It was close to noon that day. I was on the phone with
Shui-jing when Mrs. Tseng the housekeeper came by to say
“Mrs. Wang is here with food she’s prepared. She’s at the front
door.” Shui-jing just laughed when he heard this, “yours is an
old-style friendship indeed.”
It was scorching outside. Thin Chiao Chiao stood in the shade of the willow and said, smilingly, “This vegetable stew has simmered for two hours, still hot for aunty’s lunch.” A small shiny steel pot sat snugly inside the plastic bag beside her feet, no doubt quite heavy when carried all this way.
Although we lived near each other, she still had to come through a heavy traffic avenue and a very long lane. Every time
she brought over food that she had prepared she would not go
inside the house, and I would chide her for forgetting her own
frailty and tiring herself out. She would always simply smile.
There was nothing I could do except walk with her part of the
way back to the entrance to the lane. I would feel awful watching
the shadow of her skeletal frame disappearing into the distance,
but then I knew that she was happy. She was accustomed
to bringing warmth to others.
As a child I often watched the giving of prepared food
among relatives and friends. A black lacquer food box decorated
with colorful painted flowers or inlaid with mother-of-pearl, or a
beautiful basket superbly woven with fine bamboo, each carrying
layer upon layer of seasonal fresh delicacies and exquisitely
handmade dim sum, symbolized deep and everlasting friendship
for one another. Big sister Wang Yen Ju, who was a superb cook
and lived nearby, often sent over her homemade smoked fish and
the famous Changzhou vegetable cakes. I would never forget
the decades-long friendship and distinctive flavours she brought
me.
Chiao Chiao was an excellent cook. Her creations were
light and refined. The dish of two yellow fish surrounded by a
few garlic slices in a light sauce elegantly arranged on a white
porcelain dish was as beautiful as a painting. She loved cooking
and was gifted at it, always diligent and innovative. In the winter,
a simple dish of turnip slices seasoned with sweetened vinegar
sprinkled with red pepper and coriander leaves was so crunchily
delicious that the whole plate was soon consumed.
After my mother came to stay in Taiwan, many good
friends kept dropping by to visit her. One day, Chiao Chiao and
Ya Hsien, both all dressed up, came carrying dim sum to visit mother. Afterwards mother said with feeling, “Chiao Chiao is
too skinny, you must tell her to eat more.”
I burst out, “She’d long lost one of her lungs!” Mother was
stunned and listed out a number of well-known health care tips
to strengthen the lungs, asking me to pass them on to Chiao
Chiao. She then emphasized again, “Less talking or else it saps
her energy. No late nights. She must not sleep late.” Chiao
Chiao could manage neither. After that, whenever I was on the
phone with her I would hang up after only a few minutes. I
knew she had wanted to keep chatting more but I did it for her
own good.
Chiao Chiao was beautiful and had classical features. She
caught tuberculosis when she was nineteen years old and one of
her lungs was removed. Ya Hsien kept by her side despite
knowing that she was frail. After seven marathon years in the
courting game, he claimed victory over lines of admirers and
suitors, and they got married. Chiao Chiao was a good, thrifty
housewife, and despite being frail, maintained a household that
was orderly and always spic and span. She was kind-hearted,
direct, and always ready to lend a hand to anyone in need. She
was prone to getting angry over the unscrupulous ways of the
world. Friends dubbed her “the red-face lady.”
When the daughter of Mimi and Mr. Kwang-chung was
getting married, our friends from the literary circle in Taipei all
took a tour bus to the wedding in Taichung. That was a happy
journey indeed. As I was given to car sickness, I would routinely
grab a seat in the front rows. On the return trip to Taipei after
the wedding banquet, I was late in getting on the bus and had to
sit half way back by the window. Whilst our friends were having
great fun talking nineteen to the dozen and chuckling deep
into the night with the bus tearing down the highway in pitch dark, I felt like sitting in an enormous cradle, rocking from side
to side, swinging back and forth. The happy journey of one
whole day was near its end. The light inside the bus was getting
dim; sleepiness permeated inside and gradually silence descended
throughout. Just as I was dozing off with my eyes closed,
drowsily I heard Chiao Chiao, who was sitting behind me, leaning
forward towards my ear and whispered, “Are you feeling
quite all right? I’ve brought along the antidote!”
I pushed her back to her seat and said, “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
The vehicle sped towards the night. Almost everyone on
board was asleep. The air-conditioner hissed. I was just feeling
the cold when suddenly Chiao Chiao came over again and covered
me with a jacket. I no longer refused it. I thought of that
skeletal frame of hers, like a leaf in the wind. Yet, she was
always looking after others with infinite care.
The New York-based poet Chang Ling-ling received a picture
that I sent her showing the trio — Chiao Chiao, Hsiung
Hung and me — taken at a gathering at my home. She once
wrote to say that Chiao Chiao looked very much like a
Hollywood star, like Woody Allen’s ex-wife Mia Farrow, who
was also a very well-known film star. I thought about it a bit
and saw that the two did look alike. Chiao Chiao was ecstatic
when she learned about it. At the mention of her beauty and
memories of the multi-suitors of her youth, she would always
keep a knowing smile.
I ran into her several times in the street whilst she was
accompanying an elderly lady whom she introduced as the
mother of a certain poet friend living abroad, who was living
alone in Taiwan after becoming a widow. She was often keeping
the lady company to help her to combat her loneliness: shopping,
taking walks and calling on friends. She forgot the misery that she herself had to endure from going again and again to the
hospital and the herbal doctor. Despite the constant agony
caused by her bad back, she dispensed warmth and love to others
like sunshine. Her kindness, and compassion, the most beautiful
of her character, showed themselves in so very many small
incidents every day.
Taipei of the 1960’s was still untainted and natural, where
we could search for our dream meadows. Whenever we had the
time we would get together and head for some fun in the wilderness
still left in the crowded city. Once in the spring,... |
