by Geling Yan
She told the secret talker that till this day she had been shocked at how reckless, desperate, and shameless she’d been. She hadn’t even been thinking what future they had; only that she loved him in that moment. She wanted to conquer Glen, to possess him. She said Glen agreed, saying yes to her. His hand clasped hers back, tightly. Next, it slid up her naked arm. His fingers were icy cold, finally stopping at the collar of her dress, on her collarbone. Even if he’d touched the very center of her womanhood, he wouldn’t have elicited such a strong reaction. Something murky happened inside her body, a vague tensing and relaxing. She said, Oh, you don’t know how good it felt—like punishment, like pleasure.
* * *
Sitting in the library, Hongmei suddenly felt something odd. Swinging around, she found the boy at the next table staring directly at her, abandoning his online group chat. In his eyes, she was a woman scouring the net for love, cheeks flushed, eyes distracted. She logged off at once and walked briskly out of the library. The boy caught up with her at the entrance and asked if she wanted some weed, good-quality stuff. So that was the craving he’d suspected her of, and wanted to profit from.
Back at home, Hongmei got a call from her friend Shi Nini saying she had some news. Nini was in the music department. Like Hongmei, she was getting degree after degree, living off scholarship grants. She was five or six years younger than Hongmei and often set her sights on some tycoon or another. As for her ultimate goal, she was very clear: if an average man was interested in her, she’d tell him not to bother—he couldn’t afford her. She had a high-pitched voice, clear and sweet, the sort of unsexy, girlish way of speaking Americans detested. Now, though, it was suddenly deeper and breathier, as if blowing into Hongmei’s ear.
“Guess what,” she said. “I’ve nabbed a thirty-two-year-old millionaire.”
“Well done,” Hongmei replied.
Nini explained that the young millionaire owned a chain of high-end men’s fashion stores. All the tycoons in Europe and America, in the whole world, bought his clothes. He had given Nini a job right away, as a manager at one of his branches. The young millionaire might have been on the cutting edge of fashion, but he liked long-haired Asian girls in jeans. As a result, according to Nini, her roomful of miniskirts that only covered half her ass were now on the scrap heap. She made a fuss about this, her voice rising again. “The last millionaire gave me a set of even, white teeth and paid for all my dental bills. Who knows—maybe this one will help fix my acne?”
Hongmei laughed. Nini didn’t have many good points, but what stood out was her willingness to freely admit to selfishness, vulgarity, and an excessive fondness for money. Anyone who couldn’t handle this knew to stay away or they’d get hurt. She knew she was a joke in many people’s eyes, but she didn’t care.
Hongmei said, “Nini, you’ve called at just the right time.”
Nini immediately replied, “If you’re asking for something, I’ll hang up.”
She ignored the jibe. “Nini, you have to help me with this.”
“Don’t you know me? I’ve never helped anyone before.”
“You have to send an email for me, pretending to be all lonely and hurt.”
“I am hurt,” said Nini sarcastically. “I’ve cried myself to death. Go on, Qiao Hongmei, who do you want me to destroy?”
“Just a note saying you ran into him by chance somewhere and for some reason you want to talk to him again.”
Hongmei gave her the email address and a rough outline of a message. This was a brainwave she’d had, to make her position in this roundelay less of a passive one. She was doing this on a whim. She wanted to see how he would react when ambushed by a female attacker. It was a test to see if he was interested solely in Hongmei or he just went for any Asian woman in a skirt. She wanted to make sure she was truly special in his eyes. Was it vanity? Either way, she couldn’t help herself.
Nini responded after reading the email by asking if she should attach a photo, one in which her acne couldn’t be seen. “Yes, how about a full-body shot!”
Hongmei disagreed. She thought Nini’s photo was too sensual.
Nini yelped, “What about my alabaster tits and ass? Don’t they count for something?”
Hongmei just laughed.
Nini asked, “Who is this?”
Hongmei replied, “A millionaire.”
Nini said, “So if I nab this one, he’s mine?”
“Yes, he’s yours.”
Nini phoned that night to say the millionaire was ignoring her.
She forwarded her email, and Hongmei read it twice and thought it sounded about right. She said to Nini, “Send another photo, this time with your hair down, wearing jeans.”
After hanging up, she saw a new message ping in her inbox. It was the secret talker.
He said he was imagining what she might be doing. Midnight—is that wine or tea in your cup? Hongmei’s hand closed tightly around her mug of tea.
He said he could see her in a voluminous housecoat, hair half tucked inside her collar. He said he liked her any way she looked. Beneath the baggy, soft fabric, her tiny naked body made him ache.
Hongmei suddenly felt warm all over.
