The Wounded Muse

by Robert F Delaney

  Ben’s Mandarin is fluent, probably more so than Jake’s. They’re discussing Beijing’s transformation in recent years.

  “The embassy district just outside is about the only area in this part of town that looks as it did when I was a child,” Ben says in perfect intonation. The Beijing accent is just prominent enough to endear him to the locals and not enough to interfere with the clarity of his speech.

  Jake remembers Ben telling him, just a few days ago, that he first visited China with Qiang and had only been in the country one other time. A quick calculation puts that timeframe of those visits within the past eight or so years.

  “Things were bound to change quickly,” the bartender says as he muddles mint leaves in a tall glass. “But the Olympics have really changed the scale and the pace of the development. No one can afford to fall down in this effort. That would bring them too much trouble.”

  “Kai tian pi di,” Ben says.

  “Right. You’re absolutely right,” the bartender says as Jake hears him finish stirring the drink and plant it in front of Ben.

  Ben has thrown out an idiom that Jake’s never heard. There are only about five or six that he knows well enough to throw into a conversation as a natural rejoinder. Idioms separate the fluent from the merely proficient and Jake is stuck somewhere in between. Intensive language study in a tier-three city in Anhui Province, away from the English-speaking world and a self-imposed exile of sorts, helped Jake learn the language faster than he had expected. The immersion prepared Jake to conduct interviews in Chinese as soon as he started working as a journalist. It gave him an advantage over many other laowais in the gay bars. It helped him make China home for however long he wanted. As long as the conversation wasn’t philosophical or technical, Jake felt confident enough.

  But some foreigners speak with native fluency. They studied Mandarin for many years or had lived in China or Taiwan as youngsters. Some just had a knack for languages. Ben’s Mandarin puts him in this group. His grasp of the language is too natural for him to have picked it up from a lover in California and a couple of trips to Beijing.

  After listening for another minute, Jake moves back towards the restaurant’s entrance, keeping Ben in his peripheral vision to make sure he’s not seen. He steps outside and waits a few moments before re-entering. Once back inside, he moves quickly towards the bar, walking directly up to Ben.

  “Hey,” he says, taking a seat next to Ben.

  “Hey dude, how’s it going,” Ben says, putting a hand on Jake’s shoulder before turning to the bartender. “We’re going to move to a table. Can I move the bill to the table,” he asks in English.

  “Mei wenti,” the bartender says. No problem.

  Ben jumps up and leads the way to an open table furthest from the bar and the band. No tip. Another sign of his familiarity with local customs.

  “So, where did you disappear to last night,” Ben asks with a smile as he slaps both of his hands on the table in front of him. The spread of his elbows opens his blazer, revealing an elaborate Jefferson Airplane tie-dye underneath. He hunches forward over his hands and forearms, waiting for the answer intently, as if whatever Jake says will be the most entertaining thing he’s heard in years.

  “Sorry about not saying goodbye,” Jake says, leaning back in his chair. “I can lose my manners when I’ve had a few too many.”

  “Say no more,” Ben says, putting a hand up. “Wherever you wound up, I hope you got a chance to blow off some steam. This whole thing is too stressful and I’m sure Qiang wouldn’t want everyone to be cloistered in fear and anguish.”

  Blow off steam. Don’t be cloistered. Jake doesn’t like the tone of Ben’s suggestion. The comments are just a shade away from something overtly sexual like, “I hope you’re getting out and fucking around.” It would probably reassure Ben to think that only a small part of Jake’s life revolves around Qiang. That the matter they’re trying to resolve can be compartmentalized, left to Ben and Diane as the plot thickens and, of course, left to them when it’s resolved. So Jake lies.

  “Nope. I just went home.”

  “Right.” Ben just nods and then looks around the restaurant as if he might find in the crowd another subject to keep the conversation flowing.

  “So, how are you finding Beijing,” Jake asks. “I suppose it’s not easy to get around if you don’t speak the language.”

