Hong Kong by Night

The Snow-boy

 
Hi Folks,

Here is a new short story. I took quite some time write it and get it neat and tidy, but it is still "work in progress".

I thank Caren for giving the impetus (the reason more like), Carmen for an early proof-reading and Natalie for helping me out with the details, the Malay (saya "really" perlu pelajaran <= and I'm quite sure I bungled this one too) and the proof-reading.

Tell me what you think.



The Snow-boy



Once upon a Time, there was this strange boy who was shunned by everybody because he was made of snow. He was always cold to the touch and dripping water, and when he sneezed, snowflakes were coming out of his stalactite of a nose.

He used to spend his time in the freezer during Summer, and started to look happy when Autumn came. During Winter, his schoolmates would try and make snowballs out of him. He would laugh at this prank because he only had to take snow on the ground to grow a new arm or a new leg.

Time passed, because that's what Time is good at doing. The snow-boy grew up and became quite a tall snow-boy. He was usually sad because his friends always considered him as a snowman, whereas he was just a boy made of snow. He would remember pranks played upon him, like the time when they tried to attach a carrot on his face, or when they unplugged the freezer, just for fun.

And then the weather changed. Nobody knew why but the days grew hotter; Summer lasted longer, Winter shortened drastically and became colder – even the snow-boy felt the cold grip his legs and arms. His parents, seeing his condition worsen, decided to move up North, where it was said were gentler climes. At the end of Winter, they bought a new house in a small village near the Arctic circle.

He was worried his parents would not sustain the low temperatures, but they put on jumpers, muffs and woollen hats – they were like you and me, you see – and scarves and gloves and boots, and they smiled because their son was happy there. He would miss his friends from time to time, but here people wouldn't look down upon him or frown at him, tutting and shaking their head. In his new home, he even put on some weight, there being so much snow. He didn't miss school any longer. He could attend it every day of the year, and even went to school during the weekend, for what he learnt there pleased him immensely. One teacher grew rather fond of him, and with him he learnt a lot about the world. He gave him plastic gloves so he could read books without ruining them. He would put plastic bags and buckets under the chair so that he could watch movies.

He eventually realised his former friends had not been friendly to him at all, and he got new ones who didn't play tricks on him, but with him, including him in their games during lunch break. He would spend days on end outside, watching the Northern Lights, making snowmen with his friends, loitering in the library and reading books in the freezer.

Then came the day when he stumbled across an old, weather-beaten travel-log, half-hidden at the far end of a rack, at the very back of the library, where the books that were no longer in mint condition were confined. It had been written by some explorer who had discovered a small island off the East coast of Malaysia. Starting off from this country, which he described at length, he fought great seas and greedy pirates and other water leaks to finally reach this patch of dry white sand beach riddled with lava boulders, all covered in a thick layer of guano. There, in the island's thick jungle, he discovered what the reader could interpret as dragons the size of baby elephants – whatever size that represented, for he had never seen any elephant, nor any dragon – beautiful, rainbow-coloured birds, trees aplenty that yielded fruits as big as a man's head, and sweeter than apples. There, he discovered what he described as a “Treasure more precious than gold itself.”

The book made a compelling impression on him, but even more so did the rough sketch done by the unnamed explorer, the which he found on the very last page of the log. It represented the Island from a distance. You could see a lush jungle, the emerging peak of a mountain which looked strangely like a volcano, boulders the size of houses lying across the beach, birds flying all around. On the far right, one could make out skerries and other jagged, frothy rocks. Day and night he dreamt about it. In fact, he borrowed the book for so long that the librarian forgot to ask him to return it. Nor did his teacher. Long did he ponder on the presence of such a book in such parts. How did an original travel-log, written God knows when by some unknown explorer near the Equator, actually land in a country where only snow could be found all year round? Nobody could come up with even a fancy explanation. The librarian could only raise his eyebrows – the which drove deep furrows on his forehead – and shrug – the which doubled his prominent chin; he didn't know how or when this book had ended up on the shelf, for it was not referenced anywhere.

One day, because he could no longer stay put, he decided to leave and go to Malaysia. Ultimately, he wanted to find this island, but he didn't dare tell anyone lest they would make fun of him. Everybody in the village tried to persuade him not to, but he was adamant. He was fed up travelling through books, or tales, or films. He wanted to see the world through his own eyes.

“Why Malaysia, my son?” cried his mother one day. “Why not Sweden, or Siberia?”
“Because I want to see something new, something different, and I want to live something challenging.”
“But you will die there, son, it's too hot for you!” would reply his father.
“No. I know I won't die.” His parents would then realise that pushing the argument any further was useless. They found out, that day, that their son was no longer a boy, nor even a teenager: they realised he would become a man soon.

As for him, he knew he wasn't going to die, at least not from heat, even though he could give no rational explanation to his belief.

So, with the help of his teacher, he prepared his trip meticulously. He would wait until Winter and then fly to Siberia, then travel down through Mongolia and China and stick to the most mountainous parts. He would then walk along the frontier with Burma until he reached the end of Yunnan in China.

“Then you will have to learn to deal with heat and dampness and rain, my lad. I don't know how a snow-boy like you will manage that, but I have no doubt you will succeed.” Yet in his teacher's voice he could hear hesitation, and what sounded like a knot. For his teacher was a very logical person, and he knew the geography of the world very well.

Everyday he was watching the weather broadcast in the world down under. On the first day a snowflake appeared, he left. His parents made him promise to write often, and to come back if he felt he was in danger or that he could not succeed. Everybody in the hall of the small airport was sad, some were even crying and sobbing loudly, for they had grown used to the queer presence of the snow-boy. They all waved him goodbye and it was with a heavy heart that he went, on the first day of Winter.

