I had a scary dream that involved a trail of flaming footsteps in a sugarcane field at night that were dying out faster than I could catch up to them. Any other details fled from my memory as soon as I looked at the time on my ringing phone. Ten-something in the morning.
I hit a button and growled, “Why the hell are you waking me up so early, Mei-ling?”
“It’s not that early,” she said. I heard the television in the background. “I’ve already been up a few hours.”
“I had a visitor last night. You know anything about it?”
“Who was it?”
“Your ex-boyfriend, Chong. Or is he still your boyfriend?”
She sighed so heavily I could feel her breath. “I ended it with him weeks ago! He doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“He was waiting for me at my house.”
“It’s not hard to find out where you live, Mr. Shooting Victim Who Exploits Himself.” I heard her chuckle to herself. “What do you want to do today?”
“Let’s start with lunch in a few hours.”
“Lunch? I want to eat now, Jing-nan! I’m hungry!” She spoke through a yawn. “Let’s go to Fu Fu Dou Jiang! I’ve read about it!”
“Aw, fuck that place,” I said. “Wait, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be using that sort of language with my little cousin.”
She snickered. “I know curses you don’t even know, older cousin. Anyway, what’s wrong with Fu Fu?”
“It takes an hour to get through the line and they charge too much for their youtiao and doujiang.”
Youtiao are foot-long deep-fried sticks of dough stuck together in pairs. They live up to their literal name, “oil stick.” Oversimplified English signs call youtiao “crullers.” The oil stick is airy and almost as hard as a dried loofah. They detonate with each bite, sending crumbs and flakes everywhere. Doujiang, meanwhile, is thick soy milk served up warm in a bowl and sweetened to taste with white sugar.
I thought about the hot crispy youtiao floating across a mouthful of creamy, syrupy doujiang and I swung my feet from the bed to the floor.
“We’re going to Yong He Soy Milk King,” I told Mei-ling.
I heard her hair brush the mouthpiece as she switched the phone to her other ear. “Let me look up the rating online.”
“Don’t look it up,” I said. “I know the place and it’s good.” I didn’t want to give her a chance to see the no-frills decor and paper plates. Yeah, the Soy Milk King doesn’t photograph well and young people don’t look so cool in selfies taken there so they don’t post them; Mei-ling wouldn’t get how great the place was by Googling. I told her to meet me there in fifteen minutes. It was practically across the street from her apartment, just south of the Da’an MRT station. It’s good to live so close to someplace worth getting up to eat at.
Mei-ling stood outside of Soy Milk King. Her arms were crossed and her head was down, although I could see her mouth twisted to the side.
“This place is SPP, Jing-nan,” she said to her shirt.
SPP is shorthand for song piao piao. No class.
“I know it’s not very pretty,” I said. “But for a restaurant, only the food matters. Please, just try it for me.” I touched her arm. She dragged her leaden feet inside.
We picked up plates of youtiao and freshly made stuffed shaobing, a dense sesame-seeded pan-fried bread packed with eggs and veggies. Unstuffed shaobing was also available but why would you get that? I was surprised by the number of tourists chowing down. Loud Chinese tourists. I grumbled about the lack of seats and how one of my favorite places was being invaded. Sure, I can be a hypocrite when I want to. I know my livelihood depends on tourists, but I need my safe spaces. Look at this! Nowhere to sit. Well, good for Soy Milk King.
Mei-ling looked around, frowning. I nudged her with an elbow.
“This place is so good there’s not even a free seat,” I joked.
“If you can’t sit and eat, it doesn’t matter how good it is.”
Two seats opened up at a table near the back and we squeezed in with the Chinese people. They were city folk from Shanghai, judging by the slurred-sounding Mandarin they spoke. They were loud as hell and really good at ignoring people who weren’t a part of their group. They had been told not to smoke numerous times, so one ingenious man, the leader of the table, held his cigarette under the table between puffs. He didn’t have access to his hands so he talked with his broad shoulders. Every sentence out of him was peppered with curses and he misted the air with doujiang.
