Way Station

1     Emerainville

        Emerainville. A name that feels light and drifting.

        It was a newly developed residential area on the outskirts of Paris, surrounded by towering coniferous forests. From the Paris train station, it took an hour and a half by train to reach Emerainville Station, followed by another half-hour walk to the housing area.

        A half-hour walk was not especially long. When I moved in, it was the first lunar month. From the station to the house, narrow asphalt roads were flanked by fields and vast expanses of golden rapeseed flowers. The fields were wintering, recuperating, storing energy for the coming year’s sprint.

        This was the final stop of my six-year European journey: a corner two-story terracehouse. Upstairs lived the sub-landlords; a young couple about my age. Downstairs was an empty guest room, which I rented.

        The man was Gerald, thirty years old. He had worked as an electrician for the ice-skating show Holidays on Ice, had also been a horseback-riding instructor, and was now back at university studying Chinese. The woman was Claudia, a conservatory graduate working as a ground staff flight attendant at the airport.

        Upstairs and downstairs were clearly separated; each had its own space, without interference. During the day, everyone went to work or school. For dinner, we took turns cooking and ate together. Naturally, the meals were simple.

        As hosts, Gerald usually cooked. He knew how to work magic with potatoes; steamed, baked, fried, sautéed, gratinéed; cut into strips, sliced thin, or mashed with butter, milk, and salt. Any potato that passed through his hands became delicious.

        As for me, limited by ingredients, I usually worked variations on eggs: eggs with onions, eggs with minced meat, tea eggs, egg-drop soup, eggs with anchovies, eggs with Chinese sausage, omelettes……

        This short stay overturned many of my taken-for-granted assumptions: landlords weren’t necessarily elderly; people living in detached houses weren’t necessarily wealthy; French people weren’t always aloof with noses in the air; they could be very approachable. When my French failed me, the two peers gladly switched to English, without any sense of superiority.

        Gerald was relatively reserved, often difficult to read. Because of that, his words left lingering echoes, staying in my mind for days before fading. Claudia was sensitive and kind. At home, she was easy going; once she stepped outside, however, she radiated the poise of a flight attendant.

        Although our dinners were simple, they often lasted a full hour, thanks to the richness of conversation. Dinner time was also a time of cultural immersion.

2     I-Ching and Confucius’ Interpretations

        Gerald, who was studying Chinese, once asked me curiously, “Have you studied the I Ching?”

        “I don’t really understand it,” I replied. “I’ve only heard stories about Confucius interpreting it.”

        Gerald said he was inputting the I Ching into a computer, hoping to discover something new.

        In the mid-1980s, I was still computer-illiterate.

        Once, he recited a Confucian saying to me: “The gentleman understands righteousness; the petty man understands profit.”

        I responded with Mencius: “Those who love others are always loved; those who respect others are always respected.”

        Gerald struggled with the four tones of Chinese, producing strange intonations. I tried to demonstrate; he worked hard, but never quite got it right. The fault wasn’t the student’s; I wasn’t a professionally trained Chinese teacher.

Another time, he said excitedly, “In the practice of ritual, harmony is the most precious.”

        “A gentleman’s friendship is as light as water,” I replied.

        “Among three people, there must be one who can be my teacher,” he continued.

        “A gentleman is open and at ease; a petty man is always anxious,” I answered.

        Our pace quickened; my classical Chinese suddenly awakened in a foreign land. Back and forth we went……

        “The wise delight in water.”

        “The benevolent delight in mountains.”

        “The wise are active.”

        “The benevolent are still.”

        Finally, we shouted together: “The wise are joyful; the benevolent live long!”

        Then we clinked glasses, laughing uncontrollably. It felt as though we had passed through a time tunnel, returning to ancient diplomatic banquets where hosts and guests sang verses from the Book of Songs, tactfully expressing their stances, carefully exchanging courtesies, and delighting in each other’s company.

        Claudia naturally couldn’t join in. Sensitive as she was, she watched quietly from the side, appreciating the natural musicality in the rhythm of classical Chinese.

        In less than an hour, a bottle of red wine was gone.

        Slightly drunk, floating back to my room, I thought: beyond Confucius, there were also the reclusive Laozi and Zhuangzi, Mozi with his universal love and opposition to aggression, and the argumentative Han Feizi. How was it that free-spirited French people had so quickly embraced Confucianism alone?

3     Riddles

        “Hungry?” Claudia asked kindly before dinner.

        I didn’t answer, merely humming Brahms’ “Lullaby” off and on, meaning: “Not hungry, but sleepy.”