His first journey by plane went well, and after he landed in Siberia he immediately set out on his path. He stopped at the exit of the airport and asked two men the way to Mongolia. They were rubbing their hands around a brasero and had tiny icicles dangling from their eyelashes. They looked surprised, and then laughed very loudly. One of the men put out his arm very decidedly in one direction.
“This way, sonny. Not left, not right, this way, straight!” The snow-boy thanked him, taking care not to approach the fire from too close. And on he went.

He didn't know how long he walked through snow-riddled plains, lichen-covered deserts, across snowed-in mountain passes, meeting no one but few rare animals, who scampered as soon as they saw him. Strangely, he didn't fear anything. He was sleeping in plain view of the full moon. He didn't need to shower, and as usual he was eating very little.

When by chance he finally came across a party of people pushing and pulling a cart, they fled screaming. He waited a long while by the cart for them to return, but seeing they didn't come back, he left. The direction he needed he obtained from a fellow traveller who was heading up North. He was very old and walking with a stick of wood which was just knots over knots, like eyes set in wood.

“Mongolia? You are walking in Mongolia. If you are heading to China, you want to follow that road. Where do you want to go, young man?” He replied that his final destination was Malaysia. “Well, my boy, you still have a long way to go. I come from Thailand, which is just North of Malaysia, and this is already a long way to walk. But I can see you are set on going, so I'll bid you farewell. And good luck with the heat.”

He thanked the old man profusely and took his leave. He hadn't walked two steps that he heard the man from behind his back.

“What are you going to Malaysia for, if I may ask?” He was so taken by surprise that he didn't know what to answer. His thoughts were racing like swallows chasing after sunset's mosquitoes. For an unknown reason, he didn't want to tell him the truth.
“Surely a snow-boy like you know that only death awaits him in these hot parts. So no doubt you must be chasing something of great value.” Then it happened. He faced the voice. The old man, was propped on his stick, both hands and his chin resting on top of it, his eyes glittering.

“I am looking for an island. Off the East coast of Malaysia.”
“Then what you are chasing, laddie, is nothing short of a dream. The figment of a reverie thinner than yesternight's dream. You should go back home before it is too late. Before you are nothing but a cube melting into someone's drink. I have warned you. Your parents should know better than letting a snow-boy like you risk his life for a dream. I don't wish you luck, as this is folly. May you change your mind at the first drought. So long, snow-boy.” And with the slightest tip of his hat, he spinned on his heels and walked away briskly.

For days he could remember every word of this conversation. He dreamt of it at night. He was floating in a glass, thinning and thinning; some blurry people were laughing behind the glass wall. Or the old man was scolding him from a distance, saying things he couldn't hear, but which sounded like imprecations, warnings and threats. Why had the old man threatened him? He was talking as if he knew straight from the start of which particular island he was talking about. How could he possibly know of it? Yet he had other fish to fry, for the weather was getting milder and the days were growing hotter. At night he could still make some progress, but during the day, sometimes, it became so unbearable he had to take refuge in caves, or in crevices. He lost considerable weight in the progress, dripping along the way, but still the occasional vulture would turn a disinterested eye on him, of which he was more than thankful.

When, after what seemed to be weeks and weeks of arduous trudging in the mountains and in ever-thicker jungles, he finally reached Malaysia, he was very skinny and looked rather like a Mr Freeze. Yet he drew considerable attention from the locals, who had never seen a snow-boy, let alone snow. Those people were so kind to him that they brought him crushed ice in large pails, which he gulped in large quantities and rubbed on his limbs. In every village there always was a crowd of noisy kids who fought together to get hold of a large fan or a large palm leaf to cool him down.

It took several days until the newspapers started hearing from him, by word of mouth. Next moment, all he knew was that they all wanted to interview him. But he would plough on, unheeding their appeal for a few words – his mind was set and time was of the essence. One day, a pretty journalist and a cameraman tagged along with him – for he always refused to stop – and asked him if he could answer some questions. He almost stopped when he saw the journalist's eyes: never in his life had he seen such light blue eyes – which reminded him of something, though he couldn't recall what. Her face was a pretty light brown, intensifying what he thought was a gaze that bore right through him. But he carried on. For a couple of strides he was in two minds; eventually he nodded to her. She clicked her fingers at the cameraman who immediately set the camera to his eye. In the meantime she faced him, walking backwards. He could do nothing but to slow down.

“Where are you from, Mr. Snow-boy?” she asked. He thought she was very professional, despite her relative young appearance.
“I am from a very cold village up North, near the Arctic Circle.”
“This is very interesting, Mister. What is the purpose of your visit in Malaysia?”
“The purpose of my visit is my own business...but hey! Is this going on TV?” He was having an idea.
“Yes, Mr. Snow-boy. Everybody in the country wants to learn more from you. You have become a star.”
“So, if you could I would like you to show this in my country, because I couldn't write to my parents and they must think I died or something. Can you do that?” The look in the journalist's eyes changed suddenly.
“Of course I'll do that. When did you last see your parents?” Her voice had changed.
“I began my journey on the first day of snow.”
“But that was months ago! And you didn't give any news to your parents?” She put the microphone very near his face, as if she had just reminded herself she was a journalist and that she was on duty.
“Hey! If there were mailboxes in the Mongolian plateaus and in the Chinese mountains, I'm sorry I missed them.”
“I just put myself in the shoes of your relatives and friends. They must miss you a lot.”
“I know. My apologies. I'm sorry I vented my anger at you. I've come a long way and it's very hot in your country.”
“No problem Mr. Snow-boy, I understand. This journey must surely have left you in a pretty bad shape. Since you don't want to tell us what is the purpose of your coming to Malaysia, please tell us how you heard about our country, you living so far away from it?”
“Isn't this the same question?...Well...I suppose there's no harm in telling. I first heard about Malaysia through an old book, a travel-log to be precise. It was written by an explorer who gives ample descriptions of the fauna and flora, of the customs of the people, of its history and of the geography. I fell in love with your country thanks to this book, and I decided to see it with my own eyes – Hey, watch out!”

