Beauty

by Christina Chiu

  Back in college, there were people who yammered on and on about cultural heritage and pride, throwing around terms like “cultural misappropriation,” “Imperialism,” and “exploitation.” I found them tiring and boarish, especially since I hated both my parents, and figured I’d hate the grandparents, too, if they were around, but, I have to admit now, seeing that bed at the heart of this room, I am proud to be Chinese, and I’m proud to be the granddaughter of the man who created it.

  A tuxedo-decked server offers red wine from a tray. Ben takes a glass, but slaps the back of my hand when I reach for one also. “None for you, darling, remember?”

  “Oh, right.”

  The room is being cleared of the table, chairs, and carpet in order to set up a bar, and the pool table is being transformed into a mammoth, table-sized charcuterie board. Lots of food, which tells me it won’t just be industry people. The spread may as well be a beautifully roasted, fat hog with an apple protruding from its snout.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever gone to a party and not had a drink,” I say.

  “Frankly, that would be my definition of torture,” Ben says. “Especially now that I’ve quit smoking? I wouldn’t know what to do with my hands.”

  “Exactly.” I cross my arms genie-like over my chest, then recross them the other way. When another server goes by, I give in and pluck a glass of white. “Just for show,” I explain.

  “Beer before liquor never sicker,” he says.

  “Yeah, and this would be wine.” I swirl the glass.

  “Not liquor, darling. Licka, as in, you know, a lick ‘a food?!”

  “I ate an entire poached egg. I guess you forgot?”

  “Yeah, and I bet that would be all you’ve had the entire day.”

  “That’s so not true.” I shake my head.

  “Don’t lie to me, bitch.”

  “I’m not anorexic, okay?”

  “Prove it.”

  “Oh yeah?” I cross my arms over my chest and tip my nose up at him. “Challenge accepted.” I hand him the glass and help myself to a plate. Sopressata, Gruyere, and a cracker. I add an olive and almonds. I bite into the cheese. “Satisfied?”

  “Getting there.” He hesitates, but hands the glass back.

  “Relax, I’m not going to drink, okay? Besides, the pill was only 20 mg.”

  “That may not be a lot for a 180-pound guy like me, but on a 90-pound frame—”

  “A hundred and two.”

  “A hundred and two,” he says. “Whatever.”

  “A sip won’t hurt.” I can feel people staring at the dress. “Shit, I knew I should have worn the Givenchy. It’s, like, so tacky to wear a Jeff Jones to a Jeff Jones party.”

  “Oh stop. You look fabulous.”

  Zach. I glance around, trying not to be too obvious that I’m looking for him.

  “Not every girl has a vintage Jeff Jones, honey, and even if she does, she doesn’t always look this good in it,” Ben says.

  Katrina enters the room. She’s wearing a bamboo green lace dress with gold chain straps.

  “As I was saying,” Ben says, into his drink.

  “You’re the best,” I laugh.

  Ben grins, tapping my glass with his. We drink. The wine is refreshingly cool and dry.

  More classmates funnel into the apartment. I hope to see Zach, but no luck. From the corner of my eye, I see Katrina whispering with one of the guys in workshop. I pretend not to notice even as they continue to stare.

  “Ignore it,” Ben says, smiling majestically. “Their cattiness can’t touch you here. Not tonight. It’s all about Zach, right?”

  “Right,” I say through a smile.

  One of the guys from workshop crosses his arms over his chest and mimics Jones’ deep, Darth Vader voice: “The worst you can be is oblivious, and the best you can be is fabulous.”

  “That was dead on,” I laugh.

  The guy’s girlfriend rolls her eyes. “Please don’t encourage him.”

  “Come on, it’s good, right?” he argues. “Admit it.”

  “Yeah, that movie was epic,” Ben says.

  “Take the DVD,” the girlfriend says. “He’ll bring it to school tomorrow.”

  “I will not.”

  The couple share a silent, hostile exchange.

