Transcription
The beginning of the beginning. It was the most unusual winter of my time in Montreal. The most unusual winter of my time in this world. 1,952 days have passed since I left the city. And even now, I find the events that took place that winter around Mount Royal hard to believe.
Sometimes they return in my dreams at night or my daytime reveries, but are inevitably cut short by the same callous question. Was it real? Was it real? Was it real? I despise this question. It persists and recurs like a terminal illness intent on severing the connection between me and that inconceivable winter. Its inconceivable passion. Each time this question cuts short my reveries and dreams, I feel the deep wound it inflicts.
For Montreal, it was a very ordinary winter. It was no longer than usual. In days when the temperature dropped below us 20, you could count on both hands. But in that most ordinary of winters, life opened a window for me it had never opened before and would never open again. To this day, I still find the scene I saw through that window hard to believe.
It seems that everything began with the death of my wife. In her final days, my feelings for her underwent a huge transformation. I was repelled by the massive changes in her physical condition, perhaps even disgusted. I was scared by the pain she was suffering, perhaps even terrified. Of course, I still did my best to look after her, but the still in that statement conceals a change that had taken place. A cool rationality now dictated my behavior rather than the warm spontaneity of feeling I had once felt. I no longer saw her as the woman with whom I had lived for 23 years. She was but a skeleton to which clung the barest remnants of sentience. When I held her hand, it was out of a cold sense of duty. And when she lost consciousness for the last time, I was no longer flustered by what I knew was happening. I woke up my daughter, who had just fallen asleep, and asked her if she could call the emergency services. "Do you think I should?" she asked, her voice frail with exhaustion. I knew what she meant, that there was no point. We should at least call, I said, out of obligation only. The paramedics arrived in 15 minutes, and 8 minutes after that, my wife stopped breathing.
It was during an annual checkup that my wife discovered something was wrong. Further tests established that the cancer that was growing in her pancreas was in its middle stages. Only 7 months passed between that checkup that revealed that something was wrong and the moment she stopped breathing. For the first 4 months, her condition was relatively stable. When the chemotherapy started, she did all she could to stay in good spirits and stick to her normal schedule, even continuing to help out every now and again at the convenience store. But with the arrival of the new year, her condition began to deteriorate rapidly. The morning she collapsed in the bathroom was the first time we called the emergency services and she was hospitalized. From that day, she began to lose weight rapidly. Her mood began to fluctuate violently and her body, tormented by pain, began to edge visibly towards death. The day my wife was hospitalized, I entrusted the convenience store to a friend who had always wanted to buy it and spent all of my time by her side. Before I knew it, 6 weeks had passed and in the first week of February, her doctor told me that there was not much point in moving on to the next stage of treatment. I decided to take her home. Although my wife must have known what this meant, she was happy with the decision, and her mood in the first days at home was noticeably better than it had been in the hospital. Every lunchtime a nurse would come to check up on her and every other day a religious friend of ours would visit to pray for her. This friend would ask me to join her. Neither my wife nor I were Christian, but our friend was convinced that my praying could still lessen my wife's psychological and physical pain. When it came to prayer, I have to admit I was not very sure of what I was doing or even for whom I was doing it. As I prayed for my wife, I was also praying for myself. Praying that when God came for me, he would not come so slowly. I did not want to suffer like she had. Within 3 weeks of my wife returning home, I was signing her death certificate.
My wife's death was perhaps a release both for her and for me. In comparison, the death that followed 3 months later brought a purer sense of despair. A passing no death certificate could account for: the death of the relationship between my daughter and me. In truth, the symptoms of our worsening relationship had become clear when she started middle school. That was the time when her reliance on and attachment to me began to diminish and our conversations and interactions became increasingly rare. A clear example of this was her attitude to birthdays. Before starting middle school, she would look forward each year to the birthday present I gave her. And every year on my birthday, she would make me a card, something for some reason. She never did for her mother. But when she started middle school, she stopped caring about my presents and even stopped remembering my birthday. So, our relationship was already in dangerous waters when after graduating from high school, she did not choose the university I wanted her to go to or even the major I thought she should take. Despite all of this, I was not prepared for our relationship's demise. After she graduated from university, I knew that she was not planning to continue in education like I hoped she would, that she wanted to find a job right away and a job far away from Montreal at that. But I did not think that meant that our relationship was doomed.
When the last of her applications to work in Toronto and Vancouver was rejected, I was secretly pleased to see the downcast expression on her face as she moped around the house. Then when I came home in the evening 5 days later, she told me she had been accepted for the only position she had applied for in Montreal. Before I had a chance to congratulate her, she told me she had found somewhere to live near her workplace and was going to move out in a few days. I had not expected this at all. "Why do you have to live somewhere else?" I asked her. "I want to," she replied coldly. She moved out that weekend and the move was more drastic than I could have possibly imagined. She had not only moved out from the house but also from my life. In the following 4 months, she did not phone me once, nor did she answer my calls or respond to my emails. She did not even tell me where she was living. In the end, I couldn't take it anymore, and I sent her an angry email in which I wrote, "As your father, I at least have the right to know if you are dead or alive." I thought the anger would prompt her to reply quickly, if only to let me know that she was okay, and I waited on edge for 10 days. It was a suspense more agonizing than that which had gripped me during her mother's final days, and I began to lose my hold on reality.
On the evening of the 10th day, I bumped into one of her middle school classmates in the supermarket and asked her if she had heard from my daughter. To my surprise, she responded without hesitation in the affirmative, saying they had eaten dinner together the night before. At first, I was overjoyed because I knew that my daughter was alive and well, at least up to the day before. But this was followed by a sense of humiliation. She cared more for a middle school classmate than she did her own father. It was clear that I no longer needed to wait for her reply. Whether she was living or not, I knew our relationship was dead, though I would never know the reason. Perhaps there was no reason at all beyond the simple fact that all young people tend to turn against their parents at some point in their lives.
A month later, I sold the convenience store I had run for 13 years. A transaction that seemed to me pregnant with meaning. It symbolized departure, conclusion, even escape. In some ways, perhaps it was the third passing I had experienced that year. I had actually begun to think about selling the store from the moment my wife's test results came back. It wasn't only a matter of concentrating my efforts on looking after my wife. The awful news contained in the results of those tests was a wakeup call. Life is tough and it is short. The test results felt like a sign that we ought to spend more of our time enjoying what we can of our lives rather than endlessly working. I hadn't acted on these thoughts, however, because I was worried my wife would read it differently, that she would see such a decision as a death sentence. After my wife was hospitalized, my daughter had also brought up the idea of selling the store. She too said that the test results were a reminder that we shouldn't be toiling away from morning to night and getting by on only the bare necessities. Deep inside, I agreed. But at the time, I argued strongly against it. I told her that if we were to sell the store, her mother's condition would only get worse. The store meant everything to her, more than her own life.
Before the year was finished, another symbolic passing took place. Two weeks before Christmas, I sold the house we had lived in for almost 10 years and moved to the snowy side of Mount Royal into an apartment building that was 48 years old, the same age as me. I did not want to spend Christmas and my wife's birthday, which was the day after, alone in our old house. And one of the reasons I chose to live where I did, was that it was very close to my wife's grave. I would be able to visit it every day on foot. After moving into my new home, I tried a couple of times to phone my daughter again, but she didn't pick up. So, I sent her an email telling her I had moved and included my new address. I added that I hoped she would be able to come for her mother's birthday so that we could pay our respects at her grave together. She didn't respond, but on the birthday, she arrived at my apartment at noon. It was the first time we had met since she had moved out, and I wanted to show her around my new home. But I gave up on that idea when it became clear she was not even remotely interested. We sat in the living room for half an hour, which began with me trying to get her to take a backup key for the apartment, something I thought was important, but she thought utterly unnecessary. Then I asked how work was going, and she said it was going pretty well. I asked what her living arrangements were like, and she said they were fine. I asked whether she had got used to having to cook for herself everyday, and she said she had. Finally, I asked why she hadn't answered my calls or replied to my emails, and she said she was busy. I couldn't get much more than that out of her, and the whole conversation left me completely demoralized.
We went to visit her mother. When I bowed to the grave, my daughter seemed to find it very funny. She walked silently to the gravestone and brushed away the snow that had accumulated on top. I asked if she had dreamed of her mother, and she turned around to look at me, but didn't reply. Then I asked her if she remembered the beef sirloin stew her mother used to make, to which she neither replied nor turned her head. I said that I hadn't dreamt of her mother once since she died. Wasn't that a little strange? Again, she neither uttered a word nor moved a muscle in response. I was at a loss. After a pause, my daughter told me she had arranged to go shopping with a colleague. I looked at my watch. We had spent less than 20 minutes by her mother's grave. I wanted to convince her to stay a little longer. In the end, I said nothing. My daughter intended to part ways at the entrance to the graveyard. This time, I refused to give in and accompanied her to the subway station, even if during that hard-earned walk, we barely uttered a word. As she made to descend into the station, I told her I hoped she would be able to come home once in a while. She replied that she really was very busy, that she worked overtime almost every day. The way she rejected my request without a second thought hit me hard. "I have never felt so lonely," I told her almost pleadingly. "Sometimes I think about leaving here, leaving maybe even this world." I don't know if it was what I said or the way I said it that got to her, but she stopped on the stairs and turned around, a troubled expression on her face. This flicker of concern, if that's what it was, quickly disappeared, however, and she said matter-of-factly, "You shouldn't sit cooped up inside all day. Don't get caught up thinking about the past." Then she turned and left. I thought of pleading with her once more, but couldn't think of anything to say. I watched desperately as my daughter went off down the stairs, hoping that she might turn around just once to look back at me. She didn't. An icy shiver went right through me, and for a moment, I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. "Why can't you even turn to look at me? Why won't you ask me how I'm doing? Why can't you answer any of my questions with more than a couple of words? Can this really be just an inevitable part of growing up?" These questions bubbled up in my mind and I remembered how I had complained to my Taiwanese neighbor about my daughter. I told her I had become King Lear, a father forsaken, that a new crisis of identity was descending upon me. My well-meaning neighbor replied that I should not dwell too much on this sense of crisis. My daughter's behavior was completely normal. She told me all of her children were the same, but I could not accept this new normal and that they were all the same. I was lonely. I was desperate. I wanted to leave here, maybe even this world. I waited until my daughter had completely disappeared from view before swallowing back my tears and making to leave.
It is perhaps from this moment that the story of my most unusual of winters ought to begin. Because it was as I turned around that I noticed a young Asian girl about the same age and almost exactly the same height as my daughter. She was standing by the intersection of two streets, apparently unable to decide which one to take. In that moment, it occurred to me that her presence might be a form of compensation, a way of balancing out what I had lost. I walked over to her and asked where she wanted to go, to which she replied, "The Mount Royal Belvadier, where she could look out over the entire city of Montreal." "Why don't you come with me?" I said. "I'm going that way." She agreed to my suggestion without the slightest hesitation, which seemed to compensate even more for what had just taken place between my daughter and me.
