by Henry Hughes
“So, do you sample the local ladies here?” Alexa asked with a raised eyebrow.
“No,” I said resolutely. “Well, I did on my first time to Bangkok a few years ago. It was disappointing. I’m no longer inclined.”
“What, to screw twelve year olds?”
“I would never do that,” I squinted in disgust.
“Have you been tested?”
“For AIDS? Yes,” I said, sipping my drink. “Had to, for the China job.”
Alexa was attractive and interesting, and I thought we might come together that night, but perhaps my admissions, her attitude toward Western men in Thailand, or our bruised weariness ruined that opportunity. Still, I thought it worth asking. “Would you like to hang out in my room? There’s a nice view of the bay.”
“Sure,” she said, and I felt my dull heart leap.
We were up half the night, and by morning it was good that a storm swept Phuket, as I was in no shape to fish. I went out and found instant coffee and sweet cookies, and Alexa and I watched the bay and talked easily. Siri’s boat wallowed in the chop, a string of Christmas lights and its bright red cabin ports made it look heavy and clownish compared to the lean athleticism and naval grace of the Andaman Hooker.
Alexa told me that she was once engaged, but she discovered that the man was obsessed with his own success. “He worked all the time, and I was okay with that for a while. But when we were together, he couldn’t talk about anything else. I stopped asking him questions and stopped listening.”
So I asked Alexa more questions and listened.
“‘A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.’ Have you heard that?” Alexa put a finger on my chest. “Irina Dunn, an Australian activist, said that.”
“I thought it was U2. So you don’t need a man?”
“Not sure about ‘need.’ I like men,” she said and smiled.
“I’ve seen a lot of bicycles in rivers,” I said. “The fish seem okay with them.”
I told her about Aunt Lil, who never dated or married but seemed happy with her life. Alexa listened and said she was sorry about Lil’s illness but that our family was lucky to have had Lil all those years after my mother died.
Alexa had to go. She and Monica were heading back to Bangkok later that day. “Time to get back to work,” she said, slipping on her shoes.
“I guess you work pretty hard yourself,” I said, not wanting her leave.
“You must’ve guessed I also like to play.”
“Or at least fish.”
“You should visit me in Perth. I’ll be there next spring. There’s lots of fishing.”
Alexa and I walked out into the wind and rain. In the distance, waves crashed the coral shoal, and I hailed a covered tuk-tuk. Alexa kissed me. “Write me when you get to China. Good luck. Be safe, okay?”
“Thanks. You, too.”
I would never see her again, but would never regret or lament the brevity of our relationship. Brief, intimate encounters with people can leave us with powerfully formative and remembered sensations, joys, and insights unsullied by the efforts of getting along for years or under the stresses of work and family. I wouldn’t want an emotional life composed solely of short episodes, but I wouldn’t want a life without them.
The weather can change so suddenly in Thailand. Clouds lifted, the sun shone, and you could hear the popping snarl of the local long boats as their pole shafted props churned Chalong Bay. “Always fishing,” I thought. Eugene and Kenny waved to me from the restaurant. “So, if it isn’t Captain Horny,” Eugene smiled broadly. “Good night of fishing?”
“Looks like he was the fish,” Ken smiled, folding his newspaper. “Alexa caught a longtom last night.”
“And the price was right, hah,” Eugene laughed.
“Okay, okay. We had a nice time. She’s a cool woman.”
“I’ll miss her,” Ken said, nosing back into his paper. I laughed and ordered coffee. In an hour the skies turned dark again, and wind and rain drove us inside.
After a day of rest we were eager to fish, but we wanted to forgo the sailfish and head to open water for more action and variety.
“Didn’t you come here to catch a sailfish?” Pearce looked severe when we met him the next morning. “Sailfish is a prize worth working for.”
“No need for prizes, John,” I said.
“We’re on vacation,” Ken smiled.
“We’d like to get into some tuna, maybe some dolphin fish or more wahoo,” Eugene added.
“Fine, it’s your money.”
When we started loading up, Pearce asked, “Where’s your chemist friend?”
“She threw us back,” Ken said. “You know, catch-and-release.”
I shook my head. Pearce smiled and said, “She was all right. Probably high maintenance, but all right.”
