He woke to a weight on his chest that prevented him from breathing. He looked up, uncertain if he had been asleep at all. He could not feel his own heartbeat. The apartment was dark but the ceiling glowed with a dull orange from the streetlights below. The air was too warm, he had sweated in his clothes.
He couldn’t move, but he wasn’t panicking. This had always been part of it. Sleep paralysis, the doctor called it. As a kid, he used to think that he had died, or was about to. That he could not move because he had died in the night. Grief pulled him down with it, wanted to take him under. And it would be easy. The heart could stop abruptly, that’s how it happened. The breath could cease. An aneurysm burst inside the brain. One minute he would be there, a living being, and the next he would be a corpse. The line between these states was never clear; he could easily cross it without realising, he could follow them below.
The child psychologist with the ugly moustache – they had waited to see a man; his mother seemed to think it was important – had taught him to imagine the body as a system, to think of himself as a reliably functioning machine. He ought to maintain it as one would a car, to listen and pay attention to everything working; he could hear the heart and trust its beat, focus his mind on the breath and be certain it would continue to carry oxygen. He learned to reach for his wrist and find his pulse. To study himself from the toes up, with calm detachment. Mindfulness, they would call that now. Adam had concentrated, he had learned how not to notice his own unsteadiness, he had learned to adjust.
He did not need to go over it again, but he wrenched himself awake enough to move an arm and made it reach for his wrist. The effort was magnificent. He struggled to find a pulse at first; when he did, it was amplified. The beat travelled through his fingertips and into his mouth where he counted it, where it should come to rest. It pulsed in his lower lip. When he paid close attention, he felt that it was out of kilter, the rhythm off somehow. A murmur, or a flaw in the mechanism. There was something there, like a slight catch in the breath. It was not necessarily hostile, just the quiet breakdown that waited patiently within all systems.
It was all wrong. There was no machinery, no central order, no separation between outside and in. A body was a spell, held together by images. It could not be decoded. Without vigilance, without attention, it would all go under. He had not understood this before and now it was too late.
Now he wanted to surrender.
He closed his eyes and concentrated. He inhabited for a time that liminal space between consciousness and unconsciousness, where the mind began to believe it might wander free of the body. He thought of experiences that he could not quite remember, felt the emotional shadow of events he was not sure he had been present for. He allowed the breath to take over, tried to focus on the lungs expanding, contracting in his chest. He felt every detail with fresh wonder: the stretch of skin, the muscle working below, and the air coming into him, becoming a part of him. Where had it been, this air, before it reached him? It lived in other lungs. Do you recognise me, air? He did not know where the line came from, the voice, but it made him smile.
By morning he was in his bed. His phone was beside his head, and he woke it with a thumb to find it fully charged and functioning. There were no notifications, but the email app had a red circle on one corner; he squinted for a minute before it resolved into a number. Must still be half asleep. He opened it, found the message from Manu, then stared uncomprehendingly at the small map attached. He switched the VPN on, opened another app, looked the place up, but could not find it.
He almost sent a screenshot to Natasha, a question mark asking for help, but then remembered that she would not answer. He opened his photos and scrolled back for the video. Just before Golden Week, he thought, not so long ago, though it felt like months. He had not watched it since. Here it was, a grey square loitering among photographs. He turned the volume up and touched play. At once he could hear his own breath inside the phone, familiar and unfamiliar. He could hear the weight in it, the tension. He could not hear Natasha’s breath at all, though she was only metres away. He held the screen up, tried to see her body moving, the rise and fall of those austere curves, in the privacy of sleep. He wanted to interrupt the image. It was never going to be enough.
He stopped the video before it had a chance to finish, then opened WeChat. The history confused him, the timeline rearranged. He couldn’t see her posts anymore.
She must have deleted him.
Adam’s outrage rose and faded quickly. He accepted the need to make a clean break, to start somewhere new. And today he would be ready for such an opportunity; he would put himself out there, and he would be taken care of.
He deleted the video.
The bar would be easy to find once he was close; he made a note of the nearest subway station. Adam felt hungry again. It was too early for the networking drinks and he had not been invited to the showcase, did not know where it was and thought it would be boring anyway. But he would go early, look for some food, give himself plenty of time to find the venue. He dressed and showered, enjoyed the warm water against his skin and the smell of bacon frying in the next apartment. The small square of sky he could see from the bathroom was pale blue, maybe under a hundred. He shaved, found a good button-down plaid shirt that Eliza had once said suited him, olive pants, clean sneakers. He grabbed his coat from the couch and took what he needed from the bag beside it: his phone, spare battery, keys, card, wallet. He secured these things in pockets, then listed them again in his head. It would be important to look organised, available, ready for anything. In a shaft of sunlight from the window, dust floated; it danced the dance of whatever toxic substances made up particulate matter 2.5. He thought of his mother beating her rugs out over the back fence, watching the dust that burst forth and caught the sun. As a child he had walked carefully across these carpets to protect their passengers of light. He had not realised it was only dirt, or that dust might be graded, scored, dangerous.
There was something he had forgotten. Something he had left unsaid, or left unfinished.
