How to Pick Up a Maid in Statue Square

by Rea Tarvydas

  Mr. and Mrs. Worley aren’t speaking when we take our seats at the table, and the air is filled with expectations. From their body language it’s clear they haven’t finished their argument.

  When Jerry places their food orders Mrs. Worley says, “I miss New York.”

  “I don’t know when we’ll get back,” says Mr. Worley. His voice is brusque, businesslike. He jams his Blackberry into his jacket pocket.

  “Where are you living?” I ask. The question feels random and I don’t know why I ask except to change the subject, avoid the tension.

  “A milkshake-pink building on top of that hill,” Mrs. Worley says and waves a pale hand in a westward direction.

  “Parkview. I need a drink,” says Mr. Worley.

  “I’m not supposed to drink,” says Mrs. Worley.

  “Who said anything about a drink?” Mr. Worley says.

  When the food arrives, hot and steaming, Mrs. Worley inhales deeply and says, “Mmmm, mysterious Nepalese spices.” Everyone laughs except for Mr. Worley who is surreptitiously viewing the wine list, squinting at the folder in the dark. Myopic.

  I transfer to an executive suite hotel on MacDonnell Road, not that I’m there much except for sleeping. Jerry and I work hard and fast, compiling information on twenty-seven acquisition candidates.

  One of the junior bankers in the office breaks his foot and I take his place rowing on the company team at the dragon boat races. It’s a couple weeks to race day. Daily early-morning practices are a hassle but it feels good to train hard and, thankfully, my sleep deepens.

  One morning after practice, I arrive earlier than usual and overhear Jerry on the speakerphone in the conference room.

  “Just relax.”

  Mrs. Worley’s voice says, “I can’t relax, Jerry.”

  “You know what happens when you work yourself up — ”

  Mrs. Worley starts crying.

  When Jerry notices me standing in the doorway, he reaches across the table and switches from the speakerphone to the handset. Into the receiver he says, “I’ll call you later. No. Lunchtime.”

  I clear my throat and set my binders on the tabletop.

  “Let’s get to work, Blank,” says Jerry. He leans back in his chair. His eyes are fixed at the line where the ceiling tiles meet the wall.

  We’re collating in the conference room when I get a phone call from my old troop mate, RJ. He’s been drinking. It’s midnight in New Jersey. “Heard you’re working in China,” he says and I tell him about the temporary transfer to Hong Kong, a little about the project and my changing role.

  “Cool,” he says and tells me about how his rehabilitation’s stalled due to ongoing delays with benefits.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “I know. They don’t care, Blank. They don’t fucking care.”

  “It’s a bureaucracy.”

  RJ is silent awhile and asks, “You still taking Black Rock Hill?”

  “You know it,” I say and prepare myself for what comes next. It’s like a film on TV. RJ can’t find the button to turn off the television set and needs me there with him, watching the screen.

  “I keep seeing Tony all messed up. Then I’m crawling around in the brush, searching for his arm. Then I wake up,” says RJ. His voice is ragged.

  I don’t respond.

  “Promise me you remember that fucking hill, Blank.”

  “I remember.”

  We talk for a while longer and then I encourage him to call the benefits service centre first thing in the morning, rattle their chains about his file, and he promises he’ll try again.

  After I hang up, I wander over to the windows and try not to think about Black Rock Hill. There’s no point. It’s waiting for me, day and night. The view over the water is obliterated by clouds but I know, across the harbour, the lights of TST burn in the streaming rain.

  When I turn back from the windows, Jerry asks, “What the hell happened to you in Afghanistan?”

  I consider his broken face. I could change the subject but I don’t. “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything.”

  “You never knew when you would be shot at. Snipers from the hilltops could rip your head off at anytime.”

  “Something happened.”

  “I’m not going to tell you about it, Jerry.”

  “I’m a good listener.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “All right, I’m a bad listener.”

  I consider the rain. It never rained in Afghanistan. It was white-hot and dusty and then it snowed. Black-and-white static. I see my hand, too large to be real, buried in Tony’s armpit, trying and failing to staunch the flow of his blood. Arteries spurt when they’re severed. Never mind.

