Then I’m not sure what to say.
“Take care,” I finally add. “Be careful.”
I hit the red button and hand the phone back.
“Your accent is really good,” Bob Marley T-shirt guy says.
They’re students, like I thought, just finishing their first semester at Beijing Language and Culture University. Mark and Jayson. “How long you been here?” they want to know. “Where did you study Chinese?” Before I know it, they’ve invited me to their dorm for a party tonight. What the hell, I think. Maybe I’ll go. It’s close to home, and I don’t know what else I’m going to do with myself.
We say our “nice meeting you’s” and “later, dude’s,” and I exit onto Jianguomen Road, heading toward the subway station. Maybe I’ll go to the Ancient Observatory. Climb up to the flat roof, pretend I can’t see the gaudy high-rises and ugly apartment blocks, and try to imagine what it was like when the Ancient Observatory was the tallest building around, looking out over a sea of peaked gray tile roofs. When you’d hear donkey bells and peddlers’ cries instead of car horns and screeching brakes.
I try to imagine it, but I can’t.
JAYSON AND BOB Marley T-Shirt guy’s party is pretty standard for a party in a foreign students’ dorm: loud music, tubs of Yanjing beer, people spilling out of one room into the hall and flowing into another. I catch the scent of hash, no doubt supplied by the local Kazak dealers, and over the din of the music make out English, Korean, German, and attempts at Chinese. I see a few people here close to my age, grad-student types, and I tell myself I don’t look that out of place.
I’m bored the moment I arrive.
I grab a beer, open it, find a clear space along the wall, and lean against it, wondering if I could find some of that hash I’m smelling. Kids bump past me, laughing, stumbling. I don’t even see Jayson or Marley T-shirt guy.
This is stupid, I think. Why did I come? No one’s going to talk to me, and I don’t feel like talking to anyone. It’s like there are these black waves rolling out from me, warning everybody off. Stay away. Don’t fucking talk to me.
“Hello!”
I look up. Standing in front of me is a Chinese guy, thirtyish, wearing a cheap leather jacket and a faded Beijing Olympics T-shirt, the one with the slogan “One World, One Dream.”
“So sorry to bother,” he continues. “You are American, right?”
“No. I’m Icelandic.”
“Ice … ?” he stammers.
For whatever reason, I suddenly feel sorry for the guy. He’s not bad-looking; he’s got that near-babyfaced handsomeness like Chow Yun Fat did when he was young, but he also has a slight stutter and this sort of clueless vibe, like he doesn’t know what to make of me messing with him.
“Yes, I’m an American,” I allow. “And you’re … Chinese, maybe?”
He grins broadly, revealing slightly crooked but very clean teeth. “Why do you say that?” he replies, joking back. Maybe he’s not so clueless.
“Just guessing.”
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, Chinese. I am even a Beijing native.”
I snort. Everyone claims to be a native Beijinger. “Right. And you were probably born just next to the Temple of Heaven.”
He gives me his squinty-eyed, puzzled look again. “No. Close to Da Zhong Si. You know Da Zhong Si? That Great Bell Temple?”
“Heard of it,” I say noncommittally. I’ve been there before, actually. It’s no longer an active temple, but instead a bell museum, with bells from all around China and the entire world. Cool place, if you’re into bells.
“That Great Bell was once biggest in the world,” the guy says, seeming enthused about playing Beijing tour guide. “But now no longer. Now is Zhonghua Shiji Tan. Century Altar.” He speaks English carefully, laying peculiar stress on the first syllables of the words. “Made in 1999, for the, the … the new… .”
“Millennium?” I guess.
“Yes,” he says eagerly. “Yes, millennium.”
He extends his hand. “I am John.”
I can feel the tendons and muscles as his hand lightly closes around mine. He gives my hand a quick, awkward shake and lets go.
“Yili,” I reply.
John beams. “Oh, I think you speak Chinese. Am I right? Are you a student here, Yili?”
“Sometimes.”
