The Cook, the Crook, and the Real Estate Tycoon

by Liu Zhenyun

  “What are you so nervous about? I’ll know what’s what when I go there and ask around.”

  “Who could still remember what happened yesterday?” Yan said.

  Ignoring him, Qu Li told the driver to take them to the street in the picture, exactly as Yan had hoped. He was playing cat and mouse. In the past he’d been apprehensive whenever she went to visit “the scene of a crime.” But this time was different; he did not want the performance to be wasted. Moreover, the playacting was not meant to deny his involvement with the pop singer; he intended it to deny his wife a victory. So he feigned reluctance.

  “Go ahead and check it out if you want to.”

  They arrived at the scene of the occurrence.

  Liu Yuejin had thought he’d be the picture of calmness, but he tensed up at the sight of Qu Li and Yan emerging from the car. The show was about to begin. Lacking any acting experience, this was going to be a challenge. Liu spent his days with construction workers, all working class types, with whom he shared a lingo and work. With Yan Ge and Qu Li, rich people he’d never before encountered, he had no idea what they did or what they’d say or how he should respond.

  She did not rush into her investigation; instead, leash in hand, she let her dog take the lead in walking around the various stalls.

  “Go ask the yam vendor if you don’t believe me,” Yan said impatiently.

  Ignoring his suggestion, she continued to roam the area—once again, just what he wanted her to do. She was coming back to Liu Yuejin’s stall, and, just like the Anhui man, Liu began to tremble. Noticing him, Qu Li stopped, opened the newspaper, and asked:

  “Did you see this singer yesterday?”

  By then Liu could not utter a sound, so he nodded.

  “Did she come alone?” Qu Li asked casually.

  “No,” Liu was stuttering. “There—were—two of them.”

  Color drained from the face of Yan, who stood behind his wife.

  “Who was the other person?”

  “Her mother.”

  “How do you know it was her mother?” Qu Li asked, after a pause.

  “I heard her say, ‘Ma, here’s the corn. I’ll go buy yams.’”

  Qu Li breathed a sigh of relief. So did Yan, who slipped Liu a thumbs up. Though only a migrant worker, he was a good actor. Qu Li did not ask anyone else after that, but, even if she had, Yan was not concerned, not with that good beginning. So, dog leash in hand, she went back to their car, followed by Yan, who climbed into the car before her and, as if suffering a great injustice, slammed his door.

  “Just a moment,” Qu Li said to the driver. “I want an ear of corn.”

  She came back to Liu Yuejin with her dog.

  “How much is an ear of corn?”

  No longer tense, Liu was upset that he’d been nervous earlier, realizing that acting was easy. He loosened up and turned into a genuine corn vendor.

  “One yuan ten.”

  She picked over the corn in the pot and asked casually. “What time did the singer show up, was it in the morning or the afternoon?”

  Liu was caught unprepared and, with no script to follow, made up an answer on the spot.

  “In the morning. I’d just opened.”

  She nodded and smiled. Liu smiled too, figuring he’d gotten it right. Qu Li picked out an ear of corn and handed Liu two yuan. “Keep the change.”

  Then she returned to the car with her dog. Liu thought the playacting had been a great success, as did Yan. The driver started the engine and the Mercedes tore down the street while Qu Li gnawed on the ear of corn.

  Convinced that he’d won, Yan pressed on with his complaint: “The paper dealt with whether she was eating or not, and you thought it was about sex. You must have a one-track mind. I won’t let you off the hook so easily the next time you get so paranoid.”

  He was stunned when she snapped her head up and flung the corn into his face, sending his glasses flying and frightening the dog, which looked up and started barking.

  “What do you think you’re doing? What’s that all about?”

  Pointing at the paper, she said with tears in her eyes:

  “You should be more careful when you lie like that, Yan Ge. The corn vendor said it was in the morning but, here, look at the clock behind you.”

  Retrieving his glasses from the floor of the car, he put them on to read the paper. A digital clock had been installed in the corner of a distant shopping center. The read-out was blurred, but clear enough for him to see 17:03:56. He was struck dumb.

