Black-Eyed Susan

Dedicated to Miss YC Chan

With appreciation to your passion in teaching

1. Late October

~The Post Officer~

The rain had been drizzling for hours since my departure from the post office. Romantic

poets usually regarded this as “the harbinger of fall”, but that did not make it sound

appealing to me——I just could not overcome my repugnance towards rain and freezing

breezes in late autumn, especially when carrying a bag-full of letters towards my

destination: a distant residential area, where you would expect to see nobody on street. I

could hear my aged bike screeching under my bulking body in agony, and the worn-out

post bag I was shouldering was dragging me constantly towards the muddy ground.

Frankly speaking, I really hated delivering letters in this particular region. If I must give a

reason of any sort, then that was because this mountain of epistles shared the same

recipient: the retired and renowned politician who took up residence here after being

widowed. He was a veteran who had survived the two world wars, a councilor who was so

eloquent that even the Prime Minister dared not to debate with him, and remained

influential after nearly a decade of his retirement. The majority, if not all, believed that he

was still holding the power. That explained why the letters flew to him like snowflakes,

though none of them were replied.

I had had the honor to meet him a few times before, of course when delivering matters.

Like all celebrities, the alienated old man had his own eccentricities. One of them was that

he would only receive letters once a month, and that was the only chance for me to meet

him in person. He possessed rather strong physique, which made him look like a bear in his

brown fur coat. His face was a perfectly made duplicate of a Renaissance marble sculpture,

both in terms of color and outlook. The high-profiled ex-councilman, who always came out

in his formal suit, had neither paid attention to the letters or to me. To my bafflement, his

focus was always on the horizon, as if he was looking for the soul of his beloved wife——

though I did not think that he would be so sentimental.

While I was still daydreaming, I had already arrived in my destination: the front gate of his

mansion. I took a deep breath as I jumped off the bike, trying to maintain balance with all

the letters at the same time. I noticed that the chimney was coughing out soot. I believed

that came from the burning letters. Actually, the only fate of the letters was to be burnt in

his fireplace, bringing physical warmth for the lonely man. I could not help feeling sorry for

the senders of those letters every time I thought about this. I personally believed that

turning others’ wishes into ashes was reprehensible, even for a plausible man like him.

I stopped by the wooden door and pressed the doorbell twice, then started counting down

immediately, which had become my habit since I first met him last year. According the

rumors, he always answered the doorbell within one minute, and everyone believed in this.

That’s why I decided to do an experiment on this, and eventually, he did succeed every time.

‘02, 01——‘Right after I counted to 0, the gigantic door was opened, and the politician

walked out in a steady pace.

‘Good day, gentleman from the post office.’ he first addressed me in a somewhat formal

manner, as if I was one of his ex-colleague. Then, he nodded once, telling me that I can give

out the letters.

So I did as he ‘told’, transferring the mounting of letters to him. He, in return, nodded as I

passed the piles of letters to him one by one. At the same time, he was staring

emotionlessly at the clouds which shrunk liked used cotton balls on the sky. God knows

whether he was trying to look for silver lining in them or not.

‘Thanks for your cooperation, sir.’ After he had received all the letters, I bowed to him and

decided to leave. At this very moment, I noticed something eyes-catching ——an envelope

decorated with a yellow flower which lying quietly on the top of the Mount Epistle.

‘What a pretty flower! Hope you like that, sir. Have a nice day. ’I tried to make fun of the

little flower, and then turned around to the exit. To my bafflement, the gentleman stopped

me with a hand gesture and a solemn expression.

‘Excuse me, but I’m afraid that is not just a “flower”.’ He pronounced contemptuously, as if

he was debating with the opponents in the Upper House, ‘That was a Rudbeckia hirta, or

black-eyed Susan, to be exact.’ After this, he pulled the door shut, leaving me totally

bewildered.

‘God almighty, no wonder people called him the “crank”!’ I sighed to myself as I wandered

along the path, ‘I really cannot understand his logic!”

~The Politician~

‘Look, sir, how beautiful the flowers are! How can I leave them alone……’

These were my late wife’s last words to me. She was doing her gardening work like what

she had done as a maiden with me as students at collage, when she was suddenly caught by

a fatal heart attack. Over the years, I had been trying continuously to understand it, yet all

the attempts had turned to failure. I had grown old, too old and tried to give out another

try. Nevertheless, the letter I received today reminded me of her again. All the memories,

the laughter, the agony which hibernated deep within my rusted brain were all brought

back to life.