“This fucking bumpkin showed up at the office with two baskets on a carrying pole. He opens one basket and it’s full of chicken and duck eggs. He says, ‘You said it was bad to put all your eggs in one basket, so I brought you another so now you have two baskets!’” The three other people roared with laughter and the table shifted and our doujiang spilled out of the bowls. Mei-ling and I didn’t mind much. The man was captivating.
He was probably in his early sixties and had the jaded eyes of someone who had survived the Cultural Revolution. The man’s hair was a marble swirl of grey, white, and black. Unlike his friends, he hadn’t been swindled into buying a Taipei 101 shirt, or at least if he had he wasn’t wearing it. In fact he was dressed in a long-sleeve T-shirt that he possibly had slept in. His body was free of jewelry. The only indications that this man had money were the Japanese cigarettes that he snuffed out half-smoked. He lit another one before continuing.
“So then the guy opens up the other basket and it’s full of smallish tomb artifacts. Little dolls, some jade. He said that he dug these up while drilling a new well a few years back and maybe these were worth something. I’ve been around, as you all know, and I’ve come across some clever fakes. These were the real deal and the man really had no idea what he had.”
Middle-aged Chinese women had their elbows on the table while the men twisted in their seats to get a better view. Even the staff behind the counter held off on chopping chives so they wouldn’t miss a word. The best old Chinese stories are about war and killing. The most gripping modern Chinese stories are about making a killing.
“I told him I would credit him a thousand yuan for every piece he could bring in but he said those were all he had. He gave all he found to the head of the village and the artifacts were split evenly amongst all the families.”
Everything paused as the Chinese man made a token attempt to duck under the table to take a drag on his Mevius stick. The storyteller held in his smoke while surveying the audience. He seemed to look at me and winked. With a dramatic exhaling of smoke through both nostrils, the Chinese man resumed the story.
“I said to myself, this guy is the worst kind of idiot. The honest kind!” He took advantage of a burst of laughter and ate a chive omelet in two bites before going on. “Well, he was happy with what he got and later I showed the pieces to my partner. He knows people who used to smuggle artifacts out of the country. Now they make more money keeping it in the country, selling to collectors, but back then, there weren’t Chinese millionaires.
“My partner told me the jade was from the Han Dynasty and he could probably get millions of yuan for them but he would need time to sneak them out of China. I let him have them and about a month later he took off for Canada for good. I don’t even know what city. He claimed political persecution. My ass. He should be persecuted for being a thief!
“I was ripped off by a pal while the guy I was trying to rip off was completely honest with me. So I made things right by hiring the bumpkin to clean my offices. He does a good job, too!”
He squeezed off his cigarette and reached for his Mevius pack. For some reason he focused on me again.
“Hey, my friend, have a cigarette,” he said to me.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“Hey, you’re not a part of my group, are you? You’re a taibazi, eh? Too good to take a smoke off me, huh?”
Taibazi is one term that Chinese people use to put down Taiwanese people. It’s meant to be applied to people who want to declare independence from China, but the slur insults all Taiwanese as it means “Taiwanese dicks.” He sure didn’t know me well enough to call me a dick in jest.
I could get mad and call him something, maybe gongfei, “commie bandit.” Mainlanders brought the term to Taiwan when the civil war ended and it lives on to describe the atrocious behavior of Chinese tourists.
Then he would have to come back at me with something terrible. After all, his crew was watching. He couldn’t be shown up by some Taiwanese punk like me wearing a New Order shirt from the Low-Life era. Maybe he’d call me a worse name, like “brokeback,” a duanbei, a faggot—a term that came from the film Brokeback Mountain. The film was never officially shown in China, but everyone had seen it on bootleg DVD.
Then things would have gotten really ugly.
Instead, I allowed my inner night-market persona to surface. Johnny could handle this. Every confrontation was an opportunity. I matched the Chinese man’s big smile.
