Ghost Month

Ho Lin

Bundled in a poncho, sweat indistinguishable from rain, he waits out the thunderstorm underneath the awning of a video store. Rainwater dances everywhere, off passing cars, the vinyl seat of his scooter. His hand rises to his mouth and nose to ward off the fumes belched by the latest round of traffic. Soon, he thinks, maybe five minutes more. Summer cloudbursts are like clockwork, arriving at 1:30 p.m. on the dot, dissipating fifteen minutes later, sweet ionized air left in their wake until the early hours of the evening, at which time the smog crawls out again in a triumphant mass and the cycle of pollution and cleansing begins anew.

His glasses are fogging up. He does not wish to move. Movement creates kinetic energy, more kinetic energy results in more sweat, the body becomes that much more uncomfortable. Figure another five minutes, a few more miles. He will be late. A bitter sigh escapes him as he flicks his fingers over his lenses like windshield wipers. The world reemerges, foggy glory surrendering to the lumpy brick and soaked shingles of the run-down apartment buildings opposite.

The latest American movies are on display in the video store window. Funny how the Chinese translations of the titles have a sameness to them: Killer Woman. The Marvelous Killers. One Second to Death. He likes these titles -- they have the whiff of honesty to them. He recognizes a Hollywood star on a cover, his eyebrows darker, his expression more taciturn, ineffably Asian. It is tempting to walk inside, down the pink aisles where the Japanese porn videos are displayed, genitals digitally blurred out on the covers but breasts proudly displayed, the girls flashing their winsome, absolutely carnal smiles.

The rain has subsided to a dotted mist. Kicking his scooter into gear, he blunders back into traffic. Other riders with their long gowns of raincoats clatter alongside him, like performers at a particularly forlorn circus. The water on the street is perhaps an inch deep, and as his tires cut through the brownish waves, water sprays his back, little jabs of discomfort that settle on the seat, soak the bottom of his pants.

All the while he is on the lookout for the police, the maddening checkpoints they usually set up down Roosevelt Road along the bridges that connect Hsintien in the south to central Taipei in the north. He has no scooter license; those with a two-month visitor visa are prohibited from acquiring them. Countless foreign devils have fallen prey to these checkpoints, been issued stern warnings and fines that could almost pay for a used scooter by themselves. Once, after a drunken evening at the Blue Note, he was barreling down the post-midnight streets when he saw the slim patrolmen standing at attention, the lighted batons they waved in their hands. He had braked, much too fast, the scooter skidding right out from under him, his elbow and forearm smeared black with concrete and blood. He had struggled back to his feet, the back fender of his scooter sticking out like a toy that has been abused too often, and sped off in the opposite direction, the policemen at the checkpoint refusing to give chase, or perhaps they hadn’t even seen him. For the rest of the evening he took refuge at the New Park, camped underneath the willowy trees, kept awake by his throbbing arm and the clang of the garbage trucks at three in the morning.

Outside the My Family’s Pork Chop restaurant scooters litter the sidewalk, haphazardly parked, cutting off pedestrian movement. People must venture out into the street to proceed, and risk the wrath of the buses and compact cars. Wrestling his scooter into the tight space between two bulky older models he strains and pushes, metal body rubbing other metal bodies. A stray piece of scooter scrapes his hand, leaving a cut. Cursing, he shoves harder, and now his vehicle is wedged, the front tire poised a few inches above the ground. He is angry at himself for his callous approach to parking -- once one surrenders to this environment, one reaches a state of perpetual irritation and complacency. Who cares if you scratch up your scooter or someone else’s? Who cares if you’re blocking the sidewalk? No one else does, so one must accept the fight on those terms, and thus the battle is lost.

Still perturbed, he wraps his poncho into a ball before he enters the restaurant and squeezes out as much rainwater as he can. Against his sweaty back, his short-sleeve shirt is like wax. Being in the tropics will do wonders for your complexion, he had been told. No more need for moisturizers. Which was true, he hasn’t touched lotion in months, but now the ring finger and pinky of his right hand are wrinkled, flaking and itchy with some unknown fungal condition.