  7

  Ma Manli and Yang Yuhuan

  Ma Manli was the owner of Manli Hair Salon, which was located on a corner one lane over from Liu Yuejin’s construction site, the entrance illuminated by a revolving light. The salon’s hundred and sixty square feet were divided into two rooms, one in front and one in the back. Manli was in charge of haircutting and was helped by a young Shanxi girl named Yang Yuhuan, who washed clients’ hair and performed odd tasks, like giving massages in the back room. A small, simply outfitted, inexpensive place, Manli Hair Salon drew its clients from the construction site and the nearby market. At other salons, a haircut cost twenty yuan plus ten for a shampoo, while Ma charged five yuan for both a haircut and a shampoo. A massage cost twenty-eight, and even with some additional service during the massage, the bill would not exceed a hundred.

  Ma herself never offered additional service, and took thirty percent of whatever Yang earned in the back room. As a result, Yang usually made more than Ma, which gave her bragging rights that she was the salon’s backbone. In both behavior and conversation, it was clear she did not think much of Ma, and she acted as if she were the boss and Ma her employee.

  Some days at noon, Yang would be idly nibbling on watermelon seeds instead of getting lunch ready, so Ma had to cook for her after she finished cutting hair. That caused arguments, but nothing came of them, except to add some life to the place.

  Ma, who was thirty-two years old and hailed from Liaoning, lacked the full breasts typical of women from northeast China. It was a secret known only to a few, for she wore a padded bra to cover up. One of those who did know was her former husband, Zhao Xiaojun, who said to her during the divorce proceedings:

  “Are you really a woman? You look like a man in drag.”

  The other person was her six-year-old daughter, whom Ma left in the care of her mother back home before coming to Beijing. As a baby, her daughter cried a great deal because her mother did not produce enough milk to nurse her.

  There was yet another person who knew; that was Liu Yuejin. One night near closing time, Ma was alone after Yang left on the back of her boyfriend’s motorcycle. Ma was having her period and, when she went inside to change the pad, she also changed into her PJs; since she was alone and was about to close shop, she skipped her bra. But when she walked back into the front room, she was shocked when Liu rushed in; he was surprised by the difference in her.

  “What’s your problem?” she screamed angrily.

  Liu was a frequent visitor to Manli Hair Salon, no more than a ten-minute walk down a small lane. He came not for a haircut or a massage, but to kill time, watch people, and listen to women’s voices, a rarity at the site, where several hundred men worked. Ren Baoliang’s niece was female, but, at two hundred plus pounds, she was more a sight to behold than a voice to appreciate.

  To be sure, Liu could have gone to other places to hear women’s voices—on the street, in shopping malls, or at subway stations. And before he met Ma, he’d enjoyed sitting by subway exits, where it was cool in the summer and warm in the winter, so he could watch people and, more importantly, listen to their voices. After a hard day’s work, women’s voices calmed and reassured him.

  Small-breasted Ma Manli had a different voice, however—slightly hoarse, sounding like a man when you first heard it, and yet the pleasing, mellow huskiness was more tantalizing than the average female voice. He loved hearing her talk, and there was yet another reason why he visited so often. When he
learned that Li Gengsheng liked his wife, Huang Xiaoqing, because of her tiny waist, Liu became infatuated with small waists, which Ma Manli happened to have.

  He could not help but marvel over how things had worked out. It was, as people say, true that the lost horse is the biggest and that a deceased wife is the most virtuous. He hadn’t noticed his wife’s waist during their thirteen years of marriage, and now he missed that waist fully six years after she left him. The two women shared another feature: slender eyes, though Ma was fair skinned while his wife had a sallow face. Huang was not the talkative type, while sharp-tongued Manli was merciless in an argument. Gradually, he felt a sense of loss if he was away from her for three days.

  “Tell me,” he once said to Manli, “can we call this being in love?”

  She glared at him. “You miss your mama sometimes. Would you say you’re in love with her?”

  “I’ve been alone for six years now.” He sighed, feeling sorry for himself. “And I don’t even have a lover.”

  “Over there.” She pointed to a corner. “Go take care of yourself there.”

