V.
I gave Stan a call.
“Yeah, we’re hiring,” he said. “You interested in testing games?”
“Absolutely. It was my childhood dream.”
He laughed. “It might sound like a dream job but it gets repetitive really fast.”
“You don’t understand. I’ve always wanted to do this.”
“I’ll do my best to make it happen.”
I went to June’s grave, sat down next to her tomb with some chocolate ice cream, ate it using a plastic spoon, and dumped some scoops on her piece of grass. A few hours later, I went home and lay down, wondering what it would be like testing games for a living.
Fatigue finally seized me and I couldn’t hold back any longer. I went to bed and was dozing off when I felt something crawling on my cheek. I slapped my face. Something crushed in my palm. I went to the bathroom, saw the leveled remains of my spider. Wiped it off, washed my face several times. Of all the millions of places it could have gone, why the hell did it have to crawl on my face? I was irked but relieved as well, now that it was gone. About to sleep, I thought of June, the last time I saw her.
I slept like a dead spider.
The Buddha of Many Parts
I.
Anonymity was my secret identity. I was lost in the sea of Beijing, a nonentity in the metaphor of a metropolis crammed with millions. I spent my days tumbling in the morass of Mandarin, trying to learn and extract the seeds of obscure characters. The library of unknown Chinese tomes seemed endless and questions of my identity withered, solitude keenly evolving into a familiar sense of irony. I relished my isolation, thrived in being unknown even if I was never alone in one of the most populated cities in the world. Enthusiastic vendors sold bronze mirrors that could capture a reflection of your future self while secret restaurants offered kung pao duck heart to help you understand ancient Eastern rites lost over the sieve of time. I saw so many familiar faces I didn’t know, extracts, shadows of ruins, smashed to pieces then reconstructed in the illusory nostalgia of longing. Hair came in all shapes and sizes, and the Chinese were like a lottery from the cauldron of humanity, every brushstroke of human calligraphy breathing in blood. I walked past the elderly, their skin marred by scars and the revolution of balding scalps. Young lovers whistled to the memory of gutter dogs while arguing over misplaced lipstick stains. A mother fed her baby milk directly from her pimply breast, careful to ward off germs from hordes of workers rushing home.
It was evening and I was heading for the subway through ‘Worm Street,’ a hutong that writhed and twisted like a worm from one end to the other. A grandmother with the spine of a boomerang was selling a love potion for 100RMB that’ll make someone fall completely in love with you. A bunch of men were gathered around a xiangqi—Chinese chess—table, analyzing every move, several juggling toughened peach cores inside their palms as they muttered assenting Ahhs and disapproving Ah-yahs. I reached the station, got on a train, grabbed an English translation of one of the four principal classics of Chinese literature from my backpack, Hong Lou Meng—The Dream of Red Mansions. The ride was jittery and tumultuous; the train, almost empty because it was late.
“I love Hong Lou Meng,” a woman said in Mandarin. “Is this your first time reading it?”
I turned and startled to see a tall blonde. She looked like a portrait I’d seen in a French museum, Venus, influenced by elements of Asia, the rapine of sensuality and the crimson parries of a master fencer. Her cheeks were a light rouge, a blend of aplomb and sublime coyness. She wore a turquoise jacket that clung tightly to her lean body, a black miniskirt dripping into a defiant pair of boots raucously laughing at everyone in her way.
“Sorry, I understand Chinese, but my speak not very good,” I said in broken Mandarin.
“You from America?” she asked in English that had no traces of a Chinese accent.
Again, I was surprised. “Yeah.”
“Should have figured,” looking at the English part of my translation.
“You speak perfect English.”
“Born and raised in the States,” she explained. “I mistook you for Chinese.”
“And I mistook you for American.”
She laughed. “Everyone does. I’m half-Irish, half-Chinese, but I look more Irish and my twin sister looks more Chinese. Of course, she likes living in America better. What are you doing in Beijing?” she asked.
“I translate English books into Mandarin.”
“You can’t speak it, but you can write and interpret it?”
“Something like that.”
She laughed.
“What about you? What do you do?” I asked.
“I’m killing time, or maybe myself. I like to rethink myself every morning. Doubt is the only reliable source of creativity. You play any musical instruments?”
“I used to play the French horn, but my teacher said my hands were too fat.”
Involuntarily, I looked down at her fingers. They were nimble, lengthy, fragmented branches undulating into discordant harmony.
“Let me see,” she said, and without waiting, grabbed my hands. “They’re a little stubby. You trying to be a Chinese scholar?”
She was referring to all my fingernails being long. I laughed, embarrassed. “I forgot to cut them.”
The train made a stop, a few stragglers exited. A pair of girls hopped on, holding bags of dumplings, chatting about boys they thought were cute.
“Any interesting translations you’ve done recently?” she asked.
“I just did a short story about a gambler who lost his fingers but played mahjong with his tongue. There was another one about a girl who could destroy the world with a single thought, but didn’t, because she liked moon cakes too much.”
She smiled. “Sounds fun.”
“Mandarin and English are both tricky languages. There’s nuances in both that are hard to capture in the other.”
