by Leigh Lyn
Catching my eye, he said, “Hey, having a good day?”
“It is beautiful for sure.” I nodded.
“Where you from?” he asked.
“The fragrant harbor,” I replied. “Hong Kong. What gave me away?”
The man shrugged and said, “Fujian girls in the hood don’t talk like that.”
“Fujian bros any better?” I asked.
He growled. “It’s like a secret society, man. You don’t see or hear them, but you know they’re here.”
“That scary, huh?” I glanced him over. “You’re from the hood?”
He smirked. “I’m from Sicily. I just arrived two months ago.”
“Ah, I should have guessed,” I said.
“How’s that?”
“The slick and brooding look. Like Michael Corleone.”
“Corleone? A gangster, me?!”
He smiled, but an icy glare washed over his eyes. “Brutes who broil children to terrorize law-abiding citizens?”
“I’m sorry.” I stared at him.
“Never apologize.”
“Okay.”
“I see you found the place.” I turned and saw Sam standing behind me, gazing at my new friend, who stared right back. Sam scanned the table, seemingly looking for something.
“It’s in my bag,” I said, referring to the Manila envelope.
“Great.” Sam smiled and sat down. “Lunch is on me.”
“I’m curious what’s in it. I mean, after carrying it around for days.”
“Didn’t Ben tell you?”
“He knows?”
“Sure, he knows,” Sam said, as he eyed the fast-growing queue in front of the serving counter. “But let’s order food first.”
After we returned to our table with a number tag, Sam leaned in and asked, “Why did you not steal a peek?”
“I might have already.” I smiled.
Sam smirked. “You haven't, otherwise you’d have asked what the dough is for.”
“I was being polite. What’s the dough for?”
Sam laughed. “It is “tor di” or “hafta” as they call it here; a little lucky money to make things go smoother.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep, when Deng Xiaopeng said that, no matter if the cat is black or white, it’s a good cat if it catches mice, he inspired a lot of people.”
I cringed. “You guys let me walk around with all this money for days without telling me?”
“Maybe Ben didn’t want to fire up your imagination.”
Had Ben talked to him about me?
“Why, do I really come across as such a basket-case?” I reached into my bag. “I read an article about China spending more money safeguarding national security than on the People’s Liberation Army.” I handed him the Manila envelope. “This is neither, I hope?”
“Not even close.” He laughed and gestured toward the empty chair at our table. “Just put it there.”
I felt odd to put so much money on the chair, but I did it anyway as a waitress brought the food. I waited until she was gone before I asked, “Don’t you have to check if it’s all still there?”
“I trust you, Lin.” He winked and bit into his pastrami sandwich. I too dug in. While we were eating, the Italian got up, picked up the manila envelope and wheeled around.
“Sam!” I choked as the Italian headed toward the door. Spitting the contents of my mouth out into a napkin, I jumped up. “Did you not see that?”
“It’s alright,” Sam said. “Sit down.”
“Why? Is he your friend?” I stammered.
“I told you it’s “hafta”, didn’t I?” Sam frowned. “Sit down.”
Flabbergasted, I sat down. “I thought you were joking.”
“About protection money?” He shuddered. “Never mind national security or the PLO, beautiful Lin; the world needs to spin faster than that.”
Chapter 35
Frances’s Gallery of Contemporary Chinese Art was two blocks down the road on the lower and upper ground floor of three adjoining tenement buildings. Sandwiched between a bustling Italian bistro specializing in candlelit dinners and a shop selling memorabilia, the gallery was the epitome of Zen were it not for its entrance. A steel bridge that mimicked New York fire-escapes punctuated a double-height glass facade, whisking visitors from the sidewalk into the center of the largest exhibition room. From there, descending platforms brought the visitors down to the floor of the twenty-foot-tall gallery floor, where gallons of white paint appeared to have blasted the space, covering everything except for the art.
Sam and I arrived late in the afternoon, when the gallery’s usual serenity was uprooted by an excited anticipation. Museum and catering staff dressed in black dashed back and forth. Frances, in a flaming red pantsuit with Mandarin collar topped by a wild mane of honey-brown pipe curls, was talking to colleagues about the last touches to the preparations when she spotted us. Her well-tuned voice filled the entire space as she kissed the air in front of my ears.
