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This imposter is better than the other ones. The best one he’s seen. It’s not his face that makes the difference; sometimes the other ones have had alright faces, faces that seemed—at least, in the right light, you could understand why they’d think—
“I’ve already had physical therapy,” Jing’er says. “I have no intention of going through all that twice in a day.”
The man leaning in the doorway doesn’t say anything back for a moment. He just looks at Jing’er steadily. He is familiar. Wherever they dug this one up, they must’ve had an old photo. Old videos, for how he moved. Something to compare him to. Conniving bastards. Whatever they want, they can’t have it.
“Do I look like your physical therapist?” the man says, at last. He sounds curious. He glances down at himself. “You’re right. I really can’t pull off neutrals.”
Jing’er huffs.
“I have no appointments left today,” he says. “Fully booked. You’ll have to come another time.”
“Hm,” the man says.
He sits down in the closest armchair.
“This is my room,” Jing’er says, irritably. “You can’t be in here if I don’t want you in here.”
“That’s true,” the man says. He rests his elbow on the arm of the chair, and then his chin on his knuckles. He settles into that position, like he means to stay put. Tilts his head. “They said you wouldn’t eat breakfast.”
“It’s my fucking business what I eat and when I eat it,” Jing’er snaps.
“Also true,” the man says. “To a point.”
“Get the fuck out!”
“Would you like to have lunch with me?” the man says, unexpectedly.
Jing’er considers telling him to fuck off again. It’s tempting. But then again, he hasn’t made a sale in—hasn’t made any sales, the market’s tanked. He’s retired, anyway. But you never know who knows who. Networking is the name of the game. Always has been and always will be, no matter how many of these—virtual auctions, or whatever the fuck they have now. You can’t replace the power of a personal connection.
“Where?” Jing’er says, instead. Warily. This guy’s outfit looks like real linen, a nice weight and nice tailoring, and there’s a gold bangle on his wrist, a gold ring on his hand, Italian leather loafers on his narrow feet; still, you never know. If he says Chipotle, like that last idiot they sent, Jing’er is going to throw the iPad right at his head.
“I thought we’d eat here, at the club,” the man says. “It has a nice terrace.”
Jing’er almost scoffs aloud, that isn’t a fucking—
But then he shuts up. This fool has mistaken—this fool actually thinks they’re… where, exactly? Brentwood? Must be an out-of-towner. You can hear the faint echo of New York’s gutter subways rumbling through his voice; some people see the palm trees at the airport and go wide-eyed. This might actually be amusing. Maybe he can finally move that pair of… that pair of… oh, he forgets the fucking asshole’s name. They’re worth fifty thousand apiece, easy. Two more off the books.
“Fine,” Jing’er says, loftily. “It’ll be on your dime.”
The man’s mouth twitches.
“Sure,” he says.
He gets them the only decent table, tucked on the rounded end of the terrace and surrounded by potted canna lilies, overlooking the fountain court. From here you can’t see the sunroom and the row of decrepit corpses usually parked by the windows for vitamin D. The air’s warm today, even in the shade of the overhang. Jing’er would have liked to go without bringing his sweater—it’s an ugly thing, he’d never have picked it out for himself, the colorblind bitches here wouldn’t know ecru from camel if you held a gun to their heads—but the man plucks it off the bed and carries it along anyway, without asking. It’s stupid to argue with a client this early in the day, so Jing’er doesn’t bother.
After they sit down, Jing’er glances off for a moment, distracted by the burbling water, the blue view of the sky.
He used to live in New York, too. The blue was more greyish than this. Something about the ocean on that side of the continent; something about the clouds. A painter told him once that California was a place you came when you wanted to use up all your ultramarine. He’d laughed at that. Remembered it. He’d definitely repeat it later; it was clever.
Someone’s asking him a question.
“Huh?” he says.
He turns his head back. Jim, one of the staff, is standing beside his chair. In the next chair over there’s a stranger. “What are you doing, bothering me?” Jing’er demands. There’s always somebody hovering around, delaying things. Keeping him from remembering what he was just about to do. “What time is it? Am I going to be late? I have lunch with an important client, I don’t have time for your—”
“That’s alright,” the stranger interrupts, calmly. “You were here early, I’m the one who was late. Jim just brought me to your table. Thank you, Jim.”
