Taking a paper cone, I fill it with chilled water, drink, then disregard, the rower’s sliding back and forth causing my concentration to drift. My breath gently slowing.
“Daniel!” I suddenly hear, and turn.
It takes me a moment to realize it’s the Old-Timer.
“Hey, man,” I say, noting my anxiety rise. Our compartmentalized worlds outside recovery now collided and momentarily awkward. “You a member here?”
“Joined last month,” he says.
I take another cone—bend, fill, and drink.
“Thirsty?” he says.
“Hot,” I say.
I note the tiny glistening beads of sweat across his forehead, a white towel worn casually like a scarf. His ebony skin pulled tightly across worked biceps, legs strong after squats, confidence leaking after years of ostentation and self-care. I breathe in and rest my hands on my thickening waist.
“I’m going for a steam, fancy it?” I ask.
“I’m heading home now,” he says. “Another time, maybe?”
I nod, feeling a combination of relief and rejection as he wipes his palms down his fitted blue shorts. But the moment he turns and walks away I feel his slug of abandonment, familiar and braw, wishing he’d said yes.
In the steam room, three men are seated and discussing plans for the night, towels tucked loosely at their waists. Gorillas in the mist. One of the hairy men maneuvers his thick legs, making way for my arrival, nods, and then inhales with some effort the wet scent of minty-pine eucalyptus.
I lean back, worked muscles now loosening, the menthol heat opening up my chest. A lightness gradually felt in my head and causing a release of the day’s events. My mind drifts to Clara. I picture her dancing on that first night we met, a puff of red taffeta in her wake, shoes flung in some distant corner of the community hall while both men and women watched in awe. And then that kiss, our first of many fine kisses—I miss you, my love, we both do. Susannah thinks me a fool. A needy old fool. She believes she’s in love—
The door opens, mist clouding my sight before I finally realize the Old-Timer is standing beside me. Is close enough that I feel his leg graze my leg. He bends down, hands me a paper cone of chilled water.
“Have a good night.” He smiles, stroking me lightly on the shoulder. “See you next week.”
“See you.” I smile, aware the men are watching and alert to our intimate and somewhat unexpected exchange.
When the door closes I drink the triangle of water, then scrunch the damp paper with my fist. I lower my eyes again, a puff of freshly released mist clouding my view and acting as a smoke screen to what I imagine to be male side glances and hushed words. The image of Clara in her red dress suitably alive in my mind.
30
Alexa Wú
“Fantastic.” Jack smiles, his left eye resting on a loupe atop a contact sheet of magnified black-and-white images, his right eye closed for added focus. He slides from his ear an old-school red grease pencil and circles his favorites, my heart jumping sideways with each mark. On the count of his five preferred snaps I have to look away, my flustered chest about to burst.
“Really?” I say, a little too meekly.
“Here.” He points, handing me the loupe. “That’s the one!”
His favored shot: Billy on a swing with enormous blue-gray eyes, red wellington boots, his mother, Sandra, pushing him from behind. Grimacing in the background are all the trappings of a controlled demolition site: bright yellow machines, abandoned brick walls, and men at work. The sky a blanket of moving black clouds.
The photograph, I’d hoped, would speak of people living on the margins. Individuals and communities operating against the wrinkle of greed. Fat cats getting fatter. Defenseless birds forced to take flight. The wreckage of the boy’s village, no longer able to raise him the way it might if communities mattered in the slightest.
Jack smiles again.
“Great work, Alexa,” he says, squeezing my shoulder. “Email it over to the news desk and CC me.”
Yes, well done, Oneiroi adds, planting a delicate kiss on my cheek.
I settle at my computer and log into my account, Jack’s praise causing emotion inside me to rear, pride swelling and alive like I’m winning. I’ve known for some time that after my mother killed herself, my longing for recognition was boundless—much like a tidal wave or some titanic tree without roots—my ache for validation overwhelming and vast.
I click on Jack’s chosen shot.
