学生作品
An Invisible Man——徐立倡（Bob Xu）
2013-03-01
I still remembered five years ago, with tears of sadness, squeal to my parents, I was on the train to Beijing, which changed my life from then on. My mother told me my father was very ambivalent to move our home at that moment, but he, said by my mother, resolved this complex issue simply by tossing a coin, like “Two-Face” in Batman, even though he was not superstitious. But I knew much more than anyone else this was the rooted belief in his mind: everything should be solved in an easy way, sometimes decided by luck. Even if I have lived with him for sixteen years, I never feel he touches on my life, goes into: he prefers to be a passerby.
When my mother was in the hospital to have a surgery of her diseased left eyeball ten years ago, he telephoned my mother he would not come back because he had to hang out with his friends. My mother was struck by this news, for in her mind a husband, wherever he was, should always take care of his wife when she was helpless. I remembered when my mother started to sob and complained that my father was a beast cold and bloodless he appeared at the door of the ward in time, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. I still wonder today if he just rushed back from his revelry of an unbelievable speed or he just intended to play pranks of my mother to agonize her first to maximize the effect of his comfort. But I knew my mother never saw through him, just as no one can, even once, since every time his behavior, like the coin he tossed, can be seemingly interpreted into two possibilities.
Always a man with elusive, maybe oblivious, mind, he would leave for a trip without bringing his ticket and was exclaimed by the train conductor; he would get up and hurry to work but found out he set his alarm clock much earlier; he would urge my mother to bundle up his baggage but missed the train as he spent plenty of time enjoying the architecture of the train station. My mother said he was a jerk but he never retorted. Whatever my mother ordered him to do, even if he was very busy with his own business, he would obey and hurry to finish, thus mocked for complying with my mother’s will all the time and given the moniker by his friends—hen-pecked husband for his cowardice of his wife. Again, he took it for granted, never rebelling, or behaving like an obstreperous or petulant beast.
He never smokes or drinks, for nicotine and alcohol, in his fanciful mind with quirky ideas, are demons which can drive him to abysmal chasm. He never quarrels with anyone, no matter how angry he is. No sooner does he sense a smell of aggression than his temper, as though having a string attached to his brain, will perish as if nothing had happened. Distracting his attention from the fray or patting his buddy’s shoulder, he spares no efforts to seek out the simplest way to avoid irritating his adversary any more. Once his colleagues said he was dominated by his wife all the time and asked why he never fought against it; he simply replied, “I don’t bother to argue, too much business.” Though sixteen years have passed, I still never realize he loses his temper, for sure.
Talented and witty, He is a gifted genius of mechanics and language. He never bothers to find plumbers to repair tubes of his bathroom because he could not confide in them and those plumbers, claimed by him, are charlatans. In his drawer or bureau pile up different sorts of nails, screws, battens, hammers, saws, and screwdrivers. He uses them to make furniture for my family. My mother told me once that he can speak seven different languages, even though he has never been abroad or been trained by anyone. When in courtship, he wrote diaries and poems for my mother every day in seven different languages and gave his diaries to my mother as her birthday gift. Asked why he kept doing this for such a long time, he pondered for a long time, “I want her to trust me with love.” This answer is ambiguous to me and it’s hard for me to surmise why he chooses to study these languages until my mother demystifies the cause: he studies one language from one country of one continent. I don’t know if it is a wise joke of my mother. For the fact that classmates around me whose parents specialize in English are cultivated by their fathers or mothers earlier to study language, I expect me to be one of them. So I always ask him to teach me how to study languages with some tricky tips, but he never does, even when I beg him to do so. “If you teach me how to study SAT, I will not struggle with it as I do now.” I always shout at him, but he never gets edgy or willing to help. “You did pretty well, 2200 is enough for you. One learns only when he stands sunk in muck to his armpit. Be patient and try.” Then he will continue to read his Russian novel, often by Lev Tolstoy or Chekhov.
