Chenxi and the Foreigner

by Sally Rippin

  Chenxi and the Foreigner

  Sally Rippin was born in Darwin but spent much of her childhood in South-East Asia. At nineteen she moved to China for three years to study traditional Chinese painting in Shanghai and Hangzhou. Now she lives in Melbourne where she writes, illustrates, and teaches at RMIT university. She has had over twenty books published for children of all ages, many of them award-winning. For more information visit www.sallyrippin.com.

  Chenxi

  and the

  Foreigner

  Sally Rippin

  Text Publishing Melbourne Australia

  The Text Publishing Company

  Swann House

  22 William Street

  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  www.textpublishing.com.au

  Copyright © Sally Rippin 2008

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  First published in a different form by Lothian Books 2002

  This edition published 2008

  Design by Chong

  Typeset by J & M Typesetting

  Printed and bound by Griffin Press

  ISBN 978 1 921351 358

  To Chenxi

  Contents

  Chenxi and the Foreigner

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  1

  The lights turned green at the intersection of Huai Hai and Hua Shan roads and a hundred or more cyclists lunged forward dinging their bells. An old lady hopped back onto the footpath to avoid the crush.

  From a stop up ahead, a battered white bus lurched into the street. A young cyclist broke from the mass, squinting into the pollution and pedalling fast. The bus steadied and groaned and the cyclist pedalled faster, faster, until he was in line with its rear window. Leaning towards the bus, he drew close and stretched out his hand, arching his fingers. Just as the bus ground up a gear and seemed to churn out of reach, the young man grabbed hold of the open window.

  Chenxi perched both feet on the rusted bar of his Flying Pigeon bicycle and was carried through the steamy streets of Shanghai, his thick black ponytail flipping in the wind.

  At the corner of Yandang Lu, where the music from the conservatory drifted through the dappled light of the plane trees, the bus slowed to turn left. Chenxi waited until the last minute then pushed off. Feet still up on the bar, he rolled halfway down the cul-de-sac before the bike wobbled to a halt. He chuckled. Next time if he pushed off a little harder he might make it right to the end of the street.

  Chenxi lowered a foot to the pavement. He dug into the pocket of his baggy army surplus trousers and pulled out a folded piece of paper, smoothing it flat with his ink-stained fingers. He needn’t have bothered looking at it. In this quiet street there was only one building where a foreigner would live. He squinted up at the shining tower that overlooked Fuxing Park. Black gates, freshly painted, discouraged any local visitors. A sentry lounged in the gateway sipping green tea from a Nescafé jar.

  In 1989 foreigners in China lived differently from the locals. It was not only their obvious wealth, but the way that they never completely integrated; driving around in their shiny cars like goldfish in glass bowls and living high above street level. Chenxi was curious to find out what lay behind all that double-glazing.

  He pushed back the sweaty fringe from his forehead. Just the day before a German student had said that, with his long ponytail and baggy khaki trousers, he could almost pass for a foreigner. Overseas Chinese perhaps, or even Japanese? He wheeled his bike forward. He would see just how Japanese he could look.

  ‘Eh!’ the sentry called out, suddenly alert.

  Chenxi ignored him and put his hand on the gate.

  ‘Ay! Ay! Ay! Ay!’ The old man stood up. ‘Gan ma?’

  Chenxi pushed the gate open.

  ‘Tamade!’ The old man swore to himself in Shanghainese. He strode towards Chenxi. ‘What do you think you are doing, boy?’

  Chenxi sniggered before turning around. The old dog had switched from dialect to Mandarin. He had fallen for Chenxi’s bluff. These old guys never used Mandarin to speak to locals. Maybe he really could pass for a foreigner? He decided to see how far he could go with his pretence. Smiling a polite smile, he said, in his most scholarly Mandarin, ‘I live here!’

  ‘Rubbish!’ the old man snarled, reverting to Shanghainese. ‘I know everyone who lives here! Who are you? What do you want?’

  Chenxi rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘I’m visiting someone!’

