by Xiaolu Guo
There are only a few people in the carriage: on my left a Muslim woman covered completely in black apart from her eyes, on my right an Englishman reading the Sun, with two naked blondes on here – a bonus. Then hippy tourists in baggy trousers travelling with large backpacks. No one talks, everyone is secretive but bored and tired; but the train engines roar loudly today.
I take out my comb and start to brush my hair. It is still wet. I normally don’t comb it, unless there’s a special occasion, but I know Laszlo cares about how a woman looks. Perhaps that’s the only thing Laszlo does care about in a woman.
The Tube ride is a boring one. I study the faces as strands of my broken black hair fall on the floor. People look at me inquisitively. A foreigner, some Chinese person who doesn’t consider the environment, or an illegal Chinese immigrant.
I contemplate the comb in my hand while people move in and out of the carriage. I think I prefer to stay inside so I can avoid seeing the outside world. I don’t like the outside world.
12.04 pm.
Laszlo is standing outside Notting Hill Gate station.
There are a few people waiting outside, but Laszlo is by far the most handsome. I spot him at once. He is tall and pale – that kills me. For some reason I like boys who have pale faces. Despite there being no sunlight, he is wearing a pair of rock-star sunglasses. He is leaning on a railing, and he smiles at me. His hair has grown much longer than it was a year ago. He wears dark jeans and a T-shirt with a big yellow orchid printed on it. The flower looks very inviting, and my heart starts to shake as I walk towards it.
Laszlo is a fashion designer. I’d never known anyone from Hungary before, let alone a Hungarian fashion designer. I don’t really know if there is fashion in Hungary. All I had ever heard about Hungary is that they eat spicy beef stew constantly. That’s it. Maybe Laszlo needs to be in London to do something fun – to meet truly fashionable people in late-night clubs, to watch skinny models parade on the catwalk, to drink cocktails with pop stars in trendy bars. We used to be lovers, but maybe ‘lover’ is too serious a word. We didn’t love each other, that’s the thing, but we liked making love together. Laszlo was going out with lots of different girls at the same time as he was seeing me. We would talk about it from time to time – I was his three-week-affair. I remember vividly how we used to make love during those three weeks. Of course, at that time I hadn’t met Pierre yet, and I was still living with my previous boyfriend, Patrick. But all that time I was thinking of leaving Patrick. Then one afternoon – our last afternoon together – after Laszlo and I had made love, I told him that I was thinking of moving out of my boyfriend’s place. ‘No, you don’t!’ Laszlo sounded very worried. He didn’t contact me for a long time after that.
I have been thinking of my mistake, the mistake I made with those men. Maybe I should listen more carefully to Woman’s Hour on BBC Radio 4 each morning, and learn how to be a modern woman – a woman who believes in independence, and has the capacity to juggle a family and a career. But I am the opposite of that. I am dependent, like a barnacle upon a rock.
‘Wow, you looking great! Nice to see you,’ Laszlo says to me.
‘So do you,’ I say. ‘I like the orchid on your chest.’
Just like any normal friends, we kiss each other on the cheek. It feels strange. His cheeks are as cold as December.
As we walk side by side through Portobello Market, I keep thinking about Hungary – his country, and yet a country I know nothing about. I have seen it on European maps and I remember that there is no sea around it, only plains. Hungarian Plains. Maybe the colour of the soil is like the Hua Pei Plains in China – brown and grey. For that, I feel sad for Laszlo. But I don’t want to say this to him.
12.37 p.m.
The wooden floor of Laszlo’s house is painted white. It looks fashionable, but a bit cold-hearted. Outside the glass door, the back garden is wild and the weeds are growing messily and lush. Dead leaves and vines cover the soil.
I open the back door and step onto the scattered leaves. A black cat jumps in from the neighbours’ wall and stares at me, a small ghost.
‘I am too lazy to make tidy garden,’ Laszlo says, standing behind me.
‘Of course, you haven’t visited London for a year,’ I say. Leaving the cat to roam the garden, I go back inside.
A pause. He says: ‘Actually I visited London before, but I didn’t call you.’ He follows me back into the kitchen. I hear the cat miaow.
