In the Lap of the Gods

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In the Lap of the Gods Page 14

by Li Miao Lovett


  THEY SLURPED THEIR BOWLS OF STEAMING BROTH, AND LADLED strips of beef and tofu from the hot pot bubbling away on the table. Mei Ling took another sip of Chongqing beer. She could feel her blood rush to her skin, turning her rouged cheeks even redder. She had only drunk a glass, but her heart throbbed against her lungs. Mei Ling considered alcohol as seductive as a man; it charmed and exhilarated her. She could not resist its pleasures, yet it could be deadly intoxicating, a poison to the heart and flesh.

  The restaurant was no bigger than Tai’s old noodle shop. Around the other tables, the customers dipped into their steaming cauldrons and filled each other’s glasses in a ritual of brotherhood. On the walls were paintings of steamships, Chinese junks, and other motifs of a maritime era gone by. The man sitting in front of Mei Ling seemed out of place. Liu was dressed in a linen shirt with a crisp collar and shirt cuffs. And yet, it seemed as though he’d been pulled from the deck of one of those ships, scrubbed clean, and dressed in his boss’s clothes.

  Both of them felt awkward at the start of the evening, but as their glasses began to empty, Mei Ling gazed longer and harder at Liu’s face, noticing the fullness of his eyebrows, the long ridge of his nose. And Liu’s eyes lost that shiftiness, which was a sign of bashfulness, not dishonesty, as far as Mei Ling could tell.

  Mei Ling sensed that Liu had been trying to impress her. The co-worker she knew labored with his hands, but perhaps there was more to the man. She was curious about his baby, and his job, the unexplained source of sustenance that provided for the two—or perhaps the three—of them. Mei Ling decided to start with the baby; perhaps that would address the other nagging question. Was there a woman in the picture? If there was any hint of deceit, Mei Ling would find some convenient pretext to end the date once and for all.

  “Your little girl is darling.” Mei Ling smiled. “How old is she?”

  “Oh, probably a year old. Yeah, she’s one.” Liu fidgeted with his glass.

  “Do you spend a lot of time with her?”

  “Why, yes. Well, it depends.” Liu cleared his throat. “Rose spends quite a bit of time at the babysitter’s, but I always enjoy the chance to take her for a walk. Gives us a chance to get out of the apartment . . . to get some fresh air, that is.”

  Swirling her glass, Mei Ling took a big gulp of beer. The rush of cold liquid down her throat soothed her. She leaned forward and her gaze was unwavering. “Where’s her mother? Clearly you are inviting me on a date. This is lovely, but of course I’m wondering if you are married or—”

  “No, no... ,” Liu interrupted. “I am a widower. I have no wife. No, she’s been dead for two years. If you want to know, this child is my brother’s. They lost their lives in a flood, and I could not bear to see Rose given away to strangers.”

  Mei Ling stared at his eyebrows. How they flickered and danced. But his lips seemed to be telling the truth. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. What a terrible loss.” She reached out and touched Liu’s hand, feeling the sharp ridges of his veins.

  Liu did not move his hand, and she did not move hers. And then, as if the plume of poisonous liquor had passed through, Mei Ling pulled her hand back, tucking it between her thighs.

  “At first, I could not see raising her on my own. She’s rather impetuous, and I often feel like a clumsy father. Or a bad one.” Liquor seemed to part the curtains to Liu’s soul. “But she is a source of joy. And she was quite drawn to you.”

  Now it was Liu who gazed intently, almost fervently into Mei Ling’s eyes. His sincerity made her uneasy. The heat rose into her alcohol-flushed cheeks. She was seized by the impulse to escape, but her legs felt weighed down by lead. She mustered a feeble laugh. “Well, yes, one girl knows another best.”

  Liu seemed to notice her discomfort, and his gaze fell on the empty bowl in front of him. “Mei Ling,” he said quietly. “I have enjoyed the times we’ve spent at Tai’s, on our walks around town, at the church....” Liu looked into Mei Ling’s face, blinked and looked down, as if her eyes were too bright to gaze upon. “. . . And I would like. . . .”