As we walked, we chatted a great deal. She told me she had come from Busousan in Korea, that her father worked in a bank and her mother was a teacher. Like my daughter, she had graduated the previous summer, but she was concerned that her English needed improvement, so had enrolled in a two-month English language course at McGill University. She had arrived the previous day and was hoping to use the time before her course began to see the sights of Montreal. I was curious about why she had chosen to come to Montreal in the winter. And she said she had specifically chosen this time to come. Winter was her favorite time of the year. Something that could be traced back to her father or more specifically to Vivaldi. Her father was an accomplished amateur violinist and one of his favorite pieces to play was Winter from the Four Seasons. She said the piece was a part of the spiritual bond she shared with her father. As she told me this, I began to feel an old guilt rise up inside me. Why did my daughter and I not have a spiritual bond? Whatever the reason, I did not know if it was my fault or my daughter's. I didn't have many hobbies apart from reading, and my daughter had always been more captivated by numbers than words. The only books she read were detective stories, which was probably the genre I cared about least.
At the entrance to my apartment, I parted ways with the Korean student who had helped for a brief period to make up for the lack of relationship between my daughter and me. I told her to keep going along the same road we had been walking, and she would reach the peak of Mount Royal. She bowed slightly and said she was fortunate to have met me, otherwise she would have been sure to have walked all over before finding it. Her gratitude brought me a warm sense of satisfaction, and I watched as she crossed the road and began to recede into the distance. My mood was completely different from just moments earlier when I had stood watching my daughter disappear into the subway. I decided to keep watching as the Korean student walked down the road. Little did I know that the first unusual occurrence of that winter was to take place just as she was about to disappear from view.
When she came to the florist at the corner of the road, she suddenly spun around to face me and lifted both her hands in the air above her head as if she knew I was still looking at her. Or perhaps had intuited what I was waiting for as I stood alone at the subway and wanted to make up for what my daughter had denied me. Thrilled, I too lifted both my hands into the air and watched as the Korean student held her arms aloft and still facing me continued to walk backward. I waited until she had disappeared behind the florist before I put my hands down. I was gripped by a strange feeling that the Korean student had turned around and lifted her arms not as a way of saying goodbye, but as a kind of invitation. It was this feeling that caused me to run down the road past the florist shop around the corner and to the girl's side. I thought maybe I could walk with you a little longer. I was slightly embarrassed about saying this at first, but her cheerful response quickly made me feel better.
It had been almost 10 years since I had been up Mount Royal in the winter. In the first few years after our arrival in Montreal, my daughter always looked forward to winter trips up the mountain because she loved ice skating there. There were two rinks. The artificial one built next to Beaver Lake was open almost all winter. And when it got really cold, the lake itself would freeze, making a second giant rink. My daughter loved skating during the holidays. And it also brought me great pleasure, especially when we held hands on the lake. I felt as though we were sharing something sacred, as though she would always be by my side, as though she would always need me to protect her. It was a time when I was full of love for life. But it didn't take long for my daughter to start changing. First, she didn't want to hold my hand as we skated. Then, she didn't want me to go with her. And finally, she stopped wanting to go skating at all.
I took the Korean student all the way to the edge of Beaver Lake, or rather, she brought me there. If it were not for her unexpected appearance at the subway entrance earlier, I would certainly not have found myself standing by Beaver Lake in the middle of winter again. As she looked at the landscape around her, she sighed an exhaled vowel of astonishment that sounded very Korean. I also sighed silently, marveling at the scene with which I had once been so familiar but had not seen for 10 years, at how life seemed to be made up of a series of recurring illusions. The lake was not yet open for skating. I took three photos of the girl by the lakeside from three different angles. And then we walked to the artificial rink where she stood for a moment eyeing the men and women, young and old, who were skating there. I was still thinking about life and its illusions when she turned and asked me a question that brought back vivid memories. "Can you skate?" I replied that I could, but that it had been almost 10 years. What she said next was also completely unexpected. The second unusual thing that winter. "Let's do it," she said. I started. I didn't quite believe what I'd heard. "Let's go skating," she said.
We walked into the pavilion to rent skates. The Korean student was agile in her movements as she changed her shoes, and before long, she was standing with her skates on waiting for me. This was totally unlike the other times I had come with my daughter when I inevitably had to wait for her for ages. "How come you haven't skated for 10 years?" she asked. Once again, the question brought back memories. "Because my daughter has grown up," I said. She seemed to understand what this meant and lowered her head slightly before looking at me again and asking, "How old is she?" "About the same age as you," I said. "These days, she won't even come home and see me." The Korean student did not ask me why, nor any other questions for that matter. She waited for me to get into my skates and then walked with me to the rink. It didn't take much time for her to get her bearings on the ice and soon she seemed completely at home. She skated beautifully, switching between skating forward and backward without effort, even managing a few jumps and spins. Each time she skated past me, she made a point of waving and saying hello, and each greeting filled me with warmth. Unlike her, I took ages to adapt to being on the ice. Partly because it had been so long, but also because I wasn't really able to concentrate. I kept stopping to look at the girl as she moved so naturally across the rink and to picture myself with my daughter at this spot all those years ago. I was also still thinking about life and its illusions. There was no way I could have known that I would be here after 10 years skating again and in such unusual circumstances. A strange impulse came over me, a sense that this was not the end, but a kind of beginning. From that day on, I resolved I would come here to skate every day when I got up, every morning until the end of winter. What an unusual ritual that would be. It would be my way of dispelling the loneliness and emptiness I had recently found so difficult to bear.
After we had put our shoes back on and left the pavilion, I told the Korean student the way to the Belvadier. She replied that she was already a little tired and anyway, it had already gotten too dark to take good photos. She wanted to come with me down the mountain. She could always come to the Belvadier another time. Besides, it gives me the chance to practice my English, she said. I was happy that she seemed to want to spend more time with me. On the way down, she spoke to me about how she used to skate on a frozen lake as a child and how her father would often play his violin while he watched her. It was a really beautiful experience, she said. I was quietly envious of her for having such a father and also of him for having a daughter like her. When we reached where I was living, I paused for a moment before offering to accompany her to the subway. She seemed very pleased at the idea, saying, "We can say goodbye at the place where we met." at the subway station. She thanked me for spending so much time with her and I responded that I ought to be thanking her for getting me to skate again. Then I wished her the best of luck with her life in Montreal. She turned around and walked into the subway. My state of mind as I watched her descend into the station had changed completely from that of 3 hours earlier when I had stood watching my daughter from exactly the same spot. I was now full of gratitude and joy. I waited for her to disappear at the bottom of the stairs when all of a sudden she turned and rushed back up toward me to say the words that still to this day fill me with not only gratitude and joy, but also surprise. "She'll come back to you," she said. "For sure." That was the third unusual thing to happen that winter, and it made me even more determined to honor the commitment I had made to myself on Mount Royal.
After I got back to my apartment, I went straight to the utility room. When I was moving to my new home, I had thrown away a lot of old things I didn't need anymore. But I'd decided to keep the two pairs of ice skates that belonged to my daughter and me. At the time, I'd only wanted them as a keepsake. I never thought they would ever see the ice of Mount Royal again. That night, I couldn't sleep. My mind kept running through the scenes of that strange day and of skating on Beaver Lake 10 years earlier. I was filled with not only anticipation for my new start in life, but also apprehension. I didn't know if I would be able to keep to my commitment to going up the mountains every morning. 10 years earlier, I had gone only during the holidays, and when I did, it was usually in the afternoon. Plus, I always went with my daughter, and we would be chatting the whole time as we walked up or down the mountain, as we put on our skates, as we moved around the ice. Now, I was a solitary man. Would I really be able to skate every morning alone on Mount Royal?
As the sky began to get lighter, I got up. After going to the toilet, I finished the novel I was reading, which had been translated from Persian. 6 months previously, I had resolved to read a certain amount of English every day, which was one way for me to deal with my solitude. Now, I had two ways that supplemented one another. The first passive and thoughtful, the second active and physical. At 10 minutes to 8, I left the apartment just like I used to. I hung my skates over my right shoulder and my daughter's skates over my left. The effects of my lack of sleep very quickly dissipated as I walked toward Beaver Lake. At the time, of course, there was no way for me to know that this winter was to be the most unusual winter of my time in Montreal. But on some level, I was aware that something had changed between the world and me. I was no longer a husband, no longer a father, no longer the owner of a business, maybe no longer even really a man. Perhaps this is where the story about my most unusual of winters should truly begin. Celia.
There was only one person in the pavilion when I walked in, something I'd never seen before. In the past, by the time my daughter and I had made it up the mountain, it would already be the busy period of the holiday season, and the pavilion would be so full of people, it was hard to find a locker for your shoes. My daughter was always intent on using her favorite lockers in the middle of the low road next to the window that overlooked Beaver Lake. It always took some time to convince her to settle for another one. And then it would take just as long for her to put on her skates. Of course, it never seemed like time wasted. No time spent with my daughter ever felt wasted. But now everything had changed. As far as she was concerned, it seemed now that even a phone call with me was time wasted. The other person in the pavilion was a woman. She was sitting sideways on my daughter's favorite lockers, her legs pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her shins, and her head resting gently on her knees as she looked out the window toward the lake. Her posture reminded me of a famous black and white photo. She was clearly just in from skating, and her recently used skates lay on her side in front of her. The moment I saw her, I was struck by the strange notion that she seemed to be suffering from some kind of sickness. But it was more complicated than that. There seemed to be something powerfully contradictory about her. On the one hand, she exuded vitality, a willingness to take on everything hurled her way, but at the same time, there was a vulnerability to her, a sense she might crumble at the slightest disturbance. A phrase immediately occurred to me to describe her. Healthy sufferer. I had not expected my new life to be met so quickly with such a strange contradiction. I felt somewhat uneasy as I walked past her, a feeling intensified by the fact that she took no notice of me. I walked to the row of lockers my daughter used to like least and took a seat facing into the pavilion so that the woman remained within my field of vision. From there, I was able to see her more clearly. How her hair was tied and the way her hands were clasped around her legs. These details seemed to bring me closer to her, but I still could not see her face. I had no idea if she was looking at something out the window, pondering some difficult question, or merely lost in thought. Whichever it was, I figured it must be occupying all of her attention for her not to notice another person walking straight past her.
The previous night, as I was lying awake in bed, I had decided that I would not only carry my own skates each day, but also my daughter's. I hoped doing so might create the illusion that she had not left my side. So that morning, as I'd walked up the mountain, I had chatted with my daughter like old times. I'd asked her the question I always used to ask her when we'd first immigrated to Montreal. "Do you like it here?" To which she always replied, "I do." This response was a major reason for my ability to persevere in my new life as an immigrant. My daughter's positive spirit was a blessing to her and me both. I looked over at the healthy sufferer who was still sitting in the same position and then down at my daughter's skates. I knew I would have to talk her down. "Look," I said, "someone's already sitting there." But of course, my daughter wouldn't give up that easily. She wanted me to have a word with the healthy sufferer. "There's no point," I said. "She won't let us sit there." My daughter asked me how I could know for sure. "Just now, I walked past her and she didn't even notice," I told her. But my daughter wouldn't admit defeat. She said she wanted to wait. "She'll be there forever," I said. My daughter asked me again how I could possibly know. "Because..." I paused as I glanced once again at the healthy sufferer. And in that moment, I thought I caught a glimpse of her secret. "Because she's lonely," I said. That's when I realized my daughter was not beside me. She had not been there for 10 years, and it seemed unlikely that she ever would again. The secret I had caught a glimpse of was not the secret of the woman in the pavilion, but my own. I was the one who was lonely. I had never felt so alone.