  “You’re an anarchist and you don’t fucking believe in war, remember?” I say.

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “I fucked up, okay?”

  “How do you think I ended up in the Hong Kong office? It’s a long way from the mothership.” Jerry drains his cup of coffee and sets it down with a clatter.

  “We were ambushed.” This is the simplest way to explain the patrol.

  Jerry shifts forward in his chair and holds his large, tanned hands captive on the tabletop. “Tell me about it, Blank.”

  “Friend of mine died.”

  “You were there?”

  “He was my partner. Of course I was there.”

  “How’d he die?”

  “An RPG ripped his arm off and he bled out.”

  “Jesus, Blank.”

  “Jesus had nothing to do with it,” I say.

  “When did this happen?”

  “May 31st, 2004.” Almost four years to the day since I fucked up.

  Early Saturday morning Jerry rings my intercom. “Get up, you bum. Fuck the project. We’re going hiking.”

  When he enters my suite he’s carrying a bag of groceries. “Supplies,” he says and heads for the kitchen. The kitchen is too small for more than one person. I wedge the swinging door open and stand in the doorway. “I’ll make us some big-ass sandwiches,” says Jerry. “You got coffee?”

  I nod at the freezer.

  Jerry brews a pot of coffee and sets to work on the sandwiches.

  When the coffee’s brewed, I pull cream from the fridge and pour a generous amount into a mug. The coffee’s strong and hot and tastes good. “Thanks, Jerry.”

  “Don’t get all touchy-feely on me, soldier.” Jerry takes a big gulp of coffee and grimaces from the heat. “Where’s the cutting board?”

  I reach across the kitchen, pull a rectangle of plastic from the cupboard.

  “You’re a good guy.”

  “I’m not a good guy.”

  “You’re a good guy, Blank. I like you and I don’t like that many guys.” Jerry stops talking for a while. As he washes the dishes he says, “You work hard, you don’t complain. And you listen.”

  “Listening was a big part of my job in the army.”

  “It’s more than basic training, Blank. It’s a life skill and it’s great for business.”

  When it’s time I place the sandwiches and two big bottles of water into my pack, and slide it onto my back. Outside my building we hail a taxi and head out of the city along the southside. At Shek-O Road, we disembark and start up the stairs at the trailhead.

  It’s a steep climb through bamboo and woodland forests, deep and lush that tunnel over the trail. The path is full of roots and rocks. When we emerge from the tree line the valleys above are full of brush. I lead the way and Jerry follows. The path is quiet. It’s hot. The wind is high and bends the brush in all directions.

  The path undulates along the spine of the Dragon’s Back and is increasingly rocky. I’m careful where I place my feet. Then a mountain bike shoots past, the rider standing tall in his seat, whooping, wheels jerking on each bounce. He disappears around a corner before I can fully register his presence, then absence.

  “Jesus, Blank, I didn’t sign up for basic training,” say
s Jerry from behind.

  I slow my pace.

  At the peak of Shek-O mountain we halt and rest. We eat our sandwiches on a table that doubles as a landmark, coordinates included. Easy to locate. The wind is howling and we cannot speak without shouting. Jerry points out the roof of his house in Big Wave Bay. The view is beautiful. The sea is all around and there are many islands far away in the distance. I think about Tony and wonder if he would’ve liked Hong Kong. Somehow I doubt it but he never had the chance to find out for himself.

  On Monday morning I poke my head into Mr. Worley’s office to ask him about his availability for the first pitch meeting. He’s resting his forehead on his desk. I clear my throat several times before he stirs. When he lifts his head, there’s an imprint of a binder edge on his cheek.

  Without his glasses, his eyes appear larger and his eyelashes are full. His complexion is ashen and there are black smudges under his eyes; he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. He gropes for his glasses without success.

  “To the right, sir. Your right.”

  When Mr. Worley settles his glasses in place I answer his questions about the status of the pitch book.