“No trouble,” Jim smiles.
Jing’er sits back.
“Oh,” he says. He looks at Jim, and then at the man beside him. Yes, he just arrived. He meant to come here, and did come here, and now here he is. “You can go,” he says, to Jim.
“Have a good lunch,” Jim says, cheerfully. He’s an imbecile.
Today it’s brown rice with finely-shredded chicken, julienned cucumber, some kind of green sauce that tastes of herb and avocado. The kitchen team hasn’t humiliated themselves, for once. Out here adjacent to the sunshine it’s almost palatable.
“I’m strict about my diet,” Jing’er says. “A healthy body is the foundation of a healthy life.”
“A little indulgence isn’t a crime,” the man says. He smiles after he says it, as if it were a joke. “So it was the egg tarts that set you off.”
“I wasn’t set off,” Jing’er scowls. “I don’t need fatty sweets first thing in the morning. I was simply making a point.”
“Sometimes you do eat them.”
“I have not touched heavy pastries for years and years,” Jing’er says, primly. “My cholesterol is as good as an athlete’s.”
The man coughs on something. Oh, no, he’s just pretending not to laugh. “Fuck you,” Jing’er says. “I can have you barred from the grounds if I feel like it!”
“You can,” the man agrees.
He chews his next bite. He looks at Jing’er for a long time while he does it, and Jing’er looks away from him, because it’s uncomfortable. He’s always doing that. He looks and looks and looks until it drives you fucking crazy. Jing’er should throw a spoon at him. He can’t throw a fork, they really don’t like you to do that here. “You’ve been painting a lot,” the man says, suddenly. “Would you be willing to show me some of your new work?”
Jing’er frowns. He shouldn’t feel embarrassed, but he does. He doesn’t know quite why. Probably because he’s a shitty amateur whose pictures never come out, surrounded by even shittier amateurs who can’t tell they’re just as talentless. Drooling fucking hacks. But it isn’t just that. There’s another reason. He can’t think of it.
“No,” he says, sullenly. “Leave me alone. Go away. Get out.”
“May I finish my lunch first?” the man says.
“Hurry up,” Jing’er frowns.
He stares at his own half-finished bowl. Takes another spoonful. Halfway through chewing he struggles with a bite; the cooks don’t cut the fucking chicken right. Too stringy. He sputters. Coughs a little bit of his mouthful back onto his tray. Disgusting. Everyone is probably watching him make a mess of himself.
He jerks away when a stranger tries to wipe his mouth for him. “Fuck you!” Jing’er hisses. “I can do it!”
Jing’er wipes his own mouth, his own cheek, clumsily. Burning with excruciating humiliation. Choking in a restaurant like a baby! He won’t be able to come back here. He can’t think of the last time he actually—
When he looks up, Xie’er is holding a cup of water out to him.
Zhao Jing blinks.
Suddenly Xie’er is a mirage in water, like looking at your own feet in the bottom of a pool. Like little pieces of a broken mirror. Zhao Jing’s eyes feel wet and hot. He grabs Xie’er’s wrist. The glass tilts in his hand, but Xie’er doesn’t drop it. His arm feels strong. “Where,” Zhao Jing says, briefly choking on it. “Where… the fuck have you been?!”
“Out for a little bit,” Xie’er says. “But I’m here now.”
“How dare you,” Zhao Jing says. He grips Xie’er’s wrist harder. Harder. So he can’t slide away. Can’t go. “I waited for—I waited and waited!”
“I know,” Xie’er says. “Take a drink.”
Shakily, Zhao Jing takes a drink. “Better?” Xie’er says.
“You could have called. Or left a note,” Zhao Jing says. “What was I supposed to think! What was I supposed to do! What if you died!”
Xie’er’s face is doing something funny.
“I know,” he repeats. His voice is rougher. He’s kneeling now, next to the chair. Touching his knuckles gently to Zhao Jing’s wet cheek. Wiping the dampness off them. “I know you missed me. They told me you—”
“Oh, shut up,” Zhao Jing huffs, furiously. “Miss who? You? Go do whatever you want! Don’t think about me at all. You never do.”
Xie’er is silent for a second.