We steamed into the Andaman Sea for a bluewater drop 23 miles to the west. After a three hour ride—with flying fish bursting and gliding off the waves—a nasty squall blew in. “Normally I’d blame a woman,” Pearce joked. It poured and poured, but the wind never mounted, and the seas softened in fifteen minutes. We trolled over long blue swells, and just after 11 a.m. the first rod went down. Ken battled a beautiful wahoo, shouting a deliberate, “Wahoo!” when it ran and took line. It was a big fish crowned in a long low dorsal sail; when it came up on the gaff, Pearce smiled. “Well, at least you caught the king of mackerel.” There were more flying fish, and at 11:30 a school of dolphin fish—also called mahi-mahi or dorado—crashed our lures. With three rods alive, the fun ran wild, and I reeled in a mahi-mahi that fought like crazy, jumping all over the deck until Pearce trapped it in the hatch door. Eugene landed another one that slapped my leg, snapping its teeth and blushing radiant yellows and greens, while starry spots blinked on and off above its silver belly. Light and color refracting and pulsing through the wet scales of fish make them some of the most beautiful creatures on the planet. When Ken reeled in the third mahi-mahi, color rippling down its body, I just stared.
We cleared the cockpit, resumed trolling, caught several skipjack tuna, and then endured a fifteen-minute lull while Pearce tutored his mate, Don, on preparing a mullet bait. Don butchered a couple baits, and then filleted and hooked a split-tail mullet to the boss’s satisfaction. Set out on one of the outriggers, it immediately got a take. “It must be one helluva fight for food down there if they’ll eat this miserable mullet,” Pearce speculated as Ken reeled in a large barracuda. Just then another rod went down, and Eugene worked on a tuna that suddenly felt like a submarine. “What the hell?” he looked down at a half-eaten fish surfacing in blood. “Shark,” Don said. We all stared into the blue water, and I thought of Melville’s “universal cannibalism of the sea.” And if we turned the world upside down and considered our own sharkish business—from religious wars in the Middle East, tribal slashings in Africa, New York’s predacious Wall Street, right down to the flesh markets of Thailand—things wouldn’t look so different. Indeed, I shuddered over some of our captain’s Ahabian traits, but measuring my topside friends I felt relief. It might be a sharkish world, but they were warm, trusted shipmates. And when Eugene and Ken dropped me off at the airport the next day, I didn’t know how to say goodbye, so I just walked away, then turned and waved, articulate as a fish.
Unlike the lavish welcome I was shown in Japan, no one at Bei Wai, Beijing Foreign Studies University, seemed to know who I was or what I wanted. After a couple sweating hours of confusion and neglect, I just sat on the rim of a dry, cracked fountain in the tile lobby of the Foreign Experts Building and waited. A British professor, James, stopped by to ask if he could help. I explained what happened, and he assured me it was not unusual. “Welcome to China,” he chortled. After another hour, a fit-looking, crew-cut, senior citizen rode up on his bicycle and introduced himself as Chen Lin, my supervisor. The attitude around me changed. Professor Chen had been the celebrated host of the first television program teaching English during the reform years under Deng Xiaoping.
“Chen’s friend?” the grim woman at the counter suddenly smiled.
Despite my connections, I was placed in a “temporary room” in Building 9. Chen and I climbed six flights of concrete steps, and he opened a sheet-metaled door to a filthy, stifling apartment. “Remember, only drink boiled water,” he warned, setting down a complimentary Thermos. The sun was going down and Chen was eager to get home. “We will arrange everything in the morning. Thank you for coming.”
I sat on the edge of a broken bed and looked at the pocked and peeling walls, exposed pipe, and sticky concrete floors. I was twenty-nine years old. Was this where I wanted to be? Tired and thirsty, I drank the few warm ounces left in the Thermos and brushed my teeth with tap water, trying not to swallow. There were no drapes or screens, so I turned off the lights, stripped naked, and lay on the tick mattress, sweating myself to sleep. I woke to sunlight and some amplified music. Touching my hot, itchy face, I found mosquito welts on my temples, cheeks, and lips.
