Zhaojing


The alarm goes off again — just like yesterday, just like the day before, just like tomorrow. Same day, again and again. Yet, in the next second, I cheer myself up: It’s a beautiful day. Even though I know — it’s just another day.

The thought of suicide has looped through my mind again and again. I turn over, shut my eyes, bury my head deep into the pillow and catch a sharp, sour-sweet scent of sweat — mixed with the lingering trace of that man's cologne from a few days ago. The smell jolts my nerves. Suddenly wide awake, I grab my phone and yank open the curtains. Another cloudy day.

This is it — this is the year I die. No, three months, three months, tops. I stare at myself in the mirror, brushing my teeth hard … I’ve had it … with what? Myself, of course. Over the years, I've tried all the classics — rooftops, cutting, sleeping pills — But every time, I chicken out. So I drink. I smoke, just to wear the body down faster. As if cirrhosis were a form of productivity. As if I could backdoor my way into the grave.

Unfortunately, I’m still alive. And as long as I’m alive, there’s this obligation to keep pretending I’m okay. I’ve saved multiple workout playlists, and on the ride to the office, I pass that same church. That same Christian church I pass every morning. Once more, I glance up, and there it is again: those four enormous blood-red characters carved into the stone: God Loves the World.

I refuse, and I cannot die as an employee. I have to quit. Except, by policy, there’s a one month notice. The thing is — I can’t do another minute. I park my bike in the bike parking lot, and my headache spikes. Just picturing their faces makes me gag a little. I press both thumbs hard into my temples … “Morning!” I say to the receptionist with a fake smile and walk straight to my desk.

“Morning!” someone calls out, it’s him. The one I’ve hated since the day he joined.

“Morning!” I beam, “You’re in early today.”

“Gotta go talk to him —” He jerks his chin toward the far corner, eyebrows twitch.

No one likes the new boss. He’d parachuted in from Copenhagen a few weeks back — quintessential middle-aged white man, all faux-liberal grace with a knife behind his back, the kind that disappears after 4 p.m. and has adopted a beagle three days into Shanghai. Dog eat dog.

“… Can you believe it? Who the hell comes up with making a silk banner for the client?”

My gut, hollow and twitching, brews up a bitter surge that shoots up my throat, I swallow it hard.

“Yeah… Been wondering that too.”

“Right? Like day one — the fifth floor? Bunch of clowns.…”

I know, I know, I’ve been here seven years longer than you. Ten whole years in this soul-sucking office. Jesus. A full decade in this necropolis!

“Yeah,” I say, eyes drifting to the monitor, “how did we end up here?”

He keeps rambling. Until, of course, Derek stands up. And then — like clockwork — he scampers over, elbows tight, with that horrible, mouthful English:“Morning, Derek! I was thinking a lot last night…!”

Fucking parasite.

After a bowl of thin-sliced beef “health bowl” — I finally feel marginally better. Truth is, I’ve been eating the exact same thing every day for the past three months: beef, pumpkin, cucumber … Ten years, I’ve mastered the fine art of flattery, tactical nodding, and well-timed yes-ma’am noises — until I clawed my way to ‘Director.’ And became, essentially, a hollowed-out object. I stare out the window. Ten years. It’ll be my ten year anniversary next week. Jesus Christ — 3,650 days, a number so unreal it feels made up, yet its weight is lodged deep in my bones. I look again at the half-finished tower in the center of the city — the construction site had gone silent years ago, the building now a rotting scar, like some moth-eaten cloth waving over Shanghai’s fog.

Before I die, I think — I have to go to Italy. The thought comes like lightning, but also like something that had been circling forever. My earliest memory is of an Italian film. I was three, lying in a cradle. The TV screen flashed with saturated colors, a green standing fan buzzed beside me, and a plate of thinly sliced watermelon sat on the tea table. Even now, I still remember that moment as a baby, glancing sideways at the TV. I can still see the scene of the main character riding his bike, speeding through the streets and alleys of Italy with his wife.

Back then, my mom was still alive. She and my grandmother watched Life is Beautiful almost every month. That went on until I was ten. Mom was addicted — completely lost herself in the film. What kind of comfort or pleasure she got from it, I never understood.

Honestly, I’m very clear-headed — maybe too clear-headed. Sometimes, I stick my head out the window and smell a certain human scent, raw and metallic. It’s not just a smell, really. It’s a complex mixture, like the love, hate, and grudges of twenty million people in this city, distilled into one pure, foul stench. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and it feels like I can smell those emotions themselves. These toxic, tangled feelings help me purge. For five years now, every so often I have to make myself vomit — sometimes every five days, sometimes every five hours. It’s become a ritual, the bile bubbles up and spills from my mouth, splattering against the pristine white walls of the toilet…

Another late night. A few people are yelling in the conference room across the hall. I squint, peering through my lashes, and their blurry shadows grow larger, their voices louder. I feel my skull starting to tremble, my hands clench involuntarily, my long nails digging into my flesh. By the time I notice, there are five deep red marks pressed into my skin, almost like smiling faces.

Seven o’clock, eight, ten, one, I survived another day.

When I’m utterly exhausted, an intense emptiness briefly stirs up desire. Sometimes it lasts only seconds, sometimes all night. I don’t have a steady partner — I’m a person ready to die. Sometimes I wish I were gay, it's simpler for them to satisfy desire. Being a woman means having to talk to the other person, pretend to be a lady when all I want is just to get it over with.

But tonight, I don’t have the strength to see anyone. At home, the living room reeks. Late spring heat is unbearable, the trash bin still holds last night’s leftover grilled fish, now breeding fruit flies. I tie up the garbage bag and leave it by the door. Open the window to air out, rinse a little, then flop onto the sofa. My stomach’s empty again, my lower belly hollows deeply. This position makes hunger worse.

Order takeout. Buy the plane ticket. Yes, get everything scheduled. After Italy, I can finally die without regrets. I have to go to Italy at least once in this life. Why didn’t I before? Before the pandemic, I had so many chances — even a two-month sabbatical I wasted doing nothing. But it’s not too late. Squinting, I order another grilled fish, and click open the flight app — July or August? July, definitely July. Europe in July must look just like Life is Beautiful. Screw resigning. If worse comes to worst, I’ll just walk out for good. I think about it with a flicker of hatred.

Done. Next step, visa. One thing at a time, one document after another, until I’ve ended myself. A long-lost sense of satisfaction washes over me like pink waves under a blazing sunset. I exhale deeply.

In this pitch-black apartment, if I sniff hard enough, I can still catch the fish’s rotten smell from last night. I hold my breath, then breathe it in deeply. I curl up hugging my knees, breathe out — breathe in — until even my body’s cracks start to emit a stench. Until a faint knock wakes me.

I shuffle to the door in slippers. Of course, it’s the security guard again.

“Ms. Li, um… it’d be better if the garbage could be taken out on time from now on…”

“Of course, of course.” No surprise, it’s the couple next door again.

Groggy, I drop onto the sofa and check the time. Only eight o’clock. Son of a bitch. I hold my face with both hands, like I’m hungover. Suddenly, chills run through me. The window’s still wide open, papers on the desk flutter in the breeze. Maybe I’ll just disappear from today on. I close my eyes, try to sleep again, but my mind only spins faster and faster. The more I try, the less I can sleep.

I’m not going back to the office. That’s decided.

“Derek, I’m not coming in anymore. Ever.”

“Hey, Derek, I’m not coming in today.”

“Hey, Derek, I’m feeling unwell, need to take a day off.”

“Bad timing, but get some rest.” He replies.

The smell of rotten fish spreads — I can’t stand it anymore. I shoot up from the sofa, grab the two bags of dead fish, and rush downstairs. Back home, I clean up like it is a crime scene. I take two cucumbers from the fridge, wanting to cook something warm, but I just can’t muster the energy.

The pandemic has been over for a year. When the lockdown first lifted, I went with my younger brother and his new girlfriend to Xinjiang. She was unbearably tacky, complaining nonstop during the long car ride. But my brother was like possessed. One night he told me he was going to marry her.

Rome, Florence, Venice... I zoom in and out of the map of Italy, savoring every detail. After I return to Shanghai, I’ll die. Like a reminder to myself, I make the decision again. Leaning against the window, I watch the bustling crowd and can’t help but smile. Before long, the crimson sunset spread across the sky like the belly of a sea fish flipping over, hanging like a plump arc above Shanghai. Tiny, square-like clouds trembled gently in the light breeze. That strange color felt like a brewing storm. Night falls completely.

Days pass one by one. Sometimes I want to die immediately; sometimes I cheer myself on: “Go to Italy first, that’s all you have to do.” During this time, Derek adopts another beagle, the colleague with the beard starts sleeping with a guy from the fifth floor, and I find myself absentmindedly counting the floors of the unfinished building not far away: one, three, seven, ten, seventeen. So they had already built that high.

Riding my bike, the summer breeze brushes my eyelids. The heat makes my palms sweat. Thirteen days — only thirteen days until I’d be in Italy. Even the reckless scooters suddenly seem bearable.

But my phone keeps lighting up nonstop. I end up sitting on the bench downstairs calling with clients for about two hours before I can finally go home. The window is still open, and the room looks ransacked. The blinds are askew, scattered A4 papers everywhere, the tablecloth has fallen on the floor, and the leaves of the dying peacock tree are all over. A few days ago, they said Shanghai would have strong winds — I didn't care. I throw my bag down, squat to take off my shoes, then fall to the floor with a thud. Tears well up in my eyes.

If Mom were still alive, and if I told her I want to die — would she agree?

I put the papers away, sweep the leaves from the floor, straighten the tablecloth, and run the vacuum through the apartment. And now, I’m sending that guy a message. Every time he comes over, I want to tell him ahead of time: “Can you just go when it’s done?” I don’t want to talk, I don't want company. I just want to get through it. And sleep alone.

“Is this your toothbrush?” he asks.

“Yep, it’s yours.”

I always wonder how men could fall asleep so fast. Once their breathing turned into snoring, I still couldn’t close my eyes. Another night, eyes wide open until dawn. I couldn’t tell if it was the snoring or just plain insomnia. I don't often lose sleep, but two or three nights a month, no matter what, I just can’t rest. Used to dread the coming light of day. Lately, though, I’m like a dead thing — just accept, and go on.

Unconsciously, Italy has become my faith, my lifeline over these past three months. I obsess over everything Italian. In my mind, I stand under the Roman sun, walking on the massive stones of the Colosseum. I swear to myself: during those ten days there, I would never think about suicide — not once. I would indulge fully, spend all my money, and then return to Shanghai to be a true lifeless thing.

The day before departure, I got a message from my brother: “She said yes!”

“Congratulations!”



On the plane, half asleep, I watch a movie. Through a hazy blur, I look out the window — dark blue sky in the distance, a heavy golden line shimmering with changing colors. Nearby, black clouds pile like palaces, brewing a storm. I think I see stars — or maybe warning lights from other planes. I order another drink, take two sips, and completely pass out. Only when the tires screech upon landing do I wake fully.

Italy! I look around at the people beside me and try to summon excitement, but my body feels beaten and exhausted. Rome — the city of power struggles, art, and stone pines. Dragging myself out, my senses gradually come alive. Outside the airport, the driver helps with my luggage and drives along narrow, rickety roads toward the Marriott Flora Hotel.

We are about to enter the city walls. Buildings in ochre and pale pink blur past the window. Giant stone pines cast shadows on the narrow streets. The car threads through crowds and lively markets. It is early evening, and everyone’s cheeks are flushed, awaiting the night. Glancing at a corner bar, I see it packed with people spilling out onto the street. Tall glasses filled with pale gold wine sparkle, and a woman’s diamond earring catches a ray of sunlight that sear my eyes instantly. The sunset’s red light pierces ancient brick walls centuries old, burning like fire. First hour in Rome, I am intoxicated.

I completely forget about suicide.

Over two days, I wander the streets without rest, unable to get enough. Every open window draws my gaze, every passerby earns a smile. At the Pantheon, I slip on the headphones, tilt my head toward the domed sky, and picture Pentecost — tens of thousands of rose petals pouring down through the oculus like a divine rupture. Soon, I’ve covered the Colosseum, the fountains, the Roman Forum, and a blur of churches.

By the third day, with nothing pressing to do, I find myself thinking of death again.

I realize Rome won’t save me. No matter how many times I tell myself I can die after Italy, deep down I’m hoping Italy will save me — or at least do something to me. I wander up a hill with no plan, no destination. The people passing by are laughing, carefree. I trudge forward, drenched in sweat. The grass by the roadside is almost neon with green, releasing a thick, earthy scent under the sun’s weight. The pale cobblestones throw back the light. The path feels handpicked by the sun for its cruelty. There’s no shade, no escape. My skin begins to crackle. My bladder aches with a dry sting. I swipe my burning forehead with the back of my hand and watch one person after another overtake me. I’m done. I’m fucking done.

