The Year of the Hydra

by William Broughton Burt

  So open. So pliant.

  Not that I would place a mere teenager above a fully formed and self-arrived woman. What fully formed and self-arrived man would favor a sprig to a completely opened jasmine? A half-formed idea to a master’s thesis? A giggle-box to a fine cello?

  I’ll let you know once I’ve thoroughly sampled each.

  There was an article in a recent English edition of the Beijing Daily. A schoolteacher in Shaanxi Province was convicted of behaving in an untoward manner with one of his female students. The verdict came two days ago. They executed him this morning. I don’t know why that comes to me just now.

  As usual, I avoid the busy intersection approaching Studebaker Supermarket, turning instead onto a narrow side street. The unceasing noises of the inner city retreat as I’m closed in by the small sounds of apartment life drifting from open windows. On weekend nights, there’s at least one major mah-jongg game in progress here, the tinkle of the tiles rising above the laughter of unseen women, their husbands away drinking beer at a neighborhood café. On this weeknight, aromas of dinner mingle with soft television sounds. As I turn a dogleg in the little lane, I’m surprised by the appearance of a surprisingly full moon between two high-rises. Asked Li Bai:

  The bright moon, how long has it shone,

  I ask the great sky, while lifting my cup.

  I cannot name where in the Heavenly Palace

  To place this miraculous night…

  Or this untimely hard-on. I should never contemplate Rui Long as the moon is rising. Such a gem of a young woman and so in need of guidance. I admit I may have pushed things a tad during her first visit. In class today, Rui Long didn’t so much as make eye contact. Well, give her a few days to digest everything she’s going through just now. Soon enough, she’ll heliotrope back in the direction of her true support.

  Suddenly behind me is the roar of an eight-cylinder engine, and I move to the right as garish high-beams flood the little lane. Beside me, a police car abruptly stops and a uniformed officer steps out of the passenger door to block my way. I look upon a stocky middle-aged man with an arrogant smirk and a stump for a right arm. He uses his left hand to open the rear door of the cruiser and motion me to get inside.

  “English teacher,” I say, my thumb pointing toward Lil’s school. “Diplomatic Immunity. Facial hair.”

  Ignoring my words, the officer spreads his feet, grabs me by the shirt collar, and yanks me forward while kneeing me in the groin. I bend forward with an ooof and he shoves me into the rear seat of the cruiser.

  “American citizen!” I howl. “Magazine Mariposa! Best Southern Novel of 1999!”

  The one-armed policeman seats himself beside me in the back seat, his dark eyes gleaming with menace.

  “I swear to God,” I tell him, “I haven’t touched a hair on her head.”

  “Put inside your arm,” says the officer.

  “Put what inside my arm? Did you hear what I just said?”

  He’s holding a plastic leaf-and-garden bag. “Put inside your arm.”

  “Listen to me. Call Miriam Goldfarb at—”

  The officer behind the wheel turns to backhand me hard across the face. Stunned, I don’t put up much of a fight as the one-armed man covers my right arm with the plastic bag, seizes my right hand with his unexpectedly powerful left, and forces it the wrong way. I bay like an adolescent Beagle hound.

  “Is courtesy Mr. Piao Pin Tian,” he growls. “Correct ded.”

  With a sudden and horrific yank, the policeman forces my arm even farther in the worst of all possible directions. I think I hear the tendon pop. Just as suddenly, he reverses direction and I hear both bones of the lower arm snap. One more jerk, and I feel the jagged bones rip through the skin.

  The last thing I hear before passing out are the words: “Fourteen day you pay ded or fix other fucking arm, too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I’d like to make it up the stairs to Lil’s apartment without being noticed, but at least half the population of China is out on their balconies today hanging wash, and each of them pauses to give me a stare. Obviously word has gotten around that the Substitute American Teacher presented himself to the portal guardian three nights ago semi-coherent, bleeding from the mouth and holding the splintered remains of a bloody right arm in a heavy-duty leaf-and-garden bag. Not as impressive as the discovery of the shot-dead red-stockinged man in the Year of the Horse perhaps but reasonably close.

