by Xiaolu Guo
A month passed, and I realised I had missed my period. I started to feel anguished, especially when my mother was around. Even though she knew little about what was going on in my life, I feared she would sense the distress in my silence. I waited for another ten days. Still nothing. I was still seeing the boy, but somehow we were no longer physically so close. He had been under pressure from his parents and had to dedicate all his time to the final exam. He offered me his Discman and said he would focus better without it. I took it and didn’t tell him that I might be pregnant. It would be worse for him, I thought, if he knew. I didn’t use the Discman very often. I was not in the mood. My body felt alien to me. I felt sick, often when confronted with a meal. Thankfully, I ate lunch and sometimes dinner at school, so my mother didn’t notice my nausea. Two more weeks passed, and I gathered some information on what I could and should do. One morning I left school, telling the teacher I was ill. I planned to go to a clinic in a neighbouring town. The surgery would take no more than half an hour – I had read that somewhere. But the bus trip took me an hour and a half. Shortly after I got on the bus, I began to vomit. There were many peasants on the bus, with their baskets of vegetables and caged chickens. Stretching my head out of the window, I puked miserably after each stomach cramp. Despite my physical agony, I worried that if I could not complete my mission today, or if I returned home too late, then the whole world would discover my secret. And if my mother found out, that would be the end of my life.
As I was throwing up, the passengers next to me glanced at me with sympathy. But the driver couldn’t have cared less. His foot stepped on the gas pedal and we drove jerkily along the bumpy country road. At that time we had only a state bus service and the driver had to arrive at each stop on time. Finally I got off the bus and found the clinic. I registered myself, and waited in anguish to be called. The nurse came and tested my urine. I was informed that I was definitely pregnant. We were under the One Child Policy then. Abortion was the most common daily practice in any hospital. The doctors and nurses were very efficient at this particular task. I don’t remember how long I waited. I sat on a chair in a very shabby hall, with constant stomach cramps and a bitter metallic taste in my mouth, worrying about what would be in store for me next. Finally I was called into the operating theatre. Two women in white uniforms received me with few words. Since I was not a minor, they didn’t question me. One of them simply enquired: ‘Did your family come with you?’ I nodded, lying: ‘Yes, they are waiting outside.’ I thought if I told them I had come alone, it might look suspicious. They didn’t ask anything more, and just treated me as an object. I imagined they must go through this so many times each day, and they had to finish each procedure quickly so as to get on with the next. I was told to remove my pants and lie down on the operating table. I didn’t know what to expect or what kind of instrument they would use. Without warning, a cold metallic object entered my vagina. I was petrified by a sucking mechanical sensation in my abdomen.
An hour later, I was back on the same bus home. I felt sick and weak but, strangely, I didn’t vomit on the way back. It was inexplicable, since I had always suffered from carsickness. It was June, and the sky was still very clear and bright. I prayed that the bus wouldn’t arrive too late. That evening, when I finally opened the door, my mother was in the kitchen. She was cooking. As usual, she didn’t even raise her head to look at me. She simply told me to peel the yams. I walked to the dining table. There, a small basket of yams was waiting for me. I sat down and started to peel them, in silence.
Two months later, I received a letter informing me of the university entrance results. To my surprise, I had been accepted by a university in Beijing. The next day, when my father gave me his old suitcase, the first thing I packed was the Discman.
‘Where does this CD player come from?’ my father asked, looking at my silver music box.
‘From a friend. A goodbye present,’ I answered. Then I filled the suitcase with the best clothes and books I owned.
A few weeks later, my father accompanied me on the journey to Beijing. My mother stayed behind. On the train to the northern capital, I thought of my secret abortion, and I said to myself: never ever get pregnant again.
SEVEN
左
LEFT
Marriage of Convenience
– If we get married, then people will think I just want the marriage in convenience.
– It’s not marriage in convenience. It’s called a marriage of convenience.
The weather was still cold and grey, but we began to go out more. You wore exactly the same padded jacket you’d been in since the autumn, but I wrapped myself up from head to toe. On our way to the Saturday market, we passed a jewellery shop. Normally I wouldn’t stop in front of a jewellery shop. Somehow I had never been interested in rings or diamonds. But today I stopped in front of the window, as I saw a ring in the shape of a small leaf. I stared at it, impressed by the design.
You stood behind me, watching me looking at the ring. Then you said:
‘I don’t understand people’s fascination with diamonds. If you think about its material properties, it’s just a form of coal.’
This was a very typical comment from you, a non-sentimental man.
‘No, I’m not looking at diamonds,’ I explained. ‘I’m looking at that leaf-shaped ring.’
I walked in, and then realised it was an expensive shop for wedding accessories. Half-heartedly, you followed me in. On the glass shelves, there were pairs of wedding rings for sale.
The salesman looked at us, and smiled.
‘Can I help you?’
We shook our heads awkwardly. I was embarrassed. We left the shop as quickly as we could. Once we were back on the street, you asked in a careful tone:
‘Did you like that ring?’
‘Yes. It looked nice,’ I confessed. ‘But I don’t wear rings.’