I drop down hard, knees up, head buried. What was I thinking? Coming here. Alone. Feels like I am in a play nobody comes to watch. Just me, watching myself rot. The foreignness of the place presses every old bruise — doubt, grief, confusion, a long drag of not knowing. That’s the truth of it — a trip doesn’t save anybody. Italy doesn’t save anybody.

People pass — runners, tourists. They were all fine. And I am sunk — some whirlpool dragging me under, no breath to catch, no second to surface. My mind seems hacked — brief sparks of want, and a permanent, low-burning wish to die.

No idea how long I’ve been sitting like this. Get up slow, knees aching. The sun is going down. I climb. Muscles trembling, hands useless. At the top, the road opens — the field stretches wide like a held breath. It hit me, sharp, clean, like a bird’s beak to the chest. I step forward. Rome rolls into view. That half-dead orange sun hangs on the edge of the sky like a masterstroke from a painter full of ambition, the sky bleeds color. The old gold city quivers under it. I walk the grass slowly, heavily. Even with that glory in front of me, the bitterness holds. Thick in the chest. Like the faraway clouds stacking above the mountain.

Next morning, I wake up in the hotel bed. Black seeps into the clouds. I watch the sky rip itself into a storm. Rain comes hard.

If I dig deep, I still can’t name the root of it — why I want to die. If I were to leave a note — Life is nothing more than this — Waking the same way every morning. Drawing the curtains the same way. Some days the sun shines, some days it doesn’t. Squeezing the same line of toothpaste on the brush. Washing the same face. Heading to work, doing the same jobs. Talking to the same people with different faces. Dating different men who might as well be the same man. I don’t feel older. Thirty-three, forty-three, fifty-three — just a longer list of things survived. But the marrow stays the same. Sure, there are things I love. Things I hate. But none sharp enough to cut through the cloth of it all.

Rain hammers the window, relentless. I sink into the bed, gazing out the window. The dense rain falls like the tears of saints — unceasing, relentless, never ending. I feel my whole body shrinking — every cell, every nerve contracting and collapsing. Somehow, I stand up. There’s no knife or drugs here. Calmly, I look around and pace over to the windowsill. From afar, the mellow sound of a saxophone drifts in. I can pinpoint exactly where it’s coming from — the player must be in that corner café. I noticed him there just the day before yesterday.

By afternoon, I’ve been idling in my room for four hours. Staying any longer will only lead me back to thoughts of death, sinking deeper and deeper. I sigh, stand up from the sofa, walk across the room, put on my pants, grab my room card and phone, and head down the hallway. I catch a glimpse of my dazed reflection in the elevator mirror. Holding my umbrella, dressed all in black, I wait for a taxi by the puddle-filled curb. Cars speed by, splashing water onto my calves. I get in, and the city feels like it’s plunged into eternal night. The sky shifts from black to gray, like a gloomy ink wash painting. I feel like a time traveler from the future wandering ancient ruins, watching parks with abandoned sculptures slip past like prehistoric relics. The towering stone pines stand like giants guarding Rome. As a stranger here, stories of Rome flood my mind — all vague, yet grand.

The car stops in front of the Vatican Museums. Because of the weather, there aren’t many people waiting in line. I buy my ticket and enter. Inside, tourists crowd the entrance, huddling together to avoid the rain. I borrow an audio guide and listen as I walk... Standing before the Laocoön statue, I hear the guide say it was unearthed by an Italian while digging a vineyard. As I listen, I imagine Laocoön and his two sons buried deep and unnamed for years, still writhing in agony — every muscle of Laocoön groans, beneath the creamy marble surface, I see his veins swell and contract, the rushing blood igniting his body. The piercing torment nearly breaks his control over his expression — but look at his face: it shows none of the infinite pain that wracks his body.

I turn away, wandering aimlessly through the museum. My steps take me up stairs, then down again, I’ve walked these paths several times now. My body is exhausted. I enter a narrow corridor, like descending into a cellar. The thick scent of sawdust and dust fills the air, the passage feels like a stairway connecting an ancient tomb to the present. I bend over and go down. Suddenly, without any preparation, the Sistine Chapel appears before me.

Like spotting a long-lost lover in a crowd, like stepping into a true page of history — the shock to my soul is immediate. It’s like seeing a single beam of light in a lifetime of heavy clouds. No need to explain or prove. It is solid, confident, dazzling. Once you see it, you never forget it, and the rest of your life will forever be the shadow of that light.

The ceiling rises twenty meters above me. Color and form crash against the walls like a tidal wave, and for a moment, the world goes still, and my mind falls silent. I didn't enter the Sistine Chapel from the main door, but from the side — so my first encounter begins from a strange angle. Michelangelo’s The Last Judgment is right beside me. I raise my head slowly, cautiously, as if in fear. I follow the flow of the crowd, walking past it. Goosebumps ripple up my arms. Without realizing it, I hold my breath and lower my eyes, moving toward the center of the chapel. When I look up again, over four hundred sacred or damned naked figures fall into my vision. Angels. Sinners. Christ. The agents of hell. Some terrified, others full of anticipation, solemn or intoxicated — all gaze toward Christ. Tattered cloth whips through the air toward heaven. A limp human skin is clenched in a hand. Backs twist into tight knots. Grey-green faces distort beyond recognition by fear. Hair torn. Aged faces stare directly at the saints as if pleading for something. Musicians pause mid-note. And yet—the image itself forms an endless symphony. Heaven, earth, and mankind meet the moment of judgment. Every muscle in this painting seems to tremble with the gesture of the giant at the center, even though that man has his eyes closed — serenely standing on clouds, raising his right arm…

Five hundred years later, this symphony of crime and punishment still plays on. The spiraling notes carry some to heaven, and tally up all debts to cast others into hell. I lift my head further. Directly above me is The Creation of Adam. There he is — young, muscular, lounging on green earth with a kind of easy arrogance. He extends a hand, confident, irreverent, nearly equal in stature. On the other side, God, clothed in white, surrounded by angels and a woman, reaches toward him — his gaze burning, finger outstretched to pass the spark of life to humanity’s first.

My legs go numb. I find a place by the wall and sit. In the blink of an eye, I’m surrounded by the brilliance of genius — color that feels almost violent, brushstrokes both precise and wild. It stirs something melancholy in me. Five centuries ago, Michelangelo built scaffolding here, standing like a bent bow for nearly a decade. Cursing, enduring, wiping away whole layers of fresco just to begin again.

Even imagining such exhaustion makes it hard to breathe. Nearly an hour passes. I’m still tired. Somewhere between staring at The Flood and The Last Judgment, something shifts. I notice a guard standing in the nave, managing the crowd — and for the first time, reality gently pulls me back. I can’t say if it’s the light from the clerestory window or something else, but the guard’s entire body is bathed in a pale yellow halo. I stare at him, stunned. A soft, holy light — like an angel’s hand pulling him into this room — cascades around him, forming a waterfall of warmth. Perhaps the Father’s gaze has landed on him.

I look around. Everyone else is focused on the frescoes. Haven’t they seen the light on this man? I rub my eyes. As he walks across the chapel, the glow follows. With each swing of his arm, the halo gently flickers in the heavy air.

He tries to make himself invisible, guiding the flow of people. “Don’t block the fresco. No shouting. No photos…” he moves from the front to the back, almost vanishing entirely. I even wonder — has his posture been regulated? The angle of his head, the radius of his arm’s swing, and the length of his stride?

Evening falls. It’s already six-thirty. Another hour has passed inside the Sistine. I look at the paintings, and then at him. I may not be able to read Michelangelo’s mind, but in the quiet lines of that guard’s face, I catch a glimpse of a sorrow I do not recognize.

His back curves slightly forward. The lines of his muscles and frame gently press through the black uniform. The only visible skin is on his neck and face. Even in this heavy, stuffy room with a slight chill in the air, he seems unaffected. I look at his profile the way I had studied the textures of Laocoön — the same reverent detail. His soft, dark brown hair lifts slightly in the air. His gaze is stern, yet when it meets another's eyes, it reveals a subtle, urgent kindness — his restraint shaped by this chapel itself. Every movement, every change in expression is layered with the silent logic and weight this space imposes on him.

He must be around thirty-five. Maybe younger. It’s past 7 p.m., and still, visitors pour in through both front and side doors. The sky is fully dark now. The soft light that once surrounded him has faded. Maybe I’ve simply sat here too long. Maybe he’s letting his eyes rest after scanning too many tourists. But suddenly — our eyes meet. Just for a moment. He stands no more than three steps away. In that instant, his brown eyes reflect a hint of violet. His lips move, silently.

There are so many museums in the world. So many small galleries within them. And in each, there are guards. Some watch over the Mona Lisa at the Louvre. Some stand beside Starry Night at MoMA. Some monitor the Water Lilies in Paris, or The Scream in Oslo, or The Night Watch in the Netherlands. Not just paintings — there are those guarding Rodin’s sculptures, or Laocoön. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands of security guards protect art across the globe. Some are drowsy. Some expressionless. Some are visibly irritated. But him — only him — he truly guards it. He protects Michelangelo’s legacy with presence, not just duty. I look at him, and it feels like the most delicate violinist in the world is playing my heartstrings.

Closing time approaches. I leave tomorrow afternoon for Florence. I let myself watch him, selfishly hoping that in some moment of pause, he might glance back at me. But in the end, I walk out of the Sistine with emptiness.

From the front entrance, I look one last time at The Last Judgment — and at him, standing before it. The fresco has become his backdrop now. A living man, molded by the Sistine itself, a figure as sculpted and composed as any on the walls. He faces the rigid body of Christ and the four hundred souls ascending or descending, with a quiet melancholy. It’s as if he, too, is undergoing judgment. I stare at him and at the fresco, devastated — and yet, oddly fulfilled.

The rain has stopped. On my walk back to the hotel, the streets echo with laughter and voices. My stomach growls. I duck into a sushi bar. Warm miso slides down my throat. My nerves begin to unwind. The rice, laced with vinegar, releases its fragrance as my teeth press it down. The fibers of the fish pull apart gently between my molars. And in the back of my eyes, the scene from earlier still flickers.

I can’t tell — was I trying to use him to get closer to Michelangelo’s paintings? Or was I trying to use the paintings to see him more clearly? Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. Just images. I walk back out into the night.

Rome after the rain carries the scent of earth. Drunks stagger through the broken cobblestone alleys, loud and restless. The street lamps are sparse and yellow. I walk without a map, passing alley after alley that look the same. In every shop window, little statues of Jesus rest on lace curtains. I stop in front of a glass-paneled store, stare in. The shelves crowd with replicas of Rome’s greatness — Colosseum, Pantheon, Trevi Fountain, Pietà, The Last Judgment, David and Goliath, Apollo and Daphne, The Rape of Proserpina. A thin beam of moonlight breaks through the clouds and lands on a small wooden plaque by the door: The Last Judgment.

I stare at it, not sure if I’m looking at Christ, or at him. His face is already fading in my memory, but somehow, he is the only soul in this city — no, in this whole world — who feels connected to me. I remember the way he looked at me. Not like those slick, grinning men on the streets of Rome. He belongs to this place. A Roman, in the ancient sense.

He understands respect, sacrifice, and the meanings buried in civilization. That’s why his eyes rest on each visitor to The Last Judgment with such careful gravity. Suddenly, my mind swells with stories — Death in Venice, Lolita, Ophelia, The Temple of the Golden Pavilion — every story where someone breaks on the altar of an idea. We don’t fall in love with people. We fall in love with images — our illusions, our suffering, the grand self we become when we wait and ache. My pulse jumps. I know it now. That man, that stranger, has already become the image of my rest life.

I wander through his city, the civilization that shaped him. I walk beneath stone pines into a park. A marble nude woman stands in a dead fountain. I sit on a bench. The city lights blur behind the trees like mist, like the reflection of gods in water. From the day I first formed thought, fate has planted a Roman seed in me. This meeting was inevitable. So was the Sistine. So was he.

I keep walking. Cross the shadows of Castel Sant'Angelo. In summer, it breathes a dark chill. The emperor Hadrian lies buried inside. The place has been a fortress, prison, barracks, papal palace, now a ruin polished for tourists. I walk cross the Ponte Sant’Angelo. Bernini’s angels gleam in weak light. At the bridgehead, a tired violinist leans against a column. His right hand trembles as it drags the bow. The music swells. Rome folds into a dream. I lean on another column. Below, the Tiber ripples with moonlight. A tour boat slides past, slow and soundless.

It’s nearly eleven. I drag myself toward the hotel, past Piazza Navona, and the Fountain of the Four Rivers stands in silence. Fifteen hours left in Rome. Then I leave. No second visit. No return. I turn back, heading toward that familiar café at the street corner.

Three tourists sit outside the café. I slip into a corner seat inside, just as I expected — he’s here, the man with the saxophone from this afternoon. I order a Borghetti, watch him talk with the bloated-bellied owner at a high table. One drink in, nothing. No warmth, no spin. I order another. Slouch back into the green leather sofa. Then the door opens. A man walks in — tall, lean, wearing a pale gray shirt and a black flat cap. Even with the cap low, I know it’s him — the man from the Sistine Chapel!