The day got better. I boiled water in a tin pan, drank heartily, and brushed my teeth. Then I took a shower, rubbed cortisone cream on my bites, dressed, and ventured across campus. Even at a major university in the capital, you could see that life was closer to the bone in mainland China. An old woman wheeled a broom cart down the cracked sidewalk, pimpled students crowded and pushed into a bleak dining room where cooks in filthy aprons yelled back and forth. I drank tea and ate steamed bread that cost a few cents. The man next to me coughed up something thick and spat on the floor.
There were handsome buildings in gray brick crowned with wing-cornered Oriental roofs, but their cement interiors were hard and spare. I reported to Chen Lin’s office. He wore a well-cut tan suit, greeted me warmly, offered concern over my mosquito bites, and insisted on a proper breakfast. We walked through the campus, past a mopped entranceway and a sign reading “Slip Carefully,” and then stopped before a tailor’s. “They can make your suits,” Chen said, but I thought of custom fishing vests and shirts with big pockets. There were bike repair stations, book shops, and a market where a fishmonger set out his frozen fare on a makeshift wooden table. I stopped to examine the fish. “You like fish?” Chen looked surprised.
My classes didn’t start until the following week, and I had some time to explore, get my bearings, make some friends, and learn a little Chinese. I stopped at a campus snack shop with a patio where a number of laowai, Westerners, and some Chinese were hanging out. I met a bald, elderly American professor named Art who had spent several years in China. He gave me sound advice on navigating the bureaucracy—“make friends, smile, and bring gifts”—and ordered us a couple Wuxing beers. As we were chatting, two young Chinese women approached our table. Art introduced me to Li, and Li introduced us to Jin Lei, a travel agent from Yunnan hoping to improve her English. They declined beer and sipped 7Ups, smiling and charming us with their limited but spirited English. Learning that I had just arrived in China, the women offered to help me shop and set up my room. I thanked them, and we made plans to meet the following morning. They sugared a “Goodnight,” and walked away. Art raised a finger to me. “Be careful,” he said. “The ladies like to cruise for free English lessons and free passports, if you know what I mean.”
I quickly figured out that my temporary room would be my permanent room and that if I wanted to fix it up, I couldn’t rely on the university. Art introduced me to his Chinese cleaning lady, whose husband’s brother worked in the campus maintenance shop. For a carton of cigarettes I got new screens. Li and Jin Lei took me shopping, and I bought curtains, sheets, blankets, towels, and some lumber to fix the bed, bringing it all back in a miandi, a cheap yellow taxi built like a tinny VW bus. Through more smiles, gifts, friends, and favors—what the Chinese call guanxi, connections developed through friendship and reciprocity—we procured tools, university furniture, a working refrigerator, and got half of my apartment painted. “Now you need a bicycle,” Jin Lei declared. We haggled for a used one-speed Flying Pigeon. “What other kind of pigeon is there?” I mocked the name. Jin Lei arched her black eyebrows. “Dead pigeon,” she said—a Chinese philosopher dispatching the philistine.
The smoggy heat of Beijing still lingered through the first days of September, and Jin Lei suggested a bike ride to Yi He Yuan, the Summer Palace. We cycled north, finding safety in a long school of bicycles, finning in like a pair of mackerel fearful of the sharkish blue trucks and yellow taxis. Leaving the main thoroughfare, we pedaled down a quiet cottonwood-lined lane shared by donkey carts, as well as along canals, sorghum fields, and fish ponds. Jin Lei explained that they were raising carp. “Can I fish there?” I asked. She laughed, and then said, “Maybe,” and I wasn’t sure if she understood.
Passing through the red gates of the Summer Palace, we walked up to the Hall of Benevolence and Longevity, staring at the massive hardwood throne flanked by life-size bronze cranes holding thick fish-shaped candles in their long bills. We smelled a rose garden and gazed at more ornate pavilions, statues, and strange rocks, suddenly feeling the cool breeze of Kunming Lake. “Named after my hometown,” Jin Lei said. “Kunming—in Yunnan. A very mountain and cool place.”
