A Cage of Xiaolongbao
A conversation between two introverts is not a conversation. Rather, it’s an endless series of erratic questions lacking origin of interest and purpose. Starting with “Where do you live and work,” the next question progresses to, “Where is your hometown?” After discussing where one has traveled to, the topic shifts to where one would like to visit. If we stick to this line of reasoning, then comes the question, “Where did you go to high school” followed by, “Who was your favorite teacher?” Here is a genuine question: Would the police view a dialogue between two introverts as an attempt to crack the other person’s security questions?
But it’s all good. I don’t mind participating in an introvert’s question series on this lazy April afternoon. The slender willow branches flutter in the wooden window frame, and the gentle clattering of chopsticks blends seamlessly into the background. Standing in military posture in front of me is a teenage boy wearing a braided kasa hat. He holds a cage of Xiaolongbao in his hands.
“You can put it here. Thanks,” I say as I clear a landing spot for the steamer basket. “You don’t have to stand so stiff, you know.”
“My dad told me to be respectful to customers,” the boy responds with choppy English.
“Do you live locally? Near West Lake?”
He nods as he looks at the willows outside.
“Well, thanks for the Xiaolongbao. They look delicious,” I comment. Already running out of questions, I squeeze my brain like mashing lemon with a reamer. “How old are you?”
For the first time, he smiles. “Fifteen.”
“Is being fifteen years old special for you?”
“Yes. When I turned fifteen, my father allowed me to go to Yue Lake. By myself,” he says proudly while gesturing at an unknown destination. “I go every morning.”
“Yue Lake? I was there yesterday.”
“Did you see her?” the boy asks me expectantly, his eyes beaming like the surface of the West Outer Lake.
“Her? Who is she?”
“You have to go again,” he says.
The Only Voiceless Vocalist
As the smallest of the five sections of West Lake, Yue Lake hosts no dragon boats on golden silk nor lotus pontoons on white clouds. Instead, there glides a bamboo raft. It bears no burden on the lake and leaves an imperceptible water trace behind. Although austere, the lumpy and bleached bamboo stems tied by rough vines carry more weight than the tourist boats.
She is old: older than you think. Older than the valiant military general Yue Fei, whom the name of this section of West Lake commemorates. Her face is sunbaked and etched with sunken wrinkles; a glossy, transparent coat covers her face, reflecting sunlight finer than the lake’s surface. Even from a distance, her eyes are conspicuous and limpid. They are as sharp as crystals yet as tender as orchid petals; they simultaneously house the innocence of a curious newborn and the maturity of an experienced elder; they invite a fervent wave in you and then quickly offer a tranquil stream that potently subdues the torrent.
And she never stops. As she approaches the bank that leads up to Yue Fei Temple in the North, she concentrates her paddling to one side and leisurely turns the raft around. As she nears the southern mouth conjoining the larger West Inner Lake, she does the same. Her paddling is orderly and methodical; however, do not mistake it as monotonous and rigid. Discipline without novelty is sterile, and creativity without formality is naive. She subtly blends convention with artistry: no two strokes are at variance, and no two strokes are identical.
And she sings. The indifferent tourists can’t hear her, but the yellow-coated orioles, speckled buttonquails, and other nameless creatures can. They absorb her harmonies and coalesce to orchestrate a soundless symphony. There are no specialized sections such as cellos or trumpets. A symphony is not meant to be divided, but united, and the only vocalist accordingly relinquishes her precedence and retreats as voiceless.
Another Faithless Revolutionary
Legend has it that West Lake is a jade ball that fell from the heavens, but I think the legend is full of crap. If a sinkhole is a jade ball, then I might as well preach that bovine feces are the most treasured tidbit in the world. The common folk also esteem West Lake as the incarnation of Xi Shi, one of the four belles of ancient China. I must say that the aesthetic judgment of people, ancient and modern, is dreadful.
Think I’m too harsh? Imagine a child’s face buried in layers—we’re talking layers—of foundation, primer, and cream. If the poor kid makes the slightest move, powder will fall off their face like an avalanche in the Himalayas. Now, if someone asserts that you are looking at an innocent face instead of a dump of chemicals, how can you not judge the beholder as an idiot?
Please, I’m not exaggerating. As a matter of fact, the tour guides are the master embellishers. Their vain commentary directed toward an ignorant audience portrays West Lake as one of the most scenic places in China, blending natural wonders with architectural masterstrokes.
Lies.
I argue that West Lake committed a felony by distorting the natural landscapes with artificial modifications that rival children’s plasticine models. Three colorless, and apparently useless, bridges divide the already foul-shaped lake into five even more grotesque sections. A dirt mound, two flimsy cardboard towers, and three bleak islands have trivial names that we can ignore. Since West Lake’s construction in the Northern Song Dynasty by idle, wasted spendthrifts, there has been no lack of brainless “poets” flattering the terrain’s distastefulness. For example, the drunkard and moonlighting narcissist Su Shi from the Song Dynasty wrote an uncultured poem about West Lake because one of the lifeless causeways was named after him.
