In Time, Out of Place Page 13

  Alexis brought out two bottles of wine, one red and one white. Before we had begun to drink, we were already intoxicated by the colours. The red was like a gem, and the white was like crystal—liquid gems and crystals.

  Alexis pointed to the wine and explained, “The red wine is dry, whilst the white comes in dry, medium and sweet.”

  “Are they made from different ingredients?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Alexis explained methodically, “Red wine is made from young grapes. White wine requires large, sweet grapes.”

  I had been drinking wine for so many years, and this was the first time anyone told me about the difference between the two.

  We tried the two types of wine Alexis had made. The first word that came to mind was “fragrant”—extremely fragrant. The white wine not only had an intoxicating smell, but was also quite sweet. The red was fragrant and slightly astringent. What was surprising was that its astringency had no touch of bitterness to it. When you swallowed it, its fragrance filled the mouth.

  As we drank glass after glass of wine, we caught up on the news of the past several years. Alexis told us that after he returned from Saudi Arabia to St. Emilion, he poured all of his energy into helping his parents get the business off the ground again. His parents made the wine, whilst he immersed himself in the study of new wine-making methods.

  “At that time, my marriage was on the rocks and I was absolutely sick over it. If I hadn’t had another outlet, I would have gone crazy.”

  He took out a cigarette case and lit up, talking very animatedly with his hands. I was not sure why, but I suddenly thought of the bravery with which he faced the loss of his fingers all those years ago and wondered if he had faced the break-up of his marriage with that same strength.

  “We Chinese people believe that whether two people divorce and whether two people can stay together for a lifetime depends on whether or not they were meant to be.”

  “When there’s no other explanation, believing in fate is the only way to save yourself.” A bitter smile came to his face. “I tried my best to salvage it, but afterward, I realised that instead of trying to hide a sour champagne in your own cellar, it’s better just to replace it with different wine.”

  I knew he was joking, but I couldn’t help but think there might be more to it than that. Though he seemed to have his usual carefree attitude when talking about these long past things, his “realisation” surely must have come at the end of a long, painful process.

  Then I noticed a twinkle in his eye, without the least trace of bitterness. It was obvious that time, that old miracle worker, had healed his pain. Testing him, I asked, “Alexis, do you plan to remarry?”

  This time, he nodded happily and said, “I’ve already got a girlfriend I am very fond of. After the harvest this year, we will get married.” A moment later, he added, “I’ve arranged for her to have dinner with us tonight. What time is your train?”

  “Ten.”

  “What is your next stop?”

  “Bordeaux.”

  “Ah.” He looked at me and said, “My ex is living in Bordeaux now. I go there once a month to see my daughter.”

  It was only then that I remembered he had a daughter. Back when we were in Saudi Arabia, she was three years old. That meant she must be twelve now!

  “Does she still like stamps?”

  “Stamps?” Looking puzzled, he thought for a moment, then suddenly smiled. “Oh! You have a good memory.” He went on without bothering to answer my question, “She’s doing very well, already taller than me. She has long blond hair. She’s both bright and beautiful!”

  Paternal pride was evident in his tone.

  The time flew past. Soon evening fell over the trellis, turning the shadows that dropped through the leaves blue and gold. Sitting there, our faces bathed in golden light, I suddenly thought of the phrase “golden years”, and could not help but laugh. Being carefree in one’s middle age really was as beautiful as gold.

  Then Alexis stood up and said, “Come, I’ll bring you to see the winery. You can meet my parents.”

  The sun set on the serene little village. All around, a slight breeze blew over the vines and the fields. It was as if you could hear the grapes whispering to one another.

  Alexis took us for a short walk into the centre of town. At a glance, about nine out of every ten stores were taverns, and many of the taverns were also wineries. The buildings were four storeys high, but only the top floor was above ground. The other three were underground, being used for winemaking. Once the wine was brewed, it was kept on the lowest floor until the right time, then after another round of processing, it was brought to the top floor for sale.

  Alexis’s tavern was on a corner of the street. It was near closing time, and the two older folks inside were finishing up their work, whilst a younger woman was putting things away.

  When Alexis saw that woman, a gentle smile came to his eyes. He called to her in French, then introduced her. “Carissa, my fiancée.”

  Carissa was thin and straight. Her dark brown hair was parted into two sections at the back and tied in braids at either side. She was fair-skinned and did not wear any make-up. What was moving was her eyes. When she looked at you, they were full of promise and laughter. The eyes made you think of gentle waves in a quiet harbour, lapping at a ship’s hull, a place of rest.

  Alexis’s parents were gentle in countenance. They embraced us warmly and said something in a stream of French. Alexis translated, “My parents said you are welcome, and they hope you will make yourselves at home.”

  Alexis took us to the dark cellar for a look. The wine sat in the quiet space there, in large round barrels. When it was ready, it would be poured into standard glass bottles, thus removing the residue. All of the types of wine were made according to a set schedule, which was carefully arranged.

  “When I came back from Saudi Arabia and decided to go back into winemaking, mostly it was because I wanted to help my ageing parents. They were starting over in winemaking. You could say they were having their second life in the wine industry. When the economic downturn washed over France, they had announced the closure of the winery. My father’s character is very strong, but making the announcements about the winery, he and my mother were both choked up.”

