I can’t believe what he wrote. What a German! Water can have such a complicated name!

I come back with four big plastic bottle of water. He drinks. Gerolsteiner Stille Quelle. Slowly. Then he lies back to the bed, half sleep. I return to bathroom to fetch a wet towel, and fold it to put on his head.

It is very late, and I am hungry. The man lying on the bed is breathing difficultly. I open fridge and decide boil the only two eggs. Finding the pot, filling the water, switch on the gas, putting in the eggs…Look, I can make something in this German kitchen, though it’s uncomfortable to cook in some stranger’s home. There are some tea bags there, so I make tea. I add some sugar this time, as I am too hungry.

After eating two eggs with salt, I come back his bed. I feel his temperature is still rising. I get up to find his telephone. But I don’t know which number I should dial. 999? 911? 221? 123? Is Berlin system like London or China? I give up the telephone and come back to him. I take out the sweat-soaked towel on his forehead and cool it again in the cold water. I am thinking one moment he was so tidy like his bachelor’s flat, but another moment he is so messed and fucked up. I don’t understand Germans. I switch off the light and lie down beside this man.

I feel so tired by walking around in Berlin whole day. I pull over bits of his duvet to cover my body. Quickly I fall into my dreams.

I am waking up by his heat. It is so hot. He is sweaty and everything on the bed is wet and sticky. He says something not clear:

“Can I have some water…?”

His breathe is heavy and difficult, like he is running at the end of a marathon.

Then he says: “I feel very very cold.”

I find another duvet in his wardrobe. But now I am too hot under both these duvets. I take off all my clothes, only have my pants left. And I get into the bed again. Underneath two covers of duvet, he hugs me, but still shivering. I let him hug me. I see my leopard-pattern bra lying on the floor, and I feel a bit strange.

His face turns to me, and murmurs, very unclear:

“Stay with me…”

I hear him. And I am not sleepy anymore. He lies beside me, with the fever. I hug him. He holds my naked body.

We sleep like this, so close, until next morning…

The second day, he is feeling better, but is too weak go out. I tidy the bathroom, flush the toilet, and clean the tissues by the bedside. He drank three bottle of water since last night, now only one bottle left. I make some tea, and add some sugar in his cup. My rocksack is still on the floor, without opening it yet.

“Do you know last night you said something to me?” I want to remind him, to find out.

“I’m afraid I can’t remember much about last night. My mind was blown up. I must look like shit,” he says, a little embarrassed.

“So you don’t remember anything about last night?” I am bit disappointed.

“I remember I asked you to buy some water. And you looked after me. Thank you so much. I thought I was going to die.”

“That’s OK. I was a bit scared, actually.”

He drinks his tea, slowly. I don’t know what do next. Should I leave? Should I stay? I feel like want to stay with this man.

“Do you think maybe I should spend more time in Berlin?” I ask. I wish I didn’t ask like that. I hate myself.

“Well, I don’t know. It is your decision. Look, thank you so much for everything you did, especially considering you don’t even know me. The thing is, I have to go to the office this afternoon…”

He looks distant to me from last night.

“Do you think you might come to London one day?” I ask, keep hating myself.

“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.

venice

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.