Over the past decades, I had spent most of my time dealing with national matters, while

reserving only a considerably low proportion of it for my family, especially my wife and our

unborn daughter. She had experienced a miscarriage during the ‘60s due to the attack from

the supporters of my political opponent, when I was still working for the council. Yet, I

chose not to inform her that our girl was dead. Instead, I lied to her that due to her

condition, our only child was sent to be looked after by my parents. She did not know the

truth until her last day. After her funeral, I tried to free myself from all these miserable

memories by burying all her belongings, including the ring that I gave her at my proposal

after months of courting. It was made of the very type of flower: black-eyed Susan, a

symbol of justice.

I immediately recalled all these at the moment when I saw the letter.

If I were still in my twenties, I might relate this with allusion to romantic novels: ’Is the

letter from heaven?’ or what-so-ever. Yet, I had already grown old enough to abandon

those oversweet imaginations. Soon after noticing the flower, I had realized that the letter

did not belong to me. Instead, it should be sent to the gentleman next door, who had just

passed away a few weeks ago.

Originally I opted to ignore the letter. It was not mine, it was not anyone’s. I could do

nothing to it, so as the others. The only thing I ought to do was to return the letter to the

post office and let them finish the remaining work. I had changed my mind, however, after

seeing the postscript on the back of the envelope.

Theoretically, I would not have got the chance to catch a glimpse of someone else’s letter.

That was too irrespective for the recipient, I believe. Yet, of some unknown reasons, the

sender had summarized the content in the postscript attached to the back. It seemed that

the sender was the daughter of the gentleman. Working currently as a florist, she was going

along well with her business and was eager to know about her father’s life.

It might had sounded eccentric, but the tone of the note, which was under the byline of

“Susan”, reminding me a little of wife as well (though her name was different from the

sender). If only our only child had survived the attack, she would probably be the same age

as this Susan, and maybe also as caring. In the letter, she had tried to remind her father

repeated that his daughter, who was named after his most beloved flower, was always

caring about him and encourage him to remain faithful in himself. How lamentable it was

for her, a daughter who seemed to be so considerate, to be not acknowledged about her

father’s death! That was so similar to my wife, who was so caring, but was not

acknowledged by her daughter’s death until she was on her death bed!

After finished reading the note, I decided to reply her. This was entirely out of courtesy: I

need to inform her that she should no longer send her letter as her father had already

returned to where he came from, even if I didn’t know a single thing about her and her

family. It was the first time for me to use tactful language to convince someone.

How would the girl react? How would she feel about a stranger’s announce of her father’s

death? I just could not help worrying. Yet, it was the only proper way to deal with it——by

replying her with a letter, in which I had expressed my sympathy.

As if I was comforting my own wife in front of her bed, in a solemn and formal tone, in the

same way as I delivered my speech at the national council. I was her husband, but I was

first a servant of the country.

It shall not be the other way round.

2. Late November

~The Post Officer~

I was thunderstruck at the consequences of the “Blacked-eyed Susan “incident. It all started

with an unusual visit about a month ago, when the politician’s agent handed the flower-

decorated envelope and a card to me. It seemed that he finally to write to his supporters

who were apparently currying favor with him.

“My principal would like you to help him deliver the letter to Miss……Susan.” The agent,

with a baffled expression, repeated the instruction given by the old bigot while handing in

the documents to me. I, being confused too, accepted all the things from him and ran to

prepare for all the administrative work. Being unable to ask for what happened, I decided

to remain silent for the time being. However, out of curiosity, I decided to find out the truth

by myself by meeting this mysterious “Susan” in person.

According the address on the envelope, this sweet lady lived in the area of the Cockneys,

where I had had a hard time as a teenager. To me, this impoverished area was like my

hometown and a part of myself either. Thus, I had foreseen that she would be someone

homely, even before we actually met.

It took me an entire afternoon to reach the district, and another two hour to find her little

mansion enshrouded in the rainforest of edifice surrounding the area. By the time I arrived

at the gate of the florist, it was already dark outside.

“Oh my dear, why are you standing here? Do you have anything to tell us? Anyway please

come in!” A white-headed lady who seemed to be the housekeeper opened the door for me.

