#i spent almost 5 hours translating and reading it yesterday and it was so worth it

[shinobus-left-eye]

i am so so normal about the ryuseitai climax story— is anyone else here having a massive kanata brainrot rn

[the-portrait-of-seraph]

This Month’s Review...

We read twelve books this month, apart from the four I’ve uploaded. I was supposed to work on this post yesterday and post today, but my neck was bothering me (and still is wtf) and so I’m doing this today.

Week One:

The Mother [Gorky, Maxim]: 8.5/10

Great book, I like Gorky’s style and I understand the point we wanted to convey. Based on true events, the story follows Pavel and his mother (the true protagonist) and Gorky shows the spirit of the proletarian movement through his characters/writing. 

It’s actually my second time reading it, so some things feel different to me than the first time, like Pavel’s transition from a drunk like his father to a man dedicated to the emancipation of the proletariats. It’s a liberating feeling to see it over and over, alongside the growth of the Mother, from a cautious, politically unaware factory worker to a mother who wishes to support her son and take part in the revolution? Pardon my language, but that is hot girl shit right there.

Gorky is credited with the creation of the sub-style(?) of Soviet Realism, the artistic movement most prominent at the time of Stalin, which I still have a lot to learn about and I felt like that’s why I had a hard time “sticking” to this book?

I only read this book because my father adores Russian literature, especially Gorky and Pushkin. This is one of his favorite books and I felt like I ended up reading it for validation-

Nevertheless, an amazing book! I will be re-reading this in the future and maybe I’ll do an analysis on it. 

The Portable Edgar Allan Poe [ Poe, Edgar A.]: 10/10

First thing’s first, I will love Poe until my last dying breath. He has (almost) everything I look for in an author, His prose, imagery, and macabre flair??? Absolutely gorgeous.

As a collection of 110 short stories, essays, observations, and letters, you get a solid 360º of Poe’s life and work. I actually finished this in one day, I was on a 4-5 hour car ride and this was the only book that was keeping me from going insane.

He is one of the greatest writers in the U.S and internationally (imo), influencing authors like Fyodor Dostoevsky, H.P. Lovecraft, and Edogawa Ranpo (who’s name is actually based on the Japanese pronunciation of E.A. Poe). In Japan, Poe’s and Dostoevsky’s works were the first foreign works translated and brought there.

Poe has lived an interesting life (and death), which impacted his writing and many themes. My personal favorite works in this collection are “Berenice”, “Ligeia”, “The Philosophy of Composition”, and “Art and the Soul”!

My money was well spent on this book, I’ll definitely come back to read it time to time. I’ll put my Poe post link here!

Invisible Man [Ellison, Ralph]: 9.5/10

Absolutely powerful and insanely complex, Ellison writes about one Black man’s struggles from expulsion to racial riots, he creates a work of art that generations on top of generations will relate to.

This is my first work of Ellison’s, and I am in LOVE. I admire him and his descriptive language, he makes reading worth-while. I’m definitely going to try and read more Black literature in February because it’s going to be Black History Month!

After finishing this book, I was hit with deja vu, like I had read something similar before. It was Dostoevsky’s “Notes from Underground”. After doing some research, I had found out that Ellison was directly influenced by Dostoevsky’s Underground Man and the structure of his work was similar to that of “Notes from Underground”!

This book holds a special place in my heart as a WOC and third-culture kid, even though I’m not Black.

I would give a bit of a warning to those who are sensitive to/ triggered by violence, discrimination, usage of racial slurs, death, etc, but that’s what the story is suppose to show, making it a flavorful read.

I would like to recommend this book to everyone, it’s amazing! The idea of a man who is not physically invisible, but socially invisible because people choose not to see him is such a mind-boggling concept. The beginning and epilogue are single-handedly the best things since sliced bread???

I actually bought this book at the destination of the 4-5 hour road trip after one look at the blurb, and I don’t regret bringing more books on the trip because this one kept me occupied!

Week Two:

The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol [Gogol, Nikolai]: 10/10

We need to talk about Gogol, seriously.

This man was a true literary genius? He is one of Russia’s most praised authors and he’s not actually Russian? He was Ukrainian and used his view as an outsider to write about Russian society/life with elements of satire and the grotesque, making his work very crunchy!

(He’s my beloved Russian literature husband, no. 2)

It’s actually said that Akutagawa took inspiration from Gogol’s work “The Nose” for his own work of the same name! I love seeing some of my favorite authors influence each other.

Also, Gogol’s stories are so absurd, you’ll laugh until your heart stops, The “Diary of a Madman” and “The Nose” are absolute comedic goldmines, but we can’t just forget “The Overcoat”!

Fun fact: E.A. Poe and Gogol were born in the same year (1809) and both are now considered the some greatest authors. They also used similar themes and both inspired Dostoevsky. I felt like they may have been very good friends or would burn each others manuscripts- (Also Gogol’s birthday is on April Fool’s Day)

In conclusion, go and read Gogol’s works! I highly recommend “Diary of a Madman”, “The Overcoat”, and “The Portrait”!

Eugene Onegin [Pushkin, Alexander]: 11/10

This is a work of art, the fountainhead of Russian literature, Alexander Pushkin, everyone!

Reading a realist novel in the style of Romantic poetry makes me feel emotions I’ve never felt before. I feel like we don’t talk about Pushkin enough, he’s Russia’s greatest author, paved the way for other writers, yet many people still don’t know who he is outside his home country???

I actually started to appreciate poetry because of him (and Poe) and I wrote my final assignment paper on him!

I like Pushkin’s prose, it’s amazing how he could tell a story about three men in poetry. Lensky was my favorite :) 

Alexander Pushkin deserves all the love in the literary world, “Eugene Onegin” may be the best book I read this month. I know since it’s a novel in verse (poetry), it may look at little challenging at first, but it’s seriously worth all your time, it’s insane.

There’s so much more I want to say about Pushkin and I’d like to read more of his work!

A Thousand Cranes [Kawabata, Yasunari]: 9.2/10

As expected of the 1968 Nobel Prize (in Literature) recipient! I definitely enjoyed this one better than “Beauty and Sadness”!

Fumiko, my girl. I just felt so bad for her throughout the whole book. Imagine the guy you’re serving tea to has had a sexual relationship with your mother and she takes her own life? I don’t think I could live with that.

Also leave Chikako and her birthmark alone, damn you guys are mean-

There’s a certain poetic-ness to Kawabata’s works and I live for it. I really liked the last chapter, I almost cried while reading it. Kawabata makes self-destructive habits so much more alive with his words.

It’s a very short book, only 100 pages long, so there’s not much to say; I finished it in one sitting!

Of Dogs and Walls [Tsushima, Yuko]: 9/10

I ugly-cried while reading this, so I can’t give it a 10.

There are two stories in this book, The Watery Realm and Of Dogs and Walls, both are really sad if you think about it. In the first one, the narrator (who I think is Tsushima herself) says that no matter how horrible her husband was, she couldn’t bring herself to fully resent him, because he was the man she loved and married. The narrator also talks about how her mother beat her because she was her mother’s only child since her brother and sister knew their father, but not the narrator.

Tsushima’s works often talk about childhood and how it shapes our memories, as well as single parent life.

in Of Dogs and Walls, A girl’s childhood memories and family’s dog, become the most important pieces of herself, and she reminisces about the days she used to take care of her older brother.

Tsushima has won the Akutagawa, Izumi Kyōka, and Tanizaki Jun’ichirō Prizes, some of Japan’s most highly coveted literary prizes!

Fun fact: Her father was the famed I-novelist, Dazai Osamu, whose real name was Tsushima Shuji, I’ll put a link to my Dazai post here

The Stranger [Camus, Albert]: 8.9/10

I’m going to be very honest here, “The Stranger” is overrated-

I love Camus, but I feel like “The Stranger” has been abused by the media and the people, it’s lost its flavor?