“You know, you’ve adjusted so quickly,” he speaks across his shoulder. “Some of my other assistants haven’t been able to cope with the stress, you know, the obstacles that come with this kind of work: long hours, crowds, physical danger—but you’ve managed to juggle three or four things at once. Amazing.” If only you knew, I think, the Flock overhearing and agreeing from the Nest.
I turn to Jack, who is still holding the A4 contact sheet of images, suggestive of a world askew; his concentration pinned on Borough Market’s gritty and real outtakes, a pleased look on his face. I am suddenly stirred by his zeal, aware of the Flock also blushing with joy: Dolly’s excitement to hug Jack’s waist, Oneiroi’s desire to kiss his mouth, Runner’s cool high five, and the Fouls’ slow, dismissive glare.
I eventually settle on a broad smile while keeping a strong hold on the Light, the Body seemingly delighted to have achieved something good, something that might make a difference to a little boy and his mother.
31
Daniel Rosenstein
“There’s a parcel here for you,” the Receptionist says.
“Can you bring it through, please?”
Outside, Nurse Veal is walking the stretch of early morning lawn, a pair of navy mittened fists clenched behind her back. Blades of grass frosted like they’ve been dipped in sugar. She approaches Charlotte, huddled in a lumpy wool overcoat, a tray resting on her lap that I suspect is holding an unfinished jigsaw puzzle. The border always completed first. They chat for a while, Charlotte blowing on her fingers. Her warm breath releasing a dense fog.
A knock on the door.
“Come in,” I order.
The Receptionist approaches with a neat dash of efficiency and hands me the parcel. Her hair set free rather than in her usual twist.
“Thank you,” I say.
She smiles.
“How’s things? Your daughter settling into academic life?” I ask freely, knowing her daughter has recently left home. A bachelor’s in history sweeping her north to Edinburgh University.
“Good, thanks,” she says, yet I am not convinced. “Yes, she’s doing great. Not so sure about me, though,” she jokes, her voice shaking at the edge.
“Do you miss her?” I ask gently.
She nods, fingers the small gold clock on my desk, determined not to cry.
Silence.
“It’s hard letting daughters go,” she finally says.
“It is, but it’s important that we do,” I lie.
I picture Susannah at her birthday party, popping a champagne cork, her home bristling with attractive young people. Their love for her had felt like a shot in the arm. But as she smiled, I wasn’t entirely convinced: her jaw just a little tight, her attention faltering and somewhat preoccupied. “Speech!” one of her friends called, causing Susannah to blush a hot pink that almost matched her dress. “Speeeech!”
Her mild discomfort had bothered me, so I immediately stepped forward, considering a speech on her behalf, wanting to relieve her of her squirm. But then he stepped in. Drunk and entitled. His arm clamped around Susannah’s red waist.
The Receptionist collects a stray tissue from the floor—probably Charlotte’s—as if it’s her responsibility, neither avoiding nor begrudging the balled evidence of hurt. As she leaves, I regard the tan parcel, turning it over in search of a return address, suspicious of anonymity. There isn’t one. My address, however, is written in large cursive handwriting, rather like a child’s. Cautiously, I slice open the paper and bubble wrap
with Lucas’s silver letter opener. Inside: a martini glass and a white paper bag bristling with fresh lychees. Around the stem of the glass is a small swing tag. On it, written in a slightly different hand:
Cheers!
Love, the Flock xx
A gift.
I bite the top off one of the rubbery lychees and pop the slippery flesh out whole, picturing Alexa, a little girl, laughing at her silly dad. The man who continues to live, rent free, in her head. Troubling her with his visits like some psychological squatter. I chew on the sweet fruit, spitting its smooth black pip in the metal waste bin beneath my desk. Ping.
I picture Alexa. Her hands stroking the loose tie on her blouse. Her waist a skyline for my greed. Jade-green eyes absorbing every flickering feeling she has aroused in me.
I take out my notebook.
