Ghost Month

by Ed Lin

I bought a black trench coat like the ones the band members wore in pictures. I soldiered on with it in the face of heat, humidity and open mockery from other students who didn’t get it. Julia was worried that I looked like a gravedigger, but she understood after I played her the music and explained the songs to her.

  Early in senior year I sang “Love Will Tear Us Apart” for the karaoke competition and won. A picture of us was laid out right in the middle of the yearbook, me on stage during the instrumental break, reaching down to her outstretched hand. It was the most triumphant moment of my life. When I think about it, I see myself in the third person, looking down from the balloons on the ceiling at my perfectly poised body on that stage. I couldn’t have known then that it would all be downhill after that.

  Time claimed the coat not long after. The sleeves and the lining were fraying, and mold spots popped up on the back before the fabric essentially disintegrated. I didn’t get another one, because by that time I didn’t have to flaunt my attachment to Joy Division’s music. It was already deep inside me.

  IF I HADN’T GONE into Bauhaus that day and met that guy, I might have ended up as a pimply dude in his twenties who didn’t know much English. I would probably still be working at the night-market stall, but I certainly wouldn’t have as much style.

  I never actually cared for Bauhaus, the band the store was named after. I didn’t like the theatricality of the guy’s voice and the lyrics were too “art school.”

  Still, there was no denying Bauhaus the store was a great place. I stepped around an offering table on the sidewalk and admired a sticker by the door handle that read, “This is the way, step inside.” Those words were taken from the lyrics to “Atrocity Exhibition,” the first song on Joy Division’s second and final album, Closer. I did as the sticker instructed.

  I noticed right away that there was a 10-percent-off sale on Japanese-import CDs. The Japanese editions of CDs often contain bonus tracks. I can understand how from the listener’s point of view that’s better—more songs. But it also destroys the artist’s intention; what was meant to be a cohesive piece is cheapened by tacked-on singles and B-sides.

  I remember reading about how Matt Johnson, who recorded music under the moniker The The, had to campaign for years before the song “Perfect” was removed from the end of the album Soul Mining. I enjoyed the entire album for the longest time, having no idea of the distress he felt about the song being there. “Perfect” is a great song. It’s also unusual for a pop song in that it features an accordion, a vibraphone and a trumpet solo. On top of that, the music strangely remains the same through the verses and choruses.

  I started humming “Perfect,” and then out of the corner of my eye I caught a movement. The woman behind the counter had been looking at me but tried to turn away before I noticed. A swish of her hair betrayed her. From the back of her head and smooth right arm I could tell she was young, maybe younger than me. Her ears stuck out perpendicularly to her head, like an elf’s. They looked cute. I wondered what her face looked like and, then I felt suddenly ashamed.

  I had just come from meeting Julia’s parents. Had I forgotten all about her already?

  I slinked to the Joy Division section, which was chock-full of CDs. I removed several of them to make it easier to flip through the bin. This is what the pros do.

  It’s true that the band only recorded two studio albums, but their label went on to issue several compilations of singles and B-sides, not to mention reissuing the proper albums with bonus live CDs. There were bootlegs, too, of concerts and unreleased studio rehearsals.

  It was possible to download it all, if you searched hard enough and had the necessary bandwidth, but it’s cool to have the tangible, physical object.

  I came across a CD I had never seen before. It was a split release by Joy Division and New Order playing the same two Joy Division songs, the last two the band ever wrote—“Ceremony” and “In a Lonely Place.”

  That was odd. No complete take of Joy Division recording “In a Lonely Place” was known to exist. Only a fragment of about half the song was uncovered and included in the 1997 box set Heart and Soul. The bassist Peter Hook had found it on a rehearsal cassette. Yet this CD purported to have the song in full.

  I looked at the price again. In the past I have paid the full price for a CD in order to get a single song I didn’t already have. I began rationalizing. Containing only four songs, the CD was fully 25 percent new to me, so I probably had to buy it.

  I brought the CD up to the counter.

