A Lover's Discourse

by Xiaolu Guo

  Only eight years old, I didn’t understand what an abortion was. But seeing the bleeding tissues hanging down from the buffalo’s lower body at that moment formed my concept of birth and death. Finally, the placenta dropped onto the ground, completely. And the buffalo struggled to stand up, letting out a low and painful grunt.

  ‘To live is just to suffer. Nothing good comes out of it.’

  My mother walked away from the animal. Bringing back a bucket of water, she washed the blood off the ground.

  Now, with my own daughter in my arms, I tried to imagine how my mother had nursed me, or if indeed she had at all. But my imagination didn’t get very far. The baby had had colic for the last few days and was vomiting milk after every feed. I tried lying her on her tummy and rubbing her back, or bathing her and massaging her belly. When she felt better, she would immediately cry for food. Then there was the diarrhoea. Often an explosion of poo that would seep out through her nappy, soaking her onesie. And I would scream to you while lifting her two small legs:

  ‘Quick! Get me a wipe!’

  There was no response, only the sound of Radio 4 – Melvyn Bragg’s In Our Time – from the kitchen. But you were not in the kitchen. I could smell burnt toast.

  I called again.

  Still no answer. One of her legs slipped from my grip and landed firmly in her own poo. Now the poo was spreading everywhere: the bed sheet, pillow, blanket and your mum’s teddy. I let the other leg go, stormed into the bathroom and grabbed the wipes. Only then did you appear with a book in your hand.

  ‘Did you not hear me screaming?’

  ‘No. When?’

  ‘When? Are you sure your ears are okay?’

  ‘I’m not deaf. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Then why can’t you just hear me?!’

  I wiped the brown liquid from the baby’s bottom and tried to clean the sheet.

  ‘What’s that word, heedless. You’re heedless! You prefer reading books to helping me!’

  ‘I am not heedless.’ You shrugged, watching me wipe the bed.

  ‘Okay, you are not heedless. But if you cannot hear the screaming, you should get your ears checked!’

  ‘Give me a break. How come you have become such a hysterical person?’

  ‘Me? Hysterical? If I am hysterical, it’s you who have made me hysterical!’

  Now, at home, we talked only about buying nappies, washing sheets or visiting clinics. We no longer talked about films or books. Cultural activities seemed to belong to other people – either rich people with nannies and servants, or childless people. Had we become a typical boring middle-class family of the kind I had loathed before I entered this state of matrimony? How could I get out of this? It was too late. So this was the club most women belonged to, and on which society built itself. It seemed to me that the whole of human life (biologically and socially) was a conspiratorial system designed against women.

  Abandon

  – How can you abandon me for two weeks when I am still breastfeeding?

  – I am not abandoning you. I need to make a living for us.

  Then you announced that you had to go to Germany for a big project. You would be joining a local team planning an organic farm. You needed to be away for two weeks.

  ‘Two weeks? You’re going to leave me and the baby here for two weeks?’

  ‘I’ll do a big shop for you before I leave: drinks, food and tons of nappies. I promise.’

  ‘What a pile of shit. How can you abandon me for two weeks when I am still breastfeeding and can hardly sleep?’

  ‘I’m not abandoning you. I could call my mother and ask if she’ll come over to help?’

  I shook my head. The thought of living with my mother-in-law in this flat scared me. I’d rather be alone.

  ‘I’m sorry. I know two weeks is long. But I need to make a living for us. You have no income at the moment.’

  You were right. But still, I’d rather be poor than be left alone with this little whining thing. This was unfair. Why is it always the woman who takes care of the child?

  Then you left. I had no family in this country, and no friends. Since I had arrived here, my days were either consumed in the library or spent with you. I had not built any social network. I knew a few PhD students from my studies, but they weren’t close enough to call if I felt low. They say the first-generation immigrants have the toughest survival experience, and I wondered if I had officially become a first-­generation immigrant, now that I had given birth to a British child.