He walks straight to the saxophone player, hand on the man’s shoulder. The other turns and laughs as he exchanges a few words with him. The owner goes behind the counter to fix him a drink. My stomach heaves. Two drinks in and the acid rises. I gulp it down with spit and air, hold on.

He takes off the cap, hair springs up light and soft under his fingers. I shift, unsettled, caught between staying and fleeing. I pick up the menu, through a distorted angle, I catch a glimpse of his profile, his brows instinctively furrow slightly as he listens to the owner speak. This seems to be his habitual way of showing concern. After a while, the owner says something to the saxophonist, and he laughs again, though his lips remain tightly pressed.

Two regulars walk in, a man and a woman. The owner greets them, and their eyes scan the room as they sit on the high stools. At that moment, he sees me and he seems to pause briefly. Amid the sudden noise from the regulars, the owner suddenly calls out his name: “Matteo —”

He stands up and walks toward them. It’s as if a holy light returns to his side. I feel like I’m hallucinating — a gentle pressure like a tide rushes over me, my heart pounding like a drum. He passes by me. Though a stranger, he feels so familiar, so intimate — I even sense that I am the person closest to him in the world. The saxophonist moves toward the corner stage. The music starts — like the winding Tiber River at night, water quietly flowing into my ears, a lazy melody evaporating on my skin, leaving a tingling warmth.

I watch his back and close my eyes. Time seems to freeze at this moment — no history, no future, no masterpieces, no ordinary people, no good or evil, no pain or joy — only the music flowing from the curve of that instrument. I vaguely look toward him as he returns to the high table. He rests his arm on it, breathes softly, supporting his back. Through his thin gray shirt, I feel like I can see his spine.

Driven by an inexplicable impulse, I stand up. The drunkenness hits me hard. In a daze, I hesitate — should I walk toward him, or leave this nameless café? That moment of hesitation is like weighing life and death. My vision blacks out. I clutch the table corner, my legs give way, and I slump onto the stool. I look utterly miserable. That familiar feeling rises again. Trembling, I stand, lean on the wall, and walk to the restroom. Holding the toilet, I vomit everything I ate today. Tears fill my eyes, filth clings to my mouth. The tiny restroom spins around me. I squat, close the toilet lid, summon all my strength to flush away the vomit. Someone knocks on the door. I slowly stand, compose myself, and walk out. The saxophonist still plays with abandon. The moment I leave, the café is suddenly packed. I glance at the Sistine man — he’s listening to the music with ease and comfort. As I pass, he turns his head. Those brownish-purple eyes look at me. My mind goes blank, my throat tightens, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.

They say there are only three moments in life worth remembering. In such moments, there is no deep meaning, no religious blessing, no miracle, not even love itself. If a camera were to capture me right then, maybe it would catch a flicker in my eyes — a feeling untouched by time.

I sit down, and everything returns to its usual rhythm. I glance sideways at Matteo and the two regulars chatting with the boss. They don’t seem local. I strain to catch their words but only catch fragments — “Champions League,” “Mbappé,” “AC Milan” — these dull words float in the air. Time drifts by, the crowd thins. I sense my presence grows more obvious, their voices sharpen and clarify. The talk shifts from football and coffee to religion.

The light dims slowly. His thick lashes cast moving shadows over his face — “Michelangelo,” laced with his Italian accent, slipped from his lips with an unexpected charm. I lean back on the sofa and check the time. It’s late, almost one.

The music flows on. Matteo speaks half-heartedly about The Last Judgment, his voice gentle, hesitant. The newlyweds from America (somewhere in their chat just now, I vaguely heard the word “honeymoon.”) listen with eager, untrained eyes. I can’t quite catch Matteo’s words. Sitting across would be too conspicuous. Still, I want to know what he thinks of the fresco.

The boss waves from their table, teasing me in that typical Italian manner. I order two more bottles of Borghetti. He shakes his head with a rosy blush — “Miss, miss, you’ve had ten drinks already tonight. Don’t get drunk!” I say it’s fine. Pour it on.

As the alcohol warms me, I slip quietly to the front seat. Two more guests leave. Now only me, Matteo’s table, and three other tables remain.

“… Rome won’t last forever. I mean… maybe another hundred, a thousand years, but not forever.” His glass empties. Perhaps the drink loosens his tongue. He speaks more now but keeps the same gentle seriousness. “No one can avoid falling in love with Rome. Like New York today, Rome is a giant spectacle, a city-sized museum. It’s so obvious it sometimes bewilders me… Yes, you’re right — the crystallization of mankind. But on the scale of eternity — what does humanity amount to against time?”

“I’m not a nihilist, but sometimes I’m gripped by such thoughts. Yet, the moment I enter the Sistine, I slip into a different state. Sistine doesn’t allow distraction. Oh… yes, the working hours are long.”

“Yes,” Matteo says, looking at the woman angled beside him. “It’s a city where beauty, power, and history congeal to the utmost. But that’s also its curse. It’s too heavy, too unreal. Life can’t bear that weight. So blood stains this land again and again… Yes, I’m a Christian. You must be to work in the Sistine,” he smiles faintly, almost bitterly. “I believe all this. Simple as that. No logic. I just believe. What did you say? There’s always a source... maybe it’s the environment we grow up in. Though I’ve thought it through,” he hesitates, “maybe not just that.”

“It was my own choice — or rather, I set working in the Sistine as a goal to fight for — and so I got to work there… I shouldn’t say so much. Sorry. I shouldn’t have had these two drinks.” I watch his glass empty again. “I’ve never told anyone these thoughts, but since you want to hear, I’ll share a few.”

“I started in logistics, then moved to the octagonal courtyard where Laocoön stands. I’m not so interested in sculptures, though we have plenty here. If I’m not mistaken, I spent three years in that courtyard, and because of the layout of the space, not many can enter at once. Sometimes, I could sneak a break. Slacking off turns into a habit. Day by day, I grow tired, lose my drive. Because in my heart, I was still thinking of the Sistine…”

“We don’t marvel at those works foreigners care about — not me or my friends, anyway. Be it Laocoön, the Colosseum, or famous parks, they’re just places we passed after school. Some of my friends come from Caravaggio’s distant kin, others branch off from Bernini or Titian. So those frescoes, sculptures, paintings, and buildings — they stand bare and raw to me. They exist simply as existence itself. I don’t see Bernini’s statues with special eyes, nor do I brand the works with empty labels because of the weight of history.”

“But even now, I still remember the moment I saw The Last Judgment.” Matteo lowers his head. I could tell his long-practiced restraint fought to hold back any emotion. His head slowly tilted. “I was seven then. Before that, I had been to the Vatican Museum twice, but for various reasons never entered the Sistine Chapel. That time, I followed my sister inside the church. No exaggeration — in an instant, I committed to that place. People can’t really explain why they become fascinated by a person, a thing, or a moment. That ‘commitment’ is like suddenly spotting someone in a crowd and deciding you want to spend your life with them... Me? No, I’m not married.” Matteo laughs, but quickly returns to seriousness.

“That day was unbearably hot — yes, hotter than today. The whole city felt like it was roasting on a steamer rack. The streets were packed, and the church was full too. The ac hadn’t been upgraded yet. Inside, sweat poured down everyone’s backs, a sour musk filling the whole place. People jostled me, stepped on my feet by accident — it was chaotic. But I was mesmerized, staring fixedly at that wall.”

“I kept my head tilted back, watching that wall. At that time, I didn’t understand what The Last Judgment was, didn’t know fresco techniques, didn’t know Michelangelo. The seven-year-old me wasn’t a mere spectator, I was swept up,” he traced circles around the rim of his glass without realizing it, “like a whirlpool — that fresco swallowed me whole.”

“The next day, my neck was seriously sore.” This was his first joke, if it counts as a joke.

“What did I see?” His voice dropped. “... I saw everything. If you ask me seriously, I think I saw all things in the universe — and they were staring back at me.”

“Yes, even today it’s the same. Every time I look back at that fresco, I still feel that moment of transcendence, that dizziness. Every morning, I spend five minutes alone in the Sistine. No tourists, no guides, no footsteps, no noise, no sneaky people trying to snap pictures. Just me and it. A fresco that belongs neither to the past nor the future. What do I mean? To me, it’s the present. It’s alive. Hmm... how to explain... In front of it, I have no memories, no expectations — the concept of time disappears. Every moment looking at it, I feel myself as an eternity, staring into another eternity — like two stones in the desert.” The two people sitting across from him have begun to look restless, their eyes drifting away, uninterested in his sincerity, they grow bored.

“... Like I said, Rome is not an eternal city. That’s how I see it — nothing is eternal. Only complete mindful awareness — those moments are eternal.”

“My favorite character?” He tries to hide a mocking smile but couldn’t quite suppress it. “I don’t have a favorite character.”

“Michelangelo? I don’t have much to say about him. I don’t study him.” He purses his lips politely. From his expression, I could tell he slightly regrets having said so much.

“I don’t feel like I’m talking to him. When I look at The Last Judgment, I’m not thinking about him at all.”

“You study art history? Then you probably know more than I do,” he smiled at the woman sitting diagonally opposite him. “Bernini... sorry, I don’t know much about him either. Contemporary art, postmodernism, Dadaism... all foreign to me. Sorry about that. Oh! I’m not an existentialist, not any kind of ‘-ist.’ You work in a gallery? No wonder you picked Rome for your honeymoon... Yes, that area has lots of great pasta places. Any fun spots in the suburbs? Let me think... good photo spots? You have to go to Castelli Romani — it’s dreamy, lakeside, mountainside. Yes, I’m a Roman.”

Their conversation continues. Only the three of us remain in the shop, along with a couple who have just arrived. When I finish my last sip, Matteo suddenly stands up, says a few words to the owner across the counter, greets the saxophonist, says goodbye to the American couple, and steps out.

I sit there, stunned. By some strange impulse, I find the owner to pay my bill. As I walk out, Matteo has gone. The evening breeze hits me; a sharp headache pulses through my skull, his name repeating in my mind — Matteo, Matteo — and I think to myself, just let it be.

I wander aimlessly down the street and unexpectedly come across the disheveled violinist I’d seen earlier. He has moved to a different spot, playing at a street corner. I stop not far away. The music slowly unravels all of Rome, until in my mind only the name Matteo remains. I stare blankly, then without thinking, step forward and slip two bills into the violin case.

The summer night breeze drifts through buildings, trees, and statues, brushing against my chilled forehead. I wander down familiar alleys, while dimly lit shops cast the silhouettes of Jesus and saints on their windows. I know I should return to the hotel, but all I want is to keep wandering endlessly through the streets of Rome — at this moment, the three million inhabitants of this vast city have quieted, their sweat slowly evaporating into the air, as if strolling through a fevered dream — everywhere shimmering with moonlight’s reflection. Behind pale golden walls, occasional ceilings of residential homes reveal colorful frescoes. Occasionally, a lone night runner passes by me, by the roadside, an old, dirty homeless man with moist eyes stretches out his hand in a gesture like Adam’s, begging his gods for the spark of life.

Unconsciously, I find myself once again walking toward the Sistine. Matteo... Matteo... Gradually, an image takes shape in my mind — The Last Judgment stands like a monolithic stone at the gates of hell, and he sits in its shadow, calmly, as if part of the stone itself.

Arriving at the Ponte Sant'Angelo, I look up at the angels’ wings. The bronze figures seem to defy gravity, breaking free from their bases to soar upward. Marble in my imagination ripples and trembles. Ahead, under the moonlight, a vast forest silently watches, trees standing quietly in silver light, their branches intertwined like a woven dome... Almost at the Sistine, I pause and turn toward the forest. According to the map, deep in that vast forest is a blue pond — my destination for this walk.

The forest at dawn sends shivers down my spine — silent all around. Pine branches stretch into the night like the claws of demons from sacred paintings, tangled and blocking the hidden path. Mist curls around my ankles, and the ground’s chill slithers like a snake slowly creeping up my pant legs. Occasionally, a broken stone sculpture reveals a face under the moonlight — pale and gray, as if just risen from the earth, staring steadily at me. The deeper I walk into the woods, the quieter it becomes — as if I am the only living soul left in the world.

In this profound silence, fragments of memory surface, vague and blurry — even events from days before departure fade from my mind. I must be ill, no one can save me. Neither Rome, nor the Last Judgment, nor Matteo can save me... I recall his words: no past, no future, only complete mindful awareness to the present moment. But how hard it is to achieve this… But, the world treats everyone the same, if others can endure it, why can’t I? I try to find the root of the problem, but the deeper I explore, the more tangled it becomes — and beneath those tangled roots, a pitch-black haze looms.

Turning a corner, suddenly the scene brightens — I arrive. The Temple of Asclepius stands by the lake, and the inconspicuous blue spot on the map is, in fact, a vast lake. Moonlight spills over the pale golden colonnade, even the carved eaves are clearly visible. The water is perfectly still, reflecting the small temple’s image. Ripples spread gently, as if the god is stirring in a dream. Shadows of trees mottle the shore. A few night birds fly over the lake and vanish into darkness. The night is as black as ink, yet here is light.

