Category: Cross-cultural

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Summer evenings

This entry is part 7 of 28 in the series Goldfish

It has become that time of evening when people sit on their porches, rocking gently and talking gently and watching the street and the standing up into their sphere of possession of the trees, of birds’ hung havens, hangars. People go by; things go by. . ..
James Agee, A Death in the Family

Samuel Barber: “Knoxville, Summer of 1915”

Those were the years before television and air conditioning.

In summer time, we would have supper in the garden where the evening breeze made the hottest days tolerable.  There would always be a few cold dishes, such as fresh tofu drizzled with soy sauce and sesame oil or cucumber salad.  After enjoying watermelons and other seasonal fruits, we would take a long walk with mom and dad.

There was an old aqueduct near our house.  A major thoroughfare ran along its two sides.  Large willows on the banks formed a canopy over the water.  A tea shack stood under the trees at the intersection.  Its store front opened to the street.  Awnings extended out toward the water in the back.  From time to time we would stop by there during our evening walks.

Other times we walked the other direction toward National Taiwan Normal University.  Near the front gate, there was a fountain with sleeping lilies of various colors.  Mom would let us sit by it to cool off.  On the other side of the road, there were grassy grounds and shrubs.  We sat at the benches watching other people strolling by. Children like us ran around playing games.

We learned to roller skate there.  My brother was a natural.  I, on the other hand, never quite found the balance.  He was also better with flying kites. . . Mine would always dropped down to the ground.

When the fireflies were out, we would gently cup our hands when they touched down on the grass.  We could see their little lights shining through our fingers.  If we remembered to bring a jar, we would bring a few of them home.  Mom or dad must have released them out to the garden after we went to bed.  They were always gone in the morning.

Those were the years when families shared their evenings together.  Those were the years when street lights were not as bright as now.  Those were the years when stars crowded the nightly sky.

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Il notturno effluvio floreal

This entry is part 6 of 28 in the series Goldfish

Tosca entices her lover Cavaradossi to join her for an intimate evening by saying:

È luna piena
e il notturno effluvio floreal
inebria il cor. Non sei contento?

It is full moon.
And the nocturnal floral perfume
Inebriates the heart. Aren’t you content?

When I read these lines for the first time, the pungent scent of cestrum nocturnum floated up in my memory.  I loved that the librettist(s) used the word effluvio (effluvium): a strong smell that could be unpleasant.

There was a cestrum nocturnum, commonly known as night blooming jasmine, in our backyard.  At night, the rich, sweet yet slightly decaying perfume filled the space.  It was at the same time attractive and noxious.  Whether it intoxicated my little heart or not, it certainly haunted me night after night.

There were plenty of floral perfumes in our garden:  orange jessamine leaned against the fence near the gate.  Jasmines hid under taller shrubs.  Honeysuckles wrapped around the corner of the house.  I learned very early on that plants with tiny white flowers bloomed at night and spread perfumes to attract nocturnal insects.  It is, nevertheless, the odor of cestrum nocturnum that forever reminds me of the sounds and images of night.

I was born a night owl.  Mom would put me to bed.  And, I would stay awake for a long time, listening to all kinds of sounds:  Outside, the insects were chirping tirelessly.  Inside, my parents were talking about the day, about the world and about us.  They tried to speak softly so not to wake us up.  They often spoke in Japanese.  I never knew if they didn’t want us to understand the conversations, or if they felt most comfortable communicating that way. Sometimes, they listened to a classical music program 音樂風 on the radio.

The nocturnal air was damp and cool.  The powerful rotten smell came through the windows.  I began wondering if all was fine, if evil spirits were at work destroy lives and if . . .

Those were the peaceful nights of my youth.

“After a little I am taken in and put to bed. Sleep, soft smiling, draws me unto her: and those receive me, who quietly treat me, as one familiar and well-beloved in that home: but will not, oh, will not, not now, not ever; but will not ever tell me who I am . . .”—James Agee, A Death in the Family, adapted by Samuel Barber in “Knoxville: Summer of 1915.”