wholeness, shame and joy welling up together, head bowed amid the cheering. I pined for it. Every so often I would think of it in the glass case: it was nobler, it wasn’t flustered, it was composed and content. And then there was me by comparison, racing through the Underground day and night, setting a worn-out body down on grubby checked upholstery, and at my stop hauling myself up from underground to meet the surface, a cool wind in my face – Emmanuel, God with us.

On the morning after the London attack, HB wished me “London Bridge is never falling down”. As the words met my eyes I began to crave solidity – the solidity of walls of metal and moats of boiling water. The night before, 3 June, I had retreated home from an Italian restaurant. The red strip of BBC breaking news burst across the screen. I stood still, turned on the radio, and whichever way I turned the dial it was all the attack: presenters repeating times and places, phone-ins cutting in and out. In the gaps where the airwaves stalled and left only white noise, I found I was no longer so afraid of dying. Daily life had been flung at once into a war – a war that leaves no room for solemn farewells or agonised resolutions – and there was nothing to start being afraid of; better to recite a line from the old books: life and death are decided by fate. And yet, in a slaughter where a gleaming white blade comes rushing down at you and the flesh is bound to break, I wanted a harder self that could withstand the blade – as unshakeable as London Bridge, a fortress of metal walls and boiling moats.

Yes: I wanted a bit of gold. Going through my wardrobe, I saw how much metallic sheen I had carried home from the shops these past two years – a silvery-white sheer top, a dark-green pleated skirt with a fine shimmer, a long black gown covered in sequins. Walking down the street, glimpsing a black dress with a gold belt across its waist, I was dazzled; light of every colour flickered before my eyes, and a heroine’s face leapt out of the black abyss. I’d rush into a department store, my gaze sweeping over layer upon layer of blouses, dresses, trousers, shoes, bags, then stop dead, steady my racing heart, and patiently explain things to the beloved object: “Do you recognise me? You are me.” Even as my fingertip touched the soft black keys of the card machine I felt grateful: a great designer had created the perfect self of my fantasies and given me the chance to play her in the world, lending me her body and soul so I could feel pleased with myself for a while. So I carried these horcruxes home one by one, and in the daily grind we grew old together. Once, in a charity shop, amid a stifling mountain of clothes, I came across a smooth silk dress, black with ginger-yellow hollow circles all over it. Under the yellow light I imagined its past lives, but trying it on I found a hole in the side, and my heart sank. I remembered the mess I’d thrown up when drunk, spattered over white tops and white trousers, the red wine stains. No one is perfect; sooner or later you drag your clothes, too, into the moment-by-moment silt of life. That’s when I wanted a ring – a precious metal that could stand up to the daily dust and my frequent fears, that would light my eyes when there was no light in them, and stay whole, flawless, with nothing lacking, when my heart couldn’t settle. That morning, after the attack, how many people had made up their minds to raid themselves according to their wish lists before the war began? Walking into Liberty, I wondered whether takings would double that day.

Maybe they did, but life didn’t turn over because of it. Bombs, a sea of fire, whatever – if you can slip out through a gap alive, you carry on, bored and enduring. Life is boring, and so is love. As I walk I press the pad of my thumb against the base of my index finger, gently rubbing the ring’s rough edge, pushing on it, checking it, pressing it tight, and I can feel that the flesh of my finger doesn’t quite fill the space between bone and ring. No regrets. If anything I’m grateful for that emptiness, which keeps hold of my heart – a tension only I know about and that concerns only me, dropped into all the big and small worries of each day like a buoy, showing me which way to swim. Five years ago at Dharma Drum Mountain I was given a New Year couplet, black ink on red paper: “Find the heart and be at ease.” Yes, that’s all I ask for. These past few years I’ve followed my breath, watched my body and bowed to Bodhidharma, holding each posture as it comes, but my doubts haven’t diminished – if anything I’m more confused than ever. All my efforts up to now have only helped me gradually make out a self that is bewildered, helpless and forever asking questions. Struggling? How could I not be? But I’ve accepted it. I have to throw myself into the world and collide with innocent people to gain a clear outline.

How dangerous: a terrorist in love with gold, clinging to life and afraid of death, and yet ambitious enough to want to know herself – like a whirlpool that can’t help dragging in those nearby. The ring, too, is an innocent. Luckily it is compassionate and indifferent enough to be solid. It watches my confusion and gives nothing away. Only now and then, when I close my eyes, sleepy, hearing nothing and thinking nothing, does it become the Monkey King’s golden headband and chant at me urgently: wake up for a moment, look at me.