“Nuance,” she said, marveling at the word. “Why are you really in Beijing?”
I looked at her. “I’m trying to heal,” I said.
“Beijing is your hospital, then? Or your brothel?”
“What?”
She laughed. “Westerners are always using Asia to get a hard-on. Don’t feel bad. I’m the same way. I’m addicted to Beijing, not in love with it. Every couple months, I get fed up, all the people, the constant noise, you know how it is. But when I leave, I get so lonely, I end up coming back.”
“I’ve never left,” I said.
“The faithful, boring lover no one ever appreciates,” she said, amused. “I want to show you something.”
“Show me something?” I responded.
“I compose piano melodies and I want to share my latest composition with you,” she said. I hesitated but she grabbed my hand, “Life’s like a big fart in your stomach—better if you just let go. C’mon, don’t be afraid.”
II.
I didn’t realize it was already 11 p.m. We were walking outside the apartments near East Sihui. The ground was uneven with loose gravel and bricks. The street lights were dim halos that hovered like frozen hummingbirds. A vendor was selling mushroom light bulbs, pink and purple neon sprouts gleaming in the night. Some of the homeless were sleeping on the sidewalks, bored security guards listened to their loud radios. There was a pickup truck that had sleeping bags in the back, exhausted workers snoring inside. A group of drunks engaged in a rabid game of Chinese poker, demanding more beer. The apartments were high-rises 15-20 stories high, a steppe of buildings compressed as closely together as possible. We entered her apartment building. She stomped the floor to trigger the light sensor. We went up to the 16th floor, then entered her unit. It was surprisingly spacious. I thought there were thirty people standing inside, but she flickered on the light and I saw they were mannequins. They looked surreally real, their flesh oozing credulity. All around us, the walls were covered with photos of people. Not figures as a whole, but parts spliced into assemblies. There was a menagerie of ey
es, a collection of noses, a gamut of mouths. No two lips were the same: thick, thin, cut-up, moles covering each layer. At the center of the apartment, a grand black piano, polished smooth so that both of us were reflected upside down. The keys were ermine, the set of chords looking like an intricate rib cage on a charred torso.
“Can I make a confession?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve never been able to fall in love with someone. Only pieces of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll fall in love with someone for their brows, their voice, the way they dress, the way their belly feels against mine when we make love. But never the whole,” she said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But it’s always been that way. Truth is, I’ve fallen in love with a piece of you,” she said.
“Me?”
“Yep.”
“Which piece?”
“Your fingers,” she answered.
I stared at her to see if she was joking. “What’s that mean?” I asked.
“I want to take a photo of your fingers—or better yet, let me cast them in clay. In exchange, you can have anything you want.”
“Anything I want?”
She nodded. “Home-cooked meal, friendship for an evening, company to anywhere you want. And if you play your cards right,” she said, “who knows?”
I turned to the photos. There must have been thousands.
“What exactly are you doing with them?”
“I collect the pieces I love and assemble the perfect human,” she answered.
“Why?”
“You ever hear about the Sculptor Buddha?” she asked.
“No,” I replied.
“He had to sculpt the statue of the perfect woman for the Celestial Palace, and he searched the whole world to find her. But every girl he found had some type of imperfection. So instead of using just one, he took the best elements from the women he admired and put them together. Afterward, he presented it to the emperor of the palace—who fell in love with the statue. But so did his three sons. A war broke out between them to control it.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“The head Buddha saw it was causing too much strife on Earth and ordered one of the blind Buddhas to take it away, bury it at the bottom of the sea. The waves who saw the statue tried to get her attention, and that was the start of hurricanes.”
“You trying to recreate this statue?”
“It’s just a story,” she replied, smiling. “But I do find inspiration in perfection—and imperfection. That’s what all great compositions do, right?”
“What?”
“Deify the ordinary.”
I considered it. “How often do you bring people?”
“Every night until I’ve completed one.”
“How many so far?”
“I have no idea,” she replied. “But you name the person, and they’re up there.” Pointing to one, “He’s an epileptic taxi driver with cerebral palsy. That’s an actor who only plays hermaphrodites. Delivery boy of divorce notices post-life, artist that paints through smell, a French pastry chef that makes odorless cuisines, a journalist who only writes obituaries for pigeons.”
“What happens if they refuse to come?”
“No one’s ever refused, though some come back more than once and I have to turn them away.”
Further along the wall, I saw women of different sized-breasts, varying splotches of pubic hair, soft cheeks, tough cheeks.
“Women too?” I asked.
“Feminine whimsy is usually more inspiring than masculine yearning.”
