Shanghaiers

For this week's response, I wrote four very short stories or long vignettes, that I think capture a small portion of the city I love so much: Shanghai. I stole the idea from the novel Dubliners by James Joyce, in which Joyce attempted to capture the source of "paralysis" in Dublin society, and attempt to copy some of the stylist points of James Joyce, such as using a third person narrator that gravitates towards the natural voice of the subject it is narrating. I am not looking for paralysis in Shanghai, but the idea is similar.

I

The boiling sun struck the white villa like a drum, and sunlight oozed through the Victorian window shades of Silvia Alean’s bedroom. While the rest of the Alean household awoke, Silvia dozed on, appearing for the moment uninterested in the new day. Her room was a mixture of the sophisticated and the superficial: An empty gold picture frame was visible on a cluttered desk. A white closet tattooed in black swirls and ellipses stood against the wall. Through an open door, a collection of expensive cocktail dresses and silk stockings was visible. In the center of the room was the bed. The double mattress appeared tyrannical next to a vanity desk pilled high with books and a spectrum of cosmetics. However, the bed sheets were soft and white like the rest of the room.

Silvia jumped out of her silk blankets in a wave of excitement that comes only in the summer, and ran to the bathroom. The hardwood floor—cool from air conditioning—memorized a trail of footprints in warm condensation that glowed softy in the morning light.

She rested her eighteen-year-old elbows on the sink, nostrils full of moist lavender from the lotion on her smooth thighs. Silvia gazed into the mirror and thought herself very beautiful that morning. Her sleek brown hair was charmed into a neat French braid. Her intelligent green eyes gazed back inquisitively at her body.

“I should be a queen,” she whispered.

The brief reverie was interrupted when her mother poked her head into the room.

“I’m putting the laundry on your bed Silvy,” her mother said.

“Thanks, Mom!” Silvia yelled.

On her way out, her mother glanced in the bathroom.

“Did you change the way you tie your hair?”

“It’s a French braid. I saw Angelina Jolie doing this at the Golden Globes, so I thought I would try it. Do you like it?”

Her mother thought for a second—“I liked it better before”—and walked out the door.

Her mother had never liked change. Yet, so much had changed. Two years ago, Silvia’s father was offered the job of Regional Director of General Motors in Asia. He took it, and moved the family from Groton, Connecticut to Shanghai, China.

“We’re only going to stay for two years,” he promised.

But, Silvia threw a fit.

“We’re moving to China?” she demanded, “We can’t speak Chinese. Why would we move to China?”

“Well, I am taking introductory classes right now. And, I’m sure they will teach you that in school.”

“I’m going to a Chinese school?” Silvia looked pale as death.

“No, darling. You are going to an international school called Concordia. I’ve heard great things about it, and the best part is that all of your teachers and peers are foreigners just like you.”

“What about food? I can’t just eat Chinese food all the time.”

“I’ve asked about that as well, and apparently the foreigners in Shanghai eat better than the Donald Trumps of New York. Shanghai has a dish called Xiao Long Bao,” Mr. Alean gave his best Chinese impression, “which is like a bun, but the skin is thin as paper and the meat is delicate as china.” He chuckled at his own pun.

“That sounds stupid.”

“Hey, you’re not the only one who has to sacrifice. Mom is giving up her job!”

Silvia did not reply. She was close to tears now, and pouted her lips in a way that only daughters could, and fathers could not resist.

Mr. Alean softened up, and knelt down beside his daughter. He held her face in his warm hands, and kissed her head.

“You’re going to love it, darling.”

Silvia wished he were wrong.

They arrived in a similarly torrid August summer. Jetlagged, and heartbroken, Silvia cried for three days straight. It wasn’t until her anguish ceased, that she could begin to notice that she wasn’t such a stranger in this part of Shanghai. While her parents were busy unpacking, she wandered outside the house.

Beside the driveway was a beautiful garden where an old man meticulously trimmed and weeded. Red and brown stone tiles formed the sidewalk that bordered the neat lawns of each house, not at all like the dull concrete of Groton.

From the freshly paved road, two Caucasian girls approached her on pink bicycles, gold hair fluttering in the wind. They appeared to be twins.

“Hi, you just moved in right?”

“Yeah, my name is Silvia.”

“I’m Yeona, that’s Sally,” the gold one pointed to the other. “Where are you from?”

“Connecticut.”

“Wahhh, the United States,” they whispered mysteriously. “We’re from Belgium.” There was a pause. Silvia wondered what two Belgian girls were doing in Shanghai.

“Do you want to come to the spa with us?”

“There’s a spa?” Silvia cried.

“Yes! Come, we’ll show you,” Yeona squealed. “Sally can you call Ding Shi Fu.”

“Who is that?” Sally asked.

“Our driver.”

“You have a driver?” Sally cried again.

It was then that Silvia smiled for the first time in this new country.

