by Xiaolu Guo
Progressive Tenses (Also called “Continuous Tenses”) Progressive tenses are made with TO BE +-ING. The most common use of the progressive form is to talk about an action or situation that is already going on at the particular moment we are thinking about. But the “going to” structure and the present progressive can also be used to talk about the future.
progressive tenses
People say “I’m going to go to the cinema…”
Why there two go for one sentence? Why not enough to say one go to go?
I am going to go to the supermarket to buy some porks?
You are going to go to the Oxford circus to buy clothes?
He is going to go to the park for a walk?
“I go” is enough to expressing “I am going to go…” Really.
This afternoon, I am going to go to cinema watch double bill—Breakfast at Tiffiny’s and Some Like it Hot. Double bill, they letting people pay one time but twice of the bill, how clever the business here! Cinema is my paradise. When a person not having any idea about real life, just walk into cinema choosing a film to see. In China, I seeing some American films, like Titanic, and Rush Hours, but of course Hollywood stars speaking Mandarin to us, and I can sing soundtrack from Titanic, “My heart goes on and on,” only in Chinese translation.
American films strange in London. People at Language School tell me use student card, I can have cheap cinema ticket. Last week I go Prince Charles in Chinatown. They say is cheapest cinema in London. Two films screening: Mohol-land Driver, and Blue Velvet. All together is more than 4 hours. Perfect for my lonely night. So I buy tickets and get in.
What crazy films! I not understanding very much the English speakings, but I understand I must never walk in highway at night alone. The world scary and strange like deep dark dream. Leaving cinema, trembling, I try find bus to home, but some mean kids teasing at each other on bus stop. Shouting and swearing bit like terrorist. Old man drunk in street and walk to me saying words I not understanding. Maybe he think I cheap. England is hopeless country, but people having everything here: Queen, Buckingham Place, Loyal Family, oldest and slowest tube, BBC, Marx & Spencer, Tesco, Soho, millennium bridge, Tate Modern, London Tower, Cider and ale, even Chinatown.
Anyway, after Breakfast at Tiffany where poor woman dressing like princess and Some Like It Hot where mans dressing like womans, I go back my new home which have low renting sixty-five pounds per week. It is ugly place. It smelling pee in every corner of street. Nearby tube station called Tottenham Hale.
House is two floors, lived by Cantonese family: housewife, husband who work as chef in Chinatown, and 16-year-old British-accent son. Is like one child policy still carried on here. The garden is concrete, no any green things. Very often little wild grass growing and come out between the concretes, but housewife pull and kill grass immediately. She is grass killer. The lush next doors trees trying come through rusty iron fence, but nothing getting in this concrete family. This house like factory place in China, just for cheap labours earning money, no life, no green, and no love.
Family speaks Cantonese so I not understanding them. Chinese moon calendar is on wall. Wok, chopsticks, Mah Jong, Chinese cable TV programmes…everything inside house is traditional. Not much fun. Outside, view is rough. Old rusty railway leading to maybe more interesting place. Walking along railway I see nearby shopping centre, a McDonalds, a KFC, a Burger King, a petrol station called “Shell,” a sad looking Tottenham Hale tube station.
Every night I coming out Tottenham Hale tube station and walking home shivering. I scared to pass each single dark corner. In this place, crazy mans or sporty kids throwing stones to you or shouting to you without reasons. Also, the robbers robbing the peoples even poorer than them. In China we believe “rob the rich to feed the poor.” But robbers here have no poetry.
“Dare to struggle and dare to win.” Chairman Mao’s words like long time no see friend coming to me. I need somebody protect me, accompany me, but not staring at me in darkness. I longing for smile from man, longing for smile even only remaining several seconds.
homosexual n., adj. (person) sexually attracted to members of the same sex.
homosexual
I meet you in the cinema. It is film called Fear Eats Soul, from German director Rainer Werner Fassbinder. Programme say Fassbinder is homosexual. What is it? I open little Collins English Dictionary—THE AUTHORITY ON CURRENT ENGLISH. It tells me what is Homosexual. Strange word, I cannot imagine it.
