"Now, sadly, my alligator is very unwell."
"Excuse me?" I said, moving my elbows to the table and my ears halfway across it. "What is unwell?"
"My alligator. It's been terrible for years now."
"You have an alligator?"
"No, of course not. I studied alligators."
I had grown used to both bizarre comments and misunderstandings; otherwise I could have sworn that this man—currently tearing apart chicken feet with his chopsticks—was an aging PETA member intent on promoting animal-sensitive language.
"Where would one study alligators?"
"In schools of course. It was a major part of the curriculum in my day."
"What?"
"Yes, we all had to learn about alligators."
"Excuse me, sir, I'm a little confused. Would you mind writing down 'alligator?' I think I'm misunderstanding you a bit."
"No, you've understood perfectly. Today everyone learns English. You're learning Mandarin, and I learned about alligators."
"Why?"
"It was important for the Chinese-Soviet alliance. Man, did that go to hell." He took a shot of baijiu and hiccuped.
"You mean you learned RUSSIAN."
"Yes, that's what I said. ALLIGATORS." He pushed a bowl toward me, and threw some beans on my plate with his chopsticks. "Here, have some more."
"Spaciba," I said. "Do you want more baijiu?" I asked, pointing to the bottle on the floor.
"Mozhet bit," he smiled, his face a dark red.
For the rest of our dinner, I mentally blamed the misunderstanding on Mr. Wei's accented Mandarin. But as I walked home that night, I mumured in time with my footsteps: "èyú, alligator, éyǔ, Russian; èyú, alligator, éyǔ, Russian; èyú, alligator, éyǔ, Russian."
Recalling the man's voice in my head—and the context—I realized the mistake had been entirely my own.
Those damn tones.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Gone to Guangzhou
Changsha, Hunan
There was only one other man in the bar that night. Dressed up to the nines—and drunk with as many shots—his brief sentences were interrupted with hearty sips of his drink and lengthy (presumably indecipherable) texts on his phone. Yet the bartender, young and affable, seemed intent on talking to him anyway.
Eventually the bartender turned to me. "Are you waiting for your friends?" he asked.
"Friends" was understood to mean "foreigners."
"No," I said.
"I've never seen a foreigner alone before," he remarked.
I was used to this. As a single foreigner, I was invariably understood to be lost. He began to ask further questions, but was interrupted by the drunk man, who had broken out into a song he couldn't remember how to sing and wouldn't remember having sung. "How is he?" I asked.
"Well enough," he said. We watched the man tip a shot into his mouth and balance the empty shot glass on his nose. He began to laugh.
"Dear God," sighed the bartender. "Sometimes I hate this job."
The customer continued giggling. The shot glass fell off his nose and landed in a glass of water, sending its contents across the wooden counter.
"Seriously?" exclaimed the bartender. He moved in with a sponge and refilled the empty water and shot glasses. The customer giggled and murmured a vague thanks.
"Maybe this should be his last drink," I suggested as the bartender returned.
"Oh, he had his last a few shots ago now. The bottle with the blue lettering is really water."
I laughed.
"But don't worry, I'm not charging him. I keep telling him he's already paid and he believes me."
The water-filled shot glass fell on the floor, and the bartender grimaced as we heard a high-pitched shatter.
"I wouldn't blame you if you did charge him," I said, as the bartender sulked off to fetch the broom.
He returned a few minutes later. "I'm sorry, I didn't ask you what you wanted to drink."
As he poured my Guinness—which proved to be flat and stale—I asked him where he was from.
"Sanyi, do you know it?" I could tell from his tone that he almost hoped I did not.
"I know where it is, but I haven't been. It's not far from Changsha, no?"
His face contorted slightly, and he looked down at my foaming glass. His silence told me I had said the wrong thing. He moved the glass around in his hand, as though recovering from an offense, but when he spoke their was no spite in his voice. "Sanyi is a very long way from Changsha." He picked up a glass and began to polish.
"How long have you lived in Changsha?"
"Two years. I used to come in on the weekends, and eventually I got this job." Perhaps it was merely a reflection from the glass he was polishing, yet a glimmer seemed to flash across his eyes.
"You came in every weekend just to look for work?"
"Well, of course," he said. "You don't find work by sitting around, do you?" It was more his tone than his words that confirmed his pride. He had a been a country boy once, but he had found a job in the city and his country life was over now. His accented Mandarin did something to expose his origin, but otherwise he had succeeded magnificently. Sporting a Oxford shit of the latest fashion, surrounded by a wall of Western beer, he was as far from the country as it was possible to be. He continued wiping the glass long after it shined, and when he spoke it was as though my observations had paralled his thoughts: "I don't return to Sanyi often."
At the other end of the table, the drunk man's night had taken a turn for the worst. His head and hand formed an arc above the table, his head resting against it and his hand rising above it. The hand held a cell phone, its fingers groping lazily at vodka-splattered keys. He began to cry.
