Abroad, I have completely become an ordinary person. The pedestrians on the street don't know who I am; they don't know my past glory, nor my later shame. I no longer need a mask to conceal my identity, nor worry about being recognized. In the past, I went on many dates with Yan Feng, and I always liked the freedom that came from this ordinariness. I wanted to ask him, now that you have freedom but have blended into the crowd, do you feel lost? But now, that question no longer matters.
For me, music has gradually become a wall between me and them, layer upon layer, leading me to the pinnacle. An absurd wall that separates one from many like heaven and earth, and it also imprisons me.
"But God has always watched over me. In childhood, I was not lost, faithful to what I loved. In youth, when vain, I gained both fame and fortune. In youth, many loved me, lingering with young flesh. In middle age, He granted me lonely freedom. You ask if I am still faithful to what I loved as a boy?"Before me stood a stranger fishing at the river mouth. I spoke in English, feeling neither shame nor awkwardness.
He reeled in his hook.
"Good catch today — some grouper. Young man, come on, let's eat fish." His accent was thick, unlike any I'd heard before.
I wondered; he looked about 45, and I was only five years younger.
"Enough fish for today. My wife, son, and little daughter are all away. Ah, God's gift — today is Brothers' Day."
He packed away the fishing line, folded up his rod, and tossed the remaining bait into the sea.
"Ah, what a pity," I said.
"No worries. The sea lions were waiting just now." He turned and quickly walked to the middle of the pier.
"Come follow me!" He stood there, waving.
His house was halfway up a hill covered with New Zealand flax, separated from mine by a road. I had bought this house years ago while traveling in Tasmania. I was very glad I hadn't impulsively sold it a few years back. It was a pure white house with a steep roof, mirroring the rolling hills. Fortunately, a white oak colonnade and pristine white exterior walls surrounded the house, creating a safe boundary. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the backyard extended a wide wooden deck, ending with a lush green lawn. Low shrubs protected the curved edge of the lawn. The flax-like leaves resembled waves of the South Pacific, and at sunset, both the water and leaves glowed golden.
He prepared grilled fish, arugula salad, roasted potatoes, and carrots. The grouper was served on a very large white ceramic platter, sprinkled with black pepper and dill, with a squeeze of lemon juice; the transparent large glass bowl held arugula with some balsamic vinegar; and the cobalt-blue plate contained slightly charred potatoes and carrots — our dinner.
The stranger I had just met today was my meticulous white neighbor.
Even after many years in Germany, I'm still bad at recognizing white faces. They all seem to wear the same mask. Looking closely, this neighbor's face reminded me of an old friend, Harding — both strange and familiar.
He didn't ask what I did, nor why I was alone, nor why I let my hair grow long.
I no longer wore a Rolex, just a comfortable North Face fleece jacket and Loro Piana cashmere socks. He noticed my socks and said he had a similar pair made from alpaca wool. I smiled.
Chardonnay with grouper — I've had it many times before, but never freshly caught by a neighbor or from someone else's home.
We talked a while about different fish in the sea and Tasmania oysters.
He turned on the sound system, playing Chopin's Etude No. 3 ("Tristesse"), performed by Pollini.
I indulged in the sweetness of the white wine and got tipsy early, laughing so much that he noticed no connection between me and Chopin.
He saw me out the door; I thanked him three times and invited him and his family to my white house next time, promising to cook them white clam pasta.
I often made it when I was in New York.
Suddenly, I thought such days were quite good, even thought it might be nice to live quietly, watching sunsets that seemed invisible to the world, until old age and death. I once heard a director friend say that Jin Yong originally wanted Little Dragon Maiden to die, but the audience disagreed, so she was healed of a deadly disease by eating honey on a cliff. I don't like such happy endings. Her deep hatred and incurable poison in this world are casually erased and superficially healed. Her past suffering becomes insignificant.
Looking out through the floor-to-ceiling window at the distant sea — that side is Antarctica. The cold, dry Antarctic wind blows through the cracks in the window frame. His skin is like that too. In the painful intimacy of our skin, we torment each other with illusions, indulging in wild love between pain and ecstasy. In worldly life, we become fierce perfectionists, magnifying every imagined detail that might damage love beyond endurance. Time and again, rising and falling with intense passion, we sink into uncontrollable madness, gasping between the waves, as if the love we evoke in each other is inherently demonic.
(Excerpt from Crocodile Notes)
That next morning, he slipped into my large bed, invading my peaceful dreams, gnawing at my body, becoming the deepest desire in my subconscious. He pleaded with me—just one last time. Together, we would dive into the most inconspicuous corner of this world, just him and me. He promised me he would no longer concern himself with the family that gave him headaches, nor with his reputation and income, nor with others' approval, nor with society at large. He only wanted to be with me, to listen to or create the music that both of us loved.
Softly, he made his promise, while gently stroking my face, smoothing back my long, curling hair. With lips holding years of love and longing, he poured out all the moisture of these decades. The joys of him and me piled upon my back, each "I love you" swallowed down my throat, sinking deep into our hearts. He gave me all his thick, sticky emotions. I returned to him the softest whispers, with the hardest embrace, pressed against his most sensitive awareness. Flesh against flesh—such intimacy needs no accompaniment of love. But between him and me, between us and our years of strange bodies and experiences, it was utterly unique.Naive love, conflicted love, certain love, passionate love, jealous love, insecure love, and love until the future—the ordinary and eternal love—this was the complete love between him and me.This love and desire, like muscle memory learned in childhood and like every time I perform, was etched into my fingertips.
