The Bowing Harlequin
THE
BOWING HARLEQUIN
©
Peter Berger, March 2007
To PGH
with thanks
CONTENTS
BOOK I: THE ENIGMATIC SMILE 1
BOOK II: PEACE AND SETTLEMENT 31
BOOK III: END OF AN ERA 74
BOOK IV: SEARCH AND COINCIDENCE 102
BOOK V: RETURN JOURNEYS 136
EPILOGUE 176
F O R E W O R D
This is the
story of a friendship that sprung up between three people: Tay Fang-Shuo, who
owned an antiques shop in Singapore’s Chinatown, his young daughter, Yuan Ming,
and myself, a European lover of art who was, at that time, employed as a
Lecturer in Law at the University of Singapore.
Tay Fang-Shuo was an oriental
scholar. In the course of our many meetings in his shop, he gave me an insight
into the world of Chinese art. Naturally, Tay’s own interests were catholic,
covering paintings and calligraphy, sculptures, bronzes and ceramics. To humour
me, though, Tay concentrated on my pet subject: the development and the
appreciation of porcelain. Yuan Ming, who ran the shop with him, enjoyed every
session and, in the process, acquired her own insights into a world dominated
by form and colour.
To avoid repeating historical references, I provide a brief introduction
to the history of porcelain. The components of porcelain are a special type of
plastic clay, known as Kaoling
(Kaolin in European languages), and a ‘porcelain stone’, known as Fungtze (Feldspar). The latter is common in both Asia and Europe. Kaolin is
readily available in China, on the banks of both the Yellow River and the Yang
Tze, but is rare anywhere else. In consequence, porcelain made its first
appearance in China, when its potters developed the appropriate kilns and
firing techniques.
Whether or not the highly fired
ceramics of the Han period (206 BC – 219 AD) – the contemporary of the Roman
Empire – constitute porcelain is a semantic rather than scientific issue.
Regrettably, its discussion tends to produce heat rather than light.
I recall a seminar on the subject conducted by a group of Western
scholars. To ensure safety, members of the organising committee (chaired by
myself) removed all potential missiles, such as ashtrays and mugs, from the
reach of the two principal speakers. Still, in the course of the scholarly
analysis one speaker grabbed a lovely piece and hurled it at the other. Fortunately,
the latter ducked. The piece shattered when it hit the wall. Trying to regain
his composure, the assailant picked up some of the shards and exclaimed
victoriously: “So you see, it’s a replica; not an original.” His opponent was
still speechless.
Today most scholars agree that porcelain was known during the Tang (T’ang) period (618–906), preceded by the
short-lived Sui dynasty (589–618). To my European eyes, the pieces, produced in
China during Medieval Europe’s struggle with the Arabs, were lovely. True, they
were heavily potted. But, all the same, they had – still have – a universal
appeal to lovers of art. They were cosmopolitan. So were the low fired
three-colour Sancai pieces of the period. They, too, are magnificent. I cherish
the few I own, although in some of them the glazes – mainly brown, yellow and
green – have perished.
Some of the Tang pieces reached Europe. Their journey started in China,
near X’ian, at the eastern end of the Silk Road – a route which had been used
for generations and, hundred of years later, was to be traversed by the Polo
brothers. From X’ian the wares travelled by caravan to the Chinese outskirts of
the Silk Road, probably near Kashi in the west of China. At this meeting point
they would have been exchanged for goods brought by caravans travelling
eastward from Central Asia. Some pieces were in due course bought by merchants
travelling from
The civil wars following the collapse of the Tang dynasty led to the rise
of the Song Emperors (960–1279). Under their reign, China became a world as
isolated as Medieval Europe. The cultural ethos that developed during this
period in
The Song Empire was superseded by the Mongols (1280–1386). The height of
art and ceramics during their reign is not discussed in my narrative. Suffice
it to say that Jenghis Khan and his heirs
conquered a substantial part of both the Eastern and the Western world. Jenghis
himself took Northern China, including the Song Capital of Beijing. Later on he
conquered Persia and his armies made their first incursion into
His grandson, Kublai Khan (host of
the Polo brothers), annexed Southern China – the last stronghold of the Songs –
and became the first Yüan Emperor. At an unknown time during this period, the
potters of China developed the white-blue porcelain, loosely described in
Europe as ‘China’. The patterns used by the Chinese potter travelled from
Persia, through the Silk Road, to the kilns on the shores of the Yang Tze. I
believe that the colour preference was dictated by chance. For a reason not
easily discernable, the persons in power liked the new shades. I own a single
specimen. I cherish it.
The Mongols were driven out by the Ming Emperors (1368–1644). During the
lengthy period of their reign,
My collection includes quite a number of Ming pieces. But I do not like
them. True, they are colourful and finely potted; but to my European eyes they
lack the spontaneity of the Tang pieces and the inner harmony of the Song
culture, as expressed in Song celadon. Is my view produced by myopia? Who can
tell?
The Ming period was followed by the reign of the Chings (1644–1912), who
descended from Manchuria. There can be no doubt about the fine aesthetic
achievements of the potters of their period. But I still prefer the early
items.
The latest, contemporary pieces are known as ‘Republic’. I have described
one of them in the story. I have a number of fully transparent – eggshell –
items. My oriental friend loved them.
European porcelain is of late origin. True, earthenware ceramics – low
fired but often colourful and charming – were known in antiquity. High fired
stoneware made its appearance in the late Medieval period. Real porcelain –
nicknamed ‘white gold’ and coveted by European connoisseurs – remained a ware
imported from China.
Effectively, porcelain was first produced in Europe in the Imperial
factory of Meissen (near Dresden) at the beginning of the eighteenth century.
By 1745 the factory’s artefacts overtook anything produced in the East. The man
behind this development was Johan Joachim Kändler. His works were known to my
oriental friend,
This introduction is written some ten years after the completion of the
first draft of my novel. Regrettably, both my friend, the oriental scholar, and
his charming daughter had met their appointed days. My friend’s final struggle
is described in the novel. I cannot bear to write about his daughter’s death in
an air crash in Northern China. In any event, in my eyes both father and
daughter are alive. I think of them often.
Are my recollections objective? I know not.
Peter
Berger
I. THE
ENIGMATIC SMILE
1. A Collector’s
Meditations
Late in the evening, I sink into the comfortable chair in the
spacious condominium in the East Coast.
The cool evening breeze of tropical Singapore wafts through the open
window of my top floor apartment. As the distant lights of the city mingle with
the stars, I experience the peace and pride that engulf a collector viewing his
treasures.
My eyes travel from cabinet to cabinet. Every now and
again they rest on a fine lithograph or etching, although, more often than not,
they linger on a small study in colours. I then open one of my cabinets and
handle some of my mid-European ceramics. In the end, though, I invariably face
the rosewood cabinet which houses my best figurines. The Bowing Harlequin
graces the centre shelf.
He was modelled around 1741 by Johann Joachim Kändler. I
first came across the figurine in my teens, in Tel Aviv, whilst leafing through
the colour plates of a book. I was captivated by the Harlequin’s Rococo jacket,
which highlighted the porcelain whiteness of his breeches. But the real impact
was made by the expression on his face. Somehow, it belied the servility of his
hip-deep bow and of the outstretched arm which invited me, and any other
viewer, to the Comedia del Arte
performance. He did not mock me; neither did he grin sarcastically.
Nevertheless, his smile and the gleam of his slightly uneven eyes manifested
his independence. I knew that although I was entreated to enter his parlour, he
did not regard me as a superior.
It did not take me long to conclude that there was an
element of self-portrayal in the Bowing Harlequin. Did Kändler treat the rich
patrons, who came to see his work, with the same mixture of respect and
condescension? As a young man, admiring the colour plate depicting the
figurine, I used to ponder on this question and reflect on Kändler’s
achievements. Today, in the autumn of life – when the figurine itself is
sheltered in my choice cabinet – my thoughts stray in a different direction. As
I gaze at it, the Harlequin’s Caucasian face undergoes a subtle metamorphosis:
its nose flattens, the eyes change shape
and his features become increasingly Chinese. When the process is complete, I
recall my late friend, the antiques dealer Mr Tay Fang-Shuo, who was even more
controversial than the great modeller.
2. A Curious Antiques Shop
My first encounter with Mr. Tay took place during my
second year as an Assistant Lecturer at the
By and large, it was a pleasant life. As yet, I was free
and unattached. My only disappointment was that my situation left me unable to
pursue my hobby of collecting European porcelain. In my days as a young lawyer
in Tel Aviv I had amassed a reasonable collection, albeit of the less expensive
nineteenth century pieces. During my two years at Oxford I managed to pick up a
few bargains at
I was about to abandon my hunt when a colleague in the
English department recommended a shop in
Leaving the shop in a huff, I unwittingly set off in the
wrong direction. I was about to retrace my steps and find my way back to my car
when I noticed that I was standing in front of yet another antiques shop.
Initially I snorted; but my feelings changed when I took a second look at the
show window. There was no hint of the clutter so common in such shops in
Cool air emanating from a central air conditioning unit
– a rare luxury in those days – enveloped me as I stepped inside. My shirt,
soaked in sweat from my brisk walk, began to stick to my back. But this
unpleasant sensation and the apprehension of catching a chill faded away as my
eyes, getting used to the dim light, took in the handsome show cases and the
quality of the wares displayed in them. I was, further, captivated by the
subtle fragrance of incense. This, I concluded, was no run of the mill shop.
It was only then that I spotted the owner, who was
sitting unobtrusively behind the counter. He was not wearing Western clothes
but a grey-blue Chinese silk suit – a Senfu
– comprising a loosely tailored pair of trousers and a long-sleeved shirt,
buttoned to the chin. Although he looked only a few years older than myself –
perhaps in his mid-thirties – his hair was already thinning. He raised his eyes
from a Chinese book and, without getting up, asked, “Need help or only want
have look?” He had spoken very clearly but uttered his words in a heavy,
Pidgin-imbued accent, which most
“You have nice pieces,” I said. “I should like to
browse.”
“You want see some special porcelain, paintings?”
“Porcelain, I mean, oh … I have forgotten the word …
multi-colour?”
“You mean polychrome,” he said with a grin. It struck me
as odd that, although he had pronounced the word – which was not part of the
vocabulary of
I walked slowly from cabinet to cabinet. In contrast to
the dim light of the shop, each cabinet had its own light, displaying the wares
to their best. Further, the pieces were
arranged like artefacts in a museum; and they
were of an incredibly fine quality.
When I emerged from the aisle, I noticed that the owner
was not alone. A little girl of about eight years of age, with long hair and
large dark eyes, was sitting on a high stool placed next to his chair. I was
not certain whether she had been there all the time or had come in while I was
studying the wares. Unlike her father, whose old-fashioned Senfu looked out of place in contemporary
“You have some lovely pieces here, Mr. …”.
“
“European porcelain. Mainly eighteenth century. Do you
perhaps have any?”
“Sorry, no;
“Nobody collects European:
“If do, go buy
“Figurines; from
“So you from
“Full of life; expression; also, you know, free
composition and movement.” I was watching him carefully. Somehow, I sensed that
this seemingly old-fashioned shopkeeper was not as plain a person as he
purported to be; and his pidgin struck me as artificial.
For a few moments,
He listened to my description of the Bowing Harlequin
and of its creator’s genius attentively and without interrupting. For some
reason, I felt as if I was undergoing a viva.
Did he know the figurine? When I had finished, he said with conviction: “I
think, you want … imagination … also perfect work; ah? you call … originality? But you telling me – perfect
thing …”
“Perfection …” I interrupted, as he appeared to be
searching for a word, although once again I had the impression that I was
witnessing some kind of façade.
“Ah, perfection and also originality,” he said with the
same gusto. “But, you think perfection can be originality?”
“I’ve never thought about this, Mr. Tay,” I said
candidly, once I realised what he meant.
“Perfection is Chinese ideal in art.” He spoke with
conviction. “Also, you like white porcelain with colour; perhaps, I show
something you like.”
“But can you spare the time?” I asked with concern. “I
am not sure I’m ready to buy.”
“Have time. And you buy only you like. I want you see
Chinese things … as should. But look,
perhaps you want soft drink, Mr. Tourist?”
I was, in fact, shivering in the chilly room. A drink
from the refrigerator seemed a singularly unattractive proposition.
“Would you like Jasmine tea or a coffee?” asked Yuan
Ming eagerly. Once again I was taken aback. She had addressed me in a highly
cultured accent and had intoned her words with precision.
“A hot tea would be nice. But only if it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all; it’s a pleasure,” she said with
self-assurance. I had by now identified her accent as
“Your daughter speaks excellent English, Mr Tay,” I said
after she had left the room.
“
Eventually, he placed a bowl and a plate in front of me.
But although I admired both of them, I concluded that these pieces were not for
me. I was examining them further, attempting to understand his viewpoint, when
Yuan Ming reappeared, carrying a tray with three cups. Taking the tray from her
hands, I placed the cups in front of the three of us as she climbed somewhat
clumsily back onto her stool.
The hot, fragrant tea made me feel much more
comfortable. I could not help smiling warmly at the little girl, who was
watching me anxiously. Then, at long last, Mr Tay produced a miniature vase
from a box he retrieved from beneath the counter and placed it on the satin
covered tray used to protect delicate pieces when handled by customers. For a
moment, it looked like just another piece of
“This is exciting, Mr Tay! The rider: he is
magnificent.” Nodding his head, he held the vase against the light. I could see
the silhouette of his finger as he moved it across the base of the vase.
“Bone China?” I asked, disappointedly. Like most lovers
of high fired hard paste porcelain, I had developed a mild contempt for its
poor relation.
“No bone China!” protested
“But how?” I asked, mimicking his jargon. “Porcelain
need support. Like tree stem to support delicate lady figurine. Otherwise
collapse when fired!”
“Ah!” said Mr Tay triumphantly. “But suppose you throw
thick and let dry?”
“Only way is to scrape off then. But how can? Miniature
piece like this, take weeks; and must be even on all sides.”
“Need patience and clever … small hands,” he said,
casting an affectionate glance at the little girl, who was taking in every
word.
“Child labour?” I asked.
“Is sad, very sad. But learn as child, can also make
when grow up; great skill.
I recalled with a pang that child labour had been all
too common in the world of art. Some of the finest rugs of
“How old is it?” I asked, picking the vase up again.
“Not old: Kuomintang
[Republic].” When I shook my head, to indicate ignorance, he explained: “After
end Ching.”
“Oh, Republic. Sun Yat Sen?”
“Can be. Or Chan Kai Check: good period.” As I turned
the vase upside down he added, “Is Ch’ien Loong mark; but vase Replica.”
“Is it very expensive?” I asked after some reflection.
“Ah!” he said with delight. “So good Chinese piece not
so dead, Ah? Make you good price – 180 dallar, OK.”
My monthly salary in those remote, wonderful, days was
$750.00. Paying one quarter of it for a vase that was less than a hundred years
old required determination. With some hesitation, I asked whether he might be
able to give me a better price.
“Oh, now you want discount,” he chuckled. “Alright: I
give you 5 per cent.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” I said, recalling that
most shops gave a discount of 20% almost as a matter of course.
“How many you want, Mr Tourist?” he asked with glee.
“Perhaps 90 per cent? You people like art or only like bargain?!”
“Fifty per cent would do,” I said, stung to the quick by
the realisation that he was enjoying himself. Within a few seconds we were
locked in battle. Mr Tay started to pull his hair and claimed that, if he gave
me an excessive discount, the vase would cry and his other customers would go
on strike. I argued that, if I paid such high prices, I could never afford to
get married and have a daughter as cute as his. Throughout the pantomime,
little Yuan Ming watched us intently, her eyes sparkling. We kept going for a
few minutes, when Mr Tay made the wrong move.
“Only like to bargain,” he said with gusto. “Next you
say no good shop no good piece!”
“That’s unfair, Mr Tay,” I protested. “Am only haggling
for price. But I know real quality when I see it. Tell you what; why not simply
give me best discount you can; I’ll take it.”
“Very well,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “you pay
me $85. OK?”
“Mr Tay,” I gasped, “that’s less than half price! I
don’t want to rob you. Let me pay you at least $115.”
“You really like bargain, Mr Tourist!” he said,
delighted at my having stepped into his trap. “First you want bigger discount
now smaller discount.” Pausing for a moment, he added with finality, “85 OK!
Bargain is bargain.”
Having counted the money, he discarded the original
container and placed the vase in a handsome brocade lined box. Most dealers
would have charged an extra $3 for it. Handing the box to Yuan Ming for
wrapping, he turned to me with a warm, dignified smile: “So, Mr Tourist, when
piece nice, you like Chinese art; correct?”
“Yes, Mr
He nodded with satisfaction and, then, quite suddenly,
asked: “You mind telling me, Mr Tourist, you live
“Oh no,” I replied, embarrassed. “My family left: Second
World War. I grew up Tel Aviv.”
“Tel Aviv?”
“Israel, but when we migrate was still Palestine: Middle East.”
“
“That’s a good one; quite a title!” I could not help
laughing: he had spoken in jest and without malice. Up on her stool, Yuan Ming,
who had just finished wrapping the box, giggled happily. Handing me the neat
parcel, she said, “I am glad you like the vase, Mr Mid Yeast Tourist. It is so
colourful. I liked to play with it. You please look after it well.”
“Oh dear,” I was stunned. “I am not taking your
favourite toy away from you, little Yuan Ming?”
“Naughty girl; must not say such thing,” interjected Mr
Tay. But his affectionate tone took the sting out of the rebuke.
“Oh no,” she soothed. “I play with all of them. But I
know we must sell them. You see, if we don’t, we can’t have new ones.”
“So you like colourful pieces, Yuan Ming?” I asked,
feeling a surge of affection for this highly intelligent and outspoken little
girl with her polished accent.
“I do,” she said assertively “and the Har…, Har… Oh, the
figurine you told us about, is it also so colourful?”
“Oh yes, the Harlequin wears very colourful clothes,” I
assured her, noting the sophistication of her vocabulary. “Perhaps one day your
Daddy will take you to see the piece in a museum. Have you been to museums,
Yuan Ming?”
“Oh yes, on our holidays,” she said. “But sometime I
think we have nicer things here.”
“Must not say such things, Yuan Ming,” scolded
Mr Tay, I reflected, had his superstitions. But they had
not stopped him from taking his daughter to visit museums. Were these
excursions associated with a future he was planning for her? I felt a desire to
know more about these people. At this stage, though, it seemed best not to pry.
As I thanked him again for the vase and Yuan Ming for
the tea, Mr Tay mentioned, with some hesitation, that if I was still in
“No need buy,” he emphasised. “But I want you see
Chinese figurines: is not bad.”
Taking my leave from father and daughter, I said I
should be delighted to come. “Mr Mid Yeast Tourist,” I said to myself as I
drove home, “that’s a good one!” Little did I know that I had been dubbed for
life.
3. An Eccentric Curator
Like most collectors of porcelain, I had developed a sixth sense when it
came to assessing the quality of pieces. Studying the small vase during dinner,
I concluded that it was of considerably greater value than the amount I had
paid for it. I was also convinced that there was more to
My acquaintance with Wally had begun shortly after my
arrival in
I had long suspected that Wally was a manic depressive.
Then, by sheer chance, I found out the real explanation for his long spells of
joviality punctuated by periods of abject melancholy. I made the discovery one
evening, after a nightcap at the Princess bar. Stepping out of a side door, I
stumbled over a bundle obstructing the passage leading to the car park. I was
about to kick it out of the way when, to my shock, it emitted a grunt and,
turning on its axis, revealed the face of Wally Wallace. His eyes were closed
and he was dead to the world. Turning around, I saw the huge Sikh jaga looking
at me intently.
“What is he doing here?” I asked.
“Sleep off.”
“Look, Mr Singh, you better help me get him to my car;
I’ll take him home.” Gathering from his suspicious glance that he had mistaken
my intentions, I added: “He’s the curator of our museum. If the police pick him
up he’ll get the sack.”
“Name is Pratap Singh,” he answered proudly. “And no
police here. This is why I push him to passage. He does often. He always tries Florie. When she tells
him ‘get lost’, he drink. You wake him up now, he start yelling.”
As I stared dubiously at the motionless heap, wondering
what to do, Wally opened his eyes and complained about the noise we were
making. “The way you two are carrying
on; you’d think my house was a thoroughfare!” he grumbled.
“This isn’t your home, Wally. You are sleeping it off on
the stairs of the Princess!”
Wally digested the information with Socratic solemnity
and then observed: “I must pee!”
Leaving him to the ministrations of Pratap Singh, who
warned against any attempt to lead Wally through the bar to the conveniences, I
went to fetch my car.
“I have blessed this wall,” Wally bellowed as Pratap
Singh manoeuvred him into the car and, without any prompting, volunteered to
come with us.
It was just as well that he did. Wally behaved
disgracefully on the way. When I had to stop the car with a jerk at the first
junction, he opened his eyes, pushed his head out of the window and yelled that
he was being kidnapped. At the next traffic light he propositioned two
respectably dressed girls, whose indignation gave way to amusement when Pratap
Singh signalled Wally’s state of mind with a gesture. When, at long last, we
arrived at the University’s block of flats, Wally had to be dragged up the stairs.
We dumped him like a sack of potatoes on the sofa in his sitting room.
“If Florie doesn’t fancy him, why don’t they fix him up
with another girl?” I asked testily as I drove Pratap Singh back to the
Princess, having pressed a five dollars note into his huge palm.
“They tried, also with Florie. But it’s no good: girls
say he is funny boy,” he replied, with
the air of a man of the world.
Next morning I went to the museum, and was relieved to find Wally at his desk, sober
as a judge and quite unruffled. He refrained from referring to the events of
the previous night and, after some quite ineffective probing, I left without
knowing whether he had forgotten the episode or was prevaricating.
Over the course of the next few months, my personal
plans were occasionally frustrated when I arrived at the door of a discreet
establishment in Geylang just as Wally – inebriated and dishevelled – was being
bounced out. There was nothing for it but to settle the matter by means of a
suitable tip, followed by my driving Wally back to
In his periods of sobriety Wally feigned ignorance of
these operations. But on a number of occasions I was rung up in my flat with a
request to come and pick him up. Evidently, Wally had put a card in his wallet
setting out my name and telephone number under a caption reading: “In an
emergency, kindly contact …”
These experiences did not endear Wally to me. I was
certain that his escapades would have been conducted more discreetly back in
What induced me to put up with him was the respect I had
developed for his work. Indeed, in all matters relating to archaeology and art
nobody could be more sober and less inclined to flights of imagination than
Wally. For instance, when I suggested that his comparative work on Persian and
Chinese textiles evidenced a booming trade between the two civilisations, he
insisted that I had jumped to conclusions.
“Suppose a manuscript, unearthed in some archive, were
to show that it all resulted from the migration of a single family?” he asked
sardonically.
“But even scientists develop theories and then set out
to prove them by experiments,” I reasoned.
“But ours is a sensitive area. Every crank tries to pull
a rabbit out of the hat to prove a fantasy or religious dogma,” he retorted.
“We simply have to establish each finding beyond a reasonable doubt … Like you
lawyers in a criminal case.”
Wally was equally cautious when it came to dating and
valuing collectors’ items. He had sufficient self-assurance to admit doubt or
ignorance when a piece eluded him. Usually, though, he passed judgment
forthwith. He did so when I showed him my new vase. The connoisseur’s smile
that crept over his face when he examined it was followed by a mild grin as he
glanced at the mark on its base.
“What did they say it was?”
“Republic; Ch’ien Lung replica.”
“That’s just about it. But it’s a fine piece. What did
you pay for it?”
“Eighty five dollars.”
“You didn’t; did you?”
“Is it too much?” I asked, startled.
Wally stared at me, dumbfounded. Then, without answering
my question, he opened the door to the adjacent room and called: “Lydia, have a
look at this item.”
Lydia Fernando glided into the room, smoothing her sari.
She was one of those tall and elegant Anglo-Indian women whose beauty was
displayed at its best in the loosely fitting native Indian dress. She took the
vase in her hand and, without paying much attention to either of us, studied it
carefully.
I looked at her admiringly. Lydia was an emancipated
woman, who, sad to say, had gained notoriety in Singapore’s tight-laced
academic community. It was well known that her interest in Wally was not
confined to their joint academic pursuits, although she had drawn the line when
he proposed. She proved her independence by being seen, on occasion, with a
local poet and on others with the Professor of Surgery, whose wife had remained
in
One manifestation of Lydia’s independence was her choice
of subject. Although her knowledge of Chinese was limited, she had, on
graduating from the Cambridge School of Fine Arts, chosen to pursue specialised
courses in Chinese paintings and ceramics. In time, she became an authority.
Frequently, Wally deferred to her judgment. Watching her as her hands moved
over the vase, I felt the usual surge of annoyance with him. What drove him to
those sleazy joints in Geylang and Jalan Besar? Why was he not content with his
lasting affair with her?
“It is a really nice piece,” Lydia said at long last.
“But I hope you don’t think it is a Ch’ien Lung original.” Seeing me shake my
head, she added: “
She, too, looked at me in disbelief when I told her.
“This piece is worth at least $170,” she said, adding with a smile: “Want to
sell it to me? I’ll give you $160.”
“No way,” I said, adding in haste: “not even to you,
Lydia.”
“Where on earth did you get it? Not in the Thieves
Market?”
“I bought it in a small shop in
Wally leapt in before she had the chance to answer.
“Nothing whatsoever; it is one of the finest antiques shops I know.”
Once again, their eyes met. I noted that Wally had not
confined his praise to excellence within the confines of the
“I still don’t know why he let you have it for $85,”
said Lydia with a collector’s chagrin. “His prices are on the high side even if
fair. And I bet you didn’t tell him you were a university man. Look, I’m sure
he would have charged me at least $150 for it!”
It seemed easiest to tell them the entire story. As I did so, they continued to exchange
furtive glances. Wally, I noticed, gave a start when I mentioned the Harlequin.
Lydia’s expression changed when I related
“Will you tell me what this is all about?” I asked,
irritated. “I know there is more to this than meets the eye. He speaks like a
Coolie but has quite a vocabulary. And I bet he knows European porcelain. And
where did the little girl pick up a
Lydia stared in the opposite direction. Eventually,
Wally took the lead. “Look here, Peter, I don’t see what you are grumbling
about. You just got the bargain of the year. You have hit the jackpot. If you
stick to Tay’s shop you can’t go wrong. I’ll say that much:
“You’d better tell him you are not a tourist, when you
see him next,” added Lydia in a more gentle tone. “But I suspect he has worked
this out by now.
I realised that these two were not going to open up. For
a moment I toyed with the idea of getting some information out of Wally during
my next rescue mission. But such an operation, I reasoned, was bound to end in
failure. Inebriated, Wally could not separate fantasy from reality. He might, I
mused, try to convince me that
“Oh, very well; keep your secrets,” I said, retrieving
the vase and making ready to leave. “And look, Lydia, you just let me know if
you ever feel like having a quiet meal and a nice chat. Any chance of your
sparing me an evening this week?”
“If you want to proposition my girlfriend,” said Wally,
feigning the tone of a jealous lover, “you might at the very least wait until I
turn my back.”
“I’ll go out with Peter whenever I want,” Lydia retorted
in a haughty tone. Then, turning to me, she added with a smile, “Just let me
know when you are ready to sell me the vase!”
4. Pupillage
I became a regular visitor at
I relished the pieces displayed by him. However, after
some four months I realised that, to understand Tay’s observations, I had to
read a text on the development of Chinese ceramics. Hoping to find a suitable book in our Museum’s library,
I raised the subject with Wally. “Why don’t you try Soames Jenin’s introductory
work?” he suggested, proffering a slim volume.
“Don’t you have a text written by a Chinese scholar?”
“How about this, then,” Wally said, handing me a
two-volume work. As I glanced quickly through it, I was attracted by the colour
plates but annoyed to note that the accompanying text was written in Chinese.
“I can’t read this, as you well know!”
“So why not stick to a good old text written by a
Western scholar? We do have some glimpses of knowledge from time to time!”
“Come off it, Wally,” I snapped, irritated by his
sarcasm. “You know why I want a text written by a Chinese scholar; his
exposition may be closer to
“Why don’t you lend Peter a copy of Alfred Cheng’s
book?” asked Lydia, who had entered the room quietly whilst we were talking.
“I didn’t think about it,” countered Wally in an
unfriendly tone. “In any event, the volume is out on loan. And don’t you think
it’s a rather advanced text?”
“Balderdash,” she retorted. “It’s good reading. You can
have my copy, Peter.”
I looked with interest at the neatly printed work,
entitled Epochs of Chinese Ceramics
and published in
“You might as well have the book,” she replied. “I have
another copy at home.”
“It must be good then?”
“First class; even if its existence slipped a certain
person’s mind,” she said, paying no heed to Wally’s reproachful look.
Dr Alfred Cheng’s book was illuminating. Try as I might, I found it
impossible to tear myself away from it. What impressed me most, however, was
not the lucid style but the author’s courage in expressing his own views about
the controversial problems of each ware and period. His bold approach
contrasted with the cautious and aloof stand adopted by Tay Fang-Shuo.
Although the antiques dealer’s knowledge and
understanding of Chinese plastic art was equal to the Cambridge scholar’s, I
applauded the latter’s decisiveness. He might be painting with a broad brush,
but the emerging picture was well defined. I suspected also that whilst Tay
Fang-Shuo’s method was influenced by the Chinese search for perfection, Alfred
Cheng wrote in the European tradition, concentrating on cause and effect. In
the ultimate, the weakness of the one was the strength of the other. Would it
not be wonderful, I mused, if the two men joined forces and produced a
full-length treatise on the subject so close to their hearts?
I broached the subject on my next visit to
“Yuan Ming party in school; come soon,”
“Is alright Mr Tay. I come early so we can talk about
book on Chinese ceramics I get from Lydia Fernando. Subject perhaps difficult
for little girl.”
“Soames Jenin?”
“No; is book of scholar from
“Excellent is right word: style and contents really
fine. And you know, it made me think. But, Mr Tay, you know book well?”
“You may say so.”
“And, perhaps, you also met author?”
“Not in way you think; but yes, I know Dr Alfred Cheng.”
“Perhaps, you have correspondence or exchange ideas?”
“Sometime; but why you ask?”
“When I read book, I think some of Cheng’s ideas, like
when he says ‘chance development’, a bit like what you hint. But in other ways
your work and his very different. So I have idea.”
“You please tell me.”
“A masterpiece!” I said with conviction. “What we call
magnum opus! And, Mr Tay, I know for sure that you have many ideas on history
and development!”
For a time he stood still, lost in thought. I was not
certain whether he was considering my appeal or just formulating his reply.
“But what if, in end, whole theory is wrong, or later research show mistakes?
Then theory and careful research – all gone,” he sighed at long last, with the
tone of a person who had decided to drop his guard.
“But every scholar takes this risk; even we lawyers. If
you advance the understanding of the subject, does it matter if on some points
you are wrong?”
“Perhaps, my friend, here is the real difference between
Eastern and Western people. Eastern scholar is careful because if he is proved wrong, he loses face. Europeans do not
have this problem.”
He was, of course, right. Joint projects with local
colleagues and my experience in conducting tutorials attended by our local
students had taught me a great deal about this alien and, to me, tiresome
notion. Students resisted participation in class discussions so as to avoid
losing face by making errors. Local colleagues, with excellent intellects,
often refused to criticise an existing principle or a recent legal decision as
they, too, feared a loss of face resulting from defeat in a controversy. Even
more exasperating was their unwillingness to dispute a statement made by
someone senior to them. Causing such loss of face to a “superior” constituted
bad manners.
“Perhaps this not the problem. But alright: I understand
what you say; perhaps one day, when am sure of my ideas, I try discuss with
him. Perhaps not so soon; but I let you know. Am honoured by your idea.”
He had spoken with finality, reverting to his usual
accent and to our jargon. I concluded that the previous short-lived
metamorphosis in his manner of speech was a chance happening. I was about to
raise the other matter that had led me to come over early when the door
separating the shop from the inner room opened and Yuan Ming burst in.
“Sorry I’m so late, Daddy, but it was such a lovely
party!” she said happily and, running over to me: “So you came today, Mr Mid
Yeast Tourist; I really rushed back!”
She was out of breath. Lowering myself to her level, as
I often did when we were chatting, I felt my usual surge of affection for her.
“What a lovely dress you have put on, Little Yuan Ming, such lively colours.”
“You really think it suits me?” she cherished the
compliment. “Mummy said the material was better for an older girl. But I asked
nicely and so she bought it.”
As soon as Yuan Ming withdrew in order to make tea, I
told
A happy smile crept over Yuan Ming’s face as she
unwrapped the handsome box. “Such lovely colours!” she said with glee.
“Don’t you want to open it?” I asked, feeling rewarded.
“Oh yes, and the choccies must be delicious; but Daddy
look at the box; so many colours; isn’t it lovely?”
She was swaying slightly on her perch and my face must
have reflected anxiety for her safety. It was a sensation I had felt on several
occasions although, in reality, she never came close to losing her balance.
