by Tash Aw
In keeping with her new rules, she was very discerning. She chatted only with men who met her criteria. She mastered the art of chatting with three, four, five people at once, learning to type short sentences or just single words here and there to disguise the fact that she could not type as fast as the educated men she was pursuing. Really? Amazing. Cool! Ha-ha. Aiiii. En. En. En. One word was all it took to sustain a long conversation. Men do not really want to listen; they much prefer to talk. It made her job easier.
Every time she chatted with a man, she imagined herself doing all the things that she had decided she would do. Doing things to him. With him. The more she imagined these things, the less bad they seemed. Her fear began to subside. She could do it. She had to.
THE MOMENT SHE WALKED in to the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf café on Wujiang Lu, she sensed that her impressive personal styling was drawing attention. The teenage boys and young men looked up from their laptop computers and followed her with their lustful gazes, while the women gazed at her with envy. The full-length red coat with fake-fur lapels she had chosen was certainly making an impression. Her date stood up at the far side of the room—he’d already found a secluded table in the corner where they would be able to talk quietly. He was better looking than she had imagined, and younger too. She had selected her target well.
This was the third date she had arranged with a man she’d met on the Internet. The first turned out to be twenty years older than his Internet image, while the second one walked with a bad limp, which was the result of a recent accident and for which he had been having expensive medical treatment, leaving him in financial difficulties. On both occasions, Phoebe just made an excuse and left—said she had stomach problems. It doesn’t matter if men think you are a bitch. So, before suggesting a meeting with her third target, Phoebe asked him many probing questions and requested numerous photos in order to gather clues about his life. He’d sent her a photo taken from far away, which made it difficult to tell what he looked like or how tall he was; moreover, he was wearing big black sunglasses. But what was important was that she could see a nice car in the photo, and also quality leather shoes in the English style, plus an iPhone. Nonetheless, she had to admit that it was a bonus that he’d turned out to be better looking than his photo suggested.
“Hi, nice to meet you,” the man said, introducing himself with a name that sounded fake. His voice hesitated a little as he said it, as if he had been practicing saying it but was still a little unsure. Phoebe was alert to such things now; no one could cheat her.
“Nice to meet you—what’s your name again? I didn’t quite catch it. Sorry, the music …”
“Sun Xiang,” he repeated. It sounded more convincing this time, and when he smiled he seemed very charming, with nice straight teeth that showed good calcium intake at an early age. His bone structure was good, too, not just in his face but in his height, for he must have stood at least five feet ten.
Phoebe sat down but did not take off her sunglasses. She had practiced this before on previous dates—it added an air of mystique. She placed her handbag on the table between them—not on the floor or tucked in beside her on the comfortable low armchair, but right in the middle of the small round table so that he could see it. Sure, the handbag was a fake, but it was a very high-quality copy, which had cost her a lot of money—chao-A counterfeit goods were expensive and difficult to obtain these days, what with the Europeans putting pressure on the Chinese government to ban such items. This was what the shopkeeper had explained to her in order to justify the cost of more than 1,000 kuai. She remembered being astonished at the time by the price, nearly five times what she had paid for her existing bag, which she had purchased in a market in Guangzhou and was exactly the same brand. But she was in Shanghai now, and everything was more luxurious and more expensive.
“Sun Xiang,” Phoebe said, “are you local?” She’d detected a Shanghai accent in his voice—she could pick up little signs, which made it difficult for people to lie to her.
“Yes,” he replied, “I was born and grew up here. You?”
She took off her sunglasses. She noticed that people in the café were still looking at her. “It’s complicated. I moved around a lot—abroad, mostly. My parents are from Guangdong province, though.”
“Abroad? That sounds interesting.” He kept staring at her, his eyes settling on her bare knees. “I’m sorry, I’m just … so nervous,” he said.
“Why nervous?” she said, reaching forward to shift her handbag for no reason whatsoever. His gaze followed her hand and remained on the bag even when she had relinquished her grip. Surely he was admiring the remarkable quality of the leather handle.
“I’m nervous because I don’t do this dating thing often. In fact, this is my first time. I chatted with a lot of girls on the Internet but was always too afraid to meet anyone. But you seemed so … interesting.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And … and, also, you are so beautiful. I guess this is why I’m nervous. You are even better looking in real life than in your photos.”
When she laughed, she was aware of a tinkling quality to her voice, like the happy notes of a piano in the lobby of an expensive hotel.
“And your fashion sense is really excellent,” he continued. He glanced around briefly before looking down at his hands and adding in a quieter voice, “Your skirt is very short.”
Phoebe tugged weakly at the hem of her skirt, a false attempt at modesty. She didn’t care at all that her skirt was short; she had planned it deliberately. “Are you going to get me a coffee or are you just going to say flattering lies to me all day?”
“I’m sorry, it’s so rude of me. I’m not my usual self today—as I said, you make me really … nervous. Hai, so stupid of me; I’m normally very confident. And it’s not lies! It’s true!”
