One night after coming back from a dinner with Director Yip, he threw himself onto the bed and swept me into his arms. “Ah-Juan, speak some Cantonese to me.” His voice sounded a little raspy from drinking.
“Manager Huang, my name is Ah-Juan. I am so glad to know you, and I really like you,” I said to him slowly in Cantonese, enunciating every word.
He pulled me closer and looked at me with blurred eyes, and then he sighed. “I knew you were different the minute I saw you,” he said. “You’re special.”
I twined my arms around his neck and sighed contentedly.
After a while, he cleared his throat and said, “Director Yip praised my work at the board dinner tonight.” His face was glowing with pride. “He said I did well, in front of all the other important people in the company. You don’t know how hard it is to please him.”
Knowing how insecure he felt about the approval of his childhood friend who was now his boss, I smiled happily. He was jubilant and hugged me tighter. He put his mouth close to my ear and whispered, “Let’s do it tonight.”
I chuckled, thinking that he must really be in a good mood if he was willing to joke about sex. I was sure he would never have the guts to actually do it. After all, I was the future secretary of his boss.
As if he wanted to prove me wrong, he quickly undressed me, like an unexpected typhoon hitting a town. A few seconds later, we were no longer just two people who slept in the same bed. Soon after we became one, I reached the heights of physical pleasure for the first time in my life. Then, before it died down, he finished with a loud moan. He rolled off me and immediately started to snore loudly.
I closed my eyes, enjoying the wonderful feeling of having reached the crest of joy. He was like the other men in my life, who had liked it quick, but he felt so different. He was the first one to have brought the most primitive desire out of my body. I had had no idea that it could be so wonderful. A funny feeling was growing in my chest, like how I felt watching the sun slowly rise above the horizon, and I grinned to myself. Finally he was mine. I took a deep, happy breath and then fell asleep easily.
The end of the three-month tryout came quickly. On the last day, I sat at my desk, skimming the real estate brochures absentmindedly and wondering if Huang had talked to Director Yip about my formally becoming his secretary. At noon, Huang’s tall figure appeared behind the glass door. I lowered my head and tried to appear professional and respectful. In everybody else’s eyes, he was no more than just my manager and perhaps my mentor.
He walked directly to my desk. “Grab your things and follow me.” We walked quietly up the stairs of the Group’s newly finished headquarters building. The elevator was not yet operational, so we hiked all the way up to the eighth floor. The entire floor belonged to Director Yip.
The two leather-covered wooden doors to his office were closed. Their brass handles were shaped like lions. Huang pointed to the desk a few feet outside the doors, motioning for me to sit there, and then left quickly.
I sat in the Italian leather sliding chair at my brand-new wooden desk, at a loss as to what to do as the secretary of the boss of thirty companies. The entire floor was so deathly quiet that I didn’t dare even to breathe loudly. I sat around waiting for someone to show up and direct me; but after half an hour had passed without even a bird flying by the windows, I decided to go downstairs to the main office, where all the other employees were located.
After collecting a stack of stationery and a few pens to decorate my empty desk, I asked the office manager what my job responsibilities were. He spread his palms in the air, shrugged, and made a face. “How the hell would I know? You’re Director Yip’s secretary. You do whatever he tells you to do.”
So I went back to my secluded territory, to more waiting in boredom. After examining everything in the room, including the drawers, the wine racks, and the trophy table, and staring outside the window at the dusty streets for a while, I approached Director Yip’s office doors. It was quiet on the other side. I summoned up my courage and pushed one of the doors with my fingertips. It opened.
Director Yip’s new office was magnificent. It was really more like a show room. Well over a thousand square feet, there was nothing office-like in it except a giant oak boss table squatting in the center of the gleaming wood floor. It took up almost a quarter of the space and was empty except for a golden tissue box sitting on its corner. Along the wall behind the table, there were tall shelves on which stood nothing but the trophies I’d seen in his old office. There was a set of splendid-looking brown and gold leather furniture next to the table, on a giant oriental rug. The chairs were the kind that had golden rivets along the edges, the kind you only saw in European mansions shown on television.
I took a few steps forward, and I heard the echoes of my footsteps. Though there was no one else inside the magnificent room, I turned around and fled.
I spent the rest of my day sitting at my desk, feeling happy for myself that I had gotten the position I had applied for and at the same time wishing that my clothes were nicer and my nails were cleaner and blaming myself for not being a little taller, thinner, and prettier so that I could better match the office.
Just as I was lamenting my appearance, Director Yip stormed in. I stood up hurriedly and greeted him in Cantonese. He gave me a glance and continued swinging his arms, walking to his office like a crab, as if I were only a mannequin that came with the desk.
I sat back down in my chair, but before I could compose myself, Director Yip crab-walked out of his office and left the floor. It was now time to go home. I took a deep breath and started to lock the doors. It was dark outside, and some karaoke music was playing in the distance, the kind of noise that you heard every night in the South. Just when I was ready to leave, Xiao Ma, Director Yip’s driver, came to tell me that Director Yip wanted me to accompany him and his guests to dinner.
