Year of the Goose

by Carly J. Hallman

  The waitress brought another dish, fried peanuts. “Zhao here could take her home. No old lady to worry about, is there?” The first official socked Zhao in the arm. There was laughter, and there was a glint of envy in each of the laughing officials’ eyes. Zhao did not notice this glint. He only heard the laughter and then felt, again, a vibration on his leg. He slid his phone from his pocket. A text message from his mother. It read, “How about her?” Embedded within the text message was a blurry photo of yet another anonymous woman’s face, probably snapped at the supermarket or the Grand Ocean department store or in line for a five-mao public restroom. A wave of regret washed over him; he was sorry he’d ever taught his mother how to use her phone’s camera function.

  “Now, you do understand, Zhao, that if you fulfill the terms of the contract, there is an opportunity to move up the ranks. It’s not usual, to skip the test, but these are special circumstances and this is a club, you see, and in a club, members make the rules, but we can also break them.”

  Zhao nodded. A set-for-life cushy government job? No Party exam necessary? Yes, please.

  Satisfied with his mute response, the officials returned to their chatter. Zhao excused himself. He strolled into the bathroom, pissed, rinsed his hands in the sink, and studied himself in the mirror. His perfectly round face housed eyes so deeply set that they verged on sunken in. He stroked his cratered, stubble-less chin with his hands—he couldn’t grow a beard, but his toes were coated in hair. He took a step back and eyed his figure—not exactly an ideal shape: extraordinarily slim in the limbs, sure, but playing nurse to an ever-growing gut akin to that of a pregnant woman.

  But oh, well, and never mind.

  Zhao inhaled and mouthed, “You deserve this,” into the mirror. He puffed his chest and sauntered out, passing the waitress. She leaned against the wall outside the private banquet room in limbo between the kitchen and the officials’ table. Zhao studied her: thin arms that jangled from her body like those of a marionette, slight overbite that forced her lips into a perpetual pout, shiny black hair slicked into a bun, skin the sandy color of unfinished plywood. He thought, Me and this waitress, we could be good together. He briefly entertained snapping a quick picture of her with his phone and sending it to his mother with a text that read, “Her.”

  He didn’t. He sat down. The men chattered on. He stared, still, at the waitress.

  “Zhao, what do you think?”

  The chatter stopped. The air was thick, silent. The officials, each one a door to a new life, sat before him, sat around him, awaiting his answer.

  A voice from the kitchen shouted in a countryside dialect, and the waitress disappeared.

  Zhao cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said, and he felt freedom flee his body. He said, “Yes. We have a deal.” He felt his phone vibrate again. She was relentless. He slipped it out and rejected the call. The waitress returned with two dishes—real dishes, not appetizers or snacks, but wonderful, steamy, spicy Hunan food. The crinkly official, the one who’d poured the wine, removed a pen from his shirt pocket and placed it in Zhao’s hand. Zhao signed the contract and stuffed himself full. And he drank. And they drank. And they drank and they drank.

  2.

  THEM FAT KIDS AIN’T HERE

  FAT PEOPLE FAT CAMP CONVENED IN JUNE WITH A HUNDRED OVER-WEIGHT campers from every corner of Jiangsu Province, all in dire need of direction and rehabilitation. The camp was held on the Wuxi High School for Exceptional Students campus. Five amphetamine-swallowing counselors and one cook served as Zhao’s staff.

  Zhao floated through days one and two of camp like a tycoon in a dream. The campers exercised. The counselors encouraged. The cook steamed vegetables. But Zhao was born under an inauspicious moon. The first days passed easily—too easily—and he felt an acidic burn in his gut, and he knew that his luck would not last.

  Day one of Fat People Fat Camp, and Kelly, wearing her new Lululemon yoga pants and slurping down a healthy breakfast smoothie, bounded out to the waiting Audi. She’d packed an overnight bag with a few changes of clothes in case she needed to stay on the campus. She tossed it into the backseat and climbed in. Thirty minutes of stop-and-go traffic later, her driver located the outskirts-of-town address the officials had given her: not a bustling camp, but an open field.

