Patricia Ratto: Proceed with Caution: Stories and a Novella

I’m drying my hair because I don’t like to go out with a wet head. On the dryer I read: Remington, Made in China . I’d never paid attention to these details, but now, suddenly, I wonder how many Chinese things there might be in my life. With determination and suspicion, I pick up the bowl that holds the toothpaste and my toothbrush and read: Origin China . I look at the bath mat, also Chinese, the little tweezer, the nail file, the hairbrush. My day becomes a yellow quest, a seemingly endless series of turning over this and that. The desk phone, the electric teakettle, the Teflon frying pan, the cup for my breakfast coffee, the netbook cover, my pen drive, the pencil case, the calculator, the case for my glasses, Lavender’s barrettes and feeding dish, the pink teddy bear I keep on my bed, the bulb from my bed lamp. And the Italian silk shirt, too?

From a distance, Chinese Boy breaks into my field of vision; I can tell it’s him because his height, skinniness, and long, blue-black hair form an unmistakable silhouette; he treads lightly, eyes down, and carries a leash attached to a pet I can’t quite make out. Better stop looking, I tell myself, or he’ll think I’m waiting for him, and besides, maybe he’s not coming this way, what with all the benches there are in the park. Lavender is uneasy; I think she’s recognized him and wants to jump down, but I don’t let her; what if Chinese Boy’s Chinese dog tries to bite her or something worse… and with all the care I give her! I pull out my cell phone and start checking messages, so as to focus on something else. I don’t see him, but I sense him approaching; he veers a little toward my right and at last sits down at the other end of the bench. Lavender is tense, probably because of the nearness of another dog, and since I feel it’s rude, even suspicious, to avoid him, I look his way. His legs are crossed, the right ankle resting on his left calf, and then he jerks the leash upward, making the other end pop up behind him, revealing… a cabbage! Lavender lets out a sharp, brief bark; I can’t conceal the surprise stamped on my face like a slap: a pet cabbage! I smile nervously; I had considered the possibility of a Chinese mafioso, a supermarket crook, and even a dog kidnapper, but not a Chinese maniac. I’m starting to get up when I hear him say: In China work vegetable to meet people . I stand there frozen, not knowing what to do or say, till I manage to stammer Work vegetable? accompanying the question with a hand gesture intended to imitate digging. I remain there looking at him; he laughs, points to the leash attached to the cabbage, stands and walks, the cabbage trailing behind like a dog. Lavender follows his movements closely; Chinese Boy makes a tight turn, walking in circles. Work? he asks; I think I understand him and venture: Walk? He nods. Walk , he confirms, in China walk vegetable to meet people , he repeats while sitting back down at the other end of the bench. I respond with an idiotic, dutiful smile, because despite the correction I still don’t understand.

Take away negative thought , he explains, as he makes hand gestures for shooing flies or ghosts. Bad all gone, bad all gone , he insists, in a voice I now find very pleasant. Ah , is all that my state of surprise allows me to express at the moment, vacillating between images of a Chinese mystic or madman, or possibly both. In a moment of carelessness, Lavender jumps down from my lap and, with a combination of curiosity and vigilance, approaches the cabbage that still lies on the ground, tied to the end of the leash beside the boy’s feet. Vegetable not bark or fight with other vegetable , he laughs. I shrug, smile. Yes , I say, of course , and suddenly click, I think I’m beginning to understand and think that when a person walks a pet, someone always comes along and asks a question or makes some remark, and having an animal can be useful for meeting people, but—a cabbage? Are there many people in China who go out walking cabbages? I ask him. He gestures for me to wait a moment, sticks his hand in his pocket, I stiffen, already on alert, he takes out his cell phone, slides a little closer, toward the middle of the bench, he seems harmless, he shows me a photo, it’s a bunch of young people leading cabbages and escarole with leashes and collars, like a meeting of Chihuahua lovers, though considering the Chinese-ness of this tangle, it might be more appropriate to think in terms of Pekingese, Chow Chows, Shar Peis, or something like that. Now he shows me another photo; it looks like him, a couple of years younger, with another Chinese boy; each one leading a cabbage by its leash. Ah , I repeat as I seize the opportunity to look at him, the Chinese skin absolutely smooth, perfect; he smiles, I smile. Let go , he says to me, pointing to Lavender and the cabbage. I don’t know why I agree, but I do: I release Lavender and he lets go of the cabbage, giving it a little push; it rolls, imperfectly, charmingly; Lavender scampers around the cabbage, pushing it with her nose. I look at the Chinese boy to see if it bothers him, he laughs, gestures with his hand as if to say everything’s all right. Lavender runs, pushes the cabbage, rolls around in the grass, then rubs against the cabbage, she’s going to look like shit, I scold myself, as I imagine the Chinese boy naked, all that Chinese skin against a black silk sheet, and as I can’t understand why I’m thinking this, I simply peek at my wristwatch, feign an unexpected emergency, and all at once it’s a pretend Oh-I’m-going-to-be-late, a sudden rising from the bench, calling Lavender, attaching her leash and saying goodbye. Lavender? the Chinese Boy asks, standing up to look for his cabbage a few steps away. What means Lavender? he completes his question, looking at me from over there. An aromatic plant , I reply; it has little, lilac-colored flowers and a beautiful fragrance , I explain as I pick up my dog, who now smells of cabbage. Well, I’m off , I say to the Chinese Boy, leaping into action. Come back , I hear him say, come back tomorrow , but I don’t dare turn around, let alone respond.

A strange new fad has erupted in China: taking vegetables for walks in the street. The leaders of this new fashion are teenagers, who drag vegetables, preferably cabbages, along the sidewalks, pretending they’re pets. “They don’t bark, fight, or make messes,” the kids argue jokingly, but one of their real objectives is to overcome the depression and loneliness that grow along with socioeconomic demands made by the system. I read this on the Internet as I sniff Lavender, who stinks disgustingly, and I curse the Chinese Boy and call the groomer, requesting an urgent appointment. In the process I find out how much it would cost me to tint her curly ears and her frilly topknot lavender or lilac, like I once saw in a poodle magazine. My cell phone beeps, a message from Gastón. I don’t answer. I stare at the device: it’s made in China, too.

Chinese Boy arrives today with his cabbage and a nosegay of jasmine. No sooner does he sit down than he asks me: Lavender? Lavender rushes over, perhaps attracted by hearing her name. No , I explain, jasmine . He sniffs the bouquet. Jasmine , he repeats, not lavender. Jasmine . Then he unfastens his cabbage, urging it on: Run, Jasmine, run, run , and he hands me the nosegay.

Last night the girls begged and begged me to go with them to the club. I like to dance, but I can’t take too much of the club: the line to get in, the crowds. I ended up going anyway. I refused to dance; I just stood at the bar drinking something, and then I thought I saw my Chinese Boy, so I tried to make my way across the dance floor to find him, but he slipped away from me among the throng.