ONCE I HAD A SECRET LOVE
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Who am I? Who was I? The questions rebounded a thousand times in the annals of my mind, trying to solve the fragments, similar to a jigsaw puzzle of my life that demanded some sense of logic. I smiled somewhat shyly, so that no one notices the changes of emotions on my weathered face. I gazed through the windows of my mind, to a windswept scene of a wet and truly drenched commotion, outside in the street down below of an afternoon in Yangon. At long last, the monsoon has arrived. The month of July even though wet was still inveterately hot, but a few degrees, a shade less than May or June. Hot was unavoidable, but humidity was worst to bare, at ninety something percent, by god it made it twice as miserable! From the shelter of my third story apartment, I could hear the raindrops pouncing on the surrounding galvanized steel sheet rooftops and its contents spurring down like an uncontrolled waterfall in the midst of our city. The streets were less than empty, people running, some brisk walking to a shelter offered by shops and stores, even though only a temporary reprieve at that. Busses and automobiles windshields were misty due to the difference in temperature outside and the air-con bliss inside them. In my singlet and cigarette between by yellowing fingers, the gaze did not reflected how my mind was ticking. Within the shadows of my senses, I was walking back down the stone steps to some thirty years ago. Similar to dialing back in time like Neo, a character played by Keanu Reeves in The Matrix, a 1999 movie, so successful that it had many, many sequels. Yes, I was stepping back in time, no hopping on trains or busses, just a slow shuffling motion of thoughts.
Once upon a time in the west, to be more precise, in the great city of London, swinging London for you all morons! That city that never sleeps, around the year of our lord 1985, I think! Gosh, has it been that long? Those days, I was still at the peak of my prime, in the thirties but still well below the forty mark with a can do anything attitude. I slaved my butt off earning my pound of flesh, from nine to five thirty during weekdays and spend the weekend with my best friend and his family in Croydon, South London. A sort of a retreat for me, nine and a half miles South of Charing Cross (no greenery, except in parks!). Still, where I could let off some steam before returning to slaving in the pits again. By the way, I reigned in a block of flats on Grove Park Road, Chiswick in West London. Why did I choose that area? Simple. A quiet unpretentious life in an urban merry go round, close by the River Thames (a few minutes walk), a few steps from Chiswick Station, though rather expensive traveling on the British Rail, and a short bus ride away from the quaint old Chiswick Town. In reality, I bicycled to and from Turnham Green Underground station as it proved to be cheaper and faster. I, in fact did have a season ticket from that underground station to Green Park Station (into town), slicing my traveling time and costs – all a question of economics my good man! My bicycle was a folding type with twenty inches wheels, three speed gears and front wheel came with a dynamo producing electricity for lights. Best of all, the price was under fifty pounds brand new, I could not have asked for more. The bicycle paid for itself within months, not mentioning the exercise gained, fifteen minutes each way. Ha Ha! In reality, it was a hard slog in the autumn and winter. Cycling in the cold rain and sleet was no fun and very taxing to say the least. Once home, the landlady would not allow my bike to be parked in the hallway, as it would have been a hindrance to other tenants, so she exclaimed. That was the cons side of the equation. Still, chin up and smile, as an Englishman would say. For what it’s worth, my front wheel was stolen, while I had by bicycle chained to the railing of my friend’s flat near Turnham Green Underground Station. You can’t win every battle, I suppose.
I looked forward to my weekend retreats at Croyden. Home cooked meals and no washing of dishes after filling my belly. What a joy. We would venture out as a family outing on Saturdays to the shops. Peter’s wife would push their son’s trolley in one hand, while the other would direct their elder daughter as and when required. Peter and myself would walk side by side, with hands in our pockets for keeping them warm from the weather. In large departmental stores, we would seek out the men cologne section and try on the testers of various eau de toilets and colognes onto our jackets, making them smell nice and be an invitation to the opposite sex. Best of all, it was all free! Evenings were lounged out in front of the television set and maybe some shut eyes also by the gas heater.
