小区里有一条从山上延伸下来的沟壑，沟壑被顺势修成了排水河道，山洪雨水污水全从那里走，河上架了桥，他常在那些桥洞子附近转悠，那里是被遗弃的野狗野猫的家，我疑心那里也是他的家了。但是去年冬天的一个夜晚，我发现了他的另外一个住处。大约九点钟，我坐公交车从外面回来，正冲着公交车站牌，在大学门口，在一个柜员机服务厅和一个店铺相交界的凹进去的空地上，我发现他躺在那里睡觉，那里离人行道大约只有两三米远。他穿着平时穿的那身行头，身上什么也没有盖，仿佛是为了近可能少地占据地球上的土地面积，他脸朝向里面，四肢近可能地保持紧凑状态，姿势文雅地躺在地上，已经进入了梦乡。他的身旁，靠近头部的一侧，摆放着他在这个世界上的全部财产：一个搪瓷缸子、一小摞叠起的衣裳、一圈塑料绳子、两个香烟盒、三五本旧书刊……它们摆放得整整齐齐规规矩矩，一看就是细心收拾过的。正是数九寒天，他竟不怕冷，又是在这样一个交通要塞，汽车声音吵得翻天，人来人往，他竟能不被打扰。他的头上没有屋顶，如果夜里下雪，就会把他覆盖住，把他染成白色的，他也从来不担心有人来抢他偷他，他真的是高枕无忧。他睡得那样安静踏实，以至令我产生幻觉，他是我们这个城市里最富有的人，也许他是把这整个繁华的城南都当成了他自家房地产。

我疑心他是蔑视我的。每当我遇见他，并出神地盯着他看，而他却从不肯瞥我一眼以至无知无觉，我都疑心他是蔑视我的。说不清楚，我就觉得他有充足的理由蔑视我，蔑视我这个房产证藏在箱子里、包里装着好几张银联卡、冬天必须有暖气夏天必须吹空调、出门还要打遮阳伞、为买一件跟花裙子相配的T恤而跑遍全城、每天吃水果的小女人。

不久前一个炎热的晌午，我几乎接近了他。我从小区的建设银行出来，小心翼翼地揣着一堆人民币。我看见他盘腿坐在人行道的林荫树下，手里拿着一只中性笔，正在膝盖上的一张白纸上写写画画。他低着头，神情专注，头顶上知了的嘶哑叫声使得晌午更加深深地陷入了寂静。我慢慢走近他，我的脚步谨慎，生怕他会忽然抬起头来，冲我大吼一声，命令我走开。距离在一点一点地缩小着，同时我把脖子伸长过去，我几乎看见那纸上的笔划了，我想也许他写得一手好字，嗯，也许他在写诗，他写的可是流浪异乡的感想？我已经离他很近了，可是我必须走得更近些才能将纸上的字看清，这时候我却停了下来，我忽然感到害羞和自卑，我快快地走开去了。

我对他做过各式各样的猜测。他是谁，叫什么名字，本来是做什么职业的，他从哪里来，要到哪里去？他选择这个城市的南部久久不肯离去的原因是什么，他有什么需要兑现的人生约定，他在等待什么人吗？是恋爱事件、政治事件，还是要案缠身，或者理想受挫，使他不得不选择了今天这样隐姓埋名背弃大众的生活方式？他肢体健康神智正常，却不去找个工作养活自己，也是由于那个隐情吧？还有，究竟是什么使他每天都活得那样自信和心安理得，以至有那么一瞬间让我在恍惚之中误以为他是艺术家在体验生活。

已经有相当长时间了，我弄不清是五年八年还是十年，总之是相当长时间了，他就在我家附近区域平静地生活着。我从来不曾同情过他，从第一次看见他，我就没有同情过他，或许从一开始我就意识到他其实比我强大，而且我越来越觉得，如果我和他之间有一个人是需要同情的，那么这个人应当是我。

