In Time, Out of Place

by You Jin

  “I am optimistic,” she said, smiling. “I always believe that when you come to a roadblock, there will be a way through. Everything will be all right in the end. Even if the sky collapses, the ground will support it.”

  It was true. After a storm, there is always sunshine. Yun Ling’s experiences were proof of that.

  “Although the early days of our marriage were not easy, I always felt that I was a very lucky woman because I married a deeply loyal husband.”

  The couple looked at each other in tacit understanding, a sweet smile passing between them.

  Yun Ling continued, “Our relationship has always been good. We will face all our turbulent times together. When misfortune comes, we will both bear it. When we are blessed, we will both enjoy that. On the other hand, we have some friends who are happy as a pair of lovebirds in good times, but as soon as troubles come along, they bolt. Less than half of married couples grow old together.”

  By the time we had talked about all of this, it had grown dark outside. Yun Ling stood up and turned on the television, saying, “You all watch TV. I’ll cook some Chinese food for you to try.”

  Before long, she was done. She carried the food out and put it on the dining table.

  There were two hot dishes and one soup: black fungus mushrooms and cucumbers fried with sliced pork, a tomato omelette, and meatball and glass noodles soup.

  I was quite surprised because the black fungus mushrooms and glass noodles were both “limited” products in the Czech Republic. Where had she bought those?

  “I have a friend in Prague who works in a Chinese restaurant that opened recently, and I practically begged him to help me buy some. I could only get a bit, and I saved it. We eat it very occasionally.”

  Hearing this, I felt the black fungus mushroom between my chopsticks grew heavy.

  Ruzicka had a good appetite, gobbling up the rice in his blue and white porcelain bowl, but he hardly touched the meat and vegetables on the plates. Risheng and I, acting like hosts rather than guests, repeatedly urged the couple to eat from the cooked dishes.

  Ruzicka finished and put his chopsticks down, then looked at his wife warmly and said, “I have many friends who love my wife’s cooking. Every time they eat it, they ask for recipes, so my wife has written three cookbooks…”

  “Hey, hey, hey! Ruzicka, stop. Quit publicising it!” Yun Ling said, laughing.

  Ruzicka went to the study and came back carrying three colourful, beautifully printed cookbooks. He handed them to me.

  Each volume, written in Czech, introduced thirty-three Chinese dishes, and a colour photo accompanied each recipe. There were meat dishes, vegetables, fish, soups, noodles, dessert—it had everything.

  “It all started when I innocently wanted to help a few Czech friends learn to cook Chinese food, and it ended with me writing these three cookbooks,” Yun Ling said, her expression earnest. “I started by selecting dishes with ingredients readily available in Czech markets. For example, there is a lot of garlic here, but Czech people don’t know that garlic can be used to cook different dishes, so I taught them to cut the garlic finely and wrap it into dumplings. They really love it.”

  This series of cookbooks had sold over six hundred thousand copies in the Czech Republic.

  “I am currently researching something interesting,” Yun Ling said. “There are many plants with medicinal properties. If these plants are used in cooking, you can enjoy a good meal whilst you take care of your health.”

  Teaching Chinese—A Deeper Meaning

  After our meal, we all went into the study to chat over tea.

  The study was quite aptly named, for there were books everywhere. And most were Chinese volumes. On the desk were many documents translated from Chinese and Czech.

  “We currently make our living from translation. Many foreign companies based in the Czech Republic need us to help them translate their material into Czech. The things we translate can be quite varied, coming from many different fields. Whether professional, technical, or literary, we do it all. The scope of work Ruzicka translates is much broader than mine because, besides Czech and Chinese, he also speaks Russian, Polish and English.”

  Aside from doing translation, Yun Ling also spent a lot of time compiling dictionaries and teaching the Chinese language. She had found that there were only a few Czech Sinologists in the Czech Republic ploughing quietly away in the field of language.

  Yun Ling had been part of a “dictionary editing team” led by a famous Czech Sinologist, and after many years of hard work, they had completed the only Czech-Chinese dictionary, which was already in its ninth edition.

  Compiling the dictionary was apparently a very tedious process. Yun Ling took a document from the table and, pointing at the text there, said to me, “Chinese and Czech might as well be languages from two completely different planets. In both grammar and syntax, they are totally different. The editorial team often had to spend an hour or two just debating the appropriateness of a single word. The most difficult part was that we felt like we were fighting a battle alone here in our little corner of the world, and so we had to painstakingly find solutions ourselves when we met with problems.”

  In the final version of the Czech-Chinese dictionary, besides definitions of words, its most special feature was that there were a lot of illustrative sentences that could be used as a model for teaching Chinese.

  Besides this work, Yun Ling had also worked with the Czech Republic’s only phonetics professor, Dr Cerny, creating a series of Chinese-language textbooks focused on pronunciation. There were already two volumes in the series, with a third due out soon.

  “The main reason this series focuses on spoken Chinese is that many Czech students who learn Mandarin graduate with good proficiency in reading, but very poor spoken Chinese. We took commonly used phrases from daily life and put them in the book, hoping to help students strengthen their oral skills.”

