by You Jin
To the utilitarians, books contain gold, with colours like jade within the pages. They have a heart full of multi-coloured dreams. The rows of books on shelves are treasure chests full of jewels to them. They were not at the library for the pursuit of knowledge, but for the acquisition of wealth. Of the books borrowed, every one was about making money, investments, analysis of stock market trends, laws governing the setting up of a company and all sorts of moneymaking methods. They all fell under the same umbrella. After they had succeeded in finding a path to get rich, they disappeared from the library.
Some borrowers were last-minute workers, only entering the library during exam season. They were like a tornado, making a wild, vigorous landfall, then departing with as much force, coming and going without warning. What was left behind were just the cold pages of the books they had touched with their merciless fingers. Once they graduated, they never showed their faces in the library again.
The ones we loved were the real bookworms who came in on both sunny and rainy days. They were regular customers who stayed for long hours and possessed a voracious appetite for books. It was like they never got enough, no matter how much they ate. Their eyes were glued to the pages, always so bright that even the words on the pages reflected their light. Such people never aged, staying forever young by feasting on the elixir of books.
Those who came to read or borrow books were all driven by different motives, but inside that redbrick building that looked so cold from the outside, there was a quiet vitality, and that was the most remarkable thing about the place.
In 2004, I was very saddened to hear that the building on Stamford Road, which had a history of more than 40 years, had to give way to the growth of Singapore Management University. But when I thought of how it had used its richness to illuminate the lives of so many people, I knew it could not, in any real sense, pass away. In fact, the building cannot be demolished or taken away, for it still lives in the hearts of so many people, and it always will.
A Person Forever Caught in a Net
When James Lim and I met, I was still working at the National Library, making that building an inextricable part of our history. At the time, the head of the Chinese records department was Olive Lee. It was at a gathering at her house one night that I first met this dark-skinned fellow. He was a stout man, so tall it was like standing by the Eiffel Tower. Because his English had a foreign accent, it was quite amusing to hear him speak. When he laughed, his voice was bright, and so loud it shook the rafters. When the gathering ended, he confidently asked if he could send me home.
The next day, he showed up at the library pretending to look for a book. (I say “pretending” because, after we were married, I found out that he never read anything but the newspapers, current affairs newsletters, and professional and business magazines.) After that, I received phone calls from him every day, calling so often the library’s telephone operator was able to recognise his voice.
At the time, my heart was like a leaf, floating on the surface of emotions, unwilling to stay in one place. He had to work very hard and expend a lot of energy. He was very patient, never giving up.
After two months, the active, warm-hearted Olive organised an outing for a group of more than twenty people to Mersing, Malaysia, where we spent a day at a beautiful beach resort.
In the evening, the setting sun was like a big, round orange sitting among the rosy clouds. Tall, thin coconut trees stood lazily on the beach as the waves rolled in, the green leaves and the falling light creating a dazzling beauty. When it was time for us to leave, the boundless stretch of sandy beach turned into a cold, lonely world.
All the people who were travelling with us were packed and ready to go home. I gathered my things and was about to walk towards the car parked nearby, when I discovered James squatting on the beach to pick up discarded papers, empty cans, and bottles, putting them into a cardboard box, then lugging it to a rubbish bin and emptying it. No one helped him. He just quietly and persistently went about clearing the trash his friends had left on the beach, then returned to the place where everyone was.
I witnessed everything, and it pulled at my heartstrings. When our trip was over, and he asked me to go on a date again, I readily accepted.
When the day came, I was very busy and forgot all about it. This patient man waited the entire night at the place we had agreed to meet, still as a statue. All the while, I was watching a movie with another friend, a comedy that had us laughing merrily throughout.
The next day, when James called, there was no trace of impatience or anger in his voice. He just said gently, “I guess you were busy yesterday and forgot about our date.”
I thought, Oh no, but I followed his lead. “Yes, I really was busy. I’m sorry.”
