“E-tickets,” she says.
“What are e-tickets?” Dawei asks.
“People are booking online now and then printing the tickets out themselves.”
WEDNESDAY, April 18, 2007
The swinging door opens with a thud and a bang. Mr. Ong walks briskly through the kitchen, heading for his office while he argues with a vendor who’s following. Something about prices for prawns sourced in Vietnam now being lower than those from Thailand. Dawei now knows enough Cantonese to recognize the subject matter, if not the details.
“Dawei, someone out there looking for you,” Mr. Ong snaps as he passes, keeping his eyes fixed on the crumpled invoices he’s brandishing like a weapon as he walks by the cooks. They’re subjected to Mr. Ong’s diatribes every day, a continuous one-man show of strength meant to beat back the constant encroachment of costs. The vendor has his own set of papers. He holds them up with one hand and wags the index finger of the other at the top sheet as he argues back, something about price fluctuations. The arguments and gestures are lost on each other, absorbed into the activity of the kitchen. The details are as relevant as the guts being pulled out of the fish and tossed into a large plastic bin that Dawei will need to haul outside once he’s finished washing up the dishes from lunch.
This rant is different, though, because Mr. Ong has told Dawei that someone is looking for him. There’s only one person that could be.
In an alley behind the restaurant, just wide enough for one car to pass, Dawei stands against the yellow wall streaked with black mold. Avoiding Zhihong’s stare, he’s looking into a window fitted with security bars on the opposite wall. He hears someone inside watching a local news report in Cantonese, the animated vocal flourishes, the drawn-out “ahhhs” and “wahhhhs” added like punctuation.
Zhihong takes a pack of Triple Fives and a lighter out of the pocket of his maroon polo shirt and shakes two cigarettes out. He hands one to Dawei who takes it hesitantly. Zhihong flicks the lighter’s strike wheel three or four times without getting a flame. He shakes the lighter and tries again. Dawei grabs it and flicks more forcefully. A tiny flame blooms. He then lights his cigarette, lets the flame disappear and hands the lighter back.
“I know I’ve been away for too long,” Zhihong says with the unlit cigarette in his mouth, as he flicks the lighter several times without effect.
“These crackdowns on spending,” he says. “I’ve told you. There’s no extra time or money. My colleagues won’t take the chance to come over here any more.”
A breeze pushes away the wafts of Macanese curry and garlic mixed with touches of disinfectant and garbage. Dawei looks out towards the end of the alley, beyond the traffic roundabout, for a glimpse of ocean through the trees that line the embankment he visits every night. The same embankment where he’s fallen asleep several times with Zhihong by his side.
“I told them I’m really sick. That’s the only way I could get over here today and why I need to get back before evening.”
Dawei remains silent.
“Dawei, I’m a middle-aged bureaucrat. What else can I do at this point? I’m always thinking about how I can change things but…”
Dawei finally looks up at Zhihong. “How’s your wife?”
Zhihong stands still and his face flushes. He raises his hand and throws the lighter to the ground, not far from their feet. Dawei doesn’t blink or look down. Zhihong folds his arms in front of his chest.
“You know, I was here just a week after you showed up in Beijing. I came all the way here to apologize. Where were you?”
Dawei takes a drag from his cigarette. “I found work in Beijing,” he says as he exhales into a breeze that carries the smoke further into the alley.
Zhihong looks at him quizzically.
“Remember how you told me that I never should have tried to find you there, in Beijing, and how we could never see each other there?”
Zhihong doesn’t respond.
“I decided right there that I never wanted to see you again, ever, in any city,” Dawei continues, looking towards the end of the alley. “So I figured if I lived there, I wouldn’t ever have to see you again.”
Zhihong lets his arms fall to his side. He bends forward as if he’s lost the energy to stand, hands sliding down the front of his thighs and resting on his knees for support. Head down, he looks out in the direction of Dawei’s gaze. A loud command from the chef in the kitchen behind them followed by chatter from the other workers reminds Dawei that the dirty cookware is probably accumulating.
