Massage

by Bi Feiyu

  Tuina therapists normally work till midnight and ‘go home’ around a quarter of an hour after that. As a rule, they prefer the term ‘going home’ to ‘getting off work’. Relaxing after fourteen or fifteen hours of hard labour, their bodies are not difficult to please; they can lean against almost anything and feel at home. Instead of washing and heading straight to bed, they sit quietly for a while, a genuine pleasure. Of course, there are lively moments, since they lead a communal life. Someone might suddenly decide to eat something. So they eat, and as they eat, they become animated, and chats turn into silly talk. They talk, they laugh, they clown around. Chatting ‘at home’ feels good. There are no fixed topics: ice cream, no. 1 subway line, Disney, bank interest, their discrete school friends, cars, Chinese football, funny lines from a client, real estate, mutton skewers, movie stars, stocks, problems in the Middle East, daydreams, the Japanese election, Nike sneakers, New Year’s Eve TV shows, Shakespeare, taking a mistress, the Olympics, athlete’s foot, the difference between toasted buns and toasted bread, the NBA, love, AIDS, charity, and so on. They talk about anything that strikes their fancy, which sometimes leads to arguments and minor fallings-out. But that doesn’t matter, for they find ways to make up. Sometimes, when their conversations need a boost, the men and women visit one another, naturally. That can turn chats into minor riots, accompanied by the noise of cracking melon seeds and the sound of a radio broadcasting stock market numbers, book reviews and sports news, or call-ins, psychological counselling and commercials. To be sure, there are rules regarding visits between the sexes – the men go to the women’s dorms before the women head to the men’s later. The women tend to have complicated rituals before going to sleep, a sort of prologue. Unlike the women, whose bedtime rituals create a degree of inconvenience, the men simply climb into bed and begin to snore without even taking off their smelly socks.

  Xiao Kong finally came to Wang Daifu’s dorm after one o’clock in the morning. The moment she arrived, Xu Tailai called out, ‘Sao-zi’, or sister-in-law. It sounded strange, yet wasn’t all that unusual. Wang had not been there long, but people were already calling him ‘Da-ge’, or big brother, an apt nickname for Wang, who impressed everyone as being a simple, honest man. He was certainly honest, kind, strong and hardworking, but inarticulate, the type who doesn’t mind taking it on the chin or being pushed around. It took him time to get his head around things, and he was a slow talker, but with a ready smile. All these were the characteristics of a da-ge. And since he was now Da-ge, what else could Xiao Kong be if not Sao-zi?

  Normally a man who was mindful of his position, Xu Tailai seldom gave in to banter, but precisely because he was so inarticulate, his calling Xiao Kong Sao-zi created a meaningful effect. Referring to an unmarried woman as Sao-zi was intriguing, for it revealed something hidden by tacit agreement. It was amusing, funny actually, and it sent everyone into a raucous chorus of ‘Sao-zi’. Caught by surprise, Xiao Kong did not know how to react. She’d just come from freshening up after a shower, and hadn’t expected to become a Sao-zi the moment she stepped inside the men’s dorm. Now what? she thought to herself.

  Amid the cacophony of noise, the twang of a mattress spring told her that Wang Daifu had made room for her, so she walked towards him. Obviously, she could not climb up onto the upper bunk. So she did the next best thing – she sat on the lower bunk, between Wang on her left and another person on her right, who, she figured, must be Xiao Ma. But before she had a chance to greet Xiao Ma, Zhang Yiguang walked up and began his interrogation.

  Zhang had come from the Jiawang coal mine, where he’d been a miner for sixteen years. Already the father of two, he was the liveliest individual ‘at home’. He was out of place at the tuina therapy centre, owing to his age, for one thing. Most of the therapists were young, with an average age of twenty-five or twenty-six; he was close to forty – an old man. But that was only one of the ways he didn’t fit in, for he was not a typical blind man. Before the age of thirty-five, he’d had bright eyes that could even be called fierce. After that, his eyes lost their lustre and intensity; a gas explosion had buried them in the mine forever. What could he do without his eyesight? Switching to a new profession, he took up tuina therapy, an odd choice for a rough-hewn character like him. Luckily, he had a trump card – amazing strength he was not afraid to use. He put his all into his work, huffing and puffing as if he were digging for coal in the client’s body. Some liked it that way, which was why Sha Fuming had taken him on, and he brought in plenty of business. But no matter how old he was, no one would have called him Da-ge. He was one of those older men who somehow just did not command respect. He never acted like an elder. What people noticed about him was his tendency to overdo things and an inability to do them the way they were supposed to be done. Take making friends, for instance. If he liked you, he’d be so devoted that he’d buy you a drink, you’d even think he might rip out his heart or liver to go with it. But if something displeased him, he could be ruthless, ready to fight at the slightest provocation. Not surprisingly, he had no real friends.