Walking backwards, holding the microphone near enough and being so absorbed listening to his story, she wasn't paying any attention to the road. A large pothole was running almost the breadth of the dirt track. He caught her hand as she fell backwards.

***

He couldn't forget her look, even after a couple of days, nor the warmth of her hand. She had thanked him in a whisper, panting for her breath, and had looked straight at him. They had parted without any another word. Nevertheless, he was hoping she was keeping her promise. Of course, he missed his mum and dad, and his teacher, and everybody in the village, and even though his physical condition worsened because the weather worsened, he couldn't think of going home to them. He had an island to rediscover. With luck, they would learn news about him through her, and they would no longer worry.

Day after day he was dripping his way in the dust, yet he had to wear plastic gloves not to spoil the travel-log. He was reading the directions from it, directions which he had underlined during his numerous readings, which he had even annotated.

It was becoming more and more difficult to see clearly, as drops would blur his vision. He finally reached the sea, at the tip of a peninsula called Kampung Punggai. A small village composed of about two dozens small houses hung there, facing the South China Sea. The houses were arrayed in clusters of two to four houses. He went to the one closest to the shore, for there were boats lying idly on their sides, ready to spear the seas. There, he saw a man lying in a hammock suspended between two coconut trees. One of his white legs was dangling and was setting the hammock rocking with a slight upward motion of the toes. He couldn't see the man, but he recognised the walking stick well enough. His heat raced.

“Fadzli, come over here, lucky bugger.” He beckoned someone behind him with a lazy hand. A young man in his early twenties, who had been sitting on his heels at the threshold to one of the shacks near the trees, sprang up and jogged to the hand. The old man held out three blue notes. “It appears that you have won. Don't get drunk with those.” He sat up suddenly. “My, looking at you, I think I have lost by a very slight margin. But you made it anyway. You surely are persistent.
“So are you.”
“Why, you still have some strength and some nerve in you. I don't know where you find those, perhaps congealed in that cold heart of yours. Anyway, you have got temperament and that's good, because the island is an entire day's sail from here and the temperature will certainly raise your temperament, or vice versa. I suppose you still want to go there, whatever happens?” He didn't like his smile, nor the way he was grimacing at him.

“I suppose you don't want to help me get there, by any chance, seeing you have discovered it?” He was gazing at him, boring straight into his eyeballs, trying to out-stare him.

“You suppose rightly. But I won't try to dissuade you now that you are here. As you like it, son.” The old man was grinning like a Cheshire cat, and for the first time in his life, the snow-boy felt cold inside him: he could almost have shivered. But he collected his wits and said:

“Then I suppose there's only one thing left for me to do.” He turned to the young native who had stayed, completely awed by his appearance. He was still holding the three notes in his hand. “Do you know that island on that map, right here? I want to go there.”
He shook his head. Then he turned to the old man and asked: “Fren, what island?”
“It's Pulau Kematian,” he replied, a wry smile across his face.
Had his skin not been so dark, he would have seen the young Fadzli blemish. He turned a desperate look at him: “Don't go, little man! You die. Don't go!” He said in broken English, waving his hands.
“I don't know what you have told him, but now you have scared him senseless. Anyway. Can I have a glass of ice, please? Minta ais segelas?” The native nodded sharply several times and said “can can” and left.

“Not bad, for an orang putih who has just arrived. So, how will you go there? I can see you thinning, and it's quite something I tell you.”
“Even if I have to borrow a boat, I'll go there. I have sailed before.”
“But never on your own, am I right? You'll never make it.”
“Why do you insist so much? I don't understand.”
“I don't your parents to mourn their snow-son.”
“Funny one, first timer really. I don't get it: why have you written this book if you didn't want anyone to find the island? Eh, why don't you answer me?”
“The rest is silence, my young man. Go find that island if you so burn with the desire, but don't expect to find Heaven, you are sailing to your death. I wash my hands of you.” He gripped his walking stick and limped away from the shore.

In the meantime a small crowd had gathered and has brought pails of ice. They looked expectant. They waited until the old man was out of sight. He was brought inside a small, wooden house. There they poured the ice into a large barrel and motioned him into it. He liked the precise movements of the women's hands, their intent eyes, the way they looked after him. He let out a sharp cry. The feeling of cold, after the intense heat, was almost painful. Tears were rolling in his eyes. Under other circumstances he would have smiled at his having to re-adapt to cold. It felt gradually better and better. He fell into a dreamless slumber.

***

When he opened his eyes, a face was staring at him. He recognised the native who had won the bet.

“You good?” His eyes were darker than his skin, pitch black.
“I feel better, terima kasih.”
“You want to go island?”
“Yes, more than ever. Will you help me?” He tried to hide his anxiety.
“I not going, but I give you sampan. Sampan is boat.
“Terima Kasih, Fadzli. I'll go now, I can't wait.”
“OK. Come.”

He followed him outside. He could tell the sun would set in a short while, but it was still stifling hot, the sand sizzling from the day's heat. The white man was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is the old man?”
“Old man very cross. He go to drink. Here.”

