An Excerpt from Taiwan Travelogue: Kue-Tsí / Roasted Seeds
BY YÁNG SHUĀNG-ZǏ (TRANS. BY LIN KING)
“Hold on. What’s going on here?”
I couldn’t help but voice the thought out loud.
For, in that moment, I seemed to have been transported back into the midst of Shōkyokusai Tenkatsu’s Magic Troupe.1
I’d crossed paths with Tenkatsu’s troupe long ago, before I’d started high school. They had been on tour, and on the day they arrived in Nagasaki, my aunt Kikuko and I happened upon the opening parade.
The procession comprised a majestic formation of rickshaws, rows and rows of them with no end in sight—enough to rival an army regiment. The band rode at the frontmost rickshaws, performing with remarkable gusto; after them came the women magicians, beaming and waving at the crowd in exquisite maquillage; they were followed by the male magicians in top hats. Other troupe members went on foot, encircling the rickshaws and ushering them along. They held up long poles with brightly colored flags—streaks of crimson, white, violet, and azure that were no less commanding than the band’s spirited music. My chest thrummed and lifted, as though something had been strung from my navel all the way up into the sky.
And here I was, decades later, on the outpost island of Taiwan, reliving this old reverie. It was May, in the thirteenth year of Shōwa,2 yet the sights and sounds coursing before me were just like those of Tenkatsu’s Magic Troupe.
Rows of red-brick Shina-style3 buildings stretched endlessly into the distance.
Round vermilion lanterns hung from the roofs alongside sunset- colored ones shaped like seeds.
Squares of white tarp blossomed overhead.
Kanji signs of all colors and patterns flashed past my sightline.
And then the stalls: vegetables—utterly alien to me—piled into green, yellow, white hills.
Blood-red meat carved into strips, hanging from hooks like flesh tapestries.
Mud-brown and swamp-green herbs bound into bundles, or else scattered in wicker baskets, or else stewed into inky, emerald concoctions.
One vendor had an imposing spread of large glass jars that glinted in the light. Each contained treats I could not name: pale red, dark red, light yellow, deep yellow, pitch black, bone white.
There were several stalls where people stood eating desserts from soup bowls, which contained nugget-like delicacies. Some were white and soft and others yellow and semi transparent; still others were like the darkest of pearls.
Inside one greengrocer’s shop, bunches of bananas dangled over tea-green and lacquer-red fruits. I was only able to identify a few of them—watermelon, peach, and something that was perhaps namuka.4
My eyes did not know where to turn first.
Outside the stately Taichū Station,5 the ribbon-like Midori River threaded its way across Tachibana District. On the other side of the riverbank stood First Market and Taichū Hotel. The crowds, too, were like water; I’d come here, to Kanjō Bridge Avenue,6 because I’d been told that it was where the Islanders gathered, and the sheer number of pedestrians proved my source correct. Tick willows lined the river on both sides, and the stream itself glittered with undulating ripples. I felt dizzied and dazzled—the May sun was a wheel of searing light that made every color more saturated and every scent more fragrant. The smell of the river, plants, raw meat, herbs, fruits—everything teemed and surged toward me under the cobalt sky.
There was something else mixed into that current: voices, speaking an Island language that I couldn’t understand.
“XXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXX?”
“X XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX!”
“XXXXX XXXXXXXXXX.”
My gut somersaulted to my chest. The corners of my mouth couldn’t help but curl with glee.
Ah—so this was Taiwan, Land of the South!
⎻
No matter what, I must visit Taiwan at least once in my life.
I’d first made this resolution while standing out back on the deck of a large passenger ship heading home to Kyūshū Island from Okinawa. I’d been wondering whether the hazy shore I could see in the distance was Miyako Island or Ishigaki Island—or was it in fact Taiwan Island, right there, just across the water?
After my novel was adapted into a film, my royalties saw a notable increase. Leading up to my Okinawa trip, magazines I’d never worked with came to my door offering, quite literally, handfuls of cash.