  “Right. Good. I’m counting on you. There’s a lot at stake. We’ve got to get this exactly right.” Mr. Worley adjusts his cuffs. His phone rings and he checks the call display and says, “It’s head office. I have to take this call. Get out of here, Blank.”

  Right before the road begins its final descent into the village of Stanley, it passes through an avenue of old trees with twisted branches that clutch above the road. Blue sky beyond. Then the road drops rapidly, a thrilling series of curves, and the taxi corners slowly. Apartment complexes climb the hills, vying for the best view over the water. And the sea, a clear light blue, almost turquoise.

  A relaxed feeling washes over me and I exhale fully then realize I’ve been holding my breath. I check my watch. I’m too early for the dragon boat races. I signal the driver to stop and I wander through the market onto the promenade. It’s hot. The orange-ringed sun looks funny. There’s a weather warning for extreme heat. The seaside is busy. There are small craft crowding the seawall, selling an assortment of fresh fish to the locals.

  My cellphone rings.

  “Where are you?” asks Jerry, who is offshore on the Morgan Stanley party junk.

  “Waiting to row.”

  “When you’re done, you’ve gotta come out to the party, soldier. I’ll introduce you to a couple of my clients.” He tells me where to hire a water taxi.

  I purchase a bottle of water from a vendor and find a bench to rest in the shade of a palm tree. That’s when a man with a facial tumour ambles up and rests on a nearby bench. The tumour is large, the size of a small melon. The skin is discoloured, as if vessels have burst from the pressure. Blood pooling below the surface.

  The man is accompanied by his elderly parents who sit on the wall behind him but not before his mother hands him a green hand towel. He holds the towel to his face, covering the growth. One of his eyes is stretched open by the tension of the tumour and cannot close properly. Occasionally he dabs at his weeping eye with the corner of the towel.

  The people on the promenade give the man with the tumour a wide berth, cross to the opposite side of the walkway, point and stare. I cannot stop looking and rationalize that he must be accustomed to stares. Still, he sits quietly, even contemplatively, watching people pass. His parents sit with their backs to him.

  When a small boy kicks a soccer ball close to his bench, the man with the tumour retrieves it and hands it to the boy. The boy refuses to take the ball and bursts into tears. The boy’s parents say something harsh then quickly usher the boy away. The man with the tumour carries the ball back to his bench and rests it gently beside him. Carefully he readjusts his towel. His parents remain seated, with their backs turned.

  I stand up too fast and feel dizzy and then I head over to the boat launch to see if any of my teammates have arrived for the race. I join a couple of junior bankers resting in the shade of a flame tree, keeping watch over the company dragon boat.

  I lean against the tree trunk, ribbons of red waxy flowers trailing like fresh blood. I close my eyes and let it happen. It has to happen. It’s like I’m trapped inside a documentary film. The camera shifts over the grassy field, sunlight glints off Tony’s weapons. I gaze down at the grass, flattened by a combination of wind and the bellies of soldiers who’ve crawled ahead. I taste dirt in my mouth.

  There’s a buzzing.

  “Incoming.” My voice sounds muffled.

  I scan the environment. There’s a line of insurgents below, a line of insurgents above. I panic. I’m running through the field, sucked toward a gnarled black tree, the roar of gunfire in my head. A slumped figure beneath black branches is drawing me closer. Closer, still.

  Never mind the blood, the darkening blood. Never mind my hand buried in his gaping armpit. Tony’s chalky-blue. He’s grimacing and, for some reason, I’m convinced he needs a drink. I give him a sip from my canteen. It’s no use. He cannot swallow.

  Then Tony points at the barren branches above and says, “The leaves — ”

  There are no leaves. The tree is burned out.

  RJ is scrambling through the brush searching for Tony’s arm and, when he locates it, he wraps it in a plastic bag like meat. Carefully he places it at Tony’s feet and squats with his back turned, weeping. Waiting for the medevac. I’m holding a pressure dressing and it’s no use. Tony’s gone missing from his face.

  After the medevac departs, I try wiping my hands clean on the trampled grasses. RJ alternates between spitting curses and scrubbing his flak jacket with disposable wipes. There’s blood everywhere.

