Year of the Goose

by Carly J. Hallman

  Of course, netizens, these charges are bogus. I may not be a perfect man, I may not be a holy man, but I am an innocent man. To prove I have nothing to hide, I will lay out the whole story for you, piece by piece. I will type the truth until the crooked cops pry the phone from my unimpeachable hands. I beg of you, netizens, take seriously my cries and spread the word, petition for my immediate release! Alert the media, dear netizens, alert journalists far and wide! Alert the UN, foreign governments, human rights activists, tell everyone you know!

  Here it goes: it began with a girl. Her name was—is—Lulu Qi, and she grew some of the best hair my company ever produced, supplied for some of the most famous actresses and models in the world. You’ve seen her hair in advertisements, in movies, in red carpet photos. Those locks of hers were worth millions and generated millions more. Along with being my top crop and most valuable asset, Lulu became a dear friend. I took special care to ensure that she had the best of everything. She had sessions with a personal trainer, she swallowed state-of-the-art supplements, she slept on the finest silk pillowcases, she drank highly priced soup made from the meat of the endangered pangolin. Okay, I know that’s illegal, netizens, and you know what? That’s fine. Help get me out of here, and I’ll even give up the names of the restaurants and chefs that prepared it for us! Let’s take down poachers together, let’s save ecosystems, let’s set me free.

  The year Lulu joined the company was the year we moved headquarters from that apartment building in old Nanjing to a high-rise in Shanghai… ah, the glitz, the glamour, the garbage. Along with all the other Heads, Lulu and I lived and worked together, and enjoyed afternoon leisure time in my executive break room on the twenty-seventh floor, sipping da hong pao tea, gnawing raw almonds, chatting. Lulu was a magical girl, and we had so much in common. We both loved fantasy and science fiction novels, we both loved handsome boys, we both loved sharing fairy tales passed down by our elderly relatives. We never ran out of things to talk about, and leisure time could no longer contain our budding friendship, so while the other Heads attended their daily nutrition and self-care classes, Lulu started joining me for my special tutorials.

  I’d hired some private teachers to help guide me with more spiritual matters. It’s quite common, as I’m sure you clever netizens are well aware. Most CEOs and people of my status at the very least have someone on payroll to tell their fortune—you know, like which days are auspicious and which days you shouldn’t step outside, which days you should burn paper money for your ancestors and which days you should just bugger off because they’re on their ghostly menstrual cycles, and so forth. And because Lulu was my friend and because she was inherently interested in such matters, she started joining me for meditation class, astrology class, tarot card readings, fortune stick readings, and earthing sessions. At first, she was an apt pupil. I mean, she’d be quizzing me on the meanings of those tarot cards during leisure time, gazing up at the stars at night and trying to make her own charts, insisting that we go to the park to sneak in extra earthing time.

  But a few months or so in, her interest waned. I don’t mean to say that one day she was an American cheerleader and the next she was a corpse bride. No, it was more of a gradual—and, I felt, natural—decline. She still attended the classes, but in her free time, she started watching more and more TV, started reading more and more trashy novels, lost that enchanting sparkle in her eye.

  During that time, that period of decline, in one of our meditation classes, I received a call and had to scamper off to deal with an emergency—one of my Heads, a very pretty but very silly girl from Guangzhou, had yet again gotten her hair stuck in her hoodie’s zipper. I tended to the crisis and then raced back to the meditation room. I paused at the doorway. A hushed conversation was happening inside. Lulu whispered something including the words “hopelessness” and “no point” to the teacher, a Zen master so skilled at meditative arts that he could levitate. The master replied with words that included “believe” and “overcome,” but that was all I caught—as soon as they heard my heavy breathing, as soon as they spotted my looming figure, they clamped shut their mouths and pretended to return to their transcendent states, and I settled in on my cushion between them and pretended to return to mine.

  Now stick with me here. A day or two after I overheard that conversation, I received an invitation to a dinner banquet to honor the Bashful Goose Snack Company’s twenty-fifth anniversary. Naturally, I asked Lulu to be my date. Although it probably would’ve been acceptable for me to take a male date, I was painfully single at the time, no boyfriend, not even a suitable prospect in sight.