  Holding onto the edge of the bed, Zhang stood there and announced the rules of the family: all newcomers had to undergo an interrogation to become members, and that included Sao-zi. Xiao Kong knew this was all in fun, but was nervous nonetheless. Zhang was, after all, married with two kids, which meant he knew his way around an interrogation. She was right to be worried, for he started by focusing on the relationship between Da-ge and Sao-zi, though he did it in a roundabout way, relying on insinuation. Adopting an innocent manner, yet all the while centring on unique features, he guided his listeners to make associations that would render anyone tongue-tied.

  ‘Let’s loosen things up and start with an IQ test, a riddle,’ Zhang said. ‘Can you tell me which idiom is appropriate for describing Dage hugging Sao-zi naked?’

  Now what could that be? How could an idiom be sufficient to describe all the things a naked man and woman could do together? It would take a lifetime.

  ‘Xiong duo ji shao,’ Zhang said, ‘boding disaster rather than blessings.’

  How could that describe Da-ge and Sao-zi hugging naked? His audience quickly got the joke: the four words sounded just like ‘big tits and little dick’. They doubled over laughing. He was quite a clown, this Zhang Yiguang, the centre’s answer to the well-known comic actors Pan Changjiang and Zhao Benshan. His mouth was a formidable tool.

  Now that they were loosened up, Zhang left Xiao Kong alone and zeroed in on Wang Daifu. ‘Yesterday afternoon a client commented on Sao-zi’s body, saying she had everything that should be there and nothing that shouldn’t. Now tell us, what should and shouldn’t be on Sao-zi’s body?’

  Again everyone laughed, including Wang. While his laughter wasn’t entirely natural, he was in fact genuinely happy, for it always pleased him to hear people say nice things about Sao-zi. That went without saying. But it was hard on Xiao Kong, who could not make a fuss over what was said, and was reduced to shifting her body, as if she could cut ties with Da-ge by sitting farther and farther away from him. It did no good, for Zhang was relentless. The harder he pushed, the closer she edged to Xiao Ma, until she was practically sitting on him.

  The inarticulate Wang was at the end of his rope, which so panicked Xiao Kong that she jumped to her feet and punched Xiao Ma. ‘He’s picking on me, Xiao Ma. Why don’t you do something?’

  Xiao Ma had been wool gathering. He never participated in family business; he was far more interested in letting his mind wander. He hadn’t said a word from the moment Xiao Kong entered the dorm, and had not expected her to head straight for his bed. He captured her smell right away; or, to be more precise, her smell captured him the moment she arrived. It was her hair. Still wet from being washed, it carried the lingering fragrance of shampoo. That shampoo was no longer just shampoo, and her hair was no longer just hair, as together they produced a fantastic chemical reaction that endowed her with a wonderful smell and, for some reason, made him nervous. The fact is
, it had affected him deeply. She smelled absolutely wonderful. As a result, he was oblivious to Zhang Yiguang’s torrential interrogation; all he knew for sure was that Sao-zi, little by little, was moving closer to him. Her body shifted, enveloping him in her fragrance, which seemed to grow fingers and arms that could caress, hold and embrace him. Xiao Ma was mesmerised, trapped in that embrace. Flaring his nostrils, he wanted to breathe deeply, but he lacked the nerve, and ended up holding his breath, to the point of nearly suffocating.

  Sao-zi had no time to delve into Xiao Ma’s secrets; all she wanted was to rescue Wang Daifu from his predicament by shifting the target. She pummelled Xiao Ma softly and complained in a pouty voice, ‘You’re so mean, Xiao Ma.’

  ‘I’m not mean, Sao-zi,’ he replied, raising his head.