  He smiled and let her comment pass, but he was telling the truth about not having been with a woman for six years. Sometimes he felt like going to a prostitute, but simply could not bear the thought of spending money that way. So, as Manli suggested, he took care of it himself. But that just increased his infatuation with women’s voices. On days when he bought pork for the dining hall, he made a point of bringing her some pigs’ necks in a plastic bag. At other times it might be a bag of chicken necks. When she was busy and he sat there crossing and swinging his legs, she would order him to do something:

  “Don’t just sit there. Look around and get busy.”

  He’d get off the stool, pick up a broom and dustpan, and sweep up the hair on the floor. Ma did not mind that he was there so often, but Yang did, since his presence had a negative effect on her massage business. A man in the mood for a massage would stick his head in and, if he saw another man sitting there, would turn and leave. Liu knew he was in the way, but he couldn’t help it. So if a man stuck his head in, he’d say:

  “It’s all right. Come on in. I’m just a neighbor.”

  That may have been all right with him, but not with the potential client, who would turn and leave anyway. So whenever Yang saw Liu Yuejin walk through the door, she made noise and pulled a long face.

  Originally named Yang Ganni, she had changed her name several times after coming to Beijing, from Yang Bingbing to Yang Jingwen to Yang Yuchun, none of which was grand enough for her. Eventually she settled on Yang Yuhuan, the name of a famous Tang dynasty consort.

  A scrawny little thing when she first arrived, Yang ballooned into a ball of flesh in a year. Though not as big as Ren Baoliang’s niece, she looked chunky because she was so petite. Now she wanted to lose weight, but that was not as easy as putting it on, and everyone said she was overweight. That, however, was precisely what attracted her massage clients. Aware of her desire to slim down, each time Liu Yuejin saw her he said, “You’ve lost some more weight, Yuhuan.”

  If not for that comment, she would never have let him into the Manli Hair Salon.

  Liu knew that Manli had been divorced three years before, but had no idea what her former husband did for a living. He’d asked, but she wouldn’t tell him. Liu had seen Zhao a few times at the salon and each time Zhao was bathed in sweat. Dressed in a Western suit, he looked like a traveling salesman, and he came for one thing only: money. As Liu listened to them argue, he learned of their dispute over thirty thousand yuan. It was Manli’s brother, not her, who owed Zhao the money. But since Zhao could not find her brother, he came to her. She denied responsibility, and that inevitably led to an argument.

  Zhao showed up once when Liu was at the salon, and this time the former couple got into a real fight, during which the mirror behind the barber chair was smashed. Manli was hit in the nose, smearing her face with blood. When Liu went up to stop the fight, Zhao turned on him.

  “You’re here with the salt and here with the vinegar? Are you going to give me my money?”

  “Stop fighting,” Liu urged. “She’s bleeding. Can’t you talk this over?”

  “I’m through talking. I want satisfaction today or a clean knife will go in and come out red.” Zhao was about to hit Manli again, when, spurred by the sight of her bloodied face, Liu took out a thousand yuan and handed it to Zhao, who took the money but muttered angrily all the way out the door.

  “What kind of man comes to collect for a debt after a divorce?” Liu said.

  But regret settled in the next day. Not over trying to stop the fight, but because he had managed to do so with his own money. There with the salt and there with the vinegar, he was essentially meddling in people’s domestic affairs even though they were no longer married. What was he thinking? The money would have been well spent if he and Manli had something going, but there was nothing, not even a stolen kiss. Why be so chivalrous? He had to be the biggest fool around. When he returned to the salon that night, he tossed out hints about getting his money back.

  “You’re the one with all the money, and you were happy to give him some.” Manli would have none of it. “Go see him if you want your money back. Don’t come to me.”

  Now he felt like an even bigger fool, after helping to pay off a debt for someone who did not appreciate the gesture. Fortunately, it wasn’t much, though his heart ached each time he thought about it. It did, however, make him feel like he could stroll proudly into the salon any time he wanted.

