Chapter 3
His first impression of her was like a fashion model coming onto a stage. It was not so much the way she dressed herself to that effect, rather, when she came out of the door with no other people nearby, she seemed to enjoy a focus like under a theatrical spotlight.
She looked very tall and slim, even though wearing only a pair of flat-heeled shoes. At a height of 171cm, her upright poise matched hard with his 173cm. Her complexion was slightly dark yet smooth and half-tanned healthy. Her most outstanding feature was her long and graceful nose, atoning for her less attractive eyes, which impressed him as if she had not fully waken up, or perhaps had spent too much time at a computer screen. Overall, she was someone to whom Bing would involuntarily pay an admiring glance in the street. After his brief but no less intensive evaluation, he concluded that she possessed the best combination of physical measures among the girls he had seen during last few months, surprisingly better than what he had estimated.
From the very moment he decided to like her, he was very aware a higher level of egoism must be boosted to match up with her; yet sad enough, the conscious efforts to that end seemed to affect him negatively, disconcerting him even before the battle had even started.
‘Where will we go?’ he asked, uncertainly and diffidently, more to himself. ‘Can we go somewhere here for coffee, or dinner?’ and before he waited to obtain an answer from her, he rushed on, ‘Have you had your dinner? Do you know any good place to go? Ah, you should know this place better.’
She looked at him, hesitatingly as if half stunned by so many questions. But evidently she understood his queries, for, smiling mildly, she replied, ‘Maybe we could go to Burwood.’
Burwood was a nearby suburb, just a few train-stops further to the west of Ashfield. Its one main street was much wider and longer; its Westfield shopping centre, with a cinema where Bing had watched movies a couple of times, had a regional significance. Although Burwood was not regarded as a suburb known for its concentration of Chinese as was the case for Ashfield, he had recently noticed a number of Chinese restaurants had opened for business, with stylish decorations, featuring red lanterns and ornamental furnishings such as Chinese calligraphy and ancient paintings. In fact, Burwood had become his favourite place of late for his pastime, in lavishing his bachelor idleness. He often went there after work for a lonesome dinner, and spent the next hours drinking beer in bars, musing and brooding in the glitter of the lights, and following which, a movie, any movie that might fit the time and his mood, could be his last program for a night.
So when Serena mentioned it, he readily accepted it as a preference, notwithstanding he was confused as why she should choose Burwood, rather than the more immediate Ashfield for their meeting.
‘OK, we go there, take my car,’ he said in Chinese. But there was a minor confusion of his answer when saying it in Chinese, for, Take My Car – Zuo Wo Che was easily mistaken as Take The Train – Zuo Huo Che, especially when his bashful speaking ran fast.
‘Take the train? That would be too much trouble. We may then go to the park around here in Ashfield,’ she said, obviously thinking that firstly, he had come by train, or in other words, on ‘bare foot’, and secondly he didn’t have a car, or even if he had a car, it might be unpresentable. In either case, if his thought was on the right track, he was already done for, expelled from her list of courting candidates. How could she, as charming as she had appeared to be, couldn’t possibly continue to date someone without a car or with a car but shabby and cheap?
‘Sorry, I said, take my car,’ he corrected apologetically, after realizing his mistaken proposition, either due to his Sichuan accent or to his nervousness that had caused the lack of clarity.
They started moving back towards the parking place.
Walking with a tall and long-nosed lady like Serena did pose a bit of challenge to him. In his dating history, he couldn’t recall he had ever dated any girls as tall as her. Of course, she couldn’t possibly compare to his first love Vivian in Shanghai International Studies University, who, apart from an adorable nose, had plenty of other glamorous attractions. Well, but, that was history, no matter how wonderful his old-time dramas had ever been; and Serena, a girl of only twenty-nine, more than ten years his junior, for the moment seemed to dominate the air of their street-partnership.
Feeling uneasy and jumpy, for whatever odd reason, he always walked a little faster or slower than she did, as if walking side by side with her was a painful task. Even more fretful was when she was taking her steps on his right-hand side, because he, since when he couldn’t remember, had developed a weird habit that he could only feel comfortable when his partner walked on his left. Otherwise he would feel unsettled and awkward, especially they were having any length of conversation. He had long known of his left-preferences; his explanation, quite logical actually, was that the right side of his face was uglier than his left, and he was making a subconscious effort to hide the right face from the beholder. He knew it was only a psychological tendency, but whether or not his face did produce a discriminative aesthetic effect to other people, he wouldn’t know, as he had never seriously pursued this matter any further.
Therefore, during the little trip, whenever Serena was to his right, he had a restless desire to swap the sides, which would slow him down a bit so as to walk around her. But he couldn’t always do this successfully, because he had to take a credible opportunity to act, such as about turning a corner, or waiting for a traffic light, or finding some people in their way, because however uneasy he was, he was still sensible enough not to create an obvious ridicule in front of her by abruptly walking to her other side like an idiot.
