“Oh, you passed? Excellent.” He is trying to sound interested, pleased, but the effort is apparent in his voice.
“An 86%,” I say.
“An 86%?” he says, “so high? When did you find out? I thought you weren’t going to check.”
“I had to, better to know the worst than anticipate. I just wanted to tell you, I didn’t want to disturb you. I’ll see you tomorrow evening as usual?”
“Right, right.” A pause. “Where are you now?”
“On the arcade,” I say.
“Oh,” he says, “are you busy?”
“Oh, sure,” I say, “there are all these incredible men lined up waiting to spend the afternoon with an engineering genius.”
He laughs and sounds a little more like himself. “Tell them to go away and come up. No wait, tell them to keep you entertained, buy you lunch or something, and give me thirty minutes. Everything is, ah, let me think of the Zhang way to say this,” his voice changes, he speaks softly and mimics my American accent and northern pronunciation, “things are a bit untidy, and if you do not mind, I must inconvenience you a little, respectfully request you wait.”
“Ta ma da,” I say, ‘Your mother.’ “Just get dressed and come down to the coffee-bar. Go shopping with me. Show this poor confused foreigner what clothes to buy that will make him look less like he comes from a second-rate country.”
“Mao-Zedong and Lenin, I thought you’d never ask,” he says and breaks the connection.
But it is twenty-five minutes before he shows up. I am sitting in the coffee-bar nursing my coffee-or at least the sweetened syrup that passes for coffee in this country-when Haibao stops in the doorway. He scans the room, which is full of students. His gaze flickers past me a couple of times, although I wave. He is pale and lost; his hair looks as if he has run his fingers through it, his long yellow and green tunic doesn’t match his tights. At last he sees me. He puts his head down and enters the crowd like a swimmer making a long dive.
“Do you want anything?” I ask him when he slides into the seat.
He shakes his head.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says. “Where do you want to go shopping?”
“I don’t know, where do you go?”
“We don’t want you to look too much like a fag,” he says, off hand. “Why have you got your hair that way?”
My hair is tied back in a ponytail. I keep it shoulder length so there’s not much tail. “I had my tool handling class today, I like to keep it out of my eyes when I work.”
“It looks nice,” he says.
“It looks huaqiao,” I say. “I think maybe I should cut it.
“No, don’t,” he says. “Please don’t.”
The din makes it hard to carry on this conversation. Students call to each other in nasal, six-toned Nanjing dialect and shrill four-toned Mandarin. At home, my non-Chinese speaking friends say Chinese conversations often sound like arguments. I wonder how long it will be until I hear the liquid vowels of Spanish again. “Yan Chun!” the young man next to me shouts, “Yan Chun! Zouba!” ‘Let’s go.’ Across the floor, a tall young man with an open face, dressed as if he just came off the gym floor, turns and smiles. “Shemma?” ‘What?’ The mandarin word for ‘a good time’ is renao, hot-noisy.
“Let’s go,” I say.
The arcade is busy, too. Haibao has his hands jammed in his tunic pockets, and moves with his head down.
I want to get out of this, to some place where it is quiet and private. Sometimes I take real pleasure in being with a person when there are all these straight people around and that person and I are just two people together. But right now Haibao and I aren’t together, he is there and I am here and the physical space between us is not nearly so vast as the emotional distance. But I can’t suggest we go to his flat, since he made a point of telling me it was a mess. I can’t take him to my dorm because Xiao Chen might bring friends back from class and then we’d have no privacy.
So we walk down to the bus stop. “Have you heard any more about your friend?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I talked to someone back home last night. He said my friend is still suspended from teaching, but nothing else. Everyone is still waiting.”
“How did they find out about your friend?” I ask.
“It’s complicated,” he says.
Rebuffed, I say nothing.
The sun is hard on the street. Traffic is not heavy at mid-day, a street sweeper running off a power line raises and absorbs clouds of yellow dust. The window across the street is full of empty bird cages, in a square of sunlight, a white cat sleeps beneath them. It doesn’t feel like home, the light is different or something. Maybe when I go back to New York I’ll get a cat. Chinese people do not keep pets very much, it seems particularly Western to make an animal a member of the family.
“The District Superintendent of Education is a fag,” Haibao says. “He hired my friend and I. He was arrested in a park. Then my friend was suspended. That’s all anyone really knows.”
The District Superintendent must be how Haibao got to study engineering. It must be a big scandal that someone in education is gay, someone so important, a big person.
“Do you think they’ll be looking for you? The school hasn’t suspended you.”
“Not yet,” Haibao says. Chinese never say ‘no’.
I see the bus, far up the street. Segmented buses look as if they are hinged in the middle, they bend a bit when they go around corners.
“I’m not feeling very well,” Haibao says. “Maybe I’ll go back and take a nap. You go on, celebrate your good mark.” He smiles tiredly, “I forgot to say congratulations.”
“Don’t go back,” I say. “You’ll just sit by yourself, that’s bad, I know.”
“I’ll take a nap,” Haibao says.
“No you won’t, you’ll try to sleep but you won’t. I promise, we’ll only be gone an hour, you’ll sleep better if you do something.”
He shakes his head. The bus is coming.
“Haibao,” I say, “I don’t know how to dress, what to buy.” I remember feeling the way he does. “If you won’t come shopping with me, I want to go back to your flat with you.”
The bus stops, the door hisses open.
He shakes his head again, but gets on. I palm the credit and pay for both of us. He slumps down into the seat and looks out the window.
I feel as if I shouldn’t leave him alone, although I’m not sure if it’s him that shouldn’t be alone, or me. Surreptitiously I run the flat of my hand over his thigh. He glances over at me and smiles a little.
“You are one son of a bitch,” he says.
“Have you talked to Liu Wen?” I asked.
“Not since the night the three of us went out.”
“He is an unusual person,” I say.
Haibao laughs dryly. “You have such a way of putting things. Yes. Liu Wen is ‘unusual’.” He watches out the window for a moment. “Maybe I’ll call him. Do you have an early class on Friday?”
“Yes.”
“Then Saturday. Maybe we’ll go play pressball, if he’ll pay.”
“Is he rich?”
“Sometimes. When he has a good week.”
“What does he do?”
“Cui cui.”
Hurry-hurry? Slang is the most difficult part of Mandarin for me. “What’s that?”
“Sells himself.”
My face must betray me. Haibao breaks out laughing. “You are right, it’s good to come out with you, you cheer me up. You look as if I told you he murders little girls.”
“Why does he dress that way if he, cui cui?”
“Because they like it. Talk softly.”
“You say I always talk softly,” I hiss, feeling the heat rise in my face. I glance around, the bus is nearly empty.
“Well, don’t stop. Do you not want me to call him?”
I want very badly to play pressball, I want to get ten points. I’ve never be
en out with a man who goes for money. I mean, pick-ups, of course. When I was fifteen I used to go out to Coney Island and wait to get picked up, and when I was older, go to pick up, but not for money.
“What’s wrong with it?” Haibao says.
“It spreads disease,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “I won’t call him.”
“No,” I say, “call him.”
“We are corrupting you,” he says, then laughs. I, of course, do not find this funny.
New clothes. I have waited all week to for Saturday night. Because Haibao likes it that way I have tied my hair back. My suit is black and in Haibao’s words, “So ruthlessly conservative it’s not. Everyone will think you’re a vid artist or something.”
Liu Wen, sitting on the couch and needing his hair brushed, as usual, approves. “Pretty,” he says. “Need to make some money on the side?”
“No,” I say curtly.
He grins at Haibao. Liu Wen is wearing a business suit coat that has seen better days, over gray tights that have been worn so often that they bag at the knees. Haibao is in white and looks, this evening, perfect. He is also in a good mood. A delightful mood. His hair is freshly trimmed, he smells ever so slightly of ocean and evergreen. He smiles when he sees me, gives me a beer which I shouldn’t have but which I drink anyway.
We look as if we are going to three completely different places.
“You look like a bride,” I tell Haibao.
Liu Wen laughs, “I told him he looks like a funeral.”
“Funerals in the west are still in black,” I say.
“And brides in the east wear red,” Haibao says.
“The east is red,” Liu Wen says, “and now that we’ve had our cultural exchange hour finish your beers because I’m hungry.”
But we don’t. Haibao doesn’t want to leave yet, he wants to watch the sunset from his window. So we talk, about my engineering mark, about Liu Wen’s week (in carefully vague terms.) Liu Wen has apparently had a fair week, business-wise.
Outside the window it is the west which is red. The towers of the overcity, the new communes, rise above Nanjing. The sides that face west are red, and those between us and the horizon are black silhouettes. Red and black, the colors of good luck. While Liu Wen and I talk, I watch Haibao. He is engrossed in the window. The city goes blue-gray, and we sit in the halflight until it is almost dark, finally silent, as the lights come on in the city.
“I want to give you each something,” Haibao says, “you have both been my friends through this difficult time.”
Liu Wen looks amused. I’m taken a bit aback. To Liu Wen he gives a ring set with Australian opal. “It is not your style, I am aware,” Haibao says, smiling, “but it is one of my favorites.”
Liu Wen looks perplexed but tries it on. It fits his smallest finger.
To me Haibao gives a small gold box set with a tiger-eye. “It’s very old,” he says, “Qing Dynasty, 1600s. Open it.”
Inside it says Guai-zi, ‘Ghost.’
“A tiger-eye always seemed a bit guai-yi,” strange, or unusual, same first character as ‘ghost’, “and so I thought of your assumed name,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say. Chinese people do not usually give gifts in this way, they normally leave the gift and you look at it after they are gone. I am uncomfortable and so is Liu Wen.
Haibao says, “Let’s go.”
The hall is painfully light, and Haibao’s eyes are too bright.
As if he was about to cry. But he moves quickly, excited. “Are we going to the new place?” he asks Liu Wen.
“If you want,” Liu Wen says. “I don’t care where we go.”
“Somewhere where business is good,” Haibao says, watching me and smiling. Liu Wen grins. I am still confused by the little ritual, I wonder if I should have had something. I search for something to say.
“Something I have wanted to ask,” I say, hearing in my own voice the diffidence that Haibao teases me about.
Liu Wen cocks an eyebrow as if to say, ‘Yes?’
“The last time we went out, why did we go to the tomb of Zhong Shan?”
Liu Wen grins again. “Did you think we were trying to tell you something?”
“I didn’t know,” I answer.
“No reason,” Haibao says. “Truly. We often go to the park, but usually we walk down the Avenue of Stone Animals. Just once we were there it seemed fitting to go by the tomb.”
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” Liu Wen asks.
“Go ahead,” I say.
“Why do you ask people to call you just ‘Zhang’?”
“If your first name were ‘Zedong’ would you want people to call you that?”
Liu Wen shakes his head, “I understand why you don’t use Zhong Shan. But to just call you Zhang sounds… well, rude. If you know what I mean. Don’t you have a nickname?” I know what he means, it sounds too short. Chinese people like names to come in two syllables.
“Rafael,” I say.
“Shemma?”
“Rafael.”
“Ur-ah-fa-”
They both try it. Mandarin has a different ‘r’ than the west, and they have difficulty ending with an ‘l’. They keep wanting to end with a vowel, since Mandarin ends in a vowel, an ‘n’ or an ‘ng’.
“Ur-ah-fa-eh-la,” Haibao manages.
I shake my head, “Rafaela is a woman’s name.”
“So, Zhang,” Liu Wen says heartily, “how do you like it here in China?”
“We can’t call you Xiao Zhang,” Haibao says. Xiao Zhang would be the diminutive, ‘Young Zhang.’ It’s like saying ‘Billy’ for ‘Bill.’
“‘Lao Zhang’,” Liu Wen laughs. Elder Zhang.
“Must be the suit,” I say.
We eat a leisurely dinner. Pork and bamboo shoots, french fries, Sichuan (spicy) cabbage. I drink two beers, I know I shouldn’t but it’s always hard for me to eat spicy food without pijiu. We get down to the warehouse district. I assume that we are going to the same club, but Liu Wen leads us to a heavy red door-was the last door red? I cannot remember. Up the stairs we go into a red and gold place, full of rooms with two or three tables in each and gilt sitting platforms along the walls. Some of the tables have men and women at them, which surprises me. We wander through a maze.
Liu Wen buys Haibao a mao tai and I have a beer. Liu Wen says he’ll be back. I gaze, mesmerized, at the gold light rising like mist off the tables.
“You have an unusual face,” Haibao says.
I am not bad looking, I know. Not truly handsome, the way Liu Wen would be if he chose to be. I fancy I hear wistfullness in Haibao’s voice, little does he know how much I envy him, a Chinese citizen, worldly and polished.
“Do you know where in China your family was from?” Haibao asks.
“My gene scan said that my mother’s family was apparently Philippine huaqiao,” I say. It didn’t make any difference. Since I qualified by working on Baffin Island, I could still go to Nanjing University without having to qualify for a huaqiao seat. Competition for the waiguoren seats is fierce. Many candidates, few places.
If my genetic map is within tolerance, then I am Chinese, right?
Physically, if not culturally. I mean, they are obviously not concerned with the information in my files, that my mother is not Chinese. The University has to know. Someone at the University, at least.
“You are more yourself tonight,” I say.
He looks thoughtful, “Truly?”
“Have you heard any more about your friend?” I ask.
“Let’s not talk about it,” he says. He puts his hand on my arm, looking off across the room, and then shudders.
Idiot, I shouldn’t have said anything. I search for other topics. “How did you meet Liu Wen?” I ask.
“Through friends,” he says. “I don’t really know Liu Wen very well. I like him though, he has been good for me.” He smiles sadly, “So have you, ghost.”
“Have you been here before?” I ask, tryi
ng to push him away from this mood.
He nods.
Liu Wen comes back and I am relieved to see him. If we play, Haibao will be distracted. “We’re at a table in the back,” he says. A young girl with a smooth white face and painted eyebrows comes to lead us to our table. I watch the swing of her narrow hips in her imperial Chinese gown embroidered with cranes and realize suddenly, she is not a woman.
Fascinated and more than a little amazed I cannot take my eyes off the boy. He gestures with exaggerated grace, catching hold of one sleeve and pointing with the other hand. He keeps his eyes cast down, glancing up at me only as I pass him. He doesn’t smile and his eyes flicker down.
Am I aroused? No, only curious. There is nothing in cross-dressing I find stimulating.
But I watch him walk away, watch his hips swing, and look back to see Liu Wen grinning.
Into the golden glow. There are the five balls; one black lacquer, one red lacquer, two silver and in the center, a golden ball, almost invisible in the glow. Liu Wen flicks the silver ball directly at me and I barely manage to avoid taking it. I ricochet the red ball off the edge hoping it will come back towards me and Haibao hooks it in a long gliding curve and captures it and we drop out of contact. So fast.
“My point,” Haibao says. He is all edge and excitement, and I think, this will be his night.
And it is. Even Liu Wen and I together can’t stop him.
Every time we break contact Haibao is more exhilarated. His color is high, sweat beads along his upper lip and his wisps of hair lay wet at his temples in fine black curves like pen strokes. His hands rest lightly on the table edge, fingernails pink with perfect white half-moons. He doesn’t move and yet like a cat, perfectly relaxed, he has the air of something on the edge of motion.
We break contact and Haibao says, “Seven,” and I am clenching the table, my palms wet. He smiles, perfect white teeth, golden skin, white clothes and all wrapped in golden light. White and gold and electric. Liu Wen looks at him hungrily, and so do I.
Haibao looks down at the table, the light under his eyes and carving his normal flat face into planes and high cheeks. His eyes are hooded. Liu Wen opens his mouth as if to say something-I know what he is going to say, to stop the game, and I want him to say it and I don’t because I want the game to end but I don’t want Liu Wen to get Haibao-and we drop back into contact.
China Mountain Zhang Page 17