  All day long, I stayed in my pyjamas, except for when we went out to the shops. I looked at the baby and doubts about the choices I had made swamped me. I should have chosen a career before childbearing. How stupid. And I kept asking myself: WHY THE HELL DO WOMEN DO THIS? Many do it willingly and repeatedly. Now I knew, first hand, what an effort a woman has to make just to keep a young baby alive – to keep it fed and warm, away from physical harm, meningitis or whooping cough. How utterly dependent infants are. I asked myself: how is it possible that it is so difficult to keep a child safe but so easy to kill someone? Every day when you turn on the television or open a newspaper, there are reports of killings. Men kill other men, with rage or with cold precision and detachment, en masse or one by one. Men kill without thinking about those mothers who have tried so hard to keep their children alive until the day they get shot. Women bringing humans into the world does not make the news, and their efforts are not acknowledged. What kind of world is this? I should have become a radical feminist. I should never have given birth. And I should never have brought a life into this awful world.

  Brexhausted

  – We are Brexhausted. Everybody has started to hoard medicines. They say some medications might run out once Britain crashes out of the EU.

  You called me every day from north-west Germany. Sometimes you sent text messages too. But then for about two days, I didn’t hear anything from you. I called, and your phone was out of range. I didn’t know where you were. Even in a remote part of Germany, there should have been telephone signals. Were you so busy that you were not even able to write me an email? With the baby in my arms, I thought of the story of Lady Meng Jiang. A tale from two thousand years ago. Lady Meng Jiang’s husband was sent by imperial officials to build the Great Wall of China. She waited for him to return, year after year. But she received no news from him. Unable to bear her lonely existence, she decided to set out to the north, taking his winter clothes with her. After the long journey she reached the Great Wall only to find her husband had already died. Lady Meng Jiang wept bitterly. She wept day and night on the Wall, her tears drenching the stones beneath her. Eventually a part of the Great Wall collapsed. Among the broken masonry and bricks, she looked down and found the bones of a man. She recognised the skeleton of her dead husband.

  Well, you were away, designing an unknown great wall somewhere in Germany. And I knew I would never become a woman who would carry a child and winter clothes for you to wear. If I did not hear anything from you this afternoon, I would leave this house and leave you altogether. I cursed you in my heart, looking at my phone in one hand and clutching the baby in the other. Perhaps the curse would have some power. And then the phone rang. It was you, sounding apologetic and guilt-ridden, explaining your whereabouts and your activities. ‘I was in a mining site with a group of architects and then we visited a nuclear power station. It’s amazing how much I learned about the area . . .’ Your voice was infused with excitement. I hung up. I was jealous of you and your ungraspable world.

  And I had not told you that the baby had had an ear infection for the last few days. I was having problems getting medi­cines for her. Yesterday I took her to the chemist again, to see if they had the new antibiotics coming in this week. I was told that children’s antibiotics were not going to be available for some days. The ladies shook their heads, sympathetically, and added:

 
‘We are Brexhausted. Everybody has started to hoard medicines. They say some medication might run out once Britain crashes out of the EU.’

  Strange, and terrible, I thought. We knew nothing of what our future would be in this country! Perhaps no one really knew what was going on, including the current prime minister herself. And the Queen wouldn’t have a clue either. Apparently, she was still very much alive.

  Wasteland zu Verkaufen

  – I don’t want to live on a wasteland!

  – Don’t just look at this picture. You need to have some imagination!

  Then, after two weeks, you came back. But you didn’t come back by yourself, you brought a hippy caravan with you. The caravan was parked outside our flat, it was red and blue but with mud up the sides. You looked so scruffy, with a beard covering your chin and cheeks. You hair was long and greasy. In your rucksack, there were stacks of documents about the land, and maps, as well as your drawings.

  ‘How is the baby?’ you asked, taking her from my arms. Your hands were cold and dirty.

  ‘Stop! Don’t give her germs! Wash your hands first!’

  You returned from the bathroom, while I was looking at the van outside the window.

