n Lhasa, I found myself flirting and making out with a Chinese and Indian mixed race from Hong Kong. Chinese in her features and really dark in her skin – as a tanned South Indian woman, – she was a visual artist and loved drawing and painting. She just separated from her French boyfriend and was upside down. We liked each other, we were good together, doing long walks in the streets of Lhasa, around the ‘Potala’, kissing, touching, and rubbing whenever possible, especially at night, in the darkness of a city completely devoid of light, but of the stars. She did not want to go any further, she was still in love with her former partner, who was also nearby, and liked to draw me in charcoal, portraying my face as her favorite art model.
I was not alone either. At that time, I had a relationship that for long did and did not work, seasoned with little joy and great incentives of suffering, since when, one summer evening, shortly after our second meeting, while rolling a cigarette in the quiet car park of a nearby village cemetery, she told me: “You are my last man”, just after telling me how many lovers she had. That’s when I felt the crushing weight of my puritan upbringing and I felt a fool. From that moment it was so, until a few years later when I finally managed to unhook from her and change course. I loved her but at the same time, every time I looked at her or thought of her, I could not get that army of people out of my mind, which moreover she was from time to time introducing me.
The Chinese depicted everyone she met and knew. She was a portrait lover and kept training by continuous charcoal strokes, which perfectly portrayed the expressive moment of everyone’s soul. I threw that portrait – the copy of it, since she never gave the original – I intentionally lost it in the succession of my travels. When she asked me to sign it, I was upset and I wrote: ‘BHX’. Who is ‘Bhx’? Who knows? The fact is that I was like her, or rather, like her I did not know who I was, and like her I was living, lost in and lost out.
Lhasa, however, was supportive and complicit of an unborn love and play that was what it was, nothing more and nothing less, but that is still in my memory because it was important. I do not know why, I do not know what, but caressing, in the darkness of Lhasa, that unknown dark skin Chinese woman, was something so exotic that more of that I would never be able to think or imagine of. She was beautiful, she was sweet, in the true sense of the word, and kissed well, kissed just fine. I do not remember her name, but her face and smile are engraved in my memory; in the memory of another lifetime.