Lovers in the Age of Indifference

by Xiaolu Guo

  The tourists stop coming at the end of the summer. The snow quickly covers the mountains. There is no autumn here, and Guo Luo has no work as the herbs are buried deep under the thick snow. He wanders around, nothing but sand and rats and occasional clumps of ugly flowers shaped like steam buns. The rats move like Guo Luo – they scurry impulsively from one hole to another. He hits them at random. He doesn’t know what to do with the coming winter.

  One day the female guide reappears, even though it is nowhere near tourist season. She is excited, her cheeks are rosy.

  ‘I have good news! I’m being transferred to the Tourism Bureau in the city, and the bureau said I could have an assistant. Do you want to come and be my assistant?’

  Guo Luo is slow to react. He tightens his hat, as if to help him gather his thoughts.

  ‘So I guess we won’t see you much around here any more.’

  The guide stands on the parched and shrivelled former grasslands, her eyes full of expectation, like a lone wispy cloud hoping for rain.

  ‘Don’t you want to live in the city, boy?’

  ‘The city of Xi Ning?’

  ‘Yes. You could work as a guide in the Tourism Bureau there, and could drive the coach for us.’

  Guo Luo says nothing. He cannot even imagine what she describes. The female guide watches him.

  ‘What are you thinking? What do you think about all day?’

  Guo Luo doesn’t answer. He takes a peek at her two round breasts, as though hoping he might find some Winter Worm Summer Weed hiding there.

  ‘If it’s girls, I could introduce you to one or two.’

  ‘It would have to be a city girl,’ Guo Luo finally says.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘City girls can pay the right price for my herbs.’

  The female guide keeps still, but suddenly she is like a bloom that has lost its freshness, wilted. Her eyes reflect the landscape around them, the grassland without any grass.

  Guo Luo looks back at the mountain, its sides already encased in snow. He wishes he could be on the mountain right now, gathering his herbs. The female guide moves away, disappearing into the sandy landscape. Guo Luo watches her go. Cities, girls, what does it matter? He mutters to himself and turns back to the mountain.

  The Winter Worm Summer Weed lives on these mountains. Winter Worm feeds the mountainside, and the mountain feeds us. We live from the mountain, live from the Winter Worm Summer Weed. We are Winter Worm Summer Weed people, that is all.

  BEIJING’S SLOWEST ELEVATOR

  1. The Darkness

  AT NIGHT, OWLS fly out from their caves. They can’t see what’s close to them, but their eyes penetrate the deep darkness. I too am a creature of the night. I like to think that I’m an owl, an owl that flew from South China to Beijing.

  During the day, I am a motionless lump of flesh in a bed. Leaving the city to roar outside, my head is heavy on the pillow, my conscience sinks into a dark forest inhabited by farsighted owls. Some days I cannot sleep so I sit in the kitchen, letting the time pass. I leave my flat only if I need to eat something. Then, I walk on the shadowy side of the bright street, my head down like a sunflower at night. I don’t want to meet anyone’s gaze, I only see shoulders and feet pass by, one after another. I don’t want men that I’ve met in the karaoke parlour I work in to recognise me. They too would feel embarrassed to see me in broad daylight. Yes, I am a karaoke mistress. I comfort men during their long nights. With my voice, and sometimes with my body too.

  2. The Elevator

  I wake up at noon, my throat burning. The city heat is filling my mouth, dust covering my eyes. Beijing is a desert. How could an emperor ever want to build a capital in such a dreadful place? I wonder. The raging heat of the summer is unbearable, and in the winter, it’s freezing to death. People come here purely to make money; the rest is punishment. And I follow in their footsteps. I know. Only money matters.

  Money, the bastard. I drag my thirsty body to the kitchen, open the fridge in search of relief. The watermelon I bought yesterday is finished, and there isn’t a single bottle of water, only some ice sitting bored in the freezer. You can’t drink Beijing’s tap water. Putting on a pair of slippers, I leave the flat.

  I spit. This must be the slowest elevator in Beijing. I wait endlessly, listening to the clunky engine in some distant dark hole, loading and unloading people. The building has thirty floors and two hundred households, and there’s just one elevator. One elevator! What stupid architect thought of this?