Meursault’s mom dies, he freaking shot a man, and the only thing he talks about when on trial is his mom? Although that might be a leitmotif trying to prove Camus’ point on philosophy.

I understand that this book is to explore the “nakedness” of humanity and absurdity as a philosophical idea, but it seems overbearing to me. The whole book made me feel nauseous as I write this review,

But I do like Camus’s writing style, the short sentences sometimes say more than Dicken’s five page description of a house-

I guess I have a love-hate relationship with Camus, I like the style, but not the plot.

Week Three:

Anna Karenina [Tolstoy, Leo]: 10/10

There is a lot to unpack here, I might make a separate post on it sometime.

You have the life of the fortunate but unhappy Anna Karenina and her drama-filled, self-destructive life (and affair with Vronsky). Amongst this chaos, is Konstantin Levin, a man who struggles to find a meaning in life. 

Read this for Levin, trust me, it’s such a wonderful experience.

A perfect mix of living-room drama and pensiveness, Tolstoy’s usage of polyphony makes the lives of all of those involved with the Karenins and Levin unique.

Truth be told, I did not like Karenin from the start, I was ready to fight this man with my bare hands and a spoon, but when he visited Anna when she was supposedly dying? The tenderness of the moment had changed my mind of him completely, along with when he was taking caring of Anna and Vronksy’s baby girl when she rot away, knowing that the child was not his own? Forgiving Vronsky??? I was trying very hard not to cry.

I think I relate to Anna a little too much, help- (Anna kinnie moment haha) But my favorites are Kitty, Dolly, and Levin!

Kitty and Levin were so cute, esp whenLevin was coming home from looking at a plot of farmland (?) and all he could think of was arriving home and kissing Kitty??? Oh, great heavens, someone get me a cold towel and glass of water. (Felt like their relationship might have needed a few couple’s therapy sessions but)

There is just so much to this book, and I’m sorry for not being able to do it justice-

The Myth of Sisyphus [Camus, Albert]: 9/10

This. This is a work of art.

Definitely prefer this over “The Stranger”. As a philosopher, Camus loves to talk about the absurd and how life revolves around it.

The one thing Camus and I have in common, we both have an interest in Dostoevsky, Camus’ essay on Kirilov is so good as a character analysis and a way to further Camus’ point, so I won’t be giving it away, please go and read it!

This book is also pretty short, so I don’t want to give a lot of it away. I found “The Myth of Sisyphus” pleasing to read, I might use it as inspiration for my next work.

The Makioka Sisters/Light Snow [Tanizaki, Jun’ichirō]: 10/10

My first and last complaint is the title. What is “ThE MaKiOkA SiSteRs”? The original title is “Light Snow” and it’s said that the translator Edward Seidensticker had difficulty translating the title since a direct translation wouldn’t make sense to foreign readers.

Has a bit of a gossipy air around it? Sort of like a conversation I would overhear at a brunch?

The story is about the titular Makioka sisters, a once well-off family from Osaka, now with their declining fortune, they struggle to find a husband for the third sister, Yukiko. The youngest sister, Taeko, is waiting for Yukiko to get married, so she can come forth with her relationship with Okubata. But Taeko has feelings for Itakura, a photographer who rescued her from her sewing school during the flood in the story. Taeko’s affection for these men end up getting her disowned by her family- 

The air of the start of WWII and Allied occupation in Japan also play a part in the story, it really adds spice to the decline of the Makioka,

This was actually my first Tanizaki work, and I enjoyed it very much. I like Japanese literature because it’s themes and writing styles are different from that of Western styles and I really like Tanizaki’s writing!

I look forward to reading more of his works :)

The Flowers of Evil [Baudelaire, Charles]: 8.7/10

Going to be serious here, I don’t really read poetry. It’s never been my thing, I never end up finishing a collection.

Baudelaire is considered a great poet in France, along with Verlaine, and for good reason. He has talent, I liked his collections “Wine” and “Death”, they stood out to me the most.

I do like his usage of rhyme and rhythm, it’s a bit hard to describe though. 

I don’t enjoy French poetry as much as I enjoy Japanese poetry, but I’ll have to keep looking for a poet that suits my taste.

Whew, that is a lot of words. I didn’t know how I would break this news to you guys, but I’m writing a book of poetry and will be publishing it this year! I’ll find a way to make sure international purchase is accessible if you’re all interested! Happy Lunar New Year to those who celebrate it, 여러분 새해복 많이받으세요

[adventurepaige]

Investing in the journey

Just as everyone knows, in most situations you must sacrifice something in order to get something more. Whether this be at a new job where you might have to buy a new uniform, to investing in the stock market. You have to put something in to get something out, in this post I want to specifically talk about the path in which my faith has taken in the last couple years.

Growing up, I wasn’t affiliated with any religion as my family wanted me to have the choice of who I want to worship. My mother is spiritual, and my late father had Catholic/Christian roots. My family on my father’s side was raised Catholic until my grandma decided she no longer wanted to associate with the Catholic church. She attended Christian churches when my dad was young. As for me, I was atheist most of my life, up until my junior year of high school when I found a bible in the guest bedroom dresser. I started to poke around in it, reading the scripture the best I could considering it was translated from old English. I eventually turned to the book of Romans, where I discovered the first verse that resonated with me. 

Romans 5:3-4 (NIV),

“Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.”

At the time I was going through the first hard, incredibly painful breakup of my life, one that took months to recover from and temporarily destroyed all hope of finding the right person for me (something I still struggle with even almost four years later). Finding this verse proved over time that in these moments of adversity, the truth is that you are much stronger than you think. The nights you spent crying, obsessively thinking that maybe you hadn’t been making progress this whole time. The happy faces you forced upon yourself so people wouldn’t always ask what’s wrong. The moments you gave advice to someone that you even find difficult to take into consideration. No matter what the situation is, don’t cut yourself short, you’re always going to be gaining something out of a situation. The strength and wisdom to take away from the trials you have faced today is a result of the pain you felt yesterday. So don’t worry about it as much, remember that this is not the end of your journey. Things take time to untangle, and while it may seem impossible to get your ducks in a row, this is where you are meant to be right now.

Romans 8:18 (NIV),

“I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.”

Going on, my next coming-to-God moment didn’t come until my Senior year of high school when I got in an accident, which resulted in me totaling my car completely (rest in peace, Goldie). I posted on Facebook as a cry for help, as I didn’t know why things couldn’t just go right for once. A friend, who I really didn’t know at the time, commented “Open your bible”, I followed up with an okay which eventually led to me sending him a message. After talking about his experience with God and how he built his life centered around Christ, I soon took interest, going through quotes on Pinterest grasping onto any verse that brought me hope. With more and more conversation, I started to become fascinated with scripture and the history of the bible itself. As someone who still has trouble even understanding the idea of creation due to my traditionally scientific background, I knew that if I wanted to pursue this I needed to put in the work. Caden, my dear friend who I mentioned above, invited me to his home church to attend the service. I sat in the back nervously as I had only been to church once or twice years prior. I read the pamphlet over and over again while Caden played in the worship band. The music was fairly easy to figure out and follow along to, so that eased my nerves a little bit. For the life of me I can’t remember the sermon as this was almost 3 years ago, but I know that something mentioned in that hour touched my soul, for a craved more. Unfortunately though, life became busy and I drifted away from God again.

Colossians 1:9 (NIV),

“For this reason, since the day we heard about you, we have not stopped praying for you. We continually ask God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all the wisdom and understanding that the spirit gives...”