None of the employees had arrived yet, and the shutters were closed over the shop selling and renting winter gear. This was also something I had never seen before. I reflected on the fact that had it not been for my wife's passing and my daughter's leaving, I would never have met that Korean student the day before. I would have never walked up Mount Royal so early in the day, and I would never have seen this scene of the ice rink and pavilion looking so different from how I had seen it before. A passage in the novel I had just finished reading came to my mind. In it, an old blind man spoke to the female narrator, a member of the Palavi family, former rulers of Iran, about Paris and love. He said, "Paris as an objective thing is meaningless. There is only the Paris in which individual lives unfold. The Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame. It is only when a person lives and experiences these places that the cover of their externality is removed and their true meaning revealed. The Paris you arrive in is different from the Paris that other people arrive in. The Paris you enter with the person who loves you and the Paris you enter with the person who doesn't love you are not the same Paris. The Paris you enter with the person you love and the Paris you enter with the person you don't love are even more different. One of these parises is better than the other. Of course, aesthetically speaking, love transforms language, transforms the world, transforms how we see the world, transforms our relationship with the world. Marriage does not change a person, but love absolutely must. Why did Hemingway call Paris a movable feast? Because he experienced love there. Paris transformed his love, the love that would be channeled into the great force of his literary creativity, this one and only love." It occurred to me at that moment that I understood this passage and what this somewhat obscure novel was trying to say. Mount Royal was now a part of my life. I could feel the new meaning that death and loneliness had bestowed upon it.
I made a point of taking my time changing into my skates because I wanted to see if the healthy sufferer would move from where she was sitting, but when I was finished, she was in exactly the same position. She was still there when I was walking out of the pavilion. What had captured her attention? How was it she had not even noticed a person who intruded upon her space? What was it about her appearance that brought to mind both vitality and fear? I was curious. I wanted to see her face. I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to know her story. I had never felt so curious about a complete stranger before. Outside the pavilion, I could not resist turning my head to look through the window at the unmoving woman as I walked down the path and stepped onto the ice. Though I knew I still could not make her out clearly. Thanks to my previous days skating, it did not take long to find my feet, but my thoughts were not with a rink. I was imagining what the healthy sufferer's face might look like, what her voice might sound like, what her story might be. I was also thinking about how she related to me. Would I see her here every morning? Was skating her way of dealing with loneliness, too. If she knew how curious I was about her and her life, would she be uncomfortable?
These thoughts were interrupted by music which broke through the silence of the mountain from a speaker hung up from the lamp tower at the south of the rink. During the busy period they usually played pop songs, but that morning it was classical music. Beethoven's violin concerto in D. In fact, one of my favorite pieces. I still remember the first time I heard this piece at my middle school geography teacher's apartment. An afternoon toward the end of August in 1979. I was nearly 18 years old and was getting ready to leave home for the first time on my own. I had 4 hours until my train to Beijing. And I decided to say goodbye to the teacher who had always showed an interest in what I was doing, even after I was no longer his student. After we exchanged a few words, my teacher put a cassette in his new Sony music player, telling me he wanted to see me off with something special. Beethoven's violin concerto in D is a piece full of longing for the past and eagerness for the future. The first few notes stopped me in my tracks. It was as if Beethoven had written the piece specially for me and my first long journey away from home on my own some 170 years later. It transformed my journey that day and every journey in my life after that. 30 years had passed since that first trip away from home. And yet the force of the piece had not been worn down in all that time.
I glided over to the modern-looking lamp tower and stopped to look up at the snow-covered speaker. I could almost see the pure notes floating out and into the pristine wilderness into the untouched quiet and finally up into the immaculate sky. I felt a strange joy take hold of me. Ever since the journey I had taken that day all those years ago, I had found myself traveling farther and farther away from home. As the distance had increased, so had a certain anguish which had come to form a knot of grief inside me that I had so far been unable to untie. However, at that moment, beneath the lamp tower on the ice rink, I realized that all of my long journeys away from home had also been taking me toward something. They had been taking me toward the very joy that had just taken hold of me. This unparalleled purity and tranquility. I took a couple of deep breaths of fresh air, and to the accompaniment of Beethoven's violin concerto, I began again to skate. Throwing my arms exaggeratedly into the air, I went faster and faster, faster and faster. But that was not enough to express how liberated I felt by this newfound joy and excitement. So I turned around and started skating backward, something I had never been particularly good at. I continued to go faster and faster, faster still. Then I felt the blade of my right skate wobble slightly and before I knew it, I had completely lost my balance. I fell hard, the inertia sending my body across the ice. I came to a rest at the edge of the rink. I was overjoyed at the transformation that had come over me so quickly. Unfazed by the fact I was on my back on the ice, I spread my legs, stretched out my arms, and lay on the ice with my eyes closed, happily listening to the familiar melody. My enjoyment was cut short by a voice. "Are you all right?" It was an unfamiliar voice, a woman's voice. Disoriented, I opened my eyes and saw the healthy sufferer looking over me. I quickly got to my feet and lowered my head as I brushed the snow off my clothes and muttered something about losing my footing and everything being fine. On hearing this, the healthy sufferer turned around and started walking away. I immediately regretted my hasty reply. Why hadn't I said it was more serious? Why hadn't I asked her to help me back to the pavilion? As I watched the woman walk away so full of vitality, I thought back to the previous day at the subway station when I'd parted ways with my daughter. I knew there was no way that the figure currently receding into the blinding white snowscape would turn around. I might never satisfy my curiosity to know more about the healthy sufferer. I had missed my only chance to get close to her. But then I realized she wasn't carrying her skates. Where were they? Why wasn't she carrying them? I felt my sense of curiosity growing. She must have left her skates in the locker, which meant that she was not really leaving the mountain. Or at least she was planning on coming back. Maybe, like me, she had decided to come everyday. This was a comforting thought. Perhaps the chance I had just missed would not be my only one. Sure enough, she did not take the road that led down the mountain, but continued walking farther toward the woods. As I watched her, I noticed that we were no longer the only people in the desolate expanse. By the side of Beaver Lake was someone sitting in an electric wheelchair. The healthy sufferer had noticed too, and having walked past, she turned her head twice to look at the figure in the wheelchair before continuing on into the woods. I watched as she came to a stop by an old elm tree. She reached into a hollow in its trunk and pulled out a pair of skis and ski poles. I didn't know what to think. What kind of person is so familiar with Mount Royal? She discovers a tree hollow to store skis in. Was such a discovery a sign of her health or a proof of her suffering. The healthy sufferer deftly put on the skis and slid off into the depths of the mountain. She had just been ice skating and still had the energy to go skiing. How healthy must someone be to do this? Or how sick? I was desperate to find out the answers to these questions. I wanted to know everything about her. I skated another couple of laps of the rink, but my heart wasn't really in it, so I headed back to the pavilion. I entered through the door I had come out of earlier so I could pass the lockers on which the healthy sufferer had been sitting. One was locked. It must have been where her skates were, in the very same locker my daughter had so often used 10 years before. I paused by the locker for a moment and looked out the window as I thought about the past and once again I saw the person in the wheelchair. The whole lake was visible from where I stood and the figure seemed strangely enigmatic against the glistening crisp background of the mountain. There was something unreal about the scene. It resembled a work of art, a work of divine inspiration. I suddenly understood why the healthy sufferer had not noticed me. She must have been absorbed in appreciation of this divinely inspired work. I went back to my locker, sat down, and changed into my shoes. I was still in a daze. I wanted to wait for the healthy sufferer to return. I wanted to know everything about her. An elderly couple walked into the pavilion hand in hand, each with a pair of skates hanging over their shoulders. They took a seat on the lockers opposite me and began to slowly change into their skates. I couldn't resist introducing myself and asking them how old they were, to which the man replied he was 84 and the woman 2 years younger. I expressed my admiration that they were still able to go ice skating in their 80s and the woman replied proudly that they had been skating together since a year before their marriage which made it 62 years. The man then told me it was their wedding anniversary and this was their way of celebrating. I felt a peculiar sadness as I thought of all the people like my wife who were not able to live as long as these two had been married. There were not many people in the world who were able to enjoy such a long, happy marriage.
I had been waiting for the healthy sufferer for almost an hour when I noticed the person in the wheelchair was gone. I decided it was time to leave. And as I walked down the mountain, I pictured the moment I had opened my eyes as I lay on the ice and had gotten my first clear view of the face of the healthy sufferer. The grave expression on her face had prevented me from seeing how old she was. But I could tell she was well educated and had a rich inner life. But perhaps most intriguingly during that moment she was standing over me. I saw in her face even more clearly her contradictory nature. I knew it was this contradiction that was the primary cause of my curiosity about her. I spent the whole day thinking about the healthy sufferer, about her contradictory nature and why I was able to see it so clearly. How had I been so sure from the moment I saw her that she was suffering? What was she suffering from? Curiosity about her displaced my feeling of loneliness. That night, as I lay in bed, I no longer thought about my wife's passing or my daughter's leaving. But the elegant way the healthy sufferer sat on the lockers, the caring way she asked if I was okay. The mysterious hollow in the tree. I even saw us skating together. I saw that she was just as skilled on the ice as the Korean student had been. I saw that she wore headphones, listening to music, and each time she overtook me, I felt a closeness with her as she glided away again. The next day, I made a point of leaving the apartment half an hour earlier in the
hope that I might be able to realize our encounter as I had pictured it the night before. I still carried my daughter's skates over my shoulder, but as I walked up the mountain, I was no longer thinking about her. Instead, I was wondering how I would start talking to the healthy sufferer. I knew I had to be careful not to let her know how curious I was about her. I decided I would start by thanking her for her concern when I fell. Then I could compliment her on her skating, then ask if she too had decided to come everyday to Mount Royal to skate. Then what she liked doing aside from skating. I planned out the ways I could get her to let me into her world. Of course, I wouldn't let on that I already knew the locker she liked to use. That might make her uncomfortable. And of course, I couldn't tell her I had been thinking about her ever since our encounter the previous day.