The boat was made of spare planks loosely fitted together, but still it was better than nothing. A mast was fitted not quite in the middle, as if it had been placed there by accident, or by an absolute and clumsy necessity. The sail was torn and mended in more than a few places.
“Here.” Fadzli presented him with two oars, pails of ice and what smelt like spicy food carefully folded into banana leaves. He didn't know what to say, even 'thank you' seemed meaningless in the face of such disinterested generosity.

“Well, thank you so very much, you shouldn't have. I don't know what to say.”
“Selamat Jalan, anak salji.” He shook his hand vigorously. When they parted, he left a small compass into his hand. He looked up at the man who was smiling. He felt the sudden urge to hug him, which he did. He could feel the man shiver at his contact. He even saw goosebumps riddling his shoulders, but he was hugged in return.
“You cool. Come back fast.”

With his help, he put everything at the bottom of the boat. Then an idea shot across his mind. He turned towards Fadzli:
“Hey, have you bet with the old man again?”
He beamed at him, revealing two wide rows of white teeth. “Come back, fren.”

The evening grew gradually cooler, and a slight wind which ruffled the sail also helped him keep fresh. But he was dripping, already, as he was rowing quite steadily, the compass put right in front of him on a plank. The wind was not strong enough to fill the sail. After about two hours of intense rowing, the reality started to sink in. Here he was in the middle of the sea, the land behind him drawing a small ridge on the horizon, with a little food, pails of melting ice, a compass and a map, with about an hour of daylight left, probably less, ahead of him. He felt a sudden pressure in his chest, and a knot blocked his throat. It was quiet, apart from the regular plonk of the waves lapping the side of the boat. He pulled the oars in.

Almost all of the ice had melted, but the water was still quite cold. He decided to use it all, because it would evaporate by next morning. So he bathed his limbs and gulped the rest. In one last effort, he pulled the heavy anchor overboard. The definite splash made him confident he would stay put, and therefore not drift off course. But the sound also made him nostalgic. He thought of his parents, of the nice blue-eyed girl who had interviewed him. He thought it was best to sleep now, which he did the moment he closed his eyelids. This time he dreamt.

He dreamt of his parents waving at him from the shore of Kampung Punggai, tears in their eyes. He was on a boat, but a different one from the one into which he knew he was sleeping; someone was pulling at an oar next to him: it was the blue-eyed girl, the journalist. She was smiling at him, telling him things he had never heard before. He couldn't help smiling in his turn. He felt a hand grip his shoulder amicably. He turned around and his eyes met the old man's. There was Fadzli as well. Both were smiling and their smile drew wrinkles at the corner of their eyes. Then he saw it, right in front of him, looming on the horizon. A dark mass of clouds. Thunder was brewing. The air suddenly became dense and damp. He glanced at the shore: they had been so close and now they were drifting away. The storm was visibly getting closer. In a few seconds, they were drenched to the bones. They were rowing as hard as they could, but they lost sight of the shore, and thunderbolts were clapping very close to them. He could feel the grip of the old man's hand loosen and then he could no longer feel it. He knew that he was gone. He glanced very quickly over his shoulder and saw Fadzli disappear in the rain. Soon, too, the girl disappears and he was left alone in the swaying boat. He was holding onto the edge of the boat. Every wave could have the cockleshell capsize but so far none didn't. Until the trough deepened so much he knew no common wave was in the making. The enormous surge covered the sky above him, one sinister mass meant to engulf entire cities. Darkness came.

He woke up lying at the bottom of the sampan. He sat up. His limbs were aching all over. The boat was half-sunk. The mast was lying askew; the sail was dipping into the water. Evidently a bolt of lightning had cleft it right in the middle. The cord of the anchor had snapped clean on the rim of the boat. His dream had been quite close to the reality. In any other circumstances he would have panicked. But what he saw took his breath away. In the distance, unmistakeably, lied a familiar sight, even though he had long observed it from closer. The island was there, he knew it.

He was weak, and tired, but the sight of the island invigorated him. He bailed out the water with one of the remaining pails and started rowing. But the mast and the dipping sail were slowing him down. He let go of the oars, and stood up. There was only one thing left for him to do. He estimated the island to be less than a mile away.

He took a deep inspiration, and dived.

The contact of the cold water refreshed him. The excitement was strong enough to renew his energy, but he was fighting against it to preserve his strength. It was no mean distance. But he was making good progress. The island was closer at hand. He started feeling the counter-current when he least expected it. In a few minutes he was exhausted. So tired. A feeling of numbness overwhelmed him. Closer to the island the water was becoming tepid, warm at times. He was starting to melt. If only he had enough energy to pull one last effort. He felt a stitch in his right side. He was panting and he couldn't help choking on seawater. All of a sudden he heard shouting. Was he still dreaming? Was his exhausted mind playing tricks on him? He turned around at great pains and saw a sail, then a boat, and someone standing at the prow and waving at him. Was it a mane of black hair flowing in the breeze? He thought he saw the old man too, but this was impossible, he was still drinking his life away, his soul gnawed by regrets. The island was so close yet so far and a few strokes would put him on the shore, but he wasn't sure he could make it.

***

“Go faster for goodness' sake! Please Fadzli, row faster! And you, old man, move that sail closer to the wind.”
“Hey, watch your mouth, you won't teach me anything about sailing,” – even though she was right, he thought. He, too, had glimpsed him struggling less than a hundred yards from the shore.
“Look, he's still swimming!” The girl was frantic.
“Don't rock the boat! Come on, pass me that oar.” The old man was exhilarated. “Courage my friend! I have seen him, we'll be able to give the lad a hand. Quick!”

But Fadzli was the quickest to sense something was wrong.
“No no no. Look!” They could see the white head bobbing once, twice, then disappear under a sea.
In one motion the old man stood up, yelled “No!” and dived. He reappeared meters away and started crawling.