He recognizes Mr. Liu almost immediately -- it is as if he has emerged whole and unharmed from the photo Allen provided. Baby face perched atop a white linen shirt, a hint of sagging breasts underneath. Hair combed in sweaty strands across his forehead. His mouth bulges with a helping of sizzling pork. 

He approaches Mr. Liu and bows slightly. Sorry I’m late. I’m C.J Wang.

Mr. Liu grunts in hello, extends a hand. The man’s fingers are soft, stubby, baby fingers, and exert little pressure as they shake. The state of C.J.’s afflicted fingers has not been commented on. Typhoid Mary, he muses.

Thank you for meeting me, he continues. He takes care to speak slowly, methodically -- this is the only way to ensure his accent is flawless.

You’re not Taiwanese, Mr. Liu says.

He holds himself back from wincing. That didn’t last long.

I’m first-generation American.

You look it, Mr. Liu says.

He seats himself as Mr. Liu continues to devour. The pork chop is chalk-white and devoid of character, coated with a filmy gravy that bubbles off the sides. On the far side of the plate are reddish chunks that resemble vegetables.

You’re from the insurance company? Mr. Liu asks.

Allen had briefed him on how to answer this question. Just tell them that speaking to you is the same as speaking to me, he said.

Yes, I’m Mr. Allen’s associate. I represent him in this case.

Hmm. Mr. Liu coughs harshly. What do you want to know?

He produces the manila envelope that contains Mr. Chen’s files, blotted dark brown with the rain, and extracts the photo.

I mentioned this man on the phone, he says.

Mr. Liu grunts again. The man’s grunting vocabulary is easy to grasp -- this time he is merely being affirmative.

Is this the man you examined? C.J. asks.

Mr. Liu cranes his head forward to peer at the photo. It is not the best shot of Mr. Chen, in fact it is downright incongruous: the kind of faultless sunny day that can only take place in southern California, Mr. Chen at the gates of Disneyland’s Magic Kingdom, the fairy tale spires of the castle soaring above his head. His gray face is bemused, as if it has just been revealed that he was the victim of a practical joke. Still, the slump in his posture, the bags under his eyes, the finely etched wrinkles at the corner of his mouth are all clear enough.

I think so, Mr. Liu says. I didn’t look too closely. I see dozens of bodies every week, you know.

I understand. Can you take a closer look?

Mr. Liu’s grunt is a morse code of annoyance, but he grabs the photograph by a corner and leans in until his eye almost touches the surface.

Probably, he says. I can’t be more sure than that.

Do you have files on the case?

Mr. Liu’s mouth freezes in mid-chew. What is this about? he says. 

I don’t mean to accuse. My job is to check on cases like these for Mr. Allen. Sometimes … He speaks even more deliberately, struggling to explain in the easiest vocabulary possible. People move to America, get life insurance, and then have a fake death so they collect on the money. Many similar cases in China. Maybe you have heard…

Mr. Liu is picking at a set of beads wound loosely around his wrist. Buddhist prayer beads. Everyone here believes in superstition, burning paper money at sundown every day for the dead, consulting fengshui experts, avoiding activities based on dates and star positions. Mr. Liu rubs one bead, then moves onto the next, and the next, a ceaseless polishing routine.

The man I examined died in a car accident, Mr. Liu says. Crushed. Broken neck. Very typical. Nothing fake about it.

I understand. If I could see your files … I just want to note them for my report …

The records are private. In police custody.

I was told that you have permission --

It’s dangerous to arrange such things. Lots of work hours, money…Mr. Liu lets the words hang, and shears off a fresh piece of pork with his teeth. 

He watches the older man eat, a sense of revulsion clogging his throat. Finally, we come to it. 

Evenly, he says: Mr. Allen asked me to give you a message.

