by You Jin
As she said this, someone knocked on the door. It was the Italian neighbour’s children.
The children all babbled together in Italian for a while, then after asking their mother’s permission, they went happily out to play.
“It looks like you get along well with your neighbours.”
“Yes, the nicest thing about Italians is that they are very hospitable, not pretentious, and eager to make friends. Let me tell you something interesting. In our restaurant, you can often tell where customers are from based on how they settle the bill. The Spanish are the most communal. They order together, share the food, and after they’ve eaten, one person pays the bill, and they divide it up after they leave the restaurant. For the English, yours is yours and mine is mine. It’s clearly demarcated. They order separately, eat separately, and pay separately, without any confusion or any messing around. The Germans are the worst. You quietly wait for them to settle the bill, and after the sun has set, they still can’t work it out just right. That’s because they count every little thing, separating out every last cent, calculating until it gets to be really irritating. For Chinese, we’re the opposite. The arrival of the bill is the liveliest time. They fight to pay, and the one who wins will have a big smile on his face, happy as can be, even if he is cursing inside.”
This made all of us laugh.
“Do you face fierce competition in the restaurant business here?”
“There’s competition in every line of work, so that’s not really a problem,” she said. “Our greatest difficulty is how to change the Italian people’s view of life. Italians place a lot of emphasis on outer appearances and comforts of home. Their shoes and clothes all have to be big name brands. Their residences are carefully designed inside and out, everything being perfectly made. But as for dining, they don’t really give it much attention. Dining out is not an everyday thing for them. When they come to the restaurant, it’s because the family has something to celebrate. When they order, they are careful not to order too much. And when the food is served, they try to finish all of it, not wasting anything. See, if we had to rely on them for our business, how much could we earn?”
Then she added, “Managing a restaurant business requires long hours, and a lot of work, it’s really not easy.”
“Then why don’t you do something else?”
“Making a living in a foreign country is easier said than done.” The young woman sighed and said, “If there was a different way in the first place, we wouldn’t have walked into the trap. You know, Haokai studied philosophy at the university here. After he graduated, he kept looking for a job. After several years, he decided to exchange the pen for chopsticks.”
He turned from sorting through other people’s train of thoughts to analysing the people’s tastes in food. So you could say Haokai had switched his path from “idealism” to “materialism”. To him, this sort of change surely wasn’t satisfying, so he wasn’t happy. And he did not try to mask his unhappiness, displaying it clearly on his face.
He was so quiet that it was a little strange. The whole night, he sat there like an ancient statue. His wife talked endlessly, and he listened without opening his mouth or making any comment. If you didn’t pay attention, it was easy to mistake him for part of the decor in the living room.
When Yijing stopped talking, the whole living room was shrouded in an uncomfortable silence. Then the children came home from playing with the neighbours. Several Italian children followed them in, a happy band turning the atmosphere in the home quite lively.
“It looks like you’ll have an Italian son- and daughter-in-law in the future,” I said to her, half joking.
Without missing a beat, she replied decisively, “If my children are to have happy marriages, they will have to marry people from here. If you look at it, they were born here, raised here, and have the worldviews and values of an Italian. If I insisted that they go overseas to look for a Chinese spouse, both sides would be unhappy. To use an analogy, the children are like the soil here. Though the flowers back home might be beautiful and full of fragrance, if they transplant one of them here, it might wither. So, it’s better to just plant flowers from here in the soil here, letting everything take its natural course.”
“Then why do you work so hard to make sure they learn Chinese?” I asked.
“Language learning and having a happy marriage are two separate issues,” she objected unreservedly. “I don’t want them to forego marriage, but at the same time, I don’t want them to forego their roots.”
She was right. She was an extremely adaptable, modern woman.
Some people live in their own countries, always saying that the moon is bigger and brighter overseas. Others live overseas, always missing the tastes of home, always unhappy and dissatisfied.
But this woman before me was different. She was like a strong, pliable plant. After moving to Italy, she worked hard to make the local soil her home, and now she had grown up strong and sturdy. She did not forget her roots back home, yet she did not want to wither in the midst of the foreign soil that was richer in her imagination. So she put all her effort into adapting. And as a result, she was happy. In the process of adapting, she might have had to pay a very high price, but for the sake of her children’s future happiness, she took steps to develop an attitude of non-interference.
She was a very practical, wise woman.
When we said goodbye, it was already late at night. The couple walked me to the door. The husband stood there expressionless, whilst the wife’s face lit up with her smile.
The summer night in Rome was cool as water. As I walked along the ancient stone streets with bent head, I saw that it was not made up of individual cobblestones, but of two completely different faces, one happy, the other not. In the moonlight, these two faces overlapped and interlocked. One was dark, the other light, like the faces of comedy and tragedy.
The Evergreen Alps
I BOARDED THE train in the industrial city of Linz, Austria, making my way to the capital city of Vienna. In the train, each carriage and each compartment was like a little room, spacious and comfortable. Each carriage had room for six passengers. An elderly man, Helmut, was sitting in the carriage I had booked.
