Yi Chin-jung had another dream about people chasing and
trying to kill him. He wasn’t alone; many others were running
for their lives as well. Behind him, someone suddenly screamed
and fell dead. Had he been shot or had he fallen for some other
reason? Yi Chin-jung didn’t know and didn’t dare turn around
to look. When they arrived at a river, he knew he was done for.
Everyone else promptly swam across, but Yi Chin-jung couldn’t
swim, so he ran along the bank. Before long, his legs got caught
in the mud, and he could barely move no matter how hard he
tried. He resolved that if he got caught, he would reveal nothing
under torture. Still, he couldn’t help but yell,
“Why me? Why? Why?”
Yi Chin-jung shouted in protest. Although now awake, he was still short of breath. Lying in bed, he felt as if his arms and
legs were bound. He couldn’t move and found it hard to
breathe. Where was he? At home in Taipei? The door and windows
didn’t look like his Taipei home. Was he in his apartment
in the Pudong district of Shanghai? It didn’t resemble his place
there either. In his state of confusion, he eliminated one possibility
after another before concluding that he must be in a hotel
room. But a hotel room where? And why had he come?
Yi Chin-jung thought for a long time before finally recalling
that he had traveled to his 30th college reunion. So shouldn’t
he be in America?
“Correct, in San Jose, California,” he told himself, gradually
regaining his confidence. “I know who I am. And I know
where I’ve come from and where I’m going.”
As if being released from a wizard’s spell, Yi Chin-jung
could suddenly move his arms and legs. He rose from bed.
After doing some stretching exercises and 500 arm shakes to
increase circulation, his body gradually regained flexibility. Yi
Chin-jung showered and then decided to take a walk. When he
stepped out of the hotel, the cool early morning air gave him a
sudden jolt of energy. He could just make out the crescent
moon. The courtyard of the hotel was empty of people, but the
birds in the trees had already started to chatter. Yi Chin-jung
recalled the words of the jazz singer Mama Cass:
Stars shining bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper I love you
Birds singing in the sycamore tree
Dream a little dream of me . . . .
Mama Cass had a sweet and beautiful voice, but she suffered a hard fate, dying in her sleep at the age of 32. Her fans,
however, will forever remember the song. In his head Yi Chinjung
hummed through the lyrics several times. That in turn led
him to start singing out loud. From behind him, someone said,
“You sing well. Is this truly a sycamore tree?”
Yi Chin-jung was startled, but the voice was one that he
could never forget. “From the way this branch angles, I’d say it
is indeed a sycamore,” he said. “You’re up early, Hsin-chi.”
“You got up even earlier,” she said. “When did you get
in?”
“Last night. And you?”
“I live in a small city nearby. It’s only an hour’s drive. It’s
harder for people like you who have to travel from far away.”
Yi Chin-jung turned around and looked Hsin-chi up and
down. When old classmates meet, this is the moment they fear
most. But Hsin-chi didn’t disappoint. Her hair was tied up, and
she wore an off-white jacket and light blue slacks. She was still
a handsome woman. Relieved, he said, “After so many years,
you haven’t changed a bit.”
“You haven’t changed either,” Hsin-chi said, laughing.
“Look at us talking nonsense. We’ve aged. No matter how we
sugarcoat it, we can’t fool ourselves. Haven’t changed in 30
years—how likely is that?”
“I wasn’t being polite. You really haven’t changed. You
even have the same figure. Look at my beer belly—it’s embarrassing.”
“Once men hit middle age, there’s nothing wrong with
them putting on a few pounds. In fact, if they’re too thin, then
they look gaunt and haggard,” Hsin-chi said. “Not long ago, I
saw Chih-kuo in San Francisco. He had come to America for
medical treatment. He could barely walk and his hands shook constantly. When he coughed, his whole body trembled. He
looked very old. I wonder if he’s coming to this?”
Fom Hsin-chi’s expression, Yi Chin-jung realized that she
really didn’t know. “Chih-kuo passed away not long ago,” he
said. “Like Mama Cass, he died in his sleep, taking a suave
exit.”
Hsin-chi sighed. “What about you?” she asked. “Are you
doing all right?”
“I wouldn’t go as far as to say that,” he said. “I’m not
going hungry. But I feel drained, burned out. Aside from
attending the reunion, I’ve also made the trip to try to convince
my son to come back and take over the business.”
“You want to pass the reins to your son?” Hsin-chi laughed
softly. “Have you talked to him about it? Young people have
minds of their own. Would he be willing to go? Everyone says
Taiwan is a mess right now. Would your wife agree?”
Yi Chin-jung was about to tell Hsin-chi that he had
divorced, but just then a large group of classmates came out of
the hotel and interrupted their conversation. A few of the
women pulled Hsin-chi away. Yi Chin-jung felt a bit at a loss
but silently celebrated having first had at least a few moments to
speak with Hsin-chi alone. It was something that he had looked
forward to for a long time. And it was more natural than he had
expected. Hsin-chi had even asked about his wife. Too bad he
hadn’t had a chance to reply.
Like anything else, divorce is hardest the first time. Once
you gain experience, it’s much easier. When he was young and
classmates or friends got divorced, people would go around
telling everybody else as if it were a big deal. But it no longer
held any shock value. Even news of someone’s death would
draw nothing more than a soft “oh.” It was like hearing, when they were in their youth, about the first of their peers to go
abroad to study—somewhat of a surprise but not entirely unexpected.
Yi Chin-jung recalled that when he had just graduated,
someone organized a reunion. Back when they were still young,
people were so eager to compete, comparing careers and
achievements. Because it was all so very tiring, they ended up
only holding two reunions. But now that they were nearing
retirement age, their interest in seeing each other had revived.
The difference was that there was no longer anything to compete
about. Whether CEO or government clerk, big businessman or
janitor, they all gathered happily. Yi Chin-jung was an eager
participant—especially because it gave him chance to speak
with Hsin-chi, whom he deeply admired.
Hsin-chi transferred to the College of Management when
she was a sophomore and consequently wasn’t familiar with
many of their classmates. Tsai Chia-cheng,...
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