Instinctively, the bartender and I moved toward the drunken man. The bartender took a cloth from under the bar, and feigned wiping the table. His real motive, however, was to make the man move into a sitting position. His phone fell from his limp wrist, and his bawling stopped.
"I can't read it," the man said groggily, motioning toward the phone. "I can't type."
"What were you trying to say?" I asked. "I can type for you."
He pushed the phone toward me, and mumbled, "I wanted to tell her to eat shit, but I can't see the damn characters."
I picked up the phone. He had selected the wrong character; identical in pronunciation, instead of "eat" he had selected an obscure character denoting a short-horned dragon.
"I'll save this message," I suggested. "If you feel like this in the morning, you can still send it." Though I knew none of the particulars of his misery, I suspected they little concerned short-horned dragons.
"Guangzhou," the man said slowly, "Damn Guangzhou."
"What about Guangzhou?" the bartender asked, folding the man's phone and handing it back to him.
The drunken man pulled himself into a sitting position again. The left side of his face still bore impressions of the bar, wettened by tears. He inhalled deeply, and began to recount his misfortune.
Though interrupted by sporadic hand movements, yelling, crying and nearly falling asleep, the man divulged his misfortune. A woman—until today his woman—had moved to Guangzhou, having found a job there in finance in accordance with her major. The man had meant to accompany her there—and had even found a job—but had been held back. His family wouldn't hear of it. He was born in Changsha, they said, and it was a very fine city indeed. There was no need to run off chasing places like Guangzhou and the people that moved there. They had felt these things a long time, it seemed, but today they finally told him how they felt.
Tonight, he had told the woman what his family said, and explained that he would have to remain behind. That was too bad for him, she said, because she was getting out of this place; she was going to Guangzhou, with or without him.
"So I'll stay in Changsha," he sighed. "But I hate Changsha." If the bartender took any offense, he was far too good at what he did to show it. He offered a few words of wisdom—both praise and admonishment—and told him that there was nothing to be gained in a city like Guangzhou anyway, nothing to miss about a city full of people willing to leave all that was good behind. He was better off without a girl who went to a place like Guangzhou.
The two of them argued for a long time, Guangzhou against Changsha, Guangdong versus Hunan. The bartender's comments were cautious and mild, not extenuating the qualities of Changsha nor diminishing the draw of Guangzhou. "But you're from Changsha," he said after a while,"that should mean something to you, even if it didn't to her."
"But she's not from Changsha," he said. He had begun to sober up. His tears had ceased, and his senses had returned enough to ask for a kleenex. Wiping his eyes, he told us that he had met the woman in college, but that she was from the country—one of those small towns south of Changsha where the train didn't stop.
We helped the man find a taxi. The taxi was glad to find a passenger and the bartender, after nearly an hour of circular conversation, was glad to be rid of him. "Do you know where to go?" the bartender asked. The man nodded and yawned.
"Guangzhou," the bartender said after the man was gone. "She's probably there already." He paused and added, "Have you been to a bar in Guangzhou?"
"No," I said. "I've never been there long enough. I've just passed through really."
"You're not missing anything," he said tersely. "Guangzhou is no fun at all."
While I waited for the next taxi, I watched him return to the empty bar. Perhaps it was the darkness or my angle, but as he passed through the door, I saw no glimmer in his eye.
There was only one other man in the bar that night. Dressed up to the nines—and drunk with as many shots—his brief sentences were interrupted with hearty sips of his drink and lengthy (presumably indecipherable) texts on his phone. Yet the bartender, young and affable, seemed intent on talking to him anyway.
Eventually the bartender turned to me. "Are you waiting for your friends?" he asked.
"Friends" was understood to mean "foreigners."
"No," I said.
"I've never seen a foreigner alone before," he remarked.
I was used to this. As a single foreigner, I was invariably understood to be lost. He began to ask further questions, but was interrupted by the drunk man, who had broken out into a song he couldn't remember how to sing and wouldn't remember having sung. "How is he?" I asked.
"Well enough," he said. We watched the man tip a shot into his mouth and balance the empty shot glass on his nose. He began to laugh.
"Dear God," sighed the bartender. "Sometimes I hate this job."
The customer continued giggling. The shot glass fell off his nose and landed in a glass of water, sending its contents across the wooden counter.
"Seriously?" exclaimed the bartender. He moved in with a sponge and refilled the empty water and shot glasses. The customer giggled and murmured a vague thanks.
"Maybe this should be his last drink," I suggested as the bartender returned.
"Oh, he had his last a few shots ago now. The bottle with the blue lettering is really water."
I laughed.
"But don't worry, I'm not charging him. I keep telling him he's already paid and he believes me."
The water-filled shot glass fell on the floor, and the bartender grimaced as we heard a high-pitched shatter.
"I wouldn't blame you if you did charge him," I said, as the bartender sulked off to fetch the broom.