  This came from the depths of his heart, layered in fear and trepidation, but it could not have come at a worse time. In the current atmosphere, his ‘I’m not mean’ sounded more like a witticism, which some might have construed as flirtatious, thus making him complicit in Zhang Yiguang’s prank. Who could have predicted that Xiao Ma, who rarely spoke, could be so clever the one time he opened his mouth? But that is how language works – it can make a quiet person sound humorous just by speaking.

  Convinced by the raucous laughter that Xiao Ma was being mean, Xiao Kong got down off the bed and complained in an exaggerated tone, ‘Damn you, Xiao Ma. I thought you were a nice guy. It turns out you’re bad on the inside, which is worse than just bad.’ Though she was grumbling, she was, in fact, pleased with herself, since her little trick diverted the attention to Xiao Ma. Why not make it even more noticeable? she thought. Self-satisfaction and a taste of flighty pleasure prodded her to take things as far as they would go: she wrapped her hands around his neck, gently, of course, and said, ‘Xiao Ma, are you mean or aren’t you?’

  Here we must speak of another trait of the blind. Since they are unable to see one another, eye contact or communication through facial expressions are impossible. So in those rare moments when they are involved in horseplay, they – men and women both – cannot avoid using their hands and feet. There are no taboos in regard to physical contact; it is expected of good friends when they are talking and joking – a tap here, a tickle or pinch there. Not touching is as serious a breach as the sighted averting their eyes, for it can only signify sinister motives or a lack of trust.

  Xiao Ma had no idea why what he’d said was funny, but Sao-zi wrapped her hands around his neck, and, without intending to, he had come into physical contact with her. To show that she really meant to hurt him, strangle him even, she kept her hands firmly around his neck and grunted to add effect. At some point, her body began to sway, sending her wet hair flying, and each time the ends hit him in the face, it felt as if they were lashing deep into his heart.

  ‘Are you mean or aren’t you?’ she yelled.

  ‘Yes, I’m mean.’

  Xiao Ma could not have anticipated that his simple ‘I’m mean’ could also become a joke. Without knowing it, he had slowly evolved from an inessential outsider into the main character of the drama. Before he had time to analyse his own feelings, he lost control. How his arms got involved, he didn’t know, but one of them abruptly brushed against two fleshy mounds, soft and yet firm, with an indescribable stubborn quality. He was immediately transported back to the age of nine. The sensation was surprising and transient, but there was a childlike, exuberant vitality to it. He went rigid, not daring to move, freezing his arms at that moment when he was nine. His late mother. A birthday cake. Bright red candles forming the number nine. Dazzlingly bright. A loud crash, an overturned car. The overpowering smell of hair swirling all around. Breasts. Everything there that should have been. Sao-zi. Restless and eager for action. Suffocation.

  With hot tears suddenly brimming in his eyes, he raised his head and covered her hands with his. ‘Sao-zi.’

  That, of course, resulted in another round of raucous guffaws, what might normally be called lascivious laughter. Taciturn Xiao Ma, a deadpan joker? Who would have known it? Why, he was more of a hellraiser than Zhang.

  ‘I’m not Sao-zi,’ Xiao Kong said with feigned seriousness. ‘I’m Xiao Kong.’

  ‘No,’ he retorted with the same seriousness, ‘you’re Sao-zi.’

  Amid the waves of laughter, Xiao Kong looked angry; but, of course, she was just playacting. Xiao Ma was so mean, she thought, he could make people die laughing and wouldn’t care. Now what? There was nothing she could do about him. Luckily, however, she was secretly pleased with the term of address, so she said with a note of resignation, ‘All right, I’m Sao-zi.’

  But that’s not a term of address that an unmarried woman can accept willingly and with ease; it requires progress through the stages of being coy and shy. In her shy phase, she grabbed Xiao Ma’s hand and pinched, as a veiled warning that she would not let him off so lightly the next time.

  Sensing her warning, he pursed his lips, which made him realise, to his surprise, that he had been smiling. It was an expression that had come out of nowhere, and he knew that his smile was a special opening that let in something unidentifiable. A fuzzy memory of his mother, slightly cool yet slightly warm. Time is a strange artefact that never truly passes; seemingly lost, it hides in the crevices of facial expressions that, when least expected, call it to return.

