A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers (15 page)

I come back with four big plastic bottle of water. He drinks.
Gerolsteiner Stille Quelle
. Slowly. Then he lies back to the bed, half sleep. I return to bathroom to fetch a wet towel, and fold it to put on his head.

It is very late, and I am hungry. The man lying on the bed is breathing difficultly. I open fridge and decide boil the only two eggs. Finding the pot, filling the water, switch on the gas, putting in the eggs…Look, I can make something in this German kitchen, though it’s uncomfortable to cook in some stranger’s home. There are some tea bags there, so I make tea. I add some sugar this time, as I am too hungry.

After eating two eggs with salt, I come back his bed. I feel his temperature is still rising. I get up to find his telephone. But I don’t know which number I should dial. 999? 911? 221? 123? Is Berlin system like London or China? I give up the telephone and come back to him. I take out the sweat-soaked towel on his forehead and cool it again in the cold water. I am thinking one moment he was so tidy like his bachelor’s flat, but another moment he is so messed and fucked up. I don’t understand Germans. I switch off the light and lie down beside this man.

I feel so tired by walking around in Berlin whole day. I pull over bits of his duvet to cover my body. Quickly I fall into my dreams.

I am waking up by his heat. It is so hot. He is sweaty and everything on the bed is wet and sticky. He says something not clear:

“Can I have some water…?”

His breathe is heavy and difficult, like he is running at the end of a marathon.

Then he says: “I feel very very cold.”

I find another duvet in his wardrobe. But now I am too hot under both these duvets. I take off all my clothes, only have my pants left. And I get into the bed again. Underneath two covers of duvet, he hugs me, but still shivering. I let him hug me. I see my leopard-pattern bra lying on the floor, and I feel a bit strange.

His face turns to me, and murmurs, very unclear:

“Stay with me…”

I hear him. And I am not sleepy anymore. He lies beside me, with the fever. I hug him. He holds my naked body.

We sleep like this, so close, until next morning…

The second day, he is feeling better, but is too weak go out. I tidy the bathroom, flush the toilet, and clean the tissues by the bedside. He drank three bottle of water since last night, now only one bottle left. I make some tea, and add some sugar in his cup. My rocksack is still on the floor, without opening it yet.

“Do you know last night you said something to me?” I want to remind him, to find out.

“I’m afraid I can’t remember much about last night. My mind was blown up. I must look like shit,” he says, a little embarrassed.

“So you don’t remember anything about last night?” I am bit disappointed.

“I remember I asked you to buy some water. And you looked after me. Thank you so much. I thought I was going to die.”

“That’s OK. I was a bit scared, actually.”

He drinks his tea, slowly. I don’t know what do next. Should I leave? Should I stay? I feel like want to stay with this man.

“Do you think maybe I should spend more time in Berlin?” I ask. I wish I didn’t ask like that. I hate myself.

“Well, I don’t know. It is your decision. Look, thank you so much for everything you did, especially considering you don’t even know me. The thing is, I have to go to the office this afternoon…”

He looks distant to me from last night.

“Do you think you might come to London one day?” I ask, keep hating myself.

“I don’t know,” he says vaguely.

“What about China?”

“I think that’s very unlikely…” He laughs.

There is no reason for me to stay here in this bachelor’s flat anymore, not even stay in the city of Berlin. I will leave Berlin right now, immediately.

I send you a postcard:

My dearest,

I am leaving Berlin. I really want to go down to somewhere more warm. I don’t know if I like to travel on my own. I see all the lovers and families on the train they travel together on their holiday. For me it is not a holiday, it is something like homework from you to me. I wish you are happy.

Love,
your Z

It is a postcard with the picture of Berlin Wall. Messy drawing everywhere on the wall. It is ugly.

Sitting on bus to station, I can still smell my body having sweat from Klaus fever last night, and I ask myself: Did I fall in love with him? I don’t know Klaus, the man in east Berlin, but I feel close to him. Look, now I have my own privacy, and I don’t know if I would tell you when I come back to London.

Venice
is the capital of the northeast Italian region of Veneto; built on 118 alluvial islets.

venice

I arrive in Venice after hours and hours sleeping on train. Walk out from station, there are waters everywhere, or say, river, or should say canals. I don’t know if these waters are part of sea. But it is midnight, and very dark. Bad time. It mean I have to pay a hotel for over night staying, and I don’t know where am I now. I hope I can search twenty-four-hour café to kill the night before the morning starts, then I can find hotel for tomorrow more easy.

On the wall of St. Lucia train station, there are some posters hanging there, both in Italian and English, and also in characters like India language. The English says: “Venice Asian Art and Culture Festival.” I notice it is during this week. That a good thing for me. There are several people also just coming out from station, and looking in map. They argue something on the map, probably argue in Italian, or maybe French, or maybe some other Europe language I not understand.

A man in that group comes to me:
“Parla Italiano?”

I shake my head.

“English?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“Do you know where is the party?” He looks friendly.

“What party?” I say.

“You are not here for this Asian festival? There is party tonight. We are going there now. I hope it’s not too late.”

The man speaks very unclear English, but he seems very keen on Asian.