  A few spins around the adjacent dusty roads later, Kelly realized she’d been had. She dialed the official, who apologized profusely and insincerely, and who, over an odd ringing sound (which reminded Kelly an awful lot of slot machines she’d unprofitably played in Vegas all alone on her twenty-first birthday), gave her the “new” address, which of course also turned out to be a sham—another empty field. This wild-goose chase continued for two days, leading Kelly and her driver on a thorough and exhaustive tour of Wuxi and its surrounding areas, until, over the squeals of either an aroused woman or an ailing pig, the annoyed official gave Kelly the address of what turned out to be a chicken farm.

  The chicken farmer, a crinkly old man with rascally eyes, informed Kelly that two days before a busload of fat kids had indeed turned up at his farm, but that they were then promptly bused to another top secret location. If any of their parents knew where the children were, he painstakingly explained, they’d inevitably send care packages full of contraband or perhaps even attempt to tunnel under the ground using Democratic People’s Republic of Korea–patented techniques to deliver to their children the snacks they so craved, and such parental meddling could completely derail all weight-loss efforts.

  The farmer then proudly announced he had been given fifty yuan by a government official for use of his land and address as a “confusion point.” Kelly, reading between the lines, stuffed a red hundred in the farmer’s hand. The farmer promptly pulled from his pants pocket a thin stack of folded and sweaty photocopied papers, including the administrator’s résumé and a document that listed another address (Wuxi High School for Exceptional Students, a nonoperational school that famously lost its funding halfway through construction when its wealthy underwriter was killed in a paragliding accident in Hawaii [some suspected foul play] and his widow [a B-list Korean actress] refused to pay the bribes necessary to continue the school’s construction).

  With some useful information finally in hand, Kelly and her driver sped off, leaving the farmer in a cloud of dust, happily clutching his hundred-yuan note. In the backseat with the air conditioner on full-blast, Kelly read and reread Zhao’s résumé. This, she stewed, this was the man they’d deemed worthy to be in charge of this project?! A man with an associate’s degree from some third-tier city’s unaccredited no-name university? A man whose only real professional experience was working as a low-level assistant for years and years without any promotion in a crap fitness equipment company that she was pretty sure was a pyramid scheme? The small head shot that accompanied the résumé showed a man who verged on hideous: eyes too close together, cheeks too fleshy, mouth big and meaty, skin pocked—but maybe it was just a bad Xerox. Either way, she thought as she stole a look in the side view mirror at her own face (symmetrical enough to be a spokesmodel, if not beautiful enough to be a supermodel), this? This was the face of the war on obesity?

  Her car slowed and soon stopped. Through the tinted and shut windows Kelly heard the unmistakable shouting and grunting of fat children. She thanked the driver and told him she’d call when she was ready to be picked up. She grabbed her bag and marched into the half-finished school, with its roofless hallways and exposed pipes, and located a small office—the only room with its door open—where the man who must have been Zhao sat playing solitaire on his computer.

  “Excuse me,” she said. She dropped her bag on the floor and placed her hands on her hips.

  Zhao frantically clicked out of his game and spun around. He was as terrible looking in person as he was in his photo. Worse maybe. “Oh, hello,” he said in a voice that could turn off Helen Keller. He looked Kelly up and down with lascivious eyes. “Not a camper then?”

  Refusing to acknowledge
this, she furrowed her brow. “My name is Kelly Hui, and I am a representative of the Bashful Goose Snack Company.”

  Zhao squinted at her, clearly taken aback by her authoritative tone. He stood up slowly, leaning his body away from her. “Um, okay. Is there something I can help you with?”

  This was one question (and she’d played over many in her head in the past few days driving in and around Wuxi) that she didn’t have an answer to. She hesitated awkwardly and then said, “No, I’m here to help you.” She remembered one of the lines she’d rehearsed in her head. “Bashful Goose Snack Company believes that obesity is a most dire problem for China’s youth. At this camp, we aren’t just saving calories, we’re saving lives.”

  Zhao screwed up his face. “Huh? Sorry, who are you exactly?”

  “I’m Kelly Hui, head of corporate social responsibility at Bashful Goose Snack Company.”