“If Aoyama-sensei is amenable, you can feel free to leave all the arrangements to us—the travel expenses, everything. We would love for you to write a serialized novel set in the South Pacific,” said Editor F of a certain magazine, flashing an eager smile. “I have heard that Aoyama- sensei is an avid traveler. This is a wonderful opportunity, is it not?”
“A story set in the South Pacific . . . is that meant to complement the Southern Expansion Policy?”
“I—I am not quite sure what Aoyama-sensei means.”
“I beg your pardon. I only mean that, if the premise of the novel is to promote the Empire of the Sun, I am afraid I will be a poor candidate. You see, I do not believe I can produce any interesting work on the subject, which would be a shame for the magazine as well as for its readers—do you not agree, sir?” I pushed the neat stack of bills back toward Editor F’s knees. “Besides, I have already purchased tickets to my next destination, Okinawa, which would mean delaying your project—that is, unless you are interested in serializing a historical tale of the Ryūkyū Kingdom.”
“Ah . . . but if Aoyama-sensei is fond of Okinawa, then would you not consider visiting Taiwan in the future? It is also an Island of the Southern Country.”
I didn’t wish to continue this pesky song and dance and put an end to the meeting without making any promises. But ever since that conversation, Taiwan, Island of the Southern Country, became a small seed in the field of my heart.
As fall deepened into winter that year, I concluded my brief trip to Okinawa. Ryūkyū, the chain of islands that stretched from Kyūshū to Taiwan and a Kingdom of the South in its own right, boasted a warm climate, and as I stood homebound on the deck, the salt-laced sea breeze brought no chill to my skin. Taiwan was even deeper in the South—what was it like in November? I recalled the large cargo ships that passed through Moji Port in Kyūshū, bringing crates of bananas from Taiwan day in and day out. The memory was enough to fill the air around me with that fresh yet fragrant scent.
A thought germinated and took root. The next time I travel, it will be to Taiwan.
Once I returned to Nagasaki, I began researching for this future journey. I’d learned my lesson from an earlier trip up north to Hokkaido that, to be sufficiently immersed in any locale, the stay must be substantial—half a year or more, ideally. But six months’ worth of transportation, lodging, and, most important, dining expenses was no negligible sum. After completing an estimate, I clutched my head in frustration.
“Aunt Kikuko . . .”
I entered the earthen-floored kitchen, where my aunt and our young servant Haruno were hard at work. Steam was wafting from a clay pot; from the scent alone, I could tell that the white rice cooking within was of a caliber that would be delicious with a sprinkle of sesame salt and nothing else. Watching the pot was enough to make my stomach groan.
“Chizuko-san, dinner is not ready yet,” Haruno said, giving me a knowing smile.
Hmph! As if I was here to ask about dinner!
“Aunt Kikuko . . . do we have five hundred yen for me to go to Taiwan?”
Haruno’s jaw dropped.
Aunt Kikuko looked at me sedately. “What are you talking about, silly child?”
“I hardly look like a child, dear aunt.” Age aside, I was tall enough to walk shoulder to shoulder with the foreigners in Nagasaki’s streets. My nickname back in my school days was the Great Cedar.
Aunt Kikuko gave a gentle “hmm” and said, “Didn’t that magazine editor say they’d be happy to finance you?”
“But all that Southern Expansion stuff—I can’t write about something like that.”
“Then go to Kumamoto and make an appeal to the head family.”
“The head family! Forget about going to Taiwan, the Aoyamas in Kumamoto will be dragging me to the altar.”
“It is high time you got married.”
“Please oh please—”
“What a bothersome child. Maybe you should visit the shrine and ask the gods for your travel funds.”
Now here was a conundrum. I hadn’t anticipated that my babyish begging would have absolutely no effect whatsoever. Sighing, I said, “Can it be true? Is it possible that Suwa Shrine is my only ally? Ah! But they do sell delectable Castella cakes and Siberia cakes over there.7 Surely the gods cannot refuse me—not with such offerings!”
“Chizuko-san is just naming her personal favorites,” Haruno said, blowing my cover.
“Oh, dear gods, why oh why is our Chizuko such a hopeless glutton?” Aunt Kikuko asked.
