A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers (14 page)

schengen space

The “Schengen space” is the territory constituted by the countries which are members of the Schengen agreements. The following countries are today active members of the Schengen agreements: Austria–Belgium–Denmark–Finland–France–Germany–Greece–Iceland–Italy–Luxembourg–the Netherlands–Norway–Portugal–Spain–Sweden. The aim of the Schengen agreement is to allow free circulation of people within the territory of the member countries.

All foreigners who are legally resident in one of the Schengen member states can make short visits without a visa in any other member state, provided they travel with their valid passport, which must be recognized by all the Schengen states, and a residential permit issued by the authorities of the country of residency. Since the UK is not a member of the Schengen agreement, nationals who are not exempted from visa requirements by the Schengen member states, and who reside permanently or temporarily in the UK, need a visa to enter the Schengen space.

“Have a look at this,” you say. “If you got a visa to go to France, you could go and see all these countries.”

You pass to me leaflet.

I read carefully terms of the “Schengen Agreement.” I don’t know where is Luxembourg, where is the Netherlands, Norway or Finland, and I of course don’t know where is Greece. I thought Greece is in Rome. After I check the European map, I read it again the terms. I understand wherever I want to go I need visa, but I still don’t understand what is “Schengen.” Me, a native mainland Communism Chinese, a non-EU member and non-British passport. For visa application I need prepare my medical insurance paper, my financial document (thanks that I have a free accommodation here from you, so I save lots of money from my parents prepared for my renting).

“So much trouble, I don’t want to go,” I say. “I want stay in Hackney with you.”

You look serious. “I think you should see a bit of the world without me. After all, you’ve never been to the sea.”

“So, you take me.”

You only smiling. “I think it’s important you go by yourself.”

When visa arrive I am still doing research on European map, trying to understand where is where, like Poland is next to Germany, and Romania is above of Bulgaria. But I couldn’t find Luxembourg.

“Don’t worry. Just buy an unlimited Inter-Rail ticket, then you can take the train to wherever you want in Europe,” you say to me, very experienced.

“Unlimited?” I am so excited to know this.

“Yes, you’re under twenty-six, so the ticket will be cheap. You’ll get to see the whole of the Continent.”

“Continent? Where is that?” I ask.

“You’ll know where the Continent is when you come back.”

You talk to me like I am your child. Maybe I am like idiot in front of you. Maybe you love the idiot.

You take out some old maps from your bookshelfs. There is map of Berlin, map of Amsterdam, map of Venice, map of Madrid…You blow the dusts on these maps, and put in my bag.

“Now they are useful again, after all those years sitting on the shelf,” you say.

“But all these places must be changed from the time you went,” I say, thinking of map of Beijing every month being changed.

“It’s not like China,” you say. Then you take a novel called
Intimacy
, author Hanif Kureishi, and put into my bags too. “This is for you to read on the train.”

You sit down on the chair, having tea, and looking at me packing.

I already feel lonely when I put my shirts into the rocksack. Is that all you want? Want me away from you?

Paris
is the capital and largest city of France, in the north-central part of the country on the Seine River.

paris

I thought English is a strange language. Now I think French is even more strange. In France, their fish is
poisson
, their bread is
pain
and their pancake is
crêpe
. Pain and poison and crap. That’s what they have every day.

“Du pain?”

The man serves me in a small brasserie nearby Les Halles, with some bread on the little basket.

“Non. Je ne veux pas pain!” I answer. I learn this from
French for Beginners
by Michael Thomas.

But one minute later, he comes back with a small basket of pain again, asks me:

“Encore un peu de pain?”

“Ça sufficient!” I say, wiping my mouth, stand up.

No more pain in my life.

Only rice makes me happy.

Journey London-Paris was big let down. When I sit on the comfortable chair in the Eurostar, the French-accent-staff announce the whole journey will take two hours and thirty-five minutes. Two and a half hours I will be in the centre of a new country. Europe is so small, I can’t believe it. No wonder that it wants to become a Union. I am so much looking forward to see English Channel. I remember a Chinese man in 2001 who swam cross this Channel to earn national face for Chinese government, but when he reached French seashore he didn’t have visa to arrive. Of course he didn’t have visa, because he almost naked. In China, we all thought that French people don’t understand Heroism. Hero doesn’t need visa. Even a third world hero. Chairman Mao used to swim cross Yang Zi River, biggest river in China, in his very old age. He is of course, a hero.

