Memory lasts

     In 1980, Sartre passed away. During that period, I read many newspaper and magazine reports and commentaries, and, joining the general excitement, bought his famous work Nausea. I placed it on my desk. Over the next thirty years, I tried several times to start reading it, but each time I found it impossible to swallow. I flipped through a few pages here and there, and in the end put it back on the shelf. Strangely, this inscrutable book continued to “exist” through several moves; it was never discarded……

1     Homecoming

     I set out alone. After six years abroad, on the eve of National Day in 1985, I returned to Singapore.

     I returned to the place where I was born and raised, yet the environment had become so unfamiliar that I no longer recognized the roads. Construction was everywhere, with new public housing blocks, new roads, and old roads rerouted……

     Reuniting with old friends, the topics were girlfriends, car loans, housing applications. We had little in common to talk about. During the six years I spent in Europe, Singapore’s economy was charging forward at full speed. Studying in Europe enhanced one’s knowledge and shaped one’s individuality. From another angle, it could also be said that I had been left behind. If my peers once started from the same starting line and kept pace with one another, I was now far behind. My self-satisfied experience of studying in France could just as easily be seen by others as dispensable pedantry.

     The loneliness of studying abroad, the lack of hometown food and friendship, and yet time never paused. The stark gap between reality and personal psychological needs made reunion feel absurd.

     I tried hard to understand the new Singapore, to adapt, accept reality, and integrate. Assuming I had not considered emigrating.

2     You Missed Emerainville’s Golden Autumn

     After returning to Singapore, I immediately wrote to Gerald and Claudia to let them know I was safe.

     I received no reply. I comforted myself: among friends met during travels, even those who hit it off deeply, how many truly stay in touch?

     It was only at Christmas that I finally received their card. French greeting cards are oversized, modern in style, with lots of blank space. A blend of East and West. Gerald and Claudia each wrote on one side, reporting changes at Emerainville.

     “You experienced Emerainville’s winter, spring, and summer, but you missed its golden autumn.”

3     From Emerainville Back to Paris

     The next time I heard from Gerald and Claudia was the following Christmas. They had moved back to bustling Paris. They disliked the city’s noise, but city life was, after all, more practical and convenient.

     Would they return to Emerainville?

     Yes. Occasionally, to visit old neighbours, nothing more.

     And so, Christmas became our annual moment to report on the year’s changes.

4     Wedding Photos

     Another year passed. Their Christmas card included wedding photos. They had officially married……

5     Two New Year Cards

     Three years later, I received New Year cards from them, sent from two different cities.

     They had separated. Claudia remained in Paris. Gerald returned to Marseille to live with his mother.

     Their breakup struck me with an inexplicable pain; a sudden, unreasonable punch, no blood drawn, only bruising. The bruise hid a deep, lingering ache. Once, Emerainville had held memories filled with all the mixed flavours of our lives.

6. Bitterness

     In the mid-1990s, due to work demands, slow to catch on as I was, I finally learned to use a computer. I often worked through nights entering data. In a daze, I saw Gerald pulling faces at me.

     Soon, I learned to surf the internet, chat online, and host my own webpage.

     For Christmas cards, I asked both of them to correspond by email to strengthen our contact.

Claudia did not reply. I thought she might be waiting; waiting for another Christmas.

     Gerald, however, said: “The internet in France is a high-end expense, and not everyone can afford it.”
    For reasons I couldn’t explain, I heard bitterness in his words.

7. Reading in Distant Lands

     Strangely enough, it was in France that I finished reading Dream of the Red Chamber, Romance of the Three Kingdoms, and Water Margin. 

     Ironically, many French classics I only began reading after returning to Singapore, including Kafka’s The Trial and The Metamorphosis, Sartre’s Dirty Hands and No Exit, and Camus’s The Stranger……

8     The Maids

     In 1993, I read Jean Genet’s play The Maids.

     The play depicts two maids filled with hatred for their mistress. Whenever she leaves the house, they enact master–servant role-playing, symbolically dismembering her to vent their resentment. In the end, play turns real: one maid is poisoned, the other must stand trial. The script specifies that the maids should be played by two male actors.

     Suddenly, I thought of Claudia at Emerainville. That year, she took leave but lay sunbathing on her lawn, tanning her skin to a bronze colour so she could later tell colleagues she had vacationed in South Africa.

     Claudia’s act was not vanity; it was helplessness, absurdity, a psychological need. I don’t know whether Claudia ever read The Maids. Such contexts and games seem possible only in France……

     Pragmatic Singapore has no madmen.

