Indiana, Indiana

I chose an isolated seat at the bar and put my little book on the counter. The book is The "Long Days Journey into Night" by Eugene O’neill. Somehow, the book, with the Scotch glass on the otherwise whitewashed cover, seems out of the place on this bar counter, for here it is in the mid of an hotel restaurant at West Lafayette, Indiana, not the suburbs of New England or Bistros of New York.

Sure they have alcoholism or bitterness or non-functional families, but their anger and despair must be a different kind. Actually, when I saw the tables and tables of Senior citizens sitting down for a Rotary Meeting Luncheon and the happy family of 8 sitting not far from me, enjoying their vacation lunch, laughing, some of them quite overweighed, pale and pleasantly plain, I almost believe that they are happy and here is truly an island of paradise.

"I would have a coffee and an orange juice, please". I waited for the stern-faced waitress finally making the eye contact with me and calmly requested. This will be my breakfast which I did not say.

"We have only lunch now", She obviously guessed.

"So do you not have coffee and orange juice"?

"We do."

"OK then, and I will order some lunch later". I smiled. In seeing the Rotary luncheon of almost 200 people, I understood they must have just had a busy time. And they must be tired, and it was not because of me, even I looked out of the place here and was hard to read of what business having brought me here, other than the University.

I am peaceful. Gone the time when I easily felt angry or hurt when people were impatient or aloof, I was too eager to take everything personal, I was so bad at rejections, but not anymore.

I also ordered the Tuna Sandwich on Rye bread with Pickles and Sweet potatoes. Then I opened my book, ready for things twisted, bitter, sophisticated and familiar.

When the food finally arrived, I took a bite and I was almost tearful. What is with the most unpretentious and sizable food in Indiana hotel bars, they taste so hearty and true, and homey. "It is too good!" I exclaimed loudly, forgetting my New York cool and sophistication. I was transformed. The waitress gave me a hard-earned smirk of lips which I think meant to be a smile.

That was the day after my niece finally settled in her dorm, and my duty was partially done and that duty had proven to be quite fulfilling and fun, in the warm light of hindsight.

Indiana had brought me closer to the real life and its small rewards. And I did not expect that when I flew here with my Eugene O’neill at hand, ready to fight with the small-town boredom and obligations.


I had lost some sleep over the potential trip to Indiana, I was not used to face up to responsibilities as an adult, I was not used to feel truly grown up. I planned everything out to the most of detail and allowed no room or very little room for mistake. But I was panicking before the trip, I worry about failing and messing up.

One thing that made me sweat was that I know I had to drive. I have not really driven for long distance for more than 5 years. I had my share of weird time with the local DMVs, and I do have a valid and clean driver license. Only, I am seriously out of practice.

That having a car under my command seems such a responsibility and empowerment, it is something I do not want to assume. But in this town of 50,000, any taxi ride is subject to an unspecified time waiting on a queue. So I picked up a full sized car from the lonely Budget Rental near Purdue airport. And to know that the campus is only half a mile away on a 2 lane road with hardly any traffic is reassuring. That strange sensation of sitting inside a moving space is an instant mix of melancholy loneliness and joy of liberty.

Once I started driving again, all the old fun of driving came back a little. That is why when I got lost, which I did regularly, I just let myself drive at will through the back roads and the beauty and tranquility of the country life struck me. I put on some music from the satellite radio and drove through the strange lands as if I am a new person, a different person, in a difference space, a space that is not burdened with any pain of the past. I let myself be lost in the green vastness of the Cornfield of Indiana.

I took Yuan for a ride to shop for a cell phone. After desperately driving around the derelict downtown with no sight of the AT&T wireless branch, despite it so stated according to Google map, and insanely asking a driver of a car that was waiting beside me for a red light on the crossing-typical insane Asian female driver, I finally decided to look for the Target, prominently marked on the city map we got from our hotel lobby.

It has been a while since I last visited a Target or a mall, but when we finally arrived there, I knew I had done the right thing, you can buy everything and anything one needs for a “back to school” shopping trip here. One can set up someone’s life by measuring up the inches in this red space. And for me, this is a place to fulfill my responsibility: to help Yuan set up her life in the US.

