Tiger's Heart

by Aisling Juanjuan Shen

  Half an hour later, the cab dropped me off in a new brownstone neighborhood hidden amid trees and flowers. I found Paul’s apartment on the second floor of his building. I paused for a moment, composed myself, and then knocked cautiously on the door. To my surprise, a young Chinese woman answered. Paul appeared behind her shoulder, a warm smile on his long face.

  He came out and shook my hand. “Come in, come in. This is my wife, May.”

  “Thank you for inviting me over,” I stuttered nervously to Paul and May in English.

  May nodded her head politely, a grin on her thin, freckled face. I said hi to her awkwardly and didn’t know where to look. I had never been good at interacting with women and was especially uncomfortable with a city woman married to an American. She was most likely superior to me in every way.

  May turned around, walked to a rosewood table in the living room, sat down in a leather chair, and continued reading the book my knock had obviously taken her from. “Let me show you around,” Paul said. “Let’s start with the kitchen.” He led me away from the living room. I followed him rigidly.

  I nodded my head and smiled nervously as Paul showed me the various items in the apartment that had been shipped directly from the U.S.: the Sealy king-size mattress, the HarleyDavidson Fat Boy, the Braun coffeemaker with Starbucks coffee beans. Occasionally he would ask, “Have you heard of it before?” and I’d shake my head, embarrassed by my ignorance. Everything I saw seemed to have fallen out of an American movie.

  Afterward, we sat down at the polished rosewood table and Paul brought coffee over in elegant porcelain teacups. I held my cup daintily with one hand and covered the stain on my overwashed beige cotton dress with the other. I had scrubbed the stain for a long time the night before, but the cheap soap hadn’t helped much. Now the stain seemed to be growing larger and more eye-catching by the minute. I felt ill at ease in this exquisite apartment under May’s casual glances.

  Perhaps Paul sensed my nervousness, because soon we were in a taxi speeding through the tunnel that connected the main city with the new Pudong Development Area. The Oriental Pearl TV Tower, the world’s third-tallest TV tower, had recently opened to the public, and Paul suggested taking me there for sightseeing. May sat in the passenger seat and stared out the window, completely blasé. Eager to express my appreciation, I cleared my throat and said painfully in English, “May, you are from Shanghai?”

  “Oh, no, I am from San Francisco,” she replied in a flat tone without turning around. My face turned red instantly with embarrassment at my obtrusive question. San Francisco, a place where the sunshine was said to be brighter than in China. How ignorant of me to assume that she was from Shanghai.

  “So what do you want to do in the future, Juanjuan? I know you don’t like teaching,” Paul said, breaking the awkward silence.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, well, don’t worry. You are too young to know what you want. I don’t think you’ll figure that out before you turn . . . uh . . . twenty-five.” He turned to May for confirmation. “Right, honey?”

  May hummed in agreement.

  The Oriental TV Tower was swamped with tourists. From a distance, it looked like a candy bar covered with ants. After squeezing through the crowd and fighting to get into the elevators, we reached the top of the tower.

  I leaned against the railing and looked down at the city. Shanghai was under my feet. The wind blew my hair up. I wondered how seventeen million people could all fit into this small square and how everyone managed to find food and shelter. They must be different, more capable, or just fundamentally better than me, I thought.

  Paul pointed out all the landmarks surrounding the tower and told me their names and histories. I nodded and once in a while tried my best to comment in my broken English. My eyes squinted in the sun and smiled at Paul, but deep down I felt at sea, like a person from the Qing Dynasty who had accidentally fallen through a time tunnel into the modern world. All these differently shaped skyscrapers were like UFOs to me.

  I saw May walking gracefully in her blue denim skirt and high heels. I wished I could step forward and express my gratitude better, tell her how nice they had been to invite me, a country girl, into their home and how generous it was of them to show me around the city and even pay for the taxi and ticket into the tower. But as if there were a ring of dazzling light around her, I flinched and couldn’t gather enough courage to face her educated, delicate eyes.

