after that he wouldnât be able to apply to do anything any more.
âOne moment, please⦠Monsieur Wu is at present in a small park on the Boulevard Richard Lenoir, corner of the Rue Pelée.â
I thanked her and set out.
Â
*
Normally it wouldnât have surprised me to see Chen still gardening at nine in the evening or even later. Everyone knew, and it always caused our colleagues to shake their heads, between amusement and surprise, that Chen gardened with as much commitment and devotion as if plants were considerably closer and more valuable to him than human beings. I had actually seen him talking to a broom bush. Apart from that â say what you like about him, and offhand as his behaviour could be â Chen was extremely disciplined and conscious of his duty. If he had made up his mind in the morning to lay out a flower bed or prune trees before supper but got around to it rather late because of the Fête Arc-en-Ciel or something of that kind, he would put off eating until midnight if necessary.
But when I went down the Boulevard Richard Lenoir and saw Chen in the park mentioned by Madame Bonnet, on his knees among a number of wooden pots containing rose bushes, digging holes by the light of the street lamps and filling them with water from a hose, I was absolutely baffled for a moment.
He couldnât be serious! Did he really have nothing better to do this evening? I almost had to prevent myself from obeying my first impulse and simply going over to bawl him out, ask if he still had all his marbles? The illegals, the TFSP team, our argument that afternoon â did he really not care a fuck, as he would put it, about any of that?
I stopped short, and after a moment I walked on with my face averted. A young woman was sitting on a bench near Chen. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was talking to her as he took a rose bush and placed it carefully in one of the holes.
Fifty metres away there were bright neon lights; an ad for sparkling water and the name of a café. The café was right opposite the park, and I hoped I could keep watch on Chen and the woman through its window.
When I went in I was met by the smell of stale beer and washing-up water. The café was empty except for the owner. He was washing glasses. I sat down at the bar, ordered an espresso, and turned to the window. Chen and the woman were about seventy metres away. When I put my special binocular-lensed glasses on, I might have been right there with them.
Chen was just saying something, glancing over his shoulder as he spoke, and the woman laughed. Looking through the binocular glasses, I could see she was attractive. She must have been about ten years younger than Chen, with a pretty, round, cheerful face, and she was wearing a close-fitting red suit with a glittering cape and a velvet band in her hair, all very fashionable at the time. It looked as if sheâd prettied herself up for a dinner date.
A dinner date with Chen? He was wearing grey working clothes, and was spattered with mud.
Although God knows I had other things to think about, I couldnât help reflecting that this wasnât the first time Iâd seen Chen with a woman who looked as if she played in a much higher league. As these women were always Europeans, I assumed that his Asian origin gave him the attraction of exoticism. On the other hand, Iâd often approached Chinese women who hadnât been tempted to go out with me because of my white skin. Perhaps it really was something to do with a sense of humour. I was always reading, in the singles magazines, how important that was to women. You want to keep well away from anything in the least like humour â itâs simply not your bag.
I turned to the café owner. âAnd a double Calvados, please.â
And he kept his pretty companion waiting because he wanted to finish a rose bed that could just as well have been planted tomorrow or next
âOne moment, please⦠Monsieur Wu is at present in a small park on the Boulevard Richard Lenoir, corner of the Rue Pelée.â
I thanked her and set out.
Â
*
Normally it wouldnât have surprised me to see Chen still gardening at nine in the evening or even later. Everyone knew, and it always caused our colleagues to shake their heads, between amusement and surprise, that Chen gardened with as much commitment and devotion as if plants were considerably closer and more valuable to him than human beings. I had actually seen him talking to a broom bush. Apart from that â say what you like about him, and offhand as his behaviour could be â Chen was extremely disciplined and conscious of his duty. If he had made up his mind in the morning to lay out a flower bed or prune trees before supper but got around to it rather late because of the Fête Arc-en-Ciel or something of that kind, he would put off eating until midnight if necessary.
But when I went down the Boulevard Richard Lenoir and saw Chen in the park mentioned by Madame Bonnet, on his knees among a number of wooden pots containing rose bushes, digging holes by the light of the street lamps and filling them with water from a hose, I was absolutely baffled for a moment.
He couldnât be serious! Did he really have nothing better to do this evening? I almost had to prevent myself from obeying my first impulse and simply going over to bawl him out, ask if he still had all his marbles? The illegals, the TFSP team, our argument that afternoon â did he really not care a fuck, as he would put it, about any of that?
I stopped short, and after a moment I walked on with my face averted. A young woman was sitting on a bench near Chen. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was talking to her as he took a rose bush and placed it carefully in one of the holes.
Fifty metres away there were bright neon lights; an ad for sparkling water and the name of a café. The café was right opposite the park, and I hoped I could keep watch on Chen and the woman through its window.
When I went in I was met by the smell of stale beer and washing-up water. The café was empty except for the owner. He was washing glasses. I sat down at the bar, ordered an espresso, and turned to the window. Chen and the woman were about seventy metres away. When I put my special binocular-lensed glasses on, I might have been right there with them.
Chen was just saying something, glancing over his shoulder as he spoke, and the woman laughed. Looking through the binocular glasses, I could see she was attractive. She must have been about ten years younger than Chen, with a pretty, round, cheerful face, and she was wearing a close-fitting red suit with a glittering cape and a velvet band in her hair, all very fashionable at the time. It looked as if sheâd prettied herself up for a dinner date.
A dinner date with Chen? He was wearing grey working clothes, and was spattered with mud.
Although God knows I had other things to think about, I couldnât help reflecting that this wasnât the first time Iâd seen Chen with a woman who looked as if she played in a much higher league. As these women were always Europeans, I assumed that his Asian origin gave him the attraction of exoticism. On the other hand, Iâd often approached Chinese women who hadnât been tempted to go out with me because of my white skin. Perhaps it really was something to do with a sense of humour. I was always reading, in the singles magazines, how important that was to women. You want to keep well away from anything in the least like humour â itâs simply not your bag.
I turned to the café owner. âAnd a double Calvados, please.â
And he kept his pretty companion waiting because he wanted to finish a rose bed that could just as well have been planted tomorrow or next
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