Stars
“What is it?” I asked, complacently observing the lean young man with his chin in hand. He was gazing thoughtfully out of the old, scratched train window, leaning his elbow heavily on the rusty pane. He turned to me, and said in a heavily accented voice, “ Stars.”
“Stars?” Queried I, much amused. I had only met Antoine for perhaps about four hours, but already I knew him as a soft-spoken, yet thoughtful young French man, wise beyond his three and twenty years. At first glance, he proved to be one I would not consider intellectual, as his handsome, angular features served only as a disguise to the brilliant mind he modestly concealed beneath his tousled, wind-blown hair.
We had met in a rusty old train on its way to Italy, I a young girl of sixteen, off to a foreign country in search of schooling, fearful and saddened at having parted company with people I was never to meet again, and he an experienced pilot, returning from his flight to India where he had run into plane trouble in the Sahara desert. As the old train struggled to bring us where we paid to go, Antoine and I had the luxury of time as no one else in this day and age seems to have any longer. So, he told me his story. As he unwound his tale simply, I began to realize that his experience had aged him greatly, yet somehow preserved his youth permanently; He had learnt, in the short span of a few months, of the more important things in life. That is much to expect from one so young. He was wise, yet not eager to push his opinions onto another, strong, yet not dominating. I could tell that wind, sun and sand had given him dark skin and made him lean. The stars to which he looked up to every night seemed to put a twinkle in his soft brown eyes. The strong chin and brow told of hardship, and loss. He was one of those magical humans who had learnt the meaning of life, love and loss.
He turned to face me, his silk shirt crinkling ever so slightly. “Look!” His features were animated, and he seemed truly happy. I studied the wisps of hair falling gently about his face for a moment, enhanced by the light of the dim bulb overhead. Then obediently, I peered out the train window. The night sky, in all her majesty has opened her velvet cloak to display her treasures- stars. Tonight, the stars ceased to hide behind their cotton friends, and boldly came forth, blinking and glimmering.
I had never taken the time to look at stars, or listen to them, for that matter. For they talk. They whisper. They dance, scattering stardust for the wind to carry far into the night sky, whirling round and round. And if you really want to, you can hear what they have to say. Secrets of their own, of what they see. Of what the moon does in the daytime. Of the sun’s antics. Nonsense, isn’t it? It really isn’t everyone who can listen to stars.
Then, soberly, Antoine told me of his friend—the one who had taught him the meaning of stars. “I never knew his name. Perhaps he never had a name. He made me a present of the stars—he had nothing else to give. I remember what he told me-- that all men have stars, but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travelers, the stars are guides. For others, they are no more than little lights in the sky. For the scholars, they are problems, and for businessmen, wealth. He said that only I would have the stars as no one else had them. Then he laughed. And I loved to hear him laugh! And he said that when he was gone, I would remember him when I looked up at night, because we would be looking at the same stars. He said I would remember how he laughed— that all the stars would laugh just like him. Only I have stars that can laugh. But the loss is great for me. He taught me the secrets of life, and his innocence and vulnerability made me worry for him. Time has healed some of that hurt, but I made the mistake of saying goodbye.”
At that, he turned away, and I could tell he was greatly saddened. I know now why he always looked at the stars, and why he told me never to say goodbye to friends but taught me instead to say au revoir—to meet again.
We had dinner in that rickety old train, and his warm, inviting company comforted me of the sad goodbyes I had made at the train station. The cabin echoed of our laughter as candlelight reflected our silhouettes, and the wind carried our voices far into the night.
Late that night, I buttoned my coat tight, for the wind was rising, and as the train slowly eased to a stop, I hauled my luggage out of the ceiling compartment, with a little help from Antoine. He walked me to the exit, and as I stepped gingerly off the train, he said, “Au revoir.” Almost instantly, the train was off again, picking up speed as it plunged further into the darkness, leaving me squinting in the dust, my hair dancing in the wind, waving till the darkness concealed my new friend. Only the stars and the light of the lamppost saw the gleaming streaks on my dusty face that night.
I made it all right in the end, but when I look at the stars, I will always remember the meaning of goodbye, and tell myself that it is too sad a word for friends. In the course of my life I have traveled much, met many people—dined with kings and sat with paupers, but I never met anyone quite like Antoine ever again. I will remember too, Antoine’s story, and his wisdom, when I look at the stars. In that short journey, he taught me much, and showed me what stars are really meant for.
Au revoir, Antoine.


Sara Chong 4C



To all my friends who know what goodbye means to me, and will consent to say au revoir instead.