by Xiaolu Guo
Twenty seconds later, the waitress brings over two glasses of juice. She has big round breasts. Laszlo’s eyes are glued to her.
‘Enjoy,’ she says, smiling at Laszlo.
‘Thank you.’ He smiles at her like a gentleman. I drink my juice in silence.
Laszlo’s gaze comes back to me gradually. ‘How is you teaching?’
‘Busy. This year we have more students, and I’m not only teaching my classes, but also doing some as a private tutor. Everyone wants to do business with the Chinese now.’
‘Are the students good?’ Laszlo asks me, but his eyes are still following the waitress around the restaurant.
‘Not really. When they study, they always want to find the logic behind the Chinese language, but we Chinese aren’t logical. Then they ask why aren’t the Chinese logical? But we just aren’t. I tell them all they need do is to recite what they learn like they recite the Bible. But they don’t believe that. Sometimes I wonder whether they’ll ever learn.’
‘Well, don’t be so hard, they are just stupid Westerners like me.’ Laszlo sips his orange juice.
The food arrives. From the size of the leg, it must have been a really big duck. Laszlo devours his lunch. I am now too hungry to eat, my stomach clenches badly. I’ve lost my appetite.
‘It’s as if they learn Chinese for me, not for themselves,’ I carry on complaining.
‘Oh well, Chinese is so difficult language, everybody know that. That’s why I don’t agree people say Chinese as universal language next century. It’s not possible.’
Laszlo shakes his head, and puts another piece of duck meat into his mouth. The old man nearby finishes his duck leg and starts to read the Independent – Vladimir Putin is on the cover, his eagle eyes watching us eating.
4.11 p.m.
Walking back through the graveyard, we pass our old friend Joseph Chambers. Mr Chambers lived for fifty-one years. I wonder how he died. Perhaps he was a priest; I imagine that every Western man was a priest in the early nineteenth century, just as any Chinese man had to be a peasant growing crops in the fields. Life was simple.
To get to the Tube station, I have to pass Laszlo’s house.
‘Will you come for coffee before you leave?’ Laszlo asks and looks at me, an ambiguous expression on his face.
‘No, I think I should go back home.’ I walk faster.
‘Just quick coffee. Then go,’ he insists.
‘No, I don’t want to.’
‘Just five minutes.’ He takes my hand in his. ‘I don’t know when I see you next,’ he adds. I suddenly feel sad. I decide this will be the last time in my life that I see Laszlo. I swear I don’t want to see him ever again.
4.36 p.m.
The kettle is boiling, and instant coffee is waiting in the cups on the kitchen table. Since I have been seeing Pierre, I never drink instant coffee. He hates it. But I don’t say that to Laszlo.
Lying naked on the sofa, I let Laszlo caress my body. I am a bit worried about the boiling kettle, but Laszlo doesn’t seem to care. I listen to the water boiling and watch the steam rising from the lid in a thin cloud. My mobile starts to beep in my bag. It must be Pierre; he knows my class finishes at four.
The phone is silent for a few minutes, then beeps again. I’m getting nervous. I can’t pretend any more, and I don’t need any crappy instant coffee either. I really am in a hurry. But I know Laszlo will want to carry on with his plan. He will not let me go so easily.
The kettle switch eventually flicks off. It must be Joseph Chambers having mercy on me.
‘Take off your jeans,’ I say. Laszlo takes off his jeans. ‘Your shirt too.’ He takes off his orchid shirt.
When he’s completely naked, I stand up from the sofa, and tell him to lie down. I sit right on top of Laszlo’s erect penis. I feel the pain when he enters my body. I see Laszlo feels uneasy too, but he doesn’t say anything. He tries to cooperate. My lower body hurts; I carry on banging him hard, up and down. Laszlo moans, maybe he feels pain too. I don’t know.
I turn round and lie on his chest. Laszlo grabs me, and penetrates me from behind. It is so hard and tight, like a nail being banged into the wall. There is nothing beautiful or good but the pain. He withdraws from inside me, and comes. Sperm flows everywhere, trickling down between his thighs.
5.57 p.m.
Laszlo walks with me to the Tube station, our bodies exhausted – we have no words to say to each other. By the time we reach Notting Hill Gate, my stomach is aching like crazy. I can’t walk. I stop in the middle of the pavement, and wait for the pain to go.