Mmm, Mr. Liu grunts. 

Mr. Allen said that Peitou is still open.

When Allen had handed him these words -- say them exactly, he advised -- he had done so with a puckish rise of the left corner of his mouth. I guarantee you, say it to him and if you ask him to screw himself right there, he will happily chop off his penis and shove it in his derriere. So this is the game: talk in generalities and veiled innuendo, and sooner or later a promise will be made, and you must not be the one to make it.

Mr. Liu stares at him, mouth dumbly open. Damn, he hisses. That son of a --

He sits there like that for a period, fists on the table, curled into white balls. At a nearby table the pork chop goes right on sizzling merrily. Finally Mr. Liu looks at him again. Respect or disdain? Difficult to tell. You’ve worked with Mr. Allen for a long time? he asks.

A few years, he lies.

Your parents are Chinese?

Father from Hunan. Mother from Fujian.

Aha. Mr. Liu breaks into a greeting in the Fujian dialect, which also happens to be the local dialect. Not a word of it is comprehended, but the younger man has enough wherewithal to break into a relieved smile and respond: Ah, a fellow from Fujian ...

Jowls working on seeming thin air, Mr. Liu leans forward. You know, Mr. Allen is a dangerous one. He has connections. Distribution. Import and export.

Now it’s his turn to grunt, in an Is that right? sort of way. It could very well be true, he wouldn’t doubt it if it was, Allen was that sort of man. He would make some cursory remark about his finances, how he couldn’t afford to eat at the new expensive restaurant down Tunhua Road, and in the next breath he would mention a little real estate enterprise on the side that was earning him sixty thousand NT per month.

You shouldn’t trust him. Once you know him long enough, he has something on you. Like this.

Mr. Liu has reached into a soft-shell briefcase, and he places two VCDs in clear-glass CD cases on the table. The CDs are the kind you can buy at any computer store, and are labeled in chicken-scratch Chinese handwriting that he cannot decipher.

VCDs. A small run, maybe a few thousand for each item. Not the sort of thing that can go through regular channels, but very profitable. Ship them to the mainland, they do very well. You get me?

Not really. But he knows that now is not the time to interrupt with the affirmative or negative. He waits.

You do get me, don’t you? Don’t you? Mr. Liu pushes the VCDs across the table with an insistent squeak. Keep the VCDs. Free samples. Watch them and you’ll understand. Tell Mr. Allen that I’ll get him those files this afternoon. This one time. And Peitou better be closed within the week.

He knows better than to ask Mr. Liu what Peitou is, what the VCDs are, and yet the curiosity is maddening. No help for it, this is as far as he can go, he is merely a representative, a Chinese face that stands in for the American investigator, and in that role he must be affable, professional, aiding and abetting.

Where in America are you from? Mr. Liu asks.

Houston.

Houston? Houston? Mr. Liu smiles for the first time and raises his arms in rough mimicry of a jump shot. Houston Rockets. Yao Ming.

Yao Ming, he agrees. He knows nothing of the NBA, or the Houston Rockets, or Yao Ming, but he can say Yao Ming and smile.

He’s doing very well, Mr. Liu continues. He’s developing his inside game. He pronounces inside game in English, as a broadcaster might, with a touch of southern twang.

He always had it. He always had it.

True! Mr. Liu chuckles, and it is an alarming sight and sound. He rips open a fresh pack of cigarettes, offers one to him. The young man hates cigarettes, and accepts one without a pause. Mr. Liu is already lighting his, with the careless alacrity that is the hallmark of the chain smoker. He has a plastic green lighter, a snapshot of a naked brunette on the side, and he proffers its flame.

Seconds pass, exhalations of smoke are exchanged. The young man knows that it is his turn -- conversation has been made, a cigarette has been offered. Now what?

Then I’ll tell Mr. Allen you’ll be in touch? he asks.

Mr. Liu performs the enviable trick of balancing the end of the cigarette on the tip of his lips, hands-free, as he says: How’d you like to make double the amount you’re making now?

