伪装大师随笔

Will you see a fly named Lushu? Sometimes, we miss it so much that we never forget. You have seen me once, and now I tell you what: Lushu is not just an animal; she is an art. She has become my mentor. She will turn you into a bird, but only if she sees her opportunity.

Last summer's afternoon was the best day of our lives. My parents and brother and I went to see her in the garden. When I picked up a wild rose, it was so small—smaller than a grain of sand. I pressed hard on its petals, and it gave me a deep scratch. Then it turned back to me like that: sharp and painless.

But my curiosity never stopped. I picked up an ax and took the rose apart from near the ground. The rose glinted in the sunlight, its leaves turning red. The ax fell down, breaking the stem and shattering it. It splintered, its pieces flying up into the sky like two arrows. With a roar, I launched myself at Lushu. Her eyes met mine; they were both open, both looking for something.

She looked back at me with a smile—smile she knew, a smile I could feel in my throat. She said: "This is the way to make a bird." We flew into the sky and landed on a tree, her wings flapping like wings of a bird in flight.

Then another rose appeared. She was approaching us from all directions. Lushu looked at me: she didn't look for me, not really. She was just an artist. Then, she burst into my chest with a leap. My heart skipped a beat, and I stumbled to the floor. Blood trickled down her arm; it was her blood.

But this wasn't just for us. We began to follow her. She continued flying through the sky like that—like an artist. But one day, she stepped onto another rose. It crashed into it, breaking both together. The crash was a roar; Lushu's voice echoed in my ears as I realized what was happening.

I didn't know what to say. This is something we've seen many times before. We haven't known her name, but that doesn't matter. That doesn't matter at all. She is just a rose in flight. And flight makes me angry. She has stolen the world from me. I burned it down, but now she is burning mine.

Her wings beat so fast they made my blood boil. She stepped back and looked away. I turned around. Lushu was sitting by the window; her wings swayed as if to let out a deep breath. "Wait," she said. Then she flew down into me again, like that once more.

Now, in my chest, there's still some blood. It splashed over my shoulder as it fell back into my chest. My eyes widened—big and dark—and I gasped for breath. She was gone.

But this is not the end of us. We have more to do with Lushu than just following her flight. But that doesn't matter. That doesn't matter at all. She isn't here in the world anymore. The flower has taken its place, but she's gone.

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