Princess Bari

by Sok-yong Hwang

  I began working at Tongking the very next week. Uncle Tan had me move in with a Bangladeshi woman who worked at the salon. Luna was three years older than me. She was only twenty, but had already had two kids. She’d married at sixteen and become pregnant right away, but after a few years, she left her husband and came to London. After she and I became friends, she showed me the scars on her back and thighs from where her husband had beat her.

  As usual, luck was on my side. There were low-income, high-rise apartment buildings near the salon that were subsidized by the district office, but the conditions were terrible. Most of the flats were tiny and consisted of only a single room, or a room with a living room-slash-kitchenette. Children ran wild through the hallways, and the flats were crammed with up to ten people each. Most of the tenants were immigrants, but Luna lived on a street lined with row houses in a borough called Lambeth. It was just as poor as the other neighbourhood, but quieter and safer. The whitewashed brick buildings, which were so old I had no idea when they’d been built, looked clean from the outside. Each row house was three stories with a half-basement; it was in one of these half-basements that I came to live with Luna. A flight of stairs at the entrance of the building led down to her flat, but our kitchen opened onto a small terrace so it didn’t feel that much like being underground.

  As this place became my new world, I should probably introduce the other people who lived there. As soon as you came down the stairs, you saw a narrow hallway with doors on each side facing each other. Each flat was a long rectangle divided into a kitchen and a room that served as both bedroom and living room. A Nigerian couple lived across from us. The husband worked at a gas station, and the wife was a part-time housekeeper.

  The first-floor flat on the right was occupied by a Chinese cook and a Filipino janitor, who were roommates like Luna and me. The flat on the left had a Sri Lankan family living in it. They ran a small restaurant nearby. Up on the second floor was a Polish family. The husband did home repairs and ran seasonal work teams staffed with labourers from his hometown. His wife and daughter worked together as shop assistants. Living in the flat to the left of theirs was Abdul, an elderly man from Pakistan. His was the only name I remembered, because Luna had taken me to meet him right after I moved in.

  Grandfather Abdul, who managed the units in our building, wore a traditional tunic that buttoned all the way up to his throat and came down to his knees. His beard was white, and his brown skin looked as though it had been darkened by the sun. When Luna introduced me to him, he prepared tea for us that smelled like mint. He was always reading from a thick book, his reading glasses perched low on his nose. Only later, after I’d picked up some English and was able to converse with him, did I learn that it was the book of Islamic scripture, the Qur’an.

  The landlord, a forty-something Indian man, came by on occasion to visit Grandfather Abdul. He was always sharply dressed in a suit and tie, and had never once spoken to me or even so much as greeted me. The first time I bumped into him out front, I thought he was from the immigration office and nearly turned and ran. Grandfather Abdul always called him “Mr Azad”, even though the landlord looked young enough to be his son.

  Oh, I almost forgot about the people who lived on the third floor. I’d thought that the Chinese chef, the Filipino janitor and I were the only East Asian faces in the building, but up on the third floor on the right-hand side was a married couple from Thailand who were there as students. An elderly Bulgarian couple lived across from them. I think that about covers it as far as our building and my world were concerned. My days mostly followed the same pattern: I woke up at seven, prepared a simple breakfast to eat with Luna, went to English classes that started at nine and studied for three hours, ate a sandwich for lunch at the English school’s snack bar or somewhere else nearby and then headed over to Tongking, where I worked from one in the afternoon to nine o’clock at night. The place where I studied English was referred to as a “visa school”: people attended in order to secure a residence visa. It cost half of what the other schools charged, and most of the students were women working in bars or similar types of establishments. They would show up only half the time, and barely paid attention when they did. Attendance would suddenly skyrocket at the beginning of the week that classes were being assigned, and then it would peter out again. There were a few students who showed up every day without fail, but the teachers didn’t make much of an effort.

