I tried texting Daisy in Yangshuo. Said I was a friend of “David.” No response. Alice said she was sure Daisy was still in Shantou. Maybe she was busy. Maybe she just doesn’t want to have anything to do with a supposed friend of David’s.
It’s a six-and-a-half-hour ride from Guangzhou to Shantou. I have a soft seat by the window. No point in getting a sleeper, I figure. I shoulder my backpack up onto the luggage rack and sit. Stare out the window at the passing city, the endless glassy towers, high-rise housing complexes, clusters of shorter apartment blocks, cream and redbrick.
Sometimes the black moods come over me like someone dropped a giant load of sand on my head. It hits me hard, drops me to the ground, but it’s soft at the same time, molds to my body almost, and I don’t know how to shake it off. I’m weighed down, like I’m drowning in it.
Just because you feel this way now, that doesn’t mean you’re always going to feel this way. The army shrink told me that. “Feelings are transient,” he said. I think he was some sort of weird military Buddhist.
“You let yourself feel them, observe what they are, let them go. And you think of a time when you used to feel different.”
I try. I don’t have to go back too far, just to when I was riding the bike in Yangshuo. That felt good-that is, until I went riding after crazy Russell and he pulled a knife on me.
I go back further. Think about being with Lao Zhang. Lying there curled up against him on his old couch in his studio. Or sitting there watching him paint. That used to feel like home, almost.
But it’s not home anymore, and there’s no point in thinking about it. His studio is gone, smashed into rubble like all the artists’ spaces at Mati Village. He’s gone, and I don’t know if he’s ever coming back. And if he did?
Sometimes I want to pretend like it was some great love, you know? But it wasn’t. I don’t think I even know how to feel that kind of big emotion. If I ever did, it got blown up, along with everything else.
We were friends, that’s all.
I just want to hole up somewhere and get loaded.
Not an option, I tell myself.
I need to call Daisy again. Set up a meeting if I can.
After that I’m going to go to my hotel, watch some stupid TV, and drink beer. Try not to tip over the edge.
My Shantou hotel, the Brilliant Star Inn, is close to the factory where Daisy works, and it also advertises “convenient traffic.” Far from the city center of anonymous skyscrapers and broad avenues, out in a suburb of beat-down concrete slabs stained with dark mold. The hotel is a five-story box painted yellow, topped with tinted glass. It has free Internet, and that’s the main thing I care about.
I get there a little before 4:00 P.M. No answer from Daisy when I call.
So I do some more research on Daisy’s employer, Furong Wanju Zhizaochang, which means something like “rich prosperity toy factory.” Of course they’re on the Web. Engaged in the manufacture of “model cars, airplanes, model action figures, lucky chicken, the fashion doll, small farmer series toys, main bubble gun toys, and the UFO maze.” Their clients supposedly include Mattel and Disney. “We have always persisted in the business philosophy of first-class quality, sincere services, persistent innovation, leading ideas, nonstop progress, effective integration, humanistic harmony, sustainable development. We sincerely hope to become friendly with all walks of life partner, welcome customers at home and abroad to visit, guidance, and seek common development! Let’s join hands to create mutual glory!”
Sounds like a sweatshop to me.
“I think Daisy works till six,” Alice had told me. And she swore Daisy was still working there, “in the office. I talk to her a few days ago.”
Okay, so I’ll just go there, station myself near the entrance, and wait for her.
Alice showed me a photo of Daisy, of the two of them grinning behind the reception desk. Daisy is taller than Alice, has longer hair, a knowing smile.
Alice is cute. Daisy is beautiful. At least that’s how it looks in the photo.
THE FACTORY IS SURROUNDED by a concrete wall with an entrance gate of green-speckled tile pillars, shiny gold characters spelling out the factory name fixed on a green-speckled tile arch spanning the pillars. Racks of bicycles and mopeds flank it on either side.
I position myself across the street where there’s a little market and a tiny restaurant serving “dry noodles” and tea. They have several outdoor tables, with red-and-white umbrellas possibly swiped from a McDonald’s that say I’M LOVIN’ IT! I sit at one of those. Order some noodles and tea. And wait.
I’m not there too long before a shift lets out. A steady stream of workers, wearing some kind of factory uniform, red-and-yellow polo shirts that remind me of what the Chinese team for the Beijing Olympics wore. They are almost all young women. Shit, they look like fucking teenagers, most of them.
They come across the street, exhausted and giggling. Mob the market, chatting in dialects I don’t understand, buying snacks. Water. Phone cards. A few come to the restaurant and order tea. Linger under the shade trees that break up the concrete monotony. Others go up the block, to the beauty salon, to the little storefronts selling spangled T-shirts, hacked DVDs, maybe even to a suspect karaoke dive-whatever they do to pass the time for not a lot of money.
I sit. Sip my tea. Wait.
Before too long a number of the girls in their red-and-yellow polos go back into the factory grounds. To their dormitories, I’m guessing. Or to the dining hall, where they get to eat their rice and boiled chicken feet that come with the job. Or, who knows, maybe to work a second shift.
I really want a beer.
Later, I tell myself. Later. I’ll wait a little while longer, and if Daisy doesn’t show up, I’ll go back to the hotel, drink a couple beers, get some sleep, and check out in the morning. Head back to Beijing.
Or maybe just go someplace else. Like Tibet. Or Inner Mongolia. See some monks. Ride a fucking pony.
I lift my hand to call the waitress. “Fuwuyuan. Zai lai yihu cha.” Bring me some more tea.
And I don’t even like tea.
Seven o’clock. It’s dark. Starting to get, if not exactly chilly, cold enough for me to zip up my hoodie. I’m thinking it’s about time to call this. Tell Dog… well, you know, I tried.
That’s when Daisy exits the factory grounds.
It has to be Daisy. Even in the dim fluorescents marking the gate, she stands out. Taller than average for a southern girl. Long, thick hair. Dressed in inexpensive office clothes-a blouse, skirt, and little sweater-that she wears like a designer outfit.
She stands there for a moment, checking something in her purse-her cell phone maybe-then glances at the street. Is she waiting for someone?
I get up. I’ve already paid. Pull the hood over my head, my hand shading one eye, fingers spread so I can see between them, and limp across the street, dodging a few cars and electric scooters.
She doesn’t notice me. As I get closer, I see that she’s texting, the screen casting a blue-white glow on her face. If anything, the photo doesn’t do her justice. This girl is gorgeous. No wonder Kobe’s obsessed. Poor Alice doesn’t stand a chance.
“Daisy?”
She starts. Looks up.
“Alice gave me your number,” I say in Mandarin. “I’m-”
“I don’t have time to talk to you.”
“I don’t need much time. Just a few minutes.”
I can see the struggle on her face. Talk to me or not? She looks more irritated than anything else.
“Okay,” she says, tossing her head. “I can talk for a few minutes.”
WE GO UP THE block and turn onto a street that’s almost pleasant, tree-lined, narrow, one- to two-story storefronts that are kind of cute in spite of the white tile facings on some and the bland concrete of others. Couples stroll, vendors sell snacks, old women sit on a stoop playing mah-jongg.