“Don’t look so worried, Mr Mid Yeast Tourist,” she reassured me. “I am not
going to fall down.”
“You do like your vantage point,” I said, feeling
ridiculous.
“What is a vantage point?” she wanted to know.
“A place from which you have a good view of things
around you.”
“A vantage point,” she repeated. “Oh yes, I like it up
here. I can see everything in the shop. You see, when I was really little Daddy
used to strap me to this stool so that I didn’t not slip down. But when I was
six I told him it was not necessary. So he told me to sit on one of the
chairs.”
“I see!” I was amused by
“But this was too low; I could not see much. So we made
a bargain: I could use my stool if I climbed up on my own, without help.”
“And you did?”
“Oh yes,” she giggled. “So then Daddy wanted to make
sure the stool wouldn’t tip over. So he fixed it to the floor. So you must not
worry.”
“Little girl has mind of her own,” mused
Glimpsing over the counter I saw that the handsome
rosewood stool was attached to the floor with bolts. Despite my love of Chinese
period furniture, which was not meant to be treated in such a manner, I was
relieved. Yuan Ming’s safety was far more important to me than the dignity of a
piece of wood.
5. Last Ditch Digging
The total recall of conversations had been an asset during my years as a
courtroom advocate. In my private life the gift constituted a liability because
it led me to mull over conversations. I did so following my latest session with
After a sleepless night, I decided to make a final
attempt at getting some information out of Wally. I had raised the subject of
Tay many times during the previous four months, but Wally had continued to fend
me off. Usually he side-tracked into conversations on the progress made by our
Chinese Furniture Committee or about pieces I had viewed with Tay. He had even
invited me to join the University’s prestigious Committee on Early Chinese
Ceramics. As a member of this Committee, I had often made suggestions concerning
the acquisition of new pieces from Tay’s Antiques and, occasionally, to
initiate discussions of the antiques dealer’s views.
In this regard I found Wally co-operative. But my more
personal enquiries about Tay’s background remained ineffective. When sober,
Wally was evasive. When I picked him up drunk, he made no sense at all. I
concluded that the only way to get him to spill the beans was to talk to him at
the start of a session, before he became
inebriated.
Pratap Singh, who was appreciative of the tips he got
whenever I picked Wally up at the Princess, was willing to help. Yet he was
dubious. “Look, Mr Peter: fellow talks
when drink begins go to his head. Makes
his tongue loose. But your Mr Wallace holds his drink well for long time. Then gets drunk and passes out
suddenly. You not have enough time. But I tell you what. I talk Florie; perhaps she can help. She like you,
you see; but you know it will be some trouble.”
“I understand,” I assured him.
A few evenings later, while I was washing the dishes after supper, Pratap
Singh’s call urged me to come over as soon as possible. Wally, he explained,
had just walked in and Florie was doing her best to keep him sober. Wally
spotted me as soon as I entered the smoky bar.
“And what brings you here, you ugly mug?” he bellowed.
“The hope that you are up in the
“Now now,” Wally smirked. “Wouldn’t you call on Lydia if
you really thought so? Not that it would do you much good! And why do you have
to pop up when I’m getting coy with Florie?” He took a gulp from his glass,
caught his breath and added, “Still, since you are here, you may sit down and
have a drink.”
Suppressing a nasty retort about the likelihood of my
having to settle the bill, I slid into a chair. Florie took my order for a
glass of white wine and then turned to Wally: “And what will you have, Wally?
If you behave you can have one more drink.”
“Whatever you bring me, if you smile nicely,” he
answered meekly.
“Would you care to have a drink with us?” I asked her.
“Perhaps later,” she said; “now must serve customers.”
“She only takes tea in any event,” said Wally when she
had gone to fetch the drinks; “but they charge you the full price. And look,
you won’t mind if I take off with her if I get the chance?”
“Not at all,” I assured him. “Just give me the nod and
I’ll make myself scarce.”
“Florie has class,” countered Wally sombrely. “She may
not want to come. Pratap Singh tells me she goes out with very few fellows and
mainly Chinese. Some of the girls say Angmohs smell.”
“What on earth do you want with her anyway?” I asked,
irked by his use of the Chinese derogatory slang for Europeans.
“What any chap would want, of course,” he said,
surprised. “What did you think; you can’t be that naïve?”
“Of course not. But if I had a girl like Lydia, you
wouldn’t find me here, you goat!”
“That’s something you know nothing about,” he said,
looking away. “And variation is stimulation; or don’t you know even that?”
“Oh well, it’s your funeral,” I said. “And no; I am not
in a position to judge.”
“Quite,” said Wally as Florie arrived, tray of drinks in
hand.
For a few moments we both sipped our drinks in silence.
Then, as I pondered how to introduce my subject, Wally came up with it without
prompting. “
“He is far too kind.”
“I shouldn’t think so.
Wally’s expression remained placid until I turned to the
episode respecting Dr Alfred Cheng’s book. Startled, he was about to say
something, but quickly checked himself. Then, as I went on to relate my latest
conversation with
“You know,” said Wally, “you might just have done the
trick. You see, for years I have tried to persuade
Although the hand in which Wally held his glass was
shaking and his speech was becoming slurred, his mind remained clear. I was
still conversing with the scholar whom I held in high regard, and not with his
booze-sodden alter ego. “Did you also suggest he collaborate with Alfred Cheng;
do you know that chap?”
“Oh, I know Alfie, just about as well as I know your
friend
“Wally,” I implored, “why don’t you simply open up, just
for once, and tell me all about
“You didn’t turn up here out of the blue so as to get me
to babble, did you?”
“Would I play a trick like that?”
“Wouldn’t you ever!” countered Wally, with a sudden fit
of laughter. “But no, how would you know I was here unless you had made a deal
with Florie? She was rather sweet to me … but I’ll exonerate you this time. You
are far too simple minded for such a ploy.” He was becoming increasingly
unsteady. Then, as I was about to give up my fishing expedition, he recovered
and turned back to me: “Listen, Peter, there is a mystery there, but I am
simply not going to let
“Tang especially?”
“Actually,” said Wally after a
contemplative pause, “there are two men in
Once again, Wally drained his glass and gestured for
another. I knew I was not going to get any further information out of him but,
at the same time, felt gratified by the outcome. Wally had admitted that there
was much more than met the eye in that wonderful shop. He had also confirmed my
assessment of Tay Fang-Shuo’s calibre.
Our conversation had given me food for thought. My
problem for the moment was how to manoeuvre Wally out of the bar, so as to get
him back to his flat before he passed out. I was considering what to do when
Wally began to talk again in the same animated and somewhat unguarded manner.
“Not a bad drink. But listen, Peter: the way your face brightened when I
mentioned Yuan Ming. I didn’t know you could smile like that!”
“She is such a delightful little spirit; full of tricks
and fun; and you know how intelligent she is.”
“There can be no doubt about that,” he agreed, breaking
into a pleasant smile; “but, you know, before you started to visit the shop she
always talked to me about Lydia.”
“Lydia?”
“A cute little girl often admires an elegant woman. But
never mind that. Now when I come over she immediately asks about her Mr Mid
Yeast Tourist: have I seen you? When did you last come to the museum? And when
do I think you will come to see them?” Pausing for a moment, he added with a
chuckle: “Some time ago she asked if I could help you to find some
“She has a good heart,” I muttered, embarrassed.
“Agreed,” said Wally. “But it’s simply ludicrous to hear
her call you Mr Mid Yeast Tourist; why on earth don’t you ask her to call you
‘uncle’?”
“I have been thinking about it for months,” I confided.
“So why make such a big deal of it; what’s the problem?”
“I’m just not sure if
“You are just being awkward,” said Wally. “You told me
yourself that
He was about to add something when a change came over
his face. This time he raised his glass overtly and yelled: “Florie, give me
another drink.”
“For God’s sake, Wally,” I pleaded with him, “let’s get
out of here and have a black coffee. Be a good chap. We can go for a long walk,
and when you’re OK I’ll drive you back home or, if you want, to Lydia’s place;
and don’t worry, you’ll go up alone.”
“That does it.” Gesticulating wildly with his empty
glass, Wally said angrily: “You do have a knack of saying the wrong thing. Do
you really think I want to see that bitch tonight? Why the hell do you think
you find me here or in Geylang?”
To my relief, Florie appeared beside him with a drink.
Wally gulped it down while she spoke to him soothingly. For a few minutes he
remained seated but then slumped forward. He showed no resistance when Pratap
Singh, who must have been waiting by the door, hustled him out of the room.
“You like another drink now, Mr Peter?” Florie asked
sympathetically. “And you get what you want know?”
“I got quite a bit out of him; and honestly, many
thanks. And I’ll have a drink if you have one with me, Florie.”
She was about to accept but then changed her mind. “I
finish shift in ten minutes. You like, you wait and take me for supper
outside.”
“I shall be delighted.” I felt gratified, even
flattered. All the same, I glanced with unease at the door through which Pratap
Singh had disappeared with Wally.
“You not worry about Wally. Pratap Singh take care; I
tell him.”
6. Orchard Road and Koek Lane
Orchard Road of the sixties differed greatly from what it became in later
years. As yet, both sides of the road were lined with antiques and souvenir
stores, boutiques and small cafes, located mainly in pre-war two-storey houses.
Even the two modern supermarkets – Cold Storage and Fitzpatrick – occupied low
rise buildings. The skyline was marred by just two high rise buildings: the
newly completed Hotel Singapura and the Lido Theatre. Traffic was creeping in
both directions.
Twice a week the
road was brought to life by the presence of a night market – a Pasa Malam – stretching all the way from
Tanglin Road to the corner of Orchard and Patterson Roads. Florie, who had
joined me on the steps of the Princess, was keen to sample the colourful local
and imported bric-a-brac on display at the quaint stalls. So instead of hailing
a cab we crossed the road and strolled down the crowded pavement, brushing arms
with people walking in the opposite direction.
“And what food do you like, Florie, European or
Chinese?”
“Chinese if you don’t mind.”
“Shall we take a taxi to The Peking?”
“Why not Koek Lane? You eat there sometime?”
Koek Lane was a favourite eating place of the University’s European
expatriate community. The short cul-de-sac, off
Koek Road, had a great deal to offer at reasonable prices.
“I do; but I would like to give you a treat.”
“Koek Lane OK; I like it,” she said.
It took us some fifteen minutes to reach the place. Florie stopped from
time to time to admire handbags and dresses whilst I watched her with growing
respect. She had removed the loud make-up worn by the bar girls, and was now
wearing a plain, neatly tailored Cheongsam, with a modest slit just to above
the knee. Although it was apparent that she was in her early thirties rather
than in her twenties, she carried herself well and with dignity. I felt no
sense of unease when, just before we turned into Koek Road, we ran into two of
my colleagues who had come down to do some shopping. I was, in truth, rather
cocky when I introduced them to ‘Miss Florie Tan’.
Koek Lane,
currently buried beneath a modern shopping centre, had never gained the same
fame as either Bugis Street or Change Alley. The former was a red light area,
catering for both normal and bizarre tastes. The latter, located opposite
Clifford Pier, was a shopping paradise for tourists. Indeed, it was in Change
Alley that I had purchased the exotic box of Swiss chocolates for little Yuan
Ming.
In contrast, prosaic Koek Lane was patronised
exclusively by Singapore-dwellers. One side of the lane was occupied by food
hawkers, who opened their stalls shortly before lunchtime. The other side
comprised a short row of terraced houses converted into coffee shops. Each
contained a number of oblong tables placed between short teakwood benches with
high backs, creating the impression that each table was nestled in an alcove.
Once a seat was secured, the shopkeeper would come over and serve soft drinks, and
dishes could be ordered from the food hawkers. Despite the rugged furniture and
the informal atmosphere, it was not unusual to find oneself sitting adjacent to
one of
When we arrived it was late in the evening and we easily
managed to secure a table facing the merry throng of food stalls. Florie, who
seemed pleased when I declined a beer and ordered a glass of iced barley water
– known as Ibi-chui – ordered an
array of dishes I had not ventured to try before: turtle soup, an omelette with
oysters, and crab pincers in a sweet and sour sauce. These as well as the usual
plates of grilled sliced fillet of pork – known as Char-Siew – and ‘chicken rice’ – poached chicken accompanied by a
bowl of rice cooked in chicken stock – made their appearance in no time. When
everything was spread before us, Florie stretched her legs and sighed. “Is nice
to sit down, Mr Peter, my legs so tired.”
“Just call me Peter. You must be on your feet for hours
every day!”
“Is my job, Peter,” she explained complacently. “But now
we have meal. You like the food?”
“You order much better than I,” I assured her.
For a few minutes Florie remained silent as I tasted the new dishes.
Then, out of nowhere, she asked me to tell her about myself. She listened with
interest to the story of my family’s migration to Palestine just prior to the
outbreak of the Second World War, to my life as a student in Jerusalem and as a
young lawyer in Tel Aviv. Despite her scanty knowledge of Jews and Judaism, she
understood the problems faced by our people in
“Is like Chinese,” she broke in. “Some Chinese, you
know, live in
Pausing for a moment, as she watched me enjoying the Char-Siew, she asked with patent
curiosity: “But if you Jew, why you eat pork, Peter? Friend tells me is not
allowed?”
“Oh, I’m a very bad Jew, Florie: I do what I like.”
“Like naughty Malay, drink beer,” she countered. “Oh
well, is your business.”
She became much more animated when I told her about my
two years at
This gave me the opportunity to switch the conversation
to Florie. It turned out that she was not a Singaporean. Her father was the
foreman in a tin smelter in Butterworth in Kedah. Their family home, though,
was in nearby
This information did not come as a surprise. It was
common knowledge that the Chinese of the former
In contrast, the Sinke,
who originated from the later waves of migrants, retained their undiluted
native culture and continued to use their respective dialects, such as Hokkien
or Cantonese, as their everyday language. Florie’s English jargon, with the
consistent omission of the verb “to be” and the disregard for the sequence of
tenses, was characteristic Sinke
English. It reflected the influence of Chinese grammar.
As I listened to Florie, I mused on the fact that one of
the virtues of the entire Chinese community was its veneration of education.
Her brother’s dream of going to
“But
It turned out that such a venture had been beyond the
family’s means. Florie had gone to a local school, where she learnt Malay and
English. I listened with interest as she described her family’s small house,
built on a sizeable plot of land, in an outer suburb of
“I hate school,” she admitted. “They teach us English
history and a little English literature but, you see, I never see
Her schooling had been interrupted during the Japanese
occupation. This, I thought, explained why her English had remained
rudimentary. When she was sixteen, she dropped out of secondary school and took
up a job.
“I work in shipping company: type bills of lading and
letters. My English not good enough for shorthand. Was dull – but not bad job.”
“So why did you leave
“My family, Peter, very Chinese,” she confided in an
aggrieved tone. “When I bring my money home I give some to mother. I happy give
her. But father likes sons better. So he tell me give more and more to Chee
Keng, his oldest son. Sometime when end of month I have nothing. I say to
father Chee Keng waste money; better I invest it. But father say no, girls no
good with money; better give brother. So in end I say I go
Life in our Eastern metropolis suited Florie. A good looking and
self-assured girl, she soon found a job as receptionist-cum-typist in an
English firm. Her salary was considerably higher than her prospects in
“And how did you get to
the Princess, Florie?” I asked.
Like many an attractive girl, Florie had met with a
problem in her firm. “My boss alright; his wife very pretty,” she explained.
“But young man in office, also from
“You told your father?”
“Of course not. If he know he come down, beat me and
take me home. So I tell my aunt not talk and I make sure.”
“How?” I asked.
“I give her allowance,” explained Florie.
Florie had risen steadily in her new world. After a few
months she left the shady Guan Guan in
We had by now finished the sumptuous meal. Declining my
offer of another cold drink, Florie said, “This was nice, Peter. Now you like
see my flat?”
“That would be splendid. But your aunt would not mind?”
I asked naïvely.
“No more stay with her. Is my own flat,” she explained
proudly.
By the time we got up to leave, Koek Lane had become deserted. Some food
hawkers were taking their evening meals and others played Mah-Jong in one of
the coffee shops. Sensing again that Florie was tired, I ignored her
protestations that it was only a short walk to her flat and hailed a taxi. As
we set off, I insisted on paying her back the money she had spent on our meal.
“Is only 10 dallars, Peter,” she said with a shrug.
“Florie!” I said, surprised. “If I order such a meal I
pay 15 dollars or perhaps 20.”
“Lah; but you pay Angmoh price; I pay local price. And
chicken-rice-man tell me you not mind how much he charge! I tell him not be so
greedy when you with me.”
I was unable to suppress a wry grin. Florie, though,
revisited the subject of my extravagance as soon as we had alighted from the
taxi in front of a modern block of luxury flats just behind the Princess.
“Look, Peter, a few dallars no money to you. But you know, you spoil for local
people. Just now you give taxi driver 80 cent tip. Not necessary: 40 enough.”
“But how does this spoil things for locals, Florie?”
“Last week I wait for taxi long time; was raining. I
come first; but taxi see European also waiting. So he take him; bigger tip.”
Florie’s rebuke made sense. Such a principled view was, however, out of
keeping with the atmosphere of the prestigious building we were about to set
foot in. I knew that a successful insurance broker had a flat on the third
floor. A young bank manager lived with his glamorous mistress in a penthouse on
the sixth floor. I was certain that other occupants, too, were considerably
better off than the members of our expatriate academic community. Most of us
dwelt in comfortable but considerably less spectacular premises, let by the
University to staff at nominal rents.
The mild confusion I was feeling intensified when we
entered Florie’s flat on the fourth floor. The furniture and furnishings were
in harmony with her neat but inconspicuous clothes. They were carefully chosen
and smartly arranged, creating an atmosphere of relaxed wellbeing. I was
particularly taken with an elegant rosewood cabinet, stained in light orange,
which displayed a few modern vases and other ornaments. It must have cost a
pretty penny.
“You like my cabinet,” she said happily. “But, again, I
must wait; carpenter promise finish in one week but I bargain hard for
discount. Then European order other things; no bargain and say he pay extra 50
dallars for quick delivery. So I must wait.”
Accepting a cognac, I set out to correct her
misapprehension as she sat beside me on the sofa. “But you know, Florie, for
furniture and carpets I also bargain; quite hard sometimes.”
“You really do?” she asked, approvingly. “But I
remember; people say Jews know to bargain! But you tell me – you like my flat?”
“It’s delightful; really high class. But the rent must
be very high. I am glad you can afford it.” Even as I uttered my words, I was
struck by my tactlessness. The rent might, conceivably, be paid by a rich
patron. Florie, though, was unperturbed.
“No rent, Peter. Is my own flat!” Relishing my patent
amazement, she went on to explain. “Is simple, Peter. Some bar girls go out
many men. But is dangerous; need protection and other problems. One girl warn
me when I take my job in Guan Guan. So I say I go out only with three sometime
four; and must be also friendship. One friend is stockbroker. He know I make
good money from commission on drinks and tips and salary so he tell me he
invest for me. First I give him little money. But he bring me good profit so I
give him more. Also I learn; sometime I tell him what buy. Then one day market
go up and I make enough for pay deposit on flat. So another friend, Chinese
businessmen, get my mortgage; he guarantee it.”
“And do you still owe a lot?”
“No, Peter. I save hard; no waste. Other girls buy
expensive clothes, jewellery, perhaps small car; not me. Last year I finish
paying – every cent.” Pausing for a moment, she added with satisfaction “I very
happy; also proud.”
“Good on you Florie. You know what you want; I
congratulate you, honestly. But you did take a risk; the stock market does not
always go up: sometimes it crashes.”
“I know. One time I lose, but I get out quickly. I make
back. But you, Peter, you put your money in bank?” Seeing me nod, she added: “I
understand, but you different. Your job, you work until retire, perhaps 55
perhaps 60?”
“And then, perhaps, I’d take a part-time job,” I
finished.
“And you have CPF,” she said, referring to the national
Central Provident Fund.
“Something like it, Florie. The University has its own
scheme.”
“Bar girls no CPF,” she explained. “And best years for
work is 17 to 28; after this perhaps get too old for place like the Princess.
And you see, Peter, I already 32; I don’t want go back Guan Guan or other
second class bar. Also I have plans. So I take risk and make money fast!”
“I understand,” I reassured her. “But you are very good
looking; you can continue to work in the Princess for many years! So don’t you
worry.”
“You big flatterer,” she said merrily. “Hand not so long
but tongue not so short. But you understand problem; is good. But now, Peter,
we talk enough; you like to see rest of my flat?”
“Yes, Florie,” I said, rising to my feet as she got up.
“I should like to, very much indeed. And really, you are a smart girl.”
“Alright, big flatterer,” she laughed, “you come.”
One hour later, with the customary details attended to delicately but
punctiliously, I took my leave. To my delight, Florie asked me to make a note
of her telephone number and suggested I ring her at home when I wanted to see
her again. I was by then looking at her with genuine admiration. Despite her
humble background, she was no pushover. In her native language, I sensed, she
would be articulate and witty. She was also sophisticated, yet fair minded and
honest in her dealings. A liaison with a down to earth girl like her was bound
to be pleasing and would provide an opportunity to gain a better appreciation
of a social stratum in
7. Sober Pronouncements
When I reached my destination, Wally was scrambling back to his feet. He
appeared sober, but complained of a
severe headache.
“You need not come with us today, Pratap,” he said,
after the Jaga had manoeuvred him into the front passenger seat. I pressed a
substantial tip into Pratap Singh’s eager palm to express my thanks both for
the help he had given me with my plot and for getting me acquainted with
Florie. He gave me a knowing grin.
“Don’t tell me he fixed you up with Florie,” said Wally
as I drove off. “Pratap can be very obliging.” Pausing for a moment, he added:
“And I do have a splitting headache; I shouldn’t be surprised if she slipped me
a Mickey Finn.”
He seemed amused rather than grudging. I thought it best
to change the subject: “Shall we stop for a cup of coffee, Wally? The Singapura
Coffee House is open twenty four hours a day.” He looked at his watch and
declined. It was, actually, well after
For a time we were both lost in our respective thoughts.
When we reached
“But how about yours?” I countered. “Your lectures on
the textiles of ancient
“We have been through this before,” he said with a touch
of sadness. “Somehow my ideas don’t sound all that marvellous when I put pen to
paper; there are too many ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’. Someone else will have to do this
work one day. No Peter; my situation is not the same as
Unable to find anything new to say on this subject, I
continued to drive without responding. My earlier attempts to encourage him had
failed miserably. To my relief, he spoke again: “No, Peter, I shall continue to
write perfectly respectable papers; but not a magnum opus. You’d better keep nudging
“We are in full agreement there, Wally. Yuan Ming is a
delightful child.”
“Quite. And listen to me: such a simple friendship with
a little girl might bring you more happiness than any involvement with her
grown up sisters. And that’s so even when they happen to be really nice women.”
Noting my surprise, he explained in a tone both shy and intimate: “You see,
when a child is still innocent, it can give you a glimpse into the paradise you
lost when you grew up. Believe me; I know what I’m talking about.”
Bewildered, I kept my eyes fixed on the road stretching
in front of me. The sentiment I had just heard was not one I would have
expected from Wally. When we arrived at the block of flats in
II. PEACE AND
SETTLEMENT
1. A Fine Brief
Under normal circumstances, I would have pondered over the experiences of
my remarkable evening for days. Events ruled that possibility out. When I
arrived at my office the next morning I found a message asking me to call Mr
David Ratnam, QC. It turned out that he needed an opinion on a question of
banking law, the very area in which I specialised. As he was at that time the
undisputed leader of the local Bar, the
referral was something to boast about.
“The trial is in ten days,” said Ratnam, “so I wonder
how soon you could let me have your advice.”
“By Tuesday
“Splendid; you’ll get it today.”
I found the brief on my desk when I returned from my
early afternoon lecture. Written in a lucid style, it set out of the relevant
facts. On perusing it, I realised that I was familiar with the legal issues and
was in a position to submit a supportive opinion. Even so, completing it in
less than four days was a tall order. The facilities available in those days
were limited. Word-processors, on which you could play around with the text as
you wrote, as yet unavailable. The tool of trade was the typewriter. If you
needed to alter a sentence, the relevant page had to be retyped. Even the
‘Misprints Correction’ key, which became commonplace in the seventies, was
rarely found on typewriters of the sixties. The unblemished correction of
misprints in a typescript constituted a clerical art.
Another shortcoming was the absence of photocopying
machines in libraries. Like most researchers, I was used to copying lengthy
passages from Statutes and Law Reports in longhand and, of course, had made a
habit of writing out neat summaries of all the relevant materials. Admittedly,
this cumbersome method of work had its merits. Topics covered in this manner
remained fresh in one’s mind for years. But the whole process was time
consuming and exacting.
All the same, I finished the opinion on time. I was too
young, too energetic and too ambitious to let myself down. By Saturday night I
had made my notes. On Sunday I hammered out my draft opinion on a battered
manual Olivetti. On Monday evening the secretarial services office, which I
used from time to time, delivered the typescript to me and late on Tuesday
morning, after the misprints had been corrected, their office boy took the
document to Ratnam’s chambers. Ratnam tackled the subject with equal alacrity.
On Wednesday morning he rang to ask me to check two supplementary points and
arranged for a meeting in his office on Thursday morning.
David Ratnam’s office was in the Bank of China Building,
a 16-storey tower which, in later years, became dwarfed by the 70-storey
“Quite an impressive piece of work, Berger,” said Ratnam
as soon as I had sat down in his spartan conference room.
“You are far too kind,” I replied, pleased.
He went briskly through the roughly typed notes covering
the supplementary issues and then proceeded to raise matters concerning
strategy. In this area he was, of course, the master. But, like most courtroom
lawyers, he appreciated the opportunity of testing his ideas before the trial.
Once we had finished, he said: “And look, we can settle
the matter of your feenote presently. What did you have in mind?”
“Well, this was a rather bigger matter than most of the
cases I have handled. I thought I had better ask you what would be reasonable.”
“Very well,” he replied, a twinkle creeping into his
eagle eye. “Would $2,000 be acceptable?”
“That’s a great deal of money,” I said, spontaneously.
“Considerably more than I had in mind.”
“The opinion is worth it, having regard to the amount
involved in the dispute. So let us say no more about it. My clerk wrote the
cheque out before you arrived.”
As I took my leave, he added that he proposed to send me briefs from time
to time. I assured him that this would be most welcome.
2. A Birthday Gift
As it was my
“This charm bracelet is very suitable for a little
girl,” the jeweller assured me. “I’ll take out two sections. She can put them
back when she grows up.” Seeing that I was still doubtful, he added hastily:
“It is 18 carat; made in
“Any Continental ones?”
Taking a box from a drawer, he explained: “They are not
very popular here. Why don’t you take a few and I’ll make you a good price.”
The charms were attractive. As I chose a poodle carved
from coral, and a chimney sweep made of gold and streaks of black and white
porcelain, the lapidary opened another
box, explaining that it contained charms made in Florence. With sheer glee, I
gazed at an exquisite Harlequin, wearing a colourful costume made of different
shades of gold with tiny pieces of gemstone embedded in it. And he was smiling!
After some haggling, which we both enjoyed, I left the
shop with a box containing the three charms attached to the adjusted bracelet.
Leaving my car in its shady lot, I took a Betsa – a bicycle attached to a
small passenger sidecar. A taxi would have been cheaper. Still, the breezy Betsa made quick progress through
the narrow lanes of crowded
Upon entering the shop, I was startled by the strained
and unhappy expression on
“What happened ?”
“I slipped and fell in school.”
Tilting her chin up, and peering at her face more
carefully, I was relieved to see that the eye was not injured.
“How did this happen?” I asked, in a more even voice.
“Was the yard so slippery or wet?”
“Oh no, I fell in our classroom,” she said, piqued.
“How come?”
“We had a party; and we played musical chairs and I
slipped on a banana skin; and I hit a chair.” Once again, indignation crept
into her voice.
“But did nobody check that the floor was safe before you
started to play?”
“Oh, the teacher did,” she said angrily. “But it was
Mark; he always plays silly tricks; he dropped it there; on purpose!”
“I told Yuan Ming, such thing must not say if not certain,” Tay interjected.
“But I know it was him!” she retorted, stamping her
foot. “And he wanted me to step on it. I know it! I know it!”
“Oh no; he likes me,” she said in a more reasonable
tone. “He always brings me things and wants to play with me. But sometime I
want to play with other children; so I tell him to leave me alone. And then he
is upset and plays tricks. You understand, don’t you Mr Mid Yeast Tourist?”
“Sure; but do you think Mark wanted you to have such a
bad fall?”
“No, of course not. He only wanted me to land on my
bottom; and then he’d shout ‘clumsy, clumsy’. He was very upset when I hurt
myself; and when he went with me to the nurse, he said that the boy who dropped
the banana skin was an idiot. And I said ‘right’.”
“Did you cry?” I asked her.
“I did not! I don’t want them to call me a cry-baby. But
I nearly did because it spoiled the party; and it was my party!”
“Your party? Was it your birthday party?” Seeing her nod
I went on, “Well, this is sad; I know. But the main thing is that your eye is
fine.” Thinking of the parcel, I set out to make sure: “And so now you are
already nine years old, Little Yuan Ming.”
“Yes,” she said with a touch of self-importance. “This
week I shall be nine years old!”
“Well?” I said, sensing that she was trying to tell me
something.
“So I am not so little any longer, Mr Mid Yeast Tourist.
So really, you must not call me Little Yuan Ming!”
“But you must not call me Miss Tay,” she replied,
amusement replacing her despondent expression of the previous moment. “Miss Tay
is what my teacher calls me when I don’t listen.”
“Yuan Ming,” said
“But you told me, Daddy, that sometimes you were also
bored in school and didn’t pay attention! And how about you Mr Mid Yeast
Tourist, did you listen all the time?”
“No Yuan Ming,” I confessed. “But I always pretended to
listen. But look,” I sped on before she could break in, “about your name; I
understand; you are growing up and so you don’t want to be called a little girl
any longer; fair enough. So why don’t we make a bargain?”
“A bargain?” she responded keenly.
“Yes; I will always call you Yuan Ming; never Little
Yuan Ming; but how about you calling me ‘Uncle Peter’?”
Any doubts I had entertained about this subject vanished
when I saw the delight that crept over her face. Despite the swelling, she
looked animated and pleased. “May I really?” she asked. I noted
“That would be lovely, Yuan Ming,” I told her. “But
don’t you have any other uncles, who may not like this?”
“Oh, I have Uncle Boon Siong – Mummy’s brother; and
Daddy’s brother Uncle Hun Sheng. But I don’t see them so often and I’m sure
they won’t mind. You will be my special uncle; so I’ll just call you ‘Uncle’.”
“It’s a bargain,” I said, shaking her hand.
“That will be lovely,” she said with satisfaction, and I
reflected that an adult would not have got over the shock of a bad fall so
quickly. Then I saw her face take on a businesslike demeanour: “But now I must
go and make tea.” Forestalling any retort, she added rapidly: “And I must
change my dress; I am so messy.”
When she was gone,
He had added the last few words in response to my
worried expression. For a few seconds both of us were lost in thought. My mind
was preoccupied with the revelation that the Tays lived in exclusive Katong. So
my hunch that they were not living in the premises above the shop had been
right. Having reflected on the implications, I turned back to
“You really believe this is so? I do. But this is an
oriental notion, diametrically opposed to modern European thinking,” he said
unguardedly, slipping out of our jargon.
“Up to a point,” I conceded, pretending to ignore his
lapse. “But I think all cultures have their own supernatural beliefs. And,
without the intervention of luck, what would have been my prospects as a little
boy in
Initially, he appeared perturbed by my outspoken
prediction. Then his face cleared and, just as Yuan Ming re-entered wearing a
neat dress and carrying the tray, he said, once again in our jargon: “My temple
fortune teller; he say same thing.”
Taking the tray from Yuan Ming’s hands, I watched her
preparing to climb to her seat. Then I caught
“Yuan Ming,” I said to her, “before you climb up … ”
“But I like my … vantage point,” she said
apprehensively.
“Of course,” I reassured her. “But I want to see if we
can make it easier for you. What exactly did Daddy and you agree? Was the
bargain that Yuan Ming must get up without getting help or was it that she must
get up without asking for help?”
“But is this not the same thing?” she asked, perplexed.
“Not really,” I told her. “If Yuan Ming must get up
without help then you have to climb up on your own. But if Yuan Ming must not
ask for help, perhaps she can accept help if Uncle or Daddy offer it?”
“I am not sure, Uncle. I think, I better ask Daddy.”
“Bargain was Yuan Ming must not ask help,” said Tay,
adding in an undertone: “You not bad lawyer, Mr Mid Yeast Tourist.”
“In that case, Miss Tay Yuan Ming,” I addressed her
formally. “Will you grant Uncle the honour of helping you up?”
“Oh yes,” and as she raised her arms I picked her up and
placed her on the stool. “That was nice,” she pronounced. “Thank you, Uncle.
Thank you, Daddy.”
“Yes,” I mused, basking in the happiness of the moment.
“Drunk or sober, Wally spoke the truth.”