  Zhao grimaced—or maybe that was just his unfortunate default facial expression—and shook his head.

  She dropped her arms to her side. “The company that’s sponsoring this camp?”

  He shook his head again.

  Hopeless, incredibly and undeniably hopeless this one was. “Never mind. I looked over your résumé, and your, shall we say, lacking qualifications speak to the need of some corporate management intervention. I’m here to help you.”

  Zhao squinted, squirmed, and then his eyes finally lit up in recognition. “The company that makes Watermelon Wigglers?” He shimmied his chest and burst into song, one of many of the company’s commercial jingles. Bashful Goose snacks, eat ’em right up / They’re so delicious, they’ll make you fall in love!

  Kelly nodded. Zhao snapped his fingers loudly—Kelly, startled, jumped back. “Yes,” he said. “Ah, yes. Now, sorry, why’d you say they sent someone from Bashful Goose here?”

  She inhaled deeply. “Bashful Goose put up the funds to sponsor this camp. We are the sole financial backer.”

  “Oh,” Zhao snorted, and took on a sarcastic tone. “I understand.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t mean to suggest that I’m not doing well with what I’ve been given. You’d just think a big company like that would’ve been a bit more generous is all.”

  Kelly tried to hide her disgust. This, she thought, this is exactly why I hate this country. Give a little, give a lot, it doesn’t matter; they want it all and then some. “If three million yuan isn’t generous, isn’t enough for you, I don’t know what is, and—”

  “Look,” Zhao said, jamming his index finger knuckle-deep into his nostril. “I don’t know what three million you’re talking about. I’m working with a very small budget.” He pointed at the same computer monitor he’d been playing games on only a moment before. He motioned for her to sit down at the desk and take a look for herself. Careful not to touch this booger picker’s mouse or keyboard, she studied the spreadsheet he’d opened, the numbers contained therein.

  She pointed to the figure in the “total budget” column. “That’s it?” she asked. A tremor started in her arms, making its way down to her fingertips. Her forehead popped with sweat. “That’s your total budget?”

  “And they said if I could do it for less, it’d be better.”

  “We gave three million,” she said. “You were supposed to have three million. So where did that money go?”

  They met each other’s eyes. “The officials,” they said simultaneously.

  YEAH, YEAH, THAT’S FINE, THE MONEY’S ALL YOURS

  KELLY THOUGHT BACK TO THAT DAY MANY WEEKS BEFORE WHEN SHE’D proposed her grand plan, when she’d marched into enemy territory and asked her father for the money. He hadn’t, as she’d anticipated, questioned or doubted her. He’d just (eventually) pushed aside his doomed Sudoku puzzle and listened. Listened intently as she described the proposed facilities, the expert counselors with higher degrees from top universities, the vision she had to make China a healthier, fitter place one child at a time. Listened, cocked his head, and listened some more.

  But the Papa Hui she knew was abrasive, crude, my-way-or-the-highway, dismissive of her, always irritated with her, burdened by her.

  She thought he’d peered back at her that day with a sort of recognition, of pride. She foolishly thought he’d seen something in her eyes, some glimmer of hope that he recognized from his own days of aspiration, of youth.

  Because without any fight at all, he’d agreed to hand over the money.

  But Papa Hui was no idiot and was, despite the company’s lore that profitably stated otherwise, hardly an idealist. He was the country’s richest man and he knew, better than anyone, how China and the world worked. When he’d looked at his only daughter looking starry-eyed, he wasn’t looking on with pride, but with pity. Please, he saw the future: government officials running riot through Macau’s casinos, forking out for bottles of Johnnie Walker and elaborate fruit platters in ornate nightclubs, recklessly spending on iPhones and iPads and electronic wine bottle openers and exotic animal parts believed to increase sexual potency. And he saw her future too, which was obviously synonymous to him with her present and with her past: as a powerless little troublemaker who would never, ever be as good as a goose.