The girl took the oar and they rowed where they had seen the snow-boy disappear. The old man had already dived a few times.

“I can't find him, he shouldn't be too far. I can't find him. Fadzli, help me.” The young man didn't hesitate for one second and dived.

The girl was on the lookout, and more than once cursed the tempest first for slowing them down and then for stirring the bottom of the sea. Nothing could be seen from the surface. Seconds stretched like hours, she couldn't stand it. They had to find him, he couldn't have gone this deep or drifted that much. They had crossed in record time according to the old man, they had to be on time to save him.

Suddenly the two men reappeared They shook their heads at one another then looked at her. She wasn't looking at them, instead she was slowly pointing a finger to the shore, utterly bemused. Her mouth was agape. The two men turned around and saw a white man standing on the shore.
“Can this be him, Fadzli? My eyesight is not so good.” asked the old man.
“Him no anak salji.” said he, rubbing his eyes.
“Let's go back into the boat and elucidate this,” said the old man.

The girl was now sitting at the prow. She couldn't take her eyes off the white apparition standing on the beach. It only took a few pulls at the oars to send the boat screeching on the wet sand. All three jumped on the shore.

From up close they could make out a young man. He was watching the jungle intently. When they came close to him, the girl asked:
“Snow-boy? Is that you?”
He only turned his head. He had fine features and long blond hair. A large smile lit his face. “I told you I would find the island.”

***

The fire was roaring. Fadzli was still busy gutting out the fish they had caught. The boy and the girl were whispering together, their heads very close. He was standing, very erect, and looking at the boy. What had happened back there, in the sea? He had dived in a snow-boy, he reached he shore a young man. He had seen many strange things in this world, but none so amazing. Anyway. The sun was almost touching the horizon. They would have to spend the night here and set out at dawn. They would reach the compound before nightfall.
He sat near Fadzli. From time to time he would dart a quick glance at the young man. Finally, he asked the old man:
“He a witch-man?”
“No, my Malaysian friend. I just think this young fellow has the strongest willpower I have ever seen in any man. Come, let's fry these fish.”

They had made the most of the remaining hours of daylight to gather as much food and firewood as they could. They had collected mangoes, coconuts, papayas. And fish. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. They were all eating heartily around the fire, and Fadzli tried to crack a few jokes in his broken English.
The old man cleared his throat, but it sounded more like chocking.
“Eh? Bone, boss?” Fadzli was looking at him, his hand full of fish halfway to his mouth.

“No. No such thing, don't worry. Ahem, young man, I think I owe you an explanation.”
Both he and the girl stared up from their banana leaves. The young man's eyes were glittering, small reflections of the flames were dancing in his dark pupils.

“My name's Lawrence, and I have started travelling this world at around the same age as you have. I have walked on every continent under the sun, lived through many dangers and seen and done many great things few people can boast of. When I reached these parts, and especially this island, I was so fascinated I decided to stay here and began writing a travel-log. Originally, I wrote it just to help me remember of the names and directions, but soon I realised it would be dangerous to keep it with me. I remembered crossing a village, a long time ago, lost in the tundra near the Arctic circle. I thought the book would be secure there. I arrived late one night, after a long stretch in a sleigh which had started in Siberia. I didn't recognise the place, even though I was quite sure of its location. I originally wanted to bury it but the ground was too cold. So I found and then broke into the library, put the book where I thought no one would dare take it and went out in the boreal night. I gave my sled dog a few hours' rest, sitting there in the snow, watching the borealis illumine the starry skies...Finally, I left.

“But my task was far from being over yet. I had to come back to Malaysia in order to dissuade the few people who knew about the island to go there. They were all intent on going so as to find the “Treasure more precious than gold itself”, as I came to call it. How did they come to learn about it, you may wonder? I was young at the time, and what I had done was reckless. No one knew about this island, no one had dared venture there because of the pirates and the frequent storms. I wanted those people to admire me. And to me I had found a Treasure. I thought this was the most beautiful and the most precious thing I had ever come across in this world. But people failed to take this just as it was: a poetic image. The whole island was untouched, unspoilt. Wild and preserved from any human harm. The entire island was the Treasure. A diamond set in an azure sea. But people just listen to the words that matter most to their petty minds, and dismiss the rest. I had left the island because I didn't want to spoil it, and because it was dangerous to stay there. There's is written 'meal' across your forehead for some creatures there. But I soon discovered that I had endangered it by my irresponsible behaviour.

“I was foolish enough to talk, and people blabbed. Soon, by word of mouth the news spread like a summer fire in the bush, and expeditions were set up by wealthy patrons. I had to protect the island. So I did what anybody would have done in my place, I sabotaged every ship, spread the wildest rumours about wondrous beasts and carnivorous plants and cannibals inhabiting the jungle. I wasn't far from the truth, except that no human being lived there, so it wasn't hard to believe me. But some people are more stubborn than others. And more greedy. I eventually went to a graveyard, dug up a rucksack of bones, sailed to the island and scattered them all about the beach, just in case they reached it.

“You see, I had never been precise about the location of the island, but they were bound to spot it, just like I did. When I came back from the island, after having dispersed the bones, I pretended I had seen sailors being eaten alive by a whole tribe of cannibals, right on the beach. I looked panicked and haggard. One of the richest men in Malaysia, who hd come all the way down from the Capital city paid me a whole lot of money to tell one of his sailors the location of the island. I reluctantly gave it to him, and him only. It was a bold move, as I wanted them to find the island, but to be so scared of going that they would leave it alone. It turned out that only a small party of sailors went there...and never came back. It settled everything. The name of 'Death Island' took hold, never to be removed, or contested...I have kept watch ever since, and I think it should be kept this way. When we get back tomorrow, we'll just say we rescued you after the storm, that you were holding onto some flotsam for dear life.”