  The old sentry sneered. He had only one responsibility in life. It wasn’t a big one, but he would use his meagre power for all it was worth.

  ‘Listen,’ he hissed, making sure Chenxi heard each word. ‘Under no circumstance whatsoever will I allow you to enter this building. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever! Now, get lost!’

  Chenxi shook his head in contempt and pulled the letter out of his pocket. Even before it was unfolded, the official red stamp shone through the thin rice paper. The old man snatched the paper and held it up, peering at the elaborate calligraphy.

  ‘Shanghai College of Fine Arts,’ he read aloud after a full minute of silent examination. ‘Huh! I should have expected it—an art student,’ he snorted.

  Grudgingly, he pushed open the gate. Chenxi wheeled his bike past, extracting the paper from the trembling hands.

  ‘Next time, you won’t be coming in, my son! I’ll see to that!’ he called after Chenxi. ‘I’ll remember you!’

  ‘Get fucked!’ Chenxi said under his breath in English.

  ‘You must be Chenksy,’ Mr White said, holding out his hand. Even after three years in Shanghai, where he had set up his Australian engineering company, the pronunciation of Chinese names still escaped him.

  ‘Chen-see,’ Chenxi corrected and stepped into the room. He made no show of hiding his curiosity at seeing the inside of a foreigner’s apartment for the first time.

  ‘Yes, yes, well…sit down, sit down,’ Mr White said, gesturing towards the living area. ‘My daughter, Anna, will be out in a minute.’

  Chenxi took his time. Wandering down the hallway after Mr White, he paused to pick up antique vases and peer at Chinese paintings along the way. At an immaculately restored rosewood cabinet he stopped and let his fingers brush over the inlaid mother-of-pearl. ‘How much you pay for that?’

  Mr White was taken aback. ‘Er…Three thousand yuan, I think.’ When he saw the scorn in the young man’s face, he added, ‘I know, I know, I paid too much!’ He sat on one of the ivory silk couches, encouraging Chenxi to do the same.

  Instead, Chenxi strolled over to a blue and white vase on the windowsill and held it to his ear. He tapped the fine ceramic with his finger and shut his eyes, listening to the resonance. Mr White winced.

  When Anna walked into the room, her father was perched on the edge of the couch, face tense. She looked for the source of his anxiety but something in her had already registered the young man’s presence.

  Her father cleared his throat. ‘Chen-see. My daughter…’ and the young man turned to face her.

  Anna stood transfixed.

  ‘Ming,’ Chenxi said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Mr White and Anna together.

  ‘Ming. Ming Dynasty,’ Chenxi said impatiently.

  ‘Well, yes. Yes, I suppose it is...’ Mr White stammered.

  ‘How much you pay?’

  ‘What? Oh, I don’t know. I can’t remember. I bought it at the anti
que market. Look,’ he said flustered. ‘We’d better talk about what Anna needs for her art classes. She has a bike, I’ve arranged that, although I expect for the first week or so she might want to go by taxi. I know you’re eighteen, love, but Shanghai is quite tricky to get around. Chen-see, I thought you could take her today to get some brushes, paper, whatever she needs. Here,’ he said, thrusting a wad of Foreign Exchange Certificates into Chenxi’s hand. He guessed the boy had never held F.E.C. before. ‘That should cover it.’

  Chenxi flipped through the crisp paper notes, then looked up, grinning. ‘We can buy whole shop with this!’

  Mr White was used to the bluntness of the locals, but this one was breathtaking. ‘That will cover a taxi, too, if you need one, and, er…any other costs you might...’ He was about to say ‘incur’, but thought better of it, sorting through his vocabulary carefully for a phrase a Chinese man might understand. ‘A bit of money for you, too, hey? For your trouble?’ He took Chenxi’s hand in both of his and patted it.

  Anna tried to read Chenxi’s eyes. Her father had assured her he knew how to deal with the locals but his obvious condescension towards the young man made her skin prickle. She prided herself on her ability to read faces, but looking at Chenxi Anna was stumped.