“This is my, my … alma mater. I still come back at times. I enjoy to meet foreign students. So that I can practice. My English.”
“Your English is very good,” I say, because it’s what you’re supposed to say, and I’m sure his English is better than my Chinese.
“No, no, my English is very poor.” He stares at me for a moment. There’s not a lot of light in the hall, and it’s hard for me to make out his expression.
Then he blinks and ducks his head. “Yili, can I fetch you another beer?”
I should say no. I should leave, go back to the apartment. Spend some time thinking about what I’m going to do with my life after Trey divorces me and leaves the country and my visa runs out.
I should think about going home.
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”
Like I want to think about any of that.
In no time at all, John has returned with two cold Yanjings. He hands one to me with a small flourish, then holds up his bottle.
“Ganbei,” he says with a grin. Drink it dry.
We clink bottles and drink.
“So, Yili, are you married? Do you have children?”
I try not to roll my eyes. Just about every Chinese person I meet asks me these questions.
“Aren’t you gonna ask how old I am?” I reply, as this is the inevitable third question in the “Way Too Personal” trifecta. John waves a hand. “Oh, no. I can see you are still very young. Maybe … not thirty?”
Actually, I’m twenty-six. “Just about.”
“But no husband or children?”
“No kids. Yes on the husband. But we’re separated.”
John shakes his head sadly. “This is the nature of the modern times, I think. The family life always suffers.”
“Are you married, John?”
“Me?” For a moment, John looks uncomfortable. “No.”
“Are your parents upset?”
Because if there’s one thing a Chinese son is supposed to do, it’s get married and have kids.
“I just tell them to have patience,” John says dismissively. “I am still the young man. I have … I have … benchmarks.”
“Benchmarks?”
“Of accomplishment. Before I am to have children. I have not achieved these yet, but I achieve them soon, I think.”
“Oh,” I say, and wipe my forehead. I’m already feeling a little buzzed. Not surprising, considering all I’ve had to eat today is a couple bites of spaghetti.
“You see, it is hard if you are a young man in China and you are not rich,” John continues, warming to his topic. “Because the Chinese women, they want a successful man. And they can choose who they want, because we have more men than women.”
He leans in closer to me. “Some Chinese women, they have second husband. Do you understand my meaning?”
“Ummm… .” I think about it. Take another swallow of beer. “More than one?”
“Not real husband,” John confides. “More like … boyfriend. But these women, they have money. So they take care of boyfriend. Like concubine. You know that word?”
“Sure,” I say, finishing my beer. “My husband has one of those.”
“Oh.” I can see comprehension slowly dawning. “Your husband … he has… .” And here John ducks his head and sneaks a little grin. “The yellow fever, perhaps.”
“Yeah, he’s fucking a Chinese girl,” I snap, my knuckles whitening around the beer bottle, “if that’s what you want to know.”
John flushes red. “I am sorry. I just … I just made a bad joke. Please forgive me.”
His face is so open, so kind, that for a moment I’m flooded with guilt. And so
mething else. Warmth, I guess. Just from having somebody be nice to me.
How pathetic is that?
I let out a big sigh. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath.
“That’s okay.”
The weird thing is, suddenly it is okay. It’s been over between me and Trey for a long time. And considering what it is that held us together, the thing we really shared, maybe I should start being glad that it’s over.
Starting right now.
“I’m sorry too, John. It’s just that I’ve had a rough—” A giggle starts bubbling up from my throat. “A rough six years or so,” I manage.
I want to laugh, and keep laughing, and never stop.
John grins back. “Yili, would you like another beer?”
Maybe I shouldn’t, because I pounded this one, and I’m already kind of loaded. But it feels good. I feel lighter somehow.
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”
I lean against the wall and close my eyes. What would it be like, really being free from Trey? Just not caring about him any more. Not ever seeing him again or having anything to do with him, and not having that feel like some hole in the place where my soul is supposed to be, like the part of me that’s able to care about somebody else has gone missing.
Not ever thinking about those times again.
