by Cath Ferla
‘Been there?’ asked Jin Tao, grabbing a chair at a table.
‘I once pretended to be Uyghur.’ Sophie ducked for a passing tray of lamb kebabs. The scent of chargrill soaked into her. She slipped into the chair opposite Jin Tao.
‘A half-Irish, half-Chinese Australian chick?’ said Jin Tao. ‘How did that work?’
‘It was Beijing in the late nineties, just after I first arrived,’ Sophie said. ‘I wasn’t supposed to live where I did.’ She massaged the plastic grapes in the fruit bowl on the table.
‘Fearless foreigner.’
‘The complex had guards,’ she said. ‘I wrapped a scarf around my head whenever I left the apartment, hoped they would take me for a Uyghur and not ask for my paperwork.’
‘You pretended to be Muslim?’
‘Gave it a shot,’ she said.
Jin Tao grinned. ‘They would have been onto you,’ he said. ‘They probably just turned a blind eye because you’re gorgeous.’
Heat in her cheeks, like the warm rush of too much wine, Sophie flipped open the menu. Jin Tao did the same.
‘Tea?’ A tall waiter with an unfortunate mullet offered a copper teapot. Its long, thin spout stretched the length of the table. Sophie turned her teacup. The waiter poured tea, hot and steaming, into her cup. Jin Tao pointed to a bandage on the waiter’s hand.
‘A burn?’
The waiter filled Jin Tao’s cup. ‘Surfing accident. Had a fight with a coral reef. You should see the reef.’ He spoke with the fluency of a local, but his accent told a different story.
Jin Tao blew on his tea, cooling it. ‘She reckons she’d make a good Uyghur. What do you think? Reckon she could pass for one of you lot?’
The waiter assessed Sophie, a smile on his lips. ‘You like mutton?’
‘Love it.’
‘And cumin?’
Sophie nodded.
‘Can you dance on a table?’
‘Even when I’m not blind drunk.’
‘Then yes, I say you pass,’ he said. ‘You should give me your number. I’d make a good husband.’ He took Sophie’s hand in his bandaged one, brought it to his lips.
‘Hey!’ Jin Tao pushed his chair back. Face dark, like he wanted to punch the guy.
The waiter laughed, stepped sideways. ‘Don’t worry, man, she’s not my type.’
Jin Tao’s mouth gaped.
Sophie stretched out a hand to him. ‘His name’s Brad,’ she said. ‘He’s my friend.’
The waiter winked at Jin Tao. ‘Sophie gave me my English name,’ he said. ‘A good, solid surfer name for the new Aussie in me.’
Jin Tao rolled his eyes, returned to studying the menu.
‘Your friend,’ said Brad, ‘he’s speechless.’
‘He’s only disappointed,’ Sophie said. ‘He thought I didn’t know about this place or that you serve the best potato slivers in Sydney.’
A serving of big plate chicken arrived for the customers at an adjacent table, its aroma thick with onions and peppers.
‘Then your friend doesn’t know you as well as he thinks,’ Brad said. ‘Now, what will it be? The usual?’
Sophie smiled. ‘Dumplings,’ she said. ‘Jin Tao’s got a hankering.’
Jin Tao, head in the menu, said nothing. Brad moved off towards the kitchen.
Sophie poked Jin Tao’s arm with a chopstick. ‘Are you going to talk to me?’
He stretched back in his chair. ‘I always felt like Chinatown was my hood,’ he said. ‘But it seems you know it better than me.’
‘Does that upset you?’
‘Makes me feel old,’ he said. ‘I used to come down here with my yeye when I was a kid. Saturday mornings. Early.’
‘To do what? Hang out with your grandpa?’
Jin Tao nodded. ‘He’d play mahjong and smoke cigarettes with his mates. I’d eat steamed bread, drink soy milk and play hopscotch with mine. Bet that doesn’t happen now.’
‘Have you checked out Chinatown in the early morning recently?’
‘That’s exactly my point. I’d end up getting stabbed.’
‘Rubbish.’
