by Justin Hill
They took a cab back to the Space Rocket Factory, the glare of streetlights speeding up and then disappearing behind them. Peach flopped across the back seats, started singing a pop tune to herself. It was all about being in love, about spring, a mountainside of blossoms. Sun An thought she sounded beautiful. The driver decided he’d charge a bit extra. If fate gives you a couple of drunks then it was a foolish man who refused to take advantage.
‘That’s fifteen yuan,’ he said when they’d arrived.
Sun An guiltily counted out his last few notes. He only had twelve yuan, five fen. He counted them again. They made a small wad of one-and two-yuan notes; but it was all the money he had. Parting with it made him feel like he’d just paid for the meal all over again.
‘All right–don’t worry,’ the driver said as he stuffed the notes into his pocket. ‘As you have a video shop I’ll let you off.’
Sun An felt guilty. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘Give her a bit of fresh air!’ the driver shouted as he pulled off. ‘She’ll be more fun if she sobers up a bit.’
Sun An fumbled with the lock, then pushed the door open. ‘What did he mean?’ Peach asked as he shushed her, pushed her inside the dark room.
‘I don’t want to wake my sister up,’ he whispered. ‘She’s asleep.’
Peach leant on Sun An and let him feel the way across the room. He thought he ought to give her some food, maybe let her sleep then take her back. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, leading her to the bed to sit down.
‘Fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ she said, her fingers groping in the darkness and finding nothing. She stepped forward and felt his arm, draped her arms across his shoulders. Her body pressed up close. Sun An could feel his dick start to fill with blood. ‘Do you really love me?’ Peach asked. She swayed a little, held up by his arms.
‘Of course I love you,’ he said, still thinking of the cost of the meal. ‘And you love me?’
‘Of course I love you,’ Peach giggled, and fell back onto the bed, bumped her head on the wall.
Sun An helped her back up, rubbed the spot where it hurt and pulled her into a hug. ‘Do you truly love me?’
Peach’s face stared up at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. Her skin was pale in the darkness, her eyes were shadows. Sun An was going to say something back, but instead he kissed her.
Pressed his mouth down onto hers. She lay back and let him kiss her, his kisses became more and more passionate. Sun An was so erect he had to move position, his balls started aching. Her breathing made him more excited. He clasped her breasts and groaned; pulled her T-shirt and bra up, let her breasts spill out. Her nipples were hard. He tweaked them between his fingers, started to kneed, then bent down and sucked them both, one after the other.
Sun An could hear Peach mumble something as he pulled her T-shirt up over her head, and dropped it onto the floor. Their groins were against each other, and they started to rub. They kept rubbing, and Sun An’s balls ached so much they hurt. He tilted to the side to relieve the pressure, reached down, started to undo her zip. Inside her pants she was warm and damp. He could feel his palm pulling on her pubic hair, so he pushed the top of her trousers down, slipped his hand inside her.
Sun An moaned again. He was so in love as he knelt up and pulled her trousers off. He stroked the smooth flesh of her legs, tangled his fingers in her underwear, then pulled them off, dropped them onto the floor. He lay on top of her again and kissed her, thrust his tongue in and around her mouth. He rubbed himself against her. He moaned with pleasure, it was more love than he had ever known before. He reached down and fumbled with his belt; wriggled his own trousers down, pushed himself upright and got them down as far as his knees. His dick was as taut as a drawn bow. It wobbled precariously, like it was about to fall over. He smoothed his hands down her spread legs, down her thighs. ‘I love you,’ he said, the words catching in his throat as he pushed her up the bed.
Sun An stared at the dark patch between her legs, lined himself up and lowered himself down. He pushed for the hole but it wasn’t there. His penis hurt as it thrust against her skin. He couldn’t find the hole.
Sun An lifted his buttocks and reached down. He took hold of his penis, it felt like it was about to explode. He found the right bit and pushed. She was tight and it hurt, but he kept pushing. Peach’s insides were warm and wet and intoxicating.
Sun An groaned.
He pulled back and slid in again.