Oh, such a hard trip, oh, such a difficult task handling a young girl with attractions!
As soon as he spotted his car, he began to walk faster, and only conscious of his weirdo after a considerable distance taken from Serena, as if he needed some time to prepare the engine, or as if he couldn’t bear his discomfort any longer and had to escape from her and seek protection in the car. Looking over his shoulder and glancing at her lone profile lagging behind, he had a feeling of guilt, mingled with shame and a strange freedom. At any rate, as he realized later, the five-minute journey was so complicated that he might have behaved like a male bird, half-aroused, half-fledged, restlessly and clumsily hovering about her, while in the meantime the only method to subdue his fidgetiness was fiddling his car keys.
He pressed the button on the key, and the orange lights of the car were flashing. A nice car, with more bones and muscles than his own composition, was standing there like a safe harbour, ready to free and clear the embarrassment he had just endured. He didn’t open the door for her, because if he did, he might appear too conspicuously as a gentleman before her. What is a gentleman? This word seemed to him coming old and afar from England; it didn’t assume a readily agreeable implication to a person of Chinese origin. Opening a door for a lady, allowing her to enter an elevator first, moving the chair for her to seat her first in a restaurant, were the only things he could think of as to what a gentleman was supposed to show. By and large, he wasn’t a rude person, and he believed his Chinese heart was anything but harsh. The reason he was defiantly reluctant to show off his innate gentleness before a lady was more because of the sensitiveness of his Chinese face-skin than anything else. A ‘Chinese Gentleman’, if so called, would sound mockingly odd and weird to his ears, only reminding him of someone like Dr. Sun Yat-sen, in the dull dress named after him.
So, not like a ‘gentleman’, he gave her enough time to walk to the car, open the door, seat and belt herself properly, before twisting the key turning on the engine. And immediately, the Subaru was roaring with a power that seemed to fill up the spacious chamber as well as his soul and bowel. His sense of manliness, sweet as he was now feeling, was momentarily restored to its nominal capacity. He was now a man with a driving capability, and the person beside him, no matter how glamorous, sexy, and intimidating, was only a passenger. And more advantageous to him, she was on his left: she would only see the better side of his face. Wasn’t it lucky he was only driving a car in Australia, instead of China where the driver had to sit on the left? But, hang on, if still in China, could he afford a car at all? Well, maybe, maybe not, who on earth knows this sort of ‘what ifs’ in a living business?
They were on the road. The music was too loud, so he turned it down. Then, the low petrol light on the panel attracted his attention. It leered at him, irritated him a little, but dampened his spirit not a little. Well, Burwood was not far away from Ashfield, there should be enough for the distance, he assured himself.
However, in spite of the assurance, he heard himself speaking, ‘The gas is running low, I might fill it up on the way.’ Well, of course he should say something, and wasn’t this topic handy enough?
‘En,’ she acknowledged, with a brief and soft syllable, showing the femininity of a good Chinese woman. She must have been very impressed with his car, he thought.
He drove on, and soon turned to Parramatta Road, where he thought he could easily find a service station.
‘That is the Ashfield Park I mentioned a while ago.’ She broke the silence, a finger pointing to the left.
‘Oh... I haven’t been there before,’ he said, turning to see the greenness, a common and too-much sight in Australia.
‘I sometimes go there after dinner.’
‘Oh, really?...’
Strange as it was, he still couldn’t find much to say, even if, now inside the powerful car, he was supposed to be stronger than before. However, didn’t he have to find a service station, a task that would distract his speech? Didn’t he have to focus on his driving?
It was not like he was as nothing-to-do as she was. Well, but, indeed, she was rather attractive, and, as he peered at them now and again, her long legs…
As the time passed on, he saw at least two service stations on the other side, but none on his side. He wondered how the petrol companies had planned their territory; it was unreasonable that one side had many while the other simply nothing. Nevertheless, the car was smoothly running, though he was becoming more and more anxious. And when they had reached Burwood Road, and still finding nowhere to feed the car to turn off the annoying petrol light, he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it before reaching their destination, because there was less possibility of there being a service station in a subordinate road.
‘I don’t think we can find a station along our way,’ he announced.
‘Oh, don’t break down half-way.’ She sounded amused, half kidding.
‘It shouldn’t, only a little way left to go,’ he consoled her, more himself. Then he realized the running distance would have to include the way back to where the station could eventually be found. But at this moment, his major concern was arriving at Burwood successfully, as if his worrying threads could only extend so far.
He drove on, with no more words exchanged between them. The music was on, but didn’t help much as a distraction.
When, some time later, they both got out of the car, he had another great moment of relief. The parking place was in the open area, close to Burwood shopping mall. It said 10P – he was allowed to park up to ten hours with a ticket displayed. Bing knew that was only restricted between 6am to 6pm, and outside the range parking was unrestricted. This was his usual parking lot in Burwood when he came here after work hours.