"Indiana", I told Yuan while I drove, "was a big battlefield where Indian tribes were defeated and driven away from their homeland by the western settlers", something I read from the city guide. "You know that is the brutal part of the history in this country. And nowadays, Indians still live within reservation lands, usually the most barren land. It is not a happy story".

Despite all my seriousness, I also found myself treating Yuan as a school kid and I was trying to educate her in culture and social justice. I felt obligated to behave well and mature, to be a role model of reason, calm and confidence to prepare her well. I kind of laughed a little to the inner me who were making faces and lurking as I told her to hide.

The storms were hitting the Mid West that August week. There were hot and wet evenings. Yuan and I went down to the basement of the Dorm. I wanted to show her how to cook with the kitchen equipment there. Yuan said she would cook for me instead, and made noodles and some Japanese Egg Dumplings. They were delicious. In the adjacent gaming room, there was an old piano slightly out of tune and a pool table. We sat down at the Piano and Yuan played some little tunes. She was brought up well. I said, you should play some here, use this room, you know, this is where you can play and relax.

"I need music score. I forgot to bring any from China."

"I will send you some from New York".

Two boys were playing pool near us quietly, and their golden hair has a hue of ripe wheat.

When I left to drive back to my hotel, it started to rain. I saw the sky that was torn with a thread of lightening at the far west. I stopped and took some shot in the rain. It has a quality of surreal and warmth, full of desire, desire to live and know.

And I got lost again driving in the rain. It was easy to get lost near the campus when so many roads are one way and I was stuck in some small roads that was near the Happy Hollow park, my Waterloo. I lost my sense of direction since it was dark and raining. I followed cars and feeling like a wet stray cat, yet I was in a car, dry and with some classic music on.

I turned into a parking lot of some motel and just sat there for a while, waiting for the storm to pass. I felt exhausted, but also relieved. Yuan is settled in her school, and that is all it matters. I can sat here for a night if the storm won't pass.

But that weakness lasted about 10 minutes. I collected enough courage and drove out again and by steering toward the right, I managed to get on to the big highway and saw the little plaza which I spotted during day time.

I forgot how easy it was to navigate in New York city, and here, you really had to see the road signs to get your way, here it does not have so many familiar sightings that you can use for your orientation. Here, that night, there were not even stars. But it was patient and quiet. You have all the time in the world to find your way, there is no one honking you behind your car, you were not judged.

Back in the hotel, near US 231 and besides an Applebee restaurant, I took a shower and walked back to the bar for a much-needed beer and some food. The bar tender is in his early 20s. A truck-driver looking guy, seriously looking, sat silently. I again took an isolated seat, not far from him and ordered my food and beer.

Beer was easy, Indian Pale Ale. Main dish is easy, Pork was on the menu. Then came the question: what kind of fries do you want?

“Hummmmm, Sweet potato please”. I made up my mind pretty quickly on that.

"Yes, you are like the sweet potato type of gal to me....." the bar tender boy smiled at me. He can't be more than 22. I find that amusing, to think about it, I always love sweet potato, ever since I grew up in China. Maybe I am the sweet potato and rye bread type of gal after all.

On the TV, it was showing a documentary about the landing on the Hudson. Captain Sullenberger was talking about his split second decision to land on the river. I thought of the fact that Captain Sullenberger got a Master of Industrial Psychology from Purdue. And I was sitting right there, not far from Purdue, watching his story.

“Truck driver” guy was also watching, we were both deeply immersed by this minute by minute recount of the story. I was drinking my beer slowly and with content, like a coolie guy after a long day's hard work enjoying his share.

And I felt simply and fundamentally happy.

I never expect that to have a responsibility fulfilled can have such an impact. And I was sitting in this little town of Indiana, I was not obligated to enjoy myself, or have fun, or be cool, or stay charming, I can simply be me, tired, relaxed, amused, and I was not even really missing anyone for a change, I was complete, and happy right there and then, to be with myself and my busy
and fond time with Yuan at Indiana.

The place where you expect the least, it just simply touches your heart.