3. Aspirations
– Old and New
For a while the three of us sipped our tea in silence. It was only then
that my gaze fell on the array of ceramics placed on the main counter.
“Some time ago, Mr Mid Yeast Tourist, you ask me when
porcelain first made in China. You remember, I say depends what you call
porcelain?”
“Yes,” I said. “First was puzzled; but since then I read
Dr Cheng’s book. He says that European idea of porcelain derived from Ming
imports from
“You please tell me European meaning.”
“Must be white body; and the clay becomes smooth in
firing; vitrified or non-porous.” Seeing Yuan Ming gazing at me, I asked her:
“You know the word?”
“Daddy told me: it means you cannot see or feel little
pores. But I think porcelain must also have a special look …” She tried, but
could not recall the word.
“Trans… ” I prompted.
“…lucent!” she finished eagerly. “It must be very
clear.”
“Anything else, Yuan Ming?”
“It makes a nice sound if you tap it, like singing; this
I found out before Daddy told me.”
“And the Chinese notion?” I asked, turning back to
“Need not be white; but must have other qualities. So
black ware or Celadon can be porcelain if is non-porous and translucent and, of
course, give right sound. Sound is most important.”
“So is question of degree?” I asked, to make certain.
“Is,” he confirmed. “This is why books speaks of
proto-porcelain, porcelain-like and other such words. Mean high fired stoneware
like porcelain but not so good.”
“And materials used not so important?” I asked. “Just
the result?”
“Yes,” said
She listened keenly to the story of the European search
for the ‘Arcanum’ – the formula and
process used in
“So they chained the poor man who found the answer to
the wall so that he wouldn’t run away and use the process. But this was cruel.
Did the King know?”
“I am afraid he knew, Yuan Ming.”
“Kings only fair to generals and favourite ladies,”
“But if the Europeans found out about Kaolin and the
other things, why did it take them so many more years to make good porcelain?”
“The firing: even if you have all the materials, Yuan
Ming, you can make a real mess if you don’t know how to control the heat.”
“But, then, why did people persist?”
“The old Arcanist’s dream,” explained
“So must have been trial and error; at least at the
beginning. And presumably, sometimes when got good result cannot even tell why?
Repeat process not so easy.”
“Precisely,”
We turned to the artefacts, starting with the early
Shang and Han pieces. Soon we agreed that, although the green wares were high
fired, their appearance and sound remained a far cry from porcelain. Pieces
from later periods, right up to the Sui dynasty, fared similarly, although I
had to admit that a marked improvement was discernible in the consistency of
the ceremonial pieces. There could be no doubt about the technical advances
made by the potters.
“But the emphasis, at least your shipment, is on green
or greenish pieces, not so much white; right until Sui and Tang,” I said,
haltingly.
“Perhaps to them, Mr Mid Yeast Tourist, green more
pleasing? And you, why you think white so pleasing to you? Your eye always look
white pieces.”
“It’s true, Uncle,” chimed Yuan Ming. “You always touch
the white pieces first; and you smile.”
“You please think why,”
In an effort to comply, I picked up a Sui rhyton, in
fine porcelaneous white ware. As I tapped its surface gently with my index
finger, my eye fell on a plain white bowl placed next to it. In a flash, the
answer dawned on me. “Mr Tay,” I struggled to suppress the excitement in my
voice, “Sui and Tang period – the
“So you feel like Europeans who see first Ming pieces.
Reason you love white porcelain is your ideas on art: Greeks and Renaissance.
Is your aesthetic conditioning. I also love white ware but is not my only love;
and other cultures have different taste.”
“Green,” I mused, and then saw the point. “Colour of
bronze, perhaps?”
“And jade,” he added with enthusiasm, “for long period
bronze used by emperor for ceremonial pieces and funerary objects. Also jade.
So people want green glazed ceramics; look like jade and best bronze; so potter
make.”
Once again, we went together through the display of ceramics. I now
realised that some of the green wares, from periods considerably earlier than
the cosmopolitan Sui and Tang dynasties, were technically as accomplished as
the later white porcelain. In terms of tapping sound, translucence and
vitrification some pieces met the requirements of hard paste porcelain.
As I raised my eyes from the table,
“You see,” said
“So is slow, intermittent, progression?” I asked.
“Technically is progression, Mr Mid Yeast Tourist; is
true. But when we look at Song pieces you think if later periods progress also
in other way. But your first question, I mean what is first porcelain, perhaps
not so important. Answer relative. Perhaps real question very different.”
His tone of voice had become
guarded, but I believed that I was able to follow his thinking. He was, I felt,
speaking of the attainment of aesthetic harmony in creativity.
Just before I left the shop I handed Yuan Ming her
birthday gift, asking her to open the parcel on the day itself. “I saw
something that looked nice and I thought it would be best to have it ready for
your birthday,” I explained, when she remarked that I had not known that it was
coming up so soon. “Let’s see if you like it.”
“Can I ring you on Sunday?” she asked to my surprise. As
she wrote down my telephone number, she added: “But I am sure it is lovely.
Thank you, Uncle.”
I recall with amusement the trip home. I clung anxiously
to the parcel with the items I had acquired until I alighted from the taxi in
front of my car at
Over a late breakfast on Sunday morning, I mused on the
events of the past week, including Saturday evening, which I had spent with
Florie: I had enjoyed it. Then, unexpectedly, the telephone rang.
“This is Yuan Ming, Uncle,” I heard her neat
“How is your eye, Yuan Ming; and your knee?”
“Oh much better, honestly, only the knee is a bit
painful. But Uncle, what a lovely bracelet! And the chimney sweep, Daddy says
he brings good luck.”
“He does, Yuan Ming,” I said, noting that
“And the Harlequin!” she sped on, “he is so cute; I love
him. Is he the same Harlequin as in my print?”
“More or less; they follow the same set of drawings,” I
told her, hoping she would understand.
“But why do you like the Harlequin so much, Uncle? Is it
because he is a little funny; like a clown?”
“That’s not the reason, Yuan Ming: the Harlequin has
dreams; big dreams.”
“What sort of dreams?”
“He wants to do great things; perhaps change the world.”
“But is there a special word for this?”
“A difficult word, Yuan Ming,” I said awkwardly. “He has
aspirations.”
“Is this something like expectations?”
“So you know this word! How come?”
“Oh, the teacher read us a story, about a naughty girl
who was very nasty to a boy until he beat another boy. And then she gave him a
kiss; and the teacher said the story was from a book called ‘Great
Expectations’. So Mark asked what this meant; and she told us about people who
expect to get a lot of money when they grow up. This is not so nice. Is
‘aspiration’ the same thing?”
“No, Yuan Ming; an ‘expectation’ is something you hope
to get from or through others; an ‘aspiration’ is something you want to achieve
– I mean, to do – yourself; often without help.”
“Perhaps like a
girl trying to draw beautiful paintings?”
“Precisely, Yuan Ming.”
For a few seconds the line was silent. Then I heard her
laugh happily. “So this is an aspiration! And Uncle I really love the little
Harlequin. But you like the Bowing Harlequin best? Do you think you will get
him one day?”
“I shall aspire to get him,” I confirmed, amused.
“Perhaps, one day when I am a big girl, I’ll find him
and then I’ll bring him to you,” she said and, before I could recover from my
surprise, she finished: “See you soon Uncle, and many thanks.”
For a while I held the receiver in my hand, unable to
return it to its cradle. “Isn’t it
splendid to have such a bright little niece,” I told myself.
4. Relative
Vision
When I recall the period following the day I became Yuan Ming’s uncle I
break into a smile. They had been full of joy – those early years in my Eastern
town.
Professionally, I was going from strength to strength.
David Ratnam kept his promise. Although his subsequent briefs were not as
lucrative as the first, they brought in a pretty penny. Additional matters came
in from other law firms, to whom Ratnam had mentioned my name. Every so often,
my part-time income exceeded my monthly salary. Soon the financial insecurity,
traceable to my parents’ spell as refugees in
My personal life, too, was gratifying. My closest
friendship was with Tay Fang-Shuo and Yuan Ming. Ever since that unforgettable
day when the small girl had accepted me as her special uncle, I was regarded by
both father and daughter as a member of the little world that existed in the
shop. Frequently,
Yuan Ming, too, treated me as her confidant, telling me
her innocent secrets when customers arrived during my regular visits on
Thursdays or Fridays. As soon as the electronic bell chimed, I would slip to
the back of the shop, making myself comfortable in one of the chairs adjacent
to the cabinets containing the Tang and Song artefacts. Usually Yuan Ming
joined me, and, perched on my lap, giggled about tricks her classmates had
played on some unfortunate teacher, or expressed righteous indignation at the
shameless manner in which some children had cribbed from others in class tests.
In turn, she wanted to know all about my own school days. After a while, I
started to invent funny stories for her amusement, depicting myself – I must
confess – as hero rather than as victim or villain.
One afternoon, when Yuan Ming and I re-entered the shop
after a customer had departed,
“Tang bowl just as good, perhaps even better: is
thinner.”
“But how about last piece to right? Small bowl, is
green-white porcelain.”
I looked carefully at the small white bowl, with its
blue-green tinge and finely impressed pattern of two fish and a geometric
formation resembling waves. It was extremely thin. Tapping it gently, I
realised what I was touching. “Kaoling
and Petunze – Kaolin and porcelain
stone!” I exclaimed, awestruck. “This then porcelain mixture. So, Mr Tay, you
show me progression from Tang to Song; like Dr Alfred Cheng writes in his
book!”
“Technical progression, sure; perhaps also aesthetic,”
he agreed. “But which one, my friend, which you like better?”
“I adore the simplicity of the Tang bowl: inimitable by
modern potter, except if copies slavishly.”
“So to you progression in pieces relative,” he
countered, in a tone lacking even the slightest hint of sarcasm.
“But don’t you think this Ming piece is even better?”
asked Yuan Ming, who had been watching both of us with her usual eagerness.
“Look what Daddy gave me today.”
There could be no doubt about the delicacy of the
colours and the harmony between the underglaze blue and the bright enamels
displayed on the cup she produced. I had, further, to admire the quality of the
shining white porcelain. All the same, my eye travelled back to the Tang bowl
and the green-white Song piece.
“I know why you like it,” I assured her. “And it is
magnificent. And the colours are fresh; as if it was fired yesterday.”
“Of course they are,” she answered, happily. “They are
lovely.” As she swayed on her perch, I quickly placed my arm around her
shoulders to ensure that she would not slip off.
“Oh, I am not going to fall over!” she laughed happily.
Turning back to her new piece, she continued: “But don’t you think it is
wonderful?”
“Expressive and elegant,” I agreed willingly. “And, of
course, your Daddy will agree you have every reason to like it best …”
“Yes,” interjected
“I still like the Tang piece,” I admitted, casting a
guilty glance at the eager face of the little girl.
“Oh, that’s alright Uncle,” she reassured me, unoffended
but – I sensed – aggrieved. “But in my
piece, every colour is just right!”
“So,” said
“Which in turn may be the product of chance?”
“Perhaps is so not only in liking or preference of
individual,” he summed up.
It took me a few seconds to realise that, for the first
time in our many conversations,
From all the memorable sessions I was privileged to have
with him in the coming years, that special encounter left the deepest
impression. As I left the shop at dusk, I knew my original hunch had been
right. Whilst Tay Fang-Shuo might not have found all the evidence to back his
theory, he had long passed the experimental or contemplative phase. His views
were mature and fully developed, even if he was not, as yet, ready to commit
them to paper.
5. Friendship
with Florie
My friendship with the Tays gave me many happy moments. A separate source
of comfort was my relationship with Florie. It wasn’t long before it developed
from a mere liaison, which was in itself satisfying, into an affair grounded in
common understanding and affection. Initially, I rang Florie once or twice a
week and, after spending a pleasant night with her, unobtrusively left an
envelope behind before taking my leave. However, I was concerned about the
implications of this arrangement, which was both indelicate and incompatible
with the regard I felt for her. I was relieved when Florie proposed an easy way
out.
“Look, Peter,” she said one morning as I was about to
slip an envelope beneath a book on her table, “no need do like this every time
you come. Why not you give me allowance; and Peter, no need give much and every
month same; you earn more one month, and you like, you give me more; you
understand. You see, I know you a little shy so I think is best I tell you.
Also, you know, I go out with you because you nice; I like you. So you not
worry so much about give me money. I make good money; have enough.”
“I wanted to suggest something like this,” I told her
with relief. “But I didn’t know how to raise the subject.”
“I know, Peter. You not so confident with women. But you
not worry. You OK with me.”
I looked at her gratefully. As so often before, I sensed that her poor
English clouded her sophistication and intelligence. She had settled a touchy
issue sensibly and with tact. I decided that it was time to raise another topic
that had been on my mind for some time.
“Look Florie: we always meet in the evening; we go for
dinner then home. I am really grateful and happy. But I wonder if you may
perhaps also be free in the morning, to go out together; you know what I mean.”
“I sleep late so get up late,” she said readily. “But
after ten or eleven I free; but you, you not need go University?”
“Twice a week I teach in the evening: classes for part
time students. So our Dean doesn’t mind if I take the next morning off. Nobody
will say anything as long as I am back by about two-thirty or three in the
afternoon.”
“And what you want we do, Peter?”
“See
“Alright! Tuesday I go market; you like you come take me
When I arrived on Tuesday, Florie was wearing a pair of slacks and not
her Cheongsam. “Is comfortable,” she explained, as she slipped into the car.
Soon we were on our way to the Sago Lane Market, in the
heart of
The Sago Lane Market, which sprawled across
Yet another attraction was the food hawkers’ stalls. For
a modest amount one could have an excellent Hokkien Mee, a dish of noodles in
broth garnished with prawns and beansprouts and sprinkled with ground fried
shallots. Initially, I had been put off by the open and unhygienic looking
monsoon drains running behind the stalls. After a while, though, I succumbed to
the delicious aroma of the steaming food and one evening suggested to Wally and
Lydia, who came down with me, that we partake. Wally and I ate heartily and
without any ill effects. But Lydia, the upper-class Anglo-Indian, nibbled at
her food, leaving the succulent prawns untouched.
The Sago Lane Market became a different place at dawn.
Early on Sunday mornings, before the heat of the day descended on the city, I
would roam through its crowded lanes, enthralled by the atmosphere that
reminded me of the wholesale market in
I thought of the attractions of
“Look Florie: I have been to the market and to
“Like tourist, with camera?” she asked, with a not very
well concealed sneer.
“True,” I admitted, “people, fruit and so on are
colourful subjects; but I don’t like to photograph the death houses!”
“You not like?”
“I do not! It is terrible to see the people playing
Mah-Jong and drinking beer in front of the building, waiting for an old
relative to die upstairs.” I did not add that I had observed how one of them
would rise from his Mah-Jong game, enter the premises and a few moments later
re-emerge with a shrug indicating that the wait was not over. Despite the
rational element in such behaviour, it struck me as shockingly callous.
Florie was unperturbed. “But Peter, if person die at
home is bad luck. So they bring here and wait. Then have big funeral. You have
seen?”
I had, of course, watched the noisy and colourful
traditional funerals, which struck me as ritualised. Seeing me nod, she added:
“Chinese people not so sentimental; if sudden death is different. But old
person, die we expect. So nobody very sad. Then we show respect in funeral.”
Inwardly, I shuddered at the recollection of the
rhythmic beat of the drums that accompanied the funeral processions. To my
Western eye and ears, the proceedings lacked decorum.
“You not understand, Peter,” said Florie, a touch
annoyed. “Chinese people has own customs. My grandmother die like this. We sit
outside and wait; this is respect. When she dead we feel sad but think is
better. After big funeral everything finished.”
“Oh, very well, I understand; but why do they play
Mah-Jong on such occasions?”
“Better than do nothing. You, Peter, see with Angmoh
eye. To me is OK. But never mind; you live here long, you understand better.”
We were by then creeping through the narrow lanes of
“Foreign custom not easy understand, Mr Mid Yeast
Tourist. Best keep open mind,” he had said, adding with his wry grin: “Is what
you call tolerance.”
As I recalled these words, it dawned on me that, despite
the educational gap between
I should have liked to pursue these notions with Florie,
but things were getting busy. We had just arrived at the vegetable stalls.
Although it was by then close to
Leaving the full shopping bag behind, we proceeded to
the spice stalls. I watched with fascination as the matronly Indian woman
ground the nutmeg, coriander and other spices Florie had selected. “You see,
Peter, fresh spices best,” she said, and, referring to our leading supermarket,
added: “Cold Storage expensive and not so good.”
“So now I know why your curries are so good!” I
flattered her.
We proceeded to the poultry stall. Florie and the
saleswomen watched the chickens squawking in the wire cages whilst I turned my
head away to dodge the stench of dung and feathers. When I turned back, the
woman was adroitly placing one struggling chicken on a wooden board and, in a
flash, had chopped off its head. Florie watched with satisfaction the ruby red
blood gushing into a small bottle. I was beginning to feel squeamish. As I
looked on, the woman said something in Hokkien, whereupon Florie turned to me,
her face full of concern: “You alright, Peter? Your face white!”
“I’m fine,” I assured her, sounding shaky even to my own
ears. “It’s just that I have never before seen a chicken slaughtered.”
Both women burst into merry, non-malicious laughter.
“But you like to eat,” said Florie. “When we come take, it look like
supermarket chicken.”
“But why does she collect the blood?”
“Good for weak lung; but must be very red and strong,”
explained Florie. “I bring friend has TB; cook with herbs.”
Florie proceeded to make purchases at various stalls.
The only time her friendly demeanour changed was when we arrived at the fish
stall. Although she did not raise her voice, it was clear from her tone that
she was upbraiding the fishmonger, who, after a feeble attempt to hold his
ground, became embarrassingly contrite. As we left with our purchases, Florie
observed: “Last time, he give me bad fish; so I tell him not do again or I go
buy other shop.”
“You think he did it on purpose?”
“Can be, or perhaps fish not on ice; but if I not scold
him, he think I not mind. Now he not cheat again; he say sorry and give me
extra piece free!”
As so often before, I looked at her with admiration.
Florie’s values were clearly defined. She had a heart of gold, but she was no
pushover. A stall keeper might get an extra few cents out of her by being
affable, but she was not going to be short-changed. Florie guessed what was on
my mind: “Look, Peter: bargain here not right, hawkers know me; but I hate
people cheat.”
So – in appropriate situations – Florie, too, drew the
line when it came to bargaining. I was about to express my approval when we
came across a stall that had captivated me during many of my own strolls. In
the centre of the steel frame hung huge snakes with their heads cut off. Next
to them, on both sides, were neatly skinned monitor lizards. The shopkeeper
smiled at me in recognition.
“You know this stall?” asked Florie, surprised.
“It is fascinating,” I told her. “But who buys the meat?
Somebody does if it is on display for sale?”
“Snake meat very good; very expensive,” she replied. “I
eat one time, is nice, but I not know about this thing –” she was pointing at
one of the lizards.
She spent a few minutes in conversation with the vendor,
who was wearing the customary pyjama trousers and a shirt. To my surprise, he
produced a bottle, kept under the canvas of the stall. It contained a yellowish
liquid, in which was floating a skinned lizard, pinkish from its immersion in
the marinade.
“He say people not so much like meat. Buy the liquid in
bottle; is like brandy, he say.”
“So they drink it?” I asked with trepidation and –
having become familiar with the hospitality of some of the local food hawkers –
with foreboding.
“Yes,” she said, adding emphatically: “he say, you
please try. I think, Peter, now you must.”
Had I been on my own, I would undoubtedly have beaten a
quick retreat, giving not a moment’s thought to the smiling stall keeper’s
feelings. Florie’s presence meant that escape was out of the question. With a
shaking hand, I took the small glass he was holding, trying hard not to close
my eyes. Then my hand steadied: the fragrance that reached my nose was subtle
and inviting.
“He ask you drink slowly; is a bit strong,” said Florie,
sounding anxious.
It was delicious. Overcoming the remnants of my
repugnance, I took a second sip, moving the liquid slowly and appreciatively
around my palate.
“It is really good!” I said, as both Florie and the
vendor smiled happily. “He does use nice herbs. But, please, ask him: does it
have a special effect or something; it is almost pure alcohol?”
“Good for men!” translated Florie.
Naturally, I had to purchase a small bottle of the
expensive elixir. Seeking to avoid any transaction involving snake meat, I
reminded Florie that we had to collect her purchases. Soon we were back at the
car, having been assisted by the greengrocer’s boy. All in all, it had been an
exciting morning. The only snag was the elixir, which I brought back to my
flat. A few sips had been nice; but was it safe to consume the entire bottle?
In the end, I followed the stall keeper’s instructions and drank one small glass
every evening. I came to no harm; but I remained unconvinced of its aphrodisiac
properties.
In the coming weeks Florie and I enjoyed many outings.
We went to other markets, to different hawker centres, some of which were
patronised almost exclusively by Chinese educated people, occasionally to
matinees in the Rex or
“But you not have daughter,” said Florie.
“Of course not. It’s for the daughter of a friend,” I
explained.
“How old?”
“About nine.”
“But this material for grown up girl, Peter, you know?”
“She has a pretty smart taste in clothes.”
Smiling, Florie urged me to buy a piece of French silk in addition to my
selection. Her taste was, obviously, more refined than mine. Yuan Ming’s eyes
sparkled with joy when, two days later, she unpacked Florie’s choice.
6. A Confident Young Man
My relationship with Florie had a beneficial effect on may day-to-day
life. I became less edgy and less perturbed by irritations at work. In
addition, the affair boosted my self-confidence. When I met Florie, I was still
on the rebound following a disappointment back at home. My success with a
sophisticated Eastern girl enabled me to get over that defeat.
Another consequence of this liaison was an improvement
in my relationship with Wally and, even more so, with Lydia. Although Wally was
by nature a non-possessive character, he must have been irked from time to time
by the persistent warm glances I bestowed on his girlfriend. Lydia, in turn,
had felt the need to maintain her reserve. Like many beautiful women, she had a
phobia of misleading a man who was interested in her.
The two became more comfortable with me after an evening
in
It turned out to be a delightful evening. Lydia dropped
her aloof demeanour, which had made her unpopular with many women in the
University. As often before, I felt that she was, in reality, a warm and kindly
person. I was particularly glad when she openly savoured the dishes chosen by
Florie. Wally, too, enjoyed himself thoroughly and – to the relief of all of us
– without getting drunk or making inappropriate wisecracks. I was amused when
Florie told him: “Today, you really good boy, Wally.” Smiling, Lydia nodded.
From that day, Wally treated me with greater respect
than he had done before. I also noticed that, in the months that followed, I
received fewer rescue calls from the joints he had once frequented on an almost
nightly basis. Was it possible, I asked myself, that Lydia had finally agreed
to marry him? It was, after all, feasible that his earlier sodden behaviour was
a by-product of frustration.
Lydia, who could have thrown light on the apparent
change in Wally’s behaviour, gave me no clue. In a way, this was strange
because I had begun to see a lot of her. The cause was prosaic: as Convenor of
the Ceramics Committee, Lydia had the task of bargain hunting for our museum.
To avoid any allegation of profiteering, she was accompanied on her missions by
an independent eyewitness.
For a time, she took with her the secretary of the
museum, but that had the undesirable effect of leaving the telephone in the
charge of Wally, who could become rather unpredictable when left on his own
with a bottle of whisky. Later on, Lydia recruited one of the assistant
registrars, an English educated Cantonese lady, who was interested in porcelain
but who had to pull out if called upon to assist the Vice Chancellor or his
Deputy. After a few such cancellations, Lydia turned to me. Valuing the opportunity
to observe her technique of examining Ming porcelain, I agreed.
We had regular
excursions to the antiques shops of Singapore, including some little known dens
in the Thieves Market. Lydia, who was an excellent driver, insisted that we use
her car, meticulously charging the Estate Department the appropriate expenses
for petrol and depreciation and feeling free to add the odd mile here and there
for short deviations to shopping centres.
Once in an antiques shop, though, she did the University
proud. While she never bargained in her individual purchases, she tried to save
every cent for our museum. Indeed, even her demeanour metamorphosed. Out went
the aloof Western Memsahib, to be replaced by a worldly Indian woman moulded of
common clay. On occasions, even her English underwent a subtle change, with the
Indian singsong becoming more pronounced. I had to admire her determination
but, in my heart of hearts, I suspected that her efforts were fruitless: most
of the dealers mentally jacked up the prices as soon as she entered their
shops. They did, however, show due respect for her expertise: few of them dared
to dispute her assessment of a piece.
What impressed me most was Lydia’s way of examining
porcelain.
In contrast, Lydia commenced her examination of a piece
by moving her fingers lightly across the glazed surface, spotting abrasions and
estimating thickness. Frequently, she
spent two or three minutes on this process. After that she glanced briefly at
the paste and then, and only then, tapped the piece, in a rather perfunctory
manner. She would then raise her head and express her opinion. She never used
colour charts.
Despite the difference between the techniques of Lydia
and
My affair with Florie and the improved relationship with
Wally and Lydia boosted my morale. At the very same time a cloud was forming
over my pursuit of porcelain with
One such episode occurred when she was told that she had
to wear spectacles. Initially, she was disconsolate. I tried to placate her.
“But even Lydia wears glasses!”
“But she is so beautiful,” insisted Yuan Ming. “So the
specs don’t matter.”
“And, you know,” I persevered, “I was in love with a
girl who wore specs with very thick glasses.”
“But was she pretty?”
“No, but she was nice; and she knew how to make me
laugh.”
“So why didn’t you marry her?” Yuan Ming persisted, in a
mellowed tone, ignoring
“She preferred someone else,” I confided, trying to keep
the sadness out of my voice. Noticing
“Is this girl perhaps why you here in
“One of the reasons,” I confirmed, noting the change in
his expression. Had he, too, experienced the bitter taste of a rejection? I had
assumed all along that, even if Mrs Tay was English educated, the marriage had
been arranged by the families. It never crossed my mind that, before he married
Yuan Ming’s mother,
Yuan Ming, to my relief, broke into her usual happy
smile. A fortnight later, she was wearing glasses. She looked as happy as ever
and admitted that the frame hid the scar left by the fall in school.
Another occasion on which
“But Uncle,” she retorted when I suggested a moratorium,
“this is what Daddy said when I wanted to stop three months ago. And I don’t
want to waste my time any longer!”
“Why is it a waste of time? Don’t you think music is
beautiful?”
“I know it is; but I am no good. I am very slow and I
just don’t get it right; and I really tried. And you know, Mummy only wants me
to play the piano because my niece Su Lin plays so well.”
“But do you really think this is the only reason? Don’t
you think Mummy wants you to do well? And is it really such a terrible waste of
time; isn’t it just one hour a week?”
“But there is all the practice,” she explained. “And if
I don’t have to do it I can use my brushes and draw. And also, Daddy needs me
in the shop. I help him.”
I had not anticipated the last argument. Seeing my
puzzled expression, she went on to explain: “Daddy likes to study his best new
pieces and so there is always a lot I must do. Now I arrange all the pieces in
the cabinets.” She paused for a moment and then went on with self-assurance:
“Daddy only likes good pieces. But many customers want cute pieces – with a lot
of colours – even if they are not so special. So I put these pieces where
customers spot them when they just look around. And Daddy lets me fix their
prices. You see, if I put the price up we have more money and Daddy can keep
more pieces for his own collection. Also, if a piece is cute but too cheap some
customers think it’s no good! So I fix the right price: I know how, honestly.
So Daddy needs me in our shop; and I love it. And it is also my shop!”
I must have looked dumbfounded. Although we were in a
public place, Yuan Ming, whose eyes were sparkling, hopped onto my lap. “You
look so funny, Uncle. Did you think I let Daddy do all the work?”
“Of course not,” I assured her. “But I thought your job
was to look after the pieces and wrap them up when sold?”
“Oh no. I really help with all the business,” she
laughed, happily. “I do such a good job that Daddy pays me a salary and also a
commission if a customer buys a piece I show him. And when I grow up I’ll be a
full partner! So I don’t want to waste my time on the silly piano.”
I could see her point but thought it best to tread
carefully. I was still searching for a suitable reply when Yuan Ming gave me a
cue: “And I don’t think Mummy is really so fond of music. But if I take piano
lessons I must go home after school on Tuesday.”
“So perhaps your mother just wants you to spend a little
bit of time with her?” Seeing her nod, I went on, “So why don’t you suggest you
do something else together, something you may enjoy doing on Saturday or
Sunday?” A contemplative look appeared on Yuan Ming’s face.
A few weeks later I discovered that the resulting
heart-to-heart talk between daughter and mother had borne fruit. A tray of
delicious and brightly coloured pancakes, filled with crushed coconut and
Malacca sugar, accompanied our usual cups of tea.
“Mummy is teaching me how to cook!” Yuan Ming said with
glee. “I made these pancakes myself for you and Daddy.”
“That was sweet of you; and do
you like cooking?”
“Oh yes! And I try to make the
dishes look pretty and colourful; and Mummy is so happy.”
7.
The Song Puzzle
Such episodes did much to soften the impact of my unsatisfactory progress
in the study of Song porcelain. For although I appreciated the technical
advances made by the Song potters, I developed no affinity for, or even a sound
understanding of, their styles and aesthetic ideals. Naturally, I admired the
quality of the porcelain, the lightness and growing translucency of the later
Southern Song pieces and the intricacy of the patterns found on many of them.
All the same, the artefacts failed to emulate the delight that I experienced
whenever I picked up a fine Sui or Tang figurine. For some reason, I found the
Song pieces artificial.
I suspect that, had I come across Song porcelain in
museums or whilst attending a course of lectures on oriental art, I should have
simply shrugged and turned to other periods in ceramics. I might even have
surmised that, during the Song period, Chinese porcelain had undergone a
decline. But my esteem for
“But Mr Tay,” I once observed as I was searching for the
answer, “you show me nice utensils, some white, some straw glaze and some
green. Is fine: but how about figurines?”
Without answering,
“But don’t you have any other, plainer Song figurines?”
“Have; but I think you not like.”
He was right. The badly glazed, rough figurines he
placed in front of me struck me as poor relations of my Tang pieces.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Tang figurines,” he said pointedly, “what was object?”
“Funerary,” I said readily, “come mainly from graves.”
Pausing for a moment, I drew my conclusion: “So burial custom changed in Song
period?”
“Yes,” he said, adding with renewed enthusiasm, “and you
please telling me: in your opinion was progress?”
I had to nod my assent. Dr Alfred Cheng’s book included
a reference to the gruesome custom of placing in the graves of the nobility of
the Shang period the bodies of their slain attendants and slaves. The lively
figurines of the later Han, Sui and Tang periods served as symbolic substitutes
following the abolition of the original barbaric ritual. Obviously, funerary
figurines became largely redundant in the more enlightened Song society.
“Pity this progress so bad for art,” I muttered.
“So perhaps progress relative,” retorted
I gave in. “Very well. But how about style? Song
monochromes: never mind if white or green, more refined than Tang; are thinner;
but no life. You see, some Tang bowl is heavy and not so neat, but many have
handles with shape of animal; and composition is free. Song pattern intricate
but is stereotyped.”
“Loud and clear,” I assured him. I had not forgotten
that, during the Tang period, potters had continued to copy bronze and jade
patterns. The Song potter struck out in search of his own identity. Still, one
point made by
“But you told me some pieces, like your Tang camel, is
imperial ware?”
“Is; come from tomb of noblewoman so quality high; but
in Tang period no special mention of porcelain in Imperial records or
literature. In Song is: so porcelain get official recognition; some kilns
produce only for Court.”
Again, I nodded my understanding. Dr Cheng’s book
referred to the description of certain Song wares in contemporary eulogies of
the tea ceremony. Porcelain cups were described as an essential part of the
rites. So the potter’s art acquired respectability.
“Second point,” he continued, “is this: Song porcelain
has theme.” After a short pause he added: “All ceramics is applied art: made
for purpose. Not like painting which can be pure art. In porcelain, even Kuan
Yin has purpose: made for religious worship. So is enough if porcelain good for
purpose. If attractive even better. But Song porcelain is like pure art.”
“You mean like Kändler’s figurines; like the Bowing
Harlequin?”
“Perhaps not bad comparison,” said
“But, Daddy,” Yuan Ming broke in, “I still think Ming
porcelain is more pretty.” Turning to me, she added: “Ming has colours; lovely
colours. Daddy, can I show Uncle our new bowl?”
“Oh, alright,” he said, suppressing his irritation;
“little girl has own mind.”
I looked with interest at the small polychrome bowl she
produced. It was thin and lovely. The sound it emitted when tapped was just
right: a musical chord.
“It’s as cute as you,” I told her.
“And aren’t the colours beautiful; and the flowers are
lovely.”
“It certainly pleases the eye,” I agreed.
“Ah,” said
“I shall do my best: my very best!” I promised.
Making the promise was easy; keeping it was difficult.
Discussing the problem with Wally and Lydia was useless.
“Look here, Peter,” declared Wally, “some secrets of Chinese culture remain a
closed book to all of us. You know my work on textiles …”
“Of world renown,” I broke in.
“No need to exaggerate,” he retorted, with a touch of
bitterness. “But even so, sometimes I simply can’t understand the finer points
of some Eastern tapestries.”