I sit on a bench by the lake, the moonlight is occasionally veiled by clouds, revealing only a crescent of light. I stare in a daze — it is beautiful beyond words. If I live here, no — if I were born in Rome like Matteo, would I still want to die? His words echo in my heart: “Like two eternities gazing at each other.”

I can’t help but recall moments of gaze in my life. Until today, I seem never to have truly looked at anyone. But unforgettable moments — watching seagulls in Hainan, ancient temples in Shanxi, sunsets in Hawaii, and rocks in Huntington Garden, Los Angeles — none amount to a “gaze.” They are merely fleeting, memorable moments.

Does he really think of nothing during those five minutes he spends daily alone with The Last Judgment? I ponder, though my head aches violently, as the thirteen drinks I’ve downed seem to have completely replaced the blood in my veins. Isn’t he curious about the stories of the hundreds of figures in the fresco? About Michelangelo’s four years of hardship? About the meaning of sin and punishment? Does the word “meaning” never briefly flash through his mind?

Exhausted, I long to lie down and die on this bench. The last shards of reason lead my feet out of the Borghese Park. I hail a taxi by the roadside, wind slips through the window cracks. I’ve already forgotten how I got into the elevator, how I washed my face, and how I climbed into bed.

When I wake, the weather is fine — midsummer sunlight floods the bed, too bright to open my eyes. I barely turn over, realizing I didn’t even take off my shoes before lying down. The headache hits again — another day, another good day, I murmur as I stand.

Matteo. The moment my mind clears, his name appears again before my eyes. I close them, sitting blankly on the edge of the bed. In the dark depths of my eyes, I see him propping his chin, restrained yet passionate, describing the Sistine — “like a whirlpool — that fresco swallowed me whole.”

Like a walking corpse, I pack my luggage, dizzy and weak. I drag my suitcase to the lobby, store them, step outside, and call a car straight to the Sistine Chapel.

My whole body heats up, the temperature nearly hits forty degrees. This weather must be just like when he first saw The Last Judgment at seven years old, I whisper. The driver glances back often, wanting to ask if I’m okay but unable to utter a single word in English.

We arrive. I stand at the entrance queue, blinding sunlight stabbing my eyes. Black spots and dense crowds overlap before me. I lean on the stone wall beside the line, almost swaying. The pizza shop across the street sends out the scent of cheese, but it can’t mask the sour smell of men’s sweat. I manage to sit on the slanted stone wall, my backside rubbed raw. The line inches forward. Sweat drenches my forehead, yet it feels icy cold. Occasionally, sunburnt Gypsy vendors come by selling cold water. I can’t resist and gulp down two large bottles, finally feeling a little revived.

At last, it’s my turn. After buying my ticket, I fix my burning gaze on the corridor ahead. Like an assassin on a mission, I stride toward my destination. It’s only 10:30 in the morning, yet the museum is already packed shoulder to shoulder — year after year, day after day, people from all over the world, from different times and places come to the Vatican, through education, propaganda, and religion to enter this massive museum. They stare at Apollo, The School of Athens, The Creation of Adam, and The Last Judgment with awe, then flick their sleeves and leave, as if the praise they faintly whisper seconds ago was nothing but unconscious perfunctory noise. Some pretend to be devout, lingering long before the icons, but leave without a backward glance. Others feign knowledge, telling their companions Michelangelo's past and anecdotes, throwing around buzzwords picked up from social media like they know it all but really just focused on how they'll get intimate tonight.

I almost run down the narrow path like descending into a tomb. Before entering, I take a deep breath. Like yesterday, The Last Judgment seizes my heart again. I feel a tearing pain in my chest — the unbearable sensation surges like a tidal wave, about to shatter me.

One more glance, and I see Matteo standing in the crowd, just like yesterday. He is serious — almost obsessively so. I don’t know how he sees his role: butler? Guardian? Or something else... I can’t help but walk toward him. The crowd grows dense, leaving almost no space to stand. He earnestly, softly tells everyone not to take photos, not to block others’ views, not to talk loudly.

I inch forward toward him, repeating in my heart, Matteo, Matteo... but I feel like I can’t breathe. People press in from all sides. In front of me, Matteo’s face overlaps with The Last Judgment. From my angle, his eyes align with Jesus’ drooping left eye... Everything else around me fades into black, until I see Matteo part the crowd and stride toward me. His brownish-purple eyes fixate on me — “Ma’am, are you alright? Ma’am?” he asks urgently. But I simply go limp, collapsing into his arms. Matteo — my lips move silently. He speaks anxiously to the crowd while I gaze into his eyes. Those eyes have seen the whole world, the entire universe, all of time and space. He’s witnessed realms beyond reality. And now, in this moment, I seem to be looking through his eyes, gazing into that one eternal.

The Rome I saw at three years old begins to crumble inside my mind. All the meanings of the past shatter at this instant — life, work, metaphysics, religion and state, capital and news, savings and food, the beautiful and the filthy— everything sheds its outer layers, leaving only the essence— this moment, one eternity gazing at another eternity.






Maybe you wonder why, at thirty-three years old, I still yearn for something from a single moment of stirring. It’s because I know I want to live, yet the thought of dying, like the sword of Damocles, constantly threatens my life. You must have moments like these too, don’t you? In fact, maybe these moments are the main theme of life.

I wake up lying in a hospital bed, no one beside me. Outside the window, Rome’s brilliant crimson sunset glows. I turn over, but the needle in my hand pricks me sharply. Carefully, I sit up and stare out. How many people walk under this dark blue summer night sky? How many enter that café to listen to the soulful saxophone? How many approach the Temple of Asclepius? How many have spoken Caesar’s name today? How many die at this moment? How many are born in this hospital? How many, after empty lovemaking, can’t help but want to jump out the window? How many seek meaning in the endless judgment of time?

Half an hour later, the doctor walks in and tells me I fainted because of hypoglycemia and a brief lack of oxygen. It’s not serious, no need to worry. I thank him, rest a while, then cancel the rest of my trip and buy a ticket back to Shanghai early next morning.






Back in Shanghai, life goes on as usual. For the first month, I often think of Matteo and The Last Judgment. I recall every word he said, every gesture, every expression, carefully reviewing and recording them all to avoid forgetting someday. I set The Last Judgment as my computer wallpaper, often zoning out, thinking about the “eternity” he spoke of.

Gradually, three months pass. I almost forgot his face. Out of fear, I changed my desktop wallpaper. Whenever anyone mentions Italy, I shudder. I avoid all Italian movies or anything related to Italy — which is to say, I avoid nearly a third of the best films in cinematic history.

Days pass as usual, and before I realize it, I’m thirty-seven. Derek, my boss, transferred back to Copenhagen. The bearded colleague got fired after a serious dispute with a client, and the colleague in the fifth floor he’s been sleeping with is also laid off. No one stood up for them. The people who usually laugh and joke suddenly became like rats in the gutter — scurrying quietly whenever such incidents occur.

Next month, I will be promoted to Derek’s position. What difference is there between me now and when I started fifteen years ago? Honestly, none. At twenty-two, I had more courage. Fifteen years only brought a bit more restraint and sharper tongue.

Now, I’ve completely forgotten Matteo’s face, but sometimes I still search online for The Last Judgment. A few days ago, my brother and his wife said they’re going to Rome for their second anniversary and asked if I wanted to join. I said I’m busy with work and can’t make it. Returning home alone, the men I once dated have drifted away. Occasionally, to escape loneliness, I consider IVF, but such thoughts never last long.

It’s been a long time since I thought of Matteo. But three days ago, news of the Pope’s death spread worldwide. When I heard my colleagues mention it in a meeting room, a shock ran through me. The pope is a total stranger, yet the news shook me deeply. Throughout the meeting, I was distracted, trying to hide my nervousness, but I couldn't help searching my phone for everything about Pope Francis.

Matteo — what is he doing now? Will the Pope’s death affect his work? How does he view the Pope, Catholicism, and everything related? Is he married? Is he still at the Sistine?

I stare out the office window at the dark, unfinished building — a rotten black insect standing in the city center. I grab my phone, leave my seat, exit the elevator, and walk toward the building. The sky darkens. Though the downtown crowd flows in waves, no one glances at the building. I leap over the half-collapsed fence and climb inside the construction site. The concrete stairs are done. I look around — no one nearby. Step by step, I climb higher: third floor, seventh, twelfth, seventeenth... The higher I go, the less concrete remains. Rusted rebar shows through, dark brown.

The wind howls, a typhoon is coming. Alone, I stand on the bare rooftop. The building trembles beneath my feet. I sense it swaying. From the stairwell, I gaze out at Lujiazui. Step by step, I approach the edge and sit down. The sunset reflects on tens of thousands of glass panes like shimmering fish scales. Everything is raw and naked — existing just as it is.

I squint slightly, light flickers on my lashes, then — Matteo’s face emerges from this moment’s brilliance. No, forget his name, forget The Last Judgment, forget the Sistine, forget Rome, forget his eyes…

The wind grows stronger. I press my hands against the cold concrete edge; my fingertips go numb. Shanghai shivers in the wind, the buildings seem to gasp quietly. I open my eyes, watch the crowd below — to die or to live? I stand up, and deep inside, for the last time, this question rises again.


—

兆京


闹钟又响了，就像昨天，就像前天，就像明天。又是一天，一模一样的一天，可下一秒，我给自己强装振奋地打气 —— 是美好的一天。明明知道，这不过又是一天。

自杀这个念头，在脑海里已经过了一遍又一遍，刚起床，又来了。把头深深埋进枕头里，我闻到一股又香又酸的汗味，夹杂着前两天那个男人的香水味，被这味道刺激了神经，我突然清醒过来，拿起手机，唰一下拉开了窗帘，又是一个阴天。

打定主意了，今年必须要死，不，三个月内，我必须要死，我已经受够了，边用力刷牙，边看着镜子里的自己 …… 受够了，受够了什么？ …… 自己，当然是自己。这么多年，我想过多种办法，跳楼，放血，安眠药，可什么都没胆做。我酗酒，抽烟，只为了加快死的进度。

可惜，我还活着，只要活着，就得让自己振奋起来。我收藏了好几个健身歌单，在骑车去公司的路上，我听着。又一次路过了那座基督教堂，再次瞥见那大大的，刻在墙壁上的殷红色的四个字：神爱世人。

不能死在公司，不能作为一个公司员工死掉，必须得离职，可按规矩，提完离职还得再干一个月。我一分钟都干不下去了！停好自行车，头痛更甚，光是想到那些人的脸，就想呕吐，我使劲地揉着太阳穴 —— “早上好！”我跟前台假笑着打了个招呼，径直走向自己的办公桌。

“嗨！早啊！”一个人向我打招呼，我从他入职第一天就讨厌他。

“早呀，”我满脸笑意，“怎么今天这么早呢？”

“要跟他开会 —— ”他往角落里使了个眼色，挤眉弄眼了一下。

没人喜欢这个新老板，几周前，他从哥本哈根空降来上海，典型的中年白人男性，佯装大度，实则刻薄，四点后就不见踪影，刚到上海不久就“领养”了一条比格犬。狗咬狗。

“ …… 真好笑，他们怎么能想到做锦旗送给客户啊？”

我感到空荡荡的胃里泛起一股酸水，直冲喉咙口，像是硫酸浇在喉管里，我使劲咽了下去。

“是啊，我也纳闷呢。”

“对啊！我第一天来就发现了，5 楼的那帮人全是蠢货 ……”

我知道！我比你早来七年！在这间令人作呕的办公室里，我已经呆了足足十年，天呐，我竟在这如同墓地，坟冢一般的鬼地方待了十年。

“对啊，怎么会这样呢？”边说着，我把视线移到电脑上。他还在说，直到老板起身，他又突然朝着老板走了过去，用他蹩脚的英文说 —— “早啊，德里克，我昨晚想了很多 ……！”

该死的东西。

吃了一碗牛肉片健康碗，终于好点了。不瞒你说，我这三个月，每天吃的都一样，牛肉片，南瓜，黄瓜 …… 十年间，我兢兢业业，学会阿谀奉承，左右逢源，终于做到了总监的位置，也终于变成了一个死物般的东西。我望向窗外，十年 …… 下周就满十年了，啊 —— 我长长地叹出一口气，已经 3650 天了啊，像是一个虚假的数字，沉沉地积在我的身体里。我望着那栋建了一半的大楼，十年了，从前热火朝天的工地已经变成了烂尾楼，如一块打了补丁的旧衣飘摇在上海的半空中。

在去死之前，总得去趟意大利吧？这个念头来得突然，却是有迹可循的。我人生的最初记忆，就是一部意大利电影。那时我只有三岁，躺在摇篮里，电视屏幕上饱和的色彩不停地闪着，身旁还有一架绿色的立式电风扇嗡嗡地吹，一碟切得薄薄的西瓜放在茶几上。直到此时此刻，我还记得那个我作为婴儿，侧眼看着电视的样子，仍然记得男主角骑着自行车，带着他妻子飞驰在意大利的大街小巷的场景。

