I and Wang Zhen arranged to meet at the East District Gallery to see the graffiti on the Berlin Wall. I don't like the form of graffiti; it's too arrogant, the old order collapses, a new one is established, people always trample on the past recklessly, unwilling to live in the present. But I like the 138 roses on the Berlin Wall, commemorating those who died trying to cross it. The Berlin Wall fell. Do you think they regret not waiting until 1989? In fact, they didn't need to die. Well, that's too cruel to say. I've become one of those who "don't want to live in the present" now. Who would have thought that ten years later, I would believe that if the future is not promising, it is worth dying in the desire of the moment. So on that night ten years later, I crushed with my fingertips the butterfly that had accompanied me since childhood. But even as I walked with Wang Zhen on the soft grass at the foot of the Berlin Wall, I was still condemning those who harbored unrealistic fantasies about the future.
As we neared the Oberbaum Bridge, I saw a river flowing at the end of the remnants of the Berlin Wall. This was the River Spree, which became the most natural barrier between East and West Germany. At the intersection of the river and the wall stood a painting that stung my eyes. Wang Zhen could tell from my expression. She told me that the painting was called "My God, Let Me Survive This Deadly Love," also known as "The Kiss of Socialism." I just held onto the collar of my wool coat tightly. Her words sounded like buzzing in my ears. She said that kissing on the cheek was a ritual of the Eastern Orthodox Church, which continued into the greetings of Soviet men. Situations like the two men kissing in the painting were rare. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, such "brotherly kisses" could only exist in history. Who would have thought that a few years later, this famous painting would be erased along with the renovation of the Berlin Wall? When she finally finished telling the story of the painting, my eyes looked to the river in the distance. September in Berlin, the maples and catalpa trees had only dry trunks left. I remembered the childhood gingko tree, wondering if it had been moved, if it was as withered as these trees.
The sun reached the edge of the river and skyline, turning very red and large. Wang Zhen remarked that clear days in Berlin were rare, and sunsets like this were particularly uncommon. She lit a Marlboro cigarette. I wasn't familiar with the brand of cigarettes, but back in high school, I saw Dai Yanzhi smoking them. He had encouraged me to try one, but I had refused outright. I always thought Marlboro was a cigarette for men, but I felt Wang Zhen could pull it off. She lit another one and passed it to me. I took it, pretending to be someone who smoked regularly. I quickly put the filter to my lips and took a cautious drag. The particles of smoke dispersed into my eyes, stinging painfully, and I blinked hard. Nicotine entered my lungs, causing a strong dizziness. My footing on the soft grass was already weak, and I nearly lost my balance, but Wang Zhen caught me.
"First time smoking, huh," she said without laughing at me. I nodded. "You're dizzy from the nicotine, it's okay. It'll pass. Oh, and don't tell my dad about smoking," she said, releasing my hand, then rummaging in the pocket of her camel coat, pinching the soft pack of cigarettes and tucking it away.
"When did you start smoking?" I remembered she was younger than me. It was October, and I had just turned nineteen, but she seemed like an old hand at it.
"Mind your own business. Anyway, I'm eighteen this year. Legal to smoke," she said, planting a foot on the grass.
As she spoke, her blunt bangs twitched slightly, and her thick, straight black hair slipped from the gap in her scarf to her shoulders. Initially, I thought she exuded an air of exclusivity due to her family background. Whenever she looked at me, I felt she was older than me. When she smoked, she seemed like a man, but when her long hair trembled slightly, there was a hint of charm. She turned to me, glanced at her watch, and said it was time to go to the restaurant.
It was a two-star Michelin French restaurant next to the Brandenburg Gate. Ah, another Michelin-starred place. I truly detested these ratings. Many people, because of their authority, dine with a sixth sense and can't truly discern good from bad. Besides, as foreign tourists, what right did we have to judge completely unfamiliar dishes? However, these dishes had become tiresome to me. Wang Zhen told me she loved delicate French cuisine, believed less was more, disliked overly stimulating flavors, but there had to be innovation. I told her I had eaten too much Western food and still preferred Sichuan cuisine. She said cooking was an art and advised me to occasionally try different creations to stimulate my taste buds, which would benefit my piano playing. She talked about her passion for art, inviting me to Vienna sometime to see the works of the Secessionists together. I agreed.