  At the time, Lulu was growing a crop for a top actress, who was set to star in an American film. We all felt a special attachment to this crop because this wasn’t simply about beauty—this was about patriotism, about glory, about that oft-mentioned “Rising Dragon.” These strands would do what diplomats and leaders only wished they could: truly and positively represent our nation abroad.

  We spent many months and mountains of money tending to this crop, and under normal circumstances, I never would’ve allowed a Head out into public on the eve of a harvest, and especially not a harvest as important as this one. Risk management, my friends, risk management—hair can get sucked up like a flip-flop in an escalator, scissor-wielding thieves can have their way, there are car accidents, restaurant fires, oil spills, a million such calamities to consider. Our world is a dangerous one, indeed.

  But the Bashful Goose Anniversary Banquet wasn’t a normal circumstance. It was a secure circumstance. And I thought it’d cheer ol’ Lulu up, attending such an event. Yes, that’s what I thought anyway. And that was my first mistake.

  As you may have read, netizens, a special banquet hall was erected for the event. This construction project took nearly three thousand workers a year to complete, and rumors buzzed that after the banquet, the structure (designed and then renounced by China’s most famous artist, currently on house arrest) would be remodeled into the first Bashful Goose Shopping Mall—it was almost unbelievable! The biggest company in China expanding into a new sector?! Maybe wealth truly was limitless! That’s what I thought then, anyway. But those were only rumors, and I digress. That was the future, uncertain, unknowable. The banquet itself? This was the present, tangible as anything.

  All the most important people were expected to show. CEOs, actresses, government officials, singers—we were all integral to one another’s success; we formed this beautiful spiderweb of prosperity, interconnected, and we all came to pay homage because we knew our web wouldn’t exist without Papa Hui. He was the spider that spun us.

  Let me make it clear: this was the first time I’d been invited to an event hosted by Papa Hui. Not to say I was left out before—it’s more that he wasn’t much of a party-thrower. What I mean to say is that this was the first large-scale event Papa Hui had ever hosted.

  Had I spoken to Papa Hui before? Not really. We’d exchanged a few words, sure, such as “How are you?,” “How’s business?,” “How’s your health?,” “Have you eaten dinner?,” and so forth. But he is—was—a quiet man, and I’m no real social mover and shaker myself, so I guess the answer is no, not really.

  So please see me here, netizens: I’m innocent, truly. I hardly knew the man, and his wealth and power were, and are, of no real consequence to me.

  Sure, I remember having all the Bashful Goose jingles stuck in my head as a child, but who didn’t? Bashful Goose snacks, eat ’em right up / They’re so delicious, they’ll make you fall in love! Just try to get that ditty out of your head! And, yes, I read his authorized biography in my teen years, and I later read case studies about his company too, learned a lot about marketing, managing human capital, all of that. Even for someone as successful as me, his wealth and clout are, or were I should say, unimaginable. Not unattainable, clearly, under the right set of circumstances and with the right amount of optimism… but still, beyond comprehension.

  But enough about that. Back to the banq
uet. Oh boy, dozens of Bentleys and Lamborghinis and Ferraris parked out front like a car show. Plush carpet everywhere. We pushed through the designer-dressed, camera-flashed, bleached-toothed madness that was the foyer, and one of the hostesses escorted Lulu and me through the banquet hall. We followed this lovely creature down a very wide red-carpeted aisle, on either side of which stood dozens of round tables. It was a typical setup, not breaking with tradition, but there were small special touches here and there that let us know this wasn’t an ordinary banquet: a Hermès napkin for each guest with his or her name embroidered in gold thread by a talented chimpanzee who’d been trained to do handicrafts; a golden goose-shaped fountain in the center of each table; small drink-refilling hovercrafts floating around, remote-controlled by Russian model waitresses. That kind of thing. As jaded as I am, I must admit I was transfixed, nearly hypnotized, by such details. I only snapped to when the hostess chirped, “Here you are. Please sit.”