Something like a Graham Greene

I was drinking and dancing that night at the club space of the hotel, with the crew of Canadian, American and Chinese. The hotel, surrounded by mountains in that Western China province, was booked out by the film project and we were partying almost every night. I was a little drunk.

While I finally sat down to catch my breath in a corner sofa, I felt I was being looked at, I realized a man sitting quietly not far from me, with a glass of Whiskey. He was observing the scene, instead of dancing. I don't recognize him to be one of the crew members from LA or Vancouver.

"You seem to have fun!" He said to me.

"It is fun. Why you are not dancing?"

"I am leaving soon." He had wavy hair, a nice profile in the dimmed light, I still remember. He is at his early 30s. He would have been the type I would have liked later on.

"Which department do you belong?" I was fighting to remember whether I had seen him before.

"None. I am a journalist. I am just visiting some friends."

"My father is a journalist, I love journalist." And I meant it, I was working as a journalist then in a state news agency, and my agency sent me to work with the film crew in this beautiful area in Sichuan province where they were shooting a film about Panda.

He laughed a little.

"You said you are leaving soon, why?"

"Have you not heard--Kim Il-sung died today."

"I have not heard anything. I don't hear anything these days. I just hang around in this beautiful place and speak some English between people who could not talk to each other directly."

I was having a blank, innocent and carefree face and tone of a 23 year old.

He smiled again in the darkness and said" I am going to North Korean tomorrow to report on the funeral."

"That suits you better, I mean, that is real news. What are you going to get here?" I teased him.

I did not remember much of what other things we talked about that night and I was too preoccupied to even ask what news agency or paper he belonged to. When he had to leave and go to bed so that he could get up early to get on the road, he stared me into my eyes, patted on my hands and said "Behave yourself." What did he mean?

Can he see that I was a little lost there, with what I was feeling and confused about.

In my mind, I had a little bit of curiosity and regret of not having known him earlier. Even I liked the film crews, deep in my heart, I felt I had nothing in common with most of them. But a journalist, a man who is good at words, who travels the world and writes stories, always intrigues me.

Lot of my favorite writers, are ex-journalists. Graham Greene, George Orwell, Hemingway have all travelled far. When I first read Graham Greene years later and picture him drinking in his Foreign Correspondents Club in Saigon, I remembered this guy I met that night.

I believe if I were a man, I would have done just that, be a foreign based journalist and go to strange land and be alone and observant and leave to fate to many intended and unintended encounters, long or short. I guess I could have done that too as a woman, but I am short on actions and prone for excuses of short on actions.

Tonight, what made me remember that man and that night is not Greene, it is the news about the 15 year memorial of the death of Kim Il-sung.

So it has been 15 years since that time, that night, that me, young, innocent with starry eyes and not knowing what lay ahead, and just started living and searching.

I wish I have stayed in the world of film people and journalists, looking back, they are free, their project changes, with location, in time, in each story making, somehow, fate had taken me on a different path and I have become an office prisoner.

It is interesting and ironic that for the night when a closed nation thought they lost their greatest leader, founding father, it only echoed so matter-of-factly between two people thousands of miles away, briefly encountered, each have his and her own path to continue.

And that nation still lives under a lie, 15 years later.

Have I behaved myself?

Mr. Journalist, I wish you have and are well.

More about Greene

"A stranger with no shortage of calling cards: devout Catholic, lifelong adulterer, pulpy hack, canonical novelist; self-destructive, meticulously disciplined, deliriously romantic, bitterly cynical; moral relativist, strict theologian, salon communist, closet monarchist; civilized to a stuffy fault and louche to drugged-out distraction, anti-imperialist crusader and postcolonial parasite, self-excoriating and self-aggrandizing, to name just a few."

— The Nation, describing the many facets of Graham Greene

It Will Suck If It Is True

We were looking at a peculiar number at some search marketing reports in my office, suddenly he said: "Oh, did Jackson just die? My wife just texted me".

"Michael Jackson?" I gasped.

We went to CNN.com, it said Jackson just got hospitalized.

"Twitter might be more up to date". I said as I went on to Twitter and typed in "Michael Jackson" in the Search box.

A Tweet said that TMZ and a British news agency reported him dead 16 minutes ago. It was 6PM then.

