by Tash Aw
Now that Gary is finally onstage, the audience sees a young man dressed in a loose-fitting yellow T-shirt and black jeans that fall over dirty Converse sneakers. His head has been shaved and his skin looks sallow, as if he has not exercised at all recently. In fact, his entire body looks thin and unhealthy, just like many other young folksingers they have seen here before. But there is something in the way he holds his head toward the microphone that makes the audience feel that he is different—the way he reaches forward to grasp the microphone stand, the manner in which he occupies the stage, as if he is in charge of the space around him, unapproachable and distant—as if nothing else apart from the stage exists in his consciousness at this moment.
He looks troubled. Maybe he is on drugs. But his voice is calm, almost subdued. He smiles and says, “This song is not mine. I mean, it’s not original. I took the original and counterfeited it.”
A warm tremble of laughter runs through the audience. Someone coughs.
“Like everything in life these days, I suppose you could say it’s a copycat—a fake.”
When Gary speaks, his voice is deeper than his slight physique would suggest. But there is a delicate quality to it, which hints at a softness at odds with his somewhat coarse physical appearance. He begins to strum his guitar—the notes are simple, and there is a stillness to the song that is unsettling. The tune is familiar; it is an old-fashioned Chinese love song, the kind your mother might sing. Only it is slower than you remembered it—much slower. Maybe it is not even the same song. Yes, it is. It is called “I Knew a Love.”
Gary begins to sing. His singing voice is lighter than his speaking voice, a clear, feathery tenor. There are no rough edges to the voice, and every note is precise, clean, and sustained and carries the quality of refracted light. Suddenly you can see every color clearly: the color of joy, the color of optimism, the color of failed hope. The perfect pitch of his voice makes you feel sad; its clarity reminds you of a state of innocence, something you once owned but have since lost. It reminds you how your life has, over the years, become complicated, muddy.
When he finishes—as quietly as he began—the audience remains silent for a few moments, as if they do not quite know how to react. It is as if they feel chastised, though they are not sure what they have done wrong. And somehow it feels wrong to break the stillness that Gary has cast over the room. But the owner of the café cries out in encouragement—a strong, sharp “yeah”—and the room breaks into noisy applause. It is the same Gary who was a pop star, you know. My God, look how he has changed—I didn’t even recognize him. I didn’t even know he could sing so well!
Gary’s set consists of eight songs plus two encores—a mixture of traditional love songs, which he has reinterpreted in his own fashion, and new songs he has written himself. He performs each one on either an acoustic guitar or piano keyboard—the simplicity of the instrumentation shows off his musical sensitivity and his beautiful vocals, and the audience is completely won over by the unaffected charm of his music. By the end of the evening they feel moved and uplifted, as if they have been returned to a simpler, more innocent state.
The owner of the café is thrilled that his hunch paid off. He knew, as soon as he heard Gary singing at the opening of Red Rooster Hot Pot restaurant in that shopping mall in Jiangsu province, that he was a singer of genuine talent, and that all he had to do was to return to what he did best: singing. Forget all the glamour and showbiz, just sing!
This is what he is explaining over drinks once the café has closed and they are sitting down to a glass of brandy. There is a small group of people at the table—Gary, the café owner, and a few of the owner’s friends, including a Taiwanese filmmaker whose work has been banned in China and a rich couple who are planning a charity concert in aid of the Sichuan earthquake victims. Everyone is amazed by Gary’s talent and impressed by the café owner’s foresight. They begin to talk excitedly of new projects—the filmmaker wants to shoot a film in Gary’s native Malaysia, in which he would cast Gary in the role of an illegal immigrant who has an accident and cannot remember where he is from. It is a daring, somewhat risky venture that will require Gary to appear fully nude and perhaps simulate full sex, which will almost certainly ensure that this film, too, will be banned or at least heavily censored in most Asian countries, but artistically it will be groundbreaking and powerful. The filmmaker is impressed by what he calls Gary’s inherent transformative qualities—the ability to inspire optimism even while depicting tragedy.
The rich couple has just invited Gary to perform at the charity concert they are organizing, which will be a showcase of the biggest singing stars, both young and old. It will be a chance for Gary to relaunch his career and reintroduce himself to the public, though this time with a different image and a new range of songs. Once again, he will be able to perform in front of thirty thousand people.
Although Gary smiles and makes affirming, polite noises, he feels panicked by this sudden rush of enthusiasm. The thought of performing in front of a vast, clamoring audience makes him feel anxious—already he can feel the mounting weight of expectation and the attendant flash of nausea that he thought he would never experience again. This evening, his brief performance of ten quiet songs had left him feeling mildly energized, as if he had gone for a long, gentle run along the riverbank in the dark. He had, at one point, even thought that he would be happy performing like this every week for the rest of his life, but now all that calm energy seems about to dissipate.
“No pressure,” the man says. “Just think about it.”
