by Xiaolu Guo
8. The Conversation
As the taxi draws up at my place I notice someone sitting at the entrance of the building. The figure is hunched and dishevelled. As the driver pulls up I realise it’s the man from the thirtieth floor, or rather, a jaded version of him. Who is he waiting for at this time? His chin is stubbly, his face is sallow as if he hasn’t slept.
He looks up as I walk towards him, but this time there is no welcome in his eyes, and no cat food in his hand either. I can hear the elevator clunking up and down. ‘Are you OK?’ I can see he feels uncomfortable.
‘I can’t get in.’
‘Lost your keys?’ I ask. He doesn’t reply. ‘Well, doesn’t someone else have a set?’
After a while, he answers: ‘My keys are with my girlfriend …’ I’m annoyed. What do I care about his girlfriend and his keys?
‘Can’t you get them from her?’
He shakes his head. Without thinking, I sit down next to him. He recoils slightly, but that doesn’t bother me. We sit there in silence for a while. I look up at the sky. It is a clear morning, smoky blue without any clouds. I notice he looks at the sky too. In the end, he says: ‘We split up last night. And when I got home, I realised I’d left my keys at her place. I can’t go back though.’
So did he spend the whole night miserably sitting on those stairs while I was drinking whisky with a classmate from back home? But then it strikes me – he is single after all. I think this city needs more unattached single people like him.
My enthusiasm spills out. ‘If you want, come up to my place. You could call the caretaker, and ask him to help you get in. Then you could get a new key made or something.’ He doesn’t answer. When he eventually stands up, I take that as a yes. I tug on his sleeve like a sister, and lead him to the elevator. On our way up, I examine his face and decide he looks the same age as me – maybe twenty-five or twenty-six. He could be a good father.
9. The Congee
A few minutes later, the man from the thirtieth floor is sitting on the plastic chair in my kitchen, staring at the half-eaten dish of pickled cucumbers and the bowl of leftover congee from yesterday. He hasn’t spoken a word since we came inside. He must think it’s strange to eat congee and preserved vegetables. Young city people don’t eat things like that. I pour him a glass of mineral water; he takes a sip. Still silent. His eyes are moving around the room, and I know what he must be thinking: Does this woman really live alone in this big flat?
I break the silence. ‘Would you like some congee? I made it yesterday.’
He nods vigorously. I’m surprised; maybe he hasn’t eaten, maybe his tearful battle with his girlfriend has left him starving. Or maybe he’s just being polite. Who knows?
I fill a bowl with congee from my rice cooker, heat it in the microwave, then fish some pickled cucumbers and spicy cabbage from a jar. I place this humble food in front of him. He takes the chopsticks and eats. He makes surprisingly little noise for someone eating so quickly and with such relish. I sit down beside him and admire his appetite. I’ve never watched a city boy eat congee before, and as I study him now I decide that he seems to be a good man – he eats with such an honest manner – something I’ve only seen in my village people until now. I trust his manner.
As he starts a second bowl, I walk through to the bedroom to change. I put on a loose T-shirt and a pair of cropped jeans. I wish I had never worked in Jukebox to Heaven, I wish I had spent the last few years at university, clutching a pile of books and a violin case.
In the kitchen, a pair of chopsticks rests across the rim of his bare porcelain bowl. He looks content and stands up from my plastic chair.
‘Here I am sitting in your chair and eating all your food,’ he says. ‘And I don’t even know your name.’
This is the most perfect moment, I think. He doesn’t need to know my name.
He looks at me with questioning eyes. His face is less sad than before. I intend to say my name is Zhang Yan, but my mouth is too quick and the trained words just come out: ‘My name’s Ai Lian.’
‘I’m Li Xin,’ he says. ‘As you know, I live on the thirtieth floor.’ His eyes are smiling again. ‘I should go. I’ve troubled you enough already.’
‘But … where are you going to go?’
‘I’ll see if I can find the caretaker, as you said. Maybe he can force the door.’
