Year of the Tiger

‘There. You see?’

When I finish, he smoothes the hair from my forehead. ‘I have some ice,’ he says, holding up the dishcloth. ‘Your face, it’s bruised. I think maybe when I help you in the car, I’m too careless.’ He puts the dishcloth against my cheek. ‘I’m sorry about this, Yili.’

I feel the cold seep through the cloth to my cheek, soaking into my skull and spreading through my head. Everything slows down.

‘That’s okay,’ I say.

John sits there quietly, holding the ice against my cheek.

‘Why you come to China, Yili?’ he finally asks.

I chuckle. ‘Trey. He got a job. I came with him.’

‘What kind of work does he do?’

‘Security consultant. For a big corporation.’ I laugh again. ‘Kind of like a really well-paid bodyguard.’

‘Really?’

‘Kind of.’ Of course, it’s more than that, really. Trey assesses threats. Looks for holes. Keeps people safe.

‘I see.’

I must have spoken out loud again, without meaning to.

‘And this pays well?’

‘It pays okay.’

John brushes a stray hunk of my hair off my face.

‘So, Trey, he does not work for American government.’

‘Big corporation.’ I laugh. ‘What’s the difference?’

John nods sagely. ‘You know, here in China, PLA, Peoples’ Liberation Army, owns many businesses. They hide this better now than before, but still it is this way. So maybe this is somewhat the same as America.’

This irritates me, and I’m not sure why. ‘It’s the other way around in America,’ I tell him. ‘Companies own the Army. They send us where they want us to go. To do their shit for them. So they can get rich.’

‘Ah. I see. So you are in the Army, Yili?’

‘I don’t wanna talk about it.’

‘Why not? It can be good to talk, I think.’

‘No. It’s not.’

But I can see it. That’s the thing. I can fucking see it. I don’t want to. I don’t want to see this shit any more. ‘Oh god,’ I say. ‘Oh, Jesus. Where the fuck were you? You fucking liar.’

John strokes my face, my hair. ‘Yili, I am sorry. I don’t want to upset you.’

I’m crying again. ‘Fuck you,’ I say. ‘You’re just another liar.’

He says nothing.

After a while, he gets up and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

I lie there. I’m floating. I’m swaddled in clouds. I can’t move.

‘John?’ I call out. ‘John?’

He doesn’t come. I’m alone.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to. I hate myself. I want to die.’

‘Yili, why do you talk like that?’

‘John?’

Where did he come from? He crouches down next to me. Takes my hand. ‘Have some water.’

I drink. I drink like it’s somehow going to save my life. Like it will replenish everything I’ve lost.

I’m pretty fucked up right now.

John sighs. ‘This boyfriend of yours. I don’t understand. Why doesn’t he take better care of you?’

‘He’s busy.’

‘But this is not right,’ John states. ‘If you are together with him, he should take care of you. This is only proper.’

I stare up at the ceiling. Kaleidoscope patterns fold and unfold on the peeling beige paint. Like flowers in one of those sped-up nature movies.

‘I guess he’s not really my boyfriend,’ I say after a while. ‘I guess we’re just friends, that’s all.’

‘But friends take care of each other too,’ John says gravely. ‘Maybe this fellow, maybe he isn’t really your friend.’

‘He is,’ I insist. ‘He is.’

‘But he left you.’

‘He had to.’

‘Why?’

‘Because …’ I squeeze my eyes shut. Then I open them, because little armies keep marching across my eyelids, and I don’t want them there. ‘Because he had to.’

John sighs. ‘Yili, why are you so sure that this man is good guy? What do you really know about him?’