遺傳 [筆隨]

父親過世快六年，我的生活中卻還是隨處可見他的遺物，早先幾年的睹物悲情已漸淡薄，如今只是善加利用的心意。

生前的最後十幾年，父親在無一事緊要的退休並獨居狀態中，不知道有心或是無意，他開始收集中、日幾份報章、雜誌，閱讀重要新聞之後，分類剪貼、逐條摘錄，有時加上中、日文翻譯，整整齊齊地書寫在一張一張自己劃了橫線的紙上，依年度、月份放入一個一個牛皮紙袋；當我整理他的遺物時，搞清楚他的收集脈絡，依序裝入七、八個大紙箱。後來，在我自己幾次搬遷的過程，我逐漸放棄父親的這些新聞剪貼，以及手抄文字，只保留一箱父親使用過的什物，諸如指甲剪、針線盒、溫度計、陳年藥膏、整疊的信封信紙、皮夾、燈泡、印章、銅板、民國幾年幾年的行事曆，弟弟結婚的禮金簿、等等。另外一箱則滿滿全是另一面留白的父親手寫紙張，一年前，我開始利用這一面空白書寫我創作的草稿，每抽取一張使用之前，我總會快速瀏覽父親摘錄寫下的民國幾年如何如何的新聞事件。一旦我草稿完成，key進電腦存檔後，我便將這雙面都有字跡的紙張撕成小小碎片，丟進垃圾桶。父親的字體端正而秀美，每個字大小一致，標點正確分明，看似準備收藏；而我的手筆卻是潦草不堪，預期了拋棄的下場；遺憾的是，我也同時決定了父親這些筆跡的去處。

父親有一個omega的機械式手錶，每天都得為它上緊發條，它才不會越走越慢，甚至走不動；父親一向強調準時，每天早上起來，對時、上發條的動作不曾有誤，即使在他病入膏肓的最後階段，只要意識尚在，從不馬虎這件差事。父親走了以後，我保留了這個手錶，每天幫它上發條，戴在手腕上長達兩年，眼見它皮製的錶帶逐漸磨損，我決定讓它只是擺放在我的書桌上，每次看到，我就扭轉幾下發條，讓它一直準確地、一天一天安靜地走。有時我會回想父親很久很久以前曾經對我交待的事：講話不可以粗聲、嘴巴不可以張大、走路不可以拖泥帶水。父親的外表基本上就是這樣的特質，而我生來嘴巴小、聲音細，加上酷愛輕功，總是提腳走路，父親的上述家規對我從來就不是困擾。只是，除此之外，印象中父親似乎沒有更多的話說，長久以來，我聽到的就只有母親對一個家庭背叛者無盡的控訴。

在我保留的父親遺物箱中，當我看到他「在外面生下的」另外兩個孩子的證明文件時，我想到另一個家庭的缺憾，另一個女人的辛酸，不知道想來已經走遠的父親，是否可以放心。


Heritage
[Translated by Mu-Xuan Lin 林慕萱]

Almost six years after father passed away, still, I am surrounded by his belongings. The earlier grievous reminiscence caused by the sight of these articles had already ebbed. Now, out of my frugal nature, I collect and give them a second life.

After retirement, father lived by himself. Perhaps simply to put into use the leisurely days or perhaps for other reasons, father dedicated his last years to create an archive. He laboriously collected the important news from several Taiwanese and Japanese newspapers and magazines, meticulously wrote down the summary with translations on his own hand-printed ruled papers, and then filed them by date and year. When I took over his belongings, I carefully went through the archive and stored the papers accordingly in seven or eight large boxes. However, throughout several of my relocations, I let go bit by bit father’s newspaper archive and some of his pen calligraphy. The only surviving articles were in two boxes. One box consists of father’s mundane gadgets – nail clipper, sewing case, thermometer, aged medicine paste, stacks of stationary, wallet, light bulbs, stamps, coins, Min-Guo calendars, brother’s wedding album, and so on. Another box is full of father’s sketch papers. Since a year ago, I started to reuse these sketch papers each of which had father’s writing on one side. Every time I took a sheet of these second-hand sketch papers, I would quickly skim over father’s written record of the news past before I dipped my pen onto the blank side of the page. Once I finished writing and keyed in the contents to my computer, I then shredded and discarded into a trash bin the sketch papers which were by then scrawled over on both sides. Father’s penmanship was collectible, its symmetrical and graceful figures poising neatly on the page; mine, on the other hand, was scattering, straying, and fraying, and was meant for perpetual abandonment. Regrettably, while condemning my writing to the trash bin, I indubitably decided the fate for father’s beautiful ink traces.

Father owned a mechanical Omega watch. He had to wind the watch every single day to ensure its stable, ticking steps. Father treasured the time like gold, and he never neglected to wind the watch every morning in his life time. Even during his last days bedridden in the hospital, he would not forget to do this in his gradually reduced hours of conscious moments. After he left, I inherited the watch. I had wound and worn it every day for as long as two years, and finally stationed it on my desk when the leather belt wore out. Every time when I glanced over my work and saw it, I would repeat the ritual to make certain the watch continue ticking, precisely, light-footedly, day after day. Sometimes the ticking reminds me what father taught me a very long time ago, an old-fashioned mannerism that teaches one to speak softly, to open one’s mouth discreetly, and to walk lightly. Father bore just such deportment, and I was born with small mouth, tiny voice, and was fond of the delightful elfish walk resembling the practice of Qi-Kung, so I never had trouble obeying father’s preaching words. However, besides his words of mannerism, I seem not able to recall anything else father had said. Throughout the years, the only thing I have remembered and heard has been mother’s endless, publicly silenced, heart-wrenching accusation of a man who betrayed his family.

Among father’s belongings, I accidentally stumbled over the birth certificates of the two children he sired “by the other woman.” I couldn’t help but imagine the pain another woman endured, and the loss another family suffered. I wonder if my father, now far gone, can have peace of mind.