She guided me into the little room(I thought it was too small to be called an apartment

even), and served me with a cup of warm water. After sitting down, I immediately told her

about my business, while the housekeeper, in return, left the table for Susan, whom she

claimed to be her niece.

While waiting for the old lady, I tried to kill time by looking around. All I could see was a

sea of flowers, flowers blossoming from the ground to the ceiling in her apartment. Flowers

of all species, all shapes, and all aromas were placed in vases of different sizes, and these

vases were arranged in carefully planned positions. From this artwork-like arrangement of

flowers, I could already deduce that their owner must be someone diligent in her work.

Doubtlessly, this had also given good impression to me about the mysterious Susan.

“Good day, sir!” while I was so absorbed into the beautiful scenery, a silvery voice

resounded from the kitchen. I turned around at once, and the owner of the voice was

already in front of me. She was in her early twenties, and as plain as most poor girls would

be in her age. Yet, though she was not fair enough to be called a belle, her eyes were

strikingly beautiful, as if they were drawn on her face by god himself. They were like

obsidian, like black diamonds, like a pair of dark mirrors which could reflect the soul of

anyone in front of her. I was bowled over by her eyes and was so deep into it that I

remained speechless for a while until she started greeting me.

“Sir, I ‘m Susan Carpenter, it’s my pleasure to meet you.” She smiled and dropped a curtesy,

which was apparently too much for a postman. Her aunt was standing beside her, with

strange eagerness to assist her. I bowed in acknowledgement of this, while she continued

with an eager smile:” Have you got any good news from my father?”

“Well, I’m afraid……” I hesitated, as I recalled what the politician had told me. How could I

bring such bad news to her? Was it not too cruel for a daughter who loved her father so

much? To my surprise, however, before I could say anything, Susan’s aunt interrupted.

“Go ahead, young gentleman,” she ordered me in a gentle voice,” Whether the news was

bad or not. After all, no matter what the news was, she would eventually be comforted.”

Under such circumstances, the only thing I would be able to do was to do as told. So, I

sighed and inform her, and tried to be as tactful as possible. Of course, I did not forget to

mention about the old politician who paid his homage through letter.

“Thank……thank you for telling me, good sir……” After hearing about this, Susan still

intended to thank me properly, but was eventually overcame with sobs. The three of us

remained silence for a considerably long time. Susan had tried looked up to me with tearful

eyes and forced a smile and talk to me as if nothing had happened, but all the attempts had

failed.

“My dear……my child, let you put the letter aside, and thank the young man sincerely.”

Finally, the silence was filled by Susan’s aunt. She stared at her niece, who was driven by

her sadness, in an almost irritating way. Then, Susan seemed to have felt that powerful

sight, and started to speak in a hoarse voice.

“Oh, sir, I…..I should express my gratitude to you for being kind enough to tell me this, and I

would like to return to this gentleman who wrote me this letter.” Susan tried to look into

my eyes, while trying to repress her sobs so hard that she was nearly breathless,” Thank

you very much for coming at such a late time just to inform me……Oh, speaking of time, it

was already dark outside. I wonder if you can sit down and have supper with us, sir.”

“I am afraid not,” I immediately turned her down,” I ought to return home right now, or else

I won’t be able to arrive home before midnight, Miss.”

“Then……please accept a piece of thank-you gift.” She cleared her throat uneasily, while

turning to her aunt, who had already brought her a bunch of yellow daisies. As I

remembered, this was exactly the type of flower named after her.

“Thank’ya, miss.” I smiled to her as gently as possible, then quickly picked up my cane and

rushed out of the door. I heard her waving goodbye to me, and the sound of her footsteps as

she followed up to close the door. I also heard her aunt’s soft voice, urging her to be careful

and not to walk without assistance. I could not help wondering: why did she, such a young

and energetic lady, need the assistance of her aged aunt even for walking?

With the question whirling in my head, I started for the station, praying to god in the hope

to arrive home earlier.

~The Politician~

“There were replies, sir. Replies from that lady named Miss Susan.”

After hearing the news from the young post officer, I was given an envelope with the same

design as last time’s. I was totally astonished at that moment, as I did not expect her to send

me any letters further, even as a thank-you letter. Yet, since she had replied, it should be

my responsibility to give a reply, if so wished by the sender.

After returning to the house, I opened the envelope with my knife straightaway. I did not

even know why I was in this hurry. Perhaps it was because of the flower attached again.

