you, “I’m quite aware of it.”
“Aware of what?”
“I hate this body of mine.” She suddenly turns frosty again, has a sip of wine, and says, “All right, you don’t understand me, you don’t know anything of my past and my life.”
“Then tell me about it!” you coax her. “Of course I want to understand, I want to know everything, everything about you.”
“No, all you want is to have sex with me.”
All right, you can only try to wheedle your way out. “There’s nothing bad about that, people have to go on living, the important thing is to be living in this instant. What has happened is in the past, there has to be a clean break.”
“But there can’t be a clean break. No, there can’t be!” she insists.
“What if I have?” You wince. She is a serious woman, she was probably good at mathematics in middle school.
“No, you can’t cut off memories, they remain submerged in your heart and from time to time they gush out. Of course, it’s painful, but it can also give you strength.”
You say that memories may give her strength but for you they are the same as nightmares.
“Dreams aren’t real but memories are events that have actually happened and can’t be erased.” This is how she argues.
“Of course, and moreover, they haven’t necessarily gone into the past.” You give a sigh, and go along with her argument.
“They can resurface any time if you don’t guard against them. Fascism is like that. If no one talks about it, doesn’t expose it, doesn’t condemn it, it can come back to life again!” She becomes agitated as she speaks and it is as if the suffering of each and every Jew weighs upon her.
“Then do you need to suffer?” you ask.
“It’s not a question of need. The pain actually exists.”
“So, do you want to take all of humankind’s sufferings upon yourself? Or at least the sufferings of the Jewish race?” you respond.
“No, that race ceased to exist a long time ago, it has scattered all over the world. I am simply a Jew.”
“Isn’t that better? It’s more like a person.”
She needs to affirm her background, and what can you say to that? What you want is precisely to remove the China label from yourself.You don’t play the role of Christ, and don’t take the weight of the cross of the race upon yourself, and you’re lucky enough not to have been crushed to death. She’s too immature to discuss politics and too intelligent to be a woman. Of course, you don’t say the last two things out loud.
A few trendy Hong Kong teenagers arrive. Some of them have their hair tied in ponytails, but they are all men. The tall blond waitress seats them at the table next to yours. One of them says something to the woman, but the music is too loud, and she has to bend down. After listening, she smiles, showing her white teeth that glow in the fluorescent lights, and then moves another small, round table: apparently others are coming. A male couple, gently stroking each other’s hands, is ordering drinks.
“After 1997, will they still let homosexuals meet publicly like this?” she moves close and asks in your ear.
“In China, it’s not just a matter of not being able to meet publicly. If homosexuals are discovered, they are rounded up as vagrants and sent off to labor camps, or even executed.” You had seen some Cultural Revolution cases in internal publications from the Public Security Office.
She moves away and leans back but doesn’t say anything. The music is very loud.
“Shall we go out for a walk in the street?” you suggest.
She pushes away the almost empty glass and stands up. Both of you go out the door. The little street, a blaze of neon lights, is thronging with people. There are bars one after another, as well as some elegant cake shops and small restaurants.
“Will this bar still exist?” She is obviously asking about after 1997.
“Who knows? It’s all business, as long as they can make a profit. The people here are like that,
“Aware of what?”
“I hate this body of mine.” She suddenly turns frosty again, has a sip of wine, and says, “All right, you don’t understand me, you don’t know anything of my past and my life.”
“Then tell me about it!” you coax her. “Of course I want to understand, I want to know everything, everything about you.”
“No, all you want is to have sex with me.”
All right, you can only try to wheedle your way out. “There’s nothing bad about that, people have to go on living, the important thing is to be living in this instant. What has happened is in the past, there has to be a clean break.”
“But there can’t be a clean break. No, there can’t be!” she insists.
“What if I have?” You wince. She is a serious woman, she was probably good at mathematics in middle school.
“No, you can’t cut off memories, they remain submerged in your heart and from time to time they gush out. Of course, it’s painful, but it can also give you strength.”
You say that memories may give her strength but for you they are the same as nightmares.
“Dreams aren’t real but memories are events that have actually happened and can’t be erased.” This is how she argues.
“Of course, and moreover, they haven’t necessarily gone into the past.” You give a sigh, and go along with her argument.
“They can resurface any time if you don’t guard against them. Fascism is like that. If no one talks about it, doesn’t expose it, doesn’t condemn it, it can come back to life again!” She becomes agitated as she speaks and it is as if the suffering of each and every Jew weighs upon her.
“Then do you need to suffer?” you ask.
“It’s not a question of need. The pain actually exists.”
“So, do you want to take all of humankind’s sufferings upon yourself? Or at least the sufferings of the Jewish race?” you respond.
“No, that race ceased to exist a long time ago, it has scattered all over the world. I am simply a Jew.”
“Isn’t that better? It’s more like a person.”
She needs to affirm her background, and what can you say to that? What you want is precisely to remove the China label from yourself.You don’t play the role of Christ, and don’t take the weight of the cross of the race upon yourself, and you’re lucky enough not to have been crushed to death. She’s too immature to discuss politics and too intelligent to be a woman. Of course, you don’t say the last two things out loud.
A few trendy Hong Kong teenagers arrive. Some of them have their hair tied in ponytails, but they are all men. The tall blond waitress seats them at the table next to yours. One of them says something to the woman, but the music is too loud, and she has to bend down. After listening, she smiles, showing her white teeth that glow in the fluorescent lights, and then moves another small, round table: apparently others are coming. A male couple, gently stroking each other’s hands, is ordering drinks.
“After 1997, will they still let homosexuals meet publicly like this?” she moves close and asks in your ear.
“In China, it’s not just a matter of not being able to meet publicly. If homosexuals are discovered, they are rounded up as vagrants and sent off to labor camps, or even executed.” You had seen some Cultural Revolution cases in internal publications from the Public Security Office.
She moves away and leans back but doesn’t say anything. The music is very loud.
“Shall we go out for a walk in the street?” you suggest.
She pushes away the almost empty glass and stands up. Both of you go out the door. The little street, a blaze of neon lights, is thronging with people. There are bars one after another, as well as some elegant cake shops and small restaurants.
“Will this bar still exist?” She is obviously asking about after 1997.
“Who knows? It’s all business, as long as they can make a profit. The people here are like that,
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