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Ravenna Bay in northern Italy in the 1950s.
The deep blue sea was calm and still. It was early morning, and a passenger ship slowly departed from the dock, sailing towards the Mediterranean Sea through the thin mist of dawn.
This passenger ship will travel a long way through the Suez Canal, the Bab el-Mandeb Strait, the Strait of Malacca, the South China Sea, and finally dock in Shanghai, a port city in the far East of China.
Gazing out at the deep heart of the Earth from the deck, a gentle sea breeze caresses the scene. Tourists who have already finished breakfast lean against the railing in twos and threes, chatting leisurely.
Camelia pushed a trolley across the deck. She wore a white suit, her uniform impeccably pressed, her long skirt elegant, and her high heels clicked as she walked. She was a waitress on the cruise ship, responsible for greeting guests in the restaurant that morning. The young woman had clearly stayed up late the night before; her beautiful face, though powdered, couldn't hide her fatigue. She yawned as she pushed the trolley toward the restaurant.
“Excuse me, sir, here is your napkin.” Her job was to pass the guests around the table and hand them what they needed. This job was undoubtedly not very interesting, and even though there was an endless blue sea view outside the transparent glass, Camelia had long been tired of it.
She mechanically repeated the action of handing out wet wipes and helping women tie bibs on their babies. When she stood up, she felt her toes, squeezed in high heels, starting to ache.
"Oh, why isn't Amenira here today? I'm the only one busy around here." Miss Camelia muttered under her breath as she hurriedly grabbed the cutlery. "Damn it, she probably overslept again."
"Hi, Camelia, we need help in Section C, please come as soon as possible," her colleague called through the pager. "Okay, I'm in Section A, I'll be there shortly." The woman hung up, wiping her forehead. "What floor is Section C on again?"
"Camelia, please serve this guest an espresso. The head chef is calling me." Another voice came through the pager. Camelia wasn't used to such a busy start to the day, and she replied to the pager while complaining inwardly.
The Polino was bustling with tourists before Christmas. Camelia had been temporarily assigned to work on the ship a few weeks earlier and was still unfamiliar with much of the place. In the midst of the throng, she accidentally dropped a mug while stacking plates. Luckily, there was a soft carpet underfoot. Camelia cried out "Ouch!" as the remaining coffee from the mug splashed onto the hem of her white dress.
Camelia lifted the hem of her skirt, her brows furrowing slightly. A hand reached out to her, bending down to pick up a pristine white mug. "Miss." A low, husky voice rang out. Camelia, her head bowed, saw a pair of dark men's leather shoes come into view. A soft "click" sounded as the man placed the mug into her drawer. She heard him say, "Excuse me."
“Excuse me.” Camelia straightened up, pulling her cart back a step. She looked up and met a pair of chestnut eyes. The man was tall, his skin an excessively pale white, and his shoulder-length hair a deep black. He smiled at her, and as he passed, a faint scent of perfume lingered in his wake. Camelia couldn't tell if it was the base notes of Chanel No. 5 Oak. Those deep, beautiful eyes left a lingering impression on Camelia, almost making her blush. The man walked quickly, soon disappearing into the crowd.
After a few seconds of stunned silence, she suddenly realized her situation, looked back with a slightly disappointed expression, and pushed her cart toward the backstage. She needed to change her clothes as soon as possible to avoid being lectured by the demanding manager.
After Camelia finished everything, her colleague appeared late and offered to switch shifts. Camelia smiled and agreed, but inwardly she was furious with her colleague. She went to the restroom to take off her clothes, which meant that her morning's work was over.
After lunch in the staff canteen, Camelia had free time in the afternoon, and then it was her turn to work the evening shift. Her job was actually quite easy, but Camelia couldn't stand the monotony of it all, which was perhaps why she kept changing environments. In fact, this voyage was the last one Camelia had decided to take this job; she had already decided that once the ship arrived in Singapore, she would go there to stay with her aunt who was a businesswoman.
Camelia grew up near the Venetian Bay and was used to the beautiful seascape. As she changed her clothes and followed the crowd out of the restaurant, those chestnut-colored eyes reappeared in her mind.
When Camelia came to relax in Class A, she saw the same gentleman from the morning again.
Camelia tugged at her clothes, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and then leaned closer to the glass window to examine her own face. After confirming that she was perfect, she walked up to the person with a bit of embarrassment and stopped beside them. "Hi."
The man turned around; without him needing to brush aside his long, shoulder-length black hair, the sea breeze revealed his profile to the young woman beside him. A faint scent of nicotine slipped away between them, and his gentlemanly smile was perfectly polite. "Hello, miss?"
