Crimson China

by Betsy Tobin

  “Do you like coming here?” asks May.

  “Of course.”

  “Is it like home?”

  “Not really. But it is more like home than other parts of London.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  Lili considers this. She misses Wen. But does she miss home?

  “Sometimes,” she answers. “But not today.” She is vaguely surprised by this truth.

  “Sometimes I think I miss it,” says May elliptically.

  “But… you were only a tiny baby when you left.”

  “I know. But some days I wake up with a funny feeling. Like I should be somewhere else.”

  Lili glances down at May. If Wen’s ghost is here with her on earth, then maybe the spirit of May’s mother is here also, pulling the child back to her homeland. But it is impossible to know if May’s Chinese mother is dead or living: the woman may well be mother to some other child by now. The thought makes her uneasy. May is too young to realise now, but the day will come when she will have to reconcile herself to this uncertainty.

  She leads May over to a small Chinese restaurant and pauses in front of the window. Just inside is a counter with two enormous steaming vats of soup. A string of plump golden ducks hangs upside down in the window, their wings splayed open, their necks a dark pocket where the heads have been severed. Further inside Lili sees that the restaurant is crowded with mostly Chinese people sitting at square wooden tables. May stares at the window, her eyebrows knit together.

  “Are you hungry?” asks Lili.

  “I’m not sure,” May says doubtfully.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The ducks. Why do they hang them in the window?”

  “So we can see them. If you want to buy a duck dinner, then first you want to see it.”

  “But… they don’t look nice.”

  “Maybe not to you. But to all those people inside they do.”

  “I guess so.” May turns away from the window. “Can we go somewhere else?” she asks tentatively.

  “Of course. But this is the most authentic restaurant in Chinatown. Like the real China.”

  “Could we go to McDonalds?” May asks.

  They find a McDonalds on Shaftesbury Avenue and May orders a Happy Meal, delighting in the small plastic toy that comes out of the brightly packaged box. She tears open the wrapper and quickly assembles the toy: a small wind-up version of a cow from a recent Disney movie.

  “See?” says May, holding up the cow. “I bet the duck restaurant doesn’t have these!”

  Lili glances at the writing on its base. The cheap plastic figure has been made in China, no doubt by someone who has never eaten a cheeseburger. She shows the writing to May.

  “This came from China. Most toys come from China.”

  “Chinese kids are lucky,” says May, biting into her burger.

  May’s remark silences Lili. She does not have the heart to point out that the vast majority of products made in China are for export. Her stepmother’s cousin spent several years working in a toy factory. She did eleven-hour shifts six days a week painting blue Caucasian eyes onto flimsy latex dolls. By the end of each day, the smell of latex fumes was so strong it made her throat and eyelids burn. Her mother’s cousin eventually developed emphysema, and was forced to leave the factory and find work elsewhere as a cleaner.

  “When I was a child, we did not have toys like this,” Lili says.

  “Did you have Happy Meals?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad for you,” says May, squeezing ketchup onto her fries.

  “I guess so. But we had other things. Dumplings, and rice balls, and red bean cakes.”

  “Red bean cakes!” May pulls a face.

  “They are very nice. We can buy one and take it home for your father.”

  “Okay,” says May with a shrug. “But I bet he won’t like it.”

  When they return home, Adrian is working on a set of drawings in his study. He swivels round in his chair as they enter. May rushes over to him excitedly and climbs onto his lap.

  “We went to Chinatown!”

  “Fantastic,” says Adrian.

  “And we ate lunch at McDonalds!”

  “McDonalds?” Adrian raises his eyebrows and glances up at Lili.

  “This is her choice,” says Lili apologetically. Adrian looks back to May.

  “You chose McDonalds over Chinese food?”

  “I didn’t like the ducks,” says May disapprovingly.

  “What ducks?”

  “The ones without heads,” says May. “In the window.”