        “The food’s almost ready,” Claudia understood and reassured me. Claudia and I shared similar musical backgrounds; sometimes our communication bypassed formal language altogether. Gerald, with his engineering background, would be left completely confused. Turning to Claudia, he’d ask, “So is he hungry, or not?” His bewildered expression never failed to make me laugh.

        When I ate dishes and soup out of Western order, I would mock myself: “Rondo!”

          Claudia glanced over and corrected me: “Sonata form!”

        Rondo and sonata form, of course. Gerald couldn’t grasp the subtlety at all. Excluded from the topic, he shrugged helplessly, pulled down his lip with a finger like a clown. Claudia smiled and gently tapped his head. I was amused by his simple, good-natured look.

        When Gerald was inputting data into the computer, he’d get so busy he couldn’t stop. On days he was supposed to cook, dinner was often delayed. At such times, I would gesture like a conductor, humming Chopin’s Minute Waltz, mocking his headless frenzy. Sometimes I sang Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebee, its rapid tempo hinting at his obsession with computer work. He didn’t fully understand, but he certainly sensed my teasing.

        At the right moment, he would strike back: “People who study music always act superior, isolating themselves. Deep down, they crave understanding the most. If you truly just love music, why give concerts at all? Music, when you get down to it, is just a means to win attention.”

     I blinked, calmly meeting Gerald’s restless challenge.
       A worthy opponent!

4     Space

        Life at Emerainville, of course, was not just about dinner.

        Morning and afternoon, I scheduled two practice sessions at the piano. Practice time was my retreat; no matter what happened, I would not respond. Practicing taught me how to be alone, how to converse with myself, how to spur myself on. It was like an out-of-body experience: another version of me hovered nearby, reminding, prompting, criticizing.

        Once, emerging from retreat, I found the two young people home early for some unknown reason.

        They stared at me for a long time. “Are you okay? Who are you upset with? Why is your face so red?”

        Following their line of thought, I said mysteriously, “Do you know how we Chinese practice meditation?”

        “Chinese martial arts?” They asked curiously, gently mimicking movements like astronauts floating in zero gravity.

        “Out-of-body practice. Better not say more; you’d be scared!”

        The two exchanged glances, raised index fingers to their lips, and tiptoed past my room.

        I didn’t want to explain; they didn’t press. That was how we lived together. Vice versa. And so, between us, there was space, and respect. We enabled each other. Each of us was an independent individual.

5     Reading at Emerainville

        Besides practicing, there was a daily time for reading. At Emerainville, I finished reading Dream of the Red Chamber, Water Margin, and Romance of the Three Kingdoms.

        It was paradoxical: in high school exams, I could analyse classics fluently, yet had never read them cover to cover. With family roots, classics were always within reach in my parents’ bookshelves, yet I could never settle down to read them page by page. At best, I skimmed them like reference materials. Using exam guides, I wrote confidently, but it was really smoke and mirrors, muddling through.

        Was this a tragedy or a blessing? Did the exam system train us to be cunning? Now, without exams, far from home, years removed from academia, I developed a hunger for reading. Was Emerainville my own Grand View Garden?

        Emerainville, through a confluence of circumstances, provided ideal conditions for reading:

          · maturity had cultivated focus

          · a secluded, simple lifestyle

        · solitary living in the Western hemisphere heightened the marginal effects of one’s native culture

        I could read curled up in bed, sit upright at the desk, slouch on the sofa. On bright late-spring days, I carried books outside, finding a tree to lean against. The house was large and mostly empty; the sense of space was expansive. I could abandon restraint, letting emotions wander freely with the storylines……

        When my eyes welled up, Claudia would think I was homesick.
       When I read in righteous fury, eyes red, Gerald would think I was “practicing.”
       When I read myself into Cao Cao’s cunning, full of schemes and sinister airs, the two would gesture to each other to retreat quickly, lest they be caught in the crossfire.

        “Old men shouldn’t read Three Kingdoms, the young shouldn’t read Water Margin; men shouldn’t read Dream of the Red Chamber, women shouldn’t read The Western Chamber.”
        I read them all, and within just half a year. No wonder my personality seemed split.

6     “Not Nice; I Went to South Africa!”

        Before summer vacation, French people chatted endlessly about holiday plans, dreaming of them. After returning, they still talked about holidays, reminiscing about the good times, exchanging information, planning the next one. Holidays were the engine of work and life.

        In reality, not everyone could afford to travel; but that didn’t hinder psychological vanity.

