We where on our way to Kobe coming from Bangkok.
The large steamer of the French Maritime Company
was anchored in the Victoria Harbour for a short
stopover, this picturesque inlet that divides
Kowloon from Victoria.
That morning, the Wong Tai Sin taoist temple
bathed in emanations of incense that irritate my
throat. The faithfuls where in great number,
kneeling, facing the temple, they where shaking
mysterious sticks in bamboo cylinders whose sound
reflected on the irregular walls of the temple. I
registered the sounds, the emanations, the colors,
as of multiple signs that impregnate all my being
with the mysteries of the Orient. Instinctively, I
integrated myself into the collective ritual and I
handled awkwardly, the mysterious oraculars,
letting them escape in great number announcing bad
presages; I reinstalled them in the bowl until I
had the necessary control over them so that only a
single stick escaped by the controlled movements of
the cylinder, and whose penmanships should announce
good presages to come.
One of the sticks escaped laboriously from the bowl
and felt on the ground discovering its
untranslatable hieroglyphs. I did not know what to
do, I remained motionless and quiet, watching by
the corner of my eyes the effect, on the skeptics
faithfuls, of this unforeseen success.
I approached my hand to pick up the stick; the
white and frail hand of a girl was picking it up
already; I came so close and I almost touch the
frail hand of the mysterious unknown girl. A shiver
suddenly seized my whole being, the Orient had just
opened a small door where, perhaps, I could
penetrate.
I did not noted her presence beside me, absorbed
like I was, discovering the strange taoist rituals
that I assimilated by imitation, observing the
numerous Chinese faithfuls who agglomerated around
the temple's open place.
She was dressed with a cheongsam of an immaculate
whiteness. Under the effect of the movement to pick
up the stick, her long and black hair spreaded with
disorder down to the level of her hips, a long and
fine leg profiled boldly out of the broad side
opening of her cheongsam. She gently seized the
stick and approached it to her eyes as for better
decipher its strange penmanships.
She turned towards me and looked at me fixedly. Her
large bridle eyes were imprinted by a sadness that
disturbed me.
- "My name is SuYen," she says timidly lowering her
eyes and joining her two hands in a gesture of
reverence, she firmly held the oracular between the
palms of her hands as an invaluable object she
seemed to protect.
I was struck, I looked at her and I did not dare to
say any word.
I forgot the stick, the meaning of the presage,
that I had to get interpreted by the oracles of the
temple, I could have questionned SuYen, would she
interpret for me, the meaning of the presage or
would she keep it jealously? My sudden surprise
remove all my capacities, I was silent, like
striken down by the unforeseen appearance of SuYen,
her strange eyes and the indefinable disorder of
her glance.
- "If you wish, tonight we meet at the Tai Pak?"
That was said like a prayer, there was no
significant intonation letting perceive a
solicitation to a love affair, it signifies
something else, a mysterious appointment that her
attitude hardly dissimulated and which I could
never suspect the amplitude. I understood that I
would be then, entitled to the interpretation of
the presage of the oracular.
I did not dare to say anything, or I could not.
She rose calmly, and without saying any other word,
she disappeared silently outside the religious
complex, letting dropped a tiny paper when raising
up. I collected the paper, it was a business card.
It indicated the name of a restaurant of Aberdeen,
the Tai Pak.
I hardly left the railway station platform of
Kowloon, the eyes of the beautiful foreigner are
always fixed on my eyes, she carries a mischievous
smile, then I look at her when she disappear slowly
through the crowd.
There is effervescence that evening. The imperial-buses circulate in a continuous flow; the
multicoloured neon-signs illuminate the sky; an
infernal noise fills up the canyon of Nathan Road;
along the Public Pier besides the Star Ferry, the
illuminated panorama at the foot of Victoria Peak,
shines from all its fires. On the Victoria side,
around and under the strange tower of the Bank of
Hong Kong, Philippino workers furnish all the open
spaces in an indescribable hubbub marking their
Sunday leave with a pathetic ritual. Hong Kong had
changed since then, but I always have the eyes of
SuYen in my mind, the beautiful SuYen; and I revive
the journey to Aberdeen like it was thirty years
ago, my heart is jumping of impatience and yet I
have the spleen in my soul.
Aberdeen had changed. The multicoloured restaurants
are always there, at some distance from the quays,
embedded in an explosion of insipid buildings that
veil forever, the sinuous contours of the high
cliffs. I recognized very well the floating
pontoons, that of the Sea Palace then of the Tai
Pak, the splendid junks from that time with their
large red sails, had disappeared from the bay; the
Tankas, these mysterious "boat people" always
covers the water plains in their motionless junks,
parked away from the luminous floating restaurants.