“No, it won’t be too late. It will be too early,” one of his friends says.

“Come along with us if you want,” the man says. “We can get you in.”

I am hesitating. Should I go? If I can’t find that twenty-four-hour café it could be a solution.

“Maybe I come later?” I say, putting on my heavy rocksack.

“OK,” says the man. “If you decide to come just tell them you know Andrea Palmio and they will let you in.” His friends are waiting behind for him to go. “By the way, the place is called Pachuka, and you need to take the boat to Lido…”

He pass me piece of paper with the Pachuka name on. Then they disappear with his sincere voice.

Lido? I know
Lido Holiday Inn Hotel
. It is the very expensive hotel in Beijing and Shanghai. Only foreigners live there, and Starbucks inside of those hotels in China. But, here, is the party also in
Lido
? Is it posh hotel too? Why I need take the boat to get there? Confused by all these thoughts, I walk alone to the waterbank, indecisive. Maybe I should go and pretend I am one of the famous Asian artists in the party. Westerners can’t tell the difference of a group of Chinese. In their eyes, we all look the same. I decide ask someone the way to this
Lido
.

Taking the night boat, I am heading to the other side of Venice. I feel like living in the old time of south China, that people have to take boat to get to other places. I am staring at the water. Is this the sea? A real sea? I can’t even see colour of water in the dark. It is very different the sea on pictures or in the film. It is also very different what you described me. I don’t think anyone want swim in this water. Also, the sea is being stopped again and again by the city. How could be possible a city still stands here without sinking? I thought a sea is boundless. I am disappointed. I want tell you immediately how I’m feeling now. Chinese always say West culture is a blue culture, Chinese culture is yellow culture. This because West from the sea, and China comes from the yellow sand.

I don’t understand the sea.

One hour later, I stand in front of “Pachuka.” From the outside it looks like a large restaurant or a night club. Neon lights everywhere. There are two very big men in the black suits, stopping everybody in front of the door. Some fashionable looking Italian mans and high-heel womans get in, with the invitation tickets holding in their hands. There are several India womans dressed up like queens or princess, also get into the door. It must be a really posh place, I wonder. I am glad I come here. But right now I can’t remember that man’s name. Why Western names are so difficult remember? So I wander around the door with my rocksack on shoulders and try to recall that name back. Antonia? Anthony? Andrew? Alexander? Antonioni? Which one sounds more closer?

Encouraging myself enormously, I walk to the door man: “My friend asked me come here. He is inside.”

The door man answers in very rude and bad English: “Sorry. It is a private party.”

“Yes, I know. But my friend invites me to come, and he is just inside the party,” I insist.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Antonia, Anthony, no, Andrew. Maybe Antonioni…You know I am a Chinese and I can’t pronounce your country’s name.” I am embarrassed myself.

“What does your friend do?”

“He is…he is the manager of the artists.” I just open my mouth randomly. I don’t know him at all, and I don’t think he is a manager of the artists.

One of the doormans takes it a little serious and goes inside to ask somebody. One minute later he comes out:

“Sorry, we can’t let you in.”

“But he invites me here. I should get inside!” I am pissed off.

“Sorry
Signorina
,” the door man says emotionlessly. “No invitation, no entry.
Basta
.”

A posh car arrives, and three people come out with strange costumes and shining shoes. The bounce men say
Signori
to them, and they walk straight into the door. The music is loudly coming out from the party, and laughings. Nobody wants to take me in or even look at me a second. Why I don’t look like one of the Asian artists? I wish I wear skirt, or some old-fashioned stupid traditional Chinese costumes.

I wander outside of the Pachuka like a wild night dog, no where to return. Then I see a very big and very long car arrives abruptly. Shit, it’s a Cadillac! Comes out eight. Yes, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight young womans. All blonde, with shining long golden hair. They wear the same miniskirt, and the same tight silver tops look just like bras. The silver miniskirts are so short people can see half of their bottoms. They are extremely slim, shapey, and all wear white high-heel long boots. They look like giraffes from the same giraffe mother. These sexy machines, leaded by a woman manager, their high-heels click the sandy ground: cha, cha, cha…They line up and one by one walking into the door. Two door mans fix their eyes on these girls body, like being deep frozen, can’t move. What are these sex machines doing in this “private party”? Lap dancing? None of them are Asians. Or they will just drink champagne with posh mans guests?

I must have stayed in front of door nearly an hour watching all those fascinating guests. Then I see a taxi coming. And a man comes out from the taxi. That is him, the man I met two hours ago! Why did he arrive so late? Are Italian mans all like that?

“Antonia!” I shout.

Perhaps right name because he doesn’t correct me, or maybe he didn’t understand I am actually shouting his name.

He walks to me and apologise:

“I am very sorry about this. My friends changed their mind. They wanted to go somewhere else instead. In fact, it was better than this party. Let me take you to the other place.” His English accent is almost inunderstandable.

“All right.”

I don’t want to tell him I wait here for so long. It would be not cool to let him know. So I follow him and get into his taxi.

Inside of taxi, so close, I can see his face clearly. He looks bit formal in his plain suit and black leather Made-in-Italy shoes. His hair is very few in the middle of his head. He seems sincerely but a little boring, if I can judge like that.