She began talking animatedly, "The Secessionists are quite interesting. They represent a modern alliance of artists. Actually, alliances like this are very common in cultural circles, but it seems the public always thinks intellectuals are too self-absorbed to form groups. They also think literati always look down on each other, which isn't always true. No one is so principled to struggle purely for ideological consciousness. Or perhaps ideology is power, and everyone is just trying to establish their authority by suppressing others through theories and recruiting their own followers. Is it still difficult to make money with followers?"
"You're saying art and religion are very similar," I said, slicing into a piece of fish with skin on and dipping it into the green sauce on the side of the plate.
"Art is a kind of religion. Religion is a survival need; fundamentally, they are the same thing," she said, using her fork to separate the skin from the flesh of the sea bass. She said she was on a low-fat diet and couldn't eat fish skin.
"What do you think about the birth of art? Like the three masters of the Renaissance. Or even earlier painters," I said, savoring the fish, which melted in my mouth. "This fish is really good."
"What do you mean? Do you think Raphael or the early religious painters had a strong connection to religion?" She used her fork to pick up slices of truffle, asparagus, and purple cabbage beside the fish. "The vegetables are also good; this is the traditional taste of French-style vegetable terrine."
"I mean art should originate from faith," I pushed the vegetables aside and took another piece of fish.
"First of all, I think faith and religion are two different things. Religion suffocates faith because faith is absolutely free, not bound by any constraints. I don't mean having a certain belief allows one to do whatever they want. What I mean is faith is something beyond the text; it should be instinctive, not transmitted through education, let alone expressed through rules and regulations. Secondly, I believe art originates from the need for survival. Artists only became so lofty in modern times. Have you read Gombrich's 'The Story of Art'?" She pouted, her lips forming a small upward curve. "You took another bite of fish, even though you said you were tired of Western food before you came here. Ha ha."
"I've read it, I know what you're talking about. There's no art in the world, only artists. Regarding the relationship between 'faith' and 'religion' as you mentioned. But shouldn't religion be more than just a survival need?" I quickly swallowed the fish and took a sip of champagne. "It's not because I love Western food, it's just that this restaurant is pretty good, the food is delicious. Just like judging dishes and people, it has to be objective."
"Isn't religion also a way of survival?" She laughed, setting down her knife and fork.
"I can't agree," I also set down my utensils.
"What do you think then, great artist?" She lit a cigarette, one hand folded across her chest, the other raised with the cigarette between her fingers. Her lips, full and red, dimmed slightly. "Why did you study art?"
"Because of instinct. Maybe it's what you call 'pure faith.' This instinct is different from a way of survival. I mean, if God really exists, then He ignited something in my soul." I looked at her in astonishment. "But smoking isn't allowed in restaurants, right?"
"That's a pity, you know, there's nothing in the world that comes for free. As you said, something 'ignited,' part of your soul is burning, perhaps still burning." She flicked the burnt cigarette ash into the leftover plate. "This is a private room, smoking is allowed."
"What do you mean?" I took a cigarette from her pack and lit it too.
"God must have deprived you of something in exchange for your talent." She handed me a lighter, which was a silver Saturn.
"Hahaha. That's such a cliché, you might as well just say, 'Geniuses are all unfortunate,' right?" I laughed heartily, even struggling to stop. I extended my hand toward her again, accidentally brushing against her fingertips. She placed the lighter in my palm. I didn't know how to open the lighter, so she took it back, splitting it apart in the middle of the Saturn's ring and lighting the flame for me. "But I like your description, 'my soul is still burning.'" I took a drag of the cigarette, no longer feeling the nauseating dizziness. This spell of dizziness left me feeling somewhat lightheaded. I crossed my legs, and while doing so, my toe accidentally brushed against the hem of her skirt, causing her to shift her leg forward. My sock touched the inch of skin at the edge of my pants, lightly grazing her calf. She didn't pull her leg back; instead, she moved it forward a bit more. I quickly withdrew my foot, took another drag of the cigarette, and exhaled a straight stream of smoke.
