"Margarethe, you are truly beautiful and so is your body!"
You say you like the sensuous women in Klimt's paintings and that you want the sun shining on her so that you can see her more clearly.
"Don't open the curtains!" she stops you.
"Don't you like the sunlight?" you ask.
"I don't want my body to be seen in the sunlight."
"You're really unusual. You're not like a Western woman, you're more like a Chinese woman."
"That's because you don't understand me."
You say you really want to understand her, totally, not just her body, or, as she puts it, her flesh.
"That's impossible. A person can't totally understand another person, particularly if it is a man regarding a woman. And when a man thinks he has the woman, he does not need to understand her."
"Of course." You are frustrated and, holding your head in your hands, look at her and heave a sigh. "Would you like to have something to eat? We could get them to bring something to the room or we could go to the coffee shop."
"Thanks, but I don't eat in the morning."
"Are you on a diet?" you ask pointedly. "It's already midday!"
"If you want to, get them to bring something. Don't mind me," she says. "I just want to hear you talk."
This moves you. You kiss her on the forehead, then pull up your pillow, lean back, and sit next to her.
"You're very gentle," she says. "I like you, I've given you what you wanted, but I don't want to fall too deeply, I'm afraid…"
"What are you afraid of?"
"I'm afraid of longing for you."
You feel sad and stop talking. You think you should have a woman like this, maybe you should live with her.
"Go on with your story." She breaks the silence.
You say that, for the time being, you would like to listen to her talk about herself, her life, or anything. She says she does not really have anything to tell. She has not had complicated experiences like you.
"The experiences of every woman, written up, constitute a book."
"Maybe a very ordinary book."
"But with unique feelings."
You say you really want to know, particularly want to know, about her feelings, her life, her private life, and her psychological secrets. You ask her, "Were the things you said while we were making love true?"
"I couldn't have said anything. Maybe." She adds, "One day I'll tell you. I really want to communicate with you, not just sexually. I can't bear loneliness."
You say you are not afraid of loneliness and that it was through loneliness that you were not destroyed. It was this inner loneliness that protected you, but at times you longed to sink, sink, into that hole in a woman.
"That isn't sinking. To regard women as bad is a male prejudice. What is disgusting is that men use but don't love."
You are trying to get her to reveal her secrets.
"You think they love you then you find out it's a fraud. When men want women, they say wonderful things, but once they've finished, that's it. But women need to be deceived like this so that they can deceive themselves," she says. "You still only think of me as a novelty and you haven't had enough, I can tell."
"The Devil is in everyone's heart."
"But you're fairly sincere."
"Not necessarily."
She cackles with laughter.
"Now this is Margarethe!"
You also relax and start laughing.
"A prostitute?" she asks, sitting up.
"It was you who said that!"
"A slut who brought herself to your door?"
Her eyes are looking right at you, but you can't see behind those eray-blue eyes. She suddenly starts laughing so violently that her shoulders shake, and her big, pendulous pearlike breasts tremble. You say you want her again and push her down onto the pillow. The phone rings as she closes her eyes.
"Take your call. Soon you will have a new woman," she says, pushing you away.
You pick up the phone. It's a friend inviting you to Lamma Island for dinner. You say to hold on and put your hand over the mouthpiece to ask if she will come. If not, you will postpone for a day, so you will be able to spend the time with her.
"We can't spend all the time in bed! If we do, you will turn into a skeleton and your friends will blame me for it."
She gets out of bed and goes into the bathroom. The door isn't shut and there is the sound of splashing water. You put down the phone and lie there lazily. It is as if she is your partner, and you can't be away from her. You can't resist calling out loudly, "Margarethe, you're a wonderful woman."
"I offered you a gift, but you didn't take it!" she shouts back above die sound of the splashing water.
You call out loudly that you love her. She also says she wants to love you but that she's afraid. You instantly get out of bed to get into the bath with her, but the door slams shut. You look at your watch lying on the table and open the curtains. It is already after four o'clock.
Coming out of the underground at Sheung Wan station, you see a line of wharves along the coast. The air is crisp and fresh. The boats in the harbor are tinged with the gold of the setting sun and there is a bright glare. A barge with the waterline almost right up the sides is cutting through the waves and churning up white foam. The texture of the concrete and steel buildings on this side of the water can be seen clearly, and the outline of the buildings seems to be shining. You want to have a cigarette to confirm that it is not an illusion, and you tell her everything underfoot seems to be floating. She draws close to you and gives a chuckle.
There is a row of food stalls below a huge Marlboro advertisement, but once through the iron gates, "No Smoking" posters are everywhere, like in America. Work has just finished, and every fifteen or twenty minutes, there is a ferry to each of the islands. Most of those going to Lamma Island are young, and there are quite a few foreigners. The electric buzzer sounds and is followed by the clatter of hurried but orderly footsteps. On board, people doze off or take out a book to read, and it becomes so quiet that only the sound of the motor can be heard. The ferry quickly leaves the noisy town, and the clusters of tall and even taller buildings gradually recede into the distance.
A cold wind starts up, and the boat gently rocks. She's tired. At first she leans on you but then draws up her legs and lies down in your arms. You feel relaxed. She is asleep in an instant, docile and peaceful, and you cannot suppress a feeling of sadness. There are no signs in the cabin apart from the "No Smoking" signs and, with its mixture of races, it does not look like Hong Kong and it does not look like it is soon to be returned to China.
Beyond the deck, the night scene gradually grows hazy, and you become lost in thought. Maybe you should live with her on some island and spend your days listening to the seagulls and writing for pleasure, unencumbered by duties or responsibilities, just pouring out your feelings.
After disembarking and leaving the wharf, some people get onto bicycles. There are no cars on the island. Dim streetlights. It's a small town with narrow streets, shops and restaurants one after another, and it's quite lively.
"If you had a tea room with music, or a bar, it would be easy to make a living here. You could write and paint during the day and open for business at night. What do you think?" Dongping, who comes to meet you, bearded and tall, is an artist who came from the Mainland a year or so ago.
"And if you felt weary, you could go to the beach any time for a swim."
Dongping points to some small fishing boats and rowboats moored in the harbor at the bottom of the stone steps down the slope; he says a foreigner friend of his bought an old fishing boat and lives in it. Margarethe says she's starting to like Hong Kong.