我又看见了他：他大约在四十岁上下，身材高大，骨骼匀称，一脸肃穆。他似乎喜欢夏行冬令，刚入夏时穿过一身破棉祆，现在盛夏了，他穿着的是从垃圾箱里捡来的一套厚厚的黑色呢西装，与此相配，又用同样是捡来的一簇亮闪闪米色丝绒窗帘布在脖子里挽起来，系成了一个特大号自制领带；他的鞋子已经破烂得看不出质地，不知是皮鞋布鞋还是胶鞋，鞋子很不合尺寸，脚趾全都大大咧咧地露在了外面；他的帽子呢，实在太与众不同了，用好几个盛装化肥的塑料编织袋子盘旋着扎系在一起，形成一个大大的环形，套在头顶上，帽沿厚实宽敞，很像十八世纪西方歌舞剧里王公贵族的帽子。他的头发不长不短，乱蓬蓬的，像刺猬，而胡子却不知为何剃得干干净净。

他就这样一身奇异装扮，走在城南大街上，穿过喧闹的菜市场，如同穿过无人区。他从不东张西望，对道路两旁的市井生活从未表示过兴趣。他从不打算正眼瞧这个世界一眼，他既不昂首阔步也不低眉顺眼，只是迈着匀速的步子旁若无人地走着，不卑不亢。

他总是在这个小区及其附近转悠，活动范围就是我们城南这片位于山间的市区，半径大约不超过五华里。他每天都在这城南徘徊，步态雍容。他的外表打扮貌似济公，但又没有丝毫济公的嘻皮劲头和反讽意味，我只能说，我只能说他实在是很有一些魏晋风度的。

有一天，他的胸前竟多出一朵绢花来，端端正正地别在左胸，是那种两三片绿叶衬托着的大红花，下面还有一条小飘带，用烫金字写着“新郎”或者“先进工作者”之类，具体写了什么字样，因为距离不够近，我没能看清楚。这朵从垃圾箱里淘来的大红花如此隆重地被别在胸前，他的身上终于多出了一抹亮色，竟如此鲜艳夺目，这是他的审美，很有些后现代或者黑色幽默。

经过长期观察，我发现他心智正常，绝不会是一个精神病患者，他的举止动作和表情从来没有出格的时候，从无扰乱社会秩序的迹像，他很守交通规则，他甚至很懂事，经过河上一座窄窄小桥时还会主动给老人或小狗让路。他脸上带着永远不变的沉静和温和，只是有时候略显凝重些，明显是在思索，像哲学家一样为了某个命题心事满腹。这个地地道道的无家可归的流浪者，他身上的文明和自律，还有那么一点不易察觉的书卷气，又表明他很可能是一个知识分子。

他绝不当乞丐，街上有许多卖食品的摊点店铺，他从来没有流露出过艳羡的表情，他在穷困得一无所有时仍保持着相当的自尊；他显然以捡垃圾箱里的衣食为生，但他决不是那种在城市边缘以此为职业来谋生的拾荒者，从来没见他与小区里骑三轮收购废品的人打过任何交道，他捡垃圾只为自给自足，没有丝毫屯积这些可变废为宝的东西化为财物让自己过得比现在更好的打算。

他永远没有同伙，总是孤单一人，真正是独行独坐独唱独酬还独卧，他看上去却似乎很充实，从来没有流露过烦躁不安，或产生跟任何人交流倾诉的愿望。我想他应该不是哑巴，他走在街上总能灵敏地躲开汽车和人，他的听力是好的，根据十哑九聋的说法，还根据哑巴面部普遍特征来分析判断，他都不应该是哑巴。他一定是会说话的，只是我从来没有听见他跟任何人讲过话罢了。我常常设想，如果有一天，他忽然抬起头或转过身来，望着我，张开了嘴巴，会说什么呢？

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。

I encounter him again: about forty years old, standing tall, well-balanced, and always carrying a solemn look about him. It seems he likes to dress for the wrong season. He was wearing a battered padded cotton jacket at summer’s break, and now in the mid-summer he puts on a thick and dark-colored wool dress suit that was picked up at some waste dump. To match, a bundle of cream-colored velvet curtains of the same origin is wrapped around his neck to make an extra-large makeshift tie; his shoes are so tattered that one cannot tell if they are made of cloth or rubber. On top of that, the shoes are ill-fitting and his toes carelessly parade in the open. His hat is truly one of a kind, for it is a big ring thrown together from several plastic bags intended for fertilizers; its thick and wide brim rests on his head, like the hat of an aristocrat from the scene of an eighteenth-century Western opera. His hair is about the right length but is in a tangled mess, like a porcupine; his beard, however, is shaved clean for some unknown reason.

I have concluded, based on my long-term observations, that he is normal. He could not be a mental patient because there is never a moment his actions and expressions are out of the ordinary and he has never done something to disturb the social order.

In this unusual getup he ambles the streets of the South City, through the noisy farmers’ market, as if in a no man’s land. His eyes never wonder nor show any interest in the life of the city on either side of the street. He does not take a good look at the world around him, neither does he march with his chin up or project a submissive posture. All he does is taking a measured gait and remaining in a world unto himself that is neither humble nor haughty.

He always wanders in this neighborhood and its proximity, for his range of activity is limited to this part of the South City between the mountains, with a radius of less than three miles. Every day he wanders here, graceful and poised. He dresses like Ji Gong^[1] but has nothing of Ji Gong’s mischief and satire. I must say — it just occurs to me — he has quite the demeanor of the literati in the Wei-Jin Dynasties.

One day a silk flower grew onto his chest. It was fastened upright on his left chest, the kind with big red petals set against a couple of green leaves. A little ribbon was attached below, on which “groom” or “model worker” were written in gilded Chinese characters, but I could not tell which it was because of the distance. Finally a sliver of color graced his body, with such a solemnly placed flower rescued from a garbage can. It was so bright and so eye-catching, a reminder of his aesthetics, located somewhere between postmodernism and black humor.

I have concluded, based on my long-term observations, that he is normal. He could not be a mental patient because there is never a moment his actions and expressions are out of the ordinary and he has never done anything to disturb the social order. He observes traffic rules; he is sensible enough to yield the way to seniors or puppies at the little narrow bridge over the river. His face wears a never-changing look of calm and peace, although sometimes it takes on a veneer of dignity, indicating that he is deep in his thoughts, like a philosopher consumed by certain vexing questions. As a homeless vagabond out-and-about, he demonstrates civility and self-discipline, plus an almost indiscernible air of bookishness. All signs point to him being an intellectual.

He does not beg. On the streets there are many food stands or shops, for which he never shows a craving. He remains dignified while penniless. Obviously he lives on pickings from garbage cans, but is unlike those who collect throwaways as an occupation on the margins of the city. I have never seen him dealing with vendors of recyclables riding on tricycles in the neighborhood. He gathers throwaways only for his self-consumption, harboring no intention of aiming for a better life by turning the collected waste into a fortune for the future.

He has no company. He is always by himself, walking, sitting, singing, drinking and sleeping alone. He appears very content and shows no sign of displeasure or irritation, nor desire to communicate with anybody. I don’t think he is a mute, for he is able to nimbly dodge automobiles and pedestrians, which suggests he has good hearing. According to the saying “Ten Mutes, Nine Deaf” and judging from the general facial characteristics of a mute, I believe he is not mute. He must be able to speak, although I have not heard him speak to anybody. I often wonder: if one day he suddenly lifts his head or turns around and looks at me and opens his mouth, what would he say?

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.