  Sitting at the far end of the bed, a gleeful Wang Daifu was also smiling. He took out his cigarettes and passed them around, without saying a word, something Xiao Kong found somewhat wanting in him. He was a wonderful man in just about every respect, and she was convinced that he would die for her, if necessary. But there was one thing he could not and would never do, and that was to speak up for her; he was simply no good with words.

  So what could she say? Nothing. All she could do was take Xiao Ma’s hand as the joking came to an end, and lose herself in thoughts of – Wang Daifu, of course. But being lost in thought meant that she was unconscious of her movements. So Xiao Ma’s hand remained in hers, as his body began to levitate, like a balloon. She was another balloon, floating up with him. For him, the sky was not limitless, but formed a cone, and no matter how vast and wide, it must come to an end at a pointed tip. The two balloons passively came together in the air at the tapering dome of sky. In fact, they weren’t balloons; they were horses, two weightless, celestial horses soaring through the sky. There was only the smell of fresh grass and hair, as they remained together, rubbing against each other amid other weary movements.

  Xiao Kong’s first visit to the men’s dorm was not a success. But viewed differently, it was. She, as well as Wang Daifu, had got closer to and friendlier with their co-workers, marked by the liberties they could take in their bantering and physical contact. That was important, for it created a harmonious work environment; though they had yet to become confidants, they had managed positive interpersonal relationships that were second only to true friendship.

  Following her first visit, Xiao Kong got into the habit of going to Wang’s dorm before bedtime. After her shower, of course. The visits became a routine, which in itself is a characteristic of the blind. They are especially attentive to developing and following routines in their daily lives, and do not easily make changes. Once something is done in a certain way, they prefer to keep doing it that way from then on. Routine is a lifesaver; they would suffer without it. When negotiating a turn while out walking, for instance, they follow familiar patterns – not one step more or one step less. Otherwise, they could lose their front teeth.

  As the new routine formed, the old one between Xiao Kong and Wang Daifu ended, the one they had developed after coming to Nanjing: they made love twice a night. Wang was usually wild the first time, as if the earth were crumbling, that he was fighting for his life, that he was about to devour her. The second time was tame, detail-oriented and tender, filled with magical attachment, exceptionally touching. If the first time was considered lovemaking, then the second was the embodiment of falling in love. She liked the
m both, but would probably have chosen the second if forced to, for it was simply rapturous. However, within two weeks, that routine came to an end, for now that they were working again, twice a night was out of the question. When they got off work and came home, she’d be in the grip of desire that started out as a thought but quickly spread to her body. A thought was easy to deal with, but it became sheer torture once her body was involved. She was thrown into a daze, her body burning hot all over, as if engulfed in flames of desire.

  This made her act in a peculiar way when she went to the men’s dorm. The others, of course, would not notice, and even Wang himself was probably oblivious. Dejected, she put on a high-spirited show, but since the conflicting senses of dejection and excitement were so powerful, they created enormous tension. At such moments, she was irritable, prone to sentimentality, and emotional. Given to pouting, she tried to play the coquette, with an affected sweet and pampered air. She longed to throw herself into Wang’s arms, and would have been satisfied just to have him put his arms around her and his lips on hers. All she wanted was physical contact and bodily endearment. But could they do that in a dorm? Of course not. Without knowing it, Xiao Kong had taken a detour, piling coquettish behaviour and pouts intended for Wang onto Xiao Ma. She enjoyed fooling around with him, verbally and physically.

  Xiao Ma’s happiness grew by the day. He became possessed by her fragrance; having no way to describe this pervasive smell, he called it Sao-zi. Sao-zi was everywhere, as if holding Xiao Ma’s hand and walking on the floor, on suitcases, on chairs, on walls, on windows, on ceilings, even on pillows. The men’s dorm ceased to be a men’s dorm and was transformed into the street when he was nine years old. An enchanting street, where, outside the shopping arcade and the major hotels, billboards advertised tropical fruits, Nike basketballs, Adidas T-shirts and ice cream. Sao-zi took him along, with a kind and yet tyrannical attitude that watched over his every move. His mother had been strict with him, but he was the rebellious sort who never stopped fighting her. But not with Sao-zi, who wore a smile as she mocked him, sweetly embarrassed him, and gently straightened him out. He accepted it all, heart and soul. There seemed to be a tacit understanding between them; they were in perfect harmony.