In Time, Out of Place

by You Jin

Leaving the laughter-filled Merry Cemetery, looking back at the main entrance, I suddenly realised that the whole graveyard was like a huge flower garden, all the brightly coloured tombstones looking like plants thriving in a flower bed. They were bathed in warm sunlight, calmly and quietly displaying their peaceful smiling faces to the living beings on earth and sky.

  I’m not sure why, but I suddenly remembered Zhuangzi’s song of lament for his lost wife. I thought, actually, Stan Patras wasn’t a sculptor. He was a great Romanian thinker and philosopher.

  A Sincere Host

  In Godoired’s taxi on the way back to Sighetul Marmatiei, our cheerful driver sang Romanian folk songs in a loud voice, belting them out one after another, sometimes in a passionate tone, and sometimes more tenderly. When he got into the mood, he even waved his hands and danced, making the cab weave back and forth in plenty of thrilling swerves as we drove.

  The car came across a bakery, and Godoired stopped. He told us to wait a moment. After some time, he came back carrying four bread rolls as big and round as basins.

  After he had put the bread in the car, he laughed and said, “My two precious darlings are bread kings. They will eat me out of house and home soon!”

  We set out again, and he turned back to ask me, “How about you come to my house for a while?”

  I quickly accepted.

  His house was situated in a quiet suburban area of Sighetul Marmatiei. It was a two-storey house with a cherry tree in the small garden. It was the season for ripe cherries, and the whole tree was covered with the brilliant fruit. The blush of enticing red peeping out from amongst the green leaves was really beautiful. In the back garden, there were two pigs in a pen. The pigs were fat and clean, almost like house pets. Beside the pigpen was a chicken coop housing six chickens.

  Godoired smiled and explained, “The pigs and chickens are for the children to play with.”

  This Godoired really was a doting father!

  His wife Nora came out from the house to greet us, looking remarkably like a mantou soaked in milk. Her face was white and round, her body plump and ample, and her voice sweet and soft. She did not speak English, but used Romanian to say something to us, relying on Godoired to translate. Turning to us, Godoired’s face was full of regret. He said, “My two daughters have gone to their grandmother’s.”

  With a slight air of showing off, he took us around the house. It was spacious and bright, tidy and clean. It had a refrigerator, phone, television, oven, washing machine, and everything else that should be there. I noticed that all the furniture in the house—the wardrobes, dressers, cabinets, everything—was made from the local oak wood.

  In a corner of one of the bedrooms, there were stacks of glass jars, all of them being used for preserves. There were preserved cherries, pickled cucumbers, pickled cabbage, preserved pears, and a wide, colourful assortment of delicacies.

  With a beaming face, Godoired pointed at his wife and said, “She did it all!”

  Nora saw my expression and, immediately reading my thoughts, turned and took a jar of preserved cherries into the kitchen. She opened it, added a few ice cubes, and handed it to me. The juice was very red, soaking the cherries in soft, sweet flavour, the colour drained out of them until they were black. The fruit was tender, with just a little bite. The flavour was not nearly as strong as that of fresh cherries, but the juice was so fragrant that after drinking a cup, the taste of cherries lingered.

  Godoired smiled and said, “This cherry tree is my family’s treasure. Each year when it’s in season, the ripening of the cherries is like a show, bearing fruit without end. Nora not only made juice from it, but also cherry jam and cherry pastries.”

  Showing himself a sincere host, Godoired brought out a bottle of the favourite liquor of Romanians, Tuica, serving each of us a glass. This wine was completely colourless and transparent. It looked mild and pure, but it was actually a very strong alcohol. With just a sip, it burned fiercely, from the throat all the way down to the depths of the stomach. Godoired’s expression did not change as he drank… and drank and drank, as if it was a thirst-quenching beverage. In Romania, the selling price for Tuica was unbelievably low. In taverns, each glass cost only three hundred leu (about a dollar and half in Singapore currency). Many people drank in the taverns until they were heavily intoxicated, creating all sorts of trouble. When he talked of this, Godoired said with regret, “In reality, the things we cannot have can all be attained in drunkenness.”

