MEMORIES came rushing by as I alighted from the taxicab. Slowly, carefully, I opened the cab’s door and stepped off into the cold January night.
“How much, mister?” I asked, reaching for my wallet. The cab driver looked weathered as an old wooden Buddha, sitting on his seat. “Are you sure you want to get off here?” he asked, after I paid the fare.
“Yeah,” I said, glancing at my reflection in the mirror. A goatee had started to sprout, but otherwise, I was only too obviously myself. I savored the night wind as I walked along the roadside, knowing that only a few people would recognize me here. No one as much glanced my way as each shadowy passerby went briskly on about his on affairs.
Hongkong has changed little since the last time I was here, during the turnover of power in 1997 from British to Chinese rule.
My backpack felt light despite the hours it has rested on my shoulders. The ancient sages advocated a life in which one did not own more than one could carry in one’s back. Now, thanks to the fast-paced lifestyle urban dwellers follow, nearly everyone who enjoys life in the open road can follow that advice.
I was carrying my sax, a couple of wash and wear jeans and shirts, several computer diskettes and two small books. One was “The Year of My Life” by the ancient poet Issa. Maybe you know the famous opening paragraph from the fourth chapter.
“Finally, I decided to wander north this year… to improve my writing of poetry. Hardly had I shouldered my bundle when I realized, to my amazement that my shadow was the shadow of Saigyo, the fabled poet-priest of ancient times.”
The other book? It was blank when I started, but through the years, it filled up with poetry, essays and short stories I wrote as I went in my travels.
It had been more almost two years since I have been here in the city that never somehow sleeps. What and who did I expect to see?
At all times and all places, the sanctuaries and the memories I sought kept on making their appearances. I was always looking for the same thing. A certain emptiness. A memory. A certain strong simplicity. A familiar face. An old girlfriend. A pebble worn smooth by the surf.
The last time I saw her, she was boarding a taxicab. The future was as unsure as the day we would see each other again.What did I hope to see now? A smile on her beautiful face, a look of anxiety, a frown, sadness? Am I unfair to myself now? Did I really want to see her?
I sat across the street from their house, as I listened to the hum of the night wind. The minutes slowly ticked by. Was she out with her friends? No. At last, she came out of their neat two-storey house, flicking off the ashes from the cigarette she held between her fingers.She looked older of course, but she kept her figure. In fact, I had to admit that she looked great in jeans and baby tees. I watched her finish the last of her cigarette, then stand up and look in my direction.
Did she see me? I don’t know how she could have, but she showed me her face - face radiant with serene contentment. A car passed by and when I saw her again, she was heading inside the house.
Some stories end with a kiss. Some stories end with the hero and heroine riding off into the sunset together. Some stories end with a final goodbye. Only the night wind caressed my cheeks as it began to rain, with my feet taking me past the avenue that was so familiar still.