Then he gets up. “Where are you going?” Zhao Jing cries. He reaches out for what he can catch: it’s a handful of Xie’er’s wide-legged beige pants. What an awful color on him! Ages him terribly. He looks like he’s joined a cult. “You just got here!” Zhao Jing demands. “What’s so important you have to rush away right this second!”
Xie’er sighs.
He doesn't go. He just sits down again in the other chair. Takes a drink from his own water cup.
“I want to stretch my legs,” Xie’er says, when he’s finished. “Come with me? Just for a little walk around the garden.”
“I have meetings,” Zhao Jing warns. “You’re the one who’s supposed to keep us on schedule.”
“We have plenty of time,” Xie’er says.
“Well,” Zhao Jing says. “Alright.”
Jing’er watches a bee. Bottom up, stuck inside a canna lily. Wriggling its ass like a moron.
Beside him, the stranger sets his spoon down. He’s eaten both of the paper cups of dessert, not just his own. He's a slim man, this stranger. Looks like he's in shape. His clothes are cut loose—it’s the style, everyone's ugly relatives come in wearing tents, lately. But he has good shoulders. Nice arms. Some guys focus on biceps and forget their lats, but not Jing'er; Jing'er used to look like a movie star in the mirror, from the front and the side and behind. He used to be able to swim and swim and swim and hold his breath, stay underwater a long time. Sometimes he thinks about what it was like, how quiet it was, at the bottom of the pool. For a moment, right now, it suddenly feels like his eardrums might pop. He's not sure where he is.
“You thinking about something?” his wife asks, beside him.
No. The stranger.
“Ice cream is a calorie bomb,” Jing’er says, disdainfully.
The stranger smiles. It’s a bit cool.
“Ice cream’s been linked to a reduction in risk for diabetes,” he says.
“Did you read that in a pro-obesity magazine?” Jing’er sniffs.
“There was a study,” the stranger says. “Multiple studies.”
“Bullshit,” Jing'er says. “Paid for by the dairy industry. You'll see.”
The man shrugs.
“Too late for me, either way,” he says.
Jing’er eyes him curiously.
“You're diabetic?”
The man nods. Lifts the hem of his shirt. There's a… device clipped on his waistband. It looks like one of those… one of those… the fucking music things. Nobody uses them anymore. He can't remember the name but that's irrelevant; they're out of fashion. Obsolete junk. “My secretary was a diabetic,” Jing'er says.
The man lowers his shirt.
“Your secretary,” he repeats, slowly. As if he were hard of hearing. Maybe he needs another device for that. Jing'er has fine hearing, a younger man's eardrums. His tests have been excellent.
“That's right,” Jing'er says. “He didn't have a good handle on it. Went to the hospital more than once. He did drugs sometimes too. I knew about it. Not at work, of course. I wouldn't put up with that kind of behavior. But I could always tell. That boy was full of bad habits.”
“I bet,” the man says.
“He was an artist,” Jing'er says. “He could paint. He was wonderful.”
The man's quiet for a little while.
“I'm a painter, too,” he says, eventually. “Funny coincidence.”
“Everybody wants to believe they could be an artist,” Jing'er scoffs. “Ego. They just want a piece of the mystique. But talent doesn't matter. It's the ability to craft a narrative that sells art.”
“I actually think you're right,” the man says.
“Of course I'm fucking right,” Jing'er says.
Later, they do a puzzle.
The man’s been here for hours already and he still won't leave. He's probably a bum. Unemployed. Maybe he wants work at the gallery. Judging from how slowly he puts together a fucking jigsaw puzzle, he'd be a lousy hire. “This piece doesn't go anywhere,” Jing'er complains. “Some asshole’s mixed random ones in.”
“Hm,” the man says. “May I?”
He takes the piece from Jing'er’s hand. Sets it down. Turns it slowly around. “Looks like part of that stripe to me,” he says. “What do you think?”
“I think this is a fucking waste of time,” Jing'er says. “I have paperwork to get to.”
“Can it wait?” the man says. “It's Saturday.”
“No, it's not!”
“Oh, I thought it was,” the man says. “I thought it was the weekend. Time to take it easy.”
“I should give up good habits and become one with a recliner, like the half-desiccated ghouls I'm trapped with?” Jing'er scowls. “I’d rather be clubbed like a seal.”
The man—
Xie'er laughs.
Zhao Jing sits forward to look at him. Then sits back. “Where have you been all day?” he says, peevishly. “I told you, we have to be getting ready for Dallas.”