  “Is this for real?” I asked the woman. She looked up and in a synchronized motion both hands brushed her hair behind her ears.

  She was indeed younger than me, maybe finishing her undergrad degree. She had a full, round face, bright as a caramel sunflower. I was glad she wasn’t one of those girls who huddled under an umbrella to keep her skin pale. Why pretend you don’t live on a Pacific island that lies on the Tropic of Cancer?

  I noticed she had a scar the size and shape of a clipped pinky nail above her left eyebrow.

  “It’s real,” she said. Her eyes were infinitely black. “It’s a bootleg, but it’s copied from a legitimate release that was only on vinyl. One of the Record Store Day releases, only in the UK.”

  I tried to imagine what it sounded like, but it was useless. “Perfect” was embedded in my mind, just like the woman’s face.

  “How is the sound quality?”

  “Let me play it for you.” She gingerly took the CD, careful not to touch my hands. “You want to hear Joy Division playing ‘In a Lonely Place,’ right?”

  “Yes. Is it really the entire song?”

  “It really is! I feel shivers when I hear it!”

  We smiled at each other, enjoying our shared enthusiasm.

  I broke into a light sweat as the song played over the speakers. She caught my eyes, and I stopped breathing as the song went into the lost third verse, where Ian sings of a hangman and a cord, foreshadowing his own suicide.

  When the song was over, I said, “I’ll take it.”

  “We also have the official vinyl release,” said the woman. “If you’re interested.”

  “I don’t have a turntable.”

  A sly smile came over her face. “I thought a big music fan like you would have one.”

  “How do you know I’m a big music fan?”

  Her smile slid to the left side of her face. “You’ve forgotten me. My name is An-Mei, but you can call me Nancy. I know you’re Jing-nan.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t remember meeting you.”

  “You were a senior when I was a freshman, but we both were in the karaoke contest.”

  “What did you sing?”

  “I sang a Pizzicato Five song in Japanese, but people didn’t seem to like me very much. You sang ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ really well and you won!”

  I smiled. “I would have remembered you.”

  “I didn’t look like this. I had braces and I was bony.” She cupped her elbows and her face flushed. I felt compelled to touch my fingers to my lips. I know from taking a psychology class at UCLA that most communication is nonverbal. Something was happening here. We might not even be fully aware that our actions were saying we liked each other.

  I see a lot of people up close at the night market, but I only rarely see a woman as cute as Nancy. She had music savvy, as well. Did she have a boyfriend?

  Wait. Not now. This was the worst time to be Meeting Someone New.

  I looked at her and bit my lip. I tried to think of something complimentary that didn’t seem like I was hitting on her.

  “You’re still really skinny,” I offered.

  “I remember you always had headphones on. Even if you only had a minute free between classes, you spent it listening to music.” She spoke quickly, but she had a worried look on her face. Maybe she thought she was saying too much.

  I pretended to look past her at the Killing Joke poster on the wall. Act like you’re busy. I took out my wallet. “
I’d like to pay for that CD now.”

  “Oh, sure, I’m sorry.”

  I felt a pang of guilt handing over the cash. Bootlegged and pirated CDs and DVDs were mostly made and distributed by organized criminals, including Taiwanese gangs like Black Sea. By buying the CD, I was doing my small part to help fund what was essentially a corporation that pushed drugs and smuggled in Cambodian women and children for sex and cheap labor, not necessarily respectively.

  I needed that song and CD, though. And it wasn’t like if I didn’t buy it those horrible things would grind to a halt, or even pause. I was just one guy. What could I do, anyway?

  “I don’t need a bag,” I told Nancy.

  “Okay.”

  The CD in my hand, I found it difficult to walk away. “You’re new here, right?” I asked her.

  “It’s my first week.”

  “You know a lot about music.”

  She nodded and shifted from foot to foot, probably wondering how long it was going to take for me to ask her out.

  I was sorry to get her hopes up. My hopes, too. I really shouldn’t let my eyes linger on her face.

  “Well,” I said, “I’ll see you around.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I found myself driving east past Taida’s campus on Xinhai Road, a sansenro, three-lane boulevard, feeling confused and lost. Looking around didn’t help.

  When I came back to Taipei after living in California, every block looked strange. I had gotten used to seeing LA’s uniform, concrete sidewalks—not that anybody walked on them—and thematically linked groups of buildings.

  By contrast, Taipei’s businesses and residences were haphazardly placed. Walking on a typical block, one could pass by the steamy mouth of a weed-strewn side alley crowded with low, rusty shacks, and then fifteen feet later feel the blast of cold, dry air from the lobby of a new Japanese-built hotel. You were sure to hit a 7-Eleven or Family Mart before reaching the corner, and there could be a lonely office lobby with an elderly attendant in a rumpled uniform sawing away on the strings of a whiny erhu to pass the time.

  The sides of Taipei’s taller buildings are often scarred by the outlines of former neighbors that have been torn down, rebuilt and sold, and then torn down again because at times the land is more valuable with nothing on it.

  Sidewalks vary wildly from door to door in terms of elevation, material and condition. Some are carefully crafted stone blocks, others hastily and unevenly laid adhesive kitchen tiles slapped on top of unfinished concrete.

  Considering Taipei’s state of near-constant construction and lack of maintenance, it was a minor miracle that the densely populated city hadn’t suffered worse during 921, a huge earthquake that rocked towns in central Taiwan on September 21, 1999. Only one major building in Taipei came down, a large residential building that took more than ten years to build back up because the contractors went bankrupt twice. The original builders had stuffed walls and pillars with newspapers and plastic bottles instead of bricks.

  The residents who weren’t killed claimed the building fell apart in only a matter of seconds. They tried to sue the city for its lax construction codes and largely imaginary enforcement. One good thing that came out of the lawsuit was that the government promised it would pay one million NT, or $30,000, as compensation to families for each victim killed by the earthquake. Once that valuation was set, the government knew how much each life would cost in other natural disasters such as Typhoon Morakot and mudslides.

  Back then, I thought I’d be worth a million bucks, or even a couple million in America. But my self-worth had crumbled like the Taiwan stock market whenever there was a global slowdown in technology sales. Shit. Who would they even pay the $30,000 to? I’d say let Frankie and Dwayne split the money before German Tsai and his boys got a piece of it.

  I SWUNG NORTH TO Jianguo Road. If I stayed on it, I would go right by the noodle shop I’d been in when I read about Julia.

  At a red light, I absently registered that “Jianguo” meant “Build a Nation.” The major streets in Taipei are named after nationalistic and Confucian sayings. Hearing and seeing the names continually was supposed to drum the beliefs into everybody’s heads, but instead their constant use stripped them down to everyday words, detached from any higher meaning, the same way that Presidents’ Day and Labor Day in the United States conjure images of retail sales rather than the historical events behind the holidays.

  Sometimes Taipei’s street names have a comic effect.

  Renai Road, literally “Benevolent Love Road,” named after the primary concept of Confucian humanistic thought, is often blocked by political demonstrators. Xinyi Road, named for “integrity” and “righteousness,” has been marginalized by jackhammers and roadblocks for more than nine years as delays continue at an under-construction MRT station. The KMT named Guangfu Road during the martial-law era to express the idea that the “recovery” of the Chinese mainland from the Communists was in the near future. Guangfu, which intersects both Renai and Xinyi, often sees bumper-to-bumper traffic at rush hour. Commuters probably most wanted to “recover” with a beer in their hands.

  I ROARED DOWN BUILD a Nation Road, anxious to get to Unknown Pleasures and blast the CD. I rarely listen to music at work, but a newly discovered Joy Division track was an event. I was going to play it as a dedication to Julia, even if she hadn’t exactly shared my enthusiasm for the band.

