The play was scheduled to begin at 7:30 that night. I arrived at the square in front of the Educational Center beforehand in order to avoid the possible traffic jam during the rush hour. Besides, I hadn't yet purchased a ticket and had arranged to get one at the door before the performance began.

Small groups of people stood about on the uneven ground of the square. Most of them were apparently students, both boys and girls; but there were also pairs of lovers, sitting close to each other on the stone benches, talking happily. The cold, blue light of the mercury vapor lamps shone on the dry, cold pavement of red brick. When the wind blew, it seemed especially cold. I turned up the collar of my raincoat, thrust my hands into my pockets and began strolling back and forth. The neon lights of different colors flickered from the shops across the street, yet were not too irritatingly bright. Actually, there were also street cars and pedestrians bustling along, but still not very noisy. Perhaps, looking forward to the artistic performance that evening had given me a feeling of serenity which could not be easily disturbed by external events.

Occasionally, I strolled back to the main door. The employees could be seen through the locked glass door, busily preparing everything. A line had already formed at the ticket booth on the left side of the square, and it advanced slowly as people bought their tickets. The play was an adaptation by a friend of mine. He wanted to invite some of his friends but was too busy to mail the tickets, so he arranged for everyone to pick them up before the play began. My friend, the playwright, was obviously so busily occupied that right up until before the play started, he still was not to be seen behind the glass door. I figured he would make his appearance after the door opened, so I kept on strolling. Though more and more people filled the square, I remained quite at ease. I sauntered around looking for a familiar face among the crowd, but to no avail. Sometimes Taipei seems to be a very small place where I could run into an aquaintance anywhere; other times it seems to be a huge place filled with people, all of whom are strangers.

The main door finally opened. The scattered crowd automatically formed into two lines. Though I came early, I didn't yet have a ticket to get in, so I stood to one side as an embarrassed spectator, watching the evenly passing crowd as it was swallowed by the main door.

My friend the playwright didn't show up at the entrance. I expected to see many familiar faces, but still I had not seen even one. I began to feel a bit anxious, so I approached the entrance to inquire. The ticket collectors were engaged in their work, and didn't know anything about what was going on; besides, my voice was soon drowned out in the waves of people. My watch said 7:25; it was only five minutes before the play would start. I wondered what could have delayed my friend. I myself am always punctual. Fortunately, the lines still extended back to the corner of the square, and were moving slowly. Guessing that the play would not start on time, I decided to wait another five minutes--if my friend didn't show up, I would call a taxi and go home. It was too late now to buy a ticket anyway--a "sold out" sign had been posted at the ticket booth. In addition to being anxious, I was also a bit piqued.

I waited for about two minutes. Each second passed very quickly, yet also seemed very slow. My eyes were tired and dry from looking for my friend and were probably swollen and bloodshot. At that moment, a nice-looking young girl suddenly appeared in front of me, and with a soft and pleasant voice, she asked, "Excuse me, are you waiting for someone?" After ascertaining that I had indeed been waiting for someone, she said, 'I have two tickets. The seats are fairly good. My friend probably will not be coming, would you care to join me?" The time I had set for waiting had passed, the invitation was a pleasant surprise, so I followed her into the Educational Center.

The seats were as nice as she had described, situated in the center near the back of the auditorium. I sat next to the young girl, who was a complete stranger to me. I felt uneasy not knowing what polite words to say, and even uneasier because I said nothing. Just as I was beginning to feel embarrassed, a bell rang so I smiled instead of speaking. When the lights went down and the curtain slowly went up, I saw her friendly smile.

Strangely, the huge stage was totally devoid of any sets, nor were there any actors. A moment later, a number of women in long white robes entered the stage in single file, arranging themselves in three rows. Then a middle-aged male conductor entered. As soon as the auditorium grew silent, he raised his baton, and the room was filled with song. It was a song in English.

Over the phone, my friend had told me that he broke many rules in adapting a traditional folk-drama for the modern stage. But I hadn't expected his new effort to be such a daring mixture of the Chinese and the Western, the mystical and the abstract.

When the first song ended, the choir remained on stage to sing a second song. It sounded familiar--it was from Handel's Messiah. I began to wonder exactly what kind of modern adaptation of an old folk-drama this was. It was more like a choral performance, and this made me wonder all the more. When the third song was also a peaceful, religious song, I finally realized my mistake: I must have come to the wrong place! The folk-drama adapted by my friend should have been performed at the Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall. No wonder I hadn't found him or any of my acquaintances.

The first segment of the performance ended, the white-robed choir withdrew back-stage. I borrowed a program from my neighbor. It confirmed that this was a year-end performance of the Messiah, cosponsored by the women's chorus and another music group.

It was already after eight o'clock. I mused at how my friend would be worrying and disappointed at the thought that I hadn't kept my appointment. He must have gone back to work. I was so upset and uneasy, completely at a loss as to what to do. The only thing I could do was sit and listen to the music.