Despite such ruthless attacks on my strategy, the gods did appear to accept my bribe of desserts. Not long after, at a time when I wasn’t expecting it, I received an invitation from the Government General of Taiwan and a Taiwan-based women’s group.
⎻
As it turned out, Taiwan, like Mainland Japan, was going through a film craze. My timely invitation came thanks to the film adaptation of my novel A Record of Youth, which had premiered in Tōkyō two years before and had made its way to Taiwan, where upon members of the Nisshinkai women’s organization based in Taichū Prefecture were so moved that they funded the film’s wider release. This apparently received such a warm reception from viewers that the Nisshinkai decided to invite me on a lecture tour. The Government-General of Taiwan had always been fond of bringing Mainlander authors to Taiwan, and thus the two parties sent a joint invitation, naming Taichū City Hall as my official host. Even without the lectureship compensation, their offer to cover transportation, housing, and dining immediately dispelled all of my financial woes. After a number of telegrams and telephone calls, I set off in the beginning of summer.
Departing from Moji Port in the north of Kyūshū, I took the Domestic Taiwan Route passenger ship and docked at Kīrun Port. I’d declined the Nisshinkai and Taichū City Hall’s offer to have one of their staffers meet me at the port, and instead made my own way into Taihoku City, spent the night, and boarded the train from Taihoku Main Station down to Taichū alone. The express only took three and a half hours. I thought to myself: Now this is what traveling is all about.
The train departed at 9:30 and I simply could not wait until Taichū to have lunch. At Tōen Station at 10:05, I saw someone on the platform selling railroad bento boxes and bought one. Inside, I found pearly white rice, deep-fried fish, pan-fried fish, pickled radish, and unagi burdock rolls. It was hardly discernable from what I could get back home on the Mainland.
11:01, Shinchiku Station. I bought something from a platform vendor called bí-hún-tshá.8 I asked a lady sitting next to me what it was, and she explained that it was something akin to yakisoba. (In fact, it was utterly different.)
About twenty minutes later, we arrived at Chikunan Station, and I carefully appraised the remaining capacity of my stomach.
11:47, Byōritsu Station. The bento here also seemed of the Mainland variety, so I only bought five salted duck eggs and a couple of plain onigiri. People boarded and alighted the train as we chugged along. The farther south we went, the more I heard my fellow passengers speaking the local language—I was fascinated, and looked forward to the journey ahead even more.
1:03, Taichū Station.
Sparrows darted in my chest.
I had an appointment to meet a City Hall staff member at 2:00, but I couldn’t bear to just sit and twiddle my thumbs. From the window at the station’s waiting area, I could see the sun beating down on the glossy leaves of palm trees, setting the green alight with gold. The day was far too hot; people made their way down the street by shuffling from one pocket of shade to another. Western automobiles and man-powered rickshaws passed by, as well as hefty wagons dragged by water buffalo. A little farther off, under the shelter of some trees, stood a row of vendors’ carts.
“Excuse me. Is there some shopping area nearby where the Taiwanese go?”
The ticket collector was momentarily stumped by my question. “The Taiwanese . . . do you mean the Islanders?”
“Islanders—yes, the Islanders.”
He gave me instructions that brought me to Kanjō Bridge Avenue—the thoroughfare that so vividly evoked Tenkatsu’s Magic Troupe for me.
Without being too aware of what I was doing, I found myself buying some unknown, prickly fruit, a transaction made through charades-like gesturing that I decided to count as an auspicious beginning to my communication with the locals. Just as I thought the purchase complete, however, the baby-faced youth selling me the fruit began repeating—slowly, deliberately, and very seriously—a series of words. “X, X, X, X, X?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand Taiwanese! What do these words mean—what on earth do you mean?” I waved my hands and wagged my head.
The boy looked equally defeated. “XXXXXXXXX,” he said, and brought over a wooden container with a label on top. With impressive dexterity, he bundled the fruits into a charming gift box.
“Ah, I see! You were asking if I’d like them wrapped?” I hurried to take out some coins. “Say, is ten sen enough for the packaging?”
He looked at the coin in my hand, then back at me. “X, XXXXX? XXXXXX?”