  Paul and I gradually lost sight of each other in the flock of tourists. I moved along with the crowd, lost in contemplation. A few minutes later, I raised my head. Paul and May were walking in front of me. I saw Paul lean his head low, whispering, and then I spotted his hand on May’s buttock. Quickly I averted my eyes. Foreigners were so different from Chinese people, and the city was so different from the countryside. How could a man grab a woman’s butt in daylight and in public? It was unthinkable in the town in which I was living, where the public security officer might arrest a couple who kissed in public. I gazed at their backs as they moved forward. It felt strange, to see something so new and sweet and yet know it didn’t belong to me.

  Half an hour later, we were at TGI Friday’s. A waiter in a bow tie greeted us in English more fluent than mine, and I became even more nervous. I sat with a stiff back and both hands in my lap, feeling my palms grow sweaty. The French windows with voile curtains and the soft country music didn’t bring out the pleasant feelings that I imagined I should have had in such a classy Western restaurant. Why had I worn this washed-out dress and put my hair up in such a countrified ponytail? I peeked around and saw many city girls in the restaurant. They proudly displayed their milky skin in their strapless dresses and tittered to the men surrounding them. Cigarettes dangled between their fingers with polished nails. I curled my fingertips to hide my dirty nails and chastised myself for not even buying lipstick before I came to Shanghai. Teachers were not allowed to wear lipstick, but I should have known that city women wore it every day. I felt totally out of place, like a collier who had accidentally walked into a completely white room.

  When the waiter brought the food Paul had ordered for me, I froze. I stared at the rack of ribs decorated with asparagus and flowers carved out of vegetables on a big ceramic plate, the spotless white napkin, and finally the fork and the knife. I had no idea what to do with them. Everybody in the restaurant must be laughing, I thought, and I felt their eyes judging me. May looked at me quietly from across the table. Paul saw my embarrassment and gently showed me how to use the utensils.

  When we finished dinner and walked out of the restaurant, Shanghai was blazing with lights. I said a quick good-bye to Paul and May and took a cab back to the bus station, pleased yet overwhelmed by my new experiences.

  Shanghai became a sweet dream of mine. I knew I could never be one of the girls in TGI Friday’s. My skin could never be so creamy, and I could never laugh that softly and enticingly. Yet I couldn’t help but wonder: could I at least linger on the streets of Shanghai and watch those pretty girls clinking wine glasses through the windows? I would be happier to be a real beggar in Shanghai than a backroom beggar in Ba Jin. Confucius once said “Contentment brings happiness.” But how could a person know when it was time to feel content? If someone had brought Confucius to Shanghai, showed him the air-conditioned buildings, and fed him delicious ribs at TGI Friday’s, would he ever have been content with his old life?

  Three weeks passed, and my mind still dwelled on the city. It was the end of the month, and Big Shen reminded me to go to the payroll department and draw my salary. Thinking of the little money I was about to get this month and every other month for the rest of my life, I was knocked back to reality. I couldn’t go to Shanghai. I was destined to be a teacher forever. The government had paid for my education, and it was my duty to serve the people my entire life. They would never allow me to leave. Who would want to throw away an iron rice bowl, anyway? This is what secure government jobs were called. An iron rice bowl was unbrea
kable. You’ll always have food with an iron bowl, my mother reminded me every time I went home. The rest of the family had only paper bowls that could disintegrate at any moment. She said I must have burned many cases of incense in my past life to get such a job, which would ensure me food and shelter as long as I lived.

  I dragged my feet to the payroll department. Old Liu, the kindly accountant, sensed my low mood. “What’s wrong, Little Shen?” he asked while counting out my stack of money on the table.

  “Oh, nothing,” I straightened my neck and said with a smile. Then I bent over the table and signed my signature next to my printed name in the book.

  I glanced over the names on the list and noticed one I didn’t recognize. Signatures were absent next to this name every month, which meant he had never picked up his salary. Curious, I asked Old Liu who this was.