To escape the heat of Beijing and the Forbidden City, the royal family retreated to this hilly, breezy, lake-cooled resort. In the eighteenth century, the successful emperor Qianlong expanded and deepened the lake, using it for naval drills and to angle for his beloved carp. The palace fell into disrepair but was restored a century later by the Empress Dowager Cixi. “Empress Sex-sy?” I read aloud the sign, remembering that crusty old hag from the film, The Last Emperor, until Jin Lei corrected my pronunciation to something like “Empress Sushi.” In the late 1880s, the empress siphoned the military budget into the Summer Palace, and instead of buying a modern battleship she commissioned a crazy-looking marble boat hulked at the edge of the lake. Cixi might have been an ugly and terrible head of state, but she loved to fish, swinging a line from the marble boat or drifting happily in a Cleopatra-style barge while eunuchs baited her hook and removed the slippery catch. In one old photo, a eunuch holds a brown fish that might easily have been the size and shape of his missing member, and I wondered if a wave of regret passed over his loins as he tossed the hapless dart into a royal bucket.
For a couple of dollars, I rented a rowboat and two bamboo fishing poles, and we trolled Cixi’s lake. “Oh, fishing. Diaoyu,” Jin Lei exclaimed, understanding the word fishing, saying it again and teaching me the Chinese equivalent. Her long black hair shined, and her smile lit up the stern as I pulled on the oars. One pole twitched, and I swung in a seven-inch carp that, in fact, sized up pretty close to my own security. When I held the fish up and shared my reflections on sad and happy memento penile, Jin Lei blushed laughter and declared me a “so crazy laowai.” I threw the fish back, hoping it would grow larger.
Teaching in China was fun. Unlike Japan, where I worked primarily with children in endlessly repeated dialogues of, “I like baseball. Do you like baseball?” Bei Wai assigned me adults, graduate students, and professionals—doctors, lawyers, and PLA (People’s Liberation Army) officers—who would say things like, “Wine is good for your pancreas,” or “America has many crime. Why?” or “We will buy America,” and then laugh and offer me a mooncake. Five years before I arrived, China was rocked by the 1989 Tiananmen Square democracy protests and the brutal government crackdown. Sometimes people would discreetly tell me about the bloodshed they witnessed or friends and family gunned down or dragged away in the night. By 1994, political tensions had eased, and there was a general atmosphere of increasing openness in China, but some topics remained explosive, and one day my students and I fell into a tense discussion about the status of Taiwan, which I asserted was a sovereign nation separate from the People’s Republic of China. “That’s Western propaganda,” one man shouted. And when another burly student with a crew cut tried to defend my view, a thin young lady wearing a kitten blouse yelled: “Traitor say that! We’ll fight the US.” After a couple days of cooling
off, the students recognized the need for healing, so they gave me a carp.
“You’re kidding me,” I said when Captain Zhou, always neatly dressed in his dark green, red- and gold-trimmed PLA uniform, handed me a jumping plastic bag with a live grass carp.
“What’s ‘kidding?’” he tilted his head.
“No, I just mean that I’m surprised. Thank you.” I tried to teach the class while eyeing the still-flipping fish hanging over a chair back.
“Today is Friday,” the kitten lady said. “This is your Christian food.”
Fish has always been a cherished food in China. An old Han proverb, “The fewer the feet, the better the meat,” obviously ranks fish above two-legged chicken and four-legged pork. Thumbing through little red dictionaries, my students explained that the word fish, yú, is an up-tone homophone and symbol for “abundance,” yù—and among fish, carp is emperor. Images of golden carp in baskets or in the arms of smiling children adorned red and gilt greeting cards and Spring Festival posters, signifying the blessings of fertility and plenty. Numerous myths and tales star a golden carp. In some stories, the resplendent carp is adored and cared for by a lonely student who is rewarded when the fish transforms into a gorgeous, enamored lover. Jin Lei retold a ninth-century Tang dynasty tale remarkably similar to the Western Cinderella story. A mistreated stepdaughter, Yexian, raises an affectionate golden carp in her family’s pond, but her cruel stepmother resents the girl’s loving attentions and kills and eats the fish. The heartbroken Yexian is told by a mysterious old man that any wishes she makes over the fish’s bones will come true, and she provides herself with dresses, pearls, and shoes. Of course, Yexian secretly attends a ball, dazzles everyone, and loses a pretty little shoe that is picked up by a handsome prince.