9. The Trial

     In the mid-1990s, the Singapore Film Festival screened Kafka’s The Trial. After the screening, I rushed to catch the last bus home, feeling oppressed. Under lonely streetlights, my shadow stretched long; yet nearby youths were laughing, carefree, without a trace of melancholy. I felt out of place, incompatible with the world.

     Were they simply not immersed? Or was laughter a form of disguise? Or was watching films merely a fashionable social activity?

     At home, I researched further and noticed the age at which the protagonist is executed: 31.      

     Was Kafka implying that by 31, a person’s life has already ended?

10     Hello, Paris!

     In 1995, ten years after returning to Singapore, I organized a French-themed concert with my students: Hello, Paris! I wrote to Claudia asking her to help purchase Air France scarves as costume accessories. Claudia replied, saying she worried it might violate company copyright rules, but she enclosed many small French flags for decoration.

     Her principled, tactful, considerate, and thoughtful response impressed me. I sensed she had risen from the emotional mire. Yet faintly, through her handling of the matter, I also saw Gerald’s rational, firm, decisive silhouette.

     My eyes welled with tears.

11      Walking Orchard Road to See the Lights

     One day near Christmas in 1999, I received a call from Claudia. She had arrived in Singapore. The night before, a friend had driven her around, even through my neighbourhood, but we didn’t meet.

     “A fairy tale; how could we possibly run into each other?” I muttered.

     I cancelled several classes the next day and met up with her.

     At a Chinese restaurant, I ordered her favourite dishes. This time prepared by a master chef, hoping to compensate for my past culinary inadequacies.

     “You still remember what I like?” she said excitedly as we ordered.

     While waiting for the dishes, we talked about food stories and traditions. Auspicious platters, mapo tofu, Buddha’s bowl, dragon-phoenix rolls, lotus seed soup……

     Suddenly, Claudia’s face darkened. She interrupted: “We broke up.”

     “Yes, I received your letters,” I said after a pause. “Do you still meet?”

     “Yes. Sometimes for coffee, talking about Emerainville.”

     “Say whatever you want. If there are things you don’t want to tell me, then don’t. We Chinese have a saying: look forward.”

     After fifteen seconds of silence, Claudia looked up and said, “Let’s talk about happy things.”

     Time passed quickly.

     After dinner, we strolled along Orchard Road to see the lights. Festive music spilled from shopping malls, creating urban bustle. The lights were dazzling, overpowering the distant starlight……

12     The Little Prince

     On the eve of the new millennium, I sent New Year greetings to both of them, telling them that my students and I were performing a story concert adapted from The Little Prince to usher in the new century.

     This time, neither replied.

     Three months later, I received an email from a stranger:

     “I am Claudia’s boyfriend. She mentioned you before. Fate is cruel. On the eve of our marriage, Claudia suffered an asthma attack and left us forever. She died in my arms, smiling.”

     Shocked, suppressing my grief, I replied, thanking him for informing me and offering condolences.

     I wrote to Gerald to pass on the news and ask if he knew.

     Gerald replied that after their breakup, he and Claudia had no further contact.

     Wait, this contradicted what Claudia had told me.

     One of them must have been lying.

     Email indeed shortens distances.

     When the dust settled, I asked via messenger: “Can you tell me how you broke up?”

     “We had agreed to move to Morocco in Africa. I was going to work as a real estate agent. Everything was arranged, but she changed her mind at the last minute. Worse, she wanted to see a psychologist to relieve stress, but ended up having an affair with him. A liar! She was always a liar……”

     I was speechless. I sympathized with Gerald and empathized with Claudia. For some reason, I did not judge Claudia by conventional moral standards. Perhaps age has made me less absolute. I entered Claudia’s world calmly, openly, sincerely. After all, how easy is it to abruptly change one’s life environment?

     “Did you ever consider moving to Singapore?” I blurted out.

     “She would have; because she liked you.”

     “You’re overthinking.”

     “No, really.”

     I had long experienced Gerald’s stubborn temper back at Emerainville. This time, I avoided confrontation and said, “Forget the past. Face the future.”

13. Ghost

     After that, Gerald emailed me from time to time. We no longer talked about Claudia. In our conversations, we deliberately ignored her absence; or her presence.

     Late at night, the subtle sounds from messenger carried a chill. Was Claudia’s ghost hovering between us?

14      Nausea

     In 2012, by sheer coincidence, the “gear” for reading Nausea finally started turning. From the first chapter without a date to the last line: “Rain is expected tomorrow”, I read it thoroughly. Owning a book for thirty years is rare; persistently attempting to read it for thirty years is also amusing. I was exhilarated; I began conversing with Sartre……

     Sartre says: “I understand that I have found the key to existence, begun to feel nausea, and found the key to my own life.”