“Well, now that you’re in Taiwan, you’re a taibazi, too!” He laughed and then his friends joined in. “You might as well get used to our food now before we declare independence.” I handed him a card for Unknown Pleasures. “Map’s on the back.”
He ran his right index finger along the edge and raised his eyebrows. He could tell it wasn’t printed in China because the corners were precise but smooth. Chinese cards are designed for paper cuts.
“How does your food compare with Soy Milk King?” he asked.
“Let’s put it this way,” I said. “I only come here to tell people about my place.”
Someone from behind the counter charged over at us. As the guy who lifted out the youtiao from the hot oil, he was in charge of the kitchen since his skill made the business. In fact, he was the Soy Milk King himself. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. His face was smooth and soft as a silent-film star’s. His retro glasses frames and animated expression completed the look.
“Are you trying to do business here?” His Royal Highness accused me.
You could smoke, yell, and probably even piss on the floor and it would only warrant a minor rebuke. Hand out a business card and you threatened the sovereignty of the restaurant.
The Chinese guy held up his free hand. “We’re old friends,” he said. “And look, he just got engaged! You should congratulate him!”
The King wasn’t buying it. “Don’t come here anymore!” he said, pointing to me and then shifting his finger to Mei-ling. “Neither of you!”
My heart sank. Or maybe I was feeling the grease seeping through my arteries. It would really suck being barred from this place. I licked my lips. Well, it was good to the last drop.
Then the Chinese guy did something unexpected. He dropped all the friendly play and his smile faded. “Don’t be like that, friend,” he said to the King. “I bring a lot of people through here. You don’t want to be mean to people I like. How would you like me to bring my groups to that other place, aw, what’s the name?”
“Fu Fu,” Mei-ling offered.
“Fu Fu!” declared the Chinese guy, saying it with conviction as if it were a Taoist deity who kept youtiao crispy. “I’m going to take my groups to Fu Fu instead. What do you think of that?”
The King crumpled a little. “Okay,” he said in a restrained growl.
The Chinese guy nodded and said, “Okay.”
Dismissed, the King walked back to the fryer, his head held high.
“God, what a prick!” the Chinese guy cracked.
“He can hear you!” exclaimed Mei-ling.
“I hope he does!”
I had to speak up for a decent chef. “You have to admit he fries a mean oil stick.”
He crossed his arms and nodded enthusiastically, using his full neck in the way Chinese people do. “He does, doesn’t he?”
I hadn’t tried a cigarette since middle school, but I clapped the Chinese guy on the shoulder. “I’ll take that cigarette now,” I said.
He laughed heartily and obliged. What a great guy!
As he was lighting me up, he said under his breath, “That’s one sexy bitch you got there.”
“She’s sixteen,” I said through my chokes. I wasn’t going to tell him her name or our family relation. No need to bring him into my confidence.
“Age of consent in Taiwan,” he said coolly. It was a litmus test he had applied many times before. “Ah, this is my card. Sorry about the shape it’s in, but it’s the last one.” He handed me a card that said his name was Li Jishen and his occupation was “Best Taiwan Province Tour Guide.”
Mr. Li hooked an index finger into his mouth to pick the back of his teeth. He dislodged something and I heard him swallow it as he rose to his feet. “Maybe I’ll see you soon, Jing-nan.”
After we left Soy Milk King, Mei-ling was anxious to go out and do stuff. I casually asked her if she wanted to visit the offices in Taipei 101—a part of the landmark skyscraper the tourists never got to see—and she fell for it.
Taipei 101 was barely a decade old but it had already become a symbol of the city, as iconic as the Eiffel Tower but loaded with an upscale shopping mall and two million square feet in office space. The food court has a number of comforts the night market didn’t offer—there are chairs and tables, and you can pay with credit cards. But the food itself? If you’re willing to sacrifice quality for convenience, well, you should learn to hold your tongue because there was nothing actually worth tasting here.