Xie'er blinks. Then cocks his head.
“We're ready,” he says, easily.
“Are we?” Zhao Jing says. “Or is this your typical overconfidence?”
“Maybe it is,” Xie'er says.
“You’re infuriating,” Zhao Jing complains. “Is the paperwork done or not? I don’t have time to play games and go around and around.”
“It’s all done,” Xie’er says. “I finished it yesterday.”
“You didn’t come to the office at all yesterday,” Zhao Jing says. “I asked for you and they said you weren’t at your desk. I don’t know where you’re spending all your time lately, but you need to focus. Basel’s coming up in less than a month.”
“It is,” Xie’er says. He looks a little surprised, like he forgot. “You looked at the calendar, huh?”
“Sales are down,” Zhao Jing says. “The market is tanked. We need to stay afloat. It’s eat or be eaten in this business.”
He expects Xie’er to protest, to try and say something smart-mouthed, debate for the sake of debating, but he doesn’t. Xie’er just sits and says nothing for a moment. He looks like he’s thinking. “What?” Zhao Jing says, irritably. “Nothing to say back to me?”
“You don’t need to worry about money,” Xie’er says, finally. “I promise you that.”
“Oh, I don’t?” Zhao Jing says. “Have you suddenly stopped spending mine?”
“Yes,” Xie’er says. “I have. And you have plenty in your accounts. You told me you checked yourself and everything was good. Okay? So I don’t want you getting too stressed out about it. At least try not to.”
“Nonsense,” Zhao Jing huffs.
But he sits back.
Xie'er turns a puzzle piece around and around in his fingers. People leave all kinds of clutter in this lounge, like it's a fucking public library. They live like squatters. “Do you need to eat?” Zhao Jing says.
Xie'er glances at him.
“No,” he says. “I'm alright.”
“Did you skip lunch?” Zhao Jing says. “You know better. Don't take it out on me. Go get a banana. Or you'll be a bitch in the afternoon.”
Xie'er leans his head back. For some weird reason he's smiling.
“Sometimes I am anyway,” Xie'er says. Oh, he thinks he's so funny.
“Children?” Jing'er says. “No, I didn't have children. Nuisances.”
“We were talking about mine,” the stranger says.
“You have children?” Jing'er says. “I thought you were a fag.”
Jim, who's remaking the bed, frowns.
“You thought right,” the stranger says. He's sitting back in an armchair, one bare ankle dangled casually on his knee. He's wearing charcoal-grey pants that look like hemp, a black silk tank top and an open short-sleeve shirt that matches the pants. And too many silver necklaces. He is a queer, you can tell these things. He has a dick-sucking mouth. Pretty wrists. “But try not to use that word with other people, okay?” the stranger goes on saying. “Not every fag’s as easy-going as I am.”
“What should I call them?” Jing'er wonders. “Fairies? Fruits? Pillow-biters?”
“Mr. Zhao, please,” Jim says. “We ask everybody to try and use respectful language here.”
“He knows that,” the stranger says. “Don't you.” He's looking right at Jing'er. His posture is still relaxed, but his eyes aren't. Jing'er swallows. “Sometimes you do forget. But sometimes I think you decide you don’t care.”
“If you don't like what I say, you can leave,” Jing'er huffs. “The door's right there.”
“Are you out to hurt someone today?” the stranger says. “Is that what you feel like doing?”
“For god's sake,” Jing'er scowls. “Stop blathering about it. Fine. What government-approved PC name am I supposed to use now?”
“Best thing to do,” the stranger says, “is not to call people names at all, if you can help it.”
Jim fluffs the pillows up.
“All set,” he says, not as cheerfully as usual.
Goodness, he's surrounded by such sensitive little weaklings! Everybody's got to be a walking talking thesaurus, or you get… what’s the word for it. What’s the fucking word for it. Pillow. Pillow. He was just thinking it. Pillar. Pilaf. Fuck it.
“Thank you, Jim,” Jing'er says, graciously. Making an effort. Jim looks at him and smiles.
“I’ll come get you for class in half an hour, okay?” he says. He nods at the stranger. The stranger nods at him.
When he's gone, Jing'er rolls his eyes.
“That's what I thought,” the stranger murmurs. “What was it I said?”