The young man, just as the girl and Fadzli, was listening quietly. His eyes wandered to the fire, the old man and the dark, aqueous expanse behind him. When the old man's tale came to an end, he said:
“Thank you, Mr. Lawrence. For explaining this to me. I agree with you that this island must remain intact. When I decided to make the long journey from my village to this island, it was because of you. Your words conveyed a genuine admiration and respect for Nature, but also a contagious thirst to discover and an unfailing love of the world. You indirectly taught me the importance of these values. Without you I wouldn't be where I am now, and I’m not speaking geographically.

“When my parents got me, immediately they called me Nival. It means 'snowy' in Latin. They were so happy, even though they had to sacrifice a lot because of me. They have lost more than most by having me. For many people I was, and always will be, 'Snow-boy' and nobody else. Just like my parents after my birth, I am different now I have seen the island, and more different inside than outside. It's hard to explain.”

“Nival...I think we understand each other, at long last.” The old man said.
“But I would like to know one thing, Mr. Lawrence.” continued Nival.
“Sure.”
“Why did you come to my help?” He averted his eyes for a second, then look straight at Lawrence.
“It's because of that sweet, stubborn girl sitting next to you. She threatened to investigate on my past and promised me she would dug up all the dirt she could find about me. She has that sort of look that means “If you don't believe what I'm saying, try me.” He was smiling saying this, but a flicker in his eyes betrayed a lurking fear.
Nival turned towards her. She had wrapped her arms around her knees. She was smiling. “Would you have done it, Asha?”
“Of course I would. I had to find you. Like I told you, I promised your parents. And yeah, you made quite on impression on me the time we met. I wanted to know more about you and, you know, it's not every day someone like me meets someone like you. We sort of look alike, inside.”

They talked for quite some time, laughing at times, serious at others, like old friends do when they are under a starry sky and sharing a meal by the fireside. Then they set up watches to keep the fire going until the next morning. When the sun rose on the other side of the island, the island looked different, less wild. They cut open juicy papayas and mangoes for their breakfast, and everyone was in a good mood. Even the old man was smiling. He was restless. He kept glancing at the jungle, standing up on moment and sitting on his heels the next.

Then Nival spoke quietly: “Lawrence, now that we are here, why don't we explore the island a little? No one is in a hurry. What do you think? Perhaps there is a treasure hidden somewhere.” He stood up and started walking. He was soon followed by the girl who caught his hand in hers, and by Lawrence and Fadzli.

***

When they reached Kampung Punggai a week later, they were greeted by the entire village. Standing on the shore were Nival's parents, waving and crying. Just like in his dream. And Asha was rowing by his side. When he turned around to meet the eyes of Lawrence and Fadzli's smile, he knew he wouldn't see any dark clouds hanging low on the horizon. Instead, they would reach the shore and he would run and embrace his parents who would have no doubt whatsoever that he was their son.

They would also have many a wondrous tale to tell and amid the happiness and the cheering, two young people would sometimes eye each other and think that yes, there were still many an island left to discover.
 

Five Hongkongese days

Five days in the fourth most densely populated city in the world. That was quite something.

Old, interesting parts, tangled history, and a strong foot in the door of modernity.

Here is Hong Kong.

Just For Fun

On rigole pas chez Raju.

Adam et Eve ?

Le "may" ici s'adresse bien entendu au plus timides d'entre nous. Un rien pervers, voire traumatique pour les poissons. Ils ont dû en voir des vertes et des pas mûres.

The Funny Side of Hong Kong

Because we all can do with a laugh now and then, or even a smile.

When culture is different but sort of the same...

Here is my funny side of Hong Kong.

Venezia

 

Là-bas, j'étais à ma place.

Je m'y sentais bien.

Deux jours de déjà-vu, de déjà-vécu.

Comme si j'y avais habité,

que trente années m'en séparaient

et que je redécouvrais la ville.

Je l'ai belle et bien redécouverte pour la première fois.

Là-bas, ça sentait l'eau et le repos.

Ça sentait le basilic et la sieste.

Ça sentait le destin à plein nez.

J'y ai senti les lignes naître, les histoires se tramer.

Mes histoires autant que mon histoire.

Je reconnaissais les rues sans les avoir

jamais vues, jamais foulées, jamais senties.

Déambulant dans ses venelles,

la ville s'offrait à moi, et moi à elle.

Il y a quelque chose de formidable à vivre sur une lagune,

sur des pilotis qui ont tout de la fortune.

Du bout des doigts j'ai touché ses pierres, ses murs,

ses églises, ses maisons, ses palazzi,

effleuré ses lierres, ses marbres, ses bastings,

ses campi et campielli, ses fissures,

foulé ses ponti.

                         J'ai observé ses habitants

et j'ai senti sourdre la vie de l'acqua alta,

J'ai vu les aurores du monde se lever

et ses crépuscules mourir dans sa lagune.

Parfois on sent la ville trembler,

comme si derrière ses murs d'eau

une bocca di leone grondait,

un murmure, un complot –

Alors que la ville semble somnoler dans la torpeur.

L'espoir a bâti cette cité.

Il la maintient à la surface des flots.

Sur des madriers de chêne il s'attelle

soudain à fonder la mienne.

Cent et mille pieux plantés dans les chairs alluvionnes,

chaque arbre mort pour ériger la nécessité humaine –

Mais un spectacle et une prouesse sans pareil –

La cité au rang d'art –

La Sérénissime –

Dort et ne dort pas.

