A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers (17 page)

Dublin
is the capital and largest city of the Republic of Ireland in the east-central part of the country on the Irish Sea.

dublin

Dublin, my last stop. I flew Dublin. I am not in Continent anymore.

This is the most western place I ever been in my life. I never been to States, and anway I don’t know if States is more west than Europe since the earth is round. When I was in China, I thought Dublin is in the middle of Berlin, because that’s how Chinese translated the word “Dublin.” Also I thought London in the middle of the whole Europe, because Britain sounds so big: “the empire on which the sun will never set.” So London must be in the centre Europe just like Chinese character for China, “
,” it means a country in the centre of the world.

I have some difficulties from the start—I am being stopped at the customs in the Dublin airport.

“Do you have a visa?” the immigration officer sitting in the glass box asks me seriously.

Is he blind or something? Can he not see those important stamps on my passport? I stare at him, with big confidence: “Of course I have visa.”

“Where is it?” He throws my passport on the table.

I am a bit annoyed by this Westerner. I grab my passport back and open page where I got Schengen Visa stamp.

“Here it is!” I point the visa to the blind man. “Can’t you see it is a Schengen visa?”

“But we are not in a Schengen country,” says the man in very sober voice.

I am confused: “But I was told that your Irish use euros, just like in France, or Germany!”

“That doesn’t mean we are a Schengen country. You need a visa to come into this country.”

For one moment I really scared. Then I remember my UK visa. Quickly I find page where I have my student visa stamp from UK Embassy. I am so clever.

The man looks at the visa one second only and says, “We are not part of the British Empire either.”

He throws my passport on the table again.

I stare at that officer and don’t know what to do. Will they send me back to the UK? Or will they send me back to China, straight away? I don’t have return ticket. If now they send me back, will I need to pay the air tickets? Or will they pay the fee?

I am standing in the corner of the Customs, all the passengers passed by, and new passengers from some other strange countries all left too. I am remained alone. After a while, I see the officer gives my passport to a new officer, then he leaves. This new officer is a very kind man, probably he is from less-west-country. He lets me fill a form, then he checks through the form. And then he lets me stand in front of the camera. I never notice there is a camera underneath the glass box of the customs! I stand there and try to smile and being innocent. The nice man says OK, and he stamps on my passport.

“What is that stamp?” I am so worried that he stamps something terrible, terrible for my future.

“It means next time, if you come to Ireland without a visa, you will be illegal.” He gives me back the passport with a black stamp allowing me short-period stay provided no working.

“Do you understand?” the officer asks.

“Yes. Yes. Thanks you.”

I hold the passport like holding rest of my life.

Walking around Dublin I lost myself again. I am wandering in a park—St. Stephen’s Green. There is a lake in the park, and some swans live there. There are also some weird birds with green neck swimming on the water. The rain arrives, it is like rain curtain. It rains intensely. Nobody, no any plants, no any single leafs, can avoid the madness of the rain. I run out of the park. By the park, there is a hotel called The Shel-bourne Hotel. I walk in.

The hotel is unbelievabal. Somebody plays piano in the lobby. There is a fireplace, or no, two in the ground lobby. The fire is burning. I stare at the fire. I love watching fire, better than TV—the way it changes the shape all the time. The burning things inside are not like coal, or charcoal, or wood. It is a kind of black, long square piece of bar. I never see that before. I sit down on the old-soft-posh-arm-chaired sofa and feel the fire sucks my wetness from the rain.

“Excuse me, do you know what is this stuff burning in the fire?” I ask an old gentleman on next sofa. He is in black bowler hat and dark coat, with his tall black umbrella. He is like from Sherlock Holmes story, an old detective.

“I beg your pardon?” the old man says.

“You know this stuff, the stuff is burning, what do you call that?” I point to the fireplace.

“Ah, those are
briquettes
, my dear,” the old man answers proudly.

“Briquettes?” Why it sounds like a French bread?

“We also call it peat, my dear,” the old man adds, “or turf.”

The old man look at my deeply confused face. He gets up to perform for me, to help me to understand: “In the old times we in Ireland used spades to cut the turf. Then we’d dry it.” He is doing the gesture of digging and chopping.

The old man has very strong accent, and my English listening comprehension becomes hopeless.

“Turf” or “Tofu”? I don’t understand this word. Why they don’t simply call it “black burning stuffs”?

A young handsome waiter comes with a menu.

“Would you like to order something?” the waiter asks politely.

“Yes, sure.” Of course, I have to pretend somebody posh from Japan or Singapore. I shall leave here as soon as my clothes are dried up.

The waiter gives me a big book of menu.

The old man pays the bill. He takes his tall-huge-old umbrella and salute with his black bowler hat to me: “Good bye, young lady.”