  The day after playing the man from Anhui, Liu Yuejin came to the salon, not in his usual clothes but in a dark green suit he’d bought at the night market. He even wore a tie, though he still wore a fanny pack; a Western suit was his preferred attire whenever he had something to celebrate. He was on his way to the post office to send his son some money, and Manli Hair Salon was on the way; since he had plenty of time, he walked in to chat. The idea of sending his son money would be the excuse to remind her of what he’d spent on her.

  Yang Yuhuan was leaning against the door applying lipstick and watching people walk by. She pretended not to see him when he arrived, and did not even move her feet to make room. Liu was about to say she’d lost weight again, but, annoyed by her lack of manners, he walked right past her.

  Manli had just finished washing the hair of a client whose head was dripping wet and was dragging him over to the mirror for a blow-dry. Seeing she was busy, he looked around and spotted a large peach; he picked it up and ate it. After finishing the peach, he thought his nose hairs were getting long, so he picked up a pair of scissors to trim them at the mirror. When the client left, Liu said:

  “I’m here to say good-bye.”

  “Are you leaving Beijing?” Manli was surprised.

  “No, not Beijing—this world,” Liu said, shocking her even more. “My son gave me an ultimatum yesterday.” He continued, “If I don’t send him the money for tuition, he’ll leave and move in with his mother. Do you know how much trouble I had to go through six years ago to gain sole custody? Now he’s threatening to leave. Does he know how much I’ve struggled over the past six years? Moving in with his mother? Wouldn’t that be the same as moving in with his mother’s new man? I wouldn’t care for myself, but what would people say? So you see, I’m backed into a corner and have decided not to live anymore.”

  It was not the first time he’d told her about his sad past, so at first she was not entirely convinced. Convinced or not, he continued the act by talking to himself in the mirror as if it were his son.

  “You little bastard. Do you not have a sense of right and wrong? Do you know what kind of woman your mother is? She’s a loose woman, a worn-out shoe. And who did she marry? A man who sells fake liquor and should have been in jail long ago.” He began to feel sorry for himself. “Is there no place for an honest man these days? The bold man dies from overeating, the timid man starves to death. They’d better not force my hand. If they do, I won’t kill
myself. I’ll go see that mutt and his bitch with a knife and it’ll come out stained in blood.”

  After having put on a show the day before, he had gained a feeling for the stage. Today he was in character, getting angrier and angrier until his face turned red and his neck thickened.

  “I came by to tell you on my way to the train station.”

  Tricked into believing him, Manli became part of the performance. “It’s not such a big deal, so why all this talk about a knife?”

  “The tuition is more than three thousand!” he said, raising his voice. “And I can’t pay it in full. So what should I do?”

  Finally she caught on, realizing that he was playacting, a new strategy to get his money back. “I have to give it to you for putting on such a production for that little money.”

  She took a handful of small bills out of a drawer and tossed them at him, either because she was tired of arguing, or because the money had been owed too long, or because she knew he was not a generous person.

  “Don’t come in here anymore.”

  He picked the money up from the floor and counted it. 210 yuan.

  “Now who’s putting on a big production?” he said earnestly. “Everything I said was true.”

  8

  Yang Zhi

  Liu Yuejin felt that his fortunes had changed for the better over the past couple of days. He’d acted in a street-corner drama and been paid five hundred yuan. The money was less important than the opportunity to meet Yan Ge, Ren Baoliang’s boss. From now on, Ren would have to change his tone of voice when he spoke to Liu. Then he’d had another performance at the Manli Hair Salon, and had gotten 210 yuan out of Ma, which, similarly, was less important than the fact that she’d begun paying him back. The first payment was an admission that she owed him money. Added to the money he’d saved, he now had a total of forty-one hundred, a grand sum that allowed him to walk proudly to the post office. The street was fouled with exhaust fumes, but he felt refreshed and energized.

  On the phone his son had said he needed 2,760 yuan and fifty-three fen for his tuition, but Liu had no intention of sending the full amount. He’d send fifteen hundred, not to save the rest for an emergency, but because he did not trust his son to tell the truth. The little bastard had always been a handful, so Liu had to be careful and watch his step.