Bald New World

by Peter Tieryas Liu

  WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT

  BALD NEW WORLD

  After my heart gives out and I’m on the operating table for emergency surgery, I will have told my physicians and surgeons to replace my heart with Peter Tieryas Liu’s Bald New World, or any of his books really, because that’s what I think of when I think of his writing—heart. Similar to the work of Philip K. Dick, this parodic dystopia is steeped in futuristic technology that further bridges the gap between man and machine. Still, whether watching the latest episode of the immensely popular reality show Jesus the General or sparring against an opponent in the blood-sport known as cricket fighting, the humanity of our narrator shines through. Although we humans are capable of doing and creating sad, funny, glorious, devious things, we also persevere and adapt, survive. I wonder what Huxley would think of this, but he’s dead. You’re not, so read this book, feel alive.

  Jason Jordan, author of Pestilence, editor of decomP

  The boldly imaginative Bald New World follows Nicholas Guan, a military type tasked to digitally touch up scenes of carnage, in his misadventures from Korea to a futuristic California and in his frenzied dash from Gamble Town to China. The novel tells of beautifully flawed characters, the blurring distinction between reality and virtual environments, the comical yet chilling wave of religious fanaticism, and a world battling a strange malady called the Great Baldification, an ingenious symbol of human vanity. Peter Tieryas Liu’s Bald New World is vivid, exhilarating, and wildly entertaining.

  Kristine Ong Muslim, author of We Bury the Landscape and Grim Series

  Bald New World is a hypnotic, surreal, and insightful novel, blending Blade Runner and The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle to create a dark, funny, and captivating story. One of the best books I’ve read this year.

  Richard Thomas, Staring Into the Abyss

  First published by Perfect Edge Books, 2014

  Perfect Edge Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., Laurel House, Station Approach,

  Alresford, Hants, SO24 9JH, UK

  office1@jhpbooks.net

  www.johnhuntpublishing.com

  www.perfectedgebooks.com

  For distributor details and how to order please visit the ‘Ordering’ section on our website.

  Text copyright: Peter Tieryas Liu 2013

  ISBN: 978 1 78279 508 7

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.

  The rights of Peter Tieryas Liu as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Design: Lee Nash

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  We operate a distinctive and ethical publishing philosophy in all areas of our business, from our global network of authors to production and worldwide distribution.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1. From Pyongyang with Love

  2. Do You Believe?

  3. Acid Reflux

  4. Divine Humor

  5. Thou Shalt Not Live on Bread Alone

  6. Gamble Town

  7. Shanghai Intrigues

  8. Machinations of a Prince

  9. The Faceless

  10. Cycles

  Author Acknowledgments

  Dedicated to my Father-in-Law and Mother-in-Law

  For teaching me what family is

  Prologue

  I was eleven when everyone in the world lost their hair. I got up from bed, terrified to see that all my hair had fallen out. In the mirror, the uneven bumps on my head formed an alien tapestry that made me feel like I was staring at a stranger. I spotted a thick black mole above my ear that I’d never seen before and scratched it, only to find it wasn’t going away. Both of my parents were away on a business trip so I ran to my older sister, Kelly, hoping she knew what was wrong with me. I found her crying on the bathroom floor, clutching her own fallen hair. My eyes went to her scalp, an oddly shaped oval with protrusions jutting out. “What are you looking at?!” she demanded.

  “Your head,” I replied. “What happened?”

  She got up, pushed me angrily, then ran out of our apartment. I chased her, not wanting to be left behind. When I exited our building, she was nowhere in sight. Instead, a sea of bald people confronted me—everyone on the street had lost their hair. There was a frenzied madness in their eyes, confusion causing many of them to walk in a daze. I trembled as strangers accosted me and yelled that, “The whole world is doomed,” and, “We’re being punished for our vanities!” The Los Angeles Police blocked most of the major roads because riots were breaking out and I went from barricade to barricade in a daze. Trash littered the streets, stores were burning, and looters stole everything they could. I wanted to get to a 24-hour restaurant where Kelly’s friend worked when I noticed a man lying on his back on the sidewalk, motionless. His eyes had an apathetic gleam and his hands were covered in blood. Motorcycles honked and periodic echoes from bullets triggered car alarms. He was impervious to noise. “Sir?” I called. “Sir?” He didn’t answer and when I stepped closer, I saw that he wasn’t breathing. I stumbled back, shocked by the sight. It was the first dead man I’d ever seen.

  I got out my phone to call my parents but accidentally pushed the button for the camera. On the digital screen, the corpse didn’t look as horrifying and in some ways, looked fake, especially as I could alter the angle of my view. That sense of control calmed me until I heard a spray of bullets from behind. I turned the camera in the direction of the rioters and saw they were charging the police barricade. The police responded with smoke bombs and guns. I turned around and ran home as fast as I could, dodging rioters and masked thieves who targeted stragglers.