“Excuse me?”
“You did all that because I pissed you off,” the stranger says.
“Did all what?” Jing’er says. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Is it because I brought up—”
Jing’er doesn’t even hear the name he says. A returned swell of rage, thick as tar, syrups back up and over his body. Coats him.
This time Jing’er picks up the closest thing that he can lift, which is a half-full plastic bottle of seltzer. Lime flavored. He won’t drink the raspberry kind or the fucking watermelon. Disgusting. Jing’er crushes the bottle in his hand, or tries to, and then tries to whip it across the room, at the mirror on top of his dresser. His body feels like a flamethrower. Like a pot of boiling water. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the stranger says. He’s holding onto Jing’er’s wrist. Holding his arm in place. Jing’er does the logical thing, which is to wrestle their joined hands closer and try to sink his teeth into this fucking asshole’s forearm. “Fuck!” the stranger cries. “Stop it!”
“I hate you!” Jing’er screams. “Thief!” He can’t see the room for a second. He’s gone blind. He’s seeing somewhere else. There’s a man he dreams about strangling sometimes. “Thief!” he shrieks. “Thief!”
The stranger gets the seltzer away from him. Without much effort.
So Jing’er tries to slap him. Slaps his arms. But the stranger is so much stronger and faster, like he’s on speed. Steroids. Jing’er can’t seem to hurt him. The stranger holds his hands gently and firmly apart, and Jing’er sobs with fury. Wrestles weakly against him. But his body is sinking. Sinking down, pulled sticky-slow like taffy. He sags forward, and the stranger tucks Jing’er’s hands into his own armpits and brings him close and tries to fucking hug him. “I hate you!” Jing’er shrieks, muffled into his shoulder.
“I’ve got you,” the stranger says, surrounding him. Pressing him inward, like a collapsing lung. “I’ve got you. It’s okay. You’re safe. Everything’s okay.”
Jing’er cries furiously onto his charcoal-colored shirt. Cries so hard his head aches. He can’t lift it again, when the stranger tries to let him go and sit him up; he sinks forward even further and the stranger has to go back to holding him, arms wrapped around his body. Propping him upright.
“I want him,” Jing’er cries. “Where is, where is he?”
The stranger rubs a slow circle across his back.
“Who?”
“You know who!” Jing’er yells. “You fucking know who!”
He tries to say—
But it won’t come out. The right name won’t come. It’s there but it won’t come into his mouth or out of it. When he tries to attach it to something it floats away like a balloon, and then he is looking at a face without a face in it, black hair on top of nothing, two ears and a chin and no mouth, no cheeks, no brows, no nose and no nothing. He can’t remember what he’s supposed to see there. A body in a black shirt with a collar, standing under an awning, turning to look at him. To look without eyes.
Jing’er screams in terror. In outrage. He clutches harder at this body, the one that’s trapped him. So it can’t leave him there alone.
“You have a birthday coming up,” Xie’er says. “Is there anything you want?”
Zhao Jing doesn’t glance up from his papers. He wrote something important down and now he can’t find it, so he’s got to read everything in the entire file. Time-consuming, but details are crucial.
“I want Andrea Tollen to stop waffling and buy the fucking Richter,” he snorts.
When he finally looks up, Xie’er looks pensive.
“Do you remember,” he says, slowly, “going to Andrea’s funeral?”
“What?” Zhao Jing scoffs. “Are you out of your mind? I talked to her the day before yesterday!”
“My mistake,” Xie’er says.
“Eat an apple,” Zhao Jing says. “You’re hallucinating.”
He reads for a while. Gibberish. He must’ve been drinking when he tried to put this profile together. Maybe it’s time for a detox. Juice cleanse. Something to get him back on track. He’s been distracted.
“I was thinking,” Xie’er says, “maybe we could take some photos together.”
“What for?”
“For you,” Xie’er says. “For when I’m not here.”
Zhao Jing looks at him.
“You’ve got a filthy preoccupation,” he concludes. Clears his throat. What an idea. “What makes you think I want to look at some—”
Xie’er makes a strange face. Then a very amused one.
“Portraits,” he says. “I meant portraits.”
“Ridiculous,” Zhao Jing huffs. That’s even more embarrassing. “You want to—what, go to Sears, get pictures for a Christmas card? You really should see a doctor. Make sure you’re not going insane.”