“But I wasn’t in Beijing long. The work dried up within a few weeks and it gets pretty cold there, so I made my way back down here while there was still time to get my job back.”
Dawei takes another drag and exhales quickly. He draws his arm around his chest as though he feels the chill of the northeast.
“I’m sorry,” Zhihong says, slowly bringing himself upright.
“Good. Now leave.”
Dawei takes a last drag, flicks his cigarette away and turns toward the kitchen door. Zhihong tries to stop him by putting a hand on his shoulder but Dawei shakes loose. Zhihong jumps in front of Dawei to stop him and Dawei body checks him against the moldy wall.
“At least give me one minute to tell you something that I know you’ll want to hear.”
Reaching for the door handle, Dawei ignores him.
“You have something that’s now worth a lot of money.”
Dawei stops.
“You won’t need to wash dishes again,” Zhihong says.
Dawei turns and looks at him.
“Autumn Truce,” Zhihong says.
“The movie? What about it?”
“It’s the hottest film right now. In Hong Kong and on the Mainland.”
“So?”
“Dai Xiaohui wrote it. The same one who wrote the screenplay I gave you two years ago.”
The kitchen door opens abruptly and one of the kitchen hands, also dressed in greasy whites, sticks his head out.
“Eh,” he grunts. “Stuff piling up in the sink. Get in here.”
His stare now fixed on Zhihong, Dawei doesn’t react to the order.
“That script is worth a lot of money,” Zhihong says.
Several seconds pass and the kitchen hand looks out again.
“Eh, you deaf?”
The embankment looks different now. Dawei’s never seen it in the golden glow of late afternoon. The sun, hanging low over the construction projects across the causeway in China, is enlarged and muted by the sulphuric haze over Zhuhai. Dawei is usually only out here after the last of the pots are scrubbed and the kitchen floor is mopped. By that time, the world consists of only what the streetlights reveal.
As he faces Zhihong, contemplating the possibility of changed circumstances, Dawei can’t help but feel unfamiliar pangs of appreciation for whatever forces create the palette of oranges, reds and pinks before him. Released from the kitchen, possibly for good, Dawei feels he’s now part of this world. He leans on the railing which provides the balance he needs while the earth below him seems to shift. After putting some of these thoughts in order, Dawei can look at Zhihong who’s explaining why the screenplay is suddenly so valuable. The late afternoon light brings more definition to Zhihong’s face, which seems to have aged more than the year or so since they last met.
“She wasn’t known as a screenwriter so no one knew how to find her scripts,” Zhihong says. “They went through all of her files. There are only hard copies. Only three, as far as anyone knows. Autumn Truce and two others. You have one of those two.”
“What about the other one?”
“Her son. He’s asking one of the studios for two million kuai. Crazy. But, I think they’ll cough up half of that.”
The number is as strange and alluring as the light that bathes everything around them in pastels. This number would set him free, an idea so powerful it sends his thoughts, again, into disarray. Will this wash away the mistakes of his past? What would it cost to
open his own restaurant? Who’s manning the sink? The pots and pans are probably too numerous now to even reach the drain stopper. Mr. Ong might not even let him back into the kitchen. Does any of this matter now? How can he trust that Zhihong is right? He’s let Dawei down before, after all. More than that, Zhihong had just about left him for dead.
Dawei drops his head onto his forearms, which are folded on top of the railing. A wave of anger rushes over him. He looks up at Zhihong. “You think they’ll pay a million? You s…s…say you think? You can’t say things like this unless you’re s…s…sure!”
Zhihong looks away. Dawei rises from the railing, grabs the front of Zhihong’s polo shirt into his fist and they’re face to face. Zhihong doesn’t flinch as Dawei looks into his eyes, focusing on one and then the other, and then back again.
“You thought you’d be here every month! You th…th…thought I was the only person you could talk to and that y…y…you’d do anything to make sure of that.”
