by You Jin
After one song, the three beautifully made-up older women stood up. As a result of many years of a starchy diet, each of the women had a bulging excess of flesh. Their plump, round buttocks spread their long skirts out. They yelled and danced, their faces burning with a fanaticism rarely seen in people this age. Even though they were elderly and their bodies bloated, they were still surprisingly lively. When they sang to their hearts’ content and indulged in dancing, I seemed to see several faint, conflicting images of youth.
The gypsies really were born dancers.
At this point, all the tourists who had gathered clapped to the rhythm of the dance. The whole cave was filled with a vibrant atmosphere, happy, natural and primal.
As the performance continued, there were solo dances and dancing couples. Several young gypsy women, though average-looking, were lithe and athletic when they danced, and kept up a lively pace, raising their hands and kicking up their feet. The men were delicately beautiful, and energetic in their dance. When they danced as partners, they were flawless.
As everybody began to get into the swing of things, Marcial stood up and announced, “Your attention, please. The pillar of the troupe will now perform the flamenco.”
Outside of the cave, the whole mountain was quiet. Inside, we held our breath in anticipation.
A young gypsy woman swept in like a gust of wind. The first thing that awed the crowd was her eyes. They were so big, so dark, and so bright. With one glance, she could make your heart leap. Her hair was pulled up behind her head in a bun, exposing her shining forehead. She had a high, sharp nose, from which flared a faint hostility. Her lips were soft, full and sexy. She stood there quiet and still, like an image painstakingly carved from ivory.
She wore a tight black blouse with silvery, flowing ribbons. Her skirt hung to the floor, dark red in colour splashed with silver dots, the hem of her skirt stitched with wavy patterns. This brilliant outfit was breathtaking.
The troupe members clapped their hands, producing clear, loud clapping sounds. The guitar played, and the dancer moved.
Her hands were like willow branches in the wind, her waist like rope. When she began her leisurely movements, I felt as if I were watching the wind blow through willow tendrils, or a python slithering through the grass. When the soft breeze had passed, a gale followed, igniting a wildfire, and tongues of flames leapt up the plains. Ah, the willows blew wildly in the wind, and the snakes writhed crazily in the flames. The more vigorously she twisted, the more violent her dance movement became. The gypsies on the side let out primal yells, and rapid notes flew from the guitar as fingers madly plucked the strings. The whole cave seemed ready to collapse. Abruptly, the voices fell silent and the music stopped, and everything was still. It was very, very quiet. The spectators watched mutely, forgetting ourselves, forgetting even to applaud. But this was not the end of the dance. During this rapt silence, the young gypsy dancer raised her complicated layers of skirt, exposing a pair of evenly toned legs. She was wearing high-heeled shoes with metal plates attached, and for the next ten minutes or more, utilising these legs and her high heels, she produced one “melody” after another.
At first, her feet rose and fell ever so lightly, like the sound of water flowing in a brook, surrounded by birdsong and the fragrance of flowers. Then, the feet stomped harder and louder, like a vast expanse of water rolling in with a gigantic force. Just as everyone’s head was becoming muddled by the surging rise and fall of waves, the dancer brought the audience to the brink of a waterfall. The water rushed down from the mountain, sounding like thunder. Amazingly, beyond the gigantic waterfall, the spectators could still hear the sound of the spring water bubbling through the mountain. The small brook, the vast sea, the waterfall—the flowing and rushing sounds intermingled. Soft for a while, then loud; slow for a while, then rushed; all transmitted gracefully. The exquisite dancing expertise of the dancer was the height of perfection.
When the dance was finished, the spectators’ waves of cheering almost drowned the cave. And even though the applause was thunderous, it did not overwhelm the melody that had filled the cave moments earlier. Such notes would live on forever, having already become a part of the cave.
The performance over, the gypsy women pulled up members of the audience to join in the dance.
I walked over to Marcial and said, “Thank you for your recommendation. The performance was brilliant!”