Of course, and there also is a cat waiting for him to return – if it hasn’t been taken away by the girlfriend.
And then he’s gone. I can hear the hum of the elevator moving slowly closer, and then the thud and clunk as the doors open. ‘Thanks again, Ai Lian,’ says an echo. I’m not used to men thanking me in Beijing. When you sell your body for money, they say, you don’t get any thanks.
I sit down in the chair he’s just left, warm from his body, and gaze at the empty bowl. Some grains of moist rice are stuck to the thin end of the chopsticks. The room is quiet; the sun is climbing up my shoulder. Outside, the city is starting to boil. I pick up his chopsticks and put the tips in my mouth. The pungent, sweet aroma of congee fills my senses.
10. The Cat
I’ve been sleeping all day. A deep and peaceful sleep, like an owl in a forest under the cover of moonlight. I dreamt of water buffalo again, walking slowly in the fields, in the intense heat of my southern province, swinging their tails to chase away the mosquitoes.
When I wake up, the sun is already setting behind the skyscrapers. The city is preparing itself for evening. I hear a knock at the door. Or maybe it’s at someone else’s flat? I stay in bed a little longer to be sure. The tapping is soft and hesitant, but it doesn’t stop. As I slowly get out of bed, I glance at the clock – 6.45 p.m. I’m going to be late for work.
My heart skips a beat as I open the door. It’s the man from the thirtieth floor. He has shaved and changed into a clean shirt. A large suitcase in one hand, his other hand wrapped around a cat. A black cat, with glistening eyes like an eagle.
‘Sorry to disturb you again,’ he says as he puts down his suitcase. The cat tries to jump out of his arms.
‘I’ve had my locks changed.’ I nod. ‘The thing is, I have to get away from Beijing for a while. Just for a couple of days or perhaps a week. I’m not exactly sure when I’ll be back.’ I look at his suitcase by the door. He continues: ‘I don’t know what your thoughts are on cats – maybe you’re allergic – but I was wondering whether you could help me look after her for a little while.’ I stare at the cat, and it stares at me, with its shiny eyes.
‘I … I have no problems with cats,’ I answer.
‘If you don’t like her … I can ask someone else to take care of her.’
I reach out and pull the cat’s supple body towards me. Its soft fur warms my chest. ‘No problem. I’ll look after her,’ I say in a clear voice as the cat starts purring in my arms. He smiles. He bends down and picks up his suitcase. As if on cue the cat leaps from my arms and saunters into my apartment.
‘Thank you, Ai Lian. I’ll be back in Beijing soon.’
I stand in the doorway until the whirr of the elevator fades out, then I go back into my apartment in search of the runaway cat. I walk around the kitchen – just the same chairs and the same table. I enter the living room, but she’s not there. The bathroom is empty too. I arrive at the bedroom, and there she is, sprawling on my pillow like someone returning home after a long and tiresome trip.
As I stand by my bed, I gaze at the black animal. Her entire body, from the tip of her ears to the end of her glistening tail, is caught in a beam of the quickly disappearing sun.
‘Welcome,’ I tell the creature of darkness. ‘My name is Zhang Yan, will you come and sing karaoke with me?’
LOVERS IN THE AGE OF INDIFFERENCE
ALL MORNING HE has been following her. He gazes at her naked shoulders, her hair, her slender bare legs under her shorts. And she knows that he is following her. She knows it so well she doesn’t even turn round. She feels angry at him, but at the same time she wants him to gra
b her, to take her in his arms and hold her.
She walks along the Yangtze River. The river is calm in the summer noon, but turns sharply along its banks as it flows. She has known this city since she arrived here from her village. The river is her place. It is where, during the long and lonely nights, she kills her boredom. But at this time of day, a few boys, eight or ten years old, are swimming in the muddy yellow water, completely naked. They bury their young and innocent bodies under the water, only their wide curious eyes watching her pass. And the man is still following her.