  It was a miracle I got through alive. I called my parents several times though none of my calls connected. My sister’s phone was off as was my cousin’s, Baochai, who wasn’t home even though she was supposed to take care of us while my parents were away (probably partying in downtown like she did every night). My legs wouldn’t stop trembling and I accidentally knocked over a stack of bills on our apartment floor. I cleaned up the mess, only to stumble into the buckets that were substitutes for toilets to save on our water fees. A string of explosions lit up the sky outside and I heard people screaming in pain. Their cries scared me and I hid in the closet, covering myself with blankets just in case anyone broke into our unit. Our building was shaking and I wished someone, anyone, was home. Unfortunately, my only companions were the roaches swarming my feet and I was stuck imagining a thousand horrible deaths. Every noise made me want to break into tears and whenever I heard running outside the walls, I wondered if people were coming to break the door down. I tried watching the video I’d captured earlier only to realize I hadn’t hit the record button. Sleep was impossible and not just because of the stream of gunfire outside. I counted the minutes like they were hours.

  I never found out who the dead man was and in the same way, almost twenty-five years later, the best explanation for the hair loss researchers had were still just theories. Speculation ran rampant as the accused ranged from pollution to global warming and bio-terror as well as solar spikes. Some had feared it was a disease similar to alopecia universalis that would worsen with time, but no further symptoms materialized. The follicles had sealed at a cuticle level and a chemical reaction in our bodies had inexplicably caused the permanent termination of hair growth. Baldness became a fact of life.

  I don’t want to blame everything bad that happened on the Great Baldification as it came to be known. But it was the beginning of a l
ot of social change in the world. Marriages broke up at ten times the normal rate and my parents ended up getting divorced two months after the Baldification. Maybe it was the strain from endless fights or that they never liked each other much to begin with. I never heard from my biological father after the divorce. My biological mother dropped me off permanently with Cousin Baochai so that she could pursue her dream of being a travel blogger. My sister, Kelly, going against the trend, married her rap star wanna-be boyfriend and I rarely saw her again after that.

  Our economy regressed from disastrous to beyond redemption. Accelerated resource depletion forced countries into a war over Africa even though we were technically all part of the United Nations Peacekeeping Force. Unemployment rates were at 56% in the States (though official reports had it at 5.5%), so soldiering was the only chance for a career most of our generation had. I signed up for the army and was assigned to the media department because of my passions for cameras despite all the combat training they gave me.

  My job was sanitizing war for the public. Did one of the scout ships record a scene that was too bloody? I brought out my digital brushstrokes so that limbs could be replaced real-time, scars mended, and disasters contained. Constant warfare made the fickle weather even moodier, especially with all those atomic bombs going off. Gasoline got replaced by electricity, everyone forgot about the Middle East, and flight technology advanced to the point where flights from Los Angeles to Beijing took two hours minus the three-hour security checks.

  After the African Wars ended, many of us wondered what we should do next. I took to making films with a fellow grunt, Larry Chao. He nearly got discharged from the army twenty times because he was always running off “in love” with some new girl he swore was “the One.” He wasn’t especially handsome, but had a jovial grin that made everyone feel welcome in his presence. Between his indefatigable exuberance and his easygoing nature inspired by an early bout of mutated typhoid that nearly killed him, his charm more than made up for his plump nose, small eyes, and fat lips. He had a suite of women who worshipped him. For my part, I never thought our lives would become so intertwined, our names would be synonymous with each other.

  As only humans were affected by the malaise (animals still grew fur and hair), wig factories were booming. Larry inherited a wig factory from his father who died of stomach cancer after eating too many Sichuan spices. The factory (or factories, as there were about thirty located throughout China) were raking in the dough. Larry was super rich and after I found out, I asked him why he joined the army when he didn’t need to.

  “I got bored and wanted to try something different,” he said, and that was the only explanation he offered.

  Instead of reinvesting his fortunes, Larry wasted it making pointless movies throughout China about tragically dumb characters. I, Nicholas Guan, became the cinematographer for many of his films, a bald 36-year-old half-Korean half-Chinese guy born and raised in America whose job was photographing—or beautifying—baldness.

  My latest film with Larry was about a crazy filmmaker who wanted to save the rats of his city from extinction. He called it Rodenticide and it was full of pathos and pathetic soliloquies masquerading as drama. There was more than his usual spew of nonsense about age and life which the Beijing actors loved. Larry was 39 and I realized his age was bugging him. Maybe he’d hoped for more success with his films by now. I probably should have paid more attention, but you know how it is with anyone close to you—you never notice until it’s too late.

  I passed off his doubts as Larry being his usual idiot self, especially when it came to women. You can’t blame a guy for chasing a girl he loves. Fortunately, the two of us had completely different tastes. He liked tall, lanky women with gazelle legs and I liked chubbier girls with cute faces and puffy cheeks. It was easy for us to become good friends. Or at least wingmen for each other.

  When he invited me out for another night on the town at his favorite Korean restaurant in Beijing, I heartily agreed. I felt like a good BBQ, even though I’d been gaining way too much weight of late (I promised myself not to check my weight every morning even though it was the same as the day before).

