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Authors: Maureen F. McHugh

China Mountain Zhang (19 page)

BOOK: China Mountain Zhang
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“Zhang,” I answer. Lenin and Mao Zedong, my
huaqiao
name! “I suffer for the sins of my parents,” I add, a glib response, a play on Marxist-Leninist-Mao Zedong thought which says the child is formed by the parents and the son of the landlord is also a landlord, even if he owns no land. Only after I have said it do I think, I am in China and I don’t know this man and I watch to see if he is offended.
Not at all. He grins. “Come in,” he says.
His dormitory. How can I say what it is like to walk into Haitao’s dormitory? His name means “Sea-wave” although a better translation is tidal wave. The room is blue and lightfish swim lazily near the ceiling, skeletons aglow. His room faces out, looking at the city—Chen’s and my room faces into the inner well—and the city is going to smoky twilight, so it seems as if the blue goes on and on. Furniture is soft, dusky shapes.
He waves his hand and the room programming picks up. Lightfish flicker into shadows and are gone and the light comes up, the window dims, and suddenly the room is bright. The furniture revealed shifts chameleon-like to rose and the pale yellow walls seem to be textured, like cotton.
“Nice room,” I say.
“Thanks,” he says. “Can I get you a beer? Nanjing beer.”
Nanjing beer is supposed to be very good. “Thank you, but I can’t. New kidneys.”
“That’s right, you’ve been sick,” he says.
I tell it briefly, tired already of explaining and not wanting to bore him. He makes me nervous. He is polished, his clothes casual and, to my eye, expensive. I think to myself I will remember that open shirt, the brushed gray tights, the calf-high boots. Look for something like that. I wonder what he thinks of me in my American clothes, looking
huaqiao
and appearing with the outlandish name of Zhang Zhong Shan.
“How tiresome for you,” he says, with sympathy. “How do you like China?”
I am ready to march out the platitudes but I don’t. “I don’t know, I’ve spent most of the time here in bed.”
He laughs. My foolish heart, I am in love with him. This polished young man with his perfect clothes. He cannot be bent, I cannot be so lucky, and yet, and yet.
Does he dance? That’s the way to tell. When a straight man meets a straight woman, they dance. When I meet someone bent, we dance. It is so subtle. I only know when I meet a straight man, he doesn’t dance. It seems to me that Haitao and I are dancing, watching each other’s faces a little longer, responding by looking away or with swift nervous smiles. But this is China, maybe I’m crossing cultural signals. I’m lonely and I want this young man, this polished tidal wave, to be like me. To like me.
We start at the beginning and he grounds me in engineering. He’s a pretty good teacher, he understands my need to know what something means. I arrange to come back on Thursday.
That evening I stop in the arcade and buy a copy of a magazine called
Xiansheng,
a men’s magazine I’ve picked up once in awhile in New York. It’s as expensive here as it is in New York. Beautiful men in shirts that shimmer like lacquer and silk jackets brocaded with cranes and dragons. The sweaters have hoods. Everyone is wearing those calf-high boots that Haitao had on.
Thursday I have class from eight to ten (a math class) and then I am free until three. I go shopping.
I head north up Daqing Lu, the street is lined with stores. I stop and look in windows, the prices are ghastly. I have some of my Baffin Island salary on credit plus a stipend from the University. Because I study technology, my only cost was getting here, the rest is scholarship. Getting here was expensive enough. Clothes are five times what they would cost at home. And strange. The refinements of fashion look awkward to my untutored eyes. First I buy a pair of those skintight calf-high boots. I feel confident about those.
Then a pair of rust-colored coveralls. I’ve seen people in these and I have good shoulders. I think the coveralls will flatter me. I finger a brocade jacket, all yellow with circles of long life worked in it and stylized blue waves across the bottom. So expensive, three weeks of my inflated Baffin Island salary for a jacket. And I don’t know what it means. What kind of person would wear this jacket, what does it say about the wearer?
If I don’t know then it would undoubtedly call out,
“Huaqiao
with more money than sense.”
So I buy conservatively, spending money to blend in, not to impress. How painful. But when I think of my sweaters with the leather ties and the mirrors and look out at Daqing Lu, filled with shoppers and scooters and segmented buses, I can only wince. If Haitao ever saw the way I dressed at home … At least I will not embarrass myself.
That night I study engineering and think of questions to ask Haitao. I want to catch on quickly, be brilliant. After an hour and a half of study I’m drawn back to
Xiansheng.
I study the clothes, but more closely I study the ads. The regular features show some sort of fashionable ideal, but the ads, they show something that has to pass for everyday life. A different ideal.
I wish I had someone to talk to, someone to compare notes with. Not Xiao Chen, who dresses like a tech; coveralls that he could
have worn twenty years ago, and will probably be wearing twenty years from now, all in grays and navy blues. Peter. But Peter is in Brooklyn and I am in China.
I write him a letter that begins, “I’m in love again.” It’s ten here in Nanjing, so it’s morning in Brooklyn and he’s at work. Well, the letter will be waiting for him when he gets home. “Love from the Middle Kingdom, Zhang.” And then I hit transmit.
 
