A NOTICE IN SEARCH OF A MISSING PERSON 尋人啟事

CONTENTS

	THE CHILDREN OF MYANMAR 緬甸的孩子 By CHEN I-chih 陳義芝 Translated by John J. S. BALCOM 陶忘機

	GRANNY’S STATE OF MIND 阿嬤的心思 By TING Wen-Chih 丁文智 Translated by John J. S. BALCOM 陶忘機

	AQUARIUM, WITH TWO SIDETRACKS 水族箱（外二首） By Chang Kun 張堃 Translated by Zona Yi-Ping TSOU 鄒怡平

	URBAN CHILDHOOD 都市童年 By FONG Ming 方明 Translated by Zona Yi-Ping TSOU 鄒怡平

	WHITE HAIR 白髮 By Lo Ti 落蒂 Translated by Zona Yi-Ping TSOU 鄒怡平

	MOTES OF SUNLIGHT— In Gratitude to Ya Hsien 陽光顆粒—謝瘂弦 By Hsiang Ming 向明 Translated by John J. S. BALCOM 陶忘機

	VISITING THE BLUE GROTTO— Grotta Azzurra, Italy, 1998 航向藍洞 By Jiao Tong 焦桐 Translated by John J. S. BALCOM 陶忘機

	APRIL 四月 By Hsia Ching 夏菁 Translated by C. W. WANG 王季文

	FEELINGS RUN DEEP 古井情深 By YANG Wen Wei 楊文瑋 Translated by James Scott WILLIAMS 衛高翔

	A NOTICE IN SEARCH OF A MISSING PERSON 尋人啟事 By CHANG Ai-chin 張愛金 Translated by Shou-Fang HU-MOORE 胡守芳

	YOUTH IN NANGAN 少年南竿 By CHIANG Hsun 蔣勳 Translated by Jonathan R. BARNARD 柏松年

	YOUTH IN TONGXIAO 少年通霄 By CHIANG Hsun 蔣勳 Translated by Jonathan R. BARNARD 柏松年

	HIROSHIMA LOVE 廣島之戀 By RUAN Ching-Yue 阮慶岳 Translated by David and Ellen DETERDING 戴德巍與陳艷玲

	FROM “CHINA” TO “TAIWAN” WHAT MESSAGES CAN WE GET FROM THE ART OF LEE MING-TSE? 從「中國」到「台灣」李明則的藝術給了我們什麼訊息？ By Hong-ming TSAI 蔡宏明 Translated by David van der Peet 范德培

	FROM “DANDY” TO “WILD CURSIVE SCRIPT” : FALSE FEELINGS AND TRUE DESIRES IN THE ART OT LEE MING-TSE 從「公子哥」到「狂草」—談李明則藝術中的虛情真欲 By Shui-tsai CHEN 陳水財 Translated by David van der Peet 范德培

	NEWS & EVENTS 文化活動 Compiled by Sarah Jen-hui HSIANG 項人慧

	NOTES ON AUTHORS AND TRANSLATORS 作者與譯者簡介

	APPENDIX : CHINESE ORIGINALS 附錄：中文原著

	BLOSSOM OF BANABA 香蕉花, acrylic on paper, 52 × 33.5 cm, 1993...............................................Cover

	FAIRY 神女, acrylic on paper pulp, 22 × 23 cm, 2008 ..............................................................Back Cover By Lee Ming-tse 李明則

