When not writing, Tang Fei is a documentary photographer and dancer. Her portraits of the lives of China’s LGBT communities have received much attention. She is currently working on a multiyear project documenting WorldCons held across the globe.
In translation, her fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld and Apex. “Call Girl” was selected for inclusion in Rich Horton’s Year’s Best Science Fiction & Fantasy, 2014 Edition.
Many of Tang Fei’s stories defy easy genre classifications. She employs surreal images and playful language to great effect, and she does not hesitate to mislead the reader when it serves the tale’s purpose.
Although she lives in Beijing, she tries to escape it as often as she can and considers herself a foodie with a particular appreciation for dark chocolate, blue cheese, and good wine.
CALL GIRL
Morning climbs in through the window as shadow recedes from Tang Xiaoyi’s body like a green tide imbued with the fragrance of trees. Where the tidewater used to be, now there is just Xiaoyi’s slender body, naked under the thin sunlight.
She opens her eyes, gets up, dresses, brushes her teeth, wipes away the foam at the corner of her mouth with a towel. Staring at the mirror, all serious, her face eventually breaks into a fifteen-year-old’s smile. Above her, a section of the rose-colored wallpaper applied to the ceiling droops down. This is the fourth place where this has happened.
My house is full of blooming flowers, Xiaoyi thinks.
“There must be another leak in the pipes,” her mother says. “There’s a large water stain growing on the wall.”
They sit down together to have a lavish breakfast: soy milk, eggs, pan-fried baozi, porridge. Xiaoyi eats without speaking.
When she’s ready to leave the apartment, she takes out a stack of money from her backpack and leaves it on the table. Her mother pretends not to see as she turns to do the dishes. She has turned up the faucet so that the sound of the gushing water is louder than Xiaoyi’s footsteps.
Xiaoyi walks past her mother and the money on the table and closes the door. She can no longer hear the water. It’s so quiet she doesn’t hear anything at all.
Her knees shake.
She reaches up for the silver pendant hanging from her neck, a dog whistle.
The school is on the other side of the city, and Xiaoyi has to transfer buses three times to get there.
Li Bingbing once asked Xiaoyi whether she wanted to get a ride with her in Bingbing’s father’s car. Being chauffeured around in a BMW is very comfortable.
But Xiaoyi had said no because she didn’t think it was a big deal to ride the bus. School was so boring anyway; it was like riding another bus. Since she had to ride the bus, as it were, what did it matter where she got on? Of course Xiaoyi didn’t say that to Bingbing. As a general rule, she doesn’t like talking, unless it’s to them.
They would never appear at the school, which makes school even more boring. Xiaoyi sits in the last row, next to the window. All day long, she sits and broods. Whether it’s during class or recess, no one bothers her.
She has no friends. No one talks to her. No one sees her. The girls like to form cliques: those with bigger boobs in one clique, those with smaller boobs in another. Once in a while a busty girl might be friends with a flat-chested girl, but that never lasts.
Xiaoyi is different from all of them. She doesn’t wear a bra. Never. Many found this odd. Then the girls found out about them. So wherever Xiaoyi goes, there’s a sudden circle of silence. But as soon as she leaves the area—but not so far that she can’t hear them—the buzz of conversation starts again: “Look, that’s Tang Xiaoyi!”
Yes, that’s Tang Xiaoyi. No one knows what to do with her. If it weren’t for Bingbing, who sometimes gets obsessive, Xiaoyi would have a completely peaceful life.
“Hey, you know that Li Jian and Ding Meng are together now?” says Bingbing.
It’s the end of geography, the last morning class. Bingbing sits down next to Xiaoyi and starts babbling. Once in a while, she pauses in her monologue and takes a drag from her cigarette. When she’s finally done with the cigarette, she can’t hold back any longer.
“Xiaoyi, you know that lots of people are talking about you behind your back. Is it true? Are they all really old and really rich? Are they richer than my dad? How much do they pay you each time?”
Xiaoyi rests her chin on a palm and stares out the window. The lunch queue outside the cafeteria grows longer and longer, all the way to the wutong tree at the school gate.
Just then a nondescript little car stops at the gate. The car door opens, but no one gets out. He’s waiting, waiting for Xiaoyi.
Xiaoyi stands up slowly and strides out of the classroom, her steps lightly echoing against the ground, her hair waving over her shoulder as though a breeze were blowing in her face.
There’s no sound around her. Sunlight slices across her shoulders like a knife blade.
“I did as you said and switched to a different car. Can you tell me why? It’s… unusual.”
The middle-aged man turns to gaze at Xiaoyi. This is the first time they’ve met. The two are squeezed tightly into the backseat of the little Daihatsu Charade: the schoolgirl in her short dark blue skirt, the man in his elegant hanfu. Once in a while, in a moment of carelessness, their knees bump into each other and separate immediately.
In the driver’s seat is the chauffeur, his uniform neatly pressed, silver epaulettes on his shoulders, brand-new white gloves on his hands.
“You brought a chauffeur.” Xiaoyi frowns.
“I haven’t driven in a long time.”
Xiaoyi turns her eyes to the flow of traffic outside the window—which is not flowing at all. It’s Friday, and the traffic jam started at noon. It doesn’t really matter. They’re not in any hurry. The man takes out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. The Charade’s air conditioning isn’t working—unpleasant for those used to Cadillacs.
“Where to?” he asks.
“Nowhere.”
“Okay. Just so long as you’re happy.”
They are always so good-tempered, treating her like a pet, adoration mixed with contempt. Before they really start, they’re all the same.
Xiaoyi turns to give the middle-aged man a careful look. His eyes are dark, strange but friendly. They seize her and don’t let go.
“What do you want me to do?” she asks.
“What you do with the others.”
“So you haven’t thought through what you want yourself.”
The man laughs. “I just can’t be sure that you can satisfy me.”
“You’re greedy.” Xiaoyi winks. Her eyelashes are long and dark, fanning seductively.
The man’s Adam’s apple moves up and down. The way Xiaoyi’s shirt clings to her body tells him that she’s not wearing a bra.
“Let’s start now,” Xiaoyi says.
“In the car?”
Xiaoyi reaches out and closes the man’s eyelids. Her hands are ice cold.
The man opens his eyes and looks around. Nothing has changed. The Charade is still the Charade. The road is still as congested as a constipated colon.
But the chauffeur is gone.
He’s an experienced man. He knows when he must remain calm. “They’re right about you. I guess I finally found the right one.”