by Gao Xingjian
That dream was several decades later, after he had been in the West for some time, in a small inn in the city of Tours in Central France. He had just woken up but was still in a daze. Behind the gauze curtain, old louvered shutters with peeling paint half-blocked the gloomy gray sky between the leaves of a plane tree. In the dream he'd just had, he was in that old two-story house, standing on the upstairs balcony that hadn't collapsed, leaning on a rickety wooden railing and looking down. Beyond the gate was a pumpkin patch where he used to catch crickets in the heaps of tiles and rubble among the vines. He clearly remembered that behind the wooden partition in the dream there were many rooms where guests used to stay. The guests had all disappeared just like his grandmother, just like his past life. In that life, memory and dream intermingle and the images transcend time and space.
Since he was the eldest son and eldest grandson, everyone in the family-including his maternal grandmother-had great expectations of him. However, his frequent bouts of illness from early childhood were a worry, and they had his fortune told many times; the first time, he recalled, was in a temple, when his parents took him with them to Lushan to escape the heat. The Immortal Grotto was a famous attraction. Next to it was a big temple with a vegetarian hall as well as tea stalls catering to tourists. It was cool inside the temple and there were not many visitors. In those times, people were carried up the mountain in sedan chairs, and he sat on his mother's lap tightly clutching the handrail in front of him, but couldn't help looking down the deep crevasse at the side. Before leaving China, he revisited the place, which, of course, already could be reached by bus, but couldn't find the temple. Even the ruins had vanished without a trace. However, he clearly remembered that on the wall of the visitors' hall in the temple there was a long scroll painting of Zhu Yuanzhang with a pockmarked face. The temple, it was said, was founded in the Ming Dynasty and, before becoming emperor, Zhu Yuanzhang was said to have sought refuge there. Something as concrete and complex as this could not have emerged from a child's imagination. Moreover, a few years ago, among the treasures of the Palace Museum in Taipei, he saw the scroll painting of Zhu Yuanzhang with a pockmarked face. So this temple had actually existed, and the memory had not been imagined, and the old monk's prediction had, in fact, come true. The old monk had warned in a loud voice: "This little one will suffer many disasters and hardships. It will be hard for him to survive!" The old monk even slapped him hard on the forehead. It gave him a fright but he didn't cry. He remembered this because he had always been spoiled and had never been slapped.
Many years later, he developed an interest in Chan Buddhism, and on rereading those Chan conundrums, he realized that the old monk had probably given him his first lesson in life.
He did have another sort of life, only afterward he simply forgot about it.
2
The curtain is partly open. Against the black shadow of the mountain, blocks of lit apartments loom. The sky above the mountain is gray, and the brilliant mass of lights from the night market shines onto the ledge of the window. The insides of the transparent post-modernist building opposite can be seen distinctly, and as the elevator slowly rises in its tubular frame to the level of your room you can even make out the figures of the people in it. With a long-range lens, from over there, it would certainly be possible to photograph the inside of your room, even how you make love with her could be photographed.
However, you do not have to hide, and there is nothing you must avoid doing. You are not a movie star or a television star, or an important politician, or a local Hong Kong magnate who's afraid of being exposed in the newspapers. You hold French travel documents as a political refugee and have been invited for this visit, your room has been booked and paid for by someone else. You presented your documents on checking into this big hotel, bought by the Mainland government, so your name has been entered into the computer at the reception desk in the lobby. On hearing your Beijing accent, the supervisor and the girl at the desk looked embarrassed but, in a few months, after Hong Kong is returned to China, they will also have to speak with a Beijing accent, and are probably taking lessons right now. It is their duty to keep tabs on what guests are doing, now that the proprietor is the government, so this episode of lovemaking in the nude that you have just indulged in will certainly have been videotaped. Also, for security reasons, in a big hotel, installing a few more video cameras would not be money wasted. Sitting on the bed, you have stopped sweating, feel cold, and want to turn off the buzzing air-conditioner.
"What are you thinking?" she asks.
"Nothing."
"Then what are you looking at?"
"The elevator going up and down in the building opposite. You can see the people inside the elevator, there's a couple kissing."
"I can't see them," she sits up in the bed.
You're talking about using a long-range lens.
"Close the curtains."
She is lying on her back, her white body completely bare except for the luxuriant clump of downy hair between her legs.
"They wanted to make a video but the hairs were too stark," you tease.
"Who are you talking about? Here? Who's making videos?"
You say it's a machine, that it's automatic.
"Impossible, this isn't China."
You say that the Mainland authorities have bought the hotel.
She sighs softly, sits up, and says: "You've got a phobia." She puts out her arm and runs her fingers through your hair. "Switch on the table lamp, I'll go and switch off the main light."
"No need. Just now we were in too much of a hurry for me to have a good look."
