“I love Hong Lou Meng,” a woman said in Mandarin. “Is this your first time reading it?”
I turned and startled to see a tall blonde. She looked like a portrait I’d seen in a French museum, Venus, influenced by elements of Asia, the rapine of sensuality and the crimson parries of a master fencer. Her cheeks were a light rouge, a blend of aplomb and sublime coyness. She wore a turquoise jacket that clung tightly to her lean body, a black miniskirt dripping into a defiant pair of boots raucously laughing at everyone in her way.
“Sorry, I understand Chinese, but my speak not very good,” I said in broken Mandarin.
“You from America?” she asked in English that had no traces of a Chinese accent.
Again, I was surprised. “Yeah.”
“Should have figured,” looking at the English part of my translation.
“You speak perfect English.”
“Born and raised in the States,” she explained. “I mistook you for Chinese.”
“And I mistook you for American.”
She laughed. “Everyone does. I’m half-Irish, half-Chinese, but I look more Irish and my twin sister looks more Chinese. Of course, she likes living in America better. What are you doing in Beijing?” she asked.
“I translate English books into Mandarin.”
“You can’t speak it, but you can write and interpret it?”
“Something like that.”
She laughed.
“What about you? What do you do?” I asked.
“I’m killing time, or maybe myself. I like to rethink myself every morning. Doubt is the only reliable source of creativity. You play any musical instruments?”
“I used to play the French horn, but my teacher said my hands were too fat.”
Involuntarily, I looked down at her fingers. They were nimble, lengthy, fragmented branches undulating into discordant harmony.
“Let me see,” she said, and without waiting, grabbed my hands. “They’re a little stubby. You trying to be a Chinese scholar?”
She was referring to all my fingernails being long. I laughed, embarrassed. “I forgot to cut them.”
The train made a stop, a few stragglers exited. A pair of girls hopped on, holding bags of dumplings, chatting about boys they thought were cute.
“Any interesting translations you’ve done recently?” she asked.
“I just did a short story about a gambler who lost his fingers but played mahjong with his tongue. There was another one about a girl who could destroy the world with a single thought, but didn’t, because she liked moon cakes too much.”
She smiled. “Sounds fun.”
“Mandarin and English are both tricky languages. There’s nuances in both that are hard to capture in the other.”
“Nuance,” she said, marveling at the word. “Why are you really in Beijing?”
I looked at her. “I’m trying to heal,” I said.
“Beijing is your hospital, then? Or your brothel?”
“What?”
She laughed. “Westerners are always using Asia to get a hard-on. Don’t feel bad. I’m the same way. I’m addicted to Beijing, not in love with it. Every couple months, I get fed up, all the people, the constant noise, you know how it is. But when I leave, I get so lonely, I end up coming back.”
“I’ve never left,” I said.
“The faithful, boring lover no one ever appreciates,” she said, amused. “I want to show you something.”
“Show me something?” I responded.
“I compose piano melodies and I want to share my latest composition with you,” she said. I hesitated but she grabbed my hand, “Life’s like a big fart in your stomach — better if you just let go. C’mon, don’t be afraid.”
II.
I didn’t realize it was already 11 p.m. We were walking outside the apartments near East Sihui. The ground was uneven with loose gravel and bricks. The street lights were dim halos that hovered like frozen hummingbirds. A vendor was selling mushroom light bulbs, pink and purple neon sprouts gleaming in the night. Some of the homeless were sleeping on the sidewalks, bored security guards listened to their loud radios. There was a pickup truck that had sleeping bags in the back, exhausted workers snoring inside. A group of drunks engaged in a rabid game of Chinese poker, demanding more beer. The apartments were high-rises 15–20 stories high, a steppe of buildings compressed as closely together as possible. We entered her apartment building. She stomped the floor to trigger the light sensor. We went up to the 16th floor, then entered her unit. It was surprisingly spacious. I thought there were thirty people standing inside, but she flickered on the light and I saw they were mannequins. They looked surreally real, their flesh oozing credulity. All around us, the walls were covered with photos of people. Not figures as a whole, but parts spliced into assemblies. There was a menagerie of eyes, a collection of noses, a gamut of mouths. No two lips were the same: thick, thin, cut-up, moles covering each layer. At the center of the apartment, a grand black piano, polished smooth so that both of us were reflected upside down. The keys were ermine, the set of chords looking like an intricate rib cage on a charred torso.
“Can I make a confession?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve never been able to fall in love with someone. Only pieces of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll fall in love with someone for their brows, their voice, the way they dress, the way their belly feels against mine when we make love. But never the whole,” she said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But it’s always been that way. Truth is, I’ve fallen in love with a piece of you,” she said.
“Me?”
“Yep.”
“Which piece?”
“Your fingers,” she answered.
I stared at her to see if she was joking. “What’s that mean?” I asked.
“I want to take a photo of your fingers — or better yet, let me cast them in clay. In exchange, you can have anything you want.”
“Anything I want?”
She nodded. “Home-cooked meal, friendship for an evening, company to anywhere you want. And if you play your cards right,” she said, “who knows?”
I turned to the photos. There must have been thousands.
“What exactly are you doing with them?”
“I collect the pieces I love and assemble the perfect human,” she answered.
“Why?”
“You ever hear about the Sculptor Buddha?” she asked.
“No,” I replied.
“He had to sculpt the statue of the perfect woman for the Celestial Palace, and he searched the whole world to find her. But every girl he found had some type of imperfection. So instead of using just one, he took the best elements from the women he admired and put them together. Afterward, he presented it to the emperor of the palace — who fell in love with the statue. But so did his three sons. A war broke out between them to control it.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“The head Buddha saw it was causing too much strife on Earth and ordered one of the blind Buddhas to take it away, bury it at the bottom of the sea. The waves who saw the statue tried to get her attention, and that was the start of hurricanes.”
“You trying to recreate this statue?”
“It’s just a story,” she replied, smiling. “But I do find inspiration in perfection — and imperfection. That’s what all great compositions do, right?”
“What?”
“Deify the ordinary.”
I considered it. “How often do you bring people?”