  “Well, I can speak a little bit. Qiang taught me some.”

  Ben runs a hand from his forehead to the back of his head, the kind of move that probably became a habit when he had a full head of hair, wild and grown out. The kind of look consistent with Ben’s personality and dress code.

  “Ah, good. Like enough to tell a cab driver where to go, or…”

  “Oh, just the basics,” Ben says as he leans forward again. “Look, I just wanted to meet up to make sure we’re ok.”

  Subject changed. Jake can’t help but get stuck on how he doesn’t want to talk about language skills.

  “We’re okay, Ben.”

  As the words come out, Jake realizes they’re short and sarcastic. He doesn’t mean for his answer to sound like that. Or maybe that’s exactly what he means. He just doesn’t know what level of his consciousness is driving his response.

  Looking away, Ben nods his head in a knowing way that suggests he heard more the insincerity and less the words.

  “You know what, Jake? I get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “You’re in love with Qiang.”

  Jake clenches his jaw and looks over at the Latin jazz band, noting the fluid precision of the women stepping back and forth, hips jutting to the beat as a way to detach himself from the conversation.

  Jake likes to think of Ivy League types as people who aren’t necessarily smarter than anyone else. They benefit from circumstances they never created, most of them nurtured in intellectually stimulating environments, not just in the classrooms of the best schools but also in museum galleries and on tours abroad, all funded by inexhaustible deposits of wealth. Jake knows this is a generalization but nurtures the idea just the same because, he feels, his background gives him license to do so. Rich fuckers have the judicial system, the financial system and the tax code on their side. People born to white trash should be allowed to hate them indiscriminately if it provides some comfort. So Jake doesn’t want to be confronted by a member of the elite who’s genuinely perceptive and intelligent, who would have probably excelled regardless of his background. He won’t give Ben any satisfaction. So Jake will lie again.

  “Love is kind of a strong word, Ben. I like him a lot. I have, on occasion, wanted to get into his pants, of course. But love?”

  “Ok, fair enough. I just want you to know that I’m not here to undermine whatever it is you two have. I also want you to know that I think we can be friends. You seem like an interesting guy. From Kentucky to Beijing. A journalist covering some crazy stories, I’m sure. Let’s just say I admire you. I admire your guts and ambition. I just…”

  Ben pauses. These comments take Jake off guard and he doesn’t know how to respond to them. He wants to apologize but it seems impossible, as though some part of his mind refuses to allow his mouth form the words. Apologies create vulnerability.

  “Jake, I just don’t think it helps any of us, not you, not me, certainly not Qiang, if we’re not supporting each other.”

  Enough, Jake thinks. He doesn’t want to be confronted with the injustice of his own thoughts.

  “Ben, sometimes…” He stops and takes a breath. “Sometimes I just don’t know how to let my guard down.”

  A smile spreads slowly across Ben’s face. “That’s the spirit, my friend,” Ben yells above the music and the chatter from the tables around them. “Let’s get some mojitos. They’re every bit as authentic here as they are in Cuba.”

  “Wait, how does an American get to Cuba?”

  For a moment, Ben seems at a loss for words. “Ah, good question.”

  Ben puts one hand up to t
he side of his mouth and looks from side to side in a hammy, overly theatrical move. “I also have a Canadian passport,” Ben says, winking conspiratorially.

  This additional detail about Ben’s background brings Jake back to the question surrounding his perfect Mandarin but he holds it aside.

  “I’ve only ever been to the tropics once. A trip to Indonesia.” Jake says.

  “Bisa bicara Bahasa Indonesia?” Ben asks. Can you speak Indonesian? One of the few bits of language Jake managed to retain from the basics he learned on a recent trip to Bali.

  “No way. You speak Indonesian also?”

  “I like languages,” Ben says. “And I like the tropics. Indonesia has some of the best dive sites in the world. And such amazingly friendly people. I spent a month there and made it a point to learn as much of the language as possible.”