The daisy symbolizing justice, the flower meant so much for me, the flower which planted

both agony and joyfulness into my life: the flower named after Susan.

When I opened the folded note paper, I immediately saw the familiar handwriting of the

lady. I could sense emotions of the young lady emerging from the beautiful curves of the

alphabets:

Dear Mister,

Thank you for your previous letter which informed me about the terrible news. I could not

help but bursting into tears when I heard about this. Yet, I am still grateful for all you had

done for my poor papa: attending his funeral, sending wreaths and contributed to help a lot

throughout the whole ceremony. As his only daughter, I must feel ashamed for myself for

doing nothing for my poor dad, even not at his deathbed.

I have not seen my dad in the past decade, since I left him when I was still a maiden. Though I

heard nothing from him through the years, I persevered to look for him in everywhere I could.

It was only months ago when I received a piece of news of him from a distant relative. I meant

to meet him and to encourage him, whom my cousin-in-law claimed to be having suicidal

tendencies. Unfortunately, my letter arrived too late in time.

Oh, sir, sorry for troubling you with all these family businesses. Please forgive my verboseness.

In return for your help, please allow me to share with you something pleasant around me,

which had freed me from the shackles of the materialistic world into the Eden on land. I used

to hope that this would cheer my late father up, and now I sincerely wish it will bring you over

the moon.

As you may know, I now work as a florist in London, where I owned a small-scale shop selling

my beloved flowers. Though winter is approaching, many of the species remain firm against

the changing weather and blossom as if they were still in the nice season of Persephone. The

dahlias were smiling with their orange petals; camellias stayed in their position high on the

shelf, as though they were in the Opéra Garnier with the lady named after themselves, and the

Chrysanthemum——oh sir , how hard the word is for spelling——were said to be dancing in

vibrant colors. My good sir, how I wished to see those impressive colors with my own eyes!

Every customer, every passer-by, every one of them would praise the design, and it seemed

that all of them were so absorbed in it.

If you were hard pressed to understand my tedious expression, then please try to imagine,

imagine such a scenario: a flat with flowers all around. Try to imagine the flowers blossoming

both inside and outside my apartment, emerging from everywhere possible.

I always recall this imagination from time to time. Every time when I am captured

maelstroms of sorrow, I always record this kind of dream-like imagination, which reminds me

of life. The sweet scent of camellias, the soft petals of David Austen Roses, and the most

breath-taking ones: the aroma of my most beloved black-eyed Susan, all remind me the sense

of enjoyment of life itself. According to dear auntie, I was actually named after the latter one,

which makes me more pleasant when touching it. It seemed to me as if I were touching the

origin of my life, but that idea was already too psychological for an owner of florist’s.

Hopefully you will be amused by these little things I found out recently. You may find it

strange for a girl like me to share these thoughts with someone far more experienced and

intellectual than I am, but please forgive me, for this is already the only piece treasure I could

share as a thank-you gift.

I will pray for your good health and please reply if you wish so.

Best Wishes from the Florist’s,

Susan Carpenter

The last few lines were hardly recognizable, but fortunately I was still able to figure out the

final content. Indeed, being a legislator, her letter was far from my standard. The flabby

language, the unorganized content and all those poorly arranged paragraphs were totally

unacceptable. This again reminded me of my wife, who also spoke in a halting manner,

which was similar to how this girl broke her paragraphs. She was so tedious, so much of a

housewife. If our daughter, if only she was alive till this very day, would she follow her

mother and talked like any women in street, or would she choose to follow my footsteps

and adopt the way councilors speak? Or——

Without even trying, I automatically fell into her trap of imagination, or was again

entangled into the fight with my rival: the combination of my troubled past and vague

imagination. The shadowy images, appearing in front of my eyes with old-sightedness,

were the intimate grin of my wife.

3. A quick note before the new year

~The Post Officer~

Dear Mama,

I hope you are still in good health, and I pray for the sake of my little sisters. Remember that

anecdote about the old politician and the young florist that I told you in the previous mail?

Well, as your son, I knew that you must be so curious that you wanted to visit me here to get

the latest information. If it was really so, then I think I shall inform you about all the things

that took place since.

The consequences of the “Black-eyed Susan Incident” were certainly out of my expectations,

and I believed it was out of the expectations of the two who were actually involved. Since the

lady sent the first letter in November, they had begun sending letters to each other weekly,

which had tripled my workload. I had no idea what the latter letters were about. Yet,

witnessing the changes happening on the old gentleman, I thought I could probably deduce

what were in those letters: no matter what it was, it must be something amusing that allowed

the man to recuperate from his past lamentation, or what-so-ever.

