by Xiaolu Guo
She is an expert:
“Is he sure about it? I tell you, darling, if he really wants to do it, then he should get it done in the States. I can give him all the contacts, and a breakdown of the costs.”
“So, how much does it work out at?” one of your friends is eager to know.
“Well, Dr. Brownstein’s fee is about $7,750, and the Surgical Facility fee is around $3,000…but then there’s a whole list of other shit—the Anaesthesia costs $700…”
“Bloody hell!” the eager one says.
“So, tell us a bit more about the surgery,” another asks.
“Well, it’s a pretty complicated process. The doctor has to create a vagina, and work out the maximal clitoral and vaginal sensation, but minimising scars…”
I am chopping some carrots and try to follow the conversation. The carrots are so hard.
I listen, and listen, and listen carefully, I even stop chopping carrots. But in the end I am lost. I am an outsider. And nobody can deny this. I am just somebody’s peasant wife. I feel lonely. I just want to talk to you, without the others here. I feel like all the expectation I collected on the journey is going to nowhere. I am getting bitter. I doubt if my absence of five weeks in this house affect you at all.
While they carry on their intense conversation about transsexual, I tell you that I lost my rocksack. And I lost all your maps. You say never mind, you don’t need those maps anymore.
One of your friends heard I just came back from Europe.
“So you went to Dublin?”
“Yes.”
“How was it?”
“It was good.”
Another person says:
“How was Paris?”
“Paris was good,” I answer.
The third person asks:
“Did you like Venice?”
“Yes, I did.”
“That’s good,” she replies.
Is that how English people speak? If so, then I must be a bit English now.
Eventually all your friends leave. Only the trails of smoke drift around the ceiling, and empty glasses stay on the table. Here we are, face to face, only two of us.
You put the kettle on, and sit down towards me.
“So, how are you, my darling? Do you want a cup of tea?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. If you want some then you have some. I don’t want any.”
“OK.” You look at me, and observe the mood on my face.
“You love lots of people, but I only love you.” I speak, painfully. I just want to push the subject right to the front line.
“What’s the problem now? Don’t you think I love you?”
“I don’t feel that intimacy with you like before.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It feels like you don’t really need me, and you never really needed me. I don’t know why I came back here.”
“What do you mean? Nothing has changed. I’m the same person as before.”
“But I feel you are cold. We haven’t made love for such a long time but you didn’t even kiss me when you walked through the door. I missed you so much, I wrote you emails everyday as possible as I can, but how many emails did you write to me in the last whole month? Only five! You knew I would be back tonight but you still brought your friends. Didn’t you want to be with your lover privately? Are your friends more important than your lover?”
I am so angry. I can see my anger everywhere in the house.
“Of course I love you. But that doesn’t mean I have to abandon my friends. I think you are being a bit selfish,” you say.
“Thank you! Yes, I am a very selfish person. I am so selfish that I want to have a quiet night with my lover after five weeks travel!”
I try hold my anger back. I don’t know what I can say. I know you didn’t have sex with anybody when I was away, and I am the one did all these messy things. How can I blame you? But at the same time I feel so disappointed about you.
“I don’t think I am a special one to you at all,” I shout.
I walk into the bathroom. I turn on the bath. I take off my clothes. And I clean myself away from all those dusts.
The night when our bodies lie down side by side, I feel I am detached. We are not one body anymore. This is the first time I feel this. There is a big obsessed “self” separating itself from my body and looking at your body. Even when we make love, even when your body is deeply in my body…
We Chinese are not encouraged to use the word “self” so often. The old comrades in the work unit would say, how can you think of “self” most of the time but not about others and the whole society?
The “self” is against “group” and “collectivism.” The “self” is the enemy of the Communist party. In middle school we were taught “the most admirable person” should forget about himself, shouldn’t satisfy his own needs.
I remember in my middle school whole class went to the Old People’s House every Friday afternoon. It was a big place for old lonely people to stay, but also abandoned babies were being raised there. The babies were always girls, girls who had been found in the rubbish bin or in the street. I remember there were lots of tiny babies sleeping in one room. We brought our soaps and basins from home, to wash the nappies and clothes. I remember several baby girls have strange white spotted skin and white hair. We were frightened to see that. We were told these babies had a special skin disease. We were scared to touch them in case our body turned to white too. And I remember two babies with strange shapes of the body. Their fingers were bound together, one of the legs twisted like vines. I was horrified. But it taught us to understand other mankind’s miseries and sufferings; to understand how lucky we are compare with these hopeless people.
But here, in this rainy old capitalism country, “self” means everything, “self” is the original creativity for everything. Art, business, fashion, society system, all deeply depend on this “self.” The connection between the world and “self” is so strong. “Self” works incredibly well.
abortion n. 1. operation to end a pregnancy; 2. informal something grotesque.
abortion
My period still didn’t come. I wait one week. Then two. Not a single drop of blood. In a vague afternoon, I decide to go to the pharmacy buy a pregnancy test box. I come back home and you are not here. I shall find out on my own. The blue symbol shows a cross: positive.