As they waited for Ding Shi Fu, Yeona and Sally told her many things. They had lived here for four years already.

Sally listened, mesmerized. The world that Yeona and sally promptly described was one that Silvia could never have imagined for herself before. It was a fantastical world aborted from a Fitzgerald novel. The buildings covered the sky. The people covered the land. Food, and music gushed through the streets—and, the parties. Sally described the dazzling parties so vividly that Silvia could hear the music and the laughter, the sputtering of red Volkswagen taxis pulling up on the side of the road, the vibrating bass. She could smell the pungent perfumes and sweet sweat and see strobe lights dancing obtrusively in the darkness. The world painted before her was one of gleaming intentions, unmatched heights, and infinite variety; it was an exotic garden; it was a place where the moon is the dullest thing in the sky.

This illusion was interrupted only by Ding Shi Fu’s honk. The three girls climbed into the Buick and soon arrived at the Dragonfly Massage Parlor. During the sixty minutes of heaven the masseuse gave her, Silvia could only think of one thing. She wanted to experience all of the things she had already heard about. She wanted in to this new world. No longer did she resist—she had fallen head over heels for this new city—no, her city.

After the massage, Silvia bid good-bye to her new friends and went home. When her mother greeted her at the door, Silvia smiled.

“I’m so glad to see you outside, darling. Are you feeling better?”

The smiled again—bright and radiant—unique to young girls who have not smiled in a long time.

“I think I can live here, Mama.”

Her mother returned the smile.

“That’s wonderful, baby.” Mother and daughter embraced. “Now, come inside and look at the food Xiao Fang made for us.”

“Who is Xiao Fang?”

“Our maid.”

Silvia almost hugged her.

The sound her mother calling her to breakfast brought Silvia back to reality from her recollections of three years past by. She quickly slipped into a tiny skirt, uniform polo and bounced downstairs. Fang Xiao had left her breakfast, a bowl of rice noodles, on the table. Pieces of neatly cut apple and orange were sitting in a bowl. A cup of steaming coffee sat neatly in a white saucer. She finished quickly, and went out the door. A wave of heat hit her as she exited her cool home.

Her driver, Mr. Chen, stepped out of his car and opened the door for her.

“Good morning Silvia,” he said politely.

At 7:45, Silvia headed off to school.

II

At 8:00 AM, Zhang Yu was firmly packed into the back of a Shanghai subway pen. Travellers were hot and sweaty from the summer heat, and the rush hour soon became disgusting. When he finally arrived at the office, his back was drenched with sweat. Wiping perspiration from his temples, he sat down. Cringing from the coolness of the chair that invaded his wet back, he turned on his old Dell computer. A large stack of test cases was already on his desk. With a sigh, Zhang Yu logged into a computer system based in the United States and began his work.

“Zhang Yu, you are fifteen minutes late.”

Zhang Yu turned around and saw his supervisor standing behind him.

“I’m very sorry Cai Laoban. The subway was very slow this morning.”

“I know Zhang Yu; I was on it.” The man stared at Zhang Yu behind square glasses. He was in his early forties, but already had a head peppered with white hair. He often thought to himself that his white hairs were there because of the wisdom he gained from his experiences. People like Zhang Yu of the younger generation do not value wisdom as much, he thought with contempt.

“Anyways. I need people to work over time tonight. Can I sign you up?”

“I would love to, sir. However, I promised my mother I would eat with her tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sorry, sir. My mother is—I’m hope you understand.”

Cai Laoban walked around Zhang Yu’s chair, and sat down on the desk. He wore a patronizing look.

“Zhang Yu, I know you are new so I will explain to you how things work here. There is no such thing as overtime. There are so many recently graduated university students I could replace you like a pencil. Everybody works overtime. Look around the room.”

Zhang Yu followed his boss’ index finger as it traced around the room.

“All of these programmers work twelve hours every single day. Do you know why?”

Zhang Yu shook his head.

“It is the only way to get promoted. It is the only way to move up. Nobody cares about the money. The most productive get promoted—end of story. It is how I got to where I am today, and how you will get here—if you ever do. So what I am really asking you is: Where do you want to be in five years?”

Zhang Yu said nothing.

“Do you want me to sign you up for the overtime shift tonight?”

Many things flashed through Zhang Yu’s mind in this instant; he thought about how expensive the rent was in Shanghai; he thought about rising food prices, his new expensive coffee dependence, and how sexy that Mercedes Coupe he saw at the Auto Shanghai was; he thought about his girlfriend pressuring him to make more money; he thought about impressing his university friend Liu Shi, who was now a flashy businessman; he thought about how he owed his mother who had supported him, raised him alone, loved him, and now needed him. He thought about what her doctor had said.

Zhang Yu looked up from his daze.

“Yes, please sir. I would love the opportunity.”

