Family speaks Cantonese so I not understanding them. Chinese moon calendar is on wall. Wok, chopsticks, Mah Jong, Chinese cable TV programmes…everything inside house is traditional. Not much fun. Outside, view is rough. Old rusty railway leading to maybe more interesting place. Walking along railway I see nearby shopping centre, a McDonalds, a KFC, a Burger King, a petrol station called “Shell,” a sad looking Tottenham Hale tube station.

Every night I coming out Tottenham Hale tube station and walking home shivering. I scared to pass each single dark corner. In this place, crazy mans or sporty kids throwing stones to you or shouting to you without reasons. Also, the robbers robbing the peoples even poorer than them. In China we believe “rob the rich to feed the poor.” But robbers here have no poetry.

“Dare to struggle and dare to win.” Chairman Mao’s words like long time no see friend coming to me. I need somebody protect me, accompany me, but not staring at me in darkness. I longing for smile from man, longing for smile even only remaining several seconds.

March

*

homosexual

homosexual n., adj. (person) sexually attracted to members of the same sex.

I meet you in the cinema. It is film called Fear Eats Soul, from German director Rainer Werner Fassbinder. Programme say Fassbinder is homosexual. What is it? I open little Collins English Dictionary-THE AUTHORITY ON CURRENT ENGLISH. It tells me what is Homosexual. Strange word, I cannot imagine it.

It is the Ciné-Lumière, near South Kensington. 7 o’clock Monday, raining. Not over ten people, half are old couple with white hair. Then there you are.

You are alone. You sit almost beside me. Two seats between us. Your face quite pale in the dim light, but beautiful. I too am alone in the cinema. I always alone in the cinema before I meet you. I am bit confused whether if cinema make me less lonely or even more lonely.

On the screen, old German woman dancing with young black man in a pub. All the peoples in pub watching. Old woman she has humble smile. She has hard life. Then I see your smile in the dark light. Why I can see your smile while I am watching the film? You turn your face and understand I am looking at you. You smile again, but very gentle, and very little. You look back the screen.

You have warm smile. Is like a baby’s smile. Nobody smile to me before like you in this cold country. In the darkness, I am thinking you must be kind man.

It is a film shows impossible love between old white woman and young black man. But nothing to do with “homosexual.”

After film, we walk to exit. Our bodies so close. Out from cinema, road lights finally light up our faces.

Then, with gentle smile, you ask me:

“Did you like the film?”

I nod head.

Is like the uncomfortable English weather have some sunshine suddenly.

You ask my name. I say name start from Z, “But please no worry to remember,” I say, “my name too long pronounce.” You tell me your name, but how I remember English name? Western name are un-rememberable, like all Western look the same. But I want remember you, want remember the difference you with others. I look at your face. Brown eyes, transparent. Thick brown hair, like colour of leafs in autumn. Your voice gentle, but solid. It sound safe.

We walk from South Kensington towards Hyde Park. A long way for feets. What we talk about? I tell you of famous English creamy tea. You say prefer French Patisserie.

“Patty surly?”

“No patisserie.”

“How spell?”

“P-a-t-i-s-s-e-r-i-e.” You speak slowly with slowly moving lips, like Mrs. Margaret.

“What is it?” I not bring dictionary tonight.

You stop in front very fashionable “French Patisserie” shop. Still open at late time. Beautiful cakes waiting inside window.

“Which one would you like?” You look at me.

I worried of price.

“I don’t know,” I say. How I know about these soft stuffs?

“Then I’ll choose one for you.”

You give me a piece of creamy thing.

“What is it?” I hold it on my hand carefully.

“C-h-o-c-o-l-a-t-e e-c-l-a-i-r.”

“OK.”

I bite it, but immediately cream squeeze out, falling on street.

I look at white cream drop on dirty street.

You look at white cream drop on dirty street.

“Oh well, never mind,” you say.

So we talk, and talk, and talk, through Hyde Park, then to West End, then Islington, walk towards my place. Nearly four hours walking. My legs is so sore, and my throat so dry, but I enjoying it. Is first time a person walking beside me through chilly night. Is also first time a person being patience listen my nonsense English, and learning me bad language. You much better than Mrs. Margaret. She never let us talk freely.

When I arriving back, is already deep night.

In front of house, you kiss my two cheeks, and watch me go in door.

“Good meeting you,” you say.

Everything happen in very gentle way.

I want go immediately my room think about English man who smile and kiss me like lover, but I see Chinese landlord sitting on kitchen, watching TV and waiting for me. He is yawning. He worried my late back. At same time wife come down from upstairs bedroom in sleeping robe:

“We were so worried about you! We never come back as late as you do!”

Nervous voice remind me of my mother. My mother always talk to me like that.

I say I OK. Don’t worry.

Wife look at me seriously: “It is dangerous at night and also you are a young girl.”

I take off my guilty shoes.

“Next time if you are late, phone my husband and he can come and pick you up. This is England not China. Men easily get drunk in the pub!”

With last yawn, husband turn off TV. He look cross and tired.

I feel good after I close my bedroom’s door. My heart hold a secret to make me warm at night.

The leafs blow outside. The street lights shine on my window. I am thinking I am only person to be awake in the world. I am thinking of China, thinking of old German lady dancing, thinking of your smile. I fall to sleep with sweet feelings inside my body.

guest

guest (gest) n. 1. person entertained at another’s house or at another’s expense; 2. invited performer or speaker; 3. customer at a hotel or restaurant.

A new day. You call me. At once I know your voice. You ask if I want visit Kew Gardens.

“ Queue Gardens?”

“Meet me at Richmond tube station,” you say. “R-i-c-h-m-on-d.”

Is beautiful weather. What a surprise. And so peaceful in the grassy space. So green. Cherry blossoms is just coming out and you tell me about your favourite snowdrops. We see there is different small gardens with different theme. Africa garden are palm trees. North America garden are rocks. South America garden are cactus. And there is too Asia gardens. I so happy Manager not forgetting Asia gardens.

But I so disappointing after we walk in. Lotuses and bamboos is growing in India garden, plum trees and stone bridge is growing in Japanese garden. Where is my Chinese garden?

“Doesn’t look like they’ve made a Chinese garden,” you say to me.

“But that very unfair,” I say in angry voice. “Bamboos belongs to China. Panda eats bamboos leafs in China, you must hear, no?”

You laugh. You say you agree. They should move some plants from India and Japan garden to make Chinese garden.

The meadow asking us to lie. We rest beside each other. I never do that with a man. Juice from grass wetting my white shirt. My heart melting. Sky is blue and airplane flying above us, low and clear. I see moving shadows of the plane on the meadow.