When I entered the pavilion, I saw that my meticulous planning had been for nothing. The healthy sufferer was sitting in exactly the same place as the day before with her coat and skates beside her, which meant she had already finished skating. This time she was not looking sideways out the window, but sitting straight, her whole body facing Beaver Lake. As I walked quietly past her and saw that her hair was still tied in a bun, I was gripped by a strange and unsettling impulse to reach out and touch it. I took note of the strands of white that flecked her chestnut hair and realized she was perhaps not as young as it seemed from the effortless way she moved. Just like the day before, she paid no attention to the fact that someone had intruded upon the space that was previously just hers. I took a seat on the row of lockers my daughter liked least again, but this time I did not dare look directly at the healthy sufferer. I did not want her to turn around and have our eyes meet. I was nervous. Nervous because I had been thinking about her for a whole day. Nervous because of the strange impulse I had felt to touch her hair. I sat with my back to the room and looked out the window as I nervously changed into my skates. When I walked out of the pavilion, I didn't look back. All I wanted was to leave as quickly as possible. Only when I was on the ice did I hazard a glance through the window, but the healthy sufferer wasn't there. I skated over to the side of the rink that overlooked Beaver Lake to find her walking past the person in the wheelchair who was sitting at the same spot by the lakeside. As she walked past, she slowed down and turned her head to the wheelchair as if there were something she wanted to say, but she seemed to change her mind and resumed her original pace, heading toward the big elm tree.
On the third day, I decided to set off half an hour earlier again. But just as I was heading out the door, the telephone rang. It was a classmate from middle school who was applying to immigrate to Canada. It was not the first time he had called me to talk about it, and I had already asked him what had made him decide to leave. He said simply that everyone with money in China was considering immigration. We had not been in contact for many years, and I did not know that he had become someone with money. I also knew nothing of the situation for people with money in China, and had no idea immigration was the new craze. During the previous phone call, however, my classmate had told me that his wife was having serious misgivings about immigration. He practically had to force her into agreeing to apply. But when they had submitted the application materials, she only became more nervous. And by the time they received the official notification of their interview date, she seemed on the brink of a breakdown. She broke into tears almost every day, had stopped eating properly, and was unable to sleep. That was when she told him in no uncertain terms that she would not be going to the interview. My classmate did not know what to do and had called me to ask if I would speak with his wife and tell her about my own experience and benefits of immigrating. I had refused, stressing that as far as my experience was concerned, there might not be much in the way of benefits to talk about. Here he was calling again, telling me that his wife was next to him and wanted to talk to me. I had never met his wife and doubted very much that she had any desire to speak with me. Besides, I had no idea what I would say to her. When my classmate passed the phone to his wife, I started by politely saying hello and introducing myself. But just that was enough to cause her to start sobbing uncontrollably. My classmate snatched back the phone and told me not to hang up, that she would be fine in a moment. He must have put the phone to one side because after that I heard the muffled sound of him speaking to his wife, chastising her one minute and pleading with her the next until she finally stopped crying. As I waited, the idea came to me of trying to persuade her by talking about the love between a husband and wife. When she picked up the phone again, I asked her if she loved her husband. Of course I do, she replied. In that case, shouldn't you be with him? But I won't go with him if he leaps into a bonfire. Canada isn't a bonfire. It's a glacier. She didn't reply. So, I went on to tell her that there were people who said immigrating was the best thing in the world and people who said it was the worst. Neither of those extremes were correct. Immigrating is just a matter of moving your life to another place. If you still care for your husband, it shouldn't matter where you are so long as you are together, don't you think? She still didn't reply. So, I went on to say that they were not immigrating yet. They might not pass the interview, their application might not be accepted, and even if it was accepted, that they did not need to register. And even if they did register, they could change their minds at any point in the process. Why not give the interview a try? After all, you do still care for your husband, don't you? She still didn't reply. But at that moment, my classmate snatched back the phone. "Not bad. You know what you're doing," he said excitedly. It sounded like my words must have had some effect. I did not know how this made me feel.
Thanks to that phone call, I missed the healthy sufferer that day on Mount Royal. Rather than arriving at the pavilion half an hour earlier like I had planned, when I finally walked in, it was 40 minutes later. There was no one there and no one on the ice. I grumbled to myself about my wealthy classmate as I sat down to change into my skates. The whole situation had put me in a bad mood. I wanted to know whether the healthy sufferer had already left or was yet to arrive. But then I told myself that it didn't matter. What mattered was that she would come again. I walked over to her locker and saw that it was locked. Feeling slightly better, I decided to check the hollow in the elm tree. If it was empty, it meant she was still somewhere on the mountain. I put both pairs of skates into my locker and jogged out of the pavilion toward the elm tree. Were it not for the person in the wheelchair, I would have run without stopping. But just like the healthy sufferer earlier, I couldn't help slowing down and looking back at the figure sitting at the lakeside. A new curiosity had come over me, which was why I did not feel disappointed when I found skis inside the hollow of the elm tree.
The next morning, before I had even walked into the pavilion, I saw the healthy sufferer by the window, sitting in the exact same place as before, clearly just back from skating. This time, I was adamant not to let the opportunity pass me by, and I walked straight up to her to say hello. She turned her head and looked at me with the same grave expression she had had on her face during our previous very brief conversation. I said what I had planned to say 2 days earlier and thanked her for her concern when I fell on the ice. She nodded her head politely and then turned around again to look out the window. I was not going to let her bring our second conversation to an end as quickly as she had the first. I would not miss my chance again to get her to notice that I had noticed her. "You didn't show up yesterday," I said. She turned sharply toward me and said, "It's you who didn't show up." A certain censure audible in her emphasis on the you. The intensity of her response caught me off guard, but also gave me a certain pride. It provided an opening in the conversation. Oh, I didn't realize I'd missed you, I said softly. It was the first time we would miss each other that winter, but not the last. I couldn't resist looking again at her hair tied in a bun at the top of her head and felt myself tensing up. But I urged myself to continue the conversation. "Are you from Montreal?" I asked. She seemed to have been waiting for the change of subject. I was born here, grew up here, and still live here. But she didn't follow up with a question about me. I guess I'm from Montreal, too, I told her. I've been here for 15 years now. When I saw she was not going to take the bait, I went on, but I come from China. To my surprise, this sentence seemed to elicit another intense reaction in her. I saw a flash of discomfort in her eyes and her expression darkened. "China," she repeated in a tone that suggested both disdain and dread. I had never before heard a westerner use such a tone when talking about my motherland. I became aware of a distance that existed and would always exist between us, which only amplified my curiosity to find out more. "Have you been?" I asked. The healthy sufferer stared at me with an uneasy look in her eyes, but she did not answer my question. The silence almost made me shiver. It was a silence more intense than the curt replies that had preceded it. Why? Why could she not answer this simple yes or no question? Had she been or hadn't she? The healthy sufferer seemed to become aware of the tension surrounding her silence and stretched out her hand. "I'm Celia," she said solemnly. "Nice to meet you, Misoka." I had to wait until our last meeting before she would tear a corner off the newspaper I was holding and write me her name and its romanized spelling. This was almost 70 days after I saw her for the first time.
The same morning that I first saw Celia. It was as I watched Celia stride into the woods that my eyes were drawn to the other woman in the snowy expanse that day. She was sitting in an electric wheelchair by the side of Beaver Lake, looking into the sun over its frozen surface. Strictly speaking, I had not really seen her. I had just seen someone in a wheelchair, a figure too distant even to tell if it was a man or a woman. It was only on the day I missed Celia that I approached the wheelchair. The course of events that day unfolded as though part of God's intricate plan. A plan that throughout the winter I would find myself constantly caught up in. Celia was not at her usual spot in the pavilion, nor was she skating on the rink. So, I ran toward the woods to see if her skis were still in the hollow of the elm tree. That was when I approached the wheelchair, which was always at the same spot. I slowed my pace as I came up behind it, and I took note of the person who seemed so out of place in this unforgiving environment. I was surprised to discover that it was a woman and a young East Asian woman at that. In my 15 years as an immigrant, especially the years during which I ran the convenience store and found myself interacting with a wide array of customers, I had developed a peculiar ability to distinguish between different ethnicities and cultures based on people's appearance and body language. Maybe this is one of the advantages of being an immigrant. I am able without much effort to tell the difference between West Europeans and East Europeans or between people whose first language is French and people whose first language is English. Distinguishing Korean, Japanese, and Chinese people I find even easier, though that might not have anything to do with my being an immigrant. A brief glance at the side of this woman's face was enough for me to know she was definitely not Korean, but I could not yet be sure if she was Chinese or Japanese. There was something about her that was different from Chinese and something that was different from Japanese. She piqued my curiosity and as I was coming back from the elm tree, I could not resist trying to get a better look at her. That's when I saw what it was that preoccupied her as she sat by Beaver Lake. She was writing in a notebook. A young East Asian woman in an electric wheelchair was writing in the snowy expanse of Mount Royal. I found myself wondering what might possess someone to do such a thing. What quiet, resolute zeal. It was hard to believe. This truly is one of the more unusual images of a writer that one can imagine. The more I thought about it, the more curious I became. I wanted to know what had brought her here in such a severe winter where she seemed so out of place. I wanted to know what had inspired her to choose this place to write and what it was she was writing. I wanted to know who she was. As I was leaving the pavilion, I asked one of the members of staff about her. He told me that she had started coming at the start of winter, and she always arrived at the same time each day. As long as it wasn't too cold or the wind wasn't too strong, she was sure to be there, sitting in her wheelchair at the same spot by the side of Beaver Lake. She began her day by straightening her back and exercising her arms and upper body before settling down in her chair and starting to write. On colder days or days where the wind was too strong, she would move to a spot near the pavilion that provided shelter from the wind to do her exercises before entering the pavilion to write. The member of staff also told me that the same wheelchair taxi dropped her off every day at the car park near the pavilion. My curiosity about the woman in the wheelchair made up for the disappointment I felt about having missed Celia. Throughout that unusual day and all the way until I went to bed that evening, I was consumed with the thoughts of the two mysterious women I had encountered on Mount Royal. I knew nothing about either of them, and I hadn't even seen the face of the woman in the wheelchair properly, but I had already perceived an important difference between them. Celia was clearly very healthy, but also appeared to be suffering from something, while the woman in the wheelchair obviously had some sort of affliction, but had a certain radiance about her. To borrow a fashionable term, Celia seemed to exude a negative energy and the woman in the wheelchair a positive energy.
