by Tash Aw
“It didn’t look like this where I grew up.”
He never sought more-intimate physical relations, never accidentally laid his hand too high up on her thigh or on her bare knee when she wore short skirts, never even insisted on a good-night kiss. He must have sexual problems, she decided. Anyway, it was better that he didn’t push for closer body contact, because she did not judge him to be physically desirable. For the time being, it was nice to play the role of the morally correct, educated girl. After all, it was what he was expecting from her. She must have been good in this role, because he said, “It’s strange, but I really feel at ease with you. There’s something about you I can’t quite place—you’re just so different from the other women in Shanghai. I can’t understand you yet.”
Her books had been right: Men wanted only what they couldn’t obtain.
She made the decision—it was an easy one to make: She would use Walter for as long as she could; she had to be ruthless. She would accept the gifts of luxury handbags and Italian shoes and British raincoats and jewels from Hong Kong. She would not only enjoy the fine dinners but also use the opportunity to learn about the Western countries he had visited. She would listen carefully to his stories about getting lost in Rome and his description of the view from the Eiffel Tower, and she would store them away for use one day, when she was at dinner with someone else, her true soul mate. She would accept all his offers of evenings at the opera and ballet; she would use him to make herself better. Make use of men as they would make use of you.
One evening, driving to dinner in his car, she wondered where in this never-ending city her true soul mate lived, whether some element of fate had failed to fall in place—like a fine piece of thread that comes unstuck from a tapestry—and maybe that had been enough for her to miss her connection and now her true soul mate was driving around in a car with someone else he, too, liked sort of but not really. Nonetheless, having a steady male companion of any kind was an achievement in Shanghai, even if he was not a soul mate. What the other girls said was true; even Phoebe could see a change in her own habits. She was nicer to the girls at the spa; the silly things they did no longer gave her such a bad mood. Whenever their performance was lacking, she did not get a headache, she merely gave them advice calmly but authoritatively. She also started to leave work early, taking evenings off without worrying that something would go wrong in her absence.
On a Sunday morning she and Walter saw some people dancing in a small public park, right next to a busy highway. When they stopped at the traffic light, Phoebe could hear the same kind of Spanish-sounding music she often heard playing on loudspeakers on the streets, except quicker and more exciting. The people were spinning and shaking their shoulders and hips—it looked thrilling. Phoebe felt her body wanting to move to the rhythm of the music. The light turned green, and as they drove off, Walter said, “That’s salsa dancing. Let’s try it sometime.” Secretly, Phoebe signed up for evening classes in a dance studio in Zhabei. She wanted to be well prepared by the time Walter took her on their first salsa date—she did not want to make a fool of herself.
She also started learning French, on her journey in to work and during lunch breaks. She’d bought a book and accompanying CDs some months ago from a stall on the pavement near Tiantong Lu, where she often bought useful, life-improving manuals that lay stacked in a pile at the foot of her bed in her apartment. Now that she was more established in her job and had more time to spend refining herself, she decided to consult the volumes that would help her become more sophisticated. The book had a colorful cover of a smiling Chinese woman wearing a beret and a striped shirt. It was called: C’est fou! Crazy Méthode: Speak French in Three Weeks.
She did not understand anything, but, as the book said, this did not matter one bit. All she had to do was to master the beautiful sounds of the French language, and the rest would quickly follow. So she put on her headphones and patiently repeated after the elegant-sounding voice:
Qu’est-ce que c’est? C’est un arbre?
Non, c’est un camion.
Non, c’est un camion.
She could feel her life changing; she could feel herself becoming the person she’d always wanted to be.
She insisted that Walter take her to Western restaurants; they were so much more sophisticated than Chinese restaurants, which she was beginning to find too noisy and overcrowded for her tastes. Even if you made a booking you were not sure of getting your table; often they would give it away if you arrived ten minutes late. Walter would sometimes say, “I’ve heard of this great little ramen place in Xuhui, near the indoor stadium. Maybe we should try to find it on Sunday, hang out together for the afternoon, chat a bit?” She would flatly refuse. It was so annoying of him to suggest traveling long distances just to eat in the kind of low-class place she had been frequenting all her life.
Soon he began to understand that she much preferred the upscale European restaurants around Huaihai Lu or on the Bund or on top of hotels in Pudong, with views of the cityscape, the kind of places with subtle lighting and well-dressed waiters. On their first few outings, Phoebe consulted her books and made lists of things to remember—how to use the cutlery, what to do with the little baskets of bread that arrived before the meal, how to deal with olives—but she quickly mastered these problems, and soon she did not even need to look in her handbag for the piece of paper on which she had written: 1. soup (+ bread). 2. Fish (flat knife). 3. Meat. 4. Cheese. 5. Dessert. 6. Coffee. She even understood, without having read any books, that the tiny glasses filled with a semiliquid puree that resembled baby food was meant to replace the nibbles served before the meal. (If this happened, it was a sure sign of a superior stylish restaurant.)