Went further this time.
Out and in again.
It had taken a few weeks for Fat Pan to finalise the details of the investment with Da Shan’s friends. After the contracts were signed, he decided he would have a celebrationary meal with his officers. It was always good to keep morale up, he told himself.
Fat Pan drew up a list of people: the Shaoyang Communist Party Secretary, his superior officer, the local mayor. There was the man at the police vice squad, it always helped to keep him well disposed; and also the local government planning official. He pencilled in two of his subordinates and then stopped. He couldn’t not invite Da Shan. Da Shan had given him the contacts after all, and he was good at keeping everyone drinking. Yes, Fat Pan decided, Da Shan could be the entertainment.
All the guests met at a place called the Jia Family Restaurant. A special room was set aside, with a table, sofas and a karaoke machine. Fat Pan sang ‘The Girl Next Door,’ while the other men had a few rounds of drinks, played drinking games and toasted each other with formal enthusiasm. Da Shan managed to persuade the Mayor of Shaoyang, a little man with a big opinion of himself, to sing, and he sang a patriotic song about the return of Hong Kong to the Motherland, very badly. Everyone clapped enthusiastically when he’d finished, then the Shaoyang Communist Party Secretary decided he would have to sing as well. Soon they were all clamouring to sing, and their singing added to the tuneless clamour.
Da Shan encouraged each man and found that he was quite enjoying himself. More than just enjoying himself, actually having a good time. It was as if he had forgotten how simple a pleasure being drunk was. It was like being on holiday from yourself.
The waitresses were short and pretty members of the Jia family. They acted as if they were the reason the restaurant was so popular, and served the food with a sullen resignation. First came cold starters of spinach salad, boiled peanuts and fried egg plant salad. This was followed by an assortment of fried dishes: Bitter Melon, Pork Stomach, Sweet and Sour Pig’s Fat. No one really ate much of these dishes, because they were all waiting for the restaurant speciality: steamed carp seasoned with slices of ginger and spring onion and sesame-seed oil.
Fat Pan ordered three; they came each on a separate plate and were set down on the table, one of the girls spilling a little of the juice over Fat Pan’s left leg.
‘Excuse me,’ the girl said as she left, as if it was Fat Pan’s fault. His face was pink with the wine, and he pointed at the wet trail across his thigh. ‘Excuse me!’ he repeated and all the men laughed. ‘Excuse me!’
It was decided by popular agreement that anyone who had a fish’s head pointing in their direction had to drink three cups. Those who had a tail had to drink four. The whole table burst into raucous shouting when Da Shan moved the table so that Fat Pan found that he had a head and a tail pointing in his direction.
‘Whoa!’ Da Shan clapped when Fat Pan finished his last cup and belched queasily. He gave him the thumbs up, joined in the chorus of shouting voices. ‘You’re really strong! Good, very good!’
Another bottle of Open Your Mouth and Smile Wine was brought and opened.
‘Open Your Mouth and Not Smile!’ Da Shan cracked and they roared with laughter. They were so drunk they’d laugh at anything.
When the carps had been picked down to their slender skeletons the waitresses cleared all the dishes away and brought in the fillers in case anyone was still hungry. There were three kinds of dumplings, steamed bread stuffed with minced dofu and spring
onions, plain rice congee and a pile of mini-steamed breads that had red dots on top in the shape of the character for ‘Wealth’.
The men fell upon them with the hunger of the drunk. Some called for vinegar while others called for chilli paste, the waitresses brought neither. ‘How can we eat dumplings without sauce?’ Fat Pan chastised the owner, Uncle Jia’s eldest son, who apologised for his nieces and brought the vinegar and chilli paste himself.
The men dipped their dumplings into the chilli and vinegar, admired the delicacy of the fillings, the subtle blend of flavours. There was beef and mushroom; lamb and watermelon rind, pork and bamboo shoot.
‘Crispy and soft!’ Fat Pan announced. ‘Greasy and light!’
