上海的故事

他们居然要在上海的街道上禁止自行车。

这样的事在十年以前是不可想象的。那时到处是窄窄的弄堂，汽车也比现在少的多。马路边上横七竖八的堆满了自行车，每栋楼的进口都被自行车的车油滴的象张布满老人斑的脸，上百万辆自行车编制成上海的交通网。

但现在这些都显的太第三世界了。上海市正立法禁止自行车在市中心的主要马路上通行。好为那些西方国家的政界商界的大牌首脑们让路。讽刺意谓的是那些国家环保运动风起云涌，自行车的使用正都越来越流行。

就象中国的许多政策一样，这道法令几乎自己把自己给绊倒了。但对我来说这不仅仅是个全球暖化问题也不仅仅是一个政治嘲讽。这己乎是针对我个人的。因为在我很小的时候我在上海住过一年半。那时的我是一个”带着轮子的地狱” (hell on wheels)。

外公给我买第一辆自行车是军绿色的。我骑着它在十楼的客厅里转来转去，这让九楼的住户分外恼火。那时外公的家很小，再分成更小间的厨房，卧室，储存室。我刚爬上自行车，手放在车把上，那堵白墙就像座冰川样压下来。我被迫停下，掉转头再来。你可以看出这不是学骑自行车的好方法。外公答应周末带我到公园去骑。但每天的工作应酬以及没完没了的打扫卫生之后，学车的事情就忘记了。

一个早晨外公擦净他的皮鞋，调整好他的领带，上班去了。外婆则去菜场买菜，留下我和阿姨在家里。我把自行车推了出来。我骑过正在阳台上专心拖地的胡阿姨，她腿上手术后留下的长疤总是很吓人；我骑过坐在小凳上打盹的电梯管理员；我骑过无人把守的院门，没遇上任何阻拦就骑到马路上。终于自由了！我太高兴了。事实上我觉的象隔壁邻居的那个八岁女孩一样长大了，她总是因为我小就对我不肖一顾。要是她知道我现在长成什么样非气死不可。

如果不是出了件事，这次远足是再成功不过的了：我在骑了大约20分钟之后突然发现我搞不清到底在哪里了。我对上海的认识仅限于从家里到托儿所那条路，路边有卖硬糖和虾片的小店。而这条马路边则没有硬糖或者虾片，有的却是穿着脏兮兮的汗衫的老头们，他们抽着便宜的香烟，在马路边荡来荡去。

前一个晚上，外婆刚给我讲过一个有关不听话的孩子的故事：穿着汗衫的老头把他拐走了，然后卖到乡下农民家去。在那里除山芋之外啥也没有的吃。我最不爱吃的就是山芋了！为了逃避这个悲惨的命运，我丢下了漂亮的新自行车，向相反的方向逃去。

路边都是些合法性成问题的小店。我在每家店门前都停下，犹豫再三。最后，在恐惧和尴尬之中，我决定去找那个在马路中间的交通警。一支手插在腰上，另一支手象箭一样的伸出指挥交通，他看上去是正义和道德的象征。我想，这是一个可以信任的人。但当警察看到我的时候，我却心虚的把视线避开了。

那警察很快就对他的神秘的爱慕者失去了耐心。

“小孩，你爸妈在那里？” 他问道。(当然讲的是上海话)

我的声音在到达舌头之前就被卡住了。

“你是聋子吗？” 他看上去有点不耐烦了。

虽然我一声不响，我心说这真是一个很傻的问题。如果我真是个聋子又怎么能回答他的问话，那他不是白问了吗？他弯下腰到我的高度，拉着我的手，走到路对面的交通亭。

当我慢慢缓过劲说出家里的电话号码的时候，胡阿姨正在翻箱倒柜满世界的找我。她在电话那头的怒气和咒诅我都没怎么听清，因为脑子在想着那辆刚刚得到没几天的心爱的自行车。我从警察叔叔那里把手抽出来，回过头向马路对面看去：那自行车不见了！

上海将它一口吞了下去。

 They’re banning bikes in Shanghai.

 Ten years ago that wouldn’t have been possible. Narrow alleyways abounded and large automobiles were scarce. Bicycles oil dotted concrete entryways like liver spots; their frames were skeletal piles on the sides of streets. Hundreds of thousands of them wove the fabric of the city’s transportation.

 But now apparently they’re too third world. Bicycles have been banned from Shanghai’s major roads by sweeping legislation in anticipation of big-shot leaders from western nations where save-the-earth movements and bicycles have actually been on the up trend.

As with many government initiatives in China, this one almost trips over itself. But for me, it’s more than global climate change, and certainly more than political satire. It’s practically personal. I spent a year and a half of my early childhood in Shanghai. And I was hell on wheels.

 My grandfather bought me my first army green bicycle, on which I careened around the miniscule living room of our 10th floor apartment, much to the annoyance of the inhabitants of the 9th floor. Our apartment was small, and divided into several even smaller cubicle kitchenettes, bedrooms, and closets. I could barely climb atop the bicycle and place my hands on the handlebars before the whitewashed walls loomed like glaciers before me. I was forced to retreat, reverse the vehicle, and try again. Naturally, it was not a satisfying way to learn. My grandfather promised to take me to the park on the weekends, but somehow between business lunches and incessant cleaning sprees, these bike-riding lessons were forgotten.

One morning after my grandfather spiffed up his shoes and tweaked his tie, and had left for work, after my grandmother had gone to the market, leaving me behind with the housekeeper, I simply rolled out the bicycle. I padded past the inattentive Ms. Hu busy mopping the balcony, whose foot long scar from surgery had always scared me, past the elevator operator on her laminated footstool. I rolled the bicycle onto the street with no obstructions, and pedaled away. Finally! What freedom! What joy! Indeed, I felt as grown up as the eight year old girl across the hallway who had always sneered at my juvenility. If only she could see me now!

All this would have been good and well except for one thing – about twenty minutes into my random pedaling, I discovered that I could no longer recognize my surroundings. My sense of direction in Shanghai was restricted to the customary pathway to and from nursery school, along the roads with stands that sold rock candy and shrimp chips. But this roadway had no rock candy or shrimp chips, only old men in soiled wifebeaters who loafed around smoking cheap cigarettes.

The last night, my grandmother had told me a cautionary tale about disobedient children abducted by old men in wifebeaters. These children were sold to families in barren countryside, where they had nothing to eat except yams. I hated yams. So in my desperation to escape this tortured fate I abandoned my beautiful new bicycle on the sidewalk, running off in the opposite direction.

The street was lined with mom-and-pop shops of dubious legality; I hesitated at the door of each one. Eventually, torn between panic and embarrassment, I approached the policeman at the intersection. One arm on a belted hip, the other outstretched like a shooting arrow, directing traffic, he seemed like the very epitome of moral uprightness. Here, I thought, was someone I could trust. But when the officer caught my eye, I turned around and fled.

The policeman soon grew tired of his intermittent secret admirer.

“Kid, where’s your parents?” he asked (in Chinese, of course).

My voice choked before it even reached my tongue.

“You deaf?” he was starting to look annoyed. Even in my muteness, I thought that was a stupid question. If I was deaf, he didn’t actually expect an answer, did he? He squatted down to my level, grabbed me by the hand, and strolled over to the cubicle station.

By the time I had recovered my wits enough to stutter out the phone number, Ms. Hu was tearing the house apart looking for me. But her admonishments and curses barely registered as faint scratches on the telephone line. My mind was on the bicycle I had only been able to love for such a short time. For when I slipped my hand out of the policeman’s and looked back at the curb, the bicycle was gone.