‘I’m sorry,’ Laszlo says.
‘It’s not your fault.’ I kneel down on the ground.
‘It was very painful for me; it must be more worse for you,’ Laszlo murmurs.
I can’t talk. I can’t move one more centimetre or my loins will break and my stomach cramp like hell. I think I’m going to die here. I’m close to the graveyard, and I can almost see my fresh gravestone in the ground. I suddenly think of my friend Joseph Chambers lying under the soil for 150 years.
‘You want to go back and lie down a bit?’
‘No.’
Laszlo looks at me, and this time he starts to worry. ‘Maybe we walk a bit in my graveyard? It’s quiet – might help.’
‘No. Please.’
I stand up again, concentrating on pushing the tide of pain away from my body. I walk down the stairs into Notting Hill Gate Tube station. Laszlo follows me. As I search for my ticket, Laszlo watches a girl in a tight skirt passing in front of us.
‘Let me know tonight you OK. Call me,’ Laszlo says. Then he kisses me on the lips.
‘I will be fine … when I get home.’
People push me from behind like crazy, it’s rush hour again. Office workers, students, men and women, old and young, all flooding into the Underground. Shoulders bump against each other, hair tickles strangers’ faces. I stand on the platform in the middle of it all. It smells terrible, I feel dizzy. The moment when the train passes in front of me, vomit spits out of my mouth.
6.45 p.m.
I walk down Fennel Street. Council houses. There are rubbish bins and piles of junk everywhere. It’s getting dark, and the street lights are on. I feel down. I don’t know exactly where I should go. I miss my old life with Patrick. And I miss Patrick badly. It’s a feeling like the stomach ache, but this ache doesn’t go away just like that. It stays there, it hurts just when you think it has stopped.
Patrick’s house is only two streets away from Pierre’s. For the last three years, I’ve been walking down Fennel Street with my shopping bag or my umbrella every day. For the last three years, I didn’t know that there was a man called Pierre living only two streets away, and that one day I’d end up leaving Fennel Street and moving to be with him.
Since I moved out of his house, I think of Patrick more than ever. I think of him especially when I lie in bed with Pierre, even when we are listening to the great Kurt Weill. Pierre knows I am thinking of Patrick, but he doesn’t say anything – he waits. Maybe he believes time is a black hole that will swallow everything, including memories. So why worry?
Patrick is a carpenter. I don’t know how he spends his days since I left. He told me that he could feel very lonely, even when I was with him in a room. I never understood that. When he works, he doesn’t talk to anyone, no chat, no music, no phone calls. He is a loner. And most of the time we were together I would sleep whilst he was working.
I stop in the middle of Fennel Street. I still have the key to Patrick’s house. I need to see him. I have to. I will feel calm again when I see Patrick, even if it makes him sad to see me now.
7.39 p.m.
118 Fennel Street. Quiet and desolate as it ever was. Only pieces of half-finished woodwork on the floor; no one is around.
Patrick has been living here for several years. He is always making things – doors, shelves, floors, fences. At the moment there are some half-made windows leaning on the wall, no glass yet. Sawdu
st is spread on the floor.
As I walk upstairs the shadow of my earlier pain makes my stomach cramp and shudder. I want to see our bed, the bed which now holds only his body. The sheets are messy, a blue shirt lies on the duvet, some pages of the Guardian scattered about. This bed is starting to assume a bachelor’s shape. The shape of carelessness. I see his radio, his only entertainment before he sleeps. Wet socks and jeans are hung by the window; maybe he has just done the laundry this afternoon.
I open a small wardrobe, the one Patrick made for me when I first moved in. It’s made from abandoned wood from a rubbish dump, and I painted it lemon yellow. A beautiful piece of furniture. But now the inside is empty, only an old black bra that had lost its elasticity, and a pair of torn stockings. I don’t remember the last time I wore stockings, I never liked them. Neither Patrick nor Pierre liked stockings, so I stopped buying them.
On the kitchen table: a dried tea bag in a teacup and some onions on the chopping board. In an open pot there is some cooked porridge. Patrick, like many other English people, is a vegetarian. He doesn’t even eat omelettes, while I eat only meat. I wonder if that’s one of the reasons why we split up.