  Making this procession to Lillian’s apartment all the more maudlin are the white-clad school nurse who leads the way, the security guards who support me at either side, and Joe and the headmaster, trailing soberly behind. My guess is the marching band had a scheduling conflict.

  As we arrive at the first landing, Marilyn appears before me and gushes an unintelligible lament. One of the guards brushes her aside, but not before she has handed me a slip of paper bearing, one fully assumes, her phone number.

  Again I admonish the guards that I don’t really require their assistance, but I’m practically losing consciousness. One reason is the prodigious needle the nurse hit me with before I was released from the hospital. It was my fourth injection in a span of thirty-six hours of hospitalization that included four in surgery.

  I’m telling everyone I was mugged. I fought back heroically and they—three, four, or nine hoodlums, depending on the audience—punished me accordingly. “So foo-rish,” everyone tells me.

  The headmaster wanted to keep me in the hospital for a few more days, which was tempting actually, as Wa Bell was picking up the tab and the drugs weren’t entirely bad. But only eleven days remain before my other arm is due to be fixed, and I’d kind of like to prevent that.

  I wonder if he meant fourteen business days.

  Finally the procession arrives at Lil’s door, which my key doesn’t seem to fit. Everyone huddles importantly around the metal door, which finally pops open to reveal the face of Madam Wu. She points up and yammers excitedly and the procession turns back toward the stairs.

  “So foo-rish!” wails Madam Wu as we scuttle away.

  And so painful. The doctor initially offered acupuncture instead of opiates, and I offered to chew off my own tongue. When finally the doctor relented, I reminded him and every nurse thereafter that a man my size requires twice the usual dosage of any and all medications. I think they’re probably glad to be rid of me, quite honestly, especially after the incident in the bath. I accept my fair share of responsibility. I was woozy at the time. Besides, the nurse’s right breast imposed itself on my good left hand, not the other way around. I’ve decided not to file patient-abuse charges.

  Halfway up the final flight of stairs, I halt the procession to catch a bit of my breath. As I curl forward, a salty taste spreads through my mouth, and I fight the urge to distribute beef and noodles on the upturned faces of the gardeners below.

  Four Phillip’s-head screws now hold my right arm together, with a little help from thirty-seven sutures, a plaster cast that runs mid-palm to my right armpit, and Kangaroo Glue. Along the forearm of the cast are the words “Ready to be present now, Julian?” penned by Tree while I was unconscious. And a smiley face.

  The procession begins to move. The door to Lil’s apartment, fully open, emits impossible aromas of cornbread, turnip greens, and black-eyed peas. Tree appears in the doorway. “I’ll take care of things from here, gentlemen,” she says.

  “No, the bed, the bed,” I cry as Tree begins to deposit me at the settee. I am placed down among Lil’s nest of lavender-scented pillows. Instantly I vanish into the inner architecture of opiate rest. No longer in Shenzhen and its drifting cascades of tinkling mahjongg tiles and popping tendons, I stand in a dark gardenia-perfumed corridor where a bowing silhouette says, “Take as many as you’d like.” Those happen to be my favorite words, along with “would you like me to do something?” in a timid feminine voice.

  Always say yes.

  Go toward the light. In this case, the blue-ish light issuing from t
he far end of a gently twisting corridor of purple blooms. A moment later, I stand inside what could be Memphis’s grandest ballroom, its three ornate chandeliers tied back for this evening’s activities. A three-level observation terrace has been constructed on each side of the room, looking down onto a brightly lit space at the center. The uppermost tier of each terrace is enclosed in heavy tent fabric, creating more private spaces. The lower tiers are carpeted in a royal-blue canvas topped by leather sofas and loveseats, richly upholstered divans, rubbery potted plants and teak coffeetables overflowing with finger-foods and wine. I’d say that well over a hundred people populate these observation terraces, most of them leaning together to murmur in excited expectation as white-jacketed waiters scurry about. Mounted high on the walls at each end of the ballroom are large video screens that proffer detailed close-up views of the activities soon to begin below in the center of the room.