One Sunday, Peter and his lovely wife had guests for luncheon. Around noon, the front door bell chimed. Madam walked out to greet her guests. Opening the door, two young ladies stood smiling. One was Burmese, her guest reading pharmacology and appearance wise nothing to shout about. The other was a friend of her guest, a young lady from France. So she said. The lunch was a wonderful gourmet as usual, a feast that required my trouser belt to be loosened a notch. After that hearty meal, we all sat by in the sitting room chit chatting this and that. While my eyes focused on the friend of her guest, I must admit that I was sizing her up. Through the conversations, it was revealed that her father was French and mother was Vietnamese. Her father was a junior officer dispatched in 1953 by France to Vietnam where he met her mother. After the Indochina War, they settled in Lyon and a total family of five, all made their roots there. She was the eldest sibling with two younger brothers. She was also a graduate of Universite Jean Moulin Lyon 3, with a Law degree and now reading her post-graduate at the University of London. According to my expert reading, she must be around five six and in her early twenties. Being a product of a French father and a Vietnamese mother, her features were somewhat more oriental. Her slight French accent when spoke English sounded very musical to my ears. She wore no makeup nor a splash of lipstick on her lips either. A true natural, rather a rare breed these days. She wore jeans topped with a loose dark blue pullover, not a plumb soul according to my assessment. She would smile shyly when in agreement and did not speak much unless directly addressed. To my mind, the world would surely be her oyster. I am sure men would be waiting in line two blocks down, easily, just for her audience. Apparently the two young ladies met in the cafeteria of the university. They both enjoyed rice, must be her inborn heritage. I was most alert during the post luncheon conversations and did not realized how time flew being magnetized by her presence. Must be the food. I also conducted a FBI investigation of my own by leading a statement, mentioning life must be tedious, stuck in the university grounds through out, she commented not so as her lodging was in Lillian Penson Hall in Paddington. Throughout, we were talking with the eyes without uttering a word, and I would have given my right arm to know her better. Before they got up and requested to be excused around six, I did manage to secure her room number, which was 503 and her name was Anh Gaile. All in all, it was a most satisfactory weekend.
Monday morning, I was back at the grapevine, however, the thought of her lingered on which I could not shake off. Two weekends sailed by which I spent usually with Peter and his family. Peter was my sole benefactor of much needed stationary. He supplied files, writing pads, ball pens, markers and the likes from his office as I was studying in the evenings at the London School of Business Studies at Moorgate in the city. During weekdays, I was busy till around ten with my work and studies but the thought of Anh was always at the back of my mind. I have met her once and wanted more of her. I had no right to influence Peter to invite them again, nor had the courage to telephone her. How to make that connection again? Would I be laughed at should I phoned her? Am I being too naïve? Questions abound without any creditable answers. A few more months reeled by lost in thought, however, whichever way one cuts it, courage was still much lacking. I weighed my options realistically and all the prospects were not too beneficial, to be more exact, N O N E at all. She was beautiful, well learned, a girl with good bright prospects, age wise just nice, anything and everything would be at the flick of her fingers, how could I compete? A rich picking for her, my lost cause to be sure. As a very last resort, I had to make sure and put my aching mind and heart to rest. One Wednesday evening, I let my fingers do the walking and browsed through the yellow pages, where I secured the telephone number of Lillian Penson Hall. It must had been around eleven, I picked up the green phone beside my bed and dialed 7078 3040, a lady answered and I asked for room 305, she enquired who the resident be, to which I clearly stated Anh Gaile. I waited while the telephone buzzed, a million and one thoughts ran through my mind. What would I say? What was my punch line? After quite sometime, a voice answered ‘hello’ and it was not Anh. It was a sleepy sounding girl’s voice. I asked for Anh and the telephone was passed on to her. This time, the ‘hello’ sounded right. I tried my best to make a conversation, not sounding too nervous, while fishing out whether any negative remarks from her speech. One bridge crossed, now or never, thus I popped her a question whether she might be interested for a bite at the Wox Noodle Bar on Spring Street the next evening. She sounded positive (what a relief) and said I could pick her up in front of the Lillian Penson Hall at eight. It was an answer I did not expected and was stunned for a moment before I placed the telephone back in her cradle.
