It was vacationing on the Greek island of Corfu for about a month in August of 1992. I rent a motorcycle and head into the interior of the island in search of isolated¹ trails and sleepy villages. I rode for hours along dirt trails flanked by bright yellow wildflowers, over steep and rugged² hills, and past wide fields where farmers struggled to grow anything that would take root in the barren, rocky soil. I had to keep a close watch on the gas tank because there were no gas stations anywhere except at the village where I had rented the motorcycle. At half a tank, I had no choice but to turn back.

 

The needle had just hit halfway³ and I was turning around to head back when I noticed an old cemetery⁴ in the distance, far away from any village or other sign of habitation. I decided⁵ to stretch my legs before beginning the long trip home. I rode to the gate, killed the engine and laid the bike down. As I passed through the creaky, wrought⁶ iron gate, I couldn't help but notice how silent the place was. I had to whistle to reassure⁷ myself that I hadn't gone deaf. There were only a few hours of daylight left and a strong wind was blowing, stirring the overgrown grass which partially⁸ obscured the scattered⁹ tombstones.

 

In Greece, people aren't always buried. The bodies of the deceased are usually laid to rest inside marble tombs above ground with lids that can be easily lifted or slid aside. This tugged¹⁰ at my heart more than anything else - to see the faces of the people buried there as they were in life; their warm smiles and the kindness in their eyes. I spent a long time wandering around, kneeling in the grass next to the graves, talking to the people lying there and wondering how their lives had been.

 

When I walked to the rear edge of the cemetery, an unusual sight caught my eye - a tomb that was twice as large as any of the others. When I looked inside the cabinet, I found out why. There was a photograph of a young couple with their arms around each other, laughing. The date of their deaths, etched in the stone, were identical. Apparently¹¹, they were married and had died together in some kind of an accident. They had been laid in each other's arms inside the tomb. I can't relate all the feelings I had while looking at that picture of them together, bursting with youthful energy, their eager smiles full of excitement and anticipation¹² of their lives together.

 

A line from a poem by Andrew Marvell crossed my mind -"The grave is a fine and private place but none, I think, do there embrace."I hoped it wasn't true.

 

A white marble cross that marked their graves had been broken off at the base, perhaps by vandals or a lightning bolt, and had fallen on the ground at the head of the tomb. Small, orange wildflowers were growing up around it. This might not have been so unusual except for the fact that they were the only flowers growing anywhere in the cemetery. The contrast of these symbols of life and springtime next to a symbol of death was so striking, I decided to take a photograph of it.

 

I took my camera out of my backpack and started looking for a good angle for the photograph but couldn't find one. I decided that the best angle would be from the top of the tomb looking straight down at the cross, but I felt that standing¹³ on it would be disrespectful so I took a few shots from other angles. Unsatisfied, I said to the young couple buried there, "Excuse me. I don't mean any disrespect but I'd just like to stand on your tomb for a second to take a picture of your flowers. I hope you don't mind."

 

Hoping I had won their approval, I stood on the lid and took the photo from the angle I wanted. I can't recall feeling any cold sensations or chills other than the ones I was already riddled¹⁴ with due to my overactive imagination. I stepped down from the tomb and said thank you. Before I left, I picked up their cross and put it back in place on their tomb. The break was clean so it fit like a puzzle piece.

 

The sun was setting quickly and I was worried about finding my way back in the dark, so I decided to head home. I walked through the creaky, old gate again and kick-started the motorcycle. After being immersed in such profound silence for so long, the noise of the engine seemed louder than ever.

 

1992年8月，我去希腊的科孚岛度了一个月假。我在那租了辆摩托车，骑着进了岛的深处，探索那些与世隔绝很久的遗迹和沉睡的小村庄。我在烂泥路上一骑就是几个小时，翻过一座座陡峭的小山，穿过了一大片贫瘠的沙土地，可以看得出来，农民们费尽了心思把所有可能在这种地上扎根的东西都种过了。我必须得时刻留神油表，因为除了在我租摩托车的村子以外是没有加油站的。一旦用完了半箱油，我就不得不返回了。

 

随后，指针指向了油表的中央，我掉头正准备回去，这时候发现远处有座古墓，距离这些村子和民居有很远的一段距离。我决定在往回赶之前走一走，放松一下我的双条腿，于是我骑车到了墓室的大门口，关上引擎然后把车倒放在地上。我走过那扇曾经是很精致但是现在已经摇摇欲坠的大铁门，里面竟然安静得连一点声音都没有，以至于我不得不吹了个口哨来提醒自己并没变成了聋子。再有一两个小时太阳就要下山了，一股劲风刮来，吹得丛生的已经蔓延到了墓碑上的杂草来回摇摇晃晃的。#p#分页标题#e#

 

在希腊，并不是所有死去的人都会被埋葬的。有时候放着尸体的石棺就放在地面上，人们可以很轻易的就把盖子抬起来或者推到一边去。以前还从没有其他任何事情能让我如此的震撼——看着这些去世的人的脸庞，还展现着热情的笑容和慈祥的眼神，就和他们在生活中所表现出来的一样。我徘徊了良久，在坟墓旁边的草丛里跪下来，与长埋地下的人们交谈，想知道他们当初的生活状况。

 

我信步走到古墓的最后方，不寻常的一幕场景映入眼帘——有一座坟的大小是其它坟的两倍那么大。我向放照片的相框里看去，知道了原因。那是一对年轻夫妇的照片，他们挎着胳膊开怀大笑。石碑上刻着他们去世的时间，是相同的，显然两个人是在一次事故里双双去世的。此刻他们一定是互相依偎着躺在地下的，看着这张洋溢着年轻人青春活力的照片，我百感交集，他们热情的笑容里面，充满了幸福与对未来生活的展望。

 

安德鲁·马维尔的一句诗浮现在我的脑海里，“坟墓是个隐密的好地方，但没人会在那里拥抱吧，我想。”但愿这不是真的。

 

坟墓上立着的白色大理石十字架从底部断开了，掉到了前面的地上，可能是盗墓人破坏得吧，要么就是被闪电击到了。橘黄色的小花从四周长出来，野花生长在墓地的任何地方，本都不是希奇的（补：但问题是，整个墓地，只有这个地方长着花）。在这里生命与春天万物复苏的气息与死亡的象征形成了强烈的对比，我决定要拍张照片，永远留住这幅画面。

 

我从背包里拿出照相机，想要找一个合适的角度拍照但是怎么也选不好。我最后发现最好的角度应该是从坟墓上立着十字架的位置朝下照，但是我觉得站到上面去可能会亵渎亡灵，因此只是从其它的角度拍了几张。但是这些我都不大满意，于是我就对下面的年轻夫妇说，“请原谅，我没有任何冒犯的意思，我只是到你们的坟墓上面几秒钟去给你们的花儿拍张照片。希望你们不会介意。”

 

但愿我是得到了他们的同意，我站了上去从恰当的角度拍了照片。其实由于我那过分活跃的想象力，我的大脑里面刚才一直充斥着恐惧与不安，但是此刻我并没有因为又踩踏了他们的坟墓而感到胆战心惊。我从上面走下来，对他们说了谢谢。离开之前，我捡起他们的十字架重新放回去，断裂的痕迹一目了然，因此看上去就像是个拼图一样。

 

太阳已经转到了西边，马上就要落下去了，我恐怕天黑后找不到路所以决定赶紧回去。我又一次走过那扇古老的晃晃悠悠的大门，发动了摩托车。在那个安静至极的地方呆了这么长时间以后，马达的声音真有点震耳欲聋。

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