  The doors open abruptly. In the middle of the crowd, I see the young man from the thirtieth floor. He is wearing a sky-blue shirt and denim trousers – he always wears trousers, even on the hottest days.

  I try to squeeze into the elevator.

  ‘Excuse me …’

  ‘There is no room,’ somebody moans.

  ‘There is room,’ the young man from the thirtieth floor says.

  The door shuts, his eyes briefly brush over me, and I look away at the mirror. He’s tall, with a dreamy face, or a face of melancholy. His manners make me think of a Tang Dynasty scholar poet, pure and elegant, resting by the banks of the Yangtze River, contemplating the distant moon. It’s not often you come across someone like him in Beijing. Here, both the city and its inhabitants are trapped in a heavily polluted air.

  I turn round; our eyes meet for a second. His smile is so subtle that I wonder if I only imagined it. I turn towards the mirror again, looking at myself. I hardly ever notice anyone in my building apart from him, and we usually meet in the elevator. A couple of times I have seen him carrying cat food. What colour is his cat, I wonder – black? White? Black and white?

  Then all of a sudden, warning words echo in my ears: ‘There is no real love in this city. Keep your distance from that temptation.’ The girls in my karaoke parlour tell me, ‘Your body is your most valuable asset; your body pays your wages.’ In my business, we girls must be armed at all times: do not believe in love, do not fall for a man, always wear a short skirt and always carry a pack of condoms.

  I stop gazing at the man in the mirror; instead I stare at my toes. Someone is smoking in the elevator. Every object is blurred. I feel like I’m standing inside a chimney. I start to cough. Finally, the elevator lands, heavy as a plane. The door opens and I am caught up in the swarm of people rushing through the lobby. I search for the man from the thirtieth floor in the scattering crowd, but he’s disappearing into the scorching sun – the world blurs; everything turns white in the summer light.

  3. The Skin

  It is five in the afternoon. I am sitting on my plastic chair at my plastic kitchen table, finishing a bowl of congee. I’ve already gobbled half a tin of pickled cucumbers. The sour and salty taste remains in my mouth, and my body feels much happier. I like this peasant food. Congee and pickles were my staple diet when I was a kid – it was what our whole village ate. You don’t find food like this in my karaoke parlour.

  Leaving the dirty dishes on the table, I start to put on my make-up as the sky begins to darken. If there is something I don’t like about myself, it’s my skin. I have soil-coloured skin, brown, like a true peasant. I grew up in the middle of paddy fields in the south, my family owned two buffalos and some pigs, and I’ve been exposed to the sun’s glare ever since I was born. Pale skin is an unattainable fantasy for us; only true city people can afford that silky white skin. The man from the thirtieth floor, he’s got all the features of a born city boy – white complexion, practised speech and a clean vocabulary, and he is tender and restrained. He’s not some foul-mouthed, black-toothed entrepreneur who makes his money selling pigs’ feet to illiterate peasants at inflated prices and goes to karaoke parlours to have fun with girls.

  It’s almost six in the evening. Through the window I can see the street lights start to shine, one after another. Putting on a pair of high heels, I lock the door and wait for Beijing’s slowest elevator to take me out into the night world.

  4. The Karaoke

  Jukebox to Heave
n is the karaoke parlour I work in. It is near the Beijing Olympic Park. It’s not bad, I have to say – a couple of years ago, there wasn’t a single shop around there, but now: three gyms with swimming pools and saunas, B&Q, Tesco and Carrefour, one after another, built like military bases. The young middle class spend plenty of time here every day. Cars leave with piles of products every minute. People desperately want to spend their money. Maybe they think that’s the most effective way to feel alive.

  My shift starts at seven, and my taxi route to work is past a huge outdoor car park. Girls like me – young, cheap labourers from the countryside – lean against parked cars or strut around doing deals with the drivers. Summer nights are all right for business, but the winter is tough. I used to be one of them, hunting money in the dark windy streets, but now I sing on a leather sofa, and cocktails are waiting at the bar.

  Jukebox to Heaven is fairly large; twenty girls work here, not including the waitresses. We hardly ever see the boss, but I’m told he is linked to some big name in the government. His main income is from property development apparently. Perhaps he owns half of the Olympic Park – it’s not impossible. ‘Red mafia’, hotshot businessman with a communist background – that’s what people say about our invisible boss.

