You can't hold the breeze in your hand, So why not make a pinwheel? Wait till the wind blows gently, calmly: The whispering leaves spin dreams.
"The Windy City" is okay for Chicago, but it's hardly an apt description of Taipei. Buried deep in the maze of the city's hundreds of lanes, however, there is one little thoroughfare that might just be called "Windy Alley." Not because the wind visits that place more than others, but because the alley always knows when the wind blows. It knows, be cause it is home to pinwheels great and small. Whenever there is enough of a breeze to rustle the leaves, no matter how slight, those pinwheels sense it and get ready for a good long chat.
Some say that the pinwheel is the wind's messenger.
If one happens by Windy Alley on the right day, it's easy to see that the discourse between wind and pinwheel can be many things--a sophisticated discussion, a heated debate, or even sometimes, (rare though not extraordinary), a confession from a disappointed wanderer in the big city. The wind is just as happy whispering a tale of true romance as simply shooting the breeze to anyone who happens along with time to spare.
It doesn't matter how many human stories there are in the neighborhood; the wind catches them all, whirls them around, and spins them into fantasy. The wind doesn't mind if the story is literary or vulgar, and doesn't want proof of authenticity--that is not her business at all. For his part, the pinwheel takes whatever the wind brings--gossip, chitchat, rumor, comment.... What a perfect match they are! One does all the talking while the other plays the role of listener, hanging on every word. The mood of their encounter is courteous, romantic, wild, heroic, passionate. There are no no-go areas. The wind has so much experience of life that she never runs short of topics of conversation, and anyway, she inherited a tongue as silver as any itinerant poet's. She gathers all things wherever she finds them, weaving them into lyrics to be sung when she meets a pinwheel. That's what the pinwheel loves most about the wind. Wind is dissolute. Wind has an unruly temperament.
Wind is free.
In the beginning, Windy Alley was nothing special. Not compared with other alleys. But when Old Yang retired from his job with the phone company, lots of things changed. His life, for instance. And the alley he called home.
One day when he was taking his usual after-supper stroll he saw an empty can lying in the street. He picked it up and thought about it for awhile. Old Yang's philosophy of life: Everything is useful and how useful it is depends on how it is used.
He took the can home. His wife was used to this kind of thing. Making new things out of old ones was a habit with Old Yang. For a long time he said not a word, just pondered. Then a gust of wind rustled his hair, bringing with it the ghost of an idea.
What next?
Slowly he went to work. He started to cut into the can, slicing it into metal leaves.
What next?
He glued the leaves on to bamboo chopsticks, the little ones used for barbecues. One leaf, one chopstick. Then he arranged four or five of his newly fletched sticks around a little wheel and mounted it on a stick.
What next?
Old Yang turned his back on the odds and ends of aluminum, the bits of wood, glue, scissors, saw, nails, and puzzled wife. Holding his new toy, he rested against the window frame and closed his eyes. He seemed to be waiting for someone, an old friend, perhaps, to come visit. His pose was reminiscent of Kung Ming, a famous Chinese figure (a real person, this) who desperately needed a huge gust of wind from the east to come and save his warships. Miraculously, the wind blew for him. Disaster was averted. That man, that wind, coming right on time, were woven together as one of the most celebrated stories in Chinese history.
The wind came for Old Yang, too. The other city folk paid it no heed. They didn't slow down or stop to revel in the breeze. But Old Yang did. He took a long breath, without haste, sniffing to make sure that this was exactly the gust he'd been waiting for. Slowly he put on his glasses and bent forward, raising his toy. Hard to describe his mood--a little bit of excitement was in there somewhere, a touch of nervousness, perhaps. Old Yang lifted his pinwheel and flirted with the wind, but only a little bit and with the utmost care, for like many other visitors, the wind found it all too easy to lose herself in the city.
So he did nothing to disturb the city wanderer. He just gently waved at her. That was Old Yang's style--softly softly catchee monkey.
It was a slow and gentle start. He made more pinwheels out of small things he picked up here and there. Then he would patiently wait for the wind. He was loath to put pressure on the wind. There was no way he was going to twist her arm. Everything he did, every step he took, was simple and sincere, sensitive and unhurried. That's the way he makes his pin wheels to this day.
Unless you're as simple, sincere, and sensitive as Old Yang, you will probably hurry on by and miss the pinwheels in his front yard. Miss them completely--to say nothing of the marvelous discourse going on between them and the wind.
After his successful "maiden voyage," Yang's yard started to transform itself. It became very Netherlands-looking. Holland is the motherland of windmills. Old Yang's yard began to resemble a miniature Dutch village, one made of cans, chopsticks and glue. The neighborhood children even gave him a nickname, "Grandpa Pinwheel."
Soon it wasn't only the children. The grown-ups got into the habit of donating their "treasures"--a pinecone picked up in the park, a splendid wooden plate that a Japanese restaurant had used for sashimi, a couple of oddly shaped branches. The donors expressed the hope that Old Yang might be persuaded to look upon these treasures with favor when making pinwheels. Old Yang seldom let them down. He was generous when it came to allowing them to participate.
