Peter Liu - Watering Heaven

“Byron is such a food snob, he eats with his fingers,” Helen joked, trying to bring levity to the lunch.

Tina and Jerry simpered. “I guess that’s the new chic, eh?”

I nodded while dipping my finger in the sauce and licking the remains directly off the plate.

On Friday, I got called to Barry’s office. A representative from HR was with him, a young Asian girl ten years younger than me. “I’m glad you came. We wanted to talk with you,” she said.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“When a company of our size has a bad year, we have to make cutbacks. It’s inevitable and an unfortunate aspect of a…”

“Can you get to your point?” I asked, cutting her off.

“Even though we feel you’ve been a valuable member of our company and a very important asset, we have to let you go.”

“I thought I was being transferred to compatibility.”

“That didn’t work out, sorry,” she informed me.

“Meanwhile, you’re hiring all new executives and paying them millions?”

“Excuse me?”

I laughed angrily. “What kind of compensation package do you have?”

“Two months automatic, one week for every year you’ve been here, an additional two weeks if you agree to sign a contract promising not to bring legal action against us.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to go over our reasons?”

“Just give me my money.”

I stormed out without my belongings. Headed for my car. Hit the alarm, no response. My battery was dead. I gripped my key, flung it at the flower garden our environmental committee had recently planted. Pacing back and forth, I knew I should have been more thoughtful, not so stupid at that lunch. My key had fallen on top of a cactus, ‘self-sufficient’ despite its artificial inception. I hit the alarm again. With what little juice was left, it unlocked my car, and I sped away.

V.

I gave Stan a call.

“Yeah, we’re hiring,” he said. “You interested in testing games?”

“Absolutely. It was my childhood dream.”

He laughed. “It might sound like a dream job but it gets repetitive really fast.”

“You don’t understand. I’ve always wanted to do this.”

“I’ll do my best to make it happen.”

I went to June’s grave, sat down next to her tomb with some chocolate ice cream, ate it using a plastic spoon, and dumped some scoops on her piece of grass. A few hours later, I went home and lay down, wondering what it would be like testing games for a living.

Fatigue finally seized me and I couldn’t hold back any longer. I went to bed and was dozing off when I felt something crawling on my cheek. I slapped my face. Something crushed in my palm. I went to the bathroom, saw the leveled remains of my spider. Wiped it off, washed my face several times. Of all the millions of places it could have gone, why the hell did it have to crawl on my face? I was irked but relieved as well, now that it was gone. About to sleep, I thought of June, the last time I saw her.

I slept like a dead spider.

I.

Anonymity was my secret identity. I was lost in the sea of Beijing, a nonentity in the metaphor of a metropolis crammed with millions. I spent my days tumbling in the morass of Mandarin, trying to learn and extract the seeds of obscure characters. The library of unknown Chinese tomes seemed endless and questions of my identity withered, solitude keenly evolving into a familiar sense of irony. I relished my isolation, thrived in being unknown even if I was never alone in one of the most populated cities in the world. Enthusiastic vendors sold bronze mirrors that could capture a reflection of your future self while secret restaurants offered kung pao duck heart to help you understand ancient Eastern rites lost over the sieve of time. I saw so many familiar faces I didn’t know, extracts, shadows of ruins, smashed to pieces then reconstructed in the illusory nostalgia of longing. Hair came in all shapes and sizes, and the Chinese were like a lottery from the cauldron of humanity, every brushstroke of human calligraphy breathing in blood. I walked past the elderly, their skin marred by scars and the revolution of balding scalps. Young lovers whistled to the memory of gutter dogs while arguing over misplaced lipstick stains. A mother fed her baby milk directly from her pimply breast, careful to ward off germs from hordes of workers rushing home.

It was evening and I was heading for the subway through ‘Worm Street,’ a hutong that writhed and twisted like a worm from one end to the other. A grandmother with the spine of a boomerang was selling a love potion for 100RMB that’ll make someone fall completely in love with you . A bunch of men were gathered around a xiangqi —Chinese chess — table, analyzing every move, several juggling toughened peach cores inside their palms as they muttered assenting Ahh s and disapproving Ah-yah s. I reached the station, got on a train, grabbed an English translation of one of the four principal classics of Chinese literature from my backpack, Hong Lou Meng — The Dream of Red Mansions . The ride was jittery and tumultuous; the train, almost empty because it was late.

“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.”