His companion nods in agreement. But she seems less convinced, more restrained in her encouragement. She senses a fragility in Gary; she can tell that he is uncertain and stressed by the situation. When Gary looks at her, he knows that she feels his confusion; he recognizes a wariness in her eyes, just as she does in his. For although she is smiling and gently adding to the chorus of approval, she does not actively urge him on to greater, more-complex projects, as the others do. She appears to be lost herself, uncomfortable in her skin, distant in her thoughts.
“It’s a chance to rebrand yourself,” her partner continues. He has no doubts as to who he is—clearly he is a man of action, certain of his ways, someone who is used to winning. “You saw how much the people here loved you tonight. Your low-key approach is genius—the complete opposite of what you were before. Now people can appreciate your talent for what it is—and you can concentrate on what you want, which is to write songs and sing.”
“Absolutely,” the café owner adds. “Don’t you agree, Yinghui?”
“You guys mustn’t push the poor boy,” the woman says. She turns to Gary and speaks to him in a soft, even voice. “Just take your time and think about it. If you don’t do this now, you can still do something else in the future. You’re so young.”
That night, after a long shower, Gary gets into bed. For the first time in weeks, he feels ready for sleep. He is not fidgety or anxious as he usually is. He has sung ten good songs to a small, appreciative audience and had a proper dinner for the first time in months. Just out of habit, he takes a quick look at his computer screen before turning out the light. In the MSN chat box, he sees Phoebe’s name and photo. It is nearly two o’clock in the morning. He hesitates for a moment before typing:
hi
Hi
Are you okay?
Yes, you?
Gary stops. There is something strange about her responses—they are delayed, much slower than they usually are. He realizes that she must be chatting to someone else at the same time, for she seems preoccupied.
Where have you been? I was … worried
Work is very busy
But you surely don’t work until after midnight? Why didn’t you log on at all?
I went out
Every night?
En.
Whom with?
Friends
Which friends?
People you don’t know. Why all these strange questions?
>
They’re not strange. I was just worried because I stayed up every night looking for you and you did not come online
Don’t u have a life? Why do u stay up all night waiting for me? This is not a good situation
So you have a boyfriend now?
None of your business. Anyway, can we change the subject? You are really giving me a bad mood
Okay.
She tells him about work, the same stories about the same girls with the same problems. But he is not in the right mood to listen to these stories. After two weeks’ absence, she should not be recounting boring stories about her colleagues. They should be talking about serious, life-changing aspects of their days. He should be telling her about the gig he just did. Maybe it is because he has waited so long to tell her such important things about himself that he now feels frustrated—he is not sure why, but something does not feel right in his head tonight; he has never felt like this with Phoebe before. He thinks about all the pieces of his life that he has assembled, ready to show her, but now they seem superfluous, for she is not interested in him. She talks and talks, and his only response is the occasional En, but still she does not sense that he is distracted and that maybe he doesn’t want to hear about these banal details. Usually she is quick to pick up on his moods, sensing when he is depressed or anxious or joyful, but tonight she does not seem to care. All that matters to her are these boring tales about her workplace, which he has heard many times before.
Sorry, he says suddenly, interrupting her. I have something to tell you.
There is a slight hesitation before she replies:
What is it? It sounds like bad news.
No, it’s a good thing. Happy news.
But all at once he does not feel happy. All the optimism and excitement he previously felt is gone. Bottling up the news that he was so eager to release has enervated him, and now he is feeling deflated.
So … tell me, what is it?
It is as if she, too, is not very interested in what he has to tell her. But he knows that if he does not go ahead and reveal himself to her, his life will remain the same forever, unchanging in its loneliness. The timing does not feel right now, but perhaps it never will. He says:
I want to send you a photo of myself.
Ha-ha-ha. Ei, you scared me for a moment. I thought you were going to say you had a life-threatening disease like pancreatic cancer or AIDS.
No, I just want to send you some photos of myself, so that you know who I am.
I told you, I don’t care who you are in real life. If you are an African man hoping to bamboozle me out of all my money, I don’t care. If you are a Muslim man with four wives, I don’t care. If you are a high-ranking Party official, I don’t care. Even if you are Wen Jiabao, I don’t care. All that matters is that you are nice to me.
I want you to know me. I know so much about you, and I want us to be equal.
You don’t have to, really.
I want to. I need to. I want to share myself with someone. Please.
Okay, sure.
He sends her a picture of himself—a publicity shot from last year, in which he is dressed casually, posing in a lush tropical garden in Singapore. It is a high-quality professional photograph that takes a long time for her computer to download.
HA-HA. That is funny!
Why?
Because I told you recently that I used to like Gary, so you sent me a photo of him! Ha-ha. Wah, I am relieved! I was so nervous—for a moment, I thought you were actually going to send me a photo of yourself! You naughty devil! I should have known you were just going to play a practical joke on me as usual. This is why I like you so much … you really know how to make me laugh and cheer me up when I am depressed.
But that is me.
HA-HA-HA-HA
No, seriously, I am Gary.
You are so funny! Really. I appreciate the joke a lot. It’s been a hard few days for me, and I need to laugh a bit.
I can send you another photo to prove it. Wait a second.