  Alexis spoke softly as we walked out of the cool, quiet cellar. If I did not hear wrongly, even the barrels were whispering.

  “When I came back from Saudi Arabia, they had really aged, and I could hardly stand to see it. The disappointments of life had sucked all their hopes out of them. I took the money I had earned in Saudi Arabia and restarted the family winery, hoping to bring my parents some happiness in their later years.”

  Hearing this, having long been sympathetic to Alexis, especially because of the break-up of his first marriage, I suddenly gained a new insight. In the midst of the marriage problems, the one most to be pitied was actually his first wife, Maryse. She had been given such a good man, but she tortured him with a loveless marriage.

  When we came out of the tavern, Alexis and Carissa took us to a romantic restaurant for dinner. He ordered grilled trout and champagne for all of us. We had popped the cork, the champagne bubbled over, and we also smelled the fragrance of friendship. Alexis filled our glasses and we toasted our temporary reunion.

  That night, there were no stars. They had all come down to earth, resting in our champagne. The bubbles had flowed to our throats with a lovely, tickling feeling. When Alexis looked at his fiancée, the stars flew into his eyes, where they remained with the tender light of love.

  I began to wish that the grape harvesting season would arrive quickly, for when the fragrance of ripe grapes filled the vineyard, Alexis would begin a new family.

  The Woman in the Clock Shop

  I COULD HARDLY believe that so many clock shops were all situated in the same city: Geneva, the industrial city in the west of Switzerland.

  Walking along the street, looking around casually here and there, all I saw were
clocks and watches. Many of the shops were the retail fronts attached to factories where the timepieces were made.

  In one shop front window, I took a fancy to an elegant musical clock. Its face was round, and embedded in a wooden casing with a black coloured background painted with beautiful flowers. It had an antique look. The shop was huge. A sparse crowd of customers stood in front of different counters, carefully searching for the “prey” that would catch their eyes.

  The woman who greeted me had thick eyebrows and big eyes. She carefully took out the musical clock I wanted from the display cabinet and said, “You have a good eye. You picked this out, one of our newly arrived models, which was designed recently and brought to the retail shop only in the past few days.”

  She pointed to the delicate flowers and grass on the wood casing and smiled as she said, “See, it is a very lively drawing. This is not only a clock but also a fine work of art.”

  I picked it up and inspected it. The more I looked, the more I liked it.

  Deciding to buy it, I asked her to take out a new one for me. She shrugged and said, “We only have this one in stock.”

  I picked up the clock, put it on my palm, and looked it over carefully. The paint on the housing was glossy black, the floral design exquisite, without fading in the least bit. I felt better. Then I picked it up and put it to my ear.

  When I listened, my worries returned. There was no sound. I shook it and listened again, but there was no sound.

  Holding up the clock, I asked the woman, “Is this clock broken?”

  The smile that floated on her face hardened into ice. She said coldly, “Broken? Never mind. If you think it’s broken, put it back and don’t buy it.”

  I was stunned by her answer. It was as rude as it was unreasonable. A moment earlier she had been smiling and chatting brightly and now, without sign or warning, why had her expression changed so dramatically?

  Seeing that I stood there like a block of wood, she raised her voice and said forcefully, “Put it back! No one’s forcing you to buy it!”

  In a flash, all my anger rose up to the surface and I also raised my voice. “You are so unreasonable! The Swiss are famed all around the world for both their manners and their timepieces. Now you have destroyed this reputation by your excessively rude attitude!”

  Our voices startled the other people in the shop. Before she had a chance to retort, a man in a tie quickly came over to see what was wrong. He ushered the woman away and turned to apologise courteously to me, “I’m sorry. Very sorry. Let me help you.”

  When I told him what had happened, he immediately laughed and explained, “This clock is not broken. The reason you don’t hear a ticking sound is that it worked on a chain mechanism, rather than automation. An automated clock is a purely utilitarian piece, but the one you are holding has more than just a practical value. It is also designed to be a work of art which can be displayed like an ornament, so we equip it with a more lasting mechanism.”

  This explanation was friendly, and it also made sense. But then I remembered what had happened before and could not help but complain. “Why didn’t your colleague just explain that? She didn’t need to make such a scene.”

  The man standing in front of me lowered his voice and said, “She isn’t an ordinary salesperson. She is one of our best clock designers, and she is very proud of her work. Just now when you said in her face that her clock was broken, of course she couldn’t take it.” He paused, then went on: “Such situations are like telling a chef that his food is inedible or a tailor that his clothes are ugly. She couldn’t take it, so she had a little outburst. I’m really very sorry.”

  Oh, so it was just a misunderstanding.

  When I got home from my holiday, I put the antique-looking clock on my desk in the study. Every time I see it, a face comes to mind. It is an icy, angry face, but I also feel it is beautiful. The beauty I see in it is the passion she feels for her work, and her unwillingness to let her pride and dignity be dismissed by others.