You utter sweet words, bend down to kiss her lustrous white belly in the bright light, and ask, "Do you feel cold?"
"A little," she laughs. "Want some more cognac?"
You say you'd like some coffee. She gets out of the bed, switches off the air-conditioner, plugs in the electric kettle and puts instant coffee into a cup. Her full breasts sway weightily.
"Don't you think I'm fat?" she says with a laugh. "Chinese women have better figures."
You say, not necessarily. You adore her breasts, their solidity, their sensuousness.
"Haven't you ever had…?"
Facing you, she sits in the round chair by the window and leans back, tilting her head and letting you look as much as you want. She is blocking the illuminated building with the elevator, and the mountain behind looks darker. On this wonderful night, you say that her body is incredibly white, as if it's not real.
"And you want coffee so that you will be more awake?" There is scorn in her eyes.
"So that I can hold onto this instant better!"
You say that life, at times, is like a miracle and you are lucky to be alive. All this is pure coincidence and yet it is real and not a dream.
"I'd like always to be dreaming but it's just not possible. I prefer not to think of anything."
She sips the cognac and closes her eyes. She is a white German woman with very dark hair and long eyelashes. You get her to part her legs so you can see clearly and have her deeply imprinted in your memory. She says she doesn't want memories, only to feel this instant. You ask if she can feel you looking at her. She says she can reel you roaming over her body. Where have I roamed? you ask. She says from her toes to her waist, oh-she's gushing again, she says she wants you. You say you want her, too, but you also want to see how this body, so full of life, twists and turns.
"For a better photograph?" she asks, her eyes closed.
Yes." Your eyes are fixed on her and scour her entire body.
"Can you photograph everything?"
"Nothing is left out."
"Aren't you afraid?"
"Of what?"
You say you have no inhibitions. She says she has even less. You say this is Hong Kong, and China is now far away from you. You get up and press against her. She asks you to switch off the main light, and you again enter her moist body.
"Are you deeply attracted to me?" She is
slightly breathless.
"Yes, I'm buried." You say you are buried in her flesh.
"Flesh only?"
"Yes, and there are no memories, only this instant."
She says she also needs to be fused like this in darkness, in nebulous chaos.
"Just to feel the warmth of a woman…"
"Men also have warmth. It's been a long time since…"
"You've had a man?"
"Since I've had this sort of sensation, this trembling…"
"Why?"
"I don't know, I don't know why…"
"Try to say why!"
"I wouldn't be able to make myself clear…"
"Is it because it happened so suddenly and was totally unexpected?"
"Don't ask."
But you want her to tell you! She says no. But you keep at her, keep taking it further, go on asking her. Is it because you've met by chance? Is it because you don't understand one another? Is it more exciting because you're strangers? Or does she simply seek after such thrills? She shakes her head each time to say no. She says she's known you a long time; even though many years have passed and she'd only seen you twice, your image stayed with her and grew more and more distinct. She also says that just now, a few hours ago, when she saw you she became excited. She says she doesn't casually go to bed with men, she isn't a slut, but she doesn't lack men either.
Don't hurt her like this… You're moved by her, need to be intimate with her and not just sexually. Hong Kong is a foreign place for you and for her. That small association with her is a memory from ten years ago on the other side of the sea, when you were still in China.
"It was in your home, one night in winter…"
"That home was confiscated a long time ago."
"Your home was warm, special, it had a warm feeling."
"It was warm air piped in by a generator. The pipes were always very hot. Even in winter, only a single layer of clothing was needed inside. The two of you arrived in big padded overcoats with upturned collars."
"We were worried about being seen and getting you in trouble-"
"Yes, the regular plainclothes police were on duty at the front of the building. They finished at ten o'clock at night. It was pretty awful for the next shift in the howling winter wind."
"It was Peter who suddenly thought to drop in on you, without phoning. You were old friends, he said, and as he was taking me to your home it was best going at night to avoid being stopped and questioned."
"I didn't have a line installed because I didn't want friends talking carelessly on the phone, and also to avoid having anything to do with foreigners. Peter was an exception, he'd come to China to study Chinese. At the time he was passionate about Mao's Cultural Revolution and we used to argue often, but he'd been a friend for some time. How is he?"
"We separated long ago. He was a representative in the China office of a German company, found a Chinese girl, married her, and took her back to Germany. I heard that he's now the boss of a company he had started up. Back then, I'd only just arrived in Beijing to study. I didn't speak much Chinese and it was hard to make Chinese friends."
"I remember you, of course I remember you. As soon as you came through the door you took off your big padded coat and your scarf, and there stood a very beautiful young foreign woman!"
"With big breasts, right?"
"Of course, very big breasts. Blushing white skin and bright red lips even with no lipstick. Really sexy."
"You couldn't have known at the time!"
"You were so bright red, it was impossible not to notice."