During these meals, Walter would often attempt to ask her questions about her life.
“What kind of food did you eat when you were growing up in Guangdong?” he would ask.
“Guangdong food.”
“What is your favorite food nowadays?”
“Hamburger.”
“Did your mother cook a lot?”
“No.”
“Did you spend much time with her when you were small, or did she have to work? Didn’t you say that she was a single mother?”
“Can you stop asking me so many stupid questions please? I can’t enjoy my food with you talking so much.”
“Sorry, it’s just that I want to know everything about you, get to understand you properly. I just … I just need to feel closer to you.”
Phoebe found his questions annoying. It was hard enough remembering that she should not hold her knife like a pencil, or that she had to dab her mouth with the corner of her napkin frequently but discreetly, and that she should put her nose in the wineglass and sniff it before sipping. Of course, she knew from reading her books that dinners in Western restaurants were a perfect opportunity for intimate conversation, but she did not want to talk about the things he asked her; she did not want to remember all that.
Often, over dinner, Walter would also talk about himself—incidents from his work, how he had been feeling that day, often quite emotional responses that Phoebe tried to blank out because they made her feel uncomfortable. For example, he would talk about how his father had died and he had not even known, because he was too busy with work, and recently his father had begun to appear in his dreams, haunting him. Once he mentioned that he never knew his mother and that he dreamed of being held tightly by someone who would look after him. Phoebe did not know why he was telling her such intimate stories, did not understand how she was supposed to respond. None of her books had advised her about how to deal with men’s emotional neediness; they taught her only that men were simplistic and straightforward and that she could easily manipulate them. Thankfully, Walter’s moments of solemnity never lasted long, and his mood would swiftly become jovial again. “I love talking to you,” he would say. “I really feel you understand me.” And then he would go back to talking about voyages to exotic European countries, telling her a
bout the restaurants and museums and shops to be found there. She preferred hearing about such things—she could learn from them.
After dinner, they would often go to karaoke. Her favorite KTV spot was in Wulumuqi Lu—she liked the places with a wide selection of Western songs, and also ones that did not have too many cheap-looking girls hanging around. She had nothing against them, even though they wore too much Lycra and exposed too much flesh, but she did not want to be reminded that she had been one of those girls once, not so long ago, hanging around waiting for Friday and Saturday night, when there would be more customers, singing songs for them and bringing them drinks. Anyway, it did not matter now: She did not have to see them, because Walter always booked the most expensive private room, for just the two of them.
The first time they went, she found herself next to him on the sofa. It was made of real leather; she could smell its rich luxurious scent and feel the smooth grainy texture under her fingers. The room was so well insulated that she could hear only the faintest of noise coming from the other rooms, unlike the KTV places she was used to, where you could hear the off-key singing from next door. Walter sat looking at her. The blue light from the blank screen made his eyes look watery, but in the dark she could not see the lines around his eyes and mouth so clearly, so for once his smile seemed happy instead of happy-sad. She thought, This is the moment he is finally going to kiss me. But he did not, he only looked at her without saying anything, until she got fed up and said, “Who’s going to sing first? Or shall we sing a duet?”
“Let’s try to find something nice,” he said, scrolling through the list of songs. “Why don’t you sing something first? One of these, maybe. You mentioned that you used to sing such songs with your mother when you were small. I love hearing them.”
Phoebe looked at the song titles—“Just Like Your Tenderness,” “Moonlight Serenade,” “Neverending Love,” “I Have Known a Love.” They were all traditional, old-fashioned melodies.
“You must be joking. No way.”
“Why not?” Walter said. He was still pointing the remote control at the screen, the arrow hovering over “Green Island Night Song.”
“Tooo boring! Let’s try a Western song. Hey, how about a French one?”
“You speak French?”
“Bien sûr.” She had not told him about her self-taught lessons—she wanted to surprise and impress him. She also did not tell him that, since it was karaoke, she did not have to understand any French, she just had to follow the words on the screen. The song started, a famous tune that conjured up visions of elegant women strolling along tree-lined boulevards a long time ago, when life was gentler, when things were not cheap and lousy. Walter watched Phoebe as she sat up straight. As she began to sing, the words felt like sweet drops of honey on her tongue. Even though she did not understand a single word of what she was singing, she understood the feeling—the sad beauty of a sensitive soul. She caught a glimpse of Walter, who was for once truly smiling, and knew that he was moved and impressed. He would not know that she was just following the words on the screen.
Gon-di le pun le hua
deh mo de doo leh yoo-ha
i-le en un-t-eh
dang mon g-he
seh hua bu-he mu-a
tu me la-di
labeh-hesu-a
u-ne ba-he
don ye gon-mal
seh-tua mu-a
la yu-heh
labeh-hesu-a
mon ge-he gi baaaaaaa
He clapped as she finished. “Thank you, Édith Piaf,” he said. “Life is really en rose when you sing. It makes me happy.”