  A Beautiful Sunflower

  AS SOON AS I saw this house in Dolgellau, a small town situated in northern Wales, I liked it very much. It was a stone house, with wooden windows and doors and blue slate roof tiles. It was old, simple, and gave a sense of having been through changing times.

  On the door was a sign that read, Farmhouse with rooms for rent, meals included.

  I said to Risheng, “Let’s stay here.”

  He stopped the car in front of the house. When we got out of the car, the strong mingled smell of cow, goat, chicken, and dog manure rushed towards us. It really was a typical farm home.

  A middle-aged woman welcomed us at the door. Her blonde hair was cut very short, her face was round and full, the stars of smiles dotting her eyes and mouth.

  “Hi. I’m Myfanwy. Are you here to rent a room?”

  “Do you have rooms available?”

  “Oh yes!” she said eagerly. “We’ve got two.”

  “What are your rates?”

  “Adults stay for thirteen pounds, and children are half-price. That includes breakfast.” She quickly added, “If you want dinner, that’s another nine pounds per person.” (One pound was about 2.2 Singapore dollars.)

  We thought the price reasonable, and accepted the terms.

  Once we entered the room, we felt warm. Even though it was spring, the weather was unpredictable. On this particular day, it had been dark and drab, and cold enough to make you shiver. The wood crackled and popped in the fireplace, adding a wonderful tinge of cheerfulness to this big old house. The furniture was all very old, the carpet faded and threadbare, the springs of the sofa exposed, and the wooden end tables mottled with age. The room was relatively clean, but the blanket, quilt and bath towels were of poor quality and very coarse. It was obvious that living conditions here were not very good.

  By the time we had bathed, it was getting dark. For dinner, we each had two big lamb chops with potatoes and bread. Myfanwy’s culinary skills were nothing to boast about. The mutton and potatoes were bland and tasteless. It was like swallowing solid plain water. After dinner, we all retired to the living room for a chat.

  Her eighteen-year-old daughter Amy did not talk much, but she was very efficient with her work. When we had just finished eating, she quickly cleared the table and served us steaming hot English tea. Then she quietly went into her own room. What was strange was that there was a twelve-year gap between Amy and her brother Tom. Perhaps because he was so often without a playmate, as soon as he saw my two children, he happily went into his own room and took out all sorts of games and toys and brought them to the living area, where the children played together rowdily on the floor.

  We did not see the man of the house. When I asked, Myfanwy said, “He’s hunting in the mountains. He’ll be away for three months.”

  Did that mean all the family duties fell to her?

  “Yes,” she said casually. “I keep six dogs. Taking care of the sheep each day is their responsibility.”

  On Myfanwy’s sixty-five mu farm (around four hectares), she kept two hundred and ninety sheep, nine head of cattle, and twenty or so chickens.

  “I arrange the breeding of the sheep to fall in November every year. Five months later, the lambs are born in April, which is when I am busiest. Besides looking after all the lambs and taking care of their vaccinations, I have to take care of the weaker ones, bottle-feeding them at set times,” she explained.

  When the hundred or more sheep had been reared for four months, and each had grown to twenty kilos, she would take them to the market in town to sell. They sell for a pound a kilo.

  Winter was the most difficult season.

  “The land is not productive then and nothing grows. The feed for the sheep and cows starts to dwindle, so we put them into their pens and feed them with the leftover hay from spring. This adds to our workload.” She paused, then added, “The worst of it is that there are even fewer tourists in winter, so nobody rents our rooms, and that cuts into our inco
me too. So each winter we have to tighten our belts.”

  When she’d said this, she looked at the clock, then said something to her son in Welsh. Tom obediently put away the checkerboard and went to get ready for bed.

  Many people called Wales “a country within a country”. It had its own history, legends, language and culture. To this day, many Welsh people take great pride in their own traditions and culture. Many of the older generation of Welsh people like to speak Welsh, not English.

  When I mentioned this to Myfanwy, she said, “Here, many families really do use the Welsh language at home. But at school and in society, English is the main language.”

  Over the past several days, we had seen many signs and notices in Welsh. We did not understand a word of it, and it was hard to keep from feeling inconvenienced.

  Myfanwy nodded when I said this, replying, “These signs have created a lot of trouble. For instance, there’s a road that leads to a scenic area, and it has a huge curve where there are often accidents. So there is a warning sign posted there that says, Caution, Curve Ahead, Drive Slowly. But even so, there are still many accidents. The problem is that the sign is written in Welsh, and many people coming from other places to see the scenery can’t read the warning.”

  No one said anything.

  The next morning after breakfast, at about nine o’clock, she went out to the sheepfold and we followed behind her. I call it a sheepfold, but it was surprisingly large, with the sheep scattered about inside in twos and threes. They wore carefree expressions as they stood looking about.

  It was unusual that when the flock of two hundred or so sheep in the fold saw the six dogs, they did not need to be chased or be given any signal, but they all ran from different directions towards the dogs. Even more interesting was the way they went about it with such scrupulous orderliness, lining up obediently. Seeing them standing like soldiers in a row, we could not help but laugh.

  Myfanwy smiled and said, “Many people think that sheep aren’t too bright, but in fact they aren’t stupid at all.”