Читать книгу A WAY OF LIFE - Notes from a Small Chinese Province - Maria Linnemann - Страница 9

CHAPTER FOUR

Wàigórén

Although Roy and I were not the first foreigners to be seen in the streets of Nanyang, we found that we were often the focus of a certain degree of curiosity. I think it had a lot to do with Roy’s stat-ure and handsome appearance. We were in town one day, on our way to shop and to eat lunch in the restaurant that could always be relied upon to provide a degree of peace, quiet and pizza. As we walked along a busy street, we noticed an elderly man walking by our side. Wheeling his bicycle and staring sideways at Roy the whole time, he was not looking where he was going. Our word of warning as a lamppost loomed straight ahead was of no avail; the poor man met it face on. So as not to embarrass him by showing that we had noticed, we walked on quickly.

“Erm, was there something back there?”

“I don’t think so.”

We made our way at first to a large store where Roy hoped to find a pair of summer sandals. With his shoe size 45 he was anticipating some little difficulty, that size not being at all common in China. We were somewhat surprised to see the shop assistants disappearing behind the shelves after a quick glance at this tall, handsome stranger. They peeped out at us and we tried to look as uninterested in shoes as was possible.

“Perhaps it’s embarrassing for them to have to say that they have no shoes in my size,” sighed Roy. I agreed, having experienced the same difficulty with my size 43.

“I’ll write to my family and ask them to send me a pair,” continued Roy, “Best thing,” I agreed. I had already written home to ask for some summer shoes and had received a very comfortable, light pair that made the long hours of standing more bearable.

“Pizza time, I think!”

As we entered the hotel restaurant, we were somewhat taken aback when a young waiter rushed forward to pull back Roy’s chair and make sure he was comfortably seated. I was left standing. As the young man left to fetch the menu I continued to stand until he returned. With a slight smile I gestured to my chair. It was patently below his dignity, but he obliged, reluctantly. I sat down, half amused and half annoyed.

“I know this is a man’s world,” I said to Roy, “but I am not going to put up with being totally ignored just because a young waiter is overcome with awe at my handsome young colleague!”

Roy laughed.

Qĭng Wèn

The day soon came when I felt confident enough to venture into the city centre alone. Armed with my tightly secured purse and small camera, I hailed a taxi and gave the driver my instructions. He grinned – a reaction I was used to by now whenever I spoke Chinese – and we moved off in the direction of the busy city centre. Why I had chosen to take a taxi and not the local bus may be explained by the fact that a VSO volunteer had recently been relieved of her purse with all its contents at knife point, during a trip on a local bus. I leaned back in my seat, feeling relaxed., but not for long.

“How much do you earn?”

The question came from the direction of the driver’s seat and not from the radio, where my startled reaction sent my first glance.

“Erm, enough, thank you!” A pause ensued.

“How many children do you have?”

“None.”

This was followed by a silence from the driver’s seat and a sidelong glance in the rear-view mirror. After manoeuvring his taxi successfully around bicycles laden with whole families and just missing an elderly gentleman who was crossing what no doubt used to be a quiet country road, the driver deposited me on a busy street corner opposite the second largest hotel. Roy and I had already enjoyed a quiet meal in this elegant hotel from time to time on a Sunday, and were slowly making it a once-a-month custom. What I was really curious to see was the number one hotel, of which I had heard much. It had been described as palatial. Looking in my bag, I discovered to my chagrin that I had left my little pencil-drawn map and also my phrasebook on my desk at home. Typical! Now what to do? I became aware of curious glances from passers by; I could not continue standing there for long. It was time to test my Chinese once again. As an elegant lady of about forty approached on my side of the street, I smiled at her and said cheerfully:

“Qĭng wěn!”

I was convinced that I had uttered the Chinese version of: “Excuse me!”, and was not a little surprised when the lady doubled her pace and soon disappeared out of sight around the corner.

“Perhaps she was in a hurry,” I thought. “Here comes another lady; I’ll try again.”

“Qĭng wěn!”

This lady was no more delighted and eager to assist me than the first, and I was soon alone once more. I felt somewhat discouraged and also a little anxious by now about standing there alone on the busy street. I abandoned my attempt at speaking Chinese and, taking my life in my hands, crossed the road to take refuge in the big supermarket to the left of the hotel. As I did so, I noted the enormous number of bicycles parked in front of the store. How anyone could find his or her own bike in that ocean of wheels was a mystery to me. Pushing aside the long, opaque plastic strips that hung like a curtain before the wide entrance, I made my way through the aisles in search of my comfort food and discovered an exciting new variety of biscuit. Suitably appeased, I walked back to the check-out. Halfway there my glance fell upon a pile of small green boxes on a shelf to my right. Curious, I picked up a box and discovered inside it a delicately carved fan in light brown wood, weighing no more than a few grams. I was charmed, and astonished at the price, which was a mere 5 Yuan, about 50 cents at that time. I added a fan box to my purchases and soon found a taxi to transport me back to the haven of the campus.

“How much do you earn?”

“Erm, enough, thank you – and by the way, I have no children.”

That evening I sat in a quiet corner of the canteen with my Fanyi (translator) student Lucille. We ordered noodles and rice and my favourite aubergine dish. As we waited, I told her of my misadventure, repeating my attempt at a Chinese: “Excuse me!” Lucille laughed.

“You were asking them to kiss you!” she grinned. “You used the wrong tones. ‘Qĭng wèn’ would have been better.”

“Oh. Ah. I see.” Then, after a moment: “There’s an old saying: “The tone makes the music!”

“That’s how it is,” laughed Lucille. “And here come your aubergines.”