Holding the pregnant test sample in my hand, I don’t know if this baby is from you. I really don’t know. I look at that cross again and my body feels so dirty. I want to wash myself.
I wait the whole day for you to come back home. When you come back in the evening, I tell you. I say I need to go to hospital and have an abortion. As quick as possible. Surprisingly, you don’t say anything. You don’t even ask when it happened, and you don’t even ask if it is from you. You just look at me with sad face and I start to cry. You put your arms around me and hold me tight.
Five days later you drive me to a clinic in Richmond, with your broken white van. We stop in a petrol station. Is it very far away? I ask. Not very far, you answer, we will get there soon. Your van is old but it is never really totally broken down. Highway. So many cars. So many traffic lights. I feel dizzy. Everything goes fuzzy. I don’t know what you are thinking about this baby might be yours. All I know is you hold my hand very tight, only let go change gear. I feel you are only stable thing to me. You are my life.
I wake up on a wheel bed, without feeling anything unusual. I eat the orange and biscuits the nurse gives to me. I put on my coat and find my shoes back. No more fear anymore, only the sorrow of emptiness. I walk slowly back to the resting room. I see you. You stand up from piles of newspaper, walk towards me.
nostalgia n. sentimental longing for the past.
nostalgia
“You need nourishment,” you say to me.
So you buy lots of food for me from Tescos. The baby is gone so I shall eat a lot to fill the
emptiness. Salad, shrimp, fried chickens…Everything on the back of the package is “Produced for Tesco Stores Ltd.” In my hometown, when a woman has abortion, her mother cooks eel ginger soup, or a soup made from dates and lotus seeds. But not here. Here, Tesco packages look after you.
You are cooking some obscure pie for me. It is called q-u-i-c-h-e. I have never seen it before. On the bag it says:
Even Real Men Eat Quiche!
Quiche, q-u-i-c-h-e. I can’t believe it when I am swallowing this piece of shapeless hot stuff. Such an ambiguous piece of food. Totally formless. I wonder about what my parents would say if one day they come to this country, and they eat this. My mother probably will say: “It is like eating something from other people’s mouth.” And my father will say: “It must be left from earlier meal so they re-cook it but inside are already messed up.”
I will agree with my father: it is a piece of big mess indeed. You tell me it is actually from France. I don’t believe you. I think the English are too ashamed to acknowledge it is their food. So they say it is French to defend themself.
But, in the evening, you cook a fish for me. Not cod, not seabass, not any typical English fish. It is a silver carp. It is like my hometown’s fish. It smells of the river nearby our house. I remember I studied a word before, and I remember how to pronounce this word. No-stal-gia. Eating carp causes my nostalgia.
age n. 1. the length of time a person or thing has existed; 2. the time of life; 3. the latter part of human life; 4. a period of history; 5. a long time.
age
Today when you unload some box from your van, you become extremely tired. You become really old. We used to look like five years difference in other people’s eye, but now obvious twenty years gap between us. This makes me feel a little sad about you. You look at me, a small smile. There is a shadow underneath your eyes. Maybe it is me made you old. I not go out earn live. And I always demand love from you. I demand love by showing my vulnerability, again and again. I remember at the beginning of us, you have a perfect hair. But now, there is a bit grey hidden behind your ears. And your wrinkles, they are at the corner of your eyes. Sometimes I wonder if you saw these wrinkles, if you saw your grey hair hidden behind your ears.
You used to believe in totally individual life, no family, no marriage. You used to think that a personality could never be change. But recently you said, “People do change, they always change.” Look at now. You are forced by my vulnerable to show a solid love to me, to show a practical love to me. Since abortion you try hard to keep a family with me, by doing the practical things. You are tired, physically, and maybe spiritually as well.
Is this the love I want from you? Maybe I always want you become old, always want your charm in front of others disappear. So you would be weaker. Then we could be equal.
I walk towards to your van, and I help you to move the boxes which are full of bottles of wines. These boxes will be delivered to some shops in two days. The box is heavy. You will not leave in the van, because gangs in Hackney smashed your van and tried to steal whatever they could steal. You can’t trust people here, you said. We carry the box into kitchen, and put on ground, carefully and slowly.
“Why you have to do this kind of job? Why don’t you try hard sell your sculptures?” I ask. “Why you need always more money? You own your house. Is that not enough?” I continue. “If big problem, we can just move to China where your West money make you rich.”
“Listen, why can’t you just shut up for once and let me do my own thing,” you say.
I hate myself being so needy. The way I want of love, is like a hard toothbrush try to brush bad teeth, then it ends up bleeding. The harder I try, more blood comes out. But I believe love can cure everything, and eventually the teeth will not bleeding anymore. I still think love is the hope, of everything.
“Just the two of us, we can make it if we try. Just the two of us, building castles in the sky. Just the two of us, you and I…”
The music is very loud comes out from neighbour’s window.
lighthouse n. a tower with a light to guide ships.
lighthouse
The train takes us to Wales. It is our first holiday together. It feels fresh. We should have done this long ago, we should have done this before we started fighting, before everything fell apart. Now I know why there are so many holidays in the West.