那时，妈妈还没死，她和外婆几乎每个月都要看一次《美丽人生》，这样的频率，一直持续到了我十岁。妈妈像上了瘾一般，无法自拔地陷在《美丽人生》之中，到底妈妈从《美丽人生》中获得了怎样的快感和欣慰，我不得而知。

其实，我很清醒，或许是我太清醒了，有时候，我把头探出窗外，闻到一股人味，又生又腥，这股味道不单纯，可以说，这不仅仅是一股味道，而是一个混合物，将这座城市里两千万人的爱恨情仇，以一股纯粹的臭气呈现。我闭上眼，深呼吸，我似乎能闻到这些情感，而这些纷杂有毒的情感，能帮我催吐。五年了，每隔一阵子，我就要催吐，有时候隔五天，有时候五小时，这成为了我的一个仪式，呕吐物从嘴里汩汩流出，溅在马桶光溜溜的白壁上 ……

看样子又要加班了。几个人正在对面的会议室里吵架，我眯上眼，透过睫毛的缝隙，这几个人的虚影渐渐变大，声音越来越响，我感觉头盖骨似乎在震颤，手不自觉地捏紧了，长长的指甲嵌进肉里，我注意到的时候，已经深深地印出了五个如同笑脸一样的红印。

七点，八点，十点，一点，又熬过了一天。

在极度疲惫的时候，强烈的空虚会短暂地唤起性欲，有时不过几秒，有时会持续一整夜。我没有固定的性伴侣，我是要死的人。有时候，我希望我是同性恋，男同性恋，男同性恋解决性欲简单多了，不管怎么样，作为女人，还是得跟对面的人聊上几句，佯装淑女，可实际上，我只想解决而已，就这么简单。

可今夜，我实在没力气见人。到家后，客厅里一股恶臭来，晚春的天气已经无比燥热，垃圾桶里，昨夜吃剩下的烤鱼已经孕育了几只果蝇。我将垃圾袋扎起来，放到了门口。开窗通风，随意冲洗了一下，直直地在沙发上瘫倒了下来。肚子又是空空如也，小腹深深地陷下去，这个姿势，让人倍感饥饿。

点一个外卖，再把机票买了，没错，一切都要提上日程，去完意大利，我就可以心无挂碍地去死。这辈子必须要去一次意大利，为什么从前没去呢？明明疫情前有那么多机会，我甚至有过一个两个月的长假，却浪费在无所事事上。没事，还来得及。眯缝着眼，我又点了一只烤鱼，打开机票软件，七月，还是八月？七月吧，欧洲的七月，一定和《美丽人生》里的样子一模一样。管不上离职了，大不了一走了之，我有点发恨地这么想到。

定了，接下来就是签证，一件件事做下去，一个个文件处理好，直到把自己杀掉。一种长久未有的满足感如璀璨落日下的粉色海浪向心头袭来，我长长舒出一口气。

黑漆漆的房子里，用力闻，还能闻到昨晚那只烤鱼的腥臭味，我屏住呼吸，又大口吸入这样的气体，我抱住自己的膝盖，呼 —— 吸 ——， 直到，我身体的缝隙也开始释出臭气，直到，我被一阵微弱的敲门声叫醒。

我趿拉着拖鞋走到门口，果然，又是保安。

“李小姐，那个 …… 以后垃圾最好能及时扔掉 ……”

“当然，当然。”不用说，又是隔壁的那对夫妻。

睡眼惺忪，我在沙发上一屁股坐下来，一看时间，不过八点。天杀的东西。我双手撑着脸，像宿醉一般，身上突然打起了冷颤，窗还大开着，桌上的文件都被吹乱了。要不从今天起就消失吧？我闭上眼，试图再次睡过去，却越想越乱，越乱越睡不着。不去公司了！就这么决定了。

“德里克，我不来了，以后都不会来了。”

“嗨，德里克，我今天不来了。”

“嗨，德里克，我感觉不太舒服，需要请假一天。”

“真不是时候，不过，好好休息吧。”他说。




臭鱼的味道弥漫开来，受不了了。我弹射般地坐起来，拎起两袋死鱼往楼下冲。回到家中，像清理犯罪现场，我胡乱收拾了一下，从冰箱里取出两根黄瓜，想煮点热的东西，却提不起兴致。

疫情已经过去一年，刚解封的时候，我陪弟弟和他新交的女朋友去了趟新疆，他女朋友实在俗不可耐，长时间的坐车让她停不住地抱怨，可弟弟却像着了魔一般，在某一天夜里，他跟我说，他要娶她。

罗马，佛罗伦萨，威尼斯 …… 我津津有味地放大缩小意大利的地图，等回到上海，我就去死，像提醒我自己似的，我又跟自己下了一次决心。趴到窗口，我看着熙熙攘攘的人流，不禁微笑起来。不出多久，殷红色的晚霞像一只海鱼的肚皮翻起，如一道饱满的弧线垂挂在上海半空，一格格小如方块般的云在弱风中轻微震荡。这诡异的色彩，像是在酝酿着什么，天彻底黑了下来。




日子就这样一天天过去，有时我真想即刻死了，有时我又给自己鼓气，去完意大利吧，去完意大利就行了。这段日子里，德里克又领养了一只比格犬，那个长着络腮胡的同事和五楼的一个男人睡在了一起。我望着不远处的那栋烂尾楼，又开始下意识地数起了楼层。一，三，七，十，十七，啊，原来当初已经造到那么高了啊。

骑上自行车，夏日的晚风刮着眼皮。天气热得手心冒汗，还有十三天，十三天后我就在意大利了，连横冲直撞的电瓶车都变得能让人忍受了。

可手机却不停地亮起，在家楼下的长凳上约莫坐了两小时和客户电话，终于得以回家。窗又没关上，房间如同被洗劫一般，百叶窗被吹得错位，A4 纸散落四处，桌布掉在地上，那棵快死的孔雀木的树叶落得满地都是。几天前，他们就说上海要刮大风，我没在意，把包扔到地上，蹲下来脱掉鞋子，扑通一声，我跌倒在地，泪水不禁盈满眼眶。

如果妈妈还活着，如果我跟她说我想死 —— 她会同意吗？

我收起纸，扫掉落叶，放好桌布，用吸尘器吸了一遍家里，给那个男人发去了信息。每次他来，我都想跟他提前说好，能不能做完后就回去。我只想解决，我想一个人睡觉。

“这根牙刷对吗？”他问。

“对呀，是你的。”

我一直纳闷，男人怎么可以这么快就入睡，而等他们的呼吸声变成了鼾声，我就彻底睡不着了。又是一夜，我几乎睁眼到天明，我分不清到底是鼾声，还是我真的失眠。我不常常失眠，但一个月里总有那么两三天，我是怎么都睡不着的，从前，我还会害怕看到天渐渐亮起来，但最近，我只如同死物一般，接受，行进，接受，继续。

不知不觉，过去的三个月里，意大利已经成为了我的信仰，我的浮板。我疯了似地看意大利的东西，在想象中，我似乎已经站在罗马艳阳下，走在斗兽场的巨大砖石上，我暗暗发誓，在那边的十天，我不能想到自杀，一次都不能，我要在那里极尽享受，最好把钱花光，回到上海，再做一个真正的死物。

出发前一天，我收到了一条信息，是弟弟发来的：“我求婚成功了！”

“恭喜！”



在飞机上，我半梦半醒地看着电影，在迷蒙中，眺望着窗外的天，黑蓝色的远处，一条沉甸甸的金线正变幻出不同的色彩，近处的几朵如宫殿般堆叠的黑云正酝酿着一场大雨，我似乎看见了几颗星星，又或者那是别的飞机的警示灯，又要了一杯酒，两口下肚，整个人彻底昏死了过去。直到轮胎落地，刮擦出剧烈的轰鸣声，我才彻底苏醒过来。到了！

意大利！我看着身边的人，尽力调动兴奋，身体却疲惫地像是被人揍了一顿。罗马，到罗马了，这个充满权力斗争，艺术和伞松的地方 …… 我拖着身体往外走，意识逐渐活跃起来。走出机场，司机帮我把行李提上车，开上破烂狭窄的公路，朝着万豪芙罗拉酒店开去。

马上要进城墙了，一栋栋土黄色和浅粉色的房子从窗外飞逝，巨型伞松的阴影笼罩着小路，汽车穿过拥挤的人群和热闹的集市，正值傍晚时分，每个人的脸上都浮着红晕，期待着夜晚降临。转头往那边看去，转角的小酒馆里已经坐满了人，食客一直坐到街上，盛着淡金色酒的高脚杯熠熠闪光，一个女人的钻石耳环突然折射了一道阳光，瞬间灼烧了下我的眼睛 …… 落日的红光钻进这些一栋栋动辄上千年的砖墙，如火一般，我迷醉在罗马的第一个小时里。

我彻底忘记了自杀。

两天的时间里，我在每条路上流连忘返，不知疲倦，每一个敞开的窗户，我都想探头看看，每个人，我都笑脸相迎。在万圣殿里，我戴上耳机听着讲解，仰头看着圆形穹顶，幻想着每年圣灵降临日时，成千上万朵玫瑰从那中空的穹顶落下 …… 很快，我的足迹踏遍斗兽场、喷泉、罗马广场，和无数个教堂。

第三天，无所事事，我还是想到了死。

我意识到罗马救不了我，不管我多少次告诉自己，去完意大利就能死了，但实际上，我希望意大利能救我，再不济，至少对我做点什么 …… 我无目的地地走在一条上山的小路上，过路的人嬉笑着，我大汗淋漓地向前走，路边近乎饱和的一片绿草蒸腾出草香味，地面的石子路已白到能反光，这条小路似乎被太阳格外眷顾，我无路可逃，无处可躲，只觉得浑身的水分都要干了，尿道酸涩发痛，我用发烫微红的手背擦掉额头的汗，看着一个又一个人超过我，不干了，我不干了！

一屁股坐在地上，我把头埋进膝盖之间，为什么要来？我一个人，孤独崩溃地坐在这里，像在演一场戏，观众只有自己。身处异国加重了从前所有的情绪，纠结，迷茫，困惑，是啊 —— 一场旅行救不了任何人，意大利也救不了任何人。行人和跑步的人面对面地经过我，他们都好好的，为什么我就像掉进一个深海的漩涡一般，没有一分钟可以从这一切中解脱？我的大脑像是被人偷偷编了程序，只存在短暂的欲望和长久的想死。

不知在地上坐了多久，我撑着膝盖站起来。太阳即将落山，我向上爬去，在筋疲力竭之时，突然，一片开阔的草坪出现在道路尽头，刹那间，我的心像被鸟喙揪住了，忘记了呼吸，我朝前走去，整座罗马城逐步显现出来 —— 橘红色的落日只剩一半挂在天幕，像踌躇满志的画家的一笔，整个天空落下了恢弘的色彩，金黄色的古城在天空下颤抖着。我放慢速度走过草坪，内心的惆怅如远方山上的卷云一般聚集，即便这样的盛景，也无法抹去我的苦涩念头。

第二天，在酒店的床上醒来时，天气阴沉，我站在阳台上，看着云的急剧变化，阴云密布，雨来了。

深究下去，我无法找到想死的那个终极源头，如果非要留一封遗书的话，我觉得唯一的原因是 —— 活下去也仅仅如此罢了。有那么多个清晨，我以同样的睡姿睁开眼，以同样的姿势拉开窗帘，有时是晴天，有时是阴天，我挤出一样分量的牙膏在牙刷头上，以同样的方式洗好脸，去公司做一样的事，对一样的人说着一样的话，我和不同的男人见面，又似乎见的是同一个人，我甚至感觉不到我在老去，三十三岁，四十三岁，五十三岁，无非是多了一些生存的经验，而本质是不会改变的。当然，我有讨厌的东西，我也有爱的东西，但他们都不至于撼动生活的本质。

雨越下越大，我陷在床里，望着窗外，密集的雨如圣徒的眼泪一般，无断绝，无停息。我感觉全身都在缩小，每一个细胞，每一条神经都在收缩坍塌，鬼使神差地，我站起来，这里没有刀，没有药品，我无比平静地环视一周，踱步到窗台，远远地，传来萨克斯风的悠扬乐曲，我能精准地定位那吹奏者的位置，那人必定在转角的那个咖啡店里，前天我经过时，就注意到了那人。

到了下午，我在房间已无所事事了四个小时，继续待下去，必定又会想到死，越陷越深，我叹了口气，从沙发上站起来，从房间这头走到那头，穿上裤子，拿上房卡，带上手机，走过过道，看着电梯镜子里失神的自己。我撑着雨伞，穿着一身黑衣，在满是水坑的路旁等着出租车。飞驰的车溅起水瀑，落在我的小腿上，坐上车，一路过去，城市如进入永夜一般，渐变的黑灰色天空像阴郁的山水画，我像一个从未来穿越回古代的人，看着一个个有着废弃雕塑的公园，如同看着史前的废墟从我眼前掠过，巨大伞松的剪影如巨人一般守护着罗马，作为异乡人的我的脑海里飞过罗马所有的故事，所有模糊却宏伟的故事。