The train is fast. There are still green fields and white sheeps outside of window. The speaker announce that in five minutes we will be in the tunnel of English Channel. So exciting, I can’t wait. Five minutes later I find we are in the absolutely darkness, deep darkness. I thought the tunnel is made of glass, so it is transparent to be able to see the blue seawater. But there is no difference with London underground. In the long darkness, I wonder if those fishes beside us are blocked by the tunnel and will be confused in the sea. Disappointed, I am finding myself come out from the dark tunnel, and arrive to the French side.

Musée D’Orsay, Paris, a place exhibit lots of work from
Impressionists
. I-m-p-r-e-s-s-i-o-n-i-s-t, and I-m-p-r-e-s-s-i-o-n-i-s-m. Longest two words I have ever learned so far. Even longer than c-o-m-m-u-n-i-s-t and c-o-m-m-u-n-i-s-m. There are several paintings from Monet. I stare at these obscure water lilies, obscure gate, and obscure sunrise. The colour and the subject in these paintings are like somebody looking through a dirty window glass. Especially the one about the impression of sunrise, sunrise on the sea. Everything blurred, the wave, the sea, the sun, the cloud are all blurred. Even the colour is blurred too.

Night in a cheap hotel. Forty-five euro including breakfast. The room is so small, like a place for one of Snow White’s seven dwarfs, but the French-style balcony is always better than English one. I sit on the old high-back-chair thinking there must be one thousand dead people used to sit on this chair and spent their hotel time doing strange or boring things. Turn on the desk lamp, I start to write you a letter. But my eyes can’t see anything clearly today; especially I can’t read clearly the trails of my writing. White paper too sharp for eyes, black ink too weak to read. When I look at the dictionary, every word is blurred. The optician in London told me the power of my short eyesight is growing, getting worse. They said I can’t do laser surgery because my corneal are too thin. Will my future is a world of blurness?

I look out of the window. I can see the black clouds at the bottom of the dark sky, and I can see the dim lights in somebody’s house which is not far away from this hotel, and the shadow of trees by the street light. But that’s all, no more details in the street. I remember once you told me about an American eye doctor, who invented Bates Method. He taught those short-eyesight-patients how to use eyes
properly
. He said keep your vision centered. When you regard an object, only one small part should be seen best. This is because only the centre of the retina has the best vision for detail. Rest of retinal area is less able to pick up fine detail. Does this mean I don’t or can’t use the centre of the retina to see things
properly
? That I like Monet, Van Gogh and all these impressionists, see the world blurred too?

I want to see
you
only at the centre of retina and everything else blurred. What am I doing in this busy Continent when I just want see you?

Amsterdam
is the constitutional capital and largest city of the Netherlands in the western part of the country where the Amstel River is joined by a sluice dam.

amsterdam

I only stop in Amsterdam for one day. I am going to Berlin. I don’t know why I don’t feel like to stay. I don’t know anything about Holland, and I even didn’t know
Holland, Dutch, the Netherland
meaning the same place. Why a country have so many different names? Before I thought these three spread somewhere differently in Europe.

There are only two things I know about Holland: first, the Communist Dutch man Joris Ivens made a film called
The 400 Million
about Chinese against Japanese invasion; second, all the tulips in China are said from Holland. About Joris Ivens, I saw a film camera been exhibited in the Museum of the Revolution in Beijing. It is the camera he gave to the Communists army at late 1930s. Maybe that’s why Chinese Communists started making films since then.

Amsterdam Central station. A large place. A place for temporary stop and for passing by.

So many people here, but nobody will stay here more than one hour.

From platform 15 to 1, I cannot find a place to sit my bum. No, there is no single chair or bench in this Central Station. The passengers hold their pizza in hand and eat it without a seat. The passengers stand and drink paper-cup coffee without a seat. A man, with a huge suitcase and a big rocksack, talk in mobile phone in a strange language. A language without any similarity with other language I have heard in my whole life. He keeps talking in the phone and his face is sad. He talks in the phone for so long, and it seems like he is being sucked by the telewave and disappeared in the phone-zone. In that dark phone-zone it is no seats either.