CNN soon updated its live feed saying that LA Times reported Jackson dead and CCN has not yet able to confirm.

We sat there a little lost and wordless. It just turned sunny outside. My office is warm and shiny showering in the evening sunlight.

He got up to leave after a while, he turned to me at the office door, and said: It will suck, Vivian, it will suck if it is true.

"Yes, it will suck, Frank, if it is true".

We all felt a bit lonelier at the possibility that Jackson, that vunerable and talented and mesmerizing and flawed boy has departed.

It is a sunny and beautiful day after a mostly rainy and cloudy June in New York. It just does not feel true.

I left the office and decided to take a walk in the sun and bare breeze, I just felt like walking with my earplug and some music on, any music, but loud.

Yes, it will suck if it is true.

And it is. And maybe each one of us who have grown up with his dancing and music has a little piece in us that just might have died too.

The Year of French Spice

The title of this post, is inspired by Haruki Murakami's short story named, "The Year of Spaghetti" (The New Yorker, November 21, 2005). The year he referred to is 1971.

The year 1971 is the year of Spaghetti of Murakami, I like that.

In it, he cooks the pasta alone, eats alone, gets a phone call from an ex-girl of his friend who asked about his friend's whereabout. It is a story when nothing else happens except that he really really pays attention to the cook of his Spaghetti.

At the end of the story, Murakami said, Italy does not know that in 1971, it exported nothing but loneliness.

Mukakami's pasta cooking, beer drinking and cans counting, sandwich making, packing for travels, counting of different things within sights, descriptions of smells of girl's newly washed hair, all shows the makes of that existential self-awareness, isolation and loneliness, but with pride, with relief and with a little tirdness. It is quiet, but hardly sad.

I don't cook Spaghetti, I am cooking french style dishes with a recipe book written in Chinese, so it is possible for me to follow without lossing my sanity. I began to learn to use the most basic french spcie and herbs, remembering their English and Chinese names and then identifying them in the West Side Market.

If you know me well, you know to use spices or herbs in some actions that resembles cooking, to me, is like when human beings first learned to use fire to cook their meat, it is existentially evolutionary.

Where have I been all these years? Not in the kitchen for sure. What a waste.

France does not know that in the year of 2009, the only thing it exports is learning to be staying grounded with style. I feels more real than ever.

One other good thing I learned from this exercise, cheap yet good wine are perfect, since you can drink and cook with them at the same time. Speaking of recession wines!

City, Invisible

"To hear that voice, one must enter the tiny chambers and corners of the city, live the city's unpeopled interior and well-girded solitude. And what is even more admirable, explore one's own intimacy, one's own secret, taking a definitively lyrical perspective on things."

This is Lorca talking about his beloved Granada, but it also applies to all the cities that we have visited and felt connections with, and those that existed in our hearts or imaginations, some what invisible but more real, as Calvino wrote about.

"Just the opposite of Seville. Seville is man at full complexity of his sensuality and emotion. Granada is like the narration of what already happened in Seville.

There is the empitiness of something that is gone forever".

I was reading Lorca today on the subway ride, longing again to go to that part of the world, South of Spain, longing the scent of orange flowers in the breeze, longing of the city that loves tiny things, that is silent but yet full of longings, green and gold.

This vast city where I have been living, suddenly felt so big, untouchable and namelessly strange. Have I lost the path to its secret chambers? Or it is because I was tempted to stop imagining the invisible part of it, and fully immensed only in the past.

That ability to feel and imagine is what I promise msyelf that I would never lost.

潜伏也太好看了

“不汇报，这样行吗？”

“这共产党，比军统还厉害!“

“恋爱，不就是钻玉米地吗！是，是钻玉米地，在玉米地里说说话，拉拉手，散散步。“

密码本居然是蝴蝶梦。

孙红雷和姚晨演得好，最后很让人难过。

能把他等回来吗？

爱上一九六一年的贝尔蒙多

在西村West Village 逛，无意中走到久违的Film Forum，纽约那家专门放艺术电影，非营利性的影院。 因为非赢利，所以才会放很多真正经典的作品， 不靠发行商和市场。也因此有很多外国电影，带英文字幕。他们每个月放三部电影。今天放的电影之一是LEON MORIN，PRIEST，神父穆林，一部法国黑白片。

