The Wounded Muse

by Robert F Delaney

  “Um, it’s not so much about the money.”

  Greg looks perplexed.

  “I mean, the timing is kind of bad,” Jake says.

  “Mate, the timing couldn’t be better.”

  “Except that…” Jake sorts through the set of possible answers, everything from ‘I’ll send you my CV tomorrow’ to ‘I’d make a terrible PR manager and you know it.’ All of them right and all of them wrong, depending on what lens he uses. All of them vulnerable to defeat.

  Greg leans in towards Jake with a curious expression.

  “I’m trying to help a friend who’s been detained.”

  “Oh yes, that,” Greg says as he takes a sip of his scotch.

  “That? You know about that?”

  “There’s some talk going around about that. Your friend the documentary filmmaker, right?”

  Jake looks at Greg, trying to process the way he has reduced Qiang and the horror he’s living through to one syllable – “that” – thrown into the conversation like he’s clearing his throat.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Mate, please. You know it’s my job to know all of the reporters here. It’s a group that’s quite aware of what’s happening in this town, especially if it involves one of their own.”

  “Right,” Jake says before taking a big sip of wine. There’s obviously more to PR than just spewing spin. The information-gathering part of the work might be just as rigorous as it is for journalists. And then there’s corporate filter, the fractious and conflicting interplay of legal, marketing and finance. What is factual isn’t necessarily in the interest of the paymaster. What isn’t factual might become so with the right qualifiers. Something to keep in mind.

  “So, what are you doing about this? How does your job help you resolve this problem?”

  “Let’s just say I’m working to create some leverage that might make it more difficult for the authorities to hold him. It will be easier to do this in my current job.”

  “How so?”

  Jake shakes his head. “I don’t want to jinx things.”

  The PSB investigator searches “jinks…jincks…jinx.” She then begins writing a report for the file around Qiang’s case.

  The American journalist, Jacob Bradley, [passport #655293884, work permit: VR-345-7554] is preparing activities that will put pressure on authorities within the PRC government to release Sun Qiang. No details about these activities were divulged in the conversation.

  Surveillance facilitated via China Mobile directive issued by PSB, Beijing, Chaoyang district, RWS-5766-32445-dd

  A detailed transcript of the conversation he had [09-04-2007; 19:52 – 20:03] with Gregory Nell [UK passport #QR-6884-931] at Aria, a restaurant at the China World Hotel, follows:

  MAY, 2005

  Jake wakes for the third time.

  He was up earlier, stumbling through the inadequate dawn light towards the bathroom to wash down an Advil with handfuls of water from the tap. The bottle of mineral water next to the basin was empty and he didn’t want to bother navigating to the kitchen for more. That would have required him to walk all the way around the bed, a path littered with clothing, a couple of used condoms, and a semen-encrusted rag. Besides, there’s only a very small chance, he’d once heard, that a glass of water direct from the tap would make someone sick. The local treatment system takes most of the contaminants out. With his head pounding, Jake only wanted to fall back to sleep as quickly as possible, letting the Advil’s chemical properties soothe the pressure and hoping that the half-pint of raw Beijing water he’d consumed didn’t contain anything that would spark a bout of the shits.

  An hour later, Jake was woken again by the shifting of weight on the mattress, the clinking of a belt buckle, the padding of bare feet on the wooden parquet floor, the splash of urine followed by a flush. Jake pretended to sleep through all of it, through the moment of silence after his guest, a Malaysian Chinese called Tommy or Dickey or perhaps Harry, stepped out of the bathroom. The guy was standing by the bed, probably deliberating whether to bid Jake farewell and suggest an exchange of numbers. Jake kept his eyes closed and breathed with a hint of a snore, hoping a deep-sleep act would drive Kenny, or Timmy, away. Nice ass and abs, Jake thought, but the cigarette breath was a problem. The guest, whose now-dry semen glued together some of the hair on one side of Jake’s chest, left the bedroom and made his way through the living room. He slipped into his shoes, closed the front door and Jake fell back to sleep.