  “Oh,” says Adrian. “Those ducks.” He nods apologetically at Lili. “Anyway, I’m glad you had a good time.”

  “We did.” May jumps off his lap and runs out the door.

  “Today I fail in your daughter’s education,” says Lili sheepishly.

  “Not at all,” says Adrian with a smile. “I’m very grateful you took her out.”

  “Next time I will remember: no ducks.”

  “You couldn’t have known.”

  “In China, it is custom to show people what they eat before cooking.”

  “Yes, of course,” says Adrian. “Very sensible. But here people don’t always like to be reminded that what they eat comes from something living. It’s hypocritical really. Your way is much more honest.”

  “I understand this, too. When I was a child, I found a chicken. I hid it in a box on the roof of our building. I called it mi-mi, which means ‘secret’ in Chinese. But one day when I went to school, the chicken flew out of the box and fell onto the ground in front of my building. My stepmother found it. That night she prepared a special meal for us. But when I realise it is mi-mi, I cannot eat. My brother, he tried to help me. He asked to eat mine, but my stepmother then is very angry. She did not understand. The English way of thinking, it is very… emotional.”

  “Sentimental,” says Adrian.

  “You had a pet chicken?” Says May.

  Adrian and Lili turn to see her standing in the doorway.

  “Yes,” says Lili.

  “Do you eat chicken now?” May asks, her eyes narrowing.

  “May!” admonishes Adrian.

  “It’s okay,” says Lili. “Yes, I like chicken now very much.”

  May tilts her head to one side, considering this.

  “Well, I guess if you really like it,” she says finally. “But I wouldn’t eat a hamster,” she adds, disappearing once again from view.

  Lili retreats to her room, but before long her mobile rings and she sees Johnny’s name light up on the tiny screen. It has been nearly a week since she slept with him and they’ve not yet spoken, although this is the third or fourth time he has rung. She stares at the receiver as it vibrates.

  “Wei?”

  “Lili. I thought I had the wrong number.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “No,” she says quickly. “I’ve been busy.”

  “I forgive you. Can we meet? For dinner?”

  An image flashes into her head: a row of male faces ranged across the flickering darkness of Johnny’s sitting room.

  “I have to work,” she lies.

  “Tomorrow then.”

  Lili hesitates. She realises she will have to see him.

  “Okay,” she says reluctantly, uncertain what she is agreeing to. Is it dinner or more?

  She arranges to meet him at the same restaurant she took May to. She will feel safer in Chinatown, she decides, more in control.

  •

  The following night they sit at a small wooden table just behind the steaming vats of soup. She has deliberately placed her back to the plate glass window and its garland of headless ducks. When she entered the restaurant, she was surprised to feel a sudden shiver of aversion, as if she had somehow contracted May’s disgust from the previous day. But she does not object when Johnny orders braised duck together with a pot of stewed tripe. Once the waiter has departed, Johnny
fixes her with a look.

  “So why so busy?”

  “I’ve just moved.”

  Lili tells him about her arrangement in Notting Hill. Johnny leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.

  “Just you and him and the daughter?”

  “Yes. Like an au pair.”

  “Except he’s a widower.”

  “Yes.”

  “So there’s no wife.”

  “No.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Of course. He’s very kind. Definitely a gentleman.”

  “Still. You should watch out. He’s probably lonely. And frustrated,” Johnny adds pointedly.

  “I don’t think so. Besides, I think he has a girlfriend.”

  “Oh.” Johnny relaxes a little.

  It is only a small lie, Lili decides. Adrian must certainly have friends who are women, at any rate. And he doesn’t seem frustrated to her, only somewhat overwhelmed by the task of parenting a young child on his own. She eats some tripe and picks at her rice, but when the duck arrives the look of it is enough to put her off. Johnny urges her to eat, but in the end he finishes most of the plate himself.

  After the meal, they walk out onto Gerrard Street together. Darkness has fallen, and there are fewer people about. As they round the corner, Johnny pulls her into the lee of a building and kisses her. She feels his lips on hers, but this time the clench that grips her insides is one of panic rather than desire. She eases apart from him, desperate to be away.