Alexa Wú: November 29
I have received a parcel from the Flock: a bag of fresh lychees and a martini glass. This after a rather lively and playful session where Alexa tried to convince me to not go on vacation (see p. 123 of notes). A different hand was used to write on the envelope and the note attached. Her playfulness is indication that parts of her trust our relationship. I am interested by this, but also intrigued to think about the eroticization of her gift-giving—
I wonder, is this a gift that a girlfriend might send you . . . ?
Note countertransference: Zealous, aroused. Conflict.
32
Alexa Wú
A sterile zing of mountain pine mixed with steamed lotus root invades my nostrils. Not an entirely unpleasant smell, I think.
Are you kiddin’? Runner says, masking our nose. It stinks!
And now Dolly joins in: Yeah; it’s real pongy, Alexa.
I look around the unfamiliar kitchen, small and desperately clean. A square mountain of paper towels waiting next to a pair of pink rubber gloves that are hanging over the sink like some Dalíesque udder of a cow. On the windowsill: a white plastic lucky cat charged with sunlight, waving its paw up and down, up and down. Its slow smile teetering on menace.
Home is where we start from . . .
—a decorative sign reads, nailed above a tower of rice bowls stacked like the leaning tower of Pisa. The hum of the oven extractor so loud and cranky—like turbines of an airplane—that it feels like the kitchen walls are about to blow off at any second.
Cassie moves from wok to oven, oven to wok. Slow and meditative. A minor excursion to an oak chopping board where bok choy lies washed and limp, her hands wielding a precise steel chopper that would do well in the woods.
“We’ll just stay for a while,” Ella whispers. “I’ve promised I’ll take Grace to see a movie later.”
“Okay.” I nod.
She knows I have mixed feelings about being here. Had checked in with the Flock before we arrived—Runner stepping out and saying, “We’ll be okay,” on our behalf.
Ella watches Cassie flip the wok—soy sauce added for salt—and wait for the right moment between the rise and dip of flames to taste. The smell of garlic and chili is so delicious I feel my tummy roll.
“Navid said you might need help setting up one of the rooms,” Ella shouts over the oven extractor, “or with some of the girls. He mentioned them needing a little help with their English.”
Cassie smiles. “One minute,” she says, wringing the chopped bok choy, water leaking from the floppy dark green leaves like from a shaken umbrella. With an air of satisfaction she throws the greens on top of what I know to be pig’s trotters, then adds a slather of honey, a scattering of sesame seeds. This was one of my father’s favorite dishes. Suddenly, in a flash of remembrance, I picture my father, so alive he could be here right now, devouring the glistening, sweet flesh, his nose deep in the pot of suckling pig, the smell catapulting me back. His hair slicked back, a blaring-white shirt with its sleeves folded at his elbows.
Ella turns to me, then eyes three late-teen girls in various states of undress, their legs crossed, waiting around a low wooden table. Together they huddle around a ritual of green tea, four tiny cups. The most delicate cup set aside for Cassie, with a swirling orange dragon chasing its tail. One of the girls reaches for a set of chopsticks resting in a mug of disinfectant. She looks me up and down, stabs her sleek bun with one of the sticks.
“Tā mā de xiāngjiāo!” She snickers.
The three girls cackle like Macbeth’s weird sisters—
Fair is foul,
and foul is fair;
Hover through the fog and filthy air.
I don’t respond, knowing not to show my bilingual hand just yet. Their internalized racism and self-loathing like an invisible dagger turned in upon themselves, and then out again at me. Their faces all twisted. I realize it is a learned behavior so entrenched that they can only hate.
Cassie bows her head close to the sticky pig’s trotters and inhales, her nose almost touching the glazed succulent flesh. With her bok choy hand she spoons up the glistening aromatic liquid. Takes a slurp.
“Mm, good meat. Try some,” she says, offering me her spoon.
I walk over. Bend down and taste.
“Mm. Nice,” I say, the flavor reminding me of my father’s world.
She pulls at the pork with pinched fingers, offering me the familiar flesh. “Builds strength, this meat. Hǎo bu hǎo?”
“Good.” I nod.
“You speak Mandarin?” she asks.
I turn and face the three girls.