  With the third awakening, a start to the day is possible. Jake’s headache has now mostly subsided and the thin slices of sky he sees through the blinds are blue. That can only mean that a cool front has moved through, pushing the smog east, and would explain why he feels chilly even under a sheet and blanket. He rolls out of bed and tugs the blinds open to reveal a clear sky above the towers, eight of them laid out in two rows of four, surrounding a large grassy courtyard with a tennis court on one side and a small playground taking up the corner closest to Jake’s building. A wall, which helps keep the grass healthy and the walkways free of litter, and two guarded entrances surround the entire complex. Surrounded by an oasis of green, a couple of grandparents stand behind a toddler on the playground’s swing set, alternating pushes. The kid sits on the middle swing, inanimate as a doll.

  Jake flicks off the air conditioning and opens some windows.

  Pierre messages.

  weather amazing … brunch? … i’m going to get a table at the greek place in second embassy district.>

  perfect … i will b there in 30.>

  Jake fills the electric kettle, smacks the boil button and trots over to the bathroom. He jumps in the shower where he shampoos the gooey build-up of styling paste out of his hair. After drying off, he digs out a fresh blob of paste which he works around his hair into what Pierre calls the “just-fucked” look and pulls on a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Back in the kitchen, Jake grabs a pinch of Dragon Well tea leaves from a canister next to the stove, throws them into a mug and pours in the boiled water with enough force to make the leaves swirl around and settle quickly to the bottom. Jake watches, hypnotized, as the leaves unfold and turn the water a pale greenish-yellow. In this quiet space, Jake wonders how much longer he’ll stay in China. Will it be a matter of months, years or decades?

  Jake blows on his cup to cool the tea and takes a few sips to clear the clouds in his head. He pulls on a denim jacket and shoves a wad of cash into his front pocket before stepping out and locking the door behind him.

  A young couple steps out of the elevator on Jake’s floor and the doors shut behind them before Jake can hit the call button. “Thanks a lot, assholes” he mutters.

  One of the two elevators is permanently on service because people are still moving into his building, the last one to be completed in his development. It will be another two or three minutes before the operational one comes back. He pounds the call button again, uselessly.

  The couple is out of sight, around a corner. Keys rattle and Jake hears one of them say something about how many laowais live in the development.

  “Fuckers,” Jake says under his breath.

  Throughout his first years in China, he couldn’t walk anywhere without hearing laowai. Outsider. Foreigner. Some Chinese insist it’s a term of endearment. “Foreign friend,” they say. But Jake’s been in China long enough to know. No one has ever called him a laowai to his face. It’s only used when those who say it think he’s out of earshot or that he won’t understand. He’s heard Chinese people use the term in places like Paris, Washington and Sydney to refer to the locals. That, he’s convinced, shows that the word, whether those who use it realize this or not, doesn’t mean “foreigner.” It means: “he who is not of us.”

  Some of Jake’s Chinese friends agree that the term might be rude but only depending on the inflection and tone. Most never think about it, though. They just say it. “The laowai wants a haircut.” “The laowai wants the check.” “The laowais don’t und
erstand.” And Jake can no longer hear the word without clenching his teeth and his fists.

  The elevator finally arrives. Jake steps in, catching the eye of the only other person inside: a young man leaning into one of the back corners. The strap of a navy blue satchel is draped over one shoulder and the bag rests on his opposite hip.

  “Zao shang hao,” Good morning, Jake says, giving him a friendly smile with a slight bow. The greeting is more angry provocation than greeting. Strangers here don’t address each other in an elevator. He knows it makes locals uncomfortable. Occasionally though, if the stare remains locked after the initial exchange, or if intuition gives him a green light, Jake turns his expression into a smile. A practiced look with subtle gradations of urgency and intent. But the sneer isn’t yielding the response Jake wants. The young man in the elevator is neither switching off nor signaling that he’s open to a chat. He just looks confused.

  Cute, Jake thinks as he turns around to lean against the back wall and looks up at the floor indicator. High cheekbones and a prominent Adam’s apple. Jake loves that combination on Asian guys. But there’s no point trying to push this one any further.