She laughed. “Young men these days, so full of superfluous nonsense!”
“What kind of drink would you like?”
“Macchiato,” she said. She liked showing off her English. She could tell he was impressed. “What are you having? Caffe latte?”
“Just tea. Longjing, if they have any. I’m very boring and traditional. I’m not used to all this modern coffee drinking.”
He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and took out a long wallet that looked thick with credit cards. Phoebe tried not to show that she was noticing it, noticing where he kept it, how much it contained. “What did you want again?” he said. “I’m so useless—I can’t even pronounce it!”
As she watched him standing at the counter, Phoebe began to form a fuller picture of him, one that had eluded her during her online chats with him. There he had seemed more confident and daring, making wisecrack jokes and stating his opinion in a forthright manner on many subjects, such as the outrageous property prices, government politics, and Internet censorship. She had imagined him as an entrepreneur whose boldness came from having made money, probably older than he said he was, maybe married too—someone who would want to feel her up and take advantage of her. She didn’t mind. She, too, had her plans, and he fit them perfectly. Being insensitive and slightly lascivious, he would not figure out that she was meeting him only to get money, would not realize that she was using him until it was too late, until he woke up in the morning to find his wallet missing. Or maybe she would insist that he give her some money, which she would do only after he was in a state of full excitement. Men will do anything when they are past a certain point of sexual arousal. She might find his wife’s phone number in his mobile phone and threaten to inform her of his sordid extramarital behavior if he did not give Phoebe some money.
Instead, she had found someone younger, well mannered, and timid, the kind of man she might once have liked to go on dates with—the very opposite of the high-flying modern tycoon she had been searching for. She looked at his nice jeans and slim leather shoes, which had little tassels on them. His glasses were rimless and made him look like a nervous university student, even though he
was in his early thirties. Frankly, he did not have an exhilarating appearance or personality; he was a perfect example of a shiyong nan—not rich but comfortable, not handsome but still acceptable. A man whose value lay in his high functional and practical aspects, who could maintain your material needs to a reasonable level and would be a solid companion. She had not expected such a person while chatting on the Internet.
He kept glancing back from the counter and smiling shyly at her, and the moment she smiled back he turned away. It was because he was intimidated by her sophistication, Phoebe thought. Maybe she should not have dressed in this high-glamour way. She began to feel guilty for planning to use him for financial gain; perhaps he did not deserve that. But he was a man, he liked her, she could sense her power over him—he was ideal. She should not let the opportunity slip. Maybe he could even become a boyfriend. Who knew?
He returned with their drinks, a small coffee for her, a pot of Longjing for himself.
“Oh, sorry,” Phoebe said, “let me move my handbag.” She shifted the bag slightly to make space for the drinks but did not move it off the table.
“That’s a very stylish bag,” he said, his gaze resting on it.
“What? Oh, hmm.” Phoebe did not want to acknowledge his remark too much; she wanted to show that such a luxury-brand bag was not a big deal in her life. But her ploy had worked. The 1,000-kuai investment, the careful selection of the brand—it had all been worth it.
“LV is so popular in China these days,” he said, “even though it is so expensive. You must have a very good job.”
“I could do better, but it’s fine for now; it pays the bills. Everything in Shanghai costs so much lately,” she replied, sipping her coffee. “Tell me, what do you think of the new fiscal measures introduced by the government to cool down the overheated property market? I’ve been looking to buy a new place, but apartment prices are just crazy right now.” She had paid special attention to the duller parts of the newspaper, committing to memory such expressions as “fiscal measures” and “overheated property market.”
“You sound knowledgeable about property—don’t tell me you’re one of those rich speculators!” As he spoke, she could tell that he was impressed by her chic demeanor. He would look at her but would not dare to hold her gaze for too long. Although he was careful not to show it, she could also tell that he was still a little intimidated, because he would occasionally look at her legs and the skin around her breastbone, which she had left exposed to the November chill. But, above all, his nervy glances kept returning to her handbag, which was still sitting on the table between them. She began to feel sorry for this man; he was so easily browbeaten and beguiled by her feminine allure that for a moment she wondered if she should soften her approach to him. But then she thought, No, this is what it means to be a modern woman in Shanghai. He was a Functional Man: His purpose was to be dominated by women like her. Honey, if you don’t take advantage of men from time to time, you can bet your bottom dollar they’ll soon take advantage of you.
“Of course I’m not a property tycoon,” Phoebe said. “My parents are quite generous—they allow me to live with them—but I would like more independence.”
“If I were you,” the Functional Man said, “I wouldn’t bother to buy a place now. You’re still so young. In a few years, property prices will hit rock bottom. Why? Think about it: I am thirty-four years old. When my parents die, I am going to inherit their apartment. My wife … well, I’m not married yet, but when I do get married, my wife will also inherit an apartment from her parents. That means when we die, our child will inherit two apartments. If our child gets married, his wife will also inherit two apartments. So if the one-child policy continues, everyone is going to have four apartments: Who’s going to want all of these places? You’ll be able to buy them for nothing!”
