Out on the street we started walking through narrow alleys and around a frozen lake where everything was quiet enough that I could hear and mostly understand what Zsa Zsa was saying. That was nice for a while, though what I thought I’d understood back on the bus about getting on another bus going cross-town seemed forgotten and I realized she planned to walk all the way back to our neighborhood four miles away. Wasn’t really in the mood for a long march right then, but she had me under her spell with a gently-spoken story about living at a “Youth Hotel” with ten people to a room that wasn’t “too bad.” She wanted to know how much I paid for rent so I lied and took a third off the figure since compared to her I was spending an enormous sum to live in the lap of luxury. Still, even with the subtraction I’m sure it was a profligate amount in her eyes. Maybe that’s what did it, because from then on the rapport we’d had in the cafeteria and on the bus started to break down. We’d been in a zone where we could communicate and talk about things with a fairly decent level of comprehension, but as we kept walking through the night it started slipping away. She asked me about the internet. Did I use it? Yes, I did, though I wasn’t sure if she meant did I have a computer, did I know about the internet, or did I regularly use the internet. Maybe she wanted to use the internet at my apartment? The number of possible interpretations of what she was saying was overwhelming. For some ridiculous reason I started talking about the Chinese government’s firewall (the “Golden Shield”) which makes it hard – not impossible, but it takes some doing – to look at blogs and a lot of websites and how it’s kind of a hassle, and I either lost her on that or she was scared to discuss a sensitive issue and then things really began to unravel.
Coming out of the alleys we ended up on a huge eight-lane-wide avenue called Di’anmen Xidajie where the wind hit us full force. It was about 20 degrees, frigid and really uncomfortable, though Zsa Zsa didn’t seem too bothered while I shivered and dug my chin down into my jacket. At the same time the traffic noise made her endearing low-talking a real problem and I was just getting snatches of mixed and scrambled messages.. “My grandfather owned this street,” she said. Or, at least I think that’s what she said. “He did?” Then she muttered “My parents lost their home, the government took it away” and “My grandfather owned all the restaurants on this street,” while facing straight ahead, talking more to herself than to me. When I tried to get details she would veer off, saying how little money her parents had, how she couldn’t afford to go to college and wanted to study French, and that there were prostitutes at her hotel. “Prostitutes?” “They robbed me. They’re bad people, they took all my money.”
I tried to get her to slow down. “Zsa Zsa, wait, I can’t hear what you’re saying.” It was like when you see a couple fighting on the street. I practically had my hand on her arm, imploring her to face me. She just kept on going, murmuring, “The prostitutes stole everything, you have to be careful here. What is your apartment like? Maybe you let people stay there and they help you.” I wasn’t even sure the word she used was “prostitutes.” Maybe I’d heard wrong, but by bringing up the apartment I couldn’t help but think she was hinting at something. Moving in and “helping out” in exchange for whatever I had that she needed. Some money. Warmth. The internet. It’s totally possible she was getting at that, and then again I might have completely misunderstood. It was all maddening and depressing. Her tales seemed genuine but unverifiable, and with the prostitutes thrown into the mix the utter verbal confusion became a quagmire.
She kept going, walking in front of me now as her voice got quieter and more incomprehensible. “Maybe we should take a taxi, it’s still very far away.” “No, it’s about 400 meters, we’re close.” It was actually at least a mile and a half away. Stopping short, I said, “Zsa Zsa, I have to go, I’ll give you a ride in a taxi.” She looked crestfallen. We walked across the avenue and got a cab, and sitting in the back I tried to explain I had work to do and it was too cold to walk and I’d drop her off. “So will we meet at the Swissotel tomorrow?” When I told her I’d think about it she turned her head away in silence and we stopped talking as the nocturnal ugliness of Di’anmen Xidajie passed by outside. It was all so heartbreaking. I knew we weren’t going to be language partners. When we pulled up near the Swissotel she got out, with that backpack in front, and then came around to my side of the car. Regarding me with a look that mixed equal parts desperation and accusation she laid her hand on the window for one long moment, and then the cab lurched away.
JOCKO WEYLAND
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