It is the Ciné-Lumière, near South Kensington. 7 o’clock Monday, raining. Not over ten people, half are old couple with white hair. Then there you are.
You are alone. You sit almost beside me. Two seats between us. Your face quite pale in the dim light, but beautiful. I too am alone in the cinema. I always alone in the cinema before I meet you. I am bit confused whether if cinema make me less lonely or even more lonely.
On the screen, old German woman dancing with young black man in a pub. All the peoples in pub watching. Old woman she has humble smile. She has hard life. Then I see your smile in the dark light. Why I can see your smile while I am watching the film? You turn your face and understand I am looking at you. You smile again, but very gentle, and very little. You look back the screen.
You have warm smile. Is like a baby’s smile. Nobody smile to me before like you in this cold country. In the darkness, I am thinking you must be kind man.
It is a film shows impossible love between old white woman and young black man. But nothing to do with “homosexual.”
After film, we walk to exit. Our bodies so close. Out from cinema, road lights finally light up our faces.
Then, with gentle smile, you ask me:
“Did you like the film?”
I nod head.
Is like the uncomfortable English weather have some sunshine suddenly.
You ask my name. I say name start from Z, “But please no worry to remember,” I say, “my name too long pronounce.” You tell me your name, but how I remember English name? Western name are un-rememberable, like all Western look the same. But I want remember you, want remember the difference you with others. I look at your face. Brown eyes, transparent. Thick brown hair, like colour of leafs in autumn. Your voice gentle, but solid. It sound safe.
We walk from South Kensington towards Hyde Park. A long way for feets. What we talk about? I tell you of famous English creamy tea. You say prefer French Patisserie.
“Patty surly?”
“No patisserie.”
“How spell?”
“P-a-t-i-s-s-e-r-i-e.” You speak slowly with slowly moving lips, like Mrs. Margaret.
“What is it?” I not bring dictionary tonight.
You stop in front very fashionable “French Patisserie” shop. Still open at late time. Beautiful cakes waiting inside window.
“Which one would you like?” You look at me.
I worried of price.
“I don’t know,” I say. How I know about these soft stuffs?
“Then I’ll choose one for you.”
You give me a piece of creamy thing.
“What is it?” I hold it on my hand carefully.
“C-h-o-c-o-l-a-t-e e-c-l-a-i-r.”
“OK.”
I bite it, but immediately cream squeeze out, falling on street.
I look at white cream drop on dirty street.
You look at white cream drop on dirty street.
“Oh well, never mind,” you say.
So we talk, and talk, and talk, through Hyde Park, then to West End, then Islington, walk towards my place. Nearly four hours walking. My legs is so sore, and my throat so dry, but I enjoying it. Is first time a person walking beside me through chilly night. Is also first time a person being patience listen my nonsense English, and learning me bad language. You much better than Mrs. Margaret. She never let us talk freely.
When I arriving back, is already deep night.
In front of house, you kiss my two cheeks, and watch me go in door.
“Good meeting you,” you say.
Everything happen in very gentle way.
I want go immediately my room think about English man who smile and kiss me like lover, but I see Chinese landlord sitting on kitchen, watching TV and waiting for me. He is yawning. He worried my late back. At same time wife come down from upstairs bedroom in sleeping robe:
“We were so worried about you! We never come back as late as you do!”
Nervous voice remind me of my mother. My mother always talk to me like that.
I say I OK. Don’t worry.
Wife look at me seriously: “It is dangerous at night and also you are a young girl.”
I take off my guilty shoes.
“Next time if you are late, phone my husband and he can come and pick you up. This is England not China. Men easily get drunk in the pub!”
With last yawn, husband turn off TV. He look cross and tired.