Dawei’s aggression captures the attention of some passers-by. A few of them, Mainland tourists wearing tour group sun visors, look over at the couple. One stops a few feet from Zhihong and Dawei, only to move on slowly after a few seconds.
“Why would they pay that much?”
“They want a follow-up to Autumn Truce as soon as possible,” Zhihong says. “They want all of her scripts. They want to make her material into a franchise. They’ve already started raising money.”
“Can’t they j…just make one up and say it’s hers?”
“I’m sure they’ll do that if they can’t get the script,” Zhihong snaps back, his tone changing from remorse to anger. “Maybe they’re already putting that plan together. I don’t know. But, you know those drawings that are all over the script?”
Of course, Dawei knows the drawings. He had lost himself in them when he took the train from Macau to Beijing to find Zhihong a year ago and countless times since to distract himself from boredom and despair. The drawings, along with Zhihong’s explanation, helped Dawei to follow the arc of the story.
“Some of the producers believe that the drawings have imbued her scripts with luck,” Zhihong says. “You know how they are down here with the superstitions.”
Dawei knows this too. He’s seen how particular Mr. Ong is about replacing the fruit and burning incense on the shrine up high in the corner of the restaurant’s dining room. On the small red shelf stands the porcelain incarnation of Guanyin, who’s supposed to protect his business. Dawei is aware that Guanyin is good. He’s seen characters in movies mention her, pray to her. The shrines are everywhere in Macau, their red lights glowing in otherwise darkened apartments and shop spaces, ensuring that bad, unlucky energy doesn’t accumulate.
Something must be responsible for the wealth that permeates Macau. Something other than ports and factories. Maybe it’s Guanyin and the other gods that appear on the shrines with the red lights. These spirits don’t let people down. Why else would everyone around here have such respect and veneration for them? Maybe that’s why life on the Mainland is so bitter. There are no benevolent beings watching from the corners, righting wrongs and helping the mistreated. Guanyin has seen Dawei’s troubles and has influenced the course of events. She’s seen him toiling over his sink night and day, his skin red from the steam, his hands rough from the detergent. And Guanyin knows that he’s been wronged. She’s making things right.
“Don’t question this,” Zhihong says. “They’re interested but they won’t be interested forever. You never know when the next big hit will divert their attention. Get me the script. You’ll get half of the payment.”
A million kuai. The number is almost three times what Uncle Yiming in Harbin made a year. In Yongfu Village, his parents only got several hundred kuai for the corn they coaxed from the ground all summer and dried under the sun on tarps laid out around their home.
In that restaurant Dawei will open with the money, he will set up a shrine for Guanyin. He will burn real sandalwood incense and every day he will place the most perfect pears and oranges for her.
He looks at Zhihong, squinting to see deeper inside as an extra measure of assurance that he’s not kidding, that this isn’t some ruse that will end in another disappointment. Noticing the fine lines around Zhihong’s eyes, signs of age that emerged in the short time since he saw him last, Dawei sees a kind of sincerity that he can’t doubt.
“I’ll get you the script. But, how do I know you’ll get that half million kuai to me?”
Zhihong smiles and shakes his head. His eyes seem to search for something, perhaps some bit of the connection they had shared when the screenplay didn’t matter.
“It’s funny,” Zhihong says. “You’d think that with age comes wisdom but that’s not the case. I thought it would be easier for both of us if we stayed apart. I wondered how we would repair the damage that we’d cause by trying to live together. Romance flares and dies quickly, doesn’t it? And where would that leave us? We’d be left with pain and no prospects.”
Zhihong pauses and Dawei takes a step back from him. The comment about age strikes Dawei. Did Zhihong hear his thoughts?
“But, I’ve come to realize that maybe I misjudged how close we are. Or were. At least I still feel as strongly for you as I did when we first met. So, just as I’ve become wiser, I’ve somehow managed to lose you.”
The words and the defeated expression temper Dawei’s anger.