‘You like some tea?’ Laszlo puts on the kettle.
His house hasn’t changed much since the last time I was here – there are just a few more oversized fashion magazines on the cold floor.
Alone, I walk upstairs. His bedroom is like a hotel room designed by a special interior decorator, everything is perfectly white and carefully arranged – velvet white lilies in a vase, milky-coloured curtains block the sunlight. His bed is as broad as an experimental theatre stage, and there are at least six pillows on it. I imagine an executive suite in a Novotel would look like this. I stare at the bed, picturing some six-foot model lying there last night. I mean, what do people do after fashion show parties? Laszlo definitely knows what to do. Jesus appears on a woollen rug hanging on the wall. I have never understood whether it’s a religious display or a piece of artwork. I never dared ask Laszlo.
A huge bathtub stands in the middle of the bedroom. I’ve always been amazed by this tub – I love the idea of having a long lie in it. I’m sure there would be plenty of hot water in Laszlo’s boiler, unlike Pierre’s. But Laszlo has never offered me a bath – perhaps he is worried that I might stay at his place longer than the usual two hours. As I am contemplating the bathtub, Laszlo comes up to me, holding two cups of tea. I take one.
‘How are you?’ Laszlo asks, as though we haven’t already been together for nearly an hour. I don’t know where to start.
‘It’s a bit of a mad time just now. I moved out of my ex-boyfriend’s house, eventually …’
‘Yes, I remember you talk about that.’ Laszlo sips his tea.
‘And now I live with a new man,’ I continue.
‘Oh, really?’ Laszlo looks at me, surprised. He holds his mug with both hands, almost sheltering it.
‘Yeah, we like each other a lot. His name is Pierre.’
I blow on the hot tea. Laszlo blows on his too.
‘That’s good, I guess,’ he says.
We stand in the middle of the snow-white bedroom. There aren’t any chairs nearby, only the bed. Laszlo’s room is the opposite of Pierre’s: in Pierre’s bedroom there are stacks of practical items for our everyday life – it’s like living in a compact supermarket.
‘I did not think you find new man so quick.’ Laszlo looks at me indifferently.
‘Not so quickly really. I haven’t seen you for a year. Things change.’
‘So he is nice?’
‘Yes.’ I pause and then in a lighter tone say, ‘Yes, he’s all right.’
‘Not English, no?’
‘No, he’s French.’ Laszlo doesn’t say anything. ‘So what about you? Any new lovers in Budapest?’
Laszlo looks up at the Jesus on the wool rug, as if he should answer instead. A few seconds later, he says: ‘Actually, I was about to be marry last month.’ I turn to look at him. It’s so quiet, I can hear my heart beating in my chest. ‘Then I decided not. It would be stupid,’ Laszlo says in a low voice.
‘But … why stupid?’
‘I want my freedom, and also, I only … like her, but I don’t love.’
Love. Laszlo has never mentioned this word to me. How difficult it is for people to get this word out of their mouths.
‘Who is she?’
‘You don’t know her. She is underwear designer.’
What to say? I don’t know anyone who designs underwear, I can’t imagine anyone spending every day designing knickers and bras.
I look around the room, trying to find something to say.
‘Lots of space here, though. You know,
at Pierre’s, we share the flat with another couple, our only private space is the bedroom, the whole place is only a little bigger than your bed.’ Laszlo gazes at his large bed, then he looks away.
‘Anyway then, how is your heart feeling?’ Laszlo asks with a strong accent. I am surprised to hear his question – I don’t know if he really cares about my heart.
‘My heart is OK; actually it is a little happier than before,’ I answer. ‘How about yours?’
‘My heart … a bit lonely,’ he says.
‘But how come? You always have someone.’
‘Not really. Not now.’
I look at Laszlo, then at his unmade bed. So no six-foot girl lay there last night then. I feel a little embarrassed by my presumptions.
Laszlo walks around his room, reaching out to touch his bathtub, his table, then the curtains, as if he is a stranger in this house.
‘Would you like to live with someone, or do you prefer to be alone?’ I ask, my eyes following him.
‘I don’t really know,’ he replies, in a melancholy mood.