The train to Berlin will be departure at 8:15 p.m. Five hours to wait. I decide go for a walk.

Outside station so much water. And houses like doll house. In front of one house I meet a man drinking coffee on doorsteps. I stopped to look at house because I saw some familiar leaf with special fragrant. Lush wisterias climbing on a big tree. I always love this plant. It is so Chinese. It was growing everywhere behind our house in my home town. And it is growing in your English garden as well. I put down my heavy rocksack and try to have a rest.

Man on doorsteps looks at me and asks in English, “Would you like a cup of coffee before you start walking again?”

“Oh. Is that convenient for you, to make a cup of coffee?”

He smiles. “It’s no problem. I’ve already made a pot. So I just need to fetch a cup for you.”

He goes back inside of house. Quite dark inside.

We sit on doorsteps and drink a very bitter coffee without milk. I dare not ask him about milk, thinking maybe Dutch man doesn’t use milk.

“I am Peter. And you?”

“Zhuang Xiao Qiao…Well, just call me Z, if you want.”

“Z?” He laughs. “That’s a strange name.”

In England, people tell me if somebody says something “strange” means they don’t like it. So I don’t answer him.

Then he asks me:

“Are you Japanese? Or Philippino? Or maybe Vietnamese? Or Thailandese?”

I a little annoyed: “Why I couldn’t be a Chinese?”

“Oh, are you?” he says, and looks at me meaningfully.

His smile reminds me of you. A bit different. He wears a black leather jacket.

“Do you like plants?” he asks me, because my eyes were still on the wisteria.

“Yes, I like those vines, wisteria. It is originally from China,” I say.

“Oh, really? I didn’t know that.”

He starts to look at the plants as well.

“My father told me that wisteria is very long-lived,” I say. “Some vines surviving 50 years. They climb the trees and they can kill the trees.”

“You know a lot about plants.” He looks at me: “So why are you running around the world?”

“I don’t know.”

“China is far away from here. And you don’t have anybody travelling with you?”

I nod my head. Not knowing what to say.

People in the street are in a hurry with their bags, they must rush back to have dinner with their family. Everywhere people live in the same way.

“And are you going to the train station now?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you going?”

“Berlin.”

“Berlin. A nice city. Have you been there before?”

“No.”

“Berlin is cool.”

But I don’t want to know about Berlin, I think only of my
home
. So I ask, “Do you live in this house? Is this your home?”

“Well, not exactly my home. But I rent it.”

“Can I ask what do you do here?”

“Me? I just came back from another country. Cuba. I was there for ten years.”

Cuba? Why Cuba? Live there for ten years as a Dutch? Is he also a Communist like Joris Ivens?

I start to watch him, instead of watching the people in the street.

His eyes meet my eyes.

I look up his home. It is a beautiful old house.

“Don’t you want to change your ticket? Then you could stay with me for a bit until you want to go.” He looks at me sincerely. He is very serious, I think.

I shake my head. I put my empty coffee cup on the stone step. I look at my rocksack in front of me. I stand up and ready to go. But suddenly my tears come out without me noticing.

The man is surprised. He doesn’t know what to say. He gives me his hand and lets me hold it. I hold his hand, tightly. I don’t know him, I don’t know him, I tell myself.

Now the big clock on platform shows 20:08. There are seven minutes left. Sky is pink outside. Waiting and feeling lonely. Now there is no time I can go back to the centre of city.

A big train station is a bleak place. This station is bigger than any station in London. Waterloo Station, King Cross Station are just too normal compare with this one. Travel alone, makes me feel sad when I see all these couples hold each other’s hand and wait patiently.

A floating dust, that must be how God see a little human
drifting
on the Earth.

I feel difficult without you. I become language handicapped. I got so many problems to understand this world around me. I need you.

Holding the ticket to Berlin, but I don’t feel like to go. There is no one I can meet in Berlin, and there is nothing I know about Germany. I just want go back to London, to my lover.

Home is everything. Home is not sex but also about it. Home is not a delicious meal but is also about it. Home is not a lighted bedroom but is also about it. Home is not a hot bath in the winter but it is also about it.