On stage, the program continued smoothly. The audience was quiet, occasionally a cough was heard. Because of my surroundings, I gradually calmed down enough to appreciate the performance. The choir was amateur, and trying very hard. Though the performance was below standard, the spirit left nothing to be desired.

At intermission, the girl who had invited me asked my opinion of the performance. I didn't want to be too blunt, so I answered, "Not bad." But she was quite frank, "It is not very good, just an amateur show." Then she added, "If you don't like it, please feel free to leave." It was too late--and it made no sense--to rush off to the Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall to watch the last part of the play. Besides, it is impolite to leave in the middle of a concert, so I stayed. She smiled broadly and was also willing to continue listening to the rest of the concert with me.

We didn't leave our seats as the others did during the intermission. We talked and exchanged our concert-going experiences. She had graduated from a certain college two years before. When she was a student she was a member of the choir. Now she was engaged in some kind of business and frequently attended concerts, especially choral per formances. As for myself, I had many opportunities every year to attend concerts, though I was in no way a fanatic concert goer. My daily life was so busy that I could never enjoy all the things I would have liked to. I didn't tell her that I would have watched a play elsewhere if it hadn't been for my mistake.

We stayed until the end. In the narrow hallway, I discovered she was a tall slender girl. I thanked her for her invitation. She smiled and said. "As a matter of fact, I have to thank you for your company." As we walked down the hallway, she said, "To tell the truth, someone had asked me to give away one ticket, but I didn't. As I was waiting for my friend, I had observed you for some time, so I decided to invite you." I had been too anxious at that time and hadn't noticed her observing me.

Walking out of the Educational Center, I saw many people standing on the street waiting for the bus. I felt I was indebted to that slender girl, so I wanted to take her home in a taxi. However, she lived in Hsintien, so she insisted on seeing me home. We had a small argument over the trivialities of etiquette that night, but we finally compromised. I would see her as far as Kungkuan Circle and from there she would take a bus home.

In the cab, she asked, "If you were me, would you go to a concert by yourself?" Then she explained that she originally had purchased the tickets for herself and her boyfriend, who was an intern, so that they could attend the concert together. He didn't keep the date, and in order to avoid getting depressed or lonely she had invited me instead. "But if your friend had come late, what would you have done?"

I asked. "Those who come late don't deserve to go to concerts," she said resolutely. "He is an intern. He was probably occupied with an emergency call. . ." I was growing a little worried. "I don't think so," she said with a youthful certainty. "I will see how he tries to explain himself tomorrow." "But what if he calls you tonight?" "Tonight? I won't answer any calls." Again the stubborn confident tone of extreme youth. Some corner of my memory seemed to recognize that latent reserve and self-confidence. The cab flew through the busy streets of nighttime Taipei. Looking at the fragmented street lights outside the window, I was suddenly filled with a sense of loss.

"Boss, please stop at the corner across the street." That was the first time I had ever heard anyone call a cabdriver "boss." She then turned to me and politely said, "Thank you for seeing me this far, and thank you for your company at the Messiah concert. Good-bye, it was my pleasure to have had this pleasant chance en counter." She didn't give me time to thank her; she stepped nimbly out of the cab. By the time the driver turned the cab around, I couldn't see her slender figure anywhere on the brightly lit streets of night. The wind blew cold; the night was busy but lonely.

That was two years ago. I don't know why, but when I walk the streets alone I often recall that chance encounter. Sometimes, in the middle of a crowd, I half expect to see a stranger approaching, who seems to recognize me. But that sort of unexpected enounter will never happen again. I wonder why that intern stood her up and whether that polite but stubborn girl did accept his explanation or apology. The sorrows and joys of life consist of many unexpected things. After I had seen more of the world, I realized that sometimes the unforeseen can unavoidably produce an inexplicable sense of regret. My interest in that girl with whom I sat and listened to the Messiah, part of whose life story I heard--the development of which I will never know--is not mere curiosity. I have never seen her again since she got out of the cab that night at Kungkuan Circle. We never exchanged names nor addresses. I'm sure I wouldn't even recognize her pretty features if we chanced to run into each other. But oftentimes I just can't help suddenly thinking of her and her story, especially when a cold wind is blowing through the streets.

Lin Wen-yueh, whose forebears hail from Changhua County in Taiwan, was born in Shanghai in 1933. She was educated in Japanese until the fifth grade and began to study Chinese only after returning to Taiwan in 1945. She is now a professor of Chinese literature at National Taiwan University.

Her main works include the academic books Hsieh Ling-yun and His Poetry, Ch'eng-hui Collection, and Landscape and the Law; the essay collections Chinese Majors, Distant, Afternoon Bookroom, and Conversations; and translations of The Tale of Genji, The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon, and A Civilized Man Dropped from the Sky.