And I was very good at holding my tongue. In fact, I had a hidden agenda for our little visit to Taipei 101. On my way to breakfast, I had messaged my old classmate Peggy Lee, who worked for her family. I asked her if she would take on my little niece as an intern as a favor to me.
Peggy and I had gone to high school together, although we were never really friends back then. She’s the youngest generation of a well-connected and sickeningly wealthy mainlander family. I certainly didn’t fit in with her style- and status-focused crew. Still, we have a common history and know, or knew, the same people, including my late girlfriend, of whom Peggy was unabashedly jealous. Yes, Peggy had liked me, but that was a long time ago and I’m sure she doesn’t feel that way anymore.
While Mei-ling and I were sitting in Soy Milk King and Mr. Li was regaling his table, Peggy had messaged back that she would welcome my dear little cousin as a temporary intern. Could I bring her by soon?
I replied, one hour.
We walked into Taipei 101’s entrance at Xinyi Road and stood in the cavernous lobby. It was like a church of capitalism. The endless windows strangely seemed to allow in more sunlight than was typically available in Taipei at noon. Tourist groups from all over the world marched off to the left for the multilevel mall and “food.”
Mei-ling stood on her toes and took in the bigness of it all. “Maybe we should go shopping right now!” she squealed.
“I want you to meet someone first,” I said. “Peggy Lee. She’s an old classmate.” Mei-ling nodded. “You’re going to be her intern.”
Her eyes flashed. “What! You mean I would work here?”
“I have to keep you out of trouble and you can’t work with me anymore. Besides, you’ll have more fun here. It’s like a hundred times classier than the night market.”
I could already see it in her eyes. Mei-ling was lulled by the spectacle of the skyscraper’s expansive interior. Yes, this was as big as her ambition.
I saw the stars flicker in her eyes before she blinked. “What would I be doing?”
“Peggy runs a hedge fund. I’m sure she’ll find something. Are you good with numbers?”
“No.”
“Decent at typing?”
“No.”
“How’s your business English?”
“Bad.”
I crossed my arms and looked into her eyes. Mei-ling wasn’t lying about any of it.
“Well, just pretend to be capable,” I warned her.
The hedge-fund office was on the 88th floor behind double doors that opened automatically. A secretary was perched behind his desk, arms folded. He watched us with his cat eyes.
“Well, hello,” he challenged.
“Hi,” I said. “We’re here to see Peggy.”
“Peggy?”
“Peggy Lee. I’m her old classmate, Jing-nan.”
“Jing-nan, is it? Hmmm, Ms. Lee doesn’t have you in her calendar at this time.” He suddenly touched his earpiece and looked to his left at an unseen terror. “Yes. Yes. Of course.” He raised his arms in defense, his eyes widened in fear. “She’ll be right out,” he stammered. I heard a door slam shut followed by footsteps heavy enough to crush nuts.
Peggy barreled around a corner. She was dressed in a black pantsuit and black platform shoes. A panther walking upright. Her hair was cut into short, purposely messy fringes. Her eyes were cunning but not altogether devoid of humanity.
There was a time when I disliked her strongly and that time ended not too long ago. Now I considered her a friend whom I didn’t entirely trust.
She put her arms up when she saw me, sending metal bracelets rattling down to her sharp elbows.
“Jing-nan!” she said. “I was so glad to hear from you!” Peggy petted my shoulders.
“Hi, Peggy,” I said, touching her left arm.
“And you must be Mei-ling!” Peggy held out a hand to my niece.
“Hello, Ms. Lee,” she said as she shook hands.
The receptionist was standing, looking shocked. He’d never seen Peggy act so nice, probably.
“Are you hungry?” asked Peggy. “Do you want something from the kitchen? We have fresh ramen and some really great curry beef jerky.”
“We just ate,” I said.
She guided us past the guardrail of a pool that held koi older than our parents’ generation. For luck, of course.
“Those are the biggest fish I’ve ever seen!” declared Mei-ling.