“But I am not talking about the subtle points of Song
poetry or of individual pottery pieces: just the general meaning.”
“But do you really think it is reasonable of you to
expect to get it in a few weeks? Some people try for years and still end up
with a headache.”
Lydia’s response was even more discouraging than
Wally’s. “Welcome to the club,” she said. “In my opinion, the Chinese make too
big a deal of their Song porcelain. I find it dull and non-creative.”
The only sound advice I got came, in the most unexpected
context, from Florie. The subject cropped up spontaneously after an excursion
to Johore. Following a pleasant lunch by the waterfalls at Kota Tingi, we
stopped off at a rubber plantation. I was impressed by the skill involved in
slitting the thick bark of the trees and inserting the conical bawls at a
position suitable for collecting the fluid rubber dripping from the slashes.
But the pay and working conditions of the women who constituted the workforce
were appalling.
When we left, I
reflected on the injustice involved. Then, as we crossed back into Singapore,
my mind began to wander, and eventually focused
on the subject of Song porcelain. Try as I might, I could not tear
myself away from it.
“Peter, what you think now?” I heard Florie asking. “You
worry about women in plantation?”
“No, Florie,” I told her truthfully. “It is a sad story;
but there is little you or I can do.”
“So why you so sad? Last four weeks, I know something
wrong. Perhaps your work?” Seeing me shake my head, she added “Or your
parents?”
“Nothing like it, Florie. It’s just that I can’t
understand something.”
“Something your work?”
“No Florie – the secret of Song porcelain.”
Seeing her eyes widen, I thought it best to explain. As
always, Florie listened attentively, interrupting me only when she lost track.
One point which, to my surprise, she sought to clarify was whether
“But, Peter,” she pointed out once I had finished, “why
Song porcelain so important? You good banking lawyer: make good money and have
good university job. So why worry?”
“I hate to come across problems I can’t solve!”
“But you not speak Chinese; not read Chinese; not know
our traditions; and this you not mind. Why your porcelain more important?”
“Because I’m a collector,” I explained. “For many years
I collect European porcelain. I know it well, like a professional. And I also
understand some Chinese porcelain –
“And Mr Tay, you very fond of him. Also, you treat him
like teacher? Correct?”
“Spot on. He is a great scholar and, Florie, a real
gentleman!”
“So this is reason,” she soothed. “When you tell me I
first think perhaps you want be clever. Men always so. Want show off. But now I
understand. You sad also because cannot please man you treat like teacher.”
Seeing me nod, slightly embarrassed by her forthright analysis, she concluded:
“I think we drive your flat. I not know porcelain. But I very Chinese; perhaps
can see why for you difficult.”
Back at the flat, Florie cast her usual disapproving
gaze on the unadorned, heavy furniture supplied by the University. Then she
walked over to my elegant rosewood cabinet, ordered to her own specifications.
It dawned on me that, although she had visited me many times, she had never
looked at my pieces carefully. I waited patiently as she began to examine them.
“Peter, why you bother such things?” she asked after a
while, spurning my collection with a dismissive sway of her hand.
“But Florie, these pieces are from the Tang and Song
kingdoms: rare and very special: some are more than a thousand years old!”
“But you think are beautiful?”
“Yes; and making them was a great art.”
“Alright,” she said tolerantly. “But which pieces you
not understand?”
To introduce my predicament, I placed a number of Tang
pieces on one side of my dining table and several Song pieces on the other.
“These are Tang; I see life, movement. These are Song;
very even, some with intricate patterns. They appeal to me; but I can’t
understand the potter’s idea or object.”
Suppressing her dislike for the pieces, Florie picked
them up one by one. I could see from her expression that she thought my Sui
groom coarse and my Tang ewer with its griffin-shaped handles – the gem of my
white-wares – uneven. She smiled for the first time when I picked up a Song
piece and, tapping it, caused it to produce a lovely sound.
“I know, Peter,” she said, “but plate from modern shop
also make nice sound; sometime I also tap.
You say your piece special because old.” She continued to study
the pieces. I could see some interest glinting in her keen eyes.
“Look, Peter,” she said, “I not know what Song pieces
means. But pattern all very Chinese. Fish, you know, is also word for rich.”
Seeing me nod, as I had already gleaned that information from
“I know this,” I told her, “and the meaning of the
patterns is explained in books and also Mr Tay tells me. The problem is: why is
it so different from Tang and what is the artist’s object?”
“This I not know; is too difficult, Peter,” she said,
truthfully. “But one thing I see. Your Tang pieces I just look, see everything;
these Song pieces I must look very slow if want see pattern. You think is so?”
Seeing the admiration in my eyes, she added in a hurry: “But is so clear. You
not see this?”
“No, Florie,” I confessed. “I examine every piece very
carefully; to see if it is genuine and to appreciate its class and value. As a
result I did not see this difference; it may be an important clue.”
“Good,” said Florie with satisfaction. “And one more
thing, Peter. I think perhaps you try too hard. You see, sometime better not
try hard. Happen to me with shares. When I begin, I try so hard; I read
everything; I not understand and confuse. Then I just listen what people say,
read in Chinese paper; take easy. Today I know market very well. So perhaps you
also try not so hard. Do other thing. I think you know what is Song porcelain;
so I think one day you find out what you want know.”
I smiled at her gratefully, then began to put the pieces
back on their shelves. As I closed the doors of the cabinet, Florie appeared
from the tiny kitchen brandishing two cups of coffee. As we drank, Florie
raised another point: “But, Peter, if this porcelain so old, how come not
broken?”
“Most of it comes from graves and so …” I cut myself
short in dismay. Florie reeled back as if she had touched a live wire. I in
turn poured my coffee all over my trousers.
“Peter,” she said, distressed, “how you keep such thing
in house? You not afraid of ghost?”
“Ghost?”
“Ghost: spirit of man. You steal from his grave. Is very
bad, Peter; is not right.”
“But Florie,” I said, attempting to soothe her by
putting my arm around her shoulder, “the owner has been dead for hundreds of
years and, of course, the thieves, as you call them, were the chaps who dug up
his grave. Could be a Chinese team of specialists and they may have dug it up
fifty or twenty years ago. So don’t worry. We are very far away from the scene
of the crime.”
“Perhaps,” she said after a while, looking less
agitated, but still ill at ease. “Perhaps, but is not clean, not clean at all.
I tell you, we now go have shower; and you, Peter, you please always wash your
hands after you touch pieces; and you not put on dining table.”
“Very well,” I assured her. “I don’t want to catch
anything.”
“Alright,” she said, “perhaps I too much scared.”
Later on, as I was driving her to the Princess, she made a further
observation. “Peter,” she asked “Mr Tay’s little daughter …”
“Yuan Ming” I told her.
“Alright, Yuan Ming – she always with father in shop?
Shop with such things?”
“Yes.”
“You very fond of her, Peter.”
“I am, Florie, as if she were my own daughter.”
“So I tell you, Peter,” Florie cast a wistful glace at
me. “Is not good little girl always there; is not right place for child; I
think better child play with other children. Not good if child with parents all
time. And such shop, no good at all.”
8: Original or Replica?
For the next few weeks, I tried hard to follow
Florie’s advice. In any event, a surge in briefs meant that, for the time
being, I had to dismiss Song porcelain from my mind. Then I had my first
breakthrough.
It happened during an excursion with Lydia. We called on
a well-known shop in Orchard Road which had just acquired a fine collection of
Ming porcelain from the estate of a local collector. I watched Lydia haggle
with the shopkeeper, who spoke good English and who was a cut above the
ordinary local dealers. Becoming bored as they went on, I decided to examine
the artefacts displayed in his cabinets. Suddenly, my eye rested on an almost
pure white ewer. Picking the heavily potted piece up, I noted with interest its
exact and regular proportions, the thickness of the glaze, the fine though not
fully vitrified paste exposed at its base, and the neat, regular impressions
around its midriff. When tapped, it emitted a slightly hollow tone, indicative
of an inadequate firing. Looking it over again
I realised I was holding a very early Song piece. When I looked up, I
saw Lydia and the shopkeeper staring at me.
“What is this piece?” I asked him.
“A modern replica. It is too heavy to be real.”
“What is its price?”
“What do you want that piece for?” asked Lydia. “Why
don’t you get a nice Ming blue and white for a change?”
“Oh, I rather like the ewer. I’ll take, if it’s not too
expensive.”
“You can have it for thirty dollars.”
“For a replica?” protested Lydia.
Keen to avoid another round of bargaining, the
shop-owner gave way: “Alright, alright, it came as part of the collection so I
can come down. How about twenty?”
Ignoring Lydia’s disapproving expression, I handed him
the money. He packed the ewer carelessly and handed me the parcel with a shrug.
Back in the car, Lydia gave vent to her indignation. “Sometimes I can’t
understand you at all, Peter. What on earth made you buy this clumsy replica?”
“I don’t think it’s a replica,” I told her. “It’s an
early Song piece.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“I am: that chap and the executors of the estate are
bumpkins. Pieces like this are rare: I am satisfied that it’s real.”
For a while Lydia was silent. Then, with the smile of an
adult humouring a stubborn child, she said: “We can soon find out: why don’t we
drive to
For a moment I hesitated. I was due at the shop the
following day and, although
“Very well then,” I said.
Both
“Hello, Yuan Ming; you don’t look too pleased to see me
today!” I said jokingly.
“Oh, you are always welcome, Uncle, but I thought you’d
come tomorrow. I wanted to show you my new dress.”
“I’ll come tomorrow too, as always,” I assured her. She
became less agitated but I sensed that she was still irked. Then Lydia stepped
in.
“Peter and I went to buy some pieces for the museum. We
need your Daddy’s advice on some of them. Can I show mine first?”
Moving to the other end of the counter, Lydia began to
unwrap her Ming artefacts, while I stood beside Yuan Ming. Her black eyes were
not smiling as she looked at me intently.
“What’s the matter, young lady?” I asked.
“Do you go often with Auntie Lydia to buy porcelain?”
“About once a month, Yuan Ming. You see, if Auntie Lydia
goes alone people can say she paid too much. So it’s better if there is
somebody with her.”
“And you also bought a Ming piece?”
“No. I think my piece is early Song; but Auntie Lydia
thinks it’s a fake. So we came to ask your Daddy.”
“You just picked it up yourself?” she asked with growing
interest.
“Quite; and I hope I haven’t made a fool of myself.”
Seeing her expression mellow further, I asked spontaneously, “So why don’t you
have a look at it?”
“But I don’t know much about Song,” she replied
modestly. The happy smile returned to her face, her initial annoyance –
whatever its cause – gone.
“Nonsense,” I told her, “you know a lot about all
Chinese porcelain. So let’s have a look together.”
Yuan Ming examined the object of contention
meticulously. It was, actually, the first time I had seen her classifying a new
piece. To my amazement she did not handle the ewer immediately. Instead she
spent some time looking at the glaze. She then picked the piece up to gauge its
weight and, without examining the paste or tapping it, said with confidence: “I
don’t know if it’s Tang or Song, Uncle; but it’s not a fake.”
“But you didn’t even look at the paste and you didn’t
tap it.”
“I know the glaze; and it is heavy like early Song or
late Tang pieces. I am not so good with the paste.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, trying to hide my disbelief.
“You didn’t even check the glaze against your Daddy’s colour chart.”
“But I don’t need to, Uncle. I’m very sure. So you are
right.”
“You aren’t just trying to please your uncle?” I asked,
suddenly suspicious.
“Oh, no; Daddy says you must always be honest about Art.
Even if you make a person feel sad. But I am so glad you are right. And let’s
see what Daddy says.”
I was about to respond when I caught Yuan Ming’s eager
expression. “Why not Yuan Ming give her opinion first?” I suggested.
“May I really, Daddy?” she asked keenly. As he nodded,
she started to talk very fast in Mandarin.
“Yuan Ming not sure if late Tang or Song; say cannot be
fake. And you, my friend?”
“Shape and feel of this piece is very early Song,
Northern Song.”
“But why you say so?” he asked. “What so special about
piece?”
“The spout,” I embarked on my analysis: “too long and
curved for Tang ewer; shape is very exact, shape and proportions; and handle is
Song; and colour and sound are right, but main thing: the regular simple
impressions on midriff: Tang different.” I was about to come to a halt when
“Paste: this type of paste only in period Sui to Song;
and sound confirms paste and firing; and looks to me Song.”
“And you please tell me: when you see piece in shop, you
know immediately is Song?”
“Not really; but I said to myself: ‘this looks like Song
piece; has the right appearance’. Then I examine it and become convinced.”
“But your examination just confirm first impression.”
“Well, yes. But my conclusion – is right?”
“Quite,” he said, slipping out of our jargon. Then,
recovering himself, he said in what was, for him, a charged tone: “So now you
understand nature and character of Song porcelain. I think ideal, or cultural
object, you also see soon.”
He was smiling warmly, happily. On the stool beside me,
Yuan Ming was swaying with delight, clapping her hands. As I had done so many
times before, I placed my arm protectively around her shoulders. I was glad to
see that even Lydia, whose glance had been shifting with unease from
“Glad you were right, Peter. So you hit the jackpot;
congratulations!” She turned to Yuan Ming and added, “And you look so happy!”
“Oh yes; I’m very happy. I know Uncle wants to know all
about Song porcelain. And so now he must be so pleased; and he is my Uncle!”
“Of course he is your Uncle!” said Lydia,
affectionately. Then, as Yuan Ming raised her arms slightly to signal that she
wanted me to pick her up, Lydia came over to us. Stroking Yuan Ming’s hair,
Lydia said: “So Song porcelain has its own hidden charm. Otherwise, how could
it make the three of you so happy?”
Soon Lydia and I were on our way back to the University. My hands were
clinging to the parcel containing my Song ewer, neatly wrapped by Yuan Ming.
She broke the silence when we entered
“I’m indeed; she is a lovely child.”
“I, too, care for her,” said Lydia, looking at me the
way Florie did when we had talked about Yuan Ming. “And
“Why?” I asked, recalling Florie’s opinion.
“She is too involved in the shop. This may not matter
too much: she is a well adjusted and responsible child. But she is getting too
precocious.”
“Well?”
“I wonder if she mixes enough with other children. I
don’t think it’s good for a child to spend most of its time in the company of
adults.”
“Have you told
“I have dropped a few hints. But it may be a good idea
if you said something as well. The two of you are extremely close.”
“I have had the same feeling about Yuan Ming,” I
admitted. “It’s just that I am afraid that he will resent my meddling.”
“I’m sure
9: Yuan Ming’s Shop
I acted on Lydia’s suggestion the very next afternoon. “You early today,”
said
“Is good,” I said, forthrightly. “I hope you not mind; I
want talk about Yuan Ming.” Seeing him
looking at me keenly, I added: “Sometime something worry me, just a bit.”
“You please tell me,” he said evenly. “I know you very
fond Yuan Ming.”
“Without Yuan Ming,
“You also teach her – many words; I very pleased; but I
think I know your worry: you think perhaps better Yuan Ming is some time with
children.”
“Am concerned what happen when little girl grows up …”
“My worry too,”
Seeing me nod in anticipation, he began: “My family, Mr
Mid Yeast Tourist, Hokkien. My father second generation
I had no difficulty following his narrative. The Hakkas,
the nomads of
“So Mrs Tay speak Hokkien.”
“Yes; but not correct dialect; and Mrs Tay’s Ahma Cantonese. You understand?”
Nodding again, I thought to myself that Mrs Tay must
have come from a wealthy family. The Cantonese Ahmas, who wore black slacks and plain white blouses, constituted,
effectively, an order of lay nuns. Regarding themselves as members of the
families they served, they did not marry. Usually, each of them adopted a girl
from a similar Cantonese background and taught her the trade. They were, I
knew, the most devoted and reliable maids available in
“Mrs Tay lucky to have such Ahma,” I said.
“Correct. But Mrs Tay very active; like go out; so Ahma look after Yuan Ming.” Realising
that I was perplexed, he said sheepishly: “Ahma
not speak Hokkien! Also her Cantonese ugly. I not want Yuan Ming speak like
this. You understand?”
“Loud and clear,” I grinned, recalling how my own mother
had sought to forestall my picking up our Viennese maid’s working class accent.
Snobbery, I reflected was a universal malaise.
“I not want hurt Ahma’s
feelings; so I say Mrs Tay: better Yuan Ming come with me. She agree.”
“How you manage
with a little girl in shop?”
“I ask girl from next shop come help me. She sixteen and
Hokkien. I pay her small salary. So Yuan Ming learn Hokkien and then I teach
Mandarin. And so Yuan Ming feel shop is home. Then when Yuan Ming four years
old Mrs Tay and I think perhaps better she meet children.”
“You send to kindergarten?”
“I try, but kindergarten not many. We find one with
European lady, but was no good.”
“Yuan Ming refused to go?”
“Not like go; but also was some problem.” His face
darkened suddenly, reflecting a grievance. “So in end we agree better Yuan Ming
come shop.”
“You taught her a lot,” I comforted him. “Yuan Ming is
good girl. But I have one idea: perhaps you ask her sometime bring other
children visit your shop?”
“Already tried,” said
“I shall be only too glad! But how?”
“I tell you,” he said, gratefully. “Yuan Ming always
talk about her uncle. I think perhaps some other children like to come meet
you.” Noting my surprise, he added: “To children, European uncle very special;
and children curious.”
Yuan Ming was delighted by the idea and acted on it readily. In the
course of the next few weeks, I met a number of her friends. Soon I realised
that Yuan Ming was getting on well with all of them. Mark – the boy who had
caused her fall – was particularly attached to her. It was clear that, far from
wishing to meet Tay or myself, he regarded the invitation as a means to spend
more time with her. After a while, I concluded that our worries had been
unfounded. My apprehensions were further allayed when Yuan Ming invited me to
her school’s party. By the time it was over, I was convinced that my little
friend fitted well into her environment and was sociable and unassuming.
I was, however, puzzled by one fact that was staring me
in the face. All of Yuan Ming’s classmates spoke typical Singapore English. Not
a single one of them had an
The mystery that I had dismissed from my mind after my
chat with Wally Wallace in the Princess soon began to plague me once more. The
feeling that everything was not quite as it seemed in
“One day,” I said to myself, “I’ll get to the bottom of
it. I shall then also know how
10: The Song
Ideal
The recollection of my soliloquy brings an ironic smile to my face. The
Seeking to put the ugly scene out of my mind, I had
rushed back to my flat. When I arrived, I tried to reach Florie. The telephone
rang and rang; she had already left for the Princess. For a while I toyed with
the idea of driving to a nearby bar to drown my sorrows in drink. But
experience had taught me that a binge was a poor remedy.
As I paced the floor of my sitting room, trying in vain
to turn my mind away from the silly quarrel, my eye fell on my porcelain
cabinet. Neither the Sui nor the Tang pieces brought me comfort. They struck me
as rigid, unadorned and unfeeling. Shifting my glance, I focused on my most
recent acquisition: the white early Song ewer. For just a second I sneered at
it; then my eyes widened. I had spotted something I had missed until that
moment.
With a sense of unreality I placed the artefact on the
dining table. Its perfect shape and the regular impressions around its middle
gave me a sensation of harmony. After gazing at it for a while, I arranged my
other Song pieces beside it. In no time I was immersed – body and soul – in
their patterns. Quite regardless of whether a pattern was simple or intricate,
incised laboriously by hand or impressed by a skilful craftsman using a mould,
the hidden message was one and the same: harmony, dignity, and inner peace.
Gone were the
anger and frustration that had compelled me to pace the floor. I was overcome
by a feeling of elation, encountered by most of us only on rare occasions –
perhaps three or four times in a lifetime. I had experienced it as boy when,
after weeks of failure, I found my balance on my bicycle. Later, in my early
twenties, I experienced it when, after a concerted effort, I discovered an
argument that enabled our law firm to win a hopeless case. It had been good to
know that, although I lacked the attributes of a courtroom virtuoso, I
possessed the skills of a legal trouble-shooter.
I basked in the same ecstasy in front of my Song pieces.
For some strange reason, I – a mid-European Jew without a background in
oriental art – had found the key to a door that had remained tightly locked to
so many qualified scholars. Most of them were more knowledgeable and gifted
than me and, in all probability, had the sharper perception. Had they been
defeated by pride, shut out by preconceptions or beaten by Fortuna’s refusal to smile on them at the right moment? I was aware
that, but for the glance that I had cast at my pieces in the midst of my fury,
I too might have remained in the dark. “Chance,” I mused, “chance and the ready
mind. Where would we be without them?”
I was hurled back down to earth by the shrill trilling
of the telephone. “Peter, why you not ring me today? Is Wednesday? I wait but
must go Princess.”
“I’m sorry, Florie, I came home late. You were gone when
I rang.”
“Peter, you alright? Your voice funny; what you do now?”
“Florie, I have just discovered the ideal of Song porcelain.
It’s wonderful; and your advice helped me: thank you.”
“Good,” she responded, still anxious, “is really good; I
very glad; but you really alright, Peter?”
“Of course, why do you ask?”
“Your voice funny; if I not know you, I think you drink
a little.”
“It’s a bit like that. But look, can I come over and
take you for supper? I am very hungry.”
“You not have your dinner, Peter?” she asked. “Is after
ten! How can?”
“I lost all sense of time,” I explained. “I’ll be down
in 15 minutes.”
“No, Peter,” said Florie, firmly. “Better I tapau {take away} two chicken rice and
take taxi you place. I think better you not drive.”
“Thanks, that’s very kind of you,” was all I managed to
say.
I put the receiver down and turned back to the Song
pieces. In the process, I spotted my own face reflected in the mirror covering
the back of the cabinet. Was it similar to the expression on the face of
Archimedes, when he ran through the streets of Syracuse yelling
11: Tay’s
Assessment
The next day, I drove down to Tay’s Antiques. Yuan Ming, who was
arranging some new acquisitions in a cabinet near the entrance, took one look
at me and chimed. “You look so happy, Uncle, and you’re so excited. Did you
solve your riddle?”
“As if by magic!” I told her as I picked her up.
“You please tell how happened,” said
“Precisely,” I confirmed, unable in my excitement to
identify his metamorphosed accent. “Perhaps I better tell you full story, with
the background.”
“I think is best,” said
He listened without interruption until I mentioned how I
focused on the ewer. At that point, he was unable to restrain himself: “So
first Song piece you look is early white ewer. But why you see first?”
“I arrange my pieces chronologically; so my eye
travelled to it when it left the Tang shelf.”
“And which Tang piece last on shelf; piece you see
before you look ewer?”
“The tall Tang wine ewer with the animal shaped
handles.”
“Both ewers similar glaze and paste!” exclaimed
“I understood the nature of the difference: the opulent
Tang shape and the harmonious self-contained simple Song ewer. Tang piece
emphasises aesthetic beauty; Song piece aims at harmony.”
“You please continue.”
“Not porcelain,” I conceded readily, “object is
different: want to make you think; perhaps dream. But I think some music – Bach
or Vivaldi – can have same effect. Get you absorbed and immersed!”
“I think I agree,” said
“Elation – I think you know what I mean.” Seeing him
nod, I went on. “And a strange feeling of being at one with the pieces, with
myself and with the world.”
“The Song ideal: perfection in harmony; perhaps also of
music you mention. European porcelain is Sturm
und Drang: purpose not peace,” he said, speaking as much to himself as to
me. “And, my friend, I think now you know why Song porcelain my great love.”
“You find out same way?” I asked keenly.
“Yes and no; my nature different. Not easy get angry and
can control. I find out when very unhappy. Then my Song pieces bring me what
you call solace.”
“I never saw you unhappy, Daddy,” said Yuan Ming.
“Everybody can be unhappy sometime, young lady,” I told
her, seeking to help
“That’s a nice thing to say,” she laughed, merrily. “And
I’m always a good girl, except sometimes.” Hugging her, as I often did when she
came up with a smart retort, I turned back to
“Cannot say. You see difference of shape because glazes
very similar. So you catch shape. Then you understand meaning. If your eye move
late bowl, perhaps you think again Song pattern too ornate.”
“So I needed the right …”
“Catalyst,” finished
“Provided there is the right chance?”
“Only chance?”
“Chance and the ready mind?”
“I think better say: opportunity and preparedness; is
more simple.”
“So my phrase Tang formulation: yours Song,” I joked.
“Maybe,” said
“And how about you, Yuan Ming?” I wanted to know. “Do
you think one day you too will come to love Song porcelain?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But, Uncle, I don’t want to
be very angry or very sad. And I really like Ming porcelain best: one day I’ll
tell you all about it.” Then, as
For a while
“Also shop different,” said
“I hope, when grows up, she’ll bring you even more.”
“I think,” said
Yuan Ming’s reappearance caused him to break the
sentence off. She was looking proudly at both of us: “Look at the cakes! Mummy
and I baked them yesterday,” she said as I took the tray from her hands.
“Aren’t they lovely?”
“Of course they are,” I agreed. The small Nonya cakes were indeed attractive. Each
layer was a different shade, ranging from green to ruby red.
“I tried to give them a lot of colours,” she said,
happily.
“They are also very tasty,” I told her, munching away.
III. END OF AN
ERA
1: Unchanged
Nature
My comprehension of the Song ideal did not estrange me from my own world.
Coupled with the breakthrough was the realisation that my orientation and
outlook were far removed from the Song ideology. Harmony, dignity and inner
peace were to be cherished. Attaining them improved the quality of one’s life.
But they were not the ideals guiding me. The European cornerstones of purpose
and focus – ingrained by my upbringing – charted the passable routes to a
considerably greater extent than the Song philosophy. In the ultimate – and
quite regardless of my admiration for the Eastern postulates – I remained a
captive of my background: Occidental and Jewish. My involvement with the East
was a flirtation.
My breakthrough
had only one major effect: it brought me even closer to Tay Fang-Shuo and his
daughter. That he felt the same way became evident during my next visit to his shop.
“This Song plate, my friend,” he told me, “good piece
for your collection. You have good look.”
“Magnificent piece,” I confirmed, after examining its
intricate pattern. “Imperial ware?”
“Of course,” he said with gusto, “am sure is piece from
Royal household. Very few remain!”
“It is lovely.” I admired the large Celadon. Although it
was a Southern Song piece, modelled shortly before the fall of the Dynasty, its
pattern had been incised by hand – not the imprint of a mould. “It is an
exciting piece,” I reiterated, “but Mr Tay: must be very expensive; am not sure
can afford.”
“You not worry,” he smiled merrily, “is gift!”
“It is a special piece, Uncle,” Yuan Ming chimed in, her
face radiating happiness. “It comes from Daddy’s personal collection …”
“But Yuan Ming,”
“But I want Uncle to know you got this piece long ago,
when you travelled in
“Thank you, my friend,” was all I could blurt out. “It
is a brilliant piece: a manifestation of the Song ideals. I shall cherish it.”
“Is best kept in its box,” he smiled. “I take mine out
only if want look. Enjoy!”
So the Song plate was one of a set. Evidently,
Lydia, to whom I told my story in the University’s staff
house, congratulated me warmly. It pleased her that, despite a lack of formal
training in Art or in Chinese culture, I had experienced a moment of harmony
with the East. If she felt any envy, her reaction betrayed no trace of it.
Wally’s reaction was mixed. He did not doubt the genuineness of my experience,
and readily admitted that I had passed through a gate many Europeans found
impassable. But he expressed doubt about the very ideology involved.
“Peter,” he argued, “can a member of our society react
to a work of art in the same way as somebody living in the ancient Song
civilisation? How can we be certain that what we read into a piece produced
hundreds of years ago coincides with its significance to the potter’s
contemporaries? And, come to think of it, isn’t it possible that all the potter
had in mind was the pattern itself – or the aesthetic perfection of it?”
“You mean that he might have produced the piece as a
mere object of artistic beauty?”
“That,” nodded Wally, “and its utilitarian purpose: a plate
to be used at the dining table.”
“But if so, why the pattern? A plain plate would do just
as well.”
“True. But there is nothing to stop a potter, or any
other manufacturer, from adorning his wares in order to make them more
saleable. Reading a philosophical or cultural message into the process may go
far beyond the potter’s plain objectives.”
“But then the patterns used by the potter would have to
satisfy his potential customers.” I had found a new tack.
“Quite,” sneered Wally. “If this was the case, they may
not be manifestations of his own art!”
“But they would have to be in accord with the ideals of
his period. So even if he borrowed them, or adapted them, they would remain
manifestations of the spirit of his age.”
“I can’t quarrel with that,” he admitted. “But the art
and ideology you identified in your moment of glory were not the potter’s; they
were the product of his society or environment!”
“I’ll accept that. But, then, the potter conveyed them
to me – a man living some eight hundred years after the end of the period!”
“A man who searched for the answer for months!” Wally
grinned. “Even so, if the sensation you experienced was the product of a
message the potter intended to convey, his was a noble achievement!”
Florie’s opinion was more sober. She was pleased that I
had got what I wanted and relieved to see that the tension that had dominated
me for months had dissipated. She refrained from expressing any views about my
conclusions. She was not in a position to judge whether or not they were
correct. On one point, though, she entertained no doubts: “But even you
understand Song ideal, Peter, you still European. Is your nature and – I think
– your skin. This you cannot change.”
“I agree,” I told her.
2: Unmasking
The end of my quest for the Song ideal drove me back to the remaining
riddle. Notwithstanding our friendship,
My continuing efforts to get information out of Wally
and Lydia were also fruitless, although Wally did give me a hint. Chinese
surnames, he pointed out, were often pronounced differently in the various
dialects. In itself, this point was not novel. I had picked it up in my first
year of teaching. The brother of my star student, who was enrolled as ‘Goh’,
appeared in the attendance list as ‘Wu’. Initially, I suspected some odd family
relationships. In the event, it turned out that the former was the Hokkien
pronunciation of the surname and the latter its Mandarin version. Wally,
though, did not indicate how this diversity of accents related to the
Left to myself, I
might not have got to the bottom of things. Fortuna,
though, did not wish to leave me in the dark. Prompted by my father’s complaint
that we had not seen one another since I moved to
When I arrived at the University I spotted a poster
announcing that Dr Alfred Cheng, the renowned archaeologist and art critic,
would be delivering a lecture the very next evening. Wally, who was surprised
to see me back earlier than expected, told me that all the seats had been
taken. Seeing my dismay, Lydia – who was working with him that morning –
advised me to arrive early. Two rows had been reserved for distinguished guests
and, as not all of them had accepted, I was welcome to attend. Ignoring Wally’s
jaundiced look, she promised to pick me up late in the afternoon.
Dr Cheng’s book was marked by its vigorous approach and
vibrant style. I had expected its author to look like a North Chinese squire –
tall, broad shouldered and heavy set. To my surprise, he turned out to be a
typical man of the Hokkien province: small, slim and with delicate features. In
most respects his appearance resembled
Dr Cheng’s lecture was in the
Once Dr Cheng had concluded his lecture, various guests
rushed over in order to raise specific questions. Joining the queue, I waited
patiently for an opening. When my turn came, I asked Dr Cheng whether he had
met Tay Fang-Shuo, and then elaborated on my sessions with my friend. Ignoring
Lydia’s gesture, summoning me over to her, I told Alfred Cheng that his own
conclusions were similar to the ones hinted at by Tay Fang-Shuo, who, however,
did not consider them adequately established.
“And, in your opinion, which is the sounder approach?”
asked Alfred Cheng.
“Each has its own merits. On occasions, the
archaeologist’s spade may refute one of your conclusions. If it affected the
basis of a theory, the entire structure would be shattered. Tay Fang-Shuo does
not take such a risk. His conclusions on individual pieces are most unlikely to
be refuted. But his approach impedes the development of any theory.”
“Which is the better course or – putting it differently
– presents the greater evil?”
“By and large, I prefer your approach. It is better to
have a castle built on sand, which can collapse, than no castle at all. Still,
I wonder if it might be possible to find a synthesis of his meticulous approach
and your far more daring analysis.”
He was about to reply when our conversation was
interrupted. “Uncle!” said a familiar voice, “It’s funny to hear Daddy and you
talking like this. I thought both of you liked the way you speak in our shop.
And how come you didn’t see me: I was over there with some other children! And
I kept winking!”
“I was listening to your Daddy, Yuan Ming, so I didn’t
notice anybody,” I told her, once I had regained my composure.
Dr Alfred Cheng – alias Tay Fang-Shuo – stared at both
of us, speechless. When, after what felt like eons, he recovered, he said – in
Yuan Ming’s neat
“… Peter Berger,” I broke in.
“… Peter. I am not ruling such a synthesis out. Time
will tell whether or not it is feasible.”
“May I discuss it again with my friend when I next call
on him?” I asked.
“Of course,” he replied, by this time exhibiting his
normal composure. “When do you expect to see him?”
“The day after tomorrow, if I get over my bout of ‘flu.”
“I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.”
“And now I’d better give a chance to the person waiting
behind me,” I grinned. “He is dying to have his audience with you.”
Yuan Ming joined me as I walked away. Her large black
eyes looked at me anxiously. “Yuan Ming,” I asked her, “have you been to any of
your Daddy’s lectures before?”