He said that certain feelings, once you put them into words, weren’t actually like that at all. This was his difficulty. What he wanted to transmit to her was sheer emotion, without the smug interpolation of words in between. Taste, breath, touch . . . How could words possibly describe these things? The sensation of licking a peeled grape can only exist between your tongue and the grape—the fullness of that lick, its translucent quality, so juicy and ripe, belonging only to the grape and not any other substance. He said even this was a distortion, him strong-arming the wordless meeting of tongue and grape, a secret between the two parties that only they could know. Words were too slow, too clumsy, too practical and solid, too stark and violent.
Her mouth grew moist, and something seemed to change inside her chest.
Imagine it, he said, your tongue encountering a perfect, perfect bit of cheese, or a drop of thirty-year-old red wine, or a most passionate pair of lips. None of these could be easily put into words. These secrets are almost sinful ecstasies for the senses. He said words disappointed him, the way they betrayed sensation. But he believed she understood what he meant, a secret between the two of them. Just like the secret between the tongue and the grape, the wine, and the lips.
Without knowing how it happened, she logged off and walked into the bedroom. Glen was still reading his students’ book reports on his laptop, looking peaceful in the lamplight. A clump of gray-white hair drooped over his temple, and his face was distinctly outlined. He hugged her and kissed her ear. This was all familiar, comfortable and numb. She didn’t know why she took his hand and placed it on her breast. Glen made love to her the way he hadn’t in a long time.
Afterward, he said, “Are you all right?” He sounded worried.
She was full of guilt. If Glen had said nothing, he wouldn’t be Glen. How could she have sunk so low? Her body had run off, miles away.
She didn’t sleep that night and got up at five in the morning to write the emailer a message. She thanked him for showing up and making the feelings she thought she’d lost come back again. He’d opened her up, body and soul. But this was going too far, and she was scared. She couldn’t get hooked on this drug. She would be even more grateful if he could vanish.
After breakfast, she saw his reply, asking if she planned to change her email address.
She avoided the question and said she hoped this would be the last message she’d get from him. He said that no matter what, he’d frequently watch her walk across the lawn. She said nothing but pressed down hard on the keyboard to exit the browser. She had a class that afternoon and picked up her books and notebook, returning to the living room. Glen had headed out at some point, leaving lunch for her—a convenience-store sandwich. She pulled back the plastic film and saw a pale pink slice of ham between two dark slices of bread, like a wou
nd gaping open.
As Hongmei was walking across the lawn, she stopped. She looked all around, then turned her gaze back to the top of their sixteen-story building, the highest point on campus. A place where you could see everyone and everything.
Running up there, she found the door to the rooftop locked. She quickly found the super in the basement. Very politely, he asked what business she had on the roof. She said to look at the scenery. He said that wouldn’t do; he wouldn’t be able to explain that to the residents’ board. She said she wasn’t going to commit suicide, and he chuckled and said, “Who could possibly know that?” She said, “If you’re worried, come up with me.” His eyebrows lifted, to indicate that her invitation was charming and that he was receptive. Right away, it reverted to the sort of smile a fellow airline passenger shoots you to say they’re done being social, and he said he didn’t want to go look at the scenery.
Changing the subject, he thanked her for the books she’d donated to the communal laundry room—there was a shabby bookshelf there, and anyone was free to leave old books for others to read while waiting. People often took them home, replacing them with other books of their own, a virtuous circle. Hongmei asked how he knew she’d donated the books. He said because she’d donated so many books. She said they didn’t have her name in them. He said, “Do they need to?” His eyes suddenly turned mysterious. Black eyes. Black hair. Five foot nine or so.
Hongmei thought she knew who the secret talker was. Her apartment building’s super was as described in the earlier messages, and he knew the background, financial situation, and emotional state of every household.
The next day at noon, Hongmei saw the super walk across the lawn, sandwich in hand. She was seated on her balcony, wearing sunglasses. The super’s ponytail blew in the wind, making him look for a moment like a melancholy drifter. Look at that—I can fix you in my sights too. The slight tilt of the balcony’s sunshade made her position particularly ideal. See, I can lurk in the shadows too, leaving you in the light. The super sat down on a bench stippled with pigeon shit. It seemed he wanted to eat his lunch within Hongmei’s line of sight. The two of them were now in the most clichéd scene of any thriller.
She casually swung her leg up, one foot resting on the other knee. He hadn’t unwrapped his sandwich. From sixteen floors up, he looked expectant. He was waiting for someone, constantly glancing at his watch. She looked at hers too: 12:59. Drug dealers usually showed up punctually, and his face was a little like an addict’s.
A woman walked by: red hair, tall, and plump, like a good-hearted Irish mom who’d had a brood of kids. She was holding a sandwich too. This vast, diverse country had a massive population yet only a few varieties of food. A commonwealth united by fast food. The woman and the super both ate their sandwiches while looking at some sheets of paper. Soon afterward, their hands started moving, drumming out a beat on their legs. Hongmei stood up and leaned against the balcony railing.