  “Nick!” Larry had yelled into the phone when he called me. “I need you. I’ve been dating this girl for two weeks and she has a co-worker she insists on taking out so I need your help. Oh, and don’t tell anyone this yet, but I think I’m in love. I kid you not, I think she’s the One.”

  Of course.

  1. From Pyongyang with Love

  I.

  She was too skinny. Yes, she was tall with lean legs and a pretty face, but her nose had that elongated stoop that made it resemble a horse’s nose at certain angles. Plus, she wore way too much perfume. There was a disdainful look about her, dismissing me with a glance. She was one of our waitresses and her name was Shinjee. She wore a short black wig that she’d tied up in two buns above her head to resemble pictures in Korean history books of what women looked like. I thought it was antiquated and quaint. Larry thought it was “classic.”

  He was in a festive mood and ordered all kinds of meat; pork, beef, chicken. He asked if I wanted lamb but I told him my conscience wouldn’t allow it, thinking of a neighbor’s sheep I used to play with when I was a kid. The restaurant was spacious with three floors, bedecked in Korean architecture and cooking grills where we could cook our food. A central courtyard hosted hourly performances on weekend evenings. The place was bustling with activity, the crackle of burning beef and drunk customers making it hard to hear myself. Our black marble table was replete with small banchan, side dishes that were Korean versions of tapas. The meat and garlic mushrooms smelled incredible, steam from both mixing in with the pungent scent of the spicy soups.

  Larry had on his nicest fedora. He always wore fedoras. Not the kind from old noir films, but glowing ones that were red, dapper, and scintillating in colors. If those mystery flicks made icons out of trench-coated detectives, Larry represented the iridescent director solving the conundrum of life through bizarre fashion statements.

  “Have you heard of live monkeys with their scalps cut off so their brains can be eaten fresh in the Sichuan area?” he asked.

  “I think I saw something like that in Faces of Death,” I muttered back.

  Larry was right. The waitresses were stunningly beautiful in their traditional Korean costumes and they were friendly too, pouring us drinks and making sure our meat was well-cooked while laughing at our dumb jokes. We downed several beers and Larry whispered to me, “Be careful what you say. These girls are North Korean spies.”

  “What?”

  He nodded and gave me a knowing nudge. “Everything we talk about could be reported to the North Korean high command.”

  “You’re joking right?”

  Larry’s face was red from drink and he shook his head. “Haven’t you heard of the Asian beauty trap? Don’t be surprised if our whole conversation is recorded.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was serious or pushing my buttons. North Korea had been the most isolated country in the world for over a hundred years and it seemed that would continue another century. There had been rumors of ex-soldiers in China being kidnapped by the North Koreans to be indentured into a life of servitude. The kimchee and the garlic broccoli stuck in my throat. The demure gestures from the waitresses seemed sinister and furtive glances in the direction of their management felt ominous. Larry and I had served in the UN Peacekeeping forces, but that’d been almost a decade ago and we didn’t have any information now. The food didn’t taste quite as good and I checked if the alcohol had been tampered with. One of the waitresses said to me, “You should visit North Korea. It’s very beautiful there.”

  When I hesitated with an answer, Larry replied, “We would love to.”

  After they stepped away to perform a cultural dance for the patrons, I asked, “Are they really spies?”

  Larry chugged down his beer. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I don’t want them to report me.�
�

  He laughed and said, “I forgot to mention that in Sichuan, they’re only interested in the big monkeys.”

  “The girl you like—”

  “Love,” he corrected me.

  “Is she—?”

  He nodded. “Our job is to convince her to leave.”

  “To leave North Korea?”

  “Yeah. We can swing it, can’t we?”

  “They’re indoctrinated with super-advanced machinery so that normal persuasion techniques don’t work. More likely, she’ll convince us to join them.”

  “I did promise to help her make an ad for her restaurant,” Larry answered. “We’re going to talk about it with her later tonight.”

  “What?”

  “It’ll be fun. Don’t worry about it, man.”

  “Where are we meeting them?”

  “Here. We’ll head over together to this super swank arcade near Houhai.” Every instinct in me blared caution. But Larry, knowing my soft spot, said, “Her friend has a thing for photographers and I swear to you, she’s your type. She kind of looks like Linda too. I think you’ll like her.”

  Damn me for caring.

  II.

  I blamed Linda Yu, my ex-wife, for all my woes with women. Next to her, all the women I met were like baby frogs croaking next to a falcon gleaming through the cold blue moonlight (I mention that specific image because she painted a portrait exactly like that). Linda Yu lived in Los Angeles when I first made my home in Beijing. She flew out to help Larry do makeup. Linda was a makeup artist who liked coloring people in ways they hadn’t imagined. Often, the results were ugly, but always startling. She begged people to resist looking like a magazine cover, the anorexic’s dream of a heaven without calories. It was ironic because Linda looked like she belonged on a magazine cover. But she disdained her beauty and often made her wigs resemble roosters. She told me later she was initially attracted to me because I looked so strange.