        At dinner, seeing Claudia’s skin flushed red from the sun, her face glowing with sunshine, I joked:

        “Welcome back from vacation! You’ve just returned from Nice, right?”

        Nice, in southern France, enjoys especially warm Mediterranean sunshine. French people like to sunbathe there, nearly naked. In the tropics, we avoid the sun; it’s too fierce. Parisian skies are often overcast; there are barely two months of real sunshine a year. Sunlight becomes precious. In temperate countries, sunlight isn’t as harsh; tanning to a golden bronze becomes a status symbol; Look, I’ve been on holiday!

        “Oh, not Nice! I went to South Africa.”

        “South Africa?” I couldn’t quite process that. Just last night we’d had dinner together. Still, a day trip wasn’t impossible; Claudia was a flight attendant, after all.

        “Just one day? That’s extravagant!”

        “Sorry I didn’t bring you souvenirs. I spent the whole day at the beach, enjoying the sun, watching and listening to the waves.”

        “Didn’t Gerald go with you?”

        “He had classes. We gave each other a short vacation.” The phrase made me think of the Chinese saying: “A short separation is better than a honeymoon.”

        Just then, Gerald returned from school.

        They kissed lightly. Then Gerald anxiously asked, “Have you seen my little notebook? You didn’t throw it into the washing machine today, did you?”

        I glanced instinctively at the clothes hanging outside. I understood; Claudia hadn’t gone anywhere at all.

        “Don’t panic. We definitely didn’t do laundry today. Claudia flew to South Africa and just got home,” I said deliberately, not exposing her lie.

        “South Africa?”

        “Yes, I went on vacation.”

        Gerald looked completely confused.

        “Claudia said you gave each other a short vacation,” I echoed mischievously.

        “Yes, I went on vacation. Right outside the house, sunbathing on the lawn. Look at my bronze skin. I said I went to South Africa, and he believed it. Now you do too!” Claudia laughed until she was out of breath.

        “You’re all crazy!” Gerald shook his head, circling his index finger at his temple.

        Suddenly, Claudia stopped laughing, began coughing violently, her face turning pale. She collapsed into Gerald’s arms, whispering urgently, “Quick, oxygen!”

        Gerald immediately carried her to the sofa and ran upstairs for the emergency oxygen bag. Only then did I learn that Claudia suffered from asthma and had to carry emergency supplies at all times.

7     Pelléas et Mélisande

        When not practicing, studying, or reading, I loved long solitary walks; sometimes an hour, sometimes two and a half. I set out on impulse and returned satisfied.

        Especially in May, with warmer weather, I’d throw on a jacket and wander into the woods. Tall cypress trees rose skyward, blocking the sun, yet light still filtered through the needles, never gloomy. Unlike tropical trees, cypress trunks are straight and clean, without vines. The fallen needles release substances that prevent weeds from growing, carpeting the forest floor like a soft rug.

        A gravel path wound through the woods. Moving among the trees, I thought of Debussy and Maeterlinck’s opera Pelléas et Mélisande:

        “Where do you come from?”
       “Where are you going?”
       “What are you looking for?”
       “Do you love me?”

        To every question, the beautiful girl replies with a gentle sigh:
       “Oh, I don’t know……”

        The future is unknowable. Time momentarily stands still. All one can grasp is the present moment.

        I suddenly felt favoured by heaven; for in a life filled with confusion and question marks, it had arranged such a stop, such a refreshing forest, such a quiet, poetic path.

8     “Face the problem, don’t avoid it.”

        French people are technologically advanced, proud of having the fastest aircraft. French cable television was well developed; in the mid-1980s, people often stayed home instead of going to cinemas.

        Singapore had its own pride; electronics were cheaper and offered more choices than in Paris.

        The French value privacy and protect personal space in every way. This young couple owned a modern answering machine delivered from Singapore. Even when they were home, they wouldn’t answer calls. They waited and listened to the  messages, then returned calls on an auspicious day.

        Once, the phone rang, stopped, rang again. The caller clearly wasn’t used to such technology. Finally, the voice came through the speaker: “Claudia was in a car accident and has been taken to the hospital.”

        She stayed in the hospital a few days. I didn’t make it in time to visit before she returned home, taking several weeks of sick leave.

        When Claudia returned to work, she had to drive alone for forty-five minutes. She asked Gerald for help: “When I pass that curve where the accident happened, I’m still afraid.”

        “Face the problem, don’t avoid it,” Gerald said firmly, as always.

        “I know, but I need time.”

        Gerald agreed to drive her for the next two weeks, though his attitude seemed reluctant.