You’ll always think about those times, I tell myself. Always. But maybe, maybe you can think about those times and, from now on, they won’t hurt you so much. Those times, they’ll just be things that happened in the past, and that’s all.
“Yili?”
I open my eyes. Here’s John standing in front of me, holding two bottles of beer. He’s actually pretty handsome, not really babyfaced; he has a strong jaw, bright eyes, light stubble on his chin. And he’s taller than I am. Solid, with some muscle. I think I can see the outline of his chest beneath the T-shirt.
One World, One Dream.
“Do you feel okay?”
“Sure. I’m just a little tired.”
John hands me a beer, already opened, like the last one. “We could go sit down somewhere,” he says, “if you are tired.”
“Okay,” I say. I’m tired of all the noise, anyway.
We make our way outside. “I know a good place,” John says. I stifle a giggle. Does he want to make out or something? I might be up for that. It might be fun, messing around a little. He’s cute, I’ve decided. I take another swallow of beer.
It’s a nice night. I’m warm enough with just my light jacket. John leads me down a bricked path that leads to a garden of sorts. I’ve been here before. There’s a fountain and a marble wall inscribed with calligraphy, the grooves highlighted by gold paint. Some fucking proverb about wisdom and self-cultivation, probably.
We sit on the stone bench by the fountain. I can hear the music from the party, but it’s so faint that I feel like I could almost be imagining it, making up music from the gurgle and flow of the fountain’s water.
“This where you used to take girls?”
John grins slyly. “Sometimes.” He takes a pull of his beer and leans toward me a little. “Do you have a boyfriend, Yili?”
“Maybe. Sort of. I don’t know.”
“What does that mean?” John sounds curious. Like he honestly wants to understand.
I have to really think about it for a minute. I look up, through the haze of dust and city lights. Haloes surround the streetlights, the stars. It’s all so beautiful, in an ugly kind of way.
“He’s a good guy,” I finally say. “A really good guy. I like him. And I know he likes me. He’s nice.”
Then I can’t help it: I start laughing. “That sounds really lame.”
“No, Yili, it doesn’t sound … lame.” John has to work a little to get that last word out, like it sticks somewhere on the middle of his tongue. “But you say you don’t know about him.”
“I mean, I don’t know… .”
My head feels funny. The sound of the fountain thrums in my ears, or maybe it’s the music. I swallow some more beer. It goes down like it’s something alien, cold and coppery. “What he wants from me. I mean … we spend a lot of time together. But I’m not sure why.”
“You think he wants you to do something for him?”
“No. No, I… .” I squeeze my eyes shut. Everything feels funny. My eyes are too big; they’re sticking out, and I need to cover them up. “He’s nice,” I repeat. “Maybe he just feels sorry for me.”
“Yili?” John says. “Yili?”
It’s too loud. I put my hands over my ears. “I feel kind of weird,” I manage.
“Are you ill?” John asks anxiously. “Should we go to the doctor?”
“No. No … I just… .” There’s a beer bottle in my hand. I’m holding it. It’s solid and cold, and I can feel the damp from the condensation. Like, the beer that’s inside the bottle wants to get out, and it’s squeezing through tiny holes in the glass. I take another sip. Free the beer!
“Feel weird.”
“I think maybe you should go home, Yili.” He holds out his hand. “Come. I’ll take you.”
I stare at him. His eyes are bright, sparkling almost, even in the dark. I stare at his hand. It looks too big.
“I don’t want to go home,” I say.
“Here.” His hand reaches down. Finds mine. Closes over it, dry and hot, like some trespasser from the desert.
“Stand up,” he says.
I do what he tells me to. I don’t even think to argue about it. I stand up, and my bad leg buckles, and I pitch forward.
John catches me. I see his face as I fall; he looks surprised and almost embarrassed.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “My leg’s messed up.”
“I’ll help you,” John says. “Here, I take your arm.”