“Shì.” I speak sharply. “Wǒ bùshì tā mā de xiāngjiāo!”
Cassie lets out a screeching laugh. Throws an unexpected tea towel at the three tea-sipping girls.
“Oh, she’s smart!” she shouts. “And she’s no xiāngjiāo!”
Cassie spoons me another taste. “Where are you from?”
“Here,” I say. “But my dad’s from Guihua Subdistrict.”
“No!”
I nod. “Yep, he came over a long time ago.”
“Still see him?”
“No.”
She places her hand on my shoulder. “I’m from Xintangpo. Your dad would know this—Guihua, Xintangpo, and Daijialing were all part of the township before they got moved into the district.” Laughing, she slaps my back, making me aware of her strength. “We’re practically neighbors! Like family.”
I fake-smile, joining in with her spirited joy. Hahahahahahahaha. I will gain her trust, I tell myself. Hahahahahahahaha. Shaun. Cassie. I will fool them both and get what we need to take that bastard Navid down. Yeah, Runner agrees, we’ll gather as much evidence as we can against them here and at the club—the illegal girls, the videos, the money laundering—then we’ll take it to the police.
I’ll drain him dry as hay.
Sleep shall neither night nor day
Hang upon his penthouse lid.
He shall live a man forbid.
“What was that all about?” Ella asks, heading up the sanded wooden stairs to the second floor, me following with my portable fake smile.
“They called me a banana, a xiāngjiāo. Yellow on the outside, white on the inside.”
“That’s horrible!” she says, pulling a face like a child being forced to eat vegetables.
“I know,” I say. “It hurts. Fucking bitches.”
“Do you think those girls speak any English at all?”
“A little, maybe,” I whisper. “Navid and Cassie will want them to know enough to follow directions and run errands, but not so much that they’re too independent. That’s probably why he’s asked you to help them. What did he say?”
“Just that. To teach them the basics. Nothing else.”
“Makes sense. If they’re self-sufficient they might cause havoc.”
You’re right, Runner adds, best way to control anyone is to have them feel as far away from home as possible. That includes not understanding the language where they live.
I count a total of five bedrooms in the Groom House: three on the top floor and two on the second. The walls are mostly ba
re, save for the occasional postcard or watermark. Cassie rears up behind us and points us into a small room with whitewashed walls just like the dressing rooms in the Electra. A red silk sarong hangs from a pole made of pine.
I steal a look in the room next door: two single beds nudged together, a king-size duvet to share. In the corner is a gigantic plush panda with huge jet glass eyes.
Looks stoned, Runner sniggers.
The panda reminds me of the toys seen at fairgrounds but rarely won, the lure of their size and cuteness always more appealing than the half-dead goldfish, which is more often the prize.
Cassie shifts a single mattress with her bare foot, knocking over a Hello Kitty alarm clock and a silver-framed photograph of Poi-Poi with two people I assume are her grandparents. The three of them are playing on the beach, sun beating down. I pick up the frame and place it on the pine dresser. A smiling Poi-Poi stares back at me, hair pigtailed, hands busy patting a blue plastic sand castle bucket. A yellow spade raised to the clear sky.
“These girls,” Cassie warns, tapping the frame with a dismissive hand, “too stupid, too sentimental about home.”
“Where is home?” I ask.
“All over,” she says, pushing the old mattress against the wall. “Different girls, different homes.”
The three of us drag the mattress out of the small box room, instructed by Cassie to lean it against the curving stair banister—a trail of crisp packets, melon drop candy wrappers, and an Angelina Ballerina magazine caught under the mattress’s lumpy weight.
Opening the room’s small window, Ella lets in the night breeze. Several dead flies lie scattered on the windowsill, legs in the air, wings weighted with dust. She aims and flicks each one. I imagine them landing beside the red bamboo plants below, their tiny insect bodies eventually freezing from the bitter cold. A picture of my mother’s ending suddenly comes to mind, hers being quite the opposite of the flies’. A blowtorch swiftly worked on her broken body, a hot fire erasing her from my world.
The Eighth Girl Page 19