“Oh yes. And usually I sit with him so that I can see
the audience. But today, after Auntie Lydia visited us, he told me I’d better
sit with some other children. So I did. I didn’t know you were coming. I
thought you were going to be back next week.”
“I got this awful ‘flu in
“I think Auntie Lydia told him. And he was a bit
nervous. Uncle, didn’t you know Daddy had two names?”
“No, I didn’t: I thought Dr Cheng was a different man.”
“But, Uncle:
“So that’s the reason,” I muttered, careful not to voice
any criticism of
“I’d better go and play with the other children now, or
Daddy will be cross,” said Yuan Ming, awkwardly. “See you on Thursday, Uncle:
you’ll come – sure?”
“If the ‘flu doesn’t get worse. I don’t want to pass it
to you.”
“Don’t you worry about this, Uncle. Daddy and I never
catch colds. So come if you’re OK. I’ll turn the air conditioning down.”
3: Another
Multi-cultural Man
Next morning, with the antibiotic tablets prescribed by the physician in
my briefcase, I dropped into the museum. Wally Wallace greeted me perfunctorily
and explained that he had to rush to the airport to meet a guest from
“No need for such haste, Wally. I’ll drive you over if
you promise to tell me the truth about the Tay/Cheng business.”
“No way, Peter. It ain’t my secret! You’ll have to raise
the matter with him. I’m not a babbler!”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” I let my irritation show. “The
facts are clear now: but I want to understand the background. Raising it with
him is a bad idea: I don’t want to risk hurting him.”
“I’ll tell you all about it,” volunteered Lydia.
“But don’t you want to have a chat with Alfie before you
go ahead?” Wally asked her. “And since when were you prepared to just ‘open up’
like this?”
“Since the very moment it became too silly for words to
sit on the fence!” she responded.
“Oh well,” grunted Wally, “it’s
your decision!”
“It is.”
Lydia and I walked over to the staff house – a peaceful
spot before the daily crowd arrived for lunch. It was a hot day but the ceiling
fan, rotating gently above us, kept us cool. Lydia grinned when,
notwithstanding my swelter, I ordered a cup of coffee. She, in contrast,
settled on a glass of iced barley water.
After the waiter left with our orders, she unfolded the
mystery surrounding Tay Fang-Shuo, alias Dr Alfred Cheng. As expected, the
story went back to my friend’s early days. His father, Tay Boon-Leong, had
built up a financial empire within twenty years of his migration from
When one of his Japanese clients alerted him to the
looming danger of war in the region, he resolved to send his wife and only son
to a safer place. With England already at war with Germany, he opted for
Australia. He bought them a small house in Balmain – one of the Inner Western
suburbs of
To fit into his new environment, Fang-Shuo changed his
name to ‘Alfred’ and soon became known to his classmates as ‘Alfie’. Being an
observant, gentle and unassuming boy, he became popular in school. His grades,
too, were a source of comfort. Alfie had a good mind and developed an efficient
method of work. Quite often he topped the class, especially in the humanities.
Within a few months, English had become his natural medium of expression.
The situation was less gratifying at home. Alfie’s
mother, Sui Chen, had been a primary school teacher in
Sui Chen did everything in her power to turn her bright
son’s eyes in the direction of
Fang-Shuo, who was an obedient son, did as she wished.
At home, he was a Hokkien boy. In school he was Alfie – an Australian boy of
Chinese descent. From what he told Lydia over the years, she gleaned that his
orientation and demeanour changed when he left home in the morning and switched
again when he arrived back after school. By the time the Japanese occupation
was over, he had become a multi-cultural individual, torn between the idols of
the home and those of the school.
In 1946, when things in Singapore had returned to
normal, Alfie and his mother re-joined Boon-Leong. Alfie went to a local school
but – to his own surprise – found it hard to adjust. He had got used to
Australian ways; colonial
Sui Chen too faced problems. During the years of
separation, Boon-Leong had taken a second wife – a concubine or, in local
jargon, a Tsip. From a cultural point
of view, Sui Chen was not in a position to complain. Boon-Leong’s act accorded
with Chinese customs. Her rival, though, was a Singapore bar girl, self-assured
and aggressive. She treated Sui Chen with disdain. Boon-Leong, in turn, had no
qualms about showing his preference for his concubine. Sui Chen felt left out.
After a few months she returned to
Alfie’s troubles were exacerbated by his mother’s
departure. He did not get on with the concubine, refused to call her ‘mother’,
and began to metamorphose into an inward-looking and unhappy adolescent. To
ease the tension at home, Boon-Leong decided to send him to a boarding school
of good academic standing. As he had doubts about secondary education in
Australia, he enrolled his son in a fine
public school in England. In consequence, Alfie was once again torn away from his Chinese milieu and thrown into a
Western environment.
Alfie completed his ‘O’ and ‘A’ levels with outstanding
grades. Boon-Leong sought to persuade him to prepare himself for a career at
the Singapore Bar, hopefully joining David Ratnam’s firm. But Alfie had other
ideas. His aspirations went in the direction of art critique, history and
philosophy. In the event, a compromise was struck. Alfie joined the Inner
Temple and, at the same time, read Greats [classics] and History at Cambridge.
After one year he dropped law: he had found it too dull. His performance in
After completing the Tripos, Alfie joined the staff of a
well-known museum. In addition, he accepted an invitation to read for a PhD.
The subject he chose concerned the development of blue-white porcelain in
China. His profound research, which involved travelling to museums in
In itself, this was not a revolutionary notion. But
Alfie went a step further. He established that when the Chinese potter produced
blue-white porcelain he followed patterns that had been common in Persian
earthenware. Even the use of blue underglaze had travelled to the kilns of
The two examiners had no doubt about the merit of his
thesis. Alfie was awarded his degree and – Lydia related with a smile – looked
singularly distinguished when he wore his new gown at the ceremony. One of the
two examiners, though, expressed a reservation. He thought that Alfie had
stated his conclusion too firmly. The discovery of just one blue-white shard
from a period preceding the conquest of
This mild rebuke did not prevent the examiner involved
from recognising Alfie’s calibre. Indeed, he offered him an appointment in his
museum. Had he accepted, Alfie would have been able to progress straight to the
top in English academia.
“So why didn’t he grab the opportunity?” I wanted to
know.
“He was smarting from the criticism. You see, Peter, he
admired the scholar who levied it and took it as a blow. His agony and
misgivings came as a surprise to all of us, Wally included.”
“How did you come to know him so well?” I asked.
It turned out that Wally, Lydia and Alfie had been members of a small
circle of reform orientated students and artists. One of their dreams was to
find a fusion of Eastern and Western Art. Chinese ceramics and other forms of
art were, of course, topical. As is often the case, the circle became a
fraternity. Its members stood by each other and became friends.
“Then why was it beyond you to persuade Alfie to see the
light?” I asked, bewildered.
“We nearly did but – unfortunately – his personal life
too went into turmoil,” Lydia said sadly.
In his interactions within the circle, Alfie had met
Elsie Zussman. Unlike most of them, Elsie’s interest was confined to one
subject: numismatics. She thrived on it, read everything available and attended
every lecture and discussion that touched on it. Although she was not a beauty,
Alfie fell for her. He was impressed by her character, her devotion to her area
of pursuit, and her sweet nature. They started to go out together and, after a
few months of courting, took a trip together through
“What happened?”
“Elsie’s mother opposed the match,” shrugged Lydia.
Mrs Zussman – Elsie’s widowed mother – would have liked to see her
daughter marry a nice Jewish boy. She was prepared to settle on an English boy
of another faith: she claimed to be tolerant. But a young Chinaman was
something different altogether. Notwithstanding Elsie’s assurance that they
planned to settle in
“And all because of her mother – it sounds
unbelievable!”
“You’re talking about the fifties, Peter,” Lydia
reminded me. “But, I don’t think it was that alone. I suspect Elsie got cold
feet. She knew that Alfie was brighter than her and was prepared to accept
that. But she was concerned about his spells of brooding and, in the end, about
his inward-looking nature and reserve.”
Elsie did not run away when Alfie was smarting from the
examiner’s criticism. She felt bound to stand by him and did all she could to
help him get over what he considered a setback. But when Alfie told her that he
had decided to accept the post offered to him, she told him where she stood.
Two weeks later, Alfie returned to
“Didn’t you – I mean all of you – try to stop him?”
“He didn’t tell us anything about his plans until the
day before his departure! But, in any event, I don’t think we could have
stopped him. He had made his decision.”
Lydia next ran into
“How do you address
“When no one – except of course Wally – is there I still
call him ‘Alfie’. On all other occasions we call him ‘Mr Tay’ or ‘Fang-Shuo’.
It’s neater that way.”
“Do you discuss the old days?”
“We have talked about the
“I understand.”
“You will continue to call on him in the shop?”
“Of course,” I assured her, “and I’ll take my cue from
him!”
“I’m relieved. In a way, the two of you are of the same
breed: cross-cultural men with strong individualistic outlooks. I think that’s
why you are so comfortable with one another.”
“Precisely,” I agreed. “And I always look forward to
seeing Yuan Ming.”
“That, too, is mutual!” she smiled.
4: Smooth and
Easy
The next day I drove down to
“You back early from
“Got bad ‘flu; so think better fly back. Can rest here.”
“You now better?”
“Yes. Also two days ago ‘flu not so bad. So I go hear
lecture of Dr Alfred Cheng!”
“You enjoyed?” he asked, relieved that we were back to
our pantomime.
“Very much. And I talk to Dr Cheng about collaboration
with you on book.”
“I think about it a lot,” he said directly. “Is good
idea. When ready I tell you.”
“Good. Will be magnum opus!”
“For a few people,” he muttered. “But elite circle
better than crowd!”
“I agree,” I said, hoping to raise my next subject
before Yuan Ming’s arrival. In the event, she burst in before I had the chance
to begin.
“You are back early today, Yuan Ming,” I told her.
“Our teacher finished her class before the bell rang; I
rushed back straight away. I thought you might arrive early.”
I was in a quandary. The gift-wrapped parcel from
“What a lovely figurine!” she exclaimed once she had
unwrapped it. “And the colours!” She looked enchanted at Kändler’s bagpipe
player: sitting on a tree trunk, wearing a Rococo jacket, green breeches and a
Saxon felt hat. On his lap was a Duddelsack
[bagpipe]. His happy face
glowed with the pleasure he felt playing the instrument and from listening to
his own music. He looked as though he had just stepped out of a German folk
song. Yuan Ming’s eyes, though, were fixed on the colourful jacket. “Where did
you get him, Uncle?”
“From my favourite antiques shop in
“Have seen in
“Precisely.”
“Have also seen Columbine,” said
“She does,” I confirmed. “I like him better: more life.”
“I agree,” smiled
“A Harlequin. And he is a bit like the Bowing
Harlequin!”
“Not quite as beautiful,” I said. “But the Bowing
Harlequin is rare; very rare!”
For a while Yuan Ming examined the figurine. It was
clear that she liked it. Her fingers moved gently along the Harlequin’s costume
and bagpipe. “But don’t you want to keep him, Uncle?”
“He’s for you. He’ll make you break into a smile
whenever you feel sad; everybody gets sad – sometime.”
“Can he do for you?” asked
“Can. But I have other Harlequin; left in Tel Aviv –
small pipe stop.”
“Kändler?” he asked.
“I think so. One day I show you, Mr Tay.”
“Fine,” he said. “But to you – my friend – Kändler,
“Closest. I understand what artist says: also finer nuances!”
“So in the end, you remain mid-European man!”
“Cross-cultural, though!” I insisted.
“I know. But cross-cultural person has problem. Is in
home no place. You, my friend, solve problem by wanting to move to a third
culture.”
He was, of course, right. In a society dominated by East European Jews, a
mid-European Jew was often out of place. Unlike most of my classmates, I was
familiar with German literature and, generally, with mid-European art. Unlike
them, who read Russian literature in Hebrew translation, I had read most of it
in German. Finding my two worlds frequently in collision, I had struck on the
idea of absorbing myself in British culture.
“But is there a better solution than trying to set
yourself free from both the idols of the home and those of the school?” I asked
anxiously.
“Perhaps can live in one culture some time and rest of
time in other!”
“What if the values of the two are in conflict?”
“Then one culture wins: sometime perhaps at home. Other
win when you are outside it.”
“Split personality in the end?”
“Can be result.”
So his solution had been a conscious split of his two
selves. The
Strange though it may seem, in
5: Departures
I should have loved to continue enjoying my pleasant existence in
The first was Lydia’s departure from the scene. One
afternoon, when I came over to the museum to chaperone her on one of her
artefact-hunting sprees, she showed me a summons, citing her as co-respondent
by the wife of her poet friend. David Ratnam, who did not handle divorces,
recommended a competent young lawyer working in an adjacent law firm. His
searching cross-examination established
that Lydia had not been the only woman captivated by the poet’s roving eye. This
defence and the young lawyer’s eloquence obviated an award of costs. But Lydia
knew that in
“Lydia, who cares what the jackals think; we are living
in twentieth century
“That’s what you and other expatriates might think. I
know you mean well, Peter, but I have committed a crime.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was caught; and so I have to remove myself from the
scene. You should see the way my own staff treat me now. They are not rude:
they are condescending!”
“So why don’t you try to keep a stiff upper lip?”
“Because they’ll see through it! I have only two
choices: crawl or leave. There is no mid-way; and I shan’t crawl.”
Lydia’s departure did not, in itself, affect my life. Naturally, I missed
our trips to the antiques shops and my visits to the University’s museum became
sporadic. But I had my other outlets. Unwilling to take up more of Tay
Fang-Shuo’s time, I started to see Florie even more frequently. I used to pick her up when she finished her shift at
the Princess and, if she was too tired to go out for supper, would drive her
over to her flat. Florie would then steam some local buns – known as Paus – made of rice flour, stuffed with
sweetened minced pork fillet or with sweet black beans. Two such Paus made a fine meal, far superior to
cheese and crackers.
During the course of one such evening, as we relaxed in
her comfortable sitting room, Florie warned me that all was not well in the
little world surrounding the museum. Having watched with a smile how I relished
the steaming hot Paus, she brought up
the subject that had been weighing heavy on her mind. “Peter, you good friend
of Wally Wallace?”
“‘Friend’ is a strong word, Florie!”
“Never mind, Peter; but you like Wally.”
“Yes, although he can be impossible!”
“This what I want tell you. If Wally do too much like
what I see, I think they kick him out.”
“But Wally always gets drunk, Florie. So what is new?”
The news she conveyed gave me a start. Deprived of Lydia’s companionship,
Wally had begun to act strangely. Friends in the Princess had told Florie that
he had been seen in
“But Wally is not a poofter or drag queen. He chases
women, I think.”
“This is what I think when they tell me. Then yesterday
I see myself.” Florie had gone over to Bugis Junction because the best Paus hawker in
“What a debacle,” I said, trying to keep my cool.
“And I see people from police watch. I am sure they
report. So, Peter, if you Wally’s friend you warn him. This not like getting
drunk: if crazy Angmoh get drunk, people laugh. But this serious. If government
or University know: they not like!”
“Wally will bite my head off. He hates it when people
get involved in his affairs!”
“Never mind this, Peter. You must warn him. If does not
listen: not you fault.”
Wally’s reaction to my rebuke was as I had expected. His suggestion was
plain: I should consider keeping out of his business. I left the museum with my
tail between my legs.
The official reaction came in the form of a letter,
advising that an audit of the accounts of the museum and an inspection of the
artefacts was to take place in the near future. It was common knowledge that,
in contrast with his calibre as curator and archaeologist, Wally was a poor
administrator. The accounts of the museum and the stock books were in disarray.
To forestall disgrace, Wally sent in his letter of resignation.
Wally’s departure was as bizarre as his existence in
Lydia and Wally were not the only staff members to leave
the University. A growing tension between the leaders of the local staff and
the expatriates – occasioned to a large extent by the allowance paid to the
latter – led to numerous resignations. In consequence, my circle of friends in
academia dwindled. Most of my free time was now spent in
“Peter,” said Florie as soon as she realised I was about
to propose, “you please not continue. I know what you want say and I think a
lot about it. Peter: you good man. But what you want say not good idea!”
“Why, Florie?” I asked, feeling crushed.
“If you marry me, where you think we live?”
“We could move to
“And you think your new friends accept me?”
“If they are going to be friends, they would!”
“And wives of friends?”
We were now treading on delicate ground. Would my
colleagues’ wives fraternise with a girl of Florie’s background?
“You really think can live like this, Peter? You think
after some time you not ashamed?”
“Now, don’t you be silly. If you marry me – if I am your
husband – I shall be even more proud of you than I am now! I am happy with you
and will always remain committed to you. You must not doubt me like this.”
“Oh I know, Peter. You good man: if you make bargain you
keep. I know. But I not want to be burden later in life. Also, Peter, there two
more problems.”
“What are they?”
“One, Peter, is your little friend, Yuan Ming. I know,
you her uncle. So nothing wrong. But I think you love her very much. You always
think of her, buy gifts for her. And I remember day we see them in cinema.”
Florie was referring to a matinee performance of Dream of the Red Chamber in the Rex
cinema. During the interval I saw, to my surprise, that Tay Fang-Shuo, his wife
and Yuan Ming were sitting a few rows in front of us.
The person in command, leading the conversation and
handing out snacks, was Mrs Tay. Yuan Ming was a different girl: the air of
confidence and self-assertion, which I knew so well, was replaced by
deferential respect for her mother. The three appeared a close knit family
dominated by the lady of the house. Florie, who gave me a wistful look as I
gazed at my little friend, avoided an embarrassing encounter. She insisted we
leave the show shortly before it ended.
“So you also remember day, Peter,” Florie insisted. “You
love Yuan Ming very much.”
“True,” I conceded. “But Florie, this is a different
type of love. It is as if she and her father were my family.”
“I know; but is not so simple; is complicated. You see,
Peter, in
I knew Florie was right. My pleasant existence – my
fulfilment – would dissolve if we left my Eastern haven. How long would it take
before I yearned to be back in
“And if we stayed here, Florie?”
“Then I only have part of you, Peter. You think is right
for wife? But, as I say: is one more problem.”
“What is it?”
“I want children, Peter.”
“Why is that a problem?” I asked.
“You world and my
world very different. You, Peter, is scholar and also you dream: like want know
why something special in Song porcelain. My world more simple: enough money,
good life and fun.”
“What has this got to do with children?” I asked, still
hoping to dodge the issue.
“Child must respect father and mother, Peter. You think
our children can?”
“Why ever not?” I closed my eyes to the obvious.
“If child want be scholar, he learn from you. If want be
just person, perhaps want be like mother; thinks father a bit funny.”
“Is there no way out – some compromise? Why shouldn’t he
take the best from both of us?”
“I don’t think child so clever. Also, Peter, you very
European …”
“Am I?” I asked, genuinely surprised.
“Oh yes. I know, your religion Jewish; but your eyes
European; also like European books and things. I very Chinese: not Chinese
scholar but simple Chinese woman. Your world and my world: not same!”
“But we get on – and cope – so well, Florie. We feel at
home with one another!”
“Yes, Peter: is because we accept we different; and you
and I …”
“… tolerant people …” I interjected as she struggled for
words.
“Correct,” she said, “but child must feel family one;
not different parts.”
I realised that we had reached the
point of no return. Florie was right and – much as I tried – we were unable to
find a sound way out of the dilemma. As an unmarried couple, we enjoyed a
harmonious co-existence – it was not a mere modus operandi. As the core of a
family, our divergent orientations and backgrounds would tear us apart.
All that was left to me was to bow my head in
resignation. Then, finding the silence oppressive, I announced that she would
have no difficulty in finding a suitable husband. To my surprise, it turned out
that she had already identified her man. They had been classmates at school and
– like herself – he had dropped out in order to find a suitable job. After some
unsuccessful postings, he had started his own business. It was reasonably
successful but, financially, she was well ahead of him. She trusted that her
superior skill in finances would enable him to make their fortune.
“But how did you meet again?” I wanted to know. “You
have been living in
“His father best friend my father. Is family
arrangement,” she explained, complacently. “Peter, he not special person like
you; but is good man. My mother says is steady. Also is strong and good
looking.”
“How come he is not married?” I let my surprise show.
“Went out with girl for many years. Then something go
wrong. She marry some doctor. So he very lonely. And you see, Peter, in school,
we good friends. So he happy when parents talk.”
In the event, I wished
her luck and happiness. Smiling gratefully, Florie expressed her relief
at my taking the news so calmly. She had wanted to talk to me earlier, but had
put off for fear of my reaction. To explain my stand, I told her that I had had
defeats before. They had taught me that, in situations of this type, the only
sensible course was to preserve one’s dignity. Seeking to ease the situation, I
asked when she intended to leave.
“Oh, I already told the Princess; so I leave in perhaps
three weeks, Peter. I not so young so better marry soon; and have children
soon. But, Peter, before I go, I must give you back your shares money.”
This was yet another surprise. A few months earlier, I
had suggested to Florie that we put some of the money I had earned from my
consultancy work towards a trip to
“You can give me the cash before you leave,” I
suggested.
“Cannot, Peter. Is too much to carry like this. Is not
safe. You want a cheque or bank remittance?”
“How much is it, Florie?” I asked perplexed.
“Is twenty-eight thousand dollars!”
“What?” I exclaimed. “Florie, I think I gave you about
three thousand. How on earth did you turn that into twenty-eight?”
“Market like this. Go up and down. One time your three
thousand become two hundred. Then I have luck: I find best stock. I also make –
a lot.”
“Why don’t we split it? I didn’t do anything to earn
such a fortune.”
“You not worry: I take my ten percent commission; and I
make a lot myself with my money. So, Peter, for your money I bring you cheque.
Only you better make good use: I think not buy more antiques. You have enough.”
“I’ll put it in my bank,” I assured her. “And, Florie,
thanks.”
Her happy smile calmed me. I sensed that, despite the imminent split, she
still felt true affection for me. To my disappointment, though, she declined my
suggestion to keep in touch. Our future routes were far apart: voices from the
past could interfere with our respective plans and aspirations. In the
circumstances – she concluded – it was best to say goodbye.
Before she left – some four weeks later – Florie gave me
one last piece of sound advice. I should not get married unless I found a woman
with whom I could share my entire life. It would be better to remain on my own
– and retain my freedom – than to contract a marriage marred by unhappiness. In
later years, I often wished I had paid more attention to her warning.
6: Special
Attribute
Florie’s departure left a gap in my social life. To add to the problem,
the University’s museum closed down and the committee in charge of Chinese
furniture was disbanded. My link with the University became confined to the
activities of the
Such sojourns – and my regular visits to
“The stool is for a little girl,” she said pointedly in
response to my startled expression. “Don’t you think so, Uncle?”
“Sure,” I said, “Frau Tay Yuan Ming!”
The other episode was triggered by a hair-splitting
analysis of a new artefact acquired by
Yuan Ming, whose glee grew as the two of us argued,
pointed out that the issue could be
readily resolved. Holding the object of contention as if it were a cup,
she spat right into its centre.
“So it is a spittoon!” she exclaimed, victoriously.
Tearing at his thinning hair, Tay Fang-Shuo wailed that
“growing girl not a lady”. He then reminded us that bringing up an adolescent
girl was more formidable a task than taming a tiger. I had to break into a fit
of violent coughing whilst holding my sides in a vain attempt to control my
laughter. When I looked up, I saw that Tay Fang-Shuo too had seen the funny
side, and was attempting to hide his amusement by staring into the distance.
Unperturbed by our reactions, Yuan Ming held her head high, satisfied that she
had made her point. A few years earlier, she would not have expressed her
opinion in such a forthright manner.
It was during the same period that I discovered Yuan
Ming’s special gift. Having arrived in Kota Tingi too early for lunch, we
enjoyed coconut juice laced with sugar and lime on a terrace of the resort’s
main building. In the past, Yuan Ming would have gulped the iced drink down
unceremoniously. Now she sipped it slowly with the air of a sophisticated young
lady.
As we looked down at the boys swimming in the pond, Yuan
Ming observed that the display of colours was fascinating. Noting my surprise,
she pointed out that the water in the pool had twelve shades of blue and green
and that the vegetation around it constituted a fiesta of complementary tints.
When I voiced my doubts, she insisted that she had her own sensitivity to
colours. She was able to recall the
exact shade of every object she had observed keenly.
“Do you want to
test me, Uncle?” she asked, sensing that I was still doubtful.
“How?”
“Suppose I draw the first vase you bought from Daddy
with all its colours.”
“But we don’t have colour crayons here.”
“I have some in the car. Let me get them.”
To my amazement, Yuan Ming was able to prove her point.
She drew the complex pattern of the vase, including the rider’s face, and
reproduced all the shades and colours accurately. I felt confident that her
reproduction was as accurate as a colour photograph. Back in my flat, I
compared it with the original: she had made no error. Although I had been aware
of Yuan Ming’s fascination with colours, I had not anticipated such a masterful
performance.
When I rang to congratulate her, Yuan Ming did not hide
her pleasure. But she insisted that her feat must remain a secret.
“But why, Yuan Ming? Your Daddy will be so proud!”
“I’ll tell him when he is ready, Uncle,” she promised.
“Just now he wants me to learn all about Chinese and European art. He must not
know I am developing my own style.”
“Why not, Yuan Ming?” I persisted. “His wish and yours
go very well together.”
“Perhaps, Uncle. But, you see, Daddy wants me to study
Art at
“Well?” I asked.
“And I want to try my hand at painting. I want to create art, Uncle; not just study it. So
it’s better if Daddy does not know too much until I am ready to tell him. And
you must keep my secret: promise?”
“Of course, young lady.” I gave in. “But one day you
will have to tell him. He has the right to know; and I am sure he’ll be happy
to know what you can do.”
“You really think so, Uncle?”
“Of course: your sense of colour must come from him.”
“I don’t think so. Daddy needs his colour charts. I can
do without them.”
“So how did you get this special talent?”
“I don’t know. But Daddy does not have it. So this is
also why I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want him to feel small.”
“Oh, very well then,” I said, concluding that Yuan
Ming’s gift must have sprung from nowhere.
A few weeks later Yuan Ming produced further evidence of
her artistic plans. She showed me a folder full of sketches of her teachers and
classmates, and it was intriguing. Apart from her vivid use of colours, she had
produced realistic sketches reflecting both the appearance and the personality
of her subjects. The caricature of her Biology Master – an ageing and pedantic
maid – was true to form but displayed no malice. Mark was drawn as a naughty
boy, full of tricks yet uncertain of himself.
“He looks like a boy who might be amused if you
stumble,” I observed.
“That’s the idea. I wanted him to look like a boy who
thinks it’s great fun to throw a banana skin in your path.”
“But the sketch is of somebody you quite like,” I
challenged her.
“Correct, Uncle,” she told me. “I only draw people I
like; even if they are a bit funny or naughty.”
“What gave you the idea?” I asked.
“The art books you gave me some time ago; the sketches
made me think.”
“Have you drawn your Daddy?”
“Well, yes; but I’m not sure if you would like my
sketch.”
“You might as well show it to me.”
With some hesitation, Yuan Ming produced three sketches
of her father: the solemn, tight laced and patriarchal Tay Fang-Shuo; the
portrait of the scholar, Dr Alfred Cheng; and a remarkable – abstract – sketch
in which the two images were superimposed on each other. I sensed that,
although the works were produced by a teenager, they manifested the mature
judgment of an accomplished artist.
“Have you shown them to him?”
“Of course not. I don’t think he would like them. But
what do you think, Uncle?”
“They are great – real works of art. You’d better make
sure they are not lost.”
“Do you want to keep them for me?”
“I should be delighted. But, then, you must sketch me as
well.”
“But I already have, Uncle. Have a look.”
The sketch, satirical yet realistic, outlined my bushy
eyebrows, the abstract gaze, the thinning hair and my typical gesture of a pointing
index finger. It – and the sketches of Tay Fang-Shuo alias Dr Alfred Cheng –
graces my collection of contemporary art to this very day.
Yuan Ming disclosed her plans to
Yuan Ming’s total recall of colours remained a secret
that she shared only with myself. But my own work with
One afternoon, when a school function kept her out later
than usual,
“So her inclination product of chance?”
“Perhaps is,” he agreed cautiously. “But what you think
happen if always see Tang or Song?”
“Then she loves such pieces?”
“Am not sure. Maybe fascination for colours is
pre-inclination. So in end, perhaps Yuan Ming always like polychlome pieces
best?”
“Is possible. So we see chance and inclination?”
“I think so: is – Mr Mid Yeast Tourist – chance and
ready mind or – maybe – ready heart.”
“Is problem but no answer,” I nodded.
“But such is life, Peter,” said Alfred Cheng.
7: Personal
Preferences
The study of Ming ceramics drew my attention to a conceptual problem. On
the one hand, the technical attainments of the Ming potter could not be denied.
There could also be no doubt as regards the aesthetic perfection of the
products. On the other hand, the Ming wares lacked the warmth and intimacy
displayed by the artefacts of the Tang and Song periods. In consequence,
My predilection was easy to explain. The Tang potter was
a cosmopolitan artist. Greek and even Middle Eastern influences were
discernible in his work. In contrast, both the Song and the Ming periods were marked by self-sufficiency and
isolation. Why then did
“Is complex problem,”
“But you please try explain,” I persisted.
“Perhaps is not question of art,” he said with some
hesitation. “Maybe is question of what you call background. You understand?”
“No,” I said emphatically.
“Song period, Mr Mid Yeast Tourist – why was so cut off
from rest of World?”
“Historical reasons; is period of turbulence. Kingdom no
peace: emperors must fight nomads and own people and then escape down South,” I
replied readily.
“So must close gates to West – to world outside – to
protect unity of realm?” he asked, using words usually omitted from our
vocabulary.
“Can even say: self-defence!”
“And Ming isolation?”
“Result of Mongol conquest. Ming emperors want to wipe
memory out. But, Mr Tay, what has all this got to do with your orientation?” I
asked, addressing my question to Alfred Cheng.
“But now you must see reason,” he persisted in our
jargon.
Brief reflection clarified the hidden words he had
refused to speak. The isolation of the Song period had been dictated by
necessity. In consequence, it had brought to the fore the genuine ideals
inherent in the culture of the
“Ming isolation was the product of vanity and
insecurity,” said Alfred Cheng, who had been watching me keenly. “It produced
narrow-minded rulers and sterile scholarship. You – as a multicultural ascetic
– are overwhelmed by the cosmopolitan aura and splendours of the Tang period.
You may – if you wish – call it the Greek influence epoch in Chinese history. I
am drawn to the pure Chinese values of the Songs. They appeal to my Chinese
Doppelgänger; and they invoke your respect. Yet both of us are repelled by the
cold, perhaps empty, creed shielded behind the front of Ming perfection.”
“But Daddy,” chimed in Yuan Ming, “I still prefer Ming
colours; they are so jolly.”
“I know, Yuan Ming. But your eyes focus on a different
canvas.”
Alfred Cheng had summed the issue up adroitly. Our
respective preferences were dictated by factors well beyond individual control.
Human orientations were the product of backgrounds, pre-inclinations and, in
the ultimate, the hidden hand of Fortuna.
Neither of us was right; nor could either be wrong. There were no absolute
answers, only individual reactions to stimuli produced by chance. So were the
approaches of the artists and craftsmen we admired.
8. Mismatch
Left on my own, I would have come to terms with my rarefied existence.
True, it was marred by loneliness. Intellectually, though, it met my needs. In
my own way I was content and, in reality, not unduly perturbed by the fact that
most of my contemporaries in the University were getting married. The
occasional trepidation produced by the sense of being left behind was easily
overcome by my regular visits to
But Fortuna
had her own designs. The tool she used on this occasion was an Indian colleague
– who considered himself popular with and irresistible to the fairer sex. On
one occasion, when he had accidentally arranged to date two girls on the same
evening, he asked me to help him out by joining the party. When he made it
clear that he would be the host, I accepted. Yet, at the end of the evening, I
found myself stuck with the bill. Seeking revenge, I took out the girl he
seemed to favour. We liked one another and in the event I began to date her.
My new girlfriend was a highly intelligent yet diffident
and awkward girl. Without being a beauty, she was pretty and always smartly
dressed. Like Florie, she was Chinese educated. But, unlike Florie, her spoken
English was up to the mark.
Pat had no interest in art, history or ceramics. She
played the guitar well and was accomplished in calligraphy and Chinese brush
work. Physically, I found her attractive. I knew she adhered to the Christian
faith. Still, she seemed tolerant enough of other religions, treating Chinese
Buddhism alone as an inferior creed.
Before long we were going steady. Notwithstanding her
tendency to fly into tantrums, often followed by spells of abject silence, I
thought it would be better to share my life with her than to remain on my own.
Pat, in turn, was keen for a union. Following a business collapse, her family’s
fortunes were down. Her own confidence had been badly dented when her
Indonesian-Chinese boyfriend jilted her after she contracted tuberculosis.
Sensing that I was a safe bet, she accepted my proposal readily. Within a year
of our first date, we tied the knot before the Registrar of Marriages.