  “Oh, Chang? He is a teacher here, but on leave.”

  “What do you mean by ‘on leave’? Isn’t he a teacher at the school? How can he not teach?”

  “He belongs to the school, but he doesn’t have to teach. He can do whatever he wants, but he has to give the school a lot of money every year to keep his position. He can come back any time he wants. After all, nobody would want to give up a teaching job.”

  “You can do that? You can not teach but you can still come back?” I exclaimed excitedly. I could leave but still keep my iron bowl.

  Old Liu threw me a knowing look and immediately started to lecture. “Little Shen, do you know who Chang is? He is the son of the richest man in this town. His father donates tons of money to the school. That’s why Chang can do this. Do you see any other teacher acting like this? Nobody, not even the boldest male teacher who’s been at the school for many years. Don’t you even think about it, little girl. How are you going to make all this money every year? Besides, the leaders will never ever let you go.” With him rattling on at my back that I should be content with what I had, I walked out of the payroll department despondently.

  But I craved Shanghai like a drug. For weeks, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Everything—the smell of dust and gasoline, the car horns, the overlapping faces on the streets, and the feeling of being an ant on a vast plain—drew me to it like a magnet.

  When July came, I found myself on the bus to Shanghai again.

  I didn’t know where I was going, so after getting off the bus I roamed the streets. With construction sites all over, the city was like a sick person in the process of a long surgery, riddled with gaping wounds. Giant cranes digging the ground grumbled day and night, and the mantles of dust they produced hung above the city like a big gray wok. People with frowning eyebrows walked by me in a hurry, but I felt happy. I raised my head and inhaled the dirty air, enjoying the brief freedom of being a total stranger in a city.

  At a turn in a seemingly endless flagstone street lined with ivy-covered buildings, I stumbled upon a group of magnificent Western-style villas behind a tall Victoria arch. On the open ground near the arch, I saw two middle-aged country women chatting and four white children playing at their feet. The children looked adorable, like the dolls in movies from the West. Standing outside the guardrails, I stared curiously at them for a long time. This must be a foreigners’ residence, and these two women must be nannies, I realized. I watched the two women enviously at the same time as I felt my chest expanding with excitement at seeing a light at the end of the tunnel. If these two peasant women could work here as nannies, maybe I could too. I didn’t care how little money I’d make. As long as I could get out of Ba Jin, I would be happy. Besides, more doors would open to me in the city, and eventually maybe I would make enough money to keep my teaching post in case I needed to come back to it, I thought.

  The next Sunday, despite the scalding sun, I went back to Shanghai, with a stack of handwritten seeking-nanny-job letters in my bag. I waltzed through the arch when the security guard was looking the other way, and I started to knock on the doors of the villas.

  A tidy middle-aged white man with a thick moustache came to the first door. Facing his interrogative eyes, I held out my letter and stuttered that I was looking to be a nanny. Holding the door edge, he politely told me that he didn’t have any children. Undiscouraged, I kept going. Nobody answered the second door. Then there was a polite rejection. Doors slammed before I could open my mouth. People pressed their eyes against the peephole and didn’t even open up.

  Two hours later, I had gone through all the villas, but nobody was interested in talking to me. Between a wall and some lush roses, I dropped down on the cement ground and buried my face between my knees, holding back my tears. The broiling heat of the sun was melting my limbs and cracking my lips, but I knew that the weakness I was feeling right then came from within. There was a desert in my heart, and I was the only traveler in it, and now I had lost my direction. I had never felt so desperate before.

  Soon it got dark. I left the villas and started to walk on the street. I didn’t know how far I went. I just kept going, not feeling tired. Finally I stopped at a small bridge and leaned against the stone railing. The sewage ditch under the bridge gave off a smell of rotten meat after the day’s heat, but it didn’t bother me too much. I stood there for a while, ignoring the looks from passersby.