It was hard for me describe my feeling toward him for now. I would sound long-winded if I

tried to present every detail. In general, I believed he had risen from the ashes like a phoenix,

which made it almost impossible for one to describe his changes. What I can do was to provide

those who were interested with examples.——I was totally taken aback when the old man,

now in a more informal coat which made him more benevolent, at least in terms of

appearance, called me “my child” when he received the letter again from me a week ago. I bet

feel the same way as me: how could a supercilious gentleman from the “congress hall”

transform into a man of the people in all a sudden? Yet, by god I could tell you this is the truth!

It seemed to me that the epistle was enchanted, and he was too enchanted, from some sort of

illusion. I must laud the lady for bringing such a change.

Out of curiosity, I decided to do some secret researches on the mysterious lady, whom I had

had the honor to meet a few months ago. According to my memory, she was an elegant florist

living in the urban district, who was later addressed as the only child of a retired merchant in

town. Yet, no evidence had shown that she has relations with the ex-councilman, at least I

failed to find one. This had of course baffled me, for a stranger would most likely unable to

become a friend of a recluse like the old man, not to mention turning into a life changing

acquaintance. I really wonder how she managed to do that.

Season of snowflakes and caroling was near, and I soon would be able to enjoy the vacation I

longed for ages. I would not have the chance to meet them until the beginning of the coming

year. I could not help wondering: what would life of the two become?

Well, I believe the truth was approaching. It was just a matter of time.

I will try to squeeze time for a visit. Please do write soon.

Regards,

Son

~The Politician~

“I wish I could pay you a courtesy call as I should, and——”

I hesitated all in a sudden right in the middle of the process of replying letter, a habitual

action that I had put aside for years. Before I could make a firm decision, I could not help

but recalling all the events happen since the first flower-decorated letter.

It had been a few months since I first started writing to Susan. Without a sound reason, I

began to become of friend of this lady, who apparently did not share any similarities with

me. Yet, simply being alike with my late daughter and wife had already made her

charismatic enough for me. Through communicating with her, I felt like I was embraced by

an impossibly amazing dream: I was brought back to the past, to my wife’s side, when I and

her were both young enough to share our thoughts about the wishes we had for life; I was

brought towards to the future that I had dreamt to live in, where I was permitted to meet

my only child who shall be in heaven for the time being, yet had turned into an energetic

lady in front of me. Her letters were so spellbinding that I even thought of meeting this

magician, who had returned me with all the joy that I should had lost for years.

“I am sorry for your lost, and I am glad to hear that you are able to recover from this terrible

shock, for I know that that was not something easy to overcome.”

When replying her first letter dedicated to me, I started off with these sentences in the

hope to praise her for her courage. As someone who was nearly three times her senior, I

indeed felt shameful for myself after reading her words. If I must explain this, then the only

reason would be this: I could not do as well as she did.

I knew that, over the years, I had been trapped in the deadlock. Ever since my wife’s death,

I was trapped by the feeling of regret and anger. I regretted about my choice between

family and career: if I were brave enough, and had dared to express my feelings to my wife

before she left, or had cared more about her instead my election, so that our child would

still be alive, my life would be totally different. Maybe I would not be as successful (oh, how

scornful this word was to me!) as I had been, a least according to the media, yet I would

become a man who led a simple but fruitful life, with all my beloved people surrounding me,

but not like now! I was angry at myself, for wasting my life on a wild goose chase of

reputation, wealth and those magnificent dreams in my silly youth, and paying dearly for it

now. I just could not get rid of these emotions, and the only thing left for me to do was to

hibernate in my “home sweet home”, waiting for life to suffocate me to death. Yet, when

seeing others who succeed to step out from the swamp of sorrow, I still could not stop

envying them for being more courageous than I was. The only thing I could do was to wait

in peace for death to knock at my door, and I would definitely come out in time to open the

door for him.