CHANG Ai-chin 張愛金

A NOTICE IN SEARCH OF A MISSING PERSON
尋人啟事*

Translated by Shou-Fang HU-MOORE 胡守芳

    In my memory there was a stretch of white sand covering the sky and the land, so smooth, delicate, clean and pristine. Out of the white sand-dunes was a long footpath where one could only push a bicycle while hobbling along in shoes filled with sand. That was where our maternal grandmother used to live. She was my “Waipo” and also yours. I was at the back of her house and you were in the front. At sunset, a little boy with a dark face and big eyes was sitting on the threshold in front of the house, playing with water in a small basin while washing his hands and feet. Forty years of our common memories seem to belong to another life. Here is message one. . . .
    Sanshan Village forty years ago, we called it “Back Hill.” Our only maternal uncle was the principal of Anlan Primary, the only elementary school there. A white sandy path followed thewinding hillside down to Yangchai. Garrisons and blockhouses were everywhere in the vibrant small town. Then there was the double-lane thoroughfare around the island, leading in one direction straight to Shamei and in the other direction to the end of Hsinshi District beyond the hill. It was a long way going back to Waipo’s house, which was also the only place I was proud to go to. Vehicular access stopped at the Outer Ring Road of Yangchai. The rest of the journey had to be on foot, through the green canopy of woods, over desolate hills and land, and past the shooting range. I didn’t know how to appreciate the beauty of the scenery and the ecology of Nature at a young age. I liked to visit Waipo, taking along some simple produce in my hand. Leaving a footprint every step of the way, I walked by the little Huangtu Village, through the woods along the side and past a few ponds. Then there it was, quietly in the distance, a hamlet covered with white sand.
    It was a tiny hamlet with a small population who started the day at sunrise and retired at sunset. At the end of Back Hill was a shallow seaport. The villagers had the sea and the farmland. There were boundless treasures in the sea. Except for fish which they were not allowed to catch, there were mud-snails, oysters and seaweed. The marine products were preserved by marinating or drying for the winter. They grew cereals and grains on the hillside farmland. There were wild guavas on the roadside and purple grapes in front of their cottages. The villagers didn’t feel any hardship but gratitude towards Heaven instead. In this hamlet that depended on the mercy of Heaven, everyone worked diligently, trading services for goods and living a simple contented life.
    The houses stood next to each other. White sand was right outside the side doors. When the farm work wasn’t busy or over a cup of tea after dinner, one could sit on the clean, soft white sand over the door steps and soak one’s feet in the sand. The light, soft and scentless sand has formed my childhood memory. The sunlight forty years ago doesn’t fade. It is still glitteringly bright, sprinkling the sky and earth at noon without reservation. At Grade Five in the elementary school, I started to feel love and a small happiness germinated in my heart. Once I chanced upon you sitting on the threshold of Waipo’s house washing your feet, and I became a little bit self-conscious and shy. You sat close to me in class doing Chinese calligraphy and told me that to lay the foundation of calligraphy one had to start with practicing the characters yong (perpetual), cheng (success), jia (home), feng (phoenix) and fei (fly). As we finished elementary school, I asked everyone in class to sign my autograph album except you. I could only take a glimpse of the photo of your face in the year book and committed it to my memory. The young and ignorant look with sparks of artfulness in the eyes was the face I would never forget. Since they all called you Ah-san, you must be the third child of your family. Message two . . .
    I started to enjoy going to Waipo’s before I knew it, because she would give me a chicken leg behind others and told me to eat outside to avoid being seen by my older brothers. I went to her place on holidays as well as during the summer and winter vacations just to be able to see you. While our Waipo was chatting with the neighbors at the entrance of that narrow alley, I could only reach you through eye contact. I wanted to come across you in the field early in the morning. And I longed to see you sitting outside on the threshold at sunset when I returned from the vineyard beside the house with strings of sparkling purple grapes. I walked by you, feeling crazed. But sometimes I failed to see you.
    Distance can make the heart grow fonder; space also fosters longing. Going to school in the sixties, I envied the classmates from the neighboring villages the most, who rode bicycles to school. I imagined that, as the wheels rolled onwards, one’s heart could pause or wander freely and, as the hair and skirt flew up, the mind could expand infinitely. My home was at the end of Shamei. Behind it was Chinsha Junior High and not far in front of the house was Chinsha Elementary. On the days when I was responsible for class duty, I was able to sneak back home for a nap at lunch break. And I would climb the wall to sneak away when I was too lazy to sweep the classroom floor or to lower the flag. It was also very convenient for me to go home to pick up the exercise outfit for physical education class. The number of times I entered the school from the front gate during the three years of junior high was countable. The gender-segregated classrooms couldn’t stop the yearnings of students in puberty. I enjoyed the distant eye contacts with you on campus. Class 109 that year was very special. Due to a classroom shortage, that class followed their teacher-in-charge, biology teacher Ms. Lin Guihua, moving into the biology room located in the stand-alone building at the edge of the campus. A bunch of us stood on the second-floor stair landing of our building trying to draw attention. We overlooked the crowd going in and out of the campus store, searching for the little yearning in our own heart. And you walked into my sight unexpectedly.
    Chinsha Elementary was our Alma Mater. We studied there together for several years without showing affection towards each other. The campus was a piece of muddy land that had gone through huge transformation. Excavators went in and out marking years of change for the students. We witnessed the epoch-making construction unfolding like a feast of mirages with the creation of hills and water. Rong Lake appeared in front of us. On the misty shore across the lake was your home. One afternoon that year the sound of suona horn woke up the napping countryside. The wailing dirge accompanied a funeral procession along the way. All the students in class bowed at the funeral to pay respect. Being the oldest grandson,....

*	From Kinmen wen-yi《金門文藝》(Literature Kinmen), No. 27, November 2008: 113-116.