On their way to the main commercial road, he managed well his rule of left-sided preference, and was able to walk with her less uncomfortably than before. Around the corner, they passed a coal-fired BBQ restaurant. Many ovens were arrayed inside, with those giant sucking chimneys hung above. Through the window a few diners could be seen sitting there barbequing. With the fuming ashes and embers like that of burning incense, each of the ovens was not unlike a small altar. Should each of them be added a saint statue or a symbol of some religion on the desk, this shop could have turned out to be a little church or a Chinese temple or any ceremonial shelter for certain human tribes.
Noticing also her curiosity at the restaurant, he said, ‘I dined there once. But it’s better if there’s a group of four.’
Serena made no comment. She walked, on her white flat shoes, which looked amazingly small in respect to her overall stature. She was facing straight ahead; the side view of her nose was long, ridged, slightly pointed up at the tip, very impressive if not a bit too prominent for a Chinese lady. And, at all times, she was moving in a casual, relaxing, independent or indifferent manner.
Though they hadn’t decided which restaurant or coffee shop they were heading to, they seemed to have a common mind upon which one to go to. Anyway it didn’t matter; Bing had dined in most of the restaurants along the street, and she must have done the same, otherwise she wouldn’t have recommended this place.
Restaurants were lining both sides of the street. Along their way, Beijing Station, Northern China Cuisine, Little Hong Kong Noodle Shop, Shanghai Style, so on and so forth, were slipping and passed away in their wake. The names were just sensational with a strong back-to-China aroma. And with so many discriminative odours of Chinese localities, a potential diner would have a hard time making up a mind which one to enter.
The evening air was cool, the pavement hard and clean. The billboards sitting along the footpath shuffled their fine pictures, striving to catch the eyes of the pedestrians, and more of the pet dogs, as he just noticed a leashed dog lingering as if wishing to pee at the foot of it. The cars were moving, leisurely, without blowing any horns, not as if heading to a sort of hilarious indulgence like the Chinese version of night lives, such as Karaokes, or lavish banquets, or some sort of red-houses with a desire of paralysing one’s genitals.
Well, at least, here was not as crowded as Ashfield. Slowly he was feeling better, more becoming himself. His initial agitation with her presence seemed to have abated more than a little. With a charming, young lady walking beside him, he had a good reason to be proud, to feel exultant in the pleasant atmosphere, to imagine the admiring glances thrown at them by other people in the street.
Soon they went under a railway bridge near the station, which was actually in the middle of the whole commercial street of Burwood. There after, realizing they had not yet seriously looked at any single restaurant, and also, as if agreed on beforehand, they both began to pay real attention to the restaurants on the second half of the street.
Then without turning to look at him, she said: ‘You should have parked your car in this half of the street. It would be closer.’
For a moment, he was too confused to respond to her sudden remark. For, how would he know where to go? There was no pre-determined place to guide his parking decision; even the idea of Burwood had been given out of her whim. However, trying to be agreeable, and not in the least wanting to ridicule her, he replied gently, ‘Yeah, you are right. But I prefer that parking area, where I can always find a space around this time.’ In another moment, he came to realize that she was actually complaining in her allusive way that she had been walking too long not to tire her feet, so he added, ‘I don’t mind walking a bit. Parking this side of the street could be difficult. We may end up swerving blindly everywhere.’
No more comment from her, and he was thinking, ‘Gee, why didn’t she just say she was tired, instead of giving me a critical comment on my decision where to park? What right does she have to appear superior or even patronizing? Can’t she be nice and kind to me as I am to her?’
In another minute, they had already reached the end of the main street, beyond which was but a park. There was a Chinese restaurant on their left, hot and spicy Sichuan Style.
Judging from his experience, he said, ‘This one is not too bad, but it is very full, and as always, you have to wait for at least half an hour,’
‘Yes, I know,’ she said, ‘let’s choose another.’
They started to turn back towards where they had come from, and paused in front of Chongqing Little-hili-Hot-Pot shop.
‘Maybe this one? I have been here before. Not too bad,’ he offered his advice, humbly.
‘Is it a hot-pot shop?’
‘They have also cooked dishes.’
‘Okay, then,’ she said, deciding.
They stepped in. A warm atmosphere welcomed them. A number of hot-pots were operating vigorously, with puffs and steams swirling about the heads and mouths and chopsticks. A middle-aged woman, thin, affable, smiling as if to VIP customers, greeted them warmly, though without opening her arms.
‘Two?’ she gestured with her two fingers in a shape of V.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘Here or there?’ The woman pointed at one, then another vacancy.
They picked one closer, moved there and sat down. Another waitress, a girl this time, came over, bringing a tea pot and two sets of cups and saucers.
‘Hot pot?’ she asked.
‘No, just dishes.’
The girl immediately brought two laminated menu sheets, giving one to him, the other to her. From that moment on, their eyes was both bent on those bilingual dish titles. They checked from side to side, from corner to corner; they turned it over and over again, let their mental stomachs imagine and digest many of the foods on the menu in the mean time of their decision making.