The next day, the day I finally spoke with Celia, only confirmed my initial impression. Why did Celia say the word China with such disdain and dread? And why wouldn't she tell me whether she had been there? It only made me see even more clearly the peculiar negativity inside her. As I was getting ready to head home, I saw that the Asian woman was already sitting by the car park waiting. Her head was lowered as she studied what she had presumably just written in her notebook. So, I decided to pass in front of her to see if I could get a clearer view of her face. Sure enough, she looked up as I got nearer, but for some reason, I didn't have the courage to look at her directly. I even quickened my pace so as to pass her more quickly, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw the robust beauty that emanated from her dark skin and prominent cheekbones. It occurred to me that she hadn't always needed a wheelchair, that she must have been an athlete at one time, or at least someone who loved being outdoors. I began to hope for a bitterly cold day with strong winds. When the weather forced her to come into the pavilion to write, the opportunity to get closer to her would arise. I did not have to wait long. The winter's second snowstorm brought with it dawn temperatures of -16° C, which combined with the strong winds would amount to an apparent temperature of -22° C. I experienced for myself just how terrible the weather was. On the way up the mountain, I was almost blown over twice, but the warm anticipation I felt made up for the ice cold temperatures. I was sure that the East Asian woman was already sitting in the pavilion and that this was my chance to get closer to her, a chance I would not miss. I had so many questions to ask. When I got to the pavilion, I would immediately approach her and ask her if she was Chinese or Japanese. Ask her what she was writing. Ask her why she had chosen that place beside Beaver Lake to write. Ask her how she had found herself. the defining feature of a divinely inspired work of art. The thought of Celia interrupted my revery. Since the day we shook hands, we had met on the skating rink once and in the pavilion three times, but her inexplicable reaction to my saying I was from China had diminished my interest in her. I did not understand what her reaction could mean or what her disdain was directed toward. The day we found ourselves skating at the same time, she approached me and asked me a strange question. Which cities in China had I lived in? It was clear from her tense expression and nervous tone of voice that this question and my response were very important to her. I told her I was born in a small town near Chongqing, had moved to Beijing for university, and had spent the rest of my time before immigrating to Montreal, living in Guango. To my surprise, she was visibly relieved by my answer. I had no idea how to explain her reaction. She wouldn't tell me if she had even been to China, but was intent on finding out which Chinese cities bore the traces of my presence. So, on my walk up the mountain, as I contemplated my opportunity to get closer to the mysterious woman in the wheelchair, I found myself thinking about Celia. Ever since I had first noticed her, I had spent my morning walk imagining what might happen if we met on the rink or in the pavilion. This time, I felt completely different. I hoped she would not be in the pavilion or on the ice or even on Mount Royal. Her presence could only hamper my chances of getting closer to the woman in the wheelchair and might even rob me of the courage I needed to start up a conversation with her. My feet began to feel heavy, and I contemplated the contradiction between the mysterious East Asian woman and the healthy sufferer, a contradiction I would have to navigate carefully.
I saw the wheelchair the moment I walked into the pavilion in a corner next to the main entrance. The woman must have chosen this spot specifically, as it was the place where it was easiest to remain unnoticed. She was absorbed in her writing and did not see me come in, which helped to relieve some of the tension I was feeling. I did not want her to notice me right away because I wanted to find out first if Celia was there. Looking around, I saw that she was not in the pavilion. And turning toward the window, I saw the skating rink was empty. Was this out of luck or design? Throughout winter, I would meet many situations that would make me reflect on this question. I did not know and had no way of knowing the answer. But at that moment, the situation gave me courage. I walked up to my usual locker, put down my two pairs of skates, and then looking out the window again, I took a deep breath, perhaps the biggest I had ever taken, and walked toward the wheelchair. I was overcome with nerves, as if I were approaching a judge's bench to be sentenced. When I reached the mysterious East Asian woman, I said hello and took a seat on the locker next to her so we could be at the same height. There was an anxious look in her eyes as she turned to me and swiftly closed the notebook in her lap. I was anxious, too, and felt the same red I saw in her cheeks rising in my own. I pointed to the notebook and told her I had seen her with it everyday and was curious to know what she was writing. She shook her head and told me in French that she couldn't speak English, which was surprising. Almost all East Asians I had come across in Montreal were more comfortable with English than French. This was the first time I had met one who could only speak French. Furthermore, she spoke a very proper sounding French, not the heavily accented Kebeekqua French that most local people spoke. She must not have grown up in Quebec, which only complicated my confusion about her identity. Alongside the question of whether she was Japanese or Chinese, I was now faced with the new riddle of where she had learned her French. I quickly switched to my stuttering Sichuan accented French and tried to repeat my question. "My French is no good," I added, smiling. She passed no comment on my French and simply answered my question or to be precise failed to answer it because she said she did not know what she was writing. "Is it fiction or non-fiction?" I asked. She looked at me anxiously again and paused for a while before saying quietly. Fiction naturally. I wondered why it had taken her so long to answer such a straightforward question. It looks like you've written a fair bit already, I said, looking at the notebook. You've almost finished that book. This seemed to relax her a little. She moved her fingers over the cover of the notebook and said with a certain pride, "This is notebook number five." "Number five," I said. I pointed at the book. "Are they all that thick?" "Yes," she said. But this is the only one that has my writings on Mount Royal. I was surprised to hear she had written so much. There must be enough for a whole book already. Then when will it be published? I don't write to publish, she replied. Then what do you write for again? She paused for a moment before turning to look out of the window. To see, she said. to see someone who someone I can only see in this way. I've never heard of someone writing for that reason before, I said. I've never seen someone writing in the icy wilderness before either. She continued to stroke the notebook in her lap. How are you able to sit outside for so long? Don't you find it cold? I asked. No. Why is that? I don't know, she said, still looking out the window. Then, as if pleasantly surprised, she turned back and smiled slightly before saying, "Perhaps because what I'm writing is even colder." It was a curious answer, and a series of new questions began to bubble up in my mind. Could she speak any other language? Why was she in a wheelchair? Was her fiction a full novel? And was this her first? What kind of novel was it? However, it was becoming clear that she did not want to talk for much longer. She opened her notebook as if to indicate to me that she wanted to get back to her writing. I reluctantly got to my feet and made to leave. But my curiosity got the better of me. I like your French accent, I said. Thank you. Do you write in French, too? I asked. Of course, she said. It's my mother tongue. Your mother tongue? I said, surprised. I assumed you were Chinese or Japanese. This question about her identity seemed to make her anxious again. I'm sorry, she said coldly as she turned away to look out the window again. I value my privacy. I was immediately overcome with guilt and embarrassment, and I felt the red rising in my cheeks again. I cursed myself for not being able to hold my curiosity in check, for asking too many questions. At the same time, a part of me felt that I didn't deserve to be embarrassed for what was simply a well-meaning curiosity. Sorry, I responded in a similarly cold tone and walked away. I had not expected our conversation to turn as inhospitable as the weather outside. I strode back to my locker and began changing into my skates with my back to the pavilion. I did not want to look at the woman I just talked with. I was unable to look at her. I felt both guilty for inadvertently touching on something she did not want to talk about and embarrassed by the way she had so unreservedly refused to answer my question. But lurking behind these two emotions was another fear. I was afraid that I had offended her so much that she would leave the pavilion, leave Mount Royal, leave my life, and maybe even my thoughts. My curiosity had brought us together, and I did not want my stupidity to make her disappear. Once my skates were on, I headed to the door that opened onto the ice rink. I was desperate to know if the woman was still there, but I didn't have the nerve to turn around and check. But as I was opening the door, I caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass. She hadn't left. She was still there writing. I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. Although a weight had been lifted, it was not enough for me to focus my attention on the rink. I was numb to the sensation of the gliding blades and barely heard the music coming from the speakers. All I thought about was our conversation. Perhaps because what I'm writing is even colder. Such a peculiar yet candid response. But what story could be colder than Mount Royal in the winter? I had no idea. If she had not mentioned her mother tongue, I would never have encroached on her privacy. But what kind of person considers whether they are Japanese or Chinese private? I had no idea. In all my years as an immigrant in Canada, I had asked many people who looked East Asian whether they were Chinese. I had encountered many self-assured answers along the lines of, "No, I'm from Hong Kong," or, "No, I'm Taiwanese." In general, responses like these caused me to quickly lose interest in the person I was speaking to. But the mysterious East Asian woman's peculiar reaction had only made me even more curious about her. It dawned on me that there was something similar about her reaction in Celia's when I brought up China, as if they both had a strange relationship with the country in which I was born. These two women had very different energies, but they both reacted peculiarly to my mention of my native country. How could a Chinese man like me, who had been away from China for so long, not be curious? It was quite some time before I realized that Beethoven's violin concerto in D was playing again and that it had already entered the third and my favorite movement. The buoyant melodies drew me away from my speculations and back to the here and now of the ice rink. I became acutely aware of the wind, cold and sunlight on my skin, as well as the way the ice skittered and slid beneath the blades of my skates. Like my first morning skating, I let myself be carried by the music and I lifted my arms into the air. Don't be scared off by a single refusal, I told myself as I began to skate faster. Be like Beethoven. have the courage to grab fate by the throat. The fear that had descended upon me in the pavilion started to crumble under the spirit of the moment, as did my embarrassment and guilt. I began to imagine our next conversation. I'd learned my lesson. I would be sure to stay clear of what she considered private. Don't get caught up in the details, I said to myself. Someone able to inspire such curiosity was worth getting closer to irrespective of whether she was Japanese or Chinese. We were bound to have shared interests to talk about. Our previous conversation would act as a foundation for the next. I went back into the pavilion in good spirits. The mysterious East Asian woman had left, but this wasn't surprising. I wanted to leave, too. I wanted to go home as soon as possible. On my last lap of the rink, I had been suddenly gripped by a desire to know the reason she used a wheelchair. I wanted to go home and look online for information about paraplegia, which I assumed she had. When my wife was ill, I used to look up information on the internet about pancreatic cancer all the time. Aside from taking up a lot of time, it also distracted me from the pain of the situation and reminded me that many families were caught up in similar struggles. Struggles that were doomed to fail. The wind was getting stronger and stronger, and I walked as fast as I could down the mountain. The snowstorm was approaching, and snowflakes had begun to circle around me. Outside the flower shop, I saw the florist give a bouquet of flowers to a middle-aged couple who were standing by a hearse. And I slowed down slightly as I heard the florist say in French, "Such an adorable child." I couldn't help turning my head to look back at the couple. Had they lost a child? Feeling a pain of sadness in my chest, I clutched my daughter's skates as if I were about to experience the same fate. I quickened my pace, almost to a jog, until I arrived at my apartment. Without even taking off my jacket, I went straight to the desk and turned on the computer. I was fully aware of the high quantity and often poor quality of information on the internet. I knew I would have to pour through a great deal of trit sentimentalism and obscure academia before finding what I was looking for. First, I checked Chinese websites, then English, before finally searching in French. Seeing as French was the East Asian woman's mother tongue, it felt right to look at French sources. They would help me the next time I had the chance to speak with her. Through my research, I learned there are four main causes of paraplegia. External trauma, spinal tuberculosis, spinal tumors, usually blood vessel growths or large cell tumors, or metastatic cancers. I also found that paraplegia can only be cured, if at all, by a long period of exercise and physiotherapy. There was no quick medical cure such as surgery or drugs currently available. Having concluded my research, I was not sure if it had done anything to satisfy my curiosity. This triilingual research had taken the whole day, and by the time I was finished, I didn't even have the energy to take a shower before collapsing into my bed. Yet again, I was unable to sleep. My head ached as I cycled through the possible causes for the mysterious East Asian woman's need for a wheelchair. I hoped it was not the result of cancer or a spinal tumor, and I did not want it to have anything to do with spinal tuberculosis. The only cause I felt I could bear was external trauma, which led me to think about the possible scenarios: a car crash, domestic violence, a sporting injury. By the end of all this, my brain felt completely fried, left with a dull throbbing. I laughed to myself. I hadn't even wrapped my head around paraplegia, and I had nearly driven myself into a stupor. I don't know when I got to sleep in the end, but I know I didn't sleep well. It was a restless night, plagued by an uninterrupted stream of dreams. In one of them, I was an old man hunched over a cane. As I shuffled unsteadily through the snow by Beaver Lake, I was surprised to see that I had lived to such an old age, and even more surprised when I saw the mysterious East Asian woman sitting in the same place in her wheelchair after all these years. I walked over to her, but although she had obviously noticed me, she did not lift her head from her notebook. "What made you want to approach me?" she asked. "I didn't expect you to be here today," I replied. "Not now. I mean, back then," she said. I suddenly began coughing uncontrollably, and it took some time before I regained my composure and pointed to the pen in her hand. Because of that, I said. She lifted her hand and the pen into the air. No one approaches a woman because of a pen, she said. I've never seen someone write in the cold before, I replied. She lifted her head and stared at me. And I was astonished to see her face was just as young as it had been before. Especially someone in a wheelchair, especially a woman in the wheelchair. Especially an East Asian woman in a wheelchair, I continued, my voice cracking with emotion. I looked away. Why was she exactly the same? Why had I changed so much? Time had affected us in completely different ways. I was ashamed. I was distraught. Then there was the dream or nightmare that woke me up in the end. A silver BMW was racing along a road by the sea, and in it were three generations of women. The mother was driving with her daughter in the front passenger seat and the grandmother in the back. Then the mother and grandmother began arguing. I could not hear clearly what language they were using, but it was obvious that the younger woman did not understand because she did not react at all to what they were saying. A sharp curve appeared ahead, a truck hurtling around it, the BMW heading straight for the truck. As I lay there staring at the dark ceiling, I was sorry that I had awoken when I did. If I had dreamt a little longer, I would have found out what happened after the crash. I wanted to know what happened after the crash.
