Lovely Flawed

by Brian Barton

  “Hello? Anyone here?” I say.

  “Ms. Hui!” calls a voice from the adjoining room. De La Gottari breezes into the reception area, full of conviviality. He looks over at Mingmei and registers surprise. “Well, hello to the both of you! We’ve been expecting you, Li Hua. Please, please come in,” he says, shaking our hands.

  De La Gottari touches me lightly on the elbow, looks at me, and smiles. That’s some forced smile. He motions toward his office with an outstretched arm, so we walk in front of him to the inner sanctum.

  Inside his wood-paneled office, I notice Mrs. Notrabi sitting at a low table. She stands as we enter, shaking our hands. I notice Zheng leaning against a far wall, wraparound sunglasses on his face. He cradles his Strad and wears a tight white tank top and jogging pants that show off his cut physique. He’s sulking and angry. Standard Zheng.

  Books line the shelves of De La Gottari’s spacious office, and I can feel how lush the carpet is under foot. I look around and see a handful of music stands scattered throughout the office and dozens of opened music books on tables and shelves.

  “You said you had something urgent to tell us. Mrs. Notrabi assured me that this matter was of the highest importance,” De La Gottari says. “All of us canceled plans to be here. I hope you’re not wasting our time, Ms. Hui,” he says. De La Gottari pulls down on his sport coat and hikes up his trousers.

  “Out with it,” Zheng says curtly. He walks over to De La Gottari, holding his violin.

  “We saw the photos of you with Jeff Goldburger,” De La Gottari says. “Your probation was revoked because you’re not allowed to date a member of the orchestra. Your case is closed.”

  “I accepted the punishment from the committee a month ago because I believe in the orchestra. I believe in following the rules. But, I want to share something I learned.” I look over and notice Mrs. Notrabi and Mingmei listening to me carefully.

  “Claffer has been active when it comes to the orchestra. Some very mean things are being said on social media. These are lies. And I believe I know the source of these malicious posts.”

  “Nobody believes that crap,” Zheng says. “Besides, what does this have to do with your job? Or us?” Zheng sets his Strad down gently on the maestro’s desk before leaning back, next to De La Gottari. That’s like putting one million dollars in cash on a table. Zheng folds his arms in front of him and puffs out his chest.

  “Who knows the goings-on of the orchestra? Enough to report them in all of this detail? I had a hunch after I got sent the photos on the airplane to Tokyo. I approached De La Gottari and told him I thought I knew who was posting these lies. I asked him to write down a rumor on a piece of paper.”

  “This is true,” De La Gottari confirms, nodding his head.

  “I’m already bored,” Zheng says. “Is there anything resembling a point in the future?”

  “You have my attention, Ms. Hui,” Mrs. Notrabi says.

  “De La Gottari wrote this rumor down on the flight.” I put the piece of paper in front of Mrs. Notrabi and read it aloud. “The rumor says that thirty-two orchestra members will be losing their jobs.”

  I notice Mingmei shifting uncomfortably on her feet.

  “So? What does that prove?” Zheng says.

  “Neither De La Gottari nor I said anything to anyone else about this rumor. But it just popped up on Claffer this morning. Check your phones. So, how did it get on Claffer?” I say.

  “No one believes that cheap rumor mill,” Mingmei says.

  “Except I did share the rumor. I shared that fake news with one person. And they put it on Claffer for thousands to see. Mingmei,” I say, turning around to her.

  “What!? Sister, you’ve got to be kidding me! You told me no such thing. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mingmei says.

  I stand there looking at Mingmei and my heart suddenly drops. I suspected she was involved, but she just confirmed it. She just lied to my face about our conversation on the plane. Her betrayal is confirmed.

  “I have proof.”

  “This is your strategy to get your job back? To accuse other people of lying? You’re way out of line,” Zheng says.

  “Sister, I would never do such a thing,” Mingmei says. She comes over and stands right next to me, her hand resting gently on my arm. Take your hand off me.

  “Claffer’s offices are in Times Square. These online postings violate their libel policy. You can’t ruin someone’s reputation just because you do it online. Libel is against the law. I went over to their offices today and filled out some paperwork. They released their computer records to me under the Electronic Freedom of Information Act.”