Cai LaoBan scribbled something on his notepad.

“Wonderful. I’m buying dinner. Does KFC sound good?”

“Perfect.”

“Excellent, I’ll see you tonight then.” Cai LaoBan gave Zhang Yu a wink and walked away.

Zhang Yu put his head down and continued to work. At 11:45 AM, his cell phone rang. Zhang Yu slowly swiped to answer.

“Mother. I have something to tell you…”

III

At 12:45 PM that day, a corpulent glutton walked into the Tang Dynasty restaurant. An explosion of gold and red assaulted his vision. The room split into two sections. One side had a glittering panoramic view of the Shanghai Bund. The floor alternated chestnut and white marble slabs, and was decorated with black squares frames that engineered a modernist style. The opposite side of the room was carpeted in a beige canvas strewn with abstract lines that looked like clouds in Chinese watercolor paintings. The tables were covered with white tablecloth. The chairs were red. Massive chandeliers that hung from the ceilings spouted golden light, and illuminated the enormous water lilies that grew on the enormous expanse of the silk tapestry on the back wall.

His stomach bulged out of a cruel body. A greasy forehead sat atop of a checkered black suit. A waitress uniformed in a clean red blouse, and knee-length skirt with traditional patterns on it greeted him.

“Good afternoon Mr. Zhu. Mr. Dai is waiting for you?”

The waitress led the way towards a small square table in the corner of the room where an older man in a new tuxedo awaited. She left three leather-bound menus on the table, and smiled.

“Please give us a moment,” said the man in the tuxedo.

The chair creaked rudely as the Mr. Zhu sat down at the table. The seams at the back of his suit protested. Mr. Zhu stared greedily at the menu but the other man had no intentions of eating.

“Why is the land no purchased yet?” The man in the tuxedo demanded.

“My apologies. The villagers protested the demolition—as you know many of them have lived there for decades.”

“Look at this face,” he said with an expressionless face. “Does it say I care? Everyday of delay is costing me money. I need to buy this land while prices are low. You’re a government official. Just demand them to move. I am offering compensation already.”

“But, they don’t want the money. They just want to go on living.”

“Then force them to move.”

“How?”

The man gave his a flat look.

“Listen. I’m a government official, not a dictator. I can’t in good conscience leave these people homeless.”

“Again, I don’t care about your conscience. Just get it done. Or perhaps I will stop giving you those wonderful gifts: The BMW from New Years? Or the unknown transfers to your bank account. What will your little girlfriend say to that?”

Mr. Zhu paled considerably. After much deliberation, he said, “Fine.”

“I knew you would see it my way. Now, we can enjoy this meal happily.”

“Waitress,” he yelled. “Can we have two shark fin soup, your best steak, today’s fish, creamy scallops, the Hong Kong fried rice, and a bottle of Bordeaux red wine, please.”

“Will others be joining you, sir?” She asked.

“No, it’s just us. We’re celebrating,” he winked.

IV

If the Jinmao is the king of Shanghai, then the Bund is surely its princess. Stretching a kilometer along the west bank of the Huangpu River, she is never more beautiful than at night. It was a scene taken from Van Gogh: The western bank glittered in the golden brilliance of millions of lights that illuminated the old European architecture from the 1920’s. This brilliance was reflected by the dark river and rippled all the way to the eastern end. There, two students from New York University walked on the broad esplanade in profound serenity and the dark of evening.

“James, you all right?” said the taller one.

“Yeah, Edward. Just thinking.”

“Me too.”

A few moments later, James turned to Edward and said, “I just love it, you know? I just love this,” he waved his hands before them.
“We’ve only been here two months, but I just feel so captivated by this city. But, I’m not sure what it is.”

“I know what you mean, man. Ever since I’ve been here I’ve felt so energized, you know? There are 30 million people in the city, and they all want to get to the top. It’s a rat race—sort of like New York back in the twenties.”

“But, humbled too. You talk to all of the high school kids here and they work so hard to get into university. All they care about are numbers, but they kind of have to in such a big country. And all of the migrants from the provinces come here and live eight in a room, just to make money and send it home. Makes me feel so fortunate.”

“And, the glamour. Shanghai is flashy.”

“Oh, yes.”

“And so many foreigners live here, and love it. Nobody misses home, living here.”

“It’s amazing how one city can be so diverse and bring so many people together—I mean—it’s just a unbelievable. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s so beautiful, and so ugly—it’s like a thousand paradoxes.”

They walked for a few minutes in silence. The golden lights of the city fluttered in moments of brilliance that seemed would last forever.

“It’s a mystery,” said Edward.

“A mystery,” agreed James, “Maybe, that’s why it stays with you.”

And, without looking at each other, they both smiled.

Works Cited

Joyce, James, and Margot Norris. Dubliners: Authoritative Text, Contexts, Criticism. New York: W.W. Norton, 2006. Print.