Five days in Ireland, I am lying on bed inside of youth hostel just reading
Intimacy
. Sometimes I look up in the dictionary, but the more I read, the less I care the new words like
Thatcherites
and
Terpsichorean
. I don’t care what they mean. I understand the whole story completely anyway without dictionary. In that book, what the man wants from his wife is the intimacy, but his wife doesn’t give it to him. So he leaves for a new lover, for a new, passionate life. Don’t you know that all I want is be
intimate
with you?

In Dublin, that morning I finish reading the last page of the book, I decide go back London as quickly as possible. I am tired of travel. I am longing to see you.

I quickly pack my bag in the youth hostel and I walk out of this place where full of loud university students and hippies. Perhaps these people don’t need intimacy, or they have got it enough, or it worth nothing to them while they listen i-pod and dance in the clubs all night long.

self
(self)
n.
1.
distinct individuality or identity of a person or thing;
2.
one’s basic nature;
3.
one’s own welfare or interests.

self

The plane touches down at London Stansted airport. It is afternoon. Outside is raining, dim as usual. I am standing by the luggage belt, waiting for my rocksack. Has it gone to Los Angeles or Delhi or something? Everybody took their luggages but mine doesn’t come. Almost an hour later, last person took his suitcase from the belt.

I go to the “Lost Luggage” counter to report. A man apologises to me and says he will find out and contact me. Luckily, I have my passport with me.

You are not waiting meet me so I take train to home. I have nothing to bring back from my travel. I lost my
Dubliners
, lost my Fernando Pessoa, lost
Intimacy
. I also lost all the maps you gave to me. And I lost my toothbrush, lost my clothes and lost my address book. I only have the stories that happened in an East Berlin flat, in Amsterdam under the wisteria tree, on the Lido in Venice, in Faro…They stay in my heart and my skin.

London evening: everything comes back to me quickly. The slow and noisy tube, the oily fish and chip shop, the dim and crowded pubs, the raining streets with people waiting for their never-coming bus. London is such a desolate place.

The house is empty. But everywhere smells of you. And there is much mess. All your tools are on the floor. And your bags of clay and plaster are piled up in the living room. In the kitchen I find a line of dirty tea cups on the table and there is a sculpture of a bath, made from plastic, lying in the middle of the floor. It is making joke of me. Only the plants are living quietly in the garden. The fruit tree without flower stands there, still holding the peace of the garden. There are yellow leafs everywhere covering your sculptures. I pick up one fig. It is almost rotten and the juice immediately comes out. I taste it, very sweet. The seeds are sandy in my mouth. In these weeks I am absent, nature changed so much. Every plant has a different shape. And you? In these five weeks, has anything changed on you?

I turn on the radio. Weather report, as important as yesterday and tomorrow. A man talks with a very low tone like he just knew England lost football match:

“The rest of today will be overcast, with rain predicted for much of the weekend. There’s a small chance of occasional sunshine so let’s keep our fingers crossed…”

Yes. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.

I wash all the tea cups, and all the dirty plates. I sweep the floor, and I let your sculptures lean against the wall. I put all your socks and smelly shirts into the washing machine. I tidy your table. Then I sit and I wait.

When the last beam of light in the sky has disappeared, you come back home with a bunch of your friends. You hug me, say hello to me, just like you would hug and hello another friend. Then everybody sits down, smoking cigarettes, having tea, talking English jokes, and laughing loudly. I never could understand jokes. And I know you hate smokers, but now you let your friends smoke everywhere in the house.
Friendship.
A respectful term.

I try to join in the conversation, but it is frustrating.

Your friends are talking about transsexual surgery, turning a person from male to female. One woman has very heavy make-up and long blonde curly hair. But there’s something strange about her, she somehow looks very manly. Probably she was a man before. How do I know.

She is an expert:

“Is he sure about it? I tell you, darling, if he really wants to do it, then he should get it done in the States. I can give him all the contacts, and a breakdown of the costs.”

“So, how much does it work out at?” one of your friends is eager to know.

“Well, Dr. Brownstein’s fee is about $7,750, and the Surgical Facility fee is around $3,000…but then there’s a whole list of other shit—the Anaesthesia costs $700…”

“Bloody hell!” the eager one says.

“So, tell us a bit more about the surgery,” another asks.

“Well, it’s a pretty complicated process. The doctor has to create a vagina, and work out the maximal clitoral and vaginal sensation, but minimising scars…”

I am chopping some carrots and try to follow the conversation. The carrots are so hard.

I listen, and listen, and listen carefully, I even stop chopping carrots. But in the end I am lost. I am an outsider. And nobody can deny this. I am just somebody’s peasant wife. I feel lonely. I just want to talk to you, without the others here. I feel like all the expectation I collected on the journey is going to nowhere. I am getting bitter. I doubt if my absence of five weeks in this house affect you at all.

While they carry on their intense conversation about transsexual, I tell you that I lost my rocksack. And I lost all your maps. You say never mind, you don’t need those maps anymore.

One of your friends heard I just came back from Europe.

“So you went to Dublin?”

“Yes.”

“How was it?”