  The place I work in is clearly aimed at entrepreneurs – a high-class establishment. I don’t really do much here. Mostly, I smile and say sweet things to the men, or sit on their lap, encouraging them to drink the expensive imported liquor. They can pick from five thousand songs in our karaoke collection and sing them in front of a TV screen, from 1940s communist songs to Titanic – ‘My Heart Will Go On’. And if the man wants more, and has enough cash, then I have to give in. Security are on the watch outside the rooms, fists ready in case anything should get out of hand. Sometimes I get bruised and occasionally I bleed, but I don’t complain. I guess there’s no easy job in this world. Even the potato farmer has to fear the day when he’ll chop off his toe with a mistimed swing of the pickaxe.

  5. The Singer

  Men’s faces always appear old to me. My memory of them gets updated every day. Most of the customers at the karaoke parlour are ageing, with wives and children at home. They’re of the generation born during the fifties, who dedicated the prime of their lives to the socialist cause. Sometimes I feel they want to regain their lost youth by treating young women badly, or using them like public utilities. They say to me: ‘Bastard! Life is so unfair to us, girl, I tell you. I looked after stinking chicken farms for thirty years, and now I am fifty and I have some spare money to spend on you. Tell me, how are you gonna satisfy me tonight for my thirty years’ misery, eh?’ Or even worse: ‘This is my plan this year: I’m going to divorce my old wife, and have fun for the rest of my life – I’m going to have different girls every week. Why not? I’ve got money now and you’re going to respect me tonight, understand that?’

  It is their revenge, perhaps. But why don’t I ever get to have fun? I am fast moving towards thirty, and I’ve never had one day without worrying about money and survival.

  It is Monday night, not much is going on. Contracts are still to be negotiated and deals are still being discussed in white office buildings. Bored, I watch a soap on TV with two other girls; it’s called I Fell in Love with a Police Officer’s Wife – it’s not too bad. A man walks in. I can’t even be bothered to raise my eyes. But he picks me out. I stand up and lead him into the karaoke room he’s hired, handing him a menu on the way.

  He orders some Bordeaux wine. There is no Chinese wine on the list – too cheap. Instead of talking, the man starts to study my face. I realise he is surprisingly young, about thirty, and he doesn’t seem too confident about having his hands in my lap.

  And then he says: ‘You know what? I think that … you look like a classmate of mine.’

  I give him a smile. ‘Sure. Was she cute?’

  ‘Yes she was … But really, you look just like her.’

  I spit on the carpet. ‘Come on! There are millions of girls in this city with my kind of looks.’

  He carries on studying me as he takes the wine glass from my hand. I’m getting nervous, there is indeed something familiar about his face, as if it comes from an old dream. No one knows who I really am; nobody is allowed to know that.

  ‘You definitely look like someone I used to know,’ he insists. I turn away towards the TV and change the channel at random. ‘Excuse me for asking, but where are you from?’ he goes on.

  Where am I from? That accent is so familiar. I begin to realise where he is from, and I start to panic. From the corner of my eye, I glance at him – I must have known this man in my former life, back home. My mind starts to reel, searching for ways to escape his questions, to make up a story. I’ll say I’m from a tiny unknown town in Shan Dong or in Hu Nan Province, something like that.

  But he doesn’t wait for my answer and says the dreaded words: ‘Are you not Zhang Yan?’ I am lost. I pretend I have never heard that name before. Impatient, he carries on. ‘Your home town is Jiu Long, in Fu Jian Province, right?’

  He knows my past. I cannot escape. Trying to sound cool and casual, I reply: ‘You must be mistaking me for someone else, mister. You’re too drunk.’

  ‘No way! I am totally sober!’ he protests angrily. ‘You are Zhang Yan from Jiu Long primary school and I am your former classmate, Ma Yue San.’

  My eyes leave the TV screen and look at his face, trying to recall my old classmate. It’s true, this man really does look like Ma Yue San. Ma Yue San from Jiu Long primary school. I remember he was good with numbers and always got top grades in our maths tests.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister. I am from Si Chuan Province, so I can’t be your schoolmate,’ I say.

