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.”

“What do you mean? Nothing has changed. I’m the same person as before.”

“But I feel you are cold. We haven’t made love for such a long time but you didn’t even kiss me when you walked through the door. I missed you so much, I wrote you emails everyday as possible as I can, but how many emails did you write to me in the last whole month? Only five! You knew I would be back tonight but you still brought your friends. Didn’t you want to be with your lover privately? Are your friends more important than your lover?”

I am so angry. I can see my anger everywhere in the house.

“Of course I love you. But that doesn’t mean I have to abandon my friends. I think you are being a bit selfish,” you say.

“Thank you! Yes, I am a very selfish person. I am so selfish that I want to have a quiet night with my lover after five weeks travel!”

I try hold my anger back. I don’t know what I can say. I know you didn’t have sex with anybody when I was away, and I am the one did all these messy things. How can I blame you? But at the same time I feel so disappointed about you.

“I don’t think I am a special one to you at all,” I shout.

I walk into the bathroom. I turn on the bath. I take off my clothes. And I clean myself away from all those dusts.

The night when our bodies lie down side by side, I feel I am detached. We are not one body anymore. This is the first time I feel this. There is a big obsessed “self” separating itself from my body and looking at your body. Even when we make love, even when your body is deeply in my body…

We Chinese are not encouraged to use the word “self” so often. The old comrades in the work unit would say, how can you think of “self” most of the time but not about others and the whole society?

The “self” is against “group” and “collectivism.” The “self” is the enemy of the Communist party. In middle school we were taught “the most admirable person” should forget about himself, shouldn’t satisfy his own needs.

I remember in my middle school whole class went to the Old People’s House every Friday afternoon. It was a big place for old lonely people to stay, but also abandoned babies were being raised there. The babies were always girls, girls who had been found in the rubbish bin or in the street. I remember there were lots of tiny babies sleeping in one room. We brought our soaps and basins from home, to wash the nappies and clothes. I remember several baby girls have strange white spotted skin and white hair. We were frightened to see that. We were told these babies had a special skin disease. We were scared to touch them in case our body turned to white too. And I remember two babies with strange shapes of the body. Their fingers were bound together, one of the legs twisted like vines. I was horrified. But it taught us to understand other mankind’s miseries and sufferings; to understand how lucky we are compare with these hopeless people.

But here, in this rainy old capitalism country, “self” means everything, “self” is the original creativity for everything. Art, business, fashion, society system, all deeply depend on this “self.” The connection between the world and “self” is so strong. “Self” works incredibly well.

abortion

abortion n. 1. operation to end a pregnancy; 2. informal something grotesque.

My period still didn’t come. I wait one week. Then two. Not a single drop of blood. In a vague afternoon, I decide to go to the pharmacy buy a pregnancy test box. I come back home and you are not here. I shall find out on my own. The blue symbol shows a cross: positive.

Holding the pregnant test sample in my hand, I don’t know if this baby is from you. I really don’t know. I look at that cross again and my body feels so dirty. I want to wash myself.

I wait the whole day for you to come back home. When you come back in the evening, I tell you. I say I need to go to hospital and have an abortion. As quick as possible. Surprisingly, you don’t say anything. You don’t even ask when it happened, and you don’t even ask if it is from you. You just look at me with sad face and I start to cry. You put your arms around me and hold me tight.

Five days later you drive me to a clinic in Richmond, with your broken white van. We stop in a petrol station. Is it very far away? I ask. Not very far, you answer, we will get there soon. Your van is old but it is never really totally broken down. Highway. So many cars. So many traffic lights. I feel dizzy. Everything goes fuzzy. I don’t know what you are thinking about this baby might be yours. All I know is you hold my hand very tight, only let go change gear. I feel you are only stable thing to me. You are my life.