It was already a little late in the morning and I still felt a dull throb on the top right side of my skull. The thought of this and also the realization that the previous day's snowstorm would have made the road up the mountain difficult to walk on made me think that perhaps it was better to skip that day's ice skating. But I also knew that these were really just excuses to avoid seeing the mysterious East Asian woman again. Where were the high spirits that had accompanied me down the mountain the day before? What had happened to the courage Beethoven had given me? Where had my excitement for our next meeting gone? I spent the morning sneering at my own cowardice. I did not have the strength to battle my rising sense of self-contempt, which had reached such a level by the time I was making lunch that I turned off the stove, picked up the two pairs of skates, and walked out the door. Sure enough, the road up the mountain was not as perilous as I had imagined, and my headache had cleared. But Mount Royal at noon did not fill me with the same excitement as Mount Royal early in the day. It had lost all its purity and mystery. There were lots of people in the pavilion and on the rink, and not one of them aroused my curiosity. After a short 10-minute skate, I walked back into the pavilion, changed into my shoes, and went home. As I finished my lunch, I thought back to the nightmare that had woken me that morning. I had no idea where such a strange dream had come from. Did it have anything to do with the East Asian woman? Of course, I had been hoping that her need for a wheelchair was a result of an accident and not the symptom of a more serious disease. I went back to the computer and started looking for more information. I read five inspirational articles in a row. One about the American President Franklin D. Roosevelt was the most encouraging and also the most enlightening. I suspected that the mysterious East Asian woman was most likely very familiar with the accomplishments of famous wheelchair users. I wondered if her strong will was in any way influenced by these people. The inspirational articles improved my mood for the rest of the day as well as my sleep later that night. And the next day, as I walked up the mountain, I felt at ease with the world. I was no longer perturbed about meeting the East Asian woman again. and no longer even worried about meeting her and Celia at the same time in the pavilion. When I reached the top, however, the pavilion was empty. There was not a soul to be seen, either on the ice rink or by Beaver Lake. I went to my locker, sat facing the window, and changed into my skates. As I was tying my laces, I started to make out a strange sound gradually getting louder. It was the sound of an electric wheelchair and it continued to come closer until it was right behind me. You're not upset by what I said the other day, are you? I turned around and looked at the woman. I did not know how to respond. I have nothing against you being curious, she said. With that, she dispelled all of the shame I had been feeling on and off for the past few days. A comforting warmth rose up inside me. Curiosity is a pure thing, she said, just like Mount Royal in winter. I looked at her full of gratitude, but still didn't know what to say. You are quite unusual for a Chinese person. This surprised me. How did you know I was Chinese? She laughed. How could I not? I didn't dare probe further into what she meant by that. She must have perceived my confusion, but she seemed to have no interest in clarifying the situation and instead changed the subject. "I have a lot of questions I want to ask you at some point," she said. "Private questions?" I asked. She laughed knowingly, and then turned her wheelchair and began to roll away. But then she stopped, turned her head, and looked at me with a serious expression. Have you ever been to the old summer palace? My stomach lurched. Where had this question come from? This question, which by all rights I could say, had encroached upon my privacy. I hesitated, but I did not want this conversation to end in the same manner as the previous one. How could I not? I replied, imitating her tone. She didn't ask any more questions, but continued on her way out of the pavilion along the path and to her usual spot by the lake.
I had to wait until our last meeting before she would tear a corner off the newspaper I was holding and write me her name in kanji and its romanized spelling, Misoka. This was almost 70 days after I saw her for the first time. Then she pointed to the two kanji characters and asked me how they were pronounced in my mother tongue. Miwa, I said in precise Mandarin. She repeated what I said perfectly and then pointed to the first character. That's the same me as the one in Mi Yun Reservoir in Beijing. Those were the last words I heard from her that winter in Montreal. The last words I would hear from her ever again. I I just like that they entered my life. Celia and Misoka. Two mysterious women with completely different energies appearing before me like some irresolvable contradiction. And yet they both slotted so well into the pure winter of Mount Royal. They had made the mountain their own, or perhaps our own. But what intrigued me most about them was the peculiar relationship they both seemed to have with China. It truly was the most unusual winter of my time in Montreal.
In the years that have passed since, I have asked myself the same question many times. Was it a matter of luck or design? Two disasters had befallen me in the six months before that most unusual of winters. The first my wife's passing and the second my daughter's leaving. Together they had brought me to the brink of collapse. By autumn, I had been overcome with a sense of terrible loneliness. Inside, I felt as gray as everything around me looked. I was numb to the vivid color of the season. I felt like an inanimate pebble tossed in the ocean of time, dragged back and forth in its tides. The world no longer wanted anything of me, and I no longer wanted anything from the world. By winter, this loneliness had morphed into a dull, throbbing pain inside me. A pain that hounded me through my sleepless nights and torpid days. It tired me, robbed me of hope, and transformed my relationship to time, particularly the future. I no longer looked forward to future events. Nor did I feel anxious about what might occur. I just wanted to leave here, maybe even this world. The future no longer meant anything to me. My existence no longer meant anything to me. Then Celia and Misoka entered my life.
When this most unusual of winters arrived, I had already lived in Montreal for 15 years. But live does not seem the right word. At no point in that decade and a half had the life I've lived been my own. Like many Chinese parents, my wife and I had immigrated to Canada with a view to providing our daughter with a better social and natural environment to grow up in. It was the problem of education in China that made my wife first start really considering immigrating. During spring festival one year in the early 1990s, she came home late from meeting with some former classmates and I saw that something was on her mind. From the moment she came in, her every moment appeared guarded, uncertain, and her eyes were glazed over as though fixed on something not in the room. When she came to bed, she lay flat on her back with her hands clasped on her chest. I tried to move closer and place my face close to hers, but she jerked her face away. I tried to put my hand down the front of her pants, but she grabbed my hand and brusquely tossed it back. "I want it," I said softly in her ear. "I don't want anything right now," she replied and then paused for a moment before saying, "All I want is to immigrate." It was the first time my wife had ever brought up such an idea, and I sat up with a start, staring at her. "Where did that come from?" I asked. She lay there with her eyes still closed. After a period of silence, I repeated the question because schooling in China is beyond repair, she said. She didn't open her eyes. There was evidently some strange fury inside her. I had grown up in a family of teachers. From a young age, I had amassed a great deal of experience of education in China and along the way a considerable number of critical opinions. I had a lot of ideas about how to reform the education system, even some quite radical ideas. And I had written many articles about education and teaching. I understood and shared the concern my wife and many other parents had about schooling in China, but I did not think the situation was as dire as my wife was saying. Her timing wasn't great either. There was my wife talking about moving far away while what I wanted was to be close to her right there in our bedroom. So, from the very beginning, we were at odds. In my wife's eyes, my refusal that night was a sign of my being irresponsible and it became an important event in our relationship. Even though my stance with regard to immigration was to undergo a dramatic transformation and even though once we had immigrated, I never said a word against our decision while my wife would complain all the time about her new life. I was to be forever tarred with the irresponsible brush. When my daughter stopped skating, it was because I was irresponsible. When she didn't continue with her violin lessons, it was because I was irresponsible. When she applied for university and ignored our advice, choosing the major she wanted to study instead. It was because I was irresponsible. It was not simply that I would prefer not to immigrate. I was terrified of the idea and for two main reasons. The first was that my major in university had been journalism and in China it was understood that being a journalist meant being a mouthpiece of the party. My position would be compromised if I became an international citizen. When I brought this up with my wife, she simply said I was being an irresponsible father. At one point, she even said a good father would
wash dishes if that was what was best for his daughter. But most of the time she would say, "I never wanted you to work." Or, "I never expected you to be the bread winner in this family." She really meant it.
She was an ambitious and intelligent person, and she would only be willing to take the risk of moving to another country if she were sure she would be able to get a job when we got there. The second reason for my being terrified of immigration was the fact that my English was so poor, but my wife did not think this was a problem. She would be the primary applicant when we applied, so my English level would not be a factor in whether we were accepted or not. Besides, she added, you could do a lot worse than starting to learn.
Now, after submitting our application, my wife made me sign up for an English language course. I've never thought much of evening classes, but the English language course came with an unexpected benefit thanks to my reading teacher. He was a skinny old man with a stony expression who spoke very slowly, but he was passionate about reading. He told us that if we wanted to truly master a language, we had to understand the culture behind it. And the best way to understand the culture was to read its literature. As someone who had always felt strongly about literature and especially its connection to language, I found his approach suited me perfectly. He recommended the book Animal Farm and told us to try our best to read one page a day. That way, we would finish it by the end of the 3 and 1/2 month course, during which time our language ability would have advanced by leaps and bounds. He re-emphasized the importance of understanding a place's culture by telling us that a person living in China who didn't know Luun could only be the object of ridicule and contempt. Similarly, wherever we were going, if we did not know that country's lun, we would be unable to win the locals respect.
before taking his class. I had never thought of reading literature in English, let alone being able to finish a whole novel. But sure enough, by the end, Animal Farm had become the first book I had read entirely in English. I was not sure if I had completely understood it, but it left a huge impression on me, more so than any Chinese novel or novel translated into Chinese had done. Being able to read literature in English was an unexpected benefit of that class. Not only did it help to lessen my fears about immigrating, but it was to become a useful tool for dealing with loneliness as an immigrant.