  At the salon where I worked, Uncle Tan and four of the women who’d learned nail art gave manicures and pedicures to customers, while I was there to give them foot massages either during or after their treatments. Customers who were short on time turned down the massages, but we started to get more and more who came back just for one, after having had a taste of it. On Uncle Tan’s recommendation I taught Luna how to give foot massages as well. It only made sense, as she was helping me to study English. Being roommates with Luna, who’d grown up in England, helped me to pick up the language much faster than when I was in China. Talking to customers all afternoon in the salon was also a big help.

  One day I left work first and arrived home only to realize that I’d forgotten to get the key from Luna. I rummaged through my bag and stamped my feet in frustration outside our door; there was nothing else to do but run back up to the first-floor entrance and ring Grandfather Abdul’s doorbell. His voice came over the intercom, asking: “Who’s there?” I told him I was Bari from the basement, and that I’d forgotten my key. The door opened and I headed up the stairs. He was standing outside his door, watching me from over his reading glasses.

  “Come on in,” he said.

  When I stepped inside I saw a man sitting in the living room. He stood up to greet me. He was very tall, almost as tall as the floor lamp shining up at the ceiling, but it wasn’t just his height that was imposing. He also had broad shoulders and long arms. His curly hair was cropped short, and his large eyes were open wide in his brown face, the whites showing around the irises. At first I was too afraid to look directly at him. Later I found out that he’d played cricket when he was in his teens, at school.

  “Rest here for a bit,” Grandfather Abdul said. “When Luna gets home, she can let you in, right?”

  “Yes. Thank you, sir.”

  “You probably haven’t eaten yet. Would you like a piece of pie?”

  I was too afraid to sit down in front of the strange giant, so I stood there timidly and said: “No, thank you.”

  “Oh, this is my grandson, Ali.”

  Ali stooped from the waist and extended his big bear paw of a hand to me.

  “Pleasure to meet you.”

  His voice was deep and husky. I put my hand out too. To my surprise and relief, Ali grasped the tips of my fingers lightly and then quickly released them. I sat across from him. Each time our eyes met, he grinned at me. His smile, with those big, even teeth of his, was so friendly that I relaxed and began to smile back.

  “What kind of work do you do?” Ali asked.

  “I work at a nail salon. What about you?”

  Grandfather Abdul placed a slice of the pie that he’d warmed in the oven on a plate and set it in front of me.

  “Ali drives a minicab,” he said.

  I didn’t know what that meant, so they explained that it was not an officially licensed taxi, but a private car hire. Ali was paid by the hour to drive one of several cars owned by the person who ran the company. He didn’t own his own cab, and he wasn’t officially employed. Ali mostly worked the night shift. I didn’t know what to say about that, so I asked him: “You’re not working tonight?

  Ali glanced at his grandfather before saying: “It’s his birthday tomorrow.”

  Grandfather Abdul, who was standing at the sink, let out a hearty laugh.

  “I was born so long ago that I can’t even remember the date anymore, but he always remembers for me.”

  “Actually, I forgot too. Mum called to remind me,” Ali said with a laugh.

  I tucked into the pie an
d had a cup of tea afterward as well.

  “Ali’s parents live in Leeds,” Grandfather Abdul said. “I keep telling him to move in with me, but he’s stubborn.”

  Ali just laughed and didn’t say anything back.

  “You and Luna should come back tomorrow and eat dinner with us. Have you ever had Punjabi food?”

  “No, I haven’t. I’ll let her know.”

  “I would invite the other neighbours, but they all live with their families.”

  He seemed to feel apologetic about the fact that he was only inviting the two of us. I’d wanted to get to know him better for a while, as he’d made such a nice impression on me, and here I was getting to know his grandson as well.

  The following day, as luck would have it, Luna and I were able to leave work an hour earlier than usual; as the salon was closed the day after, Uncle Tan didn’t object to our leaving early. Luna and I stopped at a takeaway place and bought some Malaysian Chinese food. She warned me that Muslims didn’t eat pork, and selected shrimp and chicken dishes as well as vegetable-fried rice made with mushrooms and bamboo shoots. When we got to the apartment building and started walking up the stairs, the smell of cooking wafted down the hall. There were so many different nationalities under one roof that whenever a holiday evening rolled around, the building was filled with all kinds of food smells, though no one ever complained.

