又是雨天，和MARIA去看子尤。

    MARIA是犹太人，她说，犹太人纪念亲人会放一块石头在墓碑上。我想起来《辛德勒的名单》有这样的景象。我说：“好，我们来放吧！”于是，我们从附近各自挑拣了一块小石头，轻轻地摆在石碑上。

    MARIA第一次来中国是2000年。子尤只能蹦几个英文单词，害羞而热情。子尤挑选电影给她看，看的是《活着》。MARIA哭了。那天，子尤拿着水果刀，在厨房里削苹果，这个手笨的孩子平时从来没有削过水果,是MARIA到厨房里发现的,真是难为他了。

    以后，我和子尤去维也纳，MARIA从布达佩斯特过来看我们。子尤病中，她还来过两次。我们住在医院里，她住我们家里。

 

    最后一次见面是2006年9月22日。MARIA开始学中文，她给子尤看她的中文课本，子尤觉得编得不好。他说：将来我给外国人编一个学中文的课本。要学习中文，首先得对中国文化感兴趣。如果是我，就把中国的神话故事编进去，像女娲补天，神农尝百草......子尤说了很多，我记不住了。

    子尤走了，MARIA在家里为子尤点燃蜡烛。她还写来两篇文字。这是后来的一篇：

 

Dear Maria:

It is a pity that I could only send you my Chinese novel this time. However, I am studying English right now. I hope I could write in English fluently in the future. Therefore, next time I could send you my second novel in English. Love, Zi you Sep.30.2005" This is how he has dedicated his book to me. And "To Maria Ziyou 2006.9" his next book, with a weak hand, some weeks before his fading away.

Our short, six year, contact -- each year I went to China we have seen each other -- was uniquely moving: a strong chemistry towards each other's character and a very limited capacity for verbal communication since we did not know each other's language. Instead, we developed a sensitive perception of each other's body-talk and an unlimited yearning to discover each other's unknown spheres.  ZiYou's spoken English developed slowly with the years and despite all my efforts to learn Chinese, this was only enough to make a one-time proud show-off session in the hospital when I last visited him before his death, about the two hundred words I have learned. He looked through my Chinese language book carefully and critically, and said that he would teach the Chinese language differently to foreigners. He was planning to write a language book that together with the language it acquaints the foreigner with the Chinese culture. We communicated through Liuhong. I never felt such a palpably and physically and intellectually hurting high barrier of direct communication. There was a human being whom I feel I love and would like to know the best I can, I know he is full of thoughts which I could learn from, full of humor we could share and we are unable to communicate directly. I got all his books published since his illness. I am sitting in front of them, watching the wonderful Chinese characters, recognising some of them, hungry for reading them and I know I will never be able to learn his thoughts, poems and novels unless they appeared in English. All those thoughts unreachable! I so much envy those who have the privilege to read Chinese. I spent the time of the hospital visits mostly sitting in a bench, wordless, watching him communicating with Hong or the other patients. But I felt the few things he addressed directly to me through Liuhong as drops of the treasure he owes. He left an inconsolable intellectual and emotional hiatus in me, a bitter feeling of lost opportunity. Two things are definitely mine from him: when he was in Vienna with Liuhong and I visited them there, on my way back to Budapest, when the train started to slowly head off the station he still opened his hand and pressed his palm against the train's window wishing me silently farewell. The second was his last good-bye hand waving, and his glance.