The speaker on the platform renounces something loudly. It is 20:11. The train will leave in four minutes. I look around and ready to get on train. Suddenly, somebody is running towards me. It’s him. The man offered me coffee in front of his doorsteps. He is running on the platform, and he is running towards me. I am stepping into the carriage, so I drop my bags on the floor and come out the train again. He stops right in front of me, breathless. We stare at each other. I hug him tightly and he hugs me tightly. I bury my head into his arms. I see my tears wet his black leather jacket. The smell of the leather jacket is strange, but somehow so familiar.

I am crying: “I don’t want to go…I feel so lonely.”

He hugs me, even tighter.

“You don’t have to go.”

“But I have to go,” I say.

The bell rings. The train starts to move. When his back disappears off the platform, I dry my tears. It is so strange. I don’t know what has been happened on me, but something has happened. Now it is over. It is over. I am leaving Amsterdam. There is no way to return. I know I am on a journey to collect the bricks to build my life. I just need to be strong. No crying baby anymore. I pull down the windows, and sit down on my seat.

Berlin
is the capital and largest city of Germany in the northeast part of the country; formerly divided into East Berlin and West Berlin, the city was reunified in 1990.

berlin

“The size of China is almost the size of the whole Europe,” my geography teacher told us in middle school. He drawed a map of China on blackboard, a rooster, with two foot, one foot is Taiwan, another foot is Hainan. Then he drawed a map of Soviet on top of China. He said: “This is Soviet. Only Soviet and America are bigger than China. But China has the biggest population in the world.”

I often think of what he said, and think of how at school we were so proud of being Chinese.

It seems that I can’t stop to keep meeting new people. When I was in London, I only know you, and only talk to you. After left London to Paris, I was still in old habit and didn’t even talk to a dog in Paris. English told that French are arrogant they don’t like speak English. So I didn’t try talk to anybody in France. But that’s good for me. I don’t even need to remember how to speak Chinese there. After Paris, I tired of museums. No more dead people.

Opposite my seat a young man in his black coat and red scarf is reading newspaper. It is of course foreign language newspaper. And I don’t know the writing of that language at all.

Young man in black coat with red scarf stops reading the paper, and gives my presence a glance then back to his paper. But very soon he stops his reading and looks at the views outside of the window. I look at the window as well. There are no any views. Only the dark night, the night on no name fields. The window reflects my face, and my face observes his face.

Only him and me in this small carriage.

“Berlin?” he asks.

“Yes, Berlin,” I say.

We start to talk, slowly, bits by bits, here and there. His English speaking accent not easy understand.

“My name is Klaus.”

“OK. Klaus,” I say.

He waits, then he asks: “What is your name?”

“It is difficult to pronounce.”

“OK.” He looks at me, seriously.

“I am from China, originally,” I say. I think I should explain before he asks.

“Originally?” he repeats.

“OK, I have lived in London for several months.”

“I see. I am from East Germany.” He stops. Then he says, “Your English is very good.”

Very good
. Is that true? If it is, he doesn’t know how mad I have studied English every day, and even now, on the trip.

So, on this train, this new person, Klaus. He is a stranger to me. Train is really a place for films and books to set up the story. And I can feel me and this man we both want to talk, to talk about whatever.

He says he was born in Berlin, east of Berlin. He says he knows everything about East Berlin, every corner, every street. How lucky, this train is leading to his home, his love.

The night train is moving slowly. It is certainly not a fast train. Only non-important passengers would take this train, or holiday maker.

We lie down opposite each other on the couches in the tiny carriage of the train. A strange position, lying there, he and me. We talk more about Berlin.

He says that he is training in Diplomatic Department in Berlin. Before that he was a lawyer. He wanted to change his career and to live in abroad. He says he used to have for eight years a girlfriend who lives in B-a-v-a-r-i-a (B-a-v-a-r-i-a, he spells slowly to me). He explains it is in the south of Germany, but of course I don’t have any idea where is this B-a-v-a-r-i-a. He tells me his girlfriend one day came to Berlin and knocked his door. She told him she wanted to finish this relationship. So he finished it in pain, as she decided. And he decided to change his life and go to work in other countries. I understand Klaus’s story, I understand that feeling want to be far away from the past. I tell him I understand him.

Also I tell him about you, the man who I love so much, and the man who makes sculptures in London. I tell him my feeling about you—and how you tell me I have to travel alone.

We talk, then sometimes no words, and just listen.

Eventually the sun comes outside of the window.

