东伦敦的烟火味

周梦真

这个冬天上海没有下雪，地面上和空气里依旧是江南特有的湿润味道。门前的枫叶红火，路旁的一株桂树上还挂着零星几朵黄色小花。往年这时候，新江湾的复旦校园里，正对大门的银杏大道应是观赏落叶的最佳所在。而附近殷行路上的烟火味却依旧浓郁，常年如此，尤其到了冬日，客人的食欲也比往日好了，糕饼铺子、糖炒栗子、卤味小吃的香味钻进鼻子里，还有一碗碗热豆浆入了夜还热气腾腾，滞缓了人们匆匆回家的步子。

人们所聚集居住的地方，总有那么多烟火味。我在伦敦留学的那些日子，也总能感受到异国的那些烟火味。

斯特拉福德（Stratford）是我租住公寓所在的地方，属东伦敦二区与三区交界处，那儿有一个很大的地铁站，串联起了多条交通线路，地铁站旁坐落着欧洲第二大商业中心Westfield，是这座城市少见的大型超市，每日都是熙熙攘攘，不同阶层的人都能在此享受到生活的便利。

尤其是地铁站出来后的广场，上下班高峰的时候最是热闹，各种肤色的人坐在广场旁的台阶上停留休息，有的抽着烟，有的拿着一杯刚买好的咖啡，有的不时拿出手机与人对话，有的注视着迎面来往的人群，也有的几人相谈甚欢，笑声盖过了广场上的音乐。一些学校的学生也会开展调查问卷，在人群中穿梭采访，或发着传单报纸。我总是害怕麻烦，会故意快步而行，这也是自小养成的习惯。

白日里，广场上也有唱着悠扬复古曲风的流浪艺人，白人大叔拉着手风琴或是吹着萨克斯，敲击着不知名的乐器。远远地，逆着光，一群孩子要去乘地铁，黑皮肤的、黄皮肤的、白皮肤的，男孩女孩们，都穿着小型荧光色的安全服、背着五颜六色的书包，排着一条长队，在冬日的阳光下高声嬉笑着。阳光斜射，照在不同颜色的瞳孔里，闪着不一样的光芒。小吃摊正炸着热狗，滋啦滋啦的声音伴着令人垂涎欲滴的香味。空气里裹着各种香料独特的味道，酸甜酸甜，又有股子辛辣味。

那个铺着席子、毯子睡在垃圾桶旁边的女乞丐，闻到味道也会起身去和卖热狗的店主攀谈几句。她是个五十岁左右的中年白人，遇见这好天气，便出来沐浴一下阳光。可若是遇见阴雨天寒冷的时候，便不见了她的踪影。

到了深夜，灯火格外耀眼地照着，广场上的黑人小哥们跳着街舞，玩着滑板，嬉笑着，高叫着。一个黑人女孩唱着听不懂的饶舌，鼓点刺破耳膜，一闪一闪的交通信号灯恍惚着。还有一堆黑人站在自己搭的高台上呼喊着，像是在呼吁些什么，广场上空回荡着万千种声音。

红砖巷是我记忆深刻的东伦敦一角，也是伦敦最具独特艺术气息的地方。那儿多元文化集聚，到处可看到涂鸦作品，还有当地最有名的复古二手市场。记得第一次去，我就碰到了一件窘事。那天午后，我独自下了白教堂地铁站，正感叹着白教堂美术馆建筑之优美，这时候，一个女人忽然挡住我的去路。“给我一点钱吧，女士。”她对我说。她的头发是干枯的棕黄色，眼睛凹陷，却目不转睛地死死盯着我。碰到这种被留学生圈公认的骚扰型乞丐，我们曾被反复告诫：無须多言，快速离开就好。于是，我就冲她摆摆手，装作自己身无分文的模样，准备绕过她走开。谁知她走上前一步，冲我吼道：“我们都是女人不是吗！”接着，她又用那不太标准的英文继续说道：“虽然你是外国人，但我们都是女人。你听到了吗！”她大概是见我未予理会，声音更加高亢。她的瞳孔微微放大，恶狠狠地瞪着我，脸也不再显得可怜，甚至有点可恶，似乎下一秒就要朝我扑过来。我快步往前走，到了下一个红绿灯口，她追着我并冲我喊各种辱骂的词语。我深呼一口气，近乎落荒而逃。

进入红砖巷，我的心依旧扑通扑通跳个不停，尤其是看到四周的那些涂鸦，暴力的、宣泄的、政治的，整个墙壁布满了一个个文字和图案，此刻竟像一群群怪兽，嘶吼着，似乎要破墙而出的模样。而空气里又弥漫着一种别样的味道，弄不清又是哪个国家的独特食物。

An international student in London， I enjoy the fascinating aspects of East London. I live in Stratford， where there is a huge metro station which plays a central role in the subway system of the busy metropolis. Just by the metro station is Westfield London， the second largest shopping mall of Europe. Such a mega business center is also rare in London. The rhythm there is hectic and pedestrians are everywhere， enjoying the conveniences of everyday life.

The huge square by the metro station is where people gather in the morning and afternoon during the peak time. I see people of all colors there. Some hang out on the steps by the square， taking a break， some smoking and some sipping a cup of coffee， some chatting on phone， some looking at people passing by. Laughter may break out here and there. Now and then I see some college students distribute leaflets or interview passersby. I will quicken my steps and avoid these street interviewers whenever I see them coming my way. I have been in this habit since childhood years.

I have many delightful memories of the square. The square is a favorite place for street artists， among them a saxophonist， an accordionist， a percussionist. In another memory， a long queue of children files toward the metro station， wearing safety vests in a shiny fluorescent yellow and carrying satchels on their back， chatting and laughing now and then. A hotdog food stand sends out a strong pleasant smell. As I walk through the square， I can sense spices from restaurants and food stands. A homeless woman in her fifties lives by some trash cans. When its fine， she comes out of her dwelling place and chats with the hotdog operator and basks in the sunshine. When it rains she is nowhere to be seen. Deep into night， the square looks and sounds different. It is a paradise of hip-hop. My impressions of the square are fragmentary： some young people enjoy dancing and skateboard riding; a young girl raps; some people chant slogans on a raised platform in the distance， their loud voices echoing in the air of the square as if there were thousands of voices.

Brick Lane in East London is one of my favorite impressions of East London. It offers the best artistic touch I have ever seen in the region. Diverse cultural influences pulsate. Graffiti are everywhere. The Brick Lane Market is highly attractive.

But I had an unpleasant encounter there. One afternoon， I walked out of the metro station and took a stroll. I was admiring the exquisite fa?ade of the Whitechapel Gallery when I suddenly saw a woman appear in front of me out of nowhere. She tried to beg cash from me， training her eyes on me， her hair blond and dry， her eyes deep-set in the face. I had been advised to avoid street beggars as fast as possible. So I gestured no to her. She didnt back off. Instead， she came closer screaming “Arent we women！” in accented English. “You are a foreigner， but we are women. Do you hear me！” Seeing me ignore her， she screamed louder， her pupils enlarged. I could have died if her eyes had been daggers. She no longer looked pitiful. She looked ferocious and looked as if she was about to charge into me. I quickened my steps. When I reached the traffic lights， she was chasing me， calling me names in a vicious manner. I took a deep breath and fled. My heart pounded for a long while even after I escaped into Brick Lane. The violent， religious， political， and emotional graffiti looked like monsters hollering and trying to break out of the walls. Something in the air gave a poignant smell， suggesting an exotic cuisine unknown to me.