‘A healthy combination,’ the Shaoyang Communist Party Secretary declared, and everyone agreed. Agreement and the Shaoyang Communist Party Secretary was another healthy combination.
The Mayor and Party Secretary left after the meal, but Fat Pan and the other army officers decided to go to a place in the centre of town called the Joy Happiness Night Club. Da Shan said he was a bit too drunk but they all insisted. ‘The wine would taste stale without you,’ they told him, ‘come along, just for the company.’
The Joy Happiness Night Club turned out to be another of the People’s Liberation Army ventures, managed by Fat Pan’s team. There was one girl for each man, to pour the drink and light the cigarettes. The minute Da Shan took a sip of his beer his girl filled the glass up again till it dribbled down the side. Whenever he stubbed a cigarette out she pulled another one from the pack and lit it. She followed his thoughts before he even thought them. If he hadn’t have been so drunk it would have made him a little bit uneasy.
Fat Pan was so drunk he could barely keep himself upright. He had a feeling that everyone was laughing at him, which was made worse by the fact he thought he had the ugliest girl. She said her name was Fragrant Beauty, but she had gap teeth and when she smiled it looked more like a leer. Da Shan was telling a story about Fat Pan when he was a student: how he’d gone out one night and got drunk and been sick in the dormitory–and Fat Pan could tell that she wanted to burst out laughing.
When Da Shan reached the punch-line, ‘A real case of a fart turning into a bottle of perfume!’ his girl couldn’t stop herself, and joined in with everyone else, hahaha! She saw Fat Pan’s glaring eyes and tried to smother her giggling behind her hand, but failed. Fat Pan saw the attempt to hide her amusement and wasn’t sure which annoyed him most–the laughter or the poor attempt to hide it. It was all Da Shan’s fault, he thought, he shouldn’t have invited him.
Fat Pan rubbed his eyebrows, tried to keep himself awake. He shouldn’t have invited Da Shan just to have him tell stories about him. If it wasn’t for him Da Shan would still be in prison. If it wasn’t for him; he was an important person, he was Vice-Commander Pan of the People’s Liberation Army! Why the fuck did he have to have this stupid ugly girl?
Fat Pan tried to visualise Liu Bei lying on the bed, wearing the dress he’d given her. The pleasure of knowing what Da Shan didn’t know, the power it gave him over him.
‘Oh we had fun,’ Da Shan was saying, ‘we really did.’
Fat Pan raised his beer for a toast and the men all joined in, ‘To having fun with old friends!’ he shouted, and they all drank.
When Fat Pan passed out in his chair Da Shan and the army officers decided enough was enough. There was a ten-minute fight over who should pay, two men holding Fat Pan upright and stopping him from going and joining in. He squinted at the row, hardly understanding what was happening, till he saw Da Shan paying, when he felt he was being upstaged at his own wedding.
‘Heh! Let me pay,’ he slurred but no one was listening to him, they were all laughing and he didn’t know why. ‘Fuck you!’ he said and lunged, and they all started laughing more.
Fat Pan and the army officers climbed into a taxi and Da Shan waved them off. The camp gates were shut, but when the guards saw the men’s uniforms they let them inside. One of the officers helped Fat Pan to his front door, then left him there, still swearing and cursing.
Fat Pan stepped inside his house and leant against the wall as he took his shoes off and changed into his wife’s slippers. His house was bent–the floors sloped, the walls moved away or up close without warning–and his slippers seemed to have shrunk five sizes.
He needed water.
Fat Pan walked through to the kitchen and turned on the light. His wife had demanded the kitchen be re-tiled and now all the surfaces gleamed newly back at him, dazzling for a moment and making him wobble even more. He poured himself a bowl of warm water and carried it through to the sitting room, spilling it down his front. There were karaoke videos scattered over the floor. Fat Pan kicked them out of the way, cursed his wife and her friends and then hung his head over the steaming bowl.
He sat and inhaled, cleaning his nostrils and then taking a long deep slurp. He sat back and blinked his eyes. His mind was so slow with drink all he could think about was the meal, that girl’s leer and the perfume-bottle joke. They kept jostling around in his head; clamouring for attention.