The difficulties of bridging the cultural gap manifested
themselves during our honeymoon. Pat was but mildly impressed with the
splendours of European cities such as
Pat liked window shopping and felt at home at the famous
arcades in
In
A few years earlier I had shown no interest in feelers
put out by Law Schools in
Tay Fang-Shuo’s reaction to my imminent departure was
oblique. He had appreciated the difficulties confronting me in
Yuan Ming’s response was less veiled. She wished me
happiness and hoped that a new home would improve my relationship with Pat.
With a wisdom well beyond her tender age, she asked me to bear in mind that, if
circumstances dictated a move back to
A few days before I departed,
IV. SEARCH AND
COINCIDENCE
1:
A Chair in New Zealand
Life in
At
one stage the leading architects sought to avoid any interference with the
natural lie of the land. Their designs blended beautifully with the background
but, more often than not, were impractical. In one house, for instance, the
upper floor was separated from the lower by ladders running through narrow
portholes. When an elderly lady broke her hip after the steep climb into the
library, she had to be extricated by the fire brigade.
The
main shopping area was in the city. The department stores and supermarkets were
not up to the standard I had become accustomed to in
In
contrast, the antiques market was poor. The few scattered shops carried only
English artefacts. Continental paintings and porcelain, brought in by WWII
migrants, had found their way to overseas markets long before our arrival. Some
got to
My
workplace, the University, had some quaint features. Located on a hill,
directly above the city, a cable car could be used to reach it. The campus
itself was practically a pedestrian zone. Cars could not enter except by
special arrangement.
The
administrative machinery was marked by its informality. In
Shortly
after my arrival I sent a postcard to
My
plans to fly over were frustrated by the depreciation of the
Following
two weeks of pacing through
My enquiries in the University’s Chinese
Studies Department and in the chamber of commerce were equally fruitless. If
Florie had been around, I would have enlisted her help. But she too was
untraceable. Eventually, I had to resign myself to the fact that my friends –
for a reason unknown to me – had vanished into thin air.
I
made another abortive attempt to locate them when we stopped in
Back
in
My
next attempt was to locate Yuan Ming in
As
Chronus’ timepiece continued to tick mercilessly, it dawned on me that, if I
met Yuan Ming on the street, I would in all probability fail to recognise her.
A young woman – approaching her full bloom – was bound to differ in her
appearance from my young friend of past days.
2. Melbourne and a Visit to Singapore
My
colleagues in
Attempting
to find a solution, I applied for a chair at
Monash
made heavier demands on my time than
Slowly
but surely life became unbearable. Acquiring some excellent eighteenth century
Meissen pieces afforded me some compensation. But my occasional collector’s
elation could not stave off the growing general frustration triggered by my
domestic circumstances. And my inability to locate Tay took the pleasure out of
my discovery of a number of good Tang and Song wares.
By
the end of my sixth year at Monash I was close to breaking point. Realising
that I was in a hole, the friendly Law Dean enabled me to take up a Visiting
Chair for a period of one year at the National University of Singapore, which –
despite a change in its name and of the location of its campus – continued to
be manned by my colleagues of days gone by.
Pat
was glad to be back with her family, even if only on a temporary basis. I, too,
found life in my old habitat more agreeable than my existence in
Soon
after my arrival – and despite the sixteen years of separation – I began once
more to search for
3. A Visit to Penang
Shortly
after my trip to Malacca, a
Next
morning, I was dismayed to discover that I had been outbid:
Back
in my study in
I
was taking a nap in my comfortable hotel room when the telephone rang. The
operator advised that Mme Tan Fei Lin wanted to meet me. If I was free, she
would arrive at the coffee house in half an hour.
In
the slang of the Straits Chinese “Mme” (an abbreviation of “Madam”) is used in
conjunction with a married woman’s maiden name. Generally, it implies that she
lives apart from her husband. At one time, “Mme” could also indicate that the
woman was the “chief wife” and not a mere concubine or Tsip. In modern times, though, the word is used mainly in its first
context. I assumed, accordingly, that my hostess was a divorcee.
Mme
Tan turned out to be in her early fifties. She was smartly though
inconspicuously dressed and carried herself with confidence. Her directness and
quick grasp of points commanded my respect. In less than half an hour, we had
worked out an agenda and some aspects of my presentation. When we were done,
she relaxed and, dropping the polished English she had used till then, said –
in a jargon I could never forget: “And you, Peter, very slow to remember old
friend!”
“What
…” I gave a start: “Florie?”
“Who
else,” she smiled.
As
I stared at the middle-aged woman in front of me, the years peeled away. Soon I
was back in the Princess, in the popular eating places and in the fine flat she
had owned in the old days. As was to be expected, she had aged, had put on
weight and grown a double chin. At the same time, she remained as self-assured
and as appealing as she had been in years gone by.
“You
not look at me so sad, Peter,” she observed. “You also not same now. And Peter,
what happened your hair? Was a bit thin; but now – Peter – no more!”
“Gone
with the wind, Florie. But you look as attractive as you used to. I feel sad
because so many years have passed without my seeing you! What a waste!”
“You
still same flatterer,” she grinned. “But no, Peter, is seventeen years from day
I leave
“Spot
on. I only wish I had listened to your good advice about marriage.”
“You
not happy, Peter?”
“That’s
putting it mildly. You see, my wife – Pat – is a good, faithful wife. But we
have little in common.”
“But
you always dream boy, Peter; and you not easy. But, Peter, you now famous
Professor!”
“Big
deal,” I muttered.
“Better
than be nobody Professor. No, Peter, you always want too much. Bite more than
can swallow. But never mind all this. Your little friend, Yuan Ming and her
father – they alright?”
Florie
looked at me in disbelief when I told her that I had lost touch with them. She
nodded sympathetically as I described my search, the fruitless strolls through
“But
how come you never think of such simple thing, Peter?”
“The
thought never crossed my mind. Somehow these options appear … undignified.”
“Nonsense.
Was the right thing to do. Detective know how to look for people. Is his
business; and advertising OK. You can put ad in name of friend. No, Peter:
truth is, you do the complicated things; not the simple way. But, now I think
too late; many years too late.”
“Can
you please help me?” I begged. “I’d do anything to see them again. Please try.”
“Of
course, Peter. But, as I say, may be too late. Still, I know some people. I let
you know.”
Florie’s
own tale – like mine – was marred by unhappiness. On the positive side, she had
one son and one daughter, had done well in the business world and in the
community as a whole and, generally, had become a power in her own small world.
On the negative side, her husband had left her. Her success, as compared with
his own constant business failures, led to tensions between them. When his
secretary laid a siege, he succumbed.
For
a long time Florie shut her eyes to what was going on. Then his mistress became
pregnant. Unable to cope, he decided to acquaint Florie with his problem. She
decided that the only solution was a split. Giving him enough money to take
care of his new family, she insisted that they execute a separation agreement.
A year later, they were divorced.
“But
you kept the children?” I ventured.
“Of
course; I think is best for them; and was: he never come see them now.”
“What
a swine!”
“Oh,
I don’t know, Peter.
“Have
you become enemies?”
“No.
I understand him: I older than him and also not give him respect like his
secretary. For him is easier; also for me. I not need him any longer. So if we
meet on street, we talk a few minutes: no anger. And, you know, last time he
say he not happy with wife. So I say is not my problem!”
“I
get the picture. Still, in the end, all is well.”
It
turned out that not everything was well. Florie’s children, Phillip and Amy,
had brought her much joy. But two months before my visit, a classmate had told
Phillip about Florie’s previous existence at the Princess. Coolness had reigned
since then.
“He
think I bar girl, and so must be bad woman. Is terrible feeling.”
“So
why didn’t you tell him off?”
“No
point, Peter. This time, I think he not listen!”
“What
are you going to do? You must make sure he understands!”
To
my surprise, Florie asked me to talk to him. She wanted me to explain
everything. Once he knew, he would understand. “But what do you want me to tell
him?”
“The
truth, Peter: the truth like you see then and now. You tell him what you really
think: lie is no good. Phillip very smart, he see through.”
With
some hesitation, I agreed. Prejudice – I knew – was hard to combat. Still, a
frank chat with the disillusioned son appeared the only way: it was worth a
try. To facilitate the plan, Florie asked Phillip to take me out for dinner.
Although
I left my room ahead of time, Phillip was already waiting for me in the lobby.
He was a good looking boy, slim, with a neat haircut and an intelligent face.
His eyes reminded me of Florie’s: they had the same focused and penetrating
quality.
“Mother
tells me you like local food, Uncle Peter.” He had addressed me in the Asian manner, appropriate as I was his senior
and a long standing acquaintance of his mother. “There is a good Roti Prata stall in the food court
behind the hotel. Another stall has good Paus.”
“I wish I could still eat them, Phillip,” I
told him sadly. “But I can’t take any sweet or starchy food. Can I get a
chicken rice there?”
“Of
course,” he smiled.
The
crowded food court reminded me of
“Do
you have to take shots, Uncle Peter?”
“I
am doing all I can to avoid going so far. At present, I manage on tablets.”
“My
father has to take two shots a day,” he told me. “When they diagnosed him, he
was bitter. But he has learned to live with it. Still, I’m sure it’s not easy.”
“It’s
unpleasant; but you have to come to terms with it ... Right, let’s see, the satay looks good.”
“It’s
excellent, Uncle Peter. Why don’t you take a stick or two without the peanut
butter. It can’t do much harm, surely?”
Unable
to resist, I took two skewers: one of grilled pieces of marinated chicken
breast and the other of mutton. As I relished them, I pondered how to bring up
the issue of Florie’s background. To my relief, Phillip took the lead.
“Look,
Uncle Peter: I believe mother wants you to talk to me about her life in
“Yes,
Phillip: I knew her well. We went steady for quite a time.”
“Were
you already teaching at the University?”
“I
was. I met Florie – I mean your mother – through a colleague.”
“Was
she working in a bar called the Princess?”
“That’s
where we met.”
“I
see.” He looked away.
“Why
do you look so perturbed?”
“Here,
in
“Generally,
it’s the same in other places.”
“Like
“Quite.
But, Phillip, Florie was special. I was proud of her and of our friendship!”
“What
was so special about her?”
His face
brightened as I told him the entire story. He smiled when I mentioned our
sumptuous dinners, the shopping sprees, the swimming excursions at Changi
Point, our trips through
“The
only time she made me unhappy, Phillip, was when she refused to marry me,” I
concluded.
“You
proposed to her?” He let his surprise show.
“Of
course; and it took some courage. I was afraid she would say ‘no’.”
“Did
she tell you why?”
“She
was afraid she would not fit in with my friends. I told her this was nonsense.
She then said she wanted her children to be Chinese. She intended to bring them
up with a husband from her own milieu. Disappointed as I was, I could
understand her. You see, a German saying advises us to marry somebody from the
‘same stable’.”
“You
agree with this?” he asked.
“Generally,
I do. People find it easy to understand somebody who comes from the same
background. But I think your mother was special. She had her own insights. She
would have been an excellent wife.”
“She
has also been a good mother,” Phillip admitted, and proceeded to tell me a
great deal about his childhood and the good care she had taken of him and his
sister. She had been a devoted and sensible mother. I had no doubt that he
loved her.
“Don’t
let the prejudices of others affect your own judgment, Phillip,” I advised
before we parted in front of the hotel. “Look at Florie – I mean your mother –
with your own eyes.”
“I
shall. And, Uncle Peter, thanks for talking to me.”
About
ten days later, I received Florie’s letter. The cloud between Phillip and her
had lifted. He was once again the respectful and kindly son she had brought up.
She would have been even more pleased if she, in turn, could have brought me
goods news. Regrettably, she had been unable to find any clue about
4. A Pleasant Dinner
More than
six months of my sabbatical were gone when a development at Monash provided the
opportunity for an extension. Our friendly Dean quit and his successor was keen
to give the place a shakeup. As we did not get on, he was responsive when I
expressed an interest in remaining in
Shortly
after that matter had been settled, I received a message from the
When
the other party’s expert – an acquaintance from my
During
a celebration dinner organised by our party it occurred to me that my friend in
To
allay my fears I went over to a museum. Usually an inspection would have taken
a few days. But as I had to fly back next morning, the girl at the counter rang
the head of the department. To my relief, it turned out that Professor Zussman had a few minutes available before
her next lecture.
Even
before she saw my acquisition, Professor Zussman assured me that the firm in
“But
I thought you were from
“It’s
my base. But I spent a few years in
“Have
you been in
“Presently
I’m just a Visiting Professor. But my first appointment was there.”
“When
was that?”
“In
the sixties,” I told her, puzzled by her persistence.
“Did
you by any chance come across Wally Wallace?”
“Well,
I served on his Oriental Furniture Committee. And I was also involved in the
acquisition of ceramics.”
“So
you must have met many antiques dealers.”
“I
did; but I got my own pieces in just one shop:
“
“Precisely.
The owner taught me everything I know about Chinese ceramics. By the way, in
Mandarin his name was pronounced as Cheng.”
“I
knew him well,” she told me. “How is he doing?”
I
told her that we had lost touch. “So you haven’t seen him for years. But in the
old days, did you see him regularly?”
“At
least once a week. And he had quite a shop!”
She
wanted to know more but had to rush to her class. Having ascertained that I was
free that evening, she invited me to come over for dinner with her friend and
herself. One of them would meet me at Golders Green Station.
“You
are sure to recognise Laura,” she told me. “She is a big girl.”
Laura
spotted me as soon as I emerged from the station. She was, indeed, a tall and
heavy set woman, a few years older than Elsie. Her deportment and self-assured
demeanour reflected vigour and strength.
“I
am Laura Levi. You must be Professor Berger,” she said, offering her hand.
“I
am. But how did you recognise me?”
“Elsie
gave me a vivid description,” she grinned.
It
took us some ten minutes to reach their house. When we were close to our
destination she said pointedly: “Elsie tells me you knew Alfie Cheng in the
sixties.”
“I
did. But I lost track of him after we left
“Elsie
will ask a great deal about him. She was engaged to him.”
“I
know.”
“How
come?”
“A
colleague – Lydia Fernando – told me about his days in
“I
knew Lydia,” said Laura. “We all belonged to the same circle. Look: Elsie gets
quite upset when she thinks about the past. So please be careful when you talk
about Alfie.”
“I
understand,” I assured her. “Give me a cue or hint when needed. The last thing
I want to do is to touch a sore spot.”
“Thanks,”
she nodded.
When we
arrived, Elsie stepped out of the kitchen. She was flustered, and told us that
dinner would be late. Laura gave me a guided tour of their flat and collections
of artefacts and coins. As soon as Elsie disappeared, Laura explained in a
motherly voice: “Poor Elsie: she lives on her nerves. I’m used to it. And it’s
pointless to tell her not to hurry. It would make her even more nervous. But
don’t you worry: she’ll calm down once she finishes the cooking.”
Their
collection of coins was impressive. Although I had not mastered the subject, I
recognised some coins minted in
Laura
then showed me their prints and paintings. Their set of Rembrandt’s etchings
made my mouth water. I was less impressed with their aquarelles. Many of them
struck me as quaint and of poor quality. Then my eye caught a small abstract
study in colours.
“Who
is it by?”
“A
girl called Eunice Teo. We got it from her in the Saturday Bayswater Road
market. Both of us liked it. We wanted to get another piece but, when we came
back a few weeks later, she wasn’t there.”
“Was
she Chinese?”
“Vietnamese,
I think. But she spoke excellent English. She must have been a beginner: she
was so glad we liked her work.”
“It
is very nice. It reminds of something: but I’m not sure what.”
As Elsie
was still fussing in the kitchen, Laura showed me their collection of ceramics.
Most of their pieces came from British and French factories but there were also
a few – not particularly appealing – mid-European wares. She then drew my
attention to a separate cabinet containing Chinese pieces. My eyes opened wide
as they fell on a fine Song plate.
“Is
it special?” asked Laura.
“Where
did you get it?”
“Alfie
gave it to Elsie when they were engaged. I believe it is one of a set.”
“It
is,” I confirmed. “
“You
must have been very close to Alfie.”
“We
were …” I was fumbling for further words when Elsie made a triumphant
re-appearance.
“Dinner
is ready to be served!” she announced proudly.
“We
are gratified, my Lady,” answered Laura and curtsied.
Laura –
whose sophistication belied her down-to-earth manner – adroitly steered our
small talk to their collection. Seeking to avoid touchy subjects, I confined my
remarks to their coins. When Elsie realised that I was familiar with the
history of
As
the dinner proceeded, Elsie settled and relaxed. Satisfied that all was well,
Laura told Elsie what I had said about the Song plate. Looking at me
searchingly, Else revealed that Alfie had intended to hold on to the remaining
two plates unless he found somebody who would cherish such treasures as much as
himself.
“I
believe I do, Professor Zussman …”
“…
Elsie, please,” she interrupted.
“Thanks,
Elsie,” I nodded, adding with confidence: “He gave it to me when he was
satisfied I had worked out the Song philosophy and artistic manifesto; and he
knew – knew full well – that my own orientation or personal outlook on life
remained unaffected. That did not bother him.”
“It
wouldn’t,” agreed Elsie. “But tell us more about Alfie and his shop.”
Laura’s
nod encouraged me to open the floodgates. When I had finished, Elsie asked
about
“I
saw them together only once, in the cinema. I was there with someone else, so I
didn’t go over to talk.”
“What
did Alfie’s wife look like?” Elsie asked.
“A
typical Chinese housewife. As far as I know, she never went to his shop. His
home and shop were worlds apart.”
“True
to type,” volunteered Laura. “Alfie liked to divide his world into well-defined
compartments.”
“Quite,”
agreed Elsie. “But how about children? Does he have any?”
“He had just one daughter: Yuan Ming,” I responded,
having taken in Laura’s nod. “She came with him to the shop regularly.”
“Tell us about her,” said Laura.
“You must have been very fond of them,” said Elsie
once I had finished. “How did you lose touch with them?”
Usually
I would have been reticent. Up to that moment, the story of my search was known
only to Florie. That evening, though, I felt ready to talk. I sensed that Elsie
and Laura came from a background similar to mine and were members of the same
academic and professional community.
When
I was through, my hosts looked at me sympathetically. Seeking to ease the
atmosphere, Elsie announced that she had to go back to the kitchen to take the
soufflé out of the oven.
“I
am afraid I can’t take sweets, Elsie,” I told her.
“Laura
is also off sugar. So I always use sweetener.”
“Splendid.
It’s been ages since I had a soufflé.”
As
we enjoyed the dessert, Laura mentioned that they were planning to leave
“But
will you be able to continue collecting after you leave
“We
are selling the collection,” said Elsie.
“Why?”
“A
collection must be built up steadily and so you are always on the search. And
I’m tired of polishing coin after coin day after day: it’s all so time
consuming.”
“But
what will you do instead?”
“Read;
and improve my cooking skills.”
“You
are an excellent chef at present.”
“Thanks;
but, you see, I enjoy trying out new recipes. It’s fun; more fun than
collecting coins.”
“And
what will you do, Laura – I mean apart from reading?”
“I
love gardening, and Torquay is just the place for it.”
“Then
you are all set for the move!” I observed.
“Except
one small hitch: Alfie’s plate. I don’t know what to do with it,” sighed Elsie.
“These
plates are unique,” I pointed out. “You must find a good place for it in your
new home.”
“Where
do you keep yours?” asked Elsie.
“In
a locked drawer in my antiques room. I take it out from time to time to admire
it, and also to polish it. Why is your plate a problem?”
“It’s
easy to keep it safe here, Peter, in a display cabinet. But in Torquay we’re
going to run a different show. I dread the thought of somebody breaking it; and
hiding it is no good.”
“What
do you intend to do, then?” I asked.
“I
was thinking of giving it to a museum. But pieces in a museum lose their
identity. Visitors give them a scanty glance and proceed to the next show
case.”
She
was, of course, right. When I started my mid-European porcelain collection, I
had imagined that I would leave it to a suitable museum. But my regular visits
to museums all over the world had convinced me that few members of the public
derive any benefit from such bequests. Most visitors lack the facility and
interest to assess the artefacts displayed in a museum. It was preferable to
give one’s collection to a fellow traveller.
“But
surely you won’t let Alfie’s plate stymie you. What will you do?”
“I
thought of putting it in an auction and donating the proceeds to charity. But I
don’t have the heart to part with Alfie’s gift in this way.” She halted for a
moment, exchanged a glance with Laura, and then went on unflinchingly: “Peter,
are you still looking for Alfie?”
“Of
course,” I answered, startled.
“Please
take the plate with you and give it to Yuan Ming. I’m sure you’ll find them one
day.”
“But,
Elsie, this plate is worth a fortune. And Alfie wanted you to have it!”
“True;
but how can I sell it? No, Peter, this plate must go back to Alfie. It is his –
or his daughter’s – by right. So please take it with you! Laura, don’t you
think this is the best way?”
“I
do,” said Laura. “And if you don’t find him, keep it as part of the collection
you built up when you used to visit his shop.”
“Very
well,” I said.
5: An Unexpected Clue
When dinner was over, Laura drove me back to the hotel. It turned out
that she had read English Literature and History at St Hugh’s College but, on
graduation, decided to try her luck in business. She had done well – better
than she had expected – but longed to devote more time to her erstwhile
interests.
“Where
did you meet Elsie?” I dared to ask.
“In
our circle. Lydia took me there. I met Lydia at a club in
“Who
were the members of the circle?”
“Young
intellectuals: mainly arts and philosophy students and recent graduates. Most
of them came from
“Were
Elsie and Alfie engaged at that time?”
“They
were. But it was easy to see that they had problems.”
“Because
of Alfie’s Chinese background?”
“That
didn’t help. Elsie family was dead set against her union with an oriental; but
there were other reasons.”
“Can
you tell me?” I asked with trepidation. Normally, I should have refrained from
raking up the past in such a callous manner. Idle curiosity often leads to a
storm or an angry look. So does meddling in other people’s affairs. Moreover,
the past was no longer of any practical significance. Laura, though, was
willing to recall it.
“Elsie
needed security – I mean, emotional security: somebody to hold her hand when
the pressure became too great; and, of course, it always did. You saw the way
she got flustered when she was preparing dinner tonight. It’s the same when she
wants to buy or sell something – like a rare coin. Often, I have to make her
decision for her.”
“What
does this have to do with Alfie?”
“Alfie
was far too aloof to get involved. His answer would be: ‘it’s your decision’.
That’s precisely what Elsie doesn’t want to hear.” Laura paused for a moment,
then added: “And there was one more problem: Elsie wanted Alfie to be hers
lock, stock and barrel. Alfie did not fit the bill. He always keeps some
compartments to himself. Nobody gets access to every corner of his life. Elsie
resented that.”
“Most
women would.”
“Precisely,”
agreed Laura, “except that some people do not let the other party sense that
something’s out of bounds. Alfie did!”
“You
saw the split coming?”
“Elsie
talked to me. I persuaded her to talk things over with Alfie, and she tried.
She didn’t really want to jilt him: she was in love with him. Unfortunately,
Alfie didn’t give her a chance.”
“What
do you mean?”
“As
soon as she said she thought that there was a problem, he clammed up. She broke
down after he left. And he went without trying to smooth things over – that’s
Alfie!”
It
was not difficult to visualise the scene. Alfred Cheng was a sophisticated,
brilliant and sincere man. But I knew he was sensitive – perhaps
hyper-sensitive – and singularly concerned about self-respect and loss of face.
The moment he felt unwanted, he would retreat. “What happened then?”
“I
had to pick up the pieces – Elsie’s pieces. The way she acted – you would have
thought he had jilted her at the altar! After a few weeks she moved in with me.
Everybody thought I had stolen her away, and blamed me for the split. The truth
is very different: when we came together, I had to end another friendship.”
“Not
with Lydia, surely,” I said, tactlessly.
“No,
Peter, of course not with Lydia. I was dating Wally Wallace. When Elsie moved
in, he started to chase Lydia.”
“Getting
away from him was a lucky break, Laura,” I spoke with conviction. “Wally was an
impossible fellow. I often had to pick him up and drive him home after his bar
binges. He was a real scholar, but the way he used to carry on ...”
Laura
did not respond. For a few minutes she concentrated on her driving, dodging
oncoming cars skilfully. But I could see that she was pondering on what I had
said. I, in turn, reflected on the nature of their circle. What apart from a
genuine interest in art and philosophy could have drawn such a diverse group of
people together? They were young intellectuals, but in all other regards they
were miles apart from each other.
“Look,
Peter,” she said as we approached the hotel, “Wally was a handful. But all in
all he was a good sort of chap. His trouble was this insecurity: his lack of
confidence and his eternal misgivings. If we had stayed together, I might have
got him over it. I knew how to handle him.”
“What
a pity Lydia was not up to it,” I supplemented.
“Lydia
was a good sort; but her inclination was to step back when problems cropped up.
Worse still: she wasn’t prepared – perhaps not even able – to take matters into
her own hands. She was unwilling to interfere because she was afraid of
crossing the fine line separating assistance from harassment. In Wally’s case
such scruples were misguided. He needed a strong controlling hand even if
outwardly he resented ‘nagging females’.”
“I
see,” I told her, thinking to myself that her split from Wally had been his
end. With Laura beside him, Wally could have achieved his own ambitions. All in
all, he was an outstanding scholar. It was a pity that his Achilles’ heel –
inebriation triggered by insecurity – destroyed him. With a strong consort to
look after him, he would not have been driven to this disastrous escape route.
“You
think I sealed Wally’s fate?” Laura asked.
“I
wouldn’t put it like that. After all, Wally was a grown man and – like all of
us – should have been able to cope with the setbacks that life throws at us.
Still your influence might have been his saving grace. But, of course, nobody
except him is responsible.”
“You
know he is dead, don’t you?”
“I
do. A colleague in
“Precisely.
But – you know – Wally’s luck ran out in
“I
get the picture; and I really think that, in the end, you are better off with
Elsie.”
“That’s
one way of looking at it, Peter. But it’s not as if Elsie is an easy person to
get on with. She is a great scholar. But she can’t manage her everyday affairs,
or the practical side of her career. She needs a crutch all the time. Just take
the rubbish she buys when she goes shopping without me, and the prices she
pays! Wally was a drunk, but he knew how to fend for himself when he was sober.
And I could have helped him to control his drinking habit. Elsie needs a
helping hand day in day out.”
“So
– in a manner of speaking – you jumped from the frying pan into the fire?” I
mused.
“I
did, rather. Still, this was the way it was meant to be,” she concluded,
without even a trace of bitterness.
Once
again silence descended and Laura concentrated on the road. I was pondering on
the strange nature of human relationships. Often Fortuna’s hidden hand forged a person’s character, dictated his
acts and ruled his life tyrannically behind the stage. A calm and self-assured
front drew to Laura people weaker than herself. They blossomed in her shadow
and might rise above her. In the eyes of the world, somebody like Laura would
then be regarded as an appendage. But on the inside – within the person to
person relationship – Laura remained in charge. She was undoubtedly aware of
outsiders’ sentiments, but remained unperturbed by them.
Thinking
of her life and role, I felt both sympathy and compassion for her. When we had
reached our destination, I invited her to have a drink in the lounge. She
smiled with understanding when I excused myself for a few minutes so as to
place the neatly packed Song plate in the safe.
After
we had placed our orders, I asked why they were unwilling to take the Song
plate with them to their new home. Why would it be exposed to greater dangers
in Torquay than in Golders Green?
It
turned out that their house in Torquay was going to be a half-way house, a
temporary shelter for women escaping from unhappy environments, mainly from
tyrannical parents or brutal spouses. In the Torquay home they would have the
chance to recover and to make their plans for a new life without having to face
immediate financial problems or social pressure.
“You’d
be surprised, Peter, how many women stay put just because they have nowhere to
go. We can’t solve the problems that trigger their wish to escape. But we can –
and will – provide a haven when needed.”
“But
what has this got to do with the Song plate and other works of art? You don’t
anticipate pilfering?”
“It
can, of course, happen. I’m sure some of our protégées won’t be paragons of
virtue. But no, that’s not the worry. We are rather afraid of violent scenes by
jilted boyfriends or spurned husbands. Most of them will – I am sure – be just
loud-mouthed bullies. But some may be real bastards. Alfie’s plate will be much
safer in your hands. And we’ll find homes for the other things we can’t take
with us and don’t want to sell.”
“What
made you come up with the plan for such an establishment? I think Elsie led a
sheltered life from the word go. She won’t know much about the seedy side of
life. It must have been your plan.”
“It
was. I’m a member of certain organisations and I see much of the unpleasant
side of human nature through my work in the city. The employees of our debt
recovery agency like to boast of their ‘successes’. And they often tell me what
they see when they force their way into a home to repossess a television set or
piece of furniture. Wives of gamblers and drunks have a particularly nasty
time.”
“You
have an admirable project. Very few people are concerned with the plight of
others.”
“The
government is expected to be. But it is usually too busy with more important
matters, such as winning the next election.”
I
could not help grinning. My views about the establishment, be it the government
or a party, were the same as hers. I wanted to ask more about their plan but,
to my surprise, Laura turned to my search for
“True;
but this makes no difference!”
“Even
if Yuan Ming is married, has children and has long forgotten her uncle – a
somewhat eccentric uncle?”
“I’m
sure she hasn’t. Even if she is a mother. My instincts tell me we were too
close to forget the past, even if Yuan Ming has had a stormy life. And
“In
that case, Peter, why hasn’t he contacted you?”
The
thought had never crossed my mind. As soon as she asked the question, I
realised that I had been a simpleton. It was
an obvious point but – in my impractical manner – I had not reckoned
with it. “How would he know my whereabouts?” I asked, defensively.
“Locating
you is easy, Peter. Until this very morning Elsie and I had not even heard of
you. But we looked up a few professional reference books and a Law Teachers’
directory, and then Elsie rang people in one of our Law Schools. By
“Why
didn’t he do so then?” I asked, still bewildered.
“Perhaps
he may not want to see you.”
“I
don’t think that would be the case,” I said with conviction.
“Or
he may fear a snub. You see, he may not know you have been searching for him!”
“How
about my unanswered letters?”
“For
one reason or another reason they may not have reached him. You know that your
registered parcel could not be delivered.”
“Where
does this lead?”
“Taking
yet another stroll through
“I
only wish I knew what to do,” I lamented. “As things stand, I’m not even sure
he is in
Laura
fell into a prolonged silence. It was clear that my plea had moved her.
“Peter,” she said once she had made up her mind, “can I trust you to keep a
secret?”
“Of
course,” I told her, sensing that she knew something. “Discretion is one of the
virtues of experienced lawyers.”
“You
must never tell Elsie!”
“Sure,”
I promised.
“Well,
then, I have a clue: it may not be of much help, but, at the very least, it may
give you a fresh start.”
“Please
tell me,” I begged. “I won’t breathe a word about it.”
Having set
her misgivings aside, Laura told me that, a few months earlier, she had met
“But
how did you recognise one another after so many years?”
“I
am not too hard to spot,” grinned Laura. “And Alfie still looked the same,
except that he had lost a great deal of weight and was pie bald.”
As
they had not seen each other for years, it was only natural that they should
stop and exchange pleasantries. Alfie asked about Elsie. He knew she was living
with Laura. He did not tell Laura much about his own life but she gleaned that
he had lost his wife. He had not referred to her specifically but said he had
regained his freedom to travel as he pleased.
“And,
you know, he said it was nice to get up in the morning when it suited him.”
“Did
he mention Yuan Ming?”
“No,
he made no reference to her.”
“Did
he say he was still in
“Not
in so many words. But he said it was nice to enjoy, even for just a few days, a
cool climate. He said they had just been through a heat wave followed by
torrential rains.”
“That’s
“I’m
sure he has one. He said the new location was less noisy than
“Any
hint about the district he moved to?”
Laura
did not think so. All she knew was that his shop was no longer in
As
I digested the information, Laura came up with another fact. As Elsie and she
kept tabs on activities in sales rooms, she had been aware that no Chinese art
auction was scheduled for that day. Out of curiosity, she asked Alfie which
auction he proposed to attend. To her surprise, he was on his way to an auction
of Important Continental Ceramics.
Even
as she spoke, the memory bells were ringing. Important Continental Ceramics
auctions were few and far between. The last one had taken place during my
previous visit to
“Was
the auction on March 15?”
“I’m
not certain of the precise date, but it was around that period.”
“Did
he tell you what he was going to bid for?”
“Come
to think of it, he did. He mentioned a Harlequin produced in
“Did
he describe it as the Bowing Harlequin?
It was modelled by a man called Kändler.”
“He
did. He said his friend was looking for it. Why do you ask?”
Haltingly,
I told her it was the very piece I coveted. I was prepared to pay £20,000 for
it, although its upper estimate in the catalogue was £12,000. The successful
bidder went one notch higher!
“You
think the bidder was Alfie?”
“I’m
positive! He knew how badly I wanted the piece.”
“So
how come you didn’t meet him? There couldn’t have been more than 40 or 50
people in the hall; and a collector usually has a good look at somebody who
bids against him.”
“I
couldn’t attend the auction in person. It was held on the very day of my
briefing! I left an absentee bid. I
thought nobody would be mad enough to go above it. I was dismayed when I found
out the next day that I had been outbid; and they wouldn’t tell me who the
successful bidder was, except that he looked like a Japanese or Korean.”