One pinwheel was mounted on the pinecone, where it became a symbolic peacock with tail-feathers extended. (A symbol of good fortune for Chinese people.) As for the branches, they became lively, fiery trees sprouting silvery pinwheel flowers.
Some of the neighbors formed a brain trust, to make occasional suggestions. That's why Old Yang has so many good ideas. That's why his style is constantly evolving.
For example?
For example, Pikachu, a famous Japanese cartoon doll. The local kids stood there, transfixed by the sight of Pikachu holding a pinwheel. It won first prize at a charity bazaar in the local elementary school, to resounding acclaim. What's more, just about every pupil was given a pinwheel to take home.
Community groups began to take note of Old Yang and his pinwheels. Some invited him to become involved with their activities. One of them had the idea of planting his pinwheels in parks. Little by little, Old Yang's new toys have become community landmarks. After all, who can resist a pinwheel? Isn't Romance the pinwheel's middle name?
Taipei has seen many elections, so many, but never was an election as hotly contested as the one held last year. Old Yang wasn't a politician, but he had a sense for which way the wind was blowing. Some campaign flags ended up in his mailbox. Old Yang had no eyes for the pretty promises printed on the flags. He looked at them and saw something else entirely. Something non-political, so to speak. "Flags are supposed to blow about in the wind, aren't they?" he asked himself. His philosophy of life popped into his mind: Everything is useful, and how useful it is depends on how it is used....
Once again, the wind supplied the answer.
Old Yang made a pinwheel called Ma, using five campaign flags. Ma Ying-jeou, the current Taipei major, was just a mayoral candidate in those days. Old Yang took a good look at his handiwork and pronounced himself satisfied. He stuck Windmill Ma in the yard. The moment he did so, the wind seemed to know. She began to blow.
The next day, lots of people stopped by to see Old Yang and seek his advice about the election. At first, Grandpa Pinwheel was completely bewildered. "Why me?" he asked himself. "I don't even read the newspapers." Then he saw the people looking at his new pinwheel, and the clouds began to lift. Old Yang realized that he'd accidentally tied a bell on the tail of the tiger, as it were. But instead of taking it off, he added another one. He made a second pinwheel, pretty much the same as Windmill Ma, only this time he used the campaign flags of Chen Shui-bian, the then mayor. Apart from that, the style, the size, and even the numbers of flags were the same. With these two pinwheels spinning away in the yard, Old Yang felt he'd done enough to reduce the political fever running rife in Windy Alley.
This kind of thing happens to Old Yang all the time, now that his fame is starting to spread.
Taipei's citizens are in the habit of buying up everything in sight. Their First Law of Business is this: Where there is demand, there is supply. And the Second Law is vice versa. People don't need a reason to go shopping. They buy up whatever they want, and often what they don't want, not really caring what they throw into their shopping bags as long as they throw something. For most people, consumption is like a game, one filled with excitement that can only be stilled by sticking a signature on a credit-card slip. To be possessed of things is to be possessed of oneself, which implies that spending money can sometimes be the best cure for certain mental disorders. (Possibly the only cure.) So we shouldn't really be surprised by people wanting to do business with Old Yang, buying his lovely pinwheels. Unfortunately, it so happens that Old Yang is not too good at business. Besides, his first-ever pinwheel was a recycle job, and he never expected to make a profit out of his toys. No wonder that when people stop by to talk turkey, all he wants to do is be gone with the wind.
But he won't. That's because he can't: Windy Alley is his home. He just goes on as he always has. Or rather, as he always did until his eldest daughter asked his opinion about her opening a restaurant. And suddenly there it was--a new beginning, a fresh start. After lengthy discussion, debate and compromise, the daughter did indeed start up a restaurant. Old Yang respected her decision and tried to be of help to her. So much so, in fact, that it became a joint venture called the Pinwheel Cafe and Restaurant, where father found a permanent home for his pinwheels and daughter founded a career. No question about it: the place is as perfect a restaurant as it is a pinwheel museum. So now Yang's daughter wears two hats--restaurant manager and museum curator.
Pinwheels are everywhere in the restaurant, from the name, the sign outside, the front yard, alive with dozens of pin wheels, to the decor, rich with pinwheels and paintings of pinwheels. One of them is a copy of van Gogh's Holiday at Montmartre, which has a small pinwheel in it somewhere. Recently a famous writer, Chang Hsiao-feng, who lives in the neighborhood and is fascinated by pinwheels, wrote a poem about them. Her poem poses three questions: Does the wind have feet, does she have lips, what does she look like? The poet concludes that only the pinwheel knows all the answers. The handwritten poem, nicely framed, now hangs on the cafe wall.
If you go there--and you should--take a good look around while you sip your coffee. But be careful! After awhile, you may start to suffer from the illusion that the world is spinning about you. When that happens, don't panic; it's simply the pinwheels taking you back to the good old days, when the world wasn't blown every which way the way it is today.
Nick Kan is a freelance writer based in Taipei.
Copyright © 1999 by Nick Kan.