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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