  We rang the bell, and Grandfather Abdul opened the door. He was wearing his usual long tunic over a pair of shalwar trousers. Luna and I each greeted him by saying, “Happy Birthday, Grandfather!” Ali smiled at us; he was standing at the kitchen sink. The table was already set with big plates stacked with lamb kebabs and chicken curry with green chillies. When we filled some empty plates with the takeaway food we’d brought, Grandfather Abdul’s small table was completely full.

  Ali prepared ready-made chapatti by heating it in a dry frying pan. Ali placed the bread in a basket, and the four of us sat around the table. Grandfather Abdul poured chai for everyone. As Muslims didn’t drink alcohol, it seemed we would have to skip the birthday toasts. Before we began eating, Grandfather Abdul said a prayer that began with “Bismillah”. Ali prayed with him. We were so hungry that we ate and ate.

  Ali’s parents and younger sister lived in northern England, in Leeds. His father moved to Britain from Pakistan after he turned five, and had grown up in this building, but moved to Leeds for work when he turned twenty. Grandfather Abdul said that back in his home country everyone from grandfather to grandson and grandson’s wife lived under the same roof; he added that it was the only way to maintain close family ties. After dinner we had coffee and sweet almond cookies. I was completely stuffed. Ali blinked his big eyes at me, his eyelashes sweeping up and down, as he told his grandfather: “I’ll be right back. I’m going to walk Bari home.”

  Grandfather Abdul smiled and didn’t say anything. Luna looked at me and opened her hands wide, as if to say she was at a loss for words. Ali snuck a paper bag out from under the sink and hid it beneath his shirt. We all said goodbye to Grandfather Abdul and headed down to the basement. The moment we stepped inside our flat, Ali put his right hand to his chest, bowed his head and apologized.

  “I can’t smoke or drink in front of my grandfather,” he explained.

  Luna said to me: “I don’t care if you don’t care.”

  “I don’t care,” I said.

  Ali poured us a little of the whisky he’d brought. Then he lit up a long Pakistani cigarette made with whole-leaf tobacco. He looked happy as he gulped down the whisky. Luna drank too, grimacing as she did so, and I tried a sip only to break into a coughing fit. Ali seemed completely different away from his grandfather.

  “I didn’t think I’d make it through dinner!” he exclaimed. “I can’t drink so much as a single drop of beer around him.”

  Luna sipped the whisky and said sarcastically: “It’s better to be British. Muslims have too many things they’re not allowed to do.”

  “I am British,” Ali said.

  Luna snorted.

  “The asshole who beat me every day was born here too,” she said. “I don’t care if someone is Hindu or Muslim or whatever. I don’t trust anyone.”

  Ali didn’t look offended. He poured himself another glass, but this time he sipped it rather than downing it all at once.

  “My father and grandfather don’t get along. But my mum worries about him a lot.”

  “Don’t you visit him often?” I asked.

  Ali cocked his head to one side.

  “Maybe about twice a month,” he said. “I prefer living by myself, but whenever I do come to visit, I feel more relaxed afterward for some reason.”

  Luna took out a pack of cards and we played at the table. I don’t know if Ali lost on purpose or if he just had bad luck, but we won about thirty pounds from him. Luna and I rejoiced at having earned some fun money for the weekend. We played until late into the night, and when it was time for Ali to leave I followed him to the door so I could lock it behind him. At the door, he whispered to me:

  “You have the day off tomorrow, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like to take a drive out of the city with me?”

  Clueless as to Ali’s feelings for me, I turned and shouted to Luna: “Ali wants to hang out with us tomorrow!”

  Ali shook his head, and Luna barked with laughter.

  “Hey stupid, he’s asking you out! Why would I want to be a third wheel?”