我开始不知道导演让-皮埃尔-梅尔维尔(jean pierre melville)是谁。海报上的男主角是年轻的让-保罗-贝尔蒙多(jean-paul-belmondo)。他眼神忧郁，坚毅， 穿着神父的白领黑衣。那个故事是讲二战时期的法国。小小的影院里已经排了长队。我犹豫着是否挑一个晚上等朋友一起看，外面是纽约第一个美丽的春天的下午，阳光如水。

我走出影院，但贝尔蒙多的眼神仿佛已经穿透了我，那是对自己的魅力不自知的自信和温柔但不容犹豫的要求，那是”精疲力尽(Breathless)”里的他的另一个自我。我不能等了，这是我的邂逅，和一九六一年的贝尔蒙多。我走回影院，买了票，距开场只有五分钟。

第一个镜头是女主人公在乡间骑着自行车，她自述的声音说那是在法国南部刚被纳粹占领的时候，带着羽毛头饰的意大利士兵在乡间设了并不认真的关卡。二战的阴影是几个女子急忙商量给犹太裔的孩子受洗，和她们那洗礼结束后匆匆回到从林里参加抵抗运动的丈夫们的身影。镜头推进舒缓，画面简洁，街道，橱窗，办公室里忙碌的女职员们依然带着一丝不苟的发型，穿着修身的套裙和高跟鞋。犹太裔的丈夫死后， 女主人公独自带着女儿生活，她是美丽，沉静但又怀着激情的。她对办公室里另一个惊人亮丽的女子怀着爱慕之心。“美丽的人应该统治这个世界”。她说。

小镇的广场边上是一座教堂，St Bernard。 她在一个下午走进去，决定找一个神父。她是无神论者和左派革命者。“看名字，这是一个无聊的中产阶级”，她打量着那一天接受忏悔的神父名牌，对自己说，直到看到LEON MORIN， 她决定跟他谈，因为他多半是农民出身，因为他有一个农民的名字。

她静静的等在忏悔室边，然后镜头由上往下俯拍，神父穆林MORIN穿着白色法衣，近乎随意的出现，打开忏悔室的门，走了进去。没有近景头，直到女主人公也走进去，镜头侧怕，他们隔着丝网，对视。他的脸平静，沉着，清峻， 他应该看到了她的美丽和决心。她说：宗教是人们的精神鸦片。她等待回击。神父穆林平静但深刻的注视着她。

至此我第一次正视着一九六一年的贝尔蒙多，那时他的名字是神父穆林。 至此我也第一次真正面对皮埃尔-梅尔维尔带给我们的世界。

有些发现要等待时机，就像很早时就读到“太阳依旧升起”，看到贝尔蒙多在精疲力尽(Breathless)里的 米歇尔，不能很理解。而今走过自己的迷惘，渴求和失去，才能知道那种很存在，很本源的痛和无奈。

神父穆林不教条，更像一个农民出身的知识分子，认真，热情，有一种道德上的吸引力，因为他坚定，也因为他有男子气。 贝尔蒙多不是典型的英俊，但他厚实的嘴唇和显眼的鼻梁让他性感。神父穆林的性感是反神性的，但又很自然，因为他更想拯救人的灵魂，而不是仅让他们加入天主教会。他更象一个朋友和知己。穆林完全控制着自己的身心，在肉体上完全冷静，但又彻底自然真实的人，前者让他完美，后者让他可亲，他的性感来源于这种完全的自信和若既若离。

我们的女主人公丈夫早逝，她在性上是空白，但这不是她为神父穆林所吸引的唯一原因。从第一次的忏悔室的对话开始，他们决定继续探讨。“你星期四晚上来”穆林说，他的自然让人不能说不。

第一个晚上，她走上教堂旋转的楼梯，敲响了他的门。神父穆林打开门的时候，第一个镜头是他外袍胸口的扣子，紧紧相扣，镜头往下移，仿佛她的目光，第二粒，第三粒。这个镜头转递了很多：她的眼睛正对着他的胸口，所以他比她高大概15 英寸；她关注到了他的身体；他的身体是关闭的。这个镜头一下把两人的距离拉近了，观众开始屏住呼吸。