"Hey, you're getting the hang of it," she said, looking pleased as she watched me smoke.
"This cigarette is good, I want to smoke a couple more. Where can I buy some?" I gestured with the cigarette holder.
"It's almost ten o'clock, the shops that sell cigarettes should be closed now," she said, squinting slightly as she spoke.
"In that case, why don't we go to my place for a while?" I made an effort not to look into her eyes, focusing instead on her delicate nose. There was a tiny mole slightly to the right of her nasal bridge.
In the car on the way back to the apartment, I suddenly felt a wave of guilt. I knew my grandparents and my parents wouldn't approve of me smoking, but I was almost nineteen now, I was a man. Smoking wasn't a big deal at all. But why had I invited Wang Zhen to come back to my apartment with me? Was I secretly hoping for something to happen between us? I couldn't be eagerly anticipating some kind of encounter with her. Thinking about the bottle of wine Lin Su had someone bring over to the apartment kitchen, I wondered if I was going to repeat the same old pattern, using alcohol to unleash my excessive desires, seeking inspiration for my artistic talent through debauchery. Fortunately, this time the object of my attention was a beautiful woman, a "flawed" yet respectable upper-class woman. Thinking this, I felt a pang of sadness.
But as she drew closer to me on the cotton sofa, as I held her in my arms, and as our lips met once again, that sense of sadness evaporated. She embraced me, slowly removing my shirt. Then, rummaging in her black leather bag, she pulled out a small, thin square pouch, inadvertently bringing out a short black tube. The tube fell onto the wooden floor, rolling until it stopped with a clatter, settling somewhere out of my sight. As I examined what she held in her hand—the bra she had taken off—I suddenly felt numb.
I had never been intimate with a woman before, let alone made love. It wasn't that I missed Yan Feng; I just hadn't yet adjusted to saying goodbye to the past so quickly. Goodbye to the past of my hometown, goodbye to my high school days, goodbye to the past I shared with Yan Feng.
"Sorry, I don't think I can do this tonight," I said, my elbows on my knees, hands supporting my forehead.
"What are you joking about?" She suddenly seemed very angry.
She quickly dressed, and when the door slammed shut, I still didn't dare to look at her.
I glanced at my phone, scrolling through my contacts and call history, thinking of someone from my past to talk to. I accidentally stumbled upon a call that Yan Feng made to me in August while he was in the United States. I couldn't even remember what I had said to him; the call log showed just 20 seconds. I felt foolish. Excitedly, I tapped on delete, but my finger accidentally hit the dial button. In just a second, there was a voice on the other end. I didn't have time to calculate the time difference; I was just shocked that he picked up so quickly.
"What do you think of Bach?" I searched for something to say.
"He's the closest to God," he sounded like he had just woken up from a dream.
"What time is it there?"
"...Six in the morning," his voice became clearer, with a hint of joy. "Why did you mention Bach? I've been listening to Gould lately."
"I was talking with a friend about art and faith today, and naturally, Bach came to mind," I said, thinking how insightful Wang Zhen was, as if she had seen the gap in my soul.
"Gould and Bach are kindred spirits across the ages," his voice carried a sweetness.
"Yes," I thought, even if others see through my gaps, they all think about how to exploit them, only Yan Feng approaches everything with kindness. I suddenly wanted to ask him what I had said on the last call. "By the way, what did I say when I called you that day?"
"You said you missed me," his words were heavy with breath.
I felt like he was lying to me; I wouldn't have said I missed him. But I didn't confront him.
"And what else?" I pressed.
"You said you were on tour in the US and would be back in Chengdu soon. You're in Berlin now, right?" He asked eagerly.
"Yes."
"Do you remember I said I was going to find you?" He sounded a bit annoyed.
"Yes," even though I didn't remember.
"Did you read my texts?" He continued.
"Did you send any?" I countered.
"You fool, I sent them ages ago. I'll be there tomorrow," he sounded somewhat hurt.
He would be here tomorrow, and it left me feeling overwhelmed.