When I walked in, he was reading a thick book. I got to my seat, and he put down his book, looked at me and offered a friendly smile.
His hair was white—shining white—and his face extremely rosy, almost glowing. As soon as I saw him, he reminded me of a living alpine peak. His head of silvery strands was like the accumulated snow at the top of the mountain. His face was like the side or the foot of the mountain. The warm spring breeze melted the snow to reveal the true muddy, crimson colour of the slopes. When I had put my luggage away, Helmut said to me in English, “You’re a tourist?”
I nodded.
“From Singapore?”
So he didn’t think I was Japanese! Besides being surprised, a good feeling towards him and curiosity grew in me—I wanted to know how he figured it out.
When I asked how he knew, he pointed at my backpack. I looked and saw that “Made in Singapore” was emblazoned across it.
We looked at each other and laughed.
“How long have you been in Austria?” he asked.
“Just a couple of days.”
“How much longer do you plan to stay?”
“About ten days,” I replied, showing him my itinerary.
“That’s good,” he said, nodding as he glanced it over. “Since Innsbruck is surrounded by mountains, the scenery is gorgeous. Salzburg is our artistic centre, with its rich cultural heritage. Vienna is an old city, the embodiment of music.” When Helmut spoke, his tone carried a measure of national and cultural pride. “Honestly, every inch of land in Austria has an undeniable charm. If you enjoy outdoor activities, there are countless mountains to climb or ski, and there are countless lakes where you can swim or fish. If you are the quieter type, you can spend every day in music halls, where you will never tire of the musical
performances. In Vienna, even the air is full of music notes!”
Perhaps as a result of having been influenced by music since they were small, Austrians spoke with a lilting, graceful tone. It was a world of difference from the more boisterous speech of the Italians.
When I mentioned this idea to Helmut, he was very pleased. He said, “In Austria, because we are all so subtly influenced by what we see and hear, there are very few people who do not like music.”
He closed the book on his knee and put it aside, settling in for a long chat. “You know, when I was young, I used to dream of being a pianist, but my father did not agree. He said, “Son, if you study music in Vienna, competition is stiff and there is a lot of pressure, so it is a tough life. And even after you become a pianist, relying on music to make a living is also hard because, aside from interest, talent and skill, it also requires some luck. You have to be good at reading the audience’s thoughts. This way, every note becomes a live whip, lashing you until you can’t breathe. Then there’s no real joy to speak of.” My father’s repeated comments influenced my whole life. I set aside the pursuit of the piano and chose to study mechanical engineering instead.”
When in a situation where it’s impossible to have it all, many people give up their dreams and choose a stable income. Helmut’s story was nothing new. What I really wanted to know was whether this story would repeat itself in the next generation.
“No,” he said firmly. “I don’t think I should impose my pragmatic values on the next generation’s life choices.”
Subconsciously, Helmut had hoped his sons would choose to study music, to live out the dreams he had abandoned. But things did not turn out as he had wished. His two sons did not wish to use music to move the souls of others. They chose the scalpel instead.
“It’s interesting. When my sons were small, I could already tell they were completely different from me,” he said. “I am afraid of the sight of blood. When I eat chicken, I will only eat the breast meat. I don’t even dare to touch other parts that have bones because I’m afraid the blood inside will come out when I bite into it. But my sons are very different. Not only do they fight for the bones, but they gnaw on them and suck them clean.”
These two generations, father and son, really were completely different. I’m not sure whether it is a good thing or bad, but whilst we can create a life, we can’t pass our personalities and interests on to the next generation.
At the time, one of Helmut’s sons was in the US studying medicine. The other had married a Swiss woman. In accordance with the old saying, If you marry a chicken, live like a chicken; if you marry a dog, live like a dog, this son had moved to Switzerland. Now only the two older folks were left at home.
“Are you lonely?” I asked nosily.
“Lonely?” Helmut laughed. “My dictionary does not contain the term ‘lonely’. I am sixty-eight years old, and I still always feel that I don’t have enough time to do everything I want.”
“How do you spend your time?” I asked.
“Oh, I spent three years finishing a family history. Starting from 1938, I traced back over a history of one hundred and fifty years, involving more than fifty families. These families have moved to places like the US, Canada, Russia and Romania. In order to find out the truth, and facts, I travelled to all these places, conducting surveys and interviews, to collect the complete information. I took another half-year cloistered away writing. I just completed it last year.”
“Writing a family history must be a good diversion…” I said presumptuously, but before I could finish, he interrupted me.
“Diversion? No, I don’t take it as a diversion. Writing family histories is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. When I was young, I was busy making a living and raising a family. I could not do many of the things I wanted to do. The good thing about retirement is that you can do whatever your heart desires.” Saying this, he looked at me with bright eyes and asked, “Hey, don’t you think that letting your children and grandchildren and all your future generations understand their roots is a meaningful thing?”
