短篇小说《商汤的后代》英文版在《东方文学》发表后，在该杂志阅读榜上名列第二：
http://www.eastlit.com/popular-asian-writing-eastlit/
底下就是该小说开头的章节。中文版以后分享。
A Descendant of Emperor Shang Tang （商汤的后代）
1
Shang Jing went over again to turn on the tap — this was his tenth try within thirty minutes—, and this time, there wasn’t even the gurgling sound in the pipe. “Damn it, damn it!” his voice sounded husky when squeezed out from between his quivering parched lips. For several weeks, the city only gave water on every third day, and the amount was cut less and less with constantly shortened supply time.
Shang Jing felt that itch again that had developed on his back and refused to go away due to the droughty weather; it was a spot that his own hands were unable to reach. He held his breath when he passed the bathroom, because the toilet, which got flushed only once or twice a day, was giving off a terribly sickening odor.
At this moment, what did he miss the most? Did he miss Shasha, his high school sweet heart? No, he was not in the mood. Or did he think of the first pay check he had received? That was irrelevant. He did not even miss his favorite pie, which his mother would sometimes prepare with air-dried mean curd chips and green onions cooked in veggie oil. At this moment, all he missed, or desired, was a day of rain. He normally disliked rainy weather, particularly when he was driving on the freeway. On the freeway, even a sprinkle of shower would spread a blanket of mist over the landscape. “How come it always rains while I am driving on the highway?” he would ask, not knowing whom he was asking. “Why can’t it hold the rain till I am home?”
He would keep grumbling like that.
It had been five years up to that day; for five years, not a single drop of rain had befallen this city with a name of ‘Rainbow’. The city government had once coordinated efforts with the adjacent municipal districts to find water supplies from there. But those efforts had not gone far, as the other districts soon encountered droughts in their own areas and had to look after their own needs in the first place. Since the end of the second year after the last rainfall on Rainbow, Shang Jing had turned to miss the dear old days when there had been rain. Whenever a rain came, it would start with a strong wind gust; gradually the wind would die away, leaving behind a fuzzy mosaic of trees and roads, buildings and landmarks, the surrounding plains and hills; when the rain finally came to a full stop, one could still see and hear the rainwater dripping and dwindling from the roofs and eaves . . . .
As if one woe was not enough, there came another. While the city of Rainbow was literally waiting for a raindrop in a drought, what did begin to drop was the supply of gas. As a result, the gas prices soared, even higher than those of the most expensive cosmetic creams that only the movie stars could afford to use.
Shang Jing went into the garage and took a bucket of gas out of it. He had stored several buckets of gas before the gas panic on the streets. That was one of the goods he had stored for which he was rather pleased with himself. He was pleased because that showed not only his prophetic vision but also his ability to actually store gas. In fact, he had made those iron buckets himself, which were not available on the market.
Shang Jing coughed when he barely came out of the garage door. According to the doctor, he was born with some minor problems in his lungs, and that was why he would habitually cough in dry weather. He inclined to accept the doctor’s explanations rather than his mother’s. Not long before, his mother who lived in China had e-mailed him a letter, trying to impose on him her own idea that Shang Jing should get married sooner. “So to balance your yin and yang in your system,” reasoned the mother. “Your yang has overdeveloped and tipped off the balance, how can you avoid those health problems?” Shang Jing came from China, but he had never trusted the rationale and practice of yin yang and feng shui.
He passed several households: Tony’s, Mr. Chen’s, Jack’s, all of whom he had talked to the day before and asked whether he could trade a bucket of gas for a bucket of water. “I still have some gas,” replied Tony in a muffled guttural voice. He had lost his job as his company temporarily closed down, because the drought had added to its accumulating costs.
Mr. Chen lived next to Tony. He was a short little man and immigrated to the states from Hong Kong several decades before. When Shang Jing walked up to him, Mr. Chen was putting up a wire fence around his small yard. The yard was on a higher terrace where a kumquat tree grew. Despite the rainless period, the tree still managed to bear a few tiny kumquats. At that point, Mr. Chen was swinging a hammer on the top of a post, trying to drive it into the ground. The new wire fence was forming a defensive circle around the kumquat tree.
“Hi, Mr. Chen,” Shang Jing started to engage Chen’s attention. He looked up at the kumquats and continued in a slightly envious tone, “You’re lucky to have those fruit to quench your thirst.” But Mr. Chen merely responded with a stiff nod.
Shang Jing tottered up the steps of the terrace. With some effort, he lifted the bucket of gas in front of Mr. Chen. “See, if you have another bucketful of gas, you can afford to drive back to Home Depot to buy more stuff for your fence. Can I trade this for some water, please? I need water for dermatologically required moistening, and I am suffering from such a burning sore in the throat.”
“If you talked less, you would save some of your saliva,” said Mr. Chen stolidly, waving him away.
At Jack’s, Shang Jing was simply ignored. “Jack, I have an acute sore in the throat, please spare me half a bucket of water. You can have this whole bucket of gas,” he repeated the words to make sure that they had been heard.
“Bang!” Jack simply slammed the door on him.
On the other side of Jack’s house lived a widow, whose name was Maria. Shang Jing had skipped her place the day before. Now he hesitated for a moment and then went on to press the doorbell. The door opened. “Maria, I wonder . . .” he faltered and swallowed the rest of his words — he noticed Maria’s tightly knitted brows and sensed the sniffs from her nostrils. He began to blush, realizing he had not taken a shower for four days in a row. He must be stinky enough to knock someone off!
Shang Jing dragged his feet on with the bucket of gas in his hand. As he was passing the empty house that had been on sale for a while, he wondered who the occupants were of that house further up the street. He decided to try his luck. When he reached the doorway, he laid down the bucket on the ground. It was then he felt the ache in his wrist and hand, which had been carrying that bucket for so far and so long. He knocked on the door and waited. After a few seconds, the door creaked ajar and a stalwart man was standing behind it. The man had bristly cheeks and chin, and a mess of darkish brown hairs, giving the stereotypical impression of an adult male from the Middle East. The man did not say a word but his eyes unmistakably stared the question at Shang Jing: “What do you want?”
“I live in that yellow house down there,” Shang Jing pointed his still shaky forefinger
to his house sitting about 30 yards down the street and asked, “I would like to . . . could
I trade this bucket of gas to you, for half this much water?”
The stalwart man poked his arm from behind the door at the lawn in front of the house and retorted, “Can’t you see all the flowers and plants are gone? You don’t drink gas, do you?” （遥天翻译）
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