Now?

Let’s not talk about the money. Whatever it is, double. I tell you, working for Mr. Allen isn’t worth it. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to be a native. You and me, we have the same history, we understand.

Sure, sure, he says, with a touch more alacrity than he intended.
 
The skin between Mr. Liu’s eyes crinkles, but only for a moment. Sure sure, he says. Listen to me. Next time you go to Mr. Allen’s house, if you have the chance, look for anything that has to do with me.

Look for what?

Anything! You’ll know when you see it. Find it, and maybe we can do some business of our own. Understand?

Thank you for your trouble. Forgive the rudeness, but I have another appointment …

Hey. Mr. Liu’s hand is upon his arm, or rather hovers over it. He then sinks with a deep sigh into his boxy wooden chair. Think it over, okay? Call me if you find something. And here’s some free advice. His voice dips to a rasp: The VCDs were taken at the hotel at the corner of Chunghsiao Road and Fuhsing Road, sorry, I can’t remember the exact name, but I would avoid going there in future. Understand? The man’s breath reeks of grease and rotten bananas.

***

C.J. hates his cell phone -- just hates it. It is a loaner from Mr. Wang, no relation, probably something his daughter owned before moving up to a newer model. It is a flimsy little trinket, cheap blue plastic and a wrist strap with some funny animal head at the end of it -- a panda, it must be, although it has the sour look of a much fiercer animal. Mr. Wang is the one man in Taipei who provides him with any kind of steady income, and yet with this income comes a form of indentured servitude in which Mr. Wang calls him at odd hours every day, requesting help or advice. Often “help” equals nothing more than listening to the man’s ramblings for an hour or so, and as Mr. Wang despises cell phone interference more than anything else, C.J. is often forced to stand right where he is, wherever he may be, when he accepts a call. In this fashion he has become familiar with moth-eaten curtains, the odor of stinky tofu, the irregular rhythm of rain plopping down a drainpipe, the smoke from unfiltered Taiwanese cigarettes that carves into his lungs. Compared to Mr. Wang’s rants, working with Allen, as dubious as he is, is like manna.

A few months before, when he had just arrived, C.J. was desperate for work and had been placed in touch with Mr. Wang. Mr. Wang is a fastidious man, clothed in three-piece suits regardless of temperature or precipitation, his face locked in a perpetual blush. Somehow it reminds C.J. of a helpless baby. Mr. Wang’s particular industry is safety glass, the largest and most successful manufacturer on the island, yet he still finds time to run sideline businesses, like a little service in which personal statements for college applications are created. Taiwanese high schoolers provide salient details and a transcript, and Mr. Wang’s revolving pool of freelance minions fashions essays based on this information. C.J. has a natural knack for such embroidery, and spends two days a week in the unventilated half-office Mr. Wang rents out for this semi-business, collating data, inventing achievements that fit the profile of each prospective student, conjuring personalities and dreams. I believe it is my calling to pursue a career in public policy, and contribute to the society that has nurtured my growth … I believe that immersing myself in a different culture would be beneficial for both me and your institution … I live and breathe numbers, but I also try to have fun with them too …My greatest lessons in life were taught to me by my late uncle, who was dying with cancer when I visited him in the hospital one day …

It is exhaustive, exhausting work, and there comes a point every day in which he swears he has written something like this before, and there is a slight chance that this statement may be the exact duplicate of another statement that is being sent to the same college. What a calamity! Both students exposed, rejected. But of course the colleges would not bother to explain to either student precisely why they are being rejected, so they will forever rest easy with the knowledge that it was not meant to be, rather than be exposed to the horrid truth that the man writing their personal statements screwed up.