Sophie knew the blocks between Goulburn Street and Paddy’s Markets like a birthmark. She knew every hand-pulled noodle shop both on and off the map. ‘You want seedy, you’ve got it in the Cross. Up there you’ve got junkies and prostitutes on every corner.’
‘Yeah, they’re on the corner where you can see them. Down here, it’s what you don’t see that’s the problem,’ Jin Tao said. ‘You must know what I’m talking about, Sophie. You must have picked up on the vibe?’
A waitress arrived with their dumplings. Sophie pushed aside glasses and a tissue box to make room for the dish. She didn’t know what Jin Tao meant, not really. She’d never found herself looking over her shoulder in Chinatown, not in the same way she did in parts of East Sydney and Surry Hills.
Jin Tao pinched a large dumpling with his chopsticks and dumped the glistening white parcel into his bowl. ‘So what were you doing hanging out at Central English?’ he said. ‘Looking for more work?’
‘God, no,’ said Sophie. ‘That school’s the pits.’
‘So?’
‘I was checking out something Tae Hun told me.’
‘Is this about Wendy Chan?’
‘Maybe.’
Sophie watched him shovel food into his mouth as though it were his last meal. Usually she’d be able to compete, but today the urge to eat had left her.
‘A girl commits suicide and nobody knows who she is,’ Sophie said. ‘Why not? Because she was pretending to be someone else. You don’t think that’s strange?’
Jin Tao chewed over a mouthful. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But maybe that’s why she topped herself.’
‘What do you mean?’
He laid his chopsticks down across his bowl. ‘One thing about these dumplings is they’re made from lamb.’
Sophie suppressed an urge to swear. ‘You bring everything back to food,’ she said. ‘The Uyghurs are Muslim and that means no pork. What’s this got to do with anything?’
‘Food has to do with everything,’ said Jin Tao, serious. ‘You see, these dumplings are made from lamb, which is less fatty than pork. So, while these dumplings are tasty, quite nicely spiced, scented with cumin and just a hint of chilli, they are, in essence, a poor imitation of their juicier, fattier, more succulent cousin.’
‘I’m insulted.’ Brad stood beside them. He held the teapot in one hand and a plate of shredded potato in the other. He eyeballed Jin Tao. ‘What do you people know about Uyghur cooking anyway?’
‘Sorry, man, only making a point,’ said Jin Tao, his hands in the air.
Brad placed the potato slivers on the table. The spout of the teapot floated dangerously close to Jin Tao’s cheek. ‘It’s cool,’ he said. ‘We Uyghurs are used to you Han people stealing our culture, bastardising it with pork fat and calling it yours. Of course your pig dumplings are better.’
Jin Tao rocked back in his chair. He rubbed a hand across his head. ‘Dude. You need to make like a surfer and chill.’
The two men eyeballed each other. Pleasure tickled Sophie’s insides, a buzz better than beer. She put a hand on Brad’s arm and leaned across to Jin Tao.
‘He’s fucking with you.’
Brad placed the teapot on the table. He gripped the edge of the tablecloth and leaned in. ‘Don’t tell my boss or my mother, but the best thing about going for a surf is the beef and bacon burger on the way home.’ He straightened again and moved off through the restaurant.
Sophie stuck her chopsticks into the plate of potato. The thin slivers had been braised in vinegar, salt and chilli, a Chinese version of the salt and vinegar chip. She felt the sour of the vinegar hit the back of her throat, and the chilli catch as it made its way down. She reached for her teacup. Jin Tao sat still, staring into the space Brad had left.
‘He’s a cheeky bastard, and he likes sticking it to the Chinese,’ Sophie said.
Jin Tao poured some vine
gar into his bowl. ‘Maybe you could let him know I’m Australian next time you’re talking to him.’
Sophie bit into a dumpling, felt its hot juice run down her chin. ‘Finish your lamb versus pork analogy.’
‘What fun is it being a substitute?’ he said. ‘I’d rather top myself than walk around pretending to be somebody else.’
Sophie turned the words over in her head. Wendy, for some unknown reason, had been playing the role of somebody else. Perhaps it had become too much for her, and she’d killed herself. But then, where was the real Wendy Chan? Was she missing, just like Han Hong?’