  “Toppers, anyone?” Ben asks. He counts hands. I still have more than half a glass, but I disappear to the bar with him. There are only two bartenders and people several rows deep, vying for their attention. The light’s dim. Despite the real glassware—wine glasses and beer jugs instead of plastic cups—there’s the indelible feel of a college frat party. “Don’t go anywhere,” Ben says, maneuvering into the crowd. “I’m going to need the extra pair of hands.”

  I lose Ben almost instantly in what has suddenly become a swarm of bodies. Alone, I feel exposed. Like Katrina, everyone can see through me. They think I’m substandard; an imposter. My face pricks with shame. I down the rest of the wine. I’m about to elbow my way to the front of the bar when I hear Zach’s familiar laugh. Far right, ten feet ahead, his arm couched around a woman. She’s blonde and blue eyed, which shouldn’t bother me. So, why does it? J Crew skirt. Cardigan. She’s around my height, but wider in the hips. She’s got a b-cup bust, the kind of skin that burns before it tans, and is otherwise absolutely and totally unremarkable. I creep forward, and nearly startle when Zach throws his head back, guffawing at something she’s just whispered in his ear.

  “These are pour toi,” Ben says, passing me two glasses of wine. “You all right?”

  I steel myself. “Where’s the beer?”

  “I’m on it.” Ben soldiers back through the veil of people.

  Zach’s laughter fills me with dread. We were never exclusive. I have no right to be upset. I’m seeing other guys. Jewelry and clothes. Flowers. Fun restaurants and underground parties. One of them took me to London for the weekend. The other to his ski house in Jackson Hole. But, Rick. My body trembles, yearning to be with him. Yes, that’s what I need. Some dark, hot sex to get my mind off things. I’ll call him after the party. I can make things right.

  No. I close my eyes. Feel the gauzy muslin and the scratch of pins against my skin.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Men. Sex. Love. Why does everything have to be hot-wired?

  “Woh.” Ben’s back; three beers in one hand, three in the other. “Girl, you need to sit.”

  The buzz dims. People clap. Ben and I return to the living area. It’s Helena with Jeff Jones. The entire party leans toward them. He’s what would be described as “distinguished.” Silvering brown, wavy hair, thick brows, and a large, beaklike nose. It’s slightly bent; he must have broken it at some point. Jeff Jones has deep inset eyes and wrinkles spanning his forehead. He’s wearing an Armani jacket over a T-shirt and jeans. It’s simple, classy; sexy. Helena’s wearing a royal blue Lanvin gown that drapes to the floor. It’s satin with a round neckline, long dolman sleeves, and an A-line skirt. I wave to Helena and she smiles.

  “Let’s go say hi,” I say, draining the rest of my glass.

  Katrina exchanges a glance with someone that intimates something along the lines of “We don’t do that here.” I am about to break the golden rule. Which is what? To mind one’s place in the strata of things? Uh, hello, I want to say, I’m Chinese. If anyone gets order and invisibility, it’s a girl raised in a traditional Shanghainese family, and especially, as my shrink points out, one with a narcissist for a father.

  The party swims like heat over the summer pavement. Then, out of nowhere, Zach appears with the blonde. They’re holding hands. It’s obvious she’s the girlfriend. He seems surprised to see other students from the program. Me.

  A shadow crosses his face. His arm moves robotically up and away from his girlfriend’s shoulders. “You didn’t tell me you were going to be her
e,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Just because I fuck you, doesn’t mean I report to you.”

  Katrina chokes on the wine. The girlfriend flushes. I turn to go, and bang!—right into Jeff Jones.

  “Oops, sorry,” I stutter. “It’s, like, nice to meet you.”

  He notices the dress, his dress, and smiles.

  “Jeff.” He’s drinking whisky on the rocks. “And you are?”

  I introduce myself, explaining that I’m one of Helena’s students, glancing quickly at Zach to reveal a practiced but sexy pout that could drive even the dullest of knives in. “I love the opium bed,” I say.

  “You know about opium beds, now do you?”