车子停在了梵蒂冈博物馆门前，天气原因，并没有多少人在排队。我买好票，进入馆内。馆里还是有很多游客，旅游团乌泱泱地挤在门口躲雨。我借了导览，听着介绍 …… 站在《拉奥孔》前，我听着语音导览说，这尊雕塑群是一个意大利人在挖葡萄园时挖出来的，边听着，我想象着拉奥孔与他的两个儿子被深埋在无名之处数年，仍饱受折磨 —— 拉奥孔的每一块肌肉都在呻吟，乳白色的雕塑表面下，我看见他血管的膨胀与收缩，奔腾的血流另身体沸腾起来，钻心的折磨另他快要失去控制表情的能力，可 …… 你看他的脸，却并没有显出匹配他身体的那无尽的痛苦。

我转头离去，无目的地徜徉在博物馆中，不知方向的脚步带我走上台阶，又走下台阶，我已走了好几遍回头路，身体早已疲惫不堪，又进入一条小道，如走入地窖一般，这狭窄，有着浓浓木屑和灰尘味的小道像是连接古墓与现实的地阶，我弓着腰，走下去，在没有任何准备的情况下，西斯廷教堂出现在我的眼前。

如同在人群中瞥见一个久违的失去的爱人，如同走入真正历史的一页，那一刹那给心灵带来的震撼 —— 如同在阴云密布的一生中真正看见的一束光，无需解释，无需证明，那是一束坚实，自信，璀璨的光，只要你见到了，就一辈子都无法忘记，而剩下的生命，将会永远成为这束光的阴影。

在这座挑高足有二十米的教堂内墙上，汹涌澎湃，如海啸一般扑向心灵的颜色和形象瞬间击败了我的思维，世界与大脑都在瞬息间回归宁静。我没有从前门而是侧门进入西斯廷，因此，我与西斯廷的第一次照面是由一个奇怪的角度展开的。米开朗基罗的《最后的审判》就在我的身旁，我害怕地，慢慢地抬起头来，沿着人流向前穿过《最后的审判》，鸡皮疙瘩一阵阵地在胳膊上泛开，下意识地，我屏住了呼吸，低头走向教堂的正中央。我缓缓睁开眼，四百多个神圣或肮脏的赤裸人体落入眼底。天使、罪人、耶稣、地狱使者，或惊恐，或期待，或严肃，或迷醉地看向耶稣。破旧的纱布飞舞在去往天国的道路上，松垮的人皮被紧攥在手心里，背部的肌肉因紧张而挤成团状，罪人的灰绿色的脸因恐惧而扭曲，不成人样，散落的头发被人狠狠揪住，苍老的面庞直勾勾地盯住圣人，像在索取着什么，拉着乐器的人将奏乐暂停了，但 —— 画面本身却形成了一首无尽的乐曲。天，地，人三界迎来了这一审判的时刻，这世间每一块肌肉都将因画面中心这个巨人的举动而震颤，即便此时此刻，那人正闭着眼，沉着地踩在云朵之上，高举着他的右臂 …… 

五百年后的此刻，这首关于罪与罚的乐章仍未停歇，螺旋上扬的音符将人送入天堂，而所有业报在此刻清算，将人送入地狱。我抬起头，向上望去，在头顶的正上方是《创造亚当》，此刻，健美的他正轻盈地斜躺在暗绿色的地上，自信，玩世不恭，几乎以平等的姿态伸出手去，画面的另一侧，穿着一身白袍的上帝环抱着天使与一女人，目光灼灼地也伸出手指，意欲将生命之火传递到第一个人类的指尖。

脚底已经麻木，我在墙边找了一处坐下，眨眼间，都是天才留下的流光溢彩，这近乎于暴力的色彩运用，精细却潇洒的笔触，让人不禁感伤起来。五百年前，米开朗基罗在这间教堂置上脚手架，如一把被折弯的弓，在这里独自站了近十年，诅咒，忍耐，片刻的欢愉后，又将灰泥全部擦除，从头来过。

即便是想象这样的筋疲力竭，我都感到喘不过气。坐了近一小时，疲惫还是不减分毫，就在看向《大洪水》和《最后的审判》的间隙中，我突然注意到了站在中庭维持秩序的一个保安 —— 这时，我的注意力才被拉回现实世界 —— 不知是天顶的窗户漏下的光还是什么，这个人的全身竟被笼罩在一圈淡黄色的光晕之中。我呆呆地看着他，那柔和神圣的，如被天使拉着手牵进来的光线，在他的身旁形成了一圈富有情感的光瀑，或许是正上方的天父的目光落到了他身上。

我四下看了看，所有人的目光都在壁画上，难道他们没有发现这个保安身上的光吗？我揉了揉眼睛，随着他在厅内踱步，那柔光竟跟随着他， 随着他手臂的摆动，在些许浑浊的空气中微晃着。

他控制着人群的走向，尽力地做一个隐形人，轻声地，他对来自世界各国的朝圣者说“不要挡住壁画，不要喧哗，不要拍照 ……”他从前厅走到后厅，几乎真的像一个隐形人。我甚至怀疑，他走路的姿势是否受到严格规定 —— 手臂的摆动和脚步的跨度只能在一定的小范围内，头的前倾不能超过多少度，等等。

天渐渐黑下来，时间已到下午六点半，不知不觉，我又在西斯廷坐了一小时，这一小时里，我看向壁画，又看向他，我没有能力分析米开朗基罗的内心，却从他冷静的眉目之间，看出一丝陌生的哀愁。

他的背微弓着，身体和肌肉的线条浅浅地透过黑色制服显露出来，全身上下，只有他的脖子和脸的皮肤没有被衣服盖住，即便有些许凉风，这个房间总体还是闷热，他竟毫不在意。我看着他侧面的脸颊，如刚才看着《拉奥孔》的肌理纹路那样看着，他棕黑色的头发柔软地扬在空气中，眼神虽严肃，但和人的目光接触到时，却露出一种微小的紧迫的关切感 —— 他的克制是由这件小教堂所创造的，这为他身体的举动和表情的变化附加了一层又一层无形的意义和道理。

应该三十五岁上下，或许更年轻？时间来到了晚上七点，竟还有源源不断的游客从前门和侧门里走进来，天色已黑，他身上的柔光散去了。或许是我坐的时间实在太久了，或许是他在搜寻“犯罪人士”的过程中需要给双眼休息片刻，我的目光遇上了他的目光 —— 那只是一个瞬间，他离我不过三步的距离，他棕色的瞳孔泛着浅紫的光，嘴唇翕动着。

全世界有那么多美术馆，每个美术馆里有那么多小厅，每个小厅里，又有那么多的保安。有在卢浮宫里看管《蒙娜丽莎》的，有在纽约当代博物馆看管《星空》的，有在巴黎看管《睡莲》的，有在挪威看管《呐喊》的，有在荷兰看管《夜巡》的 …… 不只是画，还有看管着罗丹的雕塑的，《拉奥孔》的 …… 这个世界上成千上万个看管艺术品的保安，抑或是昏昏欲睡，抑或是面无表情，抑或是满面的不耐烦，只有他，只有他 —— 竟真的在用心看管着，守护着米开朗基罗的遗产。我望着他，心弦似被世上最温柔的小提琴家的指尖拉动了。

要闭馆了，明天下午就要启程去佛罗伦萨，我甚至有点放纵地看着他，期待着他也能在休息的片刻，回望我。可是，最后的我只是空落落地走出了西斯廷。

从正门走出，我最后看了一眼《最后的审判》和站在《最后的审判》前的他，那副壁画俨然已成了他的背景板 …… 一个活生生的人，一个被西斯廷所塑造出来的美丽意象已和那幅壁画融为一体，他直直地面对着耶稣的绷直的躯体和四百个正入天堂，正下地狱的形象，些许落寞，仿佛自己也正在经受着审判，看着它和他，让我失魂落魄，却无比满足。

雨停了，走回酒店的路上，到处都是欢声笑语。我饥肠辘辘，随意钻进了一家寿司店，温热的味增汤流入食管，神经放松下来，沾过醋的米饭被牙齿碾压出馨香，鱼肉的纤维在牙缝间温柔地撕扯，眼底里，仍映着刚才的景象。

我分不清到底是我想通过他，靠近米开朗基罗的壁画，还是我想通过壁画，来看清他，都是意象罢了，这么想着，我走出门去。

暴雨后的罗马城飘着一股泥土味的香气，路上已经有了醉汉，不知从什么国家来的人三两成群，走在破碎的砖石小路上喧哗，昏黄的路灯稀疏，我不看地图地漫步，走过无数个相似的小巷，几乎每家工艺店的窗台上都放着耶稣的小像，我站在路旁，透过琉璃色的玻璃往一家店内看去，琳琅满目的工艺品复刻了罗马城里所有伟大的作品 —— 斗兽场、万神殿、特莱维喷泉、《圣殇》、《最后的审判》、《大卫与歌利亚》、《阿波罗与达芙妮》、《强暴普罗塞庇娜》…… 而刚从灰云中透出的月光，却正好落在了门台木板上悬挂的《最后的审判》上。

我出神地看着那幅画，不知到底是看着耶稣，还是看着那个人。我已经有点忘记那人的样子，却觉得他是这座城市里，不，是这个世界上唯一与我有关联的人。我记得他看向我的那种感觉，不似那些在路上轻佻谄媚的意大利男人，他是足矣代表那个时代的罗马人，一个真正的罗马人。

他和我从前看过的所有书里形容的罗马帝国人一样，懂得尊重，牺牲，懂得文明蕴含的意义 …… 从而，他才会以如此的目光看着每一个前来瞻仰《最后的审判》的人。顿时，我的脑海中突然出现了《魂断威尼斯》、《洛丽塔》、《奥菲莉娅》、《金阁寺》等等一切因为爱一个意象而魂断的故事。我们从未爱过一个人，我们爱一个意象，爱因此而诞生的幻觉、痛苦、自我溶解，以及那个在忍耐之中，伟大优越的自己。心跳突然加速，因为我已经意识到，那个完全陌生的男人，已在偶然中成为了我余生的意象。

我徜徉在他的城市中，徜徉在只属于他的文明中，走在伞松下，我步入公园，一个女人的裸体雕塑伫立在废弃的喷泉中，我在旁边的木椅上坐下，城市的灯光在树影中若影若现，如雾，如涟漪，如神明的倒影，命运之神从我有知觉的第一天起就为我种下了罗马的种子，这样看来，我与西斯廷的相遇是必然的，与他的相遇也是必然的。

我落魄地继续往前走，穿过圣天使城堡，盛夏时节，城堡周围阴森森的，陵墓里，罗马皇帝哈德良安息在此。千年间，这座城堡成为了军事要塞，又变成了监狱、兵营、碉堡、避难所、罗马教皇的宫殿，直到成为一处景观。穿过圣天使桥，贝尼尼改修的天使雕像在弱光中熠熠生辉。一个同样落魄的小提琴手正在桥头演奏，他半靠在桥柱上，右手微颤着左右拉动琴弓，悠扬的旋律令眼前的罗马城变得如梦似幻，我靠在离他不远处的另一个桥柱上，眼下是被月光铺满的台伯河，黑蓝色的水面上，一艘观光船正缓缓驶过。

已近十一点。我有点沮丧地朝酒店走去，经过纳沃纳广场，贝尼尼设计的四水喷泉正静悄悄地伫立在广场中央。再过十五个小时，我就要离开罗马了。我将彻彻底底地离开罗马，没有第二次了，这么想着，我掉过头，朝着街角那间咖啡店走去。

咖啡店门口坐着三个游客，我钻进里头角落的一个位置，果然，下午那个吹萨克斯风的人还在。我要了一杯博尔盖蒂，看着演奏人和挺着大肚皮的老板在一张高脚桌旁聊天。一杯下肚，一点感觉也没有，我又要了一杯，松松垮垮地躺在绿皮沙发上，就在这时，一个人突然走进门，他身材高挑，穿着一件浅灰色的衬衫，带着一顶黑色的鸭舌帽，即便如此，我还是一眼认出了他 —— 这样的巧合让我恍惚起来 —— 竟然是西斯廷的那个男人！

他直直朝着拿萨克斯的乐手走去，把手搭在那人的肩膀上，那人突然转过头来，笑着和他寒暄几句，老板便走去收银台后为那男人准备酒水去了。胃里一阵反酸，两杯酒下去，肚子里翻江倒海起来，我强忍住，拼命地咽下几口口水。

他脱下鸭舌帽，被压垮的头发被他细长的手指随意松了松，又呈现出那种飘逸随性的状态。我心神不宁地坐也不是，走也不是，拿起菜单，我透过一个扭曲的角度瞥看他的正侧脸，他的眉头下意识地微微拧紧听着老板说话，这似乎是他表达关切的惯常动作，一会儿，老板和萨克斯男人讲了些什么，他又大笑起来，嘴角却还是抿紧的。