I always assume Laszlo wants to be alone, because, without fail, after dating a girl for a few months he runs away. He puts his tea on the table, and comes towards me. Slowly, he presses his lips on mine. Then our lips stick together. It is a familiar feeling between me and him; our kisses have always been very indifferent.
1.41 p.m.
‘So what about that chicken?’ I say and cut him off. I walk towards the stairs, hoping to smell something from the oven.
‘What chicken?’ he says. Laszlo follows me, sniffing my neck and my hair like a dog.
‘The chicken you talked about on the phone,’ I say, annoyed. ‘You said you’d cook it for me.’
‘Yes, right. The chicken.’
‘So?’
‘It’s in fridge,’ he answers.
‘But you said it was already prepared.’
‘Well, it be prepare quick. Only take half one hour.’
‘You just want to get me into your bed straight away. You don’t care about anything else.’ I suddenly feel angry.
The stairs are steep and narrow, but Laszlo stops me there and kisses me again. My neck begins to ache. I push him away, and walk down to the kitchen. Laszlo follows me.
By the kitchen table stacks of cookery books are displayed on a white shelf – how to make cakes, how to cook fish. What kind of fish swims in a Hungarian lake? I wonder.
Then I see Laszlo’s wig, lying beside the books. ‘You still have your wig,’ I say. ‘Do you wear it?’
‘Yes,’ he answers, ‘for parties I wear. Last night I wore it and girls like me a lot.’
Laszlo takes the blonde wig from the vase, and puts it on. Now he’s like a pop singer from the eighties, or some kind of oddly gentle punk. ‘Do I look more attractive?’ Laszlo makes a face and turns his head in all directions.
I sit on the sofa. The air in the house gets thicker and heavier, as if every piece of furniture had been soaked in camomile for months. I can’t breathe freely and I’m getting sleepy. I feel like closing my eyes.
‘I don’t like Hungarians,’ I say, in a bad mood.
‘Why? You not even know any.’ Laszlo comes to the sofa and sits beside me with his blonde wig messily tickling my neck.
‘Well, I get a good idea from you and I think I don’t like them.’
‘But how can you say you don’t like without know them?’ Laszlo asks.
‘I can feel.’
‘You feel what?’
‘I feel Hungarians are stupid.’
‘I feel Chinese are dumb.’
Laszlo pulls my shoulder towards him forcefully and starts kissing me. His fingernails are almost embedded in my skin. It hurts.
2.05 p.m.
Laszlo is buried underneath my skirt. His beard makes my thighs itch and I start to laugh. I lift my skirt, I play with his wig.
It’s getting very warm, and I feel sweat prickle on my skin. For a long time I can see only his blonde wig. It feels strange, as if I was being kissed by some blonde Danish girl. Laszlo gets up, removes my underwear but leaves my skirt on.
I’m getting hungry, the breakfast omelette has gone to the bottom of my stomach. I miss Pierre, and I feel guilty that I complained about his bread and coffee. Now I have to eat something urgently. All I can think of is food.
Suddenly I grow impatient. I push Laszlo to the floor, and hastily take off my skirt. I sit on top of his face. Laszlo is a bit surprised, but he obeys and remains quiet. After holding my hips and licking me for a while, he speaks from between my legs.
‘Shall we go upstairs?’ His voice is gentle, as if he is negotiating with me. I guess he doesn’t want to annoy me. I carry on sitting on his face, without moving. ‘Shall we go to the bedroom?’ he insists.
‘No. Why?’
I move my lower body and unzip his jeans. I take out his sex. It is hard, erect like a clay sculpture. I hold it tightly, so tightly that it must be painful for Laszlo. But perhaps he deserves it; it is revenge for what he started this morning on the phone. Pressing him into the floor, I start to rub him. His face becomes vague. And his breath grows heavier.
2.36 p.m.
I feel disgusted. This is meaningless. I’m bored. My body is bored. A few hours ago I was lying beside another body, Pierre’s, the body which is slowly becoming my home. Now, beside Laszlo’s, I start to feel cold.
I stand up and look at my clothes on the floor. Laszlo is not aware of my shift. He rises up and takes off his orchid-print T-shirt. He sits on the sofa, kissing my breasts. I wish he could move faster, it all takes too long.