Phoebe was impressed by his logic—she would never have been able to think like this. He truly was a man of practical thinking! She said, “That’s very interesting. What else do you think?”
They talked about all sorts of things—the Functional Man really knew how to speak. She was pleased with the way the date was going, because she knew that he was enamored of her (when men talk a lot, it’s a sign that they’ve let their guard down—you’ve got them!). However, she was careful to remain aloof, leaning back in her seat and giving him cool looks to demonstrate her superiority and desirability.
“I’m sorry, I think I’m boring you,” he said after a while.
“No, why do you say that?”
“No reason. You seem a bit fidgety, that’s all. Do you need to go to the restroom?”
“No, I don’t. But I would like another drink. Maybe some tea. Wait a second, I’ll get this round.”
“Out of the question; a man cannot let a beautiful young woman pay for anything.” He reached inside his jacket, and Phoebe could not help that her eyes were drawn to the spot where his wallet lay.
“Hey, big brother, this is the modern world, you know.” Do little things for a man when he least expects it, and you will soon reap the rewards. As she reached for her handbag, she felt the tinkling laugh rise up in her throat again. She unzipped her bag and reached inside it for her wallet made of glossy red leather with a gold buckle that was bound to attract his attention. She went to the counter, ordered their drinks, and waited patiently in the queue to collect them. She decided to maintain her cool superiority, so she did not turn around to look at him; she did not want him to think that she was anxious to get back to him or that she was fascinated by him. She wanted to remain unattainable, just as her self-help books said she should. Everything she had learned from them so far was serving her well. She stood upright—as straight as she could, given her high heels—and she made sure she pulled her shoulder blades back so that they squeezed together. He would be excited by the sight of this, for sure he would be. The warm air from the heater vent blew softly on her bare shoulders and swept around her neck, and the tight dress she was wearing clung to her buttocks; when she shifted her position to collect the tray from across the counter, she could feel the fabric stretch around her hips, the seams cutting gently into her flesh.
As she turned to make her way back to their seats, she was disoriented by a group of high school kids wandering past, and for a moment she could not locate her table. She looked for the Functional Man, the shape of his functional body, but could not see it. Then she saw, clearly, the table at which they had been sitting, tucked in the corner next to the newspaper rack. The magazine she had been reading earlier lay on the brown armchair she had occupied, just as she had left it when she got up to buy the drinks, but there was no one at the table. As she wandered over, she hoped that she was making a mistake, that this was not in fact the table she had been at, that she would suddenly hear the Functional Man’s voice calling out to her from another spot in the room, saying, Ei, you silly girl, it’s over here, or, Little miss, I’ve moved to a better spot. But even as she thought these hopeful thoughts, she knew it was no use; she knew what had happened.
She stared at the table. Her handbag was gone. She looked around, but she knew she would not see the man. She had been wrong about him. He had not been functional after all.
As she sat pretending to drink her scalding hot tea, she kept her eyes down, averting her gaze from the people in the café. She was sure they were still looking at her, and she felt humiliated by their stares. They were all thinking, That stupid girl, she was so foolish. Abandoned by a man, and robbed too.
Phoebe Chen Aiping, do not let this city crush you down.
She lifted her eyes, challenging all the people in the world to look at her—she wanted to confront them and scream at them. But no one was watching her. A mother and her daughter were sitting across from her, the small child playing with a handheld video device. Some boys were laughing and showing one another photos they had taken on their mobile phones. A young white man with his hair in short twisty dreadlocks was reading a Chinese newspaper. A businessman
was talking loudly to himself, both hands moving angrily, jerking as if he were trying to throw something across the room. It took Phoebe a while to realize that he was not mad, that he had a wire dangling from his ear and was talking to someone on the phone.
As Phoebe walked out onto the streets, she thought about the things in her handbag—the money she had hidden in the inner lining, the makeup she had bought at great expense, her mobile phone, full of the names and numbers of friends she had made since coming to China, people who could help her. They were all gone now, vanished in the encroaching Shanghai winter.
She wrapped her coat around her, felt how cheap and thin it was. What could she expect? It was a low-quality fake, just like her. She had not noticed how lousy it was before, because her body was warmed by optimism, because her life was about to change. Now, she thought, maybe it never will. As she wandered aimlessly through the streets, she felt her shoulders hunch and tense against the cold. The fallen leaves of the plane trees lay thickly on the ground and crackled sharply as she walked on them, and whenever there was a gust of wind, the leaves would swirl around her feet, encircling her ankles.
She stopped outside a shopwindow and stared at her reflection. She looked red-cheeked and sad. Her hair had fallen flat across her forehead, and there were tears in her eyes. It was because of the cold bitter wind, she thought, not because she was crying. No, it was not because she was crying. It had begun to rain, a fine misty drizzle that made the air look gray and the shapes of the buildings vague, as if viewed through a veil. She could feel the moisture gathering on her head, her hair clinging to her face—it felt so damp and sticky and cold.