To my amazement, Susan seemed to understand me in some sense. In the next letter, she

wrote me such lines: “The best way to alleviate pain is to speak of it, sir. If you do not mind

sharing something personal with a stranger, I would be most happy to be a listener.” In the

letter, she had also attached a flower as usual. The flower was preserved since a fresh one

would not last for long. Looking at the flower, I again recalled my regrets and anger

sentimentally. These emotions had triggered me to share someone of my experience in a

tactful way, as though I was chatting with an old colleague. She, in return, had comforted

me with those old tricks of appreciating the flowers. Her action was so clumsy and

awkward, yet already comforting and warm enough for me, and had mollified part of the

pain deep-rooted in my aged heart which had grown fatigue over the years.

Since then, the girl had started writing to me more and more often, which was because she

was “extraordinary jubilant” to see me recovering gradually, according to the latest mail

from London. I did not know how she sensed that, but I was afraid that she was right,

absolutely right.

Last week, after reading her encouraging words in a tranquil afternoon, the sentiments

rested in my heart: the strange desire to visit my wife’s grave, was suddenly triggered. This

awkward will started to inundate to a point that I was forced to pick up my walking stick

and urge myself to step out of the door. This was the first time ever since her departure.

Ironically, that was just because one single, trivial sentence in the lengthy letter:

“Sir, it might be rude for me to say that, but you shall face madam (that was how she

addresses my spouse) with courage, which you lacked when she was here.”

I was certainly not a man of iron that everyone imagined, but I had still got enough strength,

enough for me to face my wife in another world. She deserved that.

It was frigid outside, and no pedestrian dared to challenge themselves in such condition.

Yet, it seemed that god had granted me power to continue my journey on behalf of my wife,

as I hardly grew tired while hurrying to the cemetery in a sudden blizzard. Yet, I still failed

to reach the place before sunset; I must admit that I was not as youthful as I used to be.

The entire region of graves and monuments were covered by a sprawling white blanket,

the hexagonal flakes were parachuting from the snow clouds. The place was turned into a

blank desert place, in which I was hard pressed to find my wife’s tombstone, which hid in

the bushes away from the gates.

I knelt down before her grave, and tried to read the epitaph on the stone which were

blurred by the passing time. I could hardly recognize them. All I could see was her face, her

movement and the things she had done as my wife (some of which I had told Susan). I

recalled her smiling gently when she was taking care of her plants as a university student,

while trying to search for me, who by then was a teenager sitting in the garden next door,

reading quietly; I recalled her cooking in the kitchen undexterously as a novice at being a

wife when me just married; I recalled her weeping soundlessly in her bedroom after losing

her only child. I remembered her in white, in the white wedding gown at the morning of the

ceremony. Those vague figures faded into my mind, then vanished in the same way they

arose.

Without a reason, I sensed something from her (or was it from myself, my tried heart?): I

sensed a sense of relieve, an aroma of forgiveness. Encouraged by this strong feeling, I

lifted up my hand to wipe off the thick snow on the tombstone. Then, her epitaph was

unveiled:” How beautiful the flowers are!” —— her last words which I failed to understand

the meaning of them until this moment. I stared and stared at them, looking deeply into

them until tiredness and had driven me home.

In bafflement, I mentioned my confession to my spouse to the dear child, I and she returned

me with inspiring lines, which I believe, had a somewhat correct interpretation. In fact, it

was not lines, but something more than lines: it was a bunch of dried flowers in which

rosebuds and blue hyacinths were arranged symmetrically in a circle.

At the moment I saw the bouquet, tears had already started dropping out of my eyes, and

flowed into a continuous stream. She meant to recall my memories of the languages of the

flowers my wife had taught me long ago: for rosebuds, it was “beauty”; for blue hyacinths, it

was “life”. Beauty was equivalent to life in a sense.

“Ah, monsieur, how beautiful——how lively the flowers are! How beautiful life is!” I

exclaimed to myself, as I squirmed to ask for her permission to visit. Was it not a must, for

me to pay a visit to someone who had solved the insurmountable problem that had been

troubling me throughout the years? Yet was it appropriate for an old, withering man to

visit a vibrant young lady?

I was, again, engulfed by bafflement.

4. New Year time

~The Politician~

“Sir, would you like a cup of coffee?”

The waitress grinned invitingly as she handed me a recipe. I waved her a sign of refusal and

continue to focus on the fading scenery outside the train window. The train was rumbling

nosily all the way from the remote town I lived to the metropolis of London, the city where

I had dedicated my youth to.

Eventually, I had made the hard decision to send her the request. Interestingly, she had

neither turned me down nor accepted my request her reply was a rather whimsical one:

“Sir, I really appreciate your visit, yet I might not be here when you arrive.”