The man was too tall, requiring her to crane her neck to meet his gaze. Camelia dared not look him in the eye, instead focusing on the mole on his profile—an inch below his eye, making it especially noticeable against his pale face. The man stepped aside, giving her a spot by the viewing railing. Camelia placed her hands on the railing, her heart pounding in her chest.
"How should I address you, Miss?"
“Saroly Camelia,” Camelia responded softly, her gaze following the ebb and flow of the waves.
"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" the man asked. "Miss Saroly, would you like to see the sea?"
“I like it.” Camelia didn’t want to spoil the beautiful seascape, and noticing that the other person also spoke with a standard northern Italian accent, “Where are you from, sir?”
"Emilia-Romagna (Emilia-Romagna Region)".
Camelia lowered her head and noticed a very thin silver ring on the ring finger of the other person's left hand, which shimmered in the sunlight. "My home is in Venice."
“Venice, a beautiful place,” the man murmured. His hands rested on the railing, he seemed to be gazing at the seascape. The sea breeze ruffled Camelia's hair, and she glanced up at him between strokes.
Camelia had never seen an Italian with such jet-black hair and such pale skin. His face didn't betray his age; Camelia looked down at his left hand resting on the railing, the silver ring glaringly obvious. She thought to herself, he might be forty.
"Where are you going on vacation, sir?" Camelia asked, noting that the man had no female companion, a decision made on his part. She leaned slightly to the right, almost catching a faint scent of perfume from his collar.
“This trip is not a vacation.” The man seemed to be carefully choosing his words, his left hand lowering from the railing and naturally slipping into his coat pocket. “I’m going to China to see an old friend.”
"China..." This answer may have surprised her. Camelia didn't know what impression that Eastern country gave her. In short, it felt very, very far away, a place she didn't know if she would ever go there in her life.
Gazing at the azure sea, Camelia lowered her head, realizing they weren't traveling the same route. However, Singapore was much closer to China than Italy, so it wouldn't leave her feeling too dejected. She forced a smile, wanting to say something more, but nothing came of it. Hearing this, she suddenly thought of herself—arriving in Singapore to stay with a distant aunt, and then… A wave of speechless emotion welled up in Camelia's chest, choking her throat. This moment seemed to suddenly drain all the energy she had for striking up a conversation. Camelia pulled her collar tighter, seeing only endless blue before her, utterly uninteresting.
Camelia smelled a familiar scent; the man had taken a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a lighter.
Camelia realized she didn't actually like men who smoked. Lost in a strange emotional state, she remained silent when she heard the man beside her whisper, "What shape do you think the wind is?"
The question made her pause slightly, as she had never heard such an innocent statement from an adult before, and it seemed so different from the image of the man before her. Camelia even thought about it carefully for a while, but to no avail. "How can the wind have a shape?" she said.
The man smiled faintly, not immediately revealing the riddle. Camelia, however, seemed intrigued by his question. "What is it?" she asked, turning her head to look at the man. "What shape is the wind?"
The man stubbed out his cigarette and gazed at the sea. "Someone once told me that the ripples on the water are the shape of the wind."
When Camelia heard this explanation for the first time, she smiled slightly and found it rather amusing. "That's an interesting explanation," she said.
Water is inherently carefree, but the wind wrinkles its surface. Mountains and plains are ageless, but snow turns them white.
The man recalled a line from a poem by Li Wenfu of the Qing Dynasty, a line that had flowed from his lips with such nonchalance back then, yet now, as a foreigner, it tasted of melancholy. He took a drag of his cigarette, a self-deprecating smile playing on his lips. "No wonder," he thought, "I've lived in China for so many years. It's all the same everywhere. I still haven't forgotten his voice."
More than thirty years have passed since they last met. Now, standing on the deck of a cruise ship bound for China, he is overwhelmed with emotion. Having spent most of his life in China, have his thoughts and habits already undergone subtle but profound changes?
The man turned to Camelia and said "sorry" before hurrying away. He clenched his left hand, his thumb pressing on the ring on his ring finger, and a thick fog suddenly drifted through his heart.
The patterns on the ring were painfully digging into him, and before he left, Camelia tentatively asked, "Sir, what's your name?"
“Tang, my surname is Tang. Tang Zefei.” The man left behind these words, and Camelia stood there, puzzled, accepting a name she couldn’t understand.
That was a name with very standard Mandarin pronunciation, originating from China.
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