He continued with absolute courtesy. “Are you free tonight? Do you want to have dinner together?”
As it went on like this, his sincerity, patience, gentleness, kindness, humour and wisdom finally turned into a soft, solid rope, hitched tightly around my uncertain heart. On 2 June 1976, we were married, and I became a person forever stuck in his net.
To me, he has always seemed like a mountain, and like the sea. He is like a mountain because he is reliable, faithful and unmoving. If there is a blessing I wanted to enjoy on my own, I have no doubt in my mind he would let me. When I have troubles, I do not need to say anything. He takes note and does everything he can to bear the burden. But he is also like the sea because he is very forgiving, embracing all my faults and weaknesses. To put it bluntly, he indulges me.
I have complete freedom to do whatever I want, to go wherever I please, and to be with whoever I like. He does not even ask, much less object. But, when we signed the marriage certificate, we each gave the other a length of cord. This cord is not meant to bind each other, but for the recipient’s own use. If one day either of us feels our heart wavering, we need only remember the deeper bonds between us and the promises made.
When we were first married, someone playfully pointed out that the two of us were from two different planets, and that we had met by accident. I was from a Chinese school, while he was English educated. I worked in the literary field, and was completely lost in the world of language and books. He had studied civil engineering, moving to New Zealand and getting a degree after finishing junior college in Malaysia. After going to Australia, and obtaining a Master’s degree from Sydney’s New South Wales University, he stayed there to work in a top architecture firm. Later, his company sent him to open a subsidiary company in Singapore, with him as the CEO.
One Chinese, one English. One literature, one science. It was like we were polar opposites. And our hobbies were no different. I liked reading and writing and all sorts of intellectual pursuits. He liked to be out and active in the sun, doing things like swimming, hiking or playing golf.
Really, what was most compatible about us was that we were both from Ipoh, so we had plenty in common to discuss. When I told him our family home was located on Xi Street, he immediately nodded in recognition and said, “That street really has character.
It’s quiet and simple. All the three-storey houses there are nestled in a row. As soon as you walk into the neighbourhood, you get a sense of its long history, the austere universe contained within it.”
I told him that a lot of cities in Malaysia had really changed in recent years, becoming more vibrant and modern. Only Ipoh had remained unchanged over the centuries, remaining quiet in its solitude. He said solemnly, “Those sorts of un-upgraded places will always draw our hearts back to them.”
When I told him that I often grew homesick for the delicious food in Ipoh, he rattled off a long list of the city’s mouth-watering specialities: pancakes, herbal chicken, chicken hor fun, beef balls, yong tao hu, cuttlefish kangkong. Not only that, he could accurately say which food at which restaurant or stall was famous.
With such conversations, we quickly grew close. I felt that he got everything I said. In fact, even when I said nothing, he understood. This
sort of mutual understanding was a good basis for a relationship.
He took a great interest in many things. Sometimes, I felt he was like a walking encyclopaedia. When he was in a large group, sagacious as he was, he always engaged others in lively topics and was able to inject a boring atmosphere with life and energy. On the other hand, if he was in a group in which there were others who had a lot to say, he would sit quietly and provide a perfect audience.
After we were married, many people automatically assumed that he was the first reader for my writing, but that’s not at all the case. In fact, he does not read Chinese. When he was studying in Malaysia, English was his first language, and Malay his second. When he went overseas, he used English exclusively for studies, work and daily life. To him, Chinese is like an alien language, completely incomprehensible. He does not even understand the chapter headings in my books.
People often assume this must be the greatest regret in my life. Again, that is not at all the case. I feel no regret or sorrow over this at all. I have always felt that my creative work is very personal and subjective. I cannot stand others hovering over me, giving me pointers and comments. With a spouse who has completely different interests from my own, I am free to develop my writing and pursue my own ideas in any way that pleases me.