“I took care of them when I was a kid,” said Peggy. “They were the rejects from my grandfather’s pool. He didn’t think they had the right markings to compete in the koi shows. Look at them now. Meanwhile, all the prize-winning fish died long ago.”
Peggy waved her hand above the water and a fish that was mostly orange rose to the surface and wiggled. I saw a pattern on the top of its head.
“I think I see a lion’s face on that one,” I said.
“I call him the Lion King. I feel like we have a psychic connection.”
The fish, which was obviously hoping for food, turned to me and judged me to be lacking as well. It yawned repeatedly and swam away.
We left the fish and continued down the corridor. After seeing the fish, all the wall art we passed by was a letdown. We came upon a framed unrolled scroll of a landscape of mountains, mists, and rivers. Commentaries on the art in the handwriting of several different princes were a testament to the antiquity and provenance of the scroll, which seemed to end with an abrupt rip.
“Where’s the rest of it?” I asked as we stood just outside her office.
Peggy leaned back and petted the back of her head. “The rest decomposed. The tomb in China that it was recovered from became partly flooded. Sucks, doesn’t it?” She cranked open her door and jerked her head at the entrance. I walked in, followed by Mei-ling.
“Your desk seems bigger,” I said.
“Everything’s bigger,” said Peggy. “It’s a whole new office. Didn’t you notice?” She kicked the door closed behind her with her right heel.
“The last one wasn’t too small, either,” I said.
Mei-ling, entranced, walked to the window at the far wall. The clouds looked like cotton balls smudged with facial oil, and close enough to pick up and throw in the trash. The city below was a Lego toyset that only included off-white, grey, and black blocks. Altogether the view was somber and yet empowering to the beholder. “Look at this view,” said Mei-ling. “I wouldn’t get anything done if I worked here.”
“That’s the wrong way to talk to a potential employer,” said Peggy as she yanked open a drawer. “Sit down, you guys. Let’s get acquainted, Mei-ling. You want a drink?”
“Some water will be all right,” said Mei-ling as we took our seats in soft-cushioned client chairs.
“Water’s boring. How about an aloe drink? Or some scotch?”
“She’s sixteen, Peggy,” I said.
Peggy tilted her head and held out her hands, framing Mei-ling with her index fingers and thumbs. “She looks eighteen. You’ve drunk before, right?”
Mei-ling nodded.
“You’re not drinking today,” I said. “This is supposed to be an interview.”
Peggy came around to the front of the desk and sat on the edge. With a wink she asked Mei-ling, “Will you work hard?” The girl nodded. Peggy slapped her knee. “Good enough for me. Can you start now?”
I felt a great burden lift from my shoulders. I was going to have my afternoon free!
Mei-ling turned to me with one eyebrow raised.
“She can start now,” I said.
“But I’m not dressed properly for an office,” Mei-ling blurted.
“Who’s going to see you behind a desk?” said Peggy as she stood and stretched. “This is going to be a great day!” She undid the two buttons on her jacket and fanned herself with the lapels. “Now, where did I . . .” Her hands shot to her pants pockets and flapped around. She fished something out of her right pocket and held it out to Mei-ling. A flash-memory drive shaped like a salmon nigiri. The top half of it was pink with thin white parallel lines while the bottom was white and bumpy like rice. It would be convincing if a metal USB port weren’t sticking out.
“Cute, isn’t it?” she asked Mei-ling.
Mei-ling smiled and swung her legs. “Yes, it’s very cute. Is this a present for me?”
“It’s more than just a present, because it’s something useful,” said Peggy. “Go to the office next door and use the PC. You don’t need a login. There’s an Excel spreadsheet on this sushi drive. I want you to update the closing prices of the stocks and funds on it.” My cousin picked up the drive gingerly. “You’ve used Excel before, right, Mei-ling?”
“I used a little bit of it in school,” she said. It was more likely that she only saw a Microsoft commercial.
Peggy smiled like a truant officer the kids couldn’t bullshit. “Then get to it. It’s pretty intuitive. You promised you’d work hard so show me.”