Action
The alarm was set for 9.00 but I was awake by 8.00. I sent a text to Kong Jie.
We can’t stand each other. I’ve nowhere to go. I’m packing my stuff and leaving this afternoon at 2.00. Can you come?
Can’t you fix it? she replied.
No, I’ve already bought a train ticket back home for this evening.
There was nothing for a long time. I stared at the phone, my plan falling apart. Relationships never last. What’s important to one person is just piffling dog shit to another.
Just then her reply bleeped onto the screen.
Don’t be too hasty, see if you can fix things first?
Can we talk?
Sure, she replied.
I called her. ‘Can you come, then?’
There was no sound on the other end. She didn’t want to. She was nice to everyone, but I creeped her out. I was an inconvenience.
‘Forget I said anything. It doesn’t matter,’ I said, and hung up.
After a while she sent a message.
I’ll be there. Don’t be upset. No matter how bad things get, they can always be fixed. Trust me.
Thanks.
My reply was deliberately cold. But I was relieved. She was coming.
Old Mr He was making a stir-fry next door; I could hear the metal spoon scraping the bottom of the wok. The sound made my teeth hurt. I took pleasure in knowing that his stupid mutt would soon be dead.
I changed into a T-shirt, put on my cap and went downstairs. It was nearly time for the guards to swap shift. I slapped my flip-flops against the tarmac so that they echoed. The guard looked at me sideways, his hands stuck firmly to the seams of his trousers and his body still, like a sculpture. I walked closer to get a better look. Sweat poured from his hat like rain from the eaves. His fingertips and buttocks were trembling from the strain.
I coughed a few times while I thought of something to say.
‘Hey, buddy, are you on duty this afternoon?’
He turned his face ninety degrees like a robot to look at me and saluted.
‘Yes, until 3.00.’
‘I’ve got a friend coming at 2.00. Could you let them in?’
‘What does he look like?’
‘It’s a girl.’
He smiled meaningfully.
I removed my cap and fanned myself. ‘It’s roasting,’ I said.
‘Sure is,’ he said, taking a moment to relax.
He obviously wanted to chat, but I sauntered off. I loathed everything about his life. I wasn’t going to become friends with him.
There were still a few more hours to kill, so I found a struggling barber’s shop, walked in and announced, ‘My hair’s a mess. I want it sorted.’
They swooped like sparrows, switching on the electric fan, making tea, moving chairs. How did I want it washed? What style was I thinking of? I flicked through a magazine, but they were all hideous.
‘Got anything more normal?’
They fetched another magazine filled with squeaky- clean Japanese and Korean youths. I gesticulated, trying to describe what I wanted, but I couldn’t. At that moment an ageless news anchor appeared on the TV
‘Like that,’ I said, pointing.
I stared at the TV and suddenly it occurred to me that the broadcaster’s every movement, his every word, was a perfect display of his suitability for the job. I asked for pen and paper and started making notes. If you want to gain people’s respect and trust quickly you have to adhere to the following principles:
1 Dress in clean, plain clothing in a palette of sombre colours.
2 Keep hair in a neat side-parting pushed back to the right. No hair must ever fall out of place. Wash it regularly to keep it looking healthy and shiny.
3 Don’t be too expressive.
4 All movements should be sedate, natural and moderate.
5 Head should be kept upright, chin ever so slightly pulled back and a sincere smile should be adopted at all times.
6 Eyes shouldn’t be too open, nor should they glaze over. They should be bright, mild and focused straight ahead (if angled slightly downwards). The person in front of you is always the most important person in the room.
I examined myself in the mirror, but the face staring back at me was the very opposite of this description. My eyes were cold and detached, the corners of my mouth were pulled downwards, my beard was stubbly, my hair pointed in all directions. Lethargy and boredom, which seemed to have grown in me over the years, were etched into my face. I may not have been a criminal yet, but I made a good suspect.
I tried imitating the broadcaster’s demeanour, but it wasn’t easy. Hardest to capture was his overall sense of decorum, and for a while the hairdresser and I found my attempt the funniest thing in the world. But my eyes lit up once the hairdresser was done. I almost didn’t recognise the dignified man looking back at me.
It was still early, so I went to play pool. Being the middle of the morning, the place was empty, so I suggested to the boss that we play a game.
He looked at me sideways and then replied evenly, ‘I don’t really know how to play.’ He was already holding a cue.
‘Me neither.’
He fluffed the break, so I wanted to let him go again, but he said, ‘Rules are rules. No special favours here.’
‘OK,’ I replied, took up my cue and bent over the table awkwardly to make my shot.
The first game was worth fifty, but I didn’t want to win and he was unwilling to pot the balls.
‘I’m rubbish,’ he kept repeating.
I knew he was just bullshitting, waiting for the perfect moment to clear the table. Which he did, swiftly finish ing this game and the next.
He wanted to raise the stake for the third game and I said fine.
‘I want a proper game this time,’ he said, to which I said fine again.
He knew the fight hadn’t risen in me yet, so he continued his pretence, considering each shot carefully, aligning the cue and changing his mind, even though he could’ve made every single one.
I grabbed a beer from the fridge, bit off the cap and took a glug. I closed my eyes. To be honest, I was fed up. It was the same every time I played pool. I’d want to play at first, but by the third game all interest in it would’ve seeped out of me and my opponent would nag me more and more.
This guy wasn’t making real shots, only trying to make mine more difficult. ‘You’re letting me win,’ he said with an ingratiating smile.
I went to take a look. I knew he thought I wouldn’t be able to pot anything, so I bounced the white off the cushion and sank a ball before clearing the table until only the black remained. He looked like a soldier about to be decapitated in battle and put his cue to one side, so I deliberately potted the white. It was his turn now.
‘That was careless, brother.’
‘Buy me a beer,’ I said.
He wanted to play another game, not for money this time, but I shook my head.
‘There’s something I want to say, but I don’t know if you’ll understand. Even though you’re older than me.’ ‘Try me.’
‘Every time I play pool I get this nauseous feeling and I end up thinking I’d be better off dead.’
‘I understand. I understand more than you do.’
Of course he understood. What on earth could be worse than spending your life running a pool shack, watching the balls being racked up and sunk, again and again. It was like Dostoevsky wrote in The House of the Dead: force a prisoner only to pour water from one bucket to another and then back again, within days they’re contemplating suicide, or else how to get the death penalty.
For lunch I ate fried chicken wings, my Last Supper, and bought a cheap razor. Back at home, I waited and made sure everything was in place. I felt like a craftsman admiring his handiwork.