We got
back to Dylan’s flat around 8am, exhausted but bemused. He lived above the 37th
floor – cannot recall precisely which – in a spacious abode of white vaulted
ceilings, black leather couches and gingko-etched amenities: a markedly modern
enclave. He shared a two-story flat with three other shomrads – gentlemen of
varying provenance and pedigree who’d gone camping for the weekend. Rush and I
each had entirely real mattresses all to ourselves: a boon to say the least. We
dozed ‘til early afternoon, slumberous paupers in the sky.
We awoke
several hours later with curiously unmerited energy – the kind that only comes in
periods of fear or infatuation. Dylan’s two-story apartment had only four
balconies – each a separate window onto a terrifyingly expansive world. Below,
an endless armory of concrete and cast iron thrust their nave into the sunless
heavens; only with great discretion can you spot the now ancient, ground level
arteries that predate the Third Industrial Revolution.
We have a
coffee on the terrace before heading down for lunch. Almost instantly, the
elevator dispatches us into an empty lobby, the only sign of life a placard for
panacean-powdered milk (depicting the Olympian feats of Chinese infancy). In
the parking lot, a string of hatchbacks, mainly Audis, line the entrance. Outside
the compound, a series of decrepit, abandoned bicycles besprinkle the sidewalk.
We make for the place on the corner.
It’s a
National Holiday and Dylan’s girlfriend comes along for the meal. Slender but
striking, blasé
and unabashedly Shanghainese, at first glance she’s mildly unforthcoming. That
said, once you’ve gotten over the lethal regard and beguiling,
cigarette-beholden rouge, she’s quite the open book – nay, wonderfully and
devastatingly frank. Before long we’ve chanced upon the Chinese Civil War. Somewhat
tactlessly, I inquire about her family’s involvement. “Granddad start with the
Nationalists but become Communist halfway through the war,” she begins. “A
great fighter, he kill many, many enemy.” An illiterate peasant from the South,
he was rewarded by the nascent government with a handsome salaried position and
a Shanghainese wife: the equivalent to Depression-era Dustbowlers returning
from the Battle of the Bulge to find they’ve a girl from Park Avenue and a gig
at HUD awaiting them in Westchester. I suppose chaos and modernization have
their perks.
She
seems happy to answer our questions, so press ahead I must. How did your
grandfather come to join the Communists? “If you must know, China have two classes and he from most glorious
class: he is worker – most glorious class in China.” To mitigate my furious delight, I bite deeply into
my tongue. A trickle of blood? Not quite. I hold my breath, pinch my stomach
and glance out the window, desperate for some modicum of distraction. Alas, I’ve
got nothing. To suppress a violent eruption of joy, I press ahead. “Are you a
member of the Communist Party?” “No, but I madly want to be. I try some time –
they don’t let me,” she coyly notes, taking another elusive drag of her Double
Happiness, the closest thing China has to cowboy killers. I cannot tell if she
is being serious or not. “Many friends in Party – many, many,” she continues.
“But also many hard to enter. They only want certain type of person.”
We
settle our bill and make for the door. It’s mid-afternoon and the spacious
establishment has completely emptied out. The lights have been shut off and an
elderly woman dozes off to the side, momentary respite from a slavish routine. Atop
the counter are two enormous jars, each containing a tawny, viscid liquid absorbing
the essence of unidentifiable objects. They are regional liquors, I am told,
kept on display by the door for customers on the go; each had a plastic tap. Only
closer inspection would reveal the objects in which our sap fermented. The
first contained a motley of pint-sized leggy sea monsters, frozen in time and
substance. The second, it shall be noted, a giant reindeer penis. We hasten for
the door.
Outside,
I ask Dylan’s girl if the restaurateurs were from Shanghai (evidence suggests
they were not). “They are from ______, some places northwest of Beijing,” she
says with subtle condescension. “Oh, they are from Manchuria?” I foolishly
inquire. “What is Manchuria?” she scoffs, “there
is no Manchuria.” “What do you mean no Manchuria,” I protest, “I reference
it all the time.” “No such thing as
Manchuria,” she reiterates, “Han have
taken over entire Nation.”
We hop
in a cab and head back to Ambra’s. Late afternoon was upon us and we’d plans to
head to Suzhou, city of imperial gardens where retired dynasts would contemplate
the human condition amongst their harem. We were meant to go early that morning
– if cross-town shenanigans hadn’t beckoned – but if we waited ‘til afternoon we could hitch a ride with Anna and her sister who were already heading that way.
They’d been invited to an (exclusive?) yacht party – and there was a slight
possibility we could join (she said would ask).
If we
couldn’t crash the boat party, we’d resolved to simply wander the streets that
night. True, it was a holiday weekend and every room in town was booked; it was
also scheduled to rain. We had neither money, sufficient clothing nor the faintest sense of direction, though somehow we’d find our inner dragon. The air was sweet, the breeze
unbridled. Another adventure was nigh.