Marcial grinned and said with an air of bravado, “I knew you would love it.”
He paused then and stretched out his hand. “Money?”
“Money? What money?” I asked, astonished. I had already paid for my ticket, and now he wanted more money.
Marcial put down his guitar and, with a composed expression, said, “Tips.”
Such a pragmatic fellow! He was so pragmatic it could drive a person crazy.
When we went down the mountain, it was already late. The moon was extremely full. The cold moonlight silently enveloped the whole Sacramonte Mountain. Looking up at the peak, the abandoned caves all looked like ghostly mouths, faintly mourning the lament of the displaced, homeless and rootless gypsies.
As I walked down the mountain, I unexpectedly felt an unparalleled burden.
Her World is Like Crystal
WHAT ATTRACTED MY attention first was her backpack. It was stuffed full and looked heavy. It must have weighed at least twenty kilos. She carefully set it down and let out a long breath. Though strangers, we looked at one another and smiled. Then she opened her bag and, when she had rustled through her belongings, produced a lump of brown bread and two slices of dry cheese. Sitting down, she sliced the bread with a small knife, stuffed the cheese into it, and began to eat heartily.
I quietly offered her a carton of juice I had just bought.
“Thank you so much,” she said, swallowing her bread in big gulps. “I haven’t eaten since this morning. I’m so hungry and thirsty!”
I looked at my watch. It was already two in the afternoon.
When she had finished eating, she carefully wrapped up what was left of the bread and put it in her pack. Then, with a look of contentment on her face, she said to me, “I’m really glad I bought this bread in Amadora. It’s dry and hard, and doesn’t mould easily. And it’s very filling. You don’t have to eat much to feel satisfied.”
Seeing this frugal traveller, I thought back to the extravagant lunch I’d just eaten and felt a little chagrined.
“Where is your next stop?” she asked.
“Aveiro,” I said. Then, flipping through my travel materials, I said, “The book says this Portuguese water village is criss-crossed with canals. The scenery is exquisite.”
“Portuguese people call it Little Venice,” she said. “I’m going there to stay in a hostel on the canal so I can enjoy the sound of the water in my dreams.”
Then we talked about Amadora, the place we had just left. She said she had really appreciated the slums there, which were full of local colour.
“The narrow stone roads, the crude shacks, you can feel the hopping pulse of life everywhere. If you look superficially at the living environment, they are poor and life is difficult, but when the smell of food and the sound of laughter flow out of the lighted houses, it is paradise to me.”
Her words really moved me.
The more we talked, the more congenial our conversation became. We clicked like well-oiled gears.
She was called Kaitlin. She was very young, just twenty. Her hair hung to her ears, smooth and straight, and with a part on one side. What was unique was her hair colour. It was very dark, almost brown, but along her forehead there was a blond patch that made her face shine. Her eyes were equally bright. They sparkled when she looked at you. When she wasn’t looking at you, her eyes were still full of life. Her dark face was pink, as if she had been active in the outdoors. The skin along the bridge of her nose was peeling.
Kaitlin was half-German, half-French. She was studying for a four-year degree at Boston University in
the US, majoring in International Relations. According to the school’s policy, after the first year of studies, students could apply to go to other countries for a one-year immersion programme.
This was the circumstance under which Kaitlin had gone to Spain. At the present moment, she had finished the process of immersion, but before returning to the US, she wanted to tour Portugal.
Kaitlin was already proficient in French, German and English. She had now added Spanish and Portuguese.
“Language is the most direct bridge to another culture,” she said. “Without a common language, you’ll forever linger outside the door of another person’s thought.”
I found that when she spoke English, she would throw in a couple of words I did not catch. When I wrinkled my eyebrows, she apologised. “Oh, sorry. I’m speaking Spanish again! The on-going problem with studying too many languages is that sometimes they get mixed up. For instance, sometimes when I want to recall the name of a thing, a few languages compete in my mind and I can’t sort them out, and so I get momentarily confused.”