走进来两个熟客，一男一女，老板上前招呼，坐在高脚椅旁那两人的目光随之扫视了店内一圈。就在这时，他看见了我，他似乎也愣了一下，在被熟客顿时扬起的喧闹中，老板突然喊了他的名字：“马泰奥 —— ”

他站起来，朝着那两人走去，圣光似乎又回到了他身旁，我像是产生了幻觉，一种极其温柔的压迫感如潮涌至，我的心跳如擂，他经过了我，明明是陌生人，我却觉得如此熟悉，如此亲切，我甚至感觉，我是全世界与他最亲近的人。萨克斯乐手朝着角落的演奏台走去。乐曲响起，像夜里蜿蜒的台伯河，水流悄悄淌进耳朵，懒懒的旋律在皮肤上挥发，留下一阵酥麻。我看着他的背影，又闭上了眼，时间似乎在此刻凝滞，没有历史，没有未来，没有杰作，没有庸人，没有善恶，没有痛苦和欢愉，只剩下音乐从那乐器的弧口中流出，我朦胧地看向走回高脚桌的他，他把手臂搭在桌上，呼吸一下下地撑起他的背，透过那件薄薄的灰衬衫，我似乎能看见他的背脊。

鬼使神差地，我站起身，酒醉的感觉猛然袭来，在一个恍惚的瞬间中，我抉择着是要朝他走去，还是走出这间无名的咖啡店。这犹豫的瞬间，实则是权衡生与死的瞬间，眼前一黑，我扶着桌角，双腿一软，在凳子上瘫坐了下来。难受得面目全非，那股熟悉的感觉来了，我颤颤巍巍地站起来，扶着墙走进厕所，抱着马桶，我将今天吃的一切全部都吐了出来。眼里盛满泪水，嘴角还挂着秽物，在狭小的厕所间内天旋地转，我蹲在地上，盖上马桶盖，使出浑身的力气按下按钮，冲掉了呕吐物。有人敲门，我慢慢站起来，整理了一下走了出去。萨克斯男人仍在忘情地演奏，在我离开的片刻，咖啡厅里竟已挤满了人，我看向那个西斯廷的男人，他正轻松惬意地听着乐曲，我经过时，他正巧转头，那对棕紫色的眼睛望着我。我的大脑一片空白，喉头的肌肉紧绷起来，一时间忘了呼吸。

听人说，人生中值得被铭记的瞬间只有三个，在这样能被铭记的时刻里，没有高深的意义，没有宗教的加持，没有奇迹的闪现，甚至没有爱本身。若是有一个摄像机将此刻的我拍摄下来，或许就能看到，我的眼中闪烁着与时间无关的触动。

坐下后，又一切如初。我悄悄瞥视马泰奥和老板的那两个熟客聊天，看情形，他们不像是当地人。我极力地想要听清楚他们在说什么，却只模糊地听到了那个女人的男朋友在说，欧冠”、“姆巴佩”、“AC 米兰”这几个无聊的字眼。时间渐渐过去，人越来越少，我意识到我的存在变得越来越显眼，他们的声音也变得越来越清晰可辨。话题已从足球，咖啡店，变成了宗教。

光渐渐调暗了，他浓密的睫毛投下一堆摄人心魄的微动的阴影，“米开朗基罗”，“米开朗基罗”，他用蹩脚的英文说着他的工作，带着意大利口音的“米开朗基罗”从他双唇间吐出，竟别有一番风味。我半靠在沙发上，看了眼时间， 夜已深，将近一点了。

乐音还在继续，此时，马泰奥正半推半就地说着他对《最后的审判》的看法，他声音温柔，语气犹豫，那一对来自美国的新婚夫妇（从刚才的聊天中，我隐约听到了蜜月这样的字眼）眼神灼灼，一脸没文化的样子。我不太听得清马泰奥在说什么，若要坐到对面，就显得动静太大。但，我实在想知道他是怎么看待这幅壁画的。

挥挥手，老板从他们桌旁晃悠着过来，嬉笑着用意大利男人惯有的调侃语调问我有何吩咐，我说再来两杯博尔盖蒂。他夸张地摇摇手，红扑扑的脸颊抖动着 ——“小姐，小姐，今晚你喝了十杯了，别醉倒了！”我说没事，尽管上吧。

趁酒上来的时候，我假装不经意地调换到了前座，又走了两个客人，如今，咖啡店里只剩下我，马泰奥一桌人，以及三桌坐在前厅的客人。

“…… 罗马不会永远地存在，我的意思是 …… 它可能还会存在一百，一千年，但不可能永恒地存在。”他眼前的酒杯空了，或许是酒劲上来，他说的比刚才多多了，但语气还是那样委婉认真，“没有人会不爱上罗马，就像今天的纽约一样，罗马是一个巨大的景观，一个城市尺寸的美术馆，这是这么的显而易见，让我有时恍惚 …… 对，你说的没错，人类的结晶，但是，如果放在永恒的尺度上讲 —— 人类在时间的尺度上又算什么呢？”

“我不是一个虚无主义的人，但有时，我会被这样的想法所深深擒住，但只要一进西斯廷，我就会进入另一个模式，西斯廷是不允许开小差的。哦 …… 工作时间是有点长。”

“是的，”马泰奥看着坐在斜侧方的那个女人说，“这是一座将美，权力，与历史凝结到极致的城市，但这座城市的魅力，正是它的困境。它太重，太不真实了。生命或许无法承受这样的重量，所以一次次以血腥涂抹这块土地 …… 是的，我是基督徒，必得是基督徒才能在西斯廷工作，”他浅笑又似是惨笑了一下，“我相信这一切，就这么简单，没有逻辑，我就是相信 …… 你说什么？总有一个源头 …… 或许是长大的环境吧，但我深究过，”他欲言又止，“或许也不是环境所致。”

“是我主动要求，或者说，是我把在西斯廷教堂工作当成了一个目标所奋斗，从而得以在那工作的 …… 我不该说这么多的，真不好意思，我不应该喝这两杯酒的，”我看着他眼前的那杯酒渐渐变空，“我从未和别人说过这些想法，但你们想听，我就分享一些我的想法吧。”

“我一开始在后勤部工作，后来调到了《拉奥孔》所在的八角中庭，我对雕像没那么感兴趣，虽然我们这儿盛产雕像。没记错的话，我在八角中庭一共待了三年，因为展厅结构的问题，一下子也不会进来太多人，所以偶尔，我还能偷个懒，偷懒是一件会上瘾的事，日积月累，我渐渐疲累了，提不起兴致了，因为在我心中，心心念念的还是西斯廷 …… 我们不会对外国人所惊叹的那些作品而感到震撼，至少对我和我朋友来说是这样，不管是《拉奥孔》，斗兽场，还是那些有名的公园，这都是我们放学后会经过的地方，在长大的过程中，有些朋友或许是卡拉瓦乔的远亲，是贝尼尼或是提香的旁支 …… 所以这些壁画，雕塑，绘画，建筑对我来说，几乎是不加掩饰的，赤裸裸的，只作为存在本身而存在的。我不会因为知道这是贝尼尼的雕像而另眼看待，也不会因为那叠加的历史传说，而为作品本身套上虚无的标签。”

“但直到此刻，我仍然记得看到《最后的审判》的那个瞬间。那时，”马泰奥低下头，我能看出来，他长久被规训的克制控制着他不要产生任何情绪，他的头渐渐歪斜下来，“那时 …… 我七岁，在那之前，我已来过梵蒂冈博物馆两次，却因各种原因，没有进过西斯廷，那次，我跟着我姐姐走进了那座教堂。不夸张地说，顷刻之间，我「认定」了这个地方。人是说不清为什么会对某个人，某件事，某样东西着迷的，这种「认定」就像你从茫茫人海中突然看到了一个人，于是你想和这个人过一辈子 …… 我吗？没有，我没有结婚呢。”马泰奥笑开了，但又很快恢复了认真的模样。

“那天炎热异常，是的，比今天还要热，整座城市好像被放在蒸架上炙烤，到处都是人，教堂里人也很多，当时空调系统还没有更新换代，室内也让人汗流浃背，一股汗酸味充斥了整个房子，不时有人推搡我，还有人一不小心踩到我的脚，就是那么混乱，但我像着了魔一般，目不转睛地盯着那面墙看。”

“我一直仰着头，看着那面墙。那时候，我不懂什么是《最后的审判》，不懂壁画技法，也不懂米开朗基罗。七岁的我站在这幅壁画面前不再像一个观众，我被卷了进去，”他的手指无意识地在酒杯边缘绕圈，“像一个漩涡，我被这幅壁画给吞噬了。”

“那天后的第二天，我的脖子真够酸痛的。”这是他开的第一个玩笑，如果这算玩笑的话。

“我看到了什么？”他的声音低了下去，“…… 我看到了一切。如果你认真问我的话，我认为我看到了宇宙中的万物，他们凝视着我。”

“是的，直到今天还是如此。每一次回望那幅壁画，我仍旧能感到瞬间的超脱，那种眩晕。每天清晨，我独自一人待在西斯廷里，那短短的五分钟，没有游客，没有导览，没有脚步，没有喧闹，没有偷偷摸摸想将这幅壁画拍下的人，只有我和它。一副不属于过去，不属于未来的壁画，你说什么？对，在我眼里，它是现在的，是活的。嗯 …… 这要怎么解释呢，我的意思是，在它面前，我不再有回忆，不再有展望，时间这个概念消失了。看着它的每一刻，就是我作为一个永恒，和另一个永恒，凝望彼此，就像沙漠中的两块石头一样。”坐在他对面的两人已开始眼神飘忽，他们不在乎也不感兴趣，对他的恳切和真诚开始感到厌倦。

“…… 我刚才说罗马不是一座永恒之城，我是这么认为的，没什么是永恒的，只有全然的关注，这样的瞬间才是永恒的。”

“我最喜欢的角色？”他试图掩盖他嘲弄的笑，但还是不经意笑出来了，“我没有最喜欢的角色。”

“对米开朗基罗，我没什么能说的，我不研究这个。”他礼貌地撇了撇嘴，从他的表情能看出来，他似乎有点后悔刚才说了那么多。

“我不觉得我是在和他对话，我在看《最后的审判》的时候，想的也不是他。”

“你学的是艺术史？那你一定比我更懂，”他对斜侧方的女人笑着说，“贝尼尼 …… 抱歉，我也不太了解。当代艺术，后现代，达达主义 …… 你说的这些，我都是门外汉，真是不好意思。哦！我不是存在主义，我不是任何主义，你在画廊工作？难怪你们会选罗马做蜜月地呢 …… 是的，那个区域有很多很好的意大利面店，近郊有什么好玩的地方 …… 我想想，拍照好看的地方？那必须得去卡斯泰利罗马尼看看，那里依山傍湖，非常梦幻。是的，我是罗马人。”

他们的对话还在继续，店里只剩下我，他们，和刚进店的一对情侣了。就在我喝完最后一口酒的时候，他突然站起来，隔着收银台和老板说了几句，和萨克斯乐手打了个招呼，又和那对美国夫妇说了再见，小步朝门外走去。

我愣在座位上，鬼使神差地找老板付了钱，走出门去时，马泰奥已不见踪影。被晚风一吹，我头痛欲裂，脑中不住重复着他的名字 —— 马泰奥，马泰奥，就此过去吧，我心想。

我在路上随便走着，竟又碰到了方才遇见的那个落魄的小提琴手，他换了个地方，正在一个巷口演奏。我驻足在不远处，那传来的乐音，缓慢地瓦解着罗马的一切，直到我的脑海里只剩下马泰奥这三个字。我怔怔地看出神了，不由自主地向前走去，拿出两张纸钞放进他的提琴包里。

夏夜的微风穿过楼房，树木，雕像，吹到冰冷的额头上，走过一条条已熟悉的小巷，关掉电灯的小店里映出耶稣和圣徒的轮廓，我该回酒店了，但又只想在罗马的街上不停走下去 —— 此刻，住在偌大的罗马城里的三百万人安静下来，人的汗液仍在空中在缓慢蒸发，如漫步在一场高烧致热的梦中，处处都闪着月光的反射，淡金色的高墙内，时不时看见一些民居的天花板上也画着色彩斑斓的壁画。偶尔，一两个夜跑的人经过我，街旁，一个眼角湿润，老迈肮脏的流浪汉伸出手来，如亚当的姿势一般，朝着他的上帝们乞讨生命的火种。下意识地，我发觉自己竟又在走向西斯廷的道路上。马泰奥 …… 马泰奥 …… 我的脑中渐渐形成了一幅图景 —— 《最后的审判》像一块巨石伫立在地狱之门，而他坐在这巨石的阴影里，好端端地坐着，像它的一部分。

