He peered into the narrow screen, and Phoebe was worried that he didn’t know how to work the camera. But as he held it out he said, “This phone is so old. My grandson had a phone like this three years ago when he was still in middle school.” It made her laugh, and in the photo she appears sunny-faced and natural, full of the promise of the bounteous years ahead of her.
As she looked at the photo on the computer screen, she knew it was just the right kind of photo to have on her profile — taken by someone else, a friend on an outing, maybe even a boyfriend. It made her appear desirable, unlike the kind of blurry self-shot images where the person was always looking up at the camera, the kind that instantly told the viewer: I have no friends. She wrote a few lines about herself, a professional career-oriented young woman with experience of foreign work and travel. She gave her true age and stated that she wanted to meet respectable, successful men. Within minutes of posting her profile, she began to get requests from men she didn’t know, who all wanted to get to know her better. She was overwhelmed; she never imagined she could be so popular. Suddenly the whole of Shanghai seemed full of friends and potential partners, thousands of them. She typed replies to the people she deemed the most suitable, her fingers moving across the keyboard, trying to keep up with several conversations at once, but it was difficult; she was not used to typing so much, and she knew she was making mistakes. Sorry for the delays in my replies, she said, as some of the men became impatient. It was thrilling to chat to people she barely knew, and she began to imagine what some of them might be like — rich, handsome, successful.
But very soon she saw that many of them were just high school and college kids who were having some online fun — they said so themselves. They had no intention of ever meeting up. She became angry that they were wasting her time, so she learned how to block them from contacting her. Young people were no use to her; she needed to meet successful adults. She was not interested in pimply adolescents. Some men seemed okay when they first started chatting, but gradually Phoebe would discover something wrong with them.
To tell you the truth, I am married, so I am just looking for casual fun.
Actually, my age is 61, not 29, but I am still very energetic and strong.
Honestly, I really do drive a Ferrari and I live in a luxurious penthouse apartment, but you cannot visit me, because my grandmother lives with me and she is disapproving of the girls I meet — you should not suspect me of being a factory worker!
My Internet business is going so well at the moment, but I have cashflow problems. Could you lend me 2,000 yuan and I will pay you back on our first date?
I am not so interested in knowing what your favorite ice cream flavor is. Right now I am imagining lifting your skirt and touching your thighs higher and higher until …
Some men became angry when she took a bit longer to reply. They were pushy and some said impolite things to her. But she couldn’t type very fast, and it was hard to keep so many chats going at once. She soon learned to tell which men were educated, because they were the ones who typed their answers very quickly, but she also discovered that educated men often used the most obscene words. And then there were men who seemed nice at first, but soon it was clear that they were just out to trick her. Even though she did not know what they could possibly cheat her out of, she sensed that they were bad people who were up to no good. She heard stories all the time, tales of swindlers and liars—bamboozlers. She did not want to be one of those poor victims who got bamboozled.
One by one, Phoebe began to delete her newly made friends, blocking each one until her contact list showed only a couple of guys — guys who had said hello, how are you, but had not yet had the chance to show how deceitful and black-spirited they were. She began to get random messages from men that didn’t even start with a greeting, just shameless suggestions for physical relations, most probably high school students, but who knew, maybe they were frustrated middle-aged husbands and fathers. She knew it was because she had a nice profile picture, which she should replace with something fake or a neutral image, something like a cartoon character. A superhuman character with great strength, maybe. That would deter everyone with unsavory intentions. She would become like so many other people in cyberspace, hiding behind an image of something other than themselves. But as she looked at the photo of herself, she hesitated. Her eyes were glowing with laughter and promise, and the vegetation behind her was so lush it reminded her of her home. She could not bring herself to delete this image from her profile. When the rest of Shanghai looked at her, she did not want them to see just a gray shadow of a nobody; she wanted them to see her, Phoebe Chen Aiping.
She looked at her brand-new fake Omega watch. It was 6:55 P.M. She had not realized how late it was — she had spent nearly four hours in the Internet café. She double-checked the time on the computer, in case the watch she had been sold was a dud. It was still 6:55. She looked one last time at the photo of herself, just as another message popped up on-screen. Little miss, hello, I like your profile, would you like to chat? I think we might be compatible. She closed the page and signed herself off the computer.
When she got home, the room was dark and Yanyan was asleep on the bed, wrapped up in a thin blanket. The windows were open and there was a slight chill to the evening air. Phoebe stood at the window and looked at the blinking red and pale-gold lights of the cars trailing their way through the traffic. The street stalls had their lights on now, the plumes of smoke from the little charcoal grills rising into the night air.
“Where have you been, you’re very late,” Yanyan said quietly.
“Trying to find work. Why are you in bed so early? It’s barely eight o’clock.”
“I haven’t gotten out of bed all day.”
“Oh, Yanyan.” Phoebe sighed as she sat down on the bed next to Yanyan. “Not again. What are we going to do?”
As night fell, the giant hole in the construction site below the window looked black and infinite, as if it were ready to swallow up the cranes and bulldozers around it. Maybe Yanyan and she and everyone in their building would disappear into the hole too, Phoebe thought.
“Come, I’ll make some dinner,” she said.
Yanyan sat up and pulled her knees to her chest, shielding her eyes as Phoebe turned on the light. The single fluorescent strip bathed the room in a harsh white glow.
“Only instant noodles again, sorry,” Phoebe said.
“It’s better than eating a banquet on your own,” Yanyan replied quietly.
Later, once Yanyan had settled back in bed, Phoebe opened her “Journal of My Secret Self.” She had not written in it for some days. She paused, knowing that Yanyan was not yet asleep — her breathing was even and almost soundless. Phoebe needed solitude when she wrote in her journal; she had become used to being alone when confronting her fears. It was easier that way, for she could be as weak and fearful as she wanted and there would be no one to witness it. She turned off the light and waited in the darkness. When she heard Yanyan’s breaths turn heavy with dream sleep, she held her mobile phone next to her journal and began to scribble a few lines in the ghostly blue light.
Time is flying past you, Phoebe Chen Aiping; you know you are being defeated. You are a new person here in Shanghai; you must dare to do things the old you would not have done. Forget who you were, forget who you are. Become someone else.