Ei … I just can’t stop laughing.
He looks through the images he has prepared, trying to locate a photo of himself in an informal setting—an arty black-and-white shot of himself and Elva Hsiao at a recording session in the studio, where they are looking at the score sheet of the duet they recorded together in 2008. He is wearing a wool beanie and looks as if he has just tumbled out of bed, but in fact the photo was professionally styled and printed in an avant-garde magazine some time before.
Wow, where did you find this cool photo? I thought the song Gary did with Elva was nice, but their voices didn’t go together. What do you think?
He hesitates for a moment: Instinct and habit make him want to refer to Gary in the third person, but he stops himself, remembering his task at hand.
It was a difficult record to make; we were under a lot of pressure. Our record companies forced us to do the duet because we looked good together. And also because of the gossip going around at the time …
HA-HA-HA. Really, you are too good! Wah, you have hidden talents; you can even imitate Gary. What gossip—do you mean all the gay gossip? Everyone knows they did not go out together. She was just a front for him—a publicity stunt. All these celebrities—you never know who is benefiting from who. Everything is about advertising. Their whole lives are a fake.
Yes, I know. That is why you need to know who I am, so I can stop pretending.
Okay, okay, you have impressed me. It’s a great joke. Ha-ha, really.
So you believe me?
Yes, yes, I believe you, Mr. Gary.
Great.
Hang on, I have to get a tissue, I was crying with laughter. Okay, now tell me, what have you been up to today? How was work?
I had a performance a couple of weeks ago, really depressing. Wanted to tell you about it but you didn’t come online at all. That’s why I’ve been down. Because I wanted to tell you what my work is—all the lousy little concerts I have to do these days. But now my luck is changing, I think. I’ve been offered the chance to sing my own songs, the ones you’ve been encouraging me to write … some important guy asked me to sing at the big Sichuan earthquake charity concert that’s coming up soon.
Okay, you can stop the joke now, it’s not funny anymore.
But I AM Gary. I can prove it to you. What do you want as proof?
Okay, okay, really, that’s too much now.
But I swear to you on my ancestors’ graves, I am Gary. What more do you want? You want to go on Skype so you can see me on cam? Yes, let’s do that!
No—what are you, some kind of pervert??
Please, give me a chance to prove to you who I am. I am really Gary.
Stop it now, please. Anyway, if you are Gary, you wouldn’t be interested in me, because everyone knows he is gay.
Don’t go. I want you to stay and see me. I need you to know me.
You are frightening me.
Wait one second, I beg you. I can tell you something no one knows about me, not even my agent. On my left inner thigh I have a scar in the shape of a star. I got it because I fell onto a sharp spike while I was trying to climb a fence to pick some fruit in someone’s garden. I had to walk home such a long way. I was only six or seven years old, and when I got home I fainted, and when my mother came home she thought I was dead. No one knows this, only me, my mother … and now you.
I think … you are a weirdo. I am going to log off now.
WAIT!
Quickly, he sends her the last photo, which he has saved as undeniable proof of his identity: the one he took of himself on his mobile phone, alone at the seaside in Ibiza, the blue-gold dawn in the background.
Okay, this is too scary now. How did you get this picture?
I took it myself, on my phone.
No, you must have stolen it. You are sick. I should report you to the police. You disgust me.
Really, I am telling you the truth.
Goodbye, you FREAK.
He tries to send her mes
sages, but none of them go through. She has blocked all online messages from him. He sends emails every day, begging her to forgive him, but after a week he knows that she is no longer even reading these messages and that she has probably changed her email and MSN accounts, making it impossible for him ever to contact her again.
24.
EMBRACE YOUR BRIGHT FUTURE
LATER THAT WEEK, YINGHUI PAID HER SHARE OF THE MONEY INTO the bank account of the joint-venture company that she had set up with Walter. They were, so far, the only two signatories to the account and its only directors, a cozy intimacy she was beginning to enjoy. There was a compactness and solidity to the pairing that felt safe to her, and she began to wonder if it might be possible for them to proceed and complete the project without anyone else—just the two of them. Although she knew it was impossible—a project this size would very soon require additional directors to look after other growing facets of the business—she felt that if she could at least push ahead with a few ideas and establish several key aspects of the development, such as the precise use of the building (what percentage of it would be community-based, artistic, charitable, commercial, et cetera?) as well as the raising of further financing in the near future, she would cement her position at the head of the deal. Whoever else came on board subsequently would assume a position secondary to hers, even though on paper they might all be codirectors. By then, she would already be more than just the right-hand woman of the tycoon Walter; she would be his equal, the two of them acknowledged as the pioneering visionaries of the project.
On the day she paid in the money, she stayed up late into the night writing a report entitled “Next Steps: The Way Forward”—best to be direct—outlining what she thought should be done in the coming weeks in order to drive the project forward. She emailed it to Walter immediately, together with a note informing him that she had paid in her share of the capital as a sign of her commitment to their joint venture and that she sincerely believed that they ought to capitalize on the momentum they had built thus far to speed up proceedings.