‘Anything particular you want to eat?’ he raised the issue, politely, not sure what he really wanted.
‘I am all okay, only no lamb,’ she replied. ‘I don’t wish to eat very much, I need to control my weight.’
‘Well, you are slim, don’t have to worry about that.’
‘No, you can’t let it loose and then worry, it’s so hard to come back down, you know,’ she said, and as if it was a hottest topic on the table, went on, ‘It will be a miserable and huge task to reduce weight once it builds up. I have some friends who are currently struggling in such a difficulty.’
The way she spoke was serious and convincing, although the weight control had never been an issue for him, whose thin profile seemed unaffected by any quantity of his intake of food or drink.
‘It makes a lot of sense,’ he chose to agree.
In addition to the obvious attraction of her long and shapely nose, as Bing took some minutes for a closer observation, Serena’s mouth was also fine, a little too thin but matching reasonably well with her nose. Her teeth was reasonably good, not too white, not too yellow, a little uneven but acceptable. And as he had noticed earlier, her eyes were relatively small, with her single eyelid. When she was not looking levelly at him, she was more like squinting, as if strained to think of something.
Nonetheless, she was actually the first one he thought he had ever met in his dating history, whom he would like to challenge himself to win and conquer.
‘All right, let’s first pick vegetables.’ Without clearer guidance from her, he set to direct the selection. ‘Which one do you like?’
He presented the menu to her, pointed the items on the list. ‘How about the fried snake beans?’
‘Okay.’
‘Now, choose meat. No lamb for you,’ he said, his eyes scanning. ‘Let’s have some sort of fish,’ then turning the menu, ‘Boiled-Fish-Slices-in-Hot-Chilli-Oil, do you mind spicy?’
‘Only a little.’
‘Then this one, okay? We can request a medium hot.’
‘Fine.’
‘One more,’ he added, ‘the Stir-Fried-Tea-Tree-Mushroom-with-Pork-in-Stone-Pot?’
‘Fine.’
‘That is done then.’
He put down the menu, and looked to signal the waitress, who within two seconds came over, scribbling swiftly their order on her little crumpled notebook.
‘What drink?’ the waitress asked, her eyes very keen and serious, ranging between them. He raised his gentle eyes towards Serena, who said, ‘Sour-Plum-Syrup.’
‘Me, beer,’ he had his turn. ‘Qingdao.’
Serena looked into him, sceptically. ‘Can you drink? Can you drive?’
‘Only one small bottle, I’ll stay within the limit.’ He meant to stick to his manhood in this matter.
She said no more. The waitress left. They were entering the second stage in a dining process: waiting. But they were not at all idle, for the tea was hot enough to absorb the moments of silence.
He poured one first for her, then for himself. They began to sip, absorbing its warmth as if it was in winter.
Bing was thinking of what to say.
‘How long have you been in Australia?’ he asked. He knew it was a boring ask, and he vaguely remembered she had already told him in the previous text communication, but it was an easy way to start.
‘Nearly ten years.’
‘Really? That’s a long time,’ he said the obvious. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘First four years, university, then post-graduate, two years, then hunting for a job, then doing the job until today.’ Her words, with smooth flowing logic and timeline, seemed to reflect well her educational background.
‘Then we are quite similar. I studied at Deakin, Melbourne for three years, bachelor IT, then coming to Sydney for my job.’
‘Bachelor IT?’
‘Yes,’ he began to appease her curiosity, ‘I used to be an English teacher back in China, so I had to first take an occupation eligible for immigration.’
More talking revealed the footsteps of both of them in Australia. She had studied accounting in UNSW (University of New South Wales) for both her degrees. She had lived in Ashfield for four years since she got a teller job in one of four major banks in Australia. She rented a room in a Chinese household nearby the service station she had previously suggested as their meeting point. She said her parents were about to come to Australia as preferred parent immigrants, which had cost them nearly A$100,000. They were able to do so because she was the only child, making her parents applicable for migration.
Before long, the first dish arrived. It was a big bowl, reddish and oily, with shrivelled dark-red chillies floating on the surface, and with the slices of fish, delicious looking, sinking and swimming underneath. A big spoon pointed to him, was sitting in the bowl.
‘Sorry, it looked very red, I forgot to tell them making it medium,’ he said.
‘But I don’t think this dish could be cooked as medium. It is always hot, the typical Sichuan dish.’
‘So?’
‘Don’t worry, I had that before with my friends, I can always soak a bit in the tea, if it is too hot.’
The idea of washing it in the tea sounded weird and un-pretty to him, who, born in Sichuan couldn’t have wished any food hotter.
Immediately she set on the fish slice with the spoon, and took one onto her plate, and began to cut it with her chopsticks to smaller snatches, to be eaten one after another.
He was sipping his tea, interested in any sign of reaction or expression that would suggest the fish was too hot for her. He was relieved to see none of that, although she did drink tea between every other little piece she was taking.
‘Good?’ he asked, without showing an obvious desire to try himself.