That night, more correctly in the midst of early morn, my head was full of fireworks, heart was racing, eyes were wide open and sleep flew away into the darkness outside. It felt more like a young teenager about to go on his first date. Full of anticipation, like opening my examination results from the post and with that big dipper ride, my alarm clock rattled me back to this world and it was time to get cracking for work. Back to the pits! My workday was just an automated machine workout without mind over matter and just awaiting patiently for close of business only. I played truancy and took a rain cheque from my evening classes and was standing outside her digs by seven thirty. Nothing wrong being early, right! It was still winter but cold swirling winds were no matter, immune from the forces of nature, there I was, with gleaming eyes awaiting to greet my miss universe. Around eight ten, Anh came out in her jeans and sporting a combat jacket, with her college scarf wrapped around her long slender neck, shielded in stripes of black, white and red. It was no walk in the park nor the weather was not too kind either. After a few minutes, we were in Wox Noodle Bar. A true gentleman that I was, I took her scarf and army green combat jacket and hung by the entrance together with my heavy overcoat. Now only did I witness her true beauty. Jet black hair tied to a knot at the back of her head, her skin was silky smooth with no blemishes, her brown eyes sparkled, not a big nose either coupled with a smile through rosy red lips and white well formed teethes. Her beauty glowed throughout the Chinese restaurant. I was a blessed man who had just gleamingly won a lottery. Who could ask for more, yes? The food was of no consequence, her presence and conversation was. We must have talked and yapped getting to know each other more. We were the last couple old Mrs. Chan had to be persuaded out. Such diplomacy.
Days turned to weeks and weeks into months. The winter days into spring was mostly spent in Foyles bookstore at Charing Cross. We would climb floors (in lifts of course) and Anh would browse rows by rows of books closely. When she did find a book she liked, Anh would find a comfortable spot to rest her laurels and flipping through, absorbed in the pages. It was truly a feast to my eyes and sad to say was unable to capture the moment as iphones were still not yet invented. I suppose Steve Jobs must still be sucking his pacifier. Once exhausted, we would move onto Dillion’s near her college. This was the best mode to keep the weather at bay with enjoyment at the maximum. At least for Anh, that is! My weekend rituals were on ‘hold’ until further notice. We enjoyed each other’s company and her free moments were honored to her every whims and desires. Her command, my wishes. To every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, this was Newton’s third law. Rightly so, my membership main examination subject of Transport Policy Planning took a nosedive. I failed that subject, retake was the next year. Win some, loose some! To me, it was well worth it. Sacrifices must be made to obtain one thing I desired most. Anh enjoyed eastern cuisines, especially Chinese, Malay, Indian and needless to say Vietnamese of course. When the economics were on the positive note, we would not venture lower than authentic restaurants. However, when the funds were low, self-help was our best option. Cooking in Lillian Penson Hall was a necessity affair and no visitors allowed. One spring weekend, I enticed her to give Burmese cooking a chance, which she reluctantly agreed should I be the chef. On that Saturday, Anh and myself galloped up to Chiswick’s Sainsbury and picked up all my necessary groceries. Justice done, hand in hand we took a bus ride back to my flat at Grove Park Road. The bus stop was just a few quick steps from my castle. The block of flats I reigned in had a separate entrance, separate from the landlord. Just inside the wooden gate, shielding the pathway were a row of dustbins, where my two-wheeler also stood securely chain locked, not to give ill intent passerby any bright ideas. There was no ground floor as that was the landlord’s kingdom entered from a different road. The first flight of stairs leads to a businessman’s pad. Continuing upwards was my castle. The final staircase leads to a music teacher’s dorm. I was blessed with a sizeable bedroom, large sitting room, rather wide kitchen cum dinning room and a bathroom big enough to sleep in with a comfortable bath, washbasin and a white throne. I also had a small table there with a potted plant on it, as I gave court and have my morning coffee too.