On April 7th, 2018, my family experienced a monumental loss that shook both the community and our inner circle to the core. My father, only 48 years old, passed away from a pulmonary embolism in the early hours of morning with no warning whatsoever. I broke completely, as a loss to this magnitude was something I had never experienced before. In the days we spent crying, grieving and accepting what seemed like hundreds of casseroles, I felt like I was choking on the condolences and tears of those cycling in and out of my house. As if I was gasping for air with limited lung capacity, slowly fading into the shock of what had happened. Of course, to my family’s luck, 4/5 of us came down sick with a nasty stomach bug that kept my brother and I out of school for a whole week after the event took place. 

Exodus 23:20 (NIV),

“See, I am sending an angel ahead of you to guard you along the way and to bring you to the place I have prepared.”

As soon as I felt better, Caden came to check in on me, and one of the first things I said as we sat down to talk was “I want to go to church”, which probably seemed surprising to someone who just witnessed their friend go through a traumatic event, one in particular that would usually drive people to think God doesn’t exist. I felt lost, the furthest away from Jesus and my father than ever before. That Sunday we went to LC Church and the sermon, to my delight, confirmed what I had hoped would happen. The pastor talked about life and death, and there wasn’t a moment I didn’t have tears in my eyes. He assured me and anyone else in the audience that our loved ones are safe, that they see you and are always there with you in spirit, that God has welcomed them into heaven. In that moment, I felt my father’s presence, like he was there to tell me he was alright. I fell to my knees and let go, thanking God for showing me the light after all these years. I had never been to this church before, and I only knew about it because a couple people I know are weekly attendees. It was all a matter of timing for me, and in that moment I felt the pieces fall perfectly into place. This was the moment my life changed forever, the one that led me to where I am today in my path to success. My journey is between myself and God, and my accomplishments are worth celebrating because I did it even when the odds were against me. I went to college despite financial worries, joined a sorority where I gained a much needed support system and accomplished more than I ever thought was possible without my dad physically by my side. I am falling more and more in love with the person I am working towards becoming every single day. I can proudly say that I’ve beat a lot of demons that urged me to give up, and I still fight them every day as I work on improving my mental health. Remember that even the smallest feats are worth celebrating, as this contributes to the bigger picture. Go ahead, brag about it! You deserve to be applauded.

I know religion isn’t for everyone and in no way am I trying to preach to the choir, more so just sharing my story. I do know one thing, that Jesus is King and His truth is what I strive to know. If you would have asked me even 5 years ago what I thought about the whole thing I would have shaken my head and opted out of the conversation (politely of course). Now, it’s a supplement to my life, a guide I use daily. Thank you for reading, and I hope all is well.

Best,

Paige

5.21.2020

[dancinginmydressinthesun]

The Man or If XX were XY

1000 words. In no particular order.

Maya suddenly stopped walking. A man behind her walked into her, grunted “mind what you’re doing” and switched to the other side of the street. Maya did not even really notice. She was staring at the woman approaching her.

Riley hasn’t noticed yet who was just a few metres away from her on the same street, her eyes were looking at her phone and Maya was thinking that maybe they would only cross one another and nothing would happen just when Riley looked up.

Now, Riley slowed down as well and faced Maya, both of them as close as they haven’t been for over a decade.

“Maya … hi”, Riley whispered and the sound of her voice shot an arrow through Maya’s heart.

***

Maya could not believe it, but now she and Riley were sitting next to each other on a bench, both shocked by the coincidence of meeting each other accidentally on a sunny Wednesday on a random street, and it felt like not a day has gone by since they talked last. The memories of all the years they have spent together lingered in the air, beloved, cherished, unforgotten.

***

“You really liked Charlie Gardner once?” Maya looked at Riley in disbelief. They were at Riley’s house, going through Riley’s memorabilia in her old box that has been stuffed under her couch forever.

“I was 10”, she defended herself. “That was 5 years ago. Besides, I hear Charlie is always surrounded by a lot of friends and girls now, so he is very well liked.”

“But that’s not important!”

“That’s true, I just wanted to point out that this maybe means he is a very nice guy. But, now”, Riley said and fixated Maya, “what would you want in a guy then?”

Maya was surprised by the question. She has never thought about this before, but what did she like in a guy?

“Well, it’s important he has brain, right? That means we can eliminate almost the whole school!”

“Except for Farkle!”

“Yeah but, Farkle is always studying and that is why he is doing well in school. Most people can do that”, Maya said. It was unbelievable, but it seemed like there was something to criticise about every boy in school, and although Maya knew that she wouldn’t find someone perfect, regardless of how long she was searching, she also didn’t believe that anyone of them were even worth a shot.

“Okay, what else?”

“Passion”, Maya answered. “When a boy has something that seriously interests him, that makes him want to improve, something that fulfils him.”

“Felix Shumpert!”

“Not spelling bee’s for god’s sake, Riley!” Maya rolled her eyes. “It would also help if he doesn’t look worse than the dumpsters.”

“Charlie looks good”, Riley said. “Don’t you think?”

“Huh? Uh, well, I guess, he’s alright”, Maya replied. “Nothing for me, though”, she shrugged.

***

Maya looked at the grade in front of her, right underneath her exam. The “B-” was written in bright red and Maya felt relieved. When she was put into a different class in Ancient Greek, with a teacher who demanded a lot more than the one she has had before, she started studying weeks before the exam; the day before she had actually spent 6 hours in the library, trying to translate Homer.

“What do you got?”

“An A”, Riley answered.

“Oh wow, how much must you have studied then?”, Maya wondered.

“Oh, well, I guess I looked into the book for a little while yesterday while I waited for my food to cook!” And Riley shoved the exam into her backpack.

Maya couldn’t believe her ears.

***

“Okay, so, you can read it if you want to if you don’t read it out loud, but it’s really bad. It doesn’t have the right feeling, you know?” Both of them sat in Riley’s room again and Riley handed Maya her laptop, the written story visible on the screen. “That was like … 3 years ago … now I would write it better. If you really want to read it, then also read this” Riley grabbed the mouse and opened another document, “that was recently and it is much better, just so you know!”

When Maya had finished, she was stunned. She did like both stories very much and enjoyed reading them and she would slap Riley if she ever said that one of them was bad again, but Riley has been right: The second of was much better. You could easily see how much time and effort Riley has put into improving her writing skills over the years and Maya couldn’t be more proud.

***

“No, it’s fine, I just feel a little uncomfortable!”, Riley admitted and looked at herself in the mirror. She and Maya stood in a changing room in H&M, both of them in bikinis.

“Oh why do you feel uncomfortable?”, Maya asked.

“I would just rather wear a bathing suit! Bikinis just don’t … work on me, you know!”

What did Riley mean? Maya examined her best friend and she noticed how pretty she actually looked. Her hair shined bright in the dimly lit changing room and a few freckles around her nose were announcing the arrival of warm weather. And Maya thought that – and she knew she was right – you could put a trash bag on Riley and she would still make heads turn.

***

“I was so oblivious then”, Maya exclaimed and shook her head.

“We both were”, Riley murmured and flashed Maya a smile. They had the bench for themselves, but sat extremely close to one another, as if this could compensate for all the time they lost.

“I swear, if you had been a man, then I would have known you were the men of my dreams, the one for me”, Maya smirked, but stopped immediately because this realization hurt. “I wish we could rewind time!”

“Me, too!”, Riley whispered so quietly that Maya didn’t hear.

[faresramettas]

prima di sorridere un po’ (eng trans, repost)

i decided to take my translation of this italian fic of mine off ao3 because i never really liked the idea of translating it in the first place, and when i see it between my works it doesn’t make me happy. i’m sorry! i definitely have a love/hate relationship with this fic and its translation, however i don’t want it to be completely gone because it’s over 3k too and it took time and effort, so i’ll be posting it here. 

a couple of notes before reading: this is set in june next year, when marti is about to take maturità. maturità is the exam italian students take at the end of the 5 years of high school. notte prima degli esami (the night before exams) is a song about maturità and peak italian culture. there’s even a movie about it. the night before exams is supposed to be a big deal.

read below!