I feel good after I close my bedroom’s door. My heart hold a secret to make me warm at night.
The leafs blow outside. The street lights shine on my window. I am thinking I am only person to be awake in the world. I am thinking of China, thinking of old German lady dancing, thinking of your smile. I fall to sleep with sweet feelings inside my body.
guest (gest) n. 1. person entertained at another’s house or at another’s expense; 2. invited performer or speaker; 3. customer at a hotel or restaurant.
guest
A new day. You call me. At once I know your voice. You ask if I want visit Kew Gardens.
“Queue Gardens?”
“Meet me at Richmond tube station,” you say. “R-i-c-h-m-on-d.”
Is beautiful weather. What a surprise. And so peaceful in the grassy space. So green. Cherry blossoms is just coming out and you tell me about your favourite snowdrops. We see there is different small gardens with different theme. Africa garden are palm trees. North America garden are rocks. South America garden are cactus. And there is too Asia gardens. I so happy Manager not forgetting Asia gardens.
But I so disappointing after we walk in. Lotuses and bamboos is growing in India garden, plum trees and stone bridge is growing in Japanese garden. Where is my Chinese garden?
“Doesn’t look like they’ve made a Chinese garden,” you say to me.
“But that very unfair,” I say in angry voice. “Bamboos belongs to China. Panda eats bamboos leafs in China, you must hear, no?”
You laugh. You say you agree. They should move some plants from India and Japan garden to make Chinese garden.
The meadow asking us to lie. We rest beside each other. I never do that with a man. Juice from grass wetting my white shirt. My heart melting. Sky is blue and airplane flying above us, low and clear. I see moving shadows of the plane on the meadow.
“I want see where you live,” I say.
You look in my eyes. “Be my guest.”
misunderstand v. fail to understand properly.
misunderstanding n. informal a disagreement, argument, or fight.
misunderstanding
That’s how all start. From a misunderstanding. When you say “guest” I think you meaning I can stay in your house. A week later, I move out from Chinese landlord.
I not really have anything, only big wheel-missing suitcase. The husband helping me suitcase. The wife opening door. Your white van waiting outside, you with hands on wheel.
Husband puts wheel-missing suitcase on your van, you smile to landlord and turn engine key.
I want ask something to my landlord that I always wanting ask, so I put my head out of window:
“Why you not plant plants in your garden?”
Wife is hesitate: “Why? It is not easy to grow plants in this country. No sun.”
For last time I look the concrete garden. Is same no story, same way as before. Like little piece of Gobi desert. What a life! Or maybe all the immigrants here living like that?
White van starting up, I respond to wife:
“Not true. Everywhere green in this country. How you say not easy growing plant here?”
We leave house behind. The couple is waving hands to me.
I say: “Chinese strange sometimes.”
You smile: “I don’t understand you Chinese at all. But I would like to get to know you.”
We driving in high street. My suitcase lie down obediently at back. Is so easy move house like this in West? I happy I leave my grey and no fun Tottenham Hale, heading to a better area, I think. But streets becoming more and more rough. Lots of black kids shouting outside. Beggars sitting on corner with dogs, smoking, and murmuring.
“Where your house?” I ask.
“Hackney.”
“How is Hackney?”
“Hackney is Hackney,” you say.
bachelor n. 1. an unmarried man; 2. a person who holds the lowest university or college degree.
bachelor
Your house is old house standing lonely between ugly new buildings for poor people. Front, it lemon yellow painted. Both side of house is bricks covered by mosses and jasmine leafs. Through leafs I see house very damp and damaged. Must have lots of stories happened inside this house.
And you are really bachelor. Your bed is single bed. Made by several piece of big wood, with wooden boxes underneath. Old bedding sheets cover it. Must be very hard for sleep, like Chinese peasants kang bed. In kitchen, teacups is everywhere. Every cup different with other, big or small, half new or broken…So everything single, no company, no partner, no pair.