Last night they had sex for the first time. The scene is engraved on her body and her mind. She is a hair salon girl at a hairdresser’s on Gong Jian Road, he is a hitman working for the local mafia. He came to her hair salon not to have his hair cut but to get a massage. There was another, prettier girl there but he chose her. He sat on the chair, quiet, observing her in the mirror, as she massaged his head. She could tell he was a troublemaker; she had heard he made his living by attacking and threatening people,. but in her mind she accepted him. Rough but simple, just a peasant man from Henan Province, a village even poorer than hers. Back home, he told her, he used to sell his blood – much more dangerous. ‘Thousands of people now have HIV,’ he said, watching her.
And they made love – or maybe love is not the right word. On top of her he was savage and violent, as if a war was raging between them. But in the darkness, she felt love. She sensed a strong force overtaking her, from that man, silent and physical, who was bringing her to a place where, possibly for the first time, she felt clearly her own emotion. She was weak, perhaps – she never knew what to make of her future, but she did realise that she had to do something, something dangerous, to mark her youth in a world where vague dreams only come and go.
Then he came. Perhaps, during the sex, he loved her, but when he woke up in the morning he had forgotten that love. Hastily, he grabbed some money from his trousers and threw it at her, ‘Go buy a nice skirt, eat a good meal – whatever,’ he said carelessly as he tossed three hundred yuan at her. And she was shocked, as she lay on his bed; her heart suddenly dropped. She thought he had felt something for her, a little at least. She slipped on her blue bra. ‘I am not a whore,’ she screamed, and threw the money back at him. Humiliation. She was soaked in the morning of humiliation.
And instead of leaving her behind and hurrying out the door, he dropped his green army bag, crossed the room and hugged her, surrounding her angry body with his strong arms. He didn’t even notice she was crying.
And now she walks and walks along the Yangtze River bank, the sun hitting her hair. She doesn’t know what to feel about him. But she knows that he wants her. From the moment she threw the money back at him that morning he suddenly changed, he suddenly realised that she was there – a young woman wanting something more.
He follows her for a long time, perhaps three hours, perhaps four; he is tired, and so is she. At the riverside, a huge ship is waiting to load its cargo. Maybe it will sail to Shanghai, or to Hong Kong, even to Hamburg or Denmark, sitting in the muddy water like a rusty squeaky whale – enormous. And on a small pier jutting out into the river, they stand at the water’s edge and watch an old woman bathing a snake in the muddy water, a huge snake about two and a half metres long, like an eel from a fairy tale, with leopard-patterned skin. The woman wears a hat; she doesn’t look like the sort of witch who performs tricks with a big snake on a stage. She looks like your auntie next door. The snake seems to be her pet, her best friend, her special creature. Underneath the yellow river water, she caresses her snake and washes it with intense concentration. The snake swims away between the boats, then comes back to her.
The tide is rising, taking over the sandy banks, swallowing the young lovers’ feet. Now the snake swims towards him, the mafia hitman, swirling around his ankles, then, gently, it swims up to her.
The horn sounds. Imperceptibly, the boat starts to move, heading east, slowly obscuring the sight. The river is strong, shimmering in the summer heat. They stand, side by side, letting the sun warm their bodies.
JUNK MAIL
From: [email protected]
To: undisclosed recipient
Sent: 08.07.2009 09:34
Dear friend,
I greet you in name of Our Lord. My name is Mrs Mercy Atteh. I am widow and mother of three girls. I know you think this email embarrassment as we do not know ourselves. I ask you be patient. I feel very pleased to contact you for some assistance and business relationship. I live in Ghana with my children. My husband was loving, caring and hardworking businessman who died in bad car crash. Before sudden death of my beloved husband, he plan business in Kentucky of the United States with 30 million US dollars, but unfortunately he died before.
After his death my husband family say that I can not have his property since I am woman and my children all girls. Well, there are laws here in Ghana which not permit woman to inherit man property, and also I become wife to his brother. Unfortunately to this wicked family, my husband $30 million was put in bank account unknown to his close family. The lawyer is only aware of this money, so I have discuss with a staff of bank I want this money myself so I can take care of my children education needs as my husband family against their education.