Apprehensive, I nonetheless followed him down the stairs to the black Mercedes S600 parked outside the building. Two men were already sitting in the back seat. In the dark, I got in next to them. My heart started to race as soon as I realized that I was sitting next to Director Yip and that our arms and legs were touching. I recognized his two friends, one of whom was sitting in the front seat: both were the heads of local banks.
The men joked and laughed boisterously as the Mercedes glided quietly down the well-lit road. I couldn’t believe how different the Director Yip in the car was from the Director Yip who showed himself to his employees. In the car, he shouted curses to his friends, clapped his hands, and cheered wildly like a teenager, as if a tube of excitant had been injected in his body to save him from the suffocating daily work of pretending to be a terrifying person. I guessed that he was only himself with his most important friends, such as these two heads of banks, whose continuous loans were undoubtedly the backbone of Yip’s family business. I was sure that his two friends were feeling just as happy. They slumped back leisurely into the leather seats and their faces had a dreamy look, as if they were drunk already. How could they not be happy? I thought to myself. Not only did they get secret commissions from the loans, which came out of the Communist Party’s pocket anyway, but they also got to go out for nights of dinners, parties, and girls.
I heard Director Yip say my name. Before I could turn my head to him, I felt a hand sneaking down to my crotch. Determined as the hand of an experienced thief, it started to rub my most private spot. I looked up and saw Yip’s smiling eyes and twitching mouth.
I spoke as calmly as I could, trying to control my anger. “Director Yip, please.” I brushed his arm off my lap.
His hand reached down again. It felt like a cold eel wandering on my skin.
“Come on,” he said jokingly. “You fuck my manager, why not me?”
His words were like a bucket of cold water poured over my head. He knew what was going on between Huang and me?
“Director Yip, please!” I chuckled nervously and lightly moved his hand away again.
; He tried again, and once again I moved his hand. Finally he muttered, “Fuck your mother!” and gave up. I leaned against the door, as far away from him as possible, my mind in turmoil.
Dinner was completely tasteless, given my upset state, though the meal went smoothly, with wild cheers and toasts as usual. I toasted with Director Yip’s friends in rounds and bottomed up each time. Glasses of rice wine washed down my throat continuously. My stomach burned like the oven in a crematorium. Everyone was excited to have a girl so capable of drinking—except Director Yip, who didn’t drink with me at all. I surreptitiously glanced at his face, afraid that my unsatisfied new boss might abruptly rise, point his finger at me, and tell me to get the hell out of the resplendent restaurant and his company.
Buoyant with drunken elation, the men cheered “More, more, more!” as the Mercedes pulled into the marbled archway of the Money-Locker Karaoke club. The three men tumbled out of the car and into a dark VIP room. One by one, they fell onto the low couches along the wall like sacks of potatoes. I sat quietly at the end of a couch and started to play with the remote control for the TV screen directly in front of the us. Should I go and sit next to Yip and put my hand on his arm, a common courtesy from a secretary to a boss in a dark and smoky karaoke room? I struggled with myself. He was not a bad-looking man: tall and sturdy with some fine features, especially his big eyes; but I just couldn’t find enough courage or desire to approach him.
My inner debate ended as soon as a bunch of girls entered the room and lined up in front of us. They were all tall and slender and wore short skirts with leather boots or dresses through which you could catch a glimpse of lacy bras and panties. Each boss pointed his finger at two of the girls, and the two selected walked to the couch and sat with the boss in between them. Director Yip chose two girls quickly and then ordered another for his driver, Xiao Ma. The girls, all of whom had sweet, charming voices, began to skillfully nudge the men’s arms or lean themselves over their chests, feeding them orange wedges or pouring beer into their mouths.
The room started to boil with laughter, and the atmosphere became giddy as in a brothel. I sat alone, staring intently at the screen and pretending that I didn’t feel awkward at all. Once in a while, one of the girls would get up to take the microphone and would give me a curious look. I would smile. So I was finally in the same room as those girls in the South who were cutely nicknamed “miss at the table” or, not so cutely, “whore.” Their delicate skin, tall figures, red lips, and thickly powdered faces made men love them and women jealous; but once they opened their mouths, nothing could cover their lousy, heavily accented Mandarin.
I wondered whether I should talk to them or just do my best to ignore them. Most good girls would turn away at the sight of such a girl, perhaps even spit on the ground. But had I ever been one of the good girls? I remembered the time when I had roamed the streets of Shanghai and almost sold my body for cash. Although I had an associate’s degree and could read those Western letters, I wasn’t better than them. After all, we were all migrant workers. We all had flung away our past, left our home towns, and come to the South with the same dream—to have a better life.
At last the men called it a night. Yip stood in the middle of the room, holding a stack of hundred-yuan bills in his hand. Each girl giggled as she took hers. After he was done, he scanned the room, making sure he hadn’t missed anyone. His glance flickered over me for a second. I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the stack of bills in his hand. Maybe it was better to be one of those girls. I had come to the South to make money, and here they were getting so much of it.
