Xiaolu Guo - A Concise Chinese English Dictionary for Lovers

“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.

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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.

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.”