I pointed at the box in his hand, then back at the coin. “This—is—for—the—packaging.”
“X, XXXXXXX, XX!”
“Pack—a—ging!”
“XX! XX!” The boy’s face reddened with effort.
“Oh, what can this mean?” I, too, grew flushed.
Hehe. A gentle chuckle to my side.
“I beg your pardon—would you like any assistance?”
I followed this flawless Japanese to its source: the face of a petite young woman who came up to around my jaw. Silken cheeks like an infant’s—and two dimples that punctuated them when she smiled.
“The boy means to say that the wrapping is free of charge. He asks that you kindly put the coin away.”
“You speak the national language! Oh, fantastic! Would you kindly tell him for me in dialect that I’d like him to keep the ten sen—for his time and trouble?”
She looked at me with some surprise.
The back of my head warmed with embarrassment. “You see, I’ve been badgering this poor boy for a very long time!”
The young woman chuckled and turned to exchange a few words with the boy in Taiwanese. He, at last, relaxed his face and broke into a smile. He pressed something into her hand, which she then passed to me. It was a thin paper packet; I peeled it open to find a handful of small, black, shard-like objects.
“He wishes to give this to you as thanks. Perhaps they will help you pass the time on your journey.”
“I am very grateful, but—what is it?”
“Ah,” the young woman tilted her head, grinning. “I forget that it is not something familiar to Mainlanders. We call it kue-tsí.”
“Is it edible? How do you eat it?”
When it came to food, my enthusiasm soared higher than most people’s. I leaned closer to the paper packet, which immediately filled my nose with a salty yet sweet scent. I picked up a few pieces and squeezed the hard surface between the flats of my fingers. Could one really eat this?
“No, not like that. In order to eat the kernel inside, you must first crack the shell with your teeth.”
“The shell? With your teeth?”
The young woman took a piece from my hand. “Like this.” With fingers that looked blue-white against the pitch-black kue tsí, she raised the shard to the corner of her mouth and bit down gently with dainty, gleaming teeth. With a ringing clack the shell broke cleanly in two. The young woman fished out the ivory kernel and showed it to me. “I must warn you, cracking kue-tsí requires quite a bit of practice for a novice.”
“Amazing!” I exclaimed. “What a marvel!”
She smiled. Her cheeks grew even rosier.
“Excuse me, would you be Aoyama Chizuko-sensei?” A man’s voice, in Japanese.
He was young and wore a summer suit. He had thick eyebrows, thick eyelashes to match, and a broad forehead adorned with heavy beads of sweat.
“I am Mishima, from Taichū City Hall.”
I let out a low “Ah.”
2:00 at Taichū Station.
I had completely forgotten.
⎻
Mishima explained that he’d been informed of my physical appearance beforehand and, unable to find anyone of my description at the train station, had asked the ticket collector. Once he arrived at Kanjō Bridge Avenue, he had spotted his target easily: at one hundred sixty-five centimeters, I, the Great Cedar, stood taller than most men.
“The automobile is right around the corner,” Mishima said, picking up my luggage and gesturing ahead. “This way, please.”
“I am so sorry.”
“Please do not apologize,” he said with a perfectly straight face, patting away sweat with a handkerchief.
It wasn’t until I was seated in the taxicab that I felt again the thin paper packet in the crook of my arm and recalled the young woman. When had she disappeared? I hadn’t even thanked her properly.
My attention was redirected toward the new world speeding past the car window: the Shina- and Western- and Japanese-style buildings, the occasional interlude of rice paddies and banana fields, the bright reds and deep greens. Warm Southern Country breeze wafted into the car, bringing to my mind again the market, the crowds, the young woman’s dimples, the young man’s flushed face.
“Mishima-san, the Island is truly a picturesque place! It is so full of life!”
“Indeed.”
“And the Islanders are so friendly, so kind!”
“Very true.”
“I saw so many fascinating things in the market earlier—I am positive now that the rest of the trip will be most enjoyable.”
“Most certainly.”
Even the flatness of his textbook responses could not diminish my good mood. What an enchanting place!