We got the news that our application was accepted when my daughter was 7 years old. We chose Montreal because a distant relative of my wife's had already been living there for some years. In many ways, it was a silly reason for choosing where to live because my wife had only met this relative, her uncle Lynn, once in her life. And it was more than 20 years before when she was still in middle school. It was only when she decided we would live in Montreal that I even knew he existed. Everyone we spoke to had recommended we move to Vancouver or Toronto because they were completely English-speaking cities with large Chinese populations where we would not feel so isolated. But my wife ignored this advice and chose Montreal.
She must have begun to regret her decision the moment we arrived because the first thing Uncle Lynn said when he picked us up from the airport brought a chill colder than Canada's infamous weather. "You were getting by fine in China. Why on earth did you come here?" He said to us in the tone of a teacher chastising a disobedient child. My wife's face went red. She had not expected to receive such an inhospitable welcome the moment we arrived at her new home. When she replied, she seemed to have lost all of her previous conviction. "For our child," she said. "But this softly spoken, almost automatic reply only provoked a contemptuous laugh from the man." "It's your child I'm worried about," he said. "The education here is a joke. When they study English, they don't learn grammar. And when history class isn't about Quebec, it's about Canada." history. Compared to China's 5,000 years, it's not even worthy of the name. I glanced at my wife, who had an awkward expression on her face. "And as for mathematics, the students here are at least 3 years behind the kids in China," he went on. "You're going to regret ever coming here."
We stayed with Uncle Lynn for the following week. During the day, he insisted on accompanying us as we registered with various authorities and acquainted ourselves with our new environment. Then in the evening, he insisted that we sit with him in front of the television as he watched Chinese dating shows. We said we were happy to do these mundane tasks on our own. In fact, we would prefer it. We said we never really watched television, even in China, and didn't really like these programs. and we said that we had serious jet lag and needed more time to rest. However, despite all this, Uncle Lynn seemed oblivious to what we were trying to tell him. He continued to insist on following us everywhere in the daytime and pushing us to watch the Chinese TV show in the evening. On top of that, he was always complaining about Montreal's weather, its food, its healthcare, its transport system, even its racial diversity. He said that everywhere you went, there were Arabs and blacks, and it made him feel unsafe. We spent our first week in the city on the receiving end of a torrent of complaints, which made us, a family that was already a little apprehensive about what was in store for us, even more apprehensive. I suspected that my wife was indeed beginning to regret her decision. Not her decision to immigrate, but her decision to come to Montreal and specifically to wherever this relative was. It didn't take long for her to abandon her original plan of finding an apartment near where he lived, and instead we found a place on the other side of the city, about as far away from Uncle Lynn as we could get. After that, she politely declined whenever he suggested meeting up, and we never once invited him to our home for dinner. We only met once or twice a year for the next 5 years, and after that, we pretty much stopped seeing each other altogether. When my wife passed away, I didn't even tell him.
My wife had started looking for work the moment our immigration application had been accepted. And before we had even landed in Montreal, she had submitted over 20 job applications. After we moved into our own apartment, she devoted herself even more fully for hunting for a job. She had always been a high achiever, but she also had a tendency to worry about things. Arriving in a strange new place made her anxious, and Uncle Lynn's endless complaining had done little to relieve her tension. It upset me to see her working so hard at all hours of the day, looking up jobs and sending out applications, and it was difficult to stand by as she went through the emotional ups and downs of checking responses from prospective employers. One day, I finally told her that she should not get so worked up and that she should take some time off. But rather than gratitude, all I got from her was the cold declaration that unlike me, she was unable to be so irresponsible. That was the last time I had the courage to bring it up.
My wife also applied for a government grant to help us learn French. We did not feel strongly about learning the language, but we thought the money might be useful while we tried to get on our feet. However, the meer grant did not make our lives any easier because it meant we had to become full-time students. Not only were there classes every day, but there was a lot to learn and a huge amount of homework. On top of that, we had another full-time student to look after at home, and my wife was still frantically looking for a job. We were run off our feet and utterly exhausted. A saving grace was our daughter who was taking to her new environment like a duck to water. She came back from school each day positively buoyant and was soon proficient in French. Her positive attitude was a great comfort to us.
Before the first semester of French classes was over, my wife found a job as a lab technician in a children's hospital. She had a PhD in biology and I knew only too well what she thought of working as a lab technician. Not long after we got married, she had received a phone call from her PhD supervisor who told her that one of her classmates had been offered a job as a lab technician in a famous laboratory in the United States. It was the classmate my wife thought most highly of when they were studying for their PhDs together. And if her supervisor was calling up to tell her that this classmate had received a Nobel Prize, my wife would not have been surprised. When she heard the news, the incredul that initially appeared on her face was quickly replaced by a look of disdain. "I can't believe she'd accept," she replied. "What a waste." I'm sure my wife could not have forgotten the disappointment she had felt in her classmate that day. But she was ecstatic when she heard she'd gotten the laboratory job in Montreal. I don't think I had ever seen her so happy. She took us to a restaurant in Chinatown, the first restaurant we had been to in Canada, and throughout the meal, she lavished both my daughter and me with her attention and care. We must have looked like a very close, loving family, but I did not feel the warmth of the occasion. On the contrary, I felt an inexplicable and powerful coldness. I smiled and laughed and said positive things, complimenting my wife more than once on the dishes she had chosen, happily remarking more than once on how much my daughter was eating. But inside, I felt a peculiar cold, colder than the coldest of Montreal winters.
Once I finished the five semester French language course, I found that my life again was to change completely. I spent most of my time at home where my main responsibility was looking after my wife and my daughter. During the day when I was in the apartment on my own, I would sometimes feel lonely. So, I decided to reread Animal Farm. From the very beginning, I discovered there was much more to the text than I had gotten from it the first time. To the extent that I almost felt as if I were reading a different book. I knew it wasn't simply a question of my language capability having improved or my surroundings having changed. It was a testament to the mysterious power of rereading. I remembered the independent bookshop down the road from our apartment where there was a quote from a French author on the wall. "One understands a man not by the books he reads, but the books he rereads." Rereading allows us not only to better know a text, but to better know others and ourselves.
The period during which my wife and daughter were at work and school quickly became the most carefree part of my day. It was the only time when I could control my own schedule and be free from the influence of other people's moods. The moment my daughter came off the school bus, my life was no longer my own. My wife had devised a strict afterchool timetable for our daughter. Not only dictating exactly what she should be doing, but also exactly what I should be doing. However, making sure my daughter completed all the tasks on my wife's meticulously drawn flowchart was not too demanding, and I did not resent it in the slightest. In fact, I looked forward to my daughter coming back every day. It was heartwarming to see how happy she was and how she was adapting and growing in her new environment.
With my wife, on the other hand, it was a different story. Every day when she came back from the laboratory, she was exhausted, which of course I understood was sometimes a necessary part of starting a new job. But on top of that, she was often in a terrible mood. I began to dread the moment she stepped in the front door. I did not know if it was because she was tired of working in a job that was below her abilities or whether she was having problems with her colleagues, but I was too afraid to ask, and she was too proud. Even if I had asked, she would not have told me the truth.
One day, she came home looking particularly glum, and I told her to have something to eat before checking our daughter's homework. She said she wasn't hungry and that she didn't want to eat. I put a bowl of gourd and pork rib soup in front of her. Anyway, she took a couple of prefuncter sips before going to my daughter's room to take a cursory look at her homework and half-heartedly read her a bedtime story in English. After that, she walked into our bedroom and slammed the door behind her. When I saw what a bad mood she was in, I nervously cleaned up the kitchen. Walking quietly to our bedroom, I saw from the crack under the door that she hadn't turned on the light. This only made me more nervous. I softly opened the door to see in the moonlight my wife already lying in bed and facing away from me. I thought she might be asleep, so I took great care to make as little noise as possible as I got ready for bed. After having a quick wash and rumaging around for my underwear in the dark, I quietly lay down on the bed. To my surprise, my wife's crisp voice cut through the night. "What do you intend to do?" "I didn't understand. What do you mean?" "You can't waste your time every day at home like this," she said. "Didn't you say I want you to get a job?" "How am I expected to find a job?" I asked. "Didn't you say you never expected me to work?" "Naturally, you can't be a journalist anymore," she said. "But you could study something else. try a new career." "What could I study at my age?" "You know, a colleague of mine, her husband had a PhD in literature back in China, specializing in pre-Cheen writing. Now he's a computer engineer." I knew the colleague she was talking about. My wife didn't get on well with her at all. They'd gotten into an argument on my wife's second day at the lab. "Didn't you say she was a Philistine?" "But her husband is an admirable man, a responsible man." I felt myself getting annoyed, but I decided not to respond. I didn't like where this conversation was going. I felt my wife roll over and look at me. "Why not go and take a course in computers?" she said. "You're so smart. You'd get the hang of it in no time." "You know, I have no interest in computers," I said. "So, what are you interested in?" "I don't know," I said. "I don't know." "That's your problem," she replied. "You're not interested in anything." I didn't respond. I did not want to argue with her. My wife was silent for some time, and I thought the conversation was over, but then she said, "In any case, you can't keep sitting around at home reading that book about animals all day."
I wasn't surprised she would say something like that. She had always been against my reading fiction, and whenever she saw me reading a novel, she would be sure to tell me to stop wasting my time with useless books. I had gotten used to her attitude about literature and was not at all surprised that this doctor of biology did not know that Animal Farm was not actually about animals. However, it did surprise me that she suddenly wanted me to find a job. I did not know what had spurred this on. But I suspected it had something to do with her recent mood. I rolled over and looked at the woman who seemed intent on demeaning me that evening and asked, "Why do you want me to find a job all of a sudden?" She paused for a moment before saying, "Because I don't want to work anymore."
This was the first time I had heard my hardworking, high achieving wife say such a thing, and the word struck me like a bolt of lightning. The image of us in the Chinese restaurant the day she got the job flashed in my mind. I remembered the peculiar cold I had felt that day, and I felt it take hold of my body once again as I lay in bed beside her. It took some time for me to summon up the courage to ask why. My wife's response came immediately and decisively. "I never should have settled for that job." A shudder shot through me. I didn't know what I should do to comfort her or even to comfort myself. Carefully, I placed my right hand on her hip and felt her body tremble slightly under my touch. Then she did something she had never done before. She lifted her left hand from beneath the covers and placed her index finger on my chin. There was a warmth to that action that I had never felt from her before and tears began to well up in my eyes. I held her hand and lifted it to my mouth.
That's when my wife made her peculiar proposal. Even today, I cannot quite believe that it was her who came up with the idea. She had never thought very highly of my brother, who owned two listed companies, and she had always looked down on struggling store owners whose work required more physical strength than intellectual prowess. However, that night in bed, she suggested I borrow money from my brother so we could open a convenience store. It was a long time before I discovered that it was her worsening relations with her colleagues and boss that had caused my wife to lose confidence in her ability to work for somebody else. To this day, I don't know the details. All she said was that her boss was racist and her colleagues jealous, but she did not tell me how that racism and jealousy was manifested.