  Nearby, three men rose up from their tables after polishing off a bottle of baijiu. They stumbled past Liu and Mei Ling, belching loudly. His eyes darted over to the men. He played nervously with his chopstick, striking it against the bowl. He seemed like a confused animal that had strayed far from its den and lost its instincts.

  “What were you going to say?” Mei Ling asked.

  “Nothing. . . . Oh, it was nothing at all.”

  They ate in silence, and drank more beer, although it did not seem to release them from the tension of what remained unspoken. Nevertheless, Mei Ling felt a floating sense of comfort, a faith in possibilities, as Liu walked her back home that night.

  At the entrance to her building, he bade her good night, leaning forward slightly. An imploring look flashed across his face before he turned and shuffled down the street, stepping across an uneven break in the pavement.

  DISTRESSED CRIES EMERGED FROM MRS. SONG’S APARTMENT. Liu banged on the door with his fist, then the heel of his hand.The echoes resounded through the dim hallway that joined their homes.

  When Mrs. Song opened the door at last, she looked startled and pointed at Liu, as if trying to remember his name. A feeble light emerged in her eyes, a flicker of recognition. Mrs. Song seemed to be a stranger in her own home. This was not the fastidious Mrs. Song that Liu had always known.

  Her odd behaviors upon his return had made an impression on Liu. He had started taking Rose with him to the restaurant in the evenings, and while he thought he was merely getting her acquainted with Mei Ling, he realized now that he was afraid of Mrs. Song’s erratic behavior. Perhaps she had taken some strange medicine, or maybe that prolonged flu had stricken her brain; he did not know what to do about Mrs. Song, except rely on her services less and less.

  The apartment was in shambles. The crocheted sofa covers, the quilt on her bed, the lace doilies that used to sit neatly on her table—all had been moved about in a bizarre manner.The calligraphy scroll on the wall had become an object of contempt; its edges lay in tatters, the interior had bled profusely like a wounded animal. He noticed the pile of dishes in the sink; the smells reminded Liu of his bachelor’s apartment. But Mrs. Song was never one to let even a grain of rice fall before she would swipe up the offending kernel.

  Liu rushed over to little Rose, whose naked bottom lay on a quilt spread haphazardly across the dining table. The soiled diaper had been tossed aside onto a heap of old newspapers. She had stopped crying when she sensed his presence, but when he scooped her up in his arms, her wails pierced the walls like sharp nails. Her bottom was hot to the touch.

  “She’s been having the itchies,” said Mrs. Song. “So I took a toothbrush to her behind and scratched it right out. I don’t know why she keeps crying.”

  Liu could not believe his ears.This was the old woman who had handed him ointment for the baby’s rashes, when he was an ignorant new father. Had Mrs. Song indeed lost her senses?

  “Well, she seems okay now,” Liu said to Mrs. Song. He wrapped his shirt ends around the baby’s exposed bottom, and brought her face close to his. Rose’s eyes changed with her moods, and like the seasons, one gave way to the next completely. There was no resentment in those eyes, no fear that she would be abandoned or attacked with abrasive objects, now that she was held in his arms.

  Mrs. Song had collapsed onto the couch, her gaze fixated on the ceiling. “My good fellow,” she gestured to Liu, “could you turn on the TV? My husband should be coming home soon. Yes, soon.... I’ll probably fall asleep before he gets back. He shouldn’t be leaving his poor wife like this, but at least he seems to like his work.”

  Liu bent down and turned on the television. There was no husband she could wait for. The horror of unexplained losses drained the blood from his hands. He extended his arm toward Mrs. Song to bid her farewell.

  A light came into her eyes as she patted Liu’s hand. “Now that’s a good boy.Wish I had
a son like you.”

  Her sentiments jolted Liu with anguish. Mrs. Song had a son, but she did not seem to know that anymore. If it was taboo to forget the dead, it was a greater tragedy to forget the living. He waved Rose’s hand in a gentle good-bye, knowing this could well be the last time she would see the matronly Mrs. Song.