  “I study it in my spare time because… well, I guess part of me wants to move there sometime.”

  A waitress comes around and Ben orders two mojitos, in English.

  “You’re a bit of a mystery, aren’t you, Ben?”

  “Well, if I seem mysterious, there’s one thing I want to make completely clear. I will do whatever is necessary to help get Qiang out of this spot he’s in.”

  “Then I guess we should get back to the matter at hand. I wanted to let you and Diane know that I’m going to have access to a U.S. representative who’s coming here as part of a trade delegation from North Carolina where all of the textile mills have been put out of business. His name’s Blake McKee. McKee’s tight with the administration and my friend in Washington tells me he’s a direct line to Condi Rice. Just imagine what kind of influence we’ll have if the Secretary of State gets invested in this.”

  “How can I help?”

  “Just let Diane know that I’m not going to let this opportunity pass by. I know she doesn’t want any publicity but I fail to see how being quiet is going to help.”

  “You can tell her yourself,” Ben says.

  “I would, but when would I ever get the chance? She didn’t show last night. I don’t want to discuss this over the phone and…”

  “She’s right behind you,” Ben says with a smile.

  Jake turns around to see Diane approaching the table. He looks back at Ben, puzzled.

  “I think you’ll appreciate what she has to say.

  Diane is seated between Jake and Ben with her hands wrapped around a mojito. “My approach isn’t working,” she says. “I’ve come directly from the PSB. My fifth trip. I’ve come, how do you say it in English, full circle.”

  Looking tired, she speaks in a monotone, a kind of deadpan delivery that Jake recognizes as a way to keep the emotions from pulling her apart the way a small leak in the thickest dam can turn into a torrent that tears apart the entire structure.

  “I thought I was making progress with the first group of people I talked to. I told them that I’d keep quiet and I’d make sure that all of Qiang’s friends here remain quiet. They’ve acknowledged that Qiang is under investigation. They didn’t use the word “detention” or “arrest” but I didn’t expect that much. It was enough to have a discussion that allowed me to show the authorities some respect. But the tone has shifted. Qiang, they now tell me, has been in regular contact with dissident groups outside of China, many connected to foreign governments. The details change each time I talk to someone different and never is a shred of evidence presented.”

  Ben puts a hand on Diane’s shoulder and Jake looks down. A waitress brings their meals of roasted pork with black beans on rice.

  “I know my insistence on complete silence has caused you to doubt me, Jake. It’s caused you to doubt my intentions. I’m sorry that I insisted on this. I had no right to do that.”

  Jake puts a hand on Diane’s forearm.

  “We don’t know, none of us knows, what the best course of action is, Diane.”

  “Hey,” Ben says. “Let’s pick up the mood here! We’re three smart people. Well connected. We’re going to crack this one way or another. You both might think I’m crazy but I just know that we’re going to see Qiang again soon.”

  Ben hails a waitress. As he orders the shots, Jake feels a psychological reprieve. Stress has a way of burning itself out, at least temporarily. Jake has a theory based on absolutely no knowledge or evidence that when his nerves become worn and need a rest, all of the synaptic energy that fuels stress and worry will cease. Ben’s words, and the promise of a tequila buzz, have led him to this point.

  “You know, Qiang and I aren’t so different. We were both drawn to the U.S. by the silliest of things,” Diane says.

  Ben laughs. “I know this story.” He begins to sing in a rich tenor, full of vibrato.

  “If you’re gooooing to Saaaan Fraaaanciscoooo…”

  Diane puts a hand to her mouth and laughs. She smacks Ben’s shoulder with her other hand.

  “Stop,” she says. “You need to let me tell the story!” She looks at Jake. “You know the song, right?”

  “I would sing the next few bars,” Jake says, “but my voice is so bad you’d both cringe. Believe it or not, I didn’t hear the song until I was in university in Indiana. It’s not the kind of song that gets much play in Kentucky. My dad used to call San Francisco a place full of faggots and freaks. But I remember the first time I heard it playing from a dorm room down the hall from me. I wound up introducing myself to the student playing it just to find out the name of the artist.”