  “Come back with me,” he murmurs into her ear. “I’ve been thinking of you.”

  “I can’t,” she stammers. “I have to work early tomorrow.” Another lie, she thinks, this one even easier than the first.

  “Then when?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  He is standing there, eyeing her. The lies are multiplying now: one begets another. Lili takes a few steps backwards. It is like the ducks, she thinks. Things change so quickly.

  •

  The following day, Lili is in the small kitchenette in the language school making tea when she hears Jin’s voice in the hallway just outside.

  “Don’t be stupid,” hisses Jin urgently. “If you go back, they’ll come after you!”

  Lili freezes. Something about Jin’s tone causes the hairs upon her arms to stand on end.

  “Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” Jin says.

  Lili hears the phone snap shut and just has time to turn away before Jin rounds the corner. Jin stops short when she sees her. The colour drains from her face. Their eyes meet for an instant, then Jin turns on her heel without a word and walks out of the room. Lili stands motionless in the tiny kitchen, her face suddenly hot. The last time she heard Jin call someone a fool, it was Wen. Somewhere downstairs a door slams. Lili glances out the window to see Jin dash across the road, her coat and bag hastily clutched in her arms. She watches as Jin disappears around the corner.

  A moment later, Fay comes into the kitchen, a cigarette in the corner of her mouth. She turns the kettle on and takes the cigarette out, exhaling.

  “What’s wrong with Jin?” asks Lili. Fay shrugs.

  “Maybe boyfriend trouble,” she says, exhaling smoke.

  “I didn’t know Jin had a boyfriend.”

  “Who knows? Jin likes her secrets,” says Fay, reaching into the cupboard for a teabag. She drops it in a mug and fills it with boiling water.

  “Does she?” Lili’s voice sounds odd, as if she is squeezing it out of her throat.

  “I hear you’ve solved your housing problem,” Fay says, changing the subject. “I guess you found a sugar daddy after all.” Fay smiles, arching her eyebrows knowingly.

  “No,” Lili stammers. “It isn’t like that.”

  “Don’t be coy,” Fays says in a no-nonsense tone of voice. “I’m flattered. You took my advice, after all. I thought Jin was the operator. But I can see I’ve underestimated you,” says Fay approvingly. She picks up her mug and walks out of the room.

  April 2004

  Three weeks after they meet up, Wen receives an email from Jin. Through contacts in Chinatown she has found someone who will sell her a black market passport, but he will need to send her a photo of himself. Make sure it’s a proper one, she writes. Not some snapshot from your friend’s camera. Wen reads the bitterness in this last line. He did not confess to sleeping with Angie, but somehow Jin had known.

  He has seen an ad for passport photos in the window of a chemist on the high street in Morecambe, so the following afternoon he walks into town. It is early April and the weather has just begun to turn. The ocean breeze is brisk and clean; the sharpness of the sea air no longer suffocates him. As he walks along Marine Drive, it dawns on him that the unease he experienced on his previous visits to Morecambe has lifted. The shops have begun to look familiar, and for the first time he does not feel as if he is trespassing.

  In spite of this, when he reaches the chemist, he is relieved to find it empty. He has rehearsed the words in his head several times, and now he utters them cautiously to one of the two middle-aged women behind the counter. Miraculously she understands him. She indicates that he should follow her to the back of the shop, where a tall stool sits in front of a charcoal backcloth. He sits on the stool and she positions him, lifting his chin slightly with her thumb, her hazel eyes looking straight into his own.

  “You’ll have to take that off,” she says with a nod, turning away.

  Wen suddenly remembers the woolly hat. It has become such a part of him whenever he goes out that he’d forgotten he was wearing it. He pulls it off with an embarrassed flush and she takes a few steps back from him, holding up the camera.