  Lulu, stunning in Dolce & Gabbana, and I, looking quite dapper myself in Alexander McQueen, stood stupefied before the Hui family table. This had to be a mistake! I looked to the hostess to clarify, but she had already scurried off to seat the next entering couple, a top national leader and his dragon lady wife. I glanced at Lulu, who, with her eyebrows up in the center of her forehead, looked as surprised as I felt. I looked at Kelly Hui, who stared at the tablecloth as though trying to burn a hole through it. At Mama Hui swiping her iPhone like a madwoman—she’s a top-ranked player of numerous mobile games, including Candy Crush. At the six other Hui family members and close friends, including a slovenly male cousin from Wuhan who couldn’t be bothered to even dress up for the evening and Mama Hui’s butch lady driver with whom it’d long been rumored she was having an affair. At a napkin with my name embroidered into it, and at the next setting, a napkin embroidered with Lulu’s. I shrugged and pulled out Lulu’s chair for her. What an auspicious mistake, what a night this will be, I thought, and silently thanked whoever had somehow screwed up the seating chart.

  Boring speeches followed, you know the kind—the ones everyone desperately wants to end so that the feasting can begin. A toupee-ed man, the CFO, was up onstage rattling off very specific numerical figures (projections for next quarter and the like) as well as very vague ideological phrases, such as “Success is key” and “Motivation and perspiration with the State’s cooperation drive enterprise.” Ten minutes into this winner of a speech, Kelly leaned over to me. I wouldn’t say she was being rude here—many people were whispering back and forth, some not even bothering to whisper; mobile phones were going off left, right, and center, Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber ringtones galore. So Kelly, she leans over to me, and goes, “What do you think about obesity?” And I go, “I don’t have a strong opinion either way, but I suppose it’s sad. Why can’t they just stop eating? You know Lao-tzu said, ‘A man who knows when enough is enough will always have enough.’” And she nods and goes, “Yes, of course I know that quote, I took, like, two philosophy classes at USC, okay, and yes, obesity is very sad.” She goes, “I’m working on this new project. I’m going to give a speech about it in a minute and I think that—”

  But then the room went pitch dark, and after a few disembodied screams, silence reigned. The lights flickered back on. Hundreds of chins pointed up, seeking the source of a dramatic whooshing sound. Eyes darted, searching, searching. And then, coming into view, the mystery was revealed: Papa Hui, attached to the rafters by cables, soared above our heads, and the bashful goose, attached by its own set of cables, soared beside him. An engine roared, and all of our heads spun simultaneously as a red Lamborghini with five yellow stars on its hood sped down the center aisle, pulling up the carpet behind it to reveal a glass floor. Below the glass floor was crystal clear water, rivaling that of the Caribbean. The Lamborghini screeched to a stop just before it hit the poor CFO, who was still stagnating on the stage, his now-crooked toupee drenched with sweat, his mouth agape. There was a buzz as the glass retracted, and then another whoosh as a mystery man, dressed all in black, soared in from the back of the room clutching a pair of jewel-encrusted scissors, which he used to snip the wires that held Papa Hui and the bashful goose.

  There was a collective gasp as the two plunged downward—who was this black-clothed bandit? Who was he to send Papa Hui and the bashful goose to their deaths? These were the questions on all of our tongues, in all of our hearts.

  But, lo and behold, Papa Hui did not land on a table, impaling his billion-dollar throat on a golden fountain! He landed in the water, on the back of a great white shark, and the bashful goose landed on the small yellow inflatable boat tied to the shark’s tail! This bandit’s cut, this fall from on high—it was all choreographed! And it didn’t end there. The Lamborghini driver, a recognizable British film star, then hopped out of the car and tossed Papa Hui a wireless microphone, which he effortlessly caught, as well as a cowboy hat, which he flipped onto his head. On the shark’s back as it swam laps up and down the pool, Papa Hui sang, beautifully I might add, in the voice of a saint or an angel or a teenage superstar: As sweet as honey, your smile is sweet as honey. / Where have I seen you before? Ah, yes, yes, in my dreams!