  ON THEIR SECOND DATE, LIU ENDURED AN HOUR OF MASS, listening to the priest’s pontification on turning the other cheek, which struck Liu as an act of foolishness. That afternoon, the parishioners did not gather for tea, although he would have endured any degree of social torment for the chance to be with her. He had choked back the question earlier in the week. Liu invited Mei Ling for a stroll on the outskirts of town, trying to steady his footsteps amidst the anxiety of his intentions, and his concerns about Rose, who was under the care of a new babysitter, a cheerful, freckly girl from the local high school.

  He was waiting for the right moment, when the autumn sun cast its light on her countenance, when the fitful swirls of wind died down, when his heart stood still long enough to allow his tongue to utter the words, inviting her to take his hand in marriage.

  Looking into Mei Ling’s eyes, Liu could see the fragments of life dancing about them—swaying branches stripped of leaves, a small fire on the hillside, the huddle of gambling men. He waited for the words that came after a long, thoughtful pause.

  “Yes,” she said, squeezing his hand, then letting it go as the windblown leaves scattered at their feet.

  17

  THE DISHEVELED STATE OF LIU’S APARTMENT WAS SOMEWHAT of a slovenly houseguest that refused to leave. As much as Liu tried, he could not clean the surfaces free of dust that gathered in small armies, retreating into the corners when he took a broom or rag to them. The dishes, too, refused to leave his sink; as soon a few had been washed, another set began to pile up. The old pots were cemented with layers of overcooked baby food. Anything made of cloth, the drapes by his cot, the cotton lining of the cradle, and the kitchen rags, had been anointed by liberal doses of baby spittle.

  Liu had lived simply, and now he was confronted with a myriad of concerns, from a bed large enough for husband and wife to a source of income that could provide for their family.

  He threw away a large pile of cigarette butts, watching helplessly as the ashes swirled about in a small cyclone before settling on the floor. So much seemed beyond his grasp, and he began to wonder if matrimony was an act of foolishness. Yet the fortuneteller had revealed that he would marry again, and nothing indicated that this would displease the gods.

  Did he have the means to provide for yet another? He did not have the smarts to be an electrician like Wang Ma, or the skills to run a business like Tai. She’s the one with the steady income, Liu thought ruefully.

  Liu picked up a stray cigarette butt and tossed it in the garbage. What kind of man am I if the woman has to take care of me? He shook his head as if he had been slapped.

  Rose awoke from a nap and demanded to be picked up. Often, in those moments before she awoke, he would notice a fluttering in her eyes, an anguish that revealed itself in the curl of her lips, the quick contractions of her breath. Liu felt her hot cheek against his shoulders as she writhed about.

  A pang of regret seized him. Liu would have to work like a beast again. He had given up a certain degree of autonomy upon adopting Rose, yet nobody dictated that he had to rise to the responsibilities of a wage earner, as long as he could put food on the table for both of them. Marriage, however, was different. A husband’s role carried the trappings of respectability. Even as a lowly coal porter, Liu had been a decent man with a job in the eyes of Fei Fei’s friends and family.

  How would his future wife introduce him to her parents? “My husband, the scavenger who was released from prison?” A hawkish laugh escaped from his lips, waking Rose from her nap.

  He ran his fingertips across her temple. “Little monkey, I’m going to get a new job. And you’ll get a new Ma Ma. No more walks to the park, and donkey rides. Unless I have a day off.” Rose blinked and tossed her head, which Liu took as a gesture of understanding. And then every part of her body calmed, her fluttering lips and chest, even the wispy hairs on her head, as if she had finally awoken from her nightmare.

  TAI’S WAGGING FINGER HAD A MESMERIZING EFFECT ON LIU, much like the stump of rabbit’s foot that Ol’ Guo had dangled in front of little Rose. Like the rest of Tai, it was a crooked finger with good intentions.

  “My friend, why in the world are you seeing that mastermind criminal again? Can’t you tell he set you up in Fengdu?”Tai flicked his finger at Liu as if he were swatting flies.

  “There wasn’t much else around here,” Liu replied. “I knew I was taking my chances. As a matter of fact, he did say something about the police.”

  “Well, he threw you a scented rag and you followed it like a bloodhound. But even a bloodhound wouldn’t be fool enough to go after walking skeletons in a ghost town.”