“Ben said you’ve been exploring New York by yourself, poor thing.”
“It’s fine. I had lunch with Sam, after which we walked around.”
“Sam is a sweetheart, isn’t he?” She squeezed my hand and looked at me with her intense, blue eyes. “You must let me take you out tomorrow. We’ll ditch Ben. What do you say?”
I laughed. Frances had a knack for making people feel on top of the world. As more guests arrived, she excused herself to welcome them with a radiant smile. Sam handed me a glass of champagne and we strolled together around the exhibition rooms, which filled up quickly. We headed toward a tenfoot-tall painting that occupied a third of the entire back wall. Violent spurts of deep blue, magenta, and aquamarine were splashed onto a background of hazy grays.
“I feel myself dwindle as I walk up to it,” I said, slowing my pace. “It’s amazing.”
“Thanks.”
“Why, is it yours?”
“Maybe,” Sam said, walking up to a particular spot to look at it from a different angle. “I had 25 collaborators help me paint it for this show.”
“Everyone has collaborators these days.” I shrugged.
“That’s why some people call art a business,” Sam said. “If it’s up to me—“
“Sam?” Frances had appeared in the doorway before Sam could finish the sentence. “I’m so sorry, Lin, but can I steal him? I'd like to introduce him to a few clients.”
“That is why we’re here.” I nodded.
Smiling widely, she disappeared with him into the crowd. Alone, I backed away from the canvas to squint at it through my eyelashes from a bigger distance. Colossal granite blocks enclosed ravine-like crevices ruptured with violet and crimson veins.
“This one is in the seven digits,” someone said, in a Beijing accent. I glanced over my shoulder. Two Chinese men were standing behind me. A few more steps away, a lanky woman wearing a black fedora and big sunglasses was admiring the painting.
The two men continued their conversation. “How long has this dude been in the circuit?”
“Not long.” Noticing my gaze, the man lowered his voice. Embarrassed to be caught listening, I moved along and wandered to the other side of the exhibition room where projection screens lined the walls, which showed clips of a forest with towering ancient trees. It featured a young couple, a girl with rosy cheeks and braids, and a thirty-something man in blue peasant clothing. They appeared to be arguing, but the conversation was overlaid with other voices in an array of languages. I was trying to make sense of it when someone put a hand on my lower back. “Enjoying the show?”
To my relief, it was Ben, who looked handsome in his gray suit.
“I love it.” I kissed him on the cheek. “I don’t see Yuxi’s mattress of thorns though.”
“Let’s ask the artist about it.” Ben laughed, waving someone over from the other side of the hall.
Meandering through the crowd toward us came Yuxi.
“Lin is intrigued by your installation
here.” Ben winked at me. “She said—”
Embarrassed, I grabbed onto Ben’s arm and intercepted him. “Congratulations, Yuxi, the show is great.”
“Thanks.” He smiled. “May I show you this one?” He led us to the middle of the large exhibition space. White gauze hung from the ceiling, forming a cylindrical enclosure. A spiraling ladder rose from a round platform that narrowed as it stepped up. “Climb up and listen,” Yuxi said.
He helped me up till I was in the middle of a large, round birdcage made of white metal and gauze. Through the gauze, I saw Francis join Yuxi and Ben. They were smiling, and their mouths were moving. The noise in the hall was shrouded while I heard the wheezing wind blow through rustling leaves. The singing of invisible birds and beastly growls mixed with fragments of conversations filtering through from a dozen different directions; conversations that neither belonged to a forest nor to the art show. The disparate visuals, sounds, and messages sped up fast, making me quite anxious. Disorientated, I turned hither and thither to see if I was missing anything when something caught my eye.