Il faut quelque chose de plus pour être vénitien,

quelque chose d'adamant comme ses pilotis pétrifiés

de louvoyant, de méandreux, de souple.

Ici la beauté des églises, là l'arrogance des masques.

Moins haute qu'altière, elle sait rester humble sous le regard de Dieu

et payer son tribut à la mer.

Deux jours d'un pressentiment indéfinissable.

Comme si la Venise du dessous était miroitée par celle du dessus,

comme si elle invitait à se mesurer à elle, à percer ses secrets

comme si chacune de ses églises abritait une relique capable de changer la face du monde

comme si dans chacune des fresques dans chacune de ses églises couvait un symbole à décrypter

comme si chaque carreau de mosaïque sur chacune de ses fresques dissimulait un mécanisme de porte

comme si chaque porte dérobé ouvrait sur un escalier s'enfonçant dans les profondeurs, de l'autre côté du miroir de l'eau,

comme si chacune des profondeurs vénitiennes recélait une réponse

comme si la ville entière était contenue dans chacun des atomes de ses pierres,

comme si la vie prenait sa source, là-bas.

 

Lost and Found

 

I found out the other day while making my way to work by bus, that no two people are alike and that 'us' is at best overrated, at worse is dull. Yet 'us' remains celebrated. Worldwide. Every day, every hour, on every side, for the common good, for the common benefit, because we all should, and do (and see fit to), love our neighbour.

I found out the other night that cats walking backwards can be caught in full flight without sending them gravewards.

I found out the other man that snarling at people, and grinning, are common activities among the living just because my flyers were open.

I found out the other window that the supply of darkness is endless, coming with the certainty of evidence and the unreasonable attraction to glow.

I found out the other life that no one can endure eating too much manure, unless he doesn't want a wife.

I found out the other millisecond that one can believe in Man as long as he can take a hearty bite of the reality cake.

I found out the other Conrad that a nice, big, fat wad of cash may help catch the long-awaited rivets, but unexpected wavelets on rivulets may mean more than just a catspaw – problematic jaws might result in unwittingly, more than unwillingly, hanging together.

I found out the other conference that yes, 'us' only exist insofar as 'us' hang together, and dress in the same grandiloquent manner.

I found out the other cosmos that in the absolute necessity of silence – in fact our left-out, superseded osmosis – from which we yack away at the speed of light – by hacking at a keyboard and glaring at a computer, communicating without talking, feeling without sharing – we bandy hollowed-out words and miss the sentence.

I find out the other thought that in our widest spectrum of expectations we might stumble on the Panacea, or a vial of Immortality serum – subsequently mimicking a Cro-magnon who, having found a lighter, drops his flints and breaks into a dance.

I found out the other date that we are, everyone, all together, altogether, alone, eagerly waiting for the day we will say – and think – and be – “us”.

You Willing

 
I will put my hands away, if you want me to.
I will tear my love away, if you ask me to.

I will walk away from God,
                                          I will exile myself in a desert,
                                                                                      if this is your wish.
I will.

                                  I will also stop looking at you,
if you want me to.

If you want
I can make a fool of myself.
I can degrade myself
If you want.

As if you were the only reality, the only way out, the only good thing in this world, the only person to die for, to pray to, to love. To listen to. To admire. To follow.


If you want me to sleep with another girl,
                                                              a friend perhaps,
                                                                                        I will. Just because you want me to,

Not because I love her.

Because I don't.

If you love the idea of me wooing her,
If you fancy the idea of me talking dirty to her,
I will .

If
 you
    want
        me
           to
            dance
                or
                  kiss
                     her
                        behind
                            her
                               ear
                                  or
                                    say
                                        the
                                           words
                                               I've
                                                   never
                                                      said
                                                         to
                                                            you
                                                                or
                                                                  write
                                                                      her
                                                                         the
                                                                            poem
                                                                                I
                                                                                dreamt
                                                                                    you'd
                                                                                      read
                                                                                         in
                                                                                           me,
                                                                                               I
                                                                                                will.

I guess I'll never do the same to you.


Even though at times I might think, at the darkest hour at night, that I hate you more than I hate anything in the world, I know, back where my guts twist and churn at the very thought of you, that I am wrong. I know that this is love. However deranged, however sick, however mad or absurd people may call it. I just wish they could feel as much love as I feel for you.


If you want me to marry someone else,


if you want me to unthink of you,
if you demand that I stop remembering you,
if you command me to forget your shining smile,
to scratch from my memory the etching of your perfume
or to rub off your brushing hair embedded in the pit of my stomach,

All I can say is: “I'll try”.

But I cannot promise any of these.

And the hours passing so slowly                                                 when you're not here
                                                   and
                                                          I must                              stop loving you
                                                                     let you                                        be
                                                                                 go.                       live.    love.                         forgive.
 

Malaysia - Week 1

First week in Malaysia. First week in this country which fascinated Joseph Conrad up to the point of writing one of his best novels, and probably one of the best of the last century.

As you know, I have come of my own free will – some have tried to persuade me not to, others have warned me – most of you have encouraged me. I have already written this: to leave is no mean business. I have waited for this moment for so long, and waiting these past few weeks was really painful at times. How many times have I imagined myself in such or such situation, in this country I re-discover. I found out that living here is another story. I have to struggle. Struggle against a good ole cold from out of the French blue, which the air-con chill and the sizzling outside heat nurtures patiently. Struggle hard against sleep which comes only if I coax it for a long time. Struggle hard just to get that darn interview. I cannot unveil anything concerning my “work” for now, as I am officially unofficial, as nothing has been done concerning my application and I don't want to jeopardise anything, nor promise anything. But rest assured that I will give you ample information in good time. Let it be known that I am already toiling and grinning under the yoke for which I came – aka the Paul Bocuse Institute – even if nothing is official – I cannot stay put, like having two feet in the same tong. First, I don't know if you have ever tried, but this really makes walking uncomfortable – even dangerous – and second I cannot picture myself wearing anything else than flip-flops in this weather – outside working that is. God I like the sound of this footwear, which sound has onomatopoeitically given their name: flip-flops.