But being confused was just a brief, passing thing. I asked whether, after learning a language, if she didn’t have an opportunity to use it, would she forget most of it?
“That is inevitable,” she said, nodding. “So because it is like that, I rotate reading books in different languages every day. Also, in daily life, I look for a variety of people to communicate with regularly. To tell you the truth, I treat this sort of interaction as a regular part of my training.”
“After you go back to the US, will there be many opportunities for you to practise Spanish?”
“There are many Spanish people who have put down roots in the US. And, in South America, aside from Brazil, Spanish is spoken everywhere. There are lots of chances to speak Spanish.”
When I asked her what the major impact of her year in Spain had been, she hesitated for quite a while, then said, “Spain never forgets its past glory. Many men are quite chauvinistic, whilst many Spanish women love fantasies and aesthetics. This is very different from the pragmatic style of Americans.”
So, were the basic differences between people’s viewpoints an obstacle to developing friendships?
She shook her head and laughed. “Every culture is independent. Some have completely different characteristics, each with their own strengths and weaknesses. In my dictionary, there is only understanding and acceptance; there’s no bias and opposition.”
In Kaitlin’s view, life was like a crystal ball, clear and shiny, and she was an unbiased observer. Whether the world of the crystal ball was turbulent or calm, she neither mourned nor would she be angry.
She was calm as a rock, and she was only twenty years old!
I really liked her.
When the train reached Aveiro, we went together to look for accommodation.
The travel material had not misled us. Aveiro really was a tranquil water village. This place had not yet been overrun by tourists. The canals ran back and forth freely in the town, their waters clear and bright, like the trace of a smile.
Standing in the sunlight looking at the small town, everywhere you looked, there were smiling expressions. Travellers could not help but be influenced by this, and the laughter seemed to overflow from the heart onto the face.
Kaitlin carried her pack and I pulled my leather case, walking slowly along the canal. Before we had gone far, we saw a derelict grey building. There was a small inn tucked into the first floor of the building.
Kaitlin turned to me and nodded. Taking the lead, she walked over to it as I trailed along behind.
The lighting in the inn was dim and the air filled with smoke. It did not seem very clean. As soon as I saw it, I did not think it very suitable.
There were empty rooms. In fact, there were many. There were singles and doubles. None had attached baths. The price was very low.
The dirty surrounding area had already made me feel uncomfortable, but now hearing that there was no attached bath, I immediately rejected the idea of staying there. But Kaitlin, not minding at all, handed over her passport and took a key, ready to stay.
I waved goodbye. Pulling my suitcase, I walked out of the inn, feeling a little ashamed. I had often prided myself on being very adaptable, but by comparison, I found that in many ways, I was not actually a very flexible traveller.
I thought I would not meet her again, but a few days later in the small Portuguese town of Nazaré, I saw her.
There was a very pretty beach in Nazaré. The sand was soft and white, the sea clear and blue. The tide surged, and the waves were forceful. So there were many sunbathers there, but few people playing in the surf.
I only had a half-day to spend in Nazaré. I didn’t want to stroll downtown. All I wanted to do was walk on the beautiful coast and breathe the fresh air.
I took off my shoes and carried them, walking barefoot on the beach. As I walked slowly along, a familiar face came into view.
I stopped.
It was Kaitlin. She was lying in the pure white sand. She was wearing a bikini, black with yellow flowers. Her clear, spirited eyes were closed, and her eyelashes cast a shadow along her rosy cheeks.
She was quiet, enjoying life deeply, every beautiful minute of it.
I did not disturb her.
In my mind, when I said goodbye to her, I honestly believed we would see each other again at some point in life. When we meet again, perhaps we will be old and grey and lined with wrinkles. But still, I hope her convictions about life and her views about people will never change.