“Yes, I probably should,” Xie’er says.
Zhao Jing reads.
Scribbles down some things in the margins.
Sets down his pen.
There’s something he forgot. He was just about to say it. He sits and tries to remember what it was. Across the coffee table from him, a stranger clears their throat. “Could we take one now?” the man says.
“Take one what?” Jing'er says. He glances around the lounge. “This table's occupied.”
“Ah,” the stranger says.
He takes a cell phone out of his pocket. Fiddles with it for a couple of minutes. Jing'er pretends not to pay attention to him. But he's a handsome man. Wearing a ring on the left. Shame. All the good ones, as they say.
After another long moment, the guy gets up. “Could I get a photo with you?” he says. “I'm very interested in your work.”
“Oh,” Jing'er says, surprised. “My… alright.”
The stranger sits next to him on the sofa. Puts an arm around his shoulder, impertinently. His cologne smells wonderful. He holds his phone at arm's length in front of their faces. Flipped around, they look back at themselves. Jing'er frowns at how old the lighting makes him look. It's terrible in here.
“Smile,” the man beside him says.
He takes a few pictures. Jing'er smiles through them. And then, unexpectedly, the man presses a light kiss to Jing’er’s cheek while he presses the shutter button.
“Hey,” Jing'er says, startled. “How dare—you’re barking up the wrong tree, mister. I’m not—I don’t—”
“I’m not barking,” the stranger says.
“Delete that,” Jing’er says. “I don’t want to be pawed at and—and propositioned by—”
“Relax,” the stranger says. “I’m taken.”
He puts the phone in his pocket. Stands up.
“Are you going?” Jing'er says. “You just got here.”
“I have to fly home tonight,” the stranger says.
“What!” Jing'er says. “Why?”
“Our daughter’s coming home for the summer,” the stranger says. “I want to be there to pick her up at the airport.”
“You have kids?” Jing'er says.
“One,” the stranger says. “She’s nineteen.”
“Can't your wife handle it? Isn't that her job?”
The stranger's mouth twitches.
“We like to handle things together,” he says.
“Fine, whatever,” Jing'er says, sulkily. “Go. Get out.”
The stranger sighs. And then he kneels down, next to Jing'er's legs. Puts a hand on Jing'er's knee. Jing'er should tell him to fuck off, that he doesn't swing that way. Jing'er should sock him. Somebody could see. “Don't leave me here,” Jing'er says, wretchedly. “Nobody else ever wants to tal—”
He swallows. The stranger gives him a long, long look.
“I'll come back,” the stranger says. “Next time I'll bring you lots of photos and we’ll go through them together, okay? We’ll tell each other more stories. I promise.”
Jing'er should tell him to fuck off. He's not a child to be placated.
“Okay,” Jing'er whispers.
The stranger kisses his cheek again. Presumptuous queer. He’s going to leave now. Get on an airplane. He said so. “Xie'er,” Jing'er blurts out, suddenly.
The stranger pauses. Goes still.
“What?”
“Xie'er,” Jing'er says. He stretches his hands out, urgently. “Xie'er!”
The stranger bites the inside of his cheek.
“I,” he starts to say.
“I don't know where he is,” Jing'er says, desperately. “Nobody will get him for me. Nobody knows where he went! I ask and ask but they don't know! It's a simple fucking question! I just need to know where he is! Why they're keeping him away from me! Please—”
The stranger takes his hands.
“I’ll—find him for you,” he says. “How about that?”
“Hurry up!” Jing'er cries. “I've been waiting and waiting!”
The stranger's silent again. He caresses his thumbs across the backs of Jing'er's knuckles, very softly. His hands are incredibly warm.
“Okay,” he says. “I'll bring him with me, when I come.”
“You'd damn well better,” Jing'er says.
“Easy there, Mr. Zhao,” Jim says. “I’ve got you.”
“Where the fuck am I?” Jing’er demands. “This fucking place is a maze!”
“You know, I get confused sometimes myself,” Jim says. “Oh, look. Do you recognize this room?”
“No,” Jing’er says, sulkily. But he does now. Maybe. “If there was better lighting around here I’d have been able to find it myself.”
“That’s an interesting idea,” Jim says.
