A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers (7 page)

bisexual
 
 
adj.
sexually attracted to both men and women.

bisexual

I am a woman and you are a bisexual. Both love beautiful mans so much. But beautiful young mans is always living in our imagination. He is daily life’s fantasy. The reality about him so fragile that is easy to be broken, like delicate Chinese vase.

You have so many books to do with naked mans. On your shelf:
The Nude Male, Gay Writings from India, The Penguin Book of International Gay Writing, Fully Exposed: The Male Nude in Photography
…How I know you not going to go with the beautiful gay man again and ruin my life? How I trust you stay with me? Maybe I ruin rest of my life to be with you.

Is there lots of free love in gay’s world because they not produce children? No children then no serious weight. They not need considering responsibilities of next generation, and they not need worry about the pregnancy/abortion. But how that work if far-east foreign woman fall in love with West gay man?

When we see beautiful mans in street, or when we talk to beautiful mans in pub, we have very different view. You always wondering how he will look like when naked, just like you look at good painting carefully with magnifying glass. But my first question to that man more practical: will he possible become my husband? If so, will he having stable incomes and be able buy house for his family?

cabbage
 
 
n.
a vegetable with a large head of green leaves.

slug
 
 
n.
1.
a land snail with no shell;
2.
a bullet;
3.
a mouthful of an alcoholic drink.

chinese cabbage + english slug

Hardly days is absolutely sunny, sunny until sun falling to the west. Sky in England always look suspicious, untrustful, like today’s. You see me sad but don’t understand why.

Standing in the garden, you ask me: “Do you want to have your own little plants in this garden? I think it should be a woman’s garden as well.”

“Yes. I want. I want plant Chinese cabbages, some water lily, some plum tree, and maybe some bamboos, and maybe some Chinese chives as well…”

I immediately image picture of tradition Chinese garden.

“No, honey, it’s too small for so many Chinese plants.”

Then, Sunday, we went to Columbia Road Flower Market. It my favourite market. We brought the small little sprouts of Chinese cabbage at home. Eight little sprouts all together.

We plant all these little things. Digging the soil, and putting every single sprout into the hole. You are fast than me. So you finished planting five, and I only putting third one in the little hole.

We watering Chinese cabbage sprouts every morning, loyal and faithful, like every morning we never forgetting brushing our teeth. Seeing tiny sprouts come out, my heart feel happy. Is our love. We plant it.

You say:

“Growing a vegetable and seeing it grow is more interesting than anything else. It’s magic. Don’t you agree?”

Yes. Is interesting. But in China, is just for peasant. Every person can do this, nothing special for growing food. Why so different here?

Then we see some little leafs come out but are bitten by the slug.

“It’s dangerous that the slugs keep eating the small sprouts. They can die really easily,” you tell me.

Carrying with flashlight, every night, around 11 o’clock, you sneek into garden and check the slug. They are always several slug hidden behind the young leafs. Enjoying the delicious meal under the moonlight. You taking them out from the leafs, one by one. You putting these slug together in one glass bottle. Soon glass bottle becomes a slug-zoo.

“What your favourite words? Give me ten,” I say when we are sitting in garden. I want learn most beautiful English words because you are beautiful. I even not care whether if useful.

A piece of blank paper, a pen.

You writing it down, one by one.

“
Sea, breath, sun, body, seeds, bumble bee, insects.
” You stop: “How many are there now?”

“Seven,” I say.

“Hm…
blood
…” you continue.

“Why you like blood?”

“I don’t know. I feel blood is beautiful.”

“Really? But blood violence, and pain.”

“No. Not always. Blood gives you life. It makes you strong.” You speaking with surely voice.

You see things from such different perspective from me. I wonder if we change perspective one day.

“And why
breath
, then?”

“Because that’s where everything is from and how everything starts.”

You are right.

“So, what else? Last favourite word?” I say.

“Suddenly.”

“
Suddenly
! Why you like
suddenly
?
Suddenly
not even noun.” You a strange brain, I think.

“Well, I just like it,” you say. “So what are your favorite ten words?”

I write down one by one:

“Fear, belief, heart, root, challenge, fight, peace, misery, future, solitude…”

“Why
solitude
?”

“Because a song from Louis Armstrong calling ‘Solitude.’ It is so beautiful.” I hear song in my ear now.

“Where did you hear that song?” you ask.

“On your shelfs. A CD, from Louis Armstrong.”

“Really? I didn’t even know I had that CD.” You frown.

“Yes, is covering the dust, and look very old.”

“So, you’ve been through all my CDs?”

“Of course,” I say. “I read your letters and diaries as well.”