  “C’mon blondie,” Ben shouts. “Let’s hear you sing!”

  “In the streee-eets of Saaaan Fraaaancisco, gentle people with flowers in their haaaaairrrr.”

  The people at the table next to them smile and clap. Grinning, Jake bows his head in appreciation.

  “So, the song was one of the few American cultural exports that made it into China in the 1980s. It was on a bootlegged cassette tape with other songs by The Carpenters and other artists that I learned later are seen as corny.”

  She begins singing. “There’s a whole generaaaatioooon with a new explanatioooon. People in motioooon; people in moootioooon.”

  “Bravo!” Ben yells, making Diane and Jake laugh.

  “There was something in those lines that…that…moved me,” Diane said. “Especially set within such a beautiful melody and sung by a man with such a beautiful voice. Anyway, one year, during the New Year break, I brought the cassette home. Qiang and I listened to the song endlessly. The whole attitude of the song was so much the opposite, the polar opposite, of everything we knew in China where all the messages were about struggle and fighting the enemy.”

  Diane’s smile disappears. “And then, a few months later, we got word of what was happening in Tiananmen Square. We wanted to join the students but we felt compelled to stick with our classes until the end of the semester. Qiang and I were both at Nankai University in Tianjin. I was a year ahead of him. As the older sibling, it was up to me to keep him in class. I reminded him how much our parents sacrificed to help us get into a good university.”

  “I hope you don’t regret that,” Ben says.

  “Well, when classes ended, Qiang and I began preparing to join the other students in the Square. But they started limiting the number of buses and trains heading to Beijing. By the time we found a way to get in, by pretending to be workers, news of the crackdown started to reach us. Many people killed. And then we heard hundreds of people killed.” She pauses. “And then there was complete silence and we knew things were very bad. Next, we decided to apply to graduate programs in California, you know, the place where, as the song says, gentle people walk with flowers in their hair.”

  “So, a terrible tragedy and a beautiful song led you both to California,” Ben says.

  “It’s just so ironic how things went from there,” Diane says. “I mean, we kind of grew apart. I wound up going back to China to pursue a career in finance while Qiang ended up sticking with his ideals. I think, deep down, Qiang resented me for convincing him not to join the demonstration
s in 1989.”

  Diane looks as if she’s re-examining the outcome. Jake can almost see her thoughts, the irony that Qiang was destined to be detained at some point. He doesn’t know whether it would be helpful to point this out or if it would add to the scorn Diane has heaped on herself for letting her brother out of sight.

  “There’s one thing I forgot as I chased my career,” she says. “The fact that I’m the older sibling,” Diane says. “I’m his older sister. I know his disposition. I should have been looking out for him more closely. I’ve failed many times when it comes to this responsibility.”

  “How do you mean?” Jake asks. “You stopped him from going to Tiananmen Square, right?”

  “I’ll give you an example,” Diane says as she rearranges the condiments and the salt and pepper shakers in the center of the table. “Qiang and I had some of the same classes in grade school. In one of them, the teacher made a mistake on the chalk board. An incorrect character. The teacher was old, starting to lose his bearings. Qiang raised his hand to point out the mistake. I knew what he wanted to do. I sat next to him but didn’t grab his arm in time.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The teacher didn’t see the error. Qiang got up and walked to the chalk board to point it out, and the other kids began to laugh at the teacher.” Diane stops and fiddles with her phone. Jake can see that she’s holding back tears.

  “Qiang wasn’t laughing, though,” she says. “He just wanted the error corrected. He felt compelled. He couldn’t help himself. He in no way intended to embarrass the teacher. He just wanted everyone to be clear. The others were immature, or at least not nearly as mature as Qiang. Their laughter infuriated the teacher and Qiang paid for that for the rest of the school year.”

  “And you blamed yourself for this?”