I could not stop giggling when I first saw this kind of answer. How would I suppose to know

what she meant? Anyway, since she had not turned me down, I still decided to continue my

journey towards her place, in the hope to meet this lady who had brought me so much light

into my tedious life.

After getting off the train, I at once started searching for her residence. Years had passed

since I was last here, and it seemed to me that the city had just had its urban re-planning

and related constructions: I could barely recognize the streets and the ways. The web of

labyrinthine streets had trapped me like a spider web. I tried to accelerate with the help of

my cane to find my way, but eventually failed and was forced to walk with a limp clumsily

on the busy road. Fortunately, a patrolman recognized me and ran to me to offer help. He

was one of the adherents of my party and was over-excited when he saw me to an extent

that I nearly wanted to turn him down.

With the help from the policeman, I was able to reach her little flower shop. It was really

tiny, comparing to the skyscrapers I saw on the way. The birch door and the shop window

were well-decorated with wreaths, bouquets and fresh winter flowers. They were arranged

exquisitely in shelves of different heights and were accompanied by different ornaments,

which make the whole design attractive and colorful, as if it was an oil-paint of those 19th

century artists.

“Excuse me. I wonder if I have the pleasure to meet Miss Carpenter?” I opened the door

while requesting in a low voice. Unfortunately, I could not see any young ladies in the room.

Instead, I could spot a chubby woman in her forties sitting in the counter. She was rosy and

dressed in cast-offs, which made her look like a landlady.

“Oh, I’m so sorry sir, but Susan was out for the time being. I’m afraid that she would not be

back soon.” The middle-aged women rose with a smile,” I am the landlady here, would you

mind telling me what may I help you, so that I can offer help directly or help you tell Susan.”

“No, thank you. I would just wait for her, Ma’am.” I replied as the landlady carried me a

chair. Hearing this, she sat down next to me, and started chatting with me. Or to be exact,

she was giving a little speech on her own.

“Sir,” she pronounced proudly, as if she was the queen,” Do you come her because of

Susan’s good reputation in the business? Or did you know her by repute? Well, a lot of

people come because of this, and I can promise you that you won’t regret for your decision!

You know what, actually our dear Susan is really skilled in helping others in anything

related to flowers: she is a real expert! Every customer lauded her because of ‘tis!”

“Reputation?” I muttered in confusion. I did not know that she was infamous of this, even I

know really well that she was a passionate expert across the profession.

“Of course! I can’t believe that you did not know this!” the proprietress exclaimed with an

exaggerated expression,” Both she and Mrs. Carpenter are good at it, and both of them were

strong enough to be renowned. Nobody in the neighborhood will doubt that for a second!”

“Mrs. Carpenter……did you mean Miss Carpenter’s mother?” I asked, trying to imagine what

a lady of this sort would be like.

“Yes, yes,” to my bewilderment, her tone suddenly changed into a more sentimental one,”

Caroline——I mean Mrs. Carpenter was really a brilliant lady, like the Iron Lady, a truly

reputable one. She was actually a daughter of the nobility, who was used to extravagant life.

Yet she had chosen to elope with Mr. Carpenter, who was by then an outstanding scholar.

Unfortunately, after she had given birth to their first daughter, Mr. Carpenter had chosen to

abandon his wife and newborn, to chase his dream in the USA. So, Mrs. Carpenter returned

to the city. Without seeking much help from the others, she managed to support herself, to

raise her little girl and to keep in touch with her husband. I really could not understand, but

she still love her husband so much that she was willing to contact him from time to time,

even offering him monetary help, while the man——shame on him!——did not pay her a

penny throughout the years.

“Mrs. Carpenter was that kind of lady who looked so cheerful and lively that you would

expect her be a long-living fellow. She passed away in her fifties, however, because of those

torments she had suffered throughout the years. Luckily, Susan had become someone much

alike her mother. She forgave her father, just like her mother did, and always cares about

him, even though her father was always escaping from her. Even so, she does not seem to

hate him. After his death, she had shed plenty of tears for him, and continued to contact

with the gentleman who helped out at the funeral. Don’t you think that Susan is so brilliant,

provided that she was brought up under such circumstances?”

I was astonished and speechless for a while. Before, I knew nothing about her, and I just

imagine her as an innocent girl who loved her father a lot. Yet, after hearing about her past,

my impression towards her had been completely changed. Her strength, her optimism and

her perseverance had shocked and humbled me. How dare I complain about my pain and

my past in front of her? How could I, a former spokesman of the party be like such a coward

and surrender to life just because the death of my wife?

