The fickle finger of fate?
I chatted with our company's driver while the car idled at a red light. Sometimes, around midnight, I told him, I hear the sound of fast cars tearing down Tai Tam Road. The squeal of tyres, as brakes are slammed on, awakens me. Then the nocturnal speedsters gun their engines and roar on through the night.
I asked the driver if he knew what these sounds were. He said they were probably illegal street races. The long stretch from Stanley to Shek O is apparently a popular course for street racers. They drive for high stakes, wagering cash and their own lives on the narrow, winding road along the ocean. It is their moon-bathed Macau Grand Prix.
I chuckled and asked how he had acquired such a detailed knowledge of this phenomenon. To my surprise, he said that he had participated in such races during his wild years. What was more, he had even competed in the Macau Grand Prix, and finished pretty high in the championship.
It was hard to imagine this refined and unshakably polite young man as a speed demon. He is an impeccable company driver; he never cuts people off; and he always pulls over when he sees a sports car behind, allowing the more powerful vehicle to pass. He just doesn't have that fiery temperament I imagine a racing driver needs.
But if I take a closer look, maybe I have seen evidence of his skill from time to time: such as when he takes a turn with one hand on the wheel and the vehicle just glides round it, car and driver moving smoothly as one. It is too bad that I don't understand racing, and cannot fully appreciate his technique. The closest I have ever come to racing was go-karting in Macau, and all I can remember is my white-knuckled fear.
Our driver is a crouching tiger among grazing deer. How frustrating it must be for him to inch through a Hong Kong rush hour.
Times have changed, he sighed, continuing our talk. He told me that these days, every successful racing driver is backed by big money. The Grand Prix is no longer a race between drivers, but between cars. The driver becomes secondary, he lamented, and the money invested in the machinery is what wins races.
Certainly, times change as people change. Careers change for so many reasons.
I'm reminded of when I lived in Washington. There was a well-known Chinese restaurant in the suburbs, famous for its Peking duck. The establishment boasted an impressive clientele, including celebrities and presidents.
I remember the master chef always wearing a chef's hat as he stood by each table. He first displayed the roast duck ceremoniously on a polished platter.
Then he lifted it delicately by the neck with a cloth napkin and started carving it until the last piece of meat was separated from the bone. The truth is that before he moved to the United States, he had been a surgeon in China.
When I took a closer look, I thought I could see an inherent logic behind every precise movement of his hands and every stroke of the knife ... something that could only have come from years of training in the techniques of dissection.
The scene left a deep impression upon me, and it would later inspire me to write a short story that describes 'a hand holding a knife that appeared to have dark patches of rust blossoming over it ...'
The master chef is not alone. I can envision millions of hands across the globe not doing what they were made to do. And, I must admit, my own hands are among them. For example, much of my energy goes into editing office memos - notes that, more than likely, no one will ever read closely. I still think constantly about real writing.
I remember the rush I get, like a driver taking a turn at perilous speed - but then I look around and realise that, for the time being, I'd better pull over and allow the other cars to pass.
Lu Ping is Taiwan's cultural envoy in Hong Kong