I remember when we were together Patrick would spend a lot of time in his garden. He loved digging the soil and setting out new plants, while I only like to look at the flowers. And now I miss his garden. I open the back door, switch on the light. I know every plant here, I know their stories. New mint leaves are coming out, and the lemongrass is growing strong. The vines are lush. No dead trees, no wilted leaves. A gust of wind comes in, blowing the heavy, over-bloomed roses.
I close the back door and walk into the kitchen towards an old blue table. I liked working at that table, it faces the garden window and I used to be able to see the cloudy sky from there. It looks like Patrick hasn’t used it since I left. Only my stapler remains – lonely on the blue wood. I open the drawers one by one – there are some of my papers, some mobile phone bills. I stare at them, wondering whether I should take them with me to Pierre’s. Then I discover my passport hiding underneath. I’m surprised, I thought the first thing I did when I moved out was to pack my passport. How could I forget that? How could Patrick have not mentioned it to me either? I skim through my passport, Chinese stamps, one page after another. I put it in my pocket and close the drawer.
On Patrick’s table there are some nails and tools. Then there is his diary, open.
6 FRIDAY
Mary Hackney City Farm 6.30
7 SATURDAY
Penny’s birthday
8 SUNDAY
Shepherd’s Bush Charity mtg
Patrick is an organised and patient person; everything he does takes time. He kept telling me I needed a diary to keep myself organised. But I don’t know what for. I just live, live randomly. I want to be free from plans, free from tomorrow, and mostly I prefer to sleep or do nothing.
I put the kettle on, sit on a chair, waiting. I don’t know if I’m waiting for Patrick or just for the water to boil. I touch the passport in my pocket, and that makes me feel calm.
8.57 p.m.
There is a half-moon in the sky, but no stars. The moonlight is weak, as pale as Laszlo’s face.
As I open the door, I can hear the sound of French being spoken, and the noisy extractor fan on in the background. Mozart is playing from Pierre’s expensive stereo. I know Pierre doesn’t totally hate Mozart, but he wouldn’t choose to listen to him in the kitchen. I think perhaps there are old people in the house.
True enough, an elderly couple are in the kitchen, arguing in French about something in the saucepan. The pan is sizzling, the gas flame strong. Pierre stands beside them, listening to their argument, without taking sides.
‘Hello,’ I interrupt.
‘Oh, here you are!’ Pierre screams when he sees me. ‘This is my mum and dad, this is Yu Shu.’
‘Hello, how are you?’ His mother smiles at me.
‘Very nice to meet you,’ his father says and hugs me warmly.
I had no idea what Pierre’s parents looked like – they have dark suntanned skin and speak loudly.
‘Nice to meet you, and … welcome,’ I say.
Pierre makes Mozart a little quieter. ‘I phoned you this afternoon, wanted to let you know they’d be coming tonight, but I couldn’t get through.’
His mother dries her hands on our flatmate’s hand towel while talking to me. ‘Sorry we arrived without any warning. We were in Italy for two weeks, and at the last minute we decided to visit London. We thought we would surprise Pierre. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Yes, and we’re going back to Avignon tomorrow,’ his father says.
‘You are very welcome to stay,’ I answer.
I find a glass, and drink some water. I wonder if they know that I have only been living here for a week. I, too, am a guest in this house.
The mother seems to know this kitchen very well. She opens the cupboard and takes out four plates, then gets four pairs of knives and forks.
‘I’m sorry I’m late … I went to Oxford Circus, and I got carried away,’ I say, taking out a bottle of red wine from the plastic bag.
‘But did you get my message?’ Pierre asks.
‘I was on the Tube.’ I turn to his parents. ‘I bought some cheese as well.’ I take out two small goat’s cheeses.
‘Oh, c’est bon!’ Pierre’s mother exclaims.
‘Parfait!’ Pierre’s father says.
‘Great. OK, dinner is ready.’ Pierre arranges four wine glasses on the table.
I’m exhausted. My eyes hurt. I miss my bed. I could sleep right away. I take off my pearl necklace and throw it on the corner of the table. I take out the comb from my bag too.
I hug Pierre very briefly, and I can feel my passport is still safe in my pocket.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he says. He caresses my hair, and his parents watch us from behind him. We quickly free ourselves from the embrace.
His father and mother now both concentrate on the saucepan. The mother grinds some black pepper into it.
Pierre brings the hot pan to the table. There’s a big sea bass surrounded by roasted green and red peppers. The fish’s eyes are vivid, staring up at us.