"It was because it was too hot in the room and we'd been cycling for more than an hour."
"That night you sat quietly opposite me but didn't say much."
"I was struggling to understand what was being said. You and Peter were talking all the time, although I don't recall what about. I didn't know much Chinese at the time but I remember that night, I had a strange feeling."
You, of course, also remember that winter night, you had candles burning, which added to the warmth, and you couldn't tell if there was anyone downstairs watching your window. You had finally obtained a little apartment, a decent refuge, a home, and you had a fortress to protect yourself from the political storms outside. She sat on the carpet with her back against the bookcase. It was a clipped woollen carpet made for export, that had gone on the domestic market. Sold at a reduced price as a second-grade product, it was still expensive, exactly the amount of advance royalty you had received for your book. However, that book, which did not so much as touch on politics, stirred up a great deal of trouble for you. Her shirt collar was open and her skin was very white, and those long legs in sleek black stockings were enticing.
"Don't forget, you had a girl in your apartment. She was wearing very little and, unless I've remembered wrongly, she was barefoot."
"She was usually naked, and she was when the two of you came in the door."
"That's right, we had been sitting and drinking for some time before the girl quietly came out of the bedroom."
"You two were obviously not going to leave right away. I asked her to join us, so she put on a dress."
"She shook hands with us but didn't say a thing all night."
"Like you."
"That night was very special, I had never seen a Chinese home with that sort of atmosphere…"
"It was special because a white German girl with bright red lips had suddenly arrived…"
"And there was also a barefoot little Beijing girl who was lovely and slender…"
"Flickering candlelight…"
"We sat drinking in your warm, cozy apartment as we listened to the howling wind outside."
"It was unreal, just like it is now, and probably there are also people watching…"
You again think that the room is probably being videotaped.
"Is it still unreal?"
She clamps you with her legs and you close your eyes to experience her, hugging the fullness of her body and mumbling, "There was no need to go before morning…"
"Of course, there wasn't…" she says. "At the time, I didn't want to leave. It was a bitterly cold winter night and we had to cycle for an hour. Peter wanted to go, and you didn't try to get us to stay."
"Yes, that's right." You say that it was the same with you. You had to cycle back with her to the barracks.
"What barracks?"
You say that she was a nurse in the army hospital and she couldn't stay out overnight.
She lets go of you and asks, "Who are you talking about?"
You're talking about her army hospital being in the barracks in the outer suburbs of Beijing. She used to come every Sunday morning, and on the Monday morning before three o'clock you had to set off and cycle for more than two hours to get her back to the barracks before dawn.
Shrinking back, she pushes you away, sits up and asks, "Are you talking about that Chinese girl?"
You open your eyes and see her glaring at you. You apologize and explain that it was she who started talking about the little lover you had at the time.
"Do you long for her a lot?"
After pondering, you say, "That's in the remote past. We lost contact long ago."
"And you've had no news about her?" She sits on her haunches.
"No." You also move away from her and sit on the edge of the bed.
"Don't you want to look for her?"
You say that China is already very distant from you. She says she understands. You say you have no homeland. She says her father is German but her mother is a Jew, so she has no homeland either. But she can't get away from her memories. You ask her why not? She says she isn't like you, she's a woman. You say oh, and stop talking.
3
He needed a nest, a refuge, he needed a home where he could be away from people, where he could have privacy as an individual and not be observed. He needed a soundproof room where he could shut the door and talk loudly without being heard so that he could say whatever he wanted to
say, a domain where he as an individual could voice his thoughts. He could no longer be wrapped in a cocoon like a silent larva. He had to live and to experience, be able to groan or howl as he made wild love with a woman. He had to get a space to exist, he could no longer endure those years of repression, and he needed somewhere to discharge his reawakened lust.
At the time his small partitioned room could only hold a single bed, a desk and a bookshelf, and in winter, when he put in a coal stove with a metal pipe for warmth, it was hard to move around with another person in the room. The worker and his wife having intercourse, or their baby having a pee, on the other side of the very basic partition, could be heard clearly. Two other families lived in the building and they all shared the tap and drain in the courtyard, so whenever the girl visited his small room, she was observed by the neighbors. He had to leave the door partly open as they chatted and drank tea. His wife-a woman he'd married ten years earlier and from whom he'd been separated for almost as long-had gone to the Party committee of the Writers' Association, which had in turn arranged for the street committee to report on him. The Party interfered in everything, from his thinking and his writing to his private life.
When the girl first came looking for him, she was dressed in an oversized, padded army uniform with a red collar-badge. Her face flushed, she said she'd read his fiction and had been deeply moved by it. He was on guard with this girl in an army uniform. Looking at her childlike face, he asked how old she was. She said she was studying at the army medical college and was an intern at the army barracks. She said she was seventeen that year. An age, he thought, when girls easily fall in love.
