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1987年初秋,第一次乘国际列车经过林木丰茂的西伯利亚,遥望水天一色的贝加尔湖风光,那兴奋劲真是难以形容。“你们看!”不知是谁惊叫了一声。大家的目光立刻被黑松林边上鲜红透亮的红果吸引住了。它们不是一枝两枝,一丛两丛,而是一片接一片,在夕阳的映照下晶莹闪亮,好像神话中的红宝石。流年似水,转眼十个春秋过去了。1996年冬天,当我独自一人到莫斯科郊区的河上去体验凿冰垂钓的妙趣时,西伯利亚亮丽的红果突然映入我的眼帘。那是长在一排小屋前的几株小树,叶片早被寒风卷走,纤细的树枝冻得瑟瑟发抖。我顾不得礼貌,去打扰一位冰上垂钓的俄罗斯长者,问这红果叫什么名字。他唯恐错失鱼儿上钩的良机,头也不抬地回答:“里亚宾娜!”
In the early autumn of 1987, the first international train passing through Siberia, a lush forest, looks out to the sparkling Lake Baikal. It’s hard to describe. “Look!” I do not know who screamed. Everyone’s eyes were immediately attracted by the bright red berries on the edge of the black pine forest. They are not two branches, two clumps, but one after another, shining in the sunset reflecting, like a mythological ruby. Fleeting, blink of an eye after ten years passed. In the winter of 1996, when I was alone on the river in the suburbs of Moscow to experience the fun of ice fishing, the bright red berries of Siberia suddenly caught my eye. It was a couple of small trees growing in front of a row of huts whose leaves had long been swept away by cold winds and the slender branches shivering frozen. I am not polite to disturb an elderly Russian man fishing on ice and ask what the name is for the red fruit. He threatened to miss the opportunity to hook the fish, did not raise his head to answer: "Libya!