Martino was screwed. The day before maturità, when all he wanted to do was drown his sorrows in liters of beer, the truth was that he was behind on his history program, he hadn’t even touched his literature book and if he had to translate another text from Greek he’d throw up on the dictionary. His days were split between study groups, Eva and the girls for history and philosophy, Giovanni, Elia and Luchino for maths, only to go back home and keep revising, head bent over his desk or lying on his bed surrounded by books. Martino was good at school, he’d finished his essay a month ago, he had nothing to worry about, his mom kept telling him to reassure him. But anxiety was the issue, that fear of disappointing his and other people’s expectations that twisted his stomach and wouldn’t make him sleep. On top of that, he hadn’t seen Niccolò in almost a week. Martino had been the one to reluctantly force this distance, after the umpteenth study afternoon turned make-out session, turned fucking on his bed. “I can help you study, you know.” “You know perfectly well that when we’re together we never end up doing shit,” Marti had replied, running his fingers through Nico’s sweaty curls sticking to his forehead. “Case in point.” “But we barely see each other,” Nico had whined, rolling to lie on top of him. Marti had chuckled and wrapped his arms around his waist. It was almost the end of June and Rome was already too hot. Nico, naked and glued to him from chest to ankles, definitely wasn’t helping him fight the heat but Marti would have never complained. “I know, Ni. Just for a few days. I need to focus on terza prova. Then you can help me prepare for the oral exam.” “Okay,” Nico had sighed, a slow smirk making its way on his face. “Nerd.” “Fuck off. In case you forgot, you have exams, too,” Marti had teased him. Nico had rolled his eyes and mocked him. Marti had pinched his sides in retaliation and flipped their position in one swift move, earning himself a surprised gasp from Nico, who’d looked at him and pulled him down by his hair for a kiss. Schopenhauer can wait, Marti had thought. He missed Nico. They talked on the phone every day but it wasn’t the same. He was right, they’d been seeing each other less since he’d started university. It was an inevitable change that they’d made up for in advance, spending the previous summer always glued to each other. But they’d adapted to it, more or less, at least until January. Nico hadn’t been able to take all the exams he'd planned on his first winter session because his head had had other plans. Martino had been by his side every day, from the moment Anna had called him on Wednesday to tell him Niccolò hadn’t shown up to his first exam and was refusing to get out of bed. He had rushed to his house after school and all he’d needed was one good look at him to understand how bad it was and that Nico wouldn’t say a word. So he’d just laid down next to him, hugged him and stroked his hair, whispering in his ear that he was there, that he’d have to go home tonight because he hadn’t warned his mom but tomorrow he’d be back and sleep with him. The next day he’d brought a duffel bag with a change of clothes and his toothbrush at school and had asked his mom if he could sleep over at Niccolò’s for a couple of days, that had eventually turned into four. Finally, on the third day, Nico had gotten everything that was torturing him out, an avalanche of self-pitying and distorted opinions on his worth that Martino wanted to pull like weeds. “I should have never enrolled in uni. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing there. I don’t even know if I like sociology. I’m just wasting my time and flushing my parents’ money down the toilet. As if I wasn’t causing them enough problems already. I can’t do anything, I’m just a burden to everyone I know.” Marti had let him vent because he’d learned it was the best thing to do, even when listening to those words filled him with anguish. Marti’s heart broke every time Nico’s head didn’t allow him to see just how wonderful he was. In those moments, Marti wished he could lend Nico his eyes so he could see himself through them. “And you, Marti? I don’t even know where you find the patience to bother with me. You don’t deserve to have a noose around your neck at eighte—” He had interrupted him, then. He’d taken Nico’s face in his hands and looked him straight in the eyes, and one by one he’d tore down every single unfounded word that had come out of his mouth until Nico had stopped crying and had given him a small smile full of gratitude. Marti had spent the next two days on a mission to make him feel better. Cuddling him, taking a bath together, changing his sheets, making Nico eat and smile in front of his parents too, following the minute by minute motto that had become a pillar of their lives, a philosophy they’d both embraced outside of their relationship too. Three weeks later, they had celebrated Nico acing his first exam. Nico hadn’t had episodes as bad as that one in months and Martino hoped that the summer session wouldn’t bring a relapse. Although Nico still talked about his doubts on his choice of university every once in a while, he’d managed to settle in and make some friends. He still preferred the company of Martino and his friends, though, who scolded him all the time, because instead of helping them sneak into university parties full of hot girls, he was still spending his Friday nights drinking Peccio’s artisanal beer with them and listening to Giovanni’s relationship woes. Two years after their breakup and despite the short Argentina chapter, Giovanni still hadn't gotten over Eva and had decided he would try one last time before the end of their exams. Nico had been offended by their comments. He knew he was welcome. Martino had met his new acquaintances and, as nice as they were, his friends were better. Giovanni, Elia and Luchino had complained, yesterday, about Niccolò’s absence, because he’d always helped them study in the previous weeks and most importantly, as a survivor of the worst maturità in history, he had helped them not panic. “The last days are crucial, bro. Nico could’ve helped us,” Luchino had said. “Well, I can’t focus when he’s around. If you miss him so much, you can always text him, okay?” Martino had snapped. “Okay, calm down,” Elia had commented. Marti had swallowed and apologized. “Sorry, bro. I’m freaking out.” Gio had squeezed his shoulder and stared at him with that searching look he always had when he understood that something was wrong. Martino had sighed and complained about the derivatives exercises he couldn’t solve to change the topic, asking Elia for help. Because, yes, Elia was the best at maths out of all of them, although no one would have guessed. They had started seeing each other less and less sometime around April. Because Marti’s study load had tripled in an attempt to raise his grades in the last months of school and write his final essay in advance, so as not to worry about it in June. Because Nico, maybe suddenly nostalgic of Radio Osvaldo, had joined the university radio as a volunteer and had started giving piano lessons to earn some money, something that would give him a sense of independence. Those weekends spent in bed that used to be their routine were almost a miracle now. They barely managed to see each other twice a week, and never for two days in a row. It was hard, but Marti knew that it wasn’t forever. He cheered himself up thinking that soon they’d have entire weeks of sweet nothing and that they’d take a trip to Berlin together to celebrate Martino’s maturità on the first week of August. Niccolò wouldn’t stop talking about it, how he couldn’t wait to be there, to see the East Side Gallery and the Museum Island, to go to bars, to have Martino alone to himself in a hotel room for five days, and Martino had started counting down the days in his head, because Niccolò was Olympic champion of contagious enthusiasm. But today was the day before maturità and Martino was screwed. Because of all the stress and anxiety, he had slept six hours in total over three nights and he was on edge. Maybe that’s why when Niccolò showed up at his front door unannounced in the late afternoon, he didn’t react the way he would have expected too. “Ni, what are you doing here?” “I missed you,” Niccolò said, kissing him on the lips and making his way into the living room. “Don’t you want to spend the night before exams with me?” he added, chuckling. “Yes,” Martino replied, hesitating. He immediately recognized the signs of Niccolò’s impulsive behavior in his jerky head movements and the way his hands were shaking, and he furrowed his brows, worried. “But I have to study.” “For what? It’s just an essay.” “For everything else…” Martino mumbled. There was a small part of him that was almost flattered that Niccolò couldn't resist more than six days before knocking on his door, but something about his teasing was ticking him off. Maybe Niccolò got it from the tone of his voice and he stepped closer, resting a gentle hand on his neck and searching his eyes. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” “Of course, I am,” Marti smiled at him, trying to relax. “I can leave if you want, huh,” Niccolò said, raising his brows and tilting his head. Marti shook his head. “Stay. But I really have to study. At least another couple of hours. Then we can do whatever you want.” He didn’t want to kick Niccolò out but he hoped he’d been clear: no distractions allowed. “Okay, okay. Don’t worry,” Niccolò said, taking his hand and leading them to Martino’s room. “How are you? What are you studying?” “Greek. I wanna die.” “Shut up and be grateful you didn’t have last year’s fucking latin-greek combo,” Niccolò said, throwing himself on Martino’s bed while Martino resumed his place at his desk. He smiled, remembering the desperation on the fifth-year boys’ faces when the new seconda prova with both languages was announced. The worst maturità in history. And luckily, the only one. Marti picked up his copies of old translations, scribbled with pencil on the margins and heavily underlined. He wasn’t bad at it, obviously Latin was easier than Greek, but he couldn’t wait to abandon these shitty dead languages, like Giovanni always called them. Niccolò managed to stay put on his bed for about 10 minutes before he came behind Martino and bent down to hug his shoulders. Martino had to hold himself back from rolling his eyes. He didn’t know why having Niccolò around was bothering him. He didn’t like feeling like this. It’d never happened before, and Martino knew it was his problem. “Ni,” he warned him. “Marti,” Nico replied, sing-songy. That unpleasant feeling twisting Marti’s stomach just kept building up. “I’m in deep shit, Ni. I mean it.” “Just spend ten minutes with me, what difference does it make? You barely said hi to me,” he said, with a sweet whiny voice. Martino was sure he was pouting too. “Can you wait until I finish this? Please, please, please," he begged too, looking up. If Nico could pout, he could use his puppy eyes. “Okay, okay,” Nico sighed, “got it. I’ll be good. I won’t move.” He lied on the bed again, pretending to be very still like a robot. Marti smiled at him, mumbling an apologetic “thank you” and turning in his chair to stick his nose back in the dictionary. “Don’t you have to study too? Why didn’t you bring your books?” Marti commented offhandedly. Niccolò sighed. “Fuck, Marti, you sound like my mom.” “Why? What did I say?” “You think I don’t know when I’m supposed to study or not?” Martino was taken aback by Nico’s snappy reply. And that was it, that pushed him over the edge. If there was anything that Martino had learned in the year and a half with Niccolò, it was that his patience went way over the limits he’d always thought he had. Being with him had brought out a better version of himself, a Martino who knew how to listen, how to think before he spoke, who always put Nico before himself, and this selflessness had never felt like an obligation, Martino had never felt forced to do it. The bitterness, pettiness and smallness that he had held before Nico only resurfaced after conversations with his dad or in moments of psychological and physical weakness caused by stress and insomnia, two things he hadn’t learned how to cope with yet. They made him lash out, even with his mom when she didn’t deserve it, and apparently, even with the boy he loved more than anything in the world. There were days when Martino couldn't handle his own emotions, let alone Niccolò’s unpredictable ones, and the pedestal he sometimes felt he was on crumbled. This is how Martino was feeling today: small, petty, irascible, and Niccolò had come here thinking it would make him happy, but instead he’d become the catalyst of all the anxiety and nervousness Martino had accumulated over the last few weeks. “I was just saying. Chill.” He realized how much he sounded like an asshole as soon as the words left his mouth and he regretted them immediately. A few moments of awful silence passed and then Nico stood from the bed. “Okay, I get it. I’m leaving.” Marti shot up from his chair to grab his wrist. “Ni…” “I don’t wanna be here if I’m just a pain in the ass,” he said, looking everywhere but at Marti’s face, avoiding his gaze. “You’re not a pain in the ass. I’m sorry. I’m stressed, you know I can’t handle it,” he tried to apologize. “It’s not your fault.” “Sorry if I thought you’d be happy to see me. Call me after the written exams, or the oral. Or whenever the fuck you want,” Nico said, his voice low and full of bitterness. He turned towards the door and Marti pulled him back. “Stop it, please.” “We never see each other anyway,” Niccolò mumbled, finally tugging his arm out of Marti’s grip. “And that's my fucking fault, Ni?”, he snapped. He swallowed harshly. He’d raised his voice with Niccolò. He never thought he could be so stupid. Neither of them had ever yelled at the other, in a year and a half. They’d had hard moments, moments of tension, disagreements, but they’d never had a real fight. And why had he yelled at him? Because he was in a bad mood? I'm a piece of shit, he thought. “It's no one's fault if I have to study and you’re busy with uni,” Marti said, lowering his voice and his gaze. His head was pulsing and he rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger. Niccolò, standing three feet between him and the door, bit his trembling lower lip and said nothing. His hands were clenched by his sides. Martino sighed and continued. “Of course I miss you, and it pisses me off that we don’t see each other often… but I just needed you to do me this favor, today.” “I see,” Niccolò nodded. “And I’m so useless and needy that I couldn’t even do this one thing?” Marti closed his eyes and sighed, again. “I never said that, why do you have to do this? Ni, please,” he stepped closer to touch his face but Nico moved away like his palm was scalding. Marti looked at him and lowered his arm, waiting for him to talk. Nico kept biting his lip and nervously bouncing his leg. “You know uni isn't going well. That my parents are badgering me about it. You know it. There’s no need for you to always remind me about it too,” Niccolò said, finally looking at him. His shoulders were shaking, and his green eyes were full of hurt. All the hurt Martino had caused. “If you hate seeing me, just say it.” I don’t understand why you hate spending time with me so much, his mom had told him, so long ago that Martino didn’t even remember when. He only remembered it was before he made up with Nico, before the terrace, because Martino had become such a different person ever since things had started working out with him that he would have never expected to hear almost the same exact words coming from his boyfriend. They hit him like a ton of bricks and Marti physically felt the fight drain out of him. Every cell In his body abandoned the fight and, this time, he thought carefully before he spoke, while Niccolò looked at him like he was waiting for the next blow. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I swear. When I’m like this… I act out, I can't stand myself. I can’t explain how sorry I am, Ni,” he whispered. “I just wanted to spend some time with you.” “I know. It’s not your fault. I’m just an asshole.” There’s always a turning point in an argument, when according to the words you choose the fight can go on or die out. Marti had given Niccolò the chance to choose an out. He hoped he would take it. “Hm. Yeah, a little bit.” Marti smiled at him, grateful, and closed the distance between them to hug him tight. He hugged him for minutes and Nico held him back, hiding his face in his shoulder. Marti kissed him and whispered apologies on his lips that Nico returned with a soft smile. “You know what we’re gonna do? We’re gonna close the books, jump in bed and--” “You don’t have to fuck up your study session because of me. Go on. But let me help,” Nico interrupted him. He took Martino’s notebooks and dictionary and put them on the floor, in the little corner under the window with the pillows and carpet, where they loved to spend hours cuddled up under a blanket next to the radiator in winter. He sat down and looked up at Marti, patting the floor next to him like you would do to invite a shy cat. “You sure?” Marti asked, sitting down by Nico’s side and hugging his knees to his chest. Niccolò nodded. Marti thought about it and then grabbed his notebooks, photocopies and dictionary and threw them by the foot of his bed, ignoring Niccolò’s amused protests. “No, fuck it. I want to be with you. Talk to me. How are you?” Nico smiled at him. He leaned his head against the wall and turned to look him in the eyes. “I miss you,” he whispered, fragile, shaken by a fight that had had no reason to exist, that should have never happened. Marti felt the raw honesty of those words hit him in the chest. “I miss you, too.” They kissed, and Marti kept muttering apologies until Nico forced him to stop, fondly exasperated. They talked while Marti’s hands played with Nico’s, twirled his curls, stroked his cheeks. They talked, but for the most part they just held each other, because sometimes silence healed better than words. The vibration of Marti’s phone startled him. It was a voice message from Gio. “Oi, Marti, we’re all meeting up at Baretto later. The girls are coming too. It’s the night before exams and you’re coming, don’t even bother with an excuse. And bring Nico cause we all miss him. Okay, bro?” Marti laughed and looked at Nico with a complicit smile. “Feel up to spending your night surrounded by a bunch of high-schoolers singing Venditti?” Niccolò laughed too, that whole-body laugh, chin lowered and eyes crinkling. That laugh that Martino had fallen in love with on that mid-October day on Nico's couch. Then Nico looked up and scooted closer to give him a kiss. “I’d be offended if I missed it.”