I came here seeking a revolution. A proper one. Not a violent and fiery rebellion that instigates nothing but hatred and ignorance. No. I pursued an enlightening revolution that inspires decency through reason instead of fraudulent ideologies by demagogues. One that gently courses around one’s heart like a rivulet and unwittingly morphs one’s perception of the world. And do not take this revolution as weak: It is mightier than an unfurling ravenous fire gobbling withered trees.
But she left. As a revolutionary, I am now faithless.
Playing the Piano to a Cow
I tried it as a teenager. Idling away at my grandparent’s farm in the rural parts of Tianjin, boredom was suffocating me like an impenetrable fog sapping away the vitality of a garden. In the outmoded, yet spotless living room sat a spinet piano. No one had played it for years, but it was pristine.
I disassembled the piano insofar as I was confident to put it back together, and I placed the parts in a farm cart and pushed it outside. As I arrived at the cattle pen and reassembled the instrument, I realized that I had forgotten to bring the piano stool and the sheet music. Neither did I know how to play the piano. Nevertheless, I started playing.
There was a single cow in the enclosure barred by rusty metal railings that had long lost the paintwork. She looked up in my direction while raising an ear with a tag, the number blurred and illegible. Then she plodded toward me, squashing the soggy ground and splattering mud stains on her brownish calves.
I played on. The dissonant notes fused into a winding stream that pierced through the uncharted land. It twisted at the wrong turns and accelerated at the rough sections; it neglected the layout of the terrain and rose and fell recklessly as it wished; it augmented the riverbed and shattered the solitude in the air. At last, as I smashed the keys with damp and shaking fingers, the stream culminated into a cataract and plunged into a spiraling pool.
All the while, she listened.
Derek Parfit Is Wrong
Just like the jade ball legend, Derek Parfit is full of crap. My college professor acclaimed Parfit as one of the most influential moral philosophers of the late 20th and early 21st centuries.
Seriously?
Derek wrote a book on Relation R—a laughable theory that brainwashes you to embrace death as liberating. Here is his logic:
- P: With respect to Person X, Person Y lives in the future and is non-identical,
- P: There exists psychological continuity between Person X and Person Y,
- C: The lack of a common identity between Person X and Person Y is insignificant since we have what really matters—Relation R,
- QED.
QED my ass.
I don’t give a damn about fancy yet meaningless philosophical jargon such as psychological continuity and Relation R—they mimic intelligence, yet in fact satirize the individual’s incompetence and vanity. It’s all about the context. Going back to the discussion of bovine feces, if a distant tribe from the Mongolian Plateau offers you a pottery bowl of fresh cow excrement, you would view it as a delicacy. Hell, you might have a taste or two if you have the guts. But I bet selling animal dung is the formula for going bankrupt in New York City. The same applies to Derek: If he preached his Relation-R nonsense at a Catholic church, who would listen to him?
She left, and many people have spoken to me since. Tourists on crammed lotus boats utter words of exclamations when they pass by sickening views. Road sweepers call out words of caution as they futilely clean a sidewalk stained with phlegm and cigarette butts. Politicians hypocritically defend cunning propaganda and meaningless ideologies on television. Everything speaks to me.
But she left, so why should I listen?
Another Cage of Xiaolongbao
“Did you go again?”
I must say, the boy has perfected his military posture. Has he considered that standing like a metal pole might come off as intimidating rather than respectful? Hey, how about a “How’s your day” or “Welcome back” before throwing this question at me? How about putting the cage of Xiaolongbao down first?
“Excuse me, Sir. Did you see her?” he asks patiently while setting the cage of steaming Xiaolongbao on the table.
Oh of course now he does it.
There are four steps to properly eating a Xiaolongbao. First, wait three to four minutes for it to cool down. Second, nibble off a piece of the dumpling skin with your front teeth. Third, slowly slurp the juice in the bun. Last, eat the rest of the meat filling and dough skin. All these steps are designed to prevent you from burning your mouth. Well, now I simply want to devour the entire cage of Xiaolongbao in one go, splattering the searing juice across the table.
“Sir, she’s still—”
“She left! Just stop, please! Why don’t you admit it? She’s not here anymore,” I sense a temporary stillness in the restaurant as several sets of eyes stare at me. But I don’t care. “Why did you want me to go in the first place if she was leaving?”
“As I was trying to say, she’s still here. I don’t know much about the world, and I’m certain about very few things. But I know for certain that she hasn’t left. She never will.”
Fidgeting on the rotten edge of the wooden table, I await the most dreaded statement like a prisoner kneeling in front of his adjudicator.
“You have to go again,” he says.