‘Good,’ she said, picking one more onto her plate.
But he, for the instant, was thinking of his drink, and realizing his beer was not yet delivered. He called for it. The girl came back with the beer, and a tumbler, and also Serena’s Sour-Plum-Syrup.
After enjoying the first and also the best mouthful of beer, he took his turn at a fish slice. It was soft and tender, melting between his teeth, not too spicy, just enough to stir and excite the taste buds without burning them.
Then the Stir-Fried-Tea-Tree-Mushroom-with-Pork-in-Stone-Pot came. Serena set on a mushroom at once, and sent to her lips, but with a grimace, she said, ‘Too salty.’
‘Really?’ Bing tried to test her claim, and she was right. It tasted like pure salt. The cook must have doubled the amount of salt, he thought certainly. ‘We need to ask them to redo it.’
‘Maybe don’t worry about it?’ she was reluctant. ‘I don’t like troubling people.’
‘But it was definitely wrong; they must have made a mistake.’ Bing was never a fussy person, but the dish was absolutely uneatable. ‘It is not a case of just more or less.’
When the waitress delivered their third dish, Bing told her about the salty dish. She made a simple apology, and unhesitatingly took the plate and promised an exchange. Some minutes later, she came back with it, which looked exactly the same, but tasted just fine. She explained, the cook had accidentally added twice amount of the ingredient.
‘See, it was a mistake, rather than a level of taste,’ he smiled, as if he had just won a court case.
Serena opened her mouth to produce a wide grin, full of mirth, her yellow and white teeth looked genuinely happy. And all at once, her features, albeit her small eyes, exhibited a harmonious delightful picture, removing the edges and stiffness that had at first made him uneasy and fluttery. Watching her, a type of warmth and joy seemed to go through him, surprising him so much that for a moment he honestly wondered whether it was the type of sensation he had missed and had been waiting for, whether he was at this moment glimpsing at the window of love.
It was indeed, between two individuals, between a man and a woman, a moment of peace and understanding that had been reached after some struggle and frustration, after some hostility and reservation. It was like the first rays of sunshine after many days of clouds and rains.
He took one more mouthful of his beer, and let his fancy flow together with the liquid.
Then she lapsed into her usual stern expression, attending again mainly to the food, which obviously attracted her more than whoever was sitting across from her.
For the next minute or two, she was eating, and he was drinking, thinking and studying. Then as if at last being conscious of the long silence over the table, she suddenly remarked, ‘You don’t eat? You eat so little, no wonder you are so thin.’
‘I would never get fat, regardless of how much food I take in.’ he said, proudly. ‘Because I am thinking too much, that consumes a lot of energy.’
‘Why do you have to think that much? What do you think?’ The flicker in her eyes betrayed her interest in the new thread of conversation.
‘Thinking and pitying myself for being without a wife at my age,’ he said, perhaps amusing himself more than her.
‘How many times have you been in love?’
‘Me?’ he screwed up his eyebrows, not quite getting the undertone of her bold question. ‘I have to say I have never had a genuine experience of love, if any at all, no more than two months,’ he stated, in a pretending honesty, for he was not telling the truth. His real answer ought to be three or four, which was a secret in nobody’s heart but his.
‘Really? Impossible,’ she half stared at him, ‘you are 36 years old, right?’
For an instant, her question afforded him a twinge of shock, bringing the ugly fact that he had masked himself in Lucky Love, where he had registered as, first, single and never married, instead divorced with one child; second, an age of 36, born in 1976, instead his true years of 42 in 1970; and third, from Tianjin, instead his real come-from Sichuan.
‘Yes,’ he answered, and suppressing a quick guilty-feeling of lying, swarmed her with more lies. ‘Well, really, I can’t remember any good experience I can think of as love. But I have had quite a few relationships, you know, the ones that only cater to suppress one’s loneliness, or, put another way, the ones you feel sad but not heart broken when they are lost.’ The words running out of him were more like an airing of his opinion, rather than of his past experience. But he didn’t really think it appropriate to tell her all the truth at this stage. After all, it was only their first meeting, and like two strangers who encountered each other in a casual situation, such as on the train or in the street, they didn’t have to expose to each other their naked fact at the beginning.
‘So you have never been in love before?’ she said incredulously. Perhaps she had a good sixth sense, he thought.
‘Not that I can think of,’ he kept track of his discourse. Then, in another moment, he added like an afterthought, ‘Hang on, I think I had once, in university, but that was when I was almost a kid.’ He tried to wash himself down with a sprinkle of correction.
‘See, you are not an entirely innocent boy,’ she said, half teasingly.
‘Hehe.. How about you? Many serious loves in your life?’ He thought he had to change his position from being defensive to offensive.
‘I had one, lasting one year, of love; another, two years, with different degree of feelings.’ She said matter-of-factly.
‘Shall I feel envious of you?’
‘Yes, you may,’ she admitted frankly. Then as if she still found it unbelieving, she returned her query, stubbornly, ‘Did you really have no serious love?’