[reading-time]

Sanmao’s “Stories of the Sahara”, 《撒哈拉的故事》，素人渔夫 Amateur fishing man, Tâm Anh translated.

      Once on Sunday, Jose was at company for over-time work, whole day not home.

　　I, to pass the time, took out all the money Jose has earnt during this year from March till now, counted carefully, noted down on a blank sheet of paper, awaiting him to come back.  

　To the evening, Jose was home, I placed the note paper in front of him, saying: “You see, during this half a year we have earnt, sum up, this so much money.”

　　He took a glance on the calculation I did, very glad, saying: “Hard to imagine, we have earnt this so much money; enduring the hard days in the desert, it worths our efforts.”

　　“Let’s eat out today, anyway we have this much money.” He joyfully proposed.

　　I knew he wanted to take me to dine at the National Hotel, very quickly I changed clothes to go out with him; this kind of reality was once upon a time.

      “We want best-quality red wine, seafood soup, beef-steak for me, four helpings of prawns for my wife, ice-cream cake as deserts, also four helpings, thank you!” Jose said to the waiter.

　　“Lucky, today I have not eaten any the whole day, now we should have a big meal.” I whispered to Jose.

　　National Hotel was one under the organization of the Spanish Government; the dining hall was decorated very nicely like an Arabic royal palace, with very local ambiance, very comfortable soft lights, customers were not many; in here the atmosphere was fresh, no smell of dirt, knife and fork are kept clean to snow-like shining, table cloth was well ironed, soft music sound was like stream water flowing. I was sitting there, almost forgot we were in the desert, but seemed going back to our good old days.

　　After a while, foods were served, on a nice silver plate, a large row of fried prawns lined with green lettuce, glass filled with dark red wine.

　　“Ah! The blue bird of happiness is coming!” I exclaimed in excitement, looking at the dish.

　　“So delicious, from now on we should come here more often!” Jose sounded very generous that evening, like a tycoon.

　　Living in the desert for a certain time, it makes people learn a good thing: any little real-life enjoyment can bring about exceedingly heart-felt satisfaction and make people fly high. In other words, we take our senses more serious than our head.

　　Dinner finished, spent on it a fortune, we were very happy walking home, that evening I was a very happy person.

　　The following day, we of course ate at home; on the dinner plate there was one baked potato cake, one bread, a pot of water.

　　“We’ll share, wait I divide, this cake, you eat 2/3, I take 1/3.”

　　I was one hand sharing the potato cake, the other hand placing the bread in whole in the bowl for Jose, made it look quite full.

　　“It’s very delicious, I have added onion, let’s eat!” I started to eat.

　　Jose, like a tiger, ate up his cake in a wink, then he stood up heading to the kitchen.

　　“There’s no more, today let’s have just these.” I immediately stopped him.

　    “What’s wrong today?” He did not understand, looked at me.

　　“You look on this!” I passed on to him to see another calculating note.

　　“This is the sum-up of our expenses in recent half a year, yesterday’s calculation was of income, today’s calculation is of expenses.” I patted on his shoulder, explained.

　　“This much, we have spent this much? All has been spent!” He yelled.

　    “Yes.” I nodded.

　　“You see, on the note paper it is written clearly.”

　　Jose grabbed the note paper reading the cash flow I have done ——“tomato 60 kuai per kilogram, melon 220, pork half a kilogram 300——"

　　“How come you bought such expensive food, we could eat less a little bit——” He was reading the note and talking to himself.

　　Till he read to ——“car maintenance 15,000 kuai, gasoline half year 24,000——” his voice was louder; he picked himself up.

　　“You don’t need to panic! Half a year we ran 16,000 km, you calculate to see, doesn’t it need to cost this much money on gasoline.”

　　“So, money we have earnt we have spent all, there’s no gain out of this hardship.” Jose looked very annoyed, his looks was like he was on a stage.

　　“Actually we did not waste any, clothes expense was none in the past half a year; expenses were all on eating out with friends, making photographs, long distance travelling; these have eaten up our money.”

　　“All right, starting from today, single friends we do not invite to dinner, photographs only do black and white, travelling also no more, this whole area of desert we have been through how many times.” Jose announced with very much determination.

　　This poor townlet, mentioning cinema there’s only one both dirty and broken, a little bit of bustle also not have, magazines received to hands are mainly outdated, television on average is broadcast two or three times a month, on which images are as terrible as ghosts, home alone people do not dare to watch, power-cut water-cut are as common as daily meal, like to take a walk around then whole day there is strong sandy wind blowing.

　　Days passed by here, except for Sahara people who take it at ease, Europeans most are alcoholism, husband and wife fighting, single persons commit suicide, very common, all these drama are caused by this life in the desert. Only us, can be considered as people who understand 'the art of living', hard days still we can endure, our living still can be considered as not too bad.

　　I was keeping quiet listened to Jose while he was making announcement on plan of expense cut. Then, I started to warn him: “This too economical, you are not afraid three months later we would either become crazy or commit suicide?”　

     Jose forced a smile: “Indeed, during holidays if we do not go out, we would be living sad to death.”　

  “Think about this, we do not go to Algeria that direction, travel inland no more; we go to the seaside. Why not take advantage of the over 1,000 km coastline here; we should go there to explore.”

　　“Go to the seaside, travel through the desert a round trip gasoline also costs a lot.”

      “Let’s go catch fish then, we do salted fish sun-dried, we can save money on food, also can lower money spent on gasoline.” My strength has always been solid, talking about playing, I never lose heart.

　　The following weekend, we carried tent, walked along the seaside to research nearly 100 km rock shore; at night we set up tent sleeping on the edge of the cliff.

　　Rock shore with no sand beach has a lot of good things, using ropes to hang on the edge of cliff was very convenient; when the tide had withdrawn, on the rock revealed barnacles, in between of the holes there were crabs, in the pool there were octopus, barred snake eel, trouts as-big-as-a-plate, also thousands of black seashells growing on the stone, we could recognize they were a kind of mussels, also fatty kelp which can be dried to make an ingredients for soup, driftwood could become a modern sculpture, little stones taken home put onto cardboard would become paintings. On this vast area of seaside, there was nobody around, was still intact and wealthy of resources.

　　“This is King Solomon's Treasure, we get rich now!” I jumped up and down on the shining rocks, yelling, so excited.

　　“This big pile of stones is for you, you collect quickly, tide has withdrawn.” Jose threw to me a bucket, a pair of gloves, a knife; he also put on diving suit, was about to dive into the sea to catch big fish.

　　Not up to one hour later, my bucket was filled up with mussels and barnacles, also 16 red colored big crab sized as big as small washing-basin; the bucket became so heavy, I used rocks to make a blocked jail, temporarily locked them inside. Kelps I collected a big pile.

　　When Jose went ashore, around his waist there was a string of up to 10 big fishes, light pink-colored ones.

　　“You see, not enough hands to catch, there are a lot.” Only at this moment I learnt the taste of being a greedy person.

　　Jose saw my big crab, again went to catch, got nearly 20 black-grey little crabs. He said: “The small one is called Nicholas, compared to big ones they are more delicious.”