Everyone sits down. Pierre’s father opens the wine, and pours it into the glasses.
‘Cheers.’ Everyone raises their glasses, smiles at me with their big eyes wide open.
Pierre reminds me to look into people’s eyes when I chink their wine glasses. He was surprised to hear I had never done that before. I told him that we Chinese don’t look into people’s eyes unless they are our enemies. And I don’t want more enemies.
I watch the steam rising from the shiny fish flesh.
‘Cheers,’ I say. I raise my eyes. I look at the three of them.
I drain the wine and fearfully return his parents’ smiles, and start to eat the sea bass. It tastes extremely good and everyone praises it.
Pierre’s mother raises her glass to toast a second time, and then suddenly the electricity goes off. The whole flat is plunged into darkness. Pierre whistles and his parents gasp. They immediately switch to speaking French.
I hear Pierre rising from his chair, rummaging around trying to find some candles. I close my eyes; rest my heavy head on the corner of the table, sink into the darkness and at once I fall asleep.
LETTERS TO A CITY OF ILLUSION AND HOPE
Letter to H
I AM WRITING to you from Berlin. I know you will be surprised to hear from me – I guess you would never have imagined that I would write to you. But for some strange reason you appeared in my dream last night – it was vivid, strange and so real. And I woke up this morning wondering how you are.
I was the customer you always saw around midnight. The woman who arrived alone, wearing a pair of green sandals, always with a book in her hand. Sometimes I fell asleep while you were massaging me. I would constantly argue with you saying you should be studying at university not working in a massage parlour. You were by
far the cleverest boy there.
I was staggered when you told me that your whole village had left the countryside for large cities to work in the massage business. How many people were there in your village? Three thousand? Or thirty thousand? You said yours was the most populated province in China. I imagined thousands of young Henan villagers leaving their homes, waiting on train platforms with their luggage, fighting for a place – only to come to work in the smoggy Beijing streets massaging city people’s feet. So, you all came to Beijing and Shanghai to press and pummel tired feet, day and night. So many feet – and maybe you remember some of those feet, but certainly not their faces.
You were seventeen then.I was spending all day every day writing scripts, arguing with fellow film-makers. I was absorbed in my world. It was overwhelming and noisy and hectic. I think you told me once that you’d like to be an actor, you were good at martial arts, and you’d like to leave your job and act in a TV series. I gave you a phone number for a film studio and told you to call them. And then I never saw you again. I hoped I’d bump into you one day walking out of a film studio, discussing your latest stunt with some hotshot director. Sometimes, I miss those quiet, solitary nights we spent together while the whole city was asleep.
Letter to G
In your last letter you said you didn’t like Berlin, and didn’t want to stay here any longer than you had to. You were so pleased to leave Germany, in spite of coming to see me for such a short visit. You said you didn’t like the conceptual art produced by young artists that fills the white space in every Berlin gallery, you said you felt uncomfortable watching the lovers kissing in bars. Well, you have changed, my friend, changed a lot since I left China ten years ago.
Do you remember the winter of 1993, Beijing battered by Mongolian winds; you were eighteen and I was twenty. One night we were walking through the cold November air over Ji Men Bridge. People used to call that canal Little Moon River. The water was still flowing then, though I’m sure it was frozen that night. It was a dirty brown, littered with plastic bags and the detritus of the city. We never saw fish in the canal nor any boats. And the pine-tree wood near the riverbank – we would see lovers from the nearby art school creep out, holding hands or secretly kissing. No room for lovebirds to hide except for in the woods at night. What did we do? I can hardly remember. Where did we hide and kiss? It is so long ago now, my memory is hazy and filled with new thoughts, new smells and sounds and colours from all the years that have passed since. You were studying 1960s Paris and bursting with ideas – do you remember? Ah, how much exciting nonsense we learnt in our art-school library, perhaps the only place in Beijing where censorship on Western art didn’t apply. You would talk about Sartre and de Beauvoir. Of course! In those days there was no stopping you talking about them. You lived so much in another time and another world, a world where men resembled the young Sartre and women the young de Beauvoir. You could only afford two packs of instant noodles each day; but the library was free. We were living through the ruthless sandy winds of Beijing: orphans of our country’s history. We were born during the Cultural Revolution, my friend, and all we were taught was that History equals Feudalism. So history had to die. Do you recall those debates?
