Mr Mozart and Mr Cow-Hen

In Shanghai, a woman repairs a coat and a musician praises the beauty of life. In Mullingar, snow falls

I WAS in a tailor’s shop in Shanghai one day, getting stitches in my coat. The inside lining was in flitters. A thin woman sewed it back together again, with needle and thread. An older woman, probably her mother, boiled soup on a stove behind the counter. Beyond them a door was open and I could see the furniture of a living room, and a picture of Mao Tse-tung on the mantelpiece beneath which were fresh flowers.

I idled on the street outside while she restructured the inside of my coat. Then from the milling crowd of cars, and cyclists, and people on the footpath, a man emerged and reached his hand towards mine.

“You are on Jingling Road,” he said.

I said, “Yes, I know”. He said, “You are a tourist; perhaps you are lost?” I said, “I know where I am”. “And I am Mr Mozart,” he said. “I am a musician.” I said, “I am from Ireland.” He said, “Ireland has very nice beer.” I said, “Chinese beer is better.” “Oh yes,” he said, “Tsingtao is top international beer.” We continued like this for some time, and it was clear that he was using me to practise his English.

“Shanghai,” he said, “is a city influenced by European culture: Charlie Chaplin was a cultural icon. And Gene Kelly, also very good.” I said, “My mother was in love with Gene Kelly.” That shocked him, but I explained that she used to eat chocolates on Sunday afternoons, as she sat on the sofa watching old movies, years ago. He laughed as if he was deeply familiar with this image.

“Today is the second peak in Chinese civilization,” he declared. “The first peak occurred during the Tang Dynasty. Now in this time we are witnessing the second peak.”

I said, “It’s also the second trough in Irish history. The first was a famine in the 19th century, and now we seem to be entering the second trough.”

“Ah yes,” he said, “I heard about your Mr Cow-Hen.”

When my coat was mended we foraged about in the music shops, admiring Chinese flutes, and classical zithers, and the manicured fingernails of shop assistants. “Musicians require flawless fingernails,” Mr Mozart explained, as he inspected the instruments with great reverence. Like the seamstress who fixed my pocket, he was committed to what he was doing. He handled the strings and flutes with the same earnestness as he might learn a sonata, or embrace his wife.

He wanted to know why Mr Cow-Hen’s name was a composite of two farm animals. “Is it traditional in Ireland,” he wondered, “to use animal symbols for family names?” I tried to explain that the name “Cowen” was Gaelic, and might mean “a hollow”, or “a place from where water can’t escape”; or it might even mean “goose”. “So Cow and Hen make Goose!” Mr Mozart exclaimed.

Later we had bowls of noodle soup in a restaurant with Mrs Mozart, who appeared out of the air, and composed texts on her phone with the silent ferocity of an Aran Islander knitting jumpers.

And afterwards we went to People’s Park, and sat near Lotus Pond. Mr Mozart spoke softly.

“I enjoy my whole life,” he said quietly. “Things in life are very beautiful: even the begonia plant. And also I like speaking English, and singing, and playing music.”

When I arrived home, a week later, the fields around Mullingar were white. I lit the fires, and sat up until late in the night, listening to the snow whispering on the windowpane. My cat stretched at the fire and I put on my coat and went to the shed for coal, taking a torch with me, because there was no moon.

In China they say, “Don’t take a torch with you, if the moon is full; if you take a torch with you, the moon will be broken hearted.” I think the phrase comes from a love song, and it reflects a wonderful purity of purpose.

I kept admiring the inside of my coat – the simple thread that perfectly reshaped the pocket, and which was woven with such pure purpose. I know I will cherish that thread in my coat for a long time.

In the frozen shed I filled the bucket with coal and carried it back to the house with one hand, while I held the torch with the other, because there was no moon to light my way.