‘Well, I am not sure if my university one was serious or not. A long time ago, you know.’
‘No more after university? So many years in Australia?’
‘I don’t think so.’ He drank beer, finding the topic hard and unbearable to be stretched any further.
‘So do you mind your girl friend having loved someone else before? How many of her former boyfriends would you deem acceptable?’ she asked, finally, for the sake of his understanding, revealing the real purpose of her eagerness to know about his past loves. She was trying to make a match, a comparison by quantity of loves between them, as if the more past love one had, the more disadvantage or advantage one might gain in their courtship.
‘Well, I don’t mind their past lives, whatever has passed is passed. It is the whole, now-person I love, not whatever having come up to make such a her.’
‘Ehemm, good,’ she said, and her acknowledgment, though not expressed by directly looking into his eyes, was a massive relief away from the ghastly topic of love.
He grabbed the bottle, draining it. Then, his stress arising from the conversation about love, not to mention his lying about his age and marital status, was so much that he felt seriously in need of another drink. Wondering only a second whether or not he should consult her over this matter, he beckoned the waitress over and requested another beer.
Serena appeared not to mind.
‘Do you drink?’ he asked her, who had been busy eating the fish, and the rice by the time also delivered.
‘A little,’ she replied, picking a piece of snake-bean, which looked more like a dead, wrinkled worm. ‘One glass of beer is enough to get me drunk, my face will turn scarlet.’ She mused a moment, recalling something. ‘I remember very well how I was drunk at the banquet on my university graduation.’
Grinning mildly, he toyed with a vivid image of what kind of flushed face it must be when she is intoxicated, and with an idea how he might find such an opportunity.
Then the second bottle arrived. ‘If you like, you can have a cup now,’ he challenged her, casually but honestly.
‘No.’ Her answer was quick and final, as if such an idea would never enter her mind.
Slightly displeased by her blunt syllable, he grabbed the bottle and instead using the tumbler, he directly kissed its mouth to drink.
The dinner went on. She ate plenty, not at all like a controlled-eater she had earlier mentioned herself to be, whilst he, now with more drink, had become more at ease and more talkative. His sober shyness and self-consciousness gave way to a new set of careless performance. He felt more natural and intellectual now that his sensitiveness seemed dulled and moderated by the spirit; he felt more like a male animal in its youth, sufficiently stirred and aroused, exerting his innate instinct to show off its best form before a mating prospect.
He talked on, about a few books he had read, about how a person, a rootless immigrant, should lead a life here in Australia, about how he had found some solace and pleasure from reading the books, which he had only started doing after he had finally lost his hope of marrying his first love in Shanghai.
He had scarcely touched his chopsticks. His frequent small sips of the little beer were remarkably supporting his vehemence.
And, in his self-absorbed style of talking, he didn’t realize that Serena was responding less and less to him, for he had assumed she, like other girls he had dated, would find his talk shrewd and thoughtful. So when Serena raised her head, saying ‘Let’s go?’ suddenly in the midst of his primal mode of speech, he was like someone who had been pinched awake in a dream. And immediately, a type of humiliation blended also with a level of resentment, upset his heart and shamed his ego, making him feel like half a clown.
‘Yes,’ he emptied the bottle in one go and, while turning his head to signal the waitress, he didn’t forget to enquire Serena as a courtesy, ‘have you had enough?’
‘Yes. I ate a lot,’ she replied, and added a comment of ‘you didn’t eat much.’ that came to his ears more like ‘you talked too much.’
But the waitress didn’t come over. Then he realised that this shop settled the bill at the counter. He stood up, collected his three essentials he had placed on the table, and went to the counter.
It was under $50 - a good meal at a little expense.
He returned, and found Serena standing at the table waiting for him. Her poise and disposition in the restaurant was notable. Undoubtedly, she was attracting the eyes of other diners. So, in spite of his piqued sentiment at such an early termination of their dinner, he was able to assume sufficient pride in his own posture when walking together with her out of the shop. The middle-aged woman of the restaurant was murmuring ‘Take care’ behind them, and Bing was confident their backs were looked at admiringly.
On the main road, Bing was at a little loss as what to do next. He didn’t think he should drive straightaway after two drinks. So he proposed sitting somewhere, probably for coffee or something else, with an excuse that he needed a method to dilute the alcohol.
Serena had a quick answer, saying that there was a newly opened yogurt-shop on the other side of the road, and that she hadn’t had an opportunity to visit there. Therefore, led by her, they crossed the road, and entered the shop.
The shop was brightly decorated, with the green being the main colour. A number of self-serve dispensers were installed near the entrance. Instructed by the nicely attired shopgirl, they each DIYed for a large cup of berry yogurt, with some selective toppings at the counter. Serena intended to pay, fumbling into her bag, but Bing produced the money faster than she did, at which moment the word ‘Gentleman’ was curiously and credibly playing in his mind.