He has me drape my arm around his shoulders, and he threads his arm across my back and under my armpit. He won’t quite look at me, I notice. That’s funny, I think. Why should he be embarrassed? I’m the one who’s somehow gotten so fucked up that I can’t walk.
How’d that happen, I wonder?
It finally occurs to me, as we mutually stagger down the path that leads out of the garden and into the campus proper, that I’ve been dosed with something.
“Wait,” I say. “Wait. I don’t wanna go with you.”
“What, Yili?”
“Let me go,” I say. “Let me go. I just wanna… . Let go of me.”
“Yili, I think maybe you are a little sick,” John says, sounding very sympathetic. “I help you to get home. That is all. You don’t need to worry about me.”
I don’t believe him. I try to pull away. The arm encircling me holds me tighter against him. We stumble down the walkway, through the quad of dormitories, past the takeout window of the Xinjiang restaurant where students line up for lamb skewers and sesame bread.
I should yell. I should scream. I should kick him in the nuts and run. But I don’t. I can’t. We keep walking, his fingers pressing hard against my ribs, until we’ve reached the campus gate, where teenage security guards in stiff gray polyester jackets stand nominal sentry.
“Come on, Yili,” John says. “This way.”
A shiny silver car waits for us on the other side.
CHAPTER FIVE
I PICTURE THE finger-shaped bruises John’s hand is making on my ribcage as he guides me toward the silver car. There’s a guy leaning against it, smoking a cigarette. John gestures angrily at him. “Off my car!” he snaps.
“Fuck your mother,” the guy mutters. But he lifts himself off the car, takes one last drag on his cigarette, and flicks it into the gutter before ambling away.
“Hey,” I say. “Wait.”
“Now, Ellie, you don’t want to talk to that guy,” John chides me. “He is just some rascal.”
“It’s all a show,” I say, “isn’t it? That guy drove the car here.”
John does his best puzzled squint, but I’m not buying it any more. “Of course not. He is just some local rascal.”
“But there’s no parking here,” I say, and I’m feeling like this is maybe the most brilliant thing I’ve ever said.
John laughs as he opens the passenger door. “Oh, Yili! You are very funny. Now, get into the car.”
I don’t want to get in. I plant my feet, but I’m really messed up, and my leg isn’t that stable anyway, and John somehow knocks me off balance, and I fall across the seats, hitting my cheek against the gear-shift, and John swings my legs into the car and slams the door.
The car has an open moonroof. I stare up, trying to see through the haze to the stars.
The driver’s door opens, and John gets in, putting the keys in the ignition before his butt hits the seat. My head’s touching his thigh as the car pulls away from the curb.
“Where’re we going?” I mumble. My mouth feels like it’s full of stones.
“I told you, Yili. To your home.”
I can’t even sit up. I just lie there, head pressed against John’s thigh, feeling his muscles bunch and relax as he brakes and accelerates. Streetlights pass over us.
I don’t know how long we drive.
Finally, it seems, we get somewhere. John rolls down his window, mutters something to another teenage security guard in a gray polyester jacket, I don’t hear what. I stare up through the moonroof. I can see the tops of tall buildings, satellite dishes, a square of sky. But no stars.
“Here we are, Yili.”
He gets out and opens the passenger door. I lie there. I don’t think I can move. John’s face looms over me. “Oh, Yili,” he says. “I think maybe you are very sick.”
“I … I… .”
“Here. Take my hand.”
I try, feebly grasping at it like my fingers have gone boneless; they’re just these white worms, jellyfish fingers, waving around in a black sea.
John scoops me up, hands placed beneath my shoulder blades and butt, lifting me out of the car. My feet touch the ground but don’t want to stay there.
“Here,” John says. “I carry you.”
And he does. My arms circle around his neck, because they don’t know what else to do.
I rest my cheek against John’s leather jacket and close my eyes, lost in the rock and sway of his steps as he carries me along like I’m some little kid in her daddy’s arms. I catch his scent beneath the smell of cheap, tanned leather: sweat mixed with some bad cologne. I like the sweat better.
Rock Paper Tiger Page 5