  The doors close and he sees in his peripheral vision that the guy is still looking at him. Another second ticks by, the elevator begins to descend and the stranger continues to stare. Jake doesn’t get it. Foreigners have lost their mystique to all but tourists from the interior, construction workers and other labourers. None of them would be in this elevator on a Sunday morning. This dude’s dressed like an urbanite: a t-shirt with a neon green beverage logo splashed on the front and a pair of baggy shorts. Cross trainers, badly worn and scuffed with one of his big toes nearly breaking through. But cross trainers nonetheless, instead of the usual all-purpose fake leather dress shoes.

  Jake looks again at the curious stranger who appears to be somewhere in his late twenties. A uniform buzz cut nearly to the scalp suggests that he’s just been released from an army boot camp, jail or a Buddhist monastery. He looks shell shocked and something about the stare intensifies the headache that has returned since the Advil Jake took at dawn has worn off.

  Jake has spent years being stared at and called a laowai, every time trying to ignore the slight or to swallow it and move on, even though each swallow enlarges a tumor of anger somewhere in his gut. A figurative tumor for now but, Jake often wonders, how long will it take for this anger to combine with the dense particulate matter in Beijing’s air and petrochemical-coated food to produce a real one?

  Jake now wants to shove this guy against the wall, hard enough to pass the anger on. He wants to deliver a shock that will leave an impression that the stranger has probably never imagined he’d get from a laowai. Jake would pin him against the wall, hands above his head, fingers entwined, and continue to press his body up against this guy. Chest-to-chest, groin-to-groin. He would place his mouth just over the stranger’s ear and ask, in a slow whisper, “What would you like to know about me? I can tell you anything you want to know. I can tell you everything I like to do. I can tell you what I’d like to do to you. Then, you can tell me what you’d like to do to me.” Jake’s mouth would linger by the stranger’s ear, so close that he could feel the folds of skin on his lips, close enough to let his hot breath communicate the intent. Then, as they would both breathe heavily, he’d bite the stranger’s ear lobe, hard enough to make him want to bite back as the only defense because his hands are pinned against the cold metal of the elevator’s walls.

  The elevator stops. The door opens and no one’s in sight. Jake smacks the close-door button. He wonders whether his thoughts were audible. They echo in his own head with the energy real enough to possibly have a life of their own. Real enough to have been uttered. Isn’t this how insanity starts? How unfair is it to connect this stranger to everything that Jake decides is wrong about an entire country?

  The stranger shifts his weight and opens the flap of his satchel, looking at its contents as though the papers inside are children.

  Frightened by the flash of anger that has just welled up in himself, Jake decides to strike up a conversation. A friendly exchange to tame the chaos of his thoughts. So he looks back at the stranger, meeting his stare again, this time with no intent.

  “You live here?” Jake asks, using a thick, gravelly Beijing accent.

  The stranger looks down, his eyes darting between several spots in what appears to be an effort to think of a response. Strange that he would have to. Beijing folk are rarely at a loss for words even when they don’t want to talk.

  Jake looks up to see how much longer the trip to the ground floor will take. 9… 8… 7…

  “I’m delivering an air ticket.” The voice is muffled and he’s still looking at the elevator’s floor, making him sound as though he’s trying to take back the words as he speaks.

  “Huh, you deliver on Sundays?” Jake says.

  The stranger responds with a quick nod as he puts a hand on his satchel in which he probably has several more tickets destined for other travellers in the neighbourhood. His gaze remains fixed to the floor.

  Of course. People book last minute all of the time now. How quickly that change had crept up. Just a couple of years ago, securing an air ticket was almost as bureaucratic as applying for a visa. Passport, work permit, residence permit and maybe a few other documents were necessary to satisfy the sleepy staff at the CAAC office. After filling out lots of forms, you’d get a ticket with an itinerary that you’d need to plan around. Few options. High prices. Payment in foreign exchange certificates.

  How much that’s changed. Flight times are now seemingly limitless. Tickets can be delivered to your door within an hour or two, even on a Sunday morning apparently.

  Jake looks at the floor indicator again and thinks about what he’ll order at the restaurant with Pierre. He’s all but forgotten the stranger he was fantasizing about just a few seconds ago. 4… 3… 2…

  The doors open and Jake steps out. As he turns toward the exit, he hears the stranger speak up.

