Gao Xingjian - One Man

The taxi pulls over to the curb. In the rearview mirror, you see the driver scowling, he doesn't want to drive around in circles looking for a destination you can't name. You pay the fare and get out. High buildings soar up on both sides of the road, and for a while you can't get your bearings. You follow the road, but, oddly, there aren't many pedestrians, yet Central is usually thronging with crowds and very noisy. Also, there is not the usual traffic congestion, there aren't many cars, and the traffic is moving briskly. Afterward, you find that the shops are all shut, although the windows still have their displays on show. The tall buildings block out most of the sunlight, so it is only the middle of the road that is bright. You can't help feeling that you are daydreaming.

You recall her saying she had to get back to Frankfurt by Monday, that the company she was working for had a business meeting with its Chinese counterpart, and at this you realize that it is Sunday. On the morning of this day of rest, the usual thing is for families or friends to arrange to get together for breakfast in one of the many restaurants. For the nonstop-busy people of Hong Kong, this is a form of entertainment.

For a whole month, there have been rehearsals, performances, dinner receptions, appointments, meetings, and you have never relaxed like this, strolling around on your own in the heart of this lonely town. You are just getting to know the city, but you don't know if you will come back, just like you don't know if you will ever see her again, ever be so close to her again, pouring out your frustrations and abandoning yourself to lust.

On the last night, she got you to rape her. It was not sex play, she really had you tie her up, got you to tie up her hands, got you to beat her with a leather belt, got you to beat the body that she hated. What she wanted to convey to you was the feeling that after rape, the betrayed and alienated physical body no longer belonged to her.

You tied her wrists with her panty hose, and, holding the metal buckle of the belt, lightly struck her with the end. You laughed in the dark to let her know it was a game to give her the sadomasochistic sexual pleasure she wanted, and she also laughed.

But that was not what she wanted, what she wanted was for you to really beat her. You started to hit her harder and harder so that you could hear the sound of the leather against her flesh. Her flesh convulsed and contracted, but she didn't call out to stop. You didn't know how much she could bear, and when she called out in surprise, you immediately threw down the belt and went to caress her. She swore at you for being a fool, struggled to untie her hands and sat up. You apologized. She lay on her back in the bed, and you lay over her. Then as you felt her tears wetting your face, your own tears began to flow. You said you could not rape her and that you no longer had lust.

She said it was impossible for you to understand her suffering, the suffering of a promiscuous woman who had been raped. All you wanted was sexual enjoyment.

You said that you loved her, and, because you loved her, you could not rape her. You said you hated violence.

She also said she wanted you to cry, that when you cry you are more real. She became gentle and loving and kept stroking you, stroking you all over.

A one-hundred-percent woman, you said. No, a wanton woman, she said. You said no, she was a good woman. She said no, you didn't know, after some time you would hate her. It was impossible for her to live the life of a normal woman, because she could never be satisfied. She really wanted to have a life with you, but it was impossible. Furthermore, you would have to forgive her for this psychosis of hers. She did, in fact, want a peaceful and secure life, but no one would be able to provide her with that sort of peace and contentment. And you would not marry a woman like her, you only wanted her body for the enjoyment you wanted but had not yet found.

You said you were afraid of marriage, afraid of being controlled by a woman. You had a wife. You knew what marriage was about. For you, freedom was more precious than anything, but you couldn't help loving her. She said she could not be your lover, you obviously had a woman, and if you didn't have one you would find one. In fact, you were gentle and fairly honest-she said she had said "fairly" and that she was not exaggerating. You said she was a very lovely woman. But was she like this with all men? She said she had given much of herself to you because she liked you, and that you, too, had given her much, it was equal. She also said that she had understood men too early and already had no illusions. People were practical: she was her boss's lover, but he had to go home to his wife and children on weekends. She was his mistress and, apart from the weekends, she accompanied him on work assignments. Also, he needed her for doing business with China.

Her deep throaty voice, her voluptuousness, her frankness, were tangible and, just like her strong body, aroused your lust, inducing memories with the aftertaste of pain, but filling those memories with a sensuousness that made them bearable. Her voice continued to excite you, and it was as if she were chatting softly right next to you, giving you her warmth and the fragrance of her body. Through her, your repressed lust was released, and recounting your memories to her brought both pain and joy. You needed to talk endlessly with her as you searched for those many memories, and, while you were talking, a profusion of small forgotten details kept surfacing with increasing clarity.

The Bank of China Building, glass from top to bottom, reflects, like a mirror, the strands of white clouds in the blue sky. The sharp corner of the triangular building is knife-thin, and Hong Kong people say that it is like a meat cleaver cutting through the heart of the city and destroying the excellent feng shui of the island. The building of some finance group alongside has been fitted with some odd metal contraptions, futilely, to resist the baleful influences of the Bank of China Building. This is how Hong Kong people deal with the problem. The palatial Victorian mansion of the Legislative Council, located in the middle of a cluster of tall buildings, is quite insignificant and symbolizes an era that will soon end.

Next to the Legislative Council, crowds are milling in the square with a bronze statue. There are crowds by the fountain, under the covered walkways, the pavements and even the road. You think you have come across some meeting or demonstration. But the people are talking and laughing, food is laid out on the ground, boom boxes are playing pop songs, only dancing is missing.

Amazed at the streets of picnic groups between the tall buildings, you thread your way through them until you come to the closed doors of the Prince's Building where there is a banner with a portrait of Christ on the Cross. A priest is explaining the gospel, and the faithful are repenting in the open air. Eighty to ninety percent of the congregation are women, all with dark complexions. You suddenly realize that this is probably where the Filipino maids of rich Hong Kong families gather for recreation on Sundays. To support their families, these women work in Hong Kong so that they can send money back to the Philippines. There is a buzz of talking and laughing, but you do not understand their language and cannot hear their pain of being away from home.

How long will this situation continue? Will new immigrants from the Mainland replace the Filipino maids? When the whole world is expelling immigrants, can this place be an exception? Of course, you need not worry yourself unnecessarily, the big buildings under the blue sky and white clouds will not crumble, and Hong Kong Island will not turn into a desert. At this instant, as you make a detour and move through the crowds, you are assailed by a profound loneliness, but this is the loneliness that has always been your salvation. In any case, you are not Christ and do not have to sacrifice yourself to enlighten the world. Moreover, there is no chance of your being resurrected, so what is important is for you to live properly in this present world.