His expression was dignified, and very serious. Reflecting on the careless words I had just spoken, I apologised, feeling quite awkward. I quickly changed my tune: “Now that you’ve finished writing the family history, do you have any new plans?”
“I want to hold an art exhibition.”
“An art exhibition?” I was careful not to show my surprise. “Did you take up this hobby after retiring?”
“I had the interest when I was young. It’s only now that I have the time.” The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. “I live in Innsbruck, where I’ve always been surrounded by the scenery of the mountains and lakes. Every day I go out early with my sketch book. Often, as soon as I get my easel set up, without much effort or planning, the mountain and lake scenery naturally appears on my canvas. In Austria, there are subjects for painting all around. If you don’t take hold of them, it’s an insult to nature.”
“Are you going to Vienna this time to find inspiration for your paintings?”
“No.” His black eyebrows suddenly creased into two short strings, knotting in the centre. “I’m going there to a nursing home to see my brother.”
A nursing home to see his brother? Behind the phrase, there was surely a sad, moving story, but I did not want to ask. Or, to put it more accurately, it was not my place to ask.
Helmut turned his gaze towards the windows and said gently, “Wow!”
Outside the window, the firm hand of nature had drawn a startlingly beautiful scene. There were mountains in the distance, covered with snow. Closer, there was water, and there were shadows in the water. The pure white snow reflected a layer of light on the lake. The snow glimmered, brighter than the sunlight. The mountain and lake enhanced each other’s beauty in the quiet landscape.
Just then, Helmut’s whole face became extremely gentle. His dark blue eyes did not move away from the “landscape painting”. His eyes took on a faraway look.
Suddenly, I felt that I was very fortunate. Helmut could only look at one alpine mountain, but I was looking at two. Of the two, one would grow old, but the other would not. The one that would age was outside the window. In winter, the snow would cover its head, ageing it. The one that would never age was inside, right in front of me. Age could not change him. White hair and wrinkles would never make him old.
The passion for life inside him would keep him always young.
My Home and My Heart are in Greece
I TOOK A ferry from a harbour on the Grecian coast, to the beautiful island of Crete. On the twelve-hour voyage, I met two Greek people. In talking with them, I was surprised to find that though they had lived overseas for many years, to them, their overseas abodes were just temporary lodgings. Their hearts, their roots, remained firmly fixed in Greece.
On Deck
The ship we were on held several hundred people. Boarding was a noisy, chaotic procedure. Unable to tolerate the stuffy air, I tossed my luggage into our tiny room and went up on deck to get some fresh air.
The wind was weak and the waves calm. Though it was already after six, the sun showed no signs that it was willing to set. Its light played on the blue sea, making it sparkle, and also forcefully dragged the buildings on the shore to sleep on the silky surface of the water.
Risheng held a video camera propped on his shoulder, trying to capture the view of the bank before the ferry sailed too far away. The funny thing was that a forty-something man stood beside him in exactly the same pose trying to capture exactly the same scene. When they had shot video for several minutes and lowered their cameras, they greeted each other, and then burst out laughing.
At first we had thought he was a tourist like us. But after striking up a conversation, we learnt that he was Greek. Living in Australia now, he was only back for a business trip.
“When I saw you shooting the video so earnestly, I thought it was your first time in Greece.”
“There i
s such delicate beauty in the Grecian landscape, how can you possibly capture it all?” he said proudly. “But to tell you the truth, I’m taking this video for educational purposes.”
“You’re a teacher?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I have three children who were all born and raised in Australia. I don’t want them to be a generation without roots, so I try to create opportunities to educate them about their home country. These videos are all for them.”
Someone who missed his home country, even when he was living in an Australian paradise, was clearly a steadfast person. I asked him how he came to live in Australia. He laughed and said, “It’s really a very long story. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
I nodded eagerly.
He took a deep breath and asked, “Have you eaten yet?”
I shook my head.
“Well, then,” he suggested, “why don’t we go to the restaurant and talk over dinner.”
The restaurant, situated on the top floor, was decorated quite grandly. As we walked on the plush carpet, we were like cats, our footsteps completely silent.
This gentlemanly middle-aged man, named Loukianos, ordered souvlaki for me, and he and Risheng both ordered the typical Greek set meal. Souvlaki is a pork or lamb kebab loved by everyone everywhere in Greece. The meat is cut into thick, heavy square slices, and strung on a thin skewer and barbecued. When I saw the square slices of pork on the skewer, I exclaimed, “It’s so thick! I’ll wear my teeth out chewing that.” But then, as soon as the meat entered my mouth, I was shocked. It was so tenderly smooth, delicate, sweet and well-seasoned that I couldn’t help but wonder if it was some kind of strangely refined meat.
The full Greek set meal included wine, lettuce, cheese bread, eggplant pilaf, salad and sesame bread.