“This half a million kuai won’t be enough to regain your trust,” Zhihong says. “I would give you the full million in a second if I thought it would get us some kind of a life together. But that much probably wouldn’t do it either.”
He bows his head and begins to laugh, the saddest laugh Dawei has ever heard.
“So, I’m left with the life that I will live with my wife and the child she’s carrying now. Half a million kuai might make that life livable. And the other half might make your life better. And I’ll learn to be happy enough with that.”
*****
The edge of a manila envelope catches Jake’s eye as he walks by the mailbox vestibule next to the elevators, his IBM ThinkPad bag slung across one shoulder and a gym bag hanging off the other. The postal worker had to fold the envelope in half to get the document into the slot, making it visible without even opening the box. Otherwise, Jake wouldn’t have bothered to open the box. He uses his newsroom address for his cell phone bill and his home utilities are covered in his rent.
Feeling uneasy, Jake fumbles in his pocket to find his keys. His taxes are deducted automatically from his pay. All correspondence with friends goes through email or his phone. He’s arranged all official matters so that he’d never need to bother opening a physical mailbox.
The lock sticks and he jiggles the key to get it to turn. The door opens with a squeak and Jake pulls the envelope out. It’s addressed to Jake using his English and Chinese names, with the street address in Chinese. There’s no return address.
“Oh, God,” he whispers to himself as he opens the envelope and sees photos inside. Before he even sees them clearly, Jake knows what’s on them. The Tianjin incident and stills from the video taken in the bathroom of Destination a week or so earlier. The Beijing postmark is the only indication of its origin. Jake can only look at the first two photos. He shoves the photos back into the manila folder as a woman steps into the vestibule to get her mail.
He calls Ben.
The late afternoon light in Ritan Park is fading but the lamp posts haven’t yet switched on. There’s barely enough light for Ben, sitting next to Jake on a bench, to see clearly what’s happening in the photos.
“This is just a scare tactic,” he says. “Pathetic.”
Ben seems more certain about this than he has been about anything they’ve been grappling with so far but Jake won’t let himself breathe easier. Perhaps, he thinks, Ben is just delivering the obvious response. Why would anyone offer anything but reassurance? He’s certainly not going to say: “Wow. You’re fucked”.
“Jake, how do you think this would play if foreigners suddenly had to worry about surveillance in their hotel rooms when they’re visiting China?”
With this, Ben does have a point, especially considering how the government is trying to put forward the most welcoming face ahead of the Olympics. The arguments for concern and reassurance compete in Jake’s mind. He thinks about how these images, with captions that include his name, would look in some public forum. He’s always shocked at what shows up on Facebook profiles, which everyone seems to be tuning into these days. Maybe they would end up in a newspaper. He imagines the photos on page three of one of the Mainland-based Hong Kong tabloids as part of a feature on the sordid lives of Westerners in China.
The photos expose Jake in more than a purely graphic sense. He feels bludgeoned and paralysed, unable to fight back as his attackers close in for the kill.
“I can’t look at these anymore,” Ben says as he reaches for his crotch and shifts his sitting position. “They’re turning me on.”
The line catches Jake off guard and he chuckles reflexively. Ben’s perfect comedic timing chases away some of his tension. It takes a certain kind of intelligence to pull a laugh out of a miasma of despair and Jake wonders where Ben gets this ability. This audacity. In another time, Jake would have dwelt on the privilege and the enlightened environment Ben must have come from to be so free with his comments, to not muzzle his thoughts. But what’s the point in turning every interaction into some sociological polemic? And perhaps he should just be grateful that Ben is thoughtful enough to deliver a laugh. They’re on the same team in more ways than one.
“Well,” Jake says. “I guess I have other career options if journalism doesn’t work out.”
“Or just make it a part-time job to start,” Ben replies in a dead pan.
“This is probably not the most ideal time to ask you this, Ben, but how is it that you speak perfect Mandarin?”
The Wounded Muse Page 20