It was your idea to come to this place. You want to leave city, you want your lungs to inhale the air from the mountains and the sea. And I agree. I agree because I think travelling together may help us, may remove the illness in our relationship.
In the windy afternoon, we arrive at west Wales. Coming out from the train, I breathe out the filth from London. The Irish Sea is underneath the mountain. The sky is high, and the trees are dark green. People in Wales walk slower than in London. They move slowly, drive slowly, laugh slowly, they spend time slowly. You said to me, ancient people believed humans would lose their soul if they walked too fast. So people here must have strong soul.
The mountain climbs up from some huge rocks. Piles and piles of black rocks tumble down to the sea. We walk from the valley to the mountain. The mountain is enormous. It is continually connected to another mountain, and another mountain behind. So high, it is close to the heaven. The cliffs are steep, without any plants. Perhaps the wind too strong for plants growing. Such a bleak landscape, there seems no hesitation, no confusion. When we walk on the mountain, we see the grass grows short and hard, rooted into the soil like needles. And the soil underneath my feet is very hard too. Climbing, climbing, I can hear my breath and yours, heavy and strong.
We walk into the bushes, the yin side of the mountain. It is dark and muddy. Roots are everywhere underneath my feet. We walk into the forest. The forest is decaying, wet and lush. The world becomes even quieter. You are loving it. Your body becomes lively, and you look like a man in his twenties. The birds are singing on branches, and leafs brush against each other in the wind. We sit down, inhaling and exhaling. You pick up chestnut case beside you. Green case is old, brown and sad. But when you open it, inside is silky and smooth and gentle. It smells of spring.
I see your love towards that chestnut, and I can feel my love to you.
The dark clouds quickly cover the sky, and the early evening of the winter arrives. There is something unknown hidden in the forest. There is something sucking the human soul. And I feel like soon we will be swallowed by the nature. I find the beauty of the nature can be a terror, but I don’t know if you feel the same way.
We stay in a B&B, a very old stone house. It is a village in Pembrokeshire, a village on the mountain, a village buried in green weeds, a village hidden in the night fogs, a village which have the sky holds the stars and the moon.
I lose sleep during the night. It is raining all the time. Since we arrived here I haven’t slept for one second. I think it is because I can’t get used to the quietness here. The quietness is so strong that it is almost unbearable noisy. It is so quiet everywhere that I hear all kinds of noises. I even can hear moss growing.
While I am lying on the bed with you, in this strange stone house, I know the rain is covering the woods, and the sea is tossing, ceaseless, in a not very far distance. The moon seduces the wave and the tide is moving like crazy. The rain drops on the ceiling above our bed, on the pond outside of the house, on the stinging nettles by the window. The whole world is raining. The whole world is drowning. There is no single place can remain dry, not even an inch.
The next morning, the rain becomes lighter, and the wind is less strong. We come down to the sitting room, having hot coffees with breakfast by the fire. It is safe and warm inside. Outside is gloomy. That is the word. But you don’t agree. I say I don’t want to go out anymore. I swear. You laugh at me. You say you love this kind of weather. You say that is what you love about the nature. Nature is powerful, and this power is beautiful.
“Shall we go to the lighthouse?” you ask.
“Lighthouse? Virginia W
oolf’s lighthouse?” I remember the book you gave to me.
“No, this one is more beautiful.”
“Where is it?”
“Come with me.” You stand up.
We borrow an umbrella from the old lady who owns B&B, leaving the fireplace and head to the nature again. My boots are still wet from yesterday’s mud. It is a pair of city boots, losing shape here. They don’t belong to this place. I should buy a pair of rubber boots, and a raincoat.
It is a long walk, through the woods and farms. After about one and half hours, we see the lighthouse. It is standing at the bottom of the hill. It faces to the sea. There is nothing else around it, not even a sheep. It feels like is built at the end of the world. We walk towards it. The lighthouse becomes closer and bigger. It is tall, thin, erect, like a young man’s penis. It is total solitude.
We sit down by the lighthouse. The seagulls are diving in the water. The waves are deep green. I imagine during the night, in the darkness, the light turns around, wiping off the mountain, the grassland, the path, the beach, the sea. I imagine the light searching, but maybe searching for nothing.
“Is any boat going to the other side of the sea?” I ask.
“Yes, but not today. Not everyday,” you say.
“Shall we ask around when there will be a boat here? So we can take the boat to see the other side.”
“You go if you want. I’d like to stay here,” you answer.
“But there is nothing here,” I say.
The current is quiet. The lighthouse is keeping something secret, a secret which I don’t understand.
The city weakens your energy. But you become alive again in this place. Finding a snake or an earthworm under the grass is more surprising than making art; seeing a dolphin dancing in the sea is more interesting than making art; watching a beam of red flowers turned into a string of beans is more satisfying than making art; listening a bumble bee sucking a bud is more pleasant than making art. I think you are born for nature. Why not stay here? Why force yourself to return London? You should stay, without considering me.