  “Bleep. Bloop. Geek Girl has a theory. I’m bored again,” Zheng says.

  “I’m interested,” Mrs. Notrabi says. “Go on.”

  “Anyone can get the IP address of any computer they suspect is involved in a crime. It’s like getting the name, address, telephone number, and fingerprint of anyone who does anything online,” I continue. “Electronic libel is very serious.”

  Zheng sighs dramatically and shifts his feet.

  “Please continue, Ms. Hui,” De La Gottari says.

  “I contacted the orchestra’s IT department. They traced the IP addresses I got from Claffer. The IP address for the username @CONCERTMASTERZHENGNYC resolves to the personal computer Zheng uses in his orchestra office. That makes sense. But here’s where it gets interesting. The username @CLASSICALMUSICGOSSIPNYC resolves to the same computer. His personal laptop. Here.” I place a printout from the orchestra IT department on De La Gottari’s desk.

  “This is bullshit. You’re making this all up,” Zheng says, snatching the paper away.

  “It’s the @CLASSICALMUSICGOSSIPNYC account that’s been posting vicious rumors about me and De La Gottari. Interestingly, we’re the only two orchestra members being attacked on social media,” I say.

  “Let me see that,” De La Gottari says, taking the paper from Zheng. Mrs. Notrabi stands and heads over to De La Gottari, peering over his shoulder.

  “The posts from @SEXYCLASSICALMUSICGIRLSNYC are coming from the IP address of an international mobile device. I had the IT department track that down, too.” Mingmei shifts on her feet and starts pacing the room. “The IP resolves to the smartphone owned by Mingmei. She’s the one who took the photos of Jeff and me with her camera, and she’s the one reinforcing the rumors being posted by Zheng’s fake Claffer account.”

  “It was Zheng!” Mingmei blurts out. “Zheng told me to do it. He said he’d promote me if I went along with his games. He said I had to get you and De La Gottari out of the picture!”

  “You’re lying,” Zheng says to Mingmei. “I had nothing to do with any of this. Mingmei is the liar. You’re not even Taiwanese! You’ve just been pretending to trick Li Hua. Go on! Tell her where you’re really from,” he says. “You’re from Beijing, just like me.” Mingmei stomps over to Zheng, stabbing her finger in his chest. “You tricked me! You said everything would be fine if I went along,” she steams at him.

  “Easy!” De La Gottari says to them both. “Is this true, Zheng?” De La Gottari asks. “Are you the one behind these malicious postings?”

  “I did no such thing. You can’t stop gossip,” Zheng says.

  “The orchestra IT department’s records are indisputable. Call them for yourself. These lies are coming from Zheng’s personal computer and from Mingmei’s mobile. All of these records are public.” I look over at Zheng. “Privacy is, how did you describe it? Dead.” I smile at him.

  “You fucking manipulative cunt!” Zheng says to me. “You’re the one behind these lies. You planted these rumors. How do we know you’re not on Claffer? Maybe you made all of this up to cover your tracks.”

  “Why would I destroy my own career and De La Gottari? What would I gain? I lost my job and the only thing that mattered to me. I have nothing. What would I gain by destroying myself?”

  “You’d get sympathy; there’s that,” Zheng says.
/>   “Sympathy doesn’t pay bills. Sympathy isn’t a career,” I tell him.

  “Please. Everyone. Let’s take a step back,” Mrs. Notrabi says. “These are serious allegations and will require some consideration. There’s no need to escalate matters here. We’ll take this under advisement,” she says. “Mr. De La Gottari and I will confer and get back to you,” she says to me. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention.”

  “Zheng, you manipulated Mingmei because she was the easiest way for you to become maestro. You knew you needed to destroy De La Gottari to get the top job, but you needed help spreading your lies. And you wanted to destroy me because you never liked me. It’s my nationality you hate. Ruining me was icing on the cake,” I say.

