Tom Rachman - The Rise & Fall of Great Powers

“They eat raw fish, God help us. Can’t trust a race that fails to cook its food. And why do these Orientals persist with the chopstick? Has no one apprised them of the fork?”

“The Thais use a spoon and a fork,” a younger man interposed.

“Because the Thais are a likable breed. They even provide their lasses for our delectation,” he noted, slapping the behind of one of the bargirls among them; she gave a plastic smile. “What gets my goat,” he continued, “is that we gave the Japs a bloody nose during the war, and what happens during the peace? They get rich off us! Selling us awful cars and cameras and who-knows-what-else. All these Orientals do is steal ideas. Not an original thought among them. Everything’s made in Hong Kong, but what’s invented there? Nothing!”

“To be fair, Jeremy, the Chinese did invent things.”

“Name one.”

“Well, paper.”

“Nonsense. That was Gutenberg, wasn’t it?”

“And gunpowder.”

“The Germans did that, surely.”

“I heard the Chinese actually invented the fork.”

“What in heaven’s name are you going on about, Giles? A man invents a fork, he hardly uses a chopstick, does he? Even the Chinaman cannot seriously claim that sticks are an improvement over the fork.” He turned sharply, noticing Tooly listening. “Well, well. What are you doing there?”

She darted away, pushing past more bodies, popping out among a group of toughs practicing fight moves on one another. The leader, a stocky Filipino with a mullet, wraparound shades, and Muay Thai shorts, demonstrated punches. “Should be a straight line. Use your shoulder to block the jab, then load up on the counter. Catch him on the button and it’s good night.” His disciples nodded. One of them, tired of being ignored, dropped to the floor and did pushups, before collapsing and looking up to see who’d noticed.

Tooly continued, finding herself before the upright piano, its lid covered with empty plastic cups. A middle-aged man in a creased pin-striped suit, mole on the side of his nose, sat at the piano stool, right hand stuffed in the jacket pocket.

“Are you going to play?” Tooly asked.

The question stirred only half his face, the left rising in a smile, the right side limp. He offered his left hand, which she shook, unsure how to grip it, so squeezed his fingers lightly. “No one would hear my playing over this awful heavy-metal music,” he said.

“I can hear.”

He looked upon her, distracted and worried. His eyes welled up; he nodded. Then his left hand went flat on the keys as if calming a horse and — quite suddenly — it leaped, striking a chord, then another, his good arm jumping between treble and bass in a high-speed dialogue till he leaned back, eyes closed, and played so softly that she perceived nothing, only black-and-whites depressed and rising.

A Japanese man in dark suit, dark tie, dark glasses watched with much seriousness. “Vely difficur,” he pronounced. “Vely difficur piece.” Accompanying him was a Caucasian woman with bulging breasts. Tooly looked at these. The pianist interpreted her grimace as a response to his playing and nodded. “That’s a melancholy part, isn’t it.”

The Japanese man and his escort departed for the bar, and the pianist gazed at Tooly. “You remind me of someone I loved very much,” he said, and kissed her on the lips. Revolted, Tooly leaped back, spun around, and ran, banging into strangers, wiping off her mouth, the book bag swinging as she hurried, looking for some way to discharge this repulsive sensation.

A teenage girl stood there, plucking at her black T-shirt to hide her figure. “Hey,” she said.

“Hi,” Tooly answered.

“Want to check out the medicine cabinet with me?”

“Okay.”

As they went, the teenager introduced herself as Reena and fussed over Tooly (“You’re so cuuuuuuuuute!”), downing a shot of tequila along the way. Reena was from Cleveland, which she described as “the most suck-ass part of Planet Earth. Like when you drive to the airport in a normal city? How it looks out the window? With nothing there? Not even kidding — that’s like the whole of where I’m from. Yeah, I know.” She was sixteen, fast-talking and gum-chewing, with a faint bleached mustache. Everywhere they went, she showily asked strangers if they had any pills, and chatted to Tooly as if each familiar name in her own life were universally known. “Derrick is twenty-eight, but it’s so weird — we practically have the same birthday.” She talked about his kissing skills, how the food in Thailand made her gag, especially fried locusts, which Derrick ate to freak her out. All the while, Reena gave Tooly aggressive hugs, stroking her hair like a doll, issuing a stream-of-consciousness account of her drug-taking: “… shrooms with my dad at his place in Maine, and smoked coke once off the end of a Marlboro, and, like …” Up her right arm, she had drawn the logos of her favorite bands in blue ballpoint: Mötley Crüe, Voivod, W.A.S.P.

“Are you left-handed?” Tooly asked.

“Oh, my God, how did you know that? Do you like know me? From another life?”

“There was a left-handed boy at my old school who put answers on his right arm to cheat, and he was left-handed, so I thought—”

“You are smart . You are so smart. You are smart .”

Her headbanger boyfriend, Derrick, appeared, taking the chewing gum from Reena’s mouth and sticking it in his own, his horsey front teeth exposed. “Buy me a beer,” he told her, not registering Tooly. The slogan on his T-shirt read, NO ONE LIKES ME & I DON’T CARE. “Hey, buy me a fucking beer.”

“Buy it your fucking self,” Reena answered, eyes alive.

Tooly slipped into the crowd and upstairs, hunting for Sarah. She was at a loss where to situate herself, so lingered by the card table where that old man, Humphrey, sat before the chessboard. His attention was now on a book, which he drew close to his nose, then thrust far away, then drew close again, so she imagined its print changing size as he read. He turned the page with force: a wisp of his hair leaped, then fell. She rested her bag on the floor and sat atop it. He noticed her, yet only adjusted the cover to block her from view: whichever direction she shifted, so did the book.

“Gurul,” he said finally, plucking out his toilet-paper earplugs, wincing at the din. The word seemed to be a foreign language, so she pretended not to hear. “Gurul,” he repeated. This time she understood. He was calling her: “Girl.” He placed the book facedown on the card table, toppling a bishop and a king, which rolled off the table and bounced on the floor. “You think you can win me?”

“Win you at what?”

“What this looks like? Water ski?”

“Are you good?” she asked, edging closer.

“I am high-quality chess athlete. Top ten.”

“Top ten in the world?”

“If not galaxy.”

“What are the rules again?” she asked. “The horses do something, don’t they?”

“Horses go jump.”

“Uhm, is that a good book?”

He considered its cover splayed on the chessboard — Spinoza’s Ethics —as if he’d forgotten what occupied him a minute earlier. “Average to good.”

“What happens in it?”

“Some bits, you have ethics. Some bits, not so much ethics.”

“I like what it’s called,” she said, putting her finger on the word “Spinoza.” She looked back at the crowd. “Do you know all these people?”

He closed his heavy eyelids with disdain, opened them slowly. “These people? They are trivial beings. Not intellectuals. Almost zero of them. Imagine what Samuel Johnson or John Stuart Mill will say if they see situation like this!”