A Winter’s Morning in Beijing
Repost from November 20th, 1997
I remember the smell of coal and the surface of oven. I remember the aluminum chimneys and the bungalows. I remember the wind that traveled a thousand miles to yell “good-morning” into my ears, then whistled away. I remember the yellow building and my practice room on the eleventh floor. The elevator man decided to stay in bed until I finished climbing 440 steps. I remember the stairway where I extended my neck at the second floor to see the ceiling of the eighteenth floor, where I extended my hand on the eleventh floor to wave my keys to the first floor, but my legs shook and begged me, “don’t drop the key,” so I dropped a string of laughter instead. I remember the hallway where sunlight seeped between the walls and the doors, between the doors and the floor, and between the floor and my shoes. I remember the slap of the door and the grumble of the room, “shush, the air is in sleep.” I remember the chair next to the window where I listened to the dripping of water in the radiator, felt the winter draining through the glass, and watched a 97-inch muted screen.
I remember the playground and the boys playing soccer, running, kicking, yelling, pushing, waving—muted. I remember the red gate and the two girls silently waving good-bye. I remember the street stretching to the horizon like a ribbon nailed on the ground, bicycles streaming on the two edges like ants, and automobiles sliding between like peanuts. I remember the Forbidden City blinking at the horizon. It had yellow tiles and red walls, surrounded by countless gray bungalows and leafless trees. A swarm of pigeons swept past. I could almost hear the scream of wooden whistles tied on their feet. I was afraid they would fall from the sky, because I was so far away from the ground. I was afraid to be alone in the cage.
I forgot how many times the birds passed by, but I remember the threads of clouds and the trumpet solo that drifted in like one of them. I remember the violin voice that joined it, tuning up and down, up and down in double stops. Then it became an endless monotone: the violinist started practicing the annoying open string. The trumpet’s melody slowly rose like clouds, suddenly speeding up like rain drops hitting the window. The violin followed with a repetitive three-octave scale, flowing down, climbing up, flowing down, climbing up, hauling, and rushing in again twice as fast, although some notes were out of tune. The trumpet-violin contest awaked the air in my room. It yawned, shifted, even invited me for aerobics—no, I wanted to see the pigeons passing one last time.
“Click.” A key opened the door next room. “Beng.” The door closed. A series of piano arpeggios echoed off the wall. I dragged my reluctant body toward my violin.