“It was good.”

Another person says:

“How was Paris?”

“Paris was good,” I answer.

The third person asks:

“Did you like Venice?”

“Yes, I did.”

“That’s good,” she replies.

Is that how English people speak? If so, then I must be a bit English now.

Eventually all your friends leave. Only the trails of smoke drift around the ceiling, and empty glasses stay on the table. Here we are, face to face, only two of us.

You put the kettle on, and sit down towards me.

“So, how are you, my darling? Do you want a cup of tea?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. If you want some then you have some. I don’t want any.”

“OK.” You look at me, and observe the mood on my face.

“You love lots of people, but I only love you.” I speak, painfully. I just want to push the subject right to the front line.

“What’s the problem now? Don’t you think I love you?”

“I don’t feel that intimacy with you like before.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. It feels like you don’t really need me, and you never really needed me. I don’t know why I came back here.”

“What do you mean? Nothing has changed. I’m the same person as before.”

“But I feel you are cold. We haven’t made love for such a long time but you didn’t even kiss me when you walked through the door. I missed you so much, I wrote you emails everyday as possible as I can, but how many emails did you write to me in the last whole month? Only five! You knew I would be back tonight but you still brought your friends. Didn’t you want to be with your lover
privately
? Are your friends more important than your lover?”

I am so angry. I can see my anger everywhere in the house.

“Of course I love you. But that doesn’t mean I have to abandon my friends. I think you are being a bit selfish,” you say.

“Thank you! Yes, I am a very
selfish
person. I am so selfish that I want to have a quiet night with my lover after five weeks travel!”

I try hold my anger back. I don’t know what I can say. I know you didn’t have sex with anybody when I was away, and I am the one did all these messy things. How can I blame you? But at the same time I feel so disappointed about you.

“I don’t think I am a special one to you at all,” I shout.

I walk into the bathroom. I turn on the bath. I take off my clothes. And I clean myself away from all those dusts.

The night when our bodies lie down side by side, I feel I am detached. We are not one body anymore. This is the first time I feel this. There is a big obsessed “self” separating itself from my body and looking at your body. Even when we make love, even when your body is deeply in my body…

We Chinese are not encouraged to use the word “self” so often. The old comrades in the work unit would say, how can you think of “self” most of the time but not about others and the whole society?

The “self” is against “group” and “collectivism.” The “self” is the enemy of the Communist party. In middle school we were taught “the most admirable person” should forget about himself, shouldn’t satisfy his own needs.

I remember in my middle school whole class went to the Old People’s House every Friday afternoon. It was a big place for old lonely people to stay, but also abandoned babies were being raised there. The babies were always girls, girls who had been found in the rubbish bin or in the street. I remember there were lots of tiny babies sleeping in one room. We brought our soaps and basins from home, to wash the nappies and clothes. I remember several baby girls have strange white spotted skin and white hair. We were frightened to see that. We were told these babies had a special skin disease. We were scared to touch them in case our body turned to white too. And I remember two babies with strange shapes of the body. Their fingers were bound together, one of the legs twisted like vines. I was horrified. But it taught us to understand other mankind’s miseries and sufferings; to understand how lucky we are compare with these hopeless people.

But here, in this rainy old capitalism country, “self” means everything, “self” is the original creativity for everything. Art, business, fashion, society system, all deeply depend on this “self.” The connection between the world and “self” is so strong. “Self” works incredibly well.

abortion
 
 
n.
1.
operation to end a pregnancy;
2.
informal
something grotesque.

abortion

My period still didn’t come. I wait one week. Then two. Not a single drop of blood. In a vague afternoon, I decide to go to the pharmacy buy a pregnancy test box. I come back home and you are not here. I shall find out on my own. The blue symbol shows a cross: positive.

Holding the pregnant test sample in my hand, I don’t know if this baby is from you. I really don’t know. I look at that cross again and my body feels so dirty. I want to wash myself.

I wait the whole day for you to come back home. When you come back in the evening, I tell you. I say I need to go to hospital and have an abortion. As quick as possible. Surprisingly, you don’t say anything. You don’t even ask when it happened, and you don’t even ask if it is from you. You just look at me with sad face and I start to cry. You put your arms around me and hold me tight.

Five days later you drive me to a clinic in Richmond, with your broken white van. We stop in a petrol station. Is it very far away? I ask. Not very far, you answer, we will get there soon. Your van is old but it is never really totally broken down. Highway. So many cars. So many traffic lights. I feel dizzy. Everything goes fuzzy. I don’t know what you are thinking about this baby might be yours. All I know is you hold my hand very tight, only let go change gear. I feel you are only stable thing to me. You are my life.

I wake up on a wheel bed, without feeling anything unusual. I eat the orange and biscuits the nurse gives to me. I put on my coat and find my shoes back. No more fear anymore, only the sorrow of emptiness. I walk slowly back to the resting room. I see you. You stand up from piles of newspaper, walk towards me.