Through the gauze, I saw the woman in the fedora charge across the exhibition hall until she reached Ben. Her mouth jeered as she slapped him. She took off her sunglasses and I recognized the face. It was Cherry. Everything about this woman, which had seemed beautiful, was suddenly tainted; her perfect body was tight like a tension cord; her manicured hands were clutched in bloodless fists; her sparkling eyes narrowed to cracks of contempt; her perfectly-shaped nostrils were flared. Frances, Yuxi, Sam, and everyone in the room looked on in horrified silence. With a reddening jaw, Ben said something that infuriated her even more. She raised her hand again. This time, Ben grabbed her wrist in time.
Mortified as I was witnessing Ben in a lover’s quarrel with another woman, I stepped down and out of the gauze enclosure to hear Cherry’s shrill voice shower him with rebuke. Seeing me appear, Ben looked more nervous. Following Ben’s gaze, Cherry spotted and glared at me like I was a human bot-fly who had just crawled out of someone’s behind. Wasting no time, she came charging at me. Stupefied that I was the source of her aggravation, I stood at the bottom of the steps and watched her as she approached me with a raised hand. Before she reached me, Sam stepped between us. At that moment, Corleone, the Italian whom I spoke to at Katz, grabbed her and pulled her back.
“How dare you?” she hissed. “Let go of me.”
“And let you do this on my watch?” The Italian shook his head.
“Take your hands off me, or I’ll make sure you’ll never work again.”
Just then, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Startled, I turned to see Yuxi. “Come,” he said, and pulled me away.
“I’m not leaving,” I said but, with steadfast determination, Yuxi put his hands on my shoulders and shuffled me away from the scene toward the adjacent exhibition hall. I turned my head to look at Ben, who mouthed, “Go!”
Yuxi lifted me by the shoulders and carried me toward a small side corridor in the back of the space. Once there, he eased his grip on me.
“What’s with you?” I asked. “I want to stay.”
Yuxi ignored my protests and urged me out of a door leading to a long, shallow yard running along the length of the three-tenement building. Large pots of plants and spawning climbers lined a brick garden wall. Two caterers were enjoying a smoke at one of two cast-iron tables there.
Yuxi sat me down at the other table, and said, “I’m just looking out for you, Lin.”
“It’s not helping. So can you stop?” My voice, hoarse from tension, made the caterers glance across the courtyard. Seeing the look on my face, the caterers put out their cigarettes on the soles of their shoes and went back inside. A sense of resignation rested on Yuxi’s face as he looked away. And I suddenly felt guilty. He didn’t deserve the anger I’d transferred to him.
“I’m sorry,” I sighed.
“I’m sorry too,” he said, looking at a distant point over my shoulder. “I know you don’t want to hear it now, but Ben is a good guy.”
My chest grew heavier.
“I’m not taking it out on you but, seeing him with that woman, I wouldn’t say that. And if he is, I should have stayed and learned her side of the story. Then I can be the judge of that.”
Yuxi scooted closer. “Listen: This is how she wants you to react.”
I stared at Yuxi.
“Even if you don’t believe me now, this is her game. Trust me, don’t take her bait.”
“And what would be her motive if they’re not involved?”
“Lin dear, all I can say is that you should stick to your guns and ignore them.”
“Them? Who are they?”
“Her! I meant her.”
All of a sudden, I felt fatigue settling over my body. I leaned back and rubbed my face. I loved Ben. He was fun and always surrounded by friends. He made me laugh. He was as wholesome as I was messed up.
“Are you alright?” Yuxi asked.
“I don’t know.”
I wanted to stop thinking and tear myself away. There was no easy way to find out your man’s been unfaithful. Feeling a migraine come up, I searched through my bag. “I left my meds in the apartment.”
“You need them now?”
“I might,” Confused, I searched my bag again.
“It’s not far, let’s go get them,” Yuxi said. “I’ll go tell Ben.”
After Yuxi had gone inside, I looked around the little courtyard, a rather unexpected space to find in the middle of New York. It was the forgotten, unedited vignettes, which said more about a place than its polished sights but, tonight, I was not in the mood. Then, I noticed a gate in the ivy-covered brick wall. It reminded me of the dark green door in our backyard in Haarlem. I felt an urge to get up and try the handle. With a rusty squeak, it swung open, and I walked into the blackest of nights.
