Читать книгу One Man’s Bible - Mabel Lee, Gao Xingjian - Страница 8

Warm and moist, writhing flesh. Memories start returning but you know it’s not her, that sensitive delicate body that had let you do anything you wanted. The big, robust body pressing hard on you with unrestrained lust and abandonment totally exhausts you. “Keep talking! That Chinese girl, how did you enjoy yourself with her and how did you abandon her just like that?” You say she was a perfect woman, the girl wanted only to be a little woman, and wasn’t wanton and lustful like her. “Are you saying you don’t like it?” she asks. You say of course you like it, it’s what you dream about, this sheer, total abandonment. “You also wanted to make her, that girl of yours, become like this?”—“Yes!”—“Also turn into a spring?”—“Just like this,” you convulse, breathless. “Are all women the same for you?”—“No.”—“How are they different?”—“With her there was another sort of tension.”—“How was it different?”—“There was a sort of love.”—“So you didn’t enjoy yourself with her?”—“I enjoyed her but it was different.”—“Here it is just carnal lust.”—“Yes.”—“Who is sucking you?”—“A German girl.”—“A one-night prostitute?”—“No,” you call out her name, “Margarethe!”

At this she smiles, takes your head in her hands and kisses you. She is straddling you, kneeling, but her legs relax as she turns to brush aside a loose tangle of hair hanging over her eyes.

“Didn’t you call out the wrong name?” There is an odd ring in her voice.

“Aren’t you Margarethe?” you ask back, not comprehending.

“It was I who said it first.”

“Don’t you remember? When you asked, your name had already come to my lips.”

“But it was I who said it first.”

“Didn’t you want me to guess? You could have waited a second more.”

“I was anxious at the time, I was afraid you wouldn’t remember,” she admits. “When the play finished, people from the audience were at the theater door waiting to talk with you; I was embarrassed.”

“It was all right, they were friends.”

“They left after a few words. Why didn’t you go for drinks with them?”

“It was probably because I had a foreign girl with me that they didn’t hassle me.”

“Did you want to sleep with me then?”

“No, but I could tell that you were excited.”

“I lived in China for years and, of course, understood the play. But do you think Hong Kong people would?”

“I don’t know.”

“A price has to be paid.” She looks moody again.

“A very moody German girl,” you say with a smile, trying to change the atmosphere.

“I’ve already told you that I’m not German.”

“Right, you’re a Jewish girl.”

“Anyway, I’m a woman,” she says wearily.

“That’s even better,” you say.

“Why is it better?” That odd ring in her voice returns.

You then say you had not had a Jewish woman before.

“Have you had lots of women?” Her eyes light up in the dark.

“I guess quite a lot since leaving China,” you admit. There’s no need to hide this from her.

“When you stay in hotels like this, do you always have women to keep you company?” she goes on to ask.

You’re not as lucky as that. And when you stay in a big hotel like this, the theater group that invited you would be paying for it, you explain.

Her eyes become gentle and she lies down next to you. She says she likes your frankness, but that is not you as a person. You say you like her as a person and not just her body.

“That’s good.”

She says this with sincerity and she presses against you. You can feel that her body and her heart have softened. You say, of course, you remember her from that winter night. After that she came especially to see you, she said she happened to be passing. She was on the new bypass of the city ring road, saw your apartment block, and for no apparent reason dropped in. Maybe it was to look at the paintings in your apartment, they were unusual, just like a dream world. It was windy outside, the wind in Germany didn’t howl, everything in Germany was sedate, stifling. That night, in the light of the candles, the paintings seemed to have something mystical about them and she wanted to see them clearly during the daytime.

“Were those all your paintings?” she asks.

You say you didn’t hang other people’s paintings in the apartment.

“Why?”

“The apartment was too small.”

“Were you an artist as well?” she goes on to ask.

“Not officially,” you say. “And, at the time, that was indeed the case.”

“I don’t understand.”

You say, of course not, it’s impossible for her to understand. It was China. A German art foundation had invited you to go there to paint, but the Chinese authorities would not agree to it.

“Why?”

You say even for you, it was impossible to know, but at the time you went everywhere trying to find out. Finally, through a friend, you got to the relevant department and found out that the official reason was that you were a writer and not an artist.

“Was that a reason? Why couldn’t a writer also be an artist?”

You say it’s impossible for her to understand, even if she does know the language. Things in China can’t be explained by language alone.

“Then don’t try.”

She says she remembers that afternoon, the apartment was flooded with sunlight. She was sitting on the sofa examining the paintings and really wanted to buy one of them, but at the time she was a student and couldn’t afford it. You said you would give it to her as a gift, but she refused, because it was something you had created. You said you often gave paintings as gifts to friends. Chinese people don’t buy paintings, that is, among friends. She said she had only just met you, and couldn’t really count as a friend, so it would be embarrassing to accept it. If you had a book of your paintings, you could give her a copy, or she could pay for it. You said paintings like yours couldn’t get published in China, but, as she liked your work so much, it was all right to give her one of them. She says the painting is still hanging in her home in Frankfurt. For her, it is a special memory, a dream world, and one doesn’t know where one is. It is an image in the mind.

“At the time, why did you insist on giving it to me? Do you remember the painting?” she asks.

You say you don’t remember the painting but you remember wanting to paint her, wanting her to be your model. At the time, you had never painted a foreign girl.

“That would have been very dangerous,” she says.

“Why?”

“It was nothing for me. I’m saying it would have been dangerous for you. You probably didn’t say anything at the time because right then there was knocking at your door. You opened it, and it was someone who had come to check the electricity meter. You gave him a chair and he stood on it to read the meter behind the door, then, after making a note, left. Did you think he had really come to read the meter?”

You don’t answer, you can’t remember any of this. You say life in China sometimes appears in nightmares and you deliberately try to forget them, but from time to time they charge out of the subconscious.

“Didn’t they warn people in advance that they would be coming?”

You say that in China anything is possible.

“I didn’t go again because I was afraid of getting you into trouble,” she says softly.

“I didn’t think. …” you say.

You suddenly want to be affectionate, and put your hands on her abundant breasts.

She strokes the back of your hands and says, “You’re very caring.”

“You too, dear Margarethe.” You smile and ask, “Are you leaving tomorrow?”

“Let me think. … I could stay longer but I’ll have to change my plane ticket to Frankfurt. When do you return to Paris?”

“Next Tuesday. It’s a cheap ticket and hard to change, but if I pay extra I can still change it.”

“No, at the latest, I’ll have to leave by the weekend,” she says. “A Chinese delegation will be in Germany for a conference on Monday and I’ll be interpreting. I’m not as free as you, I work for a boss.”

“Then there are still four days.” You count up the days.

“Tomorrow, no, one night has already passed, there are only three days,” she says. “I’ll phone the boss and ask for leave, change my ticket, then go to my hotel and bring my luggage across.”

“What about this boss of yours?”

“He can get lost,” she says. “My job here has been completed.”

It is already light outside the window, and clouds swirl above the big building with the white pillars opposite. The peak is shrouded in mist and the lush vegetation on the mountain is the color of black jade. It looks like rain.