Flip-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop. Sole banging against the heel when the foot leaves the ground.

So it is Saturday now, a week to the day after this uneventful landing, this uneventful flight more generally, in the Malaysian capital city. Picked up on Sunday by my friend Yeow Wei at the college residence where he had nicely booked a suite – and I insist on the term 'suite'. Since then, I am more guided than mollycoddled, helped rather than assisted. Afer all, I'm a big boy. All in all it is not easy to share one's life (I “work” in the same university and I live at his place) for an undetermined period of time. A subtle mix of autonomy and being taken care of. Anyway, back to our flip-flops.

So I flip-flopped in a patch of primeval forest right behind the flat, some kind of park, except that in this park the monkeys, parrots, rubber trees, snakes and God knows what that is slithery, hairy and slimy are in their natural habitat – you are disturbing them. You really feel the impression of taking a path, literally. Monkeys only get out of the way because they know that the sole of your flip-flops is not edible – hence unworthy of their attention. I cannot resist the temptation of sharing once more this picture which I took last February – the first time I came here (sounds like a long time ago) – of a monkey on the rope bridge on top of the park.

Amongst other nocturnal flip-floppations, I walked around the block. I have discovered restaurants opened 24/7, markets that end at 11 at night just to start all over again at 5 in the morning, a human activity which is comparable to that of nature. It's bustling, it's swarming, moving. It buzzes about independently from the weather. Just have a look at the size of the trees: the branches are the size of an oak. The banyans root their network of aerial branches deep in the ground, which reappear above the ground a few meters away. Yesterday's shoot has reached adult size in a few months' time. Everything grows at an incredible speed – yet I haven't seen a single drop of rain until now. I know full well that rain will come, our regular “shower” will be drowned into insignificance, will just look like water from the can. But a storm is brewing. Those who keep a lazy eye on the blog know that the last storm dates just a few days' back.

I wrote “days”, but they tend to stretch on end – perhaps the time zone is to blame, or jetlag, or the fact that my nights are as short as a day without eating is long. I have been here a week and I already have the impression of having been here for ages, to know it and yet to discover a new aspect every time I move to the other side of the road, to inhabit this place while still being a stranger to its language (yeah, I know, I inhabit a language, but you'll sure approve it's better than to inhabit the space between two toes). I know that I have to let time take its course.

So to pass it, it being time, I chat with my new colleagues, who really are nice people, who are as warm as the weather, as generous as the stalls in their markets, as smiling as their sun. I discover so many new things that every time I went to bed a wiser man – well, “went to bed” is a big word nowadays. I wish I could take some flip-flop time with them, in a less formal surrounding.

Yesterday evening, on Friday, a Baroque concert was conjointly organised by the Mexican Embassy and the university. Many Ambassadors were present : of course the Mexican Ambassador, the Spanish one, the ones from Peru and Japan, the director of the Cervantes Institute and so on and so forth. Will you believe that there was no – not even one - Ferrero Rocher ©! Not to say that there was no one to spoil us: there were more ambassadors per square feet than musicians (not that they were bad, far from it: they did a rather fine performance of Couperin on the harpsichord, and an audacious flute adaptation of Bach), yet not a single one of these tasty titbits in sight...ergo, not a a real evening at the Ambassador's. Yet the evening was a good one: really nice dinner with a Hollywood actor (Edward Olmos: he used to play Lieutenant Castillo in Miami Vice and Detective Gaff in Blade Runner), the musicians, the president and CEO of the university (which helped organise the event and which has set up a brand new program with the production firm of Olmos). Without any Ambassador this time.

So here's what my first week looked like, in brief. I didn't mention eating too many yummy things for lunch for less than two euros, the evenings and nights listening to the sounds of the city and of the forest behind my friend Yeow Wei's flat, the muezzin chanting at five in the morning, calling the faithful to prayers, the sound of flip-flops which is so different from the other sounds – because I was between waking and sleeping – at four in the morning, going to eat a roti telur because neither of us could sleep. I didn't say “rôti”! A roti is a sort of naan (indian loaf of bread) but the flour is different – atta flour is used, I don't know yet what atta is – telur means 'egg' in Malay. Editor's note: roti is indian, roti canai is Malay. Same bread, but different name – same with many things here! I'll keep the roti (canai) Channa for next week!

I forgot to mention that I think a lot about some of you guys, and that only the time difference and my next mobile phone bill (never in my life have I paid such a price for a text message!) prevent me from giving you news individually, as I wish I could...

The fact remains that those who wish to see me, or simply see this part of the world, will have to be patient for a little longer...I should normally” become an “official” lecturer on Monday afternoon, with a status and more importantly one or more definite positions.

From Malaysia, with love. Warm wishes in these dark and cold times in France. See you soon via the blog. Do not hesitate to send news via email, carrier pigeon, Skype (not smoke signals please, the line between France and here is a bit busy)...anyway, any medium new technologies may offer.

Selamat tinggal!

Translator's note: it's 1:40 am. If you can see mistakes, then you're either far more awake than I am now, or it's morning to you, or it's the next day...I'll correct tomorrow, can't be arsed right now.

 

Malaisie - Semaine 7

Pas de Semaine 7 pour le moment...désolé !

No Week 7 for the moment...apologies.