Singing Snowberg
Chapter Six
Olympic <5>
Chros©
“No?” “He’s my lover, light of my life, fire of my loins, sin, soul.” He smiles at my confession, “seriously, you read lots of books?” I don’t want him to distract the topic. “I’m lonely....” “Why didn’t you go with him?” “I have instalments.”
Some times we should leave blank spaces in between, just like now. He’s sipping from time to time, and I’m laying on my bed, flicking pages of a book. A word: undercurrent. I’m pretty satisfied right now. But this right now has to become a part of the past. Since when I became so desperate.
“Do you have a lover?” He shakes his head. “So you don’t have sex. Do you masturbate?” From his look I remember just then at the back of the cinema, even that look weeks ago when he’s about to leave this room, all of them are the same look, long enough to make me wonder there’s much meaning inside. “I masturbate, sometimes.” I guess he should be the same kind of person with as Salix, but he isn’t. On my left hand Salix won’t look at me like that, perhaps he went in too fast; on my right hand Salix didn’t have an emotionless face when he told me he went through the winter by masturbation. Look at him, he’s not desperate at all! “Do you want a lover?” He looks down, “you’re asking private questions.” But we’re talking privately. “I should go, it’s late. See you tomorrow.” I’m not sure he knows his face looked so nice when is put on with a smile.
I confess I tried to hook him, I’m afraid I’m ugly for him. All I want is the skin. I’m not shameful for what I did, a little bit of consolation is good, fidelity is disease, to stay in loneliness causes illness.
The next day we spent the whole morning printing identity badges, the new supervisor is bossy, we don’t even have time for small talkings. I feel very lucky we won’t have to work with him this afternoon.
“No no, AIDS is curable in Argentina.” “I know, but it must be expensive.” “Yes, but not so expensive.” I’m kneading my steamed potato with my spoon, mashed potatoes is my favourite dish. I’m looking at my bowl, expecting his comments. “There’re many people in China, they live as ghosts, they could survive but their states are worse than death. Too many of them, we can’t save everyone.” “Why don’t they go abroad to receive the treatments?” “Because not everyone is rich.” I’m very sad to hear that people in that country are under suffering. Why people have to circle themselves in a safe place.
He sighs, “China was a place of heaven, my grandma told me.” “History books say so, but I believe it’s still a good country.” It sounds like we’re talking about the end of the world.
After lunch we took rest on the seats of the stadium. Diego also chose the Miscellaneous job, he asked me out to watch a movie tonight but I refused. Now he’s sitting beside another Argentinian guy, he could be his old colleague, or a new friend.
I start to wonder again, “do you have friends here? Except me.” “Yes, he’s back in China, his father is sick.” Oh, sicknesses, illnesses. He’s rubbing his face, a bit of exhausted, “I don’t think he’ll get back.” “How about you?” He moves his look away, some low faint voices coming from his throat, he’s in the deep thinking. “I don’t go back.”
There’s a young volunteer fell from the window when pasted the decoration paper this morning. Unfortunately, she dead. She was stuffed into the nitrogen container immediately after they claimed her death. I don’t know why, is this country a hoarder? I’m not a believer of reincarnation, but to keep bodies like this is what these bodies want? How would they get into their next life?
A room shouldn’t be too clean, like right now it calls back my glass container phobia. Many things in my cell are made of all kinds of glasses, unbearable. I pick out my clothes, cover the tables and chairs, the closet door was flipped inside, and the shelves and the floor, until the whole room looked like a disheveled boy, but it stopped conveying phobia. How about the bathroom? Someday I’ll change the white light into orange to make it warmer.
The good part is the bathroom itself, it’s very small indeed, somehow I like this mini place. I should take off the mirror, that phantom maker.
When everything’s “in order”, and when I’m sitting on the bedsheet, a feeling has been hanging above my head finally comes to me, as if it had been hanging there all my life before, I’m so sure without a pint of surprise, that it’s true. You and I both knowing what is it. To live is meaningless, boring, so I pick up my pen, I have to tell him.
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