Mishima launched into an explanation of logistics. First, we would head to the Takada residence in Muhō outside the city, where Madame Takada, the representative of the Nisshinkai women’s group, awaited us. While my invitation had nominally been issued by Taichū City Hall, in practice my true host remained the Nisshinkai.
“Whenever Aoyama-sensei is traveling, there will be a local government staff member assigned to be your guide, which includes arranging lodging and dining as well as any of your other needs,” Mishima said, twisting toward me as much as the front passenger seat allowed and bowing formally. “While you are in Taichū, I will have the privilege of acting as your interpreter and guide. However, your room and board here have already been arranged for by Madame Takada.”
“Thank you so much for your trouble.” After a beat, I asked, “If Mishima-san is to act as my guide, may I also ask you general questions about the Island?”
“Yes, of course.”
“In that case, what exactly is this fruit that I bought?”
“It is a pineapple.”
“And what do the Islanders call it?”
“In the Taiwanese dialect, it is called ông-lâi.”
“What about the concoction that people were drinking next to the herb vendor? Is it Shina medicine? Do the Islanders go to the market instead of the doctor when they are ill?”
“No, that is not medicine. It is a local beverage called tshenn-tsháu-à tea.”
“I also saw people eating a half-translucent, yellowish dessert. What might that be?”
“That would be either ò-giô or hún-kué.”
“Are the two similar?”
“They are similar in appearance but not in taste.”
“What about those small, black, pearl-like beads?” “That would be hún-înn.”9
“Mishima-san knows so much about Islander culture! Have you been working in Taiwan very long?”
He hesitated for a second. “I was born on the Island.”
“Ah, I see! Excellent!” I grew even more excited. “I would love to taste all those Islander foods. Could you arrange that for me?”
When he turned to me this time, his thick eyebrows were slightly furrowed. The man was likely grumbling What is this impertinent woman going on about? in his head. But I didn’t care—I was used to such reactions from others.
Soon enough, he neutralized his facial expression and said, “I will do my best.”
“Can I get some by tonight? Maybe the herb tea—the tshenn-tsháu-à tea.”
“Aoyama-sensei need not worry. We have arranged a first-rate dinner to welcome you.”
Madame Takada had prepared a large, orderly Western-style room for me. In the afternoon, she hosted a tea party where I met some of the Nisshinkai’s core members. After that, we all headed into bustling Taichū City for a banquet that S-san, a high-ranking member at the City Hall, had arranged at an establishment called Baishunen—a restaurant of Taiwanese cuisine catered toward Mainlander guests.10
Mishima had spoken the truth. I was indeed treated to a luxurious feast that night.
A luxurious feast indeed . . .
Salted fish roe, fried sausage, braised pigs’ feet, stewed shark fin, soft-shelled turtle, sea snail soup, steamed crab over sticky rice, followed by a lush stir-fry of carefully selected vegetables, meat, and seafood. Desserts were almond tofu and something called Eight Treasures Rice, a pudding of sweet glutinous rice, dried fruits, and red bean paste. The meal was topped off by coffee and Taiwanese oolong.
Everything was perfectly delicious and, also, perfectly catered to a Mainlander’s palate; I had no doubt that the recipes had been tailored or even invented to suit Mainlander tastes. I ate such an astounding amount of food that S-san, who sat near me, burst out laughing.
But no—this was not the Taiwanese cuisine that I craved!
Before getting into Madame Takada’s car, I raised a complaint. “Mishima- san, whatever happened to my tshenn-tsháu-à tea?”
He observed me quietly.
“Please, Mishima-san. Even if it’s not tshenn-tsháu-à tea, I’ll be happy just to try any Islander street food.”
“I will do my best,” he said, his brows drawing close together once more.
⎻
The following morning, feeling energized from a good night’s sleep, I gave my first lecture in Taiwan. It was a smaller event, held specifically for members of the Nisshinkai at the Takada residence’s spacious lobby. Tere were familiar faces from the tea party the day before, as well as younger women who seemed to be relatives of the older ones. I spoke for two hours on the topic “A Record of Youth and Me.”
