Chapter 3 The first dream garden (2)

2 The Rima Hotel where she stayed.A small, run-down family hotel.During the peak season, tourists mostly prefer new and brightly decorated hotels, which are usually located on both sides of Beijing East Road.The ancient hotel is hidden in the forked and winding alleys, in a remote location, and only accepts returning customers who are looking for them.In Rima, there are ghosts who come here after seeing the introduction of LP, and the most people who live there are Koreans and Japanese.There are also some European guests.Its western restaurant is simple in decoration but has extremely orthodox dishes.A large garden, full of flowers and plants.Guests who came home late at night would pressurize the water and mercury to take a bath next to the well.

In the early morning, you can see a young single woman with loose black long hair, smoking a cigarette while holding a washbasin, walking across the flagstone floor of the garden to take a bath in the public bathroom.On the wooden chairs in the corridor, there was a person sitting and looking at a map with a dull expression.If you suffer from insomnia in the middle of the night, when you go there, there will be people sitting there smoking and losing their minds.Some people have lived here for a long time.Some just stay for a night or two before starting again.It is extremely natural to walk over to borrow a fire, or strike up a conversation.Can speak anytime.Lose track at any time.

It was raining heavily when he arrived late at night.The moment the door was pushed open, the damp and cold rainwater rushed in.The man unloaded his luggage, unscrewed the wall lamp next to the bed, and took off his windproof jacket.The precision clothing of chemical fiber texture rubs hard in the air.The rain-covered glass windows are illuminated by dim lights, and the man from the south emerges, with a face as young as 25 years old.She saw his eyes were 10 years older than his face, thus revealing his true age. He said, sorry to disturb your rest.My car broke down halfway, so I arrived late at night.His tone was light and not restrained.It was as if he had known her for a long time.Before leaving, he searched for information about Lhasa on the Internet and saw her name.Some travelers who once came to Lhasa mentioned the female tenant in Room 307 of Rima Hotel in their online travel notes or diaries after returning to the city.A weird woman who boils Chinese medicine in the corridor every morning and doesn't say a word.Suffering from illness, he let it go and stayed in Lhasa with nothing to do.They speculated about her illness, and no one knew about her past.All I know is that her name is Qing Zhao.

September is not the peak season.The room she was in had been empty for a while.The two beds around me are constantly coming and going, those people walking on the road, from a certain corner of the world, through a certain way: plane, train, truck, passenger car, bicycle, on foot... Gathered to this plateau After staying in the cities above, they dispersed into different areas of Tibet. These people who have slept together for a long night have left all kinds of body temperature, smell and sound in the guest room, beating up and down like the tide.She is estranged from people, doesn't like to strike up a conversation with people and deliberately gets close to them in order to blend in. She has a self-conscious self-control set in her aura.Her island remains motionless, slowly responding to changes according to its own drifting laws.It makes her feel safe.She rarely talks to them.She gradually lost interest in the people around her.After they left, quickly forget their names, identities, ages, cities of origin... all kinds of things.Know nothing.Never remember their faces.

At this moment, she saw his beauty, the narcissus reflected in the river, and she was self-conscious, but she didn't know that this beauty would move people's hearts.Sitting in the dark, lighted by the faint firelight.Hesitating to speak, the corners of the eyes and the brows are slender and delayed.The first time she saw him, she saw the distance between him and the world, one step away.It is such a man.Sitting alone on the cliff and staring at the blue sea, my heart is as calm as a mirror. Maybe after many years, she will also forget his face.It's like a pottery that a person digs out of the soil. When he lifts the lid, he sees plums filled with green leaves, as if they were picked from the morning mist at the beginning.In less than a minute after being exposed, the leaves and fruits quickly turn black and rot.They cannot be affected by air and light, but are only claustrophobic.His quality is as real and approachable as she can touch.But he will never know whether the bottom line in the hands of the bystanders is one-half, one-fifth, or one-tenth of the target set in his heart...or less.

And she will use the same method to preserve and destroy his memory. 3 Sometimes he would see Maggie Ami on her terrace.She wears embroidered cloth shoes, and a mossy green linen scarf is wrapped around her shoulders, and she wraps it around her head as a hat to block the almost dizzying sunlight.She shows up in the afternoon.Sit on a wooden chair in a fixed position, with your back to the table, facing the Barkhor Street downstairs and the crowds.Close your eyes and bask in the sun for a long time without moving.She drinks ice water, or asks for a small jug of highland barley wine, which she pours into an unwashed glass.White liquor.He lowered his head and sniffed some elusive fragrance, as if he was walking through a remote forest full of flowers, with unbelievable honesty.

He has been able to appreciate the beauty of a woman who can go without saying a word for a long time.Silence accentuated the thin outlines of her neck and arms, and she looked slightly hunched, with a waist that was not able to support her strength.She told him she was a writer.The body of the writer uses static strength to support long-term desk work, with stiff muscles, stagnant facial expressions, and only fingers that are strong and flexible.They always look listless and prone to aging.It is difficult for you to expect a writer to be a person who likes sports and talks at the same time.Because their balance and verbal skills deteriorate over time, she said.If it is the opposite, then doubt the professionalism of his work.

She went to eat at the Xueyu Restaurant near Barkhor Street.Breakfast is simple, a slice of bread, fresh sweet tea.Lunch is simple rice, vegetables and curry.Eat thick and light yogurt at night.There are often women who come to eat alone like her.French woman sitting by the window reading a travel brochure.The elderly woman wore an Indian braid, lit a cigarette after dinner, and passed the time gracefully and firmly.She eats where ghosts gather.Mixing among strangers with different skin colors and hair, listening to the waves of unfamiliar languages ​​around you is like the ebb and flow of the tide.It seems to be a kind of isolation from the heart.