  “Don’t smile,” she says. But before he can unravel her words, the flash goes. After a moment, she hands him the digital image for his approval. Wen stares down at the picture on the tiny screen. It is not the one he has kept in his head all these months. He tries to work out why, and eventually it strikes him that he has lost the haunted look he once had. The chemist clears her throat.

  “All right then?” she says expectantly.

  “Okay,” he nods.

  “It’s four copies for six pounds,” she explains, crossing over to the counter.

  Wen needs only two copies but decides not to make a fuss. He takes out a twenty-pound note from his pocket. Apart from the lunch he bought Jin, it is the first money he has spent since the accident. Now, as he hands the woman the note, he feels a kind of sinking dismay, as if he is re-entering a world that he was relieved to leave behind. Living without the burden of money has liberated him these past few months, has somehow made him more human. Though he would not have described his comrades who died that night in the water as motivated by greed, the need to earn money had obliterated everything else in their lives. It was money that had lured them across the ocean, tore them from the arms of their loved ones, forced them into subhuman living conditions, and set them against one another. Money corroded them somehow – and ultimately stole their lives.

  Every illegal Chinese he’d ever met had a story to tell about being swindled out of cash by unscrupulous bosses, gangmasters and middlemen. Lin had found his first job in the UK through an agency in Chinatown. He’d been sent to a farm in the north-east where for eleven-hour shifts he worked harvesting leeks. The job was back-breaking, but Lin consoled himself that he would at least be earning good money. At the end of his first week, he was shocked to see that his pay packet contained only eighty seven pounds. When he confronted the overseer, he was told that deductions for national insurance, rent and agency fees meant that this was all he was entitled to. He had not earned even two pounds an hour! On such paltry wages, it would take him more than seven years to clear his debt to the snakeheads. In his darkest moments, he later told Wen, he had never imagined that England would prove such a harsh and indifferent land.

  The cashier turns back to Wen, handing him the change. “It’ll be just a few minutes,” she says, indicating the photographic printing
machine at the back of the shop. Wen nods and retreats slightly to one side so she can serve another customer who has just entered. At that moment, a battered white van draws up outside and lurches to a halt. The rear door slides open and Wen catches a glimpse of Chinese faces inside: tired men and women hunched too closely on the seats, wearing a range of dark-coloured anoraks. Cocklepickers, he thinks. He freezes, and feels his heart begin to race inside his chest. A young man jumps out of the van from the back seat, one hand clutching the other with a bloody rag. His thick black hair is pushed over to one side and there is a smudge of dried grey mud on one cheek. Holding the injured hand out in front of him, he pushes open the door of the chemist with his shoulder and steps inside. Wen immediately shifts round to face the shelf in front of him, pretending to study the row of shampoo bottles and deodorants, though he continues to watch the Chinese man out of the corner of his eye. Once inside, the man hesitates, and for a moment looks as if he might change his mind. Wen has never seen the man before, and yet there is something about him that is utterly familiar: the hair, the clothes, the furtive glances over the shoulder, the fear and desperation in his eyes. Everything about this man he recognises. This man could be my brother, he thinks. We are twins in all but name.

  Just then the chemist comes out from the back of the shop carrying his photos. She hands him a neatly folded piece of card containing them. Her colleague finishes serving the customer and glances over to the Chinese man, who steps towards the counter and holds up his hand. The woman frowns at the bloodied rag.

  “You’ve done a job there,” she remarks. “Let’s have a look.”

  The Chinese man approaches the counter and peels back the rag gingerly. Wen sees an angry red gash down the side of his hand, long and deep, the blood now mostly congealed. The chemist shakes her head.

  “You were lucky. No veins or arteries there. Only flesh. Still, it’s a nasty one.”

  The Chinese man looks at her, his brow furrowed. Wen sees that he does not understand a word, though the chemist appears unaware. She turns back to the shelves behind her and hunts around for a few moments, before placing a box of dressings and a small bottle of blue liquid in front of him.