海王的妻子---威尼斯
第一章 还没到威尼斯
又穿过了一个隧道，火车在阿尔卑斯山里钻了一天。捡起掉在座位下的书，伸了伸腿，这是睡的第几觉儿了？ 火车旅行不该是浪漫的吗？这不是十九世纪欧洲上流社会最时髦的旅行方式吗？绅士们穿着Tail，喝着Champagne，跟包厢里的贵妇谈笑风生，打情骂俏……贵妇也风韵无限，裙撑把宽大多褶的蛋糕裙撑的老大，整个身子像长在棉花糖上，显着那么高贵典雅，束腰勒的肋骨长到盆骨里，小脸儿憋通红，眼角画的心形大黑痣，像只落在脸上的苍蝇，看着那么俏皮，撇过头和身旁的女伴说话，一不留神，戴的半米多高的Wig 能把对面被迷的神魂颠倒的绅士的眼睛杵瞎…… 到了晚上更不得了了，伦敦Knightsbridge豪宅里的White Ball俨然搬到了餐车上，晚餐，社交，舞会……有风头的贵妇身旁必围着几个风雅的绅士，媚眼裹在有机锋的对话里，飘过去， 一来一往，信息量有两个G！最神奇的是，两三个绅士呈扇形在贵妇眼前排开，贵妇跟其中一个换眼神儿，空气中都起静电了，火星儿噼啪的，可偏离了25度，愣不能让站在旁边的另一个绅士看出什么，一圈话聊过来，每一个都得觉得贵妇大有深意的眼神，是只抛给自己的……就这点儿基本功，你不得学一阵子？当然绅士们也不闲着，有那风流惯了的，手指缝间夹着早就写好的小纸条，一支舞罢，牵起贵妇或小姐的手行吻手礼时，顺势把纸条塞到小姐手里，甫一抬头之际，狡狤的冲小姐一眨眼，wink! 小姐面不改色，待旁人不留意，溜到Loo 里，脱下天鹅绒手套，拿出藏在里面的小纸条，矜持又期待的打开，上面用Spencerian 写着：Those roseleaf lips of yours should be kissed often, by someone who knows how……
怎么这一切，到了现代，就变成从这儿到那儿的干巴巴的交通过程了呢？所有的风流呢？所有的做作呢？所有的仪式呢？所有的腔调呢？所有的折腾呢？这些都没有了，那生活还有什么意思！
从维也纳出发，火车走了多远呢？也就经过了阿尔卑斯山不同山头儿上的三十多座大小城堡那么远。你数来着？我没有，就那么一说。马上进站了，Ljubljana，Slovenia。
小站里只几个穿着灰蓝色制服的老铁路工人在不急不忙的做着什么，另一条轨道上停着几节货运车，站台上没人，后面是前南斯拉夫时期修的候车室……车窗外渐渐罩上了一层晕黄，时间开始放慢……有时候，你来到一个地方，不止进入了一个不同的空间，更是进入了一个不同的时间……此刻，在斯洛文尼亚的一个小站里，我仿佛回到了八十年代，几天前还异常真实的我的生活，突然间被留在了这条铁轨的无限延申的另一头…...哪个更真实？什么是真实？你说呢？
再睡会儿吧……不到威尼斯，别叫醒我。
如果你能选择，你会想去哪个时代的威尼斯呢？是十二世纪借着十字军东征而崛起，逐渐垄断了东西方海上贸易的威尼斯？还是十五世纪鼎盛时期以一岛之力挡住了如日中天的奥斯曼土耳其帝国西进脚步的威尼斯？又或是十八世纪全欧洲贵族子弟云集，假面舞会中全城女人疯狂追逐着情圣卡萨诺瓦的威尼斯？别问我，我不知道。我只好奇当年八十六岁又双目失明的威尼斯总督丹多罗是怎么说服十字军统帅孟菲拉特侯爵不去打异教徒萨拉丁，反倒跟着他上了自己的数百艘贼船先去洗劫了不克之城君士坦丁堡的，商人的算盘能驱使上万十字军于股掌……又好奇一个小岛，最多的时候也没超过三十万人，能在海面儿上露着勉强活着就够瞧了，怎么就称霸了地中海好几百年……更好奇威尼斯人能在七世纪末就通过公民投票选出了第一任总督，从此确立了共和国的议会制，大议会，小议会，选举人团，设置了今天听着都异常复杂甚至繁琐的投票和选举流程，以防止权力的垄断和腐败……
相比一千多年前的威尼斯，我好像听说有几个国家还在二十一世纪探索并实践着世袭制呢，什么？哪？我哪知道！
山岭渐渐成了火车后面的一抹蓝，烟一样的蓝……两边变成了大片大片的葡萄园……毫无防备的，车窗左边又闪出一大片蓝，粉蓝粉蓝，Marano Lagoon! 威尼斯，已经不远。
The romantic dream of a train journey seemed to be never ending. After the train passing through a tunnel and running all day in the Alps, I awoke, and picked up the book that had fallen under my seat, stretched my legs and wondered how many times I had dozed off.
Here’s how a train journey supposed to look like in the good old days: Gentlemen in their tailored suits, sipping champagne and engaging in witty conversations with the noble ladies in their voluminous crinoline dresses, the sight was truly befitting of the 19th century European upper class. The ladies had an air of grace and elegance, their waists cinched tightly to their hips and their small faces flushed red. The tiny heart-shaped mole next to their eyes added a mischievous charm to their beauty. As night fell, the grandeur of the London Knightsbridge mansion seemed to have been transported to the dining carriage. Over dinner and socializing, couples danced, with the most popular ladies being surrounded by a few gallant gentlemen. The air was electrified as the lady exchanged meaningful glances with one of the gentlemen, their eyes locked in a silent conversation. The other gentlemen, however, seemed oblivious to the exchange, believing that the lady's gaze was meant for everyone.
As the dance came to an end, a gentleman discretely slipped a note into the lady's hand. As she discreetly opened it in the privacy of the loo, she found the following words in Spencerian script: “Those roseleaf lips of yours should be kissed often, by someone who knows how…”
Ah, the good old days…
Setting off from Vienna, on a grand journey, one could expect a magical experience. The sun was setting behind the Alps, and there was a sense of anticipation as you passed through more than thirty castles and towns along the way. The thrill of an unknown destination ahead, the wind in your hair, and the excitement of a new adventure.
But what of today? No more romanticism, no more grandeur. Instead, the train journey is just a mundane, tiresome process of getting from A to B. Where's the flair, the pomp and circumstance, the banter, the banter? Life has lost a lot of its meaning!
But here we are, finally, after what felt like an eternity on the train, Ljubljana, Slovenia. As I stepped out of the train, I felt as if I had traveled back in time. The small station was quiet and empty, except for a few old railway workers in grey-blue uniforms. On the other track, several cargo cars stood still, and there was nobody on the platform. Behind them was the waiting room built in the era of the former Yugoslavia. Outside the window, a yellowish haze slowly enveloped everything in sight. Time seemed to have slowed down.
Sometimes, when you visit a place, you don’t just enter a different space — you also enter a different time. At this little station in Slovenia, I felt as if I had been transported back to the 1980s. My life from just a few days ago suddenly seemed so distant. Which one was more real? What is real? I thought to myself. Maybe I should just take another nap. Don’t wake me until we reach Venice.