Hongmei realized that they must be rehearsing a musical—perhaps they were a couple of amateur actors, playing bit parts for a local theater company. They sang energetically, the woman’s chubby hand tapping against the super’s back. The super seemed busy enough yet apparently still had time for secret meetings. She watched as they said goodbye, then hurried downstairs to the basement and met him coming out of the washroom. Seeing her, he staggered back a step or two. Hongmei felt a stab of pleasure—See? I can take you by surprise too.
Not missing a beat, he hinted that he had a bell.
She said, “Sorry. Pardon me. Your door was open.”
He responded, “You want to look at the scenery again?” His laughter had even less restraint this time.
She said she’d locked herself out—could she use his computer?
Like a bit player in a musical, he extended a courtly invitation. She stared at him. Eyes, black; hair, black; ears, on the small side but exquisitely molded. She scanned his features and committed them to memory. He remained hidden behind whatever role he was playing in this musical and said theatrically, “Not at all. It’s my honor to labor for an enchanting woman such as yourself.” He seemed a little tense, though he kept up a flow of chatter. Next, he went over to a desk and pulled out a swivel chair for her. She shot him a look. So this was the man who wanted to confess his desires? There was some talent here, all that fine language blindly thrown away on her.
He asked if she wanted a glass of something.
She said, “Anything is fine. I’ll drink whatever you have.” A couple of clicks and the current started chirping through the space between him and her.
She took the water he handed her. This man who’d tricked her into trust and passion, secretly or openly running between all his many bit parts.
The new inbox was calm. Just a message from Nini. She opened it with a click, to see Nini had ended her five-day-old romance. She told Hongmei that an IT tycoon had come into her shop and bought tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of suits. He’d asked her to come help him in the changing room, and they’d started making out right there. Nini had been ready to straddle two boats at once, but then she got her termination notice. It turned out the clothing tycoon had seen the whole thing through the shop’s closed-circuit TV. Nini said, These days there’s not one place where you’ll be left alone! The super was now using a newspaper as camouflage. Hongmei wrote back to Nini. Then she sipped at the water in her glass.
Nini replied at once, saying she just got her first email from the secret talker. He had praised her youth and beauty, saying she was the sort of Asian woman every white man dreamed of. Nini didn’t forward the whole message, keeping him for herself as she did the other tycoons.
6
Hongmei looked at the man hiding behind the newspaper. It kept rustling. Don’t think of getting rid of me. Weren’t you longing for an intimate conversation? Then her inbox lit up, and her scalp prickled. The secret talker! How was that possible? Hardly anyone knew her new email address.
He said right away that she oughtn’t buy flowers from the cut-price stall—those petals were just glued on and would never bloom.
She asked if there was a need for him to follow her like that.
He said he was hooked on her, and that wasn’t entirely his fault.
She said if that were really the case, he ought to come out from behind his computer or shrub or newspaper. Otherwise she’d consider her privacy invaded and call the police.
The newspaper shook again, urging her to go. A yawn, a cough. Now that he was no longer under suspicion, he’d gone back to being a dull building super.
The secret talker said, Why do you have to treat me like this? A police report in exchange for my devotion?
She could see the tragic smile in his words. She answered: You make me feel like I have nowhere to hide. No, like there’s nowhere I can be.
He apologized.
She said: If you won’t go away, I’ll get the police to lay an ambush. They’ll be interested. Men kidnapping women and girls is a hot topic.
No response.
Five minutes later, a reply.
How can you be so sure I’m a man?
Hongmei stared at the words.
The super said, “You need any help?” He was finding all of this odd too. If she ever wound up screaming and cursing at someone in the street, she’d look no different from the way she did now. She felt vicious, coarse expressions exploding on her face one after another. She kept blowing aside the hair that fell across her face, her lips twitching nonstop. A female secret talker? In her mind, Hongmei kicked open this person’s front door, grabbed their hair, and dragged them out into the street. She wasn’t even sure if she was spelling some of these swear words correctly, but she didn’t care When she paused and brought the glass to her lips, she found it empty. This person had toyed with her so much, she was half crazy. She slowly deleted her rant and coldly typed out, Then there’s a fundamental misunderstanding between the two of us. I’m a straight woman—I only like men.
She logged off and stood up. The newspaper came down and revealed the super’s knowing face. He’d seen her entire tirade, a flurry of furious typing. He’d just been playing the part of a meek little employee rather than sneakily trying to pair up with her. He bid her goodbye politely, saying he’d help her ask permission at the next residents’ committee meeting.
She was confused—“Permission for what?”
He said, “To get the key to the roof, of course.” What a good little employee, so responsible.
She said, “That’s too much trouble. Forget it.”
He said, “No trouble at all.” Then, with a change of tone, “What on Earth are you planning to do up there?”
She asked what other residents went up for.
“Fixing TV antennae,” he answered.
She said, “You see, if I’d said that’s what I would be doing, wouldn’t you have given me the key at once?”
He said, “That’s right. You ought to have said that. I don’t want to know what you would actually do up there.”
She smiled. “I’m not going to kill myself.”