As I was sitting there, staring at the water, my mind began to wonder. Should I just give up and fly back on the next plane? My parents were recently dead, so they could no longer say anything about it. Maybe my aunt would be surprised to see me return. But she had no say in my future life. You feeling lonely? It’s too hard? Too cold? Were these real problems? Everyone in China would ask. For them, these were perhaps happy problems, since everyone in China was either dying of cancer or suffering from some traumatic family history. And their children would bear the weight of that wherever they went, even abroad.
I thought of the week before when I had first met my GP. I registered myself at the clinic and the GP asked me:
‘What’s your family history?’
I didn’t understand why she had asked this. Because in China, the question of family history means whether you were born in a family whose status was either peasant or city dweller, and whether they were Communist Party members or not. These details were recorded officially throughout your life. And I didn’t expect I would have to carry all this old baggage to England.
‘Why do you want to know?’ I didn’t hide my irritation.
The GP was taken aback. She glared at me, then after a few awkward moments, she explained:
‘Your family history is about whether your mother or your father had cancer, heart disease or rheumatism, or . . .’
I then understood what she was asking. I just nodded my head.
But the doctor was confused. ‘So . . . what conditions, then?’
‘Everything.’ I nodded again. ‘Everything you just said.’
‘Everything?’ she asked back, like I was a person with a low IQ.
‘Yes, everything!’ I raised my voice: ‘Cancer, heart disease and rheumatism!’
A Desirable Immigrant
– You are now a desirable immigrant, as they say!
– Ha, a desirable immigrant! Since when did I become an immigrant?
The second time we met was a few days after that strange event – the Referendum. Clearly things were happening in this country, but I did not understand what they were. I remember walking around my neighbourhood the next day and seeing the looks on people’s faces. Some looked tired and despondent and others a bit wild. This all added to my feelings of disorientation and confusion.
One day, an Englishwoman who worked in the university library mentioned in passing that I could join her for a weekend gathering. The pub was near where I lived. I said I would definitely come.
‘What’s the exact address in Hackney Down?’ I asked her.
‘Hackney Downs,’ she corrected me.
At that time I didn’t know Downs was a proper word, a meaningful word.
‘It’s a pub called People’s Tavern – we’ll meet there at five.’
When I got there that day, I saw the sign Hackney Downs by the park. I wondered about that word. Downs, not Down. Plural. Then I found you in the pub. I was surprised. Your curly hair, straw-coloured, was a little shorter than the first time I met you. Your eyes, the same blue green I remembered.
You recognised me too. I thought you were directing a slight smile towards me, but I could have been imagining it.
It was a book-club meeting. They say book clubs are for lonely people, or middle-aged women. I was definitely lonely, but neither of us was middle-aged. You were the only man in the group. Most women there were new mothers of small children. I didn’t feel I could blend in. I didn’t like the idea of having children, or marriage.
One of them was very pregnant and stated: ‘I will probably never have time to read a book in the next few years.’ She hugged her swollen belly.
Everyone had a copy of Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook. But no one was eager to discuss it. Everyone was talking about Brexit. And I was beginning to understand what the word meant. Or at least some of the politics behind it. But the emotion remained alien to me.
A ginger-haired woman spoke: ‘My daughter will grow up in a Brexit world, a non-European world as a European child. Can you believe it?’ She looked distressed.
Another responded: ‘Well, you have an Italian passport and an apartment in Rome, and they won’t take these things away. You are now a desirable immigrant, as they say!’
‘Ha, a desirable immigrant! Since when did I become an immigrant?’
‘We are all foreigners here. No one is aboriginal!’ The pregnant woman made another statement.
A desirable immigrant. I repeated this to myself. If I stayed, would I be one of the desirable immigrants? I wondered.
You didn’t say much. The conversation was infused with a certain anger and intensity. It was interesting to watch, but difficult to follow. Then the group began to talk about housing and the property market. The Golden Notebook was left on the floor. Literature gave way to real estate. Everyone had so much to say about property, except for you and me. Were we connected by our mutual disconnection from these women?
Engländerin
– So where are you from? I can’t tell if you have an accent.
– I grew up in Australia. Aber meine Mutter ist eine Engländerin, originally.
Then I called you. Because you hadn’t called me. Not even once.
‘I’m away this weekend, in Hanover,’ you explained on the phone. ‘But we can meet next week.’
Hang Over? I was puzzled. Was it a place? A hotel, or a famous bar?
But I dared not expose my ignorance. Instead, I asked: ‘When are you coming back from Hang Over?’
‘Oh, look, I don’t drink that much. But I’ll be back on Tuesday.’
Although your voice had a laughing quality, it had a calm and sober centre. I imagined you speaking on the phone from somewhere else in the city. But I could not picture what that place might look like.
‘We can meet on Wednesday then. There is a Chinese restaurant in Old Street. How about we meet there for lunch?’
‘Wednesday is a bit tight for me. But I can try,’ you said. ‘Hope the food isn’t too spicy.’
I paused for a second, and thought you must be one of those hypersensitive northern Europeans who couldn’t eat anything hot. You might even be a vegan, who eats tasteless food. No salt in your meals either, because of high blood pressure. I would find out.
So we arranged a time to meet. You suggested a very particular time – 12.45 – and you had to leave at 13.50 or just before 14.00. This sounded awful to me. Too precise. It was like going to see a dentist. It is true that you Westerners are not able to be spontaneous in your day-to-day lives, and you are from a supposed free country.
Wednesday arrived. You came into the restaurant wearing a battered leather jacket. Obviously you had not shaved. When we sat down at the table, you didn’t appear to like what was on the menu: spicy cow’s stomach, pickled duck tongue, ants on noodle trees, and so on.
‘My grandmother used to make stews from pig guts and liver.’ You stared at a colourful picture of fried stomach, slightly amused. ‘I used to stuff myself with it when I was a kid. It was so chewy and tasty and I thought it was just meat. Then one day, when I was about nine or ten, I found out what those long tubes were. I never went near it again!’
‘I know. Westerners think Chinese are inhuman. We kill anything just for eating. And we stir-fry anything alive.’
You didn’t comment on this. Perhaps out of politeness?