  As I flipped through the edited material on the desk, I noticed a page with the Chinese character “Êää,” which had notes on twenty-one usages. It was much more thorough than I had imagined.

  When we asked Yun Ling about teaching Chinese, her eyes lit up. “Now, I work as a volunteer at the Prague Language School. I teach four classes, two by correspondence and two in the evening. The evening classes meet once a week, four hours each session.”

  Yun Ling’s students were all Czech. Though they were together in one class, they were of different ages, from different backgrounds, and in different professions. They included doctors, architects, lawyers, translators, editors, biologists, university students, and secondary school students. What puzzled me was their motivation for learning Chinese.

  “Motivation is an individual thing,” Yun Ling said. “Most of my students are interested in Chinese culture and hope that Mandarin will be the key that opens up this beautiful world for them. Some students hope that after they learn Chinese, when they get the chance to go to China for business or leisure, they will be able to use the language. There is also a small portion of students who treat studying Chinese as a lofty hobby to pass the time.”

  Someone pointed out that it is too difficult for foreigners to learn the more complex aspects of Chinese language. Yun Ling vehemently disagreed with this idea. She said stridently, “Learning is a mutual process. If the student has confidence and interest, and if the teacher uses lively teaching methods and suitable materials, there is no reason one cannot succeed in learning. Over the past several years, Prague’s Charles University has produced many successful Chinese scholars from its four-year programme.”

  I said her spirit of volunteerism was quite admirable, but she just laughed and said, “There are two things about teaching Chinese in Prague that I find really meaningful. One is that I can spread the love of Chinese culture, and the other is that I can help foster greater understanding between Czech and Chinese people. If students work hard, and good results follow, that becomes my tuition fees.” She paused, then continued, “I al
ways feel that I can’t just waste my time on this earth. I may not be a great person, but I also don’t want to sell myself short. I just want to do my own small part earnestly in the time I have.”

  As she said this, the clock began to chime, dong dong dong, twelve times.

  Oh! It was already midnight!

  We got up and said goodbye.

  We knew there was a metro station near her home, so we planned to take the train back to where we were staying.

  But the hospitable Yun Ling insisted that she and Ruzicka would give us a lift. Though we repeatedly rejected the offer, the couple insisted on driving us home. At midnight, there was hardly anyone on the road, and the journey was swift as they brought us right to the door of our hostel.

  When we said goodbye, we arranged to meet again so they could spend a day showing us around Prague.

  A Gentle Devotion—Shaking the World

  Early the next morning, they came by to take us out for a tour.

  We went to the Prince’s Hunting Grounds, about forty kilometres from downtown Prague. A former Czech prince was an avid hunter, and in his short fifty-year lifespan, he had killed over three hundred thousand types of animals, including lions, tigers, panthers and huge bears. These sorts of big game were mostly made into stuffed specimens. When we went into the Specimen Exhibition, it was like entering a huge primal forest.

  Inside were animals that are harmless to people, and those that lie in wait to prey on humans; there were tame, cute creatures and also wild, grisly ones. It was as if every animal one could think of was to be found there. Most impressive was a specimen of a black bear that stood taller than a human, standing erect with paws extended, as if ready to attack any time.

  This prince really had subdued all of the wild beasts of the forest.

  Along with the specimens of various animals, this lofty, imposing palace that the prince had formerly lived in was also open to guests. The royal family lived extravagantly, its luxurious wealth laid out before our eyes.

  Yun Ling walked with us, patiently translating everything the guide said in Czech into Chinese for us.

  She was quite popular. As she walked with us, all of the staff in the Prince’s Hunting Grounds greeted her. When she came across someone with whom her relationship was especially good, she took a small jar of Tiger Balm out from her purse and gave it to them.

  After we finished a three-hour tour of the Prince’s Hunting Grounds, we went to a nearby restaurant for a sumptuous lunch. Afterward, Yun Ling took us around the city to see the tombs of some famous personalities, then we rode a cable car to view a rose garden at the mountain’s peak. With a twinkle in her eyes, she said, “There is one place you cannot miss.”

  It was the National Theatre, which had been funded by donations from the people. It was imposing and dignified. What most impressed us were the numerous venerable bronze statues that stood inside the theatre, all of famous Czech artists.

  Yun Ling told me, “These statues are an open recognition of the achievements of local artists.”

  The National Theatre highlighted opera and ballet with a strong national consciousness. The signs were only written in the Czech language.

  Yun Ling explained to me, “Ruzicka and I were always very frugal with our living expenses. But, from the time our children were old enough to understand, with what we saved, we brought them here to watch the performances, hoping to cultivate some national pride in them. But the theatre is often very crowded, and tickets can be hard to get. Many times, I had to be very determined, coming out here at four in the morning, huddling in a blanket whilst I waited miserably to buy tickets. The ticket office opens at nine, so I was usually the first in the queue. It always pays to be early.”

  As she said this, Yun Ling’s charming face lit up gently with maternal love.

  When we came out from the National Theatre, walking toward the city centre through a passageway, I saw something surprising: there was a completely black sign hung on a wall. The sign had a date in Arabic numerals printed on it: 17-11-1989. On the bottom of the sign, wax dripped from many small candles. On the ground, glass bottles and jars were scattered around, all filled with flowers.

