Читать книгу One Man’s Bible - Mabel Lee, Gao Xingjian - Страница 12

“Why don’t you tell me about that Chinese girl of yours? How is she?” Margarethe puts down her glass of wine and raises her long black eyelashes, thick with mascara, to look at you across the small round table.

“I don’t know, I suppose she’s still in China,” you mumble, trying to avoid the question.

“Why don’t you get her out? Don’t you ever think about her?” Her eyes are fixed on you.

“That was ten years ago, what’s the point of bringing it up? If it’s not brought up, then it’s forgotten.” You try to say this nonchalantly. What you want right now is to be romantic with her.

“Then how is it that you remembered me? That night, the first night we met in your home?”

“It’s hard to say, sometimes the smallest incident remains clear, yet some other times I can’t remember the names of people I know well, and sometimes I can’t remember what I had been doing for many years—”

“Have you also forgotten her name?”

“Margarethe!” You squeeze her hand and say, “Memories are depressing, let’s talk about something else.”

“Not necessarily, there are also happy memories, especially of people one has loved.”

“Of course, but it’s best to forget what is in the past.” You, in fact, can’t think of the girl’s name and can, instead, only recall pain. Her voice and face have also become blurred.

“Will you forget me, too?”

“When you’re so vibrant, so full of life, how could I forget you?” You look at her eyes under her thick eyelashes, trying to change the subject.

“But her, you’re not saying that she wasn’t?” She doesn’t avoid your eyes and looks directly at you as she says, “She was so young, delicate, lovely, and so sexy. She was sitting right in front of me, clutching her skirt around her legs, the front of her dress hung low and she clearly had nothing on underneath. It was in China, at that time, so it left a very deep impression.”

“When you were knocking on the door, we were probably making love.” Your lips part in a smile, it is best not to be too serious.

“You’ll forget me just the same, and before many years.” She pulls her hand back.

“But this is different, it’s different!” you retort, unable to think of what to say, and not saying anything intelligent.

“For men, it doesn’t matter which woman’s body it is. It’s all the same thing.”

“No!”

But what can you say? Every woman wants to prove she’s different and in that hopeless battle in bed, tries to find love in lust, always thinking that after the physical lust passes something will remain.

In this very fashionable Bar 97 on this little street in Lan Kwai Fong you sit facing her. You arc close but there is a small round table between you, and you are trying to catch her eye. Loud rock music is playing, and the howling is in English. White clothing glows in the dark-blue fluorescent lights. The men with ties, mixing drinks behind the counter, and the hostesses are all tall Westerners. Margarethe, dressed all in black, is barely visible except for her bright red lipstick that shines and looks purple in the fluorescent lights. She seems unreal and is utterly stunning.

“Is it simply because I’m a Western woman?” She is staring at you with a slight frown and her voice seems to be coming from far away.

“No, it’s not simply because you’re a Western woman. How can I put it, you’re in every sense a woman whereas she was still a girl.” You seem to be lighthearted and joking.

“How else are we different?” She seems determined to find out everything.

In her unflinching gaze you detect something devious, and say, “She didn’t know how to draw in, she could only give but didn’t know how to enjoy. …”

“Of course, the woman would come to know, sooner or later. …” She stops looking at you, and her eyelashes, heavy with mascara, lower.

You think of her pulsating body, stiff but yielding, her moistness, her warmth, and her breathlessness, that all arouse your lust, and you fiercely say you’re thinking of her again.

“No!” She cuts you short. “It’s not me you are thinking about but her. You are only seeking compensation from my body.”

“How can you say this, you are truly beautiful!”

“I don’t believe you.” She looks down and turns the glass with the tips of her fingers. This little movement is very seductive. She looks up and smiles, revealing the gully between her breasts that had been blocked by the shadow of her head, and says, “I’m too fat.”

You start to say no but she stops you, “I’m quite aware of it.”

“Aware of what?”

“I hate this body of mine.” She suddenly turns frosty again, has a sip of wine, and says, “All right, you don’t understand me, you don’t know anything of my past and my life.”

“Then tell me about it!” you coax her. “Of course I want to understand, I want to know everything, everything about you.”

“No, all you want is to have sex with me.”

All right, you can only try to wheedle your way out. “There’s nothing bad about that, people have to go on living, the important thing is to be living in this instant. What has happened is in the past, there has to be a clean break.”

“But there can’t be a clean break. No, there can’t be!” she insists.

“What if I have?” You wince. She is a serious woman, she was probably good at mathematics in middle school.

“No, you can’t cut off memories, they remain submerged in your heart and from time to time they gush out. Of course, it’s painful, but it can also give you strength.”

You say that memories may give her strength but for you they are the same as nightmares.

“Dreams aren’t real but memories are events that have actually happened and can’t be erased.” This is how she argues.

“Of course, and moreover, they haven’t necessarily gone into the past.” You give a sigh, and go along with her argument.

“They can resurface any time if you don’t guard against them. Fascism is like that. If no one talks about it, doesn’t expose it, doesn’t condemn it, it can come back to life again!” She becomes agitated as she speaks and it is as if the suffering of each and every Jew weighs upon her.