I used to regard him as an omnipotent superman, but he is not, at least in business. His company was set up by him and another partner in 2001, devoted to the sale of optical cables. Throughout passed eleven years, every time he is about to run the company without the help of his partner, the company conks out, even bogs down. So that he was criticized both by his partner and his colleagues for his horrible management skills. However, he never feels frustrated by this treatment and he never complains of his agony to his family. He only profits from his business a small amount of money every month, which cannot nurture his family. But most of my tuition fee comes from him, for he has other two jobs from which he can make large amount of money. My mother persuades him to abandon his company which is a failure, since the opportunity cost is too high for him, but this time he insists on his own will and tells my mother in a soft way, “I want to try different jobs. Business manager was one of my dream jobs when I was young.”
I admire him for his talent in art. Each time I watch him playing the cello, or violin, or piano, or guitar, I appreciate him like a combined work of art but I never feel proud but jealous of him, even when people are immersed in his music. He prefers soft music over any other genres, especially the song called Sakura, which means cherry blossom. Alone, he always plays this song, skillfully and charismatically, with his hands dancing and bouncing back and forth on keys of his piano. Sometimes while he was playing Sakura, tears were running down from his face, though not obviously. I always wonder why such an insouciant man will become tender, even sensitive.
In 2006 his company encountered a quagmire, but he was not solicitous about his career future at all. One day in spring, I believe it was April 5th while my father was listening to the radio in his bedroom, with rain droplets pattering the window in rhythmic pattern. The announcer said with undue drama: cherry blossom in Japan is full in bloom. I remembered he jumped up suddenly without any portent, rushing out of his room, shaking my shoulder back and forth, like rocking a tumbler, and shouting, “Cherry blossom is full in bloom!!” I never saw him shouting, so ebulliently. “You should go to Japan and take photos of cherry blossom!!!” He said, with tremulous fingers gesturing in the air ceaselessly. “I have classes today, and I don’t care about whatever cherry blossom. And why don’t you go to Japan, a man fond of sakura?” I said with apathy. He frowned and said, “You should skip your classes, and go! I will go buy a ticket for you. You should leave for Japan this afternoon.” He never compromised this time, even expressed little anger when I kept asking why he would not visit Japan by himself. “I cannot control my emotion when I see cherry blossom. Leave me some space.” He said. But everything happened within about five minutes, so quickly that it made me empty-headed. So that I was on the plane to Japan, by myself, wondering why he made this haphazard decision. The trip lasting for five days was awesome, and it was the first time I ever went to Hiroshima. While having breakfast in a café in Hiroshima, I encountered a girl and she told me that cherry blossom blooms ephemerally. It downed on me that my father is so similar with cherry blossom, fleeting and vagabond. He cannot stop for a while. He is destined to be a traveler. Or maybe he is afraid of waking up from his imaginary-cherry-blossom dream. Touching real petals of real cherry blossom might trigger his artistic sensation. Again, two possibilities.
Each time waiting in the airport lounge for my trip to New York, to Sydney, to Hong Kong, to France, to German, I never received his phone call. I adjusted my cell phone speaker, afraid of missing his text messages or phone call. But I was disappointed each time, when I saw my friends’ or my mother’s text messages, not his. If he had called me, I would have been either silent or scary, I guess.
I happened to hear Sakura while waiting in the airport lounge on my trip to Yale. I recalled him, but no matter how many times I checked my cell phone to see if there were any new messages, I lost myself in the lyrics of Sakura. I never understand that lyrics.
When I settled in Yale this summer, I was itchy and wistful to call him, but I had nothing to say. I just wanted to hear his voice within my earshot, that raucous, deep, but euphonious voice. I started to dial but then hung up.
I never travel to Japan again no matter if cherry blossom is full in bloom. He never asks me for photos of real cherry blossom. Sakura is tied with his abysmal sensitivity.