My wife quit the job for which she ought never to have settled a week after we bought the store. And the life we were to live without much variation for the following 13 years began. Were it not for the results of her medical checkup that fateful day, I'm sure we would still be living it now. The store opened every day at 7 in the morning and closed at 11 at night. And for the first 5 years, we were in business 365 days a year. After that, it became 363 days a year as we closed for Christmas and New Year's Day. I was in charge of stock and it was primarily my wife who dealt with customers. Though during busy periods, we had a couple of friends who could lend a hand. With the opening of the store, our lives entered a stable and monotonous cycle. Tomorrow would be just like today, just as today was no different from yesterday. We were rushed off our feet every day doing exactly the same things. I'm sure that life is tiring and repetitive no matter where you live. Maybe that's just what life is about. But if we were still in China where I was the editor of an influential newspaper and she was working as part of a famous research group, it would have been tiring and repetitive in a different way. At least we would have been able to sit down in the evenings and reflect on just how boring everything was. In Montreal, we didn't even have time for that. Every April when we had to submit our tax returns, we noticed with an unpleasant start just how fast time was passing us by.
This was my life as an immigrant. If I had shared my experience with my classmate's wife on the phone, no matter whether she thought Canada was a bonfire or glacier, she would no doubt have been stunned. Life is cruel to the immigrant, whether you have money or not. If my classmate and his wife decided to leave China, they would have to face the unavoidable hardships of immigration like solitude, humiliation, and monotony, like repetitiveness, directionlessness, and helplessness. These were problems that could not be solved by money. Difficulties that no frame of mind could counteract. Misoka. The enigma of the paradoxical lives of Celia and Msoka. One a healthy sufferer, the other a combination of innocence and mystery, had peaked in me a curiosity that had long been stifled by the monotony of dayto-day life. I found myself questioning why people live the way they do, which not only reawakened in me a certain anticipation and anxiety for the future, but a sense of fulfillment in the present I had not felt for some time. In fact, it had even transformed the way I understood and made sense of the past. It was as though the rose of time had come into bloom, and for the first time, my life began to resemble a hole, like the lives that are crafted in fine works of literature.
The temperature was dropping as Montreal descended deeper into winter. But the new questions that consumed me prevented me from feeling the cold. I did not know if others would see the contradictory nature of the lives of Celia and Misoka, or if they even saw it themselves, but I had seen it. After many mediocre years of immigrant life, after such a long time, during which nothing seemed to incite my curiosity, why had I suddenly found myself able to see what I had seen? Even today, I do not know the answer to this question. I had seen their contradictions, but beyond that, I had seen the entirety of their lives, the entirety of who they were. I had somehow seen it. And yet, it was not only that. I had also seen myself, a self I had never seen before, revealed through the intersecting paths traced by three insignificant grains of sand one winter upon the slopes of Mount Royal, like the three movements of a sonata. This sonata had formed the most unusual memory of my life, the most unusual memory to be found hidden in the tranquil snowy folds of the mountain. Today, after so many years, each of its notes still sounds in my mind with the chime of revelation.
The memory of that winter often brings me back to the confused period of my adolescence and my relationship with my uncle. I grew up in an ordinary small town. My parents were mathematics teachers in the local middle school, and I spent my childhood years among the dilapidated buildings of the school campus. My uncle, on the other hand, was a poet well known throughout the province, who not only spent much of his time in Chongqing, the huge city I always found so disorienting, but also traveled across the country, visiting its sites and meeting with its people. He was the picture of cultured cosmopolitanism. I stayed with him and my aunt for a period of time every year for 6 years. The first three years they came to collect me by bus. The two years after that by train. The sixth and final time my uncle arrived driving a motorbike with sidec car. He was not accompanied by my aunt. He was with a woman I had never seen before. She was the last woman before Celia and Misuka, about whom I was gripped with an intense curiosity.
When I heard the sound of the motor, I stood up and ran out of the house, hoping, like every year, to charge into the arms of my uncle. But when I reached the front door, I came to a sudden stop. He was with a strange woman wearing a purple dress with white petals printed on it. She was facing away from me and reaching for her luggage from the side car. My pulse began to quicken and my face grew red. I stopped and stood leaning against the doorframe, unwilling to walk any closer. It was the summer of 1974, and our small town did not see many women in purple dresses, let alone purple dresses with white petals printed on them. I was both excited and nervous at the thought that this strange woman was to be a guest at our house. A feeling that only grew stronger when she turned around. She was nothing like any woman I knew or had even seen before. She was elegant, beautiful. I heard my uncle telling me to stop doawling and help with the luggage. So, I began to stumble toward them as if walking into a painting or a dream.
After lunch, my mother offered the woman the bed I shared with my brother so she could rest and made us take our afternoon nap on the dining table. Before long, she had dozed off, but I was unable to sleep. This was partly because of my brother, who was restless and kept knocking his feet against mine. But the main reason I lay there awake was that I could not stop thinking about the fact that this strange woman's sleeping body was so close to mine. I could even hear her breathing, the pure, almost luminous quality of her breath echoing around the room. Soon, this sound was accompanied by the voices of my uncle and mother talking in the next room. I heard my uncle say that she was a talented but unfortunate woman. Her talent was clear to see in the pros piece she had recently published in a Shanghai newspaper. Her misfortune, on the other hand, had begun the moment she was born. Her father was a commander in the nationalist Guingang army, a hero in the war of resistance against the Japanese. He had died in the city of Shu 3 months before she was born in the Hihai battle between the communists and the nationalists. After the communists took power and before the land reforms took place, her mother and two brothers fled to Hong Kong, leaving her to spend the rest of her childhood with a distant relative. This relative's husband was a railway worker who couldn't write his own name. During the day, he was the model of a level-headed and diligent worker, but when he returned home, he transformed into a merciless and violent alcoholic. When he was drunk, the whole household became victims of his cruelty. With the arrival of adulthood, she was able to leave that oppressive household. But the life awaiting her was no more fortunate. She married the son of a factory owner who had never cared for her. Instead, harboring a secret lifelong love for a neighbor from his hometown. Their marriage was plagued by conflict from the start, both verbal and physical. When their son died of typhoid at the age of three, their marriage followed shortly after.
I had never heard a story like it in my life. But despite this, it seemed to me that I must have understood it, because as I listened, I felt very clearly just how unfortunate this woman was. It did not make sense to me how such an elegant woman could be treated so badly, or how a woman who had been treated so badly could continue to be so elegant. I felt as if my mother too had mistreated her because the moment she stepped into our home, my mother had seemed hostile, as though they were bitter opponents in a longunning feud. When my uncle had finished his story, my mother showed no sign of empathy. "Women like that are the most dangerous?" she said coldly. "Women like what?" my uncle asked. "Talented and unfortunate," my mother said.
The woman didn't seem dangerous to me at all. "On the way to Chongqing, I sat in the side car and she sat behind my uncle. She tried to hold down her dress, but from time to time the wind would catch it and the hem would flap against my shoulder. It was the happiest journey of my childhood. Every detail seemed perfect. I did not understand my mother at all. How could this woman be dangerous? What kind of danger did she pose? As I looked at her sitting behind my uncle with her arms around his shoulders and a captivating smile on her face that I had not seen before on any other woman, I felt completely content. She had stopped being an unfortunate woman, I thought, because in the happiness I was feeling, I could feel some of her happiness. In what way could a woman like that be dangerous?"
My respect for writing has a lot to do with that sixth summer I spent with my uncle in Chongqing. During my time there, I was affected by things I had never paid much attention to before. My uncle's house had a constant stream of visitors, writers, editors, and fans of literature traveling from all over the province, and in some cases from all over the country. people of various shapes and sizes, speaking with all manner of accents, who came to discuss literature and recent events. When they talked, the world and the lives unfolding within it seemed enormous, and I felt my mind expanding under the deluge of new ideas. Their discussions filled me with both excitement and shame. I was ashamed to be from such a small town and such an average family. We hardly had any visitors, and the visitors we did have all looked the same, spoke with the same accent, said the same things about the same unchanging everyday topics. When they spoke, the world and its lives seemed tiny and dull.
The main cause for my newfound respect for writing did not, however, lie in the animated discussions that took place in my uncle's library, but in a piece of writing published in a newspaper, a text I could hold in my hand and run my fingers over. My uncle often showed me the pieces he had had published, but for some reason, I had never felt particularly strong about anything he had written. One day, however, he removed a newspaper cutting from between the pages of a collection of Lu Shun's pros he was reading and handed it to me, telling me I should give it a read. It was from a Shanghai newspaper, and the text was the piece of pros written by the talented and unfortunate woman. It was the first time I had read her name, the first time I had seen her writing, and before I had even started reading, a strange, pleasant feeling took hold of me, much like what I had felt when the hem of her skirt lightly flapped against my skin on the road to Chongqing. I felt a certain respect for the name before my eyes, for the characters printed on the page, and a new respect for writing itself. Over the next few days, I read and reread the piece again and again until what I initially didn't understand began to become clearer, then obscure again, then clearer once more. The pleasant feeling staying with me throughout. In fact, it remains with me to this day.
The talented and unfortunate woman was my uncle's most exceptional guest. She visited roughly every other day, and each time she entered the room, I was thrilled. The peculiar sensation that her presence instilled in me only became more intense when I had read her writing. Sometimes, as I looked at her, she seemed incredibly real, the author of the piece that had been published in the Shanghai newspaper, the person standing in front of me. At other times, however, she seemed somehow unreal because I could read her piece over and over, could trace my finger across each line, across her name, but she herself remained an impenetrable mystery. In what way was she dangerous? What danger did she pose?
When she visited, she invariably took a seat in a chair in the corner of the library with a notebook in her hand. She rarely spoke with the other guests. Only when my uncle was there would she occasionally ask him a few questions about writing, to which his responses inevitably appeared to leave a deep impression on her. I will never forget the way she looked at my uncle, the unmistakable esteem in which she held him, and which she clearly felt to her very core. I had never seen another woman look at someone in the way she looked at my uncle and it made me think she was no longer an unhappy woman. I was able to feel her happiness through the happiness of my uncle. How could she be dangerous? What danger could she possibly pose?
That summer, my mother arrived to take me home from Chongqing 2 days earlier than originally planned. I was initially upset at her premature arrival, but quickly realized that something was clearly troubling her. On the long coach journey home, she didn't say a word. In an attempt to cheer her up, I told her that the trip had been the most fun I had had at my uncle's home. My attempt at conversation did not seem to have the desired effect on her mood because she remained silent. So I went on to tell her how I read the piece of pros that had been published by the woman in the Shanghai newspaper. The piece my uncle had said proved how talented she was. I told her I didn't completely understand it, but that I still liked it very much. My mother replied that I had already told her so in my latest letter. It was clear from her tone of voice that she was still not in good spirits. So I went on to tell her That