  Nestled at its center of this elaborate frame is what appears to be a movie set conjuring a rural general store from a century ago. An iron potbellied stove sends a rusty stovepipe into the air. A few sagging wooden shelves offer canned meats, beans, and peaches. Along a counter are jars of pickled pig’s feet, sow’s ears, and boiled eggs. The floor is unfinished wooden planks. At the center of this incongruous setting are three un-matching card tables jammed together and surrounded by an assortment of stools, rockers, and one squat wooden barrel topped by a lumpy feather pillow.

  My breath stops as my eyes take in what defines the exact center of the conjoined card tables. It is a worn set of double dominos.

  I clamp my urinary sphincter just in the nick of time.

  “Five minutes,” announces an amplified voice. “The players will please make themselves ready.”

  Rudely I push through the crowd until I discover a wet bar with neatly stacked chips of white, red, blue, and gold.

  “Fifty of each,” I say to the nearest of four ebony faces manning the bar.

  All four turn to stare at me.

  “You want fifty of each?” asks the nearest bartender, his accent Jamaican.

  “Unless that’s a problem.”

  The barkeep smiles, exposing a set of impossibly white teeth. “Give Mister Tall Man his chips. And something more presentable to put hisself in. Good luck, Mister Tall Man.”

  “And a gin sour,” I add, setting down the wine goblet. “Light on the sugar, heavy on the gin.”

  Minutes later, I’m stepping barefoot onto the rough plank floor of the movie-set general store, clad in clownish bib overalls and a red-checkered shirt. My black-out shades have been confiscated and my hair braided into long pigtails. I carry my gin sour in a stained coffee cup. I am the final player to take his seat, a wooden crate in this case, at the long table. Three colors of chips, fifty in each stack, are arrayed before me. At the head of the long table is a swarthy man in a faded denim shirt, his face pitted by acne scars. He gestures to me with his own coffee cup, and an unseen microphone picks up his words, amplified for the audience.

  “I think everybody here knows Julian Mancer. Hey, Julian, how come you stopped doing Hollywood Squares?”

  After a scattering of applause, I reply, my voice amplified, “Paul Lynde was goosing me under the table.”

  Over the tittering of the crowd, the scarred man shouts, “We’ll have none of that here! Understand! Okay, let me explain the rules….”

  The man—I will later learn that his name is Louis Vionetti, or more winningly Louie the Snail—goes into the standard rules for enhanced double dominos, Vienna version, Prudhomme variation, while I scan the faces around the table. We are nine in number and all male. I carefully read each pair of eyes. While you can never trust a facial expression at the gaming table, I have learned that eyes are incapable of deceit in two crucial ways, the first being intelligence. I can read it at a glance. The second is self-control. Chinese physiognomists speak of the difference between controlled and uncontrolled glitter. Moist, twinkling eyes that send off smooth, oblong beams—this is controlled glitter, and it means you’re capable of holding your impulses in check. Wildly glittering eyes that send off sharply pointed rapid-fire spikes, on the other hand, indicate a man quite apt to make a mistake under duress. After surveying all pairs of eyes, I am roundly pleased. First, none of the other participants is scanning me. That already means they’re in over their heads. I’m also gratified to note that none of the other players registers an unusual measure of intelligence, Vionetti being a borderline exception. I’d almost worry about him if not for his serious glitter challenge. When the man makes eye contact, you want to duck.

  Perfect. I know exactly how to play a man like this. As Vionetti closes his introductory remarks, it requires an effort not to smirk.

  Famous last concealed smirks.

  The fly in the ointment, I can now tell you quite authoritatively, was my failure to gauge one very crucial pair of eyes. My own.