He returned a few minutes later. "I'm sorry, I didn't ask you what you wanted to drink."
As he poured my Guinness—which proved to be flat and stale—I asked him where he was from.
"Sanyi, do you know it?" I could tell from his tone that he almost hoped I did not.
"I know where it is, but I haven't been. It's not far from Changsha, no?"
His face contorted slightly, and he looked down at my foaming glass. His silence told me I had said the wrong thing. He moved the glass around in his hand, as though recovering from an offense, but when he spoke their was no spite in his voice. "Sanyi is a very long way from Changsha." He picked up a glass and began to polish.
"How long have you lived in Changsha?"
"Two years. I used to come in on the weekends, and eventually I got this job." Perhaps it was merely a reflection from the glass he was polishing, yet a glimmer seemed to flash across his eyes.
"You came in every weekend just to look for work?"
"Well, of course," he said. "You don't find work by sitting around, do you?" It was more his tone than his words that confirmed his pride. He had a been a country boy once, but he had found a job in the city and his country life was over now. His accented Mandarin did something to expose his origin, but otherwise he had succeeded magnificently. Sporting a Oxford shit of the latest fashion, surrounded by a wall of Western beer, he was as far from the country as it was possible to be. He continued wiping the glass long after it shined, and when he spoke it was as though my observations had paralled his thoughts: "I don't return to Sanyi often."
At the other end of the table, the drunk man's night had taken a turn for the worst. His head and hand formed an arc above the table, his head resting against it and his hand rising above it. The hand held a cell phone, its fingers groping lazily at vodka-splattered keys. He began to cry.
Instinctively, the bartender and I moved toward the drunken man. The bartender took a cloth from under the bar, and feigned wiping the table. His real motive, however, was to make the man move into a sitting position. His phone fell from his limp wrist, and his bawling stopped.
"I can't read it," the man said groggily, motioning toward the phone. "I can't type."
"What were you trying to say?" I asked. "I can type for you."
He pushed the phone toward me, and mumbled, "I wanted to tell her to eat shit, but I can't see the damn characters."
I picked up the phone. He had selected the wrong character; identical in pronunciation, instead of "eat" he had selected an obscure character denoting a short-horned dragon.
"I'll save this message," I suggested. "If you feel like this in the morning, you can still send it." Though I knew none of the particulars of his misery, I suspected they little concerned short-horned dragons.
"Guangzhou," the man said slowly, "Damn Guangzhou."
"What about Guangzhou?" the bartender asked, folding the man's phone and handing it back to him.
The drunken man pulled himself into a sitting position again. The left side of his face still bore impressions of the bar, wettened by tears. He inhalled deeply, and began to recount his misfortune.
Though interrupted by sporadic hand movements, yelling, crying and nearly falling asleep, the man divulged his misfortune. A woman—until today his woman—had moved to Guangzhou, having found a job there in finance in accordance with her major. The man had meant to accompany her there—and had even found a job—but had been held back. His family wouldn't hear of it. He was born in Changsha, they said, and it was a very fine city indeed. There was no need to run off chasing places like Guangzhou and the people that moved there. They had felt these things a long time, it seemed, but today they finally told him how they felt.
Tonight, he had told the woman what his family said, and explained that he would have to remain behind. That was too bad for him, she said, because she was getting out of this place; she was going to Guangzhou, with or without him.
"So I'll stay in Changsha," he sighed. "But I hate Changsha." If the bartender took any offense, he was far too good at what he did to show it. He offered a few words of wisdom—both praise and admonishment—and told him that there was nothing to be gained in a city like Guangzhou anyway, nothing to miss about a city full of people willing to leave all that was good behind. He was better off without a girl who went to a place like Guangzhou.
The two of them argued for a long time, Guangzhou against Changsha, Guangdong versus Hunan. The bartender's comments were cautious and mild, not extenuating the qualities of Changsha nor diminishing the draw of Guangzhou. "But you're from Changsha," he said after a while,"that should mean something to you, even if it didn't to her."
"But she's not from Changsha," he said. He had begun to sober up. His tears had ceased, and his senses had returned enough to ask for a kleenex. Wiping his eyes, he told us that he had met the woman in college, but that she was from the country—one of those small towns south of Changsha where the train didn't stop.
We helped the man find a taxi. The taxi was glad to find a passenger and the bartender, after nearly an hour of circular conversation, was glad to be rid of him. "Do you know where to go?" the bartender asked. The man nodded and yawned.
"Guangzhou," the bartender said after the man was gone. "She's probably there already." He paused and added, "Have you been to a bar in Guangzhou?"
"No," I said. "I've never been there long enough. I've just passed through really."
"You're not missing anything," he said tersely. "Guangzhou is no fun at all."
While I waited for the next taxi, I watched him return to the empty bar. Perhaps it was the darkness or my angle, but as he passed through the door, I saw no glimmer in his eye.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)