“I want see where you live,” I say.

You look in my eyes. “Be my guest.”

misunderstanding

misunderstand v. fail to understand properly.

misunderstanding n. informal a disagreement, argument, or fight.

That’s how all start. From a misunderstanding. When you say “guest” I think you meaning I can stay in your house. A week later, I move out from Chinese landlord.

I not really have anything, only big wheel-missing suitcase. The husband helping me suitcase. The wife opening door. Your white van waiting outside, you with hands on wheel.

Husband puts wheel-missing suitcase on your van, you smile to landlord and turn engine key.

I want ask something to my landlord that I always wanting ask, so I put my head out of window:

“Why you not plant plants in your garden?”

Wife is hesitate: “Why? It is not easy to grow plants in this country. No sun.”

For last time I look the concrete garden. Is same no story, same way as before. Like little piece of Gobi desert. What a life! Or maybe all the immigrants here living like that?

White van starting up, I respond to wife:

“Not true. Everywhere green in this country. How you say not easy growing plant here?”

We leave house behind. The couple is waving hands to me.

I say: “Chinese strange sometimes.”

You smile: “I don’t understand you Chinese at all. But I would like to get to know you.”

We driving in high street. My suitcase lie down obediently at back. Is so easy move house like this in West? I happy I leave my grey and no fun Tottenham Hale, heading to a better area, I think. But streets becoming more and more rough. Lots of black kids shouting outside. Beggars sitting on corner with dogs, smoking, and murmuring.

“Where your house?” I ask.

“Hackney.”

“How is Hackney?”

“Hackney is Hackney,” you say.

bachelor

bachelor n. 1. an unmarried man; 2. a person who holds the lowest university or college degree.

Your house is old house standing lonely between ugly new buildings for poor people. Front, it lemon yellow painted. Both side of house is bricks covered by mosses and jasmine leafs. Through leafs I see house very damp and damaged. Must have lots of stories happened inside this house.

And you are really bachelor. Your bed is single bed. Made by several piece of big wood, with wooden boxes underneath. Old bedding sheets cover it. Must be very hard for sleep, like Chinese peasants kang bed. In kitchen, teacups is everywhere. Every cup different with other, big or small, half new or broken…So everything single, no company, no partner, no pair.

First day I arrive, our conversation like this:

I say: “I eat. Do you eat?”

You correct me in proper way: “I want to eat. Would you like to eat something with me?”

You ask: “Would you like some coffee?”

I say: “I don’t want coffee. I want tea.”

You change it: “A cup of tea would be delightful.”

Then you laughing at my confusing face, and you change your saying: “I would love a cup of tea, please.”

I ask: “How you use word ‘love’ on tea?”

First time you make food for me it is some raw leafs with two boiled eggs. Eggy Salad. Is that all? Is that what English people offer in their homes? In China, cold food for guest is bad, only beggars no complain cold food. Maybe you don’t know how cook, because you are a bachelor.

I sit down on your kitchen table, eat silently. Lampshade is on top of my head, tap is dripping in sink. So quiet. Scarily. I never ate such a quiet food in China. Always with many of family members, everybody shouting and screaming while eating. Here only the noise is from me using the forks and knife. I drop the knife two times so I decide only use one fork in my right hand.

Chewing. Chewing. No conversation.

You look at me eating, patiently.

Finally you ask: “So, do you like the food?”

I nod, put another leaf into my mouth. I remember me is bad speak with food full of my mouth. You wait. But patience maybe running out, so you answer your question in my voice: “Yes, I like the food very much. It is delicious. It is yami.”

The memory becomes so uncertain.

The memory keeps a portrait about you. An abstract portrait like pictures I saw in Tate Modern, blur details and sketchy lines. I start to draw this picture, but my memory about you keeps changing, and I have to change the picture.

green fingers

green fingers pl. n. Brit. informal skill in gardening.

Our first night. First time we make love. First time in my life doing this.

I think you are beautiful. You are beautiful smiles, and beautiful face, and beautiful language. You speak slowly. I almost hear every single word because you speak so slowly, only sometime I not understanding what you mean. But I understanding you more than anybody else I meet in England.

Then you are taking off clothes.

I look at you. Man’s body seems ugly. Hair, bones, muscles, skins, more hair. I smell at you. Strong smell. Smell animal. Smell is from your hair, your chest, your neck, your armpit, your skin, your every single little bit in body.

Strong smell and strong soul. I even can feel it and touch it. And I think your body maybe beautiful also. Is the home of your soul.

I ask how old are you, is first question Chinese people ask to stranger. You say forty-four. Older than me twenty years. Forty-four in my Chinese think is old, is really old. Leaves far behind away from youth. I say age sound old, but you look young. You say thanks, and you don’t say more.

I say I think you beautiful, ignoring the age. I think you too beautiful for me, and I don’t deserve of you.

Very early morning. You are sleeping, with gentle breathe. I look through bedroom’s window. Sky turning dim into bright. I see small dried up old grapes hang under vines by window. Their shapes are become clear and clear in cold spring morning light. Garden is messy and lush. Your clothes and socks hanging in washing line. Your gardening machines everywhere on soil.

You are man, handy and physical. This is man’s garden.

You make me feel fragile. Love makes me feel fragile, because I am not beautiful, I never being told I am beautiful. My mother always telling me I am ugly. “You are ugly peasant girl. You have to know this.” Mother tells this to me for all twenty-three years. Maybe why I not never having boyfriend like other Chinese girls my age. When I badly communicating with others, my mother’s words becomes loud in my eardrum. I am ugly peasant girl. I am ugly peasant girl.

“My body is crying for you,” you say.

Most beautiful sentence I heard in my life.

My bad English don’t match your beautiful language.

I think I fall in love with you, but my love cannot match your beauty.

And then daytime. Sun puts light through garden to our bed. Birds are singing on roof. I think how sunlight must make people much happier in this dark country and then I watch you wake up. We see each other naked, without distance. In light of reality. “Good morning,” you say. “You look even more lovely than yesterday.” And we make love again in the morning.