穆林熟练的把门关上，转过身来，注视着她， 那一刻他仿佛是快乐的。我想他是的， 但他并不表露一些情感和欲望。他们在两个人的世界里。

从这里开始，他们的两人仿佛远离了二战的世界，通过他们的谈话，你知道神父在帮助抵抗运动的成员，女主人公要把女儿送到乡下，但在他们的世界里，只有他们两人和关于宗教的谈话， 但你其实看到两个人在慢慢相爱， 变的亲密， 既时谈话的内容完全是关于信仰的。

一天她来到教堂，他正在神坛前祈祷，镜头停在他的后颈和前倾的头。她又在注视着他。祈祷完毕，他起身走下神坛，她走上前，正好另一个祈祷者也走上前询问，他首先回答另外的人，同时突然伸出手把她推开，又拿出自己的钥匙，说回到我房间里等我，我马上上来。他的举动出人意料，完全不在乎是否合适，他其实很随性。 这样的细节体现了对女性心理的深刻理解， 她觉得自己被视为亲密的人因而欣喜。

金庸在神雕侠侣里有同样的描述，当杨过对小龙女不再客气尊敬，而是当她是妻子的时候，他才会打断她的话头。而她却觉得心里甜蜜蜜的。

光影的运用，让他和她分享光亮和黑暗，镜头对准他们的双眼，侧脸，所以灵魂无法躲藏。他们的讨论理性，知性，并不涉及情感，但被禁止的情欲才是最强烈的，　至少对她。神父穆林的信仰的力量也许已经让他完全控制了自己的肉体，但在肉体的防线之内他无所禁忌，他的灵魂和心灵是自由的。

她的办公室另外的女伴也去见神父。其中一个的女友情人众多，他们分别来自抵抗组织，维希政府和德国占领军。她第一次见到神父穆林就决定引诱他。她能得到他吗？女主人公想。她自己的欲望带着罪恶感而被小心隐藏着。

性感女子坐在他的桌子上，露出性感的双腿。她挑战的看着穆林。穆林走过她的身边，把她故意掀起的裙边整理好，走回桌后，他说：可怜的孩子，上帝最爱的是你们，天堂是为你们建造的。他充满怜悯。她慢慢的不安起来，像个孩子。穆林没有像伪君子，他看得到女性的美和情爱的狂喜，但他选择了放弃这些，因为他的信仰。

所以这是一部女性电影，因为神父穆林是她们情感和欲望的对象。　

情欲的紧张感在女主人公和穆林中间愈发强烈，甚至他穿着法衣走过她的身旁，袍袖拂过她的脸颊，都让他觉得他在想要跟她亲近。她梦到他，走入她的卧室，坐下来亲吻她。那是她们惟一的肉体接触，在梦里。在梦外两人相对，他们甚至都没有碰过手，但你又觉得他们亲密无间。所以这种紧张感也是属于观众的，弥漫在小小的影院里。

当她因为女儿不能在晚上去教堂与他倾谈的时候，他说他可以去看她。他像个回到家的好父亲，跟她的女儿玩，帮她劈柴。小姑娘临睡前说，给我念一个你没有给别人念过的祷告。他说，“好，虽然这不是特别适合给小姑娘“，他从口袋里拿出一张纸片，那是一首诗：“主啊，只把那些别人不要求的赐给我”，它这样开始。女主人公看着他的背影，对自己说，感谢主，你爱他比我多。

可是当她终于忍不住问他，如果你是可以结婚的牧师，你会娶我为妻吗？他头也不抬，不加思索的说，会。她说我不开玩笑，告诉我。他发现她很认真，他把砍柴的斧头使劲地劈下，转身离开了。也许她觉得她的欲望和爱慕玷污了他们的纯洁的亲密。但是一个神父有了普通人的愤怒，所以那带着希望，而不是绝望。或者神父穆林只是想要占有她的心灵，而要保持自己的独立和孤独。