  “I did find a jade bracelet,” said Liu, staring down at the hole in his shoes. His big toe squirmed, a cornered mouse unable to hide.

  “Great. Just make sure the authorities don’t get you a second time.”

  “Tai, listen. I’m a desperate man. I will have to find a job, but I have a wedding to pay for, and a woman to satisfy. You know Big Chen, the antique dealer? He’s big on gossip, stingy on deals. I bit my lip and took the bracelet to him. Told him it belonged to my deceased uncle. He offered me 50 yuan. Fifty yuan? Best I can do is get some baby clothes for Rose. I’d have to show up at my wedding in these old rags.” Liu’s toe lurched back, but could not retreat down its hole.

  “Liu, that doesn’t sound like you. When did you start caring about how you looked?”

  “Maybe I’m getting older,” said Liu in an earnest, pensive tone. “Tai, you know I was locked up with those protestors, and humiliated. As the days passed, their spirits withered, but somehow, my strength returned to me. I thought of my past, my life with Fei Fei, and my future. I breathed in the stink of my own sweat and piss, and I wanted something better than that. I’m tired of being alone, and no woman’s going to take a man in rags.”

  LIU HAD REHEARSED HIS SPEECH A DOZEN TIMES. HE HAD A jade bracelet to sell. He would accept no less than 300 yuan for it. He would take it elsewhere if Fang could not meet his price. He refrained from telling Fang about the ordeal in Fengdu. Instead, he got down to business, and thrust the bracelet at Fang. “This is as genuine as it gets, jade with nice, dark veins. What do you say, Ol’ Fang?”

  Fang turned the bracelet over in his hand and squinted at it through a magnifying glass. “Hmmm . . . not bad.”

  “I’m taking no less than 300 yuan.”

  “Well,” Fang clucked, “you drive a hard bargain. You know I can easily get a specimen like this somewhere else.”

  Liu clenched his teeth. “Take it or leave it, Fang. Three hundred yuan.”

  “Okay, my friend, 300 it’ll be. But you’ll have to come back in a few days.”

  “No, Fang, I’d just as soon make the swap now.” Liu snatched the bracelet out of the broker’s palm. The old man had given in too easily. Surely, Fang was up to no good.

  “You’d better come back.” Fang’s tone was imperious.

  Liu swallowed hard. Fang could be such a tyrant behind the mask of the avuncular businessman.

  “I’m going to be out of town,” Fang explained, “to visit an old friend in Sichuan. He needs my help.”

  “I’ll be going then,” said Liu, turning toward the door

  “No, my friend, wait. I want to ask you something.” Fang’s tone softened. The old man’s mood seemed mercurial, like a gale that kept changing directions.

  Fang insisted that Liu take a seat, and after some preparation, he brought out an expensive-looking tray of tea and served it British style with sugar and milk. Liu fumbled with the teacup handle, barely the size of his thumb, and spilled some of the hot liquid. He suspected that Fang was involved in some shady business. Exasperated,
Liu set the cup down with a clatter.

  “What do you want, Fang?”

  The old man put his fingertips together. “I have a friend who lost his brother-in-law recently.The old geezer died with a bloated belly; too much drink, I suppose. This fellow, I’m told, has a daughter who lived not far from here, on the banks of the Daning, in Emerald Gorge. My friend wants to reclaim some of the objects his brother-in-law had given the daughter.”

  “Why can’t your friend go straight to the daughter?” asked Liu.

  “He has. Ol’ Chu asked his niece, but she claims she had to leave their home in a hurry, as the Yangtze waters were rising up to their doorstep, and she did not have time to take all their possessions.”

  A sudden nausea overtook Liu. He had been scavenging on the eve of the flooding. From that near disastrous foray into a village house, he had found a few valuables. He was still in possession of a lacquered box. And a baby.

  Liu bit his lower lip. “So what can he do now? Everything’s under water.”

  “My friend, you were foraging in the area when the new lake was rising.” The old man’s eyes glittered. “You were in those houses. Surely, some of those people must have left a keepsake or two behind. Not counting the babies; they don’t have to stay in the family.”

 

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