        Though I kept my distance, I knew their agreement. Out of respect and courtesy, I remained silent. Each had their reasons, considerations, needs, and difficulties; the problem was how to balance them.

        I knew clearly that I was an outsider.

9      Wreaths at the Foot of the Mountain

        

        In late spring, taking advantage of good weather, I bought a rail pass and travelled from Emerainville to nearby cities in several trips; Hamburg, Berlin, Florence, Rome, Vienna……

        Each time I returned to Emerainville, I noticed delightful changes: leaves turning lush green, small flowers blooming, rapeseed flowers gone, new crops planted……

        Birdsong filled the air, but there were no pigeons. I thought of the pigeons at Notre-Dame, of Picasso’s dove, symbols of peace. In Li Cunbao’s novel Wreaths at the Foot of the Mountain, soldiers untested by war are mockingly called “peace doves.”

        Why were there no pigeons in Emerainville’s woods?

        Gerald and Claudia clearly disliked pigeons.

        “Pigeons are the cancer of cities.”
       “They’re lazy, won’t forage in forests and just rely on people feeding them.”
       “Pigeon droppings carry germs; best to keep your distance.”

        In places with four seasons, nature’s cycle shows hope. Countryside and city offer different scenes, different perspectives, provoking different thoughts.

10     “France is Europe’s China; Singapore is Asia’s France.”

        “All feasts must end. Thank you for giving me such a beautiful spring and summer,” I said calmly, suppressing my emotions.

        White candles flickered on the table, their light swaying our shadows.

        The meal was still simple; bread, roasted meat. I had bought a French strawberry tart near the train station.

        “We’re also happy to have met you in a village forgotten by the French.”

        “Let’s talk about things we like,” I suggested, to dilute the sadness.

        “I like early spring,” Claudia said.
       “I like midsummer,” Gerald said.
       “I like vast fields of rapeseed flowers in winter,” I said.
       “I like mornings,” said Claudia, always an early riser.
       “I like the night,” said Gerald, a night owl.
       “I like dusk,” I said, thinking of long walks at sunset on Emerainville.

        “Love is mutual attraction”; that was my understanding of love in my twenties. But this young couple offered a different answer: “Marriage is a complementary relationship.” 

     Perhaps that explained why Daiyu and Baoyu in Dream of the Red Chamber were always at odds. What about relationships in society?

        “In a one-person world, there can be no conflict. The moment two people interact, conflict begins,” Gerald said. I thought of Sartre’s “Hell is other people.” The French seemed born philosophers; I learned much.

“France is Europe’s China; Singapore is Asia’s Paris.” I said.

        “What do you mean?” Gerald asked.

        I repeated myself, explaining my thoughts; vague, yet clear.

        “Say it again.” I knew Claudia was slowly savouring it.

        I knew I couldn’t convince them, but perhaps I had slightly increased their curiosity about Singapore.

11      “Will We Meet Again?”

        “Tomorrow I’d really like to see you off, but I’m on the afternoon shift and need to rest. I won’t go to the airport,” Claudia said apologetically.

        “No need. Look, my luggage is light. My books were sent home before I came to Emerainville,” I tried to reassure her.

        “Will we meet again?” Claudia asked.

        “Come to Singapore, how about that?”

        “It’s not impossible. Air France flies to Singapore,” Gerald said.

        “Then we’ll switch roles. I’ll be the landlord, and you’ll be the tenants.”

        We talked and laughed endlessly. In the flickering candlelight, I saw Claudia constantly wiping her tears.

        “What’s wrong?” I asked.

        “Nothing. The airport air-conditioning is too dry. I’ve worn contact lenses too long; my eyes are sensitive.” She kept wiping away tears.

        Gerald bent his arm and tapped his watch calmly. “We have to get up early tomorrow. Let’s call it a night.”

        His voice was gentle, yet carried firm resolve. He stood slowly and turned on the light.

After candlelight, the bright lamp was glaring. Of course, he was right; we shouldn’t miss the flight.

        Gerald’s left arm wrapped affectionately around Claudia as he shook my hand goodbye.

        “Go back to your room and finish packing. I’ll take care of things here,” Claudia said; meaning washing dishes, wiping the table.

12     Cards and Flowers

        Before dawn the next morning, I was already up.

        Before leaving, I looked around once more, checking that I hadn’t forgotten my passport, luggage, jacket. Then I placed the keys on the desk, leaving behind a thank-you card and a bouquet of flowers prepared the day before.

        I gently closed the door and told myself, “Don’t look back.”

        Leaves rustled softly.
       The wind was blowing……