She did not fully understand what he meant, but she knew that she had been beautiful and impressive.
That night, in the “Journal of My Secret Self,” she wrote: I will become a woman of infinite class. I must not be afraid of using him. Maybe he is a nice guy. But even nice people can be used.
Yanyan said, “Are you writing secret things about your new love?”
“I don’t love him.”
“But he looks really great. And he’s so rich! We don’t even have to worry about paying our rent anymore. And look at the nice things he buys you. Can you imagine, he’s even got you tickets for the Sichuan earthquake charity concert. Do you know, those tickets were hot-selling six months ago? He gave you the tickets for free, to do whatever you want with them—how many men do you know these days who are so generous? Look at the list of performers; it’s unbelievable. Oldies like Tsai Chin together with cool guys like Chang Chen-Yue!”
“You can go. I have no enthusiasm for such things anymore.”
“Really? But you love music. Surely you two should go; you are perfect for each other. You should suggest that you go together with him.”
“What do you know? You’ve never even met him. He’s nice, but I have no feelings for him.”
“Then why are you in such a good mood all the time these days?”
Phoebe turned out the light. Yanyan’s questions put her in a bad mood. As she lay on her mattress on the floor, she wondered why she still stayed in this tiny room with Yanyan—it was beneath her now. She could afford to rent a place on her own, in a proper modern apartment block with fast lifts that were not littered with cigarette butts and corridors that were not dark and smelled of dog shit. She could be in a place with wardrobes to hang her clothes in and a bathroom with a powerful shower and a Japanese toilet with a heated seat and automatic wash and blow-dry. She would never have to step over a sleeping jobless roommate on her way to work; she would not have to take turns sleeping on the floor.
She listened to Yanyan humming a Chang Chen-Yue song; it was out of tune and kept her awake. But Yanyan sounded so happy, like a small child singing a song before she knew enough words to sing properly. She knew only one line in the whole song, which she repeated over and over again. Love me don’t go … It gave Phoebe a headache.
Lying on the floor and gazing out the window, she could see the night sky, hazy and purple with the lights of the city, as if it were forever dawn. She closed her eyes and tried not to think of anything. In her head she could still hear the words of the elegant French song she had sung at the KTV place. Seh tu-a pu mu-ah dang la wi, tu me la di la du-reh ne la wi … mon ge-he gi baaaa.
18.
BE PREPARED TO SACRIFICE EVERYTHING
THE FIRST TIME JUSTIN HAD EVER SPOKEN TO YINGHUI WAS AT SUBANG Airport, just before she went through into the departure lounge to board the plane to London. She was pointing at the swifts swooping and darting in the heights of the cavernous tent-shaped ceiling, laughing as if she had spotted something surreal.
“I wonder if they shit,” she said, “and if so, why we don’t feel it. There are loads of them up there.”
“I don’t know,” Justin replied. “Guess it evaporates on the way down.”
All around them, Malay families were sending relatives off on the hajj; a small child was crying implacably as her mother went through the gates. Yinghui was wearing sky-blue jeans that were too baggy and short, with hems that ended at her ankle. She had tied a coarse coffee-colored sweater around her waist, which she fiddled with as she waited for C.S. to check his bags. When he finally arrived, they touched hands briefly; they had been boyfriend–girlfriend for only a couple of months and were not yet sure of how muc
h affection they could display in public.
“Hey, thanks for the lift,” C.S. said, slapping Justin on the back. “See ya soon.”
“Least I can do for my little brother.” But C.S. and Yinghui were already walking through the gate, toward their new life. It was 1990; a Sheila Majid song was playing on the radio somewhere, and the air smelled faintly of kretek and curry leaves.
Justin had seen Yinghui once before, several weeks earlier at a neighborhood party thrown by a contemporary of his brother, a casual get-together for the boys and girls their age who had just finished high school and were soon to go abroad to continue their studies—to America, Britain, and Australia. There had been a bit of posturing, of course, the Oxbridge- and Ivy League–bound kids sorting themselves out in a subtle hierarchy, but in general the party had been marked by an atmosphere of camaraderie, everyone present united by elitism. They were all leaving, and they knew that, in Malaysia, to leave meant to be privileged.
But Justin was not leaving; he had not gone to college abroad or indeed anywhere. Already, he was as rooted in local life as his parents were. He was five or six years older than the rest of the kids at the party, sent as a chauffeur and discreet chaperone to his brother’s burgeoning tendency toward excess—Marlboro reds, experiments with alcohol, a fondness for the wrong sort of nightclub. An artistic temperament—that was how his parents explained C.S.’s behavior, always with a smile and a shake of the head. They were never troubled by his foibles; it was as if they thought that his every misdemeanor would be perfectly counterbalanced by Justin’s calm steadiness and utter reliability: one brother canceling out the effect of the other. Things would always be okay if Justin was around.