They chose a little table at the back of the shop, and facing each other so closely, Bing’s mood was that of rapture and buoyancy. When her eyes were on the yogurt, he would gaze at her face for a little longer, furtively, appreciating the serene nobleness manifested by her nose. There was a coldness and aloofness in her composure, which for a fact was exactly what made her attractive and desirable. At that moment, he thought seriously, she might be the one to whom he could give up his hard-earned freedom and bind himself again in marriage.
Bing didn’t finish the content he had taken himself. Serena seemed to like it, scraping the last spoonful from her cup. Her diet seemed to him a paradoxical issue. She tasted and ate her food like a hungry child, forgetting all the weight-gaining concern she had previously expressed. It was likely, living alone and not a good cook herself, she had not been able to enjoy the food at home, and would take the opportunity to satisfy her appetite whenever it came. Bing was never a genuine, fastidious food lover. He was the type of person who would take in anything convenient, and just good enough to keep a body at functional level. He thought his time could be used in other ways than cooking, and the food, however tasty and exquisite it may be, was not worth the tediousness involved in its preparation.
Not many words were exchanged between them on their way to the car park. The air was cool and refreshing. No matter how blazing the daylight sun was, the Sydney nights, except on those rainy days, were comfortable and favourable to lovers of nightlife. In regard to the weather, Bing could think no other place that could be so agreeable and suitable for human inhabitants. Too cold in the US and Europe in winter; too hot and cold and humid in Shanghai; too clammy and sweaty in Thailand and Singapore, and too damp and wet and short of blazing sun in his hometown Sichuan, where a lot of chillies had to be used to drive away the excessive humidity in the body as dictated by some Chinese health theory. He hadn’t yet been to any African or Arabian countries, but, from common sense, his surmise couldn’t be more negative. Among the places where he had had a chance to live, Sydney seemed to be the most favourable, so long as you didn’t expose your skin directly to the sun, or at least put enough sun cream for protection when having the mood to enjoy the waves and sand on the beach. The fact was one would, during most days of the year, feel cool and clean and tidy in a living experience, saving only a few days in summer when the temperature might reach more than 40 degrees.
On their way back to his car, Bing flung a few glances towards the outside tables of the bars and cafés along the street, where people were still lounging, eating, and drinking in a clamour of noise.
But he had to go, because this was only their first meeting, and she didn’t seem to be the type of person who enjoyed the nightlife as much as himself.
They reached the dimmer area where his car was parked. The Subaru, grand and quiet, its silver skin shimmering in the scattering lamplights, was waiting for them.
They sat and fastened the seatbelts. Engine was on, followed by the music a few seconds later. The song was beautiful and sentimental - Falling into You by Celine Dion, which for the moment expanded a good measure of romanticism in his state of being.
First thing was to get the petrol, but now Bing was very confident the car would be okay to run to a service station. He had had many similar worries like this before, but he had never had an incident that stopped his car in the middle of road due to the gas running out. People were, these days, just so easily bothered and intimidated by any signals other than green, either on a TV, DVD player, computers, internet routers, cars, mobiles, ships, aircrafts, or any other devices they had a fantasy to create. The signals were driving them mad, and turning them almost neurotic.
He drove forward, without too much concern with the red light. Maybe he was after all affected by his drink, but he had drunk only two small Qingtaos imported from China, and if anything, the substance must have been diluted very well by the Yogurt and the excessive words and sentences which Serena must have found hardly agreeable.
He went back to Parramatta Road, but instead of taking the same road back, he turned left further down towards the Parramatta direction, expecting to find a service station soon.
And he was right; good luck usually escorts one who can think positively. There was the service station within sight, and even better, it was Caltex, with which his company’s petrol card was associated. He had a monthly quota of $300 allowance, enough for him, well, if he was only dating one girl at a time!
The music was now playing one of his favourites, a Chinese one, Di-Ta-Di, which imitated the ticking of a clock, very sentimental and emotional, sung by a renowned female singer Kankan. It was the theme tune of a TV series, ‘Beijing Love Story’. From the internet site where he had downloaded the song, it was said this song was played day and night in Lijiang, a popular tourist spot in Yunnan Province, which had attracted the type of people who have a heart for sentimentalism and romance, seeking a refuge away from stuffy urbane civilization.
Serena made her first comment on his music, ‘I like this one, inside the car you get a better stereo effect.’
‘Have you heard the song before?’ he asked, very pleased by her appreciation that he had not received until just now.
‘Yes, it sounds very familiar, but I don’t know what it is.’
‘It is the song in a series, Beijing Love Story.’
‘Is it? I haven’t watched it.’
‘It has thirty-nine episodes, all about lovable tears and ideals and frustrations about love.’ He was surprised she hadn’t watched it. ‘You may borrow its DVD from the video shop.’
Since the car had now stopped at the service station, he had to turn off the engine, as well as the music.
“I don’t need to get out of the car, do I?’ she asked, and he replied, ‘No.’