I know it will be hard for many people to believe this, but the fact is that my husband, though he understands no Chinese, is the biggest supporter of my writing. Without him standing behind me offering his strength and support, I would not enjoy such a quiet environment in which to write, nor have the peace of mind necessary to pursue it. Often at the end of the day when the smell of cooking should be wafting out the doors, he comes home tired and finds nothing but the aroma of books, which does nothing for the appetite. There is no fine meal laid out on the table, because I’ve spent all day on notepapers and books, and the whole house is under a shadow of the written word. If it were someone else, he might complain and curse, but James does not. He simply asks, “Where do you want to go for dinner?” In this way, he allows me to throw all my thought and energy into writing, the thing I really want to do.
When we go overseas, if there is a Chinese bookstore, I will turn into a bee, losing all sense of everything around me as I gather honey to my heart’s content. There will be stacks of books in our hotel room, turning it into a small library. When it is time to go home, the real headache begins—how do I get the books home? If we put the books in our luggage, it will surely go over the weight limit. Of course we could mail them, but is it worth the cost? No, there’s only one real option: to borrow my husband’s shoulders. So, we pack all the books I’ve bought into a huge box that he lugs onto the plane. Seeing his sagging shoulders and the sweat pouring off him as he carries the books like a pack mule, I am always very touched. This man really is worthy of the greatest praise among men.
There have been so many times that I was invited to go on tour for readings, dialogue sessions or events to launch my new books. I very much wanted to attend these events, but the children were small, making it difficult to arrange, so I would think of rejecting the invitation. At such times he would say, “You go, I’ll take care of the children.”
And so I would happily pack my suitcase and set out. As a result, my work was publicised overseas, while at home, he kept everyone informed about my new book. So, when I came home, I would find that everyone knew about my new book.
Sometimes he exaggerated reports about my work. When my 30th book was published, he said to everyone he met, “My wife has written 40 books.”
Exasperated, I corrected him. But when my 40th book actually came out, he went around saying, “My wife has written 50 books.”
Angry, I pulled at his elbow and said, “Hey! Don’t exaggerate, okay?”
He shrugged and said nonchalantly, “It’s just a matter of time. If I announce it a little early, what’s the harm?”
With no knowledge of Chinese, James has become the driving force behind my creative work. The only problem is that I can never keep up with the numbers he’s reporting, no matter how much I write.
Once, he showed me an English newspaper. Laughing, he said, “Hey, it’s a good thing I can’t read your work. It creates mutual respect and peace between us.”
I took the paper and read. It reported that former US President Nixon and his wife had jointly written a memoir, and their disagreements resulted in huge quarrels. He said, “Look, no matter how you scold me or insult me in your writing, I won’t object at all. Isn’t that perfect?”
There were two stories he never got tired of retelling. One occurred when he went to China to participate in an engineering conference. It happened that some of the participants had family members who were fans of mine. They learned that James and I were married and, the next day, they all decided to bring copies of my books to James and asked him to sign them on my behalf. What was really funny was that he could not even read the titles of the books, but he did as they had asked and signed them.
I stared at him in surprise. “You signed it? You signed your English name on my book?”
“Sure. In fact, I signed quite a number of copies,” he answered, seeming rather pleased with himself.
On another occasion, he went to Laos for a meeting. One night, the host country held a dinner. In the middle of the dinner, one of the women, an architect from Dalian in Northeastern China, heard that he was a Singaporean. She told him she had read several books by the Singaporean author, You Jin, and asked how she could establish contact with this writer. He smiled and said, “Contact her? That’s easy. She’s my wife.”
The woman laughed and said, “That’s good one, Mr Lim.”
In the end, it took a lot of talking to convince her he was telling the truth. When he got home from Laos, he asked me to mail her one of my books as proof of what he had said.
When we first got married, James pointed to a world map that hung on our wall and said to me, “I will go with you to any country in the world, whether in the mountains or by the sea.”