  “Her dad had one,” Ben says, squeezing into the conversation.

  “Had?” Jeff Jones asks, leaning so close I can smell the whisky on his breathe.

  Ben and I exchange a glance. “Has,” Ben says.

  “Down to the pillows,” I add, swapping my empty wine glass for a full one.

  “Is that so?” he says. “I bought that bed from a Chinese carpenter in Hong Kong more than forty years ago. A real local, you know? Could hardly speak English. Practically wearing one of those straw sampan hats.” He laughs, and I stare into my wine. “Then, one day, his idiot son changes the business to some mediocre interior design business. That was it. Next time I visit, the store’s gone.”

  “Huh,” I utter, wondering how it is that white people can get so much wrong about others while having the arrogance to always think they are right. Resentment I never knew existed boils up. I hate every white person along with their ignorance, determination to believe that everything is equal when everything has been skewed by the colonialist lens and labels, and I especially hate the fact that, right now I’m turning into one of those crazy, blathering idiots whining to myself about colonialism and appropriation. He moves closer like he’s trying to hear something I’ve just said, which I haven’t said yet: You can all take your J. Fucking Crew lack of originality and plainness, which gets passed off as classical American elegance, and shove it up your asses. Maybe Jones sees something cross my face, because he quickly adds, “But his work, ah, it was impeccable. In fact, I have a matching red desk and chair upstairs. Would you like to see it?”

  “Yes, we’d love to!” Ben says.

  Jones moves swiftly across the room to the spiral staircase, waving people off as he goes. Ben tows me along. On the way, I switch my empty glass for a full one. The steps leading to the next floor are narrow and triangular-shaped. I grip the rail and hoist myself up and around, up, around. Upstairs, to one side of the staircase is a massive desk overflowing with paperwork and fabric samples. It’s decorated along its edges and drawers with the quintessential oriental “bamboo” design. The tabletop, however, is covered with smooth red leather and framed with copper trim. The walls are floor-to-ceiling bookcases jammed with magazines and swatches. There are stacks crowding the floor that come up to my waist.

  “This is where I really work,” he says, taking us to the other side of the stairs. This side of the room contains an open area with a large work station and computer, story boards, a wall containing rows of hooks with different rings of fabrics, an industrial-sized supply cabinet, shelves overflowing with spools of thread and wire and other supplies, and two industrial sewing machines. There’s a thick velvet curtain draped across the room.

  “Wow,” Ben says.

  However much I dislike Jones, I’ve slipped back into “awe” mode. This is my dream home. He’s a goddamn genius.

  “There’s more,” he says, pulling the drape aside. Behind, the layout is similar to the one downstairs, only there’s a leather Stickley chair and another opium bed, this one lacquered with porcelain inlay.

  “Ming Dynasty,” he says, sitting in the big chair and inviting us to take a seat on the bed.

  “Is it comfortable?” I ask, sitting on it beside Ben.

  “Oh, it is,” he says. “Trust me.”

  Between us sits a large leather ottoman with a large tray containing a decanter filled with rusty, dark whisky and a crystal bucket of melting ice. He offers us a glass, and while Ben jumps on it, I wave it off. Jones adds ice to a glass and pours, handing it to Ben, then tops off his own.

  “Cheers,” he says. When he sees my wine glass is empty, he moves the tray of whiskey to the floor. He lifts off the top of the ottoman, which doubles as a storage space. There are bottles of red and white wines clustered in the corner, but most of the stuff is baby toys: a play mat, rattles, teething toys, bottles, baby blankets, light-up musical toys, stuffed animals.

  “I didn’t know you have grandkids,” I say.

  Ben jabs me with an elbow. “Is your family here tonight, Mr. Jones?”

  “No, my wife and daughters are staying at the W.” He hands me the wine.

  I drop the toy back into the ottoman and take my glass. Wife? I could swear he just got divorced. I saw it in a tabloid magazine at the grocery store. When did he remarry and have a kid, and how did I miss it? I try to recall how old he is. Late sixties? No, probably 50s. White people skin. It’s hard to tell.