Sophie pulled out her phone and pushed it across the table. ‘Take a look,’ she said. ‘That’s Han Hong. She’s young.’
Jin Tao pushed the screen away. ‘It’s a racy picture,’ he said. ‘Not sure what it’s doing on your phone.’
‘She’s supposed to be a student at Central English but she hasn’t been in class for a couple of weeks. I went to the school this morning on the chance she might be there.’
‘That girl you wrecked my upholstery for?’
‘She claimed to be Han Hong, but she looks nothing like the girl in this picture.’
Jin Tao bit into a dumpling. ‘So there are two girls with the same name at Central English?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘There’s only one Han Hong on the books. You saw her. She didn’t even turn her head when you called. My guess is she’s an imposter.’
Jin Tao put his chopsticks down. He raised his hands to his forehead and drummed his fingernails against his temples. ‘What are you doing?’
His stare gouged Sophie, chilling her.
‘You’re the one spooking me out about Chinatown,’ she said. ‘All this talk about strange vibes and watching your back.’
‘I was referring to muggings,’ he said. ‘You’re talking about missing people and imposters. Real life isn’t that interesting.’
Could he be right? Could she be imagining things, making links where there were none?
She swiped her phone. Han Hong’s face stared back at her. The girl’s haunted eyes scraped her soul.
‘This is real,’ she said.
‘Maybe,’ said Jin Tao. ‘But you’ve never met this girl. You’re just going on what some jaded kid says. He could have the wrong name or the wrong idea. You don’t know.’
‘And what about Wendy? We know she wasn’t who she said she was.’
‘It’s not that unusual, Sophie,’ Jin Tao said. ‘It happens in the cooking world too.’
‘What?’
‘Visa fraud.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean these kids, they want to come out here and the only way they can do that is on a student visa.’
‘So?’
‘A student visa says you have to study at your nominated institution for at least twenty hours a week.’ Jin Tao studied her. ‘You do know that, right?’
Visa obligations, a source of irritation to teachers and students alike. For students, visa obligations became the ball and chain that tied them to a school building. For teachers, student visa obligations meant extra hours monitoring ‘free study periods’, classes acknowledged by everyone as a waste of time and a sham to help students and the school meet government obligations. The teachers of these classes were glorified minders; they were not expected to teach, for this would mean increases in weekly salary packages that the schools could not afford. The teachers’ only responsibility during these classes was to take the roll and account for all their students.
‘But students have to eat too, yeah?’ Sophie said. ‘So they need to work and some work long night shifts and take three-hour power naps before heading back to school in the day.’
‘And the others engage in visa fraud.’
Jin Tao picked a toothpick from a plastic box on the table. He covered his mouth with a hand as he picked. ‘Happens in the cooking academies all the time,’ he said. ‘It’s often easier to pay someone else to sit in on their classes. That way, they don’t lose their visa credits, they earn their schooling qualification and they can also afford to feed themselves.’
‘It’s how they’re earning their extra money that worries me,’ said Sophie.
‘I reckon that part’s up to them,’ Jin Tao said. ‘Besides, if these girls were really missing, don’t you think their families would have kicked up a fuss by now?’
Han Hong squinted at the phone screen. She’d spent so long in the dark, the slash of light hurt her eyes. He’d undone the blindfold so she could key the number in to the pad. She could have told it to him, but he hadn’t asked. He rarely spoke to her. She held the phone to her ear and imagined the scene at the end of the line. She’d called the grocery store down the lane from her parents’ new apartment, the one they’d moved to after the government demolished their village. Her mother would be waiting at that grocery store, perched patiently on a red plastic stool beside a glass-topped counter containing cigarettes. Han Hong pictured the packets, all red and gold and white; beautiful designs, nothing like the cigarette packets in Australia – no images of death and destruction. No warnings of death and sickness. Only pretty things: birds, stars, flowers, mountains.