  ‘So you have a twin sister then?’

  I turn the TV up louder; a Hong Kong song covers his voice.

  ‘Sorry, mister, I don’t care about your classmate. The only thing I care about is making you feel good. Shall we have another drink? Do you have enough money for this?’

  ‘I haven’t made my millions yet. But I’m not poor – we design anti-virus software that sells all over the country.’

  ‘Anti-virus software, huh?’ I repeat, trying to think of something to say.

  ‘Yes. We just bought a building on the 4th Ring Road.’ He pauses, scrutinising my face again. He sighs and then continues. ‘Aiyah. You don’t want to admit who you are. But I have a good memory …’

  He’s got a good memory, but I’ve got a thick skin, and I don’t let the world upset me, particularly when it comes to men. But this time, my schoolmate’s rambling has unsettled me. If the people in Jiu Long knew how I made my living, I wouldn’t ever be able to return home. Zhang Yan works in a state-run factory in the capital. And she has a good boyfriend who works with her. This is what my parents know. I can feel a tingle of anxiety creeping down my spine. I must shut up Ma Yue San. I’ll drown his brain in liquor and make sure that when he crawls out of bed tomorrow morning, he’ll have no memory of his schoolmate Zhang Yan working in a karaoke parlour. Besides, nobody here knows my name. Here, I am Ai Lian – Lotus Lover – a name men like to spend a night with. There has never been a Zhang Yan at Jukebox to Heaven, never.

  And so after a few songs by Faye Wong, the Bordeaux is finished. I persuade him to order some whisky, the most expensive thing on the menu – the boss always tells us we should get the men to order it. We drink Scotch until Ma Yue San is soaked in it. Twice already I’ve gone to the toilet; my throat is raw. I learnt the trick from the other girls: when you drink a lot, stick your fingers down your throat and vomit it up again; it’s the only way you can last the night. After my third trip to the toilet, I taste a trickle of blood dripping down my throat. But that doesn’t matter right now – my mission is to persuade Ma Yue San to drink even more and to sing karaoke with me.

  My classmate has passed out on the sofa, as dead as a drunken shrimp. I think I don’t need to worry any more. I go back to the counter, w
rite down the list of what he’s drunk, and tell the waiter that he’ll pay in the morning. Then I return to the reception room and drink some tea while waiting for my next customer.

  6. The Paddy Fields

  Four in the morning. Sitting alone under a neon light in a windowless room, I reach for the remote control and mute the TV. The sound of laughing and singing comes from every corner. I am tired. My only other customer tonight was an overweight businessman from Hu Nan with a coarse drawl that reminded me of old videos of Chairman Mao. The weight of his enormous body made me choke, and as I lay under what seemed like a ton of stale sweat and beer, the tang of sour vomit seeped back into my mouth.

  I drink a cup of green tea, then another, and then another. I start to feel better. Ma Yue San’s words are still ringing in my ears. I’m hungry. I miss the south. I miss a bowl of congee and the smell of boiled rice. An image of rice fields spreads out before my eyes, covering the vast horizon of Beijing. Water buffalo grunt in the mushy fields; my parents, in straw hats, crouch down to plant rice sprouts, their feet wet and muddy in the water. In the middle of the field a lanky scarecrow wards off the sparrows, during harvest time in the summer, straw stacks are piled on the hills to dry. The wind is warm and fermented. I can smell the grain, the soil, the grass, the sweetness of those fields, the fields where I grew up with my classmates and played with my friends. These high heels hurt my feet. I look at the dim carpet, the red neon illuminating my skin. I feel like crying.

  7. The 4th Ring Road

  At six in the morning, I leave Jukebox to Heaven and flag down a taxi.

  The journey home at dawn is my favourite part of the day. Sitting in the taxi I watch the hushed and naked city wake up. The smell of freshly-cooked breakfast, half-awake children pulling on their satchels and beginning their journey down the street towards school. Construction workers pouring sand onto the street, lines of workers pedalling towards distant factories. But I am not in a rush, my duty is done. There are no more ageing entrepreneurs to entertain. I am on my way home where, at last, I will sleep, alone.