The morning tide's waves, along with their sobbing, washed against my soft, sandy shore in pulses. This was not Mallorca.
It was just a dream.
Not even a spring dream, but a cold winter's dream.
The bedding was wet. He would never say such things or do such acts. He never faced my desires directly.
A sorrowful dream. When all I wanted was for someone to disappear, my subconscious betrayed me. How much I longed for him—I still loved him.
"I love you, my tough American man, I desire you so naturally. But you never apologized to me, and neither did I."
Such is love.
I still practiced piano daily, keeping to myself. Though not for concerts, I often recalled those three days in Beijing when my freedom was stripped away, which shared a similar aura with my current life. When Mozart's music played, I always performed simple sonatas. When the phone rang, I played Mozart's Fantasy, recalling that morning's dream. I no longer avoided my feelings, nor the discomfort of such awkward situations. On the contrary, I relished it.
Loneliness allowed me to possess everything in my fantasies—the purest dreams and love. To love someone, to truly possess them, is so unfortunate; it is equivalent to killing them, forcing their loyalty, or restricting them to act as one pleases. They cease to be their true self, and are no longer the person I imagined. To truly possess fame is also so unfortunate; it is like placing shackles upon oneself, forcing oneself to subconsciously give up agency under scrutiny.
Now, I am very happy.
Yet, when I answered Dai Yanzhi's call, I did not know that my plot for a lonely lifetime could not be completed.
"They're ready for your performance in Australia," he said decisively.
"Really?" I was at a loss.
This was very different from what I had expected.
"Soon, in the second half of the year. I know you've been playing Mozart lately; why not just stick to Mozart?" he said, unhurriedly.
"And after that?" I didn't know what to say.
"What do you mean, 'afterwards'? Just take it slow and recover first."
He seemed like my protector in this world, and for the first time, I felt afraid of having him by my side.Apart from money, I had nothing else to give him. And as for money, others could give him that too.Why did he keep pushing me forward when I wanted to give up worldly success altogether?
"Do you love me or not?" I finally dared to ask this one question.
"Fool, if I didn't love you, why would I keep looking after you?" he replied lightly, as if joking.
"What do I have that's worth this?" This time, I was serious.
"Because I've been jealous of you since childhood," he joked again. "Jealous enough to want to destroy you, but couldn't, so I had to help you instead."
He laughed for a long time.
To love someone is to desire the gifts they possess that you lack.Those gifts may be rebellion, talent, downy softness, or something you recognize but could never reveal in yourself.That is what love is.
"Yan Feng got divorced." His tone went higher.
He got divorced. I repeated the words silently in my mind.
"Hmm." I replied with one word.
"Bai Jingrui isn't a good person. She spilled a lot. The media went crazy, public opinion sided with her, but it also worked in your and his favor. Many suddenly believe your relationship is real, though there's still no concrete proof," he continued. "But don't worry, she hasn't said a single word about you two."
"Hmm," I answered.
"Underestimating women will bring consequences," he said half-jokingly. "Neither of you is a match for women. You two are each other's rivals."
"I know what you mean, don't say more." I cut him off.
"You focus on practicing piano. I'll handle things with the organizers." Seeing I didn't want to respond, he let it go.
If I didn't practice well, Dai Yanzhi's kindness would be wasted. That groveling banquet was already starting to show results.
Another call came in. Probably more from Dai Yanzhi.
"What else?" I asked.
"It's me." A familiar, long-absent voice.
"..." How much I wanted him, but I didn't want to answer.
"I'm divorced," he said on.
"That has nothing to do with me."
"Let's get married." He proposed to me a second time.
But what use were words spoken on the phone?
Still, I had to perform on stage—the image of a repentant prodigal son. For those jealous of me but unable to destroy me, for those unable to destroy me but compelled to help me. For the decades of life I still had to perform.
Before I could hang up, he kept talking.
"I know you will keep performing. One day, maybe you'll even return to your homeland to perform. Those audiences might not accept that you love a man," his voice choked up, but this was his effective tactic, "But I'll dissolve the company and be with you."
This was so much like that morning's dream, making me think it would always just be a dream.
"We've wasted so many years. Finally, my grandmother passed away. My family—my younger brother and older brother—all have their own families now. I no longer need to prove to them that I'm a good, normal man."
He kept talking to himself, and I remained silent.
I recalled the "Farewell" piece my neighbor was playing—that same farewell from when Yan Feng and I first met.But this time, as I thought of that initial thrill, I felt a bittersweet regret for how things had changed.
We have both fallen from grace, yet still hold onto a dream.Even if that dream is shattered and fragmented, it pieces together into another new dream.Perhaps one day, he and I will gaze upon the world's greens and blues beyond the earthly realm, look into each other's eyes, and smile.
"Take care of your company first. As for what comes next, we'll talk about it later."Whether out of pity or the thought of this new dream, my heart softened.
"But don't come looking for me anymore—I'm tired and need to rest."Thinking again of past pains, my own fragility, I could no longer bear to ruin the last shred of dignity between us.
The deeper the love, the deeper the compassion—knowing the other suffers just as you do.—From Notes of a Crocodile