“So what you do?” I ask.

“I am an avocado,” he replies.

“Avocado?” I am surprised to hear. Is a fruit also a job? “Please explain me,” I ask.

“If you are going to be put into prison, you can hire me to help you in the court,” he says.

“Ah…is like a lawyer?”

“Yes! Yes! Avocado is lawyer.” He is pleased that I understand.

“What about you?” he asks.

“I am…just a tourist. Actually I am studying English.”

“In Venice?” His interests are aroused.

“No. No. Studying English in England,” I say.

“Oh, your English is good.”

“Thank you. But why you are to do with this Asian culture festival?”

“Because of my friend. He gives legal advice to this organisation so he said, ‘You must come along too.’”

“I see.”

Not another avocado!

The taxi stops in front of a disco. Behind the disco is really the open sea. Is like a big pond full of black ink. I feel dangerous, as I think it’s very easy to fall into that black pond.

It is a public disco, not “private party.” It is already 2:30, the endless night. The music is so loud. American disco, it is too much for me. Lots of teenagers dancing inside. I want to leave immediately. But Antonia pull my arm into the dancing floor, and I see his friends are all there shaking their shoulders and tingling their heads. So we are dancing right in the middle of the floor, everyone tripping over my rocksack, and my head being hit heavily every single second by the crazy music. Oh, I can’t dance like that, this is not my culture. My movements must be really ugly. It is a battle between the violent music and my boney body. And Antonia, he looks OK. He seems enjoying the music. His dancing style is a bit serious, but I am sure it better than mine.

I am getting so bored. So bored in the crowds. I can just stand there and fall in sleep like a horse.

“Are you OK?” Antonia dances towards me. His dancing almost like a slow walking.

“I am bit tired. Actually I want to go,” I say.

“Really? Where you stay?”

“I don’t have a place to stay yet.”

“You don’t? So where you are going to go now?” Antonia is talkative in the extremely loud music.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, if you want, you can stay in my hotel. My room has two beds.”

“Really?”

“Yes, no problem.”

The taxi puts us in the middle of nowhere. Suburb, definitely suburb. There is a very simply looking hotel in front of us.

“Look, the sea is just over there.”

I look to where Antonia is pointing but there is only inky darkness.

“Do you see it?” he asks.

“Kind of,” I say.

He presses the door bell. I feel embarrassed. It is already half past four and if the hotel people know he brings a Chinese girl back, what they will think?

He presses the bell again.

“You know the man inside, his ears are not very good,” he explains.

“OK,” I comfort him.

Eventually there is a very old man opens the door. He even doesn’t bother to raise his eyes to look. He says, “
Buona sera
” and then straight back to his room to sleep.

Antonia’s room is in ground floor, just by main door of hotel. I am thinking tomorrow morning the reception will discover me easily and shame me.

He opens the room, and switches on the light. Then he shouts something like swear in Italian. He is scared.

“What is it?” I ask.

“There are some little animals here,” he shouts.

“Where?” I can’t see anything.

“Here! Look the floor!” He points. There are some ants, big ants. They are moving around.

“Oh, just some ants.” I comfort him again and start put my feets on the ants, crush them with my shoes.

Antonia looks disturbed deeply. He runs into bathroom and pulls some toilet paper out. He kills rest of ants with paper, and flushes the paper into toilet.

There are two single beds. He didn’t cheat me at all. I remove all my clothes, only left underwear. My pyjamas bottom of rocksack and don’t want unpack. I cover myself tightly while he is in toilet brushing and flushing. Two minutes later he comes out and looks around for several seconds. He must be surprised to see how quick I am inside of the duvet. Then he asks:

“Should I turn off the light?”

“Yes. See you tomorrow,” I say.

In the darkness, I hear his snoring quickly comes. Honest snoring. I can tell. I am thinking he is quite a nice-heart man, but somehow he is not very interesting. Or maybe he is just normal. I count the hours to the morning. Two hours later it will be a sunny morning, and I will leave this damn island Lido and go to Venice…

I am almost fall sleep. Thinking of sex, no, I am having a dream about sex. Lesbian sex, me and a woman who has an unrecognisable face. Maybe she kisses me or touches my breast. Then I am suddenly awake. I feel somebody’s lips press my lips. I open my eyes. Antonia is kissing me. He looks very stupid in the dim light.

“No. Go to sleep, Antonia,” I say. I feel a little disgust.

“Antonia! My name is Andrea,” he says, then obediently, he goes back to bed. He looks funny. Wears a shorts but still with his white shirt. His two naked legs are a bit skinny and hairy.

I give up sleeping. I can sleep anytime in my forever Unlimited Inter-Rail train, so why waste time here in Lido? I get up and dress up. I brush my teeth and take all my belongs. Very quietly I close the door behind me.

The morning is never been so bright and fresh to me. The wind is blowing my yellow skin. I feel free. I feel my body is entirely free. I walk to the seashore. There are some little boats are swinging on the sea. The sea is truly blue. Pure blue like a dream. The water is like a magnet, attracting my body towards it. I agree with you, sea is beautiful.