  AND TAKE ME ON THE GRAND TOUR AND SHOW ME ALL THE THINGS I LONG TO SEE

  KELLY, SILENTLY RAGING AT HER FATHER AND FLOATING IN A STATE OF disbelief, ordered Zhao to lead her on a tour around campus. She stepped heavily, angrily, in her new Nikes. Everyone knew officials were corrupt, so why did she believe their pitch? How had she fallen for this? And why hadn’t she realized that her old fuck of a father would go to any lengths, including spending three million yuan, to humiliate her?

  There was supposed to be an Olympic-sized swimming pool, state-of-the-art fitness facilities, and world-class chefs. Instead, there was a sewage-like stench hanging in the dense air.

  Kelly crinkled her nose. “Is there something wrong with the pipes?”

  Zhao shook his head. “No, I think you’re smelling lunch.”

  They lingered for a moment longer in the dining hall, a dimly lit room with low ceilings that may or may not have been pocked with black mold. “Onward,” Zhao said, and led her to the kitchen, which Kelly noted was definitely the source of the stench and where the cook, not stopping to look up at them, diligently chopped vegetables. Kelly watched, mesmerized by the rhythmic chop, chop, chop of the cleaver.

  Zhao’s voice cut into the beat. “Gym next?” She followed him across the courtyard to a small building, which housed the indoor fitness facilities—a sorry scene. On one side of the room stood a dusty treadmill, a torn vinyl bench, and a single barbell. On the other, an instructor bounced before a cracked floor-to-ceiling mirror, crying chipper instructions and encouragements. Tinny pop music blasted from a cell phone speaker, and a dozen or so fat kids, all with identification numbers worn around their necks, lazily swung light dumbbells about and stepped out of sync. The instructor waved at Zhao, dropping her own small dumbbell on her toe. She winced slightly, but then picked it up, forced a grin, and carried on.

  This is war, Kelly decided, watching that pained smile relax into a more natural one. If she could rehabilitate these lazy-ass children, make them thin despite the stolen money, the corruption, the derelict surroundings and inadequate equipment, Papa Hui would be made a fool. He’d be sorry he ever doubted her, sorry he tried to humiliate her, sorry for everything. Not that his opinion would matter then anyway. Not when she proved herself a national hero, and one who didn’t need fancy flourishes to make a difference. All she needed, and all she had, was little more than savvy, prowess, and a big heart.

  As the kids continued to exercise and as Zhao muttered rude half-formed thoughts about cellulite under his breath, Kelly whipped out her iPhone and texted her driver not to worry about picking her up, that she’d definitely be staying the night. She slid it into her pocket and then ran her fingers through her silky extensions.

  “Hey.” Zhao nudged her arm. She instinctively
recoiled. “There’s a pool down there,” he said, pointing to a stairwell in the corner. “But we can’t use it because the construction workers who were building the school were using it as a toilet. Still sort of stinks.”

  Vomit crept up her gullet. She swallowed the acidic liquid down, took a few deep and burning breaths, and followed Zhao through the nutrition classroom (where a group of children sat uncomfortably at rickety desks chorally reciting lines from a Chinese translation of a Weight Watchers pamphlet), the activity room (where students crafted what Kelly first mistook for bracelets, but what upon further inspection turned out to be colorful ball gags), and the camper dormitories (where a few students lounged on cot-like bunk beds, snoring, biting their fingernails, and flipping through high-fashion magazines, among other approved leisure-time activities).

  Finally, they stepped back outside, where a pack of children sat in a poorly formed circle on the basketball court, singing, Oh, how bad to be thick, oh, how good to be thin! / Oh, eat a lot of food is for pigs, eat a little bit is for kids! Their harmonious voices drifted high above the trees, and Kelly couldn’t help but picture the people in the surrounding apartment blocks, the old aunties washing dishes and the teenagers studying for university entrance exams, pausing and craning their necks for a better listen.

  Pride overtook heartburn and welled up inside her. What she was going to do could really make the busy nation stop and pay notice. Could make her father drop dead of a shock-induced heart attack. Could make everyone say, “Hey, this girl could really be someone! She’s changing lives here! She can move mountains!” Oh, there would be articles in the airline magazines, interviews on all the top websites, TV specials profiling formerly fat children whose lives the one and only Ms. Kelly Hui helped rebuild from flabby rubble, best of the best…