  Finally I understood and shut the door in his face. I looked through the peephole. Ali stood there for a while and then slowly turned and went back up the stairs.

  “You’ve got an admirer,” Luna said teasingly. “This is where ladies like us have to be careful.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “That big elephant of a man is coming after you!”

  Ever since I’d had that vision where my spirit split from my body, I’d stopped fearing any man. Uncle Lou, the chef from Shanghai Chinese Restaurant, had guessed what happened to me, but Uncle Tan and the employees of Tongking probably had no idea. I was still just a poor little thing. I wasn’t surprised when my first period started so late, back when I was working at the restaurant. Xiang had warned me early on about a lot of things I would need to know, and as far as I was concerned I’d already become a woman long before that.

  I did not take that drive with Ali to the countryside, but I did come to think of him differently, with those big eyes and that big body of his. Men and women are not the same, of course, but Grandfather Abdul’s warm and caring nature made me feel that my grandmother had been reborn and returned to me. Ali, on the other hand, was just an oversized, immature boy – and maybe that was why I was so comfortable with him from the get-go.

  Eight

  I had been working at Tongking for several months before Auntie Sarah, one of the salon’s regulars, requested a foot massage. At first she kept glancing over and watching as I massaged the feet of a customer sprawled out on the reclining salon chair, but as soon as I was done she motioned to me with her chin and waved me over.

  “I’ll have one of those,” she said.

  She was an attractive, dark-skinned woman with a high nose and big eyes, and had probably been a great beauty in her younger days. I found out later that she was mixed – Sri Lankan and white. She practiced Christianity, like her English father.

  As usual, I held her long, thin feet in my hands and closed my eyes for a moment. In my mind’s eye I pictured the various twists and turns her life had taken, though none were violent: a white man walks out of a house while a woman holding a child leans against the door and cries. Another man appears; he’s black. Then the woman, who is alone again, is working in a hospital. Her daughter, now a toddler, crawls between the other children in a nursery.

  “Why haven’t you started yet?”

  At Auntie Sarah’s urging, I began the massage. She looked exhausted. I put everything I had into kneading and tapping her feet, plucki
ng the joints of the toes and applying acupressure. She soon fell asleep. I closed my eyes again and pictured her as a grown woman, dating and breaking up with different men. Whenever a customer fell asleep we made a point of not disturbing her for a while, even after her session was complete.

  Auntie Sarah always dressed well, wore expensive jewellery and tipped generously, so we regarded her as a wealthy woman completely out of our league. Whenever she came by, Tan treated her like royalty. But when I touched her feet, I realized that she wasn’t all that different from the rest of us.

  Luna and Auntie Sarah did not get along at all. Luna hated the way Auntie Sarah, despite being a fellow person of colour, looked down on her and treated her like a servant. But I made a point of being extra polite as I washed Auntie Sarah’s feet, trimmed her toenails and cuticles and scraped the callused skin from her heels. When she woke, I served her warm tea and ended the session by massaging cream into her legs and feet and wrapping them with a warm towel. She tipped me ten pounds. Other customers usually only tipped us in change; at most you might receive a five-pound note.

  As we began to get more customers looking for foot massages, Luna, who’d learned the basics from me, began giving them herself, along with a Vietnamese woman named Vinh who had quickly picked up the technique from watching me. Auntie Sarah became one of my regulars. She rarely spoke to any of us directly, but one day she asked Uncle Tan for a favour after paying her bill.

  “I’d like to chat with the girl for a moment. Would that be okay? I’ll pay for her time.”

  “No problem, madam,” he said. “You can talk to her as long as you want.”

  Tan smiled at me and motioned with his chin for me to go with her. I followed her out of the shop. She looked around, her brow furrowed, and headed for a café across the street. She lit up a cigarette.

  “Where are you from?” she asked.

  I hesitated, then told her I was from China. She nodded.

  “It doesn’t matter where you’re from as long as it’s not Thailand.”