It has been over a week since he has been in the office, but that is because Mr. Wang has procured his services for a special assignment -- writing emails to the Hungarian boy who is making advances on his daughter. Miss Wang is college age, withdrawn, willowy, with heavy rounded glasses in place of eyes. There is no doubt that she will be a valedictorian, if such a thing exists in Taiwan -- and why wouldn’t it? Everything else seems to be an echo of the American way of life -- attend an Ivy League school, and eventually assume control of the safety glass business. She can write her own personal statement, thank you very much, as long as Mr. Wang contributes his input. But now she is ruining the whole thing by meeting men on the Internet, and she and the Hungarian are talking about settling down together, maybe in Australia -- plenty of Chinese in Australia now. The Hungarian, in charming broken English, has already emailed Mr. Wang directly -- It is greatest pleasure to meet. The Hungarian is keen on coming to Taiwan, visiting his girlfriend, the whole family. C.J. can see it now: an earnest, modest young man determined to demonstrate his responsibility and filial piety to Mr. Wang. He will receive the slap on the back and blessings of all the best, and a whirlwind plane ride later he and Miss Wang will be bathed in an Outback sunset, charged up with the thrill of a new life, both shy of 20 years old and both dreaming of infinity.
 
What Mr. Wang wants is for this Hungarian boy to stay in Hungary, and cut off all contact with his daughter. Naturally, C.J.’s judgment is a critical component of this operation, as well as his English typing skills, so over the past few days he has been imprisoned in Mr. Wang’s home, hunched over the computer, going through draft after draft of the email, Mr. Wang’s ongoing comments models of specificity: No, don’t say “It is difficult for me to say this” -- it’s not difficult! We must be firm. Not rude, but firm. “You must understand that there is no future in this relationship.” No, maybe soften the blow here. Something like “You are obviously a sensitive, intelligent person, so you must understand…” And so it went, back and forth, for hours on end, until finally the email was ready, and Mr. Wang asked C.J. to hit “send,” interrupting him with an oh wait as his finger came down on the mouse button, followed by a sad, Oh well, too late now. And somehow C.J. was responsible for this regret, he should have known better than to send it off without one final are you sure? But Mr. Wang is a patient person, and after a raised index finger and an aggrieved Young man, why didn’t you… he subsided into a tolerant silence.

Since that moment three days ago Mr. Wang has called him four times a day. No response from the Hungarian yet, but it is anticipated, and in the meantime he has noted any minute change in his daughter’s behavior, like reading shifting sands for clues. She didn’t have breakfast today. Why not? Is she changing her diet? Planning a trip? She was missing for fifteen minutes in the restaurant last night. Was she calling him? You’re a man of this world, C.J., what do you think?

Each time C.J. had made soothing noises on the phone; usually he wasn’t required to supply more than that, for Mr. Wang was one to listen to his own thoughts during a conversation. Their last conversation had concluded with Mr. Wang saying, Thanks C.J., you’re a good man. You don’t have a girlfriend, do you? Smart guy like you, you deserve a girlfriend. You should come over, have dinner with us tomorrow. How about it?

C.J. had excused himself, as he would be busy helping Mr. Allen that evening. Already he could see Miss Wang’s face -- not necessarily a bad face, and those owlish glasses gave her some charm, like a bookish character in a Japanese cartoon. It might be worth it, after all. Safety Glass King of Taiwan. A servant-laden mansion up in the hills of Pishan, above the smog, where all the good English-speaking preschools are. A few desultory hours at the office each day, where he could pass off the work on everyone else, and the afternoons could be whiled away at Pishan Temple, overlooking the river and downtown, the multi-colored ribbons adorning the awnings shimmying with the breeze. She could even have her Hungarian boyfriend if she wanted to, it would make no difference to him. She could have her little getaways to Australia or wherever. But what if Mr. Wang hired another C.J.? Someone with a little wherewithal and nothing better to do? This new C.J. would dig a little into the first C.J. Wang’s background ... 

Mired in these somber thoughts, he stands outside My Family’s Pork Chop, the two VCD cases squeaking against each other in his hand. His cell phone is in his other hand, bopping with the first few notes of a famous Canto-pop tune: Easily Hurt Woman. Mr. Wang on the other end.