  I turn to Mingmei. “You’re not really from Taiwan?” I look at her and she looks down at the ground, avoiding my eyes. “After everything you told me. I should’ve suspected it; all of your rah-rah nationalist pride.” I raise my voice at her. “I was there for you. I supported you. How could you?! I love Taiwan! Formosa is me!” I say, thrusting my fist in the air.

  Mingmei stabs her finger in Zheng’s chest, tears in her eyes. “You said we were going to build something,” she says. “You said we’d have a future together.” Mingmei starts screaming at Zheng, inches from his face. “You said you loved me! You said you were going to marry me! You said we’d have a life in the U.S.!” Mingmei picks up Zheng’s Strad off the table. In a flash, she lifts it above her head and smashes it on the corner of the table, shattering it into pieces.

  “NO!” Zheng screams. “FUCK! You fucking CUNT!” Zheng lunges at Mingmei as De La Gottari dives between them, trying to halt the melee.

  “Security!” Mrs. Notrabi screams, rushing into the other room.

  De La Gottari wrestles with Zheng as Mingmei collapses on the floor, sobbing.

  HEN I GET HOME THAT NIGHT, I REALIZE THAT MY FRIENDSHIP COLUMN HAS JUST decreased by one. I putter around my apartment feeling exhausted—and famished. I make a quick salad and sit on my couch. Instead of pouring myself a glass of wine, I take out a liter of water. I guzzle the entire bottle as I sit and eat.

  After weeks of sleepless nights, exhaustion overcomes me. By 8 P.M., I collapse on my bed. That night, I sleep more soundly than I ever have before. I don’t recall my dreams, but I have the most nourishing rest. I awake the next morning after fifteen hours in dreamland. I stretch as I stand, and realize that the tension and anxiety in my body is gone.

  I check my phone and I see I have a voicemail from the orchestra. It’s Mrs. Notrabi. They’re re-opening my case file, she says. Stay tuned for updates, she advises, but things are encouraging. I spend the next week doing errands and taking care of my apartment. The springtime always make me want to take better care of myself and my place. I do some spring cleaning while I’m home and vow to ride my bike more.

  I never hear from Mingmei, but I get a text from Jeff. He tells me he’s sorry about his behavior. He wouldn’t blame me if I never wanted to speak with him again, he says. But he wants me to know one thing. He believes in me.

  Something motivates me to write back to him. I email him because it feels safer, more distant. I’m not sure I’m ready to see him or hear his voice. We exchange a few polite emails and he tells me he heard about what happened at the Dark Castle. He tells me that Zheng has left the orchestra and will be returning to Beijing. Him and Mingmei. Zheng even found another position back home.

  My mobile phone rings on Wednesday night around 7:30. I usually don’t pick up when I don’t recognize the number, but I figure I might as well. I recognize the voice right away: De La Gottari. He asks me if I’d be willing to join him again. On stage. He has plans for me, he says. He believes in me. And he wants to give me a lot more responsibility.

  De La Gottari asked the orchestra to file immigration paperwork so that I can live in the United States openly—as a legal resident. He promises he’ll do what he can to ensure I receive asylum in the U.S. He’ll even write a personal letter of recommendation endorsing my application for citizenship. And he wants to do the same thing for my family. Unbeknownst to me, Jeff approached him and told him about my immigration issues.

  It’s too late to rejoin the orchestra for the New York City show. After all, it’s this coming Saturday. Besides, with Zheng and Mingmei gone, what would De La Gottari do? But he has other plans, he tells me. He’s postponing the New York City performance. He wants to go back into rehearsal to train some new members. That’s when he tells me to check Claffer. There’s some important news there he wants me to read. I hang up with him and check my phone:

  @NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA ANNOUNCING OUR NEW ASSISTANT CONCERTMASTER, MS. LI HUA HUI. CONGRATULATIONS –D.L.G. #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA

  @CLASSICALMUSICGOSSIPNYC SOMETIMES THE GOOD GUY WINS #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA

  EET ME IN CHINATOWN, ON BAYARD AND MOTT. YOU’RE GETTING AN OUTDOOR MASSAGE. Wear something comfortable and show a little skin.” That’s the voicemail I get after stepping out of the shower. The plan sounds a little sketchy. Even for Tony. I get dressed and find the address on a map. I text him back: ON MY WAY.

