Peter Liu - Watering Heaven

“I don’t see clients at home.”

“That’s not why I came,” he replied.

“Then why…”

“The movie. What is your boyfriend doing?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said. “What do you want?”

“Are you doing this to get back at me?”

“For what?”

“For…”

She snorted. “I’m a professional, Doug. I never take these things personally.”

“Why are you doing it then?”

“I was bored and he needed help,” she answered.

“Why is he doing this?”

“Ask him.”

He handed her a file. “Talk to him for me.”

She looked at the file, opened up, saw the pictures, read through the text. Her eyes widened. “This…”

“Yeah,” Doug said. “I suffered my whole life because of my dad. I don’t wanna do it to him.”

“I’ll — I’ll talk to him…” Her eyes became cold. “I guess this means I should start packing my bags too?”

He approached her, kissed her on the forehead. “You’re a professional. There’s no need.”

Outside, Doug stumbled. His fingers were shaking. He wanted to rush back to Kathy’s side. But he steeled himself. Drove away without looking back.

Larry read through the file three times. Kathy was watching his reaction.

“What do they want?” he asked.

“Retraction,” she said. “And submission.”

“What my parents did… this has no bearing on the present.”

“Then it’s true?”

“It was a long time ago, the…”

Kathy shook her head. “You don’t have to explain… But it won’t look good and it’ll destroy any credibility you might have had.”

Larry made a fist, wanting to punch something.

“It’s an impasse,” she said.

“No, it’s a matter of will.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything in the world is about guts, how far you’ll go to get what you believe in.”

“No one cares about rat guts.”

“I do,” Larry said. He went to the kitchen, brought back a bag full of cereal pellets laced with rat poison.

“What are you doing?” Kathy asked.

“It’s the only way the case won’t suffer because of my past. If I keep my word and kill myself…”

“Don’t be stupid!” Kathy exclaimed. “This isn’t worth dying for.”

“What is then?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“If enough people had the guts to stand up to tyrants, the world would be pretty different.”

“Doug is no tyrant. He just wants power and fame.”

“That’s all tyrants… You want to hear something sad?”

“I think I’m watching it.”

Larry sat down. Put his hand into the pellets. Kathy rushed towards him and tried to stop him. But he threw a handful into his mouth before she could prevent him.

“We have to get to the hospital!”

Larry laughed. “I’m doing this willingly.”

“For rats?”

He shook his head. “Because I believe it’s right…”

She turned away, incredulous. She bit her lip till it bled so she wouldn’t betray herself with a tear. “You’re an idiot, Larry. This won’t do anything.”

“You’re probably right. Born a failure, lived a failure, die a failure.”

She called 911. “Stay up, I’m not gonna let you die.”

But he was already coughing up blood and his face was wan.

“You idiot.”

“Thanks.”

Kathy blinked rapidly, her face weakening. She moved her lips close to his, about to kiss. He stopped her. “M-my lips… poison…” He started convulsing.

The ambulance arrived five minutes after he had passed away.

*

Hours later, Kathy was back in her room alone. There were thirteen missed calls from Doug. She shut off her phone. Noticed an army of rats running along the walls. She grabbed leftovers from her fridge, took off her wig, rubbed her scalp. Spotted a web camera she’d used for chatting, turned it on. Pointed it at her bed and stripped until she was naked. Her body had no hair. She lay down, covered herself with food. Within thirty minutes, she was swimming in a sea of rats.

Six weeks of every year, I take a trip to Beijing and invent a new ‘me.’ I usually pick international hotels because everyone there wears a costume too. Mine is ‘Eric Jia’ and I sell vitamins to cows.

The hotel is in the Wudaokou area near one of the main universities, Tsinghua. There’s lots of exchange students here, a thriving cultural mishmash in Beijing.

Partly drugged by jet lag and nocturnal remissions, I chat with Violet, a Korean art student who paints noses over fingers as a motif on misguided sense. Abraham, a disillusioned meteorologist, likes to ask, “If rain were as heavy as bullets, would people have found a way to change weather, or would they have invented bullet-proof umbrellas?” The German brunette across from me refuses to give her name, only dates rich Chinese guys, and has a row with them every night before loud, raucous sex.

I talk about vitamins with the other guests. Cells normally subdivide until they die, I explain, a vestige of reincarnation sucking away at the original. A healthy dose of vitamin E can prolong age and life by increasing the durability of cell regeneration after mitosis.

The first time I see Jean Hua, she’s holding a violin with broken strings, sipping on a cocktail in the lobby. She’s Chinese but has placid blue eyes that appear to drift. Riveting is a word I shouldn’t use carelessly, as I’ve had a bad experience with rivets. But her eyes are riveting.

I introduce myself, tell her why I’m here.

She stares skeptically. “What do you really do?”

“I sell vitamins to help lengthen the lives of cows.”

She finishes her drink, puts it down.

“What about you?” I ask.

“I sell dead moths and play music on broken instruments.” She plucks a string on the violin. It sounds like a screech. She says, “ Zaijian ” (or “ good-bye” ) in Mandarin before leaving abruptly.

The next couple of nights, I linger around the lobby, hoping to bump into her again. Instead, I get stuck with Adam. Adam’s spent five of the past eight years in an American prison for kidnapping neighborhood pugs. Used to be religious but couldn’t understand how any superior being could create an animal so ugly. “I wish I could eradicate them,” he declares, shaking with rage. “How can people treat these dogs better than human beings?”

He burps loudly, rants about the evils of signal lights, and scares away women by showing scars on his ass. I wish he’d go away, but he doesn’t and shares his cheap Chinese alcohol that’s 60 proof. “The Chinese bred pugs because they thought the wrinkles in the face made them look like dragons,” I tell Adam, but he’s passed out, and I don’t think he wants to hear about the congruence of ugliness. I stumble to my room and black out.

“A girl committed suicide in your room,” is the first thing I hear when I open my eyes.

Across from my bed is the violin player, Jean. She’s holding my wallet. “Your real name is Emma Jia?”

I try to snatch my wallet away but she dodges my hand.

“You wanna explain?” she asks.

“Can I have my wallet back?”

She shakes her head.

“How did you get in here?” I demand.

“You collapsed halfway through your door. Explain Emma to me,” she repeats.

I hesitate, see the resoluteness in her eyes. “My, uh… My mom had two miscarriages before I was born. So when she saw I was a boy, she named me after a girl because she thought the evil spirits would ignore me that way… Why were you going through my stuff?” I snap, more embarrassed than angry.

Moments of humiliation in my youth flit across my memory. “Emma Jia!” the teachers would call. To which I’d reluctantly reply, “Here.” Always the disbelief followed by giggles and the disdain of boys who’d bully me with fists and cruel chants.