“Then do you need to suffer?” you ask.

“It’s not a question of need. The pain actually exists.”

“So, do you want to take all of humankind’s sufferings upon yourself? Or at least the sufferings of the Jewish race?” you respond.

“No, that race ceased to exist a long time ago, it has scattered all over the world. I am simply a Jew.”

“Isn’t that better? It’s more like a person.”

She needs to affirm her background, and what can you say to that? What you want is precisely to remove the China label from yourself. You don’t play the role of Christ, and don’t take the weight of the cross of the race upon yourself, and you’re lucky enough not to have been crushed to death. She’s too immature to discuss politics and too intelligent to be a woman. Of course, you don’t say the last two things out loud.

A few trendy Hong Kong teenagers arrive. Some of them have their hair tied in ponytails, but they are all men. The tall blond waitress seats them at the table next to yours. One of them says something to the woman, but the music is too loud, and she has to bend down. After listening, she smiles, showing her white teeth that glow in the fluorescent lights, and then moves another small, round table: apparently others are coming. A male couple, gently stroking each other’s hands, is ordering drinks.

“After 1997, will they still let homosexuals meet publicly like this?” she moves close and asks in your ear.

“In China, it’s not just a matter of not being able to meet publicly. If homosexuals are discovered, they are rounded up as vagrants and sent off to labor camps, or even executed.” You had seen some Cultural Revolution cases in internal publications from the Public Security Office.

She moves away and leans back but doesn’t say anything. The music is very loud.

“Shall we go out for a walk in the street?” you suggest.

She pushes away the almost empty glass and stands up. Both of you go out the door. The little street, a blaze of neon lights, is thronging with people. There are bars one after another, as well as some elegant cake shops and small restaurants.

“Will this bar still exist?” She is obviously asking about after 1997.

“Who knows? It’s all business, as long as they can make a profit. The people here are like that, they don’t have the guilt complex of the Germans,” you say.

“Do you think all Germans have a guilt complex? After the Tiananmen events of 1989, the Germans kept doing business with China.”

“Do you mind if we don’t discuss politics?” you ask.

“But you can’t escape politics,” she says.

“Could we escape for a little while?” you ask her very politely and with the hint of a smile.

She looks at you, laughs, and says, “All right, let’s have something to eat. I’m a little hungry.”

“Chinese food or Western food?”

“Chinese food, of course. I like Hong Kong, it’s always so full of life, and the food is good and cheap.”

You take her into a small, brightly lit restaurant, crowded and noisy with customers. She addresses the fat waiter in Chinese, and you order some local dishes and a bottle of Shaoxing rice liquor. The waiter brings a bottle of Huadiao in a pot of hot water, puts down the pot as well as two cups, each containing a pickled plum. He says with a chuckle, “This young woman’s Chinese is really—” He puts a thumb up and says, “Wonderful! Wonderful!”

She’s pleased and says to you, “Germany is too lonely. I like it in China. In Germany, there is so much snow in winter, and, going home, there is hardly anyone on the streets, they’re all shut up in their houses. Of course, the houses are large and not like they are in China, and there aren’t the problems you’ve mentioned. I live on the top floor in Frankfurt, and it’s the whole floor. If you come, you can stay at my place, there’ll be a room for you.”

“Won’t I be in your room?”

“We’re just friends,” she says.

When you come out of the restaurant, there’s a puddle on the road, so you walk to the right and she to the left, and the two of you walk with a distance between you. Your relationships with women have never been smooth, you always hit a snag and are left stranded. Probably nothing can help you. Getting someone into bed is easy, but understanding the person is difficult, and there are only ever chance encounters that provide temporary relief from the loneliness.

“I don’t want to go back to the hotel right away, let’s take a walk,” she says.

Behind big front windows, the bar by the footpath is dimly lit and people are sitting around small tables with candles.

“Shall we go in?” you ask. “Or would you like to go somewhere by the sea where it will be more romantic?”

“I was born in Venice, so I grew up by the sea,” she replies.

“Then you should count as Italian. That’s a beautiful city, always bright and sunny.”

You want to ease the tension and say that you have been to Piazza San Marco. At midnight, the bars and restaurants on both sides of the square were crowded, and musicians were playing in the open air on the side near the sea. You remember they were playing Ravel’s Bolero and it drifted through the night scene. The girls in the square bought fluorescent bands from peddlers and wore them on their wrists, around their necks, in their hair, so green lights were moving everywhere. Beneath the stone bridges going out to sea, couples sat or lay in gondolas, some with little lanterns on their tall prows, and, rowed slowly by the boatmen, they glided toward the black, smooth surface of the sea. Hong Kong lacks this elegance but it is a paradise for food, drink, and commodities.

“All that’s for the tourists,” she says. “Did you go as a tourist?”

“I couldn’t afford to be a tourist. I had been invited by an Italian writers’ organization. I thought at the time it would be good to settle in Venice and find myself an Italian woman.”

“It’s a dead city with no vitality, which relies on tourists to keep going, it has no life,” she cuts in.

“Still, people there lead happy lives.”