  ‘Well, I must get back to work,’ Mr White said. ‘I’ll leave you young people to it. I trust you’ll look after Anna, won’t you, Chen-see? Good, good. Well then, I’m off. My car will be waiting downstairs.’

  He picked up his black leather briefcase and walked towards the door. As his fingers touched the handle, he hesitated and turned. ‘Zaijain!’ he said, testing his Chinese. ‘Goodbye!’ He would show the young man that there was no pulling the wool over his eyes.

  Chenxi nodded, and turned back to the vase he had been studying.

  Anna watched the young man as he walked around the room. His movements were assured and graceful. The skin on his sinewy forearms was dark honey and hairless, as if carved from smooth rosewood.

  Chenxi turned and found her staring at him. She blushed.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Where is your toilet?’

  They had spoken at the same time.

  ‘Sorry? Oh, yes. Over there. That door on the left.’

  As Chenxi left the room Anna prayed that she had flushed properly, but she needn’t have worried. He had only gone to see if it was true that foreigners were so rich they sat on toilet seats of gold. Chenxi was out again immediately, smiling to himself at the money he would make from his classroom bet.

  Anna, for her part, couldn’t wait to go shopping with this gorgeous young man. Visiting her father in Shanghai was already turning out better than she had hoped.

  2

  ‘For paint traditional Chinese style,’ Chenxi announced, ‘you must learn how master “Four Treasures”. Number one treasure is brush.’

  Anna picked up the light bamboo brush and turned it over in her hand. It was smooth and speckled brown like a bird’s egg and the long white bristles were hardened to a fine point. She signed her name in a spiral of air-calligraphy before putting it back in the embroidered silk box. She looked up at Chenxi.

  He frowned at the brushes nestled in their frivolously decorative box. ‘Too expensive!’

  Anna sighed and placed them back on the dusty display shelf.

  Chenxi called to the skinny young man who was picking at his teeth as he leaned against the counter. The man yawned and slid open a metal drawer behind him. Taking out a handful of identical brushes he tossed them on the counter in front of Chenxi before taking up his original position and resuming work on his teeth.

  Chenxi held the brushes one by one and inspected them. First he closed his eyes and jiggled the weight of the brush in his palm. Then he took off the long plastic cover and pulled at the bristles. The bristles of one of the brushes came out in a clump in his palm. He snorted and pushed the scraggly brush towards the salesman, who refused to be distracted from his teeth. Chenxi held each of the brushes to one eye and peered down the length before rolling them under his flattened palm on the counter. Each brush received this scrutiny until, of the half a dozen, only one remained.

  Anna watched, fascinated, as Chenxi commanded another handful of bigger brushes from the bored salesman and went through the same procedure. Then again and again, until ten minutes later she had six perfect brushes of various sizes lying neatly as a pan flute.

  ‘Number two treasure is paper,’ Chenxi said.

  The salesman slid off his stool and shuffled over to the wide shelves of stacked and folded rice paper. He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and massaged the bridge of his nose as he stood waiting for Chenxi’s order. Choosing the second treasure seemed an easier task. Chenxi gave instructions to the salesman, who heaved a roll of paper off the shelf and brought it to the counter.

  ‘For start student xuan zhi is OK,’ Chenxi said.

  He picked up a corner of the paper and pressed his tongue against it. When he pulled it away the damp paper was transparent. Chenxi nodded and helped the salesman peel off five metre-long sheets.

  ‘Third and fourth treasure…Ink stone and ink stick.’

  Anna raised her eyebrows. Chenxi rummaged through a worn cardboard box on the counter. He chose a cellophane-wrapped ink stick and passed it to Anna. She looked at the long black block of ink in her palm. It wasn’t as intricately decorated as some of those on display—Chenxi was economising—but with its twisted gold and red dragons, silver-embossed clouds and etched calligraphy, still looked too pretty to use. While Anna was wondering how ink was made from this solid block, Chenxi crossed the room.