“You
had no hunch?”
“I
didn’t. You see, some ardent Meissen collectors are Japanese. I thought the piece was heading in that
direction, probably to a private collection in Tokyo.”
“But
now you are sure it was knocked down to Alfie?”
“I
am, which means he got it for me. Don’t you see how important a clue this is?”
“Tell
me.”
“It
means Alfie hopes there’ll be a reunion, which means he is not avoiding me. It
means he is waiting for me to surface.”
“So
why isn’t he getting in touch with you?”
“As
you said: the fear of a snub. He is a sensitive man. He is too thin-skinned to
make the first approach. But he won’t rebuff me when I find him. You have given
me a reason for persevering!”
“I’m
glad, Peter. But remember: you must try a new approach. Perhaps you should
enlist professional help. It is late for that – I know – but a private
detective might have fresh ideas. It’s worth a try.”
“I’ll
get one as soon as I am back,” I told her, seeing no point in referring to
Florie’s observations on the subject.
“Drop
me a line if you find him. But – please – mark the envelope ‘private and
confidential’.”
“Will
do,” I assured her.
“And
look us up when you are next in the
As
she got ready to leave, I observed that it was remarkable how quickly we had
reached a rapport. Generally, I found it difficult to meet new people and make
friends. Today, though, the link with Alfie and, in all probability, our common
background had been instrumental in breaking the ice. Nodding, Laura said that
she had always been a good mixer. In contrast, Elsie was diffident and uneasy
with people she did not know well. Her warm manner this evening was unusual.
Laura thought that one factor, which I had overlooked, had helped Elsie to get
over her usual shyness.
“Her
recollection of the past?” I asked.
“No,
Peter. Initially I feared that her memories would increase her reserve. And I
don’t think your being Jewish got her over her qualms. More often than not
Elsie is awkward with fellows in faith.”
“What
was it, then?”
“Your
interest in the history of Roman Judea and your familiarity with the source
materials. This period has become Elsie’s pet subject. Talking about it is
balsam to her nerves. You must have noticed how much she enjoyed herself when
you turned to it.”
As
she got into her car, Laura reverted briefly to my search for Alfie and the
clue she had been able to provide. “I only hope it won’t lead to yet another
dead end or disappointment.”
“I
believe it won’t: I now know Alfie, too, hopes and trusts we’ll meet again.
Otherwise, he would not have gone for the figurine. He would have used the
money to buy some rare Song artefacts. So I am – again – hopeful. If Alfie is
in
“I’ll
cross my fingers,” she promised. “And remember: not a word to Elsie!”
“Of
course.”
6: An Enterprising Sleuth
A few days after my return to Singapore, I contacted a private
investigator with a record for tracking down missing persons. Ravi Allen
listened sympathetically to my tale, asked questions about my search for
“And if he changed the name of the firm?”
“It will be more difficult,” agreed Ravi Allen. “But if
‘Antiques’ remains in the firm’s new name, the register might provide the clue.
I’ll have to see when ‘
“And suppose he changed the name a few years after he
moved his shop?” I asked.
“If he kept the old style, we’ll get the new address: he
was bound to notify the change. Even if he was dilatory about it, we’ll be able
to track him down.”
“And if he migrated?”
“That will be that,” he said. “But the information you
got in
“Any other information that may help?”
“Well, yes.
“I am afraid not. But I am sure he did not get my
letters! If he did, he would have replied; and he would have also told me why
he had to move. He had never expressed dissatisfaction with their location. And
the business was doing well. So why on earth did he move?”
“I wish we knew,” said Ravi Allen. “It would make my job
easier. Did he have bad relations with any of the neighbouring shops?”
“Not that I know of. He was very friendly with the owner
of the shop next door. It was a bakery. But they, too, are no longer there.
They moved before my first visit from
Before he left, Ravi Allen asked me not to make any
investigations of my own while he was on the case. Too many cooks spoil the
broth.
“It’s a clever saying,” he added. “I’m superstitious
about it.”
“How long do you think it will take you to get
anywhere?”
“At least three weeks,” he replied. “I must finish
another investigation before I get started on yours. I could put someone else
on your job, but it is the sort of case I like to handle personally. I’ll let
you know as soon as I have something to report.”
“Very well. How do you rate our chances?”
“Too early to tell. But I’ve solved many difficult
cases. I only wish we knew why he moved away from
“Why is this so important?”
“Because I want to know if he needed to go into hiding.
If he did, it may be more difficult to find him.”
7: A Dilatory
Optician
Suspending my own attempts to track Tay was harder
than I had expected. I couldn’t help looking eagerly at every new
antiques shop I passed. On one occasion, when I rushed into a new shop in
The new pair of glasses was bound to be expensive. As
the opticians in the
The young optician, who helped me to select a frame, had
the glasses ready by the end of the week. But when I tried them on, it turned
out that the technician had made an error. As the taxi ride to Geylang took
some twenty minutes, I let my irritation show. Looking contrite, the optician
promised to do his best to have a new lens cut within an hour or two.
“But I don’t want to sit here and wait,” I said, still
annoyed. “And going back to the University and coming over in the evening is a
waste of time!”
“I’m really sorry. But it’s the best I can do. And, sir,
when you came last week you examined my two porcelain pieces. If you are
interested, we have a good shop not too far away. Why don’t you go over and
have a look? I’ll ring them as soon as the glasses are ready.”
“Two hours in an antiques shop?”
“It’s a very good shop, Sir. My father is a collector
and he loves to go there.”
“Oh, very well,” I said
resignedly. “But I really don’t expect much from an antiques shop in Geylang.
An old friend of mine, who ran a fine shop in
“I know. But Daddy says it’s a
very special shop.”
Hoping to make the best of the situation, I decided to
have a look, muttering to myself that two hours with antiques – even in a shop
in Geylang – were less onerous than two taxi rides. Recalling that Tay
Fang-Shuo used to describe Geylang as an objectionable part of town – fit only
for massage parlours and third-rate bars – I did not anticipate a rewarding
shopping spree. Still, occasionally you can find a good bargain in the
unlikeliest of places.
8. El Dorado
Some ten minutes later – when I reached the narrow street – I was soaked
to the skin. A hike in the hot tropical sun had been unpleasant even during my
youth. For a middle aged man, it was real punishment. With the hope of cooling
down naturally, I proceeded to my destination. Within a few seconds, I stopped
in front of the shop.
Anticipating the cluttered display so common in
A woman in her late twenties or early thirties was
sitting at the counter. She gave me a welcoming but impersonal smile. “You must
be the gentleman sent over by Chua Optics.” Her cultured accent was far removed
from my students’ Singlish.
“I am,” I said and noticed, with my heart pounding even
faster, the change in her expression. She was now looking at me searchingly.
“Your show window,” I tried to sound casual, “it’s
exciting.”
“Are you a collector?”
“I used to collect Tang and Song ceramics,” I replied.
“But now I concentrate on mid-European pieces: mainly
“Our Tang and Song pieces are in the cabinets to your
right. We don’t carry European antiques.”
“I’d like to have a look. But it’s only fair to tell you
I may not buy anything today.”
“That doesn’t matter. Just browse to your heart’s
delight. Let me know if you need any help.”
The artefacts in the Tang cabinets were outstanding.
Each was described in a neat cursive handwriting on a small card in front of
the item. One white porcelaneous piece, marked ‘not for sale’, made me gasp. I
recalled vividly how Yuan Ming had established its object – or the object of an
identical item – empirically. My memory was further stirred by a few Song
artefacts, likewise put up for display only. When I emerged from my brisk tour,
the attendant was looking at me keenly.
“You did not take long,” she observed.
“I know. But some of the pieces look familiar. That
white Tang artefact – is it an oil lamp?”
“A portable spittoon rather. But opinions differ,” she
grinned.
“But how come you have only two Sancai pieces?” I prompted.
“They have become very rare and expensive,” she sighed.
“We used to have lovely groups of musicians riding on a camel.”
“I saw them in a shop I frequented many years ago. Their
pieces were of the same quality as yours.”
“And where was the shop?” she asked, trying to sound
calm. “In
“Right here in
“In
“Precisely. The owner – Mr Tay Fang-Shuo – taught me all
I know about Chinese art. He was a real scholar – and a gentleman!”
“Did he run the shop on his own?” she asked, doing her
best to sound detached.
“His daughter was always with him,” I slipped in
quickly. “She was about eight or nine years old when I first came to the shop.
And she was a little princess the like of which there never was before and
never will be again!” I knew my voice was shaking. But I was unable to control
it.
The young woman, too, was under stress. Unable to form
the words she was searching for, she placed her arm, which had been beneath the
counter, right on top of it. And then I saw the bracelet on her wrist. The
little Harlequin charm grinned at me affectionately.
The world was spinning fast in front of me. Unable to
say a word, I kept staring at her. She had added the two links, originally
removed by the lapidary, to the bracelet. It suited her well. So did the charms
I had bought her all those years ago.
“Yuan Ming,” I heard a strange voice – unlike my own –
croaking. “Yuan Ming, is it really you?”
Still unable to speak, she let her glance fall on an
item I had not previously observed. On the left corner of the counter stood
Kändler’s Harlequin, with his green
breeches and smart hat. He too smiled at me benignly.
“So it really is you! After eons and ages I’ve found you
again: here in Geylang. In the district
She was about to respond when the door leading to the
inner rooms fell open. He had lost his hair, was dreadfully thin and looked
emaciated. His face had lost its ruddy, healthy and vigorous tone. But his
sharp eyes had retained their penetrating gaze.
“I thought I recognise voice!” he said with gusto. “So
after many years you find time visit old antiques dealer – ah, Mr Mid Yeast
Tourist!”
“Mr Tay,” I stammered, “Mr Tay: for seventeen years I
look for you: in
“But you never write – why?” he asked in a less
aggressive tone.
“But I write: first time two weeks after I arrive
“You write?” he said, seeking to suppress his disbelief.
“He addressed the letters to
“Of course,” I said, “to your old shop in
A strange expression crept over his face. For several
moments father and daughter looked at me without saying a word. I knew
something had gone wrong but was unable to get to the bottom of the puzzle.
“But, my friend,”
“What …?” I gasped and sank into a chair. “But, of
course; of course: so this was problem! How foolish – how utterly stupid of me.
Oh God!”
“My friend,” said
“First time I come your shop – so long ago – I not
really look for it. Friend in English department tell me can get European
porcelain in
“But you come so many times: one time, two time every
week. You never find out true address?” he asked, stunned but with no trace of
anger in him.
“I always park car in
“And shop card: you took
“Took. But I never look address: am sure is
“So you did send me a birthday gift?” asked Yuan Ming.
“I did. And I have bought something for you every year
since. They are in
“Poor Uncle,” she said gently.
“But didn’t you know my whereabouts?” I enquired.
“Oh, we know,” answered
“What a comedy of errors!” I groaned.
Once again, silence reigned in the shop. I was about to
ask a question that had formed in my mind, when I saw that a strange change had
come over my friend. The man facing me was neither the antiques dealer, Tay
Fang-Shuo, nor his polished Doppelgänger, Dr Alfred Cheng. Looking at me were
the eyes of the real man behind the twofold mask.
As I watched his face – bewildered – it dawned on me
that for years I had pondered on the wrong question. Right from my discovery of
his dual identity, I had asked myself which face was Jekyll’s and which one
Hyde’s. Were they Henry Tay and Edward Cheng or vice versa? I now realised that
both representations were but a façade: a camouflage erected by the youth who
had grown up in alien
“The Hand of Fortuna,”
said Alfie Cheng, the Chinese boy who had grown up in
Never before had he addressed me by my Hebrew name. I
was also startled by the undertones of an Australian accent, which I had not
spotted previously. Unwilling to interrupt, I shrugged my shoulders. Without
acknowledging my gesture, Alfie continued his soliloquy: “Twice in our lives Fortuna brought us together. Years ago you stepped
into my old shop out of the blue. I was at that time worried about Yuan Ming’s
upbringing. The atmosphere in the shop was unsuitable for a child. But the
stubborn girl wanted to stay put. Your arrival solved the problem. It changed
our environment: opened a window to the world. Then Fortuna – or a set of circumstances – led you away. But here you
are again, when needed most. Don’t you see our goddess is mighty? And isn’t our
belief in her just another faith – another form of religion?”
“Looking at it this way, I have to agree. But, in the
very least, we are not burdening her with a moral manifesto, Alfie. And we do
not assert that she is the ‘creator’,” I replied, my voice shaking. The
preoccupied look on his face indicated that he hadn’t heard me. Then, with a
deep sense of relief, I saw that his expression was undergoing yet another
change.
“Is good you back, my friend,” said Tay Fang-Shuo. “You
always welcome in humble shop. But now you please excuse me. In your language,
this is pleasant surprise but also great shock. I must go lie down. But you
please come soon.”
“Tomorrow, Mr Tay. Our usual time. And you please have
good rest. I think you tired. Today I also must go soon. But you take care – my
friend.”
“And you take new card. Shop changed name: is Yuan
Ming’s Antiques.”
“This, then,” I mumbled as he departed, “explains why
the directories were useless.”
9. Tying Up
Loose Ends
“And you have grown into such a self-assured and
attractive lady,” I said to Yuan Ming.
“Now, now, Uncle. Flattering a little girl was one
thing. A ‘young lady’ might think you are getting ideas.”
“Not when the flatterer is your, Uncle: surely! But I’m
not flattering; it’s the truth.”
“Sure, Uncle. Do you want me to enrol in the next beauty
contest?”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” I said,
inconsequentially. Then, recalling that there were still some missing pieces in
the jigsaw, I added hastily: “But look here, there’s still something I don’t
understand. You did go to
“And the
“I wrote to its principal and to the provosts of the
women’s colleges but they couldn’t locate you. Why?”
“Which name did you use?”
“Tay Yuan Ming alias Cheng Yuan Ming! I thought I’d play
it safe.”
“Poor Uncle. In
“How come?”
“It’s simple. ‘T-a-y’ is the Hokkien for ‘Cheng’;
‘T-e-o’ stands for ‘Chang’. A silly clerk in the registry confused Cheng and
Chang. That’s what you expect from a Baba. My name in the birth certificate was ‘Teo’.
And the certificate spells out my European proper name, which is ‘Eunice’. How
could the staff in
“How indeed?” I muttered.
‘Eunice Teo’ rang a bell, though. It coincided with the
signature on the aquarelle I had admired in
“Why do you still look perplexed, Uncle? I thought
everything was clear?”
“I understand why they couldn’t identify you. That much
is clear. But, tell me, is ‘Eunice Teo’ your nom de plume?”
“Well, I often use it when I sign paintings.”
“Have you sold any water colours in the Bayswater
Saturday fair?”
“I have. But only few and far in between!”
“One of them adorns the sitting room of two ladies I met
in
“Uncle, these two ladies: is one of them huge – enormous
and, well, imposing – and the other petite?”
“Precisely. But when you come to know Laura better, she
is not quite so formidable. She is kindly and very friendly. And the other lady
is a dear.”
“I remember them,” said Yuan Ming. “It was drizzling and
everybody was cold and gloomy; and I was so miserable.”
“Why?” I ventured.
“Because nobody paid any attention to my works. People
passed – with raised collars and open umbrellas – and didn’t take as much as a
glance at my paintings. Then these two ladies came along. They liked what I had
and bought that study in colours. The big girl – the one you call Laura – paid
£7 but I would have willingly given it to them for free. But, Uncle, what is so
special about this? Is it really so strange to find my ‘humble’ work in a
“The petite lady!” I tried to suppress my excitement.
“You see, her name is Elsie Zussman. She is a numismatist.”
“Elsie Zussman,” repeated Yuan Ming. Then her eyes
opened wide: “Uncle, didn’t she know my father in
“They were engaged. She broke it off. Her friend, Laura,
used to go out with Wally Wallace!”
“What a strange coincidence,” whispered Yuan Ming,
without a trace of bravado left in her voice. “How did you meet them?”
Yuan Ming did not interrupt my story. Recalling my
promise not to breathe a word about Laura’s meeting with
“I’ll bring it to you tomorrow. Elsie wants you to have
it. I’ll let them know we’ve met again. They know what this means to me.”
“To us,” she corrected, gently.
We were still looking at one another – the old
affection, which had never lapsed, rekindled – when the telephone rang. For a
few seconds, she spoke in Hokkien. Replacing the receiver, she told me that the
optician had asked her to convey his apologies. As both lenses had to be
re-cut, the spectacles could not be delivered today. She told them I would pick
them up early next week.
“I’d better call you a taxi now, Uncle. You look
shattered.”
“I am shattered; but very happy. But tell me just one
more thing, Yuan Ming. Didn’t you know I could never forget? Didn’t you know
that quite regardless of what had gone wrong, I was searching for you?”
“My instinct told me so – loud and clear. Dad took
another view: he said it would be wrong to make the first approach. He was
adamant. I knew his fear of a snub was silly – too silly for words. But his
obedient daughter, your Eunice Teo, toed the line. You understand, Uncle.”
“I do. The main thing is: here we are again!”
While we waited for the taxi, Yuan Ming enquired about
my next day’s teaching duties. My only session being first thing in the
morning, she suggested that we have lunch together. She had to attend to some
business matters in the morning but expected to be done by
V. RETURN
JOURNEYS
1: A Young
Artist’s Ambitions
The
Beer having been proscribed by my physician, I had to
make do with the aromatic but less satisfying Chinese tea and, alas, water. But
I had learned not to let dietary restrictions impede my appreciation of good
cuisine: throughout the splendid meal, my chopsticks moved adroitly. Amused by
my gluttony, Yuan Ming heaped the best morsels onto my plate. The passage of
time had reversed our roles.
“You look so happy, Uncle!”
“I am. And you, Yuan Ming: how about you?”
“Oh, I have nothing to grumble about. But sometimes I
wonder if I’m getting anywhere.”
“Where do you want to get?” I asked, perplexed.
“Well, what do you think of my work?” She extracted a
number of drawings from a binder. Like the aquarelle in
“How do they compare with my earlier pieces?”
“The ones you gave me then were more spontaneous than
the ones you have just shown me. But these are more sophisticated than your
earlier pieces. And your palette has grown richer.”
“I used to dislike yellows,” she told me. “I’ve grown
out of this allergy. But, Uncle, there is no message in my studies. My only
object is to entertain the viewer.”
“Have you stopped sketching people? I still have the
caricatures you gave me.”
Smiling, she produced a few sketches in colour. One
showed a young man in his early twenties, bespectacled and with a serious
expression. His name was Mark. They had been engaged for a number of years but
his insistence that she accompany him to church had led to tensions. So did his
unshakable plans for a large family. Yuan Ming had no wish to end up as a
Singapore wife, weighed down with children,
and without a proper life of her own. Set on preserving her freedom –
and having developed an antipathy towards organised religion – she sent Mark
packing.
“I preferred the naughty little boy to the
serious-minded humbug.”
“What became of him?”
“He took over his father’s business. Shortly after I
broke off the engagement, he married a more suitable girl: an accountant. They
have two children, a lot of money, a big car, an impressive house with a
swimming pool and plenty of big talk. Good on him!”
Yuan Ming then showed me a sketch of a young, good
looking European smoking a Meerschaum pipe. His beaked nose, protruding chin,
bushy moustache and thick hair contrasted with his vague eyes and bemused
expression. He had been her steady boyfriend in
“He wasn’t bossy and always fell in with my wishes. And
I liked his parents. Their home in
“Is there anyone else?” I asked directly.
“No, Uncle – there isn’t. From time to time I date chaps
I like. But I couldn’t bear to have a fool of a man around me all the time!”
“But not all men are fools!” I protested.
“Perhaps not. But the ones I’ve met are either bossy or
on the lookout for a ‘mummy’. I can do without such nonsense!”
“Oh well, you know best,” I told her, suppressing a
question about her parent’s marriage. Was her father – my friend Tay Fang-Shuo
– a bossy fellow or a mummy’s boy?
Some further sketches she had brought with her depicted
her teachers in
“Do you like
them?” She wanted to know.
“Very much indeed.”
“But have I achieved my object?”
“If your object was to manifest – or express – your
inner thoughts, you have.”
“Do you think that’s my only object?”
“I wonder if, on top of this, you seek to blend Chinese
and European art.”
“What made you think this?”
“The contrast between your colour studies and the
sketches.”
“And you prefer the sketches?”
“I do. But it may be my prejudice.”
“Which works are Occidental, and which Oriental?”
“Your sketches of people are Occidental.”
“And the rest – my colours and landscapes – Oriental?”
“Chinese, rather. Chinese in terms of conception,
composition and execution. You concentrate on your stroke: not on the subject
or on an idea.”
I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, even awkward.
Yuan Ming was raising the very question that had concerned both of us in the
old days. We had discussed it on some of our sojourns, but, notwithstanding our
efforts to find a solution, we always had to terminate our reflections without
getting there. I had pondered on it frequently, even during the period in which
we had been out of touch, hoping that Yuan Ming had adopted the European
ideals. Her next words indicated that she was still sitting on the fence,
searching for a way to merge the two diverse orientations.
“My object, Uncle, is to blend the two: the Chinese
search for perfection and the European artist’s self-expression.”
“Are you sure this is achievable?”
“Why not?” she challenged.
“Because the two ideals are incompatible. Perfection in
technique is not reconcilable with the expression of our inner world, which is
imperfect. If you concentrate on the technical aspect of a work you have to
sacrifice your idiosyncrasies.”
“How about great Chinese works of art?”
“When the artist draws peaches, they look so good that
you want to eat them. And his horses are majestic. But his individuality – and
any personal message – is suppressed. His admirers recognise him by his
masterful technique: that’s all!”
“And a great European artist?”
“His stroke is not perfect. He may have to overdraw or
redo the original piece and move from ‘stage’ to ‘stage’: even Rembrandt, Goya
and Lautrec did. But a good European artist tells you much more about the way
he sees the subject than a Chinese master.”
“You may be right. Dad takes the same view. But, of
course, you love the European approach; he prefers the Chinese ideal. But,
Uncle, can’t you compromise on both objectives and achieve a new dimension?
Tell me what you really think.”
“To date, it has not been done successfully,” I said,
sensing that a white lie was inappropriate. “Those who tried, fell between the
two stools.”
“What do you mean?”
“They produced caricatures of European art expressed in
an imperfect Chinese technique!”
“Maybe. Still, I intend to try.”
“I hope you get there.”
I reflected on our conversation while Yuan Ming drove us to Geylang. I
was keenly aware of the difficulties she was bound to encounter with a brush
wavering between two incompatible orientations. Fortunately, Yuan Ming was in a
position to try. Unlike many artists, she had independent financial means. She
would not be driven to a compromise by want. Neither was she possessed by the
demoniac forces that had driven some wealthy artists away from life and into
art per se. Unlike them, Yuan Ming was drawn to her easel by a desire to
innovate: by the dream of succeeding where others had failed or given up in
despair. Her advantage lay in her ability to assess her work coolly and
objectively.
Her Achilles’ heel was a detachment brought about by the
influence of Tay Fang-Shuo and her doting uncle. If she succumbed to it, she
would end up as yet another gifted amateur: an obscure dilettante forgotten
soon after the colours on her pieces were dry. But that very detachment gave
her the strength to go on experimenting. Her satisfaction would be found on the
road even if, in the end, it did not lead her to
“A penny for your thoughts, Uncle,” said Yuan Ming, who
had been watching me through the mirror as she proceeded with confidence
through the heavy traffic of modern
“I think you have a chance. But you must retain your
self-criticism.”
“I know. And my chances of success are slim: that, too,
is clear. But if I can’t get there, I’d rather paint just for fun.”
“Good on you.”
When Yuan Ming parked in front of the shop a few minutes
later, I reflected that here, at the very least, lay one advantage of their new
location. Down in
2. Back to the
Old Days
Tay Fang-Shuo showed no surprise when we entered the shop. Expressing his
hope that we had had a good lunch, he drew my attention to a fine array of
early ceramics he had brought with him. Having followed reports about
excavations carried out in
“Mr Tay,” I ventured after a brief study, “these pieces
mean we must change old conclusions?”
“You please examine,” he replied. “Want to be sure you
remember.”
“Am sure I do. Good lesson not so quick forgotten. But,
very well, I also want be sure. But Mr Tay: these pieces all new your shop?”
“Come after you go
“I agree,” I told him when I had finished my
examination. But although I admired the Sancai pieces, my eye rested appreciatively on two
white items the like of which I had seen only once before. Both masterpieces
had the attributes of porcelain except that the glaze was not fully
translucent.
“You like?” he asked.
“Of course! And, Mr Tay, looks Song but – I think – is
Tang!”
“You not sure?” Taking in my shrug, he proceeded: “Is
from Tang tomb; is sure. But, I agree, is also Tang pattern; this you know.”
“So Tang has porcelain,” I mused. “Now no doubt left!”
“Correct.”
“But Dr Cheng’s conclusion same: is same progression,
only time span different; is more overlap: and development early, so stages
merge!”
“Is so,” he agreed. He was about to proceed when Yuan
Ming had her say. “But, Uncle, aren’t these pieces a synthesis of Chinese
technique and Greek ideals of beauty and composition?”
“I can’t quarrel with that,” I conceded readily.
“So the two can be united – superimposed on one another
– and, in a sense, be merged to produce a new dimension, perhaps even a
new ideal.”
“They could and did in that period. But, Yuan Ming, that
took place some three hundred years before the Song artist defined his own
ideals: long before Chinese art reached its peak. The Tang pieces are superior
to anything preceding them because neither the Orient nor the Occident had
defined its ideals or objectives. The position differs today: the two worlds
have settled on inherently incompatible objectives.”
“Is also my view,” said
Her generation, I concluded, had an advantage over
multicultural fossils like
“But, Mr Mid Yeast Tourist,”
“You mean like time traveller?”
“Precisely!”
“But, Mr Tay, future cannot predict; too much
uncertain.”
“Precisely,” he repeated, this time with the gusto he
had displayed in years long gone by. “Like Tang artist not know what come later
or how you and I see today!”
“Which means,” I fell out of our jargon, “that Yuan Ming
has every reason to steer her own course; to determine her own destination. The
outcome cannot be viewed from our present perspective. In the ultimate: time
will tell!”
“Yes,” said
A strange expression appeared on Yuan Ming’s face. She
was trying hard to hide her feelings, but it was clear that she was deeply
moved. For a while, her gaze shifted between the two of us, with her eyes
revealing both gratitude and affection. She then said with a smile: “Tweedledum
and Tweedledee!”
For the rest of the afternoon, we looked at artefacts of
the Tang and early Song period.
As the taxi wound its way back to
Later on – after dinner – my thoughts turned to
3. Views of a
Sleuth
Hoping to make up for the lost years, I went over to the shop regularly.
During my years of absence,
Yuan Ming’s Antiques provided a suitable environment for
our sessions. Despite the splendid display, the shop was desolate. Only rarely
was its serenity disturbed by the intrusion of a walk-in customer. Established
customers, such as foreign museums and connoisseurs, usually placed their
orders by mail or telephone. Thanks to these, the business continued to
prosper. The atmosphere on the premises was of an elite museum rather than a
shop.
Although
To ease matters for
Accepting that my new courses in the University entailed
considerable work, Pat ceased to greet me with the barrage of nagging
questions. Years later, I realised it would have been best to tell her about my
friends’ existence and my commitment to them. But this obvious course militated
against my lifelong practice of keeping my personal domain separate from my
home life.
One late afternoon, when I arrived home after a session
in Geylang, Pat told me that a Mr Ravi Allen wanted to see me. She had asked
him to call on me in the University at
Radiating confidence and satisfaction, Ravi Allen
advised me that he had located
His own success was the fruit of hours of research in
the archives. Right at the start, he discovered that the original business had
been in
To
“Did you discover anything in
“I think so; but do you remember anything about other
shops in the same street?”
“The shop next door was a bakery. It was run by a young
girl with a pronounced Singlish accent.”
“She was the old owner’s daughter. Today the business is
hers.”
Out of professional integrity and in order to dispel any
remaining doubt,
“Do these letters mean anything to you?” he asked,
producing a bundle from his briefcase.
“They are my old letters to
They had been entrusted to
“You mean she kept them all these years?”
“Oh yes. She was fond of the Tays. She kept the letters
in the hope of one day having a chance to deliver them.”
Before he left my office – with the cheque for his
services –
“I, too, could
have been disconcerted by the fruit of your investigation,” I pointed out.
“Suppose you had found out that
“I am afraid I don’t,” he admitted. “Still, I am
satisfied that the move had been carefully planned.”
“How do you know?”
“He purchased the house in Geylang and registered Yuan
Ming’s Antiques before he left
4.
Clarification
Two days later I handed the letters to Tay Fang-Shuo. He was, on this
occasion, alone in the shop: Yuan Ming had gone to town to settle a matter with
their accountant. Without her, the shop appeared desolate.
“I did. And cannot understand why no reply. Was out of
character. But great shock was when cannot find you when I come back first
time. I ask myself: why he not send me change of address?”
“Was more complicated. I not know why no letter from
you. So when we move Geylang, I leave new address with Su Lin. But I think she
lost or forgot,” he said remorsefully.
“She lost. And when I come
“Perhaps was when she go
“So was bad luck – for Yuan Ming, you and me!”
“Was, like you say, coincidence. Cannot say if good or
bad. Important thing you back now.”
“Yes, my friend. But – Mr Tay – why you leave
His original intention was to let it out. However, Tay’s ever growing personal collection was cluttering the family’s home in
Katong. Mrs Tay suggested that it be
moved to their new property in Geylang.
Shortly thereafter,
Two complementary occurrences persuaded
The other reason for the move was the unwanted attention
shown to Yuan Ming by the growing son of the owner of a neighbouring business.
His constant harassment and my young friend’s apprehension convinced
Tay would have
preferred to rent premises in Orchard Road or, possibly, in Katong but in the
end decided to make use of his new property in Geylang. As his business did not
depend on walk-in customers, its location was immaterial. Undoubtedly, Geylang
was an unsatisfactory spot. But, at the very least, it was one of the districts
likely to be spared intervention.
“But, Mr Tay, Yuan Ming not ask you write to me? And, my
friend, why you not think about it?”
“Yuan Ming ask. And I think. But I have no letter from
you. So, my friend, Yuan Ming suggest what you call compromise. We leave
address with Su Lin. Is bad luck she lose it and also you not find her. She
know I somewhere Geylang,
Yuan Ming’s arrival brought our conversation to an end.
In the old days, she often burst in flushed and out of breath. Now she entered
resolutely and with the air of a young woman in her prime. The warm smile she
bestowed on
5. Revelations
For a considerable period of time we studied Ming porcelain. Yuan Ming
did not hide her love for the polychrome wares of the period.
On the personal front, I was noticing
A few weeks before Yuan Ming’s birthday, I received the
parcel with the gift I had ordered from a lapidary in
“It is lovely, Uncle! Custom made?”
“Yes; I asked them to follow one of Kändler’s groups.
But they discovered the etching on which he had based his piece.”
“It’s really lovely, Uncle,” she repeated to herself.
“My birthday’s on Friday. Care to take me for lunch?”
“Of course,” I said, and having noticed an exchange of
glances between daughter and father and his nod, added: “Let’s go back to the
Shangri-La and Mr Tay … ”
“I not take big lunch” said
I arrived before Yuan Ming. Having managed to secure a
table, I asked her to order the dishes. We chatted until they arrived, but my
smile hid anxiety. I knew she had ominous news.
“Uncle,” she introduced the subject as the meal
proceeded, “you asked a few times about Dad’s health.”
“So I have. He looks emaciated; he tires so fast; and he
looks ill!”
“He is.”
“Uncontrolled diabetes?” I tested the ground. “That
would explain his spells of tiredness and – well – his need to withdraw
frequently.”
“I wish it was just something like that,” she sighed.
“It’s not …”
“I’m afraid it is,” she broke in.
“How awful,” I stammered,
discovering that, despite the Shang Palace’s excellent reputation, the food
started to have a bitter taste.
“Terminal,” she told me, resignedly.
“What is the prognosis now?” I asked with trepidation.
“I don’t know,” she said, trying to hide her dismay. “He
refuses to go back to the specialist.”
“What does he do?”
“Drinks his potion twice a day and takes painkillers
when needed. For the last three months he has needed morphine: nothing else
helps. And he has had to increase the dosage.”
“So that explains his need to leave the room,” I mused
aloud. “How does he get it?”
“From our GP. And now even the shots don’t work for
long.”
“How ghastly,” was all I could say. “How on earth did he
get it? He was so robust and healthy.”
“Granddad went the same way,” Yuan Ming told me. “It’s
in the family. But I think it had something to do with mother’s death.”
Yuan Ming’s mother had passed away about two years before
Yuan Ming knew something had happened when he came down
the stairs. He was unshaven, unkempt and had not inserted his false teeth. She
called an ambulance as soon as he said something was wrong with her mother. She
then went up to the bedroom and tried to take her mother’s pulse. She could not
find it, saw that her mother was not breathing and, when she touched her
forehead, realised she was stone cold. The autopsy revealed that Mrs Tay had
died from a brain haemorrhage. The pathologist’s report suggested that she had
suffered from high blood pressure for a few years.
