Lost on Planet China - J. Maarten Troost [69]
I have had but one professional massage in my life, and it was on my honeymoon in France, in a seaside hotel in Brittany. There was a spa pour hommes, and I went, and I was oiled, and I was rubbed down by Philippe, who dimmed the lights and massaged me to the sounds of Enigma. It was okay, but it was also weird, what with scented candles and the Enigma and all. A man’s hands. But I decided that now would be an excellent time for my second professional massage. It would be relaxing. It would relieve the stress. So I went to the third floor.
I was greeted by a young man dressed as a bellhop. He bounded forth and took me to a locker room. Off with my shirt. Okay. Away with my pants. Fine. Boxer shorts. Off, off, off.
All right. I stood naked before him. He handed me a pair of cotton shorts and a T-shirt. They were beige. They were also Chinese-size, and I am not Chinese-size. I would pop out of these clothes like the Incredible Hulk. One twitch of the shoulders and the shirt would shred. And the shorts were short, 1950s-style. I felt like I should be doing calisthenics, throw the old medicine ball around.
Still, I put them on and followed the spa attendant. This was China and things were done differently here. We entered a dimly lit room where there was a bed, a chair, and a dresser. The attendant left and a young woman entered, tall and lithe, dressed in white stretch pants and a T-shirt. We exchanged nihaos and I expressed an interest in the China Massage. Not the Thai or Korean Massage. The China Massage. This was China; thus, I should have the China Massage.
I lay down on the bed. She began to squeeze my shoulders. I was not familiar with the China Massage, but so far it was not pleasant. She kneaded my shoulders like dough. I am not very doughy, however, and neither were the Chinese, so this was bewildering, this gnashing of muscle and skin. Perhaps, I thought, it’s one of those massages that are supposed to hurt but leave you feeling better in the end. I had a Japanese friend who gave massages like that, a karate-like massage that made you wince, but then afterward all the tension just seemed to have melted from your back. Maybe the China Massage was like that too. I’d hurt now but would feel better later.
She indicated that I should roll over, so I did. She squeezed my shoulders. She smelled nice. She moved down to my legs. She rubbed my thighs. And then her hands began to go up my shorts. My short shorts. Um, I thought. Er. I don’t think so. I turned back over and pointed to my back. Men are not complex creatures. They are biological automatons.
Her hands returned to wringing my shoulders. Suddenly, her tongue was in my ear.
“Make love, make love,” she suggested.
“No, no. No make love! China Massage,” I exclaimed, startled.
“Make love, make love,” she breathed.
“No, no, no. No make love. Massage. Massagee.”
She reached for her cell phone. She typed 900.
“No, no, no. I came for a massage. Relaxing China Massage.”
She typed 800. “Make love,” she pleaded.
“Er…look…no! There’s been a misunderstanding.”
750. “Make love!”
It was all very embarrassing. I left and went to the locker room to change. And then I realized I’d forgotten my glasses. Once I’d dressed, I walked back toward the room to retrieve them. I encountered her in the hallway. There was bowing, many xie xies. Just totally embarrassing.
What an interesting day you’re having, I thought. You found the brothel. Well done.
11
In the morning, I pondered the man dangling from the fifth-floor ledge of my hotel. It was a very exciting place, this hotel in Hangzhou. Clearly, this was a hotel that accommodated a wide variety of needs. There was, predictably, a large crowd below. There were also firefighters, all watching this man. Would he jump?
Typically in China, it’s the women who jump. China has the world’s highest suicide rate among women. And it’s no wonder, really. In rural China, when a woman has a baby girl she is said to have delivered a poyatou, a worthless servant girl, instead of a dapangxiaozi, or big