With difficulty I forced my eyes to move away from Yip’s hand. With one arm around his waist, one of girls he had picked for the night suddenly snapped another bill from his hand and hid it behind her back, giggling. “Fuck your mother!” Yip pinched her cheek, clearly teasing. He let her get away with it. Convulsing with laughter, the rowdy party moved to the door.
I shook my head firmly, trying to drive these thoughts from my mind. I would never, ever sleep with Yip, for money or anything else, not because I didn’t want money, but because I already had a man in my life, a man who didn’t have much money, a man who sometimes yelled at me but who also gave me warmth and care.
The next day I was alone again on the eighth floor. After taking a good look at Yip’s office, I went back to my desk and idled my morning away. I felt like a bird sitting on a branch above a graveyard. Soon the boredom overtook me. It was so hard to fight off my sleepiness.
Just as I was ready to give up and let my head drop to the desk, Yip stomped out of the elevator, which was now in operation. My drowsiness flew away. I sprang to my feet and studied his face, trying to see if he was angry with me because of the previous night. He went right into his office and slammed the door behind him.
A minute late, he strode out and shouted, “Ah-Juan! Why is there dust on the table in my office? And did you mop and wax the floor?”
I stammered and stuttered. I’d had no idea that my job responsibilities included dusting the table and waxing the floor. I quickly shook my head. I was scared to death that he might yell more, and my legs were shaking. When Yip was extremely annoyed, I got the feeling that he could just eat me alive.
The moment he stormed out, I grabbed the mop and feather duster in the closet and started to do my work. As I knelt and poured wax onto the wood floor, I groaned to myself: Did I have to mop and wax this entire floor of over a thousand square feet every day? Was this what Bill Gates’s secretary did, clean and dust, instead of copying, faxing, and translating? Well, maybe I shouldn’t compare LongJiang with Microsoft, I thought to myself. After all, LongJiang was built entirely on bank loans and my boss showed up for work for only fifteen minutes a day.
I sat on that floor of the finest wood and sighed heavily. Then I rolled up my sleeves and started to clean like crazy. Three hours later, the entire floor shone with wax; I had not missed even one corner. My second day as secretary had ended, and I was exhausted.
Day three, day four, and then day five continued in the same way. Gradually, I decided that although I was called by the fine-sounding title “secretary of the director,” in reality I was just his cleaning lady. The only difference between an ordinary cleaning lady and me was that I dressed up a little bit; I had an associate’s degree in English; and occasionally I could become his drinking companion. I imagined that Yip wouldn’t want an illiterate woman wearing ragged clothes in his fine new office, or in the deluxe room of his excellent Cantonese restaurant.
As long as I did my job well and behaved cautiously, I thought some day my boss would learn to respect and appreciate me. Though I lived like a mouse that trembled at the sight of a cat, my life as Director Yip’s secretary was, after all, better than planting rice in the fields or eating chalk dust in front of a blackboard.
The days stumbled along. By thinking carefully before speaking or acting, I had survived as Director Yip’s secretary for two months. Every day, my boss came to the office for only a short period of time, and once in a while he would give me an easy order, such as pouring a cup of tea for him or calling someone to his office.
One day I found a letter on his desk written in English. Out of sheer boredom, I translated it into Chinese for him. It was in fact a very simple invitation, but I was sure that Director Yip couldn’t understand it since he had only reached junior high. Afterward, I heard through the grapevine that he had praised my translation in front of other heads of the company. I was happy and thought that I had finally attained his approval. As time went by, maybe he would give me more responsibility, I hoped.
14
“YOU ARE A devil!” Huang shouted through clenched teeth as he moved on top of me. “Why don’t you go to hell? I can’t even be a man to my wife any more.” Every time he came back from visiting his wife and son, he wouldn’t talk to me for days, and then he would let out his anger by making love to me like a madman.
I kept quiet, as usual, with my eyes f
ocused on his twisted face. I was sorry that I made him feel guilty. But I couldn’t imagine not having him in my life in this strange land. He was a brick wall, and I was the ivy. He was married, but I loved him. He was the first man I had loved since Chi, although the love was much different. My feelings for Chi had been innocent, but my love for Huang was consuming and heavy, like loving a brother, a father, and a lover all at once. He had a wife in another city, but in the small town of Long Jiang, Huang, I thought, only belonged to me.
“Don’t ever leave me alone here, please,” I would murmur to him at night when he held me tight.
“Don’t worry, Ah-Juan. No woman would want me except silly you! I am married and have no money,” he’d tell me jokingly, and I would cup his face in my hands. I believed him completely, even when I overheard him talking on the phone with a girl.
“It’s Ah-Min, a friend,” he explained. “We used to work together back in Shenzhen. She’s very smart, just like you. She’s from Inner China and also learned Cantonese from scratch.”
Tiger's Heart Page 15