Before that, I broke fast with white rice, pickled vegetables, seaweed, a raw egg, and grilled fish, along with miso soup with tofu and fish—the type of meal I would have had back on the Mainland. This dampened my spirits somewhat, and I did not fill my stomach, which in turn filled my head with thoughts of sweets as lunchtime approached. Fried bread sprinkled with sugar, cream cookies, yōkan jelly, red bean buns—those delicacies were appetizing, but all were things that I could have eaten in Nagasaki. Taiwan, with its heat that brought torrents of sweat down my back, called for some more hydrating desserts. Cold ò-giô, hún-kué, hún-înn, tshenn-tsháu-à tea, and tropical fruits teeming with juice—how I longed to try them!
After my talk, Madame Takada kindly declined the other women’s lunch invitation on my behalf. “May on the Island is already very hot for someone unaccustomed to the climate,” she told them. “The heat can easily lead to exhaustion.”
Madame Takada, who was nearing her fifties with a dash of silver in her hair, was a rotund woman broad in stature as well as in heart. I’d heard that she was from a former samurai family in Kagoshima—a Kyūshū native like myself.
To me, she said, “Let us skip those formalities for today. How about going into town with my family? The entertainment center in Taichū shows American films and has air- conditioning—it’s a very popular spot in the summer.”
“Air-conditioning?” I cried. “The Island really is incredible!”
Madame Takada chuckled. “Mainlanders always seem to think of the Island as a primitive backcountry! If even Chizuko-sensei thought this after your travels to Ezo and Ryūkyū, then we really don’t stand a chance.”
I grimaced. “I beg your pardon. I only meant that, before arriving in Taiwan— I mean, the Island—I had only read some scattered travel literature. My knowledge must be incomplete. I even assumed that, being based in Taichū, I would be able to easily travel to all the cities on the western coast via railroad, even if I am not able to reach the east coast. Was it presumptuous of me to think so?”
“Chizuko-sensei is very well prepared, and not, as you say, presumptuous. Beginning with Kīrun in the north, there are thirteen major stations that end with Takao in the south. We can certainly hold lectures in all thirteen cities. But before we discuss any more logistics,” she said, grinning, “shall we eat first?”
“Ah,” I pressed my hands to my loudly growling stomach. “How embarrassing. I confess that I am quite the glutton.”
“Please don’t apologize. As your host, it brings me great joy to see how much you enjoy the food.” Her smile deepened with a layer of mystery. “Mishima- san informed me that you would like to try the Island’s foods, so I arranged for a special meal to be brought from Taichū City—something my family normally forbids me to eat!”
Is that so! My heart lifted. I hurried into the Takadas’ Western style dining room and saw, on the beautiful mahogany table, an exquisite black lacquer box laced with gold. The box was surrounded by small plates and bowls. A wholly Japanese place setting.
The shock of disappointment left me stiff- limbed.
“Unagi over rice! Made from wild eel native to the Island!” Madame Takada lifted the lid as if opening a present, a childish grin on her face. “It’s my absolute favorite. Does Chizuko- sensei like unagi?”
What could I say?
“Yes—I love it.”
“Ah, you’re even getting teary- eyed!”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
⎻
I spent the following week by Madame Takada’s side. But because the Takada residence was in the town of Muhō the family relied on automobiles for transportation to Taichū City. I didn’t want to be constrained by their driver’s schedule, yet my hosts always kindly dismissed my proposals to take public buses or handcars. When I confessed these feelings to Madame Takada, she said, laughing, that I was lionhearted. She began taking me to see places for rent in the city proper.
On my eighth day in Taichū, Mishima made a second appearance on the occasion of my lecture in nearby Toyohara, to be held jointly by Taichū City Hall and the Toyohara District Office. I scanned his taxicab from front to back without spotting any thing that vaguely resembled tshenn-tsháu-à tea.
“Mishima-san, I heard that there’s a famous Maso temple on Toyohara Street that acts as a religious and cultural hub for the Islanders.”11
“That is correct.”
“I heard that they sell a beverage made of pickled pineapple there.”
“Yes, that is true.”
“Can I have some of that today?”