我几乎天天遇见他，对他行注目礼，可他从来没有正眼瞧过我一眼。是的，他从来没有正眼瞧过这个世界上任何人一眼。这是真的，他连眼珠子都不曾转过去过。

There is a ravine that extends from the mountains into our neighborhood, and it was conveniently rebuilt to serve as a drainage channel open for mountain torrents, rain storms, and sewage flows. A bridge was built across the ravine. He is often found wandering under the bridge, where stray dogs and cats have made their home and where, I suspect, he has made his own as well. On a night last winter, however, I discovered he has a second place of residence. It happened when I was taking the bus home around nine o’clock. On an empty lot between an ATM booth and a store front near the university entrance that faces the bus stop across the street, I saw him lying there asleep, about a couple of meters from the pedestrian walk. He was dressed as usual, with nothing covering his body, as if to take up as little territory on earth as possible. His face away from my view and body curled up, he had long entered dreamland, spreading his body on the ground gracefully. By the place where his head was resting were all his belongings in this world: an enamel mug, a tiny pile of folded clothes, a coil of plastic rope, two cigarette boxes, several copies of old journals…. The items were all neatly lined up, suggesting the owner’s meticulous care. It was now the coldest part of the winter, but he showed no fear of the weather; this was a busy traffic intersection, but the thundering noises of cars and people didn’t bother him. There was no roof over his head; if it were to snow at night, he would have been covered with white. Robbers and thieves didn’t concern him. He was truly “sleeping on a high pillow and free of worry.” In view of his quiet and contented sleep, I began to hallucinate that he was the richest man in this city. Perhaps he considered the entire flourishing South City his own real estate.

I have conducted all sorts of speculations about him. Who is he? What is his name? Did he have an occupation? Where did he come from? Where will he be going?

I suspect he despises me. Every time I run into him, I gaze at him with interest, but he never returns a look, as if I do not exist, which tends to confirm my suspicion. It is hard to say, but I believe he has enough reasons to despise me, this small woman-me who has her “Apartment Owner’s Certificate” hidden in a box, who has several credit cards in her purse, who enjoys heating in the winter and air conditioning in the summer, who must use a sun-shading umbrella outdoors, who will search every store in the city just to find a matching T-shirt for her colorful skirt, and who eats fruits every day.

Not long ago on a hot midday, I nearly came close to him. I was stepping out of a branch office of the Construction Bank, carefully holding a pile of RMB bills. Then I saw him sitting cross-legged on the pedestrian walk under the shade of the trees. He was writing something with a Gel Pen on a piece of white paper on his lap. His head was low and his facial expression was one of sheer focus. The hoarse chirping of the cicadas above him heightened the quiet of the noontime. I approached him slowly, taking my steps gingerly for fear he would suddenly raise his head to give me a holler and order me to go away. The distance between us was shrinking bit by bit; I stretched my neck toward him and could almost make out the strokes of writing on the paper. I thought perhaps he was a good calligrapher, or perhaps he was writing poetry. Was he writing about wandering in an alien city? I was almost on top of him, but I needed to be even closer to identify the Chinese characters. At this precise moment I stopped, for I was suddenly besieged by a sense of shame and inferiority. I left quickly.

I have conducted all sorts of speculations about him. Who is he? What is his name? Did he have an occupation? Where did he come from? Where will he be going? Why did he choose the South City and never leave? What kind of life’s promise does he need to keep? Is he waiting for somebody? What has driven him to choose a lifestyle of anonymity and abandonment? Was it for love, for politics, for frustrated ideals or for running away from criminal prosecution? He has a healthy body and an intelligent mind, but he is not looking for a job to support himself. There might be a hidden reason for this. Still, why is it that he lives every day content and confident? For a minute this question leads me into a daydreaming during which I mistake him for an artist out gathering life experience.

It has been going on for quite some time now — five, eight or ten years? I am not sure. For however long it is, he has lived peacefully in my neighborhood. I have never had the feeling of sympathy for him, not even from the very first day I saw him. Perhaps from that day on I have realized he is the stronger of us. With each passing day, I feel, if there is one between us in need of sympathy, that person should be me.

I run into him almost daily. I greet him with my eyes, but he has never given me a square look. Indeed, he has never given a square look to anybody in this world. This much is true: he has not even once turned his eyeballs sideways.