  Something jostles me. With difficulty, I return to the American Teacher’s Apartment and an inordinate amount of pain. Tree has taken a seat on the side of Lillian’s bed. A large platter rests on her lap. Steamy scents rise from boiled turnip greens and black-eyed peas with soggy strips of bacon. Soaking up the juices is a wedge of generously buttered cornbread. Completely gone is the sunlight that but a moment ago illuminated Lil’s curtains.

  “Suppertime,” says Tree.

  I gaze longingly at the food, unsure whether I can operate my mouth. At length, I manage to get it half open.

  “Did you know there’s a rat up in here?” asks Tree.

  “Nnnng.”

  “Have you ever thought about cleaning this place?”

  I croak, “What have you told Lillian?”

  “About your arm? You told her. Open your mouth.”

  Tree’s dark fingers break off a piece of golden-brown cornbread and place it at my lips. Sweet. Soft. Brown and crisp at the edges. It’s heaven at the very least.

  “What did I tell her?” I ask. “Peas.”

  Tree chortles as she loads the fork with glistening black-eyed peas. “It depended a little on the day. You enjoy this spoon-feeding while it lasts, okay? Tomorrow you feed yourself, and the day after that you’re on your own. Now. Tell me what happened to you the other night, and tell me the truth or else don’t say nothing at all.”

  “Nothing at all then,” I reply, watching Tree re-load the fork with drooping, darkly fragrant greens. Suddenly I am aware that the walls of Lil’s apartment are covered with brightly colored poster art. Done by kids, judging from the materials. Several compositions feature a tall, chalky-white man with a serious arm problem.

  “What’s that on the walls?” I croak.

  “Get-well cards,” says Tree. “Your students made them for you.”

  Despite the dense opiates, I experience a moment of shock. These were made by my students. I hadn’t realized I had students. For a moment I wonder which of the surrounding images flowed from a certain itsy yellow hand. Now I see that the settee is completely obscured by vases of flowers and boxes of candy, each adorned with a bright red ribbon. Other vases are jammed together all along the walls.

  “There’s more flowers in the kitchen,” says Tree, “and the refrigerator’s full of dishes these people cooked for you. Everyone here is very upset about what happened to you, Julian. Probably every family in this building has come up here with something. They all give a little speech before they go. They can’t help it, baby. Same way I can’t. We love you.”

  Tree places a warm piece of cornbread against my lips, and I open my mouth without comprehension. Now she smiles and lowers her face to mine. “What did I tell you? That events would conspire to take you to your centermost heart? Here you are, baby. All you have to do now is feel it. Feel it all, Jules.”

  Wearily, my eyes roll closed. I can’t possibly feel all this and survive.

  “Now that you’ve got some time for reflection,” says Tree, “you might give a little thought to why you’re drawing all this violent ene
rgy to yourself. Open your mouth.”

  Instead, I open my eyes. “Tree. I may have to go away for a while.”

  “You can’t even lift your head, and you’re going away for a while. Go where? Open your mouth.”

  I accept a forkful of black-eyed peas. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

  “Your headmaster doesn’t expect you back at work for two weeks at the earliest,” says Tree. “I’d take that time to get myself back on-center. Chew.”

  “Did Lil call today?”

  “She’s supposed to call around eight o’clock.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Around eight o’clock.”

  “Would you talk to her?” I beg. “I have no idea what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say a word, baby, to her or to me. We both know exactly what’s going on with you. A seven-year-old could see it.”

  “Then why don’t I see it?”

  Tree lowers the warm plate to her lap. “Your decisions are catching up with you, Jules, and that’s exactly as it should be. All these old issues are coming up for healing so you can enter the future completely unencumbered.”

  “I’m feeling pretty unencumbered right now,” I say, voice trembling. “Tree, this is too much now. I can’t go on with this.”

  “I’m here to help you, baby. Chew.”

  “The story’s too out of control.”

  “It’s never been anything else,” says Tree.