I felt dizzy, like a million eyes were watching me, lonely, vicious, avaricious, flowing into the ravine of essence, a disparate orchestra clashing within. It was like all of China was staring at me and suddenly I remembered the moment I decided to leave the States. Three years ago, I was running around a swimming pool. There was an especially wet area and I slipped, hitting my head on the concrete. The concussion knocked me out, and when I woke, I could no longer see through my right eye. Everything had become left-centric, a spherical partition sundering my vision in half. The world was incomplete, corruptibly contemptible. The job I’d fought so hard to get felt empty, and all my ambitions seemed juvenile—climbing the flaccid vines of opportunity while vying for attention from superiors who’d rather flirt with coordinators than listen to my concerns. And for what? Stress and a couple extra bucks that were like sucking popsicles in the Arctic. I realized the love of my life was a shell, a woman who wanted me to love her reflection and hated me when I saw through to the sutured seams of her bare body. I felt lost in a tundra of futility that found enthusiasm more daunting than climbing the thousand-story pavilions of Chinese myth. I knew my so-called ‘stability’ was a wooden igloo I’d been clinging to because I had no alternatives. My blindness had exposed my blindness and though my sight gradually returned, I couldn’t ignore all the things I saw. Vague, hazy splotches called to me, and one rancorously depressing morning, I found myself buying a one-way e-ticket for Beijing.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
I told her everything. Concluded by saying, “You love my fingers, but I hate your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because they found me when I wanted to be lost.”
I suddenly grabbed one of the mannequins and smashed it into the ground. Seized a broken limb and hammered the others, pounding them to pieces. My wrath effused through my arms and legs. I was no longer human; instead, rage personified, the primordial savagery of instinctual chaos funneled into my fists. When I was done, there were a trail of mannequin corpses, murdered without mercy.
Breathing hard, repletely depleted, she gripped me by the arm. I instinctively pushed her away and part of her shirt tore, revealing a nasty scar that ripped across her shoulder. It startled me. She quickly covered it. Then led me to a room to cast my hand in clay. We didn’t speak for thirty minutes. After the clay had solidified, she led me out to the front door.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
“I wanted something so badly, I tried to destroy it when I couldn’t have it.” She clutched her shoulder, a trace of pain whisking by her eyes.
“Will I see you again?” I wanted to know.
She slammed the door shut.
I stumbled outside in a daze. Couldn’t see anything. I bumped into a car, nearly crashed into several boxes. My ears died, my nose became clogged, my tongue paralyzed. I could feel the cartography of my bitterness etched into the mountain ranges of envy, see all my life clear as a film flash and how crudely incomplete it was. I was the Buddha of no parts. And the sea that hid me had vanished like my anonymity.
Passing Glance
It wasn’t the lanky cigarette or the weathered black heels on the stranger that reminded me of Sue Lian. It was the wispy puffs of hair curling down her ear, her fleshy lips fading into an insouciant sheath of pink. Millions passed through the Beijing subways every day and I only saw this woman for a glance between stops. But that was enough to remind me of Sue Lian’s torrid touch, her withering sarcasms, her caustic glower that sundered titanium into granules.
I was a granule when I met first met the love of my life, unconsolidated, uncommitted, unsophisticated. After her, I was a granule cut in half, tossed about by market vendors, boiling with sweet potatoes and rice cakes. Everyone in the subway had an intricate recipe for their complexion: a squat woman yelling prices for magazines from her column in the subway; a young dilettante reading four books in four different languages while wearing his purple hair like a hat; three poets chewing greedily on pastries and commiserating over the misery of joy and the bliss of sorrow. I put my bag through security check, the debris from my debilitated soul hidden from their scanners. The subway routes were labyrinthine and the Mandarin directions, difficult to decipher. If you weren’t going anywhere, it was impossible to get lost. But even though I had no destination, I felt tentacles clawing
through my pupils, a spider web the size of Beijing spindled together by the arachnids of industry and imagination.
My imagination died the day Sue Lian was struck with motion blindness. The savage histrionics of winter wind in Beijing blew a loose piece of construction straight into her head, knocking her unconscious. When she woke up, anything that moved refused to register in her visual cortex. Friends and family became phantoms, and the love of her life was the invisible man viewed in disparate frames. She couldn’t see me in motion and our desires became frozen in the strata of memory, carbonic fossils stuck between the Triassic and Jurassic. Walking together was a march to confusion, dance was a gyration of madness, sex became an aberration of the senses. She just wanted to stand still, me by her side.
I couldn’t, even without direction. I stumbled sideways, sprinted backwards; I swam through polluted ether and imbibed bitter gasoline. Kinetics had sabotaged my serenity and my heels kept on flipping askew. Sue Lian dealt with it by closing her eyes and re-experiencing Beijing through smell: the pores of sweat, the unsanitary sanitation of public toilets and charcoaled skewers roasting mutton and pork fat. She sucked on the fumes of the ubiquitous cabs and ignored the fireworks of vermilion pillars piercing the air. Buildings blinked at their veins, silver skyscrapers raced with dull gray apartments blemished by a familiarity that led to apathy. I saw a hundred talk bubbles above the invisible comic panels for our graphic novel of love, her bartering aggressively with a twelve-year old girl for a fake Gucci bag, the insistence on imitating every animal noise she heard. She ate a million snacks between midnight and 3 a.m., and we attempted to exterminate moths resting still in our closet while laughing at the futility of utility in affection. I loved her dumbly and she loved me with a keen intelligence that could have taught a tortoise how to dance on top of a flea.
Watering Heaven Page 9