The Faces of Rome, Dark and Light
CARRYING A HEAVY bag of books, I trod carefully along the busy streets of Rome. Cars whizzed all around me, evoking wave after wave of unbearably hot wind. Rome’s pedestrian crossings were not at all safe, just as the sidewalks were not really set aside for people to walk on. Cars swept past me, their horns assaulting my ears. When I crossed the road, the onrush of traffic made me feel like I was caught dancing in the jaws of a tiger that waited to swallow me.
After dodging traffic from every direction as I rushed across the road, by the time I reached Xu Yijing’s house, I was drenched in sweat. We had made arrangements earlier by phone, so when the doorbell rang, she rushed to open the door. She looked like a person of some status who lived comfortably. She had double eyelids and a double chin; her eyes and face were both round. She stood very straight in a soft qipao as blue as water, its collar and sleeves embroidered with a delicate floral pattern.
“Come in!” she called. “Did you have any difficulty finding the place? The whole family has been waiting anxiously for you.” As she spoke, she extended her hand and took the books from me. “Aiyah, Baoli shouldn’t have done that. You came here for a holiday and she asked you to carry such heavy things for me!”
As she talked busily, her eyes also took me in, looking me up and down, taking the measure of me. She was a lively, optimistic young woman who used to be pretty, and still retained some of her charm.
I clicked my tongue and said, “Traffic in Rome…”
Before I could finish, Yijing once again rushed to assert her agreement. “Yes, I know. Everyone who comes to Rome complains about the same thing. Don’t forget, it is an ancient city with roads built two thousand years ago that are still in use today. These roads were once traversed by chariots. Of course they aren’t broad enough for today’s cars to use. I mean, the Italians are blessed with a casual character that is not easily ruffled. If there’s a path they’ll take it, and if there’s a space, they’ll take that. It’s made a mess of the traffic situation.”
The whole time she talked, she did not stop moving about. She led me into the living room and asked me to sit, carried the books to the room, then went to the bedrooms and called her husband and children to come out and greet me.
Her husband Chen Haokai was the exact opposite of her, very reserved in his speech. He was around forty years old, and the hair on top of his forehead showed faint signs of balding. He was st
ingy with his smiles, wearing a circumspect expression.
Their five-year-old son and ten-year-old daughter both had thick black hair, curly eyelashes and rosy cheeks. They were as beautiful as angels.
We sat down and her daughter obediently served us tea, talking with us easily in Chinese. Yijing stood to one side, proudly watching, listening and waiting.
I did not make her wait long before I praised her. “Baoli told me you migrated to Italy ten years ago. Your children were born and raised here, but they communicate so well in Chinese. You really deserve a lot of credit!”
“It’s not been easy.” She stifled a smile and said emphatically, “Threats and bribery are both effective tools. The bribery includes taking them for pizza or to play at the beach, or buying them toys. The threats include, “If you don’t study, I won’t pamper you anymore; you’ll be on your own!” And then, when threats and bribes aren’t effective, there’s only—” she waved her fist, “spanking!”
Without planning, the two children stuck out their tongues together, and we all laughed.
“But to go back to what you were saying, aside from the difficulty of teaching them their mother tongue, raising the children in Italy, I’ve really come to admire the educational system here.” As she spoke, she pointed to her son. “My younger one has been in preschool for two years, and he has not learnt to read and write, but he knows about colours and drawing. He not only knows how to match colours, but also, if you put a pen in his hand, he’ll come up with a sketch.”
“I think that in these things, different societal values will affect the approach to education,” I said. “In the East, we focus on practical education, whilst Western societies value aesthetic education.”
“Exactly. Your analysis makes a lot of sense.” She nodded and continued, “Children who grow up with different educational styles will naturally have different life values. Chinese people know how to plan for the future, always putting away for a rainy day, but often we worry so much that we entertain groundless fears, and so we live without real joy or contentment. Italians are very different, living for the happiness of the moment. Tomorrow’s problems will be tomorrow’s worries.”