Xiaolu Guo - A Concise Chinese English Dictionary for Lovers

“I don’t know,” he says vaguely.

“What about China?”

“I think that’s very unlikely…” He laughs.

There is no reason for me to stay here in this bachelor’s flat anymore, not even stay in the city of Berlin. I will leave Berlin right now, immediately.

I send you a postcard:

My dearest,

I am leaving Berlin. I really want to go down to somewhere more warm. I don’t know if I like to travel on my own. I see all the lovers and families on the train they travel together on their holiday. For me it is not a holiday, it is something like homework from you to me. I wish you are happy.

Love,

your Z

It is a postcard with the picture of Berlin Wall. Messy drawing everywhere on the wall. It is ugly.

Sitting on bus to station, I can still smell my body having sweat from Klaus fever last night, and I ask myself: Did I fall in love with him? I don’t know Klaus, the man in east Berlin, but I feel close to him. Look, now I have my own privacy, and I don’t know if I would tell you when I come back to London.

Venice is the capital of the northeast Italian region of Veneto; built on 118 alluvial islets.

I arrive in Venice after hours and hours sleeping on train. Walk out from station, there are waters everywhere, or say, river, or should say canals. I don’t know if these waters are part of sea. But it is midnight, and very dark. Bad time. It mean I have to pay a hotel for over night staying, and I don’t know where am I now. I hope I can search twenty-four-hour café to kill the night before the morning starts, then I can find hotel for tomorrow more easy.

On the wall of St. Lucia train station, there are some posters hanging there, both in Italian and English, and also in characters like India language. The English says: “Venice Asian Art and Culture Festival.” I notice it is during this week. That a good thing for me. There are several people also just coming out from station, and looking in map. They argue something on the map, probably argue in Italian, or maybe French, or maybe some other Europe language I not understand.

A man in that group comes to me: “Parla Italiano?”

I shake my head.

“English?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“Do you know where is the party?” He looks friendly.

“What party?” I say.

“You are not here for this Asian festival? There is party tonight. We are going there now. I hope it’s not too late.”

The man speaks very unclear English, but he seems very keen on Asian.

“No, it won’t be too late. It will be too early,” one of his friends says.

“Come along with us if you want,” the man says. “We can get you in.”

I am hesitating. Should I go? If I can’t find that twenty-four-hour café it could be a solution.

“Maybe I come later?” I say, putting on my heavy rocksack.

“OK,” says the man. “If you decide to come just tell them you know Andrea Palmio and they will let you in.” His friends are waiting behind for him to go. “By the way, the place is called Pachuka, and you need to take the boat to Lido…”

He pass me piece of paper with the Pachuka name on. Then they disappear with his sincere voice.

Lido? I know Lido Holiday Inn Hotel . It is the very expensive hotel in Beijing and Shanghai. Only foreigners live there, and Starbucks inside of those hotels in China. But, here, is the party also in Lido ? Is it posh hotel too? Why I need take the boat to get there? Confused by all these thoughts, I walk alone to the waterbank, indecisive. Maybe I should go and pretend I am one of the famous Asian artists in the party. Westerners can’t tell the difference of a group of Chinese. In their eyes, we all look the same. I decide ask someone the way to this Lido .

Taking the night boat, I am heading to the other side of Venice. I feel like living in the old time of south China, that people have to take boat to get to other places. I am staring at the water. Is this the sea? A real sea? I can’t even see colour of water in the dark. It is very different the sea on pictures or in the film. It is also very different what you described me. I don’t think anyone want swim in this water. Also, the sea is being stopped again and again by the city. How could be possible a city still stands here without sinking? I thought a sea is boundless. I am disappointed. I want tell you immediately how I’m feeling now. Chinese always say West culture is a blue culture, Chinese culture is yellow culture. This because West from the sea, and China comes from the yellow sand.

I don’t understand the sea.

One hour later, I stand in front of “Pachuka.” From the outside it looks like a large restaurant or a night club. Neon lights everywhere. There are two very big men in the black suits, stopping everybody in front of the door. Some fashionable looking Italian mans and high-heel womans get in, with the invitation tickets holding in their hands. There are several India womans dressed up like queens or princess, also get into the door. It must be a really posh place, I wonder. I am glad I come here. But right now I can’t remember that man’s name. Why Western names are so difficult remember? So I wander around the door with my rocksack on shoulders and try to recall that name back. Antonia? Anthony? Andrew? Alexander? Antonioni? Which one sounds more closer?

Encouraging myself enormously, I walk to the door man: “My friend asked me come here. He is inside.”

The door man answers in very rude and bad English: “Sorry. It is a private party.”

“Yes, I know. But my friend invites me to come, and he is just inside the party,” I insist.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Antonia, Anthony, no, Andrew. Maybe Antonioni…You know I am a Chinese and I can’t pronounce your country’s name.” I am embarrassed myself.

“What does your friend do?”

“He is…he is the manager of the artists.” I just open my mouth randomly. I don’t know him at all, and I don’t think he is a manager of the artists.

One of the doormans takes it a little serious and goes inside to ask somebody. One minute later he comes out:

“Sorry, we can’t let you in.”

“But he invites me here. I should get inside!” I am pissed off.

“Sorry Signorina ,” the door man says emotionlessly. “No invitation, no entry. Basta .”

A posh car arrives, and three people come out with strange costumes and shining shoes. The bounce men say Signori to them, and they walk straight into the door. The music is loudly coming out from the party, and laughings. Nobody wants to take me in or even look at me a second. Why I don’t look like one of the Asian artists? I wish I wear skirt, or some old-fashioned stupid traditional Chinese costumes.

I wander outside of the Pachuka like a wild night dog, no where to return. Then I see a very big and very long car arrives abruptly. Shit, it’s a Cadillac! Comes out eight. Yes, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight young womans. All blonde, with shining long golden hair. They wear the same miniskirt, and the same tight silver tops look just like bras. The silver miniskirts are so short people can see half of their bottoms. They are extremely slim, shapey, and all wear white high-heel long boots. They look like giraffes from the same giraffe mother. These sexy machines, leaded by a woman manager, their high-heels click the sandy ground: cha, cha, cha…They line up and one by one walking into the door. Two door mans fix their eyes on these girls body, like being deep frozen, can’t move. What are these sex machines doing in this “private party”? Lap dancing? None of them are Asians. Or they will just drink champagne with posh mans guests?