You say that when you got back to the hotel, it was well after midnight, and no one was on the streets. In front of the hotel, two Italian girls were amusing themselves by dancing around a tape recorder on the ground. You watched them for quite some time; they were really happy and even tried to get you to talk and laugh with them. They were talking in Italian, and, even though you couldn’t understand them, you could tell they were not tourists.

“Just as well you couldn’t understand them, they were just baiting you,” she says coldly, “they were a couple of prostitutes.”

“Probably,” you say, thinking back, “but they seemed passionate and very lovely.”

“Italians are all passionate, but it’s hard to say if those women were lovely.”

“Aren’t you being overly critical?” you say.

“You didn’t hire them?” she asks instead.

“I wouldn’t have had the money,” you say.

“I’m not a prostitute,” she says.

You say it was she who started talking about Italy.

“I’ve never been back.”

“Then let’s stop talking about Italy.”

You look at her and feel dejected.

You return to the hotel and go to your room.

“How about if we don’t make love?” she says.

“All right, but the double bed can’t be separated.”

You don’t make a move.

“We can each sleep on our sides of the bed and we can sit up to talk.”

“Talk until morning?”

“Haven’t you ever slept with a woman without touching her?”

“Of course, with my former wife.”

“That doesn’t count, that was because you no longer loved her.”

“It wasn’t only a case of not loving her, I was also afraid she’d expose—”

“Your relationships with other women?”

“At the time it was impossible to have other women. I was afraid she’d expose my reactionary thinking.”

“It was also because she didn’t love you.”

“It was also because she was terrified; terrified I would bring disaster upon her.”

“What kind of disaster?”

“It’s impossible to explain in a few words.”

“Then it’s best not to try. Haven’t you ever slept with a woman you loved or liked and not made love?”

You think about it and say, “Yes.”

“That was the right thing to do.”

“How was it the right thing to do?”

“You must have respected her, respected her feelings!”

“Not necessarily. If you like a woman and don’t touch her—that is, when you are sleeping in the same bed—it’s very difficult.” For you, anyway.

“You’re quite honest,” she says.

You thank her.

“No need, there’s no proof yet, let’s see.”

“It’s the truth, it actually happened. Afterward I regretted not having touched her but I was no longer able to find her.”

“In other words, you respected her.”

“No, it was also because of fear,” you say.

“Fear of what? Fear that she would report you?”

You say it was not that former wife of yours, it was another woman. She would not have reported you. She was the one who had taken the initiative and, of course, you wanted to, but you were too afraid.

“Why?”

“I was afraid of being discovered by the neighbors. Those were terrifying times in China, I don’t want to talk about those old happenings.”

“Talk about them, you will feel better after you talk about them.”

She seems to understand something of the human mind.

“But just don’t talk about women.” You think she’s acting like a nun.

“Why not talk about women? Whether it’s a man or a woman, they’re human in the first instance and it’s not only a sexual relationship. You and I should be the same.”

You don’t know what you should talk about with her. In any case, you can’t immediately get into bed, so you try studying the well-ordered strokes in the set of color woodcut prints in gilded frames on the wall.

She removes the clasp in her hair, and her hair tumbles down. While taking off her clothes, she says her father went back to Germany afterward. Italy was poor, and it was easier to make money in Germany.

You don’t ask about her mother, you remain carefully silent and try not to look at her. You think it’s impossible to relive the beautiful dream of yesterday.

She takes a robe into the bathroom, leaving the door open, and, running the water, goes on to say, “After my mother died, I went to Germany to study Chinese; the Chinese programs in Germany are quite good.”

“Why did you study Chinese?” you ask.

She says she wanted to distance herself from Germany. When a new fascism reared its head, they would again report her. She was referring to the neighbors in her street, the cultivated ladies and gentlemen she had to acknowledge with an insipid hello when they met outside. If she came upon them on weekends, while they were polishing their cars—their cars were as shiny as leather shoes—she’d have to stop to say a few words to them. But some day, as happened in Serbia not long ago, they or their children would betray, expel, gang-rape, and murder Jews.

“Fascism wasn’t only in Germany, you never really lived in China. Fascism was no worse than the Cultural Revolution,” you say coldly.

“But it wasn’t the same. Fascism was genocide, it was simply because one had Jewish blood in one’s body. It was different from ideologies and political beliefs, it didn’t need theories.” She raises her voice to argue.

“Your theories are dog shit! You don’t understand China at all and you haven’t experienced the Red Terror. It was an infectious disease that made people go mad!” You suddenly lose your temper.

She says nothing, and, wearing a loose gown and holding the bra she has taken off, she emerges from the bathroom, shrugs her shoulders at you, and sits on the bed, head bowed. With eye makeup and lipstick removed, her face is pale but it has a more feminine softness.

“Sorry, sexual repression,” you explain with a bitter smile. “You go to sleep.” You light a cigarette.

She stands up, walks over to you, presses you against her soft breasts, fondles your head, and says quietly, “You can sleep next to me but I don’t have any lust, I just want to talk with you.”

She needs to search for historical memories, and you need to forget them.

She needs to burden herself with the sufferings of the Jews and the racial humiliation of the Turks, but you need to receive from her body a confirmation that you are living at this instant.

She says, right now she has no feelings.