“Well, Ma’am, I shall have told you about this: I am exactly the man who offered minute

help at the funeral, and I come here today to express my gratitude to her.” After a while, I

decided to tell her about my purposes. To my surprise, after hearing about this, she

immediately blushed in embarrassment.

“Oh my goodness, please forgive me for being so rude, you know, to talk about people

behind their backs.” the proprietress forced out awkward laughter, “but……you know, good

sir, I did not meant to tease anyone or anything, so……anyway, speaking of Susan, do you

mind if I tell you something more about her while we are waiting, as she would not be back

in a short time.“ after that, she returned to her usual mode and was clearly ready for the

next speech.

“Thanks, Ma’am.” I immediate cut in before she could start off,” That’s good enough for me,

I am not that inquisitive.” Then, without listening to her further explanations, I walked out

of the small store and wandered quietly outside. I did not want hear anything else about

the poor girl from the landlady; that was far too cruel for Susan to have all her painful past

to be known by the others.

I spent quite a long time on the streets in meditation. The emotions emerged from my heart

had prevailed my mind. I suddenly felt ashamed for myself, for not being strong as all the

women around me: my wife, Susan and maybe my daughter. They were all stronger, much

stronger than I was. My soul confined by the sadness brought by my late wife seemed to be

released, from the past into a brighter future.

While I was thinking about these things which sounds like cliché to teenagers, but was

actually golden rules that guide me towards relief, I suddenly noticed two ladies walking

towards me. One of them was of similar age with me, yet was still supporting the lady

standing by her side; the other one was in her twenties, leaning on the older one’s arm for

support. Both of them were in formal dresses and wearing hats, and it seemed that they

just returned from the church. Without a reason, I started to think that the younger lady

was Susan.

Soon, they had already walked to a position much closer to me. When they were about to

brush against me, I finally made up my mind and called out her name experimentally:”

Miss……Susan?”

At once, the younger lady paused and turned her head around:” Who was that?” Although I

have not seen Susan before, I was already sure that she was the very person who I was

looking for.

When I was about to step forward to greet her, she suddenly lost her balance and fell on the

pavements, and the poor old lady beside her was dragged down too. I immediately come

forward to offer help. Luckily, both of them were not injured, and were able to thank me in

trembling voice afterwards. I felt a little guilty, since my call seemed to be the reason of this.

Yet, thanks to the incident, I was finally able to see her face enshrouded under the hat, and

was unpreventably impressed by her eyes. How attractive, how unique, how shinny were

her eyes! That pair of obsidian-like eyes, the windows of her soul! I could not stop glancing

into it while she was talking to me.

“Oh thank you sir,” She grinned in a comforting voice,” Would you mind if I invite you for a

visit to my shop, since you have done me such a favor.”

“Of course I would not.” I smiled back, “Can you show me the way?”

“Of course I can!” She answered eagerly, and turned around, with intentions to lead me to

her little shop. Yet, she seemed to have got the wrong direction. Before I tried to correct her,

she had immediately turned back to the right way, while laughing in a self-mocking manner.

“Look at me, sir!” She giggled,” I had got to the wrong way again! My, I cannot see the way

even under board daylight!”

It was only until then I started to realize her disability. Immediately, she had become the

most admirable goddess in my eyes, a Promethus-like goddess who shed light of hope on

the world and reserve the endless darkness for herself. I was flabbergasted again, freezing

like an ice pillar on the road.

“Sir, are you alright? Are you following me?”

I could her voice resounding, but just could not give any response. She seemed to

understand me, and waiting for me in front of me, waiting to use the foresight granted by

blindness to guide me in darkness.

～The Post Officer~

“That was amazing, man! Oh thank god for crowning our effort with such a good ending!”

I could not stop crying ecstatically in the cafe at the corner of the street when I saw the

scene between Susan and the old man a few minutes ago. The people nearby kept staring at

me, as if I was just released from the madhouse, but I did not really care. It was just

impossible for me to stop crying in joy at this moment.

“How amazing it was! Justice was clearly guarded, right? God was always so fair!” I sighed

aloud, as I tried to walk out of the café into the streets, feeling the freshness brought by the

cold breeze in January: the harbinger of spring.