And he kept his promise. Twice every year, he has travelled with me to places all over the globe. We’ve been to glamorous metropolises and to remote jungles, to beautiful cities, and to primitive villages. Every summer we set out, and then again every winter. We make our own travel arrangements and plans, so he always has a detailed programme in mind for two trips each year. Each time we board a flight, I know that all I have to do is enjoy an interesting journey. And of course, it gives me the opportunity to record the experiences in my travel memoirs.
Something Else in the Bowl
Many people have said that Chinese people are the race that produces the greatest eaters. Everything that swims, crawls, or flies is suitable as food—all the beasts of the sea, air and earth. There is nothing too hard or too soft to be eaten. This stereotype was especially true of my father.
My father was a king of gluttons. He once wrote in Reflecting on the Resistance in Malaya:
In our spare time, everyone loved to go to the kitchen and help cook. That day, when it was my turn to cook, the dish was sweet potato with shrimp paste. When I started to scoop the shrimp paste from the can, I was shocked to see fat, white maggots crawling in it. In that time, when everything was lacking, I could not be concerned about hygiene. There was also a lazy friend standing beside me so, to tease him, I poured the shrimp paste together with the maggots onto the sweet potato and stir fried them. My friend yelled out in horror. Everyone ate heartily, but that friend did not dare touch this dish.
Sometimes the God of Fortune smiled on him, and my father would find some great blessing in the wild jungle.
The enemy had blocked our path and cut off our food supply. The anti-Japanese forces could only find other means of settling the problem. One day, as usual I found some tapioca to appease my hunger, when I suddenly heard a clucking sound, and a large hen walked out of the forest. At that moment, I was half-starved, and so I pounced on it, but it took a lot of chasing before I finally caught
the bird. I wrung its neck and wrapped it up in wet soil, then built a fire and roasted it. After the soil dried up and cracked, I peeled the dirt off and plucked the feathers from the hen. It was steaming hot, greasy, and smelled good. It did not take me long to reduce the delicious feast into a pile of bones.
When we were growing up, we did not always have three meals a day but, even though times were lean, my mother was quite clever, and so always found a way to make sure we had enough to eat. When we were small, we loved to sit on stools in the kitchen, watching as she stood in front of the earthen stove cooking. Our tiny kitchen was always full of chopped wood; every evening, our efficient mother used an axe to chop the thick wood into fine sticks, and put them into the stove. She put the kindling on, lit the fire and patiently fanned the flame, her hands moving slowly, then faster. When the wind was sufficient to stoke the flame, golden firelight fell over the room, sparks flying out of the earthen stove. Then, our mother hurried to put the ancient wok over the fire and start frying the vegetables. The sizzling sound accompanied the smell of food, filling the whole kitchen. Sitting excitedly to one side, I had a strong sense of the warmth of home. Because we were poor, our mother would find different ways to prepare nutrient-rich dishes of eggs, such as omelettes with an assortment of ingredients—onion omelettes, luncheon meat omelettes, dried shrimp omelettes, sausage omelettes, preserved vegetable omelettes, pork floss omelettes, tomato omelettes, and other similar things. Those eggs, always fried to a golden brown, put a bright glow over our childhood.
After we moved to Singapore, when we were living in the communal residence, she could not use the earthen stove, but had to rely on a charcoal stove. She pushed the charcoal inside the little burner, lit the fire and fanned it into flame. As the flame burnt brighter, the coal ate the flame up greedily, turning a luxurious red. She sat on a stool with a long metal rod in hand, turning the glowing pieces of the charcoal as needed. When each piece was glowing red, she sat in front of that sweltering fire and cooked a family meal on that tiny stove. In order to ensure that her growing children ate more white rice, she cooked mostly salty dishes. Salted fish with steamed pork, minced pork in soybean paste, and shredded pork with preserved pickles were things we ate often. The stove was tiny and the ingredients simple, but every day when I sat under the light, holding the big bowl of white rice, scooping large bites into my mouth, I always felt that each bite was the tastiest in the world, because that food was cooked with such great love.