Don’t be surprised if you see posters up around the place. The photo you gave us was very clear Mr Milne, it should help a great deal.”
Her dad seemed poised to say something. Maybe it was the anxiety of the moment which could easily have led to a half-hearted quip, a dad joke, about his camera never lying. He opened the door wide onto the freezing night air and thanked the inspector for coming.
Jen could feel the bitter cold all the way through to the stuffy living room. She knew her dad would rather stand there all night than turn indoors, to face his home, his wife – the kids that could now never fully be his.
Pink satin shoes
Nanchang crackled with activity. Bayi Square, where I’d first stepped off the bus with Zhi, was awash with Falun Gong practitioners. A teacher on a dais sat cross-legged, arms outstretched. The calm, meditative bodies of the Falun Gong students were so unlike my aching body. My fingers throbbed where I had pushed, prodded and poked the circuit boards. Two weeks! Already I heard the klaxon in my sleep. I woke to the sound of the alarm clanging. Sleep was never long or deep enough for me to recuperate. Dreams were shallow. My head ached constantly. The whites of my eyes were turning pink and my hair had lost its sheen.
I hurried, anxious to find the bus that would take me to the train station and back home to my parents. I couldn’t bear another day checking a thousand circuit boards.
I skirted a path around the square, feeling in my pocket for Manager He’s spending money. He’d slipped an extra wad of notes into my pay packet and I was rich. 300 yuan!
The Falun Gong teacher brought his hands together, and the practitioners dispersed. For a moment I followed the general flow before being swept into the bright lights of a restaurant doorway. I glanced up and saw Chairman Mao, actually
The Colonel,
his benevolent face smiling down on me. Surely this was a sign, a confirmation that I should go home, to Hunan. Mao’s country, my country. The place where Li Quifang waited at the coffin maker’s door.
The smell of fried food wafting down the line was so different to the pig’s blood soup Forwood doled out and it lifted my spirits. Chicken burger, fries, Coca-Cola, chicken nuggets, thousand year old eggs, breakfast
youtiao,
rice … With Manager He’s money, I had enough to buy the entire menu.
“What can I get you?” asked a worker who looked more like an American movie star in her baseball cap.
Even the waitress mopping the floor was nice to me, warning me not to slip with my tray, urging me to walk where it was dry. What a fuss pot. I perched on a stool by the window and gorged myself like a proper peasant, letting the chilli paste drip down my chin, chewing and sucking on the tender wing meat. It was more expensive than I expected: ten yuan for Hot Wings, six for fries and three for a green tea. I gobbled it down, making my toes curl with a strange mixture of pleasure and guilt.
The bizarre slogan said,
Eat your fingers off.
Was this supposed to make customers feel hungry? Maybe westerners weren’t so cultured after all?
In the far corner, a bride and groom were celebrating their wedding banquet with a dozen or so guests. They drank Coca-Cola, flush-faced and high spirited. All around, the Colonel’s smiley face bobbed approvingly, emblazoned on bunches of red balloons. Her wedding dress was western in style and billowed out around her ankles. Honestly, I thought it swamped her. Still, it seemed like a fun way to celebrate and, fleetingly, I dared to imagine my own wedding party. Then mother’s sour face came suddenly to mind as she muttered the word ‘vulgar’.
I thought of Li Quifang, the reality of being his wife: the wedding, the wedding night, followed by a long life serving Madam Quifang. I sat a whole hour in KFC, becoming less and less sure of my decision to leave Nanchang. I took Mr and Mrs Nie from my pocket and asked what they thought, but they remained
Her dad seemed poised to say something. Maybe it was the anxiety of the moment which could easily have led to a half-hearted quip, a dad joke, about his camera never lying. He opened the door wide onto the freezing night air and thanked the inspector for coming.
Jen could feel the bitter cold all the way through to the stuffy living room. She knew her dad would rather stand there all night than turn indoors, to face his home, his wife – the kids that could now never fully be his.
Pink satin shoes
Nanchang crackled with activity. Bayi Square, where I’d first stepped off the bus with Zhi, was awash with Falun Gong practitioners. A teacher on a dais sat cross-legged, arms outstretched. The calm, meditative bodies of the Falun Gong students were so unlike my aching body. My fingers throbbed where I had pushed, prodded and poked the circuit boards. Two weeks! Already I heard the klaxon in my sleep. I woke to the sound of the alarm clanging. Sleep was never long or deep enough for me to recuperate. Dreams were shallow. My head ached constantly. The whites of my eyes were turning pink and my hair had lost its sheen.
I hurried, anxious to find the bus that would take me to the train station and back home to my parents. I couldn’t bear another day checking a thousand circuit boards.
I skirted a path around the square, feeling in my pocket for Manager He’s spending money. He’d slipped an extra wad of notes into my pay packet and I was rich. 300 yuan!
The Falun Gong teacher brought his hands together, and the practitioners dispersed. For a moment I followed the general flow before being swept into the bright lights of a restaurant doorway. I glanced up and saw Chairman Mao, actually
The Colonel,
his benevolent face smiling down on me. Surely this was a sign, a confirmation that I should go home, to Hunan. Mao’s country, my country. The place where Li Quifang waited at the coffin maker’s door.
The smell of fried food wafting down the line was so different to the pig’s blood soup Forwood doled out and it lifted my spirits. Chicken burger, fries, Coca-Cola, chicken nuggets, thousand year old eggs, breakfast
youtiao,
rice … With Manager He’s money, I had enough to buy the entire menu.
“What can I get you?” asked a worker who looked more like an American movie star in her baseball cap.
Even the waitress mopping the floor was nice to me, warning me not to slip with my tray, urging me to walk where it was dry. What a fuss pot. I perched on a stool by the window and gorged myself like a proper peasant, letting the chilli paste drip down my chin, chewing and sucking on the tender wing meat. It was more expensive than I expected: ten yuan for Hot Wings, six for fries and three for a green tea. I gobbled it down, making my toes curl with a strange mixture of pleasure and guilt.
The bizarre slogan said,
Eat your fingers off.
Was this supposed to make customers feel hungry? Maybe westerners weren’t so cultured after all?
In the far corner, a bride and groom were celebrating their wedding banquet with a dozen or so guests. They drank Coca-Cola, flush-faced and high spirited. All around, the Colonel’s smiley face bobbed approvingly, emblazoned on bunches of red balloons. Her wedding dress was western in style and billowed out around her ankles. Honestly, I thought it swamped her. Still, it seemed like a fun way to celebrate and, fleetingly, I dared to imagine my own wedding party. Then mother’s sour face came suddenly to mind as she muttered the word ‘vulgar’.
I thought of Li Quifang, the reality of being his wife: the wedding, the wedding night, followed by a long life serving Madam Quifang. I sat a whole hour in KFC, becoming less and less sure of my decision to leave Nanchang. I took Mr and Mrs Nie from my pocket and asked what they thought, but they remained
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