“What?”

“And looked your photo.”

“What? You’ve looked through all my stuff?” You seeming like
suddenly
hear the alien from Mars attack the Earth.

“Not all. Parts that diary are make me sad. I can’t sleep at night,” I say.

privacy
 
 
n.
1.
the state of being alone or undisturbed;
2.
freedom from interference or public attention.

privacy

“You’ve invaded my privacy! You can’t do that!” First time, you shout to me, like a lion.

“What privacy? But we living together! No privacy if we are lovers!”

“Of course there is! Everybody has privacy!”

But why people need privacy? Why privacy is important? In China, every family live together, grandparents, parents, daughter, son, and their relatives too. Eat together and share everything, talk about everything. Privacy make people lonely. Privacy make family fallen apart.

When I arguing about privacy, you just listen and not say anything. I know you disagree me, and you not want live inside of my life, because you a “private” person. A private person doesn’t share life.

“When I read your past, when I read those letters you wrote, I think you are
drifter
.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know what is drifter, do you? You come and leave, you not care about future.”

“To me, to live life is to live in the present.”

“OK, live in present, and which direction you leading then?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, you don’t have plan for tomorrow, for next year?”

“Well, we are talking about different things. I don’t think you understand what I am saying. To me the future is about moving on, to some new place. I don’t know where I am going. It’s like I am riding a horse through the desert, and the horse just carries me somewhere, maybe with an oasis, but I don’t know.”

Suddenly the air being frozen. Feeling cold. I not know what to say anymore. You older than me twenty years. You must understand life better than me?

You look at me and you say: “It’s like the way you came into my life. I feel as if I am not naked anymore.”

I feel as if I am not naked anymore.
That a beautiful sentence.

I listen, I wait. I feel it something you not finish in your sentence, but you not want say it.

So I help you: “OK, I come into your life, but you not know if you wanting carry on this with me all the times. You will want to break it and see what can make you move on…”

“We will see.” You stop me, and take me into your arms.

“It’s important to be able to live with uncertainty.”

intimate
 
 
adj.
1.
having a close personal relationship;
2.
personal or private;
3.
(of knowledge) extensive and detailed;
4.
(foll. by
with
)
euphemistic
having a sexual relationship (with);
5.
having a friendly quiet atmosphere–
n.
close friend.

intimate

How can
intimate
live with
privacy
?

We have lived together after first week we met. You said you never lived so closely with another person before. You always avoided intimate with the other person. You said to have your friends more important than your lovers. That’s so different with my Chinese love—family means everything.

Maybe people here have problems being intimate with each other. People keep distance because they want independence, so lovers don’t live with together, instead they only see each other at weekend or sleep together twice a week. A family doesn’t live with together therefore the intimate inside of a family disappeared. Maybe that why Westerners much more separated, lonely, and have more Old People’s House. Maybe also why newspapers always report cases of peterfiles and perverts.

We are in your old white van. You want to show me somewhere special called the Burnham Beach.

“Is it the British ocean?” I ask, excited to visit sea for first time. You are laughing.

“B-e-e-c-h, not b-e-a-c-h. In English, a beech is a type of tree, not an ocean. I’ll take you to the sea another time.”

How I ever understand your complicated language—not even any change in accent like we have in Chinese. We have four intonations, so every tone means different word. Like:

mi
in first tone means to close eyes.

mí
in second tone means to fancy something.

mi
in third tone means rice.

mì
in fourth tone means honey.

Anyway, on the highway of M40, I have my dictionaries to check out what exactly that
beach/beech
is.
Collins
tells me that is a European tree, but when I look my little
Concise
dictionary, says it is a tree called “Shan Mao Ju,” which grows everywhere in China. We cut those trees for lighting fires in kitchen. We used to carry baskets and collect their nutty seeds when we were little.

The woods are dark, lush, and wet.

Trees are huge, tall, and solid.

The whole woods are growing silently and secretly. The whole woods are decay. On way to woods it was a beautiful day, but inside woods the climate is totally different. Is chilly and rainy. Rain drops from those hundred-year-old greyish branches and leafs, and the rain fills the ponds stuffed by weeds.

In the muddy and greeny pond, lotus gently floats, and the dragonfly dashes. You hold me and caress me. We are in each other’s arm. You lift my denim skirt, and you touch my garden. My garden is warm and moist. You stroke my hip, and I unzip your jean. We make love. We make love. We make love under the silent beech tree. So quiet, so quiet. We can hear children on the football field in the distance are yelling. Only the rain drops, fall on our hair, our skin. Rain drops on the cowslip flower by our feet, without disturbing us.