正好走到圣天使桥上，我仰望着天使的羽翼，古铜色的人物仿佛摆脱了地心引力，正逃离底座的束缚而向上飞升，大理石在我的想象中涌动，颤抖。前方的月光下，一大片森林正沉默地张望着，树木在银白色的光里静静站立，枝桠交错如编织的穹顶 …… 马上要到西斯廷了，我停下脚步，掉头朝着那森林走去。从地图上看，那广袤的森林中有一片蓝色的池塘，我将那作为目的地漫步。

凌晨的森林令人发颤，四周悄无声息，笠松的枝叶在夜色中向四方探出，如圣画中魔鬼的爪子，交缠纠结，几乎遮住了隐蔽的小径。雾气缠绕在脚踝，地面的凉意像一条蛇，从裤脚缓缓钻入肌肤。偶尔，一尊残破的石雕在月光下露出面容，灰白的脸仿佛刚从土中抬起头来，定定地看着我。越往林子深处走，四周越寂静，仿佛世界只剩下我一个活人。

在这万籁寂静之中，一些记忆的碎片莫名涌现，可都模模糊糊的，甚至连出发前那几天发生的事，都已消散在大脑中。我一定是得病了，谁都救不了我，罗马不行，《最后的审判》不行，马泰奥也不行 …… 我想着他所说的话，没有过去，没有未来，只有此刻的全神贯注。可要做到这一点，何其难呢？可明明这个世界是相同地对待所有人，别人能忍受，为什么我就不能呢？我尝试找到症结所在，可越往深处探去，却越是盘根错节，及那盘根错节投影下的黑漆漆的朦胧。

转过角，眼前突然明亮起来，到了 —— 阿斯克勒庇俄斯神庙伫立在湖畔，地图上那不起眼的蓝色竟是那么大一片湖泊，月光正洒在淡金色的柱廊上，连檐角的雕饰都清晰可见，水面无比平静，映出那座小神庙的倒影，湖面泛起涟漪，倒影轻轻晃动，像神祇在梦中翻身。岸边的树影斑驳，几只夜鸟从湖上飞掠而过，又消失在黑暗之中。夜色如墨，这里却身处光明 —— 我在湖边的长椅上坐下，月光偶尔被云朵挡住，湖面呈现出半缺的样子，我怔怔地看着，实在是美极了。若是生活在这个地方，不，若是像马泰奥一样出生在罗马，我还会想死吗？他说的每一句话仍在我心中回响 ——“如两个永恒一般凝望彼此。”

我不禁开始回想起我人生中的凝望，活到今天，我似乎还没有好好地看过谁，但要说无法忘怀的时刻 —— 在海南看海鸥，在山西看古寺，在夏威夷看日落，在洛杉矶的亨廷顿花园里看山石 —— 但这一切，都不足以构成「认定」。那不过都是瞬间，一些令人难忘的瞬间。

他每日和《最后的审判》独处的那五分钟，是否真的什么都不想？我不禁开始思索起来 —— 可头痛欲裂，那灌下的十三杯酒似乎完全洗净了我的血液，成为我血管中唯一流淌的液体 —— 他难道就不好奇，那壁画上几百个角色的故事，不好奇米开朗基罗那四年含辛茹苦的用意，不好奇罪与罚的意义吗？难道他的脑海中，不会片刻飘过意义这两字吗？

我筋疲力尽，恨不得直接躺死在这长椅上。所剩无几的理智带着我的脚步走出博尔格赛公园，在路边拦了辆出租车，风从窗户的缝隙中吹进来，我已忘了是怎么走进电梯，怎么洗的脸，怎么上的床。

醒来时，天气大好，盛夏的日光打在床上，晃得人睁不开眼，勉强翻了个身，发现连鞋子都没脱就躺下了。头疼再次袭来 —— 又是一天，是美好的一天，我喃喃自语地站起来。

马泰奥。在我理智恢复的瞬间，这个名字再次出现在眼前。我闭着眼，呆呆地坐在床边，黑漆漆的眼底，是他扶着下巴，克制却动情地诉说西斯廷的样子 —— “像一个漩涡，我被这幅壁画给吞噬了。”

我如行尸走肉般收好行李，头昏脑胀，全身无力，我把行李拖到大厅，寄存好后，走出去，叫了辆车，直奔西斯廷。




浑身滚烫起来，气温直逼四十度，这样的天气，应该和他七岁那年看到《最后的审判》时一样吧。我喃喃自语，司机不时回头，他想关切我，却说不出一句英文。

到了，我站到门口排队，阳光明晃晃地照着我的眼睛，眼前的黑点和密密麻麻的人重叠起来，我扶着队伍旁的石墙，几乎摇摇欲坠。斜对面的披萨店里不时飘出芝士的香气，可还是掩盖不住男人腋下发酵出来的酸味。勉强坐到有着斜度的石墙上，屁股被磨得生疼。队伍一点点挪动，我满头大汗，额头却是冰凉的。不时有晒得漆黑的吉普赛小贩来兜售冰水，我没忍住，灌下了两大瓶冰水，才觉得稍微缓过了精神。

终于到我了，买好票后，我目光灼灼地盯着长廊的前方，如执政任务的刺客，大步朝着目的地走去。不过上午十点半，博物馆里已摩肩接踵，一年又一年，一日又一日，来自全世界的人，来自不同时空的人，因为教育，宣传，宗教而来到梵蒂冈，进入这间硕大的博物馆。他们盯着《阿波罗》、《雅典学院》、《三大德性》，《亚当诞生》，还有《最后的审判》而发出阵阵惊叹，接着拂袖离去，仿佛前一秒才从他们吼口迸发出的那赞叹，不过是无意识的敷衍。还有人，佯装虔诚，对着圣像长久驻足，离开时，也不过是头也不回地走了。还有人，佯装博学广识地对着身旁的女伴说着米开朗基罗的过去与轶事，搬出些从社交媒体上学到的词汇头头是道，脑中却只想今夜以何种姿势与她交欢。

我几乎是跑着下了那条如入墓穴的小道，在进入前，我深深地呼吸 —— 像昨天一样，《最后的审判》又一次擒住了我的心，我甚至感到心脏传来一阵撕裂般的痛，这无法承受的感觉如排山倒海，快要击碎我。再一眼，我看到了站在人海中的马泰奥，像昨天站在那里的他一样，他认真 —— 几乎是到了一种一丝不苟的地步，我不知他以何角色来定位自己 —— 管家？守护者？还是 …… 我不由自主地朝着他的方向走去，人越来越多，几乎没有站的地方，他殷切地，小声地令大家不要拍照，不要挡到别人的视野，不要大声交谈。

我挪动着脚步朝他走去，马泰奥，我心中不断地重复着，马泰奥 …… 却感觉呼吸不过来了，人从四面八方向我挤来，在我眼前，马泰奥的脸与《最后的审判》重叠，从我的角度看过去，他的眼睛竟与耶稣的那只低垂着的左眼也重叠起来 …… 除此之外，一切都渐渐从我的视野内淡化，变黑，直到我看见马泰奥扒开人群，朝我大步走来，他棕紫色的眼睛紧紧盯着我 —— 

“女士，你还好吗？女士？”他急迫地询问我，而我只管瘫软下去，瘫软在他的手臂之间，马泰奥，我的嘴唇翕动着，他着急地对人群说话，我凝视他的眼睛，这是一双凝视过全世界，全宇宙，全时空的眼睛，他看见过超越现实的世界，而此刻的我，仿佛也正透过他的这双眼睛，凝视着那一个永恒。

三岁时看见的那个罗马，正在我的脑中分崩离析，过去种种的意义皆在此时此刻粉碎殆尽，生活，工作，形而上的一切，宗教和国家，资本和新闻，存款和食物，美好或是肮脏，所有的所有，都脱去了外衣，只剩下了本质 —— 这一刻，一个永恒，凝望着另一个永恒。



或许你会好奇，为何在活到三十三岁时的此刻，我还会因为一眼的动容而期盼着什么。那是因为我知道我想活下去，但想死的念头如达摩克利斯之剑，时刻威胁着我的人生。你一定也有这样的瞬间，不是吗？甚至，这样的瞬间才是生活的主旋律。

醒来时，我正躺在病房里，身旁没有一个人。窗外正是罗马璀璨殷红的晚霞，我翻了个身，却被手上正吊着的针管刺痛。我小心翼翼地坐起来，怔怔地看着窗外。有多少人正在这黑蓝色的暑日夜空下前行，又有多少人钻进那间咖啡店，聆听着那悠扬的萨克斯乐，有多少人走近阿斯克勒庇俄斯神庙，又有多少人在今日念过凯撒的名字。有多少人在此刻死去，又有多少人在这间医院诞生，有多少人在空虚的欢爱之后忍不住想从窗口跳下去，又有多少人在无尽的时间的审判中寻找意义。

医生在半小时后走进我的病房，告诉我因为低血糖和短暂的缺氧所以一下子昏迷了，问题不严重，不用担心。我道谢后，休息了片刻，将后半程的旅行全部取消，买了第二天一早回上海的机票。



回到上海后，日子还是照常继续，第一个月，我还是时常地想到马泰奥，想到《最后的审判》，我回想着他说的每句话，他的每一个动作，每一个表情，我细细地想去，又细细地全部记录下来，以防哪天我会全部忘记。我将《最后的审判》设为我的电脑背景，常常出神发呆，想着他所说的那「永恒」。

渐渐地，又是三个月过去，我快要记不清他的样子了，因为害怕，我换掉了桌面，甚至只要任何人提起意大利这三个字，我就会浑身一颤。我避开所有意大利电影，或是和意大利有关的电影，可那几乎是避开了影史上三分之一最好的电影。

日子照常过下去，不知不觉，我三十七岁了。老板德里克被调回哥本哈根，留着络腮胡的同事因为和客户发生争执，几乎酿成大错，于是被公司开除，连带五楼与他有关系的那个同事也一并发落，没有人为他们叫屈，平时嘻嘻哈哈的人们，一遇到此种事件，只如同阴沟里的老鼠一般，窸窸窣窣。

下个月，我就要被提拔到德里克的位置，要说我和十五年前刚入行时有什么区别？我倒觉得并无分毫差别，甚至二十二岁的我更加有勇气，十五年，不过是多了一些待人处事的克制和嘴滑罢了。

如今，我已彻底忘记了马泰奥的脸，可时不时地，我还是会上网搜索《最后的审判》，前些日子，弟弟和弟媳说要去罗马过两周年纪念日，问我是否想要一同前往，我说工作忙，走不开。回到家，仍是一个人，那年常约会的男人已从生活中淡去，非常偶尔的时候，为了摆脱孤独，我也想过是否要人工授精，生一个孩子，可那样的念头总是无法长久。

我已经很久不会想起马泰奥了，但三天前，罗马教皇离世的消息传遍了全世界。在会议室听到同事提起这个新闻的当下，我感觉全身如电流穿过，明明一个与我八竿子打不着关系的人，却极大地撼动了我。开会全程，我心不在焉，尽量想要掩饰，却还是忍不住在手机上搜索一切关于这个叫做方济各教皇的新闻。马泰奥，马泰奥现在在做什么？教皇离世，会影响到他的工作吗？他又是怎么看待教皇，天主教，还有一切与之相关的事件的呢？他结婚了吗？他还在西斯廷吗 ……？

我看着办公室落地窗外的那栋漆黑的烂尾楼，如一只彻底腐烂的黑色昆虫站立在城市的最中央。我拿起手机，离开座位，走出电梯，朝着那栋楼走去。天色渐暗，尽管市中心人潮涌动，却没有人看那栋楼一眼，我跃过半塌了的护栏，翻进了工地。水泥楼梯已经建好，我四下看看，附近没有一个人，一步步，我朝上走去，三楼，七楼，十二楼，十七楼 …… 越往上，被水泥覆盖的地方便越少，钢筋露在外面，几乎全部都已被腐蚀，显露出深棕色的样子。

风呼呼吹来，马上就要台风天了，我独自一人站在光秃秃的楼顶，脚下的楼摇摇欲坠，我似乎真能感知到这栋楼在摇晃。从楼梯口，我眺望着远方的陆家嘴，一步步，我向着平台的边缘走去，落日从背后照过来，人影一步步拉长，直到，我在平台的边缘坐下。落日映在眼前数万片玻璃上，如鱼鳞一般闪闪发光，一切都是不加掩饰的，赤裸裸的，只作为存在本身而存在的。我试图什么也不去想，什么也不去感受，只是凝视着眼前的一切。

我微微眯起眼，有光落在我的睫毛上，很快地闪了一下。而就在此刻，马泰奥的脸，从这片刻的光辉中诞生。不，忘记他的名字，忘记《最后的审判》，忘记西斯廷，忘记罗马，忘记他的眼睛 …… 

风越吹越猛，我双手撑在冰凉的水泥边沿，指尖发麻。上海在风中轻轻颤动，楼群仿佛在一起低声喘息，我睁开眼，看着底下涌动的人潮 —— 死，还是活下去？我站起身，心底里，最后一次升起了这个问题。