they don’t have the guilt complex of the Germans,” you say.
“Do you think all Germans have a guilt complex? After the Tiananmen events of 1989, the Germans kept doing business with China.”
“Do you mind if we don’t discuss politics?” you ask.
“But you can’t escape politics,” she says.
“Could we escape for a little while?” you ask her very politely and with the hint of a smile.
She looks at you, laughs, and says, “All right, let’s have something to eat. I’m a little hungry.”
“Chinese food or Western food?”
“Chinese food, of course. I like Hong Kong, it’s always so full of life, and the food is good and cheap.”
You take her into a small, brightly lit restaurant, crowded and noisy with customers. She addresses the fat waiter in Chinese, and you order some local dishes and a bottle of Shaoxing rice liquor. The waiter brings a bottle of Huadiao in a pot of hot water, puts down the pot as well as two cups, each containing a pickled plum. He says with a chuckle, “This young woman’s Chinese is really—” He puts a thumb up and says, “Wonderful! Wonderful!”
She’s pleased and says to you, “Germany is too lonely. I like it in China. In Germany, there is so much snow in winter, and, going home, there is hardly anyone on the streets, they’re all shut up in their houses. Of course, the houses are large and not like they are in China, and there aren’t the problems you’ve mentioned. I live on the top floor in Frankfurt, and it’s the whole floor. If you come, you can stay at my place, there’ll be a room for you.”
“Won’t I be in your room?”
“We’re just friends,” she says.
When you come out of the restaurant, there’s a puddle on the road, so you walk to the right and she to the left, and the two of you walk with a distance between you. Your relationships with women have never been smooth, you always hit a snag and are left stranded. Probably nothing can help you. Getting someone into bed is easy, but understanding the person is difficult, and there are only ever chance encounters that provide temporary relief from the loneliness.
“I don’t want to go back to the hotel right away, let’s take a walk,” she says.
Behind big front windows, the bar by the footpath is dimly lit and people are sitting around small tables with candles.
“Shall we go in?” you ask. “Or would you like to go somewhere by the sea where it will be more romantic?”
“I was born in Venice, so I grew up by the sea,” she replies.
“Then you should count as Italian. That’s a beautiful city, always bright and sunny.”
You want to ease the tension and say that you have been to Piazza San Marco. At midnight, the bars and restaurants on both sides of the square were crowded, and musicians were playing in the open air on the side near the sea. You remember they were playing Ravel’s Bolero and it drifted through the night scene. The girls in the square bought fluorescent bands from peddlers and wore them on their wrists, around their necks, in their hair, so green lights were moving everywhere. Beneath the stone bridges going out to sea, couples sat or lay in gondolas, some with little lanterns on their tall prows, and, rowed slowly by the boatmen, they glided toward the black, smooth surface of the sea. Hong Kong lacks this elegance but it is a paradise for food, drink, and commodities.
“All that’s for the tourists,” she says. “Did you go as a tourist?”
“I couldn’t afford to be a tourist. I had been invited by an Italian writers’ organization. I thought at the time it would be good to settle in Venice and find myself an Italian woman.”
“It’s a dead city with no vitality, which relies on tourists to keep going, it has no life,” she cuts in.
“Still, people there lead happy lives.”
You say that when you got back to the hotel, it was well after midnight, and no one was on the streets. In front of the hotel, two Italian girls were amusing
“Do you think all Germans have a guilt complex? After the Tiananmen events of 1989, the Germans kept doing business with China.”
“Do you mind if we don’t discuss politics?” you ask.
“But you can’t escape politics,” she says.
“Could we escape for a little while?” you ask her very politely and with the hint of a smile.
She looks at you, laughs, and says, “All right, let’s have something to eat. I’m a little hungry.”
“Chinese food or Western food?”
“Chinese food, of course. I like Hong Kong, it’s always so full of life, and the food is good and cheap.”
You take her into a small, brightly lit restaurant, crowded and noisy with customers. She addresses the fat waiter in Chinese, and you order some local dishes and a bottle of Shaoxing rice liquor. The waiter brings a bottle of Huadiao in a pot of hot water, puts down the pot as well as two cups, each containing a pickled plum. He says with a chuckle, “This young woman’s Chinese is really—” He puts a thumb up and says, “Wonderful! Wonderful!”
She’s pleased and says to you, “Germany is too lonely. I like it in China. In Germany, there is so much snow in winter, and, going home, there is hardly anyone on the streets, they’re all shut up in their houses. Of course, the houses are large and not like they are in China, and there aren’t the problems you’ve mentioned. I live on the top floor in Frankfurt, and it’s the whole floor. If you come, you can stay at my place, there’ll be a room for you.”
“Won’t I be in your room?”
“We’re just friends,” she says.
When you come out of the restaurant, there’s a puddle on the road, so you walk to the right and she to the left, and the two of you walk with a distance between you. Your relationships with women have never been smooth, you always hit a snag and are left stranded. Probably nothing can help you. Getting someone into bed is easy, but understanding the person is difficult, and there are only ever chance encounters that provide temporary relief from the loneliness.
“I don’t want to go back to the hotel right away, let’s take a walk,” she says.
Behind big front windows, the bar by the footpath is dimly lit and people are sitting around small tables with candles.
“Shall we go in?” you ask. “Or would you like to go somewhere by the sea where it will be more romantic?”
“I was born in Venice, so I grew up by the sea,” she replies.
“Then you should count as Italian. That’s a beautiful city, always bright and sunny.”
You want to ease the tension and say that you have been to Piazza San Marco. At midnight, the bars and restaurants on both sides of the square were crowded, and musicians were playing in the open air on the side near the sea. You remember they were playing Ravel’s Bolero and it drifted through the night scene. The girls in the square bought fluorescent bands from peddlers and wore them on their wrists, around their necks, in their hair, so green lights were moving everywhere. Beneath the stone bridges going out to sea, couples sat or lay in gondolas, some with little lanterns on their tall prows, and, rowed slowly by the boatmen, they glided toward the black, smooth surface of the sea. Hong Kong lacks this elegance but it is a paradise for food, drink, and commodities.
“All that’s for the tourists,” she says. “Did you go as a tourist?”
“I couldn’t afford to be a tourist. I had been invited by an Italian writers’ organization. I thought at the time it would be good to settle in Venice and find myself an Italian woman.”
“It’s a dead city with no vitality, which relies on tourists to keep going, it has no life,” she cuts in.
“Still, people there lead happy lives.”
You say that when you got back to the hotel, it was well after midnight, and no one was on the streets. In front of the hotel, two Italian girls were amusing
Similar Books