  On another counter a surly woman had placed four identical ink stones, all of them smooth and as dark as coaldust. On each was a flat circular stone lid, which Chenxi tested for an exact fit. He held his ear to the hollow scraping noise as he twisted the lids and rejected all four of them. The woman let out an exasperated grunt and fossicked under the counter.

  ‘Oh, that one looks fine to me!’ Anna protested, trying to please, but Chenxi glared at her.

  As if to prove Anna’s ignorance, Chenxi rejected the next three stones, and the saleswoman searched under the counter again. Groaning, she laid out in turn the last five she had in stock, and stood back, arms crossed, lips pressed. Anna tried to exchange a sympathetic smile with her, but the woman looked away.

  The last stone passed the test and Chenxi carried the fourth treasure to yet another counter where the first three had been wrapped in bundles of brown paper and string. Chenxi pulled out a clump of grubby notes from his pocket, counting them to a saleslady sitting in a booth. That’s odd, Anna thought, didn’t my father give him new bank notes?

  The woman checked the money. After writing in a large receipt book, she tore off yellow, white and pink pages and used a large bulldog clip to attach them to the notes. She fastened this to a pulley and string, which began in the booth at desk height and stretched right across the shop.

  Anna watched the money and the receipts jiggle up along the string, over her head, until they disappeared into a small hole near the ceiling on the other side of the room. A few minutes later, the bundle jiggled back down, minus the notes and the pink sheet of paper, but with the addition of a small plastic coin bag.

  The saleslady unclipped the two remaining sheets of paper, now adorned with a sticky red stamp, and handed the white copy to Chenxi. The yellow copy she put into a drawer, then tossed a few plastic coins from the small bag across the counter to him. He pocketed the coins and handed the receipt to Anna, who was struggling with all the brown paper packages, and then sauntered out of the shop.

  In the street after the cool darkness of the art shop, Anna wondered how much time had passed. She had only been in Shanghai a day and it was easy to lose track of where she was amid the damp grey heat, the unfamiliar smells of fish and rancid beancurd, and the constant ebb and flow of the crowds. It was late April, the middle of spring in China, but the heat was so different fr
om the dry sunny spring days she was familiar with. Besides, when she had left Melbourne, the weather was already cooling into autumn and the contrast made it difficult for Anna to acclimatise. She hoped she would get used to the heat soon as she only had four weeks in Shanghai to study at the art college and, now that she had met Chenxi, Anna knew they would go quickly.

  Chenxi hailed a taxi. As they slipped into the airconditioning, Anna felt light-headed. Was it the heat outside or the proximity of Chenxi’s smooth arm to her mottled pink one?

  From the back seat it was impossible to see through the crowds of bicycles. The driver, one hand on the wheel, one on the horn, inched forward, the sea of cyclists opening to let him pass, then closing behind him. Occasionally Anna felt a bicycle bump off the car body. The smiling face of Mao swung in a red tassled frame from the rear-vision mirror. ‘Why would he have a photo of a dead leader in his taxi?’ Anna laughed.

  ‘To protect him,’ Chenxi smiled. ‘Some years ago, two taxi drivers have a bad accident and only one driver not killed. He have portrait of Mao in his taxi and he tell everyone that is why he not die in this terrible accident. Now many taxi drivers have Mao in their taxis. To keep them safe. Old China very superstitious country.’

  He winked at Anna and her heart skipped a beat. Feeling her cheeks flush under Chenxi’s gaze, she turned back to look out the window on her side. From the radio came the whining and cymbal clashing of Beijing Opera. A large Nescafé jar of what looked like warm pond-weed sloshed between the driver’s thighs. Now and then he picked it up and, expertly unlidding it with one hand, slurped from its contents.

  Chenxi chatted with the driver, who glanced into the mirror to get a better look at Anna. He seemed captivated by her blond unruly hair, which frizzed disobediently in the humid Shanghai weather. She sat with the parcels on her lap and stared out the window. Her cooling sweat, along with the fine down on Chenxi’s arm, pricked her skin into goosebumps. She wished she could think of something to say to him, but felt girlish and shy. Now was the opportunity, she scolded herself, running through her repertoire of opening lines.