 
Does he take in my new clothes when his eyes flicker over me? It is hard to tell. Maybe the rust coveralls are wrong? “Hello,” he says. His room is all the color of a sunset until he rather absently waves his hand and then the only sunset is outside his window. And himself, dressed in a thigh-length tunic that shifts from red at the neck to indigo at the hem. The same brushed gray tights and calf-high boots.
He is distant and preoccupied this evening. I don’t know how to act, so I open my book and feign diligence.
“You teach well,” I say after awhile.
“Thank you,” he says. “I was a teacher.”
“Of engineering?” I say, surprised. I thought he was a student.
“No, I taught physics in middle school.”
I had thought him younger than me. “What made you quit?” I ask, wondering, are those wrinkles at the corners of his eyes? Is he older than I am? He is an engineering marvel, full of suggested cables and supports, tense under his easiness.
He shrugs. “No money in teaching. No
guanxi,
either. Fifteen year olds aren’t very good people to make connections with.”
“How did you get reassigned?” I ask without thinking.
“A friend,” he says vaguely. “How did you get to school?”
“I was a construction tech on an island in the Arctic Circle for a year. I got special placement.” I shouldn’t have asked him how he got to school. Teaching is an assigned job, a work unit job, cradle to grave security but the drawback is that it’s hard to
change. Like the Army. Not like my job, which is a free market job, but has no health care, no security, almost no protection. I get a housing allowance, but except for the Baffin Island job I’ve never had assigned housing until Nanjing. But I can quit any time I want to, go to employment and get on the job assignment list.
How did he get permission to leave his work unit to come to school? Maybe he has a lover with connections?
I smile to myself. I don’t even know if he’s gay and already I think he’s got a lover in the Army or something.
“That’s a secret smile,” he remarks.
“Thinking about how different it is here,” I say.
“What’s the biggest difference?” he asks.
I think for a moment. Everything is different. In New York I ride a subway system built sometime in the 1900’s, here buses segment and flow off in different directions. There’s a city above the city, a lacework super-structure that supports thousands of four-tower living units and work complexes like the University complex we live in; what they call the
xin gongshe,
new communes. And there’s the constant assault of Chinese, I get hungry for someone to speak English with. The food. I ate Chinese and Thai food at home, but not all the time. And there’s food here I’ve never seen or heard of, from Australia and South America and Africa, at outrageous prices. Everyone here seems rich.
I laugh. “At home, I knew what was going on, and if I had something to talk about, I called somebody and talked to them. Here”—it is my turn to shrug—“I am not quite sure what will happen, what things mean, and I don’t have anyone to talk to about it.” I glance at him, to see how he takes it.
He looks thoughtful.
It’s time to leave, I stand. “I am sure you are tired,” I say politely.
“Oh, no,” he says, equally as polite.
We go through the ritual of leaving. I realize I am taller than
he is, although not by much. This is important to me in some secret way.
“Saturday,” he says, “perhaps you would like some extra tutoring? Not suggesting that you aren’t picking it up fast,” he adds, smiling.
“I’d like that,” I say.
“Of course, the class is most important,” he says, “but it never hurts to have a little left-handed help.”
Left-handed. My heart starts to hammer. It is all code, he is testing me. Or perhaps it’s an accident, he just used the phrase, unaware that it can have any other meaning. Back home, straights are right-handed, we are left. Not really, of course, just slang.
“Thanks,” I say, “I’m grateful, and I always appreciate a little left-handed help.”
“Oh,” he says, politely delighted, “I wasn’t sure you would.”
“More than you know,” I say. “It’s very lonely here for a
huaqiao.
”
“I think a
huaqiao
like yourself should make very many friends quickly. You do not really have to go yet, do you?”
I am filled with terror and joy. “Well, perhaps if you are not too busy,” I say. I am all desire, and I see he is as well. My knees are loosened, I feel as if I am seventeen again, waiting in the dark on Coney Island beach for someone to come along, while the smell of ash rolls off the burning harbor.
“Wait,” he says, and does something swiftly with the room. The lights darken towards rose and then the sunset is inside the room, and the world is dark outside. Nanjing is lights that go on up the Yangtze River to the horizon; the river is marked by a curving road of lightlessness.
“I cannot believe this,” I whisper.
“What can’t you believe?” he asks, laughing softly.
“That you are here,” I say, cliche, I know, but things become cliche because they express truths. And I cannot believe he is here.
We are waiting for something, I don’t know what but we wait. I am shaking and aroused, he doesn’t know what it is like to be alone in a foreign country. He doesn’t know. And if he knew how badly I want him, would he want me at all?
“Lai, lai,
” he says. Come here.
So for a few hours I can pretend that I’m not alone.
 
 
If to come is the
petit mort,
the little death—and it seems to me it is because everything is burned away for that brief, explosive time—then waking up in someone’s bed is resurrection. It’s only a little death and a correspondingly sordid resurrection. It is not life that falls on me so much as obligation. I have engineering at nine A.M. and I am in Haitao’s bed. At the hour before dawn I’m rarely in love.
I sit up, Haitao stirs and opens his eyes. His hair is a mess and he is naked and ordinary, as am I.
“I must go,” I tell him.
“Weishemma”?
Why?
“I have engineering and I have to study.”
He sits up, “Wait,” he says, “I’ll make tea.”
Rituals, the same here as at home. You never let the coney go without making him breakfast, even though by that time you often can’t stand the sight of each other.
“Bei-keqi,
” I murmur. Do not be polite.
He protests a little, but I dress and apologize for my rudeness in leaving so abruptly and asking him to understand. “I’ll see you Saturday,” I promise, not particularly wanting to at this moment, but knowing that by tonight I’ll be thinking about nothing else. I press him gently back to the bed, and leave him going to sleep.
My eyes are thick, I’m slow. The hall is silent and dark and the lift opens with a sigh. I cross the empty arcade and stop to watch the sunrise. A sunrise is a special thing, I’ve lived north of the Arctic Circle, where night lasts for months. Then up to the suite
where I shower and make coffee, and sit down to study my engineering.
Engineering is better that morning. I am beginning to follow what is going on, and I find I study better in the morning than I do at night. But once engineering is over, I think of Haitao. Will he want to see me again? I think of how many people I have wanted only once, maybe it was only the unexpectedness of the moment, the always incestuous discovery of our particular brotherhood, that interested him.
BOOK: China Mountain Zhang
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