“We are getting there,” Klaus says.

Berlin has a heavy colour, big square buildings. Like Beijing.

“So where you will stay in Berlin?” he asks.

“Don’t know. Maybe YMCA youth hotel, because I can have discount from my Europe train pass.” I show him my pass.

“I can take you to a YMCA near my flat, if you want.”

“That’s very kind of you. Please. I don’t know anywhere.”

“No problem,” he says, and pulls down his luggages from on our head.

I take my rocksack and follow him, just like a blind person.

The early morning air feels cold, like autumn coming. Occasionally, one or two old mans in a long coats walk aimlessly in the street, with the cigarettes in their lips. Under the highway there is bridge. By the bridge there is a sausage shop, lots of large mans queue there to get hot sausages. They eat purely sausage in the morning! Even worse than English Breakfast. The morning wind is washing my brain, and my small body. This is a city with something really heavy and serious in its soul. This is a city which had big wars in the history. And, I feel, this is a city made for mans, and politics, and disciplines. Like Beijing.

Then I see the flag, drifting on top of a massive building on a big square. Three bars: black, red, and yellow.

I ask Klaus: “Is that your country’s flag?”

He is surprised: “You know nothing about politics?”

I admit: “Yes, I am sorry. I never know it. So many different flags, they confuse me.”

He laughs: “But you’re from China. Everything in China is about politics.”

Maybe he is right. This is a man must know this world very well.

“So it is the German flag?” I guess.

“Yes. It is.”

I stare at the flag, stare at this black red yellow bars.

“Why the black bar on top of the flag?” I ask. “It looks so dangerous!”

He laughs again, but then stop. He raises his head and looks up the flag as well. Maybe he thinks I am not so stupid.

Black bar of flag is powerful and heavy blowing on top, and I feel a little bit scared. In a reasonable designing, the black bar should be at the bottom, other wise…it might cause bad luck. It might cause the whole country’s unfortunate.

As I remember, there is another country also has black bar on national flag, which is Afghanistan. But even Afghanistan put the black bar on the bottom instead of top.

I look up the sun through the flag, and the flag seems like a dark spot of the sun.

Through Alexanderplatz station, we are heading to east Berlin. I follow him, like a blind man following a stick. It is seven in the morning. We stand in front the YMCA Hotel. The door is not opened yet. We ring the bell. A man comes opening the door with his sleepy eyes, and he tells us that there is no vacancy until this afternoon.

So we leave YMCA, with our luggages. Standing in the middle of the street, Klaus says I could come to his flat if I want. Is very close to here.

“OK,” I say.

Klaus flat is very tidy. White plain wall, double bed with blue colour bedding, bare wooden floor without carpet, white-tile-pasted bathroom, small tidy kitchen with everything there, writing table with a leather chair, wooden wardrobe and a book shelf. That’s all.

No woman’s make up or perfumes in the bathroom. No any sign of woman anyway.

He makes a pot of coffee in his small kitchen. No milk, he opens the fridge and says. We drink the coffee, and he puts some sugar in. I don’t want any sugar. I can see there are only a piece of sad butter and two boring eggs in his fridge. He says he will leave Berlin next year, then start his diplomatic job. He grabs a pen and writes down address of flat and nearby tube station. And he gives it to me. Don’t get lost he says.

Then he opens the wardrobe and changes his tops. There are at least twenty different colour’s shirt and ten different ties hanging inside. And it seems they are all being ironed by someone
properly
. Who ironed his clothes? He puts on a grey-silver-colour-suit, and a dark-red-tie.

“You can leave your bags here, so you can walk around in Berlin. I’ll be back this evening from work.”

So I say yes, yes, yes to him, to Klaus. He seems nice man, no harm, only warmth. I can trust him. We walk to bus stop where goes to his office. Several office man and woman in suits and with black leather bags also waiting. Then the bus immediately coming. He kisses on my cheek and says see you tonight at home. It is so naturally, just like in a Western TV, a husband says goodbye to his wife every morning when he leaves to work. I see him disappear with the bus. And I have a strange feeling towards him.

Now I am alone, wandering around in the city of Berlin. I feel really naked. I care about nothing of this city. I have no love or hate whatsoever towards this city.

What I should know about Germany? The Wall? The Socialism? Or the Second World War? The Fascist? Why they hated Jews? Why Auschwitz is not set in their own country? The history text book in China told us a little about Germany, but very confusing.