“Yes, I will try to arrange it.”
I gave him a long look. “Mishima-san, you really have no intention of getting me any Islander food, do you?” “
That is not the case. I will do my best,” he said, lying with a straight face.
Insufferable!
As expected, I did not have pineapple juice that day. Likewise as expected, our lunch in Toyohara was at a restaurant run by Mainlanders. Egg-drop udon topped with fishcake, pan- fried burdock, konjac yam, and white radish.
When the taxicab arrived back at the Takada residence, I headed straight for Madame Takada and began spilling my grievances as though upending a jug of water. “Madame Takada, why, in your opinion, does Mishima-san insist on denying my every wish?”
She could not stop chuckling while I ranted on. She said, “Mishima-san is a rather inflexible young man. I believe that he once took charge of Mainlander guests who insisted on trying kiâm-lâ-á,12 but they got sick from it and ended up at the hospital. Poor Mishima-san was terrified!”
My attention had already shifted. “But what is kiâm-lâ-á? Is it very delicious?”
Madame Takada laughed so hard that she bent over. “Chizuko sensei, unfortunately, we will not be able to prepare kiâm- lâ- á for you in this house. Only Islanders can determine the quality of Islander food like that.”
“I see.” My shoulders drooped.
Madame Takada clapped me on the back encouragingly. “I understand Chizuko- sensei’s frustrations, so I’ve taken the liberty of arranging something that will surely cheer you up.”
“Oh—if it is unagi, I am quite full.”
“Ha! No, not unagi!” She laughed for a long time before wiping away the tears of mirth and continuing. “It’s an Islander interpreter, Ō-san. Since you are traveling to so many cities, it would be much more convenient to have one consistent guide who travels with you. She’s a young woman like you, so I imagine you will be able to get along better than you do with Mishima-san.”
“Is that so!”
“She comes recommended by members of the Nisshinkai. She used to be a Japanese-language teacher in a primary school and proved herself extremely capable, but has left her position in preparation for her marriage, which is to take place at the end of next year. Oh, and this is a fun coincidence—Ō-san’s given name is Chizuru, the same as the first kanji characters in your name. I have no doubt that Ō-san would be able to determine the quality of kiâm-lâ-á.”
“But that’s—that’s fantastic!” I was almost jumping for joy. “When can I meet this Ō-san?”
“Chizuko-sensei would do well to cultivate more patience,” she said, holding back laughter again. “If you hadn’t been so urgent in communicating your objections to Mishima-san, you would have met Ō-san already.”
“What?”
“She’s been in the waiting room for some time now.”
“Ah!” I made my way to the waiting room in my largest strides. The doors were open; inside, the afternoon sun set the whole room aglow. There was a woman seated in the Western arm chair; she had evidently heard my approaching footsteps and was rising ceremoniously to her feet.
A young woman. Pinkish cheeks. Dimples when she smiled. Eyes that glittered with sunlight.
The sudden swelling in my chest made me choke on a lungful of air. “You . . .”
“Are you in need of assistance?” Her voice was gentle and amused, with a slightly teasing note.
My teeth and tongue felt like a knotted jumble. “You! That day—the fruit stand—ông-lâi—kue-tsí!”
“Yes. My name is Ông Tshian-hoˈh, or Ō Chizuru in Japanese. It is not our first time meeting, but it is my pleasure all the same.”
“Wait, why are you not surprised at all? Besides, aren’t you supposed to be a schoolteacher? You look like a student yourself!” I shook my head, trying to organize my thoughts. “No, sorry, I ought to introduce myself first. I am Aoyama Chizuko. Our names share the same kanji characters—that must be what the Buddhists call en!13 But does that make addressing each other confusing? What on earth should I call you?”
She giggled. I cut myself short.
“Aoyama-sensei is as fascinating as ever,” young Chizuru said. “That day, at the fruit stand, the gentleman who came to fetch you had said your name. Later, I heard from my sister that a certain Aoyama-sensei was seeking an interpreter, and made the connection. Please do sit down.”
“Oh . . . right . . .” I felt stunned out of coherence.
“Has Aoyama-sensei mastered the skill of eating kue-tsí?”