  A horn blares and announces another heat. I open my eyes to the orange-ringed sun, the flaming tree, the dragon boats beating across the bay. A marine flare propels into the air and explodes above, a drifting orange light that burns fast and hard and then it’s gone. Like Tony. I want to salute but it seems ridiculous to do so, here on a beach on Hong Kong Island.

  When the time comes we row several heats until our elimination in the semi-finals. Beaten out by Lehman, again. I arrange for a water taxi to ferry me out to the party junks and prepare myself for mingling with Jerry’s clients.

  The party junks are tethered like unruly school children, jostling for a superior view of the dragon boat races. Brightly coloured corporate logos hang from the flagpoles, publicizing the investment banks in Hong Kong.

  The day turns overcast and the varnished teak decks of the party junks glow golden beneath imitation paper lanterns. Linked with ropes fore and aft, they are so close that one can hop from one junk to the next. I’ve heard that as the afternoon progresses, junior bankers jump the circuit, comparing parties.

  On the congested deck of the Morgan Stanley I edge through the crowd, search in vain for a seat along the banquet benches. As requested, I introduce myself to Jerry’s clients and ensure their drink glasses are full to capacity, try to make small talk.

  Lightheaded, I’m overtired from a combination of bursts of rigorous exercise, and the extreme heat and high humidity. Get a grip.

  “We lost. What the hell happened?” asks Jerry.

  “Just ran out of steam,” I say and swallow a bottle of water in one gulp. A waiter carries a loaded tray of drinks past and I grab a green-tinged cocktail. Mojitos. Fresh mint tastes like earth.

  “Those rat bastards from Lehman probably cheated.”

  “Next year.” I pluck my sweat dampened T-shirt away from my chest.

  “Next year is fucking right.” Jerry shakes a fist at Lehman’s party junk tied directly to ours. Merrill Lynch is tied beyond Lehman’s and Goldman Sachs’ farther beyond. Apart from their corporate logos, the party junks are identical, a financial flotilla.

  Music skips, scratches.

  “Turntables. Jesus. They’ve got a fucking DJ over there.” Jerry squints across at the Lehman party junk, so packed with bankers, clients, and party girls
that it sinks down in the water, at least one foot lower than the Morgan Stanley.

  “Can you buy turntables anymore?”

  “They’re obsolete, I’m obsolete. What’re they spinning?” Jerry is clad in rumpled shorts and a T-shirt advertising The Clash. He leans against the wooden railing as if he was born on an incline over the South China Sea.

  “Sounds like Fall Out Boy.”

  “Emo shit.”

  “Pop-punk, actually.”

  “Oh, and that makes it all right?”

  “Punk lives, Jerry.”

  “Yeah, corporate punk lives. Listen. Gotta check out Lehman’s party junk,” says Jerry and guzzles low-alcohol beer.

  “I’ll go.” It’s well established that senior bankers don’t make the party circuit, sending the junior bankers out on reconnaissance. A senior banker found on a competitor’s party junk is considered treasonous.

  “Nah. Stay put. You’re the next Golden Boy,” says Jerry and dispatches a couple of sweaty junior bankers loitering on the forward deck. “Whatcha drinking, soldier?”

  “Mojitos.”

  “Minty little fuckers,” says Jerry and grimaces.

  “Refreshing, actually. Citrusy.”

  “Don’t get your combat shorts in a knot. Where’s Worley Man?” Absentmindedly he extracts an elastic from the pocket of his cargo shorts and pushes his unruly hair back into a ponytail.

  “The boss is coming?”

  Jerry nods. “I wonder if he’ll bring Mrs. Worley.”

  “What’s going on with her?”

  “Wife number two has clearly defined the enemy lines.”

  “Speak of the devil,” I say and nod.

  Mr. Worley makes a beeline for us. As usual he wears a grey suit and highly polished dress shoes. He pointedly ignores me and, instead, starts in on Jerry. “How goes the battle with CRITIC?”

  “Yeah, I set up another meeting. Promising, capitalistically speaking.” Jerry leans back even further on the wooden railing and braces his tanned, bared feet on the polished deck.