Tay took her loss
hard. Theirs had been a lasting, good and harmonious marriage. She was
an efficient housekeeper and had cared for
“I didn’t realise your parents were so close.”
“They were, Uncle. At home – I mean away from the shop –
Dad was a good, middle class, Chinese family man. Mother was the boss. As long
as she kept out of his antiques business [RM1]and hobby – he was content.”
“So you were a close family. But why didn’t he ever
invite me to your home? Why didn’t he see to it that I became a family friend?”
“Because Dad is very much like you in this regard. He
divides his life into neat, well settled compartments. And he sees to it that
they are kept apart.”
“Am I like that, too?” I asked, bewildered.
“Of course you are, Uncle. Surely, that’s why you have
never mentioned our very existence to your wife. Dad and I are part of your
‘great world’ – your outside world. Your wife, Uncle, is part of your home.
I’ll bet that she knows little about your friends in
“True,” I admitted. “But, Yuan Ming, didn’t your mother
know anything about me?”
“Oh, she knew you were a friend-cum-apprentice; and that
you were a sort of a funny mid-European. And she knew I called you ‘Uncle’. But
once she was certain you were harmless – if you know what I mean – she
displayed no further interest. If she had wanted to meet you, Dad would have
asked you over.”
The rest of Yuan Ming’s narrative revealed that, in the
early seventies, her mother had turned to Christianity. She was disappointed
that neither her husband nor her daughter followed her lead. Still, her
conversion did not disrupt their harmonious family life. To please her,
“I wasn’t sure about your relationship with your
mother,” I told her.
“We became good friends when she taught me cooking. She
was a great help when I started to grow up. I needed her at that time. And she
was a real support when my uncle disappeared without a trace.”
We had coffee in the lounge. I was feeling cold and
depressed.
“Since your return just one thing keeps Dad going,” said
Yuan Ming, who was watching me closely.
“What is it?”
“He wants to finish his book,” she told me. “You know,
the one the two of you kept talking about in the old days. He has been working
on it for years. But the new excavations required re-assessments, revisions and
additions. He has remained a perfectionist.”
“Has he completed it?”
“Just about. He is fine-tuning the final draft. Once he
is done, the manuscript goes to the publishers – regardless of new finds.”
“And then?”
“He’ll keep struggling until the book is out. I believe
he’ll give up after that. It’ll be a release. I hate to see him suffering like
this. It’s so unfair!”
“Life is like that, Yuan Ming. The priests and gurus
tell us He is so great that we can’t understand him. They think they can: big
deal! As far as I am concerned, I refuse to believe in something I can’t
understand – be it too big or too remote.”
“I agree with you there,” she replied.
Wishing to delay my imminent session with
“Your constant hints about your intention to resettle
here. Dad and I know that our presence is a factor. So we felt you ought to
know.”
“Actually, your presence is not my only reason for
wishing to come back. My wife is happier here than elsewhere; and this means
there’s less pressure on me. And, Yuan Ming, I too am happier here than in
“So you are definitely coming back?”
“Unfortunately, there is a catch: superannuation is an
issue.”
“Tell me about it.”
The problem went back to my years in
I would make a comparable loss if I left Monash before
completing ten years of service. Still, after ten years at the University, I
would be entitled to a deferred pension, calculated on the basis of ten years’
service at the average salary of staff on the same scale during their last five
years prior to retirement. Such a pension would be equal to the average salary
of members of the Australian labour force. If the pensioner had, in addition, a
mortgage-free house, he would have no financial worries.
“And how many years have you completed?”
“About eight and a half, counting my latest stint here.”
“Are you entitled to count it?”
“I am. You see, I have continued to contribute to the
Monash fund during my no-pay leave here!”
“So if you stayed put for eighteen months at Monash, you
would get the deferred pension?”
“Precisely.”
“You must not sacrifice it, Uncle. You never know what
looms ahead.”
“I know. But I hate the idea of sticking it out there
for another year and a half! Dante’s guide forgot to show him one section of
the Purgatorio!”
“Which one?”
“Suburban
“Sounds awful. But you have no choice. And, Uncle, you
could fly over from time to time for short spells. Your university must have a
number of breaks every year.”
“It does,” I conceded.
“And this time we won’t lose touch.”
The glances exchanged between father and daughter as we entered the shop
confirmed that
6. Goodbye
During my remaining months in Singapore, Tay guided me through the
developments in porcelain made during the Ming and the subsequent Ching period.
There could be no doubt about the advances made in the techniques and in the
firing. Some of the paintings on porcelain of the Ming and Ching periods were outstanding. All the same, my eyes
continued to travel back to the magnificent Tang pieces.
Our strong personal inclinations surfaced one afternoon,
when
“But, Mr Mid Yeast Tourist,” reflected
“What you mean, Mr Tay?”
“I know you not really like blue-white; but why?”
“I not know,” I conceded after a momentary silence.
“Blue-white good combination: good for eyes. And some
people think very aesthetic. So why you think or feel different?”
“H’m …” I muttered.
“You think perhaps your background and orientation?”
“Blue-white very popular my people; is for Yarmolka and,
Mr Tay, also flag of
“All mid-Yeast like – Arab, Persian! So why you not?”
Taking in my silence, he probed further: “You like your mid-Yeast background?”
“So that’s it,” I conceded readily. “No, Mr Tay, from my
very schooldays I conflict with – rebel against – school and background. Is
this reason?”
“Perhaps is,” he said, thoughtfully. “Also you know why
Yuan Ming like polychrome: conditioning as child. And perhaps I not like
blue-white because my schooldays. Classmate jibe about things Chinese: and
blue-white porcelain today is ‘
“And my love of Tang?”
“Because you, my friend, admire – perhaps worship –
Greek; and Tang only period like it in
“Explains yours, Mr Tay. But Yuan Ming’s love for Ming?”
“To me colour is life, Uncle,” she stepped in. “The
bright side of human horizons. This has been my credo since early childhood.”
“Your environmental conditioning, reinforced – or
perhaps occasioned by – your natural gift,” I added.
“True,” she agreed readily.
On reflection, I had to concede that the orientations –
even the credos – of great authors and artists were the product of
environmental factors. At the same time, there was a haphazard element in this
conditioning. In Yuan Ming’s case, for instance, it was in the positioning of
her cot. Had she faced Song or Tang porcelain, her eye might have got used to
them and her special colour perception might have been clouded. Tay’s
orientation – as well as mine – might have taken a different direction if, at a
certain moment, either of us had been subjected to other environmental factors,
for instance a trip to some other region such as Africa or Central Asia.
“So, in the end, Mr Tay,” I summed up, “taste in art
depend on conditioning and – I think – here chance come in.”
“I agree,” he replied with conviction. “You think what
happen if Mozart’s father not serious musician or Toulouse-Lautrec not deformed
son of wealthy upper class parents.”
“But then Mr Tay, why period before Yüen, Chinese
connoisseurs not like blue-white? Have underglaze and have blue and white. But
no such product.”
“I think,” said Tay, “is because Yüen [Mongol] Emperors like; so court like; then people
accept. Blue-white become ‘
Despite the intellectual effort involved, I enjoyed each afternoon spent
in Yuan Ming’s Antiques. Time, though, was moving at a relentless pace. My day
of departure was approaching fast.
A few days before my flight back, I went to Geylang to
take my leave. To my surprise, Yuan Ming was not in the shop. Explaining that
he had asked her to come in later, he said complacently: “And so you leave
after weekend, my friend.”
“Yes. But I come back.”
“Yuan Ming tell me. But you please not lose
superannuation. Is true: man not live on bread alone. But without bread is
hard, very hard.”
“I know: this is why go back. But can take eighteen
months.”
“Never mind – you keep touch. But today special; you see
when you next
“She did. If only I could be of some help, my friend.”
“You come back already is help, great help,” said
“Finding Yuan Ming and you again was one of the happiest
events of my life, Alfie, perhaps the happiest,” I told my friend. “And I knew,
as soon as things were sorted out that day, that the past did not have to be
revived: it never went though an eclipse. It was as if I had stepped off the
stage for just one insignificant minute and re-entered – albeit through another
door – at the moment ordained in the script. My only regret is that my minute
off stage lasted so long.”
“In the end, it did not matter. Your re-emergence
answered many questions. And it was good to have you back.”
I was lost for words. How do you express your thanks to
a friend who has opened new horizons to you? Under his guidance I had developed
from an opinionated mid-European, thoroughly Occidental even if subject to
different Western influences, to a man at home with both East and West. He had
given me an understanding of a world that
remained off-limits to most Europeans. Oddly enough, the insight into
the Oriental horizon had also afforded me a deeper and more balanced grasp of
my own cultural environments.
“I am deeply grateful to you for everything, Alfie,” was
all I could utter.
“It wasn’t one way traffic, Eli. Your insights
influenced my own thinking and orientation and broadened my own horizons. I now
know that East and West are complementary: not just two worlds apart. When I
left
His intentional – highly unexpected – use of a colloquialism jarred with me. ‘Ain’t’ was out
of place in our well-developed lingo and did not fit into the manner of speech
of Dr Alfred Cheng. It then dawned on me that, in his enigmatic way, my friend
was making a point. The deep friendship we had forged went well beyond the
façade each of us displayed for comfort. In a moment of truth, there was no
need for the mask.
“I’m gratified, my friend. In German I would say: Du bist mir ein echter Freund.”
“Das stimmt,”
he concluded with a smile. I was not surprised by his failure to refer to Yuan
Ming. He knew she would turn to me in moments of crisis and that I would be
there.
7. See You
Again, Young Lady
Yuan Ming arrived late in the afternoon. On this occasion I accepted her
offer to drive me back. Just before I left,
“This for you, my friend,” he told me. “I get him
“I know – I under-bidder.”
“Look after him well,” he smiled at me. “Take care. And
– my friend – if in doubt, your instinct best guide.”
“Again, thanks for everything, Alfie,” I said, trying to
hide my distress. “Thanks for everything and, of course, for him.”
“Goodbye Eli,” replied Alfie.
Yuan Ming manoeuvred her car through the narrow streets of Geylang to the
main road leading back to my part of town. She remained silent. I reflected on
I then realised that, in all probability, Alfie’s words
related to the years that we had been out of touch. His instincts had told him
that the break was not voluntary and that I was yearning to renew the contact.
But his mind and his upbringing proscribed his initiating the first move. They
militated against his taking the risk of a snub. I, too, had suppressed my
instincts at different crossroads in my life.
“A penny for your thoughts, Uncle,” I heard Yuan Ming’s
voice.
“I was thinking of your father’s last remark.”
“You know what he was alluding to, don’t you?”
“I do,” I assured her. “Still, those lost seventeen
years were not in vain. In a strange way, they underscored the closeness
between us.”
“I know,” she grinned. “Occasionally, a short affair –
resumed from time to time – is better than a long marriage with its cooling off
periods and estrangements.”
“Unless, of course, the marriage turns into a routine
relationship. But then, it becomes a symbiosis. It ceases to be a relationship
of love.”
“True. And if you had never left, Dad and you might have
started to get on one another’s nerves.”
She was right. Both
“In many ways, the two of you are of the same mould,”
she continued. “Outwardly, of course, you are diametrically opposed
personalities. You are emotional, impulsive and easy to read. Dad is reserved,
locked within himself and appears imperturbable. In reality, each of you wears
a mask, hiding intellectual pride and disregard for views opposed to your own.”
“You may be right.”
“Also, both of you like to play games. For the game you
were playing with one another you developed an incongruous jargon: an
intellectual pidgin. And both of you play games with the rest of the world. And
I am not sure who is the better actor. Your resolve, Uncle, to keep your wife
ignorant of the very existence of your closest friends is a game; and not a
nice one. So was Dad’s resolve to keep Tay Fang-Shuo separate from Alfred Cheng
and to keep mother out of the shop.”
“Are there, then, no differences between our natures?”
“There are: Dad has trained himself to be a stoic. You
are more vulnerable. But all in all, you too have learned to accept life.”
“True. In the end, one has to. There is no alternative.
And so your father does the right thing when he takes the vagaries of random
with a smile.”
“It makes it somewhat easier for him. But enough of this
hair splitting analysis. I love both of you. In my adult life, I have never
felt close to anybody except the two of you.”
“I know,” I told her. “It has been a family
relationship, and a close one at that.”
When we turned into
“Wouldn’t that be a pity?” I asked.
“I won’t shed tears over it,” she spoke resolutely.
“Uncle, do you know what this business is all about?”
“An excellent trade in genuine antiques! A prime
business.”
“It is all of that. But think about our supply sources.
Our pieces are smuggled out of
“I know all this; but the connoisseurs who pay a pretty
penny for whatever they manage to buy are the best custodians of these
treasures; they love them. Still, I am aware of the …”
“… odious side of the trade,” she broke in. “And I have
had enough of it. Let someone else reap the bonanza. Dad and I have made our
packet!”
“I’ll be back in
“And I am going to give you another card of the shop.
Our private home number is on the back. Don’t lose it, Uncle.”
“I shan’t,” I promised.
“And, Uncle, where will you keep
the Bowing Harlequin? Will you take him back to
“He is too precious for that; I don’t want to subject
him to the hazard of two extra trips by plane. I’ll place the parcel in a large
safe at my bank. I have already stored there the pieces I got in Yuan Ming’s
Antiques over the last few months.”
“Good. And Uncle, Dad will not give up until he sees his
book in print. The manuscript is going to the publishers in a few weeks and
they’ll take their sweet time to get the book out.”
“I’ll ring you often, Yuan Ming,” I told her when she
produced the neatly printed business card. “Take care of
“You too, Uncle,” she said, and drove off.
8. A Lucky
Break
Mentally I was sitting on the suitcases from the very day of my return to
Monash. Regarding myself as a guest or visitor, I found it easy to come to
terms with my hosts. In consequence, the place seemed less foreboding than in
my earlier years there. A particularly welcome development was that my Dean
avoided me and, in the ultimate, left me in peace. My home situation, too, was
less bleak than during my earlier stint in
Right from the date of my arrival, I kept in touch with
Yuan Ming and
Within two months of my departure, she had to take over
the entire management of their business. In addition, she had to spend an ever
increasing number of hours nursing my friend. His condition had long passed the
point of no return. To keep going, he had to increase his dosages of morphine.
Unfortunately, the drug made him drowsy and hence interfered with his
correction of the proofs of the book. He did his best to inject as little as
possible notwithstanding his agony. On one occasion Yuan Ming found him late at
night at his desk, writhing in pain. He had ignored the persisting spasms and,
in consequence, his hand was too shaky to handle the syringe. She injected him
and, ignoring his wish to continue correcting the galleys, led him to his
bedroom and sat by his side until he dozed off.
“Can’t you take over the correction of the proofs or at
least help him through?”
“He won’t let me!” she wailed. “He is so stubborn; and –
Uncle – I don’t dare interfere. He’ll go on fighting until the advance copies
of the book are in his hand. He’ll finish the galleys, I am sure. But how on
earth will he get through the page proofs?”
“Has he finished the preface?” I asked with trepidation.
“He has. And a professional is doing the index. It’s all
so miserable, Uncle!”
“I wish I was with you. I’ll come over next week.”
“Please don’t. Seeing you will give him a shock. And you
can’t help: nobody can. He won’t let you touch the proofs. No, Uncle, not even
you.”
Her words left me in a quandary. Flying over was problematic. We were in
the middle of our teaching session and – as always – I taught my advanced
courses on my own. Fortunately, I received an invitation to conduct a
professional workshop in
I resigned myself to not seeing
Once the scheme was rubber stamped, I solicited an
invitation to return to my old University in
Pat’s enthusiasm ought to have dispelled any remaining
doubts about the move. But although my real decision had been made even before
our return to
Our Dean in Monash did not display the satisfaction I
had anticipated. Although he did not attempt to persuade me to stay put, he
reminded me that our good working relationship in years long past – resulting
from a number of joint projects – had laid the foundation for my move from
Wellington to Melbourne. He expressed regret at the difficulty I had
experienced in settling down in Monash, occasioned partly at least by my
reluctance to pull my weight in matters administrative.
“That will not happen in
“That will take care of one problem,” he replied. “I
only hope your wife will find
“It’s her home town,” I pointed out.
“I know. But you can be too close to your own people.
Still, I wish you all the best.”
“I’d like to make the move as soon as possible.”
“I’ll see to it that they let you leave by the end of
term.”
9. A Dedication
Having left our
A few days before we left, I rang Yuan Ming. She told me
that the advance copies of
Both
Despite my busy schedule during the week in transit, I
tried to ring Yuan Ming. But my persistent efforts bore no fruit. The telephone
in the shop just rang and rang. My attempt to contact her at home was equally
unsuccessful. As we boarded the flight to
An unfamiliar feminine voice answered when I rang Yuan
Ming’s Antiques on the morning following our arrival. I assumed that she was
the locum. When I introduced myself, she told me that Miss Tay had not arrived
but would be available at
“When did it happen?” I asked.
“Five days ago. The funeral was yesterday: a traditional
Chinese funeral.”
“Where is he buried?”
“His ashes are in an urn in the temple, a Buddhist
temple. But I don’t think he would want you to go there: it’s a distinct
world.”
“I know,” I said lamely, adding:
“but his book – his magnum opus – is it out?”
“The advance copies arrived a few days ago. He looked
through them and – Uncle – complimented me on the dust jacket.”
“What did he say?” I asked eagerly.
“He smiled and then said: ‘Beautiful, well done, Yuan
Ming’.”
“In Hokkien?”
“Of course, since Mother’s death we conversed only in
Hokkien.”
“What did he do after that?”
“It’s a limited edition, Uncle. So he checked the
mailing list – yet again. He was in constant pain and it took him time. But,
you see, he wanted to make sure he hadn’t left anybody out. When he finished he
said – this time in English – ‘so that’s that’. Next morning I found him dead.”
“What a strange coincidence,” was all I could say.
“If it was a coincidence,” she said unflinchingly.
“You mean …” I started and cut myself short.
“I think so, Uncle. He had some extra morphine phials. I
thought it best not to examine the contents of his bin. I think I did the right
thing, didn’t I?”
“You did,” I assured her. “And it must have been a
release.”
“It was, Uncle. Poor Dad; towards the end his suffering
became unbearable. It was terrible – horrid. And his courage – his carrying on
without complaint – made it worse.”
“It was tough on you, Yuan Ming.”
“It was. You see, I was unable to help: that was the
worst part of it.”
“I wish I had been here. You could have talked to me. It
wouldn’t have been much but, perhaps, it might have given you some comfort –
just a bit.”
“Perhaps. But to think Dad went through with it just for
the sake of the book!”
“Did he sign the advance copies?” I asked, hoping that
talking about his tome would bring her comfort.
“Only two, Uncle. I have already sent one to his old
teacher in
The compact volume was neatly printed on high quality
paper. It was richly illustrated with designs and abstracts of artefacts of
bronze and ceramics. Included were a number of plates, some in colour and
others black and white. Bound in half calf, with characters in gold on its
front cover and backing, the subdued yet elegant dust cover gave it an opulent
appearance. This was a printed volume to be cherished. No effort and expense
had been spared on its preparation.
“Have a look at the front pages,” urged Yuan Ming.
The front page, with the caption Epochs in Chinese Art, ascribed the work to Alfred Cheng MA, PhD,
alias Tay Fang-Shuo. The dedication, printed on the following page, read: ‘To
my friend, Mr Mid Yeast Tourist’. Beneath it, in a bold hand, he had written:
‘To Eli, from Alfie’.
My eyes were glued to his words. My throat was dry.
Despite my efforts to retain my composure, my face was twitching, and my vision
was clouded.
“Let yourself go, Uncle,” Yuan Ming’s voice came from
far away. “Let yourself go. He was your friend; you loved him. There is no need
to put up a show: not when I am alone with you.”
For another brief second I fought for control. Then,
giving up, I broke down. It had happened before, when I stood by my father’s
grave. Pressing the Yarmolka down to
stop it from being blown away by the icy wind, it had taken me a while to find
my voice and articulate the blessing. I cried again at my mother’s funeral. But
these had been tears of guilt. I had been a cold-hearted son and had not loved
her. Here, in the deserted shop in Geylang, I mourned my departed brother,
unable to bear the thought of never seeing him again. I cried for my loss
rather than for him.
“Feeling better?” she asked when I had calmed down.
“Thanks,” I said. “But, Yuan Ming, the dedication,
shouldn’t it have been …”
“No, Uncle,” she broke in. “I was his daughter and his
pet. But here, in the old and new shops, yours was the arm on which he leant in
his searches. When you read your copy, you’ll see how great an impact your
collaboration had on his views. I wanted him to dedicate the work to you. And
he did so without any prompting.” Unable to find a response, I kept my silence.
When I had regained my composure fully, I asked what her
plans were. Was she still intent on moving overseas and leaving the shop in the
care of a locum? Notwithstanding my great expectations for her future as an
artist, I felt a pang when she confirmed that she would be gone by the end of
the coming week. Winnie, the girl with whom I had spoken earlier in the day,
was indeed the locum. Yuan Ming hoped she would be able to manage.
“But would she be able to handle your real connoisseurs
– in the short run at least?”
“Time will tell: she is keen and willing to learn. But,
of course, some choice customers will look elsewhere. We lost some when Dad
ceased to be involved. They were not prepared to rely on someone else’s
judgment and expertise. Still, some will eventually come back; and Winnie is
good with people.
Yuan Ming added that she would make her final decision
about the business within two years. By then she would know whether or not
Winnie was up to the task. In due course she would, in all probability,
transfer the business to her.
To my surprise, Yuan Ming had decided to give
“So where are you going?”
“
She intended to fly from time to time to
“You know, Uncle, about one half of the price came from
just two major transactions. I paid the balance from my savings. Financially, I
am set for life even without what Dad has left me. I can work at my own speed
and without pressure.”
“Will I see you – occasionally, at least?”
“Of course,” she assured me. “I intend to fly over to
When I was about to leave, she asked me to come over to
their flat in Katong the next afternoon. She had decided to keep it and hoped I
that I would agree to look after it. “Our collection is there. It’s time you
saw it.”
10. Sanctum
Sanctorum
The flat in the elegant condominium in the prime district of Katong
enjoyed fine water views. The emphasis in its layout was on comfort and grace.
The furniture was plain yet of good quality. The curtains were light and
unobtrusive and the colour scheme was in harmony with the setting. There could
be no doubt about the taste and personality of the person who conceived the
décor. The armchairs, the sofa and the fine television-set in the sitting room,
the neat bedroom furniture and the functional light fittings attested that the
person in charge of the interior decoration disliked frills and had no wish to
show off.
I felt certain that
“The flat was furnished by mother,” observed Yuan Ming.
“She had no love of antiques. But I think she had good taste and knew how to
match colours.”
“
“Not just the interior decoration. Mother ran her house.
But she was aware of Dad’s fastidious orientation and made sure the furniture
and furnishings pleased him.”
“But, Yuan Ming, where is his collection and – come to
think of it – his study? He told me he did a lot of work at home.”
“Let me show you!” Leading the way back to the entrance
hall, she opened a door in the passageway. Through it we stepped into an
adjacent apartment.
“When Dad bought it, he thought one day I’d live there
with my husband. So it was meant for me. But when the second floor of the
Geylang shop became too small for his collection, he transferred it to this
flat.”
The flat had been converted into a museum-cum-working
space. Arranged in cabinets along the walls was a set of artefacts that made my
mouth water. They ranged from pre-historic times right into our own century. As
was to be expected, the finest display comprised the Song pieces. But the
sparkling Tang artefacts were as good and as representative as I had seen in
any museum.
Ceramics were the mainstream. But side by side with them
were contemporary bronze, silver, jade and gilded artefacts. Next to each item
“What about his paintings?” I asked.
“They are in here,” she said, leading me into a large,
icy and dimly lit room that would have served as a master bedroom. The scrolls
and tapestries hanging on the walls were exquisite and, although some had faded
with time, others were fresh, colourful and unblemished.
“He didn’t show me any of them,” I complained, fastening
my jacket to keep out the chill.
“To understand Chinese paintings you must be able to
read and digest the texts written on them. And you should appreciate the
calligraphy. He knew these were alien to you. So he concentrated on ceramics,”
she explained. Then – with a grin – she reminded me of the efforts I had made
to understand the text spelt out on the first vase I had purchased from him.
“Now, have a look at his study,” she said as we stepped
out of the freezing atmosphere produced by the powerful air-conditioning unit.
The furniture in the room, almost as large as the master
bedroom, was sparse and functional. The desk was made of fine rosewood. Its
plain shape contrasted with the upholstered swivel chair in front of it.
“The original working chair is there,” she told me,
pointing out a heavy rosewood chair by the wall. “He needed something more
comfortable, Uncle. So I got him this homely working chair and also this fauteuil.”
The elegantly upholstered armchair was complemented by a
footstool and a side table suitable for placing books or a cup of coffee. All
three showed wear and tear.
“So this was his haven.”
“It was. Mother stepped in only to supervise the maid.
And Mother dusted the porcelain cabinets herself. She knew how much Dad
cherished his pieces.”
“It’s strange, Yuan Ming,” I reflected aloud. “
“Dad had the eye of a collector and scholar. Place a
fine piece in a room and he’d spot it. Mother, as I told you, loved interior
décor and had excellent taste. Our flat was decorated and arranged by her. Dad
did not interfere: just as she left his room alone.”
“But your shop: it was so beautifully decorated and so
tastefully arranged!”
“My modest contribution,” she grinned. “You could say,
Mother’s influence!”
“And the cabinets and show windows: they, too, were
arranged by you?”
“They were: in both our new shop and in
Before we returned to the living quarters, I had another
look at the splendid artefacts in the cabinets. It was only then that I noticed
that the shelves of one cabinet were empty. Seeing my puzzled look, Yuan Ming
explained that
“I’ll complete that part of the collection,” I told her.
“It would have pleased him,” she grinned. “Your views on
the subject influenced his outlook, Uncle.”
“And I’m going to place the Bowing Harlequin and some
other Kändler figurines in the cabinet.”
“Showing the triumph of
“Precisely. Although Chinese porcelain painting has
remained unequalled!”
“But, Uncle, Dad wanted you to keep the Bowing Harlequin
and your Song plate at home. He knew you would enjoy looking at them in the
evening.”
“Perhaps he was right. Very well then. But one day – I’m
not sure when – I’m going to fill in all the gaps in your collection. The
pieces I got from him over the years belong here. So do some early European
wares conceived under the impact of Chinese prototypes.”
“I’ll leave this to you, Uncle. So you will look after
the flat for me?”
“Gladly,” I told her. “And I’ll ring you from here.”
“That’s fine. I’m keeping the telephone: so use it.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“And, Uncle, Dad asked me to tell you that he would like
you to use his desk. And he mentioned a book he expected you to write. That’s
all he said. Has he discussed the book with you?”
“He hasn’t. But I know what he had in mind. One day I’ll
write it.”
“That’s good,” she said, adding: “Dad said he left a
message for you: in writing. He expects you to come across it one day. He
didn’t say where he left it.”
“Did he give any hint about its contents?”
“He didn’t. You’ll have to work that out for yourself.”
Before I left, I asked where
“He sent the publishers a diskette; and he kept the
final typescript. But I don’t know where it is, Uncle. I searched for it all
over the shop and in his study. It seems to have disappeared without a trace.”
“I’ll have another go after you’ve left.”
“Let me know if you find it.”
We
lunched in the
Before we left she handed me her new personal card with
her address in
11.
The Message
The elegant flat in Katong became my haven. In the
early days following Yuan Ming’s departure, I drove over once or twice a week.
To guard against moulding and deterioration of the furnishings, I aired the two
units, let water run from the taps and, occasionally, got a cleaner to wash the
floors, sweep the carpets and give the entire place a dusting.
The main attraction in the flat remained the rich
collection. It held such fascination for me that, within a few months, I
increased the number of my visits. In due course, I drove over every second
day. Usually, after spending an hour or two examining the porcelain pieces, I
moved to
Yuan Ming is never far from my thoughts. We ring one
another regularly, especially since I acquired a mobile phone. We have also met
a few times, principally during her visits to
One handicap in her life is her inability to take a
measured view in liaisons. On several occasions it has been hard to get her
over the unfortunate impact of imprudent affairs. Although she keeps entering
into them with open eyes – and in the realisation they are bound to be
short-lived – she gets hurt. On quite a few occasions, break-ups have had a
devastating effect on both her work and outlook on life. I hope that time will
lead to wisdom or at least make her wary in these matters.
In contrast, she has retained her ability to handle business
affairs effectively. When Yuan Ming’s Antiques had been in the red for two
years, she liquidated the firm without undue regret: the business had made her
wealthy but it was futile to keep it going once it became unprofitable.
My own life, except my marriage, has been running
smoothly since my return to
Ever since I began looking after
The porcelain room in our flat in the
Conversations with ‘Alfie’ have helped me over several
hurdles that I encountered over the
years. In matters both personal and professional his advice – quite regardless
of whether it is a product of my subconscious or explicable on some other basis
– has been invaluable. On one matter alone I failed to derive any guidance from
him. Notwithstanding my incessant questions about the hiding place of
Notwithstanding Alfie’s advice, I conducted protracted
searches. To start with I went with a fine toothcomb through
For years the puzzle defied me. Then, one evening, both
the manuscript and the message revealed themselves. I had been working for
hours on my book – the story of
A wide, deep drawer slid out. I had not noticed it
before and had not expected it to be there. A transparent plastic folder
contained the manuscript I had been looking for. It was produced in double
spacing on a computer printer. Between the lines and in the margins,
The handwriting showed remarkable variations. The style,
though, was uniform. So Tay Fang-Shuo and Dr Alfred Cheng had different hands!
When the amendments were complete,
Beside the manuscript,
Another group of photographs revealed
Quite a few photographs charted
A graduation photograph, showing his father and himself,
was followed by shots depicting his life in
The last shots in the basket depicted
To the left of the basket was an empty space.
At the left end of the spacious drawer
I opened the envelope with trepidation. On the single
sheet, beneath a caption that read “Unknown Rubaiyat by Omar Khayyam discovered
by Tay Fang-Shuo alias Dr Alfred
Cheng”, appeared a doggerel entitled: “My Odyssey”:
I boarded ship at the first ray of sun,
Rose'nd fell with the waves, once the trip had begun,
Up was delight, down anguish and gloom,
But as dusk descends, I know t'was all fun!
The sentiment of the piece was not present in FitzGerald’s sparkling
translation of Omar’s quatrains. The
very outlook – brooding and contemplative – was far removed from the Persian
poet’s positive, even jovial orientation. And it did not adhere to his meter.
Obviously, the lines were not composed by Omar: they had been written by my
late friend who – inspired by the tradition of certain poets of days gone by –
attributed his composition to a well-known name. But, whilst piece did not
adhere to Omar’s life philosophy, it was a clear reflection of my late friend’s
outlook.
Notwithstanding the message of the verse, I was
initially disappointed. The ups and downs of life constituted a worn out
cliché. So was the sentiment that life was ‘fun’. Many poets have whispered
that ‘existence’ is to be preferred to ‘non-existence’. A living dog is better
off than a dead lion. Why then should Tay Fang-Shuo have left me a message best
described as old hat?
My reaction changed when, having read the texts a few
more times, I understood that the emphasis was on its last few words. ‘Fun’ did
not just relate to life as a whole. The catchword – ‘all’ – referred to each
event in life, encompassing both the ‘ups’ and the ‘downs’ experienced by us
all. And, I sensed, Tay may have used the word ‘fun’ so that the lines would
rhyme. In all probability, he meant ‘vanity’ rather than ‘fun’.
As I reflected on the message – or, rather, on the lines
between it – I realised that
He also implied that if, in any
given situation, you accepted that matters would not improve, you had no choice
but to opt for ‘non-existence’. It had been Tay Fang-Shuo’s choice when he
finished the work on his magnum opus and realised that there was no longer any
antidote against the pain and misery inflicted by his disease. At that stage,
termination became preferable to what had been left of his existence. Seen in
this light,
A glance out of the window indicated that evening had
settled. Placing the message back in its envelope, I slid the drawer back into
its groove and waited for the click of the latch. One day I shall re-open it in
order to place my own manuscript in the space provided.
Presently, it was time to get back to my own family
home, where my wife would undoubtedly be preparing dinner. Before I locked up
E P I L O G U E
More than 20 years have elapsed since
Many new discoveries were made in
If
All the same,
Undoubtedly, art has its ups and downs: its periods of
unfathomable heights, its occasional declines and disappointing periods of
staleness. But the curve is not cyclical. It is best presented by a line rising
across the diagram. The occasional slips backward are of considerably less
significance than the lasting – never-ending – climb leading to the emergence
of fresh horizons.
Like the search for knowledge and wisdom, art is a
product of the curiosity of the human mind: of Man’s eternal need to pose
questions and search for answers. I do believe that Yuan Ming’s motivation and
objectives reflect these trends. One day she may find
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