It was a documentary of two hours of pointless conversations and half exaggerated half natural performances. We sat at the back of a medium-sized room, but it appeared gigantic because it was empty. There were only less than 20 people, scattered around irregularly. The place was located inside a hutong, narrow and quiet and dimly lighted by a convenience store at the opposite side. The passing of a bicycle was the only noise that would startle the night. Or the talking of people sitting on the stairs outside the bar. There were candles and cushions. There was a half naked man with a big belly, hovering outside the store for more than half an hour. He was not talking with anyone. He was not looking at anything. I watched his silhouette, and wondered why he was there.
“The film doesn’t have a point.” I turned around and saw the smoke traveling from their mouths and noses to the end of the sky, greyly white, intruding the sheer darkness of the night. It didn’t have a point indeed. “I agree. But the characters are interesting. Some of them.” It was too much of an effort to keep my head held up towards their direction. I turned back and kept staring at that half naked man. I never understand why they want to show their imperfections in public. Maybe they don’t care that much. Maybe they like their bellies. They’re used to it, I understand. And I understand, too, a film without a point. Who said it has to have a point? Who said everyone has to conform? That cushion on which I’m sitting, it was so comfortable that I did not want to leave. “So are there many Romanians in Beijing?” It must be the problem of my right shoulder. And neck, maybe. I remembered the face of that personal trainer, big and chubby and crude and stupid and terrifying. I remembered how he said, what more do you need to think about? They shrugged their shoulders. I liked watching the girl talk and smoke and shrug her shoulders. She possessed some sort of self-assured freedom. Not that I know what I mean by that. The guy said, “Well there’re at least four.” We all laughed. Right beside us were a group of Italians girls and a group of French, which are ubiquitous nowadays. Literally ubiquitous. The girl didn’t laugh. She paused a few seconds, pondered, and asked, “Wait, who’s the fourth?” I was genuinely amused by the seriousness of her question. How does it feel to be one of the “rarer” nationalities? Too bad I’d never know.
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I could never forget how they looked at me on that bus as if I were a vague memory of theirs that took place more than a decade ago. They greeted me with a “Hey”, which I took as they could not recall my name, without doubt. It was an awkward moment, as none of us knew what would be appropriate to talk about. The bus was packed with crazy people waiting desperately for a chance to get crazier. The sun was almost scorching on that day, because that’s how it’s supposed to be. Dancing and shining in the sun. I bitterly remembered my left shoulder which was always obviously darker than any other part of my body, right shoulder included, and smiled politely to let them go. I don’t enjoy the fact that I can recognize every face I’ve seen, and now I’m even good with names, names of random acquaintances and names of the random girlfriends of random acquaintances. How delightful is that.
Then I thought about all the dinners we shared and all the conversations in which we all took part. Well, at least I was present. I mean, I might have dramatized it a bit, but the sense is there. Who would have cared? I guess they were just too busy talking and didn’t have much time paying attention to who’s around. I wish I were blind, too. I wish I could not see. But then I would not see the blue sky, either. Samuel Butler said, Greek and Latin can wait. I said, the wisdom teeth can wait. I cannot go to the dentist until I have someone who can protect me from the pain, or pretend to be in possession of that magic. Sometimes you’ve got nothing better to look at, so you look at signs. Coincidences. Numbers. Like some sensitive number that appeared in the SH stock exchange index yesterday. When everything becomes “sensitive”, they all go back to normal. But Portuguese cannot wait. Nothing can wait. There’re too many serial killers nowadays. |
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