98. The Madrid Chronicle, Part One

I remember clearly that the day I left was October 3, 2007. I departed from that city which held all my memories, and I also left behind you, the one I could never let go of.

The weather was fine. My flight took off at 11:30 p.m. I declined my sister’s offer to see me off because I feared the sorrow of parting. Alone, I dragged a pink suitcase through the security checkpoint.

Before the plan went into motion that afternoon, I had wanted to call "Beizizhu" one last time to hear that familiar voice, but I regretted it after only two rings. Forget it; everything would only add to the sorrow. When I boarded the plane, I threw away the SIM card I had used for four and a half years, because from this day on, I was "dead."

Looking down at Madrid Airport from the plane, the low-rise buildings appeared quite modest. There were no crowded throngs of people like at airports back home, nor the luxurious grandeur, yet for someone setting foot on this land for the first time, I felt a hint of the warmth of home. My parents were busy, so they asked their friend Pablo to pick me up. Listening to Pablo’s broken Chinese, my heart blossomed with joy, though I had to struggle to keep a straight face on the outside.

The subway station was right outside the airport. Madrid is famous for its well-developed metro system; the signs were clear, and the platforms were designed with great consideration for people. Pablo went to buy tickets. In a strange land, I was terrified of getting lost, so I stood by helplessly, watching people of all races pass me by. Those pedestrians were only concerned with their own paths and showed no curiosity toward a "foreigner" with yellow skin and black eyes—I suppose they were used to it.

Pablo dropped me off at home and left without even stepping inside. After asking where my room was, I dove in and fell fast asleep. The next day, I stayed curled up at home, eating when full and sleeping when tired. Since my parents had settled in Spain after I graduated from elementary school, it had been a long time since I had felt the joy of a family of three together, and I hadn't tasted my mother’s delicious cooking in years. This long-lost delicacy suddenly made me miss China immensely, and I missed Beizizhu, who was out there somewhere, doing heaven knows what.

I was scheduled for a medical checkup on the 7th, so my father took time off from his business to take me around Madrid. Madrid is a city quite suited for wandering on foot. Linking arms with my father, we went from Puerta del Sol to Plaza de Cibeles, and finally to the Royal Palace. Along the way, tourists were everywhere, enjoying the historic sites. After lunch, we visited the famous Plaza de España. Gazing at the statue of Cervantes standing in the center of the square and the Torre de Madrid built in the 1940s nearby, I once again developed an inexplicable fondness for this unfamiliar country.

The next day, my father drove me to Mostoles Hospital for tests.

After waiting in line for a long time, we were told by the doctor that the time for the day had passed and we should return before 9:00 a.m. the next day. Helpless, we turned and went downstairs. The hospital was filled with perennial greenery. In my eyes, this place should have been a gray world filled with plague and death, so why were the plants before me such a glaring, vivid green?

I felt a sense of relief to have escaped another day. Although this was not my first time having blood drawn, I still feared the sensation of feeling something being slowly drained from my body, as it gave me a sense of oppression—the inability to control my own fate, just like my life.

After accompanying me for two days, my father could no longer spare the time, so my mother had to take me to the hospital. The negligence of the Spanish doctors was truly worse than what I had experienced back home. After a long wait, I was pricked, a large tube of blood was drawn, and then the doctor left the needle in my arm, secured it, pulled down my sleeve, and told me to wait outside for the results. We waited for over an hour for results that should have taken ten minutes, all while that wretched needle remained in my arm.

October 12th was Spain's National Day, but I did not go to watch the military parade; I was not in the mood. Starting tomorrow, I would have to leave this home—where I had only stayed for a week but which had made me feel so warm—to go to a place filled with white terror. That place was called a hospital ward.

That day, I was admitted.

After finishing the paperwork, we received two cards. I heard that with these cards, one could enter and leave the ward freely within 24 hours, while other family members without cards could only visit between 5:00 p.m. and 9:00 p.m. The room was decorated quite luxuriously, like a five-star hotel back home. There were two beds; besides the necessary beds and cabinets, each person had a small closet. The room had a private bathroom, and there was a leather recliner by the bed for family members staying overnight. A color TV was placed in front of each bed, paired with a set of stereo headphones so as not to disturb the neighboring patient. The television and telephone in the room were coin-operated; you paid for the time you used.

The person in the next bed was a young girl who looked only fifteen or sixteen. She was blonde, blue-eyed, and very beautiful, but incredibly thin, and her complexion was terrifyingly pale. My father said she had a very strange blood disease. Every time I turned to look at her, she was either hooked up to an IV drip or lying in bed with her eyes closed, resting.

Once, while going to the restroom, I happened to see the girl’s mother emptying blood