Cooked did I, three dishes in fact. Stir fried veg (Chinese cabbage), clear fish soup with fresh tomatoes and bamboo shoots accompanied by pork curry Burmese style. Relished, we both gorged. All the plates and pots only needed a quick rinse. All that hard work and eating left me no alternative but to put my bum at rest on the settee. Anh gave me a full thank you kiss on my waiting lips. One thing led to another. Soon we were on the carpet holding each other tight and thank god the sitting room was warm enough. No one cared about washing up. I did know she was slimly built but how perfect only thus realized, the creature in my arms was a fragile cat, purring and warm to the touch with brown eyes slightly closed lost in a journey to ecstasy. We were one and the afternoon mattered no more. Nothing mattered. By late afternoon we took a leisurely stroll, hand in hand to the country pub by the River Thames. We sat on the retaining wall while Anh drank her cider as I cleared my pint. We were guarded no more by secrets or scruples. It was chilly when the sun was no more and by the time we made our way back to my castle, it was too late for her to find her way back to Lillian Penson Hall (I made sure of that). I had no extra pajamas, not that she needed any. Saturday night was a long-winded affair. My large double bed proved its worth, not that it was required. Thus, the night train puffed along, with no stations on route, the destination was its utopia. Next morning, correction, next late morning, I made her breakfast in bed, the full service consisting of coffee, orange juice, two toasts, one half boiled egg, marmalade, jam and real butter served on a wooden flap from a loosened cupboard door (no trays at home). I also popped downstairs to my regular convenient store beside the Chiswick Station and bought my Sunday Telegraph and also Times for her reading pleasure. It was a lazy Sunday to be sure. Late, late lunched on sandwiches with corned beef. Sunday was my usual bath day, thus filled it with warm water and I stepped in with Anh in my chest. We talked and talked, requiring hot water to be added again and again.
Anh was her mum’s daughter, alright. She was more Vietnamese than French. Her complexion was Mediterranean with a touch more olive. A bookworm to be sure and being the only girl, she does not really care for her looks and takes after her brothers. I only found out that Anh meant brilliant and/or intellectual, how right her mother was in naming her. She was more closer to her mother and they would share a thing or two. After our long bath together, regretfully it was time to send back my princess to her digs, Mondays were work and school day. We took a train from Chiswick to Waterloo and hopped on the underground and thus to Paddington Station. After kissing Anh good night in front of her Hall I made a reverse course. Instead of using the underground or trains, I hailed a black taxi, f*** the expenses as one would say, after all, I was on top of the world. During my taxi ride back, I was planning my chores. Shirts and underpants to be washed, iron my only two suits, clean the kitchen and hover the whole flat. I just hoped the guy downstairs would grant me a mulligan. Peter and family had since long gone to his next posting Bangkok, but I was happy and content with my new beginning. My social life was now rearranged to weekdays after ten p.m., meaning my beauty sleep schedule was chopped. I did not mind in the least, Anh was more important to me. I still phoned Anh during weekdays, however, I already sensed when to give a wide berth, as she was designating her thesis towards finalizing her PhD. Those days, laptops were still on the drawing board and the only way were pen to paper and typing it when confirmed. Weekends were totally reserved for Anh, spending more time in my castle when ever possible. Reading, cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, hovering, shopping, watching TV and all the tit-bits that a couple would normally undertake. Anh would assist a helping hand when time permits. I wanted her to secure PhD, as prospects were bright both in London and France. Me? Still undertaking night classes to complete my membership examination. Only one subject remaining and I have to cross that bridge in the summer.
Life was kind to me and Anh would spare all her free time, even during weekdays barring unavoidable commitments. Winter, Spring rolled onto Summer, and I did manage to pass my final paper, free at last, as Martin Luther King Jr would declare. That completed, I was welcomed to enroll into my next challenge, Mphil class. Normally it would require two full years, however, records proved that it has been done in year and a half. I did not harbour those kind of expectations, after all, it was totally out of my league. Our weekend escapades were to museums, Tate, British, Science, Natural History and what not. As long as they were offering free admissions, Anh and myself would enrich ourselves culturally. Anh did suggest that she was willing to guide me along to Paris once secured her PhD, and I was also an eagar participant in that regard. After our Paris tour, she was also hinting to take me to Lyon, and be introduced to her parents and younger brothers, should I be willing of course. My job in the city was okay, steady but the salary was still not competitive to market rates. A shipbroker job was always market orientated. World trade was my vision to be watched and scrutinized. As for Anh, the services of a lawyer will still be on demand, come what may. A good steady prospect not too depended on the market like myself.
Anh had her own key to my flat and was a blessing to be with her anytime of the day, week, month or year. I recalled she unlocked the main door without a phone call, which was most unusual, strange to say the least. It was a Tuesday evening around eleven. Her face was swollen from crying and tears were still running down her beautiful cheeks. I consoled her and we sat down in my sitting room while I awaited in dreaded awe to understand this sudden mishap. She continued to sob and told me that she just received a telephone call from her younger brother Paul from Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), who was holidaying with her mother. Apparently, her mother suffered a massive stroke and was in Ho Chi Minh General Hospital. Her father duly informed, was on his way there. I knew she must make her journey there also, being her mother’s only daughter. The next morning, I reported for leave and purchased a flight ticket on Vietnam Airlines, as there was a direct fight departing at 1100 hours. It cost me around five hundred pounds, for economy class, from my savings at Nat West. A sea chest for my rainy days, not that I stashed much. Anh did not owned much money, only surviving on her grant month to month. As for me, being a modern man, just living for the day with no tomorrow. I took her to Heathrow and Anh did not have any baggage. The flight was 14 hours. Much was not said, holding her hands I just prayed for the best outcome. I did receive a telephone call from her on Saturday morning, stating that she intended to be beside her mother until she gets better or till her last day, which ever.