First day I arrive, our conversation like this:
I say: “I eat. Do you eat?”
You correct me in proper way: “I want to eat. Would you like to eat something with me?”
You ask: “Would you like some coffee?”
I say: “I don’t want coffee. I want tea.”
You change it: “A cup of tea would be delightful.”
Then you laughing at my confusing face, and you change your saying: “I would love a cup of tea, please.”
I ask: “How you use word ‘love’ on tea?”
First time you make food for me it is some raw leafs with two boiled eggs. Eggy Salad. Is that all? Is that what English people offer in their homes? In China, cold food for guest is bad, only beggars no complain cold food. Maybe you don’t know how cook, because you are a bachelor.
I sit down on your kitchen table, eat silently. Lampshade is on top of my head, tap is dripping in sink. So quiet. Scarily. I never ate such a quiet food in China. Always with many of family members, everybody shouting and screaming while eating. Here only the noise is from me using the forks and knife. I drop the knife two times so I decide only use one fork in my right hand.
Chewing. Chewing. No conversation.
You look at me eating, patiently.
Finally you ask: “So, do you like the food?”
I nod, put another leaf into my mouth. I remember me is bad speak with food full of my mouth. You wait. But patience maybe running out, so you answer your question in my voice: “Yes, I like the food very much. It is delicious. It is yami.”
The memory becomes so uncertain.
The memory keeps a portrait about you. An abstract portrait like pictures I saw in Tate Modern, blur details and sketchy lines. I start to draw this picture, but my memory about you keeps changing, and I have to change the picture.
green fingers pl. n. Brit. informal skill in gardening.
green fingers
Our first night. First time we make love. First time in my life doing this.
I think you are beautiful. You are beautiful smiles, and beautiful face, and beautiful language. You speak slowly. I almost hear every single word because you speak so slowly, only sometime I not understanding what you mean. But I understanding you more than anybody else I meet in England.
Then you are taking off clothes.
I look at you. Man’s body seems ugly. Hair, bones, muscles, skins, more hair. I smell at you. Strong smell. Smell animal. Smell is from your hair, your chest, your ne
ck, your armpit, your skin, your every single little bit in body.
Strong smell and strong soul. I even can feel it and touch it. And I think your body maybe beautiful also. Is the home of your soul.
I ask how old are you, is first question Chinese people ask to stranger. You say forty-four. Older than me twenty years. Forty-four in my Chinese think is old, is really old. Leaves far behind away from youth. I say age sound old, but you look young. You say thanks, and you don’t say more.
I say I think you beautiful, ignoring the age. I think you too beautiful for me, and I don’t deserve of you.
Very early morning. You are sleeping, with gentle breathe. I look through bedroom’s window. Sky turning dim into bright. I see small dried up old grapes hang under vines by window. Their shapes are become clear and clear in cold spring morning light. Garden is messy and lush. Your clothes and socks hanging in washing line. Your gardening machines everywhere on soil.
You are man, handy and physical. This is man’s garden.
You make me feel fragile. Love makes me feel fragile, because I am not beautiful, I never being told I am beautiful. My mother always telling me I am ugly. “You are ugly peasant girl. You have to know this.” Mother tells this to me for all twenty-three years. Maybe why I not never having boyfriend like other Chinese girls my age. When I badly communicating with others, my mother’s words becomes loud in my eardrum. I am ugly peasant girl. I am ugly peasant girl.
“My body is crying for you,” you say.
Most beautiful sentence I heard in my life.
My bad English don’t match your beautiful language.
I think I fall in love with you, but my love cannot match your beauty.
And then daytime. Sun puts light through garden to our bed. Birds are singing on roof. I think how sunlight must make people much happier in this dark country and then I watch you wake up. We see each other naked, without distance. In light of reality. “Good morning,” you say. “You look even more lovely than yesterday.” And we make love again in the morning.