  I grab a 6 from Union Square, heading to Canal. The heat punishes me as I emerge from the station and head south on Lafayette. I navigate down the sidewalk, avoiding towering stacks of black plastic bags. The uncollected trash gives off that only-in-New-York stench of garbage that we city denizens know so well.

  The touts hawk their faux luxury goods on Canal and I spy tables of designer handbags, tchotchkes, and T-shirts tempting the tourist masses. Wending my way east, I get caught in a few stop-and-go tourist backups.

  I notice the Mott traffic signal up ahead and see the pedestrian sign on the other side of the street counting down. I make a run for it and dart across Canal before the light changes. I land safely on the south side of the street and look up to orient myself.

  I head down the block some more and see Bayard Street. Looking around, I see a man who looks like Tony holding two ice cream cones. I get closer and notice the man has a cigarette in his mouth. Now I’m sure. He sees me coming and looks more than a little relieved.

  “Hi, baby. This ice cream is awful,” he says. He removes the unlit cigarette from his mouth, laughs, then kisses the top of my head. He hands me a sweltering cone. “Want some?”

  “It’s already melted!” I take a cone and lick the veins dribbling down the misshapen treat.

  “It’s green tea ice cream. Green tea. It tastes as bad as it sounds.”

  “You’re such an old, uncultured white guy.”

  “Correction. Old, uncultured, white Jew,” he says.

  “I got mango-ginger,” he says with a sour face. “Whatever happened to chocolate and strawberry?”

  “It’s Chinatown, Tony; not Hackensack.”

  We walk a little and find a shaded bench near a playground. We sit and lick our cones in silence. I look over at him and he seems a little forlorn. “I missed you, baby,” he says finally.

  “Me, too.” I scoot over to him and nuzzle my head close to his face. “It looks like you’ve lost some weight,” I say, looking him over. “You look good.”

  “Thanks. I’m concerned about my jogging. It’s interfering with my smoking time,” he laughs.

  The sun is now directly in my eyes, and my body is striped by shade.

  “Come here, baby,” he says, wrapping an arm around me. He massages my neck and shoulders as I try to manage my melting cone. Tony hands me a napkin and resumes his rubbing.

  I look out at the playground and notice pigeons hunting for food. A few kids wait in line for the swings as their parents huddle under the shade from an overhang. A few smaller kids sit in a sandbox near the jungle gym.

  I see one little boy sifting the sand between his fingers. He grabs a handful of sand, brings it up toward the sky, then watches the time fall away. A surprising peace comes over me.

  Tony keeps rubbing my neck and shoulders. “What are you doing?” I ask.

 
“Giving you a massage.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can,” he says, laughing. An incredibly imperfect peace.

  I look over at Tony and my eyes well up. “I love you, Tony.”

  “I love you, too, baby. This is your Chinatown massage. With happy ending.” He belly laughs.

  “You’re sick, you know that?”

  “Welcome to the happily ever after, baby.”

  Also by Brian Barton

  Brooklyn Girls Don’t Cuddle

  The Girl Curves

  Acknowledgments

  I’m grateful to all of the artists, friends, musicians, writers, and editors who lent their support during the creation of this book. A huge thank you to the following people (alphabetically): Bill, Brian, Caroline, D.M.T., Doree, Fang Tao, J.K., Jenny, Joanne, Lisa, Luisa, Kristen, and Margarita.

  About Brian Barton

  Brian Barton lives and works in New York City. Some of his favorite activities in NYC include eating ice cream at Big Gay Ice Cream and buying books at The Strand. He loves nice suits and smart shoes. More books from Brian Barton can be found here.

  Sorry to Bother You

  Book reviews are essential for authors, especially for independent authors like me. When you flip a couple more pages, Amazon will give you a chance to rate this book. If you enjoyed it, would you write a review? If you’re on Facebook or Twitter, you can post your review that way. It all helps get the word out. I’d really appreciate it.

  Thanks,

  Brian

  Table of Contents

  Also by Brian Barton

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO