Barbarian Lost

by Alexandre Trudeau

  A few give themselves completely to the ritual. With closed eyes, they search for the rhythm like monks in search of enlightenment. Others have come to commune. Two girls next to me are clearly close friends; their smiles to each other reinforce their excitement. They launch into ever more daring poses, thrilled to be openly exposing the potential of their bodies.

  But many of the young people seem more cautious about the experience; they huddle together, giggling frequently. Dancing is something they are learning in small, sporadic increments. Some might become adept; others may return to more responsible and conformist practices.

  Although there is little puritanism toward sex in China, even in a trendy Shanghai nightclub, the individualistic abandon required to dance is still in short supply, though clearly it is growing.

  Travelling alone and too shy to reach out in any other way, for me, the dance floor has often been a way to commune if not communicate with the locals. A kind of complicity is established among dancers without a need for words. For a moment, dazzled by the rhythm, I might feel myself a part of the place. I might feel myself known and loved by the beautiful strangers around me. Invariably, however, my nights would end like this one: alone. A little tired, a little happy, a little wiser maybe, riding through the night toward my cell.

  In the balmy twilight, the taxi is a comforting vessel. Busy cities are momentarily empty of people and cars. The vehicle moves swiftly. The driver is quiet yet somehow full of solicitude, carefully offering passage to a lone soul on his way.

  Friday morning, I need to buy sneakers for the soccer game. I should also pick up some DVDs to refresh my supply. I’ll cast a glance at the consumer economy exploding in Shanghai.

  After our trying trip down the river, Viv surely needs a break. She’s meeting up with a school friend at a central landmark. We’ll travel to this spot together, then go our separate ways. We head out on foot northbound toward the new city centre.

  Our own neighbourhood is fairly modern, residential and Chinese. And downright ugly. Yet somehow it speaks to me. No building in sight has been erected with art in mind. Almost everywhere I look are concrete towers. At their base is a hodgepodge of structures: older buildings of stone or brick, stained black with years of exposure. Occasionally, a new tower clad in glass and pale plastic stands out. Or a new superstore, all white and shiny in its cloak of carefully aimed lights, appears like a beacon, radiating materialistic optimism through the grey manifold, as if to say that all problems can be solved by consumption.

  Still, the neighbourhood interests me because it’s pure Shanghai. It’s a place where the people live, where by the hundreds of thousands they return to sleep and eat, huddled close in tiny apartments stacked high. Their surroundings are devoid of history yet already aged and worn. I cannot guess who these people are, what they do, why they live. In their number and density they are anonymous, going about their lives unnoticed, each a master of a miniature microcosm.

  Sure, recognizable forms are present: the retired pensioners, the young working couples. But among them, the different, the dissident or the deviant can dwell beyond the cares or interests of others. People go to work in every possible direction and at every hour, passing in the streets and elevators without the faintest recognition of each other.

  The neighbourhood is also short on services. There are but a few restaurants and shops. For five hundred metres in either direction from the hotel, there’s only a primitive laundromat and an electronics mall. The latter is a five-storey beehive of cluttered booths all selling computer accessories and cameras. Further on is a newer strip with real estate offices and a Carrefour superstore selling mass-produced foodstuffs and appliances; the latter is popular, displaying almost the same frenzied consumption visible in similar stores in the West.

  As far as prepared food goes, the offerings—usually so plentiful in China—are truly sparse and inadequate here: a coffee shop, a couple of low-end Western fast-food joints and generic Chinese noodle chains. The lack of commerce emphasizes the area’s deeply residential character but makes the inhabitants that much more disengaged. People are not to be seen doing anything. Rather, they’re stowed away in their dwellings or coming to and going from them. Their needs must be filled behind closed doors or elsewhere.

  After ten minutes of walking, we begin to transition into a different neighbourhood. This new area has two faces: the old and decrepit, and the splendidly refurbished. As we walk through it, it reveals itself to be an old commercial district. Brick warehouses abound. The first ones are still occupied by petty merchants and tenements. In a cramped space along a particularly dirty strip, I locate a DVD shop. As usual, it’s manned by a youngster.

  By now, I know the routine: you position yourself at one of the bins and quickly flip through the titles, withdrawing anything that’s remotely interesting. Within a few minutes, you end up with a dozen or so titles at a dollar apiece. The only caveat is that films that are too recent have usually been recorded with a camera pointed at a movie screen; the image and sound are pitiful. They are to be avoided. One could lament the copyright infringements involved in the sale and purchase of such pirated DVDs. But what strikes me is just how rich a media diet it provides. People are exposed to far more stories than they ever would otherwise have been.

  These films and TV shows are a means of communication; at higher prices, the communication simply wouldn’t happen. The financiers derive no profits from these sales. This may be unfair, but still the dreams and ideas of those who made these films find through this distribution ever more distant resonance.

  Viv laughs at my quick selection of more than fifteen titles. “The Chinese government only officially imports ten foreign movies each year,” she says, “and heavily censors them. No surprise our appetite for entertainment needs to be satisfied through these unofficial means.”

  After a few more grimy blocks of petty merchants like my DVD privateer, the neighbourhood undergoes a transformation. A strip of old brick warehouses has been remodelled into a luxury pedestrian mall. Once cleaned and fitted with slick windows and fancy lighting, these old buildings become elegant.

  The past actually has to be eradicated for nostalgia to take effect. Here is the Shanghai we westerners want to see—the East-meets-West theme, an image implanted in our heads by Hollywood movies and magazine articles. A dignified charcoal austerity—the forms of industry and stability—upon which a sensual brush has left its strokes of red, black, yellow and purple.

  We picture the lady in red silk approaching on the cobbled street as we duck into the familiar coffee shop for an overpriced soy latte. It’s a marriage of familiarity and fantasy that we cannot resist. Here are brands we find at home, yet in these surroundings, we feel that we can afford them, or that we need them—and with our plastic cards we incur debts we know not when we will reimburse.

  As I walk through the mall, I see another Shanghai above and beyond. Viv and I are nearing the centre, and glass towers loom large above the brick warehouses. The morning is grey and overcast. But several skyscrapers are lit so as to glow bright in the daylight. In the business core, the city becomes much bigger and even more depersonalized. People don’t ramble about in the streets; their businesses don’t clutter the sidewalks. Everything is indoors. The outside is an increasingly hostile territory of smog and overpasses, traffic and noise. Luckily, most of the buildings are heavily armoured against this atmosphere; they wear plates of metal and glass. The remaining older buildings have gradually been fitted with armours of aluminum and plastics. With their beacons of light, they all promise safety within.

  I may be no sucker for luxury goods but I too need my brands. I too can confuse a branded product with a quality product. If I can’t recognize a brand, I’m suspicious about the product’s manufacture; I sense shoddy workmanship and cost-cutting measures. Of course, the shoes are quite probably made in the same place with the same process. But I cannot conceive of wearing a sneaker simply made to function at a soccer matc
h; I need a sneaker that speaks to the world, that says that I’m talented and cool. So I want to buy it in clean and well-lit surroundings. Yet I entertain the thought that in China I’ll pay less for the same glitter.

  The shopping centre occupies the bottom floors of a massive new tower. It’s a labyrinth of levels and escalators. The athletic brands have their own floor. Viv has a few minutes to spare before meeting her friend, so she tags along. The shop is clean and well-lit. The selection is impressive, and employees outnumber the clientele.

  Followed by a young attendant, I quickly choose a brand and settle on a pair of retro-looking blue-and-gold sneakers. They are machine-signed in memory of a Brazilian soccer player whose holy support I will need to play a game I haven’t played since I was twelve. If the price is better here than back home, the difference is negligible. But with my single purchase, perhaps I paid the equivalent of the store clerk’s weekly wage or two weeks for the worker who sewed and glued the shoe.

  We rise to the surface to meet Viv’s friend. She’s even more petite than Viv and clearly has made concessions to the Shanghai predilection for brand names. I show her my new shoes, then take my leave of the young women.

  I’m curious to check out a shopping-centre food court. My choice turns out to be poor, and I am faced with a generic selection of restaurant chains. I enter a popular joint selling a Sinofied version of the Japanese classic, ramen, itself an early-twentieth-century adaptation of Chinese egg noodles in broth.

  The park where the soccer game is to be held is on the other side of town. I study my map to see how to get there. The subway will take me close, but I have to change trains twice and then still walk a ways. I never bother with buses—when you get on one in a strange city, only God knows where it will take you. A taxi would be the right option, but I don’t know how to say where I’m going. Even if I did, more often than not, the drivers act as if they have no idea what I am saying. And Shanghai drivers will scarcely look at a map. So I take a moment and trace out the Chinese characters I read on the map. Even this is tricky; drawing a character is meticulous work. And in copying names off a map, you can never be quite sure whether you are drawing the characters for Friendship Park or for public washrooms.

  When I emerge from the mall, the city core is frenzied; people are everywhere, moving fast. The streets, clogged with cars and trucks, are hazy with fumes. For the millions of working people in the city centre, it’s time to get out. The beginning of the National Day holiday and Mid-Autumn Festival is hours away, and already people are vying for the exit.

  I’m one of many competing for a taxi, in order to return to my hotel before heading over to the soccer match, so I decide to walk toward a less congested area. Along the way, I manage to flag down a cab, but the driver scoffs when I show him the business card of my hotel. I suppose my hotel is too close to be considered a worthy fare at a time of such high demand. A little further on, I catch a cab that has just dropped off its passenger. I show the hotel business card again and don’t wait for an answer before offering three times the going rate. He accepts but seems unhappy and antsy. I don’t dare ask him to wait for me while I change into sports clothing.

  When I emerge from my hotel but a few moments later, the city has undergone yet another transformation. The streets in the hotel’s neighbourhood have grown surprisingly quiet. Occasionally, a taxi passes but not one is available. The concierge is also unhelpful. He tells me that over the past hour he has called for cabs twice and neither has shown up.

  With only twenty minutes remaining before the game starts and knowing that the wait at the hotel would drive me crazy, I decide to begin the long journey toward the park on foot, hoping to hail a cab along the way. As I move westward, it dawns on me that I might well have erred by setting out on foot. I suddenly realize how big the city is—and I need to get from the southeast corner of it to a southwesterly point. I cross a large swath of residential neighbourhood, then walk beneath a couple of elevated highways. A few times I raise my hand upon seeing a taxi only to have it pass me by, already occupied.

  Eventually, I enter an area that has recently been flattened. Billboards and plastic fencing enclose an unlit and inactive construction site. Although the traffic flow beside me is steady and thick, I know my prospects for a taxi have plummeted. No driver will be circulating here looking for a fare. A glance at my map and cell phone reveal that I have covered but a third of the distance in twenty-five minutes. My comrades will start without me.

  I grow anxious and frustrated. I try to laugh at the thought that Deryk, ever competitive and trying to foment energy and enthusiasm, has already made jokes about people wimping out of the match. All would conclude that I was among those unwilling to accept a challenge and test my skills. Meanwhile, here I am crossing a Shanghai wasteland on foot in my new Pelé sneakers.

  The sky is getting darker. I am faced with the choice of diverting north toward an area with a couple of major hotels or staying the course toward brighter lights on the horizon. As I ponder my options, a slick new city bus pulls up beside me and opens its doors. Inside, a driver sits without expression. The bus is bright and clean. Outside, the air is thick and gloomy. Clearly, I must board this bus.

  As I fumble with my money to pay the fare, the driver curtly ushers me on with an impatient wave of the hand. He doesn’t want my money. The bus is full but not overly so. I even spot an empty seat. As I walk toward it, people barely lift their heads to notice me. The bus travels westward. I begin to chart its course on my map. Like a missile, the bus burns through the wasteland and emerges into a neighbourhood more suited to it and its passengers, a well-lit and modern area. The bus begins to drop off its passengers and pick up new ones. My impatience has vanished; I’m enjoying the ride.

  As they come and go, people barely look at each other. They all carry themselves with a quiet and humble dignity. Even the elderly wear their clothes well; the items fit and were obviously chosen for their gracious properties. When in pairs, the elderly share in muffled conversations full of smiles and pauses. The young people are fresh-faced and energetic. They carry trendy shopping bags and sport white earbuds. Most tap away at their smartphones, likely texting their friends about holiday plans.

  I’m now forty minutes late, but at least the bus has travelled in precisely the right direction. As it arrives at the park, I prepare myself to run the kilometre or so north to the playing field.

  Soon, the field comes into sight. I see people embracing, some sportsmanlike handshakes and high-fives. I’ve missed the match. With my new shoes pointless, silly even, I march onto the field to greet my friends. A young Chinese player comes forth to shake my hand in congratulation. He must think that I played. Or perhaps he’s applauding me for my support.

  I pass a clique of English players whose celebrations have resoundingly aggressive undertones. One particular gent, ruddy, balding and full of posture, scowls. “If they’d played that way in England, they’d have been fouled off the pitch!” he says.

  Confused, I find Deryk and ask how the match went.

  “We won,” he says, “but some people were taking the game more seriously than others.” He turns to James, the groom, and with a lowered voice asks, “What do you say, they let us win?”

  “I think so,” James admits, “but you never know.”

  Just then, Allen appears, looking fresh and happy. He exchanges a friendly nod with Deryk, who thanks him for making the match happen. The other Chinese players whom Allen assembled have by now collected their belongings on the sidelines and are heading toward their vehicles or being picked up by friends or girlfriends. Allen refers to them as young business associates. They, like Allen, drive shiny new white sedans and have slick cell phones and fancy watches. They radiate optimism, health and confidence.

  The humidity and haze brought the night early upon Shanghai. But the dying sun breaks through on the horizon and momentarily paints the grass and trees with gold. On all sides, the city rises above the park. Its
buildings cut a jagged contour against the ashen sky. The soccer field’s lights come on, creating a luminous halo in the thick air that envelops the city. I watch one of the white cars leave the park and merge into a stream of vehicles. The city is still humming and spinning, people moving in all directions. The purpose in the air is overwhelming.

  Saturday is wedding day. But first Viv and I meet an acquaintance of mine, Min, for lunch. Min is an intellectual that I had met once before through friends. We talked only briefly through a translator, but he had a perspective on history and Mao that was unique. He suggested we meet at a restaurant near his work. Viv is curious why he’s near his office, in the old centre by the river, on the first day of the autumn holiday.

  We head down there early to visit the Bund first. The Bund was the premier boulevard of old Shanghai. Like the Malecón, the seawall that connects all Havana, the Bund has been a defining feature of development in Shanghai. The word bund comes from India by way of English seamen; it means embankment. Old Shanghai lined up against it. All things and all people showed up on the Bund at some point.

  It was on the Bund that Sassoon and Kadoorie set up shop. They were both of Middle Eastern extraction, from Jewish merchant families who had built clever alliances with British imperial traders throughout Mesopotamia and up and down the Arabian and Indian shores. They were men who could get you what you wanted. Moving east with Britain as it expanded its empire and interests, these men gravitated toward Shanghai, which was fast becoming the most important trade city of the Orient.

  From their stone fortresses on the Bund, Shanghai’s merchant houses commanded trade networks connecting London and San Francisco to every port between Basra and Bali. The world’s greatest banks also opened branches in Shanghai, to bankroll increasingly ambitious enterprises in the East. These too stood on the Bund.