  “Do you live here?”

  Jake stops and turns around. “Yes. Just upstairs.”

  Jake wonders how much to engage. He doesn’t want to be rude but his hunger has turned from a generalized feeling into audible stomach churns.

  “I really like this location. It’s very convenient to where I work.”

  The stranger gives him a very fleeting smile. Jake senses that it’s forced but he appreciates what has obviously taken some nerve.

  “Are you from Beijing?”

  “I’m f… f… from the northeast, originally. I’ve been here for just a short time.”

  Jake nods, unsure of how he should follow up. He offers his hand. “My name is Jie-ke,” he says, using the transliteration of his Western name as he holds his hand out.

  He no longer uses the Chinese name which his teacher, impressed by a pledge Jake made at the time, gave him many years ago. He’s been doing this a lot lately, the gradual abandonment of the name, Ben-de, which means “source of rightness.” The name is one of the last connections he has to his first years in China when the country was a different place and Jake was a different person. Back when Jake would take two-day train trips to far away, during which he’d chat all day with passengers who gave him watermelon seeds and boiled eggs and wanted nothing but his stories in return. They just wanted to know about the details of an ordinary life in the U.S. Whether his family owned a car. Is it true that Western parents make their children leave home when they are teenagers?

  “Y… y… your Chinese is pretty good,” the stranger says, taking Jake’s hand uneasily, varying the strength of his grip like he’s trying to find balance.

  The stutter probably explains why this guy is so timid. He doesn’t say Harbin or Shenyang, the industrial cities that anchor the region, just “the northeast” which is as much a condition as a physical delineation, much like “the midwest” to Americans. The northeast means corn, soybeans and isolated farming hamlets that haven’t chang
ed much since 1949.

  “I’ve been in China for quite a few years,” Jake says. “I should be able to speak the language after so much time, right?”

  The stranger doesn’t answer. He looks at the security guard standing by the door in an ill-fitting, drab olive uniform. He then looks at a young woman sitting on a bench in the lobby, a stark three-storey space with solid white walls and a floor of gray slate. The stranger then looks up at a sculpture of metal strips painted red, pink and orange, with some sections twisted randomly and others where the strips are woven together to look like fabric under a microscope, angs from the ceiling on steel wires.

  The woman sits impatiently on the edge of the bench, which is made of the same gray slate as the floor. Dressed in black slacks and a crisp white blouse, she keeps one hand on a binder at her side. A cell phone rings and she reaches into her purse, a colourful designer piece with a chain link strap, to answer it.

  “What? No. I told you this was a waste of time,” she snaps at the person on the other end. “They’re going with a unit in Season’s Park. Why didn’t they say they wanted the Second Ring? No. Just forget about it. I’m not wasting any more time on this!”

  Her voice echoes, amplifying the sculpture’s tension. The woman shoves the phone back into her purse, mumbling a stream of incomprehensible accusations in one angry exhale. She stands, adjusts her purse and walks toward the door. The clicking of her glossy black heels on the slate floor echoes throughout the lobby, sharp and unrestrained like angry punctuation.

  Jake doesn’t know where this is going. He’s hungry and his Sunday is, as usual, slipping away too quickly. In another few hours the dark clouds of Monday, threatening another deluge of acquisition and interest rate rumours, will be on the horizon. But the idea of ending the exchange seems wrong, like walking away from an injured cat.

  “So, what’s your name?”

  “Dawei.”

  Dawei is now looking directly at Jake, no longer needing to focus on the ground. Jake doesn’t sense that Dawei is looking to practice English or sell calligraphy or promote a cousin’s moving company and, all at once, he remembers what it’s like to feel diminished by unfamiliar surroundings. Back when he was a “source of rightness,” Jake would have made time for this guy. It might, in some small way, help him address the pledge he made to repay the kindness that delivered him to the gates of Anhui Normal University in Wuhu so many years ago. The pledge moved his teacher to give Jake the auspicious name that amuses many other Chinese because, they say, it sounds quaint and antiquated.