Chapter 36
The lane smelled of herbs and garlic from homecooked meals. The little light there was coming from a few upper windows casting long shadows on the ground. Clueless whether to turn right or left, I stopped and listened.
Somewhere, a couple was arguing, their voices cracking with passion. An aria was playing on a sound system. I perked my ears, then headed in the direction where Madame Butterfly’s voice rose to the sky, appealing to the stars to be her witnesses.
Puccini’s chorus came on as I reached the end of the back lane, which opened onto a side street. I walked toward the junction and found myself in front of an Italian bistro. The music streamed from its open glass doors while its customers drank, ate, and chatted. A few cast curious glances at my lonely figure as Puccini’s heavy-hearted chorus hummed solemnly. Further down the street was the gallery, in front of which a dozen visitors had gathered. I was about to turn and head back toward the apartment when Cherry burst from its glass doors. Right behind her was Corleone, who pushed her to move faster. He and Cherry jeered at each other as visitors and pedestrians looked on.
I stepped back into the shadows of the side street while Corleone yanked Cherry down the street in the opposite direction. At the corner, they turned west. Quickly, I slipped through the crowd and, making sure there were at least ten yards between us, I followed them along Grand Street. We crossed the same park I’d crossed this morning, only now the rustling shadows of leaves looked and sounded more sinister.
Passing under a massive tree, Cherry pulled herself away from Corleone. Her eyes spat fire in the dim illumination of a lamppost.
“You don’t know who you are dealing with, do you, you moron?”
“I don’t care, lady,” the Italian said. “I just want things to go smoothly. This is a nice show, so behave.”
“Behave? Do you know who I am?” Cherry hissed. She pressed a button or two on her cell and waited for the connection. With a single sweep of his large hand, the Italian knocked the cell out of her hand and sent it flying through the dark. Cherry yelped. Her voice echoed across the park. Suddenly, a beam of light lit her face.
“
NYPD! What’s going on here?” An officer in uniform approached, holding up a torch.
Cherry lifted her hand to shield her eyes as the officer told them to step back. In a fraction of a second, Corleone pushed Cherry into the arms of the policeman, who dropped the torch. The Italian fled and disappeared in the vegetation. The officer held on to Cherry till she recovered her balance, asking, “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” she said, bewildered.
The officer told Cherry to stay put and ran after Corleone. Losing no time, Cherry headed west as soon as the officer was out of sight. Quietly, I followed Cherry as she scuttled ahead. I recognized the street from a previous trip when Ben took me to a festival in Little Italy. Although eateries and bars were still open, shopkeepers were moving their merchandise indoors and pulling down shutters in the process of closing. I almost lost her at one point and hurried ahead to see if she might have turned the corner. I spotted her on a little landing fifteen yards in front of me.
She had climbed a short flight of steps and was standing in front of a tenement door she opened with a keycard. Before she entered, Cherry looked up and down the street. I ducked and crawled behind a dustbin barely large enough to conceal me. I waited a few seconds after the door had closed before I hurried up the steps. Through a glass panel in the wooden door, I saw her walk down the corridor instead of going up the stairs. Standing in front of a white door, she turned to look behind her, and I ducked out of sight. Again, I waited a few seconds before I ventured another peek. She was gone.
A young couple was rushing down the staircase talking and laughing and brushed past me as I studied the nametags on the buzzer panel. There was only one apartment on the ground floor.
“In or out?” the man asked, holding the door. Remembering the back lane earlier, I said, “Out.”
I backtracked to the street corner, counting the number of buildings. Turning into the lane, I walked along counting the buildings until I came to what should be the backyard of Cherry’s apartment. A high wooden fence separated it from the adjacent yards and the alley, but gaps between the horizontal planks allowed me a view inside. Two sad-looking Christmas trees in large earthen pots were blocking my view. I moved to another gap where the view was unobstructed. The yard was empty except for the trees, an electric grill barbecue, a few fold-up chairs leaning against the wall and a timber shed. There was a door and a window through which I saw a cozy living room.