The Train to Lo Wu - Jess Row [56]
Where are we going?
Downtown, she says. Lan Kwai Fong. Where the bars are.
How do you know?
The bodhisattva lives in the world but is not of the world, she says, turning to him, her face marbled by the passing neon signs: red draining into yellow draining into blue. All things to him are skillful means, she calls out, over the roar of the engine. The bodhisattva does not hesitate.
At the New Asia Club they sit next to a window that opens onto the street, buffeted by pounding music from the dance floor. It is a Tuesday, he realizes, and still the sidewalks are jammed: red-faced businessmen loosening their collars; Chinese teenagers with bleached hair and skateboards; shirtless garbagemen brushing past women in evening gowns. A line of red taxis descends the street at a crawl, blowing their horns, as if part of a never-ending New Year’s parade. The noise is so terrific he feels he is underwater: it presses on his eyeballs, pushes the air out of his lungs.
Are you uncomfortable? he shouts into her ear. Do you want to leave?
She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. I like it, she shouts. I have never been to a place like this.
You can take off your hat if you like.
Yes?
It’s not so uncommon now. A woman with a shaved head.
I was wrong, he thinks. After she has removed the cap and tucked it into her evening bag men at other tables turn to look at her, glancing away as soon as he sees them. In the corner of his eye a line of staring faces at the bar. For a moment he feels the sweat running into the small of his back, the temptation to take her arm and hail the nearest taxi, but no, he decides. The bodhisattva lives in the world. Staring out at the street, she seems totally unaware; the corners of her mouth lift in a puzzled smile.
Excuse me.
A man sitting at the next table has risen and placed one hand on the back of her chair. Would you care to dance, his mouth says. He turns to Curtis. If you don’t mind, sir, he shouts, with a heavy German accent. I see you are—
They look at each other across the table. Go, Curtis says. Try it.
She places her hand over his.
Don’t be afraid, he says, mouthing the words.
After they have left he waits a full minute, counting the seconds by thousands, then takes up his cane and walks back toward the bar. An older couple moves away from the corner, giving him an unobstructed view of the dancers. Colored spotlights play at random over them, increasing in speed, then disappearing; for a few moments she disappears among the bobbing heads of the crowd. But she is there in the far corner, waving her hands awkwardly as if conducting an orchestra, grinning fiercely. He sits heavily on a stool and shouts an order into the ear of the bartender. On impulse he takes the sketchbook from his jacket pocket and drops it on the counter beside his sweating glass.
An upraised hand, a woman’s ear, a snagged stocking, a sweat-darkened shirt, Ana’s face, gold chains against a hairy chest. The images glow and fade imprecisely, like sunlight etched on the retina. He has been drawing furiously for an hour, filling pages with outlines that flow into one another like cursive script. They refuse to fix, he cannot see them whole; so he presses on to the next, unconcerned. Every few minutes he stops to shake the cramps from his drawing hand. You’re so out of practice, a voice is telling him, it’s as if you’re in high school again, drawing faces in a coffeehouse, but he ignores it, gripping the edge of the table with his free hand, as if he might be dragged from his chair at any moment.
She emerges alone and stops in front of him. I have finished, she shouts over the din, would you like to—and then she sees the pen and the book open in front of him and stops, raising her hands, pressing the palms together, closing her mouth with her fingertips.
Now for the first time as they make love she moves around him, fluid and sly, slipping in and out of his grasp.