Han Hong wanted to smoke. She wanted to step out from her mother’s apartment and onto the concrete balcony where two bamboo chairs sat beneath a low-hanging clothes line. She would sit on a padded cushion and pour hot water from the thermos into her teacup. She would watch the chrysanthemum flower unfold into bloom, add some rocks of sugar, lean back and light a cigarette. She would watch the red sun set on her town, its light softening the hard lines of the apartment blocks that were the view from the balcony.
How Han Hong missed the view. But more than that, she missed her mother. She’d be waiting beside the counter at the grocery store, waiting for the phone to ring; wanting to know that Han Hong was all right. And again Han Hong would lie.
She would lie because she had to. She would lie because they knew where her mother lived.
The call rang out. Han Hong stared at the phone in her hand. She looked up to the man in the mask. Even if she were able to overpower this man, stick her fingers into his eyes and gouge out his eyeballs, she would not be able to escape. He’d locked the door from the inside upon entering – she’d heard the padlock snap shut. And even if she could somehow find the key and manage to escape, who knew what terror awaited her on the other side? It was better to play their game. She was good at it and they would keep her alive because of that. She would find a moment for escape and take it. But that moment was not now.
She dialled the number again, gripped the phone to her ear.
‘Wei?’
Han Hong thought she might cry. She bit her bottom lip and tasted blood.
She imagined night falling, the light soft. She smelled burning coal and potato skins from Mr Xie’s tin drum on the corner. Mrs Tan, who ran the bric-a-brac shop next door, would be bringing in her plastic buckets, tin pots and mops. Her mother would be wearing her best blouse, the pink one that brought out the rose in her cheeks.
Han Hong imagined herself beside her mother, chopping cabbage, breathing the sour smell of pickle, savouring the warm comfort of tea in her belly; the comfort of home.
She forced a smile onto her face and closed her eyes. ‘Hello, Mama,’ she said. And once again she began to lie.
Jin Tao pulled up at the language school and leaned across Sophie to push open the passenger door.
‘No offence,’ he said. ‘I have to hoof it to the restaurant – all your talking has made me late.’
‘Have a good afternoon, housey,’ Sophie said. ‘Hope Brad didn’t freak you out too much. Perhaps he has a crush on you.’
Jin Tao stared at her. ‘He’s gay?’
‘He appreciates Australia.’
Jin Tao considered her. ‘A gay Uyghur surfer who eats pork is an interesting human being. Now, I like him.’
‘Why exactly?’
‘Because he clearly doesn’t hav
e his eye on you.’ Jin Tao grinned and revved the engine. ‘See you tonight,’ he said, raising two fingers in a street salute.
Sophie climbed out and watched Jin Tao speed down the street, his wheels taking the corner with a screech. Tough guy. At least, he liked to play like one. So why had he seemed so fearful of Chinatown? And why had he been so quick to dismiss her concerns? Sophie shivered. She pulled a scarf from her bag and wrapped it around her neck. She crossed the slippery street and arrowed for the artificial warmth of her building.
From the front of a car parked further down Pitt Street, someone else watched the Audi roar away.
He’d made some inquiries, found out where the woman worked, and waited. It had paid off. He fingered the camera strap at his neck. Something familiar about the woman still gnawed.
He studied the images he’d snapped. Up close, through the zoom, he recognised something almost Chinese about the shape of her eyes and in the bridge of her nose.
How had he missed it?
The vice squeezing his insides loosened, breath came easier, relief trickled.
He slipped the camera strap over his head, rested back in his seat. That must be the familiarity: she was Asian.
A thought crashed through his calm.
Perhaps she spoke Mandarin and had overheard a conversation. Perhaps she knew these girls or one of his associates and had been told more than was safe.
He’d already had Wendy Chan killed to protect his business. He’d been surprised to discover that he hadn’t felt anything – no guilt, fear or regret. He’d issued an order and his team had carried it out – no fuss, no emotion.
It was like they’d done it before.
He loosened his collar, touched sweat as he brushed his thumb along the curve of his neck. The air hung thick. How well did he know the men he worked with? Were they more experienced than he thought?
He brought the camera close, switched his mind back to the woman, focused on solutions.
He could have her killed.
A sudden shiver, the tickle of a thrill…
Or perhaps he could put her to work.