Jing’er stands at the threshold, taking it in. The sitting area with two armchairs. The wardrobe. The bed. The dresser, cluttered. He gets incensed all over again, looking at it. Points his finger accusingly.
“This is a mess,” Jing’er complains. “Somebody put this stuff all over while I was sleeping. I didn’t ask for any of it. I want someone to clean up in here. It’s going to gather dust. I don’t like it when people come in my room without permission!”
“Let’s take a look,” Jim says.
He plucks a framed photograph off the dresser. “This looks like a picture of you,” Jim says, condescendingly, like Jing’er didn’t recognize his own fucking face! Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t. It’s the middle of the night, is it his fault? His reading glasses are on the nightstand. Somewhere. “The label here says it’s you and Mr. Shen—”
“I know who it is,” Jing’er says, irritably.
“Can you tell me about this one?” Jim says. He holds another photo out. “I remember taking it. Pretty hot day. But the sunshine makes a nice picture, huh?”
“We’re all squinting,” Jing’er says. “I look terrible. You don’t know how to frame a balanced composition.”
“Oh,” Jim says. “Guess not.”
There’s some mystery Puerto Rican girl in the photo, on his opposite side. Tanned skin, curly hair. Wearing a long sundress. Arm slung over his shoulders. She’s good-looking, if too skinny. Suddenly he can smell her sunscreen.
“Dani,” Jing’er blurts out. “Daniela.”
“Yep, that’s her,” Jim says.
Jing’er can’t remember her voice. No, yes. Her laugh. The way she and—the way she and—the way she and that stranger looked slyly at each other sometimes, the way she tilted her head before she asked questions.
“When is she coming back?”
“She’s overseas right now,” Jim says. “At school. You want to maybe try a Facetime call? I can ask.”
“Chasing after attention is the ploy of the pathetic and desperate,” Jing’er says, icily. “If they’re gone they’re gone. Better to turn your own back and keep moving forward.”
“Sure,” Jim says. “I can ask anyway.”
What an idiot.
Jing’er turns around to ignore him. Looks at the other wall. Stares into it. “I know you know who that is,” Jim says.
A three-quarter portrait. Masterfully economical in brushwork, confident in the extreme, the planes of the face laid in single perfect passes by a hand that’s forgotten how to hesitate. Looking at it, he knows exactly the place, exactly the angle, exactly the time of year and the hour of the day you’d need to be sitting there for it to look that way. It’d be mid-spring, when the late afternoon sunlight was still the pale yellow-gold of a daffodil, not the crisper orange color of a marigold. The gridded squares of sun tint the wall over the sitter’s tousled head. The old office sofa was a long low sleek thing, black leather, real cowhide that smelled like it. The texture was soft as skin; his fingers rub together, feeling it again. Sitting at the desk, this is what you’d see. This is who you’d see. That ironic mouth, those—those dark eyes. In his white shirt with his sleeves rolled, his black jacket across the arm, upright like one flawless powerful stroke of a Kline. Every day, every time you looked up, every time you saw him, every time you wanted him, needed him, this is where he’d be. Looking back at you. Like he is right now.
“That’s my Xie’er,” Zhao Jing says.
“It’s pretty late,” Jim says. “You want to try going back to sleep?”
“Fuck off,” Zhao Jing says. “I’m not an inmate.”
“No,” Jim agrees. “You want a cup of tea?”
“Put whiskey in it.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Jim says.
He goes away.
Zhao Jing climbs back into bed. It’s warm in the covers; the air conditioning is a little over-aggressive lately. He’ll speak with the facilities manager in the morning. These people have become too relaxed in their standards; he’ll snap them into form.
Sitting on the other side of the room, Xie’er watches him.
“I know what you’ll say,” Zhao Jing murmurs. “That I shouldn’t be drinking on my medication. Well, fuck you, too. Let me live a little, before I drop dead.”
Xie’er’s eyes narrow. His mouth twitches. But he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t protest back, storm out. He looks like he understands, somehow. Maybe he understands. “Stay,” Zhao Jing murmurs. “Until I fall asleep?”
He rolls onto his side.
He can still see Xie’er’s face from here. Watching over him in the dark, steadily. Silently. Faithfully; shining as clear as the moon.
“...when that head bursts,
it will be the flower,
the new narcissus,
gala—my narcissus.”
— Salvador Dali, 1937 (translated by Edward James)