He crossed the room and lifted the jar from the table, looked into its murky water. The sweet odour of the night before had not faded, but it was tempered now by the beginnings of decay. He carried it with him.
The flowers left a trail of brown pollen on the floor in the hallway. A petal landed in the area where he waited for the elevator. It took a long time to arrive and was empty when it did. There was a small puddle of dog’s urine in one corner. He put his face into the flowers and let their remnant sweetness overtake him. When the elevator released him at the ground floor, he stepped out and walked across to the bins. He pulled the flowers out by their stems, let them fall into the garbage, then tipped the water onto the little patch of grass beside it. Finally he dropped the jar into the recycling bin, closed the lid and walked away, wiping his hands against his pants. An old woman passed him, wheeling a regal grandchild in a fine pram. The grandmother spoke to the child and waved and smiled at Adam, but the kid looked through him, unimpressed. He pushed his hands into his coat pockets and went on. The air was good enough to walk in as he headed out the gate and onto the road. At the corner he hesitated. A row of cabs were waiting. The nearest driver seemed to be asleep, his head slumped forward. Adam stopped to watch him for a moment, curious to see if he would wake, but he slept on without moving.
The sun was bright in his face. Not strong enough to cut through the chill. He would take the subway, he decided. It would be warm down there, with all those people.
The courtyard was already full when he found the place, and so it was easy to identify, even though it was too cool or too new to have any visible signage. He recognised no-one, but he knew the scene by association: a mix of Beijingers and foreigners, privileged and preppy, an international class of educated entrepreneurs. The Chinese contingent was slightly more fashionable, more subdued. Foreigners tended to drink more and become rowdy, though
they might not have done so at home, if they could be said to have homes. Adam inserted himself into the crowd.
He had sometimes tried to see himself becoming one of these foreigners. He would have liked to be a citizen of the world, at ease anywhere; at one time this had seemed to him a particularly Australian capacity. But living here, he had realised he did not belong to the world the way these people did, could not afford to move so freely or so often. Mobility was really a form of nobility, he thought, and stored the line, habitually, to repeat when he saw Manu. But it might offend him, given he and Eliza were about to leave. He remembered he was here to network, and looked for them more carefully.
He had a drink in his hand, but did not know how it had got there. It was an enormous cold beer, the glass full to the rim. Not his first, he realised, tasting its sourness already in his mouth. He had been standing in the background, observing things for some time. His problem was that he did not put himself out there. He did not grasp opportunities with both hands. He was a good guy, he should be welcomed by these people, he deserved a fresh start. He pressed forward into the crowd, looking for Manu, finding himself at the bar behind a group of big white corn-fed Americans who shouted for service. If the Chinese bar staff found this crude, they hid their judgement well. At one end of the bar two spotted teens were serving up sliders and fries in plastic baskets lined with gingham-print paper. He could have been in any country in the world. And perhaps that was how they did it, built these spaces that were identical, replicated the ideal conditions for themselves in each new host.
His glass was half empty, so he downed the rest of the beer and deposited it on the counter. He couldn’t catch the bartender’s eye. If he could not find Manu he would go home, he decided. He rested his arms on the bar between a couple arguing cheerfully in English and a woman speaking what he thought was Russian; he guessed the couple might be Nigerian-British, the woman flirting with the possibly Malaysian man beside her, but he wasn’t sure and it didn’t matter. These games of nationality were pointless. There were hyphens everywhere, countries and surnames, companies and professions, languages and identities. He turned, pushed himself into the crowd, brushed the bare shoulders of a slender Chinese man and hesitated beside him for a moment because a sudden damp gap had opened in his ribs, a scent of ferns and sea, sandstone and mould. He sniffed, smelling only the man’s fragrant deodorant, then realised that he was speaking English with a Sydney accent. The floral charm of it had turned the earth in him. He wanted to touch the man, to interrupt him, make a claim. Adam controlled the impulse. It would only embarrass them both.
He moved on, into the crowd, brushing elbows, knocking coats. The door to the street was beyond all these people, and he decided that if he reached it before he saw someone he knew, he would simply leave. He could easily tell them he hadn’t been there, he could get away without being seen.
He spotted them talking to another couple. Two men, both in their forties. Manu looked up sharply as though he had felt Adam’s eyes on him. He raised a finger from the side of his glass, a gesture that could have been a greeting or a warning to keep his distance. Eliza hadn’t seen him yet, or was pretending not to. She was deep in conversation with the second man, shorter than the first and more handsome, his eyes a match for the amber in his glass. The men looked vaguely wealthy, vaguely foreign, vaguely art-world. Adam looked for a way through all the people drinking craft beer and eating burgers between them. He allowed himself to feel a surge of bitterness. He would not be held back, he would put himself out there. He was a good man and he deserved to enter. He pushed through, the bodies parting for him automatically, closing behind him just as easily. Laughter tinkled like a cheap bead curtain in his wake.
‘Yes,’ Manu was saying, ‘unfortunately things are getting worse.’
‘They are,’ sighed the taller of the two men.
‘That’s partly why we’re getting out. Vancouver’s very open. Forward-looking. The environment here’ – he looked around for somewhere to put his beer – ‘it’s just becoming more hostile. Are you feeling that?’