  In the afternoon, we wanted to go back to downtown Sighetul Marmatiei for a stroll, so we said goodbye to them. Friendly as always, Godoired urged us to wait. Taking a ladder out of the shed, he climbed up to the “treasure tree” and, in high spirits, plucked some of the cherries and gave them to me. When I saw how much he was enjoying the picking, I climbed up the ladder and ate whilst I picked. The flavour of the extremely fresh cherries was very satisfying—crisp, fresh and sweet. The taste was exceptional. The thought that this cherry tree I was sitting on was planted in the soil of a tiny village in the extreme northern part of Romania created in me a vague dreamy feeling.

  Ah, in northern Romania, this simple, unsophisticated place, life’s music score was full of joyous notes. Even the afterlife was full of pleasing joy!

  Fragments of Notes on the Ground

  THE STONE-PAVED street was not very long and not very wide, but it was straight, and very beautiful. Both sides were lined with the dancing shadows of trees. Beneath the trees was an endless row of cafés and handicraft shops.

  During the day, this street called Skadarlija was like a sleeping beauty. But after seven in the evening, when the sun had gone down and night settled in, this “sleeping beauty” would be quickly roused from its slumber in a confusion of footsteps, cheerful chatter and laughter, and beautiful music.

  I stayed in Belgrade, the capital of Serbia, for four days, and every night, and this was where I passed my time.

  Belgrade is a big serene city. Ask the locals for suggestions on a good way to spend an evening in Belgrade, and even if you ask a hundred people, there will only be one answer: Skadarlija Street.

  I made the first visit out of curiosity. I made the second visit because I liked it. By the third and fourth, it was because I had befriended a Serbian woman, Gordana. I went there to seek her out for a short chat.

  Gordana rented a small stall on Skadarlija Street selling handicrafts. The items were not mass produced and crudely made. Each piece of work at the stall seemed to have its own character. Through different raw materials and different forms, each piece painstakingly expressed its own intrinsic ideas.

  I inspected each piece carefully and slowly. One piece, which I was unwilling to put down, was a rare carving of an ox with two wings growing strangely from its body. What stood out was the expression on the ox’s face. Its mouth was slightly open, and it looked up at the sky, its round eyes filled with an unbearably helpless sadness. I guessed that this ox was stifled by the heavy burden of life. It wanted to fly, but its life was bound by an environment in which, even if you have wings, you can’t fly. So its face unconsciously bore traces of its bitter suffering. It made me think of Zang Kejia’s old horse. But its sorrow was even deeper than the horse’s. When the horse raised up its head and looked forward, its heart still held hope of throwing off the shackles of cruel fate. But this carved ox clearly understood that even with wings, it could not fly.

  Just as I was holding the carving and looking at it as if in a daze, the stall-keeper, who had been standing beside me the whole time, suddenly said, “The one who crafted this is a university student in the Literature department. I think it is the best piece at my stall.”

  She spoke fluent English, which was a pleasant surprise.

  “It really is exceptional.” I nodded in agreement. Pointing at the other items in the stall, I added, “In fact, all the pieces you sell here are quite extraordinary.”

  She was pleased, flashing her white teeth in a smile that overflowed into her voice. “All
were done by university students. When they finish them, they bring them here and ask me to sell them. It’s their way of earning a little pocket money.”

  “So you mean yours is a free enterprise?” (Though it’s more fashionable to say “self-employed” these days.)

  “Yes,” she acknowledged. “But this is just my sideline.”

  “Then your profession is…?”

  “My degree was in commerce. During the day, I work in a bank.”

  “In Serbia, is it common to hold two jobs?”

  “As long as there’s an opportunity, everyone will have two jobs,” she said plainly. “Our salary is low, and prices are rising every day, and what’s even worse is the constant currency devaluation. The pressure of life is quite suffocating for us.”

