我们去雅尔达,为了海,为了契诃夫。从莫斯科乘飞机,约两小时抵雅尔达。黑海边的旅馆离机场还有一百多里。汽车超速驶过一层又一层山峦;司机在狭窄崎岖的山路上超过一辆又一辆车。我紧紧抓着Paul 的胳臂。同行的俄国朋友不动声色,笑我胆小,不停地讲话谈他的博士论文,谈他的翻译作品,谈他如何想去美国看看,批评苏联的铁饭碗制度。黑海边的雅尔达旅馆,高耸入云,气象万千,与天比高,与山比雄。但一走进去,却是另 We went to Yalta, to the sea, to Chekhov. From Moscow by plane, about two hours to Yalta. Black Sea Hotel is more than a hundred miles from the airport. The car sprinted through the layers of hills at speeding speed; the driver overtook one car after another on a narrow, rugged mountain road. I clutched Paul’s arm. His Russian counterparts quietly, laughing at me, talking nonstop to his doctoral dissertation, talking about his translation works, talking about how he wanted to go to the United States to criticize the Soviet Union’s iron and rice bowl system. Yalta hotel Black Sea, towering into the sky, the weather, with the sky, and the mountain than the male. But as soon as he entered, he was another