Staff of bank say best way to secure this money is transfer to bank account outside of our country, later money be used for business establishment. I ask your sincere assistance in providing us with your bank details to move the fund into your account. As soon as I hear positive response, I provide you with all necessary detail for transfer. However, I decide to give you 20 per cent of total money as gift for assistance and 65 per cent of money for my investment as I will want to keep my husband dream of invest in real estate in Kentucky.
To be able to help me, please send through personal details. Thanking you in advance for your helping response,
Mrs Mercy Atteh
From: [email protected]
To: undisclosed recipient
Sent: 09.07.2009 16:18
Dear friend,
I am writing to you from Burma, a country in turmoil and at a time of extreme urgency. As you may know, my country is under severe military control and we are oppressed by bad governance and corruption. I am contacting you because I trust you as a civilised Westerner to sympathise with my situation and help my case.
My name is Han Win and I run a local human rights organisation. We have raised about 2 million US dollars over the last several years in campaigning to help the poor people of Burma. But as you know, the government prevents us from saving money so we cannot keep this money in Burmese banks and therefore I ask for your assistance in this matter.
We will need your bank account details in order to transfer the money to you. This way we can be sure that this money is in safe hands and can aid those people in desperate need in our country.
I am sure you will realise that your help not only benefits our organisation but helps the nation as a whole.
Yours,
Han Win
From: [email protected]
To: undisclosed recipient
Sent:10.07.2009 13:56
Dear friend,
Please don’t feel too surprised that I am writing to you from Russia. My name is Anna Ivanovna Petroshky and I am a woman of 26-years-old. I have been married for 3 years but my loving husband died of a plane crash on the business trip to Turkey.
You may ask why I am contacting you and telling you my personal story. I have known you from the Internet surfing and I believe you are the good person I will be able to trust.
I am contacting you because after my husband died he left me about 50 million US dollars. And as he was involving in some sensitive business in Russia, I dare not to save this money in a Russian bank. And also my late husband’s business partners have been trying to access those moneys. Therefore I am contacting you by hoping you can assist a young and vulnerable widow. If you feel you can help me, please contact me and I can send you my photos
so you know what I look like. And if you like me and trust me, I can fly over to your country, then you can provide me your bank details in person.
Yours sincerely,
Mrs Anna Ivanovna Petroshky
From: [email protected]
To: undisclosed recipient
Sent: 11.07.2009 08:09
Dear Respected One,
My name is Mrs Nenita Villaran. I am the widow of the esteemed former Minister of Finance in the Philippines who died on 15 May 2002. My husband fell ill here and was flown to France for treatment but later died in hospital. I cried beside his dead body for three days and three nights until my body was dry of tears. On his death I inherited a total sum of 12 million US dollars from him. The money is currently in a safety deposit box and held by a security and finance company here in the Philippines.
Due to the instructions I laid down as conditions when I deposited the box with the security company – requiring the maximum safety possible – no person nor government organisation can trace the whereabouts of the box until I am ready to claim it. For this reason the security company has used their diplomatic means to send the box out of the Philippines to the Côte d’Ivoire where they have an underground secret vault. This deposit was coded under a secret arrangement as a family treasure.
My main purpose of sending you this email is because I find you a trustworthy person and I wish to entrust you in shipping the box of money to any address that you think is secure and safe in France. We can talk soon about your percentage of the money saved.
Unfortunately my husband’s family has successfully collected all his property; and they haven’t even stopped at that – they have told me to surrender all bank account details to them. My future and destiny rests upon the contents of the safety deposit box in the Côte d’Ivoire so I would never give up that information to them. Out of fear of my husband’s family, and because the situation has now become uncontrollable thanks to pressure from the government of the Philippines, I decided to look for a trustworthy person who could assist me in retrieving this box of money from the security company for onward lodgement into his account for the purpose of future investment.