  I stopped to look. As I gazed at the sign, it suddenly dawned on me that November 1989 was a pivotal month in the political fortunes of the Czech Republic. At the time, many Czech people had gathered in the nearby square to demonstrate, creating ripples with their Democracy Movement and initiating a revolutionary fervour that spread across the whole world.

  “Thinking back on it now, I still feel I am in the midst of a sweet dream.” Yun Ling spoke without reservation. “The people called that revolution a velvet revolution, because it was all accomplished in a very gentle way. There were tens of thousands of people gathered in the square, all holding bunches of keys, continually shaking them. The sound of metal on metal set up a noise that filled the whole land, ringing a death knell for the old government. That scene was so moving. Many who participated in or supported the movement could not help but weep openly. It was winter then, and it was freezing, but the hearts of the people were aflame. I have a friend who carried her beloved Pekingese to join the parade, but after she had spent the whole day walking and gone home, she found that the dog had almost frozen to death at her bosom!”

  At that moment, standing in the passageway by the streets of Prague, in front of this sign so full of historical significance, and hearing Yun Ling narrating the richness of its recent history in such an emotional tone, I could almost hear the sound of jangling keys coming from the square, ringing out the “voice of the people”.

  One Czech person had told me, “For the past forty years, it seemed we were living in a sealed, stifling tin. Only now that we can suddenly breathe in large amounts of fresh air coming from the outside do we understand what the air in the tin was really like, how fetid and filthy.”

  Now, the Czech people can apply for a passport and travel as they please, the media reports events freely, and newspapers have sprouted up everywhere, like bamboo shoots after the rain. All sorts of information flourishes, like hundreds of birds competing with each other in song.

  In terms of economic development, it has been a long, arduous process for the Czech people, but after many years of seclusion, with renewed democracy and freedom, the whole Czech nation has emerged with great jubilation.

  A Silent Composition—Moving the Spirit

  That night, we went to a Chinese restaurant in Prague for dinner. We ordered appetisers, spicy chicken, ginger beef, sweet and sour pork, sautéed fish slices, spicy sliced pork, and a bottle of red wine.

  We poured the wine into crystal glasses and drank a toast to our joyous meeting. However, we all knew quite clearly that we would part once this meal was over, and would not know if we would ever meet again. The smile on my face slowly melted away.

  Yun Ling urged us to eat, and Ruzicka poured more wine. Our little table was warm and lively.

  The chef was Czech, but the taste of the food was much better than I had expected. When accompanied by the mellow Czech wine, it was especially satisfying.

  In the Czech Republic, Chinese restaurants probably number no more than five in all. Thinking of Yun Ling’s exquisite culinary skills, Risheng and I both came up with the suggestion: “If you have the capital, you should open a Chinese restaurant in Prague. Your prospects would be unlimited!”

  “Opening a restaurant is too tiring,” Yun Ling said, shaking her head. “If I had the opportunity, I would like to open a teahouse. I would offer a wide range of tea leaves and all sorts of homemade snacks. I would create a pleasant environment for all of my friends in cultural circles to meet and chat.”

  This was a dream Yun Ling had harboured for a long time.

  In the past, this was just a “glass dream”, not to be touched. The moment it was touched, it would break. But today, in the free, democratic Czech Republic, there was a real hope that such a dream could come about.

  The next time I return to the
Czech Republic, I hope to be a customer in her teahouse. With all my heart, I wish her luck.

  When we had finished our meal, we went to the old street market in the city centre for a walk. By the time we were all tired and ready to go home, it was quite late.

  As they took us back to our hotel, we passed a big clock tower. Yun Ling suddenly stopped the car.

  “This clock tower chimes every day at twelve, its music marking the time.”

  We got out of the car and stood in the empty square in front of the clock tower, leaning our heads back to gaze up at it. Lit up against the night sky, it stood over us like a dark giant.

  The nights in early summer are a little cold in Prague. I put my hands into my jacket pockets and, shrinking back, waited quietly.

  The moment slowly drew near. Then midnight passed, but the clock remained silent.

  Ruzicka laughed awkwardly and said, “The clock is resting tonight. There will be no music.”

  The four of us got back into the car. In an instant, I distinctly heard a “soundless music”. It was the melody of friendship, the sound of a perfectly tuned quartet who got together by chance, four hearts playing in harmony.

  Poland, the Lute with a Broken String

  I REMEMBER CLEARLY the afternoon that she stood at the corner beside the door of the tourist centre in Gdansk.

  She had silvery-white curls. Her hair was ingeniously held in a bun with black chiffon, with delicate flowers adorning it. Her shimmery white silk blouse shimmered. Her tight red skirt was perfectly tailored. The black stockings and low heels were the final proof of her painstaking pursuit of the latest trends.

  Even though her style of dress was young, her face was not. The very fine, but unmistakable, wrinkles on her face and the look in her eyes of having been through life’s hardships were evidence of her age. Youth was past for her but she refused to let go of the illusion of youth.