I shook my head.
Chizuru nudged a plate in my direction. I looked down at the Western tea table to see a plate full of kue-tsí: black, white, and black streaked with white.
“The black ones are the same as the ones roasted in soy sauce from the other day, though one can also use licorice and salt instead of soy sauce. They are made from watermelon seeds, while the white ones are pumpkin, and the striped ones are sunflower. If we get the chance, Aoyama-sensei might also try raw sunflower seeds, which can be found in the countryside.”
“And what if I wanted to try kiâm-lâ-á?”
“Kiâm- lâ- á? That is only available at the market at dawn. Perhaps I can bring it to you tomorrow?”
“What about ò-giô, hún-kué, hún-înn, tshenn-tsháu-à tea? Can we get those today?”
“You are quite the student of Taiwanese.” She said, dimpling.
“Lunchtime has only just ended. How about heading to the market at around three o’clock?”
“You—you—are you an angel?”
Chizuru couldn’t contain her laughter this time. My head felt so hot that I was sure steam was rising from my scalp. “In that case, for now, please teach me how to eat kue-tsí,” I said. She nodded, smiling.
The ivory teeth cracked open the petite seed.
- Yáng Shuāng-zǐ (Mandarin Chinese translator of the 2020 edition): Shōkyokusai Tenkatsu (1886–1994) was a Japanese magician known for her modern stage magic derived from Western illusionist methods. Known as the Queen of Magicians, she became a popular phenomenon in the prewar period.
- Yáng: 1938 in the Gregorian calendar.
- Lin King (English translator): Shina is a now-obsolete Japanese term for China; it came to be regarded as derogatory in the twentieth century.
- Yáng: Namuka is an archaic Japanese name for bell apple, known as lián-wù in Mandarin.
- King: Taichū is the Japanese pronunciation for the place known in Mandarin Chinese as Táichūng. In both languages, the name is written with the Han characters 台中. This English translation uses Japanese pronunciations of Taiwanese place-names for conversations taking place in Japanese (e.g., Táipěi is referred to by its Japanese name Taihoku). Place names in the current Mandarin Chinese and their corresponding Japanese colonial pronunciations can be found on the map at the front of the book.
- Yáng: Kanjō Bridge Avenue is now Chénggōng Road in Taichung City’s Central District. Kanjō Bridge is now Chénggōng Lyù Bridge.
- Yáng: Castella cake, now called Nagasaki cake in Taiwan, is a popular sponge cake. Siberia cake is Castella cake with a layer of yōkan jelly (red bean paste, agar, and sugar) in the center.
- King: Taiwanese Hokkien for stir-fried vermicelli noodles.
- King: Tshenn-tsháu-à tea, or qīng-cǎo tea in Mandarin Chinese, is a tea brewed from many herbs, including Chinese mesona and mint. Ò-giô Mandarin: ài-yù) is a jelly made from a type of fig. Hún-kué (Mandarin: fǔn-guǒ) is made from potato starch and gardenia seeds. Hún-înn (Mandarin: fǔn-yuán) is the tapioca product now popularly known in English as bubble or boba. (Note on transliteration: Taiwan uses several different romanization systems of Mandarin Chinese, including the more traditional Wade-Giles system and the Hanyu Pinyin system developed in 1950s People’s Republic of China. This translation uses Wade- Giles for proper nouns typically written in Wade- Giles in Taiwan and uses Hanyu Pinyin for all other Mandarin words.)
- Yáng: According to the staff registry of the Taiwan Government-General, S-san was likely Shimasawa Jirō, special aide to the mayor.
- King: Maso is the Japanese name for Mātsǔ (Taiwanese spelling) or Māzǔ (Hanyu Pinyin), one of the most popular deities worshipped in Taiwan as a goddess of the seas. Te Mǎtsǔ Islands, an archipelago of thirty- six islands, are so named because the goddess is said to have been buried there.
- King: Kiâm-lâ-á is a dish made from salted river clams.
- King: En is Japanese for the Mandarin yuán, the Buddhist concept that translates roughly to fated connections or coincidences between people.