  ‘You bought that?’ I frowned.

  ‘Yes, don’t you like it? It was cheap, cost almost nothing.’

  You took the baby and began to make faces at her. But she cried instantly, and you stopped making faces.

  ‘What do we want with a van?’ I asked. ‘We live in London, we don’t need it!’

  ‘Aren’t you pleased that we now have a mobile home? It can fit a king-size mattress and a cot. We can even fit a mini kitchen in if you want.’

  I was speechless. First we got ourselves a boat, now a caravan. What next? I watched you making yourself coffee and toast, and there was this nervous excitement in your energy.

  ‘Guess what.’ You looked very animated and obviously couldn’t wait to tell me something. ‘I want to take you to see a piece of land I found. You’ve got to come with me to see it!’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? You found a piece of land?’

  ‘Yes, it’s not so great yet. It’s sort of a wasteland. But it will be great, I promise! It’ll be amazing! We can borrow some money and buy it! Because no one wants it – it’s been a rubbish dump for years. We’ll build a house on it and grow vegetables and fruit trees!’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It’s in Lower Saxony, where my father comes from.’

  ‘But that’s in Germany! I don’t want to live in Germany.’

  ‘Maybe not yet, but soon, I hope!’ You brought out a stack of papers from your rucksack. ‘I’ll show you.’

  You opened a map for me. Well, it was not really a map, more an architect’s site plan. I couldn’t understand what I was meant to look at. It vaguely showed a building footprint, travelways, some drainage facilities, sanitary sewer lines, water lines and some hills.

  Then you opened a newspaper, and pointed to a photo. The headline: ‘WASTELAND ZU VERKAUFEN’, which I roughly made out as ‘wasteland for sale’. The picture showed a very sad-looking mine pit with pools of dirty water, and bleak surroundings.

  ‘This looks awful. I thought Lower Saxony was a rich place,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to live on a wasteland!’

  ‘Don’t just look at this picture. You need to have some imagination!’

  Ah, imagination. Imagination was the only thing left in my life, nothing else. No roots, no job, no career.

  You swallowed hot coffee, and said with some seriousness: ‘It’s been my dream to find a cheap plot of land so I can do whatever I want on it. We can’t do that in London, or in Berlin.’

  ‘But you will never convince me to live on a sad, cold farm. No way. I’d go back to my tropical Chinese town, if I had to choose!’

  Now the baby felt some disturbance, and began to wail. She cried louder and louder. I walked away from you, softly swinging her around.

  ‘We’ll see,’ you said. ‘I am going to take you there. You’ll change your mind.’

  Hänsel und Gretel

  – You remember the ‘Hansel and Gretel’ story?

  – ‘Hansel and Gretel’?

  – Yes, one of your cruel Germanic tales! The brother and sister are so seduced by the gingerbread house, they walk in only to discover a blood-sucking witch waiting for them!

  It was the baby’s first summer and we had yet another new prime minister. I had been in this country only three years but had already seen three prime ministers. What would become of Britain? In the midst of the political turmoil, we escaped. We flew to north-west Germany, to the Lower Saxony former mine pit you had found. We had to go to Hamburg first, then drive towards the North Sea. It was a long trip, but somehow I was infected by your enthusiasm, and despite my own reservation I felt quite excited too. From the bottom of my heart, my suppressed romantic sensibility had been woken up by you, and I fantasised about an enchanted land with acres of apple trees and cherry blossom. We would have an eccentric house with a spacious kitchen and great views all to ourselves. We would grow our own vegetables, and especially my favourite artichoke plants – their large stems and leaves would be so happy, stretching out freely into the vast country space. I would probably even hear the sound of their roots growing, their flowers budding.

  We finally arrived at the site. You parked the car, and I stepped onto the sludgy wet soil, carrying the baby. Was this it? This empty expanse of sandy brown soil with a patch of sad grass? My scalp tingled as my hair begun to stand on end. It was very much like the photo – deserted and wild. In the distance, there were elderflowers growing here and there. But they only made the place feel even more deserted. And I could not believe that you had already drawn a plan with such details.

