Qiu Miaojin - Last Words from Montmartre

(The period of tender love: Xu is in Taiwan, Zoë is in Taiwan)

Book of Odes I.3 (31):

In life or in death, however separated

We pledged our word to our wives

We held hands

We would grow old together

(The Golden Age of Oaths I: Xu is in Taipei, Zoë is in Tours)

From 2:58 a.m. on, I woke up every five minutes. We rose from bed, packed the luggage, got into the car, watched the Jianan fields pass by in the darkness until we reached the Chiang Kai-shek International Airport, checked in, and waited for customs to open at eight o’clock. Maybe you called to say goodbye to your family, or ate some breakfast, dozed off… little things. Airport security wouldn’t let me see you to your gate and the plane finally took off and you were gone forever away.

I wanted to board the plane with you, to show our boarding passes to the flight attendant together, eat the awful meal together, ask for our drinks together, sit side by side and talk until I put my head on your shoulder as you read and slept, and then wake up together and listen to music, watch a movie, go to the bathroom…. Maybe we’d fall asleep again and then wake up to another meal only slightly more appetizing than the first and watch the shifting cloud formations outside the window together, and hear the captain announce that we were about to land in Hong Kong, about to land in Malaysia, about to land in Paris….

Do I think too much? All I really want is to fly with you.

· · ·

Around the world

I’ve searched for you

I traveled on

When hope was gone

To keep a rendezvous

I know, somewhere, sometime, somehow

You’d look at me

And I would see

The smile you’re smiling now

It might have been

In country town

Or in New York

In gay Paree

Or even London Town

No more will I

Go all around the world

For I have found

My world

In you.

“Around the World”

In late 1992, I enjoyed three long months to myself, thanks to you.

· · ·

When I received the first four shots of the twenty-one gun salute (the letter from Paris, the poster of a musicians’ family tree, the Klimt postcard, and the photograph), the sky exploded with fireworks and the festivities were under way — the March festivities that Zoë had prepared for me. I was piously welcoming the celebration like a crying newborn opening her eyes for the first time.

As I unfolded the poster of the musicians’ family tree in my room and began to look up some names, Ciacia Her’s song “We Keep Going, Happily” slipped out of my mouth unconsciously, and I was startled to hear the purity of my own voice. My mind and eyes glowed with golden light, reflecting the clothing of the woman in the Klimt painting. So that is what a happy woman looks like. What would become of this woman when the twenty-one gun salute finished?

It was only when I looked at the photograph that I realized how long it had been since I’d seen you. My wound was still fresh. I wanted to go back to the Leofoo Inn to examine it more closely; you were wearing that huge backpack; your new glasses were refined but the lenses smudged. I adored that photograph of you standing under the statue of Napoleon as if you didn’t know whether to climb up or jump down; your pretty figure, your cute expression; actually, all the photos from Pont Napoleon were wonderful; Centre Pompidou; the deep expression in your eyes in the photo of “Duchamp’s Toilet”; ah, look at you in Les Halles, I wanted to hold you tight, cheek to cheek, and check if you clipped your fingernails…. Zoë, I haven’t seen you for so very long now!

Good night, Zoë, tonight I’ll watch you, and listen as you fall asleep. (I have a million treasures under my pillow.)

· · ·

I regret telling you about my eyes and making you worry. Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of my precious eyes for you.

You’ll let me fall in love again? I laugh as I write this. Don’t you realize I fall in love with you every day? On the bus home today I thought I wasn’t loving you consistently, nor was I loving you more and more; rather, I was falling in love with you again every day. Strange, isn’t it? What I want most of all is to give you a home, as figurative as it is real. The letter I most want to write to you is the ordinary “How’s everything going at home?” My only wish is to build you a home, the kind that would always just be there, whether or not you returned, whether or not you wanted it, whether or not you cared.

What I’ve worried about most in these past two days is that my mother would have to cope with yet another catastrophe. I’m overwhelmed thinking about it, and then about you. Zoë, what would become of you if something really happened to me? You used to say you’d go to Penghu to finish writing four hundred letters to me, but what would you do now? Would you treat it tenderly as something arranged by fate? And gently keep me company? You are the one I find hardest to let go of; I still haven’t given you a home! I’ve been working so, so hard on it, did you know that? But for the last two days, I could only observe helplessly that heaven did not want to give me the chance.

I should go to bed early for you and rest my eyes.

· · ·

Alone in my room I feel this time and space belongs totally to you. Willing to pause here, I let my tears slowly fall….

Phoning you lately has become an exercise in missing you. I came home and after dinner I fell asleep clutching my pillow. I woke up at midnight, a silent moment. The phone was right next to me and I really wanted to call and say nothing, just have you on the other end of the line. Then I could just rest my cheek against the receiver and it would be enough.

Really this was all I wanted, to live a quiet life. To listen quietly to your voice from the backseat of your scooter, quietly let you button up my coat, quietly lean against you, quietly stroke your hair and part it with my fingers, quietly organize books with you, quietly enjoy things you liked or I liked or things we both liked together, really that’s all.

Can’t we? Unless you don’t want to, I can’t think of any reason why not to.

Good night, Zoë, a Zhivago -esque night.

· · ·

It was probably the spell you had cast on me by saying you would be back. When I left the office I felt like you and Dio were waiting for me and I could even see your smile…. It was as if the sky and earth had turned pure white with happiness. I love you, Zoë. Do you hear me?

I rushed home to shower and wash my hair. I wanted to be clean to write to you, give you my cleanest self, as if I were in search of the purest patch of ground on which to love you.

Good night, Zoë, you are my contentment.

· · ·

You’re insane. Ever since I received the letter about how happy you felt I should’ve been on guard. When you suddenly ran outside without your winter coat on and your nose running and your body shivering and you sprained your ankle, were you deliberately trying to alarm me? You exasperate me, you’re infuriating, I worry constantly about you….

After work I took Xinsheng South Road to Shibao Square to buy you a copy of If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler and I couldn’t stop crying at the thought of you running a fever in Paris. What can I say? This time there really isn’t anything to say! I have nothing to say, only these falling tears….

Good night Zoë, my air.

· · ·

In your loneliness, remember that I’m here waiting for you! I’m with you.

Good night, Zoë, I can’t bear your loneliness.

· · ·

Whenever I feel a confrontation of critical moments in this growing-up process, I feel you, reliable you, by my side.