‘Hard to know if it’s a trend or just a reaction,’ said the shorter man. ‘I tend to think things will turn the other way again, but I’ve only been here three years.’ His accent was some kind of neutralised British: Singapore, or maybe Hong Kong. Adam was trapped for a moment as a broad-shouldered woman cut across him towards the bar.
‘You’ve got another reason for leaving, though, don’t you,’ said the first man. He raised his eyebrows at Eliza, pursed his lips. ‘Anchor baby, am I right?’
There was a pause; Adam felt sure that Eliza would be offended. But they must have known each other well, because she laughed, a high, bird-like peal he did not remember hearing before. Manu showed only a rim of teeth before continuing. Adam recognised the wrinkle that meant a speech was developing, that he was about to hold forth. He watched it fondly, and pushed closer.
‘It’s a matter of adaptation,’ Manu said. ‘Things have been getting worse for a while, but maybe that’s just at our level, you know? There’s always an opportunity somewhere. You know how it works. The further up you go, the less attached you have to be to all those . . . structures.’ He gestured vaguely, then glanced at Adam.
For a very brief moment, Manu’s gaze wavered. He let his focus slide into the distance behind Adam. And then, perhaps deciding to be kind, perhaps realising it was hopeless, he smiled, and reached out an arm.
‘Adam,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’ When Adam got close to him, smiling carefully back, he handed him his glass.
It was three-quarters full. Adam wasn’t sure if he was meant to drink it, or just hold it. He decided not to drink it. When Manu turned back to the conversation, he lifted it to his lips and sniffed. The sniff felt more intimate than drinking, a line already crossed. So he took a sip.
‘Hi,’ he said, looking at the two men. They were gazing at Manu, who was probably used to it. ‘Adam,’ he said. He transferred the beer into his left hand.
When nobody shook his hand or spoke to him, Adam shifted the drink back and took another sip.
Manu had turned, his shoulder half a barricade. Adam stood a moment longer, waiting to be introduced. Eliza was across from him and he looked at her for help, but she avoided his eyes. Her face was very concentrated, her every muscle disciplined. She seemed to be keeping her distance. Had he offended her somehow? He was really very thirsty. When he finished the beer, they were still talking. He felt a little unsteady on his legs. He could not remember whether he had eaten.
‘I want something more,’ Manu was saying. Adam ought to offer him another drink, but could not think for the moment how to speak. The complexities of language were beyond him.
‘Oh, there is so much more to life than the material,’ his friend said, wisely. Adam wiped the moisture from his lip. From the skin on the back of his hand he caught the faintest scent of rot. The smell made his stomach tighten, and the feeling seemed to swell and tumble upward into his chest. He staggered back, bumping into a sharp-faced woman who laughed then took the arm of her partner to steady herself. He was dizzy, had drunk too much too quickly. What had Manu said? He had promised they would look after him. Adam was sure he had heard the words, but now he worried he had made a mistake. Perhaps he hadn’t really invited him, or did not recognise him. Manu wasn’t wearing his glasses, and Adam looked different now, better now, yes, he felt so much better.
A brush of cool air touched his skin. The sun had fallen behind the buildings some time ago, the chill creeping through the streets like fog. He wasn’t wearing the down coat, had left it somewhere – had there been a coat check? He felt in his pocket for a receipt, but there was nothing. He would have to watch what other people did. When he looked up, Manu and Eliza had slipped away, and the men were standing there, bodies turned towards each other in that way of couples. The taller one bent to say something in his partner’s ea
r; whatever it was, the other man was delighted by it.
Adam wanted to speak, to make himself present, but when he opened his mouth he began to shake, and so he closed it. He wondered if he might be having some kind of seizure. There was definitely a tingling feeling on the back of his head. A stroke would only be on one side. He wanted another beer though the first three had not agreed with him. He wanted to take a bite out of a fresh, crisp apple. He looked back at the bar, but it was six deep with people. The music had got much louder, so loud that it sounded badly distorted. There had to be a DJ somewhere, but he couldn’t see them. He wanted breath, and water, and things he could not articulate.
If he could have spoken he might have apologised, told them he was not himself. He mouthed the phrase, inhaling deeply between repetitions, until he began to feel dizzy.
He looked around at all these bodies, each carrying multiple forms of life without question. They were simplifications, denials. They were wet machines, flawed machines, built for a consciousness that did not really want to be burdened with the chores of flesh. He did not need them, if he wanted to change. There was a simpler way.
He found that he had backed against a wall, and so sat down, letting go of the empty glass in his hand. It did not shatter, just rested on its heavy base beside his leg. He focused on his breath, attending to inhaling and exhaling, waiting for his heart to calm. He looked out at the sea of international legs. Nobody minded if he sat a moment. No-one bent to ask if he was okay. He was invisible to them, and he was glad.
He thought of Yun’s dignity, the way they carried themselves, always walked a little above the ground. The way they held his gaze. Even asleep, they had known he was there. Known enough to wake, and see him, and speak his name.
He had not forgotten their name, not really. They were still here, still with him. He could see their face clearly in his mind’s eye.
The Airways Page 23