  With the situation being this way, a “family sideline” was very popular in Serbia. Many people used their time off from work to learn a new handicraft, then they would take the items they had produced to shops or roadside stalls to sell. Others worked in an office during the day, then at night worked in a shop or restaurant.

  “The most wretched part is that some people are using illegal means to earn money.” Enraged, she continued, “They travel to Western Europe as tourists and buy consumer goods in bulk—things like watches, electronic goods and clothes—and then when they come back, they sell them at exorbitant prices.”

  When she said this, it finally confirmed my suspicions. Several days earlier, I had gone to Novisad, a small town built on the side of the sparkling blue Danube River. At lunchtime, I went to an elegantly decorated seafood restaurant. Sitting next to me were four young Serbian men, and what I noticed was not their unusually fashionable attire, but the food on their table. There were only four people, but they had ordered enough for eight. In addition, there was wine, very large bottles of it, both red and white. I counted and there were six bottles—six! At first I thought they must be tourists from another country and didn’t think anything of it. Later, while we were having difficulty communicating with the waiter, since we didn’t speak the language, one of the men in the group helped us order the grilled buttered fish we had our hearts set on. Afterward, we politely asked where they were from, and found to our surprise that they had been born and raised in Serbia and had come to Novisad from Belgrade for a holiday. When their bill came, I listened carefully and heard that their meal cost one hundred and ten thousand dinar (about one hundred and ten Singapore dollars).

  In a country where a university professor’s salary was only five hundred thousand dinar a month, these four young men were spending so much at a single meal. What was even more surprising was that when they left, they left behind a huge portion of unfinished fish and prawns.

  What divine place had they come from? Why were they able to spend money so unscrupulously on this meal, wasting so much food?

  Thinking back on it, I thought maybe their money had come from some shortcut, so why would it be hard for them to part with it? I told Gordana about this episode. Unexpectedly, she shook her head and said, “I think these young people most likely have their own business. If they were relying on the turn-around items from Western Europe, they would be well-to-do, but they wouldn’t be able to spend money so freely.”

  She went on to say that in the past ten years, the government had encouraged citizens to engage in private enterprise, so many people in the country had got rich doing business.

  “In Belgrade, there are many famous restaurants, all of which are privately owned. They had the opportunity to earn US dollars and German Deutschmarks, and they live quite comfortably, thanks to the exchange rate.” Gordana’s tone carried a measure of admiration and envy.

  At that moment, a stream of people flowed to her stall. I didn’t want to be in the way, so when I had purchased the ox I could not bear to put down, I said farewell.

  It was already eleven at night, but Skadarlija Street was still crowded, and the music was playing continuously. The aroma of wine and grilled meat wafted thickly on the night air. On this Serbian nightless street, there was no such thing as sorrow or hunger. But what about other places?

  The next night after dinner, I returned to Skadarlija Street. It had just rained and the paving stones were wet and slippery. It was early, and there were not very many people out yet. A musician stood on the street outside the first restaurant, unenthusiastically playing his accordion. Musical notes tumbled clumsily from his instrument and crashed to the ground.

  There were no customers at Gordana’s stall, and she sat there staring into space, looking bored. When she saw me, she immediately perked up, leaping from her stool as her eyes and mouth both laughed silently. She smiled so warmly, and the corners of her mouth stretched so wide, that the cleft in her chin disappeared.

  “Hey, you’re back! Where did you go today?” As she spoke, she pulled out a wooden stool for me.

  I sat. “In the morning, I went to see the old fort and Kalemegdan Park. It was amazing. Really great!” I gave her a thumbs up. “In the afternoon, I sat on the banks of the Danube and then went for a walk downtown. Guess what I saw.”

  She shrugged, watching me with bright eyes and waiting for me to go on.

  “In the town square, men and women, young and old, all in traditional outfit, were gathered there singing and dancing. Group after group, and band after band, dazzling my eyes!”