     I asked: “Why thirty years after buying the book?”

     Sartre replied: “The past has merely retired; it exists in another form, like a vacation, a state of suspension.”

     I pressed: “Is the past truly static? Residual warmth still has effect, doesn’t it?”

     Reading requires experience. Perhaps Singapore is drawing closer to Paris of eighty years ago. Or perhaps I now store more of Sartre’s neurosis within me.

15     Snow

     Through my website, I introduced Chinese festivals, Buddhism, and Zen to Gerald. My mastery of internet technology grew, and I felt a faint sense of latecomer pride.

     Gerald said: “Among the few friends I have left, you are one of them.”

     One day he said: “My mother passed away. I sold the house and moved to the Swiss Alps. Come visit in summer.”

     “Definitely,” I said, knowing it was an empty promise. I was utterly trapped in urban trivialities: teaching, preparation, advanced courses, exams, leisure, exercise. How could I possibly break away?

     Gerald described the alpine scenery, activities, and weather in great detail. But my mind drifted to the final lines of Dream of the Red Chamber:
    When the feast is done, the birds fly back to the woods; leaving behind a vast, pure whiteness.

     Soon, I received another email:
    “I fainted while skiing. Doctors found my muscles are atrophying. If it’s nothing serious, we can meet in the Alps. If it’s serious, I’ll return to Marseille for treatment. Goodbye.”

     I felt desolate.

     After that, I never heard from Gerald again. Like Saint-Exupéry’s Little Prince, he disappeared from the Earth.

16. Céline Dion and Lin Zhixuan

     I gaze at distant mountains
    Yet miss the turning in the road
    Only when I look back
    Do I realize you were waiting for me; never having left

     In 2013, Never Leftbrought Lin Zhixuan into the spotlight on I Am a Singer. I immersed myself in the song, listening hundreds, thousands of times, unable to pull away. Similar experiences occurred when I first encountered Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 and Barber’s Adagio for Strings.

     Pop or classical; which has more depth? Today, the line is no longer clear. You are in me; I am in you. Friends joked that competition shows revived Lin’s career. He sings with such depth because he has walked a thorny road. Without being a “washed-up fish,” could there be rebirth?

     I traced Never Leftto its English original, I Surrender. Céline Dion’s version is bold, raw, passionate. Lin’s version, with rewritten lyrics by Hong Kong lyricist Lou Nanwei, is restrained, elegant, scholarly. Naturally, I prefer Lin’s.

     Why?

     Because of my Eastern cultural grounding?

17. Three Walking Together

     Singapore’s founding Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew passed away on March 23, 2015, at 3:18 a.m., aged 91.

     During my morning exercise, I passed the condolence site at Ang Mo Kio Central. Seeing the line wasn’t long, I suggested to my two companions that we sign the condolence book. Unexpectedly, neither wanted to.

     “You go ahead,” they said.

     I finished signing and bowed before Mr. Lee’s enlarged photograph. Outside the white tent, the two friends waited quietly.

     On the way back, one said he disdained following trends. The other said formality didn’t matter; that true learning meant putting Lee Kuan Yew’s work ethic into practice.

     There were three of us. I thought of Emerainville, of Gerald and Claudia.

     Once, the three of us walked together. Now only I remain. Have they truly left me? Can a trio be replaced by substitutes?

     I cannot verify it, but a thought suddenly arose: Claudia did not die; she merely used death to sever her past.

     Gerald, seemingly rational and pragmatic, kept fleeing; from Emerainville’s isolation, to Marseille’s blue sea, to Africa’s wilderness, to Switzerland’s white mountains……

18. The Metamorphosis

     Urban life fragments time into precise units, accelerating its pace. Morning exercise, then groceries, chores, shower, teaching……

     The commuting crowd rushes past. Cold expressions, familiar faces, countless faces merging into one. The crowd seems unrelated to me, yet stimulates endless thought. Memory fractures as reality rearranges itself. Willing or not, like Kafka’s K, I undergo transformation……

     “A cold wind from the future blew through the age not yet arrived, flattening the unreal years people had given me to live.”
— Camus, The Stranger

     “The ravings of a madman are absurd to his surroundings, but not to the madman himself.”
— Sartre, Nausea

     “Stars have different meanings for different people. To travellers, they are guides; to others, mere points of light. To scholars, they are problems to be solved……”
— Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

     Leaves fall softly.
    The wind blows……