  A man in shorts and flip-flops stopped about a yard away from me and then leaned against the railing, glancing over at me once in a while. After five minutes, he had shown no sign of leaving, so I decided to go. As I walked away from the bridge, I heard him following me. I started to get nervous and walked faster.

  After a few minutes, the man quickened his steps and was soon at my side. He was middle-aged and balding. He looked at me with drooling lust and smiled. “How much, Miss?”

  He thought I was a hooker. I gave him an angry look and walked off in a huff.

  What on earth made him think I was a hooker? How could he? Was it written on my forehead? Maybe I had been born a hooker. I chuckled to myself. I spread my legs quicker than a hooker. At least hookers got something in return. They were probably happier than me, too. Maybe I should become a hooker, I thought. Why not? It wasn’t as if I couldn’t use the money.

  I wheeled around and made eye contact with the man. “How much can you pay?”

  He pointed to a building across the street. “There’s a café over there. We can go there and talk.”

  I followed him to the café, which was hidden in a basement. The only light came from a few candles flickering against the wall. A quiet, mysterious woman led us to one of the love seats behind the thick red curtains. As soon as we sat down and the curtains were shut behind us, the man grabbed me, and his hand started to rove my body. I sat still, closing my mouth tightly to avoid the man’s wet lips, which were searching for mine.

  When his hand unzipped my shorts and dug beneath my panties, I felt empty and anxious. When he inserted his middle finger inside me, an immense feeling of invasion came over me. The cuticle around his fingernail scratched me. I suddenly felt so miserable that I wanted to die.

  I pulled his finger out with a jerk, and then I started to sob. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t do this. I’m a teacher, not a hooker. I just want to find a job here.”

  He seemed confused, but he just shrugged and didn’t try anything else. We walked out of the café in silence. He took out a piece of paper, jotted down a number, and handed it to me along with a fifty-yuan bill. “Give me a call if you come here to stay,” he said and walked away.

  The evening lights were lit on the street, and a popular Cantonese song was playing in the distance. A crowd of people stood in front of a ditch left by construction on the street, sticking their heads over the edge and all talking at once. Beside it, a bicycle was lying upside down with its wheel still turning. Someone asked anxiously, “Is he dead?”

  I rolled the piece of paper into a ball and tossed it into the ditch.

  9

  MY SHANGHAI DREAM broke easily, like a beautiful but fragile vase. I continued to live my life in the s
mall town of Ba Jin, believing I would be there the rest of my life. I felt as miserable as before—the only difference was that now I had stopped dreaming. I resigned myself to my teaching life and resolved at least to try to fix what I could, since I was stuck in this small town.

  I ended things with Gold Hill. Nights, I still went out to the club. Calm as lake water, my heart didn’t ripple at all when I saw him with other girls. I had run out of feelings for men.

  To ensure that Gold Hill never knocked on my door again, I requested yet another move. I was transferred to the attic on the third floor of the teacher’s compound.

  In the hot August of 1995, the tiny attic felt like a steamer. The water I fetched from the public faucet downstairs ran out constantly—I had to splash it all over my body every few minutes in order to bear the scorching heat. By the end of the first day in my new room, I was lying prone on the cement floor, dog-tired and stark naked.

  I watched the sky in the west gradually flush pink through the window as the insufferable heat crept away. Downstairs, people’s chatting and children’s boisterous yelling continued as darkness filled my attic. I laid my cheek on the cement. It felt cool. I closed my eyes. The floor echoed with my strong, rhythmic heartbeat. I felt safe. Now nobody, neither Gold Hill nor Hao nor any other hooligan, would know where I lived.

  It was not too late. Everything could be put in a jar, sealed up, and then thrown into the river. I could start over.

  “When are you going to get a boyfriend, Little Shen?” an older teacher had bluntly asked me earlier in the day, when I had joined my colleagues downstairs.

  I had smiled and shrugged my shoulders. “Nobody wants me,” I said jokingly.

  “Come on, Little Shen. You are young, pretty, and an English teacher. You’re a dream girlfriend for men in this town,” she had responded, comforting me.