C.J.! he says, and immediately C.J. knows that Mr. Wang is agitated. He tends to speak quickly when under stress, the structure of his sentences rearranging themselves. We -- we got trouble big!

C.J. closes his eyes. A van papered with a man with slick parted hair, a deep smile, and spectacles is passing by. Atop it is mounted a set of speakers, and a local political candidate is espousing his views, or rather, telling everyone within a five-block radius that he represents the people’s views.

What’s wrong, Mr. Wang? he says.

What’s that? Mr. Wang shouts. I can’t hear you!

Just street noise. Go ahead.

Now the candidate’s voice has been replaced by what must be intended to be a soothing female voice, much like those voices on TV that reassure you that the correct herbal medicine to your particular ailment is now here, but squeezed through the high end of the van’s speakers, the voice is chirpy, shrill. Support your local DPP representative in the upcoming election, and continue the dream of a better Taipei … 

Hello?  Mr. Wang is still shouting. Don’t hang up, C.J.! You hear me? When he gets in these moods, it takes several seconds for anything said to register with him, like the sonic boom seconds after a jet has passed overhead.

I’m here, C.J. says softly, more to himself. The van is stuck in traffic. The woman’s voice twitters on. He pulls back against the side of the building, against flaking brick-like stone and covers the tiny cell phone with both hands. Mr. Wang is still talking:

-- Hungarian kid wrote back. I got it a few minutes ago. I’m going to read it to you now, you tell me what you think. Okay?

Okay, he replies, and he doesn’t even have to listen, he knows what the gist of it is, otherwise Mr. Wang wouldn’t be in this state. Still, he remains silent as Mr. Wang recites:

Dear Mr. Wang,
Thank you for your kind email. It was a pleasure to hear from you. Over the last few days I have been thinking about the best way to respond. I appreciate your concerns about your daughter and her future. I want you to know that I share those concerns. Your daughter and I have had some long talks on this subject …

C.J. thinks: Classic. Not so much the content as the grammar and the spelling and the style. There is no doubt, this Hungarian kid had a native English speaker help him with this message. There is another C.J. after all, and this C.J. is a random wanderer somewhere in Hungary, and maybe he needed an extra meal, or he bumped into this Hungarian in a hostel or café, and was asked to help compose this heartfelt response to a heartfelt message by Mr. Wang, which was itself composed by a C.J. here in Taiwan. They really should all get together for a dinner. Hungarians, Taiwanese, Americans all.

What you laughing about? Mr. Wang shouts. Nothing to laugh here.

I’m sorry, C.J. rushes to say. I was thinking of something else.

Well, think about what I tell you, okay? And here’s the end: “We sincerely hope that you will understand our position, and that we can earn your trust and blessings for our future. Please contact me at any time, and let me know your thoughts.”

Hmm, at least he leaves it open for dialogue, C.J. says.

“Open for dialogue”! That’s the point! No dialogue here! No discussion! That’s what I told him in the last message. He didn’t listen! He cares – no, he don’t care!

He’s very determined.

Well, we have to stop the nonsense! You weren’t firm enough last time. That’s the problem. This time, no doubt. We have to tell him it’s impossible. All impossible. I need you to compose it. ASAP. Can you come over to the house?

Have you talked about this with your daughter --

With this, what’s my daughter to do? Father’s message. My decision. Please come over right away.

I’m sorry, I’m on a work assignment right now --

It can’t wait?

Sorry, no. But if you want to write a first draft, maybe I can come over later and look it over.

Later when?

Maybe sometime tonight? I’ll have to see how long this assignment takes.

Tonight. Okay. How about nine?

Nine, okay. I’ll be over.

Come at nine. No later. Okay?

No problem, Mr. Wang.

We have to have a strong response. We must end it.

Yep, I hear you.

Hear it, understand it. This must end. Everything must end tonight. I’ve already wasted too much time on this.