Walking around the car, he screwed loose the petrol-inlet cap. A sound like a heavy sigh from a tired person was at once issued from the dark hole. He grasped the gun of the premium 95 unleaded and inserted into it, pressed to trigger the flow, and the oil, the life blood of car, started hissing.
With his legs crossed, he stood there, hearing the cattle-like drinking noise, and musing.
On average he had to feed his car four times a month; and each time at this minute, while his eyes gazing at the flashing numbers of the display, he felt himself being in a sliced window of solitude. The gasping and quivering of running petrol sounded in his ears like a fate streaming its drops into an abyss, or like a train uttering its murmurs towards an indefinite destination.
This stuff, he thought, might have originally come from Iraq, had once been ambushed by terrorists, who were later killed by Americans, then continued its journey through the South China Sea, to be refined in Singapore, then crossing the Atlantic, to be stored inside the ponderous, atomic-bomb like cylinders, and carried by massive, threatening trucks on the road, and finally reaching here, passed through the dark hose into the ravenous, bottomless stomach of his car. The price of petrol, at $1.47a litre, had actually risen almost five times over what it was nine years ago, but his salary as the Network Administrator in his company, of an annual $65,000, plus 9% superannuation, had increased less than one third. Lucky he got an allowance; otherwise, how much pain he would have to suffer whenever the expensive ‘blood’ was being injected into the vehicle?
Bing’s thinking train had not stopped until he caught the lonely, upright figure of Serena inside the car. It was only then his attention was consciously drawn to her as if he had just noticed her existence. Well, indeed, it was quite unusual a nice lady sitting in his car alone and motionless like a statue, with all the windows tightly shut, with no fresh air flowing, with no music playing, with no soul being there for her company. A whimsical sympathy or compassion for her was arising in his gentle heart: he should have at least rolled down one window or kept the door ajar…
As the last throaty gulp announced the fullness and satisfaction of his car, he replaced the hose, closed the petrol tank, and proceeded to the counter in the boxy premise. He forgot the station number, so had to explain with his arms and fingers to the cashier the number at which his car was docked. Then, with his signature on the receipt, the transaction was complete.
When he returned to his seat, the position of her head remained in the same air, for she didn’t even turn to him. Gee, what had she been thinking about during the three or four minutes, in the dead air inside the car? But he said, ‘Okay, now we don’t have to worry any more on the road.’
The music was in randomly playing mode. ‘How did you get all the songs?’ she asked.
‘I just chose to download and burn a CD’ he replied, with a little pride in his voice, for he assumed she might have liked his music after all. It contained about 70 songs in MP3 format, half of them English, half Chinese, most of them were slow, sentimental melodies, only a few rock tunes.
Nearing Ashfield, Serena said he could just drop her near the service station close to her home. Bing asked her to guide him to the nearest road-branch along Hume Highway.
Directed by her, ten minutes later, he pulled the car left into a side road. She got out while he was still in the car. She said ‘thank you,’ and he said ‘thank you.’ The door was then closed after her.
The service station was actually on the other side.
In half a minute, while waiting for the traffic light, he saw her just crossing the quiet and gloomy road. Her spectral figure, illuminated by the pale lamplight and then melted into the darkness, reminded him of a ghost. And momentarily, his mind was calling back his own experience when he had to stay overnight in a street of Melbourne.
Oh, such a lone Chinese girl, close to her thirties, without a boyfriend, without parents and relatives and friends at her side, was crossing over a desolate and gloomy street in Sydney!
He should have accompanied her to her home, but she didn’t ask him to do so, and he didn’t offer himself to do so. After all, it was only their first meeting. They were still strangers to each other. She couldn’t possibly trust him enough to reveal her home address.
On his way home, he let the Di-Ta-Di song repeat itself, ‘Di ta, di ta, di ta, ta… the hands of time keep moving…and who is coming to wipe my sad tears for me…’ until it stopped altogether with the engine.
Before going to bed, he thought of sending her a text message.
‘I have arrived home. Thank you.’
Her message came back, ‘Thank you, good night.’
Bing had a wish to chat more. ‘Did I scare you by my drinking?’
‘Hehe,’ she evaded the answer, only ‘Hehe’, the dumbest and most stupid response he thought during the Instant Messaging since internet chat was ever invented. But nonetheless, in its simple form, he felt her coldness, vague derision and indifference.
Yet he seemed to have readier himself for further conversation. ‘You know, I drank to make myself braver in front of you, otherwise I would feel shy and fidgety, and don’t know where to put my hands.’
No reply.
‘I hope you can understand me. I am not a drunkard at any rate.’
No reply.
Feeling increasingly upset and disappointed, he sent, ‘It seems you have fallen asleep as soon as you touched the bed.’ The message was sarcastic, for it was alluding to a sleepy pig.
No reply.
And he was disconsolate and restless in his sleep.
Was it just the end of them? After she had taken so much food at his expense?
How strange and ridiculous!
-- End of Chapter 3 ---go to Chaper 4
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