  As I neared the outer boundaries of the Shilin Night Market, I slowed to navigate around the double- and triple-parked vendor trailers. This mess would drive some people crazy, but I felt at ease here at the noisy, cluttered night market. There was honor in running a stall, my father had said. We merchants upheld standards and served the public well, or we heard about it right there and then. We couldn’t get away with filler ingredients or second-rate meats, because our kitchens were on full display to the public. We were more accountable than politicians, because every day was an election day, and the people voted with their feet and money. If your stand charged too much or the food wasn’t good enough, you were forced to improve or pack it in. Hiring pretty women in shorts and tight tops as counter people would only delay the inevitable.

  Here’s a tip for night-market patrons: the best stuff is at stands run by physically unattractive people in grease-covered clothes. The food speaks for itself. I wouldn’t have been able to rebuild our business with the Joy Division imagery alone if Dwayne didn’t cook like an Iron Chef. Don’t forget to make sure the vendor’s breath smells like the stall’s food.

  I watched as vendors at adjacent stalls helped each other load in. Ah, yes, the night market is my world. This is where a truly diverse Taiwanese community exists, in this place and at this time.

  When the sun goes down, Taipei comes alive. Even during the more reserved Ghost Month, people come in, eat out and loosen up. It’s all right to talk loudly and be expressive. The buildings fade into dim shadows as the night lamps highlight the colorful food, clothes and people. It’s a happy time. It’s a fantasy time.

  Look up. There’s the moon grazing on cotton.

  Maybe Julia will come round a corner and I’ll hold her and tell her I miss her.

  If Taipei comes alive at night, it reverts to undead during the day. Workaholics walking by ghostly grey buildings and breathing in air that’s like gauze.

  Give me the night any day.

  I FELT A SLIGHT headache. Atmospheric pressure was up. That meant a rain was coming. It was going to be hard and fast.

  I parked and walked over to Belle Amour.

  Dancing Jenny was wearing a neo-chipao made of metallic fabric as she attended to an offering table in front of the store.

  “I think this dress makes my tits look like Christmas-tree ornaments,” she said, holding her chest out.

  “Is that bad?” I asked. I didn’t mind the mild flirting from her. What really unnerved me was a genuine connection, like what I’d felt briefly with Nancy.

  “Depends on what the wearer’s trying to say with
her body.” She lit up a cigarette and used it to light a few joss sticks placed in front of a carton of cigarettes, holding off on her first inhale until the incense was going strong. “This is for my dad. He was a big smoker.”

  Jenny put her hand behind my right ear and scraped something off the lobe with her fingernail.

  “You’ve got a dry patch there,” she said. “You’re not drinking enough water.”

  “I’m avoiding water,” I said. “The good brothers might try to steal my body if I go near that stuff.”

  She let go of my ear and slapped my shoulder. “Ha, I know you don’t believe. But tell me something, Jing-nan. Would you mind if I kept burning money for your parents? When the economy’s bad, it’s even worse in the spirit world.”

  “Are you doing this for them, or for you?”

  “It’s for them and for you, too. Just in case it works.”

  “Jenny, it doesn’t work.”

  “How do you know? You can’t tell me millions of people following this tradition have been doing it for nothing.”

  “I do think it’s useless.” I felt something like a little cut inside my nasal passage. I rubbed my nose.

  “Then all those people who have died are gone forever? As if they never existed?”

  “Do you remember, Jenny?” I asked, feeling tears sliding down my face. “Do you remember Julia?”

  A worried look came over her face. “The girl whose family ran the fruit stand here? Of course I remember her, your little girlfriend! How could I forget!”

  “She’s dead. She was the betel-nut girl who was murdered!”

  Jenny hugged me. “I’m so sorry! What a terrible thing!”

  Jenny had never felt so soft and warm. As I stood in her arms, sobbing, I missed my mother.

  “I used to give that little girl clothes for her birthday, but I never saw her wear them,” said Jenny, holding me and sighing.

  Julia’s mother had made sure they went straight into the trash, calling Jenny a whore and a pedophile.

  “Julia was always a little funny about clothes,” I said haltingly. “She liked a certain fit.”