You thought for a moment, then said: ‘It’s actually not as expensive as I thought. Should I buy it for you?’
‘No, it’s a waste of money.’
This was strange, I thought. I knew you weren’t interested in this kind of stuff. What were you up to?
‘What about if I buy you a wedding ring?’ You looked at me.
‘What?’
‘Yes, why not?’
‘You serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I’m not sure I want to get married,’ I said hesitantly. Though I had to admit to myself that I was happy you had proposed.
With a pause, you said: ‘But it’ll be good for our child, don’t you think?’
I nodded. Yes, the baby.
‘How about this?’ I made a quick calculation. ‘Don’t buy that expensive ring. Instead, we rent out or sell the boat and then we get married and go on a honeymoon.’
You pondered on what I had said, then nodded.
‘I don’t want to give up Misty . . . but I guess I’ll be getting you and the baby in exchange. That’s fair.’
The jewellery shop was now at least two miles away, and we had left the market with our hands full of vegetables and fruit. You hugged me by my waist while we walked to the canal. The whole conversation had weighed down heavily on our stroll. When we got to our boat, my mood was lighter and I felt happy. Perhaps happy was not a right word. But my future now seemed much clearer. My visa, my legal stay in Britain, all this could be solved very quickly.
‘You know, if we get married, people will think I just want the marriage in convenience.’
‘It’s not marriage in convenience. It’s called a marriage of convenience.’ You corrected me, quite humourlessly.
‘Okay, marriage of convenience. Marriage of helping or cheating for legal status.’
‘Well. It is a marriage of convenience and that’s perfect. I think we should only get married if it helps each other, and if it does, then it’s a perfect marri
age.’
I was unclear if you were being serious or not.
Then you added: ‘Love doesn’t need a marriage certificate. We only need that for practical matters.’
‘Okay, let’s do it – but only on the condition that we won’t tell your family now, until we have agreed together on a good time to tell them.’ I felt nervous as I hadn’t met them yet, and it all seemed quite quick.
You shrugged. ‘That’s fine with me. My parents are not stuck in the mud.’
Stuck in the mud? I wondered.
Later on that night, we warmed each other under the damp duvet. The boat swung a little in the wind, and I quietly hoped you would not be too sad to lose the boat. Perhaps it was time for you to build a real home for us. A real home. A house with solid walls and proper roofs.
Rights to Marry
– So our marriage plans are kaput.
– I can’t believe it. What about the immigrants and refugees who come to this country? Without birth certificates they are not allowed to marry?
A carp wants to jump over the dragon’s gate, but it is still a carp. There seemed no easy way for me to turn myself into a dragon. We thought getting married would make my staying in Britain easier, but it led to a more complicated matter. To register our marriage, I needed some legal documents. But I didn’t have a birth certificate. Without a birth certificate I could not register for marriage in Britain.
‘Maybe we could go to Germany to register the marriage?’
‘Germany?’ You stared at me. ‘You really don’t know how complicated the Germans can be. The authorities would need an Ehefähigkeitszeugnis before anything else. Jesus Christ!’
‘What is that?’
‘An Ehefähigkeitszeugnis certificate states that there are no legal hindrances to your marriage in Germany, which means both people have to prove they are single before the registration. And that is a pain in the bureaucratic ass.’
I sighed.
‘But how come you don’t have a birth certificate?’ you asked. ‘Surely it must be somewhere in a dusty drawer or on a shelf in your home town.’
‘I never had one. We only had a hukou registration, which is the household record from the government.’
‘So our marriage plans are kaput.’
‘I can’t believe it. What about the immigrants and refugees who come to this country? Without birth certificates they are not allowed to marry?’
‘Well, they probably need refugee documents to prove they don’t have a birth certificate. How would you prove that you can’t provide a birth certificate? It’s all bullshit!’
I thought for a moment, and shook my head.
‘Tell me more about this hukou registration,’ you asked, furrowing your brows.
‘Yes, the household registration, but I don’t know where it is. If my parents were alive they could help. Anyway, even if it still exists it would have expired long ago. We were supposed to renew our records every few years . . .’
‘Why are things so complicated with you? Are the Chinese always so vague?’
I thought about what I could do. Maybe I had to go back to China again, all the way to my home town, to find an authority who could get me a certificate. But the thought of going back to a place that no longer bore the same name and was no longer located in the same administrative area, it was not even physically there any more, killed my desire to return.
Finally, after a few days of telephone conversations with my aunt in China, she agreed to help me obtain a birth certificate. She would need to do some bribing, in order to speed things up.
‘As soon as we get the marriage certificate, we’ll go on a honeymoon. Don’t forget!’ I added: ‘And the boat will be on sale, as we agreed.’
‘You don’t need to remind me.’ You glanced at me with a sigh. Then you asked: ‘Where do you want to go for the honeymoon?’
‘Rome!’
I smiled and embraced you.
Power is Beautiful
– Obviously power is beautiful. Women in particular know that.
– Yes, women are attracted to power, but they don’t think it’s beautiful. It’s men’s illusion to think power is beautiful.