　　The tide was gradually rising; we retreated to under the cliff, scraped off fish scales, washed the fish belly, full a big bag. I took trousers off, two trouser legs made a knot, poured all the crabs in, the bucket was also fastened on the rope, that way we climbed up the cliff. That weekend going out on exploration for the first time, could be considered as return with full load.

　　On the way home, I urged Jose: “Quick, quick, we drive back then call colleagues in the single dormitory to come for dinner.”

       “You do not do salted fish?” Jose asked.

　　“The first time doesn’t count, we invite friends, they normally also did not eat well.”

　　Hearing that, Jose was very happy; before arriving home even went to buy a case of beer, half a dozen of wine to invite friends.

　　Later, for several weekends, colleagues also wanted to come along to catch fish. We were very delighted, bought 10 kg beef, 5 Chinese cabbages, made 10 more quiche, also brought along an ice-box, a charcoal furnace, 5 big buckets, 6 pairs of gloves, also bought a case of coke, a carton of milk. Several cars were mighty on the road, running up and down along the coastline; at night we set up tents, ate grilled beef, talking, had a great time together; the plan of expense-cut was lost on the way. 

       In our little family, no one manages money. Money, we put in the pockets of a Chinese cotton jacket, who needs then go to take. Bills, if we remember to note down, then write on any piece of paper at hands, throw into a candy pot.

　　Went out to the seaside not many several times, the jacket pockets has become empty, candy pot has filled up with little by little pieces of paper slip. “Again, nothing left, really fast!” I held the jacket talked to myself.

　　“Initially going out to the seaside was to catch fish making salted fish to save money on food, wasn’t it? Result, even more spending.” Jose was puzzled scratching his head.

　　“Friendship is also priceless wealth.” I could only use these words to console him.　

      “Next week, we will simply go catch fish to sell.” Jose again determined.

　　“That’s right, fish we can eat so we can also sell! So smart, I did not think of it!” I jumped up, patted on Jose's head.

　　“Just need to earn enough to balance the expense we spent on playing, that would be good already.” Jose is not a greedy ambitious person.

　“Good, sell fish, next week we sell fish.” I was thinking big, hoping this time gain a fortune.

　　That Saturday early morning 4:30, we got on our car in the dark, set off on the road when it was freezingly cold outside, our teeth were trembling; raising our flag of high craftmanship, boldness, well knowing of the way, we firmly drove in the dark desert.

　　8 o’clock past in the morning, the sun has just arisen for a while, already we have arrived at the cliff; behind us an endless, mysterious, and quiet desert; in front of us stormy waves and cracked shore, the immense ocean and scattered rocks; blue sky was without a cloud, seabirds in flock flied to flied back, here and now a few bird voice, made it filled with even more emptiness and solitary all around.

　　Upturned the collar of my jacket, widen my shoulders, I looked up giving out a breath, kept this posture stood still.

　　“What are you thinking about?” Jose asked.

　　“How about you?” I also asked.

　　“I am imagining some realms depicted in ‘Jonathan Livingston Seagull’ that book."

　　Jose is a clear and bright spirit; this moment, this scenery, thinking of that book perfectly matches him.

　　“How about you?” He again asked.

　　“I am imagining, I was that one crazily in love with a handsome crippled military officer, I was about to go for a walk with him on this plateau, surroundings us was beautiful heather flowers everywhere, the wind was blowing in my hair, he was enthusiastically gazing at me—— romantic, again dramatic time!” I lamented.

　　Talking, again I closed my eyes, held myself in my own arms, sighed with satisfaction.

　　“You're playing today is ‘Ryan’s daughter’?” Jose asked.

       “Your guess is right. All right, now start to work.”

　　I clapped my hands, walked out pulling the rope, ready to climb down the cliff. Through these some wild imagination, getting down to work could get some excitement: this has been the way I came up with to adjust the dry boring life.

　　“Sanmao, today work seriously, you need to give good hands.” Jose was in earnest.

　　We were standing on the rocky edge; Jose went down diving; each time he caught a fish, rose up, he threw it to the waterside; I quickly came up to collect, kneed on the rock, I used a knife to scrape fish scales, washed fish belly, cleaned it up, then put the fish into a plastic bag.

　　Scraped two or three very big fish, my hands were already scratched bleeding, dip into sea water oddly hurtful.

　　Jose was under water floating sinking, continuously threw fish up onto shore; I worked recklessly, placed the well-cleaned fish lined up neatly in the bag.

　　“Earning money is not easy!” I shook my head talking to myself, knees started to swell red.

　　After quite a while, Jose just then arose to shore; I quickly brought him the milk to drink. He closed his eyes, lying on the rock, face was pale white.

　　“How many we've caught?” He asked.

　　“30 more, very big, about 60, 70 kilograms.”

　　“Catch no more, almost tired to death.” He again closed his eyes.

　　I poured the milk, saying: “We, like this, could be called amateur fishing people.

　　“Fish is meat, Sanmao.”

　　“What I am saying is not about meat and vegetable. Previously, in Paris there was a group of people, weekdays they go to work, weekends painting, they called themselves amateur painters. We, on weekends go catch fish, therefore called amateur fishing man, also not bad!”

　　“You are so fancy, catching fish you could also come up with some new title.” Jose was not very interested though.

　　Enough of rest, we took it in three rounds, carried the whole pile of fish, as big as a little mountain, up to the cliff; put them inside car back space, topped up with ice from the icebox. Looking at the desert under blazing sun shining, this more than 200 km road driving back, again was another hard trip; strange it was, this time not yet having much of fun, body was also exhausted.

      Car soon arrived in the townlet, I softly begged Jose: “All on you, let me get a little sleep before we go out to sell fish, please! So tired already!"

　 “Can’t. Fish could get stink. You go home to rest, I will sell. “ Jose said.

　　“Go to sell then we go together, I keep up a bit then get better now.” I just rather said.

　　Car passed by castle-like boundering walls of the National Hotel, I suddenly got an idea, loudly called ——“Stop——"

　　Jose stopped the car; I barefoot got off, turned my head to look inside the gate.　

     “Hello, hello, ——” I softly called to Antonio at the counter.

　  “Ah, Sanmao!” He greeted loudly.

　 “Shuzzz, do not shout, where’s the back door?” I softly asked him.

　“Back door? Why do you want to go back door?”

　　I have not yet explained, right at that time the hotel manager was walking by, I was so scared hiding myself behind a pillar; he turned his head looking, I could simply sneak out get back on our car parking outside.　

      “Can’t! I can’t sell, so embarrassed.” My face was straight.　

     “I go.” Jose slammed car door, strode into the hotel. Good Jose, really has a style.　

     “Hello, Sir, manager.” He took out his hands towards the manager to greet; the manager came to him; I hid myself behind Jose’s back.　

    “We have fresh fish, do you want to buy?” Jose sound plainly, face also not blush, I think there’s a bit pretending.

　　“What, you want to sell fish?” The manager stared at us, worn-out trousers, face revealing a lot of hardship, as if we were humiliating him.

　　“Want to sell fish you go side door, talk to the person in charge of the kitchen——” He pointed to the side door, sounded quite intimidating.

　　I immediately shyed a long way back, recklessly pulled Jose to get out, told him: “You see, he looked down on us, we go to another place to sell; later if there’s any party we still have to see the face of this manager——”

  　“This manager is a dickhead; no need to be afraid. Go, we go to the kitchen.”

　　Kitchen people all gathered up to look at us, seems very odd. “How much a kilogram?” finally there’s a buyer.

　　We glanced at one another, did not know what to say.

　　“Uhm, 50 kuai per kilogram.” Jose called a price.

　　“Yes, yes, 50 kuai.” I hastily added.

       “OK, I take 10 fish, we go to scale to see how much it weighs.” The person-in-charge was very gentle.