  “Oh!” she laughed pleasantly. “This is our traditional summer pastime. From May through October, every Saturday all the streets and lanes will be filled with music and dancing. Those who strike up the music and dance do it to amuse others, and also to amuse themselves.”

  Just then, the whole street was filled with beautiful music. Every restaurant had a musician or band to liven things up. The music produced by different instruments could be heard from different restaurants, their lively music crashing in the air, transforming the whole place into a sort of disorderly harmony.

  “In Serbia, we have a rich spiritual life. Music, dance, movies, drama festivals—we have them all year round. Song and dance have both become a significant part of our entertainment.”

  I had heard that many Serbians used their annual holiday to travel. I asked Gordana if this was just a rumour. I wasn’t sure why, but her expression suddenly grew dark. After a long moment, she said, “In the past, when the economy was more stable, the people really did travel overseas a lot. I have been to the US and many Western European countries. But in recent years, with inflation, many of us have to tighten our belts to make a living. Going overseas has become an extravagant dream.”

  She was not exaggerating.

  I remembered the day when I went to visit an old castle and an urbane young fellow came over to chat with me. He was studying medicine and was very anxious about what would happen after graduation. He said, “With the present turbulent state of unemployment in Serbia, I would very much like to find work overseas.”

  If this refined medical student was worried that he would not find a job, then there really was not much to be said for those with lesser qualifications.

  I could almost hear the sigh that came from deep inside Gordana.

  “In recent years, much of the rural population has moved into the cities, creating many very problematic issues.” When she said this, her whole face grew tight, no trace of a smile remaining. “Without even mentioning anything else, just look at the housing situation. Mortgages are very high in Serbia, and it’s very difficult for the person living in a house to own it. So many people have to rent. For those who have been employed by the same company for at least ten years, the company provides free accommodations. This was a very good arrangement at first, but before long it was exploited by those who had come from rural parts. When they first came to the city, they rented out their house and land in the countryside. They settled in the city, and concealed the fact that they had land in the countryside. They enjoyed free accommodation, and still received rent from their land and houses in the countryside. Unbelievable! So the shortage
of housing and jobs in the city these past years is partly because of them.”

  The evil claws of modern society had ruthlessly ravaged the inherent honesty of the rural people. This was a very disappointing fact.

  That evening, our chat ended on a heavy note.

  Following Skadarlija Street to the main road, I passed the first restaurant at the head of the street again. The musician was still there, playing with waning enthusiasm, even more sluggish than before. A continuous stream of fragmented notes flowed from his accordion, seeming to fall to the ground all around me.

  People. So many people, all sitting there indifferently amongst the broken notes, drinking their big glasses of wine and eating their big slices of meat.

  Drink today whilst you may!

  Leaving Skadarlija Street, I turned to look back, imagining I could see the accordion’s notes lying in the moonlight, shining coldly, and with a lonely glimmer.

  Serendipitous Encounter

  IN NORWAY, THE Vigeland brothers are a household name. The elder, Gustav, was a gifted sculptor, and the younger, Emanuel, a renowned painter. But the two brothers’ encounters on their artistic paths were completely different.

  Gustav relied on an enthusiasm and astonishing tenacity, spending thirty years using granite and bronze materials separately, completing a series of one hundred and fifty sculptures, each with its own form. This thematic series with people as the subject matter was placed in Oslo’s Vigeland Open Air Park, which is located in the capital of Norway, and open twenty-four hours a day for tourists from all over the world to view.

  Fortune has not been as kind to Emanuel Vigeland. His life’s work has remained hidden in a museum in the suburbs of Oslo, virtually unappreciated, with the authorities practically denying its existence. The main reason for this is that his fellow countrymen have criticised his work for being “obscene”.

  This June when travelling to northern Europe, I read the above information from a British travel magazine. I decided that after reaching Oslo, I would see the crystallisation of the painstaking efforts of these two brothers and compare their works. However, I never imagined that doing this would lead to a serendipitous encounter.