As he sucks my nipples, I look at the glass lampshade above my head – it has a very odd shape, not round, not square, not triangular, it’s like a melted ice cream on a plate. I look over at the table and picture a big juicy meal laid out. There is a pan of steamed rice and a dish piled high with roasted dumplings. I can almost smell the fragrant spices. My stomach growls.
I finally say in a very clear voice: ‘Listen, I’m starving.’
‘We’ll eat soon.’ He carries on sucking my breasts.
‘I need to eat something now!’
Laszlo stops and studies my face. I stare at him, cold-hearted. He stands up and his jeans slip to the floor. He doesn’t give a damn about nakedness, and neither do I.
‘Come and look here, what do you think?’ He opens the fridge, his penis sticking out. I walk towards him and take a look at the freezer: a frozen chicken wrapped in plastic, covered in ice. ‘It will take cooking only thirty minutes, or maximum forty minutes,’ Laszlo claims, taking out his frozen chicken.
‘There’s no way you can get that done in thirty minutes, you haven’t even defrosted it yet.’
‘Defrost.’ Laszlo repeats the word, but still studies his icy chicken.
‘Forget it. Let’s go out and find somewhere to eat,’ I say, and walk towards my clothes. Laszlo throws the chicken back into the freezer.
2.56 p.m.
We walk through Kensal Green Cemetery. For years Laszlo has treated this graveyard as his own back garden, because his house is right next door.
‘Don’t you think I have best private garden in all London?’ Laszlo is very proud of it.
‘Do you have your own graveyard in Budapest too?’ I tease him.
‘I wish I did,’ Laszlo answers, seriously.
It is like we are suddenly in the countryside. Wild flowers are blooming, grass and bushes are lush and heavy. Here and there, I see new marble crosses standing on old gravestones, like a new hat on an old man’s head. Other graves are in pieces, sinking into the soil, covered in moss and nearly invisible.
Laszlo points to a stone.
JOSEPH CHAMBERS 1792–1843
It’s Mr Chambers’ only remnant in this world.
‘I never realised people from two hundred years ago were buried here,’ I say.
‘Why not?’
Laszlo carelessly walks on the grave, his shoes leaving streaks of m
ud on the carved date.
‘Who decided to put a cemetery in the middle of the city?’ I murmur to myself.
Laszlo shrugs his shoulders. ‘And why you think not? It is very normal,’ he says.
For Laszlo, nothing is unusual. Maybe that’s why he has suddenly called me to come over after a year of no contact at all. I remember he used to say that he was an existentialist. An existentialist never thinks anything is unusual because everything exists without reason. And I told him that in universities in China existentialism means something different – it means people want to be lazy. That was perhaps one of the last conversations I had with Laszlo.
‘You think they should move graveyard to suburb then? Just like Chinese government with old houses?’ Laszlo asks sardonically. I don’t comment. ‘I heard news that Chinese government even wants to move Forbidden City to suburbs in Beijing. They want to create same-size replica. Is true?’
Trampling over the wild weeds, I walk faster and faster, so Laszlo has to run after me. There’s no one around; it is so quiet only the birds are chirping. I breathe in the cool air and feel much happier. Laszlo puts his arm around me, starting to talk about some martial arts film he watched recently – The Adventures of Iron Pussy. I laugh because of the name Iron Pussy, and I say I always fall asleep when I watch martial arts films.
‘But don’t Chinese like watch martial arts films?’ Laszlo asks.
‘Of course, you would think that.’
We cross the street outside the cemetery and spy a few restaurants on the road ahead.
‘Which one you prefer?’ Laszlo asks me.
‘I don’t care – anywhere they cook quickly.’
I enter one of the small restaurants at random. There is only an old man eating a leg, maybe a chicken leg, with a pint of beer in front of him. Right away, I order some beef. ‘Medium rare, please,’ I say to the waitress.
Laszlo looks at the old man’s plate. ‘Can I have duck leg please, and also red orange juice?’
I don’t understand how Laszlo can tell so easily that the cooked leg is definitely duck and not chicken. The waitress just nods in response.