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “She means your daughters, sir,” Ben asks. “A year, aren’t they?”

  “Six months,” Jones replies, refilling Ben’s whisky.

  “This is amazing,” Ben says, swooshing it in his mouth. “Really complex.”

  “Bushmills 16,” Jones says, tasting it off his lips. “Peach, a hint of vanilla, dried fruits—”

  “Honey,” Ben adds.

  “It makes it so smooth,” Jones says.

  I dig out a rainbow xylophone. Knock out twinkle, twinkle.

  “It must be a challenge to balance work with family,” Ben says.

  “Not too much. My wife handles it so I can work. But this helps—” With a miniature stainless steel spoon—it looks like a Chinese ear pick—Jones scoops white powder from a small folded piece of paper. I know exactly what it is. Rich kids in high school used; it always made me nervous.

  I dump the toy back. It crashes on a D note.

  Jones sniffs. The coke vanishes from the spoon. He offers the bag to Ben, who goes through the same motions. There’s a familiarity to his movements that surprises me.

  “You?” Jones says, offering it to me now.

  I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

  “Oh, come, come,” Jones says. “Have you ever tried it?”

  “I’m good,” I say, showing my empty glass. “Too much to drink already.”

  Jones turns to Ben. “Is she always this uptight?”

  Ben cracks up, laughing. “Yes. She’s a work-a-holic.”

  “Not because I want to be,” I say.

  “She’s playing catch up,” Ben sighs. “She’s from the liberal arts.”

  “You want to be a good designer?” Jones says. “Don’t be so uptight.”

  “I’m not uptight.” I stare at the smirk on his face.

  Downstairs, music pulses. Laughter erupts. Zach’s in the mix. Zach and his girlfriend.

  “You look angry,” Jones says. “Are you always this beautiful when you’re angry?”

  “I’m…not…angry,” I say, enunciating each syllable for affect.

  “There seem to be a lot of things you are not,” he says. “So what are you?”

  Nothing. Nobody. For a fraction of a second, the girl on both sides of the mirror fuses together. Pain overwhelms the body; numbness callouses the soul. Why am I so pissed about Zach?

  “Wooh.” Ben shuts his eyes. “So good.”

  “The best,” Jones says.

  Ben inquires about a restroom, which Jones indicates is past the red desk. As soon as Ben gets to his feet, he nearly loses his balance. “Woh.”

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “
I’m fine,” he says, his face grayish yellow. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Naomi wore a remake of this dress on the runway last year, you know,” Jones says, taking Ben’s place next to me. He gives my shoulder a soft squeeze. “One of my favorite collections.”

  Then, he’s on top of me, shoving his tongue down my throat, making me gag. “Where,” he starts to say, “is your”—he sucks at my bottom lip—“father’s—his hand slides to the top of my thigh—“bed?”

  I push him away. Then I see it clearly in his face. He’s not interested in me. It’s the bed. “Why?”

  “No reason.” He comes at my face with his, again. This time, I turn my head away.

  The bathroom door bangs open. Jones switches back to the big chair. Ben makes it to the bed, but rushes back to the toilet. He wretches, the vomit splashing loudly into the bowl.

  “There’s got to be a reason,” I say, getting up to check on Ben. “Just tell me.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Jones says, catching me by the wrist. “There’s nothing you can do for him.”

  I shake Jones off.

  “It was commissioned by the Queen,” he finally says. “As in the Queen of England.” He explains that Her Majesty’s bed was accidentally damaged at Buckingham Palace. It was returned to Hong Kong for repair. Around that time, Jones saw it in the store. He ordered the replica. “But there was a mix-up,” he says. “Long story short, I received the wrong order. The little Chinese man telephoned me requesting it back, explaining that in fact, the one I received was the original.”

  “What’s the difference? I mean, it’s the same bed.”

  “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. One of the beds already had her Majesty’s seal on it.”