One Man’s Bible. Mabel Lee
you must avoid doing. You are not a movie star or a television star, or an important politician, or a local Hong Kong magnate who’s afraid of being exposed in the newspapers. You hold French travel documents as a political refugee and have been invited for this visit, your room has been booked and paid for by someone else. You presented your documents on checking into this big hotel, bought by the Mainland government, so your name has been entered into the computer at the reception desk in the lobby. On hearing your Beijing accent, the supervisor and the girl at the desk looked embarrassed but, in a few months, after Hong Kong is returned to China, they will also have to speak with a Beijing accent, and are probably taking lessons right now. It is their duty to keep tabs on what guests are doing, now that the proprietor is the government, so this episode of lovemaking in the nude that you have just indulged in will certainly have been videotaped. Also, for security reasons, in a big hotel, installing a few more video cameras would not be money wasted. Sitting on the bed, you have stopped sweating, feel cold, and want to turn off the buzzing air-conditioner.
“What are you thinking?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“Then what are you looking at?”
“The elevator going up and down in the building opposite. You can see the people inside the elevator, there’s a couple kissing.”
“I can’t sec them,” she sits up in the bed.
You’re talking about using a long-range lens.
“Close the curtains.”
She is lying on her back, her white body completely bare except for the luxuriant clump of downy hair between her legs.
“They wanted to make a video but the hairs were too stark,” you tease.
“Who are you talking about? Here? Who’s making videos?”
You say it’s a machine, that it’s automatic.
“Impossible, this isn’t China.”
You say that the Mainland authorities have bought the hotel.
She sighs softly, sits up, and says: “You’ve got a phobia.” She puts out her arm and runs her fingers through your hair. “Switch on the table lamp, I’ll go and switch off the main light.”
“No need. Just now we were in too much of a hurry for me to have a good look.”
You utter sweet words, bend down to kiss her lustrous white belly in the bright light, and ask, “Do you feel cold?”
“A little,” she laughs. “Want some more cognac?”
You say you’d like some coffee. She gets out of the bed, switches off the air-conditioner, plugs in the electric kettle and puts instant coffee into a cup. Her full breasts sway weightily.
“Don’t you think I’m fat?” she says with a laugh. “Chinese women have better figures.”
You say, not necessarily. You adore her breasts, their solidity, their sensuousness.
“Haven’t you ever had …?”
Facing you, she sits in the round chair by the window and leans back, tilting her head and letting you look as much as you want. She is blocking the illuminated building with the elevator, and the mountain behind looks darker. On this wonderful night, you say that her body is incredibly white, as if it’s not real.
“And you want coffee so that you will be more awake?” There is scorn in her eyes.
“So that I can hold onto this instant better!”
You say that life, at times, is like a miracle and you are lucky to be alive. All this is pure coincidence and yet it is real and not a dream.
“I’d like always to be dreaming but it’s just not possible. I prefer not to think of anything.”
She sips the cognac and closes her eyes. She is a white German woman with very dark hair and long eyelashes. You get her to part her legs so you can see clearly and have her deeply imprinted in your memory. She says she doesn’t want memories, only to feel this instant. You ask if she can feel you looking at her. She says she can feel you roaming over her body. Where have I roamed? you ask. She says from her toes to her waist, oh—she’s gushing again, she says she wants you. You say you want her, too, but you also want to see how this body, so full of life, twists and turns.
“For a better photograph?” she asks, her eyes closed.
“Yes.” Your eyes are fixed on her and scour her entire body.
“Can you photograph everything?”
“Nothing is left out.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“Of what?”
You say you have no inhibitions. She says she has even less. You say this is Hong Kong, and China is now far away from you. You get up and press against her. She asks you to switch off the main light, and you again enter her moist body.
“Are you deeply attracted to me?” She is slightly breathless.
“Yes, I’m buried.” You say you are buried in her flesh.
“Flesh only?”
“Yes, and there are no memories, only this instant.”
She says she also needs to be fused like this in darkness, in nebulous chaos.
“Just to feel the warmth of a woman. …”
“Men also have warmth. It’s been a long time since. …”
“You’ve had a man?”
“Since I’ve had this sort of sensation, this trembling. …”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know why. …”
“Try to say why!”
“I wouldn’t be able to make myself clear. …”
“Is it because it happened so suddenly and was totally unexpected?”
“Don’t ask.”
But you want her to tell you! She says no. But you keep at her, keep taking it further, go on asking her. Is it because you’ve met by chance? Is it because you don’t understand one another? Is it more exciting because you’re strangers? Or does she simply seek after such thrills? She shakes her head each time to say no. She says she’s known you a long time; even though many years have passed and she’d only seen you twice, your image stayed with her and grew more and more distinct. She also says that just now, a few hours ago, when she saw you she became excited. She says she doesn’t casually go to bed with men, she isn’t a slut, but she doesn’t lack men either. Don’t hurt her like this. … You’re moved by her, need to be intimate with her and not just sexually. Hong Kong is a foreign place for you and for her. That small association with her is a memory from ten years ago on the other side of the sea, when you were still in China.
“It was in your home, one night in winter. …”
“That home was confiscated a long time ago.”
“Your home was warm, special, it had a warm feeling.”
“It was warm air piped in by a generator. The pipes were always very hot. Even in winter, only a single layer of clothing was needed inside. The two of you arrived in big padded overcoats with upturned collars.”
“We were worried about being seen and getting you in trouble—” “Yes, the regular plainclothes police were on duty at the front of the building. They finished at ten o’clock at night. It was pretty awful for the next shift in the howling winter wind.”
“It was Peter who suddenly thought to drop in on you, without phoning. You were old friends, he said, and as he was taking me to your home it was best going at night to avoid being stopped and questioned.”