  Yes, netizens, you can believe your eyes. I write only the truth. A fiftysomething man, our nation’s wealthiest person, swooped into a banquet hall like a Chinese Superman saving his brethren from a yawn-inducing speech, landed on a great white shark, and proceeded to ride said shark while donning a cowboy hat and delivering a pitch-perfect rendition of a beloved Teresa Teng classic…

  To say that Papa Hui’s performance was a hit would be like saying that Chairman Mao enjoyed eating pork belly, which is to say it’d be a gross understatement. Four ambulances that had been on standby in front of the banquet hall raced off to the hospital to deliver two heart attack victims (one male, one female), one woman who’d conked her head on a chair leg when she fainted, and one man who shat himself with shock but to avoid embarrassment told everyone he’d contracted chronic dysentery on a recent trip to South Africa. I don’t think the medics believed him, but they strapped him to a stretcher anyway, kindly sparing him the added humiliation of losing face.

  I myself, though also physically shocked, found myself feeling a bit, shall I say, “spiritually numb” toward this performance. It was unprecedented, yes, and I wanted to like it as much as everyone else seemed to, but… I don’t know. I don’t want to say that he’d made a mockery of his empire, but I couldn’t help but feel the whole thing was just a bit over the top.

  I looked to Lulu, hoping that she, my best friend, would share my disillusionment, but no matter how hard I nudged her with my elbow, no matter how hard I dug my heel onto her Louboutin shoe, she wouldn’t meet my eye. She just looked down, traced her finger over that napkin printed with her name. Seeking validation for my blasphemous thoughts, I spun around in my seat, the room glittering all around me, and in that entire hall of faces, I spotted only one that mirrored my own: that of Kelly Hui, who, poor thing, looked as though she’d coughed something up but hadn’t yet found a place to spit it out.

  At the conclusion of Papa Hui’s performance, he cried out, “Let the feast begin!” and the speech portion of the night officially came to an end. Nude waitresses on roller skates handcrafted from designer shoes delivered dish after dish: heaping plates of sea cucumbers, steaming bowls of bird’s nest soup, silver platters of tiger meat cooked with the fur still attached. Oh, a feast if I ever saw one. The eating went on for centuries it seemed. I partook in the more nutritious and growth encouraging of the delicacies, but the party got rowdy, crazy, and soon our nation’s best and brightest were floating from table to table, drinking and laughing. Kelly, clearly irritated that she hadn’t been able to deliver her speech about whatever her new project was, ate her feelings, going to town on everything, not bothering to wipe her grease-shiny mouth between dishes, releasing hearty belches. When her belches started sounding especially juicy and she looked as though she was about to vomit, she pus
hed her chair away from the table and announced she was off to “mingle,” which consisted of her standing in a corner glaring at everyone, mimicking their laughs and whatnot. I watched her there across the room talking and laughing to herself like a lunatic, wearing her bursting-at-the-seams dress, an overstuffed dumpling if I ever saw one, and I remembered what she’d said earlier about obesity and I thought, This poor girl, she’s clearly on a downward spiral, and has gained probably five or more kilograms in the short time I’d known her. Maybe she wouldn’t be considered fat in America, where I hear that many of the afflicted must ride around in special wheelchairs because they can’t walk or fit into regular ones, but here in China she was definitely straddling the line. I pitied her; what pressure to be the spawn of someone so powerful, and to be so physically disproportionate to yourself, and also, as you netizens so viciously love to speculate, to be an awkward supervirgin incapable of even online dating. She was so darling as a child—who knew she’d grow up into this? I wanted to cry for her, but I also didn’t much feel like crying in public, so I tore my gaze away from this train wreck and instead started making eyes at a very handsome singer sipping baijiu a few tables away. Oh, how I’d like to get my hands on that thinning hair, I thought. I know just the perfect Head to supply him with beautiful, natural-looking plugs, I—

  A shadow eclipsed my thoughts as Papa Hui himself took a seat beside me. A second later, the bashful goose, never far behind, waddled up and rested its plump egg head in his lap.

  “Well,” Papa Hui said, giving me a hearty slap on the back, “what’d you think?”