One Man's Bible by Gao Xingjian Page B

ring road, saw your apartment block, and for no apparent reason dropped in. Maybe it was to look at the paintings in your apartment, they were unusual, just like a dream world. It was windy outside, the wind in Germany didn’t howl, everything in Germany was sedate, stifling. That night, in the light of the candles, the paintings seemed to have something mystical about them and she wanted to see them clearly during the daytime.
    “Were those all your paintings?” she asks.
    You say you didn’t hang other people’s paintings in the apartment.
    “Why?”
    “The apartment was too small.”
    “Were you an artist as well?” she goes on to ask.
    “Not officially,” you say. “And, at the time, that was indeed the case.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    You say, of course not, it’s impossible for her to understand. Itwas China. A German art foundation had invited you to go there to paint, but the Chinese authorities would not agree to it.
    “Why?”
    You say even for you, it was impossible to know, but at the time you went everywhere trying to find out. Finally, through a friend, you got to the relevant department and found out that the official reason was that you were a writer and not an artist.
    “Was that a reason? Why couldn’t a writer also be an artist?”
    You say it’s impossible for her to understand, even if she does know the language. Things in China can’t be explained by language alone.
    “Then don’t try.”
    She says she remembers that afternoon, the apartment was flooded with sunlight. She was sitting on the sofa examining the paintings and really wanted to buy one of them, but at the time she was a student and couldn’t afford it. You said you would give it to her as a gift, but she refused, because it was something you had created. You said you often gave paintings as gifts to friends. Chinese people don’t buy paintings, that is, among friends. She said she had only just met you, and couldn’t really count as a friend, so it would be embarrassing to accept it. If you had a book of your paintings, you could give her a copy, or she could pay for it. You said paintings like yours couldn’t get published in China, but, as she liked your work so much, it was all right to give her one of them. She says the painting is still hanging in her home in Frankfurt. For her, it is a special memory, a dream world, and one doesn’t know where one is. It is an image in the mind.
    “At the time, why did you insist on giving it to me? Do you remember the painting?” she asks.
    You say you don’t remember the painting but you remember wanting to paint her, wanting her to be your model. At the time, you had never painted a foreign girl.
    “That would have been very dangerous,” she says.
    “Why?”
    “It was nothing for me. I’m saying it would have been dangerous for you. You probably didn’t say anything at the time because right then there was knocking at your door. You opened it, and it was someone who had come to check the electricity meter. You gave him a chair and he stood on it to read the meter behind the door, then, after making a note, left. Did you think he had really come to read the meter?”
    You don’t answer, you can’t remember any of this. You say life in China sometimes appears in nightmares and you deliberately try to forget them, but from time to time they charge out of the subconscious.
    “Didn’t they warn people in advance that they would be coming?”
    You say that in China anything is possible.
    “I didn’t go again because I was afraid of getting you into trouble,” she says softly.
    “I didn’t think. . . .” you say.
    You suddenly want to be affectionate, and put your hands on her abundant breasts.
    She strokes the back of your hands and says, “You’re very caring.”
    “You too, dear Margarethe.” You smile and ask, “Are you leaving tomorrow?”
    “Let me think. . . . I could stay longer but I’ll have to change my plane ticket to Frankfurt. When