I only know they have sausages, different taste sausages sold under the bridge. And people eat the sausage with a wooden stick in the street. I remember this morning a very noble-looking man in front of sausage shop, and was eating tomato-sauce-covered-sausage with his office files under his arm. That’s my understanding of Berlin.

It remind me so much of Beijing. The city is in square shape. Straight long street, right, left, no wandering. And some more bigly square building blocks. It must need a dictator like Chairman Mao to make a city like this. But of course this city look much more older than Beijing. Big buildings in Beijing came out from last fifteen years—or I would rather say: last fifteen days. Most of trees standing in Beijing streets are new trees, which being planted maybe no more than five years. History in Beijing doesn’t exist anymore, only empty Forbidden City for tourists taking photos.

I pass by that sausage shop under bridge again. The steams come out from the food. It smells good. It seduces me to want have some sausages too. I give three euros to the man in the shop, and he kindly gives me a big pack of hot sausage, with green mustard and red sauce by the side. It look exactly like a lump of shit. But it tastes good.

My body is in Berlin, but my heart is left in London, left for you. I don’t feel myself together. All I want do is find some internet café write emails. I cannot stop thinking of you.

You wrote me from London this morning, or maybe you wrote from last night:

“Although our bodies are separated, I still feel as if I am with you.”

I write to you back immediately. I say it is too lonely on the road on my own. I don’t see the point.

But you write me back:

“In the West we are used to loneliness. I think it’s good for you to experience loneliness, to explore what it feels like to be on your own. After a while, you will start to enjoy solitude. You won’t be so scared of it anymore.”

I read this email again and again in internet café not knowing your exactly meaning.

In café by big street I go and sit read some pages of
Intimacy
hoping it make me feel close to you. The cheese cake I just had is sticking on the cover of the book. It is very depressed book, I don’t understand why you want me to read. It is about a middle-aged man leave his wife and children, to abandon his family life. Is that how you feel living with me? Is that the reason you sent me off to travel the Continent explore my solitude? I feel angry. I put down book, looking around the room.

Is a modern café, the red and black colour chairs and tables are all in geometry shape. So much designing here, it almost feels uncomfortable. I want you suddenly turn up in front of me, and take off my clothes and squeeze my body and hold tightly. Oh, I want to make love with you, make love with you right now, right here. Only making love can wipe out this loneliness. Only making love can touch the soul. I want you hold my body painfully tight. I feel hurting when you squeeze my body like that, but at the same time I feel contented. It’s strange. Pleasure could be so painful.

I wander around for whole day. In the big shopping mall watching people. In the stagnant park watching people. In the meat market watching people. Lots leather here on people’s clothes. Even in the Starbucks, the sofas are leather sofas. How come so much leathers being produced in this country? A long day of leatherness. Sit and walk and dream. Eventually it comes to the evening. I walk back to Klaus flat. Yes, no mistakes, the exactly right street, and the exactly right gate, and the exactly right door number. Because I got this Berlin map from London, from you. I wonder when you have been to Berlin and where you stayed. Your life before is twenty years ahead of me. No wonder you have so many stories, so many secrets.

I press the doorbell, nobody comes. Again, and again, I press it. Then the door opens. Klaus looks terrible. His body leaning against the door and his knees almost reaching the floor. He falls in front of me.

He is in high fever. He vomit often. He has diarrhoea. He spits out when he comes back from bathroom. He is terribly ill. He even vomit up on bed before he rushes to toilet.

I am so scared. What happened? Did he eat something bad? Will he die? Although I only know this man nine hours on night train, I have small responsibility to his life now. But what I am going do?

I sit on his bed and give him a glass of tap water. He drinks but straight goes to bathroom to spit out. He lies down on bed again, and says sorry to me. I hold his hand. I lie down beside him and feel his body is like burning. Then he rushes to toilet again. Vomit, till nothing can be taken out from his stomach anymore.

“Give me a piece of paper, and a pen,” he says.

I find pen and paper on his table.

“Please, go out and buy me this kind of water, with a red star and a lion on the label.” He writes down the name of the water:
Gerolsteiner Stille Quelle
.

I can’t believe what he wrote. What a German! Water can have such a complicated name!