Fuckers.
Fat Pan took another slurp, closed his eyes, tried to silence Da Shan’s voice, to stop the world from spinning.
Fuckers, he thought again, and got up, steadied himself for a moment then staggered across to the bookshelf. His hands scrambled around for some writing paper and an envelope, then he staggered back to the sofa, which suddenly jumped out at him and made him fall over into it. His face pressed hard against the cushions. Fucking fuckers, as he pushed his body upright. He put the paper on the table and smeared a droplet of ink across the envelope. He strained to keep the table steady as he leant his body weight on his elbows and began, very carefully, to write a letter that explained to Da Shan exactly where his old lover now worked, and how much it cost to fuck her.
Da Shan’s taxi driver was a middle-aged woman who liked to talk. She rambled on about the number of night clubs there were in Shaoyang now, and Da Shan lay back into the back seat, shut his eyes and grunted in the appropriate places. There hadn’t been any night clubs when she was young, all there was were demonstrations and political meetings.
Da Shan could feel the world spinning underneath him and blinked his eyes open. This car trip was going to end badly if he didn’t get out, very soon.
Da Shan stopped the taxi by the Black Dragon Bridge, paid the woman and climbed out. The river was black and bottomless and deadly still. All rivers reach the sea at last, Da Shan thought, except the Shaoshui, which doesn’t go anywhere.
Da Shan got to the other side of the river and turned left, along the riverside path. The rotting river mud smelt so bad that he crossed the road, walked along the pavement, past the long file of closed shop shutters.
He was walking along the deserted street when he heard the sound of shouting and saw a girl run into the street. He thought it was Peach but he was drunk and sober enough to know it. Da Shan started walking a little faster, then the drunken half of him took control and he shouted out, ‘Heh!’
The girl didn’t even turn.
‘Heh! Stop!’ Da Shan shouted but she didn’t stop and Da Shan was already starting to break into a trot. The patter of footsteps made her turn. Peach saw Da Shan and recognised him, and tried to run faster.
Peach fell as he caught her up and Da Shan looked down in surprise. ‘It is you,’ Da Shan said, not really sure why he’d run to catch her up now that he’d done it. ‘I thought it was you.’ He was conscious he must stink of alcohol. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’
‘No. I’m fine,’ Peach said, wiping her eyes. ‘Thank you. Really.’
Da Shan’s mind tried to assess everything that had happened: but it was all a bit confusing. He walked alongside her the short way to the factory gate, still trying to work out what was happening.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asked at last.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You
don’t look fine,’ he said and she tried to laugh, but then her laugh changed to a sniff and he thought she might start crying again.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘I just want to go home.’
Peach looked up at her mother’s bedroom window, and all the lights were still on. She felt sick, didn’t know if she would be able to go and face her mother. She paused at the bottom of the stairs to rearrange her clothes. She undid her trousers, tucked her T-shirt in, checked her bra was on properly. As she wriggled to get comfortable she could feel more of Sun An’s stuff dribble down her inner thigh. She fought back a wave of nausea and stood very still as it trickled down her skin. She suddenly realised she had forgotten to put on her underwear she’d left in such a hurry.
Peach squeezed her legs together and then thought it might leave a wet mark. She wanted to cry. Wanted to go to bed.
Madam Fan had spent the evening watching Beijing Opera, getting up occasionally to stand in front of the mirror to copy a line or gesture. At the sad moments she felt weepy, told herself that her daughter had left home, was never coming back. She sniffed to herself, started knitting and waited for her daughter to never return.
Peach could hear the music as she came up the stairs and saw the line of light at the bottom of the door. She sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeves, took a deep breath and then knocked. There was a long wait before the door latch was pulled back and swung open.
‘Peach,’ Madam Fan sniffed. Peach let out a sob and rushed in. She hugged her mother and started crying. ‘I’m sorry,’ Peach tried to say through her tears but Madam Fan started crying as well. They cried and hugged and words didn’t seem important any more.