　　We were very glad, flying-like ran to the car, chose 10 big fish for him.

　  “This bill, after date 15th, you can take it to our accounting office to claim your money.　

     “You do not pay in cash?” We asked.

　 “We are a public agency, you understand understand please!” The person-in-charge shook our hands.

　We took the bill for selling the first batch of fish, worth over 1,000 kuai, looked then looked, then very carefully I put it into my trousers' pocket.

　　“OK, now we go to Sisters 'Hotel.” Jose said.

　　This 'Sisters' Hotel' is Sahara renowned place; they often provide meals to workers, at night selling wine, upstairs there are rooms for rent. From outside look very glamorous, inside all day playing popular music, lights are green coloured only; often there are groups of gorgeous white women doing business inside.

　　Road construction workers from Spain, once get salary paid, often go to Sisters’ Hotel to play, get drunken then be thrown out; salary of a month of hard work, more than half is spent to these women’s pocket.

　　To the hotel door, I told Jose: “You go inside, I wait outside.” Waited almost 20 minutes, not seen Jose came out.

　　I carried one fish, also walked in; right in time I saw, behind the counter, a sexy 'sister' was feeling Jose’s face; Jose- like a leather-head bird- was standing. I strode to, fiercely straight face shouted to the woman: “Buy fish or not, 500 kuai per kilogram.” Also I put the fish carried in hand heavily slammed on the bar counter, made a loud bang.

　　“How come wildly raise the price; your husband has just said 50 kuai per kilogram.”

　　I stared at her; thought to myself: you dare to touch Jose’s face again, I'd increase price to 5,000 kuai per kilogram.

　　Jose pushed me out of the hotel, softly said: “You really know how to cause trouble; I almost had all the fish sold to her.”

 　　“Not buy then leave it, you sell fish or sell yourself? Even let her touch your face.” I raised my hands up to hit Jose, he knew he was on the wrong side, hold his head and let me hit.

　　Calmed down, again I rushed into the hotel taking back that fish we had left on the bar counter.

　　The sun was high on the sky; we were under the heat, hungry, and thirsty, also exhausted, also angry with one another; I was about to think of throwing away all the fish, only was speechless.

　“Do you remember Pug at the Sahara army group kitchen? “I asked Jose.

　“You are thinking of selling to the army group?”

    “Yes.”

　Jose did not say a word, drove towards Sahara army group’s camp site; not arrived at the army living quarter yet, we saw Pug right at that time was walking on the road.

    “Pug.” I loudly called out to him.

  “Do you want to buy fresh fish?” I was so much hopeful, asked.

　“Fish, where?” He asked.

    “Inside our car, there are more than 20.”

　Pug stared at me, shook his head strongly. “Sanmao, more than 3,000 persons in this army group, eat your more than 20 fish, enough?” He rejected.

      “This is not necessarily; you first take to cook to see! Jesus’ 5 cakes, 2 fish, were enough to feed his more than 5,000 persons; how do you say?” I again asked him.

　　“Let me tell you, you go to post office front door to sell; over there most people passing by.” Pug showed us a way out. Of course, our selling target is Europeans; Sahara people do not eat fish.

     So we again went to the stationery shop, bought a black board, a few pieces of chalk, again to an acquainted grocery we borrowed a scale.　　

    On the black board, we drewn a jumping red fish, again wrote "Fresh fish for sale, 50 kuai per kilogram.”

　 When we drove to the post office front door, already 5 o’clock in the afternoon; air-mails, air-packages were arriving; a large crowd of people was there opening their mail-box, very much bustling. We stopped the car, put the black board in front of car window, car back door was opened up. Completed with these, face already blushed quite a lot; we ran to the sidewalk across the street to sit down, not even dare to look at walking people on the street.

　　A crowd of people one group to another walked by; no one stopped to buy fish. Sitting there for a while, Jose said to me: “Sanmao, didn’t you say we are amateur people? Amateurs don’t have to live by selling spare-time stuff!”

　     “Go home?” Really I also ran out of energy.

　　Right at that time, a colleague of Jose walked by, saw us he came to greet: “Ah! Out for fresh air?”

　　“No.” Jose shyly stood up.

　　“Are selling fish.” I pointed to our car on opposite side across the road.

　　This colleague was a single, also a rough-and-ready kind person. He walked out taking a look at the black board, again looked at car back space, got the situation, immediately he walked back, grasped us both across the street to the opposite site.

　　“Selling fish ah, you need to calling out to sell! You two are shy like this do not work. Come, come, I'll help you.” This colleague in passing hands pulled a fish out, held it in his hand, yelled at high pitch: “Yu——yo, sell fresh fish yo! 75 kuai per kilogram yo ——aiyo——fish ah!” He even took his own initiative raised the price.

　　The crowd was attracted by his yelling, immediately gathered up around; we overjoyed at the turn of our selling: more than 20 fish was a little thing, just after a while all were sold out.

　　We were sitting on the ground counting money, more than 3,000 kuai; then again looked around for Jose’s colleague; he has already walked far away with a grin.

      “Jose, we should remember to thank him!” I told Jose.

　　Back to home, we were already exhausted. After a shower, I was in a towel yukata to the kitchen boiled a wok, put in a pack of noddle.

　　“Eat this?” Jose was unhappily.

　　“Just let's eat something. I'm almost exhausted to death.” I in fact did not even want to eat any.　

       “From early morning working that hard till now, you only gave me noddle, not eat.” He was mad, put on clothes to go out.

　　“Where are you going?” I shouted.

　　“I go eating out.” He said firmly, sound as hard as cement.

　　I could only also change clothes, chased him up, together we went out; the so-called eating out, of course could only be one place to go—— restaurant at the National Hotel.

　　At the restaurant, I whispered to Jose: “This world there’s only you this kind of person. Order the least expensive dish, do you hear me?”

　　Right at that moment, one of Jose’s bosses was clapping hands walking over, loudly he called out: “What a coincidence! What a coincidence! I am having no companion for dinner tonight; we three persons together then.” He by himself was talking and taking a seat.

　　“I heard today kitchen has fresh fish; how do you think, we take three fish to taste, this kind of fresh fish, not often seen around here in the desert.” He was again by himself talking.

　　The boss, accustomed to being a boss, forgot that he should also look at other people's face. Not a word to us yet, he said to the waitress: “Salad, 3 fish, wine, now, deserts later.”

　　The person-on-duty in the dining hall was exactly the one at noon in the kitchen buying fish from us; he was accidentally walking by our table, seeing Jose and I we were eating the fish we sold which now were served on dish at 20 times more of the price; his jaw dropped, like he was looking at two crazy people.  

　　After the dinner, we and Jose’s boss competed for the bill, result Jose won, used up the money from selling fish at the post office front door to pay, only left some change money. Just then I sensed, these fish no matter was sold at 50 or 75 kuai per kilogram, was still sold at such a loss; we, after all, were in the desert.

　　The following day early morning, we overslept till late. I got up making some coffee, washing clothes; Jose was still on bed, saying to me: “Lucky, still we have that bill at the National Hotel we can collect; otherwise yesterday a whole day was miserable enough; gasoline cost we also had to offset, not to mention so much tireness and hard work.”

　“You're saying the bill——that bill——”

 　I screamed, rushed to the bathroom, washing machine had already closed; out of the load covered up with soap foam, I took out my trousers, put my hands in the pockets to feel the inside——that bill has already been soaked with water, become soft and white a little heap; want to put them together also could not anymore.

　　“Jose, the last fish has also slipped away! We again will have to eat potato cake then.” I sat on the stone steps of the bathroom, crying and laughing out.

[ End of story ]

Image below: Home-grown new bloom. Photographed by Tâm Anh, on 13 August 2021.