There was a moment of happiness after the brief ceremony at our local town hall, but our honeymoon began with a quarrel. I wanted to have a short stop in Pisa before Rome, because I had heard that Chinese immigrants had taken over the town. But for you Pisa was only a badly constructed tower surrounded by easyJet tourists. And you preferred Florence to Rome. I said I could not stand the museums and stiffness of Florence. So we had to choose a compromise to settle the argument. We went to Lucca.
Lucca is a walled medieval town. We moved about its narrow streets and ate bruschetta followed by endless gelatos. We visited a hanging garden on the roof of the Torre Guinigi. The tower is said to be seven hundred years old and remains intact. In my eyes, a tall tower is a bleak image, a statement of unfriendliness and exclusion. We had to walk up a narrow winding staircase forever, but it only led to a solitary sky hole.
‘People were mad in the old days,’ I said. ‘To build such a tall tower just to demonstrate their power and to compete with other aristocrats in the area.’
‘It wasn’t just about power.’ You touched the rough wall on the staircase, and examined your dusty fingers. ‘The ancient Romans first discovered how to make cement and bricks. That’s why the medievals could build really high buildings.’
‘So, technology first, beauty second!’
‘It’s also bloody beautiful.’
‘Oh, you mean power is beautiful!’
‘Obviously power is beautiful. Women in particular know that.’ You said this without irony.
‘Yes, women are attracted to power, but they don’t think it’s beautiful. It’s men’s illusion to think power is beautiful.’
‘Oh, you’re just playing with words again.’ You left me and strode up the stairs.
I followed you, unwillingly, irritated by your impatience.
We stood at the top of the tower. The wind and height made me dizzy. Vertigo must be to do with unworldly feelings in human bodies. It is not natural for us to stand next to chasms. I wondered how and why other people didn’t feel queasy at all on a tower like this. Or was it because of my pregnancy? A young couple asked me to take a photo of them, kissing as they posed against the Tuscan hills. I clicked the camera for them. ‘Do you want us to take one too?’ they asked me in return. ‘No, thanks!’ Both you and I declined the offer. You made one of your sniggering sounds. Why would we want to be dummies like everyone else? Being a tourist was already dreadful enough.
The view of the Tuscan landscape was picturesque in the soft afternoon light. You stared at the distant towns and mountains, ruminating about something. What would your parents say about our relationship? You told them a little bit about me but far from the whole story. Would you one day feel regret about us being married? And how would you take to the role as a father?
As we were leaving, I reached out my hand and touched one of the skinny oak trees, rooted on top of the tower. It trembled in the cruel wind as if it were trying to speak to me. I was disappointed by the sight of it. The tourist guide said these oaks were supposed to be old and even ancient, but in reality they were just skinny young oaks, struggling to stay rooted on top of a vicious tower. They needed real roots, real soil, real ground! I could hear their screaming and cries in the wind.
An Unknown Language
The murmuring mass of an unknown language constitutes a delicious protection . . . Here I am protected against stupidity, vulgarity, vanity, worldliness, nationality, normality.
—Roland Barthes
The unknown language around me. The murmuring mass around me. Except that this was not a murmuring mass in Japan, this was a loud mass in Italy. This language was not too foreign for you, and you
could make out many words, especially from food menus. But it was foreign for me. Even though this culture uses the same twenty-six Latin letters, just like most European languages – the same alphabet. But I didn’t come from this alphabet. I came from the non-alphabetic. I came from ideograms. I came from 50,000 characters. Each character is composed with many symbols and strokes, like a tangled forest of meanings.
Also, I didn’t feel this ‘delicious protection’ that Barthes felt. The only protection for me would be to really try to understand the foreign language. So that I, a secondary citizen in a white European world, would not downgrade into a tertiary citizen. But I knew that even if one day I could master a foreign language – one of the major European languages – I would still not become a primary citizen of the West.
Rome
– All the old temples in Rome, for me, somehow, are not as memorable as those vigorous flowers.
– Don’t say that in front of the Romans!
We had been to Rome before, separately. But we held different ideas about the city. Maybe I was a hopeless peasant, but the first things that attracted me to a place were not historical sights, but its landscape and plants.
For me Rome was not the Colosseum or the Vatican, but the pink oleander buds in the spring wind. They were everywhere. They had not bloomed yet but one could expect they would bloom in one night with a warm breeze. The sight of those robust plants with slender leaves under the blue sky made me nostalgic for my childhood. I associated the oleander flowers with south China. They thrive in hot weather and are evergreen. In the province where I grew up, we had no winters. So the trees were green for eternity. And those oleanders, clustered together with heavy large flowers in deep December. Even though we children were constantly told that the big flowers were toxic, we still picked them and decorated our braids with them. I remember holding a little flowering branch tightly in my hand and waiting to see how they could poison me. Would they turn my fingers yellow or purple? Would I faint and die the next day? But nothing happened. As I walked home from school, the sight of butterflies dancing on the pink blooms confirmed my disbelief in their danger.