Nine months had passed and Anh’s mother was still in hospital and improvement was negligible. It sure sounded like a long drawn out affair. My days were in limbo. No Anh beside me or my weekend retreats at Peter’s. Life became an empty dream and no one to share with. Telephone calls were weekly now. After fourteen months, Anh did say that her mother would be moved to her aunt’s place, a suburb north of Ho Chi Minh City, where 24 hours care could be provided by her. I do declare bad news comes in droves, I was informed by my senior manager that they intended to post me to Rangoon in four weeks being a Burman, where prospects were more attractive for the company by starting a joint venture with a local company there, and I would be the country manager and compete in the region. The way I saw, there were three main options. First, I could resign from the present company and seek employment elsewhere and remain in London waiting for Anh. The problem was, would I be drawing same amount of money? The quick answer was most unlikely, considering my age. Second, was to resign and proceed to Vietnam to be with Anh. Again, likelihood was, I merely be a third wheel, a hindrance to all, no doubt. No self-respecting gentleman would choose that and be an excess baggage to her. Third, undertake the offered position in Rangoon and start anew. Logically, none of the options seemed attractive. I thought about it long and hard which kept me up at nights. By that time, I only had a few days for my decision thus placed a telephone call to Anh. I expressed to her realistically that waiting for her in London would produce no positive result. Following her to Ho Chi Minh would only be an excess baggage and dragging her of any real prospects. Thus, decided to proceed to Yangon and build a new life there. I wished her well to all future endeavors and cut off the telephone. Anh never promised me anything, nor did I gave her, any. I knew it was harsh, but hindrance and slowing her future bright prospects were not in my book. I would not be the one to stop her grazing in greener pastures. My sincere testament to her was to be rid of me and be successful, always. Sadly I had to close this chapter of my life and bore the rather unfortunate burden on my shoulders till my last breath on this earth.
I stepped back from my window sill with still freshly vivid photographs engraved in my mind. Now in my golden years, I did wonder what happened to Anh and hoped she was happy, well and progressive. Whether in Vietnam or France, I would never know. As a man with the world of internet at the tip of his fingers, I also searched for her on facebook but was in vain. Maybe, all account of her vanished away into the limelight. Realistically, life’s paths were not set in stone, Forest Gump did say life was like a box of chocolates. Every which way, I had lost for sure, no two ways about it. It was my cross to bear. I sat myself down in my usual chair and tried to stay focused on the newspaper in one hand, while the other holding a bamboo fan in the hope of cooling myself. I had lost count for the umpteenth time the electricity had stopped flowing. Maybe, I did dig my own grave. A wee bit late now. With the sound of monsoon rains pounding on my rooftop, I was still lost in a theatre of my own thoughts.
An old ballad said it all.
Yesterday Once More recorded by the Carpenters, released in 1973
When I was young, I’d listen to the radio,
Waiting for my favorite song
When they played, I’d sing along
It made me smile.
Those were such happy times and not so long ago,
How I wondered where they’d gone,
But they are back again,
Just like a long lost friend,
All the songs I loved so well
( Chorus )
Every–sha-la-la-la
Every wo-o-wo-o
Still shines
Every-shing-a-ling-a ling
That they’re starting to sing
So fine
When they get to the part
Where he’s breaking her heart
It can really make me cry
Just like before
It’s yesterday once more.
Looking back how it was
In years gone by
And the good times that I had
Makes today seem rather sad
So much has changed.
It was songs of love that I would sing to then
And I’d memorize each word
Those old melodies
Still sound so good to me
As they melt the years away
( Chorus )
All my best memories
Come back so clearly to me
Some can even make me cry
Just like before,
It’s yesterday once more. ( Chorus ) - XXX -