  There was an abandoned house on a little hill nearby. The house was dilapidated, the windows broken. An original farmhouse? Or maybe it used to be a lonely farmer’s barn which had housed animals before the mining started?

  You climbed up on the hill and yelled down:

  ‘Here will be our Bauernhaus, with new windows, a new roof and great views looking down into the valley. What do you think?’

  ‘With chimneys and fireplaces?’ I asked, and I didn’t know why I would ask such an irrelevant question in this situation.

  ‘Of course fireplaces and chimneys!’ you cried with excitement. ‘We can even build a swimming pool, if you like!’

  I stared at you, shaking my head in disbelief.

  ‘It will no longer be the Garden of the Waste Land,’ you continued idiotically. ‘I will call it the Garden of Earthly Delights!’

  Suddenly, the baby laughed in my arms. Her laugh was angelic, though there was also something diabolic in mini­ature in her impish giggling, which reminded me of her father.

  I spontaneously thought of the Grimms’ fairy tale – ‘Hansel and Gretel’. The brother and sister are abandoned by their stepmother in a forest, and later they find a house built with gingerbread.

  ‘You remember the “Hansel and Gretel” story?’ I asked, as you walked back down the hill.

  ‘“Hansel and Gretel”?’ You frowned a bit, looking at me as if I were losing my mind.

  ‘Yes, one of your cruel Germanic tales! The brother and sister are so seduced by the gingerbread house, they walk in only to discover a blood-sucking witch waiting for them!’

  You stopped, your trousers splattered with mud. Your excitement was quickly replaced by anger.

  ‘But we are not going to have a bloody gingerbread house. And I promise you, I will never force you to bake gingerbread.’

  I thought to myself – we Chinese only eat ginger, never bread. It would be your mother baking for you in that witch’s house.

  Mine & Yours

  – When did you start to realise what is yours and what is not yours? Do yo
u remember?

  – I don’t know. I thought everything was mine until I hit thirty.

  The decision was made. Despite my doubt, you were going to buy the German wasteland. You had been talking to your parents on the phone every two days. ‘They will help,’ you promised. ‘But it’ll be a while before we can move in, before the house is repaired and the land becomes liveable again.’

  I must be patient. I knew that. Of course. But I could not help, in our little rented flat, imagining my daughter running around in her own wild garden, full of newly planted fruit trees. And some Chinese bamboo. Yes, definitely, we would need bamboo. And perhaps a Zen pond too, with floating lotus. Yes, a Zen pond. I imagined what our life would be like, when the day finally arrived.

  But still, the child was everything I had for now. She began to walk and babbled a lot, with a hundred mixed-up languages melted into one idiolect of her own. ‘Dadadadddaba,’ she pointed to her daddy. ‘Barhbarhbarbarba,’ she pointed to the balloon. ‘Yayayayaer,’ she pointed to another baby. The more she staggered on her feet, the more she spoke.

  When the child was a year old, I took her to a local day care a couple of mornings a week. Since then she had learned more words, particularly words which were often used by her care­givers, such as ‘Stop!’ ‘No!’ or ‘More!’

  One afternoon I bought her an ice cream in the park. She was enjoying it when a little boy passed us, followed by his parents. Noticing the boy watch her eating, she suddenly felt threatened and she gulped down the rest of the ice cream as quickly as she could. Then she shouted, with her mouth full: ‘Mine! Mine!’

  Mine. This was the first possessive pronoun she had ever produced. Should I worry that she might be self-centred? Or was it natural? To know what is mine means to know what is not mine. But what is not mine, though? I asked myself.

  ‘When did you start to realise what is yours and what is not yours? Do you remember?’ On our way home, I asked you.

  ‘I don’t know. I thought everything was mine until I hit thirty.’

  ‘So what happened when you became thirty?’

  ‘I learned about failure, and that failure was not the end of everything.’