后来我知道梅尔维尔的电影里的男人全都是倔强的内心孤独者，不管是神父还是杀手或者黑帮分子。这部电影里，女人们是独立和内心自由的，她们是母亲和姐妹，是情人和伴侣。

穆林和巴尼很久没见面。她走到镇边的山丘上，看着小镇教堂的尖顶和钟楼，她想着穆林在那里。战争结束了，她的办公室要搬回巴黎，而他被派到更偏远的小镇，分别在即。

临别的晚上，穆林让她的朋友带话给他，说要见她，也许，他们终于可以拥有一些记忆。巴尼鼓起勇气，走上熟悉的旋转楼梯，走到他的房门前。门开着，他在整理行装。她发现了他的所有不过是一箱书，几个小电锅。他惯常弹得钢琴也被租掉了。也许，正因为他对生活所求甚少，他也不要求在信仰之外的爱和情， 或者，因此，他有坚强的抵抗力和自制力。

她流泪了。告别是短暂的，他们仍然没有任何接触，他只是慢慢跟着她走到门口，她说：也许我们不会再见了，他说，“来生，我们还会见面的”，但那并不代表一种希望，更象是安慰。巴尼走下楼梯，穆林的脸上有一些怅然，然后他走进门去。女主人公的脸上布满伤痛。从相爱到分别，人生有惊喜，又平静地近乎冷酷。

灯亮了，观众们悬疑着的渴望终于舒解，后排的男孩长出了一口气，说，真紧张。仿佛刚看完一部战争片，我却仿佛刚刚经历过一场爱情，不能忘怀。我想如果你真正的爱过一个人，从心灵上，肉体上，彻底的靠近，亲密无间，但又转眼失去，那么你才会知道那种渴望的痛切。

我走出影院，神父穆林的眼睛仿佛还凝视着我，从屏幕上。 我一直走，往西面，沿着柏德福德街，往河边走。我不想让任何的思绪阻断我对穆林的渴望，我仿佛不再是我，而是巴尼，被分别的悲痛淹没， 被不能有结果的爱情压得不能呼吸。我爱上了一九六一年的贝尔蒙多。那时他是神父穆林。

看过他在精疲力尽`的演出，和许多年前在国内看过的他后来的搞笑之作，现在才知道他是法国新浪潮的最重要的男演员和代言人，而且名下无虚。穆林和米歇尔是迥然不同的人物，而1962年的戴帽子的人(Le Doulos)里（被一再翻拍），他又成了梅尔维尔黑帮片的男主角。每一个人物都让你忘记这是贝尔蒙多。神父穆林是一部充满克制的电影，他的表演也是极度克制，但自然可信，毫无表演的痕迹。

很久没有这样的投入看一场电影，仿佛活过了整整一生。但这部电影风格简洁，决不是靠大价钱打造， 那是大师级的作品。 我开始寻找梅尔维尔的介绍，发现他是吴宇森和塔伦提诺的精神导师。 但他不仅是警匪片大师，他的风格引领了一个新的浪潮。他的电影作品集刚在英国发行，我想定购，发现他们不寄美国。我最想看的不是他最著名的警匪片，武士(Le Samouraï)和红圈(The Red Circle)，而是影子军队(Army of Shadows) 和海的沉默(The Silence of the Sea)，前者讲法国抵抗组织的故事。 梅尔维尔也曾是抵抗组织的一员。后者是关于一个德国军官和法国祖父和孙女在一个屋檐下的生活，全片只有德国军官讲话，法国人作为被占领者只是沉默，但沉默渐渐的发生了变化。

梅尔维尔英年早逝，1973年死于心脏病。他是一个风格大师，极度聪明。我觉得他像古龙，你都没有看到他出手，已经一剑制敌。那确是一种风格，并且永不过时。

梅尔维尔在戈达尔精疲力尽里演了那个小说家。 那个女孩采访他：你觉得女性在现代社会里有一席之地吗？“如果她穿带条文的T恤，戴墨镜（装扮如那个女孩），那她在现代社会里有一席之